Chapter 3: Targa Gamarad

The desigarg are a diverse group of creatures, part animal, part human and completely horrible. Their behaviour changes depending on the time of day. In the morning they are heartless, ruthless, immoral, lewd, envious, reckless, dissipated and uncontrolled. Then in the afternoon their good mood fades and continues to deteriorate until all adjectives fail. As night falls they get violent - with humans when they're available, with each other when they're not.

The presence of the desigarg in what had once been East Grenwilde had led to the brutal destruction of all humans in the region. Many fled; those who didn't were killed. Though the genocide of the human race was tragic, it contained a poetic justice, for it was the through the efforts of man that the desigarg came into existence. If any men still lived in that country, they did so in hiding. It was rumoured, in West Grenwilde and Tylar, that some humans survived in the Shad Mountains.

In battle desigarg are very formidable, for while they are not particularly brave they are vicious and reckless. They always carry at least two weapons, but on occasion have scimitar, dagger, bludgeon and battle-axe. Their armour varies with their body shape, but usually is made of leather and metal plate, covered in spikes: consisting of breastplate, helmet and wristbands.

Desigarg, in these most recent times, fought beneath two things: a black banner bearing a single crystal star and Targa Gamarad, their commander. Gamarad was not a desigarg. Rather he was the result of an innovative merger between distorted animal substance and the will of his dark master. His being contained not the slightest vestige of humanity.

~ ~ ~

Nagara Diserac, Captain of the Horde, clumsily straightened his helmet and uneasily gazed at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Nothing must be amiss, nothing out of place. He felt that no matter how many audiences he endured with the general, he could never quite relax. Relax? The captain had truly to admit to himself that what he felt - standing there and anticipating this meeting - was certainly fear, cold fear and faint disgust.

That a creature such as Nagara Diserac could feel either fear or disgust at anything was - given his own appearance - disturbing at the very least. His face was grotesque, being both huge and nearly circular; his mouth hung slack and was prone to slobber. His complexion, both in texture and appearance, was roughly that of a walnut. From out of the folds of leathery flesh, two black eyes peered malevolently. His hair, when not covered by a helmet, stood up stiff and straight like the bristles of a brush. Two minute tusks turning up from the edges of his mouth, combined with a piggish snout, indicated that his animal portion was partially, or exclusively, warthog. All in all, from the top of his powerful seven-foot frame to the sole of his hideous hoofed feet, he appeared a grotesque caricature of humanity, which - in very fact - he was. His form in every way exhibited his nature, which was cruel, wicked and debased.

The great oak door of what had been the king's private retiring room, swung open. Out stepped a formidable and lithe desigarg, who appeared to be part leopard, the personal valet of the general, Kracka Chank.

"The General awaits you, Captain Diserac," he rasped.

Swallowing convulsively, the captain immediately stepped into the room. He forced himself to look squarely at the loathsome creature under whose command he found himself. Then out of deference, and with relief, he lowered his gaze, removed his helmet and bowed.

"Hail, Targa Gamarad, Over-General of the Hordes of Night!"

"Captain Diserac," croaked the cavernous mouth. "How very pleasant to see you."

Targa Gamarad was as evil as he was ugly, and he was uglier than anything Nagara Diserac had ever seen, awake or asleep. Although he was perhaps only five feet tall, his ten-foot circumference occupied three-quarters of the room's luxurious Melongara rug. Beside him sat an enormous brass bowl or bucket, from which thick, unpleasant smelling vapours rose. His massive warty body was distinctly that of a toad. But seemingly a toad suffering through the last stages of some volcanic leprosy, for his skin, wherever it appeared beneath his garment, was festooned with ulcerated sores; these percolated like oatmeal on a slow boil, from whence a viscous puss occasionally oozed, accompanied by a periodic emission of noxious steam. The vulgar spectacle of his hide fascinated even as it repelled. During the ensuing interview, Diserac found himself watching one particular sore, on the general's leg, as it repeatedly erupted and caved in.

"I find myself gloating, dear Captain. It is so good to gloat. Gloating over butchery is almost as pleasant as butchery itself. To crush these revolting human cattle, to stamp out their frivolous and mirth-filled existence, these things are a form of music to my soul." The general sniffed almost delicately and shifted his bulk slightly. He seemed to be looking beyond Nagara Diserac, as if searching the air for flies. His eyes, like those of a chameleon, could swivel independently of each other, and roved lazily about in - what appeared to be - random sweeps of the ceiling.

"Your genius, my General; you are the despoiler of Cair Galinal, and the master of the Great Wall."

"The vulgraths, good Captain," returned the general dryly, still sweeping the ceiling with his gaze. "Not genius, but power carried the day. The vulgraths are the reason we possess the gateway to Grenwilde and all of riches of the West World."

"Yes, General," replied Diserac, bowing and abashed. He did not like his flattery to be rebuffed, "Just as you say."

"Always, just as I say, Captain, always. And now, your report."

Diserac recovered himself and brightened, "General, I am pleased to report that we have secured all the garrison towns for nearly one hundred and twenty miles in both directions along the Great Wall. We are now masters as far north as Rama-gil and to the south we have conquered right to the very base of the Shad Mountains. As you predicted, my General, all their static defences have proved useless, being designed for the defence of the wall. The Hordes are met by victory everywhere!" Diserac's voice droned on, becoming a guttural purr as he recited his triumphs to his master. He continued in this way for some time, padding his accomplishments, congratulating himself and detailing his glories.

The general, Diserac thought, looked pleased; it would be inaccurate to say pleasant. He was quite shocked; therefore, when in mid-sentence the general broke off the recital, saying sharply, "Of course, it was to be expected. It should go without saying. It would also go without saying, would it not, Captain, that in accordance with my strict orders the Hordes did not venture beyond the shadow of the Great Wall?"

The captain hesitated, which itself spoke volumes. At once, both of the Targa Gamarad's eyes swivelled into a co-ordinated, concentrated focus upon the face of the desigarg; he was getting the general's undivided attention, a thing that even the bravest desigarg found unnerving.

"Er...ah, no troops were commissioned to go west, Great One, but..." Diserac closed his eyes and nervously ran his tongue, which looked remarkably like a strip of beef jerky, along his lips, "...I regret to report, that some desigarg are unaccounted for. I believe they may have deserted, my General." He stood with his eyes closed, in great fear.

There was complete silence. Finally, Diserac ventured to open his eyes. To his relieved surprise the general, had resumed scanning the ceiling, in his absent manner. "Deserters, you say?" the general quietly gurgled.

Diserac felt faintly encouraged by Gamarad's apparent lack of concern. "Yes, General, I would say not more than thirty or so. Some of the Horde are very anxious to carry the conquest further west, into the heart of Grenwilde, but I have, thus far, been able to restrain them."

"Deserters may work to our advantage. A few bands of violent desigarg roving the countryside can only increase the pitiful humans' terror."

"And soften them for our invasion, General. They might yield up whole towns or even provinces without a struggle!" contributed Diserac with enthusiasm.

The great toad reached his foreleg into the brass bucket and pulled out what seemed to be a flaccid steaming snake. This he slowly sucked into his mouth, with evident relish.

"Captain, we now possess the Great Wall, and it behoves us to hold it, and exploit the riches it was meant to protect. You would agree, Captain?" The general rotated his eyes towards the captain, who involuntarily stood straighter beneath his discomfiting gaze.

"Yes, Great Targa Gamarad. By all means, let us exploit them."

"And what, dear Captain, would you suggest should be done to exploit the riches of this, the fairest kingdom in the world?"

Just the thought of Grenwilde, and what his Horde could do to it, made the captain quite literally drool, "Why, Sir, I believe it would be best to allow the Horde to utterly crush the human vermin and to take possession of these lands for ourselves."

Targa Gamarad looked steadily at the captain, and for a time he didn't move or speak. And then, but gradually and at first faintly, a rumbling began in the general's belly, which slowly spread to his head and limbs; it was accompanied by a deep gurgling rasp, that the captain found very disconcerting. Was the general suddenly becoming ill? The ghastly phenomenon continued for several seconds, rising in intensity and volume, before the captain guessed that the general was laughing, a display that increased the frequency and violence of his volcanic skin eruptions.

"Is that," gasped Targa Gamarad at last, struggling to regain his breath, "what you would propose?" As he spoke, the fit of mirth had passed and the general's tone was one of cold ridicule, "You contemptible fool! You miserable, contemptible fool! Is that what you would recommend?" The general spit the words at him and his eyes remained fixed on the captain while his clawed limb reached into the great steaming pot at his side and re-emerged clutching a three-foot-long lizard. Targa Gamarad suspended the creature above his gaping mouth and then - letting it fall - swallowed it whole.

The next instant, and before Nagara Diserac could move to defend himself, the toad's tongue lashed out like a whiplash, struck him full in the face, knocking him from his feet and backwards to the floor. The general recoiled his tongue and indulged in another lizard before speaking.

"Stand up, Captain," Targa wheezed. "You have not our permission to be seated."

The captain scrambled to his feet and bowed awkwardly.

"What would the Hordes of Night do to Grenwilde, do you think, Captain?"

"Do, General? I - er - what would they do?" stammered the unfortunate officer.

"What they would do, my fine Captain, is turn Grenwilde into a wasteland; exactly as they have done to the Lands of Desolation. The Lord of Oblivion would not be pleased with that." He raised one scaled hand to his throat, scratching at an oozing sore and staring meditatively at the ceiling. He spoke mournfully, "No, Captain, disappointing though it might be, the Hordes will not possess the West World."

Nagara Diserac knew how desperately the desigarg needed the lush lands of Grenwilde. Starvation had made them eager to attack. The Lands of Desolation were almost entirely barren, its animals hunted to near non-existence, its streams toxic. The desigarg must have Grenwilde. He knew how thin his control over them was becoming. Despite his fear, Diserac's desperation drove him to speak.

"Begging your pardon, General, but the desigarg expect..."

Diserac never finished his remark, for the next instant he found himself unable to speak, gripped around the neck in an incredibly powerful, sticky coil. The general had once again lashed out his tongue, but this time he had lassoed the captain's neck. Diserac found himself being pulled irresistibly forward until he was staring straight into the general's eyes from a distance of perhaps five inches. His powerful legs flailed feebly against the toad's stomach. With the general's mouth this close, Diserac might have been suffocated even if he could breathe; which - as it happened - he couldn't. In fact, he began to lose consciousness, and only came back to his senses as he suddenly found himself hurtling through the air. He crashed heavily into the wall and slid down, becoming a gasping heap on the floor. As he lay there semi-conscious and struggling for breath, he watched the general absently scanning the ceiling.

"You will never again speak to me of what the desigarg expect - Captain."

Diserac tried to respond but found after two abortive attempts that he could do no more than nod. This he did with a kind of bewildered earnestness.

"No, Captain, the desigarg will eat the land of Grenwilde, but they will do so through tribute. What they, in their foul selves, would only have ruined will flourish beneath the hands of our human slaves. But we will grind them with such a tribute as will make their lives a misery. They will groan beneath a yoke of poverty and forced labour. No surplus will they gather, for all that is not required to keep them breathing will be brought into the Dark Lands."

"Yes, great General," gasped the captain, still nearly inaudible and rubbing his neck.

"It was not for the sake of the desigarg that Lord Nihilos sent us to conquer. Do you think that the vulgraths hurled down fire so that your brats could feed? No, Captain, the Lord of Oblivion will whither this kingdom in his own time, for his own pleasure - in a way calculated to hurt his Enemy the most. But, Captain," and here Targa Gamarad smiled, a smile nearly three feet in diameter, and full of ill-omen, "SOME of the desigarg may hunt in Grenwilde."

At this point the captain was too frightened to be truly interested, but feigned enthusiasm, while continuing to massage his damaged throat.

"For there is a quarry in Grenwilde that must be found. And you, Captain, must learn its scent. You must be..." Gamarad seemed to search for the word, "taught, Captain. Taught to find me a king."

"Akinwrath, great General?" whispered Diserac, curious despite his fear.

"Do not speak of Akinwrath; he is no king. I will deal with him, but I speak of the True King. I will need to teach you his odour, the scent of his blood. You will not like the lesson, Captain; it was taught me by the Dread Lord himself."

Diserac found himself staring; had Targa Gamarad really shuddered? The general closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them they seemed twice their normal circumference. "But you shall learn. You shall learn his scent; you shall find him and you shall bring him to me."

Nagara Diserac gulped in fear and nodded. What else could he do?

~ ~ ~

It was drawing toward midnight, and the streets of Rama-gil where nearly deserted. Nearly, but not quite. A couple, man and wife, made their way furtively along the edges of the street staying as invisible as possible. They stopped beside one window. Light flooded into the street and from within they could hear the sound of singing and good cheer.

"Can you go further?"

The woman leaned against the shadowed wall, clutching her stomach, "I don't know. I don't think so. The contractions are coming more often."

"I must find you some place to lie down. I'll have to risk asking in the tavern. Come sit here and rest," with great gentleness he guided her back to the side of the tavern, where he found some crates for her to sit on. Checking cautiously up and down the alley, the man concluded that no one was there, nor could any chance passer-by see this spot from the street. "I'll be as quick as I can, Regine; rest, please."

The young woman clenched her teeth as a contraction passed through her like a wave. "Ohh, ohh," she gasped, "Please hurry, husband. And be careful."

"I will. Ask the Creator for strength, Regine," he kissed her cheek and carefully picked his way back through the alley to the street. Above the door was hung a shingle with a metal crown and sword decorated in bold yellows and blues. In better days, it would have seemed a pleasant place, the man thought. Pausing at the window, he looked into the lighted room to see if he could make out any troops, but he could see little through the stained glass. He stepped through the door and made his way to the counter

Immediately, a great beefy man with a face like an amiable bulldog, stepped up to the bar, and thundered in greeting, "Well, sir, God's even' to y'. What can I be gettin' y'?"

The man averted his face from the crowd of merrymakers sitting behind him at table and made a small downward motion with his hand. The bartender, who caught his meaning, said loudly, "Ah, a pint of the bitter, then." As he poured the brew from the tap, he leaned his head towards his secretive patron, and whispered quietly. "...and what would you like?"

"Please, my good man, can you rent me a room for the night?"

The bartender shook his heavy head and smiled, "You're only foolin', sir. There's not a room anywhere in town, packed to the rafters everywhere."

The man knew this. The whole land was in chaos; the displaced were everywhere: searching, running, looking for refuge. He put his hand on the bartender's arm, and looked earnestly into his face; the bartender returned his gaze with a slight frown, not of unfriendliness, but puzzlement. The man evidently made up his mind, desperate as he was, to trust the tavern owner. "My wife, she's," he swallowed and lowered his already whispering voice, "going to give birth."

The bartender looked surprised and - for the briefest second afraid - then smiling warmly he said in a voice that all could hear, "Alright then, I'll come and look at it, if you think it wants repair. Can't have my customers going on their heads, it being such a dark night. Just show me the way. Jarnice!" he called over his shoulder, beginning to undo his apron.

"Yes?" came a voice from what the man took to be the kitchen.

"Jarnice, I'm just stepping out for half a minute. Watch the bar, will y'?"

A pleasant matronly face looked out from the doorway. She seemed to be about to ask a question but catching a private glance from her husband, she nodded wisely, "Alright then, Caleb, but don't be long."

"Never fret, dear." He winked and putting his hand on the man's elbow guided him towards the door.

"Hold!" came a loud grating voice, from a table near the back wall, "Where're you going, human?" A gigantic figure, over six feet in height and very broad across the shoulders rose ponderously. The desigarg stood swaying somewhat unsteadily and eying the tavern owner blearily.

"Ah, honoured officer, just attending to a broken plank reported by this citizen. Jarnice," said the owner, turning slightly towards his wife, "fetch this honest fellow another drink, if you please. On the house, of course," said the bartender smiling at the desigarg.

The creature snorted, and sunk down onto his bench, "On the house whether you say so or not, human," it roared, ending in a belch. The bartender bowed slightly, still smiling and continued out the door with the man beside him.

Once outside on the deserted street, the bartender spoke quickly and quietly, "Where is your wife, my friend?"

"Just around the corner," murmured the man.

"Come," returned Caleb. The two men hurried silently around the corner. When they came to her, Regine was biting her lip and tears were rolling down her cheeks.

"Ah, poor dear," said Caleb, in pity. "Never an easy thing and this the worst of times. I truly have no rooms at all, sir, but in your desperate situation, you would be perhaps willing to stay in the loft?"

"Yes, of course, anywhere that my wife can safely lie."

"Under the circumstances the loft's the best place, any-road. Child's cries, nor hers either, will be heard," he said kindly, "I'll just show you the way."

A minute later Regine and her husband were in the loft with Caleb fussing to make it as comfortable as its rude nature would allow.

"My wife'll bring you blankets, victuals, water and light. We can't have no open flame here, of course, but you won't be wantin' that much this evenin', any-road."

Caleb nodded and turned to go, the man caught him by his sleeve.

"How can I possibly thank you or ever repay?"

"Well, as to that, you couldn't. There's not gold enough to pay a man for riskin' his life. But if we don't stand by each other now, neighbour, we'll fall for good and all. What would be yer' name, sir?"

"Yason Bindaved, and this is Regine," he looked down tenderly at his wife, "My dear, this is Caleb."

"Pleased," said Caleb nodding.

Regine nodded weakly and tried to smile; an effort cut short by another contraction. Yason bent down beside her.

"The only doctor I know of in these parts ran off two weeks ago," Caleb said gently, "but happens my wife has attended on more than a few birthin's, and she'd be as good as any midwife."

Yason looked up with relief on his face, "Oh, that's wonderful. Another debt I owe you, honest Caleb."

"Never fret, missus. Wife'll be here on the moment," said Caleb starting quickly down the ladder from the loft.