CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
A Warlock’s Awakening
Chapter One - The Slave
Chapter Two - A Bath and a Visit
Chapter Three - A Godly Task
Chapter Four - The Lord Merchant
Chapter Five - The Arrival of the Festival
Chapter Six - Escape
Chapter Seven - Through the Rimewood
Chapter Eight - The Dark Forest
Chapter Nine - The Forge
Chapter Ten - Mrkyr Brodir
Chapter Eleven - To the South
Chapter Twelve - Dawns Fero
Chapter Thirteen - A Plan and a Visit
Chapter Fourteen - Perperations
Chapter Fifteen - Bandits are Born
Chapter Sixteen - Ember Foxes
Chapter Seventeen - Penance
Chapter Eighteen - New Foes
Chapter Nineteen - Fugitive
Chapter Twenty - Gather Your Things
Chapter Twenty-One - Stalking the Stalker
Chapter Twenty-Two - Off to the Graves
Chapter Twenty-Three - Dark Waters
Chapter Twenty-Four - Rescue Party?
Chapter Twenty-Five - Off to Temuria
Chapter Twenty-Six - KaHari
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Unlikely Ally
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Morbid Reminder
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Infiltrating the Grounds
Chapter Thirty - The Estate
Chapter Thirty-One - The Cleansing
A Warlock's Awakening
About the Author
A Forgotten Soul
The Vegard Orlo Saga
Daniel D Sexton
Copyright © 2017 Daniel D Sexton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses or events, or locals is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or in part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
A Warlock’s Awakening
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CHAPTER ONE
The Slave
Vegard was pushed down the steps of the grand basement floor. A noose about his neck kept him from stumbling too far. The scratchy hemp bag covering his head barely made visible the lighted torches him and his detainers were passing.
The basement level was busy these last few days. Making preparations for the coming End of Autumn festival that occurred annually. This year Vegard’s master, Jogen Herald, would be the host and his master meant to pull no punches when it came to entertaining the esteemed mountain lords of the area.
Vegard had seen the pits too often as of late. Jogen wanted to show off his many prized slave fighters and demanded of his men that they be combat ready and prepared for the day. This routine was becoming tiresome. Vegard could barely heal from a day’s fight before being thrown back into another. He was leaner than he had been since the beginning of his service, although fit as a racing horse.
His foot missed the last step, casting him to his knees. The guards anxiously yanked on the noose, pulling Vegard back to his feet. The rope dug into his neck adding to the many burns that already existed there.
“Easy fellas.” Vegard said through a tightened airflow. “Just me losing my footing. Not trying anything funny.”
The guards were perpetually nervous around this particular slave, usually keeping him at more than an arms length as if he was a sedated beast who could wake at any moment.
If only, Vegard daydreamed.
The troop stopped and the slave could hear the familiar whine of the iron doors swinging open. The metal loop from his leash clattered away and he felt the blunt end of a spear dig into his back and shove him forcibly into the cage.
Vegard’s feet skittered across a shallow floor of sand. He ripped the hempen hood from his head just as the guards nervously slammed the cage door and locked the bar in place.
He looked around. It was the same metal dome that he’d sparred with many a men in. Stained and dirty sand barely high enough to dig his toes in served as a sorry safeguard to assure the slaves fighting didn’t merely bash each other’s heads against the solid stone below. Couldn’t have prized fighters dying without an audience around paying for the pleasure.
Around the outer perimeter of the dome other servants were cleansing the walls and floors of grime and build up. Benches were being erected, decorations hung. This was one of many fighting pits the lord Jogen had established around the mountain town of Dunesmir.
His basement serving as the training area for the time being. Vegard doubted this would be where the main attractions were to be held. More than likely this humid cave would be for the traveling peasants to bet on dog fights or some such. Could barely fit a proper, noble audience in the basement of the grand manse.
Vegard noticed the glyphs hanging just out of reach outside of the arena cage. He’d hoped in the desperate rush to prepare for the festival that someone would have forgotten to hang them. No such luck.
The glyphs were rectangular cut pieces of wood with protective runic symbols painted on them. Each rune held a different power. These were to protect the guards and audience from a being such as Vegard Orlo.
Vegard, the wiry savage with long knotted hair and tired green eyes—was a warlock.
Warlocks were somewhat of a rarity in the realm of Vlero. Their day in the sun having waned greatly after their use in the Ander Wars. Warlocks wielded the power of the human soul. Siphoning from their targets their very life energy and manipulating it in terrifying ways. They could peer into your memories, burn your life-force like kindling, and trap your eternity in the mysterious voids of their eyes.
They were demons given human form. The most enigmatic and strange among the spell-weaving types. And here, in Dunesmir, Jogen Herald held one as a pet. A slave that could be summoned for the mere entertainment of the rich mountain lords.
So long as Vegard could be controlled. Hence the glyphs. Vegard could barely see outside of this iron cell. The glyphs serving as a buffer to his ungodly powers. The servants outside of the bars appearing to the warlock as vague silhouettes. To mentally reach out with his powers was to meet with a solid wall and a shocking sensation.
He pulled back with a sigh. Today was not going to be his lucky day. Only on one occasion, at the beginning of his servitude, had they not made the proper preparations for one such as himself. Many were felled. Chaos had ensued. But that mistake had not been repeated and he was not given another opportunity in over a years time to capitalize on his lord’s ignorance.
No, his powers would be confined. The magical glyphs set precisely to keep his dark exertions to just that of the sandy pits themselves. Seems the mountain lords and their paramours would be safe from the savage warlock. Another sculpted, hairless ape the mistresses could fawn themselves over before being forced upon their wealthy nobleman.
Vegard’s attention was pulled away from his self-deprecating thoughts as the door on the other side of the sand pit opened. Another slave was being ushered in. This one had a little more to say to the guards who were ushering him. He snatched one by the wrist as he was pushed forth and dragged the man with him. The other guard quickly sealed the entrance and left his fallen friend to fend for himself.
This slave was a might heavier than Vegard, probably outweighing him by near a hundred pounds. His arms were thick with muscle and hair. His head was freshly shaven and a branding left on his arm. Vegard assumed he was a tribal barbarian from some small clan on the western continent. One of those
nomadic beasts that roamed the outskirts of civilized society.
Welcome to civilization, Vegard thought.
The trapped guard made for his sheathed short sword. The only defense against a savagely large barbarian from the tundras. But the agility of the large one could not be underestimated. The barbarian tackled the guard to the ground before forged weapons could be brought to bear. His body buried the lithe guard underneath his bulk. The meaty sounds of heavy punches echoed from under the mound of flesh causing all the servants and crew members to stop their work and watch in horror as one of their own was beaten mercilessly.
Vegard could not care any less about the fate of some random guard. None of Jogen’s men had been particularly kind to the warlock since his start of servitude. Why should he care if one of these apathetic bastards spilled their blood in the pits? Served them right.
The actual worry on Vegard’s mind was being trapped in a confined space, with a wild barbarian, who was about to have access to the only weapon around.
As if the titan had heard Vegard’s thoughts, the beast lifted himself up from his tenderized prisoner, pulled the blade free from its owner’s scabbard and brutally shoved its pointed end down into the man’s throat.
The guard convulsed violently. The barbarian was feeding inch after cold inch of solid steel down into the chest cavity of his prey. Blood leaked freely down the sides of the guard’s neck and yet the wild man did not stop until the guard of the weapon pressed firmly against the apple of the man’s neck.
Servant’s gasped. Guards were shouting frantically at the edges of the domed cage, yet none made any move to enter. They all just watched as their fellow heaved, and shook. Blood burped up, spraying the barbarian in his rabid face, until a knowing, merciful stillness finally crept in.
The barbarian grunted, shaking the gore from his face. He shoved the corpse from his newly acquired weapon as if shaking it free from tangled weeds before turning his mass and ferocious glare towards the only other fleshy target around.
Vegard.
Vegard knew he was at a physical disadvantage as the barbarian slowly stalked forth, his blood stained sword held confidently by his side.
“Think we’ve had enough of a show!” Vegard yelled to the gawking servants outside of the pits. “Anyone have a mind to end this?” He crouched away slowly, not wanting to provoke the giant northman. He consciously knew that no one would come to his aid. The disfigured corpse of the guard was more than enough incentive to keep any heroes at bay…especially when it came to the wellbeing of a mere slave. He was on his own.
The crazed barbarian yelped with laughter. The sort of murderous glee that came from a detained wild animal set free.
“So be it.” Vegard muttered with a tone of finality. He locked eyes with the enormous man and allowed the connection to be felt. Immediately the well of energy within the barbarian was made present to the warlock. Vegard’s eyes darkened to pools of tar as they penetrated instantaneously into the defenseless victim before him.
The barbarian froze in place. A shudder ran through his body as an unfamiliar force burrowed its way within him.
Vegard felt a wave of consciousness, not his own, wash over him. He leeched at it, drawing from the source its strength, vitality, understanding—power. He could feel it already coursing through him, his finger tips tingling and the aches and pains from his countless days of fighting draining away in a matter of moments.
It was a breath of fresh air. Several nights sleep in mere moments and a vigor like a sorcerer’s tonic pumping through his veins.
Now that he had something to work with, Vegard intended to do the real damage. His dark eyes looked upon the prone barbarian with the indifference of a clear night sky. His power swarmed within the titan, fishing around his most inner, secluded thoughts.
Flashing images danced before Vegard. Shadows of memories, silhouetted secrets, an open buffet of this tundra man’s most personal, tightly kept thoughts and emotions.
Vegard picked around at his leisure. It had been so long since he’d openly used his dark arts. He wanted to take his time, stretch his soul out.
What’s this? The warlock’s interest peaked as a faint memory fell before him. A large brooding fatherly figure beating a young boy. The hand coming down with the fury of a war-axe. Every blow leaving behind glowing pain, humiliation, and a severe lesson—become strong or be left behind.
You’re this boy—ain’t ya? Vegard teased as he focused on this particular line of memories. He pushed the accomplishments aside. No need to allow victories or sexual accomplishments bolster this wild savage. Vegard wanted to feast only on the pain, the torment. He wanted to fester that scar back to the open wound it needed to be. The kind of pain that brawn and muscle had no defense for. He pressed forward.
Further down this path Vegard saw more of the young warrior’s life at play. The desperate need for tiny legs to match the strides of the giants around him. The brutality of life on the tundra. The cold nights. The colder eyes. The expectations of masculinity hefted on every one of the little ones in the tribe. The weight of survival laid upon the backs of children. Will they be accepted or will they be left to die in the frozen landscape?
“Yef’Er.” Vegard’s lips uttered. A whispered name pulled from the shaking barbarian. The man’s eyes darted open. They were ringed with tears, red and swollen. His vulnerability was all but apparent as he knelt within the sand pit. His thick muscles heaving and matted in dirt and sweat.
The beast grunted once more and pushed himself up from his beggars position. He used the bloody sword as a crutch to steady himself on unstable feet. There he began to stumble forward as if drunk. The sword clattered along keeping the barbarian elevated. Vegard could feel the frantic murderous intent within his captured pet. The man was desperate to end this reliving of memories long buried. He shook his head as if to dislodge the pain from his skull. But the warlock held steady, his hands out in the air, manipulating the soul energy he was draining from the barbarian while keeping the repressed images alive and vibrant.
As the man was just a foot away from the warlock he brought the sword to bear. He held it high and meant to bring it crashing down on Vegard’s head. To stop the constant stream of the past from haunting him any longer.
“Yef’Er.” Vegard said once more, though his voice was no longer his own. The tone took on one that the barbarian had not heard for many winters. A voice long abandoned as old age took all those of his clan and left to feed the crows.
It was the voice of Yef’Er’s father.
Yef’Er brought the sword down but Vegard batted the weak attempt with ease. The sword fell to the sand next to the barbarian as once more the giant man fell to his knees. Vegard placed one hand on the ‘child’s’ forehead.
“You disappoint me, Yef’Er.” The father’s voice resonating from the warlocks lips.
“Papa!” Yef’Er was a boy once more. A sniveling child not fit to be part of the clan. “I can become stronger, papa. I promise!”
“It is too late for that.” Vegard continued. “I have others that will carry my name. You are tainted seed. Ya have been from the start.”
Yef’Er’s shoulders dropped, he cried openly, big muscled shoulders trembling.
“Free me, son, from my disappointment.”
Yef’Er looked down at the blade by his side. He grasped it tightly and brought it up to his own neck. The blade wavered in the man’s hands. The sword seemingly having tripled in weight. The barbarian was weakening with each passing second the warlock drained from his life source.
“It’s the only way.” The father said, patting his son once more before taking a step back.
The tip of the sword met the nape of Yef’Er’s neck. With one easy thrust the humiliation of a lifetime of failures would disappear.
“Gods, forgive me!” Yef’Er wailed. With that last cry his eyes rolled and teetered and the man passed out, collapsing heavily to the side, sword
skittering harmlessly away.
“Ugh.” Vegard sighed. “So close.” His eyes were steaming with energy. The pupils billowing with the stolen life-force of the barbarian.
Before the disappointment could lapse a bag was tossed over Vegard’s head and he was quickly tackled to the pit floor. Armored guard after armored guard piled upon the warlock. Even with Vegard’s renewed and enhanced strength he had trouble fighting off so many opponents.
One guard was pitched to the side, slamming against the solid iron bars, just to be replaced by two more. The men by his legs were launched backwards with kicks like that from a horse.
But the bag was making him dizzy. He could feel the close proximity of runic power muffling his newly acquired strength.
“Get off me, ya bastards!” Vegard yelled. His screams stifled by the hemp bag and the pit sand his face was being roughly pressed into.
“That’s quite enough!” Came a deep voice from outside the cell. Vegard recognized the voice. It belonged to Jogen Herald, his master and lord of the Heraldson house. “Take him to the Sacellum.” Jogen said. “Elder Uretta will be happy to wash away his sins.”
Well, shit. My fun is always so short lived.
CHAPTER TWO
A Bath and a Visit
Vegard’s head was forced into the murky pool of water. Two leather clad guards held him steady at the shoulders and back of the head. His knees scraped on rough stone. They would yank him up from the well, Uretta would chant, dashing his face with the smokey branches of a spruce tree before his head was dunked back in the blessed water.
The Sacellum was a small circular, roofless building at the edge of Dunesmir. A place for prayer. A place of penance. The well, a small pool of water in the middle of the structure, was scented with mountainous flowers and goat’s blood—said to drain the magical energies from a man. Vegard hadn’t had a ‘sin bath’ for months. He’d been such a good boy.
At the intervals in which he could gasp for air in the frigid temple his ears picked up the clatter of the many dangling glyphs fastened into mesh nets and decorating the walls. As long as he had spiritual energy in him he couldn’t concentrate amongst the carved tablets. His head was fogged like he’d drank too much wine too fast. Or was that the repeated dunking in this disgusting priest broth? He couldn’t be sure.
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 1
