The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars) (24 page)

They found an embankment that sloped down several yards from the road and provided them with concealment from sight. Considering potentially dangerous encounters, they thought it best not to start a fire. As the night passed Carym began to sense that heavy, oppressive presence again. Using his
sight,
he saw that the Shadow Tide was roiling and swirling angrily all about the land. Although the other Tides were present, they were clearly muted as though the Shadow Tide were choking out the others. The weight of the stones became much heavier then, the oily black stone more than the many others. It was odd how, at times, the black stone could seem so appealing, and other times so appalling.

Throughout the night the sleepers were plagued by horrible nightmares depicting gruesome scenes of torture and impalement, while those on watch were constantly battling a paranoid sense of being watched. Voices drifted out of a cold fog eerily lit by the silvery moon, whispering of the terror and pain to come.

As daylight broke over the camp, the companions were glad to see the cold and cheerless sun.

They quickly broke camp and began to ready themselves for the day’s march when they heard loud noises coming from the road. Carym slipped quietly up the embankment moving from tree to tree. When he reached the top and peered out at the road he froze in place. Another band of oroks, about a dozen strong, were standing on the road in a tactical formation, with swords drawn and bows nocked facing a foe that Carym could not see. These oroks wore garb similar to that of the band they faced on the road earlier.

The oroks were grumbling to each other and looking around nervously. A strange looking orok in the back of the group barked orders and the oroks moved forward in military fashion. Carym was stunned. Oroks don’t typically fight in an organized fashion. The orok in charge was tall, swarthy, muscular, and very human looking. As he looked this way and that, Carym saw an intelligence and shrewdness there that was not present in the ordinary slovenly oroks.

Hurkin!
he realized.

As with the presence of the baron’s wandering knight, the temperature dropped and Carym’s breath caught in his lungs. Then he heard a hideous scream and saw the heads of the front two oroks fall from their lifeless bodies. The other oroks in the formation began to swing wildly at their unseen foe. The hurkin leader ordered his archers to fire and a volley of arrows flew through the air; silver tips flashing in the sun.

Some of the arrows flew harmlessly into the ground or into trees, yet some stopped in midair as if striking an invisible object before falling to the ground. The piercing scream filled the air again and two more oroks fell to the ground writhing; then two more and still two more. There were now but four oroks, plus their hurkin leader left facing this foe. The remaining oroks looked helplessly around as they fired volley after volley at their unseen foe. Soon two of the remaining oroks fell, one of them seemed to find purchase for its silvery axe before it died. Indeed, the axe remained suspended, and the faint outline of a man-shaped creature began to appear. Terrified, the remaining two oroks turned as if to run.

The hurkin leader swung his great silver sword before him and killed his oroks as they tried to flee. Then he advanced upon the invisible foe and swung his great sword viciously, trading blows with the attacker. The more he swung the more Carym could see a faint outline of a creature taking shape. The sound of metal on metal rang in the air as the powerful hurkin warrior locked swords with a creature that became more visible by the minute.

Finally Carym could see the abysmal being and it was hideous. It stood nearly ten feet tall on spindly legs and had arms that were unnaturally long ending in wicked claw tipped hands; one of those hands wielded a sword and the other a whip. It was ghastly, worse even than the appearance of the ghoulish wandering knight. It was a hodgepodge of rotting flesh and bones and even sticks and other pieces of trash sewn or otherwise improbably fastened together. Maggots crawled over rotten flesh, flies seemed to cloud around the beast, and cockroaches could be seen scampering around its unseeing, empty eye sockets. The stench of death wafted away from it, overpowering Carym and causing his stomach to turn violently.

Zach crept up silently behind Carym. The two hunkered down into the brush to avoid detection as the battle continued on for several more minutes; both opponents were taking heavy blows. The hurkin snarled as he landed blows down on the hideous beast eventually chopping off the creature’s whip hand, but not before taking a few nasty strikes from the whip.

Carym was morbidly fascinated. Why were the oroks fighting against the undead? Clearly they weren’t in league with Baron Tyrannus if these ghastly creatures were indeed his denizens. The monster landed a heavy blow to the head of the hurkin, causing him to crumple to the ground feebly waving his sword. The massive dismembered hand crawled quickly along the ground to the weakened warrior and latched on to his neck, squeezing. Carym saw with horror that a swarm of bugs spewed from the open wound at the wrist and began to devour the hurkin.

“What do we do, Zach? Should we help?”

“No! Hurkin are not to be trusted!”

Carym found himself in agreement with Zach. Still, he found it hard to look on as the mighty warrior fought the creature of undead horror. With a surprising effort the hurkin lurched to his feet, the clawed hand still wrapped around his neck, his body being eaten by bugs, and with gallant effort hurled his sword at the beast. The monstrous creature was big and powerful, but it was too slow. The sword flew through the air, spinning horizontally, and sliced the head of the monster from its body. At once, the creature crumpled to the ground, and whatever force held it together left it. What remained was a pile of flesh and bones and rotting organs, among other things which the men could not identify, and of course the bugs which began to feed on what was left of their host. The hurkin had tumbled to the ground, his air supply long since gone, and died.

“Whoa,” whispered Zach. “How do you like that? They killed each other!”

“Are you sure the hurkin is dead?”

“I’m sure. He’s got a hole the size of my fist in his neck and a thousand of his new best friends are crawling in and out of it.”

“Dear god, where did that thing come from?” Carym wondered.

“Foul magic.”

The pair waited a few moments to be certain nothing else moved. The bugs that had infested the corpse suddenly disappeared. The rest of the group had joined the two men and had seen the last moments of the grizzly battle. They moved up to the road and inspected the body of the dead hurkin, and the oroks for information. Kharrihan disappeared, presumably scouting the area.

“Bart, what do you make of all this?” asked Carym.

The bard shook his head. Pointing at the remnants of the monster he said, “This is the work of Baron Tyrannus, no doubt. In the last days of his life, the crazy bastard experimented with black magic, he did. Looking for ways to save his life, he experimented on the living and the dead, creating horrible beings, hoping to create a vessel to host his black soul. They say it never worked, and in the end his spirit was doomed to haunt his castle forever, so it was!”

Carym was thankful that in the last few days he’d had some time to really study the book that Mathonry had given him. Now that he had seen the capabilities of these evil concoctions of death, Carym had an idea how to fight them in battle if need be. He watched Zach swinging the sword that belonged to the deceased hurkin, an amazed look in his eyes. Indeed the blade seemed to move unnaturally fast in his friend’s hands, it was a marvelous weapon. Its blade was silver yet it seemed to absorb the light from the air around them, serpents festooned the blade and crosspiece and the hilt itself seemed to be one long writhing snake.

Kharrihan burst from the trees, “A warrior approaches!”

The approaching warrior broke Zach’s concentration and he turned toward the elf. Carym drew his batons and the three men turned to face the approaching foe. Carym silently prayed it wasn’t a powerful hurkin with a magical sword as the figure rounded the bend and strode into view. Carym was thankful that Gennevera and Bart held their flank from the tree line. He reached to his pocket to be sure the stones were still safely stored there and was comforted by the presence of their bag.

Without warning Carym felt dizzy, he struggled to stand. His eyesight blurred and he had a vision of a rider, a headless rider on a black horse with spiked hooves that spat flame each time they struck the ground, and a vicious mouth full of wicked teeth. It held a whip of black flames in one hand and a scythe in the other, and it was armored in ancient plate mail; it had no head. He felt as though the creature were staring at him, and an eerie laughing sound haunted him.

“C
ome to me!
” it whispered, the sound resounding inside his skull with a cackling laugh.

A vision.
He was breathing hard now, and Zach cast him a worried glance. Carym promptly prepared a powerful spell he hoped would overwhelm their foe, and was surprised by what appeared before him.

This was certainly not the demonic rider he saw moments before. He heard that whispering voice in his head again, laughing. He shook his head, this was a human of flesh and bone like him. Not an undead being, not an orok, not a hurkin. The man was dressed in dark blue armor with intricate silver facings and designs, clearly a man of importance. The visor of his helm was up, revealing that he was human. He had a strong jaw, firm features, and a large frame. The warrior’s armor bore an intricate coat of arms.

Carym attributed the quiet confidence of this man to his apparent skill as a fighter; clearly he was not intimidated by the pair before him. Carym wiped sweat from his brow, wondering how he could be sweating in the wintry air.

The warrior held out his right hand at shoulder level, palm outwards, smiling. In a powerful voice he said in Cklathish, “Well met, travelers! How fares the road ahead?”

Carym was dumbstruck. The man was acting like nothing was amiss at all. How could he be so calm?

“Zuharim!” hissed Zach, brandishing his new sword.

“Yes, I am. My name is Sir Ederick Shieldsmoore, Captain of the Zuharim, in the service of Lord Charrek Argossy, the Seat of Brythynburr and Lord of Brythyn. Who are you?” His friendly demeanor vanished when Zach leveled his sword. Carym understood Zach’s suspicion, but somehow he knew this knight wasn’t one of those who were conducting their nefarious work in the Underllars.

A hissing sound emanated from all around, like many voices whispering harshly, urgently. The knight brandished a hand sized crossbow in one hand and his long sword in the other. The companions each looked about with weapons at the ready as the sound echoed hauntingly from the snow covered trees. They caught fleeting glimpses of figures dancing in and out of sight, too swift to identify with certainty. A score of small black birds flapped angrily into the air upon the sudden movement. But Bart was fairly convinced that he knew what was about them.

“Oroks!” he shouted, pointing to the trees.

Kharrihan agreed as he tried to sight one of them in his bow; he cursed as the creatures were too quick for even the diminutive elf to target.

“How many?” demanded the knight, ready too.

“Three score, at least!” replied Kharrihan grimly.

“Too many! We should be on our way.”

Carym found that he agreed with Zach on that point and turned to lead the companions down the embankment and back into the wood. The knight lagged behind, as though he wanted to stay and fight but good sense told him the numbers were against them. The group moved swiftly through the trees, Zach and Bart taking turns covering any approach from behind, the knight blended in seamlessly. The group continued moving quickly, nearly running, and did not slow for ten minutes as they struggled through the dense snow covered forest.

Seeing that no further pursuit was coming, Carym called a brief halt and the group quickly formed a circle, each facing a likely avenue of attack. They stayed in place, breathing hard, but heard nothing.

“Odd that they do not pursue,” Carym wondered. Oroks truly enjoyed hunting their prey in sheer and overwhelming numbers.

“Likely the band did not know how many of us there were. It would be too great a risk for the small mind of an orok to chase headlong into the dense woods, full of defensible positions and chance an encounter with greater numbers waiting in ambush.”

Carym didn’t disagree with that logic, and saw that his companions didn’t either. He nodded to the knight.

“You seem to be the leader of this group of noteworthy folk. I thank you for allowing me to join your flight, there is safety in numbers.”

“Aye,” Carym replied. “Well met. I am Carym of Hyrum and these are my friends.” Carym introduced each of the companions, one by one, and each nodded politely in return, though they still would not break formation.

“Your men are a credit to you, Carym. They are disciplined and hold true to your leadership. Are you part of a militia, or a mercenary company?”

“Neither. Other than Zach and me, we are companions by chance,” he said. “But, we are all friends by choice.”

Kharrihan left his position in the front of the group and stood by Carym. His expression was grim and he stared daggers at the knight. “Just what are you doing here,
Zuharim
?” asked Kharrihan, veritably spitting the name of the knight’s order.