Vamogar: The Palisades, #2

By M. Karl Ward

Never in a thousand years have the Vamogars attacked the Palisades...

     Raul's escape to freedom has been cut off, and he finds himself back in the clutches of Tuchluk, his old master.  Tuchluk is commanding Raul to uncover the secret of  the Palisades—the reason why it remains the only place still unconquered by the barbarian hordes.

     Now Raul is being forced to return to the mystical city he thought he had left behind, to search the magical artworks there, while hiding his intentions from friend and foe alike, to discover the ancient power of the citadel of the Immortals.

     But there is a Ghost-Devil that menaces him, repeatedly invading his mind, trying to force Raul out of the city.  A Ghost that is growing stronger.

     Can Raul endure these assaults and conceal his past from the people long enough to find their secret—and possibly even use it to thwart the plans of his master?

     Vamogar.

'Vamogar' is the second book in 'The Palisades' series, approx. 97,000 words.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Karl Ward
• Release date: Feb 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393672159

Book preview

Chapter One

The wad of burlap in my mouth reeked of horse sweat.

I coughed and retched, drawing even more dirt and dust through my nose.  I struggled to move but could not, and my breathing became more panicked, and terror crept up from deep within—

Calm yourself!  You’re going to suffocate if you don’t calm yourself.  Breathing first.  You can’t do anything if you’re not breathing.

Far up in the corner of my vision, where it hurt to look, past the heavy hide boot that was pressing my head into the dirt floor, was the blurred figure of my captor.  I was nauseated, in pain, and the image made no sense.  Sweat rolled into my eye.  I blinked, looked away and back again.  The image cleared.

A new surge of fear rushed through me.  A heaviness took my body, making it as thick as clay, pulling me down.  Dizzy, spinning, spiraling deeper...

...because suddenly, there...there was that face that I recognized.

What had I just seen?  Was it the shadows, fooling me?  At first it had been a stranger’s face, but then it shifted, contorted, melted into this hard, malicious visage.  The cheeks like stones, the taut jaw, the broad nose, the wisps of hair at the corner of the mouth—the face that was everything I despised and feared.  Was my head so removed from reality that I had just failed to recognize him?  Had the last several days disoriented me so much that I couldn’t conceive it, or had that face actually changed before my eyes?  How was that possible?

He bent down and pulled the gag from my mouth.

Tuchluk? I gasped, choking on the hair.

A grimace crossed his face, almost a smile, but grotesque.  Straight black hair, knife-cut in bangs above his brow, hair shiny even in this poor light, like a horse’s tail, straight and thick.  And the eyes, near as black as the hair, gleaming, malevolent.  The bleak truth washed over me: it was him.

‘Tuchluk’ is not a name, exactly; it’s more a title, meaning ‘rein-holder,’ or ‘rein-minder.’  My reins.  Tug them to make me go this way or that.  To me it equalled something like ‘Master.’  Saying it was an act of obedience, or really, a way to avoid being struck to the ground.  It was the only name I had ever called this...person.

"Ruul," he said, watching me.  ‘Ruul’ is dirt.  I’m dirt.

I could no longer bear the truth in front of me.  I averted my eyes, my mind still whirling from this abrupt turnabout of fortune.  With my cheek making its impression in the dirt, I tried to take in the room.  A dim shack, neglected, with cracks between the old grey wallboards that admitted shafts of sunlight.  Dirty, unused, bare.  Where was this shack?  After he had ambushed me from behind, rolled me up in a carpet and thrown me limp and helpless over his horse, he hadn’t ridden far.  My mind had been so jolted that I hadn’t the wit to track the time.  But it wasn’t a great distance.  Not long enough for my limbs to go numb.  So where was I?

What did it matter?  I was in exactly the same place I had always been.  Under the boot.

My wrists were cinched tight behind my back.  I strained against the ropes in futility; it was the work of a people born to handle horses.  He watched me struggle, with that grim smirk.  Determined Rage is the only other expression you will see on the face of a Vamogar.

Once I gave up the fight, he spoke again.  You did good with those two.

I worked the last of the horse hair out of my mouth, gagged and spit and coughed.  My head ached sharply.  My face was going numb with his foot on it.

I thought you’d be impressed.  I was speaking out of habit.  Trying to fast-talk my way out.  I was still disoriented, trying to gauge what was happening.  What was he saying?

He chuckled, deep and rasping.  Without easing the pressure on my head he pulled up an old stool and sat down.  No reason he shouldn’t be comfortable while he abused me.

His face flashed briefly with a sudden concern.  Do not worry.  I took care of their horses.

As if I should care.  But to my shame, I did.  Because deep down I was relieved; I wouldn’t be punished now, at least not for that.

Wait.  Their horses.  The two Vamogars that had hounded me all the way to the ocean’s shore, to the citadel called the Palisades; the two that I had managed to slide down the shaft and out the side of the cliff; the only two Vamogars I knew of that had been defeated by a ‘normal’ human.  He knew!  Tuchluk knew about them!

You never fail me, he said.

I stuttered.  I don’t know what you mean.

How could he possibly know?  Had he found the bodies on the shoreline?

I knew you could do it, he said.

I didn’t do anything—

He pressed his heel harder into my face, with no effort shown; just that same malicious grimace.  I groaned, rolled my eyes back and stopped breathing, pretending he’d gone too far.  He knew it was a trick, and every time I played it he went on just a bit further, as punishment for trying to fool him.  He knew exactly how much pain I could take.  I gasped, unable to bluff him.

Now my head ached even more, and my lips were dead.  I had no way out of this.  So I lay motionless.  Finally he took his foot off, and the blood rushed back in, throbbing and stinging.  Still I didn’t move.  No reason to invite more pain.  It would arrive of its own accord.

Because now it was inescapable.  Now I was going to pay for my crime.  What was the punishment for killing a Vamogar?  For killing one...no, two of his ranks?  It was a question that never could have crossed my mind.  To kill a slave would be nothing to Tuchluk, and now after my last dash for freedom had been arrested, my demise was finally at hand.

Or would it be worse?  Tuchluk wouldn’t merely kill me.  He would twist my limbs slowly, one by one, savoring, until they snapped, and then move on to the soft tissue, not allowing me to expire, not until every part of me...

Did you think you were just going to leave after that?

Leave?  Yes.  Yes, that was the plan, my futile desire, to shake my last two pursuers, to escape where no one would ever know me.  I had meant to leave quietly, secretly, travel down the shore, steal that fishing boat—

Ah, that hurt.  The thought of it hurt.  I had secured my escape, had cleared the path—I could be free!—but instead, I had turned back inland.  Now I was blinded by images of bright sunlight reflected on open water.  If only I hadn’t returned to the Patriale!

But to rue that foolish move was futile, and deserved no utterance.

Tuchluk’s boot nudged me in the back.  Eh?

I only stopped for a...I was on my way to—

Stop your whimpering.  You are going nowhere.

Even though I knew it, still it was depressing to hear.

Did you think you could kill two of my warriors and walk away?

I...I’m not sure...wait, you think that I—?

Suddenly he jerked toward me, a mere feint.  Still, I flinched.  I didn’t mean to! I blurted.

Tuchluk laughed loudly.  You thought you would just leave them?  No palings to keep out the carrion-eaters?  No funeral pyre?

"Did you build them one?"

You see?  There it is.  That perverse streak in me that flouts consequence.  My mind works constantly, so much that it seems it can’t be bothered to control my mouth.  It’s my mouth that gets me in trouble—from the very beginning, my mouth.  Every time I speak, Tuchluk finds a new way to punish me, yet I insist on asking for more.  Why?  Is it some useless sense of rebellion, a reflex that will only haunt me from that instant onward?  Or is it a feeling that no matter what I do it can get no worse?  If so, then would it be so bad just to be silent, to obey, to fade away and become nothing?

Even silence was no respite.  He kicked me, and I groaned in pain.

Tuchluk laughed again, a hideous sound.  I missed hearing you chirp like a tiny bird in the grass.  His thick tongue stumbled over the words; he was speaking to me outside his native language.  It has been more than a season since I have seen you, but here we are, gabbing like old women who saw each other yesterday.  He chuckled some more at his cruel humor, and then he bent down, putting his face close to mine, his eyes growing suddenly stern and terrible.  But why did you want to leave so soon?

I glared up at his face, inches away.

He rose up again.  Do you not understand what a triumph that is?  You must stand tall and claim your victory, not leave it for the wolves.  Why do you run away?

What was he talking about?  Part of the problem with appeasing these Vamogars is that I never know what they’re thinking.  You’re making a mistake.  I had nothing to do with it.  It was an accident.

Stop your lies.

It wasn’t me!

Then it came.  The first bone was snapped.  My rib.  I gasped.

Anger curled Tuchluk’s lip.  Do not do that foul, mealy thing where you pretend you are not the victor.  His smirk returned.  I granted you Trial!  You mounted above it!  You must claim the glory!  You have pleased your Master.

He was goading me to admit it so he could enjoy breaking another rib.  But then, panting shallowly through the pain, I came to a slow understanding.  What...you meant for me to kill them?

Tuchluk laughed slowly, enjoying himself.

My head was swirling.  How could that be?  They were your own warriors.

They have done their duty, he said.  "Pagu padtha verthe boght."

This time I kept the bitter words from escaping me: ‘Why don’t you go right now and collect?’

How do you say it in your peasant-words?  Eh?

He was waiting.

All Reward in Blue Sky, I said.

Yes, that is it.  He repeated it with solemn reverence.  All Reward in Blue Sky.

Because that’s what the Vamogars staunchly believe.  From the moment of their first cries and ever afterward, they live with the conviction that there is no reward to be had in this life, but that the deeds they do on this earth will fix their place in the life after death.  Up in the vast Blue Sky that looks down over their homelands.  Every hardship they endure, every act in service of their tribe and their emperor and their race will grant them Reward there—eternal glory, endless grasslands to ride, the riches of emperors for each.  There is no Reward on earth, nothing that could compare to the Rewards in Blue Sky.  And so, on this earth they take none.  There is no pleasure, no prestige; only the chance to earn a better Reward afterwards.  With deeds great or small, it does not matter.  Even obeying commands—even, it seems, dying for the good of their people—is an opportunity, the chance to perform a service that will be repaid them after they die.  All Reward in Blue Sky.

You have earned your share.  Why not go bask in your Reward and leave me alone?

You think you were free then, Tuchluk said, you won them?  Do not think you are better because you have won.  They have earned their Reward.  Served the Vamogar.  Not you.  Do not think you have earned anything!  No Reward for peasants like you.  You are only made to serve me.  Do not forget it.

He nudged my rib, making me yip like a dog, the pain sharp, then spreading, throbbing.

You can not leave here.  You stay here now.

He meant to take it all the way this time.  What would he snap next?  Could I fade away before it—

Open your eyes!

The jolt of his harsh words hurt as much as if he had kicked me.  I moaned, and heat flushed through me, sweat forming.

Now, he said, leaning closer again, breath blowing hot on my face, tell me their secret.

His words brushed past the curtain of pain, but their meaning could not follow.  He breathed hard, nostrils flaring like a horse’s after a hard ride.  His face was intent, expectant.  But I could focus only on taking shallow breaths.

You will tell me.

Tell you what?  I have no idea what you’re talking about.

I stared across the uneven floor of the shack, and I could feel him watching me.  I had better say something, or else there would be reprisal—another kick to the ribs.  But Tuchluk let the fear of pain negotiate for him, and he simply waited, knowing that he would get whatever he wanted in the end.

He wanted something.  What was it?

He wanted to know how I did it.  Was that important to him?  Why would he want me to kill them?  Just so he could see if there were any way?  What for?  So he could defend against it in the future?  What had made him think it was possible in the first place?

I had to give him something.  Why prolong the pain?

Poison, I said, looking him in the eye.  It was poison.

There, I was the confessed criminal.  Let the final sentence be carried out quickly.

His face did not change; there was no comprehension yet.  Poison?  How?

I mixed different poisons together.  I fooled them into drinking it, I said.

He gave me a look of disgust.  Do not lie to me.

I swear, it’s the truth.

He grunted.  Stupid peasant.  Do not twist words.  It does not matter how you won battle.  I mean this place!  What is the secret of this place?  Tell me!

I was baffled.  What place?

You know the secret, he accused.  I know that you do.  You have used it to defeat my men.  You could not have done it without the secret.  Now you will tell me.

Breathing too deeply, despite my efforts.  Stabs of pain.  Tuchluk bent his face, red with anger, even closer to mine, waiting.  What did he want?

Give me the secret.

I had no idea—wait...the Palisades?

He wanted to know the secret of the Palisades?  Why it was different?  Why hadn’t it fallen to the Vamogars?

I don’t know! I said.  It’s the truth!

Stop pretending, dog!  You know the secret.  Now you will tell me.

I swear, I don’t know.  He would never believe that, true as it was.  I...I don’t understand it.  I wanted to find out too.  I tried to—

How to convince him?  I had to give him something, make him understand...but what?  The art?  The Tapestrias?  How could I explain those things to him?  He would not comprehend, much less believe.  What was his thick head capable of digesting?

He kicked my leg, not enough to break it, but enough to wrench my ribcage again.  Every little noise you make is a lie.  You can not hide it from me.

How could I know?  What am I?  I am just a slave.

I know what you are.  You are a mealy liar.

Haven’t I always told you the truth?  I swear to you, I don’t understand it.

You lie.  Your first cry out of your mother was a lie, so she threw you away.

I can’t tell you what I don’t know.  I tried, I swear, but I couldn’t learn their secret.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the blow, trying not to breath too deeply.  Waiting.

I opened them again.  Tuchluk’s head was cocked, his eyes on the walls.  He had heard something.

They come, he said.

I looked to the grey wallboards.  Who?  Who is coming?

Tuchluk’s lip curled in disgust.  They don’t even know how to flush out their enemy.  All come from one side.

Who comes from one side?

You are going to find it for me.  Do not try to slip away like a weasel.  You will find out, and you will come tell me.  Do not forget.  I have my eyes on you, he said, and he began untying me.  He watched me as he did, those black eyes unwavering, a smirk touching his lips.  Then his face contorted.  His features—Tuchluk’s features—dissolved.  Cheeks convulsed, jawbones bulged and heaved, lips stretched and spread.  His nose thinned, became higher and sharper.  His straight black hair crinkled and popped, dusting to grey, becoming sere as an old man’s.  The wisps of hair at the corners of his mouth disappeared.  Even the scent of the air in the shack changed, and the smell of horse sweat dissipated, so it would be as if he were never here.

But that smirk never left.

The shifting image, along with the sharp pain in my side, nauseated me, brought me near to retching, disastrous as that would be.

He looked around once more, listening, then turned his cruel eyes back to me.

"Be careful with your lies, ruul.  Do not let these peasants know.  They can not protect you."

Finally, draped in his fragile new visage, Tuchluk grabbed up the rope and the wad of burlap and the rug, then easily snapped one of the wallboards off, making himself a slim opening.

As he stepped through it, he said, I am watching.

Chapter Two

There was a commotion outside.

If they were trying to warn away the attacker, they made enough of a din.  If they meant a surprise attack, well...

There was no reason to move.  I lay as Tuchluk had left me.  My unbound wrists throbbed with new blood and my shoulders hurt, adding to the misery.  I saw no other future for myself.

The door burst open.  A timid pitchfork wavered at the entrance, until at last someone was bold enough to test the unknown.  I recognized him—thick black hair, groomed straight back, and chin-beard.  It was Maquet.

He quickly assessed the bare room, saw the opening in the back, and finally looked at me lying on the floor.  Before he would inspect me, though, he went to search out the gap in the wall.

Several others now felt emboldened to enter.

Go out and check the area, Maquet told them.  He’s escaped out the back.

Escaped.

Are you hurt? Maquet asked, now kneeling next to me.  Who was it?  Did you get a look at him?  What did he want?

I exhaled a long, slow breath.  My rib, I groaned.  Broken.

Maquet drew back in surprise.  Thankfully, he knew better than to touch me.  He checked the room again for clues.  The others returned.

No sign of anyone, one of his group said.  They all stood nervously at the door, still looking out for attackers.

These brigands are poking around here again, said another.  The rest murmured their agreement.  Farmers, dressed in loose trousers or breeches, simple shirts with sleeves rolled up, and frayed straw hats.  Maquet looked out of place among them, with his tight-fitted brown waistcoat over a blousy, wispy shirt, and black pants that tapered at the ankle.  His short boots were dusty.

Is he injured? one asked, in the manner of discussing his cattle.  Would he need to kill the poor animal?

He says his rib is broken, Maquet answered.  He looked at me, from my sweaty forehead to bare feet, nodded at my raw wrists and the lack of trickling blood anywhere.  Then he looked me up and down again—at my clothes, I could tell.  I saw him wonder silently why I was wearing a peasant’s clothes instead of the others he had seen me in this morning.  This morning!  It seemed an age.  I closed my eyes, and he didn’t ask about the change.  Gather some cloth and we’ll wrap him tight for the time being.  He turned back to me.  Did you see his face?  Will you recognize him when we catch him?

I coughed weakly.  Thirsty, I moaned.

Maquet looked at me a moment, then nodded.  Right.  If you can sit up, we’ll bandage you, then get you to some water.  There’s a stream nearby.

After I gasped in pain trying to sit upright, two of them came to help.  Let us lift you, and they propped me up.  I panted with the effort.  The farmers had brought along some rope, thinking that by some miracle they would be tying up a captive, but now instead they worked at fashioning a cradle of sorts that four of them could carry over their shoulders, with me suspended in between.  Being lowered into it was painful enough, and three halting steps convinced me it was better if I just walked.  I had already had enough of being bound in ropes.

The sun was high and hot, and the parch in my throat surpassed my rib for discomfort.  The stream was not as nearby as I’d hoped, and I was discovering many nuances of suffering as time crept along.  I barely noticed the others walking next to me, encircling me, as if to protect.

Almost a shame, one of them said with an awkward laugh.  We didn’t even get a tussle after all that fuss.

Not much action for a rescue, another said.

Rescue?

We were ready, though, said another.  He cleared his throat.

I didn’t recognize him, nor any of the others.  They didn’t seem like they lived in the citadel; more likely they lived on one of the Patriales, but I didn’t remember seeing any of them at Pombello’s.  Wherever they were from, none of these men would ever be able to stand up even to a lone Vamogar, much less a horde.  Any ideas that they might be turned into a fighting force was hopeless.

Better still, said another, that we rescued him without a fight.  The others grudgingly admitted their relief.

You fools haven’t rescued me.  I am back again in Tuchluk’s grasp—as if I’d ever escaped it!  He is still-and-always my uncontested Master.  All this time I was a fool to think I was escaping him, only to stroll back into his clutches.  But that is my lot; for me there is no rescue, no salvation.

I endured this happy thought along with the heat until finally we reached the stream, and despite the cool water, I found it hard to be refreshed when each swallow stretched my ribs until I couldn’t tell where the injury started or ended.  I sat in the shade of an old fallen tree to catch my breath.  Maquet sat down next to me.

We suffer these brigands once in a while.  They won’t be chased away so easily.  They’ll  keep trying, probing, looking for a weak spot.  Until we send out the gendarmes in force to scout the countryside they’ll be a nuisance.  We can rest here a short while, he said, but we don’t want to wait too long, or we’ll be caught out after dark.  He paused.  "Not that there is any real danger, but you were attacked."

How did you know? I asked.

One of the rescuers spoke: Young Elvain saw it happen from two hills over, so he ran back to the field where his uncle was working, said he saw something like an ambush.  Then his uncle hurried back to the Patriale, and we gathered up to come after the scoundrel.

Who was young Elvain?  How much did the boy see?  Did he see the horse?  A horse made it indisputable that a Vamogar was involved.  To my chagrin, it was my confidence in Tuchluk’s ability that negated that thought.  Tuchluk wouldn’t allow his horse to be seen, not if he didn’t want it.  These farmers were certain it was a mere brigand that had taken me.

I got word of it from Pombello, Maquet said.

From Pombello?

He sent a messenger to me.  You don’t think he’d just let you get kidnapped, do you?

I didn’t know what to say to that.  Why would Pombello lift a finger to save me when I had betrayed him, trespassed his beloved, precious grand-niece?  Why do something to help the person that had stolen from you?  I touched my side, groaned softly and closed my eyes, said nothing.

Pombello’s always been a good man.  This fellow must be thankful to him, one of them said, not speaking to me, but speaking for me to hear.  I noticed that none of them, aside from Maquet, spoke directly to me.  I was an outsider to them, and I detected a tinge of mistrust in their speech.

Thankful?  I suppose I should be thankful, to these men, at least.  I should be grateful to them, despite their gross insignificance.  They tried, not knowing.  They had no idea what they were truly facing, and they made their best, if measly, effort.  But with the shadow of Tuchluk’s presence over me again, I couldn’t bring myself to say the thanks they had earned.

When you feel up to it, we should go, Maquet said.  I looked up, and the rest of them were looking at me, waiting.

Where are we taking him? someone asked.

Fornay’s, another said.  That’s closest.

Lot of hills between, though.

It may be best to take him back to the Palisades, Maquet said.  Do you think you can walk? he asked me.  With some breaks on the way it’ll take a few hours.

The Palisades.

I had lamented, just this morning, while sitting on the red-tiled rooftops of the citadel, the idea of leaving that place of beauty.  But my mind had moved on, away from it, on toward the seashore, and down the coast, to where I thought Tuchluk and his warriors might never be able to find me.  In my mind I had left the citadel, put it out of my heart, expected to never see it again.  To go back there now seemed like going to a prison.  I didn’t have the will to return, to step backward, back into the trap.

But there was no other choice.

I nodded, and Maquet helped me rise.  We turned back to follow the sun on its arc, toward the citadel and the coast.

Could I make a dash for the sea?  Could I make excuses to these men, cut for the shore, and find that boat before Tuchluk caught on?  Could I man the lines myself, work the tiller, steer out to open water?

I stumbled, and wrenched my torso as I fell to the ground.  The rescuers moved to help me as I panted and groaned miserably.

I couldn’t outrun a kitten, much less this crowd.  Far less Tuchluk.

No.

How many times had I run, once I had decided that I wouldn’t take it any more?  Once I had decided I was better off with the consequences rather than the meager favors granted for obedience, and taken every chance to run, just stupidly run, without any pretense or wheedling to my master, just run?  I couldn’t count the number of times.  And never once did I cause the least bit of distress to my overlord, but instead merely sated his desire to corral, to punish, to subjugate, and make me do it all again.  It was laughable, to both him and me, a stupid game that I could never hope to win.  Yet over and again I played, and here I was playing it still, and still losing.

We paused several times to rest, but the pain did not lessen.  After time, I saw the wall towers, sparkling in the blazing sun, then the white stone walls of the Palisades slowly rising up from the horizon.

It was well into the gloaming when we reached the Grand Portal, the main gates that rose to what felt like dizzying heights, with the disinterested gendarmes looking down on us.  I blamed my ribs for the nausea that welled over me when we passed through the gate.  I blamed the winding, descending and rising path into the city for my fatigue.  I reasoned that I must watch where I stepped as I lowered my eyes away from the people that stepped aside to let us pass.  I told myself that it wasn’t the faint glimmer that I caught out of the corner of my eye, the telltale points of darting light that emanated from the Tapestrias that hung on the walls and everywhere in the streets, that raised a stinging bile of defeat in my throat.

I swore at Fate and Futility.

I had returned to the Palisades.