The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga)
Page 19
Rolin averted his eyes from her, distressed at what had happened and embarrassed as well. He purposefully distanced himself, moving to examine the dead and bloodied horse instead, for he was humiliated by his actions and what the demon had been able to make him do to his closest friends. Deep down, he knew that Cyrza was too powerful for them to handle. He’d faced that creature before and felt his tempting calls for many years as he and his friends watched it eat away at not only Sadreth’s mind, but his body as well. Little did the heroes know what exactly was lurking, what was hidden, deep within the amulet those many years ago—Cyrza.
Cyrza had become too familiar with them and knew their deepest, darkest desires. This alone made the demon extremely dangerous. Rolin fought against the sense of failure, but he knew in his heart of hearts that the three of them could not overcome this creature. However, he would never admit it aloud… he was too proud. This left a chaotic series of thoughts and emotions churning within him as he knelt and placed his white bearded chin in his hand in silent reflection, several hundred feet away from his closest friends.
Tiyarnon immediately began to seek for a solution as he gazed upon his demoralized companions, defeated and frustrated. Nimaira still lay on the cold ground, rubbing her jaw, with tears—not tears of pain, but tears of what might have been—welling in her beautiful eyes. Rolin Hardbeard, quite possibly the toughest and fiercest dwarf he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, knelt in silent disappointment.
Suddenly, Tiyarnon recalled that the Inquisition within Safehold was always an option. Then he remembered his former student—Garius Forge. He had not given that particular pupil any thought in a while, he lamented, considering he was his top acolyte and had quite possibly taught Tiyarnon a few things while studying at the temple. He was an extremely gifted devotee whose mind and spirituality were attuned with the Pantheon of Order. He showed a piety under The Shimmering One that few before him had shown.
The Inquisition was definitely a possibility, Tiyarnon decided. It had been put in place hundreds of years ago specifically for this kind of thing, after all. Demonic possession was a subject with which he was familiar and had studied, but he was far from an expert on the matter. And this demon—Cyrza—was a force to be reckoned with, especially considering the advantage the demon held over himself and the others.
Cyrza had easily manipulated them. Whether it was due to their familiarity to him, their age or something else entirely, he was unsure. What he did know for certain was that the three of them needed help and that alone they could not recover the phylactery.
Frustration and anger threatened to overwhelm Tiyarnon once more and he steeled his emotions, knowing that to go down that road would only invite more trouble. Moreover, he wanted to stay strong for the others, who were no doubt experiencing similar remorse over their recent failure. He helped Nimaira back to her feet, gently aiding her as best as his aged musculature would allow. As he did, he gazed into her eyes, knowing that she felt as he did that very moment.
“Cyrza,” she managed to say. He nodded an understanding and turned away from her to quickly redirect the subject matter to something else.
“We will go back to Oakhaven, but only after we make a brief stop in Amrel to visit with King Dorinthal and see what aid and information he might offer,” Tiyarnon pronounced, gesturing at her damaged jaw.
“We don’t nee—“, Nimaira began to utter through tight lips, trying not to induce pain.
“We do need to visit the elves, and not just to treat your wounded jaw, but for other reasons as well, my dear—I require the counsel of the elven king on several matters,” he added with a certain decisiveness, interrupting her dissuasive comment. He knew that she would not want to draw attention to her injury, especially as it would further deepen the guilt felt by the dwarf, but it was severe and could use some elven magic to speed the mending… or at least dull the pain.
Tiyarnon moved toward the dwarf, who was still kneeling in silence by the dead horse and inadvertently staining his armor with the stallion’s life blood. Specks of it intermingled with his white beard which otherwise seemed as pure as freshly fallen snow. Rolin was about to speak when Tiyarnon sensed his empathy about the steed. He placed one hand on his comrade’s shoulder and waved dismissively with the other, which still held his ornate staff.
“Speak not of my losses or troubles this day, my friend,” he stated, motioning at the horse. “He is in a better place than us all, I am sure,” he added, signaling for the dwarven warrior to follow. “Come, Rolin. The other two stallions galloped north, running most likely for miles toward the forest. Luckily, it is in the direction in which we travel,” he finished with a wry chuckle.
Darkness was beginning to loom now and he saw the steam from his breath more clearly against the fading sunlight. He involuntarily shivered, though it wasn’t from the cold alone.
Nimaira joined them but Rolin looked away and then down toward his boots as her wide, blue eyes settled on him. He continued to stare away, refusing to meet her gaze until he felt the gentle touch of Nimaira’s hand on his heavily bearded chin, forcing his head up to lock his eyes with her own.
“It is over and I yet live,” she managed, forcing a smile upon him, despite her obvious pain.
“I…,” he stammered. “Sorry,” was all that he could manage to say. She pulled him close and hugged him tightly. Tiyarnon, already many paces ahead, turned to witness the embrace, but then continued to put more distance between them as he advanced north toward the Amrel forest and eventually Oakhaven. He smiled, for, despite their obvious failings, not even a manipulative demon could destroy their heartfelt feelings for one another.
After a few moments, his friends caught up to him, since he walked at a snail’s pace, using his staff for more support than he wanted to admit. Shortly thereafter, the three of them stumbled upon the horses, who’d found a garden still full of fresh plants and beanstalks upon which to graze, no doubt the work of the nearby elves. They approached the animals quietly, allowing the pure tranquility of the scene to wash over them. Even the hardened dwarf allowed the moments to pass without uttering a single word.
“Ye can share me horse,” Rolin finally said to the High Priest, who laughed heartily at the enthusiastic offer of kindness from the dwarf, who, more often than not, was grumpy.
Rolin coaxed one of the horses to him eventually and began to clamber aboard. Tiyarnon suddenly pushed past to sit at the front of the saddle, ahead of him. Rolin began to protest but then simply muttered something under his breath instead.
“I’ll steer the thing if you don’t mind,” Tiyarnon said, eyes facing forward but knowing full well the dwarf had a smile behind him that went ear to ear.
Tiyarnon turned and watched the half-elf climb atop her horse with a grace and fluidity borne of the most gifted of riders. Nimaira was majestic and elegant in every task she performed, Tiyarnon admired.
As they trotted into the forest of Amrel, Cyrza’s recent dominance over them occupied the majority of the High Priest’s thoughts. In between, he once more gave consideration to his former acolyte, the current Inquisitor. The Faceless Knights of Order are a very real possibility, he mused as they were finally greeted by a handful of Amrellians, emerging from deep within the foliage to present themselves to their friendly guests.
But only as a last resort, he convinced himself. Only as a last resort….
Prologue
(The Prologue to Covenant of the Faceless Knights)
The heavy oak door to the council chamber creaked open, swinging wide as three battered and bruised forms entered. They each sat heavily on one of the many plush chairs surrounding a conference table in the center of the room.
"Me thinks that could have gone better," Rolin Hardbeard sighed, wiping a contrasting bit of dried blood from his full, white beard. Even for a dwarf who was obviously past his prime adventuring years, Rolin was a ruggedly built warrior. But this hour had him looking haggard and tired. His age was evident at t
his particular time, as was his broken spirit.
"You have a talent for stating the obvious, my dwarven friend," slurred a beautiful half-elven woman with hair the color of polished silver through what was quite possibly a broken jaw. Rolin managed a brief laugh as he removed his heavy, steel helmet and ran his fingers through his blood specked and thinning hair. His hard, gray eyes lightened somewhat to regard his emotionally distraught friend.
"Me dear Nimaira Silvershade, after all the years we spent takin’ down giants and ogres, countless trolls and undead, and ye are only now realizin’ I be a dwarf of many talents?" Rolin asked sarcastically.
Nimaira began to force a smile, but the pain in her jaw immediately distorted it instead into a grimace as tears slowly welled in her sapphire eyes. Rolin's light-hearted visage turned down sympathetically at his friend’s obvious pain.
The human priest, Tiyarnon, directed a weak smile at his two closest friends’ familiar banter as he tugged thoughtfully at his ever-graying beard. It was comforting for him to have his friends nearby at a time like this, having dealt with the pain and guilt for so many years himself. It also brought him a bittersweet twinge of nostalgia.
How long had it been since the three of us had time to spend together outside of official duties and chasing demons? Tiyarnon thought. By The Shimmering One, it has been too long! If they survived this nightmare, he silently pledged to ensure that they would create opportunities for camaraderie, amusement and reminiscing in the days to come.
Tiyarnon's musings were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, standing within the shadows of the doorway.
"My lords, my lady,” he began with a reverent bow. “We did not know you had returned; forgive us for our incompetence." He spoke humbly, averting his gaze from beneath his drab, hooded robe and bowing repeatedly.
Rolin Hardbeard, never comfortable with being doted on, waved the groveling attendant's concerns away. “Stand up straight, ye durned fool! How many times must we be tellin’ ye that we be folk just the same as yerself? Just bring Nimaira some medicinal balms, for my beard’s sake!” he barked. “The priest here has exhausted his healin’ powers and we got nothin’ much left.”
The servant retreated backwards through the door, still insisting on bowing the entire time.
"And bring me some durned ale, too, while yer at it!" the dwarf shouted after him as the servant disappeared into the hallway and out of sight.
"What do we do now?" Nimaira asked, addressing the topic at hand.
Rolin shrugged, clearly resigned to the fact that they had given a superb effort in their task thus far, as he commented repeatedly on their journey home.
"Get some rest, and try again on the morrow. What else can we be doin’?" he responded confidently, his pride obviously still at the forefront of his façade. The dwarf, despite his age and markedly weathered frame, was not one to surrender. Stubbornness was evident amongst all dwarves, and in this one doubly so, thought Tiyarnon, as he shook his head in respect for the brave warrior. They had all witnessed that courage firsthand hundreds of times throughout their careers.
"I'm afraid it won't matter,” Nimaira admitted. “You were there Rolin! You know as well as I do that we do not have the resources or the resolve to succeed. Not in this! You know it as well as I!” She winced at both that realization and her smarting jaw.
The thought of failure was etched on the face of his friend, Tiyarnon knew. Their failure would weigh especially heavy in the dwarf's heart. Never being comfortable with losing a battle or even an argument, and always willing to fight to the very end for his beliefs, Rolin started to protest. But all of his objections died before passing his lips. The high priest recalled the scene in his head and recognized that any further attempts would ultimately end in failure. And Rolin knew that Nimaira was right. Neither of them knew the answer, and both of them looked to him just then.
Tiyarnon was wise and calculating beyond his years, despite his shorter lifespan compared to the others in the room. While not nearly as old in centuries as the dwarf or the half-elf, he was always looked to as their patriarch. Many others in Oakhaven shared this patriarchal notion of him. Tiyarnon had an intuitive way of scrutinizing a situation from multiple points of view, and making the proper decision based on what was best for everyone, even in times of grief. Because of that, his two closest friends were looking to him for a solution now, during what certainly was their darkest hour.
Tiyarnon sighed as he ran his hands across the gray thinning strands atop his head, all that remained of a once thick head of hair, and further reminding him of his age. As he spun his chair away from them for a moment, he caught his reflection in the glass of the conference room window and saw the leathery skin and prominent gray beard encompassing his face. After a moment of silence, he sighed deeply and turned back to face his friends.
Looking his companions in the eyes, Tiyarnon said in a steady and serious tone, “We must appeal for help to the Inquisition. And not only the Inquisition, but the Chapter of Holy Warriors that exists within the sacred walls of Safehold.”
The half-elf woman’s eyes widened as a look of realization crept across her face. “Meaning?”
“We must call upon The Order of The Faceless Knights," Tiyarnon remarked, drawing nods from his two closest friends. “I shall send word immediately.”
Covenant of the Faceless Knights
Beginnings Saga
Book 2
By
Gary F. Vanucci
Prelude
Many years ago, on the world known as Krotto, there was inter-racial peace among its many inhabitants. Wothlondia was the lone continent on Krotto thought to contain intelligent life and was home to all manner of beast and humanoid. These inhabitants included four known species of dragon, which scholars referred to respectively as storm, venomous, frigid and scorching drakes. These magnificent creatures kept to themselves for the most part and were rarely seen.
For many decades there was harmony on Wothlondia, until a large contingent of scorching drakes emerged to lay waste to its inhabitants. The swarm was led by the largest fire-breathing dragon ever recorded in history.
This particular dragon was given the name Ashenclaw—it was five times the size of any other dragon, and ten times as deadly. The dragons began burning and engulfing the nation in flames until it was all but incinerated. Ashenclaw was eventually discovered to be the queen of the scorching drakes shortly before she and her kin reduced the civilized world to smoldering embers.
Then suddenly, without warning, the dragons disappeared…
Once the attacks ceased, the survivors began to rebuild. A new age began in Wothlondia, led by the humans, elves and dwarves, who became known as the Races of Order. They put aside their past differences and began reconstructing their lands together, rekindling their former peaceful existence in order to secure their continued prosperity and survival. They spent the following years working on reopening the once-familiar trade routes and encouraging lines of communication, hoping beyond hope that the dragons would never return.
Sixty-six years of peace have passed since the last dragon was sighted and the leaders of the new era collectively agreed to name the calendar year after this epoch—Post Ashenclaw.
A few major cities have returned to their former glory, while many others remain in various states of transition; many more still lay in ruin.
Hope springs eternal and the outlook of the lands has never seemed better—until, that is, the orcs and goblins uncharacteristically and aggressively began to threaten that very hope.
This is where our story begins, in the year 66 PA…
Prologue
The heavy oak door to the council chamber creaked open, swinging wide as three battered and bruised forms entered. They each sat heavily on one of the many plush chairs surrounding a conference table in the center of the room.
"Me thinks that could have gone better," Rolin Hardbeard sighed, wiping a contrasting bit of dried blood from his full, whi
te beard. Even for a dwarf who was obviously past his prime adventuring years, Rolin was a ruggedly built warrior. But this hour had him looking haggard and tired. His age was evident at this particular time, as was his broken spirit.
"You have a talent for stating the obvious, my dwarven friend," slurred a beautiful half-elven woman with hair the color of polished silver through what was quite possibly a broken jaw. Rolin managed a brief laugh as he removed his heavy, steel helmet and ran his fingers through his blood specked and thinning hair. His hard, gray eyes lightened somewhat to regard his emotionally distraught friend.
"Me dear Nimaira Silvershade, after all the years we spent takin’ down giants and ogres, countless trolls and undead, and ye are only now realizin’ I be a dwarf of many talents?" Rolin asked sarcastically.
Nimaira began to force a smile, but the pain in her jaw immediately distorted it instead into a grimace as tears slowly welled in her sapphire eyes. Rolin's light-hearted visage turned down sympathetically at his friend’s obvious pain.
The human priest, Tiyarnon, directed a weak smile at his two closest friends’ familiar banter as he tugged thoughtfully at his ever-graying beard. It was comforting for him to have his friends nearby at a time like this, having dealt with the pain and guilt for so many years himself. It also brought him a bittersweet twinge of nostalgia.
How long had it been since the three of us had time to spend together outside of official duties and chasing demons? Tiyarnon thought. By The Shimmering One, it has been too long! If they survived this nightmare, he silently pledged to ensure that they would create opportunities for camaraderie, amusement and reminiscing in the days to come.