The Warlord and the Imp v2

The battle waged long and fierce.

The proud and noble people of Krondor had marched for days across the Sapphire Mountains to confront the increasingly precocious threat of the Wild Folk. They were lead by the imperious warlord Belkhan the Merciless, survivor of a dozen campaigns against the feral tribesmen beyond the mountains. On this, his thirteenth crusade, Belkhan had decided that he would truly live up to his name. He had summoned all the realm's power – every fighting man, boy and mule – to deal with their blood enemies once and for all.

Though Belkhan did not know it, his people had chosen another name for him - one that was used only when he was far out of earshot. He was known, in hushed tones behind closed doors, as Belkhan the Short-Sighted. Though everyone in the kingdom knew the moniker – even Belkhan's numerous spies – none was so foolish as to utter it in his presence. The last person to speak against Belkhan's righteous will (a cook who had questioned whether it was healthy to eat so much horse) had been flayed until death; his bones bleached and crafted into crockery.

And so the magnificent warlord Belkhan lead his army against the tribesmen of Lok'tan the Shaman – the savage and cruel leader of the Wild Folk. It was later said that where the two armies met - upon the verdant Peldor Plains, where they had met countless times over countless generations - the grass grew a deep red colour, such was the quantity of blood spilled upon the soil.

For days, the soldiers of both armies fought and died while Belkhan's famed Warrior-Poets and Lok'Tan's Soothsayers took the names of the fallen to chronicle the terrible struggle. Before long the soldiers of both sides had killed each other outright – and the poets took up the battle in their stead, fighting bravely while the chefs and livery boys recorded the bloody days and violent nights. And then the poets, too, joined the immortal ranks of the fallen, and the chefs and livery boys took to battle with ladle and broom.

Precious few records survived to tell how long the fighting lasted. Eventually, the two armies were all but vanquished. Of the proud Krondor force, only the mighty Belkhan stood to carry the fight, resplendent in his blood-stained, volcano-forged plate mail. By his side stood his lowly Daemonic servant – the imp named Graggut, a vile and unnatural creature with hooked nose and evil eyes. Belkhan stood among the cadavers of all who had gone before, and stared across the Mother's Tears river into the gaunt face of Lok'tan. By the treacherous Shaman's side stood his warrior harem – beautiful, savage and deadly - his only remaining fighting force.

Those few records fail to tell how long the two men stood astride the river, gazes locked together. Perhaps they stood  for hours, as Devil-Gators awaiting their prey, heedless of the chill wind that blew down from the Sapphire Mountains. Perhaps they stood for days, as stones on opposite sides of a great canyon, trading messages on winds that only they could feel. Certainly, to the indentured imp Graggut, it felt so.

But eventually, as the sun set on one forlorn day, Belkhan turned his broad back on Lok'tan and his harem. As he did, the strange spell that fell over the two men was broken – and Lok'tan, determined to end the conflict between the two peoples once and for all, commanded his harem across the river to slay the bloodthirsty warlord. And the harem, driven to madness  and lust by the terrible scenes around them, surged over the river – paddling and splashing wildly, shrieking their terrible banshee howls in their wrath.

Heedless of the charge, Belkhan bade his wretched slave Graggut to his side and began the long and lonesome journey back to his Ivory Castle in Krondor. His long cape – heavy with the blood of those who died under his fell-forged sword Hrrodmir  - dragged behind him through the clinging mud of Pelham Plain; and then through scrub and pine needles of the Forlorn Foothills (resting place of the Wyvern-Queen Elothia, if the legends were to be believed); across the pebbles and flint of the Sapphire Mountains; and finally through the pure snows which crested the peak of Hag's Fang Mountain.

Following in each hallowed  footstep came Graggut – labouring under the weight of the remainder of the travelling army's food supplies; the weapons and armour of Belkhan's fallen Honour Guard; the body of Belkhan's brother, Kraczik the Stupid; the many chests of Belkhan's magnificent travelling wardrobe; and the dozen tents of Belkhan's famous Wandering Palace.

Though Graggut stood barely three feet tall, he laboured to carry his liege's entire caravan upon his tiny shoulders. The pile of wood, metal and canvas leaned impossibly some ten feet over Graggut's squat frame. Stumbling, grunting and complaining as he walked, the diminutive Daemon dutifully followed his lord and master.

After days of travel, as the survivors of the Battle of Pelham Plain crossed the snows of Hag's Fang, the warlord Belkhan finally spoke.

"Daemon," he said in a deep growl, resonant with power, majesty and the sureness of years of command. "Why do you grumble so?"

Graggut stopped in the snow for a moment, the tower of luggage rocking as his momentum ceased. The warlord maintained his long stride across the snows. After a firing a glare which could have turned the Maiden Witch of Melindor to stone at the giant man's back, Graggut resumed walking.

"I carry half of your worldly possessions on my back, for days on end, and you wonder why I'm grumbling?"

Belkhan remained impassive, dignified, and silent.

"No whiff of a 'thank you'," grumbled Graggut. "No gratitude for carrying all this rubbish. I mean, look at this, do you really need to carry your brother's corpse all the way home? It's starting to rot. And besides, it's an insult to all the soldiers who died on that plain and don't have the luxury of being carried home by some magically enthralled Daemonic entity."

"Kraczik died bravely, Daemon. Do not sully his name."

"Sully his name?" Graggut spluttered in astonishment.  "The boy spent half the battle trying to beat a stone in a staring contest, and the rest of it trying to eat horseshoes!"

"It is right that the people see their beloved son returned home, that they may grieve his passing properly."

"I think the people would rather grieve their own sons, if we're being frank..."

"No, Deamon, we are not being frank," barked Belkhan, whirling on the spot and pointing a gauntleted finger at the imp. "Remember who you are bound to, wretch, and obey your bidding."

At this pronouncement, Belkhan turned and stormed across the snows, Graggut trotting behind him and grumbling under his breath.

After several minutes of  silence, he began to speak again.

"What do you know of the people, anyway? You have led as many of them to death as you have sworn to protect. Strikes me that if you wouldn't keep throwing their bodies upon Lok'Tan's spears, your people wouldn't have anything to grieve."

Belkhan walked on.

"I'm sure even Kraczik would have tried to find some peaceful resolution by now. Sure they're a bit rough around the edges, but they're just people. Did you see the tears in old Lok'Tan's eyes down there, by the river?"

A low growl began in Belkhan's muscular throat. Graggut grumbled on, heedless.

"I mean, if you just speak to them, I'm sure you'll discover that their grievances are clear and not without justification."

"What in the name of the Seven Sisters are you talking about, daemon?"

"Empathy. Understanding. Have you ever actually asked them?"

"Asked them what?" roared Belkhan, turning once more to stare down the ugly little Daemon. Graggut stopped sharply. The luggage above him rocked precariously, but somehow didn't fall.

"Why they invade your lands?" he replied, simply.

"Ask?! Does the lion ask the antelope if it may be eaten?"

"Oh,speech time..."

"What is there to ask of the savages? The devils encroach upon our border – and we fight or be destroyed. That is the end of it, imp."

"And you don't stop to ask why?"

"We fight because we have always fought."

"Well that's no reason to-"

"We fight because my father, and his father before him, devoted their lives to defend our people."

"Yes, but you're not really answering the-"

"You would have our forefathers die in vain? You would cast away generations of sacrifice?"

"No, I just think a little perspective is..."

"Speak no more, Daemon. I cannot walk the many miles ahead with you prattling in my ear."

Silence fell, broken only by the crunching of snow beneath Belkhan's jewell encrusted boots and the creaking of Graggut's precarious load. A blazing midday shone down upon them. Although its heat barely caressed the frozen mountain-tops, its brightness reflected brilliantly off the pure snows. A fine mist rose in its wake, reaching up toward the heavens. Through it could be seen the realm of Krondor, stretching beyond the mountain's slopes in a green haze. The Ivory Castle glistening in the sun, magnificent and commanding even from so many leagues away.

"You meant your grandfather," Graggut corrected.

"What now, Daemon?"

"Your grandfather. Earlier. You know, all this-" Graggut drew his tiny frame a little taller and dropped his voice in mockery of  Belkhan's own,  "-'my father and his father before him' stuff."

Although Graggut's impression of his master was feeble – cracked, high-pitched and weak – it carried with it a curiously accurate undertone. It was as if Belkhan himself had uttered the words a fraction of a second before Graggut. This strange prelude to the words was but a whisper, barely audible above Graggut's whiny croak. And yet its low rumble drifted across the ranges to the south, threatening to send cascades of snow down the mountain side.

"I mean it's alright for speeches, but such colloquial usage does make you come off rather... pompous."

"You insult me, now, Daemon?"

"I'm just saying – in a speech, you've got to pep people up. Give them a reason to do whatever menial chore you have in mind..."

"My commands are not menial, Slave."

"No, but you know what I mean – talk of legacy and forefathers and heritage is all very good. Puts spilled blood in context."

"Daemon..."

"But in casual conversation? No-one's buying it. No-one wants to walk down the street that their father, and his father before him, et cetera,  walked down to pick up a loaf of bread, do they? I just think it comes off a little bit trite, and you'd be better off addressing the actual problem instead of drowning people in heroic rhetoric."

"I swear to you, Imp, by the unholy powers that brought you into my thrall, I shall strike you down where you stand if you do not-"

"Strike me down, he says!" cried the Daemon, throwing his arms into the air dramatically. "The great warlord in all his pomp! So lost in his own little world that he's not even stopped to think who'll carry his damnable caravan then!"

For the first time, the imperious warlord Belkhan - whose very name spreads fear through the ranks of his enemies and awe throughout the streets and fields of Krondor – seemed to notice the towering pile of luggage stacked upon Graggut's shoulders.

"Daemon," he breathed, "what magic is this you wield?"

"This?" replied Graggut, leaning up to stare at the luggage which loomed over him. "Magic? Bah, that's not magic. That's just logistics. Saving your life back there on the plains, that was magic."

Belkhan's head tilted at a curious angle.

"What?" he spluttered.

"I knew it! I knew you didn't even notice that little charm! I'll bet you didn't even notice Lok'Tan's harem charging towards you with seven shades of death in their eyes, did you? If I hadn't – oh, forget it," the imp ended, with a heavy sigh. "It's hardly the first time I've been wasted and under-appreciated. I'll bet you didn't even read the contract."

"Contract...?"

"Well that explains a few things. All the power of the twelve Daemon planes at your disposal –" at this, Graggut stood a little taller and proudly spread his stubby arms in front of him. "- And all I hear is 'Imp, fetch this'-"

(a league to the south and east, an avalanche rumbles slowly into life)

"-and 'Slave, carry that'-"

(deep within a crevasse to the west, a nesting eagle is disturbed from its slumber, taking to the skies with a confused screech)

"- day in, day out. I'm enslaved into lifetime of idle servitude because you didn't read the smallprint?"

"Your babbling does not please me, Abomination. Tell me of this contract."

"I can't," the little imp said, crossing his arms in defiance. Belkhan stared, eyes ablaze with the righteous indignation of an irrefutable ruler presented with a refuting subject.

"You can't?" he bellowed in fury. "I command you to answer me!"

"It's a clause of the Contract, isn't it? It's not to be discussed."

Belkhan quivered with rage.

"You are indentured to me, Imp, and you will do as I command."

"Look, I simply can't go into details. Ask your wise men. They summoned me. They uttered the Daemonic runes that transmigrated me and bound me to your soul. I'm just here to do what you say."

"Then what," asked Belkhan with an almighty sigh, "can you do?"

"Anything," replied Graggut with a shrug.

Belkhan stared thoughtfully at the imp.

"You should have told me this before."

"Contract. Free speech is denied me unless explicitly bidden," recited Graggut in a bored monotone.

Belkhan turned, casting his gaze across the misty ranges of the Sapphire mountains. He stood completely still for some time, a statuesque vision of strength and dignity.

Graggut waited patiently, picking at a boil on his hooked nose.

"Can you kill the savage Shaman who leads the Wild People and torments my lands? Can you kill the sorcerer Lok'Tan, at my behest?"

Graggut sighed.

"Well, sure, but I don't see that it's going to help."

"Then do it. Slay the leader of the Wild Folk," Belkhan commanded sternly.

"And what do you think will happen if Lok'Tan dies?"

"My people will be freed from his tyranny. They will dance in the streets and rejoice in the glory of our victory."

"Sure, but the Wild Folk will still harass your borders. They'll continue to steal from your villages and rape your women."

"Their attacks will be uncoordinated, unsupported, and undirected. The Rangers that border our lands can protect the people."

"Maybe. Until another Shaman comes along and rallies the people against the tyranny they perceive coming from your rule."

"Silence, slave! Should the Wild Folk unite again, I will lead my people once more in glorious battle. Now, I command you to slay the foul Lok'Tan and disband the fragile unity of their people."

Graggut sighed, hanging his head gravely.

"Very well," he replied. "It shall be done at nightfall, after I have set up camp."

"Excellent," beamed Belkhan. "Then let us push on until Solaris' firey chariot has passed into the netherworld, and Elune has taken up her cold vigil. Follow me, Vile Servant."

And so the warlord and the imp walked on, cresting the peak of Hag's Fang and making their way down the far side of the Sapphire Mountians, towards the Whispering Woods that fringed Krondor. True to his word, when night had fallen and camp had been set up, Graggut departed to the holy lands of Lok'Tan the Shaman, travelling with a speed made possible only by Daemonic enchantment. There he crept into the conical tent of the Shaman, who lay upon a bed of bear skins, taking in the pleasures of his harem. Graggut set an enchantment in the minds of those lustful women, and turned their lust into sudden, unrelenting anger. They tore the ageing shaman apart, limb from limb, and burned his flesh in the fires of the camp.

Some days later Belkhan returned to his Ivory Castle to deliver the tidings of battle and announce the tragic death of Kraczik (the Martyr). Finally, after days of anxious waiting, he heard from his spies that Lok'Tan had indeed been slain. Without so much as a word of thanks to his Daemon familiar, Belkhan arranged a festival – three days of feasting and music, in honour of the realm's victory.

The people, still mourning their many dead brothers, sons and husbands, dutifully took to the arrangements for the feast. Between private funerals and prayers to the deities of the Sun and Moon, they baked, roasted, brewed and rehearsed.

Finally, the feast began – and all the people of Krondor forced themselves to smile and attend the festivities in the streets and alehouses all over the cobbled streets. In the Ivory Castle's towering Grand Hall, Belkhan himself sat at the head of the table attended by a dozen servants. The liege lords of the realm sat around the great table, in turn attended by their own staff. All of the greatest, richest and noblest blood of Krondor sat in the hall in muted celebration, waiting nervously for Belkhan's next command. The vile creature Graggut was also permitted attendance, but was commanded to hide in the shadows, lest his foul presence sully the mood of celebration. The imp did his duty, as ever; entering the light only when necessary to serve his master.

Unbeknown to the mighty warlord of Krondor, his private stock of Emerald Valley wine had been poisoned. The scullery maid Gretchen, driven to grief by the loss of her husband and sons in the wars against the Wild Folk, had decided to take justice into her own calloused hands. She carried a fresh goblet of wine to her lord in trembling hands, eyes glued the floor, hoping on her last daughter's life that Belkhan would prove as short-sighted as his name.

Belkhan drank the poisoned nectar greedily, red wine dribbling down his chin like blood. He raised the goblet high in one powerful arm, rose from his oaken throne, and opened his mouth to roar a salute to the strength of Krondor. But as he stood at the head of his table, and the dignitaries, lords and servants of the Grand Hall gazed up in equal parts awe and disgust at the warlord; the cheer died in his throat. Hundreds heard the splutter, the gargle, the retch that crawled out of his gullet. Peering around a stone column, Graggut saw the warlord bend double and collapse to his knees. It only took one look at the deceitful Gretchen's face – laced with a hatred that she could no longer hide – for Graggut to know what had transpired.

Belkhan was destined no such understanding. He coughed and spluttered, arms gripping the table as terrible convulsions racked his body. His dying eyes stared across the hall to meet the yellowed glare of Graggut. As his thrall approached on clawed feet, Belkhan was able to breathe out a simple question:

"Why?"

The imp looked down at his hand to watch a tendril of smoke curl up and away from his flesh. As Belkhan's life force expired, his soul drifting from this mortal prison into the judgement of the Great Beyond, so Graggut began to to fade from the Earthly plane, his Contract expiring as Belkhan approached his ultimate breath. His form began to shimmer, like a reflection on the surface of a lake, and evaporate like a midsummer morning's mist.

Before he faded entirely, Graggut stared his doomed master in the face.

"If you'd only retained a little perspective," he said gravely, "you wouldn't have to ask."

With a final splutter of incomprehension, Belkhan breathed his last, and Graggut disappeared from the hall, and indeed the realm of Krondor, forever.

Several moments passed in which no-one spoke. Tears broke out around the hall – first a few, hushed and ashamed, but soon more joined into a chorus. But this was no orchestra of grief: the tears shed in Belkhan's Grand Hall that evening were those of joy. The whole of Krondor had bled under the generations of war-mongering. As realisation spread from the room to the realm, Krondor rose up in celebration and joy – for they were free of the Warlord.