The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (25 page)

“This is the second,” Lynnai announced, holding a simple chain necklace that dangled between thumb and forefinger. It had a smallish orb that hung from its length. “This is quite a magnificent thing. It has minor recuperative powers that continue to work over time, healing you of injuries. It will, I am told, even bring the wearer back to life.”

Orngoth received this newest gift and attempted to fasten it around his neck, but could not work the clasp with his enormous fingers.

“Allow me,” Lynnai offered and aided him in donning it. As soon as it surrounded his neck, the chain shrunk until it sat tightly with very little slack. Orngoth began to panic, then relaxed once the event ceased.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing to this intriguing Forester and touched by what she had done. “All humans are not so bad.”

Lynnai strapped her shield to her back, retrieved her sword and went over to the body of her fallen fellow Forester. Orngoth helped her place the body of the man gently on the back of her horse. She nodded her thanks and began to trot off, but then turned to face him once more.

“Fare thee well, Orngoth. I hope that you find your way in this world and that you learn to judge each individual as just that.” Lynnai pulled her hood up over her head and rode off in a gallop, disappearing down the road to the east.

Orngoth began to sift through the carnage, looking for anything that might help him explain to Muurg what had happened. He decided that he would return to the ogre grotto and leave in the night if he were able, but the thought of this left him with a desperate and inescapable fear.

Where would I go? he wondered. Then he heard something from behind the wagon and saw Bengog make it back to his feet. He was bleeding from a wound in his side, but it appeared superficial.

“Wha’ happen?” Bengog asked, not truly understanding what had just played out. Then the ogre observed the carnage and witnessed the dead body of Lunka, or what was left of it, and frowned, or so Orngoth thought.

“Wha’ kill him!?” Bengog said excitedly, looking around, worried that whatever had done this was still here, lurking about.

“I did not see it myself,” Orngoth lied. “We will take the belongings that we can salvage from the wagons as usual and head back.”

Bengog stared about, still obviously not knowing what happened, and nodded his assent.

With that, the two remaining Ironskulls gathered what goods that they could from the wagons and threw them over the backs of the horses. They worked until the sun began to dip further into the western sky. Orngoth spent those hours, as well as the time expended traveling back to the grotto, trying to assert the courage that he needed to leave the Ironskull tribe once and for all.

He fingered the pendant about his neck and contemplated how exactly he was going to do that.

Distant Familiarity

 
“What if we were to attempt to recover the phylactery ourselves?” Tiyarnon voiced aloud what all three of them had been thinking.

“I been itchin’ fer somethin’ to hit fer days now,” Rolin responded in typical dwarven fashion, adjusting his helmet atop his head as he spat out
the words. He scratched his ever-whitening beard and looked to Nimaira, who was hosting the meeting now that she had finished teaching a class. Her silver hair hung over her shoulder, tied back in a pony-tail. The half-elf sat in a chair adjacent to her desk and pondered the question, her eyes glancing down at a parchment she held that evidently demanded her attention, before turning to face her guests.

Nimaira Silvershade was the current Guild Mistress of Wizardry, deservedly so, and was quite possibly one of the most dominant mages in all of Wothlondia. Here at the University of Wizardry, she was responsible for instructing and teaching the highest level of spell-casting to those who had passed their previous courses. She taught everything from the lowest to the most advanced spells available within the school of the mystic arts, and could be found tutoring novices as well as the very best of the best.

As the half-elf woman reviewed the parchment, attempting in vain to give it the proper consideration it needed, she unconsciously crossed her legs. The lower half of her garment slid aside to reveal a shapely leg that neither Tiyarnon nor Rolin could miss. How naturally beautiful the half-elves were, Tiyarnon thought, shaking his head in admission as he admired her beauty. There was no denying that Nimaira was stunning. In fact, she was one of the most attractive people Tiyarnon had ever laid eyes upon, but she was extremely unassuming when it came to her attire as she usually wore robes that covered most of her body, especially while she was teaching.

He read her face as it turned slightly red in embarrassment at the incident and he looked away to allow her to recover. Rolin, however, did not.

“Whatcha’ thinkin’? I ain’t seen a beautiful woman a’fore? We got plenty of ’em in me clan at Eisenhaum,” Rolin added, with a chuckle from Tiyarnon. The dwarf was referring of course to the city of dwarves within the Brimstone Mountains which the Hardbeards called their home, as had Rolin once, many decades ago. “Some of ’em even got beards!”

“I will give it a go,” answered the half-elf to the High Priest’s initial question concerning the phylactery, while smiling at the dwarf’s comment. She then pulled the whole of her silvery hair out of her pony-tail and shook it free. She proceeded to make a ridiculous face, further poking fun and allowing herself a certain freedom that she’d experienced over the years with these two, her closest friends.

“If your frail human body can handle it,” she added in a teasing way, directing her comment specifically to Tiyarnon, who rolled his eyes and coughed as the half-elven woman laughed in a genuine manner. It was common knowledge to Rolin and the half-elf that Tiyarnon was at least one hundred years old. This was universally old for a human, but the High Priest of the Sun God had seemed to slow his aging process in his early forties. The other two knew this because they had traveled the whole of Wothlondia together, prior to the assault of Ashenclaw and the scorching drakes. But how he had done it was a strange and unknown mystery to them both, as Tiyarnon had never offered an explanation for it, nor did they press the issue.

Nimaira rubbed her eyes and refocused on the task set before her now. “Rumor has it that they were seen by several eyewitnesses heading south out of Oakhaven?”

“Aye,” Tiyarnon said, nodding. Rolin was mirroring this gesture as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“There be more to this than meets the eye, don’t ye be doubtin’,” the dwarf added, while wiping his nose and scratching his chin.

Nevertheless, Tiyarnon, the stubborn and wise High Priest of The Shimmering One, had a lofty sense of honor and felt responsible for his apprentices’ actions.

“Those priests were my responsibility,” said the man, eyes still on the floor and leaning on his staff. Nimaira moved away from her desk and gathered a few things, threw them into a leather rucksack, then strapped it to her back.

“I have a few instructions for my colleagues and then we can go,” she continued, moving toward the door and disappearing through it.

“Inform Aldranon and Aeldur of our intentions and tell them we will be back as soon as we can,” Tiyarnon instructed Rolin Hardbeard. The dwarf merely nodded and then headed out the door and down the spiral stairway where the half-elf had just gone. He proceeded out into the afternoon sun. Tiyarnon then sat alone with his thoughts as a bell sounded in the distance.

It had only been last evening when the apprentices had reportedly left the city. The guards posted at the gates couldn’t really give a good description of them, as they were always more concerned with who was coming into Oakhaven rather than leaving it. But by all accounts, the men stationed had at the gates had indeed seen Thaurion in their midst, since they collectively described a man with blonde, curly hair who appeared to be leading the others.

Such a promising young acolyte, Tiyarnon thought, his mind filled with recent memories of Thaurion. He recalled how this individual in particular had shown great potential and loyalty to the Sun God. That sort of reverence reminded him of one other, whom he’d mentored many years ago.

The thought of this saddened and frustrated the High Priest as he attempted to focus on his meditations and prayers instead. It was at least a brief respite from the grief he carried now. Shortly thereafter, he descended the stairwell and went out into the teeming streets of Oakhaven’s Enlightenment District. From thence he walked through to the main courtyard, passing right by the Hall of the High Council, and on to the gates. He mentioned something to one of the guards, who hurried off, vanishing amidst the multitude of people.

Rolin and Nimaira appeared just as the guard returned with three magnificent horses in tow. This made Rolin frown—he hated traveling on horseback. Nimaira had quite the opposite reaction as she very much enjoyed riding the beautiful, equine creatures.

“I’m hopin’ yer not intendin’ on makin’ these horses speed, are ye?” Rolin asked in a phony threatening tone, knowing full well the answer to the question.

Nimaira looked to Tiyarnon and leaned in, whispering something to him that Rolin could not make out. However he guessed correctly what it was about when his two companions shared a thinly-disguised giggle.

“You’ll be just fine, my dwarven friend,” Tiyarnon encouraged.

“Besides, little one, it’s not like we haven’t done this in years past,” Nimaira teased further.

Rolin, struggling to climb onto the back of his horse, frowned at the pet name she had called him. He did not like it at all, and never had, not since the first time she had used it. But he’d never mentioned his displeasure at it and it was too late now, he figured, settling uncomfortably into his saddle and grabbing the reins of the horse awkwardly.  

He watched as the other two mounted their steeds. Then the gates of Oakhaven swung wide to allow them passage. Moments later all that remained of their presence was a cloud of dust, which quickly dissipated in the cool breeze of Winter’s Veil. A new year was coming in Wothlondia and Tiyarnon hoped that 66 P.A. would be an even better year than the last for the citizens of Oakhaven, and for the whole of Wothlondia.

The three of them traveled for hours heading south along the River Divide, whose current ran in a southerly direction hundreds of feet below them. The river was used by many to bring goods and services to other towns for trade along its banks. The three bridges that crossed the River Divide, including Nature’s Pass, were at extremely high points where ships could easily pass beneath them.

Nimaira repeatedly used her significant magical abilities to propel the horses forward at increased speeds for several minutes at a time to hasten their pursuit. This, of course, made Rolin feel very disgruntled. To him it was bad enough to be obliged to ride a horse at all, let alone having it run at two to three times its normal speed for minutes on end. The dwarf did not like it at all—not eighty five years ago, and certainly not today.

 
Tiyarnon and the others concluded that the priests had not taken the northern bridge, as the guards or patrols outside the city would have spotted them and reported this as being the case. Eyewitnesses explicitly expressed that the group headed south out of Oakhaven the evening before last. And they most likely would not have crossed the southernmost bridge. They would be too exposed to detection as the south was barren and known to be full of wild beasts, roaming those open plains.

This all meant that they had to have travelled over the River Divide at Nature’s Pass, which would have had them passing directly through the heart of Amrel and close to the forest elves who made their homes there. The elves of Amrel would have certainly noticed the acolytes within their domain, although such a route would have also given the travellers cover.  No one—humanoid or otherwise—passed through Amrel without King Dorinthal’s knowledge, for his eyes were vigilant and ever-present.

Tiyarnon confidently spurred his horse further south toward the elven-made bridge, hoping his theory proved to be sound.

 
Tiyarnon could see the bridge in the distance. It was a beautifully carved bridge made from several trees that had fallen… or so the rumor went. Tiyarnon and a few other historians believed there to be ancient elven magic at work there, though this had never been verified.