The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (96 page)

Xorgram then headed for the quarters of the two taur and figured it might be a good bet to place them on patrol. He had a bizarre feeling that the night was going to bring with it some major complications.

Semmeroth

Jorlin had finally arrived in the village of the gypsies. He entered on horseback and dismounted as one of the bizarre folk who worked there offered to stable his horse.

Madam Shona, the main spokesperson for Semmeroth, was greeting folks as they entered the village.

“Come one, come all! See the outlandish! Witness the exotic and amazing events that can only be found here in Semmeroth! Come one, come all!” And so it went as he made his further into the village. The murmurs of the crowd combined with the distance eventually drowned out her calls.

Jorlin felt the reassuring weight of the Pridemoon Hammer tucked beneath the cloak on his back and the steel pommel of his own blade at his right hip and nodded his consent.

He entered the crowd who collectively meandered from tent to kiosk, with freak shows and feats of strength on display that widened eyes and made hearts race. He looked around, searching for some clue as to his contact, knowing it would be difficult having to be
found
. He would much rather be one doing the
finding
.

More than an hour passed as Jorlin wandered the gypsy village until he finally glimpsed his contact. It was subtle, but enough to surely be the one. He was told that a man would eventually contact him, and there was a dwarf that signaled him with a clandestine wave of the hand.

“Grogo beckons you, my lord,” whispered a gypsy in passing. As Jorlin turned to regard the dwarf, he turned back to the gypsy to ask him who Grogo was, but he…or she…was gone.

And Grogo was a tiny man, someone Jorlin could certainly best in any trial of martial prowess. This excited Jorlin, though he needed to hide his confidence. The man knew he was dealing with a knight, so his skill with a sword would not be a surprise at all.

He watched him from across the crowded road as he disappeared into a smallish tent that quite possibly was his lodging, reasoned Jorlin, trying to slow his pace as well as his heartbeat. His hand went to the pommel of his sword and then moved away. He needed caution here, too, he realized.

He stood before the canvas tent entrance for a long time, steadying his breathing. This was it. He had to be calm. The tent was dimly lit with a candle on the table in the center of the space. It was larger inside than he’d imagined, and the dwarf sat facing him as he entered.

“Have a seat,” the dwarf said calmly. He was enveloped in shadow, though Jorlin could see the whites of his eyes reflecting from the candle light. He was short of hair and beard, too. In front of him sat a drink in a goblet. The dwarf sipped from his own mug, then placed it gently on the table.

“Wine? I had it sent in especially for this occasion,” said the diminutive man.

“Where is Amara?!” asked Jorlin in a threatening growl. “And where is your dwarven accent?”

“Please,” Grogo said, crossing his legs. “First of all, I am a human; albeit one who has experienced stunted growth for sure. I have been called dwarf on many occasion. Secondly, I do not know where she is. That was never part of our deal. The princess will arrive here once I deliver the weapon to the…buyer,” he said, struggling to find the correct word. “Now, please have a drink and I will take the hammer where it needs to go. You shall remain here and shall see your princess returned unharmed as stated.”

“I will
not
drink! You think me a fool? You have probably poisoned the cup…or the drink!”

“Would you like mine then? It is such a good vintage, it would be a shame to waste it,” the dwarf said, his comfortable smile revealed in the light of the candle’s glow.

“I will not—” he began to cough uncontrollably for a few moments, going to one knee, while the short man sipped lazily from his goblet. Jorlin unsheathed his steel and pointed it meekly toward his seated host, who remained unmoving. As he stood, he felt suddenly weak and continued another stint of hacking.

“Ah, but you should have…,” teased Grogo as he stood. Jorlin coughed consistently; moist, warm liquid coming from his mouth and nose. He panicked and touched the liquid. Holding it up to the candle light, he recognized in horror his own blood thick upon his face and hands.

Dread beset him, his body convulsing and coughing more of his lifeblood as he feebly attempted to grasp at the man who stood and walked calmly over to him, unbuckling the leather straps that held the Pridemoon Hammer safely in his rucksack. Jorlin could do nothing except watch helplessly, his hands around his own throat as he gasped in vain for air. It would not come.

“I asked you nicely to drink the wine. But you wouldn’t listen,” Grogo continued as he loosened the straps and pulled free the ancient relic, inspecting it in the candle light. That was when the realization sank in to Jorlin as he lay there dying. He saw the thick smoke that filled the tent and his eyes grew wide as the awareness of his true helplessness washed over him.

“I gave you a chance, sir knight. I offered you the drink, but you would not sip of it. Now you will die a horrible and painful death while I take the Pridemoon Hammer to its new owner…all because you would not accept my gracious hospitality.”

Jorlin lay on the hard floor of the tent. The cold and deadly understanding that the poison was in the air the whole time leaped to mind. And that he had stubbornly refused to drink the antidote offered to him.

“It will only haunt your thoughts for a few more heartbeats,” the man named Grogo informed him as he blew out the candle.

Pendus sat alone at a table in The Siren’s Call that evening with a heavy heart. His daughter was upset at almost having lost her husband’s life. Geth had survived, though he’d lost the use of his legs. The arrow as they discovered later, pierced his spine, leaving him crippled.

Pendus felt sorry for himself and felt as though he let his son and daughter down. He drained his last drink for the evening, already intoxicated more than he’d been in years, and slowly climbed the stairs. He paused in front of Jasmine’s door and meant to knock, but stopped short as he heard the soft sounds of weeping behind it. Geth was still under the care of the priests and herbalists in the Remedial District and would be so for quite some time.

Instead, he turned and entered his room. He headed straight for the comfort of his bed and fell into it. Moments later, he felt a strange sensation, as if he was dreaming. He heard a voice call to him and saw a pair of deep violet eyes that penetrated the darkness all around him.

“Pendus,” the voice called to him. “Can you hear my voice, old man?”

Suddenly, Pendus shot up and he felt the hands of someone upon him. He was not dreaming after all, he understood, as the mysterious figure in his room quickly placed a hand over his mouth and stared deeply into his eyes. A pair of violet eyes gazed back at him conveying an unmistakable cold, callous hatred.

“Where is the woman named Rose?”

The figure—a male for sure—removed his hand from Pendus’s mouth and stared at him again.

“You know who I mean…,” the mysterious figure stated more than asked.

“N-not here,” he stammered, swallowing hard, terror rushing through him.

“Where, Pendus?! Where is she?!” the strange figure pressed, his voice everywhere at once, echoing off the walls. It was almost as if the figure in the room was made of the stuff of shadows. Pendus initially believed it to be an effect of the alcohol, but this was clearly not so.

“She…stayed behind,” he admitted, “stayed back to recover an artifact or some such. I overheard them talking about it. Other than that, I don’t know anything, I swear!”

The man cocked his head to the side and produced a blade. At least it felt like a blade, something hard and sharp pressed the skin at his throat, though there was no dagger held in the man’s hands that he could see, only darkness. Was he dreaming? Or was he merely too drunk on wine to really see the glint of a blade, he wondered.

“If I find you are lying, Pendus, I will kill your entire family…and the cripple, for fun,” whispered the disengaged voice.

“I swear! She isn’t’ here!” he yelled, his heart pounding in his chest and his adrenaline racing.

Then suddenly, without warning, the man was gone—disappearing into nothingness, leaving Pendus alone in his room atop a sheet of soiled linens.

“I’m going to miss you,” Nimaira whispered in the ear of Rolin Hardbeard as he refitted the straps of his rucksack into a more comfortable position.

“Of course ye’ll be missin’ me…ye’d be touched in the head if ye didn’t!”

Nimaira smiled, knowing that Rolin was taking a unit of fifty men from the Oakhaven Watch to Norgeld to visit Queen Lynessa and show a gesture of support in trying to find her kidnapped daughter. She would miss him, as would all of Oakhaven, while he was gone.

“Now, where be that fool elf?”

“
Half
-elf,” corrected a voice from behind him. Rolin turned to witness the tall presence of Aeldur in his full guardsman regalia. His armor shone brightly in the light of the council room, as did his long, golden locks.

“Half-
elf
, half-
fool
if ye be askin’ me…fer takin’ on this responsibility, boy. It ain’t ta be taken light, ye know. Yer Master of the Watch, ‘til I be takin’ it back,” Rolin added with a smile, though based on the wide-eyed looks, none could see it beneath his beard.

“I will treat it with the utmost respect, Rolin,” Aeldur spoke, kneeling before the dwarf and accepting the medal and tabard that Rolin now offered him.

“I’ll be back fer ‘em, don’t ye be doubtin’, so don’t ye settle in too much.”

“We will miss your cheery disposition most of all,” called another voice from behind the crowd of servants. Rolin turned to witness Ganthorpe Randolph advance toward him, followed by the High Priest Tiyarnon. Both men smiled wide at seeing him and Ganthorpe bowed deeply in a grand gesture.

“I be sure ye’ll all be missin’ me charm and wit, eh?”

“I certainly will. But I am sure that Aeldur is set to the task, so carry on with ease of mind,” Ganthorpe stated, finally relinquishing his bow, yet still smiling.

Rolin’s eyes regarded his old friend and softened upon seeing the High Priest of The Shimmering One. Tiyarnon certainly made no qualms about where his emotions were as he smiled meekly and a tear ran down his right cheek.

“I believe I shall miss you most of all, friend,” said Tiyarnon. “Your counsel and wisdom are unrivaled and the city will mourn your absence until you return.” With that, Tiyarnon bent to one knee before the hardened dwarf and threw his arms around him.

Rolin’s eyes widened at that and he waited a few heartbeats before pushing his friend away.

“I don’t be needin’ none of that…I’ll be back afore ye know I’m even gone.” Rolin spun and marched out the doors of the Hall of the High Council and out into the street. He continued toward his destination, the barracks of the Watch, in order to gather his troops to accompany him to Norgeld.

Unbeknownst to those he left behind, Rolin’s eyes moistened ever so slightly.

Barguth watched from a distance as the orcs approached the gate of Chanusk. He stared back to where Kogh stood, watching his former king frown at seeing the sheer number of the horde of returning orcs.

“I guess he won,” Barguth observed absently, then immediately quieted seeing the baleful look in Kogh’s eyes. The rivalry that the goblin king had with Kelgarek was mostly in his own mind, Barguth figured. As far as he could see, Kelgarek was the ruler of the Dark Legion without equal and did not seem to be near to relinquishing that rulership anytime soon, to Kogh’s vexation.

As the night ensued and the Dented Skull orcs made their presence felt within the walls of Chansuk, Kogh’s manner and patience seemed to wane. He voiced it to Barguth discontentedly as they sipped wine. He’d come to realize his self-proclaimed prophecy at gaining control of the force of goblinoids would never be anything more than it was now. He was a mere underling to the orc chieftain.

Word of Kelgarek’s victory over Narthrog and the subsequent rulership over the Dented Skulls were running through the goblins and the orcs alike, and with equal sentiment. Kelgarek was their king.

“Is there nothing you can do to show your worth?” Barguth asked the goblin king, who sat in a chair within his hut and stared back at Barguth with irritation clearly reflected in his eyes.

“My counsel and my spear are more than he deserves,” said Kogh as he sipped from his goblet. “I shall one day challenge the oaf for leadership, or simply wait until he gets himself killed on the battlefield. And with the foolish chances he takes, that should not be far into the future.”

Barguth nodded at that observation. Kelgarek certainly did not shy away from battle or confrontation.

“That will one day be his undoing…and I will be here waiting to show the Dark One that I can lead this army!”

Again, Barguth saw hate and something even more maniacal in the goblin’s amber eyes. He would have to wait to see what happened next. For now, they merely awaited word from Zabalas on what they were to do with this ever-expanding army. Barguth would wait and watch and do as he was told, for that was his lot in life. And he was more than fine with that.