The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (12 page)

Garius was in a bed somewhere in Dhegg, he guessed, and his armor had been stripped from him. He lay in the bed with only a loincloth and his chest was bare. He also gathered that he must have collapsed from exhaustion at the magical expenditure required to banish the demon back to Pandemonium.

A chill suddenly entered the otherwise warm room as a door opened behind him, allowing a cool breeze to enter the space. Several of the candles and torches flickered with the breeze, threatening to extinguish.

“We were fearing that you might have sacrificed yourself,” Divah confessed, with a befuddled look upon her beautiful face. “At least, that’s what the others suggested. How is your wound?”

“Bralon?” Garius asked the halfling, ignoring the question. She turned away from him. Garius heard her whimpers and understood what that meant. He did not pursue the line of questioning any more as his fears were realized. He saw Bralon’s belongings nearby, packed and ready for transport back to Oakhaven for his family, he surmised.

“Who is responsible…?” Garius asked with both a frustration and disdain evident in his tone.

“Do not concern yourself with these things,” called a stern and terse voice from his right side. Garius turned his head but a candle burned near him and blinded his vision to that side, hiding the owner of the voice at first. Then a hooded figure emerged from the light to stand before the warpriest.

“I am Ezekiel,” stated the elderly gentleman. “I am a representative from Safehold and an Inquisitor belonging to the Order of the Faceless Knights.” He paused, allowing the information to sink in. He was clearly in the twilight of his years and had a long, flowing beard that, initially tucked behind his robe, now hung loosely in front of his chest. The man bore symbols of all of the Gods of Order upon his raiment.

He spoke again. “We have discovered the place of the demon’s summoning, but the source has… eluded us,” he stated clearly and then added cryptically, “for now.”

Divah was still in the room. She got up to greet Larwinckle as he entered. The two of them whispered in the background for a moment. The inquisitor waited again for Garius to sit up in the bed and focus on the conversation.

“Your insight is vast, your piety unequalled and you will make an excellent addition,” stated the man calmly, awaiting the questions to follow.

Garius’ face twisted in confusion. “I am sorry. What?” he asked the Inquisitor.

“You will be joining our sect,” he added, and again Garius stared at him in disbelief.

“Surely you jest,” Garius replied, with wide eyes.

“I am afraid that I do not,” replied Ezekiel, folding his arms over his chest. “We will discuss this with Tiyarnon, but I am sure that he will consent to our… offer.”

“But what if
I
do not accept?” asked Garius, clearly confused and becoming aggravated with each passing word.

“You have no choice, son,” Ezekiel declared, as if this were fact and nothing else. “You are gifted, Garius. You have a clear and powerful grasp of detecting the presence of demons and are more than capable of exorcising them. This is not a gift to be taken lightly.”

“But I—“

“It is true,” called a female voice from behind them. “I could not discover what your true calling was, but I believe Ezekiel is right. You are a hunter of demons, Garius, And it
is
a gift.”

“The halfling speaks truly,” Ezekiel echoed. “You must get some rest and we will discuss this further when you wake. It is too much for you to understand in your weakened state.” With that, Ezekiel left, followed by Divah, leaving behind the leader of Dhegg alone with Garius.

“I saw what ye’re capable of doin’ there,” Larwinckle said, raising his white, thick eyebrows. “Ye certainly have a gift.” Garius simply sat unspeaking, struggling to sort out what had transpired. “Not just any priest could do what ye did,” Larwinckle added, crossing his arms over his round belly.

Garius took in a deep breath and sighed. “I suppose you are right,” he admitted, averting his eyes from the gnome and looking to the ceiling above, as if searching there for answers. “I allowed my companions to die,” he continued, as if this were an argument to the contrary.

“Ye didn’t allow them to die, my lord,” Larwinckle responded, referring to him in a respectful manner.

“Lord?” echoed Garius. “I am no lord.”

“Ye are a warpriest of The Shimmering One and deservin’ of a title, sir, whether ye like it or not,” Larwinckle countered, “Just as yer knights were.” Silence filled the room for a few moments until Larwinckle spoke once more.

“Ye were simply livin’ yer life,” reiterated the gnome. “Ye can’t blame yerself for the actions of Randermotten and the demon, lest ye drive yerself batty. Yer fellow companions are with yer god now.”

“Aye,” Garius admitted. “They are, at that.”

“Ye should give this event some serious consideration afore ye cast it aside, is what I’m suggestin’.” Larwinckle moved to the door. Then he turned back to the man lying in the bed and stared deeply into his dark eyes. “We’d all be dead—me and me kin—if it weren’t fer ye…”

With that, the gnome left. Garius heard the door shut and heard the patter of the gnome’s footsteps as they faded into the distance, just as his acceptance of his offered position grew.

Tears of Blood

 Zabalas Dimonia stood outside in the courtyard where a newly constructed castle had been erected. It was appropriately named the Bastion of Skulls, as it was fashioned from thousands of them, making up its entire exterior. It was surrounded by the expansive courtyard within a small village, aptly known as Gallows’ Hill, situated in the southeastern portion of Wothlondia known as the Stonehill Region. The settlement had been famous for centuries past as a burial ground for anyone that claimed the uneven landscape of Stonehill as their home. Even those outside the region were welcome to bury their dead here, and many did so.

There were very few who lived in the village proper, aside from the undertakers, embalmers and gravediggers who found plenty of work there. Wagons and caravans would come by the thousands from all over Wothlondia to send their loved ones to their final resting place.

The center of the settlement once accommodated statues of the Gods of Order and the people believed that they watched over their deceased kin, who thus remained forever under their vigilant eye. At one time, despite the morbidity of death associated with it, it was a beautiful and serene place. It provided the bereaved relatives with a sense of finality that could be appreciated.

Now, however, the Bastion of Skulls stood in its place. No more were there architecturally beautiful mausoleums, crypts or even the exquisitely carved statues that once adorned the courtyard—there was only the enormous skull-embodied fortress in their stead.

The site never looked as ghastly as it did now.

Zabalas stood amidst all the bodies that lay here, uncared for and ignored for the better part of a half century. These were all victims of Ashenclaw and her scorching drakes some fifty years ago. Most of the bodies were burned and disfigured, but oddly whole and preserved, not turned to dust as they should have been. There was what could only be described as a supernatural aura surrounding Gallows’ Hill. It was a palpable feeling of dark magic derived from the purest of evils.

The dark warlord was enveloped from head to toe in armor as black as pitch, accented with a mixture of spikes, horns and prongs. He gestured and began a series of chants, speaking in tongues not native to this realm. The entire landscape for as far as the eye could see began to glow yellow, then red, and eventually there came a flash of light so brilliant and white that it would have blinded anyone looking upon it. The discharge burst upward and bathed the lifeless bodies in a glow of unparalleled malevolence. Zabalas’s actions began to awaken these strangely preserved bodies and breathe ‘undeath’ into them.

One by one the corpses stood, clumsily swaying to and fro, wavering on their feet as if they were not accustomed to or familiar with these extraneous husks they now inhabited. The corrupt quality in the air animated the corpses, making them profane mockeries of what they had once been in life. Now they were hideous abominations.

 Zabalas gazed upon his minions, rotting flesh dripping from their bones and tattered remains of once-whole clothing hanging from their limbs and torsos. These undead things carried a disease within that made the blood boil. They were the stuff of nightmares and had appeared only a very few times in the past on this plane. They were a gift to Zabalas from his master.

“It is Summer’s Fade… as I once remembered it. The weather is changing, sending an appropriate chill on the air that shall carry my minions with it across the land.” Zabalas stood in the gloom. The sun had recently departed and darkness descended across the face of Wothlondia. Evenfall was upon them and it seemed a fitting time to unleash the undead scourge upon the surface.

“Let us see what the people think when these living corpses—these Blood Rot Zombies—rise up and tear the flesh from their frail and weak bodies!” Zabalas grimaced, throwing his head back and glaring into the darkened sky above, seeming to threaten the very Gods of Order. “The Races of Order will soon come to feel my hand as it slowly tightens around their throat, but by the time they sense its grip, it will be too late.”

Zabalas slowly removed his sword from its scabbard. He held the blade aloft as a series of purple and pink flames danced around its sharp edges, licking at the tip. “And you will lead them!”

Zabalas pointed his blade in the direction of a creature with a headdress upon its rotting head that appeared quite out of place. From beneath its once regal robes, the thing was emitting a tangible contagion which did not appear to have any effect on the heavily armored warlord. The aberration that stood before him was endowed with magical aptitude and arcane knowledge that rivaled that of even some of the ancient elven mages of Acillia.

“You will launch destruction upon the surface folk and tear the Races of Order asunder with your magic,” continued Zabalas as he circled the wretched creature, sizing him up with a scrutinizing eye. “Yes… you will do
just
fine,” he concluded in satisfaction. “They think that the queen of the scorching drakes was a fearful sight!?”

He then strode forward a few steps, walking amidst his undead host that measured easily in the thousands. “Of course it is,” Zabalas mused, almost in contention with his last words, then he quickly spoke again, stifling a laugh. “A dragon queen the size of a mountain that can turn stone into slag in seconds is indeed a force to be reckoned with. But that will be compared to the games of mere infants when they see what I have in store for them.”

He replaced the now-flameless sword back into its scabbard. “Go my kindred children. Go and see what kind of chaos you can bestow upon them all!”

Zabalas turned on his heel, heading towards the Bastion of Skulls, as the multitude of diseased undead creatures walked, ran and crawled out of the courtyard and across the rocky ground of Stonehill, heading in all directions. As he continued toward the castle, a fiendish creature that lurked in the shadows of a nearby crypt gave an approving smile within the gloom. Zabalas turned and gave pause to regard the demonic presence that stood there, seeming to absorb all light that passed nearby. The only thing he could see of the other-worldly creature was the glowing red eyes that penetrated that cold, lightless space.

As Zabalas neared the castle, he heard the growing sound of deranged laughter that followed him into his stronghold, seeming to somehow grow louder even after the voluminous door shut behind him.

The logs that comprised the palisade around the village of Chansuk were tied tightly together and sharpened at the tips. Scarr made his way through the eastern entrance and around the stockade. He entered at an even pace with a hunting party in tow and an elk draped across his broad shoulders.

“We have food now for many weeks,” declared the muscular man as he dropped the dead elk before him. Many of the tribesmen and women gathered around as horns sounded to signal the return of the hunters.

Scarr’s blonde hair and unshaven face were specked with blood and dirt, yet he gave no indication of weariness. The elk was easily the largest that any of the villagers had ever seen, probably close to three hundred pounds. As the rest of the small group of hunters returned, each and every villager in attendance put up a deafening cheer. They roared in satisfaction at the bounty and for the safe return of their kin.

Huuna, Scarr’s wife, ran to her husband and threw her arms around his massive body. She kissed him, scraping her delicate skin on his rough, unshaven face.

A blessing by the head shaman of the village, Syth, was to follow shortly thereafter. He traditionally bestowed good fortune on the animals and thanked the spirits for their gift of continued sustenance that blessed the barbarians of Chansuk.

 It was early morn on the seventh day of The Chilling and the snow would soon come to greet Chansuk and the southern portion of Wothlondia. Sometimes the Stonehill Region would receive only the bitter chill of the north instead, but most winters it was the recipient of a generous amount of snowfall. It was not nearly as much as that suffered in the north, by comparison, but it would certainly hinder the barbarians in their hunting.

Adding to their misfortune was the fact that the deer and elk usually became nutritious victuals for the frost worgs that would inevitably arrive with the cold. Most winters for the barbarians were filled with the eating of berries, grains and fruits stored from a long, bountiful harvest. The land to the north was plentiful in that regard—unlike the wetlands that they called home. Occasionally, hunting parties were successful enough to tide them over with wolf, bear or even the bountiful and tasty red meat of frost worgs themselves.

Scarr slapped Rothnarr hard on his back, knocking the huge barbarian forward somewhat. He was a strapping young lad who reminded Scarr of himself when he was younger, even more so than his own son, Magreth. Rothnarr was the son of Kernagos, hailing from the neighboring town of Greymoors to the northwest, and was a powerful specimen of a man, even now in his youth.

Rothnarr demonstrated thick, golden-blonde hair, and wore a long beard tied into several, separate braids. His eyes were the green only seen in emeralds—all features of Scarr too—and similar to those of Saeunn, his daughter (minus the beard).

Greymoors was further from the waters that bordered Chansuk and was on dryer ground. The barbarians that lived there were altogether displaced from the moist and swampy surfaces where the River Thrice emptied into the Somber Sea. The Greymoors favored combat on horseback and were friendly to the Chansuk tribes and their people, sharing many things in common, other than terrain, and often worked together. This was especially so when Ashenclaw and the scorching drakes had rained death and fire, burning the ground of their beloved Wothlondia. Chansuk united with the Greymoors barbarians that year to down several of the beasts with spears, swords and axes. They lost many of their kin over the course of those attacks, but managed to slay the drakes. The tribes stripped the wyrms of their scales, teeth and talons, keeping whatever they could salvage as trophies.

Further reinforcing the alliance of the two tribes, Scarr often took Rothnarr and several of the Greymoors kin on seasonal hunting trips to provide both villages with quality meat to store for the winter. Along with the traditional salting or curing of the flesh, the shamans could help keep it from spoiling with magic. Sometimes it might even freeze once exposed to the icy chill of the winter months.

Kernagos, the chieftain of the Greymoors, was a bear of a man. He exhibited darker hair than his son, but the two men were definitely born of the same ilk. Both were nearly identical in size, the only difference being that the elder was slightly bigger around the waist and shoulders and brandished additional tattoos.

Magreth, son of Scarr, had features akin to his mother with darker hair and light brown eyes, but with a finely muscled body like his father. He was devoid of the enormous amount of tattoos found upon his father’s body, for Scarr’s battle prowess and achievements in combat were too many to count. That dissimilarity would likely change over time, though.

Rothnarr felt at home amongst the Chansuk barbarians, and especially so with Saeunn. She was in love with him and he with her, Scarr knew, as did anyone who saw the two of them together. It was no secret. Scarr did not understand why his only daughter would hide her feelings from him, but he did not question her motives. He prepared himself for the eventual revelation of the relationship and the likely joining of the two tribes if the couple were to be wed.

“Come, we have much work to do,” claimed Scarr loudly to Magreth and Rothnarr. The young Greymoors barbarian was staring toward the center hut in the villages, Scarr and Huuna’s home, where Saeunn could be seen standing in the doorway.