The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (23 page)

Zach returned carrying the carcass of a large four-legged animal dangling over his shoulder. He sat down by the fire and prepared his meal.

“Is that a dog? I don’t think I’ll eat it!” began Carym in jest.

“No, it’s a mountain sheep,” Zach laughed warmly.

“Sheep, huh? Well, I saved you some fish.”

“Thanks! This place is amazing, Carym. The woods are teeming with life and it is so peaceful, so wild! Not at all like the lands of the Empire or even our own country!” For a little while, it seemed, Zach had lost his edginess. He seemed content and Carym felt the same way. He wondered if being in the lands of their ancestors was contributing to their reminiscent mood.

“Yes it is,” he said wistfully. “I feel energized simply by being here. Yet, I still have this nagging feeling that we must be on our way quickly,” he said somberly, that odd feeling of a rising tide tugged at his soul again. To Carym, the sensation was precisely the same as it had been on the road near the inn, though not as pressing. They must be vigilant.

The group finished their meal and prepared some strips of leftover meat for travel with some special curing herbs and salts Gennevera had found inside Fyrendi’s Home. Carym wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down by the fire. It wasn’t long before the wind began to pick up and the snow was falling more heavily, they decided to forego the watch as there was little chance of seeing or hearing anything in the growing wind and snow. As the wind grew in intensity, there was no hope of keeping a fire lit and the warmth of the little structure was being sucked out into the night.

Carym knew that they would have to barricade the opening with something to stop the wind or they would all freeze to death. So he
enflamed
his batons and set out into the night to find some thick limbs with which to close off their shelter. Bart followed suit and, to Carym’s surprise, the top of the bard’s staff was shining with a white light, enchanted. He was grateful for the light, as the Sigil wrought flames on his batons were doing little more than creating more shadows. The two men cut the limbs from a dead oak tree as the base of their wall, and then cut down a small pine tree. The limbs from the pine were tied together across the limbs from the oak and made a pretty good wind break for their shelter.

Eventually the night gave way to morning, the snow stopped and the sun returned. The group awoke to a heavy layer of snow on the ground which had completely covered the ring they had made for their fire. Carym thought about using the power of the Flame Sigil to melt the snow and dry the fire pit, but was concerned about becoming too dependent upon magic for mundane tasks. It was possible to become physically addicted to the power, he had been told. And he realized that he still knew very little about how his use of the power affected the Tides around him and if others could read those flows from farther away.

Better to be safe than sorry. They cleared away the snow by hand and managed to find enough dry wood for a small fire. Gennevera heated up some leftover meat and some water for making hot tea to give them energy for their journey. As beautiful as these snow covered hills were, Carym felt the urge to move on. The Sigil Stones seemed to be pulling him, urging him onward. The farther along the journey they went, the more aware of the stones he became. It seemed as though each stone pulled and tugged at him in different ways, each triggered odd sensations within him. Although he wasn’t always aware which specific stone was being active, today he was certain the black stone was radiating something....irritation, it seemed.

And so the group slung their packs and began their trek back to the road. After a few hours they encountered their first traveler along the way. He was a man dressed in a black tunic with a red star emblem on his chest, and a black hooded cloak. He was of average height with slick black hair, sharp features, and a sword strapped to his side. He walked with a slight limp, empty eyes looked neither left nor right. Kharrihan waved for the group to halt and he stared intently at the man.

“Greetings to you fellow traveler!” called the elf. “From where do you hale?” Kharrihan spoke to the man in Ckaymrish but the traveler did not respond, he just continued to walk towards them.

“Kind sir, we are weary and need information about the road ahead. Can you assist us?” he asked again, this time using Common Cklathish. Again no response. Suddenly Kharrihan backed away from the approaching figure and joined Carym, sword drawn. Zach turned and faced front while Gennevera and Bart half-faced to the rear.

“What’s the matter, Kharr?”

“His feet!”

Then Carym saw that the man made no tracks in the snow. In fact it seemed as if he was walking through it without disturbing it at all. The closer it got, the more volatile the black stone in his coat seemed to be, that familiar sense of a rising tide growing. He wondered desperately how much more trouble he was going to get his friends into simply by being with them.

“Ghost!” hissed the elf. Carym guessed as much. “Off the road, he may not challenge us.”

The air around them suddenly became bitterly cold, even though the winter sun was shining in the sky. Zach grabbed Carym by the arm and yanked him out of the path of the man. As the thing passed they saw that its eyes were completely white and its flesh was pasty gray, seemed to be dripping off in places. Although it wore a surcoat of significant quality, the being seemed grossly disfigured, its legs were of different sizes causing it to walk in an odd shuffle. Its face was locked in a furious glare, jagged scars adorned its neck and face, it left an awful stench in the air as it passed.

“My god!” said Carym as the creature shambled by, he had to stifle a gag. “What
was
that?” He looked to Kharrihan for answer. The elf seemed unwilling to answer for a moment. Then he spoke.

“A ghoul,” he said quietly. “I am truly sorry, my friends. That creature could only have been one of Baron Tyrannus’ wandering knights.”

“What does that mean, elf?” demanded Zach, not liking the change in the man’s tone.

“It is not good.”

“What do you mean? Speak plainly!” Zach was getting angrier by the second.

“Zach, be easy. Let our friend share his knowledge with us,” warned Carym. Gennevera was now standing beside Carym and he sensed her anger at Zach’s outburst.

“Centuries ago, a man known as Baron Tyrannus ruled this land. A vicious, evil, black soul if there ever was one. His favorite pastime involved torturing people to slow and painful deaths, usually by impaling them on a great spike. Men, women, children; it mattered little to him. All he cared about was causing death and he would create any excuse to do it. It is said he once impaled a man for turning the wrong way upon leaving his court.

“He is long dead now, but the memory of his deeds scarred these lands beyond redemption. No one comes here willingly. Even the Ckaymru people know better than that.”

“But
you
brought us here!” accused Zach in anger.

“No,
he
brought us here. The Black Baron resides here still, in tortured undeath, never to move on to the afterlife. His minions patrol the borders of his lands, borders that can shift without one even knowing it. And if you are caught in a shift of the Black Baron’s borders, you are doomed to travel straight to the castle itself.”

Gennevera nodded her agreement of what was happening.

“Then we flee, now!” Zach demanded.

“It is not so easy, friend,” said Bart.

“You know of this curse as well?” Zach turned his angry glare at him.

“Aye, all who live in Ckaymru know of that one, so they do,” he said quietly. “We will try to flee. But whichever way we turn, we will still end up at the castle.”

“Carym, I think we are being watched,” said Gennevera, worried. “From all around us.”

“Aye, the Black Baron’s minions, do not doubt,” said Bart, turning this way and that, his twin rapiers in hand and his flute tucked safely away.

“Well, let’s get moving! I don’t want to wait for something to come to us,” barked Zach.

“There is no other choice,” agreed Bart, lost in thought. “We must move on. We have a journey before us and it is not getting any shorter. We find out soon enough if the curse has caught us.”

Carym agreed, and soon the group resumed their positions along the flanks of the road and began their trek. No sooner did they begin moving, hands on the hilts of their swords, when a band of oroks sprang from behind some trees with swords drawn and arrows nocked.

“Blood and fire!” cursed Zach. “What bloody next? I don’t suppose you have any hurkin with you? Some giants, maybe?” Zach shouted at the oroks, anger blazing.

“Lay down swords, humans. We not hurt you,” spoke the beast in broken Cklathish.

“Not much!” The other three chortled and commented in their guttural Orokish language, amused by their leader’s joke.

“I think, orok, that you are out-matched this day.” Carym connected his fighting batons and
enflamed
them, the sight of the fire caused a few of the oroks to step back, muttering. Bart’s rapiers both flared with brilliant white light and he began to swing them in the air. The combination of the bright light and the whistling sound of the rapiers was a bit disorienting to Carym and the others, though its effect on the oroks was greater.

The oroks began milling in confusion in response to the bard’s noisy display and Carym decided it was time to strike. He charged into the front most ranks of oroks swinging his fighting sticks in a deadly arc, smashing down on the top of one orok’s head. An orok stepped behind him; sensing it, Carym slammed his stick backward and into the solar plexus of the orok stunning it. Then he whirled to his left, bringing his stick in a wide arc, and connected with the temple of the stunned orok behind him, which collapsed in a heap.

As Carym was dispatching these two oroks, Bart and Zach had joined the fray. Zach with his dagger and sword and Bart brandishing twin blades of his own, the two began tearing into orok flesh. Kharrihan had silently flanked the group of oroks, climbed a tall tree and leaped out into the air above the patrol leader. His small blade found purchase between the orok’s shoulder blades and he rode the beast to the ground. Deprived of leadership, the remaining oroks retreated back the way they came.

Carym was grateful for the reprieve and took a moment to catch his breath, counting the members of his company. All were present, and appeared to be unharmed. “Thank Zuhr!”

Zach started going through the pockets of the dead oroks examining their contents. Kharrihan and Bart helped while Gennevera approached Carym and stood beside him.

“What the blazes are oroks doing
here
?” he wondered. “They certainly weren’t ghosts.”

“The lawlessness of this land has attracted them from the tunnels. It is a shame, so it is,” answered the bard sadly.

“Bart, why would there be oroks in a haunted forest?” Carym was satisfied to see that the group had stripped a pair of bows and a number of arrows from the oroks. Although not the brightest of the Orcish races, oroks were known for their skill in bow making and archery. They just weren’t always bright enough to know when to engage with a bow and when not to.

“In the past decade, a few bands of Highland oroks emerged from the tunnels of the Underllars and established tribes in these mountains. We believe they were forced out from the Underllars by the deeper races, so we do. Perhaps they find comfort in the lands of the Black Baron. They are a wicked lot, so they are.”

“Hmm,” Carym was skeptical. “Oroks are some of the most cowardly creatures I have ever met. I doubt they would willingly come to a place like this unless they were forced to.”

“You may be right, so you may!” said the bard, waving a rapier and acknowledging the point.

“A mystery that will perhaps reveal itself in time,” said Kharrihan.

“And one that I could do without!” griped Zach.

Other than arming themselves with Orokish bows and arrows, there was little of use to be found on the bodies of the dead oroks. They had all been plainly garbed in simple leathers, yet bore no insignia. It was odd that a band of oroks should be so uniformly dressed.

The group continued along the road following the tracks of the fleeing oroks until the tracks vanished without explanation. No more snow had fallen to cover the tracks, and there were no indications that the oroks had met with others. They simply vanished. Kharrihan suspected another mysterious border-shift caused their sudden disappearance and suggested that perhaps the group had the good fortune of being pushed back into the lands of Ckaymru during the shift.

They continued on without incident until nightfall, seeing no one else on the road and no tracks. This, according to the bard, was a well-traveled through way; there should have been more passersby. By the time the group stopped in the evening to make camp, both of the veteran travelers of the Isles agreed that they now were inexplicably lost. A mere hundred yards back, the men had a good sense of where they were and where they were heading. Now, they were lost. The land was different, like none of the lands of Ckaymru they were used to traveling. When they tried to backtrack to find their bearings again, they could not find any landmarks they recognized.

Border shift.
Carym thought dejectedly, cursing himself for bringing his friends into this trouble. The thought of leaving the group behind and setting out alone had crossed his mind more than once.