Raven Quest

by R A Oakes

  “I’m glad you did, but let me ask you, has fire affected him in some dramatic way? I’ve seen the wounds on his chest, but I don’t see any burn marks.”

  “Oh, fire has scarred him terribly, that’s for sure,” Raven quickly informed him. “But those wounds are all internal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dynarsis’ parents were killed by trolls. He escaped by hiding in a nearby stream but had to listen to his mother and father screaming in agony as they were butchered alive and roasted.”

  “Trolls are sadistic creatures,” Aldwen lamented, shaking his head. “It must have been terribly hard on him.”

  “Dynarsis was devastated. He’s so angry that sometimes he just explodes,” Raven said, filled with sadness over the senseless tragedy. When she saw her friend’s eyes partly open, she walked over and asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Why doesn’t my chest hurt?” Dynarsis asked, rubbing a bandage covering his wounds. “And I’m feeling stronger. How can that be?”

  “After mother stitched you up, Aldwen covered the claw marks with a special ointment. You’ve been healing rapidly.”

  “Is that Aldwen?” Dynarsis asked, pointing at the elderly wizard.

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A friend,” Raven said gently. “Now, go back to sleep.”

  Once Dynarsis closed his eyes and drifted into a restful slumber, the teenage girl rejoined the two adults in time to hear Zorya ask, “Given how young Dynarsis is, what makes you think he’s the one you’ve been waiting for?”

  “There’s a second prophecy,” Aldwen said.

  “Which is?”

  “With deep scars across his chest,

  He’ll come forth when 12 at best.

  Then climbing up from far below,

  And laying claim to Dead Man’s plateau,

  The horse lord will grasp the reins of power,

  To become the king in our darkest hour.”

  “Raven,isDynarsis12-years-old?”Aldwen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As a result of the wolf attack, he’ll surely have scars on his chest. Also, we’re on Dead Man’s Mountain, and Raven, you said Dynarsis has laid claim to this plateau?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “And what about those hundreds of wild horses at the base of the mountain?”

  “They’re his,” Raven said.

  “Then we’ve found the king,” Aldwen said in a hushed tone of voice.

  Walking over to Dynarsis, Aldwen knelt before his king, a sleeping boy, and out of desperation asked, “Can you truly lead us through our darkest hour? Because it’s coming, and soon.”

  “What do you mean, Aldwen, our darkest hour?” Zorya asked, deeply concerned.

  “When you found me, I was already on my way to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “I need you to come with me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Gratuga.”

  “Oh, Aldwen, you can’t be serious?”

  “The College of Wizards has tried everything else. It’s our only hope.”

  “But Gratuga is over two-weeks west of here, and much of the terrain is rugged, mountainous and almost impassable. It’s the trolls’ stronghold, their capital.”

  “Yes, a huge underground maze of caverns and passageways.”

  “And filled with trolls! Hundreds of them, maybe thousands!”

  “It’s where I’m going.”

  “That’s madness.”

  “It’s our last chance.”

  “For what?”

  “To defeat Balzekior and the trolls. She’s joined them, you know.”

  “Not that evil old crone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m not going to Gratuga.”

  “Then we’re lost.”

  “Why?”

  “What the College of Wizards needs is located under the caverns, imbedded in solid rock.”

  “And?”

  “Your flames are hot enough to melt rock.”

  “To get at what?”

  “Megentum, an extremely rare metal.”

  “Oh, Aldwen, the College of Wizards is wasting its time looking for megentum. How long have you been at it so far? All of you, for how long?”

  “For years,” Aldwen said vaguely, refusing to be specific.

  “Decades.”

  “At least,” the wizard reluctantly admitted.

  “To make a sword, a magic sword?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “There’s not enough megentum anywhere to make a sword.”

  “There is under Gratuga.”

  “I’m not going. I’m a mother. I’m not leaving my daughter an orphan. Look at Dynarsis. I won’t have my daughter ending up like him.”

  “There’s something else, another reason you might want to come along.”

  “What?”

  “Your husband, Jaren, is at Gratuga.”

  Zorya stared at Aldwen in shock, saying nothing.

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “You’ve been to Gratuga?”

  “Briefly, but long enough to know I need your help, and so does Jaren.”

  “Bringing up my husband isn’t fair.”

  “He needs you.”

  “If my father’s alive, I want to see him,” Raven said. “But are you sure? He was burned pretty badly.”

  “He’s alive.”

  Raven looked at her mother and said, “We’re going.”

  Ignoring her headstrong daughter, Zorya said, “You and the College of Wizards, that band of ancient busybodies you belong to, are completely out of touch with reality.”

  “What’s very real is the need for a magic sword to counter Balzekior and the trolls.”

  “You’re not going to get one. No one’s going to Gratuga, not inside of it, not to the bottom of the caverns, and certainly not back out again, at least not alive.”

  “We must have the sword.”

  “I’m not going and neither are Raven and Dynarsis.”

  “After what trolls did to his parents, Dynarsis will want to go to Gratuga, to the very center, to the heart of darkness.”

  “Stop it! You’ll get us all killed or worse!”

  “I want to see my father. If he needs us, we should go to him,” Raven said, hands on her hips.

  “We’re not going!”

  “Father’s there because of what you did to him. You burned him almost beyond recognition.”

  “Not his whole face, only the left side. And it was an accident. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Then why won’t you tell me how it happened?” Raven countered.

  “We were making love, all right? I lost control and burned him. I burned and disfigured the man I love. There, are you satisfied?” Zorya said as she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

  During all the confusion, no one was paying attention to Dynarsis who had been listening with his eyes closed. Sitting up, the traumatized boy with the claw marks across his chest said, “I’m going to Gratuga. I’m going to kill trolls.”

  “But Dynarsis, you’re terrified of trolls,” Raven reminded him.

  “I’m your friend, and you want to see your father. I’ll fight any troll that gets in your way.”

  “That won’t be necessary because you and Raven aren’t going,” Zorya said firmly while drying her eyes on the sleeve of her robe.

  “Does that mean you and I are going?” Aldwen asked, feeling hopeful.

  “No it doesn’t!” Zorya shouted.

  “Sorry,” Aldwen said quietly, bowing his head, feeling deflated and discouraged.

  After a few moments of silence, Raven, realizing she’d pushed her mother a little too far, tactfully changed the subject asking, “What if we focus on getting off the mountain?”

  “Good idea,” Zorya agreed, exhausted from arguing.

  “How are we getting down?” Dynarsis asked.

  “Can you s
tand?” Raven asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Dynarsis said, surprised when he got up quite easily.

  “How does your chest feel?”

  “Fine, but I still feel a little tired.”

  “Can you climb on my back, piggyback style?”

  “I’m too heavy for you.”

  “You aren’t the only one who’s strong. I can carry you.”

  “All the way down the mountain?”

  “Well, maybe not that far.”

  “I think I may have a solution,” Aldwen offered.

  “What?” Zorya asked.

  “Mountain goats could make it down easily.”

  “We’re not mountain goats.”

  “We are now,” Aldwen said with a wave of his wizard’s staff. Suddenly, four mountain goats were standing on the plateau. One had a bandage wrapped around its chest.

  “This isn’t funny, Aldwen,” Zorya said, looking down at her four feet.

  “Let’s get started. It’s a long way down.”

  Raven ran across the bridge, scrambling down the trail a ways and back up again shouting, “This is easy!”

  After the other three mountain goats crossed the bridge and joined her on the trail, Raven asked, “How does your chest feel when you walk, Dynarsis?”

  “It hurts a little but not much.”

  “In a few more days, you’ll be good as new, maybe even better than new,” Aldwen said reassuringly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you might be a bit stronger than before.”

  “Really? Could I wield my sword better?”

  “Possibly,” Aldwen said, eyeing the scabbard that was slung across the little mountain goat’s back. “But that wasn’t my intent when I treated your wounds.”

  Picking up his wizard’s staff with his mouth, Aldwen took the lead, and the other mountain goats followed, each feeling very sure-footed. At least for now.

  Chapter 7

  Far to the west, located in a distant mountainous wilderness, Gratuga was experiencing the worst weather to plague the region in years. Long summer days, blue skies, warm breezes and abundant sunlight, the most hideous weather for trolls imaginable had been upon them for weeks.

  Inside the caverns, however, Gratuga’s climate was pleasantly dark, dank and cold. But getting out on sunny days was a serious problem. The entrance to Gratuga was on a barren hilltop, and the dangerous blue skies made it impossible to run the gauntlet of the sun’s rays down the long, rocky hillside before reaching the protective shade of the densely wooded land around them. The 200 yards of sunlight from the cavern entrance to the trees would spell death for even the hardiest of trolls. Sunlight was extremely painful to them, and even brief direct exposure could turn trolls to stone.

  Still, they had to eat, and hunting was their primary means of subsistence. Unfortunately, stalking animals at night was almost impossible, so those going outside, including the toughest and fiercest of trolls, had to leave the safety of the caverns before dawn and return after dusk. Even with shade from trees, however, a few thin beams of sunlight seeped through the leaves making daytime hunting a difficult and painful experience.

  Male trolls were tall, heavyset, cumbersome creatures with two tusks, one on each side of their mouths, jutting upward from their lower jaws. Their ears were large and pointed, and their hair was long and wild. Sharp claws took the place of fingernails and toenails. They were barefooted, grimfaced creatures, wearing pants and sleeveless tops that were open down the front. Being exceedingly dimwitted, they relied on their violent natures to get what they wanted, which primarily centered on gathering food. They grew no crops, tended no cattle and preferred hunting to farming, their diet consisting exclusively of meat.

  As stupid and ugly as male trolls were, the women were quite the opposite being less cumbersome, shapelier and attractive in a savage, animalistic way. They also possessed an innate cunning and a raw sexuality that both perplexed and stupefied their men. They took no one particular mate, instead banding together in packs with other females, using their collective influence to control the male population. And if male trolls were dangerous, females were even more so, their higher intelligence combining with their natural troll lust for violence. Where men were mindless brutes, the women were just as remorseless but also cunning and treacherous.

  Balzekior, an ancient demonic woman who had surfaced from unexplored regions far below the earth’s crust, was in her glory upon finding a band of women with hearts almost as dark as her own. The more time she spent with troll women, the more she liked them. Conversely, the more time she spent with the males, the more expendable she felt they were. In fact, her desire to increase attacks on humans stemmed partly from her desire to decimate the male population of both species, human and troll. Not that Balzekior intended on being merciful to human females, she simply took sadistic pleasure in breaking their spirits and forcing them to live in abject servitude as slaves.

  But for all her ghastly schemes, Balzekior seemed more dead than alive. Small in stature, with gaunt facial features, stringy gray hair, stooped shoulders, gnarled fingers and wearing a black robe, she was one step from the grave, or so it appeared, until you saw the malignant gleam in her eyes. The gleeful look on her face, with its twisted little smile, revealed a perverse self-confidence. The withered old crone expected everyone to end up just like her, hopeless except for a joy derived from the destruction of others, something at which she was determined to excel.

  Balzekior felt at home in Gratuga, at least in a warped sort of way, taking particular delight in a disfigured human prisoner. He was terribly depressed, languishing away, refusing to eat and unable to sleep, with his ravaged face serving as a hideous reminder of the depths of despair to which a human spirit could fall.

  The entire left side of the man’s face was a mass of scars, and he seemed to have lost the will to live. Displaying no interest in escaping, he dejectedly wandered from cavern to cavern, by all indications content to live among creatures uglier than himself.

  Balzekior had encouraged the trolls to allow this disconsolate human, shackled and manacled with heavy chains, to roam freely throughout Gratuga finding his listless acceptance of misfortune to be hilarious, given her perverse sense of humor. She derived a great deal of satisfaction from watching him, laughing at a man who believed with all his heart that he had no reason for living.

  Jaren stumbled along aimlessly, day after day, thinking about the wife and daughter he’d left behind, convinced they were better off without him, but he missed them terribly and questioned his original decision to leave. However, the man with the ravaged face was about to discover a sense of purpose, and when he did, he would wish for simpler days when his only worries were a destroyed face and a shattered self-image.

  The sun had just dropped behind the western mountain peaks, and Zarimora, Balzekior’s strongest woman ally, had just stepped outside the caverns onto a large rock slab overlooking the valley. Balzekior had been away for several days, and Zarimora had good reason, or so she hoped, for looking forward to the old crone’s return.

  “It’s Balzekior, she’s back!” Zarimora shouted, pointing at a horse-drawn cart and driver rounding a bend on the trail below.

  “If Balzekior could blot out the sun, I’d be excited,” Merimar said to her friend. “But she can’t, and I’m not.”

  Zarimora smiled but said nothing.

  “Okay, go ahead, have your secrets. But just remember, I’m the one who guards your back, not her,” Merimar said.

  “Let’s greet the old witch,” Zarimora suggested as her eyes brightened and her smile widened.

  “If you think she’s a witch, why are we friends with her?”

  “We need her help.”

  “She gives me the creeps.”

  “Balzekior is a little scary,” Zarimora agreed.

  “A little?”

  “Okay, a lot, but she has some good ideas.”

  “Like what?” Merimar asked, far from
being convinced.

  “Like what’s in that wagon. Come on, you’ll find it interesting,” Zarimora said, heading down the rocky hillside.

  Merimar followed her friend, unhappy over being dependent on a witch for anything. But after reaching the trail, she smiled at the old crone and kept her opinions to herself, for now.

  “Did you get them?” Zarimora asked, peeking under a tarp covering the wagon bed.

  “Yes I did.”

  “Let me see one.”

  “All in good time.”

  “Now,” Zarimora said firmly.

  Balzekior’s temper started to flare, but she kept her anger in check saying, “I’m glad you need what I’ve got and want it badly.”

  “I don’t need what you have, Balzekior,” the female troll said defensively, not wanting to feel beholding to anyone.

  “Really? Well then, maybe I’ll just keep them.”

  “Maybe I’ll have Merimar knock you off this wagon with that rock she’s got in her hand.”

  Balzekior looked at the big female troll next to Zarimora who was holding a large stone in her right hand and no longer smiling. The evil old crone glared at Merimar but quickly found herself ducking to avoid the projectile whizzing past her head. Pointing a finger at her assailant, she lashed out with an invisible energy surge knocking Merimar to the ground.

  Zarimora was up on the wagon in a flash grabbing Balzekior by her black robe, hauling her off the seat and hurling her against the trunk of a nearby tree. Exploding with rage, the old witch nonetheless fought to control herself. Directing her anger at the wagon, she shot another blast of energy from a long, bony finger knocking the wooden vehicle over and spilling the contents onto the ground.

  Up above, a dozen female trolls swarmed out of the cavern entrance armed with axes and knives having been alerted to their leader, Zarimora, being in trouble. As they stormed down the hillside, screaming at the top of their lungs, Balzekior looked up and immediately regretted her actions. It’s not that the evil witch was against mass violence. Much to the contrary, she often encouraged it and thrived on it, reveling in its destructive power. But she preferred senseless violence to be directed at others, not herself.

  Heaving a sigh of frustration, Balzekior realized it was a mistake to attack Merimar in front of Zarimora, the most powerful female in Gratuga. Throwing herself to the ground, Balzekior begged for her life saying, “Spare me, I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m sorry, please forgive me.”