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  VANQUISHED

  by T.J. Land

  Copyright 2019 T.J. Land

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The dark lord and his minion stood atop their foreboding tower and gazed down into a sea of enemies.

  “I suppose we could jump,” said his minion.

  “Coward.”

  “Does my glorious master have a better plan?”

  “I do, as it happens.”

  “Namely?”

  “We surrender.”

  His minion sighed heavily.

  0

  Sir Michael Courage was confused.

  He’d been reliably informed that the dark lord was a monstrous creature, twisted by decades of exposure to evil magic. Descriptions had included reptilian skin, a body odor akin to rotting meat, and a skull for a face.

  But the man before him was handsome, if a touch feral in appearance, with a strong jaw and dark, intense eyes. He wore his thick black hair loose, like the barbarians in the far north, and he moved with a panther’s grace.

  “Is something wrong, Courage?” the dark lord asked, politely.

  “You are not as I expected you.”

  “Ah. No doubt you were told that I was hideous to look at. A monster.”

  Courage shifted. “It’s a well-known fact that most necromancers’ bodies are slowly eaten away by their foul sorcery.”

  “A myth. Most of us simply don’t maintain very healthy lifestyles. I, on the other hand, jog ten miles every morning and eat three helpings of vegetables a day.”

  “Or you’re disguising your true appearance with some spell. Never mind. We have business to attend to. Where is the gem, Uther?”

  “What gem?”

  Uther seemed remarkably calm for a man on his knees, hands bound behind his back, surrounded by the enemies. A motley assortment of men, elves, and dwarves had crowded into the tent, all of them with their hands on a weapon, ready to leap forward and defend Courage with their lives should the dark lord somehow break his bonds.

  “Don’t play games with me, vile one,” Courage snapped, standing up. “Your tower is in ruins. Your undead hordes have been vanquished. Whatever twisted plans you were concocting are dust in the wind. The only reason we haven’t yet taken your head in payment for your crimes against the realm is that you alone know the location of the Gem of Sith.”

  Sneering, Uther said, “If your beloved emperor wants the gem so badly, I’m surprised he sent you to retrieve it. I’d have expected a more expendable lapdog. Or at least one more skilled in basic interrogation tactics. I might point out, boy, that the promise of your removing my head is hardly an incentive for me to tell you where the gem is.”

  Oran – a strapping young werewolf and one of Courage’s closest companions – stepped forward, his body quivering with barely restrained violence. “Enough! Courage, this monster won’t ever cooperate. Let’s slit his throat now and be done with it.”

  “Patience, Oran,” Courage said, gently.

  “Come now, Courage, let your man enjoy himself,” Uther jeered, showing Oran his teeth. “He’s sacrificed so much for your cause. Surely you can allow him to have a little fun?”

  Ordinarily, Courage would take no pleasure in abusing a prisoner, but he admitted to himself that the meaty crack of his fist colliding with Uther’s jaw was satisfying. Even if it failed to produce any reaction beyond a grunt.

  Shaking his hand, he said briskly, “Uther, I don’t have time to trade insults or banter. Here are my terms: Tell us where the gem is and live. Instead of immediate execution, you’ll get fifty lashes. You’ll then be marooned on a distant island.”

  “How merciful! But consider this, boy: Even if I were to tell you where the gem is, it would do you no good. You don’t think I would squirrel away a weapon that powerful in my fortress’s basement? No. I hid it many miles away and concealed it with hundreds of enchantments to ensure that no one but I would ever be able to find it.”

  Courage nodded. “Fine. Then, after receiving fifty lashes, you will lead us to the gem, disable your enchantments, and place the gem in my hands yourself.”

  The room erupted.

  All of Courage’s allies began shouting at once, expressing horror at the very thought, entreating him not to commit to such an unholy alliance. He and Uther remained silent, the latter smirking.

  Finally, Courage raised a hand to call for silence.

  At that moment, three more men burst into the room. Two of them were his own. They were dragging with them the third – scrawny, badly beaten, and producing the most awful whining noises. They threw him down in front of Courage, who immediately recognized the dark lord’s infamous minion.

  Sesserine.

  “Brutes!” Sesserine wailed, getting up on his knees. His left eye was swollen shut, his lower lip split, and his nose bleeding profusely all down the lower half of his face. “How dare you!”

  Courage had encountered Sesserine many times before, lurking at the back of Uther’s undead armies or sneaking amongst the common folk, spreading his poisonous lies. Now, as then, Courage reflected that Sesserine looked as though the Creator had put him together on an off day, tacking together all those bits and pieces that had been left behind after Uther’s impressive body had been completed. The Creator hadn’t even bothered to finish painting his skin, leaving it covered in ugly pale patches.

  “Weren’t sure what you wanted done with him, sir,” said one of Courage’s men.

  Courage scratched his jaw and addressed the prisoner: “Sesserine the Sly. Greetings. For many years, you’ve served Uther, aiding and abetting his crimes, including the use of dark magics that pervert nature and the will of God, theft of land and property, including land that is the rightful property of the crown, dissemination of lies and slander against the crown, murder, treason, and so on and so forth. And that is to say nothing of your own personal list of transgressions: sodomy, prostitution, vandalism of the crown’s property, desecration of a church, dressing as a member of the opposite sex…”

  “I’m the full list doesn’t need to be recounted at the present moment,” Sesserine interrupted, over the rising tide of snickers.

  “You’re right, if only because to do so would cost us the rest of the day, and I’ve little time to waste. Besides, your crimes are already known to everyone gathered here. The only question is whether to execute you now or to transport you back to the capital city so that you may be tried before our holy emperor.”

  “Wait, Courage.”

  All eyes turned to Uther.

  “If I accept your proposal and help you find the gem, I’ll need Sesserine alive,” the dark lord drawled. “The spells I used to conceal its location are complex. They may require two people to be undone. There is also one particular spell that necessitates a sacrifice; he would do nicely.”

  Sesserine glared at him.

  Courage nodded. “Then it’s agreed. You and your minion will guide us to the gem, and place it into my hands, whereupon your lives shall be spared and you shall both be sent into exile.”

  Hoping to wipe the smirk off Uther’s annoyingly handsome face, he added, “Any hint of treachery and I cut off both your heads myself.”

  “Your terms are acceptable, I suppose,” Uther said, and yawned ostentatiously.

  There was, of course, the tedious business of the lashing to attend to first.

  Oran tied the dark lor
d to a post and removed his shirt. The men cheered as Courage stepped up to administer Uther’s punishment. It wasn’t a task Courage relished. But the men deserved some reward for all they’d been through today, and it wasn’t as though Uther didn’t sorely deserve it.

  From the first lash to the fiftieth, he didn’t cry out once.

  Quite impressive, really.

  0

  By the gods, his back hurt.

  Wincing, Uther watched as the six men Courage had handpicked to accompany them on their treasure hunt prepared to leave at first light. They’d tied him to the trunk of an oak and upon his wrists they’d clapped iron bracelets, radiating powerful enchantments that would prevent him from accessing all but the dregs of his necromantic magic.

  For the first time in decades, he was powerless.

  “A sacrifice,” Sesserine grumbled, tied up beside him. “You cheeky bastard.”

  “I didn’t hear you coming up with anything better.”

  Crossly, Sesserine said, “Fine. It worked, I suppose. But now that their backs are turned, surely you can do something? They’re exhausted from the fight. They think we’re defeated. I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve – we could take them by surprise.”

  “To what end?” Uther snapped. “The tower’s in ruins, my undead warriors destroyed, and most of our henchmen have fled. For the moment, we’re fucked. Even if we overpowered every one of Courage’s men, the best we could hope for would be to steal a horse and try to find some remote cave in a distant region where we could live out our days as hermits.”

  “Alright, alright. How are your wounds?”

  “Survivable. Yours?”

  “I think one of those oafs knocked a tooth loose.”

  Uther growled. “They’ll live to regret it.”

  They were interrupted by the approach of the werewolf, Oran.

  “What are you two plotting?” he barked, folding his arms. “Do we need to gag you as well?”

  Oran Clawberry. Hmm.

  Ever since they’d started their campaign against him, Uther had kept a close eye on every member of Courage’s band, learning as much as he could about their origins and motives. Oran had been rejected by his pack after it had been discovered that he’d been born with anosmia. When Courage had found him, he’d been working as a circus attraction. He was, by all accounts, an honorable soul, but short-tempered and implacable when he believed that those he cared about were under threat.

  Of all Courage’s band, he likely was the one most repelled by Uther.

  Which, of course, made him all the easier to manipulate.

  Uther remember something else he’d heard about Oran; namely, his weakness for handsome men. Watching the werewolf’s silver eyes as they raked over his bound body, Uther detected a good deal of anger and frustration, but also…

  …also a hint of arousal.

  Hmm. Potential.

  Uther was well aware that he was a striking man. Many necromancers did, indeed, degenerate into emaciated husks in the course of mastering their art. Not so Uther. He’d always been powerfully-built, able to hold his own against a multiple opponents even without his sorcery to help him. His back, arms and thighs were packed with muscle, and hirsute, all of which Oran could see clearly now that they’d stripped away his armor. His face was nothing extraordinary, but he had a strong jaw and high cheekbones.

  Under the guise of swatting away a mosquito, Uther quickly surveyed the camp, and found that all the rest of Courage’s band had better things to pay attention to than the dark sorcerer in their midst.

  Idiots.

  “Plotting? We were doing no such thing, Mister Clawberry,” Uther said, in his most honeyed tones.

  It was a gamble, using the mutt’s clan name. It might well make him angrily, rather than nostalgic.

  When no immediate retaliation came, Uther continued. “My chancellor Sesserine was simply expressing concern for his pet hounds. They’re still in the fortress; he had no time to retrieve them in the chaos.”

  Tossing his hair back, the werewolf said, “If we find them, I imagine they’ll be killed. After we’ve set off in search of the gem tomorrow, those warriors who remain behind will go through every room. Then everything will be burned and the building itself will be destroyed, right down to the last brick.”

  “Ah,” said Uther, inflecting his voice with just a trace of sadness. “I see. Sir Courage is sensible to take such precautions. But it seems a pity, considering that the hounds have committed no sins. They are, after all, just animals. Could they not be released into the wild?”

  In truth, Sesserine had set the dogs free yesterday. They were huge, clever beasts and would be perfectly fine roaming through the woods until their master called them back. But Oran didn’t known that and it would be to Uther’s advantage to be seen to express concern for innocent creatures.

  “If they are still ‘just animals’ and not abominations twisted by your foul sorcery, we may spare them,” Oran admitted.

  As he spoke, Oran’s eyes flickered – once again – down Uther’s chest, and rested very briefly on his groin.

  Hah! Got you.

  Naturally, Sesserine had to ruin the moment.

  “My pets are worth more than your entire family, werewolf,” he said, his shrill voice instantly dousing whatever ardor had been brewing.

  Genuinely annoyed, Uther snapped, “We weren’t addressing you.”

  As Sesserine bristled, Uther observed out the corner of his eye that Oran seemed to approve of his swift rebuke. Werewolves, of course, were most comfortable in rigid hierarchies, and no doubt Sir Courage preferred a more egalitarian approach. Likely as not, Oran harbored some nostalgia for the ways of his pack. Once again, his gaze lingered around Uther’s chest and navel.

  It would have been easy to push his luck but Uther resisted. The gem was still days of travel away. He’d have plenty of time to chip away at Oran’s resolve.

  One last trick, then.

  “You’re a gracious audience, Mister Clawberry. I appreciate your consideration,” he said, and allowed his own gaze to idle on the werewolf’s lower body, eyes half-lidded, as though he couldn’t help himself.

  Two faint spots of color appeared on Oran’s face. He stormed off without another word.

  “Arrogant mutt,” said Sesserine.

  Unfortunately for him, Oran’s ears were sharp. In a trice, he had turned back, lunged, and slammed the skinny man against the tree trunk.

  “Perhaps I will feed you to your dogs,” he breathed, fangs lengthening, bare inches from Sesserine’s face.

  “Oran!”

  Courage had emerged from his tent and stood watching them with his hand on his sword. “That’s enough. We need him in one piece.”

  Uther exhaled.

  0

  Uther and Sesserine were made to walk at the front of the party.

  Courage rode alongside Uther while Oran strode alongside Sesserine. No horse would carry a werewolf, but it hardly mattered; even the weakest could maintain a brisk marching pace for hundreds of miles without tiring. And Uther’s body was so heavily infused with dark magic that he had all but forgotten what it was to feel one’s muscles ache.

  Sesserine, on the other hand, was prey to all mortal weaknesses and, moreover, was not inclined to suffer them quietly.

  “This is ridiculous,” he spat after three hours’ hard marching down a rock-strewn road. He was sweating fiercely and panting like an overworked lapdog. “Courage, isn’t it against your code to treat prisoners like this? You can’t honestly expect us to walk every step of the way.”

  Oran struck the side of Sesserine’s head. “Silence! I didn’t give you permission to address Sir Courage.”

  “Can’t I have a hat, at least? This sun is unbearable!”

  “Oran,” said Courage, loudly. “Find him a hat.”

  “Sir, this wretch has no right to make demands of you!”

  Sighing heavily, Courage said, “Oran, I know you’re unhappy. I under
stand that you don’t like any of this. Nonetheless, please just do as I ask, for once.”

  “But sir!”

  Uther listened to the small squabble with interest and then he glanced at Sesserine.

  Almost imperceptibly, Sesserine winked at him.

  There’s my clever chancellor. Heh. Good, good! Let’s get them at one another’s throats whenever we can.

  Courage stood firm. Eventually, a wide-brimmed straw hat was procured.

  0

  Necromancy had extended Uther’s lifespan.

  It hadn’t removed Uther’s need to eat.

  Yet, at the end of the first day’s march, he still hadn’t been afforded one scrap of food or one mouthful of water. Neither had Sesserine, who probably needed both far more than he did.

  Bound to another tree, he waited to see if the situation would be remedied, as Courage’s men made camp at the side of a river and cooking fires were lit. The chains weren’t long enough for him to approach the water’s edge and his mouth was dry as parchment.

  Oran lingered nearby, but Uther was disinclined to ask for a sip from his flask. While Courage would probably force Oran to oblige, Uther would surely lose whatever appeal he currently had in the werewolf’s eyes by begging.

  Thankfully, Sesserine had no such reservations.

  Loudly, he proclaimed, “I won’t be able to walk one step further without sustenance! Courage – do you intend to starve us?”

  Courage was working on a campfire and looked up in surprise. “Oran, I thought I asked you to attend to those two?”

  “I heard you, sir,” Oran replied tetchily. “I’ll feed our horses first, then I’ll get to them.”

  “See that you do.”

  When Oran grudgingly dropped two bowls of gruel in front of them some time later, Sesserine muttered a sarcastic thanks, while Uther merely nodded and forced down as many unpalatable mouthfuls as he could.

  After they’d eaten, Courage ordered that they be locked in a dilapidated barn nearby for the night, with two of his men standing guard outside. It was dark and smelt of dead rats.