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

by Gary F. Vanucci

  Hecate be damned. Again.

  He coveted this one in a way that reminded him of his favorite pet—Sadreth. And since he could not have Sadreth, he wanted the next best thing.

  He immediately went to work devising a way in which to approach her and looked forward to the challenge of prying this one free of Hecate’s grasp.

  Xorgram approached the door of one Fuddle Mucklewink and banged on the iron surface. He waited and heard what he thought to be whirring and other noises associated with the gnome’s movements. Suddenly, the door swung open and the noises within the workspace heightened in intensity. He saw the gnome hard at work in front of his bench. He appeared bug-like, Xorgram thought, as he glanced at his friend who stared back at him through his oversized goggles, his eyes expanded through the glass.

  Fuddle shifted his goggles to his forehead. His garments were open, his robe disheveled. Xorgram gazed upon his hairless and petite chest and lowered his eye to glance at his mechanized legs. Xorgram Eboneye stood facing the gnome and took note of the tiny repeating crossbow—affectionately named the Shrew, by Fuddle—which was also mounted to the undercarriage of the chassis. Shrew was concealed quite well beneath his robes and apron, which Fuddle adjusted to cover the weapon and his prosthetic legs.

  “Ye plannin’ on shootin’ me full o’ bolts, were ye?” asked Xorgram as he offered a sincere laugh. Fuddle Mucklewink ignored the comment and continued his bench work. Last Xorgram had heard, he was working over plans to perfect a few flaws in the mechanism that powered the elevator system he’d just installed on the uppermost level.

  “I heard there was trouble above,” Fuddle mentioned as he wiped sweat from his brow and drained a mug of water, replacing it on his bench. He mopped his face clean of moisture with a rag and then proceeded to clean and dry the goggles, waiting for the dwarf to answer.

  “Aye,” Xorgram said with irritation in his voice, all levity cast aside. “There be trouble fer sure. Skuros, bein’ the aggressive, bullheaded—”

  “Bullheaded?!” Fuddle echoed with a smirk.

  “Aye. Bullheaded taur that he be, killed four miners that were actin’ out of sorts.”

  “What do you mean by ‘out of sorts’?” asked Fuddle, replacing his goggles.

  “Reports from those gathered said the four of ‘em started fightin’ with each other over…well, nothin’ at all,” Xorgram stated in confusion. “Then another of ‘em came to me later and said he’d heard some voices callin’ to him in his head. Makin’ him think thoughts he’d never had afore,” continued Xorgram, seated now in a chair at the desk behind the workbench where drawings and designs were scattered about.

  Fuddle stopped his welding and used a pair of tongs to grasp the white-hot metal object and doused it in a water bucket at the side of the bench as it belched steam. “And?”

  “I don’t pretend to be knowin’ what to make of it and Skilgo ain’t never seen nothin’ like it afore, but I’m bettin’ the source be the same as what drove Rogoth to be doin’ things he wasn’t known fer doin’.”

  Fuddle nodded and stared at the piece of metal closely, still held by the tongs. Xorgram shifted his eye patch and kept the conversation moving. “All I know is that we be needin’ to keep a better eye on what be happenin’ here. I don’t much like what’s goin’ on. And with half the Brotherhood scattered to the winds and even more of us leavin’ soon, I’ll be makin’ sure we have enough arms ta keep them picks swingin’.”

  “Maybe it’s a fever or something like it that is making them behave this way,” suggested the gnome, straightening his apron.

  “That just might make a bunch o’ sense,” Xorgram admitted, thinking that fevers and sickness could certainly be a possible culprit as to the collective actions and behaviors of his men.

  “Maybe it be a disease that’s drivin’ me men batty. I’ll be speakin’ with Darmorn then,” said the dwarf as he stood and began to exit the workshop. ”Or maybe I’ll be headin’ down ta see if our ‘oracle-princess’ has somethin’ she wants ta share. She be able ta predict me future, ye know?”

  “That sounds like something you’d do,” teased Fuddle, never looking up from his work as he peered intently at a cog-like item. “Maybe just stick with the druid.”

  “Aye,” agreed Xorgram, happy that the gnome thought his suggestion to be in jest. He exited the gnome’s workshop and headed back to the next landing and paused, deciding whether to ignore his own doubts and visit Amara or not.

  After a brief moment, he climbed aboard the newly installed elevator, passing by his own lodging as he ascended to the uppermost level of the mines. From there he proceeded out and into the cool air of the village proper, past the multitude of charred buildings. He continued along toward a more secluded area where a certain cave entrance could be found.

  A dark-haired elf emerged from the cave entrance just as Xorgram approached.

  “What can I do for the lord of the Blackstone Brotherhood?” asked the forest elf in a tone that Xorgram thought mocking at first, and then realized instead to be sincere.

  “We be needin’ to have a chat”.

  Darmorn gestured for the dwarf to enter his domain and as he did so, he pinched his nose at the pungent aroma of something all too bestial and began explaining his plan.

  CHAPTER 13

  The orc host was easily a hundred strong. This was considered a large enough force according to Zabalas, to get the attention of the rival chieftain, though Kelgarek was not in agreement. After the news that Grubb and his entire unit had been wiped out, Kelgarek was so incensed that he felt he alone would be enough to march upon the Dented Skull orcs and force his will upon them.

  Kelgarek pushed forward, not heeding the pleas of his soldiers to rest. They were almost to their destination and so his subordinates would have to wait to eat until they made it to the area named Dragon’s Eye, and the inevitable meeting with Chieftain Narthrog.

  The orcs crossed into the ever-shifting mountainous terrain that formed the base of the Dragon Fangs Mountains, terrain that Kelgarek traversed with ease. His mighty legs did not give in the slightest to the disproportionate surface. Many orcs lost their balance crossing the terrain, though they recovered quickly for fear that Kelgarek or one of the overlords would cut them down. Kelgarek demanded nothing but absolute obedience and performance from here on out.

  As they neared the location of the southernmost mountain face, Kelgarek noted the familiar bridges and wooden ramps that scaled the face of the mountain which led all the way up and into Dragon’s Eye, where the Dented Skulls made their home.

  “We needs to eat!” cried one of the orcs nearest the rear of the lines, far behind but not out of earshot of Kelgarek.

  “Quiet!” commanded one orc, an overlord of the Bonemasher tribe who neared that position with a scowl firmly planted on his face. He held a pike in both hands and motioned threateningly to the orc who was speaking. “Or we will feast on your corpse! Kelgarek is not in the mood to heed your wishes.”

  “My belly roars with hunger!” continued the orc in his complaint, gripping tightly the sword he carried in a hostile manner.

  With one quick motion, the overlord thrust his pike directly into the neck of the complaining or. He drove the tip through and then yanked it back out, removing the head from the body, blood spewing everywhere as the orc spun and fell to the ground. All the others watched as the lifeless orc’s head bounced down the rocky slope they were climbing. There were no other complaints uttered from then on, as the orcs continued up the hill.

  Kelgarek observed the disciplinary action from a ramp above and approved. There would be no mercy this day.

  The Dented Skulls were a large horde, Kelgarek knew, and would not be easily swayed. They were a passive tribe, too, especially when it came to trading with the so-called Races of Order.

  That will soon change, thought the mighty orc chieftain.

  Many orcs came into view on the ramps and landings above as he neared, all bearing the helm tha
t marked them as Dented Skulls—a helm that covered most of the face and with one horn extending from the left only.

  The Dented Skulls obviously took note of the horde of orcs entering their territory and a group of six advanced, while even more peered down from their perches on the landings above. The series of ramps and rocky pathways was the only entry into the orc city high above.

  “What brings the Bonemasher orcs to Dragon’s Eye?” asked the largest of the six orcs, a broad shouldered one with wide tusks and an intimidating scar on his cheek. He was clearly an officer, based on the quality of his armor and the markings upon the breastplate.

  Kelgarek strode up to him, still a full head taller than the orc. “I am Kelgarek,” he answered firmly. “I seek council with Chieftain Narthrog.”

  Kelgarek dipped his head respectfully and then folded his arms over his chest while staring down at the orc officer. The blade edges of his huge greataxe peeked out from behind his massive back.

  “To what end?” asked the officer.

  “I have matters to discuss with your chieftain,” Kelgarek repeated firmly. “They are none of your concern.”

  The finality and authority with which the orc chieftain spoke evidently spurred the officer into motion. He nodded, slightly, and then gestured for them to follow.

  The march to the top began.

  “I grow weary of this travel,” Phaera grumbled through pink lips as she rubbed her backside. Her form shifted back and forth in the sunlight, willing her true cambion characteristics into view. Her white, silky hair flowed behind her as she rode and her lips darkened in intensity until they were a deep crimson. Her eyes shifted also in unison with the metamorphosis as the whites shifted to one solid hue of amber.

  Her robe seemed to melt from her as a tail sprouted from her backside and a pair of bat-like wings emerged from her shoulder blades. Twin horns protruded from beneath her silky crop of hair and as she held her smile, one born of a sense of freedom, her canines sharpened to points.

  The familiar leathers that covered her demonic form appeared too, seeming to cascade down her body like a wave crashing down upon her. They were the shade of a deep black accented with a glossy red that emphasized the edges of her ensemble. She wore a pair of thigh high boots with gloves that matched, ending midway up her biceps. A corset that barely contained her bosom wrapped her torso. Upon her hips was a slender band of leather that ran between her thighs and attached to a similarly thin band around her waist. The lower garments revealed a good portion of her buttocks and allowed her tail to poke through, which snaked back and forth of its own accord.

  Dainn Gravelhand and Megnus Bloodstone rode on opposite sides of her, engrossed by the transformation. Their inattention to their surroundings almost caused them to be dislodged from the backs of their mounts and yet they could not remove their gaze from her.

  They cursed in unison as a particularly rough patch threatened to pitch them both again, but this time, it was severe enough as to allow them to remove their gaze from the succubus and return it to the road.

  “In the Subterrane, we either walk or make use of dire lizards that make their homes within Shadowmere’s abundant pools, rich with plant life,” Dainn mentioned irritably. Phaera recalled having seen slagfell riding the ghastly lizards firsthand in the tunnels surrounding Ulthon.

  “I can’t wait ta be ridin’ one of ‘em again,” mentioned Megnus, indicating with sarcasm his preference between the mounts. The slagfell pair very much disliked the constraints associated with riding on horseback and remarked as such often along the journey.

  Prishnack floated along the ground in a vapor-like form, barely perceptible to Phaera except for the familiar flicker of his eyes as they blinked in and out of this plane of existence referred to as Krotto, which was some ancient form of the word ‘cradle’.

  The four of them traveled north out of Chansuk and through the region known as Stonehill, journeying uneasily along the rugged surface for which it was named. They carried on, traveling as quickly as the terrain would allow toward Heartwood Valley and the Oakcrest Mountains in the region of Amrel. Their purpose was to recover the phylactery, which contained the soul of Sadreth, the once-human-mage-turned-lich. According to Zabalas, it provided the undead sorcerer with vast, reportedly limitless, power.

  As they moved along, they happened upon a particularly hilly area, many miles south of their destination. They were entering the beginnings of the Oakcrest Mountains, which stretched from Stonehill through to Amrel. As they continued along, they found hills to either side of them. The path channeled into a valley covered with dense thickets and stank of a foul odor.

  As the three riders slowed their steeds, Dainn and Megnus both dismounted, leading their mounts along as they went. Phaera remained atop her horse, preferring the higher vantage point.

  “It reeks of death,” Dainn said with a distasteful scowl, retrieving his staff which was strapped tightly along the horse’s flank. He pinched his nose with his left thumb and forefinger and looked to Megnus.

  It did not seem to bother the slagfell prince of Shadowmere, nor did it bother Phaera. She was familiar with the stench of death.

  “It be rotten flesh fer sure,” Megnus agreed, snorting and trying to breathe through his mouth. He tugged at one of his grey braids that surrounded his chin and then another before removing an axe from his belt.

  Before any of them could say another word, Prishnack floated past them on the wind, slowly materializing before Phaera’s eyes. The horses whinnied, but she could not tell if it was from that or something else. His upper body became corporeal, hovering eerily above the ground, while his lower half remained translucent. His eyes shone brightly from beneath the dark robes, the red glow encompassing the deep gloom of the hood. The glow seemed to flicker as his arms moved wildly in rhythm with an outwardly disengaged voice that shifted in volume.

  He is casting a spell, Phaera believed. She leapt skyward from her horse, becoming airborne, her wings beating to aid her in her ascent. She allowed her demonic form through fully as she landed softly upon the soil, her hands moving to the knobs of her weapons—the scourge and sword that dangled loosely from either hip. As she looked up from bent knee, she witnessed the source of the foul smell.

  Emerging from camouflaged cave entrances covered by thickets and brush was the nauseating origin of the stench. It was not the aroma of death at all.

  Trolls descended upon them from the hills.

  Their huge frames were covered in mottled grey, green or brown hides that resembled living bark. Phaera had seen nests of trolls in the Subterrane many times. The succubi were able to ensnare them with their pheromones, though only one at a time, whereas they were able to influence several of the other races at a go. And there were too many trolls to count.

  Megnus withdrew a second axe from his back and mumbled something, his eyes narrowing as he banged two axe heads together. Dainn seemed to back away a step, then shuffled closer to Megnus and exchanged words as she made it to her feet, eyeing the djinni’s eyes intently.

  Prishnack was continuing a series of unintelligible phrases and she paused to see what was going to happen next. Suddenly, she felt an intense heat burst forth from the valley. She spun to witness a massive fire elemental encompassing an extensive portion of the valley as it shed its flickering light upon the damp ground, trolls flinching and shadows dissipating under its intense glow.

  Prishnack hovered along the ground, moving directly into the path of the elemental as it absorbed the djinni into its conflagration. Phaera’s eyes widened in wonder at that, not knowing exactly what had happened, until she recognized the flickering red eyes of Prishnack emerge from within what one would refer to as the elemental’s face.

  She could not help but be fascinated by the djinni and his power over the elemental planes. She heard the approach of the trolls from all around her and flapped her wings. As she was airborne, she sent out her pheromones toward one of the trolls. It immediately succumbed to her
power and she came to rest behind it, removing her sword and scourge from her belt, just in case.

  It may come to this, Phaera thought pessimistically, grasping the handles of the weapons tightly. She was a capable combatant, taught by the best warriors from every race they’d ever enslaved. Elves, humans, dwarves, orcs, slagfell and many other tribes had been thralls to the succubi over the past centuries, training the demons in the martial arts of war as well as sharing many other talents. Most of the succubi could fight skillfully when required, though Phaera did not enjoy close combat. She only resorted to it when absolutely necessary. In times such as these, she thought.

  She peeked around the troll, seeing the twin axes of Megnus Bloodstone working furiously against many opponents. The slagfell swung his axes expertly, chopping troll limbs clean off only to see them grow back with astonishing speed.

  The troll thrall before her engaged the closest of its brethren, protecting Phaera. It understood its sole purpose—to protect the succubus with its own life.

  More trolls came at her and she went to work, swinging both scourge and sword, keeping the creatures at bay. She caught a glimpse of Prishnack in her peripheral vision, utilizing the enormous fire elemental as flames encased and burned the trolls around him. The trolls attempted and failed to harm the elemental, managing instead to fall victim to its torrid flames as many of them flailed about, tongues of fire consuming their bark-like skin.

  Phaera’s troll thrall was engaged to her right as her own steel deftly removed a probing clawed hand clean off its arm. She worked the metal knots affixed to the leather strips on her scourge back and forth in a defensive manner, taking small pieces of barky troll flesh with each pass.

  Try as she might, she could not keep them all at bay. One was encroaching on her defenses, and she spun to see another bearing down on her, too close for her to even get airborne.

  As she made to beat her wings, she closed her eyes and expected to feel the impact of the brute’s clawed hands, but instead she felt nothing.