The Cessation of Karrak_Ascension III

by Robert J Marsters

  “What guard?” asked Drake, confused, “What courtyard?”

  Hannock looked up at him, “A long time ago, dear boy. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  “Did you bang your head? Only, you’re not making much sense.”

  “Shut up, Drake. Here, help me up, would you?”

  Drake helped him scramble to his feet and they both limped back into the clearing, not too much the worse for wear by their experience. Jared hadn’t moved. The bubble was intact and he remained in the centre, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened.

  “Do you think he’ll hear us if we call to him?” suggested Drake.

  Hannock raised his eyebrows, “If a noise as loud as a clap of thunder and you screaming profanities at the top of your voice didn’t disturb him, do you honestly think he’ll respond to us calling his name?”

  “It was just an idea! We can’t leave him out here by himself, what if something happens to him?”

  “Like what?” asked Hannock, cynically. “What do you think could happen to him whilst he’s stuck in there? Look what happened to us, do you think there’s something in these woods that could get through that?” he added, gesturing toward the sphere.

  “YES! Karrak!” Drake replied loudly.

  “He’s nowhere near here! And what’s more, why would he be ferreting around in the woods in the middle of the night?”

  “Well, I’d like to think that we aren’t the only idiots who’d be doing something as stupid as that,” snapped Drake.

  Hannock laughed, “Come on,” he said, “let’s head back to the village. Jared’s quite safe, I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think he were. Grab those torches, there’s a good chap.”

  ***

  The following morning, nobody questioned how their search had gone and they, in turn, offered no explanation nor information. Jared had not yet returned, but not one of them seemed overly concerned by his absence. They breakfasted quietly, none making the effort to strike up a conversation. However, their peaceful start to the day would not last long.

  The door to the inn flew open.

  “I want a word with you lot!” It was the blacksmith.

  “And a good morning to you too!” said Yello, sternly.

  “Never mind good morning. Where’s it gone?” he asked, angrily.

  “My good man, we have no idea to what you are referring,” said Emnor, sincerely.

  “Don’t give me that claptrap you old codger. You know exactly what I’m talking about. I want it back, or I want paying.”

  “My friend just told you,” said Yello, raising his voice, “we have no idea what it is, or where it has gone. However, I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head because I do know what this is,” he continued, placing his booted foot on the table, “and I know exactly where it will be going if you don’t change your tone.”

  Emnor waved his hand in order to calm his friend down, “Please, Yello, you’re not helping matters.”

  “See, there you go, threats as usual. You magic types are all the same! Go on then, turn me into a toad, you might as well now you’ve put me out of business.”

  “A toad?” said Yello, suddenly sounding interested. He reached for his staff, “What a wonderful idea.”

  Emnor shook his head as he saw the startled look on the smith’s face, “What is it that you have lost?” he asked, “Would you like us to help you find it?”

  “I ain’t lost anything and you know it! It was stolen!”

  Emnor rested his head in his hands in frustration, “What was stolen? he sighed.

  “Ninety-five chestplates with gauntlets, greaves and helmets to match,” answered the smith. “The ones he ordered,” he added, pointing at Darooq.

  All eyes turned to Karrak’s former henchman. Calmly, Darooq held his hands in the air, “I admit I commissioned it to be made, and you all know who for. But as you know, I have not left the inn for a single moment since you rescued me.”

  “Why would Karrak need armour?” Hannock shouted, his tone demanding an answer from Darooq. “Does he have an army, men whose minds he has twisted somehow?”

  “No, not men,” replied Darooq, quietly. “They were… once. Now they are something completely different.”

  “I don’t care who’s wearing it!” shouted the smith, “I just want paying for it. You only gave me half up front, and it’s cost a lot more than that to complete the order!”

  Faylore glared at him, “Then you are a fool!” she exclaimed. “Surely you realised something was terribly wrong? Guards were murdered, although it sounds to me as if they deserved it; wizards were travelling through the village and then disappearing without a trace, yet you blindly continued to fulfil an order for which it was highly unlikely you would ever receive the full remuneration?”

  “That’s because I’m an honest businessman, miss. My word is my bond. I took the order, I made the stuff,” replied the smith, smugly.

  “I don’t know you well enough to know whether you are honest or dishonest, my good man. However, I am known to be a good judge of character, and yours seems a little… lacking. And by the way, it’s Your Majesty, not miss.”

  The smith was unused to being spoken down to by anyone. He was quite wealthy compared to the other villagers and commanded a certain amount of respect from them. This was something totally alien to him, therefore he was uncertain of what his response, if any, should be. This became apparent as he ran his finger around the inside of his collar whilst giving a pleading look to Hannock, who pursed his lips and nodded a few times.

  “Well… erm, sorry… Your Majesty,” continued the smith, “but he’s the one who ordered it and he should pay up.”

  “We found him naked and covered in mud!” shouted Yello. “Unless he was concealing a bag of gold up his a…” It was his turn to be glared at by Faylore. “Ahem… he has no coin, you see,” he continued. “So, what are you going to do? Does it look as if we have an armoury here?”

  Emnor did not allow the smith to answer, “Tell me…” he began, “… where exactly were you storing this supposed armour? I’ve seen your forge and, if you’ll forgive my bluntness, there is no way that you could store a tenth of the amount you purport to have lost.”

  “Of course there ain’t!” sighed the smith, “That’s just my workshop, I keep all the big orders in my warehouse.”

  Faylore curled her lip, “What’s a warehouse?” she asked.

  “I just told you, it’s where I keep all the big orders until my customers collect them. I found an old empty barn just outside the village a few years back. It needed a bit of work I’ll admit, but now I’ve tarted it up, it’s perfect for storing things. It don’t let the rain in or nothing, no risk of anything going rusty.”

  Faylore frowned, “So it’s a barn then?”

  “No. It was a barn, now it’s a warehouse, ‘cause I keep my wares in it. Well I did until last night.”

  “Alright, alright, it’s a bloody warehouse!” exclaimed Yello, “Where is it? I might be able to shed some light on your disappearing armour.”

  Drake cast a furtive glance at Hannock. Hannock raised his eyebrows. Checking to see that they had not been noticed, he shook his head slightly. Folding his arms so that his hand was clearly visible to Drake, he pointed toward the door.

  “Do you actually think I believe that you’re going to help me find my stuff?” scoffed the smith.

  “Whether you believe it or not is beside the point,” replied Yello. “But the truth of the matter is, that we are. Come back late this afternoon and we shall go there together.”

  “But it’ll be dark by the time we get there! You won’t be able to see a thing.”

  “No need to concern yourself, my good man. Let me worry about that, I am a wizard after all.”

  The smith grunted and shuffled toward the door, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath as he went.

  “Right!” announced Hannock, “I’m off to have a scout about, see if I can figure out whe
re our missing prince has disappeared to. Drake, fancy tagging along?”

  The young wizard nodded and followed him through the door. Once they were outside, Drake could barely contain himself, “Do you think Jared pinched all that armour?” he hissed.

  “That’s the question, my friend. He may not have anything to do with its disappearance at all, it could merely be a coincidence.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Jared being out in the woods in the middle of the night with a ball of light surrounding him, and it happening to be the night all the armour that was made for one of Karrak’s servants vanishing into thin air. Yeah, must be a coincidence.”

  Hannock frowned at him, “Don’t try sarcasm with me, Maddleton. You’re dealing with a master of it, remember?”

  They were interrupted as the door opened behind them. It was Lodren and Grubb. “What you pair up to?” asked Grubb, suspiciously.

  Hannock glared down at him, “We’re not up to anything,” he snapped. “And anyway, what business is it of yours?”

  “Just seemed a bit odd, that’s all. The blacksmith comes in all hot and bothered about some of his stuff going missing, Jared’s nowhere to be found, and you and ‘im couldn’t wait to get out here an’ ‘ave a chinwag. I presume that’s what all the finger pointin’ was about?”

  “My, my, Grubb. What a vivid imagination you have,” chuckled Hannock.

  “Yeah, I know,” smiled Grubb, “and there’s nothing wrong with me bloody eyesight neither! What’s goin’ on?”

  “Mr Captain, sir,” said Lodren, “just because we’re smaller than you, doesn’t mean we’re stupider than you.” He suddenly looked at little uncomfortable as his face began to redden, “When I say stupider, I didn’t mean to say that you’re stupid and you think we’re even more stupid. What I meant was…”

  “Alright, Lodren. I get the idea,” sighed Hannock.

  “What’s on the tray?” asked Drake, noticing it for the first time.

  Lodren glanced down at it, “Breakfast,” he replied, “for the guards you’ve got locked up.”

  “Good grief!” exclaimed Hannock. “You’ll be reading them bedtime stories and tucking them in next!”

  “It gives me something to do,” snapped Lodren, “until such time as you lot decide what we are going to do,” he added, storming off across the village square, tray in one hand, trusty hammer in the other.

  “I’d better go with ‘im,” sighed Grubb. “But don’t, for one minute, think I’ve finished with you,” he added, pointing at Hannock, before scampering after his friend.

  Hannock and Drake simply stared at one another in disbelief.

  ***

  The steel door clanged loudly against the wall as Lodren stormed through it. “Wake up!” he bellowed, “Got some breakfast for you.” Pulling the large bunch of keys from his belt, he unlocked the first cell door. “There you go,” he said, “can’t accuse us of trying to starve you, can you?”

  The guard said nothing as he stared, open-mouthed at the Nibby, “What are you?” he asked quietly.

  “Me? I’m the one who cooked your breakfast,” snapped Lodren. “So keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll feed it to the pigs instead.”

  Grubb slipped quietly through the open door and studied Lodren as he spoke to the guard. It seemed so long since he had seen his trademark smile or heard his chirpy, upbeat tones. He was quiet, moping around and looking more miserable as each day passed. As annoying as it could be, Grubb missed his friend’s normal enthusiasm for life.

  Lodren approached the next cell and opened the door in the same way as the first, but the response he got from the man inside was completely different. Lodren offered him his meal.

  “What? Do you think I’d eat anything that’s been cooked by a freak like you?” the man yelled. “Look at you. How do I know what sort of filth you’ve put in it? I might catch what you’ve got and become deformed. I’ve seen some horrible sights, but you’re disgusting. What are you, half man, half pig?”

  Lodren began breathing heavily. In the past, he would have ignored the insults, but that was the past. Grubb was right, he had changed. He felt angry, enraged that, not only would someone think of him that way, but that they would actually say it to his face. He glared at the man and lowered his arm, the tray spilling from his hand and crashing to the ground. “What am I?” he whispered, his grip tightening around the handle of his hammer. “I’m your jailer. I’m the one who decides your fate. Your life is in my hands,” he continued, allowing his hammer to hang like a pendulum before him. “I am Lodren, Nibrilsiem, dragon rider of this world. Remember me prisoner, for next time I visit, it may be to escort you to the gallows.” With all his might, he drove the head of his hammer into the stone floor, shattering it into a shale-filled crater, six inches deep.

  The man was sweating, his hands shaking uncontrollably, for behind his jailer a dragon had appeared. It tilted its head, its black tongue licking its lips. The dragon moved slowly closer, resting its head on the jailer’s shoulder, the grey smoke from its nostrils masking them both. The door closed almost silently, and they were gone.

  Outside, Lodren and Grubb roared with laughter, “Did you see his face?” asked Grubb, struggling to breathe, “I think he crapped ‘imself.”

  Lodren wiped the tears from his face, “I’ve never laughed so hard,” he admitted. “Do you think we went a bit too far?”

  “No! Not at all. Not with a git like him. Maybe I should’ve bitten ‘im a couple o’ times, just to show ‘im ye were serious.”

  “Oh no, you couldn’t bite him!” He looked across at Grubb, “Well, maybe just the once,” he laughed.

  “So that’s what’s botherin’ ye then, ye miss the dragons?”

  “I just felt so alive when I was up there, Grubb. It’s difficult to explain.”

  “No, Lodren. No, it’s not. Are ye forgettin’ that I actually fly quite a bit? It’s so peaceful up there. No people, no noise, and nobody tryin’ to feed ye every five minutes.”

  “Exactly Grubb. That’s what I think… hey hang on a minute, every five minutes?”

  CHAPTER 11

  The day passed quickly, so it came as a surprise when Faylore informed them that the blacksmith was waiting impatiently for them outside.

  “Good afternoon,” said Emnor as he stepped through the doorway, followed by Yello, Harley, Drake and Hannock. Faylore had no intention of accompanying them on their little trip. She could not abide the blacksmith and even referred to him as ‘ghastly’.

  “Even on horseback, it’ll be nigh on dark when we get there,” the smith announced.

  “Why would we need horses, you stupid man?” asked Emnor, scowling. “We are all wizards, we’ll get there in an instant if we use our arts.”

  “Now, hang on,” protested the blacksmith, nervously, “you never said anything about using magic to get there.”

  “Neither did I say that we would not,” Emnor added. “Trust me, the blink of an eye and no harm done. Ask Captain Hannock. He travels with us regularly like this and nothing untoward has ever happened to him.”

  “What do you mean, nothing’s happened to him? Half his face is missing!” exclaimed the smith.

  “Well, there is that I suppose. But that was none of our doing, I assure you.”

  “Maybe not!” exclaimed the smith. “But it was magic, wasn’t it? If it wasn’t magic, that’s what you would’ve said.”

  “Oh alright, calm down. We can’t force you to go if you don’t want to. Harley, he looks a little shaken. Give him a glass of water, there’s a good chap.”

  Facing away from the blacksmith, Harley smiled as he poured the water. Yello positioned himself behind the smith as Harley handed him the glass. Placing his hand on the man’s shoulder, Yello reassured him that he would be fine once he had taken a drink. Then, with a gust of wind, they all vanished.

  Moments later they re-appeared. The first reaction from the blacksmith, other than the look of shock on his face, was to
throw up. It was a reaction that Hannock remembered only too well. The dizziness and sense of confusion were still fresh in his mind as he remembered the first time he had been transported. However, he felt quite smug, as he had not given in to the nauseous feeling and gloated aloud, “Oh dear, not a good traveller then?”

  The smith wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he staggered backwards, pointing at Yello, “You! You tricked me! I could have been killed, you lunatic!”

  “Oh come now,” sighed Yello, “don’t be such a big baby. Nobody has ever died from a transportation spell… well, not for a very long time anyway.”

  The smith leaned forward and began retching once more, holding his stomach as if he had just been punched.

  “You’ll be fine in a moment,” Emnor assured him. “Come on, let’s have a look around your, erm… thingy house.” He went ahead, followed quickly by the others, well, all but the smith who was far too busy feeling sorry for himself.

  They approached the barn.

  “There are a lot of scorch marks on the walls,” Harley noted. “But the ground is untouched. This was not a natural fire, Master Emnor.”

  Emnor nodded, “I’m inclined to agree, Harley. This was the work of someone who is highly skilled.”

  “What makes you think that?” asked Hannock.

  “Because a novice would have burned the whole thing to the ground,” snorted Yello. “These marks are barely six inches across! It’d take at least a decade of practice to localise a spell with that kind of precision.”

  “So why do it at all?” asked Drake.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” replied Yello.

  “It could have been a duel,” suggested Harley. “These could be evidence of someone who had missed their mark.”

  “If there had been a duel, trust me, there would be a corpse somewhere nearby. Hannock, have a scout around could you? See if you can find any tracks that may lead us to the caster.”

  Hannock nodded at Emnor and headed toward the back of the barn, studying the ground as he went. Drake followed, seizing the opportunity to discuss the situation with Hannock in private, “Whoever did this was bloody mustard, Hannock. I’d struggle to produce a spell with such accuracy, and I use a wand!”