The Curse of the Gods

©2009 Ian Hobson

Back in the mists of time, in a world not unlike our own...

***

The moon had waxed and waned five times since the siege had begun, but the king of Salamnan's fortress still stood.

Dorglest, commander of the Dralman army, had tried everything. He had built catapults that hurled huge rocks at the castle ramparts, but its walls were so thick and strong - hewn from the very rock on which the fortress stood - that the projectiles hardly dented the surface. His men had climbed the rocky slopes and attempted to storm the walls with ropes and ladders, and they had attacked the main gateway with battering rams, and loosed almost one hundred thousand arrows at the defenders. But each attack had been repelled, and almost one third of the Dralman force lay dead or wounded.

Within the castle walls, however, the defenders were getting perilously low on food. 'How much longer can we hold out?' King Stallgad asked his advisers, having called them to the council chamber at the top of the Great Tower.

Bieron, the king's closest friend and most senior adviser, sitting close to him at the head of the table, ran his fingers through his long white beard. 'Your fighting men, another month perhaps, your majesty.' Stregallan, head of the king's men at arms, nodded his agreement.

'And the common people, how do they fare?' the king asked. When the invaders had first arrived on the shores of Salamnan, many of the inhabitants had been killed; but those that survived, men, women and children, had fled to the kingdom's only stronghold, the mighty fortress built by the King Stallgad's great-grandfather.

'Perhaps the same, your majesty.' Ballred, the king's physician, answered the question. 'Though some of the old are refusing to eat, preferring to let the younger ones have their share, so I expect the first deaths to occur within days.'

'Perhaps, your majesty,' said Greybald, another of the king's advisers, 'it is time to negotiate a surrender.' Greybald had once been a well rounded man, but after months of rationing, his clothes hung loosely from his emaciated frame.

'We cannot surrender!' exclaimed the young Prince Terathlon, his chair scraping noisily on the wooden floor as he got to his feet. He glared across the table at Greybald. 'The Dralmen would slaughter every one of us.'

'Sit down, Terathlon. Save your anger, and your energy, for the enemy.' The king waited for his nephew to reluctantly obey before continuing. 'You may well be correct in your assumption, Terathlon; the Dralmen are well known for their blood-lust, and will surely desire vengeance for those we have killed. But we have also lost men, good men, and though the walls of this castle are strong, with food rationed as it is, we grow weaker by the day. It may take only one more forceful attack for us to be overwhelmed.'

'The gods would never allow it!' Mordulla spoke for the first time. Until then the king's half-sister had sat quietly in a corner, hardly noticed by the assembled councillors. She was even older than Bieron and claimed be in communication with the gods. Ten days earlier, with the king's permission, she had sacrificed a goat, slitting its throat and bathing herself in its blood, before hurling the carcass over the castle ramparts, in full view of the enemy. The latter having been suggested by Bieron as a way of misleading the Dralmen that inside the castle, food was still plentiful.

Now, as she got to her feet and crossed the room, her rancid odour preceded her, making some at the table grimace. 'The gods would never allow it!' she said again.

'What would you know?' Prince Terathlon asked, looking disgustedly at the old woman. 'Go rattle your bones and bloodstained trinkets.'

The men around the table, including the king, stiffened at the young prince's remarks, as though offending the old soothsayer might also offend the gods. But before any more was said, there were hurried footsteps beyond the door to the council chamber, and then it was flung open and in rushed a tall and worried-looking Salamnan warrior.

'Forgive me,' he said, removing his helmet and bowing, first to the king, and then to Stregallan, 'but there is something you must come and see.'

***

Outwardly, Dorglest, the Dralman commander, appeared to be waiting patiently as he stood just beyond the range of the Salamnan archers. Arctan, his younger brother, stood beside him, and behind them stood a standard-bearer, with the Dralman blood-red banner unfurled and flapping in the breeze.

'What makes you so sure he will come?' asked Arctan.

'Food,' replied Dorglest, his voice betraying his impatience. 'They must be short of food by now. I was not fooled by the goat that the hag flung from the castle walls.'

'Then why not let them starve?'

'That is not the Dralman way, Arctan. We are warriors; there is nothing we cannot take by force, or by cunning. Besides, the days are growing shorter and as winter comes we will be forced to look further for our own food. That, or return to our boats and sail back to Dralmanchia.' But the latter was not an option for Dorglest. Salamnan was a small and insignificant country, but Emperor Tyranius, conqueror, and ruler, of all the lands south and east of the great sea, had ordered him to take the kingdom as a foothold in the northern continent, and take it he would.

Arctan was about to reply but Dorglest raised a hand to silence him. 'Look!' he said, nodding towards the castle's huge iron gate as it was slowly raised. The brothers watched, knowing that the eyes of their men would also be on that gate, but Dorglest had given strict orders that none of them should advance unless ordered to.

'Three men,' said Arctan, stating the obvious.

Dorglest remained silent, watching as the three walked purposefully down the rocky slope that led from the castle gateway towards where the three Dralmen warriors stood. As he expected, they covered only half the ground before stopping. 'Stay here, Arctan,' he said, before striding forward a hundred or so paces and then waiting. He carried a sheathed sword, but he stood with his arms folded, knowing that it would be foolish to even touch the hilt, now that he was in range of the archers watching him from the castle walls. He nodded his approval as one of the three men set off to meet him. As Dorglest expected, the man was tall, middle aged, and regal in his bearing. He stopped several paces away and made an open-palmed gesture that indicated that he was ready to listen to whatever Dorglest had to say.

'You are King Stallgad?' Dorglest asked, in his own language.

'I am,' replied the king, in passable Dralman. He did not consider himself to be a scholar, but he had always found it useful to have learned the languages of potential enemies.

The Dralman commander was not surprised; he too made it his business to know his enemy. 'I am Dorglest,' he said, looking into the eyes of his rival. 'Your men fight well.'

'And yours die well.'

Anger flashed across Dorglest's face momentarily but he ignored the barbed reply. 'These are your lands that we occupy,' he said, casting his gaze about. 'Why do you not come out and fight for them?'

King Stallgad had asked himself the same question more than once, but he knew that to repel the invaders that way would cost many Salamnan lives. The fortress that his great-grandfather had built was designed to withstand an invasion, and the king saw little point in giving up such an advantage. 'If that is all you have to ask,' he said, dismissively, 'then I'll thank you for the fresh air and exercise and bid you good day.'

As the king turned to walk away, Dorglest was sorely attempted to draw his sword and finish the man. 'Wait,' he said, struggling to keep his temper under control. 'I have a proposition.' As the king turned and faced him again, Dorglest continued. 'If you wish me to wait until you and your people starve to death, I will. But if you wish for a swifter conclusion - an honourable conclusion - then I say this: fight me, man to man, and if you kill me, my men will return to our ships and sail away, never to return.'

'And if you were to kill me?' King Stallgad asked.

'Then your lands, and your fortress, will be mine; but your people will be free to go.'

'Go?' said the king. 'Go where?'

'There are lands to the north, beyond the mountains, I'm told. You must know of them.'

The king did know of them: the winters were cold in those northern lands, but the inhabitants, though hardy, were not warlike and would probably not oppose his people if they were to migrate there.

He studied the man standing before him: Dorglest was young and arrogant, strong perhaps, but surely lacking in experience, and probably unaware that King Stallgad had only been King of Salamnan for five years, since the death of his twin brother, Stralbron, his father's favourite. Before then he had been a soldier, a mercenary, roaming far and wide in search of adventure, believing that his destiny lay beyond the shores of his home country; until Bieron found him and brought him back.

'How do I know you would keep your word?' the king asked. 'Or, more to the point, that your men would keep your word?' It seemed a prudent question to ask, even though King Stallgad knew that he could beat this young upstart with one hand tied behind his back.

'Because I swear before all the gods, and on the lives all of my men, that if you kill me, they will follow my orders and leave your lands.' Dorglest said this with conviction; though, in truth, he cared nothing for gods, believing only in himself.

'Then you have a deal,' said King Stallgad. 'I will meet you here tomorrow at first light.'

***

The next day dawned surprisingly warm and humid, though thunder clouds had spread across Salamnan from the east, threatening rain and casting a shadow over the land. As King Stallgad left his castle and walked down the well-worn track, accompanied by Stregallan, head of the king's men at arms, and his old friend, Bieron, a loud screech was heard from the battlements.

'Mordulla,' said Stregallan, looking over his shoulder. 'What ails her?'

'She sees a bad omen in the storm clouds,' replied the king, wearily. He was wearing a thick leather tunic, laced with overlapping iron plates, and he carried a heavy, sheathed battle-sword at his belt.

'When does she ever see a good omen?' Bieron asked, with a rare smile; though he was unhappy about King Stallgad's decision to fight and had counselled against it. Even now, Bieron was tempted to reopen the argument and to try and dissuade him, but to do so – to show a lack of faith in the king – would not help the situation. 'I will be glad,' he said instead, 'to see the back of these Dralmen, assuming that once you have put Dorglest to the sword, his army leaves us in peace.'

The king put a hand on his friend's shoulder as they walked. 'Dorglest has sworn before all the gods, and on the lives of his men, that it will be so. Younger Dralmen might wish to ignore a dead commanders orders, but the older, more experienced, men among them will know that to defy such a obligation would bring the wrath of the gods down upon all of them.' The three reached the place where they had stopped the previous day. 'Stay here,' said the king, 'this will not take long,' and, taking his helmet and shield from Stregallan, he walked towards his adversary.

Again, Dorglest was accompanied by his brother, Arctan, and by his standard-bearer. But unlike King Stallgad, he wore no heavy armour, just a helmet and a lightweight coat of ring-armour, or chainmail – a new innovation from the east - and he carried only his sword and a small shield.

'You will beat the fool easily,' said Arctan. 'He will never match your speed, weighed down by all that iron.'

'And then his great fortress will be ours,' Dorglest agreed. He saluted his brother and strode forward, meeting King Stallgad at the spot where they had met the day before.

The two men faced each other grimly, each man certain that today he would take the life of the other, one in defence of his people and his kingdom, the other in defence of his pride and reputation.

'Do your men understand the oath that you made?' the king asked. 'That upon your death they must leave my lands, never to return?'

'They do,' Dorglest answered. 'And do your men understand that after your death they must abandon these lands forever?

'They do.'

'Then there is no more to say.'

King Stallgad nodded. If he had noticed the unusual garment that the Dralman commander was wearing, he showed no sign of it. He donned his helmet and then drew his sword in readiness, while Dorglest, sword already in hand, stood with his weight on the balls of his feet, as though ready to spring, cat-like, at his enemy.

But it was King Stallgad who made the first move, striding forward and swinging his heavy sword high and then down towards his adversary's neck. Dorglest sprang backwards, making no attempt to parry, and allowing King Stallgad to come at him again, this time swinging his huge blade, in an upward stroke, to pass within a hairsbreadth of Dorglest's chest as he sprang clear once more. The king grunted in frustration and renewed his attack. But he could not equal his adversary's speed, and his grunts turned to growls of rage as he strode forward, time and time again, with his sword raised to strike at nothing but air as his opponent leapt clear.

'Do you wish to fight, or run away?' he shouted, becoming hot and even more angry.

Dorglest said nothing. The anger that he had felt the day before had turned to a cold and calculating resolve, and he smiled as he evaded another mighty swing of his enemy's sword. But then, seeing an opening, Dorglest lunged and, with sword arm outstretched, rammed the tip of his blade under the chinstrap of the king's helmet and on into his unprotected throat.

King Stallgad, eyes wide in shock as the blade severed his windpipe, swung his great sword one last time, finally making contact; but the force of the blow, though breaking two of Dorglest's ribs was not a killing blow, as the coat of ring-armour had prevented the cutting edge from doing any real damage. And as Dorglest, standing firm and ignoring the pain in his side, thrust again with his sword, the blade severed the king's spinal cord and ended his life.

***

By midday, King Stallgad's body had been retrieved and hastily interred in the vault beneath the Great Tower, beside his father and brother. Weeping, Mordulla had said the words of ritual that would send the king on his way and, on Bieron's orders, two men remained behind to seal the tomb.

'We should fight on!' Terathlon told Bieron, having followed him up the stone staircase that led from the burial chamber and out into the courtyard. While all those around them in the castle were readying to leave, the king's nephew could not understand why only he had the courage to keep fighting. 'We should fight! I order it!' he shouted. 'Am I not king, now that my uncle is dead?' A few people stopped and glanced in his direction but soon scurried away. The Dralman commander had let it be known that he would allow only one day's grace, and everyone was making haste with their preparations to leave.

Only Bieron had time for the prince. 'I am sorry, Terathlon, he said, 'but the kingdom is lost. If we defy your uncle's oath, the gods will make us pay. We must leave now and take whatever we can carry. When we have found, and settled in, a new land, we can talk of kingship then. But until that time, our survival will depend upon our ability to hunt and to forage for food, and to find a safe way over the mountains. I would ask that you concentrate your efforts upon both of those things.'

There were tears in Terathlon's eyes; twice his chance to be king of Salamnan had been snatched away, the first time after his father's death, when his uncle had retuned and claimed the kingdom for himself; and now he was to be driven out by the Dralmen. He was about to say more but, distracted by an agonised scream, he looked up towards the top of the Great Tower. Mordulla had climbed onto the parapet and set her clothes and hair on fire and, still screaming, she leapt from the tower and fell for several heart-stopping moments until her aged body was dashed against the paved courtyard. A clap of thunder shook the air and, immediately, rain began to pour from the heavens.

'It is over,' said Bieron. 'The kingdom is lost. But if you wish to prove yourself a leader, Terathlon, be the first to leave the castle tomorrow, and lead us safely into a new life. I will see to Mordulla; she can have the vault that was reserved for my death.'

***

The Dralmen warriors watched in silence as the last of the people of Salamnan left the fortress, some pulling handcarts and others weighed down by bundles containing their possessions. And then, when Dorglest could see that there were no more to come, he gave the order: 'Kill them all.'

As King Stallgad had predicted, some of the older warriors, upon hearing of Dorglest's plans, had expressed their reluctance to defy the gods by breaking an oath made in their name. But the king had underestimated Dorglest, for at the first sign of rebellion he and Arctan had slain two of the procrastinators, thus silencing the rest.

Now, with his broken ribs burning with pain, Dorglest allowed his brother to lead the massacre. And a massacre it was, for though the fighting men of Salamnan, many of them well-armed, turned to meet the attack, they were cut down by volleys of arrows, and could not stand against the charging Dralmen warriors. A few, towards the front of the column, escaped unseen into the wooded slopes at the foothills of the mountains, but most, even the women and children, were slaughtered.

Later, as Dorglest walked amongst the corpses, watching his men search the dead for anything of value, he felt no remorse, only satisfaction that the superstitious fool of a king had been so easily tricked into surrendering his fortress. He turned, and was about to set off up the stony track that lead to its entrance, when movement caught his eye. To his surprise, an old man who lay amongst the dead, was beckoning him. Dorglest drew his sword and approached the man. He was lying in a pool of what must be his own blood, and Dorglest recognised him as one of the two who had accompanied King Stallgad and then, later, taken away his body.

He put the tip of his sword to the old man's throat, parting his long white beard. 'It is time to die, old man,' he said, in heavily accented, but understandable, Salamnan.

'So you speak our language,' said Bieron, his voice little more than a whisper.

'What of it?' said Dorglest. 'With your death, it will be spoken no more.'

'I die with honour.' Momentarily, a fire seemed to burn in Bieron's eyes. 'But you... you will pay dearly for this day's work.'

Dorglest laughed and then thrust his sword into Bieron's throat, ending his life in same way that he had ended King Stallgad's; except that this time his blade snapped in two.

Dorglest stared at his broken sword; it was a good sword, a sword that had served him well, and he could not comprehend what had caused it to break so easily. He shuddered then, as a feeling of dread came over him.

And then it began.

To his left, one of his men cried out in pain while clutching his shoulder; and another did the same, but this time falling to the ground and clasping his thigh, while behind Dorglest a man screamed.

Still holding his broken sword, Dorglest turned, believing that he and his men were under attack from concealed archers. He looked towards the castle ramparts, from whence the attack surely came, but no arrows flew. Yet, all around him his men were crying out in pain, some screaming in agony, others lashing out, with whatever weapons came to hand, as though they were fighting an invisible foe.

Dorglest turned again as someone called his name. It was his brother, Arctan, stumbling towards him over the fallen bodies of the people of Salamnan and dodging between Dralmen warriors as they writhed in pain or tried to strike the unseen enemy. His face was panic-stricken and he held his hands to his head as though he feared that it might fall from his shoulders, and then, as though struck from behind, he fell forwards and hit the ground hard.

Fearful, and yet ignoring the threat of this unseen foe, Dorglest rushed to his brother's aid, half expecting him to be dead. But Arctan was not dead, just in terrible pain; he rolled over, still clutching his head in his hands. 'What is happening?' he cried. 'Make it stop!'

Other Dralmen warriors had turned towards their commander, each of their faces contorted with agony. And then Dorglest too felt a searing pain as an invisible blade pierced his throat. Instinctively his hands tried to seize the weapon, but there was nothing there, nor was there any wound; and yet the pain was so terrible that he fell to his knees, expecting to die, while all around him, his men were in similar straits.

One man could take no more. Reversing the sword that he carried, he held its tip to his heart and threw himself upon it, forcing the blade through his chest and out between his shoulder blades and, as he fell onto his side, blood poured from his mouth and he was dead. Another man, clutching at his belly with one hand, as though he was trying to stop his entrails from pouring out, pulled a dagger from his belt and then slit his own throat. Dorglest wanted to order his men to stop but he could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

He struggled to his feet and, turning away from his brother, he stared across to where the old man lay, a serene expression on his dead face and the broken sword blade still protruding from his throat.

The old man's words came back to him then: 'I die with honour. But you will pay dearly for this day's work.'

***

What happened that day became legend. A story passed down by the few remaining Salamnan survivors and then told and retold so that, centuries later, the story, in one form or another, was known to all fighting men, especially the part where each man in the Dralman army was made to suffer the pain of their victims until, in despair, they all took there own lives. Such was the curse of the gods.

***
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