The Gauntlet of Glowar

Ryvor was a warrior, and he didn’t deserve to die like this. An arrow in his back made him feel like a coward, and the fact that it hadn’t killed him, but only paralyzed him, made it even worse. During the battle for Horn’s Pass, he had taken the shot while engaged with three Kurganians. He had managed to skewer one of the looming barbarians when he felt the black fire of pain shoot from his lower back. The pain lanced through his body and he was overcome. All had turned to blackness.

Yet, much later he awoke to the sounds of crows and vultures as they picked at the dead. Ryvor opened his eyes and discovered the battlefield deserted by living men, leaving only the corpses behind for the scavengers. When he tried to move, he found that he could not feel his legs. Lifting his head, he looked over his shoulder and saw the arrow jutting from the base of his spine. He cursed every god he had ever heard of. Sweat broke out on his forehead, matting his deep brown hair to his face. Gritting his teeth, he reached back and tried to grasp the arrow. The pain made his vision dim yet again, and he gave up the effort, laying in the bloody mud, waiting for death to claim him.

A sound roused him once more, and the hackles on the back of his neck stood out. He was sure he had heard a voice. Hope fleetingly entered his mind as he struggled to turn over and survey the battlefield again. And there he saw them. Scavengers. Men, if one could call them that, who made their living looting the dead of war. And it was known widely that “dead” was a relative term to them, and that those whom they found alive, did not remain so for long. For the Scavengers were also cannibals, and they preferred their meals living when they began to consume them.

Ryvor’s heart began to race, and the pain from the arrow was forgotten as he searched for some way out of this gruesome fate. Not far off was the edge of a thick forest. He recalled his commander telling him that the Kerganians would not enter the wood, and should they need to retreat, that’s where they should go. Looking back again, Ryvor noticed the Scavengers getting closer. With supreme effort he began to crawl towards the wood, his legs dragging uselessly behind him.

After what seemed an eternity, he soon found himself clear of the bodies on the open field, and the way to the wood was clear. He glanced up and saw that the sun was well past its zenith, and would soon be setting in the west, to his back. Now that his way was unobstructed, Ryvor began scrambling as fast as he could.

Sometime during his struggles the arrow had been worked loose. Thankfully, it was not a barbed arrow, but a piercing arrow, designed to puncture through the mail links of the armor he and his fellow mercenaries wore. Ryvor reached back and before he could be overcome by the pain, grasped the shaft and yanked it free. With the arrow now gone from his body, something had given, and he could feel a tingling in his legs. With some effort, the man was able to move his legs some, though it still sent shock of pain up his spine when he did so. It was only his iron will that kept him from screaming and succumbing once again to the pain.

Another glance back showed Ryvor that the Scavengers were still working their way over the battlefield. And yet, even as he watched, one lifted its head and wailed in some unearthly tongue. The others, four of them he counted, took up the howl, and they began to give chase to the slowly fleeing man.

“Sons of pig-whores!” Ryvor cursed, as he lifted himself off the ground, and forced his legs to work. Within a moment he was stumbling into the woods, half walking, half-crawling. The Scavengers were closing, he knew, and the thought of what fate lay in their embrace urged him to work past the pain and numbness, and move with all the speed he could muster.

After another eternity, he came to clearing. In the center stood a stone obelisk. Ryvor could hear the Scavengers gaining, and the thought that he could make his last stand with his back to the stone entered his pain-addled mind. With an effort he stumbled to the stone, and stood leaning against it, catching his breath and trying to clear his head. As he did so, he looked closer at the obelisk.

It was made from a deep grey stone, shot through with veins of red so dark, they appeared black. The surface was smooth, and perfectly cylindrical, obviously worked with great care. In the center of the pillar, about head level to the tall mercenary, was a carved likeness of an oddly armored hand, surrounded by strange glyphs and runes. Ryvor was a native of the tribal nation of Cimatra, and the shamans in his lands often used such magic.

Suddenly, the idea of fighting with his back to this object did not appeal to the warrior, and he took an unstable step back.

A sound behind him made Ryvor whirl. There, at the edge of the clearing stood the five Scavengers. They were shorter than his six feet by a full head, but their bodies were squat and muscular, and covered in rags and remnants of ill-fitting armor. Their skin was pale, with an almost yellow tint. Their cold eyes were as black pits, their mouths gaping holes into a toothy hell. Ryvor, shuddered for a moment. Having been robbed of his sword, he quickly pulled a long dirk from his belt.

“Come on, you filthy bastards.” He hissed, bringing his weapon up before him.

I can help you. A voice like rolling stones intoned in his mind.

Startled, the Cimatran flinched and looked around wildly.

“Who said that?” Ryvor scanned the clearing, keeping a watch on the Scavengers out of the corner of his eye.

Swear to pay my price, and I will grant you the power to defeat these creatures.

“What price do you ask?”

My freedom.

“Freedom?” The Scavengers began to inch closer, slowly spreading out to flank the man. “If you are not free, there must be a reason.”

Now is not the time for philosophy, warrior. Do we have a bargain?

Ryvor knew enough of the darker arts and of the underworld to know that a bargain with a disembodied voice, particularly one that made promises of power, was bound to an ill end. Yet, he knew his chances for escape without help were remote at best. Though it went against his better judgment, he made a decision.

“A bargain it is.” He said through clenched teeth.

Very good.

“What must I do?” The Scavengers eyed him warily, yet still approached slowly. They would no doubt strike soon.

Simply place your hand on the carving in the pillar behind you and I will do the rest.

Ryvor turned, and eyed the pillar for a moment. Sensing his guard was down, the Scavengers scuttled forward. With a glance backward, the man switched his dirk to his left hand and thrust it at the nearest creature, even as he placed his right on the carving. The strike didn’t land, but the effect was still what he wanted, as the Scavengers halted their advance and stepped back. However, the brief respite was quickly forgotten as Ryvor’s hand made contact with the carving.

Searing pain beyond anything he had experienced in battle, including the arrow in his back, shot through his arm and wracked his body. He clenched his eyes shut and grunted in agony. When he opened them again, he saw bands of metal emerging from the stone and wrapping around his hand and forearm. He instinctively pulled his hand back, but the metal came with it. As the pain began to receded, Ryvor watched in horrid fascination as a gauntlet formed itself.

The piece of armor was formed of a bracer made from the blackest metal the warrior had ever seen. Etched along it’s seams were runes of an ancient and forgotten language, and they glowed a faint red. From the top of the bracer sprang a flat plate, also etched with red runes, which attached itself to the back of Ryvor’s hand. From this, tendrils snaked out and wove between his fingers, connecting in the center of his palm.

When the whole thing had formed, the runes flared, and the mercenary felt a rush of power course through his body. Ryvor was a naturally muscular man, and his physique was that of a warrior. But with this power, his muscles expanded with a faint popping sound, and he felt strength the likes of which he had never imagined. Gone was the pain from his back wound. Indeed, all of his lacerations earned throughout the battle earlier this day closed themselves, leaving only the faintest white trails of scar tissue. His chest and back muscles expanded to the point where his chain hauberk fit like a second skin.

When the transformation was complete, Ryvor felt a feeling of euphoria.

I have given you power. Use it.

The warrior turned to find the five Scavengers staring in fear and horror at him. As they turned to run, Ryvor pounced. With a bloody-curdling roar, he landed on the back of the nearest creature, and smashed his gauntleted fist though the back of its head, sending a spray of blood and brains up his arm. The gauntlet seemed to surge in power at the feeling of fresh blood, and Ryvor leapt after the next Scavenger. Again the gauntleted fist struck, and again his foe fell in ruined gore. Within a very short period, the mercenary had dispatched all five creatures, none of them able to put up any kind of defense.

As the last of the creatures fell, Ryvor stood panting. He was not weary, but his body was charged with an energy he had never experienced before. He marveled at the power he wielded now. His mind began to wander to far off places, where he could use such power to conquer and destroy. He could remold the lands of the south to his whim. He could be a king, an emperor...nay a god…

With a gasp, Ryvor realized that these dreams and ambitions were not his own. Never had he wanted to be more than a warrior. He knew that he would be dead before he could enjoy the fruits of conquest or old age. So, where were these images coming from? And then he felt it. Like a fog weaving its way through the back of his mind. He looked at the gauntlet on his hand and instantly knew that the will of whatever power was behind the device was attempting to assert control over him.

So, this was the price. This was the “freedom” the spirit, or demon, demanded. Control of Ryvor’s body, and the subjugation of his will. Perhaps the consummation of his very soul.

That thought brought a panic to the warrior’s mind, and that panic quickly turned to anger.

“No!” He growled through clenched teeth. “You will not have me!”

Oh, but I already do, warrior. You made the bargain. And Ryvor felt the fog become like a wave upon the beach of his mind. Solid, unwavering, inexorable. He sank to his knees, a wail of despair and agony escaping his lips. The wave of the demon’s will began to wash over his consciousness. He had a sensation of falling. His vision blurred and darkened, and he felt himself slipping into oblivion. And the demon’s voice laughed.

You are no match for me, mortal. Mine is a will of the ages. I have always been and ever shall be. You are but a speck in the cosmos.

Ryvor felt the reality of those words. He felt the despondency of being nothing. Insignificant. He wanted nothing more than to just lay down and forget reality. To vanish from existence. As his body succumbed to the will of the demon, Ryvor’s memories began to fade, and he watched them go. No order to them, they came unbidden, and then flittered away like raindrops into the ocean, lost to him forever.

But one memory came forward and sparked something within the warrior. It was the memory of his father. A barrel-chested chieftain of a western tribe, the Cimatran was everything Ryvor had ever wanted to be. He remembered his father’s death at the hands of raiders from the far south, across the Golden Strait. Small men of brown skin, and wicked eyes, they had raided and looted. But they had not conquered. Ryvor’s father had stood up to them. Had rallied his countrymen. The barbarians of the west had fought like demons themselves, and the invaders had been chased and harried across the strait to the great desert of their birth.

Pride swelled in Ryvor’s heart, a he recalled the deeds and sacrifices of his father. And yet he suddenly felt ashamed to have fallen now to the whims of a demon. Once again a moment of weakness fanned the flames of his anger, and the warrior fought back. With a will harder than dragonscale, Ryvor strained to reassert control over his mind and body.

What’s this? How can this be? The demon now sounded panicked, and it redoubled its efforts to gain control. A titanic battle of wills ensued. The will of an ages-old ego versus that of a born warrior.

Ryvor’s people believed that the gods gave men the will to live in order to battle the weakness inherent in their mortal flesh. And none among men were more willful or strong of heart than the Cimatrans. And Ryvor was typical of his kind. Perhaps even more.

The demon had battled wills before. It had always been thus when he assumed a new host through trickery and deceit. But never had he matched wills with a man such as this. And it gave him a feeling he had never encountered before in all of his millennia of life: Self doubt. The will of the demon wavered in the face of the possibility of defeat, and that was all Ryvor needed.

An explosion of light parted the darkness in the warrior’s mind, and he felt the power of the demon wane and begin to dissipate.

Nooooooo… The demon’s voice began to trail away. And suddenly Ryvor felt a tug on his consciousness. The demon would not be so easily rid of. And try as he might, the warrior could not banish the being fully from his mind.

“What does it take to destroy you?” He cried in frustration.

More than you have in you, mortal. Ryvor got the impression that the demon was mocking him. It seems that you have the power to keep me at bay. But you cannot destroy me, or even be rid of me. Not as long as you wear that gauntlet.

The Cimatran immediately began to struggle to remove the armor, but it was no use. The thing had become as one with his skin. He could no more remove it than he could tear off his own arm. This thought brought an idea. Without another thought, Ryvor tore off through the brush, heading back to the battlefield.

The sun was near setting, and the grim landscape was eerily quiet. Not far before him he saw the remains of a small contingent of Kerganian warriors who had met their end. Among them he found what he sought.

What do you intend, mortal? To cut your own hand off? Ryvor grinned wolfishly as he hefted a heavy-bladed axe in his left hand. Laying his right arm across a discarded shield, he raised the weapon over his shoulder.

Wait! The urgency in the demon’s voice made the man pause. Perhaps a new bargain is in order.

“I will make no more bargains with you, demon.” He hissed. And again he raised the axe.

You have won mortal. Again, Ryvor found himself pausing, and wondering if perhaps it was the demon’s doing. I am no more than a voice in your head now, unable to leave, and unwilling to die. But I can be a boon, should you choose.

“And what sort of boon is a demon to a mortal man?”

I have knowledge of the ages. I can help you in your future quests for power, victory and glory.

“What makes you think I crave those things?”

Am I not in your mind? I can see the vista of your consciousness, and fathom the depths of your desires. I know what drives you, warrior. It is not dissimilar than what drives me. To survive, indeed to expand your own influence over the world around you. I can help in this, if you will but let me stay.

Ryvor lowered his axe, intrigued by the offer of the demon. Indeed, with such a pleading tone, he wondered if it were a demon at all.

“Who are you?”

My name is Glowar, and I was once much like you. A warrior, even a king. But the world I ruled was unlike this. It was savage and sorcerous. My throne was usurped by a wizard of great power, and he entrapped me within this gauntlet, using arcane powers of devilish origin.

Ryvor considered the story for a moment.

“Then how did you become trapped within the obelisk?”

It would seem that the wizard who trapped me, and used me, had many enemies. He had wrought great evils with the power this gauntlet holds, and when he was finally brought down, his conquerors sought to prevent another from doing the same. So, they imprisoned me within that stone. For untold years, none came near enough to hear me, save you.

“And what do you wish now that you and I are joined?”

Only to share in your conquests and adventures.

“Somehow I believe your words, save the use of ‘only’. I fear there is more to your desires than that, spirit.”

Perhaps. But what alternative do you have beyond maiming yourself, and hampering your success in your chosen profession? At least with me at your side, you can enjoy greater success. And when the time comes, we may re-negotiate our agreement, should one be reached here and now.

The warrior thought about that for a moment. Indeed, he was already enjoying the feeling of power he gleaned from the gauntlet. And perhaps there was a way to use it to his advantage. Already he could feel that the spirit within the thing was nothing more than a voice in his head. And a knowledgeable voice at that. What king or ruler would not want an advisor such as this?

Ah, but king or ruler, he was not. At least, not now.

“Then it is agreed, spirit.” He said, dropping the axe. “We will remain enjoined until such time as you become a liability. And then I shall aggressively ‘re-negotiate’ our pact. With axe or sword, if need be.”

There was a feeling of amusement from the spirit, and Ryvor began to wonder at the true nature of this being. Was it evil? Or was it simply a being who had had evil thrust upon it? Either way, it was here with him now, and together they would no doubt be a formidable pair.

A sound caught Ryvor’s attention. In the gloom of dusk, he saw a horse wander among the dead. And he smiled.

“Well, it seems my part in this border skirmish is done. And fate has furnished me with a way away from this cursed land.” With that, the warrior stood and made his way to the horse, speaking softly so as not to spook the creature. The horse seemed glad to have found living company, and placed it’s weary head against Ryvor’s chest. He stroked the side of the animal’s face gently.

Once he had full control of the animal, he lead it across the battlefield. He stopped only once to retrieve a quality sword and a fine, horned helmet from among the dead. Now fully equipped, he mounted the horse and rode to the south, heading for the city of Lirium. There was an old friend of his there, a warrior-shaman from his native Cimatra, that he would take counsel with.

As Ryvor rode through the night, his eyes often strayed to the gauntlet on his hand, with its faintly glowing red runes. As he pondered his future, he often wondered if he had chosen the right path. Finally, he gave up.

“It matters not at the moment.” He mumbled to himself.

For a brief moment, a feeling of humorless mirth tugged at the back of his mind.