BlackThorn

by DeWayne Kunkel

  Dulrich’s knees shook and his voice cracked with fear as he spoke. He could not look away, Vool’s eyes held him captive. “One young man was taken aboard by, G’relg. During the storm that overtook us he managed to escape.”

  “Is what he say’s the truth G’relg?” Vool asked turning his withering gaze onto the raider captain.

  “He was a boy,” G’relg replied defensively. “Barely fourteen summers old,” He eyed Dulrich murderously. “he was a threat to no one.”

  Vool’s anger could be felt in the air, people began to leave the quay. Instincts of self-preservation suddenly overrode, morbid curiosity, urging them to flee for their very lives. “Where was he lost?” He asked in a voice that shook the stones beneath their feet.

  “During one of the worst storms I have ever lived through. It damned near destroyed this boat and all aboard it. No-one could have survived long in that tempests clutches.”

  The glowing embers narrowed further, “I asked where he was lost, not for your speculation.”

  “Near Lakarra’s eastern shore.” He replied quickly, the cold knot of fear growing within his chest.

  Vool exploded into rage at the mention of Lakarra. A bone white hand shot outward clutching G’relg’s throat. A long sinister hiss escaped the enchanter’s lips.

  G’relg pried at the vise like grip, He was a strong man but compared to Vool he was little mare than a child. Slowly the world began to fade into darkness as Vool lifted him from his feet.

  The few people who had remained on the pier fled in horror as the force of Vool’s anger hit them as if it were a physical blow.

  Dulrich looked on in horror, he was unable to move Vool’s aura overwhelming him with terror.

  The enchanters robe had fallen to the ground, Vool stood wrapped in gossamer flames of emerald light. His face was pale and thin; his eyes were empty sockets that smoldered as if hot coals had been placed within them.

  He wore armor constructed of a myriad of overlapping silver scales. It flowed freely with his movements glittering in the light of his power. A dark circlet of iron rested upon his brow keeping his flaxen hair out of his face.

  With his free hand he drew a long sword and held the blade up for G’relg to see. The three feet of bronze writhed in his grip as if it were alive.

  His orb less sockets narrowed as he considered running the man through. With a look of disgust he tossed G’relg aside as if he were a rag doll. “That death would be too easy for one such as you G’relg.” He said sheathing his strange blade. “There are many slower ways for a man to die.”

  The fear that had held Dulrich paralyzed subsided as Vool’s temper eased. Dulrich shook himself free of its grasp and decided it was time for him to leave. He came to his feet slowly and took a step backwards. Vool’s head snapped in his direction, the empty sockets of his eyes radiating evil.

  “One more step and you shall share his fate.” Vool hissed, his voice the thin rasp of a serpent’s scales.

  Dulrich froze, his knees shook with fear and his heart was hammering so hard that at any moment he believed it would break free of its prison of bone and flesh.

  G’relg was on his knees gasping for breath, and was unprepared when Vool struck him with the back of his hand. The Raider cried out, the force of the blow lifted him several feet into the air and hurled him fifteen feet down the quay.

  “Fool!” Vool snarled exposing his teeth. “A simple task was given to you and yet you failed. You may have succeeded in bringing about the very thing we sought to prevent!”

  G’relg somehow had managed to get to his feet. Blood flowed from his right ear and his neck was turning dark purple where Vool had held him. His eyes burned and his sense of balance was slowly returning, though his ear rang with a steady high-pitched tone. Vool was drawing near; with each step the enchanter took the mind numbing fear that assailed his senses grew.

  “Prove your worth,” Vool grinned malevolently. “I may spare your life.”

  “Then let him do so with his deeds!” A voice shouted from the darkness.

  Vool spun and fixed his gaze on Dulrich.

  Dulrich flinched under his scrutiny, he had not spoken but he feared he would be struck down because of it.

  “Enough Vool!” The voice repeated. Bjorn Ironfist stepped out of the shadows. He wore only his breeches and his broad chest heaved as he controlled his own anger. At his back stood a large number of heavily armed men. He had brought his household guard. “These are my men, not yours for the taking.”

  Vool glared at the Raider chieftain. “Careful Bjorn,” He said coldly. “Do not forget who my master is.”

  “I am the master of this isle Vool and the men who live upon it.” Bjorn raised his heavy crossbow and held it level with Vool’s chest. “It is I and I alone who casts judgment on those who serve me.”

  Vool looked on the men with contempt, a part of him wished they would attack. He would savor their deaths but his master had been quite firm, he was forbidden to destroy these petty mortals. He allowed his power to ebb; the time of their deaths would come soon enough.

  “These men accomplished the task set before them, what is one boy lost in a storm tossed sea?” Bjorn said not knowing how close he had come to dying.

  Vool’s robe slid up from the ground on its own. Enfolding him within its black layers. “That boy may bring ruin to us all in time.” He answered his face once more lost within the dark shadows of his hood.

  The men raised their weapons as the cloth moved. Bjorn stilled them with a sharp look. He too was unnerved by what he saw and he knew that should Vool desire it he had within him the power to slay them all.

  Bjorn motioned to G’relg with his crossbow. “They alone have seen this child, who better to search him out?”

  Vool paused briefly considering Bjorn’s statement, “Very well, let them go and find this boy. Whether he lives or not I want his corpse brought back here.”

  “Done,” Bjorn said with much relief. “G’relg and his men will leave for Lakarra this night.” Bjorn turned his back to the Enchanter and headed back to his estate.

  “Bjorn,” Vool hissed. “Do not ever think to pull a weapon on me again…” Vool let the threat hang unfinished in the air.

  Bjorn’s back stiffened as he replied without turning to face Vool. “If I ever do so again it will be to remove your frozen heart.” He had spoken rashly and regretted it immediately.

  Vool laughed, a hollow sound filled with promised torment and agony. He melted away into the shadows his voice lingering a few heart beats after he had disappeared.

  G’relg fixed his gaze upon Dulrich as if his anger alone could slay the man.

  Dulrich was wary; despite G’relg’s battered appearance he knew the man was dangerous. G’relg had a well-earned reputation as a formidable fighter. His skills with the knife were second to none.

  Dulrich had run his gambit and in doing so had nearly gotten them both killed. He had betrayed G’relg and now it was only a matter of time until G’relg would kill him.

  G’relg drew his knife and before Dulrich could react he buried the blade to the hilt through his throat. G’relg smiled coldly as Dulrich’s hot blood splattered onto his cheek.

  Dulrich clutched the wound seeking to stem the flow of blood. His windpipe was severed and as he fell he cursed G’relg’s name. The only sound that passed his lips was a long drawn out wet gurgle.

  G’relg wrenched his knife free opening the wound further as Dulrich fell to the ground. He wiped the blade clean on the dying mans shirt. With his boot he rolled Dulrich over so he could watch the light of the man’s spirit fade from his eyes.

  Bjorn stood on the balcony that over looked the harbor below. The sun was rising, coloring the sky with a pallet of brilliant gold and fiery orange. Down in the harbor he knew G’relg and his surviving crewmembers were readying their ship with hasty repairs.

  His confrontation with Vool had ended several hours ago and yet his hands still shook. The sheer terror of st
anding before that demon had nearly undone him; no amount of power could be worth the price he feared he was yet to pay.

  War was coming and Bjorn had sided with the only force that would accept him. By his deeds he had damned himself and those that followed him to serve Vool’s master. Suddenly the thought of ruling his own people under that dark yoke frightened him to the very core of his being.

  Looking to the ships below he felt the sudden urge to join G’relg and flee his predicament. He knew it was folly to think he could escape. His die had been cast and all he could do was hope to survive the outcome of the roll.

  Chapter Seven

  With the coming of his fourth spring in Lakarra, Casius had become a close member of Gayn’s family. He worked hard and delighted the scribe by his ability to quickly master the nuances of creating artful manuscripts.

  In two years his penmanship surpassed Gayn’s, and his knowledge of the many languages of the world grew in bounds. He read voraciously, his craving for knowledge never fading. He had even mastered the guttural Hyyari, a difficult tongue spoken in the northern wilds.

  Gayn’s wife, Elain grew heavy with child and their many trips to the nearby settlements came to an end. Gayn could not bear to part with her as she came to term.

  A merchant from Aenos, a small city to the south, commissioned a deed to be drawn up to several of his mines in the Carec Mountains. He was a wealthy man and offered a handsome sum once the documents were delivered to the buyer in far off Elkrun.

  Gayn could use the money and after much persuading on Casius’s part he gave in and accepted the commission. Casius was after all a man in his own right and if he chooses to travel the two hundred miles to the city of Elkrun on the shores of the Darkwater river. It was not Gayn’s place to stop him.

  He did insist that Casius journey with a spice caravan. The open plains were a wild place where the safety of numbers is needed.

  Casius was excited; he purchased a stout horse and supplies the day before he was to leave.

  Elain prepared a veritable feast for them that night. After she had gone to sleep Casius and Gayn spent several hours sitting on the porch enjoying the night air.

  An hour after dawn Casius left Gayn’s house and trotted the horse through the newly stirring streets. He found the Caravan yards by following his nose. The heady scent of so many animals packed close together could be smelled across much of the city.

  The March air was brisk and the suns ray’s warmed him as he rode out of the shadows of the buildings. This time of year the nights were cold and the days hot. It was as if winter’s icy fingers refused to release their final hold on the world.

  Urbas Ugei, the caravan’s master met him as he arrived. He took one look at Casius and snorted in disgust. He believed Casius was nothing more than some rich merchants son who was being sent away because of some minor offense.

  “You travel with us,” he said with such a heavy accent that it took Casius several moments to understand him. “You listen to me good and we have no trouble.” Urbas looked to the short sword Casius wore at his waist. “You know how to use?” He asked shaking the scabbard.

  “Some,” Casius lied, He could swing it but that was all. He had never gotten around to learning the fine art of sword fighting.

  “Good,” Urbas grinned revealing teeth stained a dark yellow from years of Guall chewing. “Keep it sheathed unless I tell you otherwise.” The dark skin of his brow wrinkled as he caught eye of the thick leather tube tied across Casius’s saddlebags. He poked it with the switch he carried. “What are you carrying there?”

  “A deed to two mines,” Casius answered. “Worthless except to the man for whom it was written,” He added quickly, as he opened the weatherproof tube. He unrolled the heavy parchment slowly for Urbas to see.

  “Your master has great skill with letters.” He said appreciating the flowing script of the deed.

  Casius grinned, “Thank you, but it was I who wrote this.” He carefully returned the document to its case.

  Urbas laughed, “Well then, we have a scribe among us.” From within the folds of his faded traveling robes he produced a small leather bound book. Its cover was faded and stained its pages ragged and yellowed. He handed it to Casius, “A Talen of gold if you would keep a record of our journey.”

  Casius tucked the book into his saddlebag. “ You have hired yourself a scribe,” he said in fluent Te’Caleph, the language of Urbas’s homeland.

  Urbas’s eyebrows rose in surprise, “You have been to Caleph?”

  Casius shook his head, no one ventured far into the realm unless he was born there or went amid a host of armed men. The people of Caleph distrusted strangers, often slaying them. Since the armies of Lakarra conquered them all strangers were treated as spies.

  “No, but I have learned many of the languages of this land from my employer.”

  “He taught you well Casius,” Urbas looked to the assembled wagons and pack-laden mules. “We will talk later, it does my heart good to hear the words of my home.”

  Urbas swung up onto his horse and with the switch he carried he motioned the caravan forward. The drivers expertly led the pack animals across the narrow stone bridge that spanned the Taelus River. As they crossed the slow moving water they began to sing.

  They followed a well worn road leading southwest, as the day passed the road gradually grew rougher becoming nothing more than a muddy track. The villages they passed grew smaller and further apart.

  After three uneventful days they reached the small city of Aenos. The city had been built upon a low tor that stood on the edge of the Braelin wood.

  Fields of rich earth surrounded the city, home to a multitude of scattered farms. The orderly rows of vibrant green growth resembled a vast quilt spread out beneath a stunningly blue sky.

  For two days the caravan camped outside the city walls. Each morning as the sun rose Urbas would take his place in the open market.

  Casius had been to many markets before but he had never heard a hawker as proficient as Urbas. By the end of the first day Casius was convinced this man could sell a dairy farmer his own cattle.

  Urbas’s thick accent only added to the allure of the strange and mystical herbs and spices he sold. Many of which could only be found in the lands of Caleph. Hounds tongue for aches, the golden mint mea’real for colds. He even offered the sap of Fire thorn, a legendary remedy to cure the worst of infections.

  Casius kept an accurate count of the caravan’s wares, much to Urbas’s delight. For once he was able to enjoy his work without the tedious task of keeping track of his stock.

  On the second night outside of Aenos, Casius wandered through their encampment. The hour was late but he could not sleep. He found Urbas sitting about a fire with several of his drivers. The Merchant was skillfully juggling three small knives. The small leaf shaped blades flashed in the firelight, going faster and faster until they became nothing more than a mere blur. With a mere flick of his wrist two of the blades flashed through the flames and embedded themselves in a log twenty feet away. The blades sank deep into the wood with scarcely a fingers width between them. The drivers cheered, and shared a drink from a goatskin bladder. From the smell Casius could tell it was strong liquor they were drinking.

  “So Casius,” Urbas said catching his remaining blade by its leather wrapped handle. “How is our scribe this evening?” He asked motioning to an empty spot near the fire.

  Casius lowered himself to the ground next to Urbas, nodding in greeting to the drivers. “Well enough thank you.” He replied watching as Urbas idly twirled the small knife through his fingers. “You do that well.”

  Urbas looked puzzled for a brief moment before realizing that he was referring to the knife. “This,” he said handing the small blade to him. “Is called a Ka’rich, in Caleph every child is given a set at the age of five. Most children master them before their seventh summer.”

  The blade was six inches long, fashioned to resemble a broad leaf. Two razor sharp ed
ges ran along two thirds of its length. From the tip to the leather wrapped grip. It was finely crafted and remarkably well balanced for throwing.

  Urbas nudged him with his elbow, “Go ahead throw it.”

  Casius gripped the hilt and tossed the blade, it struck the log on its side ringing loudly. The blade bounced back into the crowd of drivers causing them to scurry out of its way. The small knife ended its errant flight, landing near the fire its tip embedded in the earth.

  Urbas laughed as he retrieved the knives, “No harm done,” He said returning to his seat. “You’ll need to practice that throw of yours.” He handed Casius one of the blades. “Keep this and learn it.”

  Casius attempted to hand the blade back to the caravan master. “I cannot keep this,” He protested. “It is too valuable.”

  Urbas held his hand up to deter any further protest, “I have others, and in Caleph it is a great insult to turn aside a gift freely given. Besides I cannot bear seeing a young man without a Ka’rich in his belt.”

  Casius lowered his head in acceptance, “Thank you Urbas.”

  “Just be careful,” Urbas quipped. “Try not to cut one of my drivers with it.”

  The men about the fire laughed and passed the skin about for another round.

  “Tonight we rest,” Urbas proclaimed loudly. “ Tomorrow we begin our trek in earnest.”

  Several of the men made a show of groaning in protest, drawing laughter from their leader. Despite the protest the men lingered about the fire until well past midnight. By that time Casius had actually managed to sink the blade into the log several times. On each occasion the men would cheer and the skin was passed about in celebration.

  Dawn came far too early for Casius’s liking, his head pounded fiercely as he packed away his gear. He moved through the camp in a fog of pain, Casius was experiencing his first hangover and within an hour he had sworn off hard drink forever.

  By the time the blazing orb of the sun had cleared the horizon the caravan was on the move. For all the drink that was passed about the fire last night it was Casius alone who looked the worse for wear.