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

by Gary F. Vanucci

  “You mean them red scaled dragons?” Azbiel asked, sipping from a wineskin.

  “Aye. Scorching drakes. That is what the scholars refer to them as. And yes, they are fire-breathing dragons one might say, with scales of red to orange tones. Call them what you wish, mage. They are coming.”

  With that, there were murmurs in the bar and the group of fisherman moved outside to remove their boats from the water. Figit and the others watched out the windows as they dragged and carried their boats to their homes, leaving them with three others who remained behind, all females, and the innkeeper.

  “Like that’s gonna’ help,” Figit mumbled to himself, wiping sweat from his long, dark hair. He pulled in into a ponytail and frowned at the heat.

  “What can I get you?” the innkeeper asked Triniach and the others. He was a ruggedly handsome man with the shadow of a beard threatening to sprout forth from his dark face. He was well built and may have worn steel on his chest at one point or another, mused the halfling, understanding his gait and mannerisms as that of someone who could handle themselves in a fight. “It’s all on my tab. You people saved our lives.”

  “Well, I’ll have another,” Azbiel said, sitting and throwing his feet up onto the table and crossing his feet, one over the other. He placed his hands behind his head and looked quite comfortable, despite the situation and recent news.

  “Do you not care, brother?” Jon asked him.

  “Ain’t much I can do about it, right? Might as well enjoy the night! Barkeep, do you have any…company I might be able to secure? I’ve got quite a bit of gold coin that I am willing to part with,” he said with a laugh.

  “None you can buy, my lord. This isn’t that kind of town. Apologies.” He said, wiping the counter. But, just as he finished the sentence, the two ladies whose lives they saved, came up to him and whispered something in his ear.

  “Well, I’ll be seein’ you all in the mornin’. Barkeep, your finest room, then.” The barkeep tossed him a key and looked down on the table. There was thirty gold coins; enough to almost buy his entire stock of liquor and a room for a month!

  “Now rooms I got plenty of,” he added, scooping up the gold. Figit shook his head laughing at his old friend.

  “I be makin’ my way ta me room, too. I got a lot ta be prayin’ about this night,” stated the dwarf priest as he made his way up the steps after Azbiel. Twarda and Jon each purchased rooms and disappeared up the stairs, paying heed to the advice of the mage. Triniach placed a few gold coins on the counter, too.

  “I’ll take whatever you have leftover.” Figit watched the mage closely, his demeanor never changing, even in the direst of circumstances. He admired him for that!

  He watched as many of the townsfolk—quite possibly all of them— made their way back inside the inn and began to partake of the rum, wines and various ales, talking about the dragons, the cultists and kobolds. And about the strangers that came to their town today.

  Figit overheard and chuckled a bit, never being too fond of attention or praise.

  “So, what do you really think is going to happen?” A serving girl, freshly arrived and throwing on an apron, brought them both over a pitcher of wine with two mugs. She filled them as they continued speaking.

  “I told you what I think is going to happen,” Triniach stated clearly, sipping a bit of wine from his mug as the girl offered them menus. They both shook their head and waved the girl away. Then Figit called her back and handed her a gold coin.

  “I’ll take a room, too,” he told her and then turned back to face the mage.

  “How do you know they are coming?” he asked, leaning in close to the wizard and staring into his blue eyes as if searching for something.

  “I don’t know for certain. But, it does seem to add up. Either way, I’d be prepared for a…unusual day.”

  “I didn’t want to say before,” Figit began, pulling out a pipe and lighting it. He took a drag and crossed his feet on top of the adjacent and empty chair before he continued. “But, I heard one of the cultists mention the name Ashenclaw. Does that mean anything to you, old man?”

  It does. She is the legendary Queen of the Scorching Drakes, lad. Just a rumor, though,” he added with a wink. “None have ever laid eyes upon this queen and likely if they did, they are no longer alive to boast about it.”

  Figit got up from the table and stared at the elderly mage as he sipped thoughtfully on his wine. The girl came back over to them and handed the halfling a key. He stared at it and then back to Triniach. He made his way to his own room and prepared himself for bed. As he lay on the uncomfortable canvas mattress, he considered that perhaps the mage was losing his mind. As he closed his eyes, his smile at that thought turned to a frown and his sleep was restless as he imagined the terror that might lurk out there in the skies.

  “Wake up!” Figit heard from behind his closed door. He leaped from his bed, flung open the door and looked outside. He ran down the stairs to join Jon, Twarda, Triniach and Azbiel around the innkeeper.

  “A message from out of town. The dragons have been spotted; it’s true,” he said with a gulp and a look upon his face that seemed as if he were about to cry.

  “Where?” Triniach asked.

  “Everywhere,” he said as he bowed his head in defeat. “The scorching drakes are burning Wothlondia to the ground.”

  "It is worse than I thought," Triniach stated, clutching his staff and moving toward the door. "We need to move quickly. Get yourselves geared and ready now and be prepared for the fight of your lives."

  Figit looked at him and nodded, moving to retrieve his equipment from his room. He saw Twarda and Jon doing the same. The two sorcerers were already equipped and ready to leave, their small rucksacks strapped to their backs and Triniach’s staff clutched in his hands.

  Once Figit was alone in his room, he quickly dressed himself and then strapped on his belt and scabbards. He then began placing weighted throwing knives within pockets on his leather jerkin and britches, as well as inside the cuffs of his boots. He ran down the steps and gathered with the rest of the group already outside. All of them were present, including the priest, Morgrim who they'd met last eve. They were all congregating around Triniach, and the few villagers that were gathered around, listened as he addressed them.

  "We have a battle on the horizon. And none like you've ever fought before. We fight for the very lives of everyone on the face of Wothlondia. The drakes are coming and we must stop them," he said leaning upon his staff. "The beasts will be plentiful and merciless and we must be strong in fighting them. We must make our way northwest and out of the town here to face them on open ground, away from civilizations. We will need to draw them out of the sky,” he said, lifting his staff into the air as he spoke and pointing to the clouds above.

  “Arm yourselves with bow and arrow to draw them and then slay them once they set foot upon our soil. They have weak underbellies making excellent targets, but their outer shell is twice as tough as any steel you’ve felt before. Any questions?"

  Azbiel started to say something and then paused as if truly comprehending the severity of the situation. Then he added, "I'll bring em down and you gut 'em." He stared at Figit, then Twarda and finally, Jon. "Hit 'em hard and make it count when you do." Triniach nodded in agreement of the sentiment.

  "And so, let us begin the fight of our lives," Triniach stated as they began their journey north.

  "What shall we do, me' lord?" called a villager from behind them. Figit and the rest of them all looked to Triniach who pursed his lips and shook his head.

  "Pray ta' whate'er gods ye worship," Morgrim called from behind them all before turning away from the frightened man and continuing on his path. Triniach merely nodded, agreeing with the dwarf.

  “That’s as good a counsel as we can offer.”

  Hours passed and the heat progressed. The ground was hazy with the sheer intensity of the heat. Figit wiped sweat from his brow and face and stared up at the sky.

&nb
sp; That was when he saw them.

  "Trin," he said, tugging on the wizard's robe at his side. That's a lot of dragons." Figit pointed toward the skyline. What could be seen filling the skyline was a wall of scales, teeth, claws and leathery wings. They flew as if birds did in a flock, and then separated briefly before returning to their formations.

  Morgrim was mumbling to himself. A prayer no doubt, the halfling assumed, as suddenly, a shimmering glow of an amber hue washed over him and the others. It was similar to the one the priest had worn on his person when Figit first saw him yesterday at the Summerbank Inn.

  "Is this supposed to protect me from their claws, fangs and fiery breath?" Jon asked the priest.

  "It'll protect ye' fer a bit, aye," Morgrim said with certainty, cracking his knuckles and moving into another casting. "The Watcher'll keep us safe from the flamin’ breath o' these drakes! Of that ye can wager!"

  As he finished his spellcasting, a wave of cold cascaded along Figit’s skin and head. His body shone with a hint of blue that intermixed with the amber, making it appear as a greenish hue.

  "And that'll protect ye against the heat of their breath fer a few seconds at the least." The halfling shivered and felt the blazing heat of the sun no longer with this latest magic upon him.

  It was just then that four of the drakes descended toward them, perhaps sensing their next meal. As the drakes flew overhead in passes, the shadows enveloped the valley. They were colossal, Figit thought as he gazed upon his daggers with a look of futility.

  "Don't give in to the despair! There is always something that can be done!" Triniach called over the beat of their wings. Figit saw a flurry of arrows launched from both Twarda and Jon. Also, a bolt of shrouded darkness shot from the fingertips of Azbiel. Figit raced over to him and stood beside him, thinking to be near a mage might be safest for now

  "What was that?!" he asked. "That, my little friend, was pure degenerative energy focused into a blast of destructive force!" he added as one of the drakes plummeted to the ground nearby.

  "You killed one!" Figit yelled with excitement. Twarda loosed another arrow into the hide of one that she and Jon were firing upon as it came toward them and he laughed. "Now all we be needin' is about a hunnerd more o' those death bolts ta clear the sky of the red scaled beasts!"

  "Frag, here come three more our way!" yelled the halfling loosening a crossbow that hung from his belt. It was small and thin and folded into something lightweight that he could use in emergencies and this qualified as an emergency, he thought. But, at least he'd be doing something, he reasoned. He fired and quickly replaced another bolt and fired it at another drake that passed by, climbing so low that it snapped its maw shut, trying to swallow him whole. The halfling dove to the ground, lying prone and just missing the snapping jaws.

  “Gods! They’re huge,” he mumbled to himself.

  Another of the drakes blasted the soil with flames from its open maw. Figit tumbled forward faster than he'd ever moved before. Five more began hovering overhead of them. Twarda, Azbiel, Jon and Figit kept repositioning themselves, never really getting set to fire more than one arrow at a time or being able to get off a spell before having to move again. They found themselves constantly diving out of the way of the flaming breath, the swipes of their talons or the snap of their jaws.

  As he lay flat upon the ground, already scorched and blackened by fire, he considered how truly awful it would be to be caught in those fangs. It would be worse than being skewered by dozens of swords at once!

  "Hey, Az," Figit yelled. "Didn't you say something about pelting Jon with ice yesterday?"

  "I did, little man! I just need a minute or so to be able to cast the spell without having to dive to the side! My mouth is already choked with dirt!" he yelled as he began to utter the incantation. "And I would move well away from here if were you!"

  "Here, lad!" Morgrim yelled to him. Both the dwarf and now Triniach, fresh smoke from a lightning bolt emitting from his hands, stood beneath a shield of force that the priest projected from his hands.

  "I'm not a 'lad'!" Figit yelled to the dwarf.

  Twarda and Jon both ran toward the shelter of the shield and they held their collective breath as huge chunks of ice rained down upon the ground, pelting and grounding many of the drakes. The bests hit the ground awkwardly and in droves as blocks of ice pounded them, steam pouring from their red scales.

  Figit watched with wide eyes, mouth agape, never having seen anything so devastating up close. Drakes fell from the sky and Azbiel stood arms above his head, looking to Figit like some kind of god. The chunks of ice hammered the radiant shield and Morgrim held it fast, maintaining the spell, strain evident upon his face, and no one said a word to him.

  For several minutes the ice storm continued, a blizzard that transformed the battlefield into a temporary bitter tundra. Figit even shivered, but was unsure of its origin was fear or the bitter chill he felt.

  When it was over, the air was clear of leathery wings and the drakes had either disappeared all together or lie dead or dying upon the moist ground. Jon, Twarda and Figit all made to finish off whatever beasts twitched or moved the slightest bit for fear that they would once more rise. Azbiel fell to the ground, exhausted from his effort. Figit found a weak spot on the underbelly of one of the drakes and stabbed at it repeatedly, its lifeblood gushing from many knife wounds. After another moment passed, it stopped moving completely.

  Triniach helped Azbiel to his feet as Figit made his way to them. "I hope you still have more to give," warned the mage to Azbiel.

  "Of course I do," he said, standing and straightening his robes. "Besides, the sky is clear of red-scaled beasts, aye?"

  "For now," Triniach answered as he looked to the sky and rubbed his beard as if anticipating another hundred of them to appear.

  Figit heard grunting in the background behind him and in the distance watched as Jon Veinslay slashed a blade that shone with holy light through the scaled exterior of a drake. The grunting however, was from behind Jon even, as he peered over him to witness Twarda chopping a drake with her axe over and over again, its blood staining her armor and face. Figit raced over to her and tried to hold back her arm as she made to swing and instead he went along for the ride.

  Gods, she is strong! he thought. She looked at him angrily and then sighed deeply. "These things be—"

  "Look!" Morgrim called, pointing to the sky. They all turned to see another one that had made it free of the storm of ice. It headed with speed toward them and Figit let go of Twarda's arm finally.

  "I think you can take out yer frustrations on that if you want!" Figit exclaimed, pointing at the huge beast. The drake descended toward them and opened its maw spewing fiery death along the ground where most of the group was gathered.

  Figit, John and Twarda took cover behind a fallen drake's corpse as Triniach threw up a bubble of arcane magic that encased him and Azbiel. Morgrim was lost from sight, but Figit assumed that the dwarf was still protecting himself with his shield of holy origins. Flames immolated their shield, the deceased drake, as it steamed and then caught fire

  As the smoke cleared, Figit turned and witnessed the huge drake right in front of him. His heart almost leaped from his chest as he rolled backward out of the way of a clawed swipe that just missed his face.

  Jon Veinslay was immediately to his aid, slashing repeatedly with his bastard sword, glowing with magic. The drake spun and swiped at him next and Jon caught the blow with on shield and managed to remain upright, though he stumbled backward. He swiped at the claw again, severing a massive finger as the drake roared in pain.

  Twarda was on its opposite flank and managed to hack into the drake's tail several times before Figit made it to his feet again. He sprinted toward the drake and scaled its back, using the red scales as handholds while he climbed all the way to its neck. He plunged his dagger into the scaly hide few times, probing for gaps in the beast's armor and found it on a few occasions.

  Then without warning,
Figit felt an onrush of air and the wind in his hair. He realized with an overwhelming fear that the wounded drake had taken flight. Then, suddenly, it stopped for just a heartbeat. Then he felt something in his stomach. It was something he’d only felt once before, but he realized with horror that he was now falling.

  He felt the scales of the creature and saw that their texture had become like stone. He saw Triniach floating next to him, plucking him from the drake’s back and felt the rush of wind once more as the mage carried him off. He went limp in the mage’s arms and he heard the loud crash of the petrified drake as it crashed against the ruins below, its flight carrying it directly above the remains of Shalratha. The drake shattered into many pieces as he looked down at them, seeing them scattered all about and mixing with the wreckage.

  "I didn’t know you could fly, Trin," Figit mentioned casually.

  "There are many things that I can do that you are currently unaware of," the mage responded with a smile. A moment later, they were all huddled together again and Triniach addressed them.

  "We need to keep pressing north. I’d like to try to make the Shimmering Lake to at least be able to have water available in abundance.” And so, the group gathered themselves and moved north again on weary legs.

  “Trin, what was that attack? Do you think that there are really that many more of the damned things?” Figit asked as they walked along the scorched soil of the Hartsdale region. The old mage looked at the halfling and nodded. They walked for a few more minutes and when Figit looked to him one more time, Triniach leaned in and whispered to him.

  “This is just the beginning.”

  “Thank The Watcher!” Morgrim declared as he splashed the cold water of the Shimmering Lake upon his face and then filled his waterskin. “Gods be good.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Azbiel as he filled his waterskin, too. “I thought you worshipped at the foot of the god of weather?”

  “Aye. But we’ll be needin’ the grace o’ all the gods if we be winnin’ this day.”