Burning Village
A short story
by
Robert J. Morrison
"Watch it burn Grondar," growled the scarred warrior as he loomed over what used to be the hamlet of Thistledown. "Can you smell the flesh?"
Grondar nervously shifted his feet as he watched Kellaman's troop set the last house ablaze. He had not been the warlord's second for more than a day, his predecessor slain by the great blade that was now strapped to Kellaman's back. "No my lord," he said with as much conviction a he could muster, "I smell nothing but the burning thatch."
"I pity you then," the great warrior said with a small shake of his head, "the smell of your burning foes is the sweetest smell."
"Yes my lord."
"Sweeter than the sweetest of wines, sweeter even than the fear of a woman before you take her!"
"Yes my lord." If anyone would know of such things it would be the raging Kellaman, thought the warlord's second. The great warrior, once a general in the ranks of the Danav Imperial Army, was now just one of many warlords that traveled the land now known as Moortax. Things had been simpler in the days before the khurl, when one knew his foes were deserving enemies and not just some innocent villager that happened to be in the path of the demented Kellaman.
"You seem troubled Grondar?"
"No my lord, not troubled... I just wondered what our...your plans are now, we have seen no khurl for more than three days, are the scouts sure that the horde traveled in this direction?"
"Pah," the warlord spat, "the scouts would not know their arse from a hole in the ground. If we had been following the path they set we would all be walking blindly through the Kenree-En Mountains. No we follow the Dark path of Kkrassk, praised be his name, he sends me the way in my dreams."
"Yes my lord." Grondar had always thought the dreaded Kellaman mad, but now he was beyond mad, visions from the Dark Lord? "Then our... His path leads where?"
"East Grondar, His path leads us east and to battle."
"Yes my lord." Grondar could not believe he had come to this, once a captain of his own regiment he had fought tooth and nail against the khurl and before them the deceitful elves of Fas Allian. Worthy foes both, but villagers? What honor was there in slaying such weak men? These people had once been serfs in the grand Empire, now they were just wheat before the scythe that was the maddened Kellaman and his ever increasing band of cutthroats. "battle my lord?"
"Yes Grondar battle. Did I stammer or have you grown deaf in your aging years?"
"Neither my lord, I was just unaware of any foes to the east."
"There are always foes Grondar, always there are those that would step in my path and have me move aside. I move for no one anymore but the will of Kkrassk, praised be his name. Have the men finish with the women Grondar, we will sort the offerings of ...?"
"Thistledown my lord."
"Yes Thistledown, what a sorry excuse for a village it was. They barely raised a blade to save themselves, has the world grown so weak since the Beasts arrived?"
"So it would seem my lord." Grown weak? These poor farmers had been working late in the fields this night, pulling their own plows through the dry earth, in a worthy attempt to set forth the harvest that would feed them and their now departed families next year. These were not weak men, these were farmers, hardy folk that had always survived through toil and back-breaking labor. Their resistance had in truth been frail but what more could be expected of ambushed men that had been caught unawares in the early hours of night with no weapons to hand?
"They sicken me Grondar."
And you sicken me, Grondar nearly spat at the demented warlord, but Grondar was no fool, he would not end his days at the end of Kellaman's blood-stained claymore, not like poor Colonel Jurel who had fallen yesterday to that massive blade.
"Yes my lord," he replied holding his tongue in check. "I will relay the word to the men." With that he kicked his heels to his horse and set off down the hillocks towards the raging fires and for the first time tonight he smelled the flesh of their victims. And just as Kellaman sickened him so did the sickly sweet stench of human flesh roasting amongst the collapsing houses. "God save us all."
In mere moments the stench became almost unbearable it stuck in Grondar's throat causing him to cough and clear his throat, it would seem unacceptable to hold his gray fraying cloak over his mouth and nose, Kellaman would be watching from his lofty position above the carnage. Any sign of weakness could well lead to a painful end on Kellaman's ever-present sword.
"Sir," snapped a footman, his arms full of looted plunder, asked as he saw the officer approach, "you have orders?"
"Yes soldier, the Lord commands we move east, gather your belongings and gather the men."
"Yes sir." The soldier/bandit responded clicking his heels together and thumping his chest in salute as best as he could with all the booty that encumbered him. With that he turned and ran back into the smoke-clogged hamlet. Not for the first time Grondar felt out of place among the fanatic followers of his warlord, these men would kill, rape, maim and murder if Kellaman so desired. Grondar could respect such loyalty under normal circumstances but these were far from normal circumstances. This was no military campaign this was nothing more than a rampage. Not for the first time Grondar wondered why he had not fled in the dark of night from the camp of the three hundred warriors.
"Coward," he spat, as he kicked his heels into Valimar, his faithful steed, and he disappeared into the sweet smelling smoke, more orders had to be delivered.