The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga)

by Gary F. Vanucci

  Her eyes glinted with a twinkle of evil and some of the wrinkles that had adorned her face very recently disappeared, replaced with the smooth skin that reflected the presence of youth. She shook her white hair and it danced loosely along her shoulders. She moaned happily in conjunction as a vibrant vitality flowed intensely within her.

  “So easily they are fooled,” she purred to the dark warlord. “If only all men were so easily led astray.”

  She walked hurriedly away from the ominous warlord, who turned a cold look her way at the comment clearly meant for him. He had enjoyed watching her drain the life from the orc in order to revitalize herself though, admiring the self-preserving instincts of the succubi, so close to his own. He followed her down the hallway and stood silently in the doorway to her room, admiring the beautiful demon as she slid onto her bed. She noticed him and lay seductively there in response, waiting for a reaction of some kind.

  “Send Prishnack to locate the apprentices or Kelgarek’s scouting party,” Zabalas ordered. “It seems that I must pay a visit to the town of Chansuk and see what news the orcs of the Bonemasher clan can give me about their delays in bringing back my artifact. You will accompany me on that journey, along with the others.”

  Phaera frowned at that order and remained in her bed defiantly for a moment. Zabalas turned to walk away and heard her cursing at him under her breath. He smiled again, admiring her attempts to seduce him. He would expect no less from her.

  He strode into the hallway, retrieved the barely-living orc and threw it over his massive shoulder. Then he entered his chambers, walking calmly past both Sadreth and Kaldar and into the shadows at the back of the room, where he disappeared behind a large, heavy door.

  The sounds of an orc’s cries of pain echoed briefly for a few moments after, and then silence once more flooded the chamber’s space.

  Rogoth once more heard the distant and seemingly ever-present call from the amulet. It was the same amulet he had slyly taken from the blonde priest that fateful day.

  He had never spoken of it. Not to Xorgram, not to his wife and not to any of the coven. It was his secret that he had pried the thing from the blonde priest’s hand that curled around it so tightly.

  Nor did he mention to anyone that it spoke to him. They would think him mad, as he sometimes did himself. He was unsure as to what he would do or who he would confide in. He was beginning to question if the amulet was even talking to him at all or if he just imagining the whole thing.

  After all, no one else can hear you, right? Rogoth thought.

  “Of course no one else can hear me! I have picked you, Rogoth. I picked you—or rather you picked me, isn’t that right?” cooed the voice in his mind. “You don’t need anyone but me,” continued the voice in a soothing and seductive tone. “I can give you power beyond comprehension if you just…let me.”

  Rogoth ignored it and closed his eyes once more in a vain attempt to find sleep, pushing the voice from his mind. Over the past few weeks, it seemed to have become much louder and more distinct, and it spoke to him more frequently.

  Suddenly he shot up from the bed, wiped the beads of perspiration from his head and ran a hand through his sweat-soaked auburn hair. He took a deep breath and peered at the footlocker containing the amulet.

  “Yes, come to me and hold me once more,” said the voice in his mind, enticing him. “There is no reason to leave me locked up in here!”

  “No!” Rogoth firmly answered, a bit louder than he had intended. His elven wife in the bed next stirred at the outburst. Her wide brown eyes opened wide and then squinted at him.

  “Rogoth?” called the cracked, dry voice of Meliana, his wife, in the dimly lit room. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing. I…only…I need some water,” lied Rogoth to the beautiful and shapely forest elf in his bed. “I did not mean to wake you.”

  “Come back to bed,” she said, twirling a lock of jade hair as the light danced along her tanned flesh. It was an admirable attempt on her part to coax him to join her, but even that could not dissuade the ominous visions and encroaching anxiety from his mind. He forced his eyes from her attractive form and stared once more at his footlocker.

  “Yes, go back to bed…and then drive the tip of your blade into her heart!” called the horrifying voice.

  “Never!” he whispered to the darkness, searching around the room as if searching for the source, still denying its true origin. He tried in vain to disbelieve the source derived from the amulet in the trunk at the foot of his bed.

  “What are you saying, Rogoth?” asked Meliana, her keen sense of hearing discerning what he had whispered. “Are you speaking to me?”

  “No…I was having a nightmare,” Rogoth said in a muddled tone, drawing a concerned look from his wife.

  “A waking nightmare?” Her brown eyes softened in a soothing way as she handed him a cup of water from her bedside table. Rogoth took it and sipped it before handing it back to her as he stood.

  “I think a quiet walk will do me some good and so I will drink from the cold spring waters instead,” said Rogoth as he abruptly left the room, attempting to put some distance between both Meliana and the talisman. And yet he felt obligated to keep the amulet, despite its strange and malevolent suggestions, as its promise of power was intoxicating.

  He headed out of his dilapidated hut and made his way down the path on the outskirts of Hollow Hill’s village that he called home. The path wrapped around the hill, and continued toward the stream found at the base of the hill. After the hour-long walk, he finally managed to splash some cold water on his face and partake of the fresh spring water. The cold night air calmed him and he was able to shake the voice from his mind. He hoped it would not come back again.

  This Blackstone Brotherhood that he called family for the last few years had been here for a decade plus, living in seclusion. They left the partially charred structures of the abandoned village in its natural state so that none would suspect that the ruins were inhabited at all. Rogoth remembered being one of the many almost-victims that pledged loyalty to Xorgram and had lived a relatively good life under his leadership.

  He walked slowly back to his hut, wondering the whole trip exactly why he had hidden the amulet from the coven and from Xorgram, who had been especially merciful to him and his wife. Why was he now betraying the man who had spared his life, offered him a fresh start, and asked for nothing in return except for his loyalty? He pondered this as he made his way back into the village, passing by the strange little demons that the warlock Helene controlled. They were set at certain intervals in an attempt to further dissuade would-be investigators. That, according to Xorgram, was keeping the legend of the haunting at Hollow Hill intact.

  It was all very confusing to Rogoth, as if his mind was filled with cobwebs, when he finally re-entered his home and climbed back into the bed where his elven wife awaited. She held him tightly in her arms and that simple thing allowed him to forget, for the time being, the troubles of his recent past. He was thankful to be granted a silent relief; to not hear the voice calling out to him again, and he finally managed to close his eyes and sleep found him that night.

  But his dreams were occupied by very disturbing images.

  Deep within Rogoth’s footlocker, the demonic presence named Cyrza, a servant of the demon lord of hubris, Sammael, laughed maniacally until the coming of the dawn.

  At long last, Jorlin Walden could make out the gates of Norgeld in the distance, growing closer with each gallop. A bitter wind turned the skin of his face red and his brown eyes squinted defensively. He braved the bitter cold and was nearly starved, but felt driven by the sense of duty and guilt that overwhelmed him. Those two extremely powerful emotions kept him going through the horrible month of Winter’s Heart. He ignored the falling snow which intermingled with his greying hair as his horse galloped mechanically through it, despite faltering more than a few times. The man felt almost certain that his hands were frostbitten, but ignored that pain as well.


  He had failed to protect Princess Amara and, as a result, the highwaymen had made off with her and slaughtered the rest of his guardsman.

  As he closed in on the gates of his home, he teetered to the side and fell from atop his horse. He landed abruptly on the hard ground and lay there immobile for several moments. Then he felt hands moving him and turning him over so that he faced the coming twilight above and saw the faded visions of men in armor, saying things to him and shaking him, though he could not make out the words. He detected the distinct sensation of his limbs and body being hoisted from the ground before the blackness filled his vision.

  CHAPTER 4

  Elidyr watched in wonder as the barbarian woman slowed her pace as she approached the caravan. He noted both the powerful physique that could only come from years of honing, as well as the greatsword she bore. It was obvious to him that the blade had seen its fair share of battle.

  He and Pendus’s family stood on the shielded side of the vehicle, seeking cover from the archers who leveled their crossbows at them from the ridge above. The elf realized how pathetic they must look in that Pendus and his family were relatively common folk, save for him that is. His elven bow remained at his feet as she ran past, locking eyes with him.

  “That bow will do you more good in your hands, elf!” she called as she sprinted past the startled folks, picking up speed with each step.

  They watched as two and then three more bolts flew past the tattooed woman who dodged them in a zigzag pattern along the ground. She even managed to deftly swing her massive blade to deflect the last one before disappearing into the mist not some thirty paces away.

  He turned just then to see the massive form of a half-ogre barrel down on them and then past, running awkwardly, and at breakneck speed, following the woman. The group was collectively flabbergasted, except for the elf, who instructed the three remaining family members to climb back into the caravan and to keep their heads down as he scrambled back on top of the wagon, remaining low. As he reached the top of the roof, he began launching a volley of arrows at the archers above them on the ridge, one after the other. The mist had not risen to the ridge, thus giving him a clear shot and his elven eyes aided his marksmanship.

  He did notice that the half-orc who had called the warning to them was no longer in sight. He also discerned that, in the gathering mist behind them, the elf that had accompanied the barbarians was tending to the fallen Geth. He still could not decipher the race of the elf, only that he wore a very long, dark mane.

  The other woman, a red-haired woman covered in skintight black leather from head to toe, stopped at the base of the wagon below him, paused, and took in her surroundings. She locked eyes with Elidyr briefly and then winked at him flashing a passing smirk.

  Curious, he thought as he notched another arrow and fired it, scoring an accurate strike directly into the chest of one of his enemies. He turned to where the woman had just been, but she was gone—completely.

  Stranger still, he thought.

  He turned back just in time to feel the sting of a bolt as it entered his right biceps and he winced in pain, cursing himself for not paying the archers suitable attention. He dropped the arrow he was about to notch and managed to move, dropping to the ground off the side of the caravan that gave him cover from the archers. Elidyr landed on his feet, clutching his injured appendage tightly as the slightest movement caused a sharp pain. Despite his preparations, the impact of the landing jolted the bolt in his flesh and he winced.

  “May the fey guide your strikes, strangers,” he pleaded to the empty air and immediately began devising a plan to remove the bolt from his arm.

  Saeunn charged wildly at the group of bandits that appeared more clearly within the fog. She showed no quarter as she rushed straight into their ranks. They had enough time to get their weapons drawn and awaited the charge of the onrushing barbarians—Orngoth right behind her—but were split into two separate formations. She charged the group to her left knowing the half-ogre would charge the opposite.

  The mighty barbarian swung her great blade in a right to left arc, overtop the ducking heads of a pair of dwarves, who both rolled backwards out of harm’s way. The blade did manage to land firmly in the left oblique of one of her opponents, a man, causing him to howl in pain. He stood in shock at that, attempting to stem the flow of blood as it spewed onto the ground from a sizable tear in his flesh.

  Another of the men attempted to attack her from the rear as she came to a sudden stop. He realized his futility almost immediately as she shifted to her right, sensing his approach, while reversing her grip on the huge blade. She shoved it back past her left flank as the point drove behind her, deep into the unsuspecting man’s gullet. He ran headlong into her, trying in vain to slow his own impetus, as the blade entered his flesh. His dark eyes widened in shock as the realization of his death overwhelmed him. His hands reflexively grabbed the steel of her blade, still in utter disbelief as he came to a rest nearly two-thirds up the shaft of the weapon.

  Saeunn took a step forward, and using the newly provided gap, shoved the dying man from her blade with her left foot. She regained her balance and spun at the same time as the pair of dwarves recovered their own footing. They were now circling her with weapons drawn.

  She grinned wickedly.

  The first one, a blonde-bearded dwarf with a sparsely toothed smile, lunged at her back, scoring a superficial cut on her right side with his dull blade. As she spun to face him, the other one, a clean-shaven dwarf with hair the color of fire, managed to slash her left side. Both wounds were shallow and not meant to kill. They merely wanted her to appreciate that they had fought together many times prior and that they were toying with her. She smiled at the haughtiness of the attacks, excited for the challenge, and turned that smirk toward the redheaded dwarf.

  She lunged forward at him, her bloodlust beginning to flow freely through her veins. That unbound rage took control of her and she used the pommel of her blade to push the weaker dwarf’s steel aside, then simply slammed her forearm into his face, knocking him senseless as his nose exploded. She leapt over him, continuing her momentum, and rolled over completely, instinctually coming to a stop, and sweeping her right leg around as she spun on the ball of her left foot. She caught the blonde dwarf with her leg as he was chasing closely behind. She whipped her head back and managed to watch the dwarf go airborne. He hit the ground awkwardly, as a loud pop echoed in the open space of the valley.

  “Regrettable,” she quipped, noting his broken neck and felt as if she were robbed of a more challenging fight.

  She turned to see the redheaded dwarf steady his blade as a mask of anger crept across his bloody face, ignoring his shattered nose. He charged the barbarian woman with vigor, producing a bloodcurdling shriek.

  “For Chansuk!” Saeunn yelled and countercharged the dwarf with a rush of her own. She leapt at him with her blade out in front of her. Her steel pierced the soft flesh of the unwitting dwarf’s belly just as she slapped aside his feeble strike with her right hand.

  “For The Champion!”

  She swiped a hard back-knuckled fist directly into his wrist, just under the blade, while simultaneously using her right hand and her momentum to drive her own sword further through the dwarf’s flesh and muscle. That back-fist managed to deflect his countering sword strike enough to cut it short before it connected with her flesh, and his sword flew from his grasp in the process.

  His face displayed mostly anger as he looked down again to confirm what had happened, her blade protruding from his belly. He fell to his side, still clutching the huge sword of the barbarian woman, his eyes wide.

  Saeunn jammed her right foot hard onto his head to pin him to the ground and yanked her sword free of the dying dwarf.

  “For Chansuk!”

  The mighty barbarian half-ogre rushed after Saeunn and watched as she engaged the highwaymen to her left. He noticed that they were split into two groups, one on either side of the path, and cha
rged the group opposite her. The brigands appeared to be frozen with fear as he came into view through the mist. They simply stood watching as Orngoth hit their lines with tremendous force. Their failure to move was an immediate and fatal mistake for two of the six onlookers as his thickly muscled and weighty frame slammed into the softer flesh and bone of his adversaries.

  As he crashed into the group, he crushed the life from a tiny gnome, whom he’d trampled under his heavy boot, as well as one of the two elves, whose frail body by comparison, cracked under the significant impact.

  A human and an orc in the group were able to dive aside to avoid the collision and another orc and an elf just so happened to be outside the initial zone of his ruinous charge. Orngoth was able to stop his momentum rather abruptly after the impact, adjusted the aptly worn ram’s-horned helm that sat atop his stringy black mane, and firmly clutched the knob of his greatclub. He looked at them and uttered a primal growl, followed by a roar of anger, which caused the remaining elf to notably soil himself.

  Orngoth turned and closed the ten-pace gap between them with haste. The elf remained stationary still and openly displayed a mask of terror upon his face as Orngoth swung the gargantuan bough. The wooden weapon hit the elf with such power that it almost tore his head from his shoulders, and the resulting spray of blood and gore showered a nearby orc.

  The others finally overcame their fear and surprise long enough to remember that they held weapons in their hands. One orc held an axe in either hand, while another orc—now covered in the blood of his elven ally—wielded a short sword and dagger combination. The remaining human produced a shield and a sword and managed to peek back at his elven companion, whose head sat at a gruesome and very unnatural angle, his neck undoubtedly snapped in two.

  Orngoth watched the man shudder and then spew a stream of vomit onto the mist-covered ground before tightening his grip on his blade so that his knuckles turned white. He held out his shield defensively but Orngoth only smiled at that and awaited the man’s charge.