Rose giggled and walked off in the opposite direction. The men made as to follow her, but stopped. She chuckled again, looking back over her shoulder at the pair and at what she perceived to be a hollow threat.
She infuriatingly realized that her confrontation with them had sobered her up from her slightly drunken state. She decided to rectify that situation immediately.
Which tavern shall it be—Lucky Stars? Maybe the Siren’s Call? The Duelist? Rose thought. She’d heard it was a new and rowdy crowd there, which tempted her. Perhaps the Steel Dragon?
She laughed at that last one. No—she would go to her home away from home, as she called it and she had a tab there with Melin Flinteye to boot! Besides, the elven wine he served was the finest in all the realms, imported directly from Amrel.
The other taverns and alehouses are good, she thought, The Tall Tale Tavern it is! Besides, Melin would certainly appreciate her putting to rest a certain tab that she’d accumulated over the past months.
Saeunn regained consciousness. Her mind had returned to a lucid state and she was dressed in a soft cotton robe. She hadn’t realized how drained and fatigued she was until she had actually collapsed.
She sat up and stretched, rubbed a few stiff areas and inspected herself for bruises as the herbalist came over to check on her.
“It is all right, Sae,” called a familiar voice from behind her. It was her mother, Huuna, of course. No one really referred to her as Sae and it reminded her of a happier time in her childhood. Saeunn smiled like she hadn’t in a very long time, albeit briefly, as she recalled the pleasant memories.
“How long have I been…asleep?”
“Not long,” her mother replied. “The apothecaries and priests have labored very hard to revive we few remaining Chansuk survivors back to health, and I for one am grateful.”
Saeunn nodded slightly at her mother’s words, knowing she was stemming the obvious pain of losing her tribe and husband. Her mother was attempting to be strong for her, she knew.
“My Sae,” Huuna cooed to her daughter and lovingly hugged her. “Let us try to forget the horrors that affected our clan. I will always hold your father dear in my heart, but we must try to start a new life now….here.”
“I will never forget what happened, mother,” Saeunn stated curtly, standing and looking skyward. “The god of war will one day have his vengeance! The Champion will secure his fill of orc and goblin blood!”
“I will never forget, either, Sae, but….”
Moments of silence passed while the caretakers slowly filtered out of the room. Saeunn could not bear the thought of an ordinary life in the city when she knew in her heart of hearts that her destiny lay elsewhere. But she had made a promise to her dying father that she would do whatever it took to keep her mother safe.
“Let us find some friends here in this new city and partake of some wine,” Huuna proposed, almost pleading with her daughter to unwind. Saeunn could detect the obvious pain in her mother’s voice and knew that she was only trying to distract them both. She decided to go along, to appease her.
“A few of our clan have already made their way to drink at the Tall Tale Tavern at the behest of some of the caretakers,” Huuna stated. “We should drink of wine, mead and any other sort of ale these fine people offer, and share them with our kin this night.”
Saeunn nodded and hugged her mother with a force that took the wind out of her. The young Barbarian forgot that she had a good deal of strength when she was healthy and revitalized, which had not been of late.
She let her mother go, then grabbed her hand firmly, and strode out of the shelter with purpose toward the Entertainment District and, specifically, the Tall Tale Tavern.
Chapter 4
Thaurion the apprentice woke from his slumber dazed and confused. He could not even see his own hand in front of his face and so he immediately invoked a prayer of light and his hands shone dimly. His head hurt and his lips were dry. A foul stench penetrated his nostrils, causing him to blanch. He looked around as his eyes adjusted to the light only to find bones and other remains lying in heaps on the ground around him. They were most likely humanoid and fairly old it seemed, from the state of the decay.
Where am I? Thaurion wondered. Panic ensued as his most recent memories became a bit clearer. He had flashes of traveling, of losing control of his own psyche, of being…beaten? It was all a blur. What had happened to him? He panicked again and clutched his chest as his heart pounded!
I took…something…something that did not belong to me…something of great power…great evil…what was it? Why am I here?
He shook his head in frustration, trying to clear the cobwebs once more and peered all about, squinting to focus. He was in a dark room with unlit torches hanging on the walls.
A prison cell? Was this right? Thaurion thought. So many questions….
His vision focused and he realized he was certainly in a cell of some kind, with furs lining the ground along with—his fellow apprentices.
He limped to the first body and pulled back a fur to reveal a pale face. “Rolf!” he gasped. The acolyte was breathing, but it was very shallow. Thaurion immediately began a chant to The Shimmering One, asking for healing strength. He channeled what little regenerative energy he could into Rolf until he was breathing more steadily. A closer inspection of his friend’s injuries revealed that he was severely bruised and battered. He wasn’t sure to what extent, but it appeared that Rolf had a badly injured right leg that could very well be broken. He left Rolf alone for the time being; at least he was alive.
Thaurion raced to the next figure. Whatever the thing was, it was dressed as his friend and fellow acolyte under the direct tutelage of Tiyarnon—Niomir the high elf—but it was certainly not him at all! Thaurion recoiled in horror as he thought the creature alive still, but realized after a moment that it was surely dead. And only recently departed, it seemed. The creature that lay in Niomir’s place had almost no features upon its face at all. Its skin was fleshy and pink, but looked very malleable. It had no discernible nose, only a cavity there, and pupil-less white eyes that were still open wide.
He had heard rumors before of such creatures that walked the realms, secretly taking the place of humanoids for whatever nefarious purpose they chose. He panicked a little again, then calmed as he backed away from the thing.
“Doppelganger…,” he finally muttered as he found a torch on the wall and used a portion of his magic, calling forth a flash of flame that ignited the torch. He waited for it to flare up and leaned against the wall.
Poor Niomir must surely be dead! How did this happen? Thaurion despaired, shaking his head in disbelief at the discovery. And more importantly, when?! How long had this…this thing…been masquerading as my friend and fellow apprentice?!
None of this made any sense to him. Thaurion turned to the last corner of the room, seeing yet another body revealed by the flickering torchlight. He began to hurry toward it, but ended up limping as he finally realized how badly wounded he was, but hadn’t grasped just how badly until now. He crept the distance toward the body, flipped it over and saw Alana’s face—another apprentice to Tiyarnon. He saw her chest shift up and down, drawing breath, albeit labored and shallow.
Thank The Shimmering One! Thaurion thought, breathing a sigh of relief. What has happened here?!
He invoked a prayer of healing upon his own battered form in order to address his own injuries. His access to the regenerative plane was restricted at best, but he attempted to do what he could. A bright light shone from his hands, bathing his limbs in the glow. Soon after, his reservoir of healing energies had been pushed to their limits, and so, he attempted to bandage his cuts with tattered pieces of his robe, sifting through the fabric to find clean areas to use.
The Shimmering One granted all of his servants minor healing capabilities, but the real curative abilities required many years of preparation and commitment. ‘Time and patience’, the High Priest of The Shimmering One would alwa
ys say. Tiyarnon addressed them daily about perseverance and faith, and that The Shimmering One was always watching them. Their collective hope was that Thaurion and the rest would become fully-fledged priests of the sun-god.
A sudden understanding crept through his consciousness just then then as he realized that Niomir would never be granted that opportunity. He shook the grief from his mind and refocused on his current predicament.
After a long rest, he repeated the healing prayers on Alana and Rolf, growing fatigued with each word he uttered. It left him weak. He managed to find a stick of incense lying in a pack next to Rolf, along with oil and tinder—which may also come in handy, he considered. He used a torch on the wall, ignited the incense stick to alleviate the stench in the room, and then collapsed from utter exhaustion. There was still so much to do and so many questions to be answered…so many questions.
Zabalas sat upon his intricate throne within the Bastion of Skulls, which was simply how his servants referred to his castle in its newest form. Not only were there skulls of every conceivable race and creature adorning the walls within the castle, but the entire exterior of it looked as if it were built entirely of skulls and not stone.
Zabalas reflected on how he had taken his rightful place in this castle and how he had acquired powerful associates with much in common in these recent weeks. He thought about his exchanges with the few tribes of goblinoids, easily convincing them that they had been lying dormant for far too long and that they should claim their rightful place as rulers of Wothlondia.
He was now trying to show the potent forces below the surface that they should aid in the great cause too. He was in league with an influential and extremely powerful force that required as many allies as possible.
To Zabalas’s right stood a revolting creature. It was alive and yet, it wasn’t. It was undead. The creature was a mockery of its once human life as it stood drooling and staring out while Zabalas spoke. It listened intently but never uttered a word as Zabalas continued to share his thoughts.
A tall female stood at the back of the throne room, observing the interaction. She bore long white hair and very pale, but incredibly beautiful skin that seemed quite a disparity to her dark clothing. She had large amber eyes that displayed a not-so-subtle wickedness. She wore a deep black outfit with red accents that included a leather chest guard. The upper torso had a large oval shape of fabric cut out purposely in the center to unashamedly display a large portion of her cleavage.
She wore gloves and boots that ended high up on the arm and leg respectively, and a loincloth that was a series of leather strips in layers dangling to her mid-thigh covering not much else. Upon her shapely hips was a pair of loose-hanging belts. The hilt of a sword protruded from a scabbard hanging on her left hip and a scourge, with its many thongs hanging below its handle that hung low on her right hip.
She halted her advance and looked into a small mirror which she held out, her amber eyes gazing back at her reflection. The mirror altered between displaying her true self and a plain-looking female with a non-descript dress and albino features.
She was a succubus—a race of half-breed demonesses, commonly referred to as cambions. These half-demons were the offspring of the pure descendants of the Demon Queen, Lilith, referred to as Aspects.
The succubi made their home within the Subterrane, which was obvious to any who knew their history, though most did not. The surface folk knew that just before the reign of Ashenclaw, they had faced a force of their kind that was discreetly influencing their own people into deeds of unparalleled treachery. The humans and elves wisely deduced that the succubi, who appeared as the thing they most desired to their victims, were the source. The elves and humans eventually found them out and forced them deep into the bowels of the Subterrane.
The succubi, however, regrouped during their time out of the sun, where they found refuge in those dark spaces. They embraced their new home and began plotting for the time when humans would be made aware of their indomitable presence once more.
There will be much revenge for my demon queen to feast upon in the very near future, the succubus thought hungrily as she moved forward out of the shadows to stand before Zabalas, replacing the tiny mirror in her belt pouch.
“It is good to have you back, my dearest Phaera,” Zabalas remarked. His voice sounded callous coming from behind his devilishly styled black helm, complete with long horns jutting out from its sides.
The albino cambion was smiling and seemed not at all threatened by the imposing dark warlord seated before her, nor by the undead creature that hunched beside him.
Zabalas removed his helm as the woman approached the throne, revealing to her a very handsome pale face, with long dark hair framing it. She stared back into the blackest eyes she had ever seen. He sat and stroked his smooth chin and grinned at her, conveying an egotistical demeanor. She smiled at his polite greeting and spoke.
“Plans are proceeding as you requested and we are meeting with my brood in a few eves’ time,“ she calmly announced, moving even closer to him to stare into his cold eyes.
“I am confident that they will act in accordance with us, as will perhaps more than a few others of my kin,” the succubus added hopefully, leaning in with her lavender-colored lips and teasing him with the possibility of a kiss. She came off to any who looked upon her as a very attractive woman for any race, be it succubi or otherwise, and she knew it. Zabalas said nothing,
“The Daughters of Asmodai will certainly be interested in what you have to say, but I cannot speak for any of the other broods, even though my mother is regarded widely as the heiress of the entire enclave,” Phaera concluded, her lips almost touching his.
“I tolerate you because of your connections, you understand,” he cautioned as he somewhat callously pushed her away. “Your abilities have no effect on me, Phaera—remember that.” That was to remind her once more that he was in control—now and always. Her pheromones had no effect on him and he wanted to remind her of that as often as he could.
“I have plans that will make the gods want to leave Arcadia,” Zabalas continued past her, entirely missing the exasperated expression on the face of the succubus. “If you plan on witnessing them unfold, I suggest you remember your place.” Phaera nodded and waited for him to make eye contact again.
“Tell me again of the doppelganger’s success,” Zabalas asked, clearly wanting the satisfaction of hearing the tale once more.
“I already—,” Phaera began and then paused as she regarded the expression upon Zabalas’s face and carefully rephrased her answer. “Very well, my lord. We managed to infiltrate Oakhaven as you instructed, using my abilities and those of the djinni. No one suspected. We found an acolyte quite easily and Solagh succeeded in gaining his form and memories. We were almost exposed on one occasion, but managed to circumvent the fool priests. We left Solagh to his measures and returned here, as instructed.”
“Yes, Solagh needs longer to do his part,” Zabalas added. “The magic of his amulet requires time to work, though, which was why he was chosen for that particular task.”
Phaera did not know what that amulet did exactly, but she knew it could simulate the effects of their influential powers. But, it was a gradual effect, unlike her own unique talents.
The door to the throne room opened, pulling Phaera from her thoughts and preventing Zabalas from commenting further. In walked a male dwarf. At least he looked like a dwarf at first, until one could make out the coloration of his face, which was very pale, along a few other minor distinctions.
He was a slagfell—which was how all others referred to his kin. Their greed was legendary and surpassed even those of their kin, the dwarves, who are renowned for their own love of gems. The slagfell were once a clan of dwarves, until greed drove them ever further into the Subterrane to excavate more and more treasures.
This particular slagfell was covered head to toe with plate armor. He stood approximately four feet in height and his head was bereft of hair. O
n that head were strange brandings that Phaera was told, meant something to their people. He sported a long gray beard that was braided into sections that hung beside one another.
“Megnus, we are busy,” teased the succubus as the slagfell strode closer to them, attempting to emasculate him and minimize his rank in their organization, as she always did.
“I carry news for ye, Zabalas,” Megnus declared as he banged a fist off of his massive breastplate in an apparent salute.
“Go on,” Zabalas gestured with a nod, obviously not thrilled about being interrupted, but wanting to hear the news.
“The barbarian village to the south, Chansuk, has been broken by yer legion, me lord,” Megnus calmly reported. “Yer waves of goblinoid forces be devastatin’ to the structured Races of Order, I be thinkin’. Goblinoids o’ all kinds be joinin’ yer mighty forces an’ so will the ogres and trolls, if they be knowin’ what’s good for ‘em!” Megnus again pounded a salute to Zabalas. “And of course, ye have the full support o’ Shadowmere.”
Zabalas spun to face the warrior. “I have not yet begun to piece this legion together,” he explained forcefully. “That much is obvious. And the ogres, trolls and giants will join with us or be crushed beneath my army.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Megnus saw the succubus snicker, as if she enjoyed seeing the incensed warlord focused on him and not her. Megnus noticed and let it go without causing a confrontation. After all, she was an offspring of Lilith, the Demon Queen, and he did not want to begin what would surely be an irreversible scar amongst the two races. Especially since Zabalas had recently begun his recruitment of the succubi into his legion.
“That undead wretch that ye acquired should be gettin’ his strength back soon too, as ye suggested,” Megnus announced in congratulation, drawing a sadistic smile and nod from the obsidian-clad warlord, who abruptly stood.
“That ‘wretch’ of which you speak, was once a very powerful mage. Leave me for now. I have much to ponder,” he instructed in a curt manner, agitated at how the slagfell regarded his other guest.
The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) Page 22
