The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (108 page)

A Realm of Ashenclaw

Novella

By

Gary F. Vanucci

It was an especially hot summer this year. That fact was well known by all.

Triniach leaned upon his staff and peered skyward, seemingly searching for something. The always-aloof wizard rubbed his chin thoughtfully, penetrating the thickening white beard that grew upon it. His bright robe was made of the finest silken fabrics offered by a Veldennian seamstress and consisted of brilliant blues and purples. The woolen garments beneath however, were soaked with sweat and threatening to spill forth any moment, but Triniach did not seem to notice or care.

The calendar year was 414 according to the Wothlondian timekeepers and the heat had never been worse.

Where is it coming from?

Triniach dabbed at his brow with a piece of cloth, though it did no good as more beads swarmed to take their place immediately.

“It seems the summers are broadening,” he spoke aloud, calling over his shoulder to his companions.

“It is getting to be more than I can stand,” spoke Jon Veinslay, a paladin in service to The Watcher. The symbol of the god of the sky—a stylized eye—was proudly emblazoned upon his plated armor and shield, colored in pale silver with accents of deep blue and white.

“No wonder,” quipped the sorcerer behind him, Azbiel, who sat upon a flat rock that jutted slightly from the hill upon which they stood, which was located at the base of the Chaos Crests in the region of Hartsdale. “It’s all that damned armor you’re wearin’.”

Jon simply raised an eyebrow at his adopted brother, who smiled sarcastically and genuinely through the heat and together they shared a laugh.

“I trust the cold feel of steel in my hands over magic any day, brother,” Jon rebutted with a grin. “I rely on that which I can touch with my very own hands.  And this armor will protect me more so than that robe you wear.”

“Against swords and tangible weapons most assuredly, brother. But, I could roast you alive in that very armor in which you place so much trust, Azbiel countered as he stood. “Does this look real enough to touch?” he added, gesturing and holding an outstretched hand face up as a flame burst forth from his palm. “It is as real as the campfire we set last eve.”

For a moment, the fire mounted in the mages hand until it became a small sphere-shaped globe of fire hovering just above his hand. It spun faster and faster and grew in size until it was the scope of a large melon.

“Go ahead and touch it,” Azbiel said. “It’s as real as the steel you carry at your side. It will melt your skin and turn that very protection you wear to slag.”

“Enough, boys,” called a very gruff but very female voice from behind them. Twarda, a dwarven warrior with arms the size of an ogre’s, made her way over to them. She lumbered slowly in her plated hauberk and her arms hung with a light chainmail over them, barely containing the muscles below. Her shield reflected the symbol of an anvil, the crest of the family Stoneshell from the Mountains of Crescent Ridge in the northeast.

“The both of ye’ can argue ‘til yer both dead fer all I care,” she added, taking a tall drink from her waterskin, more than likely full of ale. “We got more important things ta’ be talkin’ on.”

“Yeah, like where in the blazes is this fraggin’ heat comin’ from,” called a high-pitched male voice, reminiscent of an adolescent boy. Breaching the crest of the hill and plopping to the ground was the halfling, Figit Tallshadow. His long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail to keep the heat from his neck and his leather sleeveless jerkin was open, revealing his pale, hairless and very skinny chest. A pair of daggers was belted to his hips; one on either side, but the companions understood that the rogue carried many more hidden on his person. He was a worthy adversary despite his outward appearance, which they all knew he often played to his advantage.

Triniach watched their interaction for a few more moments before once more looking skyward. Shortly after, the voices fell away to silence in his mind.

“We need ta’ find us some shade, Trin,” called the halfling to the mage, who stared into the sky, seeming to ignore the comment altogether. “There’s some trees below at the base of the hill here, can’t we go sit there?”

“You can go wherever you’d like,” Triniach responded, continuing to stare into the horizon.

“What the blazes are ya’ lookin’ for?” Figit asked to anyone who would listen.

“He’s thinkin’ there be trouble brewin, sure as I be a dwarf,” Twarda said.

“A female dwarf?” Figit teased with a wide smile. The Halfling stared at the feminine dwarf and frowned noticeably as he studied her face. She wasn’t unattractive, especially for a dwarf. At least that was the general consensus, but it was a well-known fact that she methodically shaved her face every day and night to keep her beard from growing. There was always the shadow of a beard threatening to sprout forth now under her defined cheek bones and that was troubling to the diminutive rogue. She shook her head and rolled her eyes at him as she took a draw from her waterskin.

“Make it rain or something,” Jon suddenly spoke to Azbiel, obviously frustrated by the heat.

“I can pelt you with ice if you’d like,” Azbiel retorted sardonically.

“I’d rather you didn’t, brother,” Jon replied, sitting on the hard ground and cleaning his helm, wiping the moisture from it as best he could.

“And don’t call me brother,” Azbiel responded curtly, shaking his head. Figit laughed to himself again. He and Azbiel were the types to rustle up women and wine daily, while Jon was quite the opposite. He surely did not understand the pleasures of the flesh like they did, he thought.

“We are all brothers,” Jon replied with a smile, “Brothers in
arms
.”

“And sisters,” Twarda countered briskly and loudly, rubbing an oiled rag along the edge of her axe quietly.

“What the frag are we waiting for?” Figit said ringing out his ponytail and running a forefinger inside his pointed ear, trying in vain to cleanse it of moisture.

“The weather grows to a sweltering heat, brothers,” Triniach finally managed, still staring off into the distance and waving a finger at Azbiel without even looking. “And sister,” he added, still staring at the horizon expectantly.

Figit shook his head in admiration. The old mage never ceased to astonish him; just when he didn’t think that he’d heard anything at all, he was listening to everything the entire time.

“Do not waste your magic,” he instructed, perhaps sensing that the sorcerer was about to ‘make it rain’, as Jon had so put it. “We will need all of our spellpower in the very near future, I fear,” he added cryptically as he wiped a blanket of sweat from his forehead with a drenched sleeve.

“For what?” Figit asked again, truly puzzled.

“Dragons,” Triniach stated simply. “The weather grows hot and the scorching drakes are behind it, I predict. They are coming.”

“Wha—how do you even…? We just trounced a burrow of trolls and yer’ sayin’ dragons are comin’?” Figit asked, and then stopped as Azbiel stared at him with a shake of his head.

“The man can predict the future sometimes,” Azbiel stated as if Figit should know this already. “Isn’t that right,
brothers
?” Azbiel added with a sarcastic smile as he drained a receptacle of its contents. Figit knew it to be full of wine because he had filled it up not too long ago. The mage rubbed his graying hair, removed another wineskin and took a draw, and then winked at the female dwarf.

“Lech,” she said, frowning. Or at least it looked like a frown to Figit.

The feisty rogue sat quietly as the sun crested above them, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger.

“To Summerbank then,” Triniach suggested.

“Summerbank?” asked Azbiel incredulously.

“It’s the closest town,” Triniach refuted, rubbing his beard. “And we will need supplies, rest and perhaps some rations. It won’t be long now.”

“Crazy old coot,” Figit mumbled under his breath.

“It’s hardly a town,” Azbiel stated. “They‘re a bunch of fisherman that pretend it’s a town.”

“It still serves our needs,” Triniach stated again. “And Figit, you are half right. I
am
old.”

“Old and crazy I say.”

“We better be able to fetch us a few ladies there,” Azbiel stated with a protest as Twarda and Jon both stood and began to make their way down the hill, their armor clanging and echoing throughout the valley below as they followed the wizard.

“I am with you, mage,” Figit said as they slapped one another on the back, Azbiel knocking the slightly less weighty halfling forward stumbling until he caught his balance.

“Stupid humans,” Figit mumbled as he hurried to catch up to the others.

“I heard that!” Azbiel called after him.

It was a day’s journey to Summerbank and as they neared, Figit realized that the town had indeed grown some since last he visited some years back. They had an inn! At least that’s what it looked like from his perspective.