The Order of the Trident: Speculum (Eldarlands Book 2)

by Samuel Rikard

  “Krenin offer thanks.” He extended his hand toward one of the humans.

  Seeing the half-orc they sprang into action. The newcomers surrounded him, their weapons pinned against his throat quicker than he could react.

  Ravion approached the group, keeping his hands visible. “Whoa, whoa. I don’t know who you are, but if you kill him you’re going to have to kill the rest of us. And while we may not look like much, I assure you we’ve seen our fair share of battle. I urge you to ask yourself, is it really worth the loss of your men to make such enemies before you’ve had a chance to meet them?”

  “You talk like an elf.” One of the men stepped forward lowering his hood to expose long pointed ears. Stepping toward Ravion, he sniffed. “You talk like an elf. You smell like an elf, yet you don’t look like one. What are you doing here?”

  Ravion regarded the alfar, unsure what an elf was. Maybe his people existed here? Maybe they were called elves in this land? “My name is Ravion San… Sanson.” He recalled the death of his parents, stifling his tongue a bit. “I… My companions and I are from a distant land. Perhaps you could tell us where the nearest town is?”

  “Three humans and an orc traveling together? Distant land indeed.” The alfar approached the half-orc daring him to attack. “What’s wrong with him? He’s awful small. And what’s the matter with his skin?”

  “He’s a half-orc. Have you never seen one before?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Of course I’ve seen half-orcs. But this… This is no half-orc. Those unfortunate enough to be mutilated by the orcs rarely survive the birthing process. Those that do, wish they hadn’t. All orcs, whether half or full, are taken to Idenfal and enrolled in the army. This thing, while it looks like an orc, clearly can’t be. It’s far too small even for a half-blood and its skin is green.”

  Ravion stood puzzled at the alfar's statement. Orc skin was dependent on region, yet they were all about the same size, even a half-breed. “I don’t know how to respond to that. Judging by your tone, I’d say it best if he weren’t an orc. It sounds like they aren’t, by reputation, the most friendly of creatures. On the other hand he looks like a smaller version of every orc I’ve ever met, though not by much.”

  “You silly human, orcs are gray, not green. I can't say I've even seen a sickly orc that turned green.”

  Gareth shifted uncomfortably, tired of the questions. “If orcs are gray then I’ve got something wrong with my eye.”

  “Green orcs, gray orcs, does it really matter? Can you tell us how to get to the nearest town? We’ve come a long way and I’m sure you have more important things to do than question us.” Demetrix couldn’t help but interject, using the opportunity to lift one of the alfaren daggers. He quickly stuffed it beneath his bracer figuring they'd be unarmed in the near future.

  “That I can agree with, although you won’t be finding any city tonight. These woods are dangerous, particularly in the dark. You’ll be coming with us. If you can convince Gailon of your authenticity then perhaps you may be released. As for the question of your orc friend, he’s to be restrained and stripped of weapons. If he resists, we’ll kill him. If he attacks, we’ll kill him. If he offers anything other than complete obedience, we’ll—.”

  “Let me guess. You’ll kill him?” Demetrix smiled at the overly pompous alfar. It was no wonder why so many disliked them.

  “Exactly!”

  ***

  The area carried the scent of cooked meat and spice. The crackle of a fireplace echoed across the quiet room. Several men and women sat about dressed in a variety of clothing. Each one had a weapon nearby, at the ready if needed.

  Demetrix sat in one of the crude, wooden chairs watching the man before him. He had a superior demeanor, but carried himself equal to the others around him. What was more surprising was the lack of armor. These people clearly had a hard life. They were dressed as peasants and farmers. That rang one question in his mind. Who are they fighting?

  “Let me see if I’m understanding this correctly. You passed through a magical portal into this land. You have no knowledge of the orc armies, nor the shadow legion and their dark god. And to top it all off your plan is to locate and defeat this god, which you have no knowledge of? Am I missing anything?”

  “No, that pretty much sums it up.” Demetrix glanced around memorizing the layout.

  The human smirked. “Forgive my skepticism, but is it not possible you hit your head sometime in recent history? I mean, let’s say I believe your story. That would explain your choice of companions and your attire. But there’s the minor detail of magic. The term is not unknown to me, in fact I may be one of the few in this room that have seen it and lived to tell about it. But come on. A magic portal? If such a thing exists the sharliets would have been all over it long before your merry band stumbled upon it.”

  “I don’t know what a sharliet is, but I assure you every word I’ve spoken has been truth. I’ve no reason to lie at the moment. Although if magic is as rare as you claim, perhaps I can offer you enough insight to warrant a second thought.” He clapped his hands together, pulling at the fibers of the blue glow surrounding him. Watching them stretch and twist, the colors of the separated strands shifted. A faint green light formed between his hands. Pulling them further apart it grew brighter, forming a single column. Several branches sprouted from the sides, entwining around each other.

  The room grew silent, all eyes locked on the spectacle. The stench of worry radiated throughout, growing stronger each passing moment.

  “That’s enough!”

  Demetrix continued pulling, feeling the threads strain against his fingertips. It was nearly ready to serve its purpose.

  “I said, that’s enough!” The man nodded to the guards standing against the wall.

  The two men rushed forward, bringing the pommels of their swords down on the base of Demetrix's skull. He collapsed, the spell dissolving into the ether it’d sprung from.

  “Bind his hands and lock him with the others. Bring the tall one out.”

  They lifted his limp form and carried him from the room. A few moments later they returned escorting Ravion.

  “Please take a seat.” He gestured to the empty chair across from him.

  Ravion sat, looking around the room at the fear strung faces watching him.

  “I apologize for the manner in which your friend was returned. To prevent a similar outcome, I ask up front. Are you capable of using magic?”

  “Um… no. At least if I am, I’m unaware. I mean I've done some minor healing here and there, but that's not so much magic as it is an understanding of nature.”

  “Very well. I'll ask that you don't try any of that here. I warn you, if you deceive me, it’s not my hand you must fear. The agents of shadow can sense magic. It would lead them here and I doubt you and your friends are ready to combat an army all on your own. I only wish I was able to explain that to your friend before he tried to cast that spell.”

  “I wasn’t aware he was able to use magic. I’d never seen him do it. Though I’m sure little more than his pride was hurt.”

  “I hope so. It was not my intention to harm him. I simply could not allow him to continue. Anyway, on to business. My name is Gailon. I lead the third battalion of Elalon’s resistance. We may not seem like much, but I assure you this post has stood against all odds for over one hundred years. If I’m able to keep her that way it'll be time well spent. Would you be so kind as to give me your name? And perhaps explain to me what you were doing when my men found you?”

  Ravion studied his movements. His demeanor was relaxed, yet ready to jump into the fray at a moment's notice. This man was loved by his men, at least the few in the room. While it was clear he hid certain points of interest, he was an honorable man by all accounts and could prove a trustworthy ally. “My name is Ravion Sanson. I’d freely include my titles, but I fear their impact would be lost upon you. As for your question, my companions and I stumbled through a dark mirror that turned out to be some ki
nd of portal. We’d just arrived when we were attacked by those undead creatures. Your men showed themselves soon thereafter.”

  “Your friend gave a similar account, although he mentioned a book that led you to the portal. Do you by chance still have that book?”

  “Sadly, I don’t. I couldn’t find it once we came through. I can’t speak from knowledge, but if I had to guess there's a similar book here. What I read in the other one suggested it was an account of happenings in my land. It stands to reason there would be one for this land as well. But again, it’s just a guess.”

  “I see. I don't know whether to wish you luck or recommend you stand down. Any search for such an artifact would be in vain. Most go their entire lives without ever setting their sights on a book. They’ve been outlawed for as long as I can remember. In fact, most wouldn’t know what to do with it if they saw one. Learning to read isn’t exactly a high priority when the price of being caught is death.”

  “Unfortunately when one wants to fight, the ability to read and write can be an invaluable tool in the battle. It seems this land is much different than I’d initially thought. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about this world?”

  “You may.”

  “You mentioned armies and agents of shadow. With your resistance here would I be wrong in assuming this land is under some kind of siege?”

  “You seem to be a man of perception. Your assumptions have struck well. There are many myths surrounding how things got as bad as they are. Though I can’t say for certain things were ever any different. I don’t know of any who could. Even the eldest of elves would have difficulty recalling facts from that long ago. We've been at war against the shadow since before my birth. Truthfully, I don't know if there ever was a time we weren't at war. The northlands are ruled by the shadow. They're rumored to be seven nightkings, one over each northern province. Each one has their own order of sharliet. Not to mention the orcs that serve them. They revere some dark god claiming to have dominion over all of Irath. We in the south simply wish to live our lives away from their oppression. But they won’t have it. Every year they move a bit further south, claiming more of our lands for their own. Aside from a few pockets of resistance most of the realm has fallen into the shadow's control. I don't give a damn about some attention craving god locked away in the heavens, if such a place exist. It’s not the prospect of a god that threatens us on a daily basis. It’s those who believe that hinder us so. The resistance has been fortunate enough to keep the shadow from gaining a foothold this far south, but it’s a losing battle. If this outpost falls we could very well lose the war altogether. Most of the cities are ruled by the sharliets. As I said earlier, they have the ability to sense magic. No one knows how many sharliets there are, but one thing you should always remember if you encounter one, they’re never alone. In this region all the orcs come from Idenfal. They're a vicious lot, bred for war. They take humor in the torment of those weaker than themselves and have been the biggest obstacle we face, as we’re outnumbered nearly a thousand to one.”

  “What can you tell me about this Elalon you mentioned?”

  “Elalon is one of the wisest elves I’ve known. She single-handedly stood against the armies of shadow and freed the forest city of Adariel from the shadow’s hold. Once word of her deeds circulated every man, woman, and child willing to stand against the shadow flocked to her aid. It was then the third era was born.”

  “So you’re saying—” The sounding of horns echoing all around, interrupting him. The men and women lounging about the room jumped up, grabbing their weapons as quickly as possible.

  “Ravion, I appreciate you speaking with me. I would like to continue this, but it seems we’ve run out of time. I would appreciate if you would accompany my men back to your friends and await my word. Should you require weapons, they’re being kept in the room straight across from you.” Gailon drew a long, serrated sword. A pick-like spike protruded from the spine near the tip leaving the sharpened edge curved like that of an axe. Giving the command he rushed from the room, joining his men.

  Ravion made his way to the holding room, ignoring the two men behind him. Busting through the door he spotted Gareth standing near the far wall staring out the smoked window. One of the panes was busted out allowing him minimal sight into the cloaking night. Looking around he noticed Demetrix lying unconscious on a cloth-covered bench against the wall. He heard the door latch behind him, clicking into place. “Are you able to make out any details?”

  “Mere figures in the distance. I can see the glow of several torches. Hard to say how many are around them.”

  “Most likely orcs. I got a bit of history from the commander. Seems they’ve been in a state of war their entire lives.”

  “We should be right at home then.”

  Ravion walked over to his brother, giving him a light shake. “I’ve got a feeling this will be unlike anything we’ve ever faced.”

  Demetrix shot up, ripping the stolen dagger from its hiding spot. “That’s a good way to get stabbed.”

  “I trust your skill. You would have confirmed your target before striking. Good job concealing that blade by the way.”

  “Sounds like… marching? Why does it sound like marching?” Demetrix glanced around the room regaining his bearings.

  “We’re under attack. We need to get out of here. This isn’t our fight.” Gareth broke another section of the glass hoping it would allow a clearer view. “Yep, definitely orcs, though they're either too close, as in within archer range, or they're larger than the ones we're used to.”

  Ravion's nose wrinkled at the statement. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

  “You forgot, the harder they hit.” Gareth chuckled.

  “Agreed. Any idea where they stashed Krenin?” Demetrix stood and approached the door. Pulling the handle, the door wouldn’t budge. “Well, no surprise here. They’ve locked us in.”

  ***

  The dull pitch of horns echoed off the towering trees and ruined buildings. The flicker of torches blazed in the unnatural darkness, shyly illuminating their bearers. If it hadn’t been for the number they wouldn’t have had any effect at all.

  Rezerik looked from side to side inspecting the formation of orcs awaiting his command. Had they not been bred to fear his kind they would impose a mighty fear of their own. It wasn’t so much the thick armor covering them or the jagged weapons that made them frightening. It was the mutilated flesh beneath that did the trick. Scarred from a lifetime of victories, each one was branded or cut as a way to identify status among the brutes. Their charcoal gray skin served as a resume that would travel with them regardless of their destination. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him.

  One of the sharliets stepped toward the dark horseman and lowered his hood revealing the pale, white skin beneath. “Dark One, we’ve confirmed it’s a resistance stronghold. The first squadron has engaged them. The cowards have fallen back into their barricades.”

  Rezerik stared down at the intimidated man, taking in the stench of his cowardice. It was a smell unlike any other, but it told him more than enough about the young sharliet. “Good. Send the entire fourth brigade as reinforcement. I need them distracted while I take what I came for.”

  “As you wish, My Lord.” He threw his hood overhead and turned to disappear back into the darkness.

  ***

  Demetrix stepped back, readying the dagger to strike fast and hard if needed. The door clicked then opened wide revealing Gailon.

  “We can’t hold them off any longer. If you’re going to leave here, you have to go now.” The human commander stepped aside and opened the door across the hall. “All of your belongings are in here. Get what you need and I’ll lead you to your friend.”

  They rushed into the room and locating their effects. Quickly securing them they followed after Gailon, hearing the sounds of battle closer than ever. The corridors wrapped around, forming a maze in the large keep. They passed through a narrow sta
irwell lined with stone and mortar. The bottom was sealed by a reinforced wooden door.

  Several brass keys jingled from a large ring in Gailon’s hand. He fumbled through them, selecting the correct one. He pressed it into the lock and turned. The door clicked and sprang open. The dank smell of mildew and stagnant air assaulted them. Stepping into the damp dungeon floor, the chill of the underground soaked to their bones reminding them of long forgotten pains.

  “Your friend is this way.” Gailon gestured toward the iron cells lining the stone wall.

  Following their guide they rounded the corner and spotted Krenin shackled in the center of one of the small cells. He hung limp, his arms stretched overhead by two thick chains securing him to the upper runs of the cage. He was stripped of everything save his breeches. They were held in place only by his muscular hips. He bore several lashes across his back and shoulders, each one coated in layers of dried blood. His bare feet were outstretched, the tips of his toes narrowly touching the cold, stone floor, due only to his collapsed state.

  Gareth rushed toward the cell, pulling at the door. Turning toward Gailon he found anger inside him, begging to be unleashed. “Open it!”

  The human fumbled with the key, finding the correct one. Unlocking the cell, he stepped aside, pulling the door with him. Krenin peeked through his heavy, swollen lids, spotting his brothers. He tried to pull himself upright, but the chains sapped him of strength. He couldn’t lift his head, let alone his entire body.