The Orb of Wrath (The Merchant's Destiny Book 1)

by Nic Weissman

  The arrows that the tournament provided were of standard quality: boxwood, steel tip, common goose feathers and manufactured by the gunsmiths of the Royal Army in the Mositus mark. Its balance wasn't particularly good. Some had their center of gravity slightly askew. Samar grabbed the arrow with the palm of her left hand to feel its balance before placing it rapidly in the firing position of the bow. The opponents started shooting.

  Samar slowly tightened the string of her bow, aimed high and fired. The arrow was thrown at high speed across a distance that covered the entire square up to the location of the targets. The arrow surpassed the target and it hit the ground behind it, a few steps away from the target; exactly where Samar had aimed.

  She could hear some laughter from a couple of opponents to her left, and some murmurs from the stands. Only the gnome and his opponent in the eighth position, a local young man, reached the target. But no one had missed from such a distance like she had.

  “Don't worry. It was only the first attempt. We'll have more luck in the next one,” the adversary in the second position laughed.

  Samar didn't answer, and waited.

  “Archers, the next arrow!” the coordinator cried, after writing down the scores from the first attempt.

  She rapidly took the second arrow, stiffened, shot it and could feel the impact in the center of the target, even when the arrow was barely out of her bow. The score for that shot was a ten out of ten. She heard a few snorts of surprise.

  “Wow. Now that was lucky!” the heavy adversary to her left commented, again, without anyone asking.

  The gnome also reached the center and the crowd erupted in applause. The local boy made the target, though only just, almost touching the outer edge of it. It was the second target he reached and the stands broke into a loud applause.

  After the completion of the round of shots, the archers came back to their lackeys to collect the third arrow. With the sharpness of her elf eyes, Samar noticed that the archer to her right changed his for a similar one that he kept in his gear. He made the switch with a quick gesture that apparently no one could perceive. Tournament rules prevented such an option, as all participants should use the same type of arrows with the same quality. But Samar decided to say nothing.

  The elf aimed this time to the top left of the target holder. It was sturdy wood, and much harder than the material with which the target was made of. To be able to nail the arrow on said support, she needed the shot to reach a high speed. For that, she had to reduce the inclination of the shot, looking for a more direct angle, and draw the bow to the fullest. A lot of force was required, both from the arm and chest muscles and from her hand. Samar fired. The arrow flew directly at a high speed and hit the support, exactly in the position where she had aimed. This time she heard no laughter around her. She had been a little off, not like the first time. Moreover, after the center she managed with the second shot, her opponents didn't know what to expect from her.

  This time, only the gnome and the archer to his right reached the target. Apparently, the arrow that the latter had used had a better balance and was of better quality.

  “Arrow!” the coordinator cried after writing down the scores.

  This round was a repeat of the previous one, except for the fact that Samar pointed to the circle that was worth eight points, to the right of the target, and hit it.

  “Footmen, please bring the last arrow of the young archer in position four,” the coordinator shouted.

  One of the footmen in the bottom of the track quickly approached the target and pulled the arrow that had reached the target. Then he crossed the track in a sprint, while the stand murmured, curious. The footman handed the arrow to the coordinator, who began to examine it. After a while he said:

  “This arrow is illegal. It is not the type provided by the tournament. The young man from the Terentias County in the fourth position has cheated. He is disqualified!”

  With a gesture, the coordinator called the officers responsible for ensuring order, and preventing the most fanatical crowd to end up inside the zone that the tournament occupied.

  “Take this man to the city dungeons. Let him stay there for the night while he ponders what he has done!” the coordinator declared.

  “Just a moment!” a scream was heard, coming from the Royal Box.

  It was Vargarr, the Major of the Royal Army for the Central Bor County, one of the most respected and feared men throughout the Kingdom. Vargarr made his way down from the box and through the crowd to get into the center of the track.

  “This man is a cheater! He has deceived his rivals, and has tried to deceive the authorities of this tournament. Ultimately, he was fooling us all, who have come here today to enjoy an honest show.”

  Vargarr paused and turned to look at the whole audience in the square. He waited a moment before continuing.

  “Tell me, honorable people of Bor, do we like liars in our sacred realm?”

  “No!” the crowd said.

  “Do we like to be lied to?”

  “No!” the crowd repeated.

  “Can we allow any citizen of the world of Oris to think that he can come to the capital of the kingdom of Bor to make fun of us?”

  “NO!” the crowd roared with great joy.

  “No. Of course not!”

  Vargarr again took a few seconds before continuing.

  “And to make sure that we send a loud and clear message to all the cheaters who may have any doubts, we will give exemplary punishment to this Terentias man. Tomorrow, after he has served the sentence that the honorable and benevolent tournament coordinator declared, this man will be brought to this square and tied to a pole in the middle of it. There he will receive twenty lashes on his back for all to see, before being expelled from the city. And to make sure of this, I will execute the punishment!” Vargarr cried with a sadistic glint in his eye.

  A relative majority of the audience applauded the initiative while the Major retired and returned to the Royal Box. The audience kept applauding, forcing Vargarr to greet the people couple of times, before asking with a gesture for them to cease the ovation to resume the competition.

  “Archers, let's return to the tournament!” the coordinator cried. “Bailiff, read the status of the competition.”

  The coordinator gave the paper where he had been scoring the results to the sheriff. He moved to the center of the track and began to speak.

  “Nemegrim of the Vulcanus Islands leads this round, with four targets, has already qualified for the semifinals.”

  The gnome stepped forward and greeted with great pomp the roaring crowd.

  “Then, with three targets, Caorpurak of Deepcliff.”

  The applause grew louder to acclaim the local youth.

  “Finally, with two targets, the archers of the third and fifth position.”

  This latest announcement received a much smaller applause. Samar gave a damn about fame or the public. She did not compete for glory, let alone by a misunderstood fame. The sheriff then detailed the status of the competition including the scores of all the archers of all rounds that still had possibilities. Samar calculated that to ensure her passage to the semifinals, she had to overcome twenty points and, therefore, should get at least a six on her last shot.

  When she received the sign she aimed at the circumference of six, trying to get as close as possible to the shot of the previous round. The arrow hit the target just a few fingers above the other arrow. With this, the round concluded. She was in the semifinals.

  The tournament coordinator congratulated all the participants between great applause from the public, and then began to name all the archers who passed to the next round. Twelve in total. The announcement left a name echoing in her mind: Butholith. She had used that name to enter the tournament. It was the name of her father.

  Butholith was a traditional and conservative man. The expectation he had for his daughter was the one expected for most of the elven maidens from a good family: compose poetry, sing,
knit, make small artistic works of great filigree and stay home in the depths of the Zon forest, the sacred forest of the elves.

  But the situation with her father had become more difficult after the unfortunate death of her mother Lirith, a few years before his departure. Her father became sad, taciturn and also more conservative and less tolerant. Her mother had worked as a retaining wall, while she was next to her father. Without her mother, her father had lost part of his balance. All this had made Samar lose a part of her freedom and had ended up feeling suffocated in that house. Her father was a good man, and she loved him, but they thought very differently about things.

  After some years, she decided to leave in search of adventure. This situation was sad for a while, especially because his father was alone, but she could not ignore the desires of her heart. Among them was the desire to someday find the person responsible for the death of her mother, and make him pay for it.

  Lirith traveled in a caravan to the Duchies Carition to trade, when they were attacked by a party of orc explorers, and even though they managed to repel them, she was mortally wounded by a poisoned dart. The survivors, including Lirith, managed to return to the domains of the Zon forest. The healing magic of the elves is the most powerful in the world of Oris, but it was too late for her. Fortunately, she could at least tell what had happened, and give some last messages that were then transmitted to Samar and her father. It was through these stories that the elf understood the description of the logo that the party of orcs had inscribed on their clothes and armor: an emblem with a large spider on a full red moon.

  She later found out that this was the badge worn by the slaves and servants of Skidea, an evil and powerful sorceress. No one knew where her hideout was, even though her forces had been sighted several times in the area where the Duchies Carition, the kingdom of Bor and the kingdom of Fugor, have their border. There were stories about Skidea that dated back to the time of the Great Alliance, at the beginning of the Fourth Age.

  On her advanced age, there were different theories. Some said that her powerful magic had given her great longevity. Others who had made a pact with Darken, the god of Evil, swore their allegiance in exchange of eternal life. A final group claimed that Skidea had become an undead being of great power.

  A new save of trumpets heralded the start of the semifinals. Samar turned her attention to what was happening in the tournament arena. The twelve semifinalists were split into two groups of six. She would compete in the second group. This time, the rules dictated that the five best scores, that hit at least one bull’s eye, would move on to the finals.

  In the first round only two archers got at least one hit in the bull's”eye: Nemelas the elf and Nemegrim, the gnome. Both with very high scores. Finally, it was her turn. Samar shot, one after another, all the arrows to the ninth circle. She managed to get three hits in the ninth circle and one in the eighth circle. A sudden change in the wind intensity had deviated slightly that arrow, placing it in the immediate outer circle. Finally, in her last shot, she aimed again and got a nine. It was the highest score in the tournament so far, but she was disqualified because she didn't manage to hit the bull’s eye.

  Samar knew that in the end, the archers would receive a greater scrutiny. The finalists shot one by one and not as a group, like the previous rounds. The attention of the entire public would focus on her when it was her turn. In addition, the contestants had to wear the official archers of the Bor Army uniform for the final. It was part of the honors they received for reaching the final and this ruled out any option of partially hiding her face.

  Samar was dissatisfied; but not for having been unable to win the tournament; not even for not being able to compete until the end. The elf felt she had failed to take her skills to the limit, that she hadn't faced enough hardship. And so, she hadn't learned much. It had served to prove that, even in a national tournament in the capital, there were no rivals that surpassed her, at least in that kingdom. Or perhaps the true champions did not participate in those tournaments? In any case, she now understood that she would have to find new and different challenges if she wanted to continue making progress in dominating the bow and arrow, if she wanted to become the best archer in the world.

  The competition was over for her and, after collecting her things quickly and quietly, faded from the public, looking for a place for her to watch the rest of the competition. The final ended with the victory of Nemelas, the noble elf. None of the archers managed to beat the score that she had achieved in the semifinals.

  CHAPTER 4: THE GARDEN OF JASMINES

  Erion's boots sank into the mud more than he wanted while he trudged through that marshland. The sky was dark, sinister, as if someone had covered it with ash. He could barely make out a ray of sun, although they were in broad daylight. The equipment made it difficult for him to pass. He wore a silver-edged short sword in his right hand, decorated with amazing watermarks, probably elven. No doubt, it was a very valuable sword and it was probably powerful.

  Mithir walked to his right, also with difficulty, and some others followed behind. They breathed that heavy air. There was a putrid stench in the air and they still had to cover more than five hundred steps to reach the end of that field. They worked hard to accelerate their pace.

  Suddenly, an arrow of black plumes crossed swiftly toward them and Erion heard as someone screamed and fell, probably dead, in the group behind. He had seen that kind of arrow before. They were goblins who had ambushed them.

  Erion awoke sweaty. It had been a very strange dream. Very intense, real, unlike any dream he had ever remembered having. He breathed deeply and saw Mithir sleeping peacefully in bed next to his. He needed some air before trying to sleep again. He donned his leather shoes, which were very light and resistant. Their soles, combined with his ability, allowed him to walk without making virtually any noise.

  He left his room at the inn and closed the door very slowly. He walked to the end of the hallway and opened the window. He slipped out very carefully. He reached up, raising his hands and grabbed the cornice of the building. With two quick movements he rose up, and was already on the roof of the inn. He walked to the highest part of it, next to the fireplace, and sat, leaning his back against it.

  Although the inn was not a very tall building (it had only three floors), from its roof you could see a lot of the town of Andon. It was a quiet and peaceful night, with a pleasant temperature. He closed his eyes and concentrated on listening to the sounds of the city. The night was fairly quiet, but in the distance some noise of the low activity in those hours could be heard. An occasional dog barking could be heard, and frankly, not a lot more.

  Erion took advantage to try and collect his thoughts. That afternoon, as agreed, the messenger had delivered the documents he had stolen from the Commander's house. As usual, the messenger had given him a small leather pouch containing the second half of the payment of his fees.

  This customer was very good. He always paid half in advance and his payments were always reasonable and proportionate to the risk and complexity of the job. That being said, he was very serious. He didn't accept bargains. Once he tried to round up the fees for a job and almost lost the customer. Since then, he always accepted at once the amount offered. At the end of the day, it was always a reasonable amount.

  Something very curious had happened during dinner. While Mithir and he were eating a roasted partridge in the dining room of the inn, a courier delivered a message to them. It was the same customer for whom they had worked on that trip. Normally, weeks passed between two orders. The note delivered to them was very brief. It said tersely:

  "You will have to go out tomorrow and travel to Talmyra. After crossing the town, you will continue along the path towards Deepcliff. After nine leagues south, you will find a crossroads. There you will take the westbound road for about three leagues. At that point you should see a small but lush forest not far away there, northwest. It is the only wooded area in that field, so you won't miss it. We will
meet in a camp in the middle of the forest at midnight after tomorrow. I am confident that the proposal I will make will interest you."

  In the two years they had been doing intermittent work for this client, this would be the third time that they would meet in person. The first time they saw him was when he made his first request. Probably the client wanted to see how they looked before recruiting them. In any case, he remembered that that mission was simple and unimportant. It had essentially been a small test.

  The second time they saw him was about nine months ago when he tasked them, perhaps the most important and best paid mission to date. Erion sensed that this job could be even more important. He was excited and eager to know what it was, and to receive a good commission in the process. The prospect of getting rich someday attracted him; almost as much as the possibility of continue helping the various orphanages in Bor. Also, he never said no to a good adventure.

  After wandering for a while, he returned to his quarters. With slow and steady steps, he returned to the end of the ledge. There he fell, clutching the edge of the roof at the last moment. Finally, after a couple of minor swings, he jumped into the inn through the window. Then he closed it and returned to the room. He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. At last, he could sleep.

  *******

  General Bellish had always liked to take strolls. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon and he had to take advantage of the days when the weather was conducive to go out and take some air; too many hours in those rough and boring palace halls, often invested in small political issues, palace intrigue and other stupid discussions. How many times had he missed his years in the field when he was a knight! And then when he ascended to the middle-rankings in the Royal Army!

  The old general thought best when he took a stroll and the doctors said they also helped him stay fit. The years of long rides astride his steed Nemerulak in full armor, a long shield, sword and mace, where long gone. What a fantastic rider he had been in his days as a knight! The majors and colonels who were the most flatterers told him that there had been none like him. Obviously, they exaggerated with the useless intention of wanting to win his favor.