The Ascension of Karrak

by Robert J Marsters

  Karrak could contain his true nature no longer. Turning to the girl he smiled, a fake smile that, for the first time, unnerved her. “Do you like animals, Maria?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir, I do,” she replied.

  “Oh good,” he said, “you’ll like this then,” Karrak held out his hand.

  The hospitality that was given to Karrak, the free board and lodging and the tending of his wounds meant nothing to him. His paranoia, aroused by the unexpected patrons, caused his actions. Believing he had been recognised by either one, or both, prompted his decision to ensure that his anonymity remained intact. Standing in front of the door he prevented their departure as, one by one, they were all morphed into beasts that resembled Barden’s new form. His payment for the kindness shown to him was to enslave them all.

  Once darkness fell, he vacated the village, heading toward his cave, escorted by his three new pets, the third being poor Maria.

  ***

  Hannock was inspecting his troops as he always had, his unusually large, solid gold eye-patch, glinting in the morning sunlight.

  “Not good enough,” he bellowed, “rust on swords, dull armour, pathetic. There’ll be another inspection in three hours and if I find as much as one speck of rust on a weapon or one smudge on any armour, you’re all on report, and the first duty will be to scrub the cesspit. Dismissed.”

  Jared strolled casually toward his captain.

  “Good morning, Your Highness,” said Hannock, bowing slightly.

  Jared spoke quietly. “What rust? What smudged armour? They were immaculate.”

  Hannock looked at Jared and raised his eyebrows, “You know that, and I know that, but they don’t know that.”

  “Of course they do, so why?” asked Jared.

  “They all think that since I lost my eye I’ve become a little… eccentric, so if that’s what they think, who am I to disappoint them?” Hannock really was milking the subject of his battle scars.

  “I think you suffered more damage inside your head than outside,” said Jared.

  “What! How dare you, Sir?”

  They both began to laugh.

  “What do you think of the new patch, Jared?” Hannock turned his head to the side, to allow Jared a better look at his newly acquired adornment. “The king presented me with it.”

  “I know, Hannock, I was there,” said Jared with a sigh.

  “Bravest soldier that ever served the crown he said, saved his son’s life, he said.”

  “I know,” and looking again he added, “Shut it Hannock.”

  Hannock had not gone mad, well no worse than he always had been, he was just teasing his best friend, as he always did.

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit big though?” asked Jared.

  “King Tamor said I should wear it as one would a medal. Show it as a badge of honour, awarded for bravery, above and beyond the call of duty.”

  They were joined shortly after by their three loyal companions. Lodren stood, pushing his stomach forward, to allow everyone the best possible view of a magnificent belt buckle he now wore, solid gold of course. “Look at this,” he said proudly, “King Tamor gave it to me for helping out with your brother problem, even though I made a bit of a mess of his courtyard.”

  “I think you did a bit more than help out, Lodren,” said Jared, “and the courtyard has been repaired now,” he added looking around.

  Hannock turned to Grubb. “And what was your award, Master Grubb?” he asked.

  “Didn’t want anything. Not too keen on gold, bit too glinty for my liking.”

  “But the king must have given you something?” asked Jared.

  “Well of course he did,” said Grubb, slightly embarrassed as he looked across the courtyard. Tethered to a post at the far end, was a pure white pony. “His name’s Buster.”

  Ever since the day he first climbed on the back of Lodren’s mule, he had secretly wanted a steed of his own. A horse would have been far too big for him, but Buster was perfect.

  “You’re a very nice Vikkery, Mr Grubb. He couldn’t have a better master,” said Lodren.

  “Alright, alright so I got a pony, it’s only to help me carry stuff, didn’t really want it but the king insisted.” Nobody was fooled by Grubb’s grumpy attitude.

  Jared looked into Faylore’s eyes. “And you, my dear Lady?” he asked as he bowed.

  “Nothing,” she replied calmly, “I have no need of anything. You are all safe, that is reward enough for me.”

  Jared stepped forward and embraced her. “You really are the most benevolent person I have ever had the privilege to meet, Faylore.”

  Faylore was beginning to understand the ways that Borellians showed their affection toward one another, and allowed Jared his moment. “Thank you,” she said, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she pushed him away gently. She was a kind person, but not a tactile one.

  A guard approached the gathering and, bowing firstly to Jared and then Faylore, announced, “The king requests your presence, Your Highness, all five of you, in the throne room, at your earliest convenience.” Bowing again, he marched away.

  Speculation over the reason why was not entered into as Hannock, standing bolt upright and pulling down the front of his tunic, spoke for them all, “No time like the present.”

  Entering the throne room, the usual etiquette was followed. King Tamor sat on his throne and six chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle facing him, one already occupied by Emnor.

  Tamor spoke first. “Emnor and I have been discussing the situation with Karrak.”

  “Chop his bloody head off!” Unusually, it was not Hannock who offered this suggestion but Grubb who, on this occasion, had beaten him to it. “Sorry, Majesty, but he’s a wrong ‘un. You can see it in his eyes, he’s barkin’ mad.”

  Tamor closed his eyes and, placing his hand across his face, gave a loud sigh. If this was the general feeling of his subjects, it appeared that his youngest son was, in fact, doomed. “I understand your feelings, Master Grubb, but surely there must be some other course of action. He is, after all, my son, and I would prefer something a little less harsh than decapitation.”

  “My people are greatly skilled in healing the sick, Tamor, but I fear that your son is beyond our help. His sickness is of the mind and what Grubb is trying to say, although rather crudely, is what we all believe,” Faylore lowered her head apologetically.

  “He’s not very nice. He hurt Captain Hannock and he tried to kill Mr Jared, I mean, the prince.” This was just about as harsh as Lodren could be, when speaking ill of anyone.

  Tamor looked at Hannock. “I know your feelings toward Karrak. The others have had their say and it is only fair that you be allowed to speak your mind, Captain, and please, speak freely.”

  Hannock took a deep breath and composed himself. His hatred of Karrak was immeasurable, but he understood that a torrent of verbal abuse would serve no purpose. Pausing for a moment, he spoke slowly. “Your Majesty. I have seen your son raised in these very halls since the day he was born. I have witnessed his cruelty to your subjects. He delights in the fear and pain of others and he will not stop. Even if we discover his location, capturing him will be difficult, we have already had a demonstration of his power,” he placed his fingertips against his eye-patch, emphasising his meaning, and continued, “it took the five of us combined to stop him last time, and even then we could not apprehend him. But, if we succeed next time he should be buried deep in the dungeon, chained, gagged and blindfolded for the rest of his natural life at the very least. If, that is, you cannot bring it upon yourself to have him executed for treason.”

  Tamor sat back in his throne. The condemning statements from the four had horrified him, would no-one come to the defence of his son? He now gave Jared a pleading look. Surely his brother did not want him to die, or to be caged like an animal for life?

  “Father, if we do find him, he will not surrender. He will fight and if we do not kill him during that fight, he should be executed on a
rrival back in Borell.”

  “But he’s your brother!” implored Tamor.

  “No, Father, he was my brother. He is now a murderer and a traitor. He would slaughter you and I, given the slightest opportunity, just to gain your throne, and after that, every loyal subject in the kingdom would suffer his tyranny. No, Father, I can protect him no longer… he must die.”

  Emnor rose from his chair and approached the king, offering what little comfort he could. “I am sorry, my liege, but I warned you many years ago that this was inevitable.”

  Tamor, although silent, had begun to cry, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks. Despite Karrak’s abhorrent behaviour he was still Tamor’s son, and Tamor loved him. Wracked with guilt, he excused himself and left their company.

  Emnor now faced the companions. “There is something that I must discuss with you all, a secret that has been kept by the Administration for many years. It is called the Elixian Soul.” He regaled the tale of the Elixian Soul to the companions, who all now sat open-mouthed, unsure of what to say next.

  Hannock spoke first, “So what you’re saying is, that not only does Karrak want to find the Soul, but that he is actually destined to find it?”

  “That is the prophecy of the scroll, yes,” replied Emnor.

  “If you were to destroy the scroll, would it destroy the prophecy?” asked Faylore.

  “If one destroys a map does it mean that the buried treasure will not exist?” Emnor asked in return.

  “Well, you say you’re the only one who knows where the Soul is, so if we lock you away, he’ll never get it?” offered Grubb.

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” replied Emnor, smiling at him.

  “You can’t lock up Mr Emnor!” exclaimed Lodren.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that,” said Hannock, but looking across at Grubb added, “then again.”

  After some time, with many ideas falling flat, Emnor admitted that he intended to face Karrak alone once he was discovered.

  “He’ll kill you!” exclaimed Jared.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Your Highness. I do have powers of my own you know.”

  “I understand that, Emnor, but you don’t have the same violent nature. You use your magic for defence, he uses his for attack. He likes to maim and wound, torture and victimise in the most sadistic way.”

  “You can go off people you know, Jared,” Emnor said with a frown on his face.

  “But you know I’m right, Emnor, facing him alone would be madness. Emnor, you can’t…”

  “I’m not going to stand there and simply let him destroy me, just test his strength a little.”

  “Roast ‘is nuts, Emnor. Just roast ‘em.” Grubb had such a way with words.

  CHAPTER 13

  Months passed and quickly turned into years. Promises of great riches and reward brought no information to the kingdom regarding the whereabouts of the fugitive Karrak. Signs had been posted in every village warning that, if seen, villagers should avoid any contact with him and report it to the guard immediately. But those signs had now faded and become worn by the elements. Peace was upon Borell once more, not even reports of bandits on the roads reached the kingdom which, although good news, concerned both Tamor and Jared alike.

  Emnor’s visits continued. He too had nothing to report on the subject of Karrak, but feared that this would not be the case forever.

  Lodren and Grubb had made their home in Borell. Lodren had proved invaluable in the castle kitchen and Grubb was still doing… something. Nobody seemed to know exactly what he got up to day after day.

  Combat training had commenced one morning and one of the guards had received a nasty wound to his forearm. Hannock, inspecting the wound, summoned the court physician.

  “No, Sir, I’ll be fine. Give me an hour to get it cleaned up and I’ll be back.”

  “A big man like you! Afraid of the court physician are we?” asked Hannock.

  “Not at all, Sir, but it’ll heal quicker if I…” he stopped, obviously not wanting to finish the sentence.

  “If you what?” asked Hannock.

  “Nothing, Sir. Look, it’s not going to stop bleeding by itself. May I take that hour?”

  Hannock, intrigued by the guard’s reluctance to divulge any information, dismissed him.

  Wrapping a cloth around his own arm, the guard hurried off and on rounding a corner, was rapidly pursued by Hannock. He tailed the man through the grounds and out of the gates, pausing occasionally to secrete himself behind various obstacles. Five minutes later the soldier, hesitating for a moment and furtively glancing around him, dashed between the flaps of a large tent.

  Hannock marched after him. He didn’t like mysteries and, on reaching the tent, yanked the flap to one side. Pausing briefly, he placed his other hand on his hip, amazed at what he was witnessing. The guard was sitting cross-legged on the floor, his arm outstretched, and in front of him, his hands pressed firmly against his patient’s wound, was Grubb. “Grubb! What are you doing?” exclaimed Hannock.

  Grubb gave Hannock a filthy look, “Mind your own bloody business, go on, sod off!” he snapped.

  Grubb, as miserable and grouchy as he was, had set up a kind of hospital. Managing to keep the secret, he had treated many cuts, gashes and various other wounds and abrasions, not solely for soldiers, but all residents of Borell. It was his way of feeling useful. He never sought praise or monetary compensation for his actions and most times, even grumbled if offered thanks or a gift. The smallest, grumpiest member of the companions had the biggest heart and most generous nature of them all.

  Faylore’s absences had become longer and more frequent. The companions understood that, as Queen of the Thedarians, her time with them was precious, but missed her greatly whenever she had to leave their company. Little did they know that the graceful, sometimes aloof queen, missed them all just as much, but had vowed to bring the ingrate Karrak, to justice. She had given instructions to her people that they, whilst being covert, should seek out the sorcerer, but never approach him and should notify her upon his discovery.

  ***

  Faylore was strolling along one of the many trails with a few of her folk, calmly watching the sun set, when they heard a voice, sobbing in the distance. Without hesitation, they rushed to investigate. Parting the long grass, they discovered a man lying on the ground, slashed and bleeding, his wife crouched over him in a fervent attempt to stem the flow of blood from his fresh wounds. She gave a start at the appearance of Faylore and her kin.

  “Please, we have nothing,” she cried, terrified at the presence of the strangers.

  “We are not here to harm you, my dear lady,” Faylore assured her.

  Looking across at one of her fellow Thedarians, Faylore nodded. His reaction was immediate and he stooped down to offer aid to the wounded villager. Two others took his wife gently by the arms and moved her to one side, allowing the first to work unimpeded. Faylore stepped forward and embraced her gently. This was most unusual, her fellow Thedarians confused by her actions. Faylore had studied the Borellians intently, and knew this to be a fitting gesture with which to instill trust. “What happened, were you attacked?” she asked.

  “Yes, my lady,” the woman replied, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Who did this to you?” asked Faylore.

  “Some kind of beasts, my lady. We have no idea what they were, we’ve never seen anything like them before. A bit like wolves but not as big, and with no fur. We’d be dead if they hadn’t been more interested in the mules. They tore them to shreds, ripping lumps of flesh from them while they were still alive. We just ran, but one of them swiped at my husband before we got away and did that to him,” she pointed at her husband.

  Faylore continued with her line of questioning. “How many were there?” she asked.

  “Five, six, seven, I’m not sure my lady, it all happened so fast.” She was now shaking.

  Faylore reached into a pack and, removing a shimmering shawl, wrapped it ar
ound the woman’s shoulders as she asked her next question. “Where did this happen?”

  “About a mile to the south, my lady.”

  “Did you see where they came from?”

  The villager’s wife glanced from one Thedarian to the next, eyeing the weapons that they all carried. “No, you mustn’t go after them. They’re vicious, you’ll get hurt, or worse. Loads of people have gone missing from the villages around these parts, now we know why. These things have been killing them.”

  “Do not worry about us, first we must get you to the safety of your village. That is where you were headed isn’t it?”

  The woman nodded.

  The Thedarians tended to the villager’s wounds, applying various pastes and poultices, before wrapping them in bandages, from yet another of their packs. Two now carried him between them, following Faylore. Returning their temporary wards to the relative safety of their village, the Thedarians headed back to the site of the attack. Very few words were spoken. They knew one another’s thoughts on the matter, they were about to investigate the attack by these unknown, savage beasts. The return to the site had been much swifter without the burden of the wounded man and they now studied the tracks on the ground that had been left by the beasts. Faylore ran her fingers across one of the tracks. “I do not recognise these prints, do any of you?” she asked.

  All shook their heads apart from one. He stepped forward, slightly unsure of what he was about to say. “I believe, Your Majesty, that these beasts were created rather than born. They have five pads, unlike a wolf, which as you know, has only four. I think that they were people, somehow changed into whatever they are now.”

  Faylore, despite how fanciful her kinsman’s explanation sounded, was inclined to agree. Five fingers would become five toes, each toe becoming a pad.

  “We shall follow the tracks,” she said, and began to track them, with the aid of the others. After a few miles the tracks stopped. There were no trees, no hills, caves or tunnels, they simply ceased. “Impossible!” exclaimed Faylore, “they can’t have just disappeared.” She continued in the direction the tracks were leading when suddenly the rest of her people gasped. She turned to look at them. “What is it?” she asked.