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

by Gary F. Vanucci

  “What cowardice would drive you to harm your own wife?!” asked Amtusk with utter disdain in his voice, standing behind Rogoth, unarmed.

  “Kill him! Quickly!” Cyrza commanded.

  With that, Rogoth forgot about his wife and thrust his knife directly toward the half-orc’s exposed belly. With a speed that belied his size, Amtusk swung his right arm in a downward and outward motion, slamming a fist into the man’s forearm, driving it offline. Rogoth flinched unexpectedly at the pain radiating in his forearm, which caused him to loosen his grip and relinquish his weapon. The knife slid across the floor coming to rest against an adjacent wall. Rogoth turned a mask of hatred upon the half-orc.

  Without warning, Rogoth felt something solid strike the back of his head. It dazed him, but he ignored the pain—or rather Cyrza made him ignore it. He turned and, with ferocity boosted by the demon, swiped a hand across Meliana’s face, knocking her to the floor as he shook shards of pottery from his auburn locks

  “Coward!” Amtusk spat at the human as he balled up his fists in anger. “You shall learn proper respect!”

  Again, a stinging pain radiated through Rogoth’s face as Amtusk slammed a fist into his left cheekbone and then again on his right jaw. Blood seeped from wounds on both sides of his face, but his eyes opened wide in disdain, pushed on by the powers of the demon. Cyrza asserted his dominance again, pushing the man to ignore the pain and broken bones beneath his skin. The demon saturated him with a sense of empowerment that made the man feel a remarkable arrogance, enabling him to press on and disregard all pain.

  “You do not know what you have done!” cried Rogoth, irritated beyond measure that the half-orc had interfered with his plans of ascendancy.

  He dove forward, reaching for the knife that lay on the ground, Cyrza pushing the man to his absolute limits and beyond. Rogoth grasped the blade once more in his hand and stood.

  Rogoth turned to regard the half-orc, a shield strapped to his right arm. He feigned a stab at the half-orc’s face in an attempt to open up a spot to aim for on his belly.

  The half-orc was clearly a seasoned veteran of battles and Cyrza watched through Rogoth’s eyes as he reacted with poise, calmly slapping Rogoth’s hand wide, keeping the shield in place over his mid-section.

  Another feint was followed by a clumsy jab, and again Amtusk fended off his anticipated attack. “What drives you to these depths of cowardice?”

  In response, Rogoth’s eyes widened, and then narrowed into a deadly stare as Cyrza directed a thought into the man’s weak-willed mind. He spun to face the helpless forest elf on the floor, her face bleeding from a contusion, her body limp and defenseless. Rogoth moved backward and put the prone woman in between him and the half-orc. He gently lifter her head, holding the knife to her neck.

  “Not a step further or I will cut her from ear to ear!” he warned, causing Amtusk to halt his movement and lower his shield.

  “I will not have you murder your wife in front of me,” Amtusk stated plainly.

  “Then take your leave, for she is to die today!” cried Rogoth with pure malevolence, as Rogoth maneuvered Meliana into a standing position before him, still holding the knife against her soft flesh.

  “Where is this coming from?” asked Amtusk, as he stood his ground and slowly narrowed the gap between the two of them. “Here,” offered the half-orc, holding his ebon-headed battleaxe. “Take this and leave her.”

  The beautiful axe head shimmered with a black sparkle, which caught the eye of Rogoth, who loosed his grip on the blade. He stared up into the half-orc’s eyes, studying his face, noting the tusks that framed his mouth and the auburn colored goatee beneath his chin. He detected no obvious treachery and even Cyrza remained silent, considering the offer.

  “What is that?” asked Rogoth, recalling hopefully rumors of weapons that were being forged beneath the mines. The smithies had harnessed the ebonite into what the villagers were calling shadowsteel.

  Cyrza sensed that the weapon was built of potent material and eyed it covetously through Rogoth’s eyes.

  Amtusk tossed the battleaxe high in the air toward Rogoth, whose gaze followed the weapon as it came at him. As he went to snatch the weapon out of the air, he inadvertently opened himself up, dropping both his knife and his lover in the process.

  Rogoth immediately felt pain radiating through his forearm again and looked down to see a throwing dagger protruding from his arm. He looked up to see Amtusk standing before him and saw a balled fist coming his way.

  Cyrza watched the scene unfolding before him as he vacated the mind of the now-unconscious Rogoth. He had a moment of freedom again as his ethereal form floated in the air. It would only be a moment before the gemstone that bound his soul for centuries beckoned him once more.

  He watched as the half-orc gathered Rogoth’s limp body from the floor and tossed him easily over his shoulder, striding with purpose out of the structure. Amtusk called to passersby, instructing them to fetch someone named Darmorn—a druid—who could tend to the wounded wife of Rogoth.

  Cyrza was disappointed at the turn of events, but remained silent, not calling out to the half-orc, knowing his will to be a challenge.

  He would put up quite a struggle, Cyrza thought.

  Instead, he figured to seek out the presence of the dark, tortured soul of the woman he’d felt so profoundly these last few days, but could not find as of late. He decided then that he would wait for that presence to be felt again and would try to reach out to her. And now that he was done with Rogoth, he had nothing else to do. For now, he remained tucked away silently within the footlocker, developing a strategy to ensnare her.

  The coming days would be filled with entertainment. He wanted to start a few riots and cast turmoil and distrust upon the weak-willed minds he felt roaming the area. Perhaps he would even be lucky enough to possess someone with one of the ebonite weapons.

  He smiled wide as he anticipated the amusement that scenario would bring.

  CHAPTER 12

  A myriad of visions assaulted her senses. She was fading in and out of consciousness, just on the edge of slumber when the vision came to her. It arrived with the same intensity and realism that she had felt each time she was at the precipice of a deep sleep. The vision she received was clearly of an elf, a strange and exotic elf, with dark hair and white eyes, moving toward…someone… slashing away feverishly with a mysterious looking sword, covered in runes.

  A woman appeared next, covered in darkness. She came into being right before her eyes, wielding a pair of beautifully crafted daggers, and melting into and out of the very shadows.

  A man whose face was obscured entered her vision. He held a magnificent hammer in his hands with runes glowing bright on the handle and head, before bursting with what she knew was deific power. His armor was the color of crimson and he spoke an ancient prayer to the Gods of Order.

  She saw a pair of large figures, too. The first was a female, but not the typical shape or size one would think when seeing someone possessed of such beauty. She bounded directly into her line of sight with a sword of great size. She wore a series of markings up and down her arms—a barbarian.

  The next form she witnessed was something that had humanistic qualities as well as characteristics of something entirely grotesque. His incisors were sharp like that of an animal, and his eyes were flooded with a red that to her represented an uncontrollable rage. She recoiled in fear from the bloodlust surfacing from within the creature. Yet, she recognized the emotion empathically within him as anger, not hate. And an unmistakable suffering. She felt the…creature’s...horrifying memories.

  He held a club the size of a small tree trunk in his hands and flexed muscles that swelled to sizes larger than she could seem real. She shrank under this creature’s shadow in her vision as the thing rushed toward her. The creature crashed through her cell door as if it were made of kindling instead of iron. He stood over her, club raised high, poised to bring the full and terrifying burden of his blood
lust and pain down upon her.

  She cringed, closed her eyes and awaited the deathblow that was sure to come.

  It never did.

  Amara shot up, eyes wide, perspiration dripping from her brow and face. She was no longer in a dream state and found her fingers grasping a sweat-soaked blanket tightly to her chest. She was breathing heavily, unsure of whether or not she had cried out. Her lips and mouth were dry and, likely if she had screamed, it had come out as a silent and pathetic parody.

  She quickly reached for a pitcher of water, sipped it, still chilled, as was her cell, and swished it around in her mouth. It left an aftertaste of iron and she grimaced.

  It was dark in her cell as it was most of the time, except for distant torches that yet burned on the walls, offering flickers of light on occasion.

  She wondered what those premonitions represented and had no idea who the figures were, as was the case from time to time. She felt that they offered an aggressive behavior…warriors.

  Are they coming for me? she wondered.

  It was hard to tell in her visions whether or not the subjects were good-natured or fashioned with evil intent, as the gods only shared samplings with her, and they were rarely direct. They revealed only possible outcomes, she mused.

  A blessing and a curse, she supposed.

  Amara wiped the sweat from her face, hair and forehead and thought of her mother and how worried she must be. She prayed to the Gods of Order that Jorlin, her confidante and personal protector, made it back to Norgeld alive, with word of her abduction. She had received visions of the man riding on horseback a week ago, but nothing substantial regarding his current whereabouts or condition. She didn’t even know for certain if he was alive, despite the convincing argument she gave to the contrary, when she spoke with Xorgram earlier.

  “Ah, Xorgram…you are another mystery,” she said aloud to the shadows on her wall. “What has happened to you to make you the cruel and self-centered thing you are today?”

  Pulling the blankets tightly about herself, the princess of Norgeld fell back into a deep sleep.

  More visions plagued her dreams. They were far from pleasant.

  Skuros Brax made his way deeper into the mines. Fuddle’s elevator contraptions were working on the upper levels and they seemed to carry his weight just fine, which meant they could certainly handle the minerals harvested from the mines below. He removed the spiked ball and chain from his belt and felt the weight of it, then replaced it.

  There were reports of many uncharacteristic activities from otherwise loyal workers in the mines, which is why Xorgram sent him on his current task as overseer. He was one of the dwarf’s enforcers and was certainly intimidating enough to garner a reasonable reaction of either fear or respect. Either way was fine with him. Motivation was motivation, he reasoned.

  Xorgram and Skilgo both warned Skuros that the recent behavior of the miners was reminiscent of what had happened to Rogoth.

  Skuros didn’t really care. He enjoyed the carnage. Be it breaking bones or shattering skulls, it did not matter to him. He looked forward to a brawl more than most. It was the area in which he excelled. He liked it even more than his fellow taur, Kroskus. Though, Kroskus could certainly handle himself in a fight.

  Skuros wandered the lower cells, watching the small pockets of miners down here as the sounds of pick axes and hammers resounded in the cave. He heard the distinct sound of a woman’s cry from the direction of the princess’s cell and quickly made his way there. As he arrived, he saw that she was fast asleep. Or at least that’s what she wanted him to believe. No matter. He shook his bullhead and scratched a tuft of fur on his chin, then made his way back toward the upper levels.

  As he climbed the ladder, his mind gave way to thoughts regarding his time as a bodyguard for a den of thieves in Veldennia. But, his reverie was short-lived as he heard another commotion somewhere above. As he made his way, he realized it was coming from the surface level. He hopped on the newly finished elevator and retrieved his spiked ball and chain.

  As his head cleared the top platform and stepped off, there was a crowd of miners huddled around what could only be a fight at its center. As the sound of the elevator winch ceased, the pack turned to see the bullheaded humanoid step from the platform and snort in a threatening fashion. The crowd parted quickly, revealing four individuals fighting with one another.

  Now they would have to face the wrath of Skuros Brax.

  There were two half-orcs and two humans who ceased their brawling as soon as they witnessed the taur.

  “I’ll be the next raid leader! Xorgram will see!” cried one of the half-orcs in a shriek.

  “Yer not worthy!” cried the second half-orc, followed by jeers from others in the crowd who remained.

  “Fools! I’ll be the next to rise to power!” shrieked one of the humans as the four began to circle one another again.

  Skuros Brax lowered his head and charged.

  The taur plunged headlong into the body of the nearest half-orc, who was brutally impaled on his left horn. Skuros raised his head and lifted him into the air, thrashing his head side to side as the half-orc jerked back and forth in the air violently until the taur shook him free. His ivory horn was stained red at the tip. Within seconds, the half-orc lay on the floor as a pool of blood stained the ground beneath him.

  This sight, however, did not halt the other men from advancing. Skuros was a bit surprised at their courage and snorted in response. His eyes flashed red and started the ball in motion with a whip of his arm, swinging it wildly in a circle overhead.

  One of the humans charged him with a crazed look in his eyes, which was met with the sting of metal on bone as Skuros connected with the weapon, striking the left side of the man’s skull. He went down in a heap as the cracking of steel on bone echoed off the cavern walls. Thankfully, Skuros had only hit him with the rounded edge of the ball and not the sharpened point of a spike. It didn’t matter though, for he was most likely dead before he hit the floor.

  Skuros did not care about the men, why they were acting this way, or what the repercussions would be for killing them. The bloodlust was the only thing guiding his actions now as his eyes glazed over red.

  The second half-orc and human were upon Skuros faster than reason would allow as Cyrza continued to tug at their sense of pride, sending them without reason into the fray. A sensible man, half-orc or not, would have at least hesitated after witnessing the two others fall so quickly before the frightening wrath of the taur. But, these two were propelled by an impractical will to achieve victory—no matter what the cost.

  On they charged, making it inside the arc of the spiked chain. The taur’s left hand shot out and caught the human male by the throat, lifting him off the ground and squeezing his neck tight enough to cut off circulation. His feet dangled in the air, kicking and jerking to and fro. As the man fought for his life, the half-orc was slamming his fists into the side and back of the taur. He clearly ignored the punches, as they barely seemed to penetrate his thick hide and muscles. It was not long before the man went limp and the taur tossed him aside like so much garbage.

  He lifted his spiked ball and chain and slammed the pommel of the shaft into the half-orc’s forehead, causing him to stumble backward into the adjacent wall of the mineshaft.

  The half-orc, angered and incensed by the demon that controlled him, screamed in frustration and ran headlong toward the taur.

  Skuros countercharged.

  Cyrza observed in awe as Skuros Brax stood over the prone body of the half-orc, hot breath escaping his snout in steaming bursts with each heave of his chest, easily visible against the cold air within the mineshaft.

  Cyrza enjoyed his escapades with the miners and snorted a malicious and hearty laugh that none could hear save him. A fleeting thought passed to attempt to entice this Skuros Brax creature, but as he tried to access his psyche, he was met with a wall of fury unimaginable and decided it was not worth the trouble.

  It was then t
hat he noticed the arrival of the orc he knew as Amtusk—the same orc that had put a stop to his amusement with Rogoth. But unlike that instance, this time he arrived too late to stop the carnage. All he could do was try to calm the rest of the men, herding them away from the scene that unfolded.

  Again, Cyrza basked in the delight of the emotional turmoil. Being an avatar of the demon lord Sammael, the Demon Lord of Pride, he enjoyed any and all chaos.

  A slagfell arrived then, shambling into the tunnel shortly after the fight ended, having emerged from somewhere below to see what the commotion was.

  “Skilgo,” whispered one of the miners in a hushed tone.

  Skilgo Firehammer, thought Cyrza, having heard the name spoken before many times, and knew him to be the head miner.

  “What be the meanin’ o’ this?!” Skilgo asked excitedly, wheezing and coughing while waiting for an answer. He raised an eyebrow, thick with gray, as he waited, rubbing dust and soot from his bald head.

  Cyrza found the entire scene delightful. So many emotions at play, he thought.

  Skuros stood defiantly and said nothing for several moments. Finally, the taur walked away from the aged slagfell and retreated into the shadows, leaving the others to clean up the carnage he’d unleashed upon the miners.

  Cyrza, meanwhile, felt the presence of a powerful mind wander close to his proximity. It was the presence he’d felt earlier. This woman reeked of black magic.

  Hecate!

  She was the only other demoness—other than the self-proclaimed demon queen, Lilith—who had risen to power in Pandemonium. And the only other demoness to challenge for rulership, he recalled with admiration. Hecate was clearly able to entice this one with the dark gifts of a warlock.

  Ah, how she can caress and lure any with promises of power through black magic, Cyrza thought with a sense of approval.

  He respected the reach and power of the other demon lords and ladies, but this time, he wanted the warlock for his own.