“The fire is low,” one Cullach grumbled. “Artes! Get off your hide and grab some wood.”
“I got it last time, Puragna. Why can't someone else get it?”
“Because I commanded you. Now do it, or it may be your corpse feeding the flames next.”
“Ugh!” Artes growled, rising up and stomping his feet. “Can’t even enjoy a fresh elk’s blood.” He scurried to the wood, grabbed a colossal-sized worth, his folded arms clinging the wood against his body, and then he dumped the pieces into the fire. “There, satisfied?”
Then, the fire began cracking and sparking excessively while thick black smoke filled the room in a matter of seconds, the fumes irritating their lungs.
“You imbecile!” Puragna shouted. “What did you do, throw on diseased waterlogged wood?”
“It was dry. I’m telling you it was dry!”
“Now we have to clear out of this cursed place.”
“Wait, it’ll pass. See? It’s lifting this very moment.” Artes was right…The smoke rose up and disappeared as if it’d never been there. While it seemed strange, the Cullach did not seem to think much of it—they were only pleased to get their room back.
“Watch what you put on next time, and give me that damn blood you’re drinking.” Puragna grabbed the goblet out of his hands, swallowed it all, then threw poor Artes' cup into the fire.
By the look in his eyes, Artes nearly spoke out in protest—until Puragna stepped hard toward him. “You want to say something?” he dared.
Apparently, Artes did not. Puragna looked much bigger and stronger, a better fighter also, so Artes simply settled back to his place around the fire, bottling up his anger.
“That’s what I thought.” Puragna laughed.
Soon, they all settled down and restarted their conversations.
“I can’t believe the Draconians failed in retrieving the crystal,” Artes noted. “What kind of hired bandits are they? If it were up to our race, like it was in the ancient days, we would have gotten the job done. Now the Light is sure to have the crystal. Darn lizard folk.”
“You fool,” Puragna retorted. “There’s no way a human could have survived that fall. Not from that range. Besides, I’m sure an arrow of mine struck him in the gut.”
“Then where’s the Water Crystal? We searched that river for miles and found nothing. No dead body, no crystal!”
“We’ll find it.”
“I should hope so, because Lord Abaddon is coming to Asgoth to meet with King Tanarokai. We will all burn if he discovers our failure.”
“Have any of you heard what they’re saying about Gorth's death?” another asked.
“Gorth?” Artes grunted. “Why, he was one of the Draconians killed by the thieves, right?”
“Draconian Commander. And no thief killed him. They say his body was found with a cauterized wound across his chest having red crystal-like ashes in it. The kind of ashes left behind from the fire of a—Nasharin.”
“Nasharin?” Puragna blurted out. “Ha! Such ridiculous tales—the Nasharin race doesn’t exist anymore. You should know that.”
“Others, even Sorcerer Morgh, reported seeing one of the 'thieves' transform into some type of shining green entity. With a flash of his eyes, he caused the ground to break apart to benefit their escape. So, there you have it. It isn’t just me saying these things. And I tell you, almost twenty years ago, when we aided the Northern Clan in the taking of Loreladia, I was in a platoon riding to Asgoth when we overheard explosions coming from the town of Arman, the place where they were sacrificing that...child to the gods…” Artes seemed to be remembering that night as he paused.
The other Cullach sat still around the fire as they listened.
“…As our gazes shifted in that direction, we witnessed strange blue lights illuminating the sky above the town. In haste, we rode there and found the desolation someone had left. Every Cullach had been slain—even the great commander Deloth. Soldiers were found cut in half, or disintegrated—more than likely, as there were two great mounds of smoldering blue ash, probably the work of Wizard weaponry, something Nasharins have been known to use. Sections of the ground were unearthed; bodies crushed under the rocks; and still, many others had been torn to shreds—even the elite, by what looked like the work of wolves. The entire place smelled of death, destruction, and fear.”
“I remember the slaughter. So what?” Puragna scoffed, “The hands of a few dozen Lycans engaged in sorcery could have done it. Does that not make a better explanation than your Nasharin theory?”
“Fool! Not only have Lycans disappeared, no Werewolf would’ve been so foolish to steal the 'sacrifice' from Abaddon's minions. Remember? It smells of Nasharin. Think about it—what other race could’ve landed such devastation upon the great Cullach commander Deloth and the elite fighting Northern Cullach? Surely, not common men. The Loreladian citizens were driven away earlier that day. Not the Lycans either. Rather, these are signs of Nasharin powers. Legend says they’re ghosts who walk the night, striking, killing—disappearing as if never there. I tell you, the Nasharins are a force not to be reckoned with!”
“You’re a disgrace for a Cullach,” yelled Puragna. “I should gut you myself. Who do you fear, the Demon Lord from the Underworld, or some half-wizard/half-man creature—”
“Nasharins are far more than simply ‘half-wizard/half-man’ creatures, you fool. Somehow, the mere joining of those two beings, fused together, created an entity of terrible power even godlike, in a sense. Do you not understand that was why they were so feared by even the Light? Know your history!”
Setting a hand on the handle of his knife, Puragna growled, “You’re five seconds away from making history. Shut this nonsense! Even if Nasharins still exist, our master will crush them like mere insects. In fact, I desire to see one for myself, right here and now, so I can drive my sword through his body and cut him into pieces.”
They laughed, knocking their mugs together in cheers, spilling some of the alcohol onto the fire, and the flames rose up for a few seconds. Then, their smiling stopped and fear struck them still. For when the flames rose and illuminated the shadows of the room, the Cullach saw five mysterious figures sitting around them, as if they’d been there all this time, quietly listening—waiting to strike.
“Greetings,” came a voice from the dark, smooth and haughty—Darshun's! Suddenly, he transformed and ignited his sword into a blazing red inferno, pausing a brief moment to purposely frighten the heathens.
The Cullach clustered for their weapons, frantically knocking into one another.
Darshun lopped off Puragna's head, stabbed Artes in the chest, side-stepped an attacker with a knife and then quickly spin kicked him in the face, breaking his neck, and walloped off another head just as the Cullach attempted to retreat. Though, Darshun felt a little bad killing this one, for if he was not mistaken, he was the Cullach who’d held respect for the Nasharin race, or at least feared it.
Mirabel, Seth, Nayland and Captain Alaric slew the rest of the little horde in no time flat, quickly and efficiently, their blades were drenched in black blood.
“That was fairly easy,” Darshun boasted with a smile.
Staring down at the corpses beside Darshun’s feet, then meeting his gaze, Nayland observed, “Transforming yourself against a much weaker enemy was not necessary.”
“Strength wasn’t the point. Rather, fear.”
“And you’re just so fearful, Darshun.”
“Mind your business, Nayland. Besides, you’re no Nasharin. What would you know about Transformation anyway?” he asked descending back to his normal state. “...well?”
Nayland didn’t answer and turned away.
Darshun smirked. “That’s what I gathered.”
In a seeming attempt to ignore his son's ongoing dispute with the new comer, Mirabel stepped toward Alaric. “Signal the men to come. It is time.”
They continued up the tunnel, and it began shifting right. Every twenty feet or so, lanterns were burning on e
ither side, mounted onto the rocks. Silently they moved. The ascent upward steep, the air heavy and when they were about halfway through, a cold wind blew against them, carrying a foul smell.
“I remember this stench,” Darshun complained. “When the Cullach attacked me while I climbed down the great tree of Azarius. It’s an outer ledge to the mountain. But if that’s as far as this tunnel goes? Then we’ve ventured in here for nothing!”
“No,” Olchemy countered. “This is the way. I’m sure of it. Wait, listen!”
Beyond a wall of rock, they heard loud crashing footsteps approaching. The section of mountain beneath their feet trembled. Soon, the footsteps were just between them and the wall–then they stopped. Promptly, the wall began to open like a door and a large shadow emerged.
Olchemy held out his staff, stretching his arm back toward the others in the group—and they all froze.
The creature stepped through the passageway. It carried putrid gray skin, thick long arms, clawed-hands, muscular legs ending in three-toed feet, and an ugly wrinkled face with crimson eyes…A Mountain Troll. Towering about twelve feet high as it sniffed, grunted and peered down the tunnel while staring for a good two or three minutes. It studied the very tunnel Olchemy and the others just walked along.
The passageway closed. The Troll turned around and ventured up the tunnel where the wind blew in.
Once it left, Olchemy pulled back his staff, and the others almost fell over.
“What happened?” Darshun asked as he pulled for a breath. “I—I couldn’t move.”
“Forgive me, but I placed us under an illusion spell, making us appear as just another section of stone to that Troll,” Olchemy explained. Stepping forward, he ran his hands along the section of rock which just opened and closed, sliding his fingers in each narrow crack, looking for—something. “This is a type of door, and our path lies beyond it.”
“Great, how are we supposed to get through?” Nayland asked, irritation flooding his tone.
“We can’t blast through it.” Darshun shook his head. “The Cullach will hear us. But how did that Troll get through—?”
“I recall!” Olchemy exclaimed. “The lair of Azarius. In it, there are levers that open many sections to the mountain. The lair is next to the outer ledge, up there!”
“Well then, let’s kill some Cullach.” Darshun seemed eager.
“There’re more than just Cullach,” Mirabel replied. “There are Dark Elves possessing Sythra and now a Mountain Troll.”
Sythra? Darshun remembered his encounter with Sythra. The demonic elemental stone carved into arrowheads, set to explode upon impact, releasing an unnatural fire, with demonic spirits living in the flames. Interesting.
“We may not have to kill them,” Olchemy advised. “Cullach and Dark Elves are fond of the Debach plant. If it’s not too late, perhaps they will smoke some to our advantage. Come and see what I mean. But only a few of us should go.”
“I will stay with the men,” Nayland stated. “And…Wizard…” His glare could’ve been hot enough to melt the sun, “...never place another spell on me again. I need no one’s help.”
“As you wish,” Olchemy answered, mundanely.
“But he was only hiding us from the Troll,” Darshun defended. “Shouldn't you be grateful?”
“I can avoid being seen on my own. Now I suggest you go before they hear us bickering.”
This Nayland is beginning to ride my patience, Darshun thought.
Olchemy, Mirabel, Seth and Darshun reached the end of the tunnel and remained in shadow. It must’ve been fellowship night, for upon the outer ledge, a few Cullach, Dark Elves and the Mountain Troll were sitting around a fire.
“I see no lair,” Darshun whispered.
“It’s beyond a section of this wall. And there should be a lever to open the way. Somehow, I must find it.”
Unexpectedly, a Cullach rose up and started coming toward them. His light-fitted armor of charcoal-colored spiked shoulder pauldrons, a deep purple leather chest plate, a smoky gray skirt of mail, and rusty greaves spiked at the knees, added to his muscular features…it gave him a rather fierce look.
Darshun went to draw, but Olchemy grabbed his wrist. “Remain in your place,” he whispered, seeing the Cullach held no weapon nor showed alarm on his face. He must be coming over for something else. Oblivious to the four stooped low in the dark, he stuck his hand into a hole upon the mountain rock, and there was a clicking noise. Part of the rock swung open like a door and the Cullach entered through it.
“A blessing bestowed,” Olchemy cheered low. “All right, listen up. Seth, Darshun, stay here. Mirabel and I will go in once he exits. Until our return, simply remain where you are.”
The Cullach came out carrying a large wooden barrel or bucket, stationed tight against his chest. He stopped at the exit, clenched the barrel tighter with one hand and with the other, he let go, reaching into the hole once again, to click the lever. The stone door began to shut.
“Now’s our chance,” Olchemy whispered. Through the shadows, they stealthily crept in behind the Cullach’s back, never making a sound or an out-of-place movement. The doorway sealed.
“Here,” the Cullach grunted, dropping the barrel on the ground by the others. Tearing off the top like a bunch of ravaged animals, they dunked their mugs in it and gulped down the heavy brown liquor in seconds.
Seth and Darshun could smell the strength of the alcohol from where they hid; it nearly became overpowering, stronger than any brew or whiskey Captain Alaric had ever made.
“Wait, where is the Debach?” asked another.
“Forgot it.”
“What are you doing standing there? Go and fetch, Cullach,” a Dark Elf ordered, raising his lips in a grin.
Growling, the angry Cullach reached for his knife. “I ought to gut you where you sit, wretched elf. You only exist out here because of the Sythra. But when the last element disappears, your skull is mine for the crushing.”
Yawning, the Elf countered, “The sooner the babbling ends the sooner we can smoke.”
Any other time and his comrades may have stuck up for him, but the craving to get high was far too tempting. Cullach and Dark Elves were not exactly known for working well together. Both were overly selfish and extremely territorial. But the large quantity of Sythra crystals these few gathered from time to time, keeping secret the location, allowed them access alongside the Cullach of Arundel Mountain.
While the Cullach collected the fire power, the little clan of Dark Elves were allowed everything else the plentiful mountain provided, even a claim on some of the magical wood from the great tree Merlin, if any could ever figure a way to chop it down.
Frustrated, the Cullach stormed back into the secret room, mumbling cursed words about his companions.
“Oh no,” Darshun whispered. “He's coming back. Father and Olchemy are still inside.”
“Worry not,” Seth soothed. “Strangely, things are working out as planned.”
In and out like the wind, the grumpy Cullach returned with two brown sacks. Seemed he’d become the ‘fetcher for the night’. Taking his seat around the fire, he reached into one sack and took out the Debach. The plant looked like old dry grass and gave off strange, powerful smells, similar to tobacco, yet still very different. Then, he took a large black-red leaf out of the other sack. “I’ll show you fools how to roll.” He crushed and ground the weeds in his smoky gray palms and then rolled them up into the leaf, sealing it with the sticky drippings of the weeds themselves. He lit one side of the cigar-like stick in the fire, set the other end to his lips and deeply inhaled, holding the smoke in for a good ten to fifteen seconds, then released, blowing a thick layer of smoke from his mouth.
“Pass it here,” his adversary of-an-elf commanded.
Ignoring his request, the Cullach purposely passed it to a brother on his right, earning a cold glare from the Elf. Though in the end, it didn’t matter, because they all got their turn—all except the Troll. He did not
want any.
No sooner had they smoked it, when something odd began to occur.
“Now that’s some fine Debach weed.”
“What did you call me? A fool born from Elf seed?”
“I didn’t say that. How dare you accuse me! You want a fight?”
“What? I’m a coward who bows to the Light?!” The offended Cullach stood up, reached over the fire, grabbed his comrade’s head, and pushed it into the flames, holding it against the burning coals.
His comrade screamed in agony but couldn’t break his hold, so he pulled out a knife and cut the other’s hand off.
He fell onto the ground, grasping his bloody wrist.
Then, the Cullach with the blacken face jumped over the fire and stabbed the other in the chest. By accident, he’d knocked over the wooden barrel of liquor.
“Imbeciles!” a Dark Elf shouted, “Go and get another bucket.”
“What?” shouted the ‘fetcher for the night’ Cullach. “You drank all the buckets?” With alluring expression of pleasure, he took out his sword and chopped off the Dark Elf’s head—the same individual who’d mouthed off to him earlier that night.
However, it was to no avail…for another Elf, now driven to rage, grabbed something from his belt, rolled back a few feet, took up his bow and launched what must have been a Sythra arrow into his chest, blowing the ‘poor’ Cullach to pieces.
The bright flash blinded the others temporarily, setting off a massive rage toward each other and they all began to quarrel.
“What’s—going on?” Darshun asked with wide eyes.
“It’s delusional powder,” Seth muttered with a chuckle. “Another one of Olchemy’s tricks, common for the Wizard folk. It mixes up words to taunt and increases anger. He sprinkled some onto the Debach weeds. Ha! They will kill each other and save us the work. Relax and enjoy the show, lad.”
“You fools!” the Mountain Troll roared, sending ripples through the air. “You’re all drugged!” Losing patience, he grabbed hold of two Cullach from the back of their necks, lifted them into the air—their little legs wiggling—and smashed their heads together, crushing them like melons. The blood and brains gushing out were disgusting.
Prophecy Of The Guardian (Guardian Series Book 1) Page 17
