The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (28 page)

Beginnings Saga

 Book 2

By

Gary F. Vanucci

Prelude

Many years ago, on the world known as Krotto, there was inter-racial peace among its many inhabitants. Wothlondia was the lone continent on Krotto thought to contain intelligent life and was home to all manner of beast and humanoid. These inhabitants included four known species of dragon, which scholars referred to respectively as storm, venomous, frigid and scorching drakes. These magnificent creatures kept to themselves for the most part and were rarely seen.

For many decades there was harmony on Wothlondia, until a large contingent of scorching drakes emerged to lay waste to its inhabitants. The swarm was led by the largest fire-breathing dragon ever recorded in history.

This particular dragon was given the name Ashenclaw—it was five times the size of any other dragon, and ten times as deadly. The dragons began burning and engulfing the nation in flames until it was all but incinerated. Ashenclaw was eventually discovered to be the queen of the scorching drakes shortly before she and her kin reduced the civilized world to smoldering embers.

Then suddenly, without warning, the dragons disappeared…

Once the attacks ceased, the survivors began to rebuild. A new age began in Wothlondia, led by the humans, elves and dwarves, who became known as the Races of Order. They put aside their past differences and began reconstructing their lands together, rekindling their former peaceful existence in order to secure their continued prosperity and survival. They spent the following years working on reopening the once-familiar trade routes and encouraging lines of communication, hoping beyond hope that the dragons would never return.

Sixty-six years of peace have passed since the last dragon was sighted and the leaders of the new era collectively agreed to name the calendar year after this epoch—Post Ashenclaw.

A few major cities have returned to their former glory, while many others remain in various states of transition; many more still lay in ruin.

 Hope springs eternal and the outlook of the lands has never seemed better—until, that is, the orcs and goblins uncharacteristically and aggressively began to threaten that very hope.

This is where our story begins, in the year 66 PA…     

        
The heavy oak door to the council chamber creaked open, swinging wide as three battered and bruised forms entered. They each sat heavily on one of the many plush chairs surrounding a conference table in the center of the room.

"Me thinks that could have gone better," Rolin Hardbeard sighed, wiping a contrasting bit of dried blood from his full, white beard. Even for a dwarf who was obviously past his prime adventuring years, Rolin was a ruggedly built warrior. But this hour had him looking haggard and tired. His age was evident at this particular time, as was his broken spirit.

"You have a talent for stating the obvious, my dwarven friend," slurred a beautiful half-elven woman with hair the color of polished silver through what was quite possibly a broken jaw. Rolin managed a brief laugh as he removed his heavy, steel helmet and ran his fingers through his blood specked and thinning hair. His hard, gray eyes lightened somewhat to regard his emotionally distraught friend.

"Me dear Nimaira Silvershade, after all the years we spent takin’ down giants and ogres, countless trolls and undead, and ye are only now realizin’ I be a dwarf of many talents?" Rolin asked sarcastically.

Nimaira began to force a smile, but the pain in her jaw immediately distorted it instead into a grimace as tears slowly welled in her sapphire eyes. Rolin's light-hearted visage turned down sympathetically at his friend’s obvious pain.

The human priest, Tiyarnon, directed a weak smile at his two closest friends’ familiar banter as he tugged thoughtfully at his ever-graying beard. It was comforting for him to have his friends nearby at a time like this, having dealt with the pain and guilt for so many years himself. It also brought him a bittersweet twinge of nostalgia.

How long had it been since the three of us had time to spend together outside of official duties and chasing demons?
Tiyarnon thought.
By The Shimmering One, it has been too long!
  If they survived this nightmare, he silently pledged to ensure that they would create opportunities for camaraderie, amusement and reminiscing in the days to come.

Tiyarnon's musings were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, standing within the shadows of the doorway.

"My lords, my lady,” he began with a reverent bow. “We did not know you had returned; forgive us for our incompetence." He spoke humbly, averting his gaze from beneath his drab, hooded robe and bowing repeatedly.

Rolin Hardbeard, never comfortable with being doted on, waved the groveling attendant's concerns away. “Stand up straight, ye durned fool! How many times must we be tellin’ ye that we be folk just the same as yerself? Just bring Nimaira some medicinal balms, for my beard’s sake!” he barked. “The priest here has exhausted his healin’ powers and we got nothin’ much left.”

The servant retreated backwards through the door, still insisting on bowing the entire time.

"And bring me some durned ale, too, while yer at it!" the dwarf shouted after him as the servant disappeared into the hallway and out of sight.

"What do we do now?" Nimaira asked, addressing the topic at hand.

Rolin shrugged, clearly resigned to the fact that they had given a superb effort in their task thus far, as he commented repeatedly on their journey home.

"Get some rest, and try again on the morrow. What else can we be doin’?" he responded confidently, his pride obviously still at the forefront of his façade. The dwarf, despite his age and markedly weathered frame, was not one to surrender. Stubbornness was evident amongst all dwarves, and in this one doubly so, thought Tiyarnon, as he shook his head in respect for the brave warrior. They had all witnessed that courage firsthand hundreds of times throughout their careers.

"I'm afraid it won't matter,” Nimaira admitted. “You were there Rolin! You know as well as I do that we do not have the resources or the resolve to succeed. Not in this! You know it as well as I!”  She winced at both that realization and her smarting jaw.

 The thought of failure was etched on the face of his friend, Tiyarnon knew. Their failure would weigh especially heavy in the dwarf's heart. Never being comfortable with losing a battle or even an argument, and always willing to fight to the very end for his beliefs, Rolin started to protest. But all of his objections died before passing his lips. The high priest recalled the scene in his head and recognized that any further attempts would ultimately end in failure. And Rolin knew that Nimaira was right. Neither of them knew the answer, and both of them looked to him just then.

Tiyarnon was wise and calculating beyond his years, despite his shorter lifespan compared to the others in the room. While not nearly as old in centuries as the dwarf or the half-elf, he was always looked to as their patriarch. Many others in Oakhaven shared this patriarchal notion of him. Tiyarnon had an intuitive way of scrutinizing a situation from multiple points of view, and making the proper decision based on what was best for everyone, even in times of grief. Because of that, his two closest friends were looking to him for a solution now, during what certainly was their darkest hour.

Tiyarnon sighed as he ran his hands across the gray thinning strands atop his head, all that remained of a once thick head of hair, and further reminding him of his age. As he spun his chair away from them for a moment, he caught his reflection in the glass of the conference room window and saw the leathery skin and prominent gray beard encompassing his face. After a moment of silence, he sighed deeply and turned back to face his friends. 

Looking his companions in the eyes, Tiyarnon said in a steady and serious tone, “We must appeal for help to the Inquisition. And not only the Inquisition, but the Chapter of Holy Warriors that exists within the sacred walls of Safehold.”

The half-elf woman’s eyes widened as a look of realization crept across her face. “Meaning?”

 “We must call upon The Order of The Faceless Knights," Tiyarnon remarked, drawing nods from his two closest friends. “I shall send word immediately.”

Upon reaching the eastern edge of the mountain range, Elec Stormwhisper noticed the wisp of smoke rising from far below. A human or dwarf would never have been able to detect it, but his vision and senses were the product of elven lineage.

Elec squinted, but could not make out any details. He reached into his belt pouch, removed a magical lens and held it to his right eye, allowing him to see in greater detail. Confirming what he had feared, he felt compelled to act, even though trepidation and uncertainty ran amok through his mind, countering the unmistakable rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Down!” he ordered his steed in the high elven dialect and the beast dove quickly, heeding his command. As he closed in on the source of the smoke, he recognized the ruins of a caravan. He ordered the giant eagle down lower and saw what appeared to be shattered crates and other debris. There were also the all-too-evident splashes of crimson in the white snow below. Farther still he dove…and then he noticed them.

Orcs!

According to legend, orcs were born of the same bloodline as elves. Some ancient elven theories even suggested that in ages past, orcs were kin to the elves, perhaps distant cousins of some kind. That theory, Elec recalled, had never been substantiated.

The goblinoids—both orcs and goblins as they were often referred—had never displayed such aggressive behavior in the past. At one point, they had actively traded with the other races. More recently, several orc tribes halted all communication and trade and were presumed to be evolving into a more self-sufficient society.

The current rumor was that something had altered their once peaceful behavior and coerced them into acts of unusual violence. These particular orcs were no doubt preying on a traveling caravan that had dared traverse the Dragon Fang Mountains.

 
It grows ever more dangerous to travel in Wothlondia as each day passes
, Elec thought,
now that the orcs and goblins add to the already numerous threats out here in the wild.

Elec shook his head in disappointment at the current circumstances, removed the lens from his eye and replaced the item in his belt pouch. Just then, an arrow zipped by his ear, passing right through a portion of his raven-colored mane. Now that he neared their position, he could see that there were three of them. 

The age of peace with the orcs seems unmistakably lost
, Elec lamented.

“Evasive action, Adok!” he called to the giant eagle. The beast flew to and fro, climbing out of the way of the missiles as they flew harmlessly past. It seemed to Elec that the arrows were moving in slow motion compared to the speed of the giant eagle. He steered Adok back and away from the orcs as a plan formulated in his mind.

 Down he flew again, seeing more and more detail as the mountainside grew closer. He was approaching the rear flank of the orc’s position since he had flown up and over the top of the mountain and circled back behind them. The eagle continued on with a fluid grace, silently gliding on the open breeze, carrying them toward their targets.

 Closer they got…closer…until Elec was just about on top of them. He jumped from his mount and landed a heavy drop-kick squarely into one orc’s back. Elec landed lightly, rolling forward with his momentum, and then nimbly made it to his feet.

He turned back to see the orc’s halberd fall from his grasp and witnessed the creature roll another ten paces until he too, came to a stop. Adok continued on his way, having snatched the two remaining orcs in his massive talons. Adok flew off swiftly, clutching the orcs tightly as they howled and attempted to free themselves from his strong grip. Within seconds, the great bird was soaring up toward the clouds, the barely audible sounds of the orcs diminishing as the distance between them and Elec grew.

The elf watched the remaining orc come to a rest, not moving at first. Then the creature stirred. Elec quickly drew his ornate longsword from its housing. Its hilt gleamed brightly off the white snow.

Daegnar Giruth
was readily in his right hand. It felt better since he had practiced with it, but he was far from comfortable using it.

It was a magnificently crafted sword, fashioned of ancient magic with runes about the blade. Its hilt was crafted so that Elec could wield it with two hands, yet it was light enough that he could use it with one. It also possessed many unique powers, one of which was that it could drain a portion of physical strength from an enemy with every slash of its fine edge.

 
“Careful,”
Elec thought, after sliding in the snow with his first step. The snow-covered ground beneath him made the footing treacherous. He crouched and saw the rather large orc stand, shaking his head. 

“Ancient ancestors!” he declared quietly as he realized that his opponent had barely been hurt by his kick. He was shocked that the orc was getting up at all, let alone clearly able and willing to fight. Elec thought he might have broken the orc’s back when he struck him initially. But this was not the case. Elec drew a deep breath to steady himself. He moved
Daegnar Giruth
back under his cloak and waited for the orc to approach.

The orc straightened to his full height, leveled a hateful glare at Elec, and then rushed straight at him. He scooped up his large halberd from where it had fallen as he charged toward Elec. The beast was at least as tall as three goblins piled one on top of another, and tightly muscled from what the elf could glimpse of its arms and upper torso.

The orc gained speed as he closed the distance between himself and Elec. The elf carefully reached to a neat row of glass vials in a bandolier strapped across his chest. He removed one, quaffed the contents of the first, and then removed a second. He drained that one too, then a third and finally a fourth, all the while tossing the empty flasks away as fast as he could. He immediately felt the elixir’s effects as they coursed through his veins.

Shifting his hand to the center of his sword’s hilt to balance it in one hand, he withdrew a second weapon.
Wyrm’s Fang
was its name. It was a dagger so sharp that he had once used it to cut into stone without so much as marring the blade.

The orc bore down on him quickly and was only a few strides away now. Elec could see the drool spray from his sharp-toothed mouth as he uttered some foul orc-speak. Elec waited calmly with his weapons drawn, but had not yet revealed them from beneath his cloak. As the orc reached his position, Elec nimbly dove to the left to avoid the charge, all the while keeping his foot outstretched enough to trip the orc. The momentum of the beast’s charge took him headlong into the mountainside, smashing his helmet down around his eyes, and looking rather worse for wear.

Within a heartbeat, Elec was back on his feet, spinning and plunging his sword into the back of the orc. He put all of his body weight into the strike. He pierced flesh, but the blade did not go all the way through. It stopped when it struck something hard beneath the flesh, most likely a rib, he considered. He cursed his luck, thinking the strike to have been well placed.

His frustration nearly cost him.

The orc howled in pain and swung a back-fist that would have taken off Elec’s head. Luckily, the combination of his sixth sense along with the temporary, enhanced state of reactionary speed and reflexes that his elixirs granted him saved him from that full impact. The blow merely grazed his face instead of crushing the bones beneath it as he was able to roll with it. He regained his footing and stood again quickly, shaking the sting of the impact from his mind. A sizable gash on his face was already starting to heal, thanks to one particular elixir coursing through him.

He waited for the orc to stand again. He did so, straightening his helmet. The orc growled and blood seeped from the deep wound in his back. Yet, he did not seem to care or notice as he advanced again, more slowly this time. His blood stained the ground with each step.

Elec whispered an ancient elven word under his breath and suddenly, he blinked out of sight and reappeared directly behind the orc. His yellow eyes grew wide as a blade tip protruded through the front of his chest cavity. The orc went limp and dropped to the ground, revealing the visibly relieved elf holding
Daegnar Giruth
in both hands, its edge covered in orc gore.

Elec gave himself a silent congratulation as he acknowledged his victory. He mouthed a whispered thanks for the magic of the ring, one of many gifts that his uncle had given him over the years.

“Adok?” he called aloud.

As he surveyed the immediate area looking for his steed,
he heard a loud and sickening crash in the distance, followed by another a heartbeat later. The sound was like that of a hundred bones breaking at once, he realized, and he cringed upon hearing it.

Then a screech came from above. He peered skyward and observed Adok heading back toward him. He finally realized what had happened. Adok had carried the two limp and helpless orcs high into the sky and then apparently released them to plummet to their deaths. Elec sheathed his weapons and shuddered as he imagined that fatal drop.

“Of course, I had to draw the biggest brute to fight, right?” he complained aloud to his giant eagle as he patted it on its head. Elec tried to shake the sickening sound of the orcs' deaths from his consciousness.

He drew in his surroundings once more and recognized the remains of a camp. Whether it was the work of the orcs or the travelers, he was unsure, but the remains of the wagon, crates, barrels and other goods were scattered about. It looked to be mostly salted food and wines.

“This will attract some unwanted guests, Adok. We should gather what we can and carry on. We have a mission to accomplish after all,” Elec announced plainly to the giant bird. He gathered all the food and supplies from the caravan that he could salvage, including a few gems and pieces of jewelry, and searched the bodies of the dead orcs, leaving the remains for the vultures. 

“I hope the townsfolk of Oakhaven are willing to barter,” he remarked lightheartedly to the eagle as they took to the sky once more.

Saeunn entered the threshold of Oakhaven today a beaten woman. This was an unwelcome circumstance for the proud barbarian. She limped slightly, yet still bore the brunt of her mother’s weight upon her wide shoulders. Dried blood was evident on her bruised body and her armor was tattered.