The Nemedian Trilogy: Book 02 - The Dragon's Cup

by Jake Adler

  When Ethan had found the talisman, the soul of his dead ancestor had finally passed onto the afterlife. Ethan felt his eyes sting at the realisation of the fate that she had been forced to endure for so long. He wondered if such an ending could also befall him and Alexon sensed his turmoil and stated that unlike his ancestor, Ethan had the protection of a spirit ring that would prevent such a similar fate from happening.

  Now that Ethan and Talina were protected from the powers of the curse, they could continue on their request to find one of the remaining two great treasures on Earth. Alexon did not know which treasure they would need, but he was sure that Talina’s ability to see magical trails along with the texts given to her by Master Bedwyr would provide sufficient guidance.

  “What are you doing in there?” Talina asked as she tapped upon the door.

  “I’m coming out.” Ethan replied as he sensed that Alexon had finished.

  He gingerly rose to his feet and ran his hands through his short, dark hair then unlocked the bathroom door. Talina stood before him, her large reddish-brown eyes staring at him with an expression of nervous curiosity.

  “There are a few things that I need to tell you,” he said as realised that his mind was now clear. The danger had now passed and he decided almost immediately that he had to tell her everything.

  Talina’s eyes nodded as she squinted at the place where the talisman lay hidden underneath his shirt, “I’m glad that you are going to tell me why I feel so relieved that you are wearing that thing.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The clouds began to thicken as a chill wind threatened another unpleasant evening underneath a cold, damp sky. For the past three days the companions had been wading through the swamp waters that were coated in a thick layer of green slime. It was the Dwarves who suffered the most, as their shorter statures meant that they were perpetually chest deep inside it.

  “How much longer must we endure this?” Gizurr growled at no one in particular, “Most days I can’t feel my nipples, let alone my feet.”

  He muttered a string of obscenities as he glared at the dark waters as they climbed atop another knoll to set up camp for the night. The group remained silent as they knew that the Dwarf was already aware that they would be entering the Deevin Wilds the following morning. As usual, Gizurr was venting his frustrations and within moments he had happily settled down upon the mound of vegetation with a sheepskin bag of ale.

  “Can you sense anything?” Jetzan asked Lady Cillina as he jerked his head towards the leather bag that she carried that held the statue of the High Dragon.

  “Yes,” she replied and then her eyes suddenly twinkled with mischief, “it feels very cold but I always make sure to keep it away from my nipples.”

  Ragni snorted and Gizurr coughed out a mouthful of ale as he blinked at her in surprise. With the mood considerably lightened, they settled themselves upon their damp travelling mattresses. The night passed uneventfully and they arose early, keen to escape from the festering gloom that surrounded them and had they struck camp as soon as the first rays of the winter sun began to peek through the rolling grey clouds. Just before noon, they finally left the swamp and entered the Deevin Wilds. As they mounted their horses, they saw rolling grasslands stretched out ahead of them that were interspersed with large copses of tall trees and heavily spiked shrubbery. Although damp, the ground was firm and a faint winter sun caressed their faces.

  Axcil had instructed the others on how to behave when they crossed paths with races from the Northern clans. Although it was clear following the battle for Takrak that they had allied themselves with the demons, their culture decreed civility to outsiders unless one of their many social protocols or laws was broken. Axcil had learned of their ways from his father and this knowledge would be critical to their survival as they travelled through the more civilised regions of the North East. However, there remained the open problem of the largely lawless territories to the North and North West which were filled with bandits and slavers who had no such sense of propriety.

  During the summer months, when the days were long and the nights warm, Axcil would exchange letters with his oldest friend. For the past ten years, Folki had lived and worked at a crossroads known as ‘The Troll’s Pocket’. Its exact location was known by only a handful of black market traders and they kept details on how to find it a closely guarded secret. Each year, Axcil was charged an extortionate sum of money to have his letters ferried amongst their cargo of weapons and alcohol, which they traded for rare jewels and precious metals that were mined from the Roran mountains. He suspected that they travelled by air but the how they achieved this feat remained a mystery. He often struggled with his conscience in dealing with such people but knew that he had no choice in this matter if he wanted to remain in contact with his friend.

  Axcil felt a pang of sadness at the memory of his father who he had lost over twenty years ago. His human mother had died giving birth to him and his father was his only family before he met Folki, whom he now considered to be a blood brother. The exact circumstances of his father’s passing were unknown to him but he remembered his feelings of absolute desolation when he had learned of his death. As a frightened child who was now all alone in the world, he had abandoned the small hamlet, whose name he could no longer remember and had roamed the lands aimlessly for weeks while he begged passers-by for food. He had wandered far, instinctively turning South towards the warmer climes until he had reached the outskirts of Takrak. Now almost starving, he sat in misery upon a nameless dirt road, a wretched creature that was covered in mud and filth. A Dwarven soldier from a patrol unit had taken pity upon him and he had been taken to one of the city’s orphanages.

  It was there that he had met Folki. Like him, Folki was different to the other children in the orphanage and they had immediately become firm friends. Each night, they would escape the orphanage together, as they explored the streets of the city and used their wits to supplement their meagre food rations and to also earn a few coins. But as time passed, Folki became increasingly embittered at his treatment from the people inside the city. He suffered more greatly than Axcil due to the stark differences in his physiology as a full-blooded Goblin. He yearned for the familiarity and acceptance of his own kind and in time, he left.

  Axcil took a different path. He chose to join the Dwarven Light Infantry in an attempt to gain acceptance and escape the pending homelessness that he faced when he turned of age. However, their bond of friendship had remained as strong as ever and they promised one another that they would keep in touch. In that first year, Axcil received a letter addressed to his barracks from his friend that included instructions on how they could exchange letters. In those first few years, Folki wrote to him each summer about his struggle to gain acceptance from his people but ten years ago things had changed and he had established a thriving business and even married.

  “Thor’s Blood!” Gizurr growled as he slapped his own face.

  “That must have hurt,” Jetzan said as he moved his horse in closer to have a look at the Dwarf’s cheek, “I just saw one of those things and I could swear that it had fur.”

  At the sound of Gizurr’s yell, Axcil returned his thoughts to the present, “You’ve probably been bitten by a Blood Fly. They are common around these parts and lie dormant in the earth until they sense body heat then rise up and take a quick meal before settling back down again.” He saw the Dwarf’s eyes widen in alarm, “Don’t worry, they usually nest in small groups and are basically harmless.”

  “Harmless?” Gizurr spat as he rubbed the sore spot on his face.

  “We can get some ointment at the trading outpost that will keep them at bay,” Axcil stifled a laugh as he saw Gizurr attempt to lick his own face.

  They struck up a rapid pace and cantered for several hours across the grasslands. As the evening drew to a close, the ground began to show signs of great disturbance. Deep gouges scarred the earth that had been made by the passage of many hooved animals, wagons and
other tracks that were of an unidentifiable origin. The tracks were old, possibly made several weeks ago, but the sheer number that had passed by had left a deep imprint upon the land. The companions momentarily halted their horses as they glanced nervously at one another as they saw that the tracks were headed directly Southwest towards the lands of the Dwarves and humans.

  Axcil was the first to nudge his horse forward and the others swiftly followed. The light was fading fast and they had not yet crossed paths with a local to be able to ask for directions to ‘The Troll’s Pocket’. They decided to set up camp for the night inside one of the larger copses of trees and bushes that were littered across the Deevin Wilds. After a rather sombre night of rest underneath a rustling canopy of green they took a brief breakfast of dried beef and flat bread before setting out again.

  After a few hours of steady travel they came across a well-trodden dirt path and followed it until they reached a crossroads. Axcil smiled when he saw a signpost that stood over twenty feet in height that had listed directions in all the three languages of the clans, Orcish, Troll and Goblin. Although his understanding of Orcish was very basic, he knew the words for ‘Troll’ and ‘Pocket’ and the larger road that led directly North East signposted it as being a mere six miles away. Soon after, they came across the first signs of habitation with a series of small holdings that could be clearly discerned in the distance. As they travelled further along the road they soon saw a busy main thoroughfare ahead that was filled with shops and market stalls that bustled with activity. Trolls, Goblins, Orcs and to their surprise, a handful of humans bustled along its busy streets as the noise of street vendors plying their wares filled the air. Apart from the occasional glance of curiosity in their general direction, they were ignored but Axcil knew better than to view this behaviour as harmless.

  “Avert your eyes and remain silent here until I return,” Axcil said as his eyes searched the faces of each of the companions in turn to ensure that they had understood his command. The group nodded at him in silence.

  Axcil realised that what would happened next few would decide if they lived or died. If their presence was rejected by the leader of the trading outpost then they would be swiftly attacked and killed. He dismounted from his horse and handed its reins to Jetzan. Ellaminva frowned at him in concern as she stood to the rear of the group next to Vank who began to nervously vent gas.

  There were literally hundreds of Trolls, Goblins and Orcs busily milling about the shops and market stalls. Each of the Trolls stood over ten feet tall, with heavily muscled arms and legs and booming voices that echoed down the street. Most of the populace were dressed in the commoner’s garb of plain brown woollen vestments, although there were occasional flashes of gold and crimson from the wealthier merchants. Some of the human faces Axcil recognised as belonging to the black market traders from Takrak.

  He walked ahead at a steady pace, remaining careful to avert his gaze while keeping his hands open and pressed to his sides in adherence to the rules required by social protocol. The leader of the outpost would have his dwelling located at the heart of the settlement and its entranceway would be marked with the image of a Boar’s Head. His eyes quickly found what he sought as its graven form swung upon a golden oak panel above a large doorway.

  A Troll, dressed in green plate metal armour and armed with a wicked looking curved blade blocked his path, “What do you want half-breed?” it boomed in a thick, gravelled voice.

  “I humbly request an audience,” Axcil replied calmly as he bowed deeply.

  “Wait here,” the Troll stated simply as it disappeared inside the establishment.

  Within moments it returned, “Come,” it commanded as it motioned him inside.

  The entrance to the building which initially looked rather plain from the outside of a muddy brown brick and a roof made out of grey slate, hid the opulence that lay inside. Upon passing through the enormous steel door that stood over twenty feet in height and width, the hallway was furbished in an exquisite blue marble with its walls decorated with battles scenes that were made out of pure gold leaf. At the centre of the hallway hung a huge gold candelabra with a matching staircase in to Eastern corner that must have cost a king’s ransom to create.

  They passed through the hallway and entered the main chamber of the building. The walls were now plain and made out of highly polished white marble that reflected the light. A crimson and gold tapestry, decorated with a Boar’s Head that was surrounded by thistle leaves hung to the rear of an enormous throne-like chair, upon which sat a Goblin.

  The Goblin remained expressionless as he approached while its fingers wrestled with a golden button used to secure its crushed green velvet jacket around its sizeable belly. As required by the rules of social etiquette, Axcil halted some thirty paces away and knelt down upon the floor, “I humbly request an audience,” he repeated the words that he had used earlier to the Troll.

  The Troll grunted in approval and moved away from Axcil a few paces while it’s pale green eyes continued to watch his every move. The Goblin breathed in deeply, sucking in its belly as it finally fastened the last remaining button then it glared at him, “Who are you and why are you here?” it asked with narrowed eyes.

  Axcil drew upon every shred of knowledge that he had learned about the ways of the Northern clans while he explained the reason of their arrival at ‘The Troll’s Pocket’. He spared nothing, save that they held in their possession the statue of the High Dragon. Until he was sure that the leader of the trading outpost kept strictly within the bounds of social protocol, there were too many dangers in revealing such information. He was also unsure about how far the human black market traders had infiltrated the outpost and knew that if they learned of its existence, that they would attempt to steal it and ransom the statue to the highest bidder.

  The Goblin nodded slowly while his index finger ran along the deep cleft of his green chin, “I give you permission to visit Folki’s home and his place of business,” he paused as his eyes became slits, “I do not however, give you permission to ask him why my people have chosen to become allies with the Demons. If he tells you why, his life will be forfeit and his home, business and wife will become my property.”

  Axcil kept his face expressionless and nodded in agreement.

  “Leave,” sniffed the Goblin who was now clearly irritated by his perfect compliance to protocol. During their meeting, the Goblin had not given him the honour of learning his name, nor had he asked Axcil’s name in return. However, despite this gross insult, Axcil was secretly pleased at his retention of anonymity, although he was concerned about the potential trap that the Goblin had set for his friend.

  In a final gesture of protocol, Axcil slowly rose to his feet and remained bowed as he backed away from the Goblin for another twenty paces before turning around and leaving the building. As he walked, his mind raced as all eyes from the outpost now openly stared at him. The fact that he had left the building alive signalled that he and his companions had been given permission to stay. However, now he worried about whether or not he could risk visiting his friend at all, given the terms and conditions that had been set by the clan leader.

  While wrestling with the thought of leaving ‘The Troll’s Pocket’ without delay, a familiar face appeared within the crowd. It was Folki. His face was older than Axcil had remembered, which was not surprising given the number of years that had passed since their last meeting, but his smile was unmistakable. Folki moved forward quickly through the crowd and grabbed hold of Axcil in a huge bear hug, “My brother!” he yelled with joy, “At last you have come to visit, please take supper with me, my wife and children.”

  Axcil blinked in surprise at the mention of children and he slowly pulled himself away, “Perhaps we could take a cup of P’Ka together, I know how much you used to enjoy drinking it.”

  Folki frowned and looked up at his friend in surprise. Axcil knew that Folki hated drinking the hot tea, which he often complained tasted no better than a handf
ul of dirt. The Goblin’s eyes narrowed, “I do love it,” he said to continue their deception, “so let us go to the ‘Rat & Torch’ public house and drink a whole bucket load.”

  Axcil smiled at his old friend’s quick wittedness and nodded. They would spend their time talking in code, like in the days when they were children in the orphanage. During that time, they would be heard by all within ‘The Troll’s Pocket’ so that they could not be accused of conspiring with one another or in breaking any laws or social protocols, yet they would be able to say what was needed. They had learned long ago that sometimes the safest way to talk was out in the open.

  After nearly an hour together of which Folki kept at bay the taste of the P’Ka with copious amounts of sugar, their meeting ended. After a quick stop for some provisions alongside a jar of ointment from Folki’s shop to protect against the Blood Flies, Axcil sadly bade farewell to his friend. With a heavy heart, Axcil headed back to his companions who were waiting for him on the outskirts of the trading outpost.

  In the short time that he had spoken with Folki, he had warned him of the trap set by the clan leader and had obtained in return advice on how to find a way to rescue the High Dragon. As to the reason behind why the Northern clans had allied themselves with the Demons, Folki had managed to communicate that if he saved or spared the life of someone from the Northern clans, that he could ask them any question and they would be obliged to answer it. Even if the criminals in the North and North West wanted to ignore protocol, they would most likely place the value of their own life above any other consideration and would give him the information that he sought. There would be ample opportunity to achieve this aim when they entered these savage lands on their journey towards Cave Mirin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bright sunlight bathed a clear, azure sky as a gentle breeze rolled across the grasslands. Cara tilted her head back, enjoying the feeling of warmth of the sun against her skin as she ran her fingers through her shoulder length blonde hair. She inhaled deeply, savouring the fresh scents of green as she felt her spirit ring shift comfortably inside her.