The last iron-clad knave stood atop a pile of his own rotting brethren before he was beckoned to join them with a swift persuasion of an arrow, its tip crimson-soaked. Passing along the drenched fields, bridging one forgettable land to the next, Goor the Gilded was heralded onward by a palanquin of his own design, a construct lifted skyward by a quartet of loyal men in impenetrable uniforms. From the comfort of his soft pillowy seat, Goor glided effortlessly above the spilt blood and sprawled bits of his opposers. Presaging before him was a line of his marching horses, led by his men matched in steely–faced expressions.
The sun had gone and they were due for a rest by a large clearing in the darkened woods. By this night, they were well ahead of their schedule. By tomorrow, Goor would reach his destination as soon as he reconvened with the rest of his soldiers, herded with utmost care by his youngest grandson – Lopp the Decapitator – a killer whose title was earned at the age of five.
For the past year, Goor had embarked on his campaign across the central regions, striking down the armies of rival warlords along their route to the dreaded Mount Kaa, deemed to be the biggest eyesore of the world. It was a mountain bereft of any existing rulers that dared not to brave its treacherous climb. Goor’s reasoning for this mission was one of mere territorial expansion. It was a sensible reason, seeing as how his dominion, once rich in conquered lands, had since been bled dry by bigger conquerors of far more infamy and renown. However, it was also said that this journey carried a more personal reason, one that was shrouded in courtyard whispers and thick-walled conversation. Nevertheless, let it be known that if this investment of arms and men had all been for nothing, it was entirely possible (if not likely) for Goor’s reign as warlord to end right then and there.
After a rousing speech from one of his lieutenants (who Goor had forgotten the name of) and a merry hour of drinking (of which Goor could not participate due to his health), Goor retired to his tent. In his sleep, he witnessed the void – the same void he visited every time he met his untimely end. However, as he had come to know this absence at such a personal degree, as any old friend would, he confidently concluded that this was merely his dream of such a space, not the space itself. In his lucidity, he allowed himself to fall further down the black well of his mind. Ever since he was swallowed whole by that monster, he had tried to keep count of how many times he found himself floating. He had lost count but by approximation, it could not be higher than a hundred thousand times. Or it may just only be a few hundred times. Or perhaps he had made all these numbers up in his own decrepit dwindling mind.
During his experience of passing from death to death, he had made a few key observations. Firstly, anything that was in his grasp or in contact with his body at his time of death, would appear with him in the void, ranging from grains of poisoned bread to broken blades lodged in his throat. Even human beings could apply. Of course, they all disappeared by the time he was reborn on the steps. On multiple occasions, he made sure to keep his arms locked around an enemy as he died, so he could feel them still in his clutches in the void, screaming.
“Where am I?!”
“I can’t see!”
“Where did you take me?!”
Words such as these cemented the fact that this void was not as lonesome or absent as Goor initially saw it as. Not at all. It was this revelation that led him, through many deaths, to fully investigate the nature of his prison. He began to navigate the empty space. Eventually, he had the idea, assuming it was possible at the time, of lighting his hands on fire as he died, so that the void could welcome its very first light source. For the first time, he saw his own body as it fell.
It was also here that Goor made his final key discovery: the walls. Very faintly in the distance, there was a solid texture that the glare of his burning hands were barely privy to. From what his sight could muster, the walls were masses of wriggling, pulsating veins, akin to a writhing innard of an animal. It was never an endless expanse. By the time Goor reached the bottom of the so-called void, his light source could identify the water that had burned him countless times – it was stomach acid.
“Grandfather.”
Goor was in his tent and he was alive. A terse breath escaped him. Standing at the withdrawn drapes of his tent door was Lopp, ever youthful in his armored, sheltered form.
“Are you well?” Lopp said.
“You were supposed to wait up north,” Goor said.
“We believe we have found us a much faster route from here,” Lopp replied. From reading his grandson’s lips, Goor could see “I” being formed before abruptly shifting to “we.” Lopp was a quick-witted warrior, much like his brothers. He had also shown a desire to decapitate his grandfather and usurp his title on multiple occasions. Goor knew this fact perfectly well yet was keen to keep him around on the unspoken basis that he would have his head split open first before any treachery could be done. Of course, he believed the boy would simply let this ‘usurper’ phase of his go when he came of age but he evidently had not. If anything, it was Goor’s own age that had deteriorated the use of his own arms, once used for stabbing and ripping, presently shriveled like elongated prunes. He contemplated having his grandson executed on suspicion of treason but since he was the only one in the family who could handle their finances, Goor would leave him be and hope for the best.
“Are you challenging my decisions, boy?”
“Not at all, sir. I merely intend to support you in any way I can.”
Goor sat still, silent.
“If it is not troublesome to ask, sir,” Lopp said, “Since we are nearing your destination. Might we finally know what awaits us on that mountain?”
There it was again, that last second shift from “I” to “we.”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Goor answered.
“What awaits us on that mountain, sir?” Lopp repeated the question, assuming that his own grandfather was too senile to register his question the first time. Goor scowled at such an insulting presumption and would have smacked the boy if only he had registered what the presumption even was in the first place.
“We will go the same route as I have laid out,” Goor said, “There will be no objections.”
“Your route is laden with time-wasting turns, sir. Our army wouldn’t last. I assure you.” Lopp would proceed to elaborate on his claims but those spoken words were the only ones that Goor could recall by the time he snapped back:
“Don’t talk back to me, boy.”
“Understood,” Lopp said.
Lopp exited the tent. That entire day, he led the united army down the chosen route.
“This is not my chosen route, boy! Where have you taken us?!” Goor’s yell from the rear of the marching army could be heard all the way to the front, where Lopp was positioned as navigator.
“This is your route, grandfather. It only looks different from where you are sitting.”
From the cushy comfort of his palanquin, Goor knew that this was a bold-faced lie. Of course, it was too late to backtrack now and both men knew not to waste time. Goor sank into his seat and fell asleep like a pitiful pile of rocks.
Lopp’s cavalcade arrived at the foot of Mount Kaa, an ugly piece of landmass that resembled a grinning man ape with a flattened head, specifically at the bottom of its ridged chin in which a gigantic door, protruding a hundred feet into the air, barred them from entering. If they had taken Goor’s route, they would arrive at the wrong point of the mountain where ascension would be impossible as the slopes were too steep and therefore, resulted in wasting more time navigating around the base to find this door. A familiar mark was imprinted on it.
“Lord Lopp,” announced his lieutenant, “It is a dorrakk door.”
“I can see that. My grandfather’s dorrakk rune should more than suffice. Wake him up and bring him here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sight of the great door brought back half-forgotten memories as Goor was ushered to stand in front of it. He was instructed by Lopp to place his rune hand on the door to open it as if he was somehow too stupid to do that himself without being told to. The memories of him, a base locksmith in his youth, were most unwelcome and Goor, the ever-renowned warlord, found himself hesitating.
“What is the matter?” Lopp said.
For a brief moment, Goor was at the center of everyone’s attention and so he decided to linger for just a little longer, for the moment to last. His hand was placed on the door but the rune did not glow.
“This rune must take its time. I am siphoning some of my lifeforce to open this accursed door as we speak. Be patient.”
“I have researched the rune, grandfather. There is no life-siphoning to speak of. The process is automatic. Did you forget again, sir?”
Everyone gazed at him, undoubtedly in concern or disappointment. The moment had subsided. Goor clicked the door open, a frown tugging at his rusting face.
The grand dorrakk door opened to a field of flowers, an unexpected sight. Rather than heeding the words of his men and returning to his palanquin, Goor was compelled to step forward and wallow in the daffodils, roses or whatever flower breeds with exotic names that escaped him. It was there, placed perfectly in the very center of the field, that Goor was reminded of why he was here, of why he dragged over half of his fleet across the continent to join him in this meandering quest. In the middle of the field was a special flower, its pedals, a brilliant purple, folded in on themselves with such striking smoothness that it was indistinguishable from an orb on a green flowing scepter. Goor stepped forth and, with an uncharacteristically gentle hand, plucked it from its home. Lopp and his men looked on with passive bemusement, mentally weighing the sanity of their decaying figurehead as he spun in the fields, holding the flower like a newborn.
“Grandfather?”
Once again, Lopp’s words cut straight to Goor’s metal skull and he was summarily escorted back to his seat as the army began their climb of Mount Kaa. Goor rested well, cradling his plant, knowing that the goal of his quest had already been fulfilled.
The sky was a familiar purple hue by the time Goor woke up and went outside to the camp grounds. During his sleep, the rest of the army had already made a sizable progress up the mountain and the exact distance, the amount of remaining rations, the likelihood of danger, were relegated to faint soft murmurs around his presence. Not that he minded. Goor observed his environment: he was on a large platform which overlooked the grasslands below. The area was dubbed “Kaa’s Lips,” based on how the landscape jutted out from the structure of the mountain itself, hanging almost precariously in the night sky on a rocky foundation that may or may not be stable to begin with. It reminded him of his old home on the coast where he lived alone, during his days as a locksmith. He scanned the wilderness below him, observing how it wrapped the earth like an unclean rug, making note of the vast distance between him and the bottom. The sight reminded him of the ruins, the same ruins he oversaw each and every time he stood on those stone steps. He quietened those thoughts and retreated to the far end of the campsite and turned a corner to a dry zone of elevated boulders where his body was obscured, hidden away from the prying eyes and ears of his men. By this point, they were more his caretakers than soldiers. Let them drink until their livers burst for all he cared. Goor hiked on, unbeknownst to him that his grandson was trailing shortly after him.
“Are you wandering off again, grandfather?” Lopp’s voice rang from around one of the stones. Goor could feel all traces of exuberance slinked away from his feet.
“You do not need to refer to me by that label every single time, boy,” Goor said.
“I could say the same, grandfather,” came Lopp’s reply.
“Leave me be, child.”
Goor’s steady steps broke into a stumble.
“I had to make sure you did not stroll off any cliffs. You do know where you are walking, yes?”
“Is our banter not proof enough of my sanity? Spare me your false sympathy and leave, lest you wish to see me stroll off a cliff with a clear conscience.”
Lopp’s gaze fell onto the flower. Goor noticed and was quick to overshadow it with his hand. Sensing resistance, the young barbarian stopped moving and simply seated himself among the stones, calmly absorbing the view of the night sky. The tranquil sight did compel Goor to stand next to him, albeit with caution. The two of them stared at the sky in silence. The night yearned on.
“Would you like me to be transparent with you?” Lopp said. Goor recognized his tone. Whenever his faćade had been let loose, his voice changed remarkably.
“…By all means,” Goor said.
“I believe you rounded us up for a fool’s errand. This mountain is barren space. I had sent my scouts up ahead and they reported back the same thing. Barren space. Nothing. I am convinced that the summit is barren as well.”
Goor continued to stand and listen.
“As I have protested countless times before, this mountain does not make for an effective base of operations nor a reliable extension of any of our trade routes whatsoever. So I beseech you, grandfather, if your mind is willing, why have you brought us here?”
Goor peered at the flower in his hand and marveled at its evolving shape. The purple pedals were unfolding before his eyes, only mere moments away from blooming. Words and excuses were caught in his throat, leaving a small crevice for the truth to worm its way out.
“I will not mince words, child. I came here to die.”
“You were always the type to take your time,” Lopp responded fast.
“At least a dozen times during this trek, I expected to sleep and all this would disappear…”
“…And you would return to those stone steps of the old fabled ruins, leading the path to the conjurer of wind and air. I know that story. You told me that a hundred times over,” Lopp said.
“You never believe me, do you?” Goor said, “I have lived a thousand lives and many of them, short-lived. Though my mind dwindles now, believe me when I say that this life, the one where you exist in front of me, is the longest one I ever live. If I die now, this will all go away. A part of me was resigned to that fate but after today, I feel it no longer.”
Goor held up the flower for Lopp to see. At this stage, the pedals had almost completely unfurled, unveiling a pitch black core that resided within its mystical form.
“You want to know what this is? This is the drakken finger. Only one of them grows in a span of a hundred years. Tonight, it will fully bloom, releasing pollen which, when inhaled, will grant you an undying body, repairing one’s prior wounds and illnesses. I expected to find it growing on the summit but I was wrong. It was there at the very start.”
“May I ask then?” Lopp said, nonplussed, “For the man who supposedly lives an indefinite number of lives, what difference does a flower make?”
“You idiot. Do you not see? I do not want you to disappear. I do not want any of this, the things I have paved and built, to be gone when I expire from this one mortal coil.”
“What makes you think we will disappear? Do we exist and rot at your command? What authority does one senile fool hold over the whole of existence? Let alone an army,” Lopp said.
“I am telling you, Lopp. This shall be the life I cling onto and one that I will never let go.”
“And what is it about this life that smitten you so?” Lopp asked.
Goor did not respond.
“Your reign as warlord is a failure. My brothers, who are holding our old base together, have reported nothing but bad news. The base will collapse in a matter of days. All because some babbling corpse has the brilliant idea of selfishly dragging half of his army across the continent to find some treasure that benefits him and only him. You never think in the long term. You simply do things in the spur of the moment and forget about them. Your influence has dwindled and so has your reputation. Live on and suffer. Otherwise, there is nothing for you here.”
“I made my choice, Lopp. No matter how many regretful choices I have made, with this flower, I will live long enough to amend each and every one of them. I am not going back.”
“Unfortunately, grandfather, you have made a fatal mistake of informing me of the plant’s power. I am certain that now, I, alongside everyone else for that matter, have no further use of you.”
“Of course.”
“I contemplated killing you after you opened that dorrakk door since that rune of yours was all you were ever good for but I simply needed to ask of our purpose on this mountain before I could be sure if you held any further value.”
“You wish to kill me, then?” Goor must keep Lopp talking, long enough for the pollen to appear and be consumed by him. “After all these years, you decided to kill me at my weakest. What a coward you are, boy.”
“I’m going to rip your head off.”
Lopp’s stance, his arms wide and his chestplate emboldened with moonlight, stayed in Goor’s sentimental mind as he was tackled to the hard ground. Lopp gripped his grandfather’s neck and began to pull. Summoning the last vestige of his dying bloodlust, Goor struck both of Lopp’s ears, rattling his hardened skull before seizing his abdomen and tossing it overhead. The plant was thrown to the side. They wrestled all through the night and for a single lapse in time, Goor’s smile was faint.
He was so enraptured by the moment that he had forgotten about the pollen which had been sprayed everywhere. By the time he remembered, it was too late.
“No!” Goor cried.
The plant was seized by Lopp during the scuffle and with skeptical hesitation, leaned his head in to inhale the pollen. It was done. Goor had lost his chance. He crumpled to the ground. Lopp stepped back and felt his vigor renewed. Every single battle scar, every wound, every sense of pain was stripped away.
“I will dedicate this gift to my new reign as warlord. I will start with your life, you old fool.”
Again, Lopp seized Goor’s head and continued to pull until he could see meshes of metal dislodging themselves from his body. He wielded his grandfather’s head in his hand and he was joyous.
Then he found himself falling in the dark. Goor was with him, his head still in his hand. But his body had returned.
“What is this?! Where are we?!”
“We are in transit. Soon, I will return to the ruins. As for you, you will be gone.”
“I’ve already received the pollen!”
“It doesn’t matter.”
The two men fell deeper.
“You are right, grandson, I am a failure.”
Lopp was not listening. His body, invisible to his eyes, was still thrashing about.
“And you are correct in saying that I never think things through in the long term. Honestly, I never thought I would make it this far. Even if I was immortal, I would not know what to do next,” Goor uttered, his words barely audible.
“I can’t see!”
“I suppose ‘Goor the Gilded’ had such a nice sound to it that it is worth living forever for.”
“Where are you?! I’ll kill you!”
“You have always been better than me, grandson. You would have led things better than I ever could. Perhaps that was one reason why I never killed you.”
“Goor, you damn wretch!!”
“Goodbye, Lopp.”
They landed in the stomach acid.
Goor the Undubbed awoke on the uneven steps, overlooking familiar spires. He wept.