The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (90 page)

“Your lives belong to me now,” he said in an authoritative tone that demanded respect.

All fell silent again as he smeared Narthrog’s blood into his chest.

“Unless any more of you are willing to stand before me as the next heir to the crown of Dragon’s Eye—for the edge of my axe awaits you.”

One orc charged Kelgarek in response to his threat, a friend or supporter of Narthrog, he supposed. It did not matter which to Kelgarek. The sword tip was held straight out, intended for his heart.

He stared unflinchingly into the eyes of the onrushing orc, unmoving as the gap closed between them. As the sword tip was about to pierce his flesh, Kelgarek swatted the sword edge to the side with unimaginable strength and caught the orc by the throat in his left hand, stopping his momentum straightaway. He hoisted his attacker from the ground as easily as if he were a child. The orc’s shield fell helplessly to the ground as his arms moved to dislodge Kelgarek’s iron grip.

Kelgarek absorbed a few pathetic blows from the upstart orc as he walked with purpose toward the edge of the mountainside and tossed him over the side to tumble to the rocky ground below.

He spun on the crowd and roared something bestial in nature.

Cries of ‘
Kel-gar-ek’
sounded first from the Bonemashers until finally, orcs from both tribes combined in harmony to chant their new chieftain’s name. Kelgarek reclaimed his greataxe, yanking it free from Narthrog’s skull, nodding his approval as a shaman tried hopelessly to attend his bleeding hand.

“A truly glorious victory, my lord,” announced the shaman tending the wound. He flinched nervously as the chieftain’s gaze landed on him. Kelgarek merely raised his fist in response, wresting it from the shaman’s grip and encouraging the chants.

“We are no longer Bonemashers and Dented Skulls…we are merely the Dark Legion from this day forth!” announced Kelgarek loudly as his eyes fell over the crowd.

They were all
his
servants now.

The sun reflected on the surface of the Lake of Souls as the rain clouds had all but disappeared in the late morning chill. The only reminder of the unexpected and heavy rain was the slick surface of the stony trail in certain areas still covered in deep shadow, maintaining their moist highlight. Garius trod softly and with great care upon the slippery rock as he listened to Saeunn.

“You fought well, Elec,” Saeunn congratulated, truly commending the elf as the five of them traversed the trail.

Elec continued along as if he hadn’t heard the compliment.

“Wha—? Oh…thank you for the praise, Saeunn. Coming from you, it means a great deal. I am no barbarian warrior, yet still I try,” he offered, bowing his head in appreciation of her mention. “It gives me inspiration to see you fight. There was a time years ago when I left my home for more than a decade and trained myself to use these weapons,” Elec explained, grasping the hilts of his sword and dagger. He slid them from their scabbards and replaced them as they continued carefully down the path.

“My father jokingly referred to me once as ‘
Kinestath Tempus’
to further humiliate me,” Elec added with a laugh.

Saeunn and Rose both looked to each other in confusion at the statement.

“Ah,” Elec said, pursing his lips. “You do not understand elven dialect. The phrase is the ancient elven term for warrior, or one who fights—more directly translated, it means
‘storm of motion’
.” Elec scowled in frustration. It was clear to Garius how his father’s remark made him feel, no doubt reminding him all too well the dynamics of their relationship. He had spoken with the elf on a few occasions in the past few weeks regarding his relationship with his father.

“You see, he did not respect my magical aptitude, my alchemical studies, or my interest in tinkering with devices,” Elec continued. “And he surely did not think that the way of the combatant was a noble path; certainly not for me, and certainly not for any
high
elf
.”

“The way of the warrior is an honorable one,” Saeunn countered in response to the insulting observations of Elec’s father, as if to refute his claim.

“I understand, Saeunn, and agree unreservedly,” Elec said with a smile. “I do not echo his sentiment, nor did I mention it to insult you, rather to explain that my upbringing was filled with disagreement and discontent.”

“Your father sounds lovely,” Rose quipped sarcastically from the rear of the group, following slowly behind them and rubbing an aching shoulder.

“The high elves of Acillia are masters of the arcane,” Garius clarified, offering up an explanation so as to support Elec’s claim.

“Hand to hand combat takes skill,” Saeunn countered again. “My people were as skilled in combat as your people are in the ways of magic, I’d wager.”

“I do not doubt that,” Elec stated with a disarming smile, giving her claim validation.

“We and the Greymoors’ survivors, and all our ancestors for that matter, were countless generations of proud barbarians. My father was the bravest warrior to ever raise an axe,” Saeunn continued as if this were fact and not opinion. “Only Kernagos measured him in valor, but none were his equal on the battlefield.”

“Greymoors?” asked the half-ogre, who looked completely out of place as he descended clumsily down the tiny path.

Garius glanced to Orngoth with a look of consternation. The Inquisitor had studied much of the history of Wothlondia, and was familiar with the tale of the Greymoors and how they lost most of their tribe to the plague of Blood Rot over a decade past.

“Who are the Greymoors?” Orngoth repeated.

Saeunn paused and said nothing at first. She knelt, paused and glanced at a tattoo on her right arm, then stood and finally spoke. “They were another tribe of barbarians northwest of Chansuk. They lost most of their people years ago, falling victim to a dreadful disease,” Saeunn explained, grief evident in her voice. Garius waited to see what the half-ogre might say in response, letting it play out.

Orngoth merely nodded to her, not pressing the issue. He carried on in silence, and Garius watched his massive hand curl around a branch which sprouted from the mountainside, which the others had simply bent low to avoid, but he could not. Instead, he used it to balance himself as he had on the way up. It creaked and twisted under his massive weight but held.

The five of them remained in silence for a good portion of the descent until they made it to the halfway point, stopping on a landing to catch their breaths.

“So, Ironskull, it is my turn to ask a question,” stated Saeunn.

 “Ironskull? You know this name?”

“Well, you were once a member of the Ironskull tribe, no?” Saeunn reasoned. “Despite their ways, you must have gained notable achievements within their ranks. Slaying an enemy
is
slaying an enemy.”

Orngoth nodded for her to continue. “Was it your ogre brethren that honed your fighting skill?”

“They did not dampen my aggressive spirit. I am good at fighting…at killing,” he added, stumbling over the words, really trying to express his nature to her.

“I only mean to honor your accomplishments within the barbarian culture, Orngoth. I am not looking for details on what you did to achieve them.”

Again, the half-ogre nodded to her and bowed his head. She grabbed the hilt of a small dagger, pulling it from its sheath beneath her tunic and piercing the inside of her right forearm. She did not wince as the blade drew blood. Garius observed intently, recognizing the ritual for what it was.

“This is tradition in Chansuk. It is how we recognize honor within the tribe.”

 Orngoth cocked his head to the side in confusion, his blue eyes squinting against the fading sun over her shoulder.

“You are my brother,” she simplified.

Saeunn held her arm out, a small drop of blood slowly making its way down her forearm. Orngoth grabbed her blade, understanding upon his features, as he repeated the process. The two barbarians clasped forearms together, completing the ritual.

“Brother,” was all she said once they finished their tribal ritual.

“’
Brother’
is right,” Rose mumbled, rolling her eyes at the ceremonial custom. Garius barely held in a laugh and looked away so none would see. Rose simply continued down the hill, and then turned and winked at Garius.

He rubbed his forehead, wondering if she had caught that, and waved the rest of them on.

With that, the five companions proceeded once more, slowly and cautiously, toward the base of the path and into Heartwood Valley, where their caravan awaited.

Helene was running.

She was naked. Her long black hair billowed behind her as she ran, despite being soaked with sweat. She looked back to see a clawed hand reach out for her. No matter how fast she ran, it did not seem to matter. It was black everywhere she looked and yet as clear as if she had seen it in the light of day.

Madness!

Sweat drenched her supple, pale form and her heart thundered in her chest as terror surged through her. “No!”

Again she felt the presence behind her, gaining ground and closing on her. No matter how hard her muscles propelled her forward, she could not outpace it.

Is it a demon!?
she questioned as she ran on.
Is Hecate displeased with me?!

“Come to me,” the voice called from behind her, soothing and yet ringing with malevolence. She knew that if she stopped, it would claim her—mind, body and soul.

On she ran, closing her eyes and sprinting in the gloom, tirelessly. She felt as though heart was going to burst through her bosom as her pursuer touched her soft flesh.

She screamed as it stroked her shoulder, feeling the cold, lifeless sensation as it washed over her limbs, slowing her flight.

She closed her eyes and screamed, sensing the end was upon her.

She could run no more.

Helene’s eyes shot open and she sat up in her own bed, coarsely screaming, her linens drenched and her muscles aching as if she were running, and not dreaming.

 It felt so real.

Her throat was raw and dry. A gremlin sprung out from beneath her bed, its white eyes transfixed on her. An imp emerged from her closet hovering on bat wings and revealing a row of razor sharp teeth as it escaped the shadows and smirked. They both watched her as she lit a lantern on her night table. She constantly had the tiny demons surrounding her, an offering from Hecate for her devotion, and an unconventional source of comfort for her, too.

She was ascending to greatness, or so she thought. Someday soon, she would be granted control over more powerful demons. That day was not far off. For now, these lesser demons did her bidding, and they sensed her turmoil at the moment.

She threw the covers from her bare form and wiped sweat from her glistening skin. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung loosely over her door and spotted a strange marking on the top of her shoulder.

It was where the thing had touched her in her dream…but that could not be! It was a dream…a nightmare!

She threw on a thin cotton gown and fell to her knees. She spread out a series of candles on the floor in a specific order, placing them one by one, initiating a ritual and chanting words native to Pandemonium, asking Hecate, her Black Queen, for guidance.

Her raven hair hung limply in front of her face as she spoke the words. Her eyes rolled over white and the candles all ignited as she finished the ritual. For several moments, she remained on bent knees within a circle of candles, eyes shut.

When she opened her eyes, a creature lithe and beautiful stood before her. Its skin blended with the shadows on occasion.

An avatar of Hecate! She has heard my plea!

“Why do you…call for me…warlock?” asked the demoness, its voice soothing, yet irritable.

“I—I fear that another spirit is trying to possess me,” she explained, staring up at the vision through dark strands of hair.

“Is that…so?” asked the demoness, pacing about the room as if it were her own. Helene nodded, fearful to speak.

“I hear its cries now. It whispers…even now…for you,” spoke the avatar, spinning and hissing threateningly toward the door to her quarters.

“You know of this thing that haunts my dreams?”

 “Hecate will not be pleased! You…belong…to her,” it continued, pausing often as if searching for the precise words.