The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (73 page)

Seeing the grey-skinned orcs reminded him of Commander Grubb. He seethed with anger, recalling the pain of his broken leg, stepped in and followed his wide arcing swing with another that crashed down atop one of the two orcs. The force of the blow connected with the orc’s forearm as he mechanically attempted to block the strike. The orc’s right forearm cracked under the impact and he released his grip on his dagger, which fell to the misty ground as he moaned in pain. He dropped his sword too, clutching his broken forearm with his left hand just in time to witness the greatclub of the half-ogre smack solidly against his skull.

Death was instantaneous.

The second orc was upon Orngoth again just as the other one fell away, twin hand axes chopping at the half-ogre’s massive frame, trying to cut into his tough skin and probing for weak spots in his defenses. The barbarian wore no armor to speak of, so the edges of those axes bit into his flesh over and over again as Orngoth reared back with his massive club to strike, ignoring the somewhat futile blows of his grey-skinned adversary. He made to move the club forward, to smash it into the orc and drive him into the mud, as he had wanted to do to Commander Grubb. Instead, he felt a sting on his hand and that pain caused him to loosen his grip enough so, that as the club went forward in his grip, it was sent flying away. He turned to see the man he’d backhanded earlier, who had now regained his footing and senses, and had also retrieved his sword and shield.

Orngoth reached back and grabbed the human’s outstretched arm, yanking him from his feet. He swung him in an overhand motion into the orc who was still hacking at the barbarian’s flesh. The two bodies collided and the man’s ribs and chest cavity shattered under the impact as the orc fell to the floor. Orngoth, consumed completely by his bloodlust and recalling what the Commander Grubb had done to him, repeatedly swung the body of the man, over and over again, into the fallen orc.

Jorlin Walden woke to find himself in a bed. He was groggy and hungry, but otherwise unharmed. As his vision cleared completely, a man leaned over him speaking in a strange dialect of which the origin eluded him. He felt an energy or surge move through his body that seemed to make his whole being go numb for a heartbeat or three, and then he could only see a bright light.

He thought it was his entrance into Arcadia. He believed he was dead.

His vision once more refocused, however, dispelling that thought, as he recognized that a man did stand over him, staring down at him.

“How do you feel?” asked the man in a deep voice.

“I…feel fine,” Jorlin answered. “What did you do to me?”

“I simply asked the gods for favors of regenerative aid to restore your health,” the priest answered as he held the bed to steady himself. “It does take its toll, however.”

“Enough talk,” called another rough voice from behind the priest. “Her Highness calls for you immediately, Sir Jorlin! I assume that you are in good enough condition to face the questions of your queen?”

“Aye,” Jorlin answered, no longer feeling fatigued, hungry or cold. In fact, he was no longer in need of anything whatsoever. The potential frostbite that he feared would rid him of several fingers was completely gone. He had seen the high priests perform powerful healing rituals, but had never received one himself…until now. Jorlin sprung from his bed and once more thanked the priest for his assistance.

“Don the proper regalia given you there and make your way with haste to the throne room,” instructed the guard, gesturing to garments laid out on the bed. The man, whom Jorlin recognized by face alone, was a highly decorated member of the Norgeld Watch.

How long have I been gone?
Jorlin wondered as he began to dress himself in his armor, piece by piece, slowly and anxiously. It was not going to be a pleasant experience to address Queen Lynessa. He did not look forward to informing her of his experiences, which included the apprehension of her daughter, Amara.

No
, he thought,
this is not going to be a pleasant discussion at all
.

 “So gracious of you to allow my colleague to enter,” Saphirra said with obvious sarcasm in her tone.

The assassin glided into the room quietly, escorted in by two of Ganthorpe’s men, and sat beside Saphirra. He was extremely slight of build and of average height. Ganthorpe could not come to grips that this was the most feared assassin in all of Wothlondia for he certainly did not appear as such. At least outwardly, he was nothing much to look at.

“I apologize, my lady, but one can never be too careful.”

“Shall we proceed with the business at hand? Or are we to discuss my age and your procedures all evening?” Saphirra asked him suspiciously, as she uncrossed her legs, and then slowly crossed them opposite. As she did, Ganthorpe could not help but steal another surreptitious glance at her statuesque limbs. He grimaced and rubbed his temple quickly, trying to hide the target of his vision, and then returning his gaze to hers before answering her question.

“Very well, then,” he flatly stated, trying to diffuse his mounting libido regarding her. They had a history, and several of those memories flooded his mind’s eye. There was another lengthy pause as Ganthorpe forced the memories away and collected himself.

“Let us discuss the contract of your…
associate,
here,” he gestured to the man who sat silently to Saphirra’s right.

A hood covered the man’s head and he’d been staring down at the floor the entire time they were speaking. He finally looked up and lowered the hood to reveal a mask beneath it. The mask was quite odd, however, as it appeared to move and shift of its own accord. Ganthorpe could see that there was a break in that unique mask that revealed the man’s eyes.

A pair of cold, hard, violet eyes looked into the soul of Ganthorpe and he couldn’t help but swallow hard as that gaze continued to bore into him, judging him or summing him up in so much time. Ganthorpe’s heart began to race. He had never really known true fear before that very instant. He did not like it.

“You wish to dispose of a woman that plagues your institute,” accused the man from beneath his mask. He phrased it as a statement more so than a question and the voice seemed to originate from not one place, but from everywhere at once. Whether this was an illusion or a trick, Ganthorpe had no idea, but it was unsettling at best. The guards behind him shifted uneasily, their hands moving to their hilts, reacting as if the source of the voice had come from somewhere behind them.

“I do,” said Ganthorpe eventually. He struggled to maintain his calm and friendly demeanor, fighting against the irrational fear.

“One of your own has betrayed you,” the man added, again stating the words with confidence instead of phrasing it as a question, as if he were reviewing the details for his own purpose.

 “Yes, she is—or rather
was
—one of us,” Ganthorpe confirmed. He recognized his own trepidation in his tone and took a deep breath to steady himself. The Master of Thieves then unrolled the contract and once more read the man’s name—
Helgoth Argentus
.

This was the name of the assassin that sat across from him—the most lethal and feared killer to ever walk the face of the realm. Ganthorpe was familiar with the legends that surrounded the name, but never did he think that that he would be this intimidating, despite his outwardly smallish frame. There was something intangibly dangerous about the man, which certainly lent credence to the rumors regarding his nefarious and infamous deeds.

Ganthorpe himself had ended the lives of many men and women in his day—it was part of the lifestyle—but he did not enjoy it. It was always about business.  And it was something he’d grown accustomed to over the years. Yet this man, according to the tales, enjoyed everything about the game—the hunt, the fight, and especially the killing.

“Do you wish to proceed?” Saphirra asked. He knew that she identified his uneasiness at meeting Helgoth face to face. And Ganthorpe knew that it secretly brought her great delight, but her face did not betray those emotions as she held her smile. Ganthorpe was very good at hiding his feelings, and at manipulating people, but Saphirra was at least his equal in that arena.

“Of course,” Ganthorpe said, forcing the discomfort from his tone and regaining his composure. He certainly did not enjoy speaking with this enigmatic man and had never felt this defenseless within his own confines, surrounded by his own agents.

“Then he will dispose of the woman, returning me my stolen daggers in the process, and you will have claim to the rest of her property,” Saphirra boldly stated, staring back at the Master of Thieves with her icy stare and flinging a portion of her locks over her shoulder casually as she stood.

Ganthorpe Randolph reviewed the document once more and looked to Helgoth, and then back to Saphirra.

 “Half up front and the remainder upon her delivery to me?” he asked suspiciously.

“That is standard procedure, my dear,” Saphirra said flippantly, hands on her hips. “You have your policies and I have mine,” she said as she shifted and one of her legs emerged from beneath her ensemble to calculatingly tease Ganthorpe once again. “Don’t tell me your coffers are light?”

“Of course not,” he refuted, removing his gaze from her leg, opening a drawer to his desk, and placing one particular gem atop its surface. It was an extremely rare gem of obsidian hue that could fetch an absurd amount of coin was he to put it up for bid. It was a pompous symbol of his wealth and reputation.

“How nice,” she cooed sarcastically. With that, Ganthorpe nodded to his lieutenant, who opened the door and disappeared behind it as Ganthorpe replaced the precious stone back within the drawer and locked it.

“They will fetch your coin,” he said with a scratch of his goatee. “I will even add a bonus to what you are asking if you bring her to me alive.”

Ganthorpe surprised even himself with that last statement.

“I want to dispose of her myself,” he hastily added in reply to the look of wonderment given by Saphirra. “I don’t want her to die too quickly, no. I want to make her comprehend the full extent of her betrayal to the Shadowhands.” He stood from his chair and regarded Helgoth Argentus. “I want to look into her eyes as she begs me for her life…”