The Pridemoon family had a history of sovereignty, even before the Reign of Ashenclaw turned Wothlondia into a desolate wasteland. The Pridemoons were a kind and generous family and Alabaster gave his kingdom over to Lynessa when he passed, knowing she would continue the legacy of fair rulers in Norgeld.
“Follow me, my lord,” said a Norgeld guardsman.
“Enough with the ‘me lord’ nonsense,” Rolin reprimanded.
A contingent of his men followed him into the castle. They made their way into the massive antechamber, the entirety of Oakhaven’s visiting knights was present with room to spare. They continued down a great hall and stood before the door to the throne room.
“Well, open it!” Rolin barked to the man who nodded to the two sentries outside the room. They moved aside and opened the door.
The doors swung wide and inside the poorly lit structure Rolin could make out a figure sitting relaxed upon the throne, a small counsel at her side. The only light came in sparsely through small windows and one high up on the wall behind the throne. As he approached, an elderly gentleman emerged from the shadows and Rolin recognized the familiar face and deep blue eyes of Heramon Pridemoon, the deceased king’s brother.
Before Rolin could speak to Heramon, he heard a shrill voice. It seemed to originate from the queen’s throne, but the dwarf did not recognize the voice as that of Lynessa Pridemoon.
“You come to me hoping for peaceful tidings when my daughter is yet missing!?” Lynessa shrieked, rising from her throne and moving forward on unsteady legs. “And you expect me to offer my own knights to sate the barbarians of Chansuk when my own flesh and blood is absent from my side?”
Rolin could not understand the level of hostility in her voice and stepped forward to address her. He listened as his men proceeded to follow him into the colossal throne room.
As he approached, Lynessa revealed herself from the shadows. She looked haggard at best. She appeared as if her servants hadn’t bathed or attended her in weeks.
“What be the meanin’—”
Suddenly the queen threw her head back and cackled maniacally, further disorienting the dwarf. At that moment, Rolin heard whispers, though he was unclear if they were coming from his head or from the recesses of the room. He tried to focus his vision—the combination of darkness and strong sunlight beaming in through the windows did not help—and he was distracted by the sound of steel on steel.
Fighting!? From where?! Rolin thought. When he regained his vision clearly, he witnessed in horror as his own men were fighting one another.
“What madness be this!?” Then he saw them in the shadows, striding forward, whispering commands to his men—Succubi!
There were at least a dozen or so of them and Rolin felt a twinge of dread. His men were slaughtering each other at the whims of these demons and he could do nothing about it. All of his tactical sense, all of his strength, wisdom and experience, meant nothing against the supernatural powers of these denizens of Pandemonium.
“A den of demons!? Wha—”
“Silence!” cried another booming voice from the shadows, quieting the dwarf. Another demoness emerged from the shadows behind the throne. She was larger than the others, and with larger wings that seemed to move continually.
“Your untimely visit here has cost you your men, dwarf,” she said calmly and quietly, striding toward him and sending an impulse to his mind.
“Bend your knee, dwarf.”
Rolin tried to resist and pushed the mental command away initially, but it came back again and again. He stood quivering as sweat formed on his face and beneath his heavy beard. Finally, he stooped to one knee before her, a look of ferocious disdain etched on his face.
“That’s a good dwarf,” she teased, bending low to stare face to face. “I own you now. I am the Aspect Nahemia Sine, of the Daughters of Asmodai…you will do well to learn well my name, dwarf.” She stood up straight and laughed heartily, returning Rolin his free will.
He stood and removed his weapon from his belt, meaning to bury his axe head in the demoness. But before he could move, his own surviving men surrounded him.
“Step aside!” he bellowed. Not one of them moved.
“All you have to do is kill them, dwarf,” Nahemia suggested. He looked to her and saw that Lynessa stood beside her, hugging her about the waist as a child would her mother. “I won’t even have them defend themselves. Just cut them down and you can make your way to me.”
Rolin loosened the grip on his axe, knowing that she was toying with him. He tried a different tactic instead. “Do what ye will ta me, but let me men go. They deserve a better fate than yer offerin’.”
“I’m afraid we cannot do that,” she said to him, and then directed a command to the others in the room. “Take our prisoner below to the dungeons.”
Rolin’s own guardsmen—men he’d known and trained with for years—seized him roughly and tossed him to the ground, placing manacles about his wrists. Some of the guards had wounds that would soon turn fatal if they were uncared for, but none of them had the capacity to understand their dire peril.
“Let ‘em go!”
Rolin was shoved and forced out of the room, and the only sound he could hear coming from the hall was the mocking sound of harmonious cackling from the demoness, the queen, and her entire court.
Rolin sat alone, anger mounting and dissolving in cycles. He’d been in his cell for…how long he did not know, he realized. A day? Maybe two? He could not tell how much time had passed. He was beginning to see things, too, as delirium clouded his sensess.
He stood and yelled for someone to come to him, but no one came. He gripped the bars tightly and shook them, but his ancient muscles could not budge the iron. He was hungry, but did not even care to eat.
Finally, a light appeared in the passage, stealing away the darkness, and a figure passed a tray of foodstuff beneath his cell door. He made the figure out to be someone of his own height and thought that one of his own kin had come to set him free.
“Eat, dwarf. Ye’ll be needin’ yer strength if ye want ta live,” called a voice veiled behind the light of a torch. The figure pulled it back and revealed his face to Rolin, who gasped audibly.
“Slagfell bastard!” Rolin barked, realization flooding over him that there was much more going on in Norgeld than met the eye.
Succubi and slagfell!
“What sort of betrayal are ye plannin’ now, traitor?!” called Rolin toward the figure that moved quietly away from him and into the shadows of the passage.
As the slagfell’s footsteps faded into silence, Rolin sat alone in the darkness with his own troubled thoughts. Despair washed over him and he wondered if he would survive long enough to get answers to his questions.
So many questions.
Tower of Torment
http://bookShow.me/B00GVLLHCM
The Legend of Ashenclaw
A Realm of Ashenclaw
Novella
By
Gary F. Vanucci
It was an especially hot summer this year. That fact was well known by all.
Triniach leaned upon his staff and peered skyward, seemingly searching for something. The always-aloof wizard rubbed his chin thoughtfully, penetrating the thickening white beard that grew upon it. His bright robe was made of the finest silken fabrics offered by a Veldennian seamstress and consisted of brilliant blues and purples. The woolen garments beneath however, were soaked with sweat and threatening to spill forth any moment, but Triniach did not seem to notice or care.
The calendar year was 414 according to the Wothlondian timekeepers and the heat had never been worse.
Where is it coming from?
Triniach dabbed at his brow with a piece of cloth, though it did no good as more beads swarmed to take their place immediately.
“It seems the summers are broadening,” he spoke aloud, calling over his shoulder to his companions.
“It is getting to be more than I can stand,” spoke Jon Veinsla
y, a paladin in service to The Watcher. The symbol of the god of the sky—a stylized eye—was proudly emblazoned upon his plated armor and shield, colored in pale silver with accents of deep blue and white.
“No wonder,” quipped the sorcerer behind him, Azbiel, who sat upon a flat rock that jutted slightly from the hill upon which they stood, which was located at the base of the Chaos Crests in the region of Hartsdale. “It’s all that damned armor you’re wearin’.”
Jon simply raised an eyebrow at his adopted brother, who smiled sarcastically and genuinely through the heat and together they shared a laugh.
“I trust the cold feel of steel in my hands over magic any day, brother,” Jon rebutted with a grin. “I rely on that which I can touch with my very own hands. And this armor will protect me more so than that robe you wear.”
“Against swords and tangible weapons most assuredly, brother. But, I could roast you alive in that very armor in which you place so much trust, Azbiel countered as he stood. “Does this look real enough to touch?” he added, gesturing and holding an outstretched hand face up as a flame burst forth from his palm. “It is as real as the campfire we set last eve.”
For a moment, the fire mounted in the mages hand until it became a small sphere-shaped globe of fire hovering just above his hand. It spun faster and faster and grew in size until it was the scope of a large melon.
“Go ahead and touch it,” Azbiel said. “It’s as real as the steel you carry at your side. It will melt your skin and turn that very protection you wear to slag.”
“Enough, boys,” called a very gruff but very female voice from behind them. Twarda, a dwarven warrior with arms the size of an ogre’s, made her way over to them. She lumbered slowly in her plated hauberk and her arms hung with a light chainmail over them, barely containing the muscles below. Her shield reflected the symbol of an anvil, the crest of the family Stoneshell from the Mountains of Crescent Ridge in the northeast.
“The both of ye’ can argue ‘til yer both dead fer all I care,” she added, taking a tall drink from her waterskin, more than likely full of ale. “We got more important things ta’ be talkin’ on.”
“Yeah, like where in the blazes is this fraggin’ heat comin’ from,” called a high-pitched male voice, reminiscent of an adolescent boy. Breaching the crest of the hill and plopping to the ground was the halfling, Figit Tallshadow. His long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail to keep the heat from his neck and his leather sleeveless jerkin was open, revealing his pale, hairless and very skinny chest. A pair of daggers was belted to his hips; one on either side, but the companions understood that the rogue carried many more hidden on his person. He was a worthy adversary despite his outward appearance, which they all knew he often played to his advantage.
Triniach watched their interaction for a few more moments before once more looking skyward. Shortly after, the voices fell away to silence in his mind.
“We need ta’ find us some shade, Trin,” called the halfling to the mage, who stared into the sky, seeming to ignore the comment altogether. “There’s some trees below at the base of the hill here, can’t we go sit there?”
“You can go wherever you’d like,” Triniach responded, continuing to stare into the horizon.
“What the blazes are ya’ lookin’ for?” Figit asked to anyone who would listen.
“He’s thinkin’ there be trouble brewin, sure as I be a dwarf,” Twarda said.
“A female dwarf?” Figit teased with a wide smile. The Halfling stared at the feminine dwarf and frowned noticeably as he studied her face. She wasn’t unattractive, especially for a dwarf. At least that was the general consensus, but it was a well-known fact that she methodically shaved her face every day and night to keep her beard from growing. There was always the shadow of a beard threatening to sprout forth now under her defined cheek bones and that was troubling to the diminutive rogue. She shook her head and rolled her eyes at him as she took a draw from her waterskin.
“Make it rain or something,” Jon suddenly spoke to Azbiel, obviously frustrated by the heat.
“I can pelt you with ice if you’d like,” Azbiel retorted sardonically.
“I’d rather you didn’t, brother,” Jon replied, sitting on the hard ground and cleaning his helm, wiping the moisture from it as best he could.
“And don’t call me brother,” Azbiel responded curtly, shaking his head. Figit laughed to himself again. He and Azbiel were the types to rustle up women and wine daily, while Jon was quite the opposite. He surely did not understand the pleasures of the flesh like they did, he thought.
“We are all brothers,” Jon replied with a smile, “Brothers in arms.”
“And sisters,” Twarda countered briskly and loudly, rubbing an oiled rag along the edge of her axe quietly.
“What the frag are we waiting for?” Figit said ringing out his ponytail and running a forefinger inside his pointed ear, trying in vain to cleanse it of moisture.
“The weather grows to a sweltering heat, brothers,” Triniach finally managed, still staring off into the distance and waving a finger at Azbiel without even looking. “And sister,” he added, still staring at the horizon expectantly.
Figit shook his head in admiration. The old mage never ceased to astonish him; just when he didn’t think that he’d heard anything at all, he was listening to everything the entire time.
“Do not waste your magic,” he instructed, perhaps sensing that the sorcerer was about to ‘make it rain’, as Jon had so put it. “We will need all of our spellpower in the very near future, I fear,” he added cryptically as he wiped a blanket of sweat from his forehead with a drenched sleeve.
“For what?” Figit asked again, truly puzzled.
“Dragons,” Triniach stated simply. “The weather grows hot and the scorching drakes are behind it, I predict. They are coming.”
“Wha—how do you even…? We just trounced a burrow of trolls and yer’ sayin’ dragons are comin’?” Figit asked, and then stopped as Azbiel stared at him with a shake of his head.
“The man can predict the future sometimes,” Azbiel stated as if Figit should know this already. “Isn’t that right, brothers?” Azbiel added with a sarcastic smile as he drained a receptacle of its contents. Figit knew it to be full of wine because he had filled it up not too long ago. The mage rubbed his graying hair, removed another wineskin and took a draw, and then winked at the female dwarf.
“Lech,” she said, frowning. Or at least it looked like a frown to Figit.
The feisty rogue sat quietly as the sun crested above them, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger.
“To Summerbank then,” Triniach suggested.
“Summerbank?” asked Azbiel incredulously.
“It’s the closest town,” Triniach refuted, rubbing his beard. “And we will need supplies, rest and perhaps some rations. It won’t be long now.”
“Crazy old coot,” Figit mumbled under his breath.
“It’s hardly a town,” Azbiel stated. “They‘re a bunch of fisherman that pretend it’s a town.”
“It still serves our needs,” Triniach stated again. “And Figit, you are half right. I am old.”
“Old and crazy I say.”
“We better be able to fetch us a few ladies there,” Azbiel stated with a protest as Twarda and Jon both stood and began to make their way down the hill, their armor clanging and echoing throughout the valley below as they followed the wizard.
“I am with you, mage,” Figit said as they slapped one another on the back, Azbiel knocking the slightly less weighty halfling forward stumbling until he caught his balance.
“Stupid humans,” Figit mumbled as he hurried to catch up to the others.
“I heard that!” Azbiel called after him.
It was a day’s journey to Summerbank and as they neared, Figit realized that the town had indeed grown some since last he visited some years back. They had an inn! At least that’s what it looked like from his perspective.
As the group ca
me rolling up and over the hill, Figit leaped onto Twarda’s back, causing her to stumble forward before her sturdy legs were able to right herself again.
“Watch yerself!” Twarda yelped, regaining her balance quickly. “”I coulda’ fell…and with ye' atop me, too!”
“I’da been fine,” Figit quipped, getting comfortable on her broad shoulders.
“An’ I’da ne’er fell. Yer missin’ me point.”
“It looks like the town has literally doubled in size since the last time we seen it. I’m seein’ maybe two dozen structures now!”
Azbiel laughed heartily while Triniach and Jon strode along quietly. As they made it to the bottom of the hill, Figit noted that something in the town did not seem right.
“Hey, guys,” he announced, leaping from Twarda’s shoulders to land on all fours like a cat. “Somethin’ ain’t right about this. Where are all the people?”
They all looked about and noted that none of the fishermen were on their boats or fishing in the bank and not a soul was outside. It was almost mid-day again and the lack of activity was both telling and disturbing.
“I don’t like it one bit,” Figit declared as he withdrew both of his daggers. The sound of leather on steel sounded again as Jon withdrew his hand and a half sword and Twarda removed her axe from her belt.
“I don’t like this at all,” Figit stated as he slipped down the remainder of the hill and proceeded ahead of the others.
He got up to where he could see things more clearly, his eyesight allowing him to see great distances, another gift of his fey blood. What he saw was distressing. He waved the others to within a few feet of him and told them to wait there at the base of the hill.
“What is it, half-man?” asked Jon.
“Shush,” Figit called back in a whisper. He wanted to whisper back to him that he was no man at all. Instead he was a creature born of fey blood, distant cousin to the elves and that he could tap into the regenerative plane much as a druid would and use the gift to heal; albeit sparingly.
The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) Page 79
