The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (7 page)

Saphirra filed that fact away for later consideration. Ganthorpe was full of surprises, she admitted, only beginning to scratch the surface of this man’s secrets.

Rose suddenly emerged from within the shadows again, appearing beside Ganthorpe. Saphirra only had a heartbeat with which to react. She removed the second dagger from its scabbard and drove it toward Ganthorpe’s exposed back. But, before she could connect with his flesh, a blade emerged from the darkness, biting into her own forearm, and causing her to drop her enchanted blade, all the while biting back a yelp against the biting pain of that vicious thrust.

Saphirra swung her now free left arm, which Ganthorpe had released upon seeing her drop the first dagger, and attempted a wild punch at Rose, trying to make her pay for her interference here. Rose ducked beneath the poorly and angrily swung assault and drove her hand up and into her jaw, causing Saphirra to see stars as she fell backwards. She felt the sharp pain of something striking her head as the blackness continued to flood her vision and thoughts, until they claimed her completely.

When she awoke, several hours later, her hands and legs were bound behind her, and a piece of cloth had been stuffed into her mouth. A damp sensation chilling her to the bone, Saphirra squirmed and her eyes widened in surprise. Directly in front of her stood Ganthorpe, hands on his hips, staring straight into her eyes which registered first shock, then anger and finally dread, realizing her helplessness.

“I assume that I can remove your gag without fear of you shouting or otherwise making a scene?” Ganthorpe asked in a demanding way. She nodded, never removing her gaze from his icy stare as her fear turned to open confusion. Ganthorpe must have read this plainly as he offered an explanation.

“I am willing to let you live, despite your distinctly dissimilar intentions for me,” he announced.

Saphirra was beginning to recognize their surroundings. They were below the docks, along the shores of the North Gulf where many victims were sent out to sea—many victims that she herself had claimed!—never to be seen or heard from again. She panicked suddenly and her heart hammered in her chest as she recognized the form of her associate, whose name she could not even recall, and who was also bound and gagged, lying on a raft. That tiny vessel would certainly not last very long in the rough waves once the current pulled it out of the North Gulf and into the High Sea and beyond. It was a very frightening and unnerving scene that filled her thoughts. The High Sea was full of pirates, sharks, troglodytes and worse.

“I would very much like to understand why exactly you betrayed me, and what is in it for you?” Ganthorpe asked her, mercifully pulling her thoughts from her morbid reverie.

“I have my own agenda that includes not so much working against you, but perhaps…with you,” she informed him, in an attempt to entice the man’s attention and tug at the strings of his curiosity.

“And what exactly is this proposition?”

“I am proposing to organize my own guild. A Guild of Assassins,” she explained simply. “One that will work in harmony with you and your own organization.” She continued, outlining her plan. “I have set things in motion, including ties and promises to some very significant people. I will give you generous discounts and anything else you may want or need!”

At that moment, Rose came into view from behind a support beam that held up the pier along the ocean’s edge, near the raft that was ready to be shoved out to sea. The man who lay upon it now was wide-eyed with fear, his arms and legs tied uncomfortably behind his back as he looked from one to the other to the other again.

 “Are you seriously considering this?” Rose said, openly questioning Ganthorpe, a truly puzzled look upon her face.

“Ah, you brought the thorn along,” Saphirra said, dripping with sarcasm and nodding toward Rose.

“Are you giving me your word that no harm will befall me, or my organization, and that you will never again interfere in my affairs?” Ganthorpe asked Saphirra, ignoring all of their comments for the moment.

“Aye,” Saphirra promised, looking from Ganthorpe to Rose and back to Ganthorpe and finally upon her associate again. “My word.”

“Very well,” Ganthorpe remarked as he withdrew a dagger and moved to stand above Saphirra. She shuddered for a heartbeat and even closed her eyes tight, not knowing if he would kill her or not. He cut the bonds on her wrists and then ankles. As he bent over her, she kissed him on the lips and then quickly scanned the expression of Rose to gauge her reaction and smiling a wicked grin.

“That was uncalled for,” Ganthorpe disapproved, backing away from the newly dubbed assassin. He looked to Rose, who clearly objected to the whole thing—that expression was unhittable. Then the Master of Thieves headed toward the man on the raft, one of his newer recruits who’d evidently been lured into servitude by Saphirra with money and perhaps even more, if he knew her well enough.

“Allow me,” offered Saphirra, with a shameless smirk planted on her face. “I will take care of this one—free of charge,” she added, winking at Ganthorpe.

“Very well,” Ganthorpe agreed. He began to walk away from her, out toward the southernmost section beneath the pier that would lead them back to the pier above.

“Where are my daggers?” Saphirra called to Ganthorpe.

“I honestly don’t know,” Ganthorpe lied, smiling at Rose, who looked down at her belt beneath her jacket, where the twin magical daggers were hidden from Saphirra’s sight.

“No matter,” shrugged Saphirra, turning to face her failure of an accomplice as she shoved him out into the water.

The two thieves never looked back, but they were sure they heard the sound of muffled screams a moment later as they eventually faded away completely.

“How are things going, thorny one?” called a voice from behind her as she sat at a desk in her room, pulling a brush through her thick, auburn hair.

She turned to regard Ganthorpe, once more visiting her room in the middle of the night. She was not surprised.

“Thorny?” she echoed cynically.

“You don’t see it?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Of course, I understand the reference,” she said, in a caustic tone. “I may be young, but I am not without a bit of wisdom. And this is an obvious joke, is it not?”

“Or is it thorn-e?” he added, rubbing his goatee thoughtfully. “Yes, that is what I shall put on your papers of guardianship.”

“You are adopting me?” she asked with a quality of hesitation.

“No, not I—I refer to your phony legal papers that I have had forged to show that a set of fabricated guardians have adopted you,” he responded. “I will be adding a last name to them.”

“Won’t Augustus be looking into this?” she asked as a sneer crossed her face at the mere mention of his name.

“He will not be bothering you—or anyone else for that matter—ever again,” Ganthorpe declared with conviction, scratching his goatee and smirking. “Suffice to say that I have already made use of Saphirra’s generous offer. And I did it for you.” She smiled and held the grin on her face for a long time as she pulled the brush through her hair over and over. Finally, she looked up at him as he patiently stood and watched her intently.

“So, yes, the papers?” Rose asked, reverting to the initial topic.

“They will add layers to your already heavy set of credentials that Marielle will supply the orphanage—and its new head.”

Ganthorpe grinned as he stood and removed a red rose from beneath his jacket. He had clearly arranged for one of his own men to occupy the role of director at the orphanage, or at the very least, had that person on his payroll, Rose thought as she studied the man’s bright blue eyes and eye-catching smile. He was certainly charming and incredibly handsome, she admitted to herself.

“A thorny rose for my Rose Thorne,” he said in a straight-laced manner, handing the flower to the young woman. “It is suitable, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” she replied graciously, accepting the rose and staring at it closely. After a moment, she turned around and smiled, hiding her face from him. Then, she lay on the bed and stared up at him, locking stares with his huge blue eyes that at the moment were full of elation.

“It is a good lesson to remember for both of us, eh?”

“And what is that?”

 “That something can be both full of beauty and yet hold a hidden, deadly side at the same time.”

“Story of my life,” Ganthorpe sighed under his breath, as he climbed into bed after her.

Strength of Faith

Garius Forge was sweating profusely.

His woollen garments that were situated beneath his golden armor were soaked, as was his face and head beneath the heavy, steel helm. Perspiration covered his chest inside his hauberk, and everywhere else for that matter. It was the end of Summer’s Fade and it was still hot, even here up north, and he and his group were covered from head to toe with the golden plated armor customarily worn by the servants of The Shimmering One. They each wore a white tabard as well, bearing the symbol of the sun-god stamped proudly upon their chests. It was yet another reflection of their unyielding commitment as a devotee to the sun-god.

His assignment was to travel east with a group of paladins on a pilgrimage. Garius and the four knights under his command—Matthias, Marcus, Bralon and Micah—rode on the backs of mighty warhorses, complete with lean muscles and mighty strides. Their movement was unusually slow this day, however, as they were charged with escorting their guest, the halfling healer named Divah, to the village of Dhegg, and then home to Merithia in the northeast section of the Shindar region. This was all part of their instructions given them by the High Priest, Tiyarnon.

Halflings, as is common knowledge throughout Wothlondia, have an affinity for healing as the druids do, by tapping into the spiritualistic powers originating from the Feyfields. Rumor has it that they are more in tune with that particular plane of magic than even the elves, to whom they are closely related. Simply put, halflings are smaller versions of the elves and closely resemble them in every manner possible, including their appearance.

The sun reached its pinnacle and the halfling woman recognized that Sun’s Peak was upon them. This time of day caused the men to collectively pause for a moment of reflection in reverence to the god of the sun. The female halfling sat quietly and observed the ritual with compliance and great interest.

Divah was an expert healer who needed no aid from the gods of the realms—she was a natural healer able to mimic the healing prayers of even the High Priest with the simplest of efforts. The healing gift was innate to many halflings, though she was more skilled than most. She was believed to have a direct connection to the Regenerative Plane, with which most healers of the realm would be envious.

Divah was quite diminutive but was especially delicate, even for a halfling, a fact offered by many of the priests she’d met in Oakhaven. She delicately brushed the white hair away from her vibrant green eyes and continued to observe the priests.

She sat atop a pony that trekked rather more slowly than the men would have liked, she knew, but they each kept their tongues silent at the behest of the warpriest, Garius, who led them along. After all, they were to escort her
safely
, and were not given any constraints on time.

Divah had been sent by Rimbo Hollytoe, the village elder of Merithia, to observe the temple of The Shimmering One in Oakhaven
and
to meet with the eldest priest, Tiyarnon, to gain an understanding of how they went about tapping into the regenerative plane. She had left two others behind in Oakhaven to further investigate the procedures and to document it for further analysis. Likewise, Tiyarnon had instructed this small group of attendants to glean some wisdom from the Merithian halfling as best they could.

“I cannot wait to visit Dhegg and to examine the tinctures and potions and other wares offered by Larwinckle and the gnome merchants there! They are rumored to have rare tomes and recipes concerning healing elixirs and things of that nature for sale, too,” the halfling woman said excitedly to Garius, who rode beside her, regarding the halfling’s unbridled enthusiasm with a smile of his own.

 “I am aware of these rumors as well, my lady,” Garius responded kindly. He locked eyes with hers and sensed a timid and playful shyness about the halfling that seemed too innocent for words. Her thirst for knowledge and frank naivety were as refreshing as they were innocent.

His hand instinctively went to his helm, which dangled from a clip on his saddle as the heat was a bit much to wear it this day. His short cropping of black hair was completely soaked with sweat, which sent a steady stream of moisture down his face and pooled above his thick eyebrows, though he did not complain.

Divah’s white hair, however, appeared to be completely dry, which puzzled the warpriest a great deal.

“How is it that you do not perspire?” he asked, unable to quell his curiosity and gently nudging the firm head of his warhammer back into its proper place upon his back as it had slid uncomfortably to one side.

“I do not sweat,” she answered him bluntly. “I do not know why. I barely feel the heat upon me even now,” she added, looking skyward into the brilliant sun. Garius’s face screwed up in confusion at that remark.

How is that possible?
he reflected without a word.
Halflings are certainly…different.

“It is something to which I am immune, I suppose,” she continued with a shrug, perhaps sensing his reaction. “I’ve never really given it much thought.”

“Very well, my lady,” he nodded politely, wiping a puddle of perspiration from his brow. “I welcome the heat. It is like the pain of a wound or the bite of the chill wind. They proclaim to your senses that you yet live.”

She politely returned the smile that was set upon his face and then turned away from him, keeping her eyes straight ahead. She either did not understand the reference or could not relate to it, he gathered as he returned his own attention to the landscape.

They had circumvented the Blackstone Mountains, traveling north around them, and had also crossed the upper portion of the Prismatic River at the ford. They were currently just north of the Oakcrest Mountains where travel would begin to slow even further. They stopped there to eat and rest for a short while.

And the days began to pass just the same.

The landscape began to slowly change beneath their horse’s hooves, for they had been traveling for quite some time and had entered the region of Stonehill. The ground was becoming rugged and coarse, lending a resounding conviction to the region’s name.

A chill was becoming more palpable in the air around them and Garius was thankful for that. They were midway through The Calming and the month of Nature’s Fall was only a week or so away.

Dhegg could be found near the center of the Lochbeech River, further to the west, and only about a day away now. They had been riding for almost two months, due to the slow pace set by their guest, but they still had plenty of supplies.

“It has been fifty three-years since the reign of Ashenclaw,” Divah mentioned absently. He stared at her for a long while absently.

She possessed a beautiful smile that she displayed often enough and her face was undeniably a woman’s, boasting a set of high cheekbones with full lips and a distinguished wisdom behind her eyes. It all seemed strange on the body of a woman who looked as if she had not yet reached her fourteenth name-day.

“The calendar year is 54 P.A., my lady,” Garius corrected her assumption, focusing on her question again.

“Apologies, my lord,” she answered him respectfully. “We halflings do not place as much importance on the measurement of time as we should.”

Garius merely nodded his consent and continued carefully through the hilly patches that presented beneath their horses’ hooves. Suddenly, the sound of steel being drawn was heard as the Paladins brought their weapons to bear.

“What is it?” asked Garius.

 “Micah’s keen elven eyes have detected enemies approaching from the south, my lord,” answered Bralon accordingly. Micah was half-elven and Garius knew that his eyesight was better even than that of some full-blooded elves.

“Enemies, you say? How can you be sure?” Garius questioned them.

“They are not human,” Micah called back to the warpriest with utter certainty in his tone. “They move as if they are not living, sir.” Then he clarified further. ”They are… undead.”

Divah gasped at that and reined up her horse. “The undead are profane atrocities!” she stated boldly, wincing in what looked to be physical pain.

“Aye,” Garius nodded grimly in agreement. “We shall smite them from the face of Wothlondia and send them back to Pandemonium with haste.” He donned his polished steel helm. “The Shimmering One shall see to this.”

“Aye” agreed Bralon the Bold, as he was oft called, in a calm, solemn tone that emerged from behind a thick blonde beard.  That and the occasional glint of an eye were the only features seen through his heavy steel helm. He was a bear of a man with muscles threatening to escape from beneath his sturdy, golden plate armor, and his deeds were legendary.

The undead mass shuffled closer, then one by one began to rush toward the group. These undead were large and it looked as though they were unsure of their own footing. Upon closer inspection, however, they moved quite swiftly in comparison to their bulbous nature.

“What in Pandemonium…?” asked Micah as he waited for the command, looking back to the warpriest. There were at least three score of the creatures hurrying toward them. And once the creatures caught the scent of fresh meat nearby, they began to trample each other in a mad rush toward the holy warriors.

Garius gathered the knights around him and delivered a prayer of aid that would fill them with divine strength. Within seconds, Garius and the group of Paladins shone brightly for a split instant until the burst faded, remaining faintly aglow around their armored shells. That radiance replenished them with the power and endurance of the gods. However, as they knew, for they had received this blessing before on many occasions and on many battlefields, it would last only a short time.

The female halfling was instructed to move further north into a cropping of trees atop a small hill, and she willingly did so and with haste. She was not cowardly, Garius appreciated, but seemed to have an overwhelming fear of the undead. He would have to pursue that reasoning at another time.

The five servants of The Shimmering One formed up next to one another, Bralon at their head, and took the brunt of the undead charge. The creatures slammed into their blades and shields amidst a cacophony of screeches and guttural sounds unintended for men’s ears. Filled with the blessing of divine strength, the Paladins slashed and sliced into the sickening and diseased flesh, sending body parts flying everywhere.

Garius could detect the stench of disease on the abominations as a miasma of contagion surrounded the very air around each and every one of them. The warpriest waded through the dead bodies on the floor, while the invigorated knights around him cut a swathe through the horde of zombies. Garius removed his holy warhammer and gripped his shield tightly, fastening it to his left arm as they fought together.

For several moments, the divinely charged warriors cut down their enemies with ease, never slowing or tiring, their attacks charged with the force of a dozen men. Blow after blow took the zombies down, one by one, until the speed of their attacks eventually slowed.