"At first, there were just a few raids, but they soon escalated in frequency and violence. Thurel started to look for volunteers from among the serfs to fight for him. I was still in good shape and, although I owed the old bastard nothing, I would have done anything to get out of those bloody mines. I volunteered, and I was taken out into the sun for the first time in thirty-six months."
The General drained his glass, and refilled it, his eyes distant and troubled.
"I was trained in the use of the sword. Twelve hours a day, rain or shine, without remission, for eight weeks. Sergeant Hurul was in charge of my group, and we were ruthlessly chastised for the least mistake. I wanted to break in the drill-sergeant's head with my bare hands, but we were always watched for the least hint of mutiny. One of the other training groups tried to go over to the other side, but they were caught, tortured and dismembered right in front of us."
Grimm saw the haunted look in Quelgrum's eyes and knew that it was no act. He yearned to speak some words of comfort, but he knew that they would be worthless.
"We fought; we killed; we died. Gamel's men were good, but there were far more of us, because Gamel didn't trust his serfs to fight. Thurel bought another plot of land with the blood of his subjects, and I thought he would be grateful to us. When the war was over, I expected to be freed.
"Instead, the reward for my faithful service was that my sentence was reduced from ten years to eight. I was to be sent back to the mines. The other volunteers were rewarded no better than I.
"My blood boiled, and I saw red. I wasn't alone in this; several other volunteers shouted insults and imprecations, and we rioted. Gamel's mistake was that the serf 'volunteers' now outnumbered the depleted ranks of the lord's loyal subjects, and we had all been trained in the use of weapons.
"It was butchery, pure and simple. A lot of us died, but we won the battle; Garley was ours. Lord Gamel had been happy to condemn countless serfs to agonising death for the most trifling offences, but he squealed like a pig when we took him to the scaffold; his death was a lot easier than he would have given us if we'd lost."
Grimm saw nascent tears flickering at Drex's eyelids, and the admiring look in Tordun's eyes was undeniable. Even the formidable Xylox seemed affected by the General's speech.
"I'd thought that it would all be over; no more fighting, no more serfdom. Sure, after the end of the battle, we formed a democratic commune where every adult got to vote on important issues. For a while, it was great, but then we came on hard times. Garley had survived for a hundred and fifty years on the ruthless oppression of a large serf population, but we were too small to be a viable, self-governing, self-sufficient society; most of us had no idea what to do unless ordered. That meant that we had to fight again, to take what we needed.
"We ended up as an army of nomads, putting down roots for brief periods of time, but homeless. Children were trained from birth in the use of the sword, the spear and the bow. From time to time, groups would split off and make their way in the world, but the fighting never stopped.
"I rose up the ranks over the years, until I took charge of my own marauding force and tried to find a home for it. We fared ill at first, struggling to find a home in the wasteland, but we could only ever find work as mercenaries for barons and dukes, who disavowed us as soon as they no longer needed our aid. We existed as outcasts, regrettable necessities to be forgotten when no longer required, but growing all the time in size and strength until we ended up at this ancient, desolate station in the desert. I was determined to make a home for my people, and I fought for many years to make it so. I fought so hard, not for thanks and plaudits, but for the sake of good people who relied on me for sustenance, guidance and leadership…" Quelgrum's voice petered out, and his eyes became misty and haunted.
Xylox cleared his throat, and leaned forward to address the soldier, who seemed lost in a morass of disturbing memories.
"You seem to have done very well for yourself in this establishment, General," he said. "This seems to be a mighty fortress, and your people appear well-fed and clothed. Can you not rest now?"
The military man shook his head, and his morbid expression became fierce, almost manic. "I have a force of dedicated, devoted people under my command. I have engineers, strategists, a stock of technological weapons and a secure stronghold. It does look impressive, doesn't it?"
Xylox opened his mouth, but Quelgrum interrupted him, his wistful expression replaced by one of fierce determination. "We are dying, Questor Xylox: we are stagnating and decaying. We take all, and we make nothing. Fifteen-hundred people look to me for security and safety, and I've given until I can't give any more. The water's running dry, and our attempts at agriculture and independence are failing. It's time for us to fight one more time; once more, so that we can be recognised as human beings, with a right to our own existence.
"I'm tired, Questor Xylox; sick and tired of being used as hired muscle for some bloated nobleman, to be cast aside as soon as another worthless piece of paper is signed. Some of them have joined forces with their new allies in an attempt to destroy what they see as a serious threat.
"Fighting is all I've ever known: fighting for survival; fighting for food; fighting for the very right to live. I'm tired of it all, tired down to my bones, I tell you. After just one more successful, climactic fight, I'll be happy. All I want is a strong fortress where we can stay free from those who would use or destroy us; a chance to rest after many years of painful struggle. I don't want to have to fight, but I owe my people more than leaving them to make their way in an ungrateful world that would sooner see them dead."
Grimm noted the soldier's morose, resigned tone, and he felt the faint stirrings of misgiving in his full stomach.
What is the General planning?
"Where will this final fight be, Sir?" he asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer.
Quelgrum took another draught of his wine, although he did not seem to notice its passing.
"I have my mind on one particular fortress," he said. "It's very defensible, and it's surrounded by lush, arable land where we could grow our own crops, so we wouldn't be dependent on the charity or fear of others. The only problem is that I doubt the current incumbents will feel like leaving."
"Where, General?" Grimm asked.
"Why, I want to take your High Lodge," the soldier replied.
Despite Quelgrum's broad smile, he did not seem to be joking, and Grimm's mouth dropped open as a cold wave ran down his spine.
****
Thribble hid in shadows, hopping from one dark area to another, clinging to the wainscoting of the military complex. Humans scuttled like worker ants from area to area, to the sound of more or less strident, peremptory orders from others. The demon found the whole operation confusing, as the soldiers moved boxes from one place to another, made pencil marks on clipboards or sat cleaning piles of black metal tubes, all seemingly synchronised to some unheard, metronomic master beat.
He had no plan except to find his way back to Questor Grimm and the others, but he had not the slightest idea of where to find them. The long, convoluted trip in the cart had disorientated him more than a little, but he reasoned that the mages would, most likely, be being entertained or interrogated by the General. All he needed to do was to stay alert and keep his eyes and ears open for or any indication of Quelgrum's whereabouts.
Thribble secreted himself in the shadows of one of the numerous checkpoints within the huge complex, in the hope that somebody would have some urgent delivery or message for Quelgrum; he would then follow the messenger's scent trail until he reached his goal. Twenty or thirty minutes passed without incident, but, at last, the imp was rewarded by the sight of a man pushing a trolley up to the checkpoint.