Chapter 28: The Second Thrall

Tristan

October 29, 1786, Realm Timeline, Southern Slovakia

There was a Thrall/Minion control setting in the Menu. It started with the amount of XP Tristan could siphon from his servant. Unfortunately, the maximum was seventy-five percent. Tristan snorted, dissatisfied.

Do you allow your Thrall romantic freedom, aka the right to choose their partner?

"You're kidding me? I'll geld him as soon as we can get to a medicine man."

Do you allow your Thrall control over their stats?

"Absolutely not."

There was an estimation of the man's stats as well. He had a high intellect, thirty-nine, with forty-seven in Precision and Speed. Tristan guessed that Precision was what the thrall's dexterity registered as. The rest of his stats were all between ten and fifteen.

Don't want him to jump me... "Is there any way to forbid him to attack me?"

A thrall is by default forbidden to self-harm, lie to, or attack his Master. Maintain higher Will, higher Level, and apply coercion to remind him of his place.

"Yeah. I'll cut his nuts, and all will be fine."

The man suddenly screamed. "Please, don't castrate me!"

"Dorian, stop," Tristan ordered, pulling on the reins.

"I'm trying, boss, I'm trying. These horses have a mind of their own," the man complained, slowing to a halt twenty feet further, and struggling to get back to the group, only to bypass them in the other direction. The third time, he succeeded.

"How long were you awake?" Tristan asked the prisoner.

"A few minutes. Can you please untie me? I'm hurting everywhere."

"Can we call him Renfield?" Dorian asked.

Tristan considered asking who Renfield was, but decided against it. He didn't really care about some obscure Outworlder reference. They were talking in cliches more often than not.

"Renfield? You piece of shit!" the man screamed.

"Hm... the profanity filter is not working for him," Dorian said.

"I turned it off. You need Int or Will over thirty," the Thrall said.

"He figured it out so fast?" Dorian asked.

"No big deal," the man said. "I was awake for a good while."

"If you behave, I might spare you your balls," Tristan said. "Do you realize the situation you're in?"

"I do," the man mumbled. "I promise to behave. Please, be merciful. I swear, I didn't mean to shoot you. It was a reflex. I'm a gunslinger."

"This is your class?" Dorian asked.

"No, dude, I'm the real deal. I worked for a circus."

"Really? How did you get here?"

"For a show. We weren't told it was on another planet; we thought it was for the troops, in a nuclear base. We didn't even notice the portal."

"Yeah, it was almost invisible," Dorian said.

"The wormhole closed during the show, and we got trapped here. I just tried to survive and go on with my life."

"Don't... err..." Tristan paused for a second, searching for the appropriate expression. "Don't play cute with me. You're still a Renegade."

"I'm just a regular guy, I swear. My head hurts. Can I ride normally?"

"I'll untie you if I get good answers. What were you doing back there?"

"Trying to take a dump?"

"Not in the woods. With the Tatars," Tristan said.

"I was with the ship crew; they hired extra guards. I'm no Renegade; I moved to Hungary because it's the land of my ancestors."

"To which the Kingling lays waste."

"Maybe to the nobles," the man snorted. "We, common folks, are fine."

"Fine? Look how well your country fares. All ruins and weeds. Where's the crew? There was no one else there, save for the Tatars."

"They went upriver with a smaller boat to scout some stupid sailor stuff, like channel depths. Please, let me go... Pleeeease!" the man bleated.

"How many Tatars crossed the river?"

"How could I know? I did not count them."

"Mind your tongue. I could work well with a mute."

"It means he'll cut it off your tongue," Dorian translated.

"I'm not an idiot! A lot of them. We made five trips yesterday, and we took a few hundred at a time. There were two bigger boats before us, going upstream."

"This means there were multiple landing points," Dorian pointed out.

"You're Oh, kay working for savages who murder whole villages?" Tristan asked.

"I didn't know about that," the man went on. "It was gone when we arrived. And the Emperor's troops do the same to our villages, boss. They say the man is nice, but he's too weak to control his own people."

Tristan's blood was boiling, and if not for his Humanity score and the debuff it brought to his Mental stats, he would have whipped the Thrall on the spot and reconsidered gelding him.

"From now on, you're forbidden to say anything bad about His Majesty. You will show him due respect."

"Sure, boss..." the man muttered under his breath.

"How many Renegades are in the Kingling's lands?" Dorian asked.

"There are many Outworlders, but only a few of them are Renegades. Most are normal people who try to help. They reinvented antibiotics, toilet paper—"

"And poison gas," Tristan said.

"It's not my fault! I was just working around... There's a lot of job opportunities there."

"You don't get it, do you?" Dorian said. "Your opportunities are gone. This is a declaration of war. We'll be forced to ally with Austria."

"Oh, gosh... You don't realize, right... That's what they want: to lure you into a fight. A lady-in-waiting I dated for a few days told me the Kingling has a genius adviser, a kid sent by the French. I don't want to scare you, but... It's Napoleon."

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"Am I supposed to be scared?" Tristan asked. Where the heck did I hear this name before?

"If he's as good as in our world, yes," Dorian said.

"We'll see how well his tactics fare against the mighty Ulhan charges," Tristan said.

"Sure, boss. Whatever you say," the Thrall said.

"Dorian, untie the guy," Tristan ordered.

"Master, may I take a break? I need the number two..." the prisoner wailed. "You don't want me to soil my pants and stink."

"What's a number two?"

"Shitting," Dorian said.

"Can't you folks talk normally? Go behind that bush," Tristan ordered.

"May I have my toilet paper, boss?" the man asked.

"Dorian, have you seen the man's toilet paper?" Tristan asked.

"No, sir. It must've remained behind." Dorian said.

"Noooooo...."

"Here," Tristan rolled his eyes, extracting an old journal from his backpack and throwing it to the thrall.

"T-thanks," the man whimpered, disappearing behind the bush.

"What should we do now, Sir?" Dorian asked after a minute of silence.

"The same as before. Follow the Tatars as fast as we can, give the alarm to the towns and villages on their path. Kill the straddlers. We see where it goes."

"Has anyone seen my gun?" the Thrall asked, coming back, his forward arm offering back half the newspaper to Tristan.

"Keep it," Tristan waved his hand.

"Yeah, the gun is in my backpack," Dorian said at the same time. "Should I give it back?"

"Question, Dorian. If you were a Thrall, and wanted to escape, but you can't harm your master, how would you do it?"

"Err... Beats me, Sir. How?"

"I'll take the gun, shoot you and all the horses, except mine, and I'd run away."

"Ah... So I should keep the gun, right?"

"No, give it back. If he tries anything funny, I'll catch him and cut his balls myself."

"I won't!" the Thrall promised.

Shrugging, Dorian searched his backpack and returned the gun to the Thrall. From his angle, Tristan was sure he had seen a glimpse of the toilet paper roll.

"What's your name?" Tristan asked.

"Janosh. Stage name: Happy Trigger."

"So, by Hungarian rules, you'd be Happy Trigger Janosh?"

"Yes, boss. Err... Am I obliged to drink blood?"

"No. Get back in the saddle, we have a long trip ahead."

Forty miles and seven further on their journey, the road passed near a forest. Something felt amiss to Tristan. Maybe a faint scent of smoke, maybe because it looked too peaceful under the soothing moonlight. He pulled on the reins.

"We're going around," he pointed at a small trail heading south. "I don't like that forest."

"Perfect place for an ambush," Janosh said. "We'd be sitting ducks."

Tristan had a good idea of the meaning of the expression and had no qualms about it. He even prepared a witty comment of his own when several impacts threw him down from the horse. The loud sounds of the gunshots registered in his mind a split second later.

His right ear was buzzing, and he was sure he had a broken rib. The horse was dead, and Tristan's left foot was crushed underneath it. Something fell atop the horse's body: Dorian, making a shield of himself. More shots followed, and the impacts made Dorian's body jerk. Janosh threw himself behind another dead horse, about thirty feet from Tristan, with his revolver in hand. All their mounts were either dead or gone, so far as Tristan could see.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Janosh screamed. "I surrender."

"No... You're not... How... many bullets... do you have?" Tristan struggled to say, fighting his headache.

"Shit... Boss? You're alive?" the Thrall gasped, turning his head toward Tristan.

"You hoped I was dead?" Tristan sneered, revitalized by the anger.

"No, boss, I swear! It's... you have a bullet in your head."

"What?"

Janosh patted his temple with his index finger, and Tristan raised his hand to feel his head. A twisted piece of metal fell down. The skin above the ear was broken; he was bleeding, and he could feel a few pieces of bone slightly moving.

I should be dead...

"Can you move?"

"I'm trapped," Tristan said. "Dorian, go find a branch. Use it as a lever."

"Sorry to break the news to you, boss, but he's dead," Janosh said.

The shooting had stopped, and Dorian opened his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Fuck!" Janosh yelped.

"Welcome back. Dorian, find a thick branch, or anything that can be used as a lever."

"If I move, they'll shoot you, Sir," Dorian retorted.

"They don't have a direct line of fire," Tristan said.

"How are you alive?" Janosh asked. "I saw the bullets hitting you. Do you have body armor or something?"

"Long story."

"Exactly. Dorian, go."

"We can use the spear," Dorian pointed to the object, which lay close by.

"We risk bending the staff, and then I'll be weaponless."

"Yes, Sir."

Dorian rolled over Tristan and crawled away. A hail of bullets followed him, but missed. Most hit the horses, making sickening sounds. A voice shouted something in a language Tristan didn't understand.

"Gotcha, mother fucker," Janosh yelled, shooting a bullet, then ducking back behind cover.

Your Thrall has killed an ???... Estimation: Elite Sharpshooter. You have leveled up. Your Thrall has leveled up x2.

There was an older message Tristan had only now noticed.

You have suffered a potentially Lethal Hit. You have discovered Vampire Toughness. Vampires with a Constitution equal to or greater than fifty are immune to lethal hits as long as their brains or hearts are not completely destroyed or stopped from functioning properly (for instance, through beheading).

Tristan threw all three of his available points into Constitution. He got a plus one to Endurance and Strength as a ripple effect. His headache intensified as the bone fragments began to fuse and heal. At the same time, his leg was also trying to mend itself. It was failing because the horse's weight prevented it from returning to its normal position.

"Janosh!" Tristan whispered, summoning the Thrall's character menu.

"Yes, boss," the man said, peeking over the horse, then ducking down as another shot arrived.

"You have nine free attribute points. I'll put three each in Speed and Precision. Good things happen when stats reach fifty. Where do you want the rest?"

"Dunno, boss... Give me something related to Vampire power."

"Blood Potency."

Your Thrall's shots will apply increased Bleeding.

By reaching fifty in Precision and Speed, your Thrall has the opportunity to learn one of two skills.

Sure Shot: The ability to modify the bullet's trajectory in flight, ensuring it hits.

Bouncing Bullet: The bullet will bounce up to two more targets.

"Bouncing bullet, boss, please," Janosh pleaded.

"Hm... I think it's better to—"

"Hitting things is not a problem. There are God knows how many bastards there, and I have only five bullets left."

"Fine. Bouncing Bullet. Don't waste your ammo if you're not sure you hit."

"Yeah," Janosh rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, Dorian had returned with a thick, if short, piece of wood, a fence post. Inserting it underneath the horse, he tried to push it up, but the dead animal was too heavy. Tristan pushed his back against the ground, cocking back his free leg, trying to help against the carcass. It started to move. An inch, then two. Janosh darted and grabbed Tristan by the armpits, pulling him out, trying to stay as low as possible. No more shots were fired, and they profited to crawl behind a small earth mound with a few wild briers on top.

"Bleep... this hurts," Tristan wailed, massaging his calf. The pain in his leg was intense; he swore to put some points into Endurance next. "Give me a minute, and we'll go kill them."

"Boss, please reconsider," Janosh said. "Let's run for it."

"Why did they stop?" Dorian asked, scrutinizing the forest. "You think there was only one of them?"

"There are at least a dozen," Janosh said. "I saw them with my own eyes."

"These Tatars are better armed than the rest," Tristan said.

"Can't be the Tatars, boss, never saw a decent gun on them. Must be German mercs, from the Siebenburgen."

"The what?" Dorian asked.

"A few German towns in Transylvania," Tristan said, spitting on the ground. "They betrayed their oaths to the Empire and allied with the Kingling."

"They didn't have much choice, boss," Janosh said.

"Yes, they had. The choice of dying with honor."

"One of them is waving a white flag," Dorian said.

Turning on his belly, Tristan crawled up until he could see through the thorns. A man had stepped out of the treeline, waving a dirty rag. He was wobbling and shaking, barely standing on his feet.

"What do you want?" Tristan yelled.

"H..."

The distance was too great, and the man's voice didn't reach them. The wind had picked up, adding a layer of background noise as the dried leaves rustled in the bushes.

"Come forward. I can't hear you."

"Help!" the man screamed, then fell to the ground.

There was only one solution to that situation. "Dorian, go investigate," Tristan said.

"Sure, Sir. Whatever you say, Sir. Dorian Gray is enthused to die again at your orders, Sir."

"What does he mean by that?" Janosh asked.

"You'll find out in due time."

Tristan focused on Dorian, who was running in zigzags, sometimes pretending to fall, slowing down, or speeding up. Finally, he reached the treeline, went into the forest for a few seconds, then knelt near the man, checking his pulse.

"It's safe!" Dorian yelled

Using his spear as a crutch, Tristan stood on his feet and limped forward. Janish followed a few steps behind, his revolver at the ready. The trip took a few minutes. When they arrived, the man with the flag was whispering something to Dorian, who was giving him a few drops of water from his canteen at a time.

"The rest ran away, using off-road bicycles," Dorian said. "He was left behind because he's wounded."

"Can you talk?" Tristan asked the new prisoner.

"Yes," the man mumbled.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Brassov, third regiment of mountain riflemen," the man said, then coughed and drank some more water. "Our platoon was supposed to rendez-vous with a guide for a special mission."

"What mission exactly?"

"No one knew. The guide was supposed to tell us but never appeared."

"Why did you shoot us?"

"The captain ordered it. Maybe he thought you were Austrian Scouts," the wounded man said. "After you killed our captain, my comrades decided the mission was a failure, and left. I was supposed to shoot myself, but... I'm a coward."

I could help him with that... Looking at the prisoner, Tristan wondered if there was any advantage in keeping him alive. Before he reached a decision, a voice yelled in his head.

[Eliza]: Tristan! Tristan! Do you copy?