The King's Gold: (The King's Gold Saga Book 1)

by Jenner, M

  Ty and Galandrik approached the horses. Ty rubbed the nose of the closest; the horse never budged, seeming to instantly accept Ty as a friend.

  “Ty, Galandrik, this is Solomon, our guide,” Kern announced.

  “Hello Solomon, I am Galandrik Sabrehargen, from –”

  Solomon cut his sentence off. “Conn has told me all about you, Galandrik. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Well, I won’t bother introducing myself, then,” Ty said, turning to Solomon, only to stop in his tracks and stare at the young man.

  “I have heard about you also, Ty ‘The Rat’,” Solomon said, smiling.

  “Where do I know you from?” Ty said, moving closer to get a better look.

  “You maybe saw me at Conn’s, or you may be mistaken,” Solomon said, walking away and grabbing two backpacks from the top of a bale of hay. He handed one to Kern and one to Ty. “Here are your packs for the journey; there should be everything you need.” He grabbed the last pack and passed it to Galandrik. “Ty, your horse is the white Warmblood; his name is Flight. Galandrik, yours is the brown – he’s called Preacher; and Kern, yours is the black Choctaw named Trophy. Your weapons and armour are on the horses along with bedding and warm clothing. Is there anything else you can think of before we leave?” Solomon said, eying the three adventurers up individually.

  “What about a nice breakfast?” Galandrik said, rubbing his belly.

  “Praise is only two days’ ride. You can feast when you get there. Nothing else? Good, then let’s mount up,” Solomon said with authority.

  “Hang on, I have a question,” Ty said, dropping his backpack to the ground and folding his arms. “Are you a guide, or the leader of this group?”

  “I’m a guide,” Solomon said, mounting his Choctaw.

  “Then start acting like our guide, and not our leader,” Ty said, picking up his pack, just as Solomon kicked his horse.

  “Fine, now mount up! Come on, Fire!” The horse flew from the stable, lightly brushing Ty – just enough to knock him onto the seat of his pants. Hay and dust kicked up by Fire’s hooves filled the air. When the dust finally settled, Kern and Galandrik both sat mounted, looking down at Ty as he spat out a piece of hay and wiped dust from his face.

  “You know,” Ty said, getting to his feet and holding his still-swollen nose, “I don’t think I like him.”

  The party spent the next day riding south from Raith towards Praise. The path they followed was a dirt track made by wagon-wheels from hundreds of years’ trading between the two towns. Solomon spent most of the day telling the others about his work for Conn, buying spell reagents from all over Bodisha. The trading routes were etched into his memory, he said, as a result of the endless days he spent searching for weird and wonderful herbs.

  “So what sort of herbs do you gather?” Kern asked.

  “All sorts; I travelled to Lake Fortune in western Bodisha for the watercap root, which we used for protection spells. The southern marshes are good for sagebrush herb, for healing potions, and I’ve gone as far as the Volic Islands for the prickly ash leaf that we use for cure spells. To name but a few,” Solomon boasted.

  “Sounds interesting. What’s the most highly sought after?”

  “It has to be the milk thistle. It’s basically only ever found in the dingiest, darkest caves. It’s white – through lack of sunlight – and once you cut it, it never grows back. We have been looking all through the eastern mountains, but can we find any?” Solomon spat.

  “What’s it used for?”

  “Well, when mixed correctly with yellow evening primrose and witch hazel, it creates the most powerful invisibility potions.”

  “No wonder it’s sought after,” Kern agreed politely.

  Ty stole frequent covert glances at Solomon as they rode, trying to pin down where he knew the guide from; try as he might, though, he just couldn’t place him.

  Night was closing in, and Kern announced they should look for a place to bed down. Solomon told them that halfway to Praise, there was a rocky outcrop just northeast of Deaths Wood. It had been used by traders for centuries and was often called the Traders Toe, due to its shape; it was an ideal place to shelter and sleep. Ty couldn’t help but ask how Deaths Wood had gotten its name, and Solomon explained that traders heading to and from Praise suffered frequent ambushes near the forest; traders who tried to go through the wood tended to never come out.

  Eventually they reached the Traders Toe, situated just to the east of the path. Solomon led them around the south side of the outcrop to a clearing, its black and charcoaled centre offering proof of many campfires made here in the past. There was rocky face to the north and trees dotted the ground all around. It was not a heavy wood; just enough to protect a camping party from the winds, yet open enough to spot any ambush that could be sprung. These features – combined with the fact that the area was hidden from the road – made it an ideal camp site. Once the party had agreed that the site met all their requirements for a night’s rest, they dismounted.

  “If it’s all right with everyone, I’ll feed, water, and tend to the horses.” Solomon took a sneaky glance over his shoulder at Ty, who ignored the remark and examined the camp site.

  “You do that, Solomon. I’ll make a fire.” Kern knew where Solomon’s comment was aimed, but decided to ignore it.

  “I’ll get the food prepared,” Galandrik said with a smile of anticipation.

  “And I’ll check out the surroundings and make sure this ‘ideal spot’ isn’t an ambush waiting to happen,” Ty said, with a swift glance at Solomon to make sure his barb had hit home, then disappeared into the woods.

  It wasn’t long until the horses were fed, watered, and resting. The fire was burning bright and an iron pot hung over it, full of potatoes, cabbage, carrots, and rabbit, all covered in mixed herbs. Dinner was bubbling away nicely, Galandrik thought, and smelled marvellous. Kern was examining the bow given to him by Conn back in Raith, while Galandrik stirred his stew.

  Ty sauntered back into the clearing. “All seems okay. Some movement on the path to the south; looks like a caravan trail headed this way. I’ve set up a few traps which should announce any intruders; other than that, it all looks fine and dandy. Anyway, what’s for eating? I’m starving,” Ty said, sitting on a log near the campfire.

  “Rakib Stum,” Galandrik answered.

  “Rakib Stum? What the hell is that?” Ty asked, looking into the pot.

  “That’s dwarven for rabbit stew,” Galandrik explained, ladling out an ample serving into a wooden bowl.

  “I hope it tastes better than it sounds,” Ty laughed. He handed the first bowl to Kern, who thanked him and asked for some bread.

  “Want me to eat it for you, too?” Ty replied with a wry smile on his face, but threw him a chunk of sweet honey bread. Soon they were all eating the Rakib Stum, mopping their bowls with the bread, as the light darkened and stars sparkled in the night sky like pinpricks in black silk.

  “How are we doing watch tonight, two hour intervals?” Galandrik asked the party. Ty shrugged his shoulders and refilled his bowl; Solomon nodded and Kern said, “Sounds good to me. I’ll take first, if you like?”

  “I’ll do second watch,” Ty volunteered. “Solomon, you can do third and Galandrik last, if that’s all right with everyone?”

  “I’m glad you said that, because I’m bushed,” Galandrik replied, putting his empty bowl down and laying out his bedroll.

  “Is everybody happy with that rotation?” Kern said, standing up. Galandrik and Solomon both indicated their agreement. “That’s sorted then.”

  Once they had agreed on the order of night watch, their weariness seemed to settle in all at once. “Gods, I could sleep for a week,” Ty said through a yawn. He wasted no more time and rolled out his bedding with one hand, holding his second bowl of stew in the other.

  “I thought you said any thief worth his salt doesn’t sleep in a bed?” Galandrik said drowsily, tossing a small stone across the
campfire. He sat on his bedding holding his new axe, stroking the blade as if it were a puppy.

  “Go to sleep,” Ty answered as he finished up his stew.

  Galandrik was soon snoring peacefully. Ty was almost asleep after finishing off his second bowl of stew, while Solomon stood to have one last look at the horses before lying back down. Kern climbed the rock face and watched for anything untoward. Once the rest of the group had fallen fast asleep, Kern walked back through the encampment to put out the fire; the moonlight made it easy to see and he didn’t want the crackling of the flames or the smell of woodsmoke to attract any attention. He paced back and forth, checking each noise that caught his ear, but nothing eventful happened.

  Nearing the end of his shift, he picked up his backpack and looked through it. There was food – hard rations which wouldn’t spoil on the road – some healing balms, flint and tinder, and other basic survival items that might be needed by an adventurer. Conn’s certainly done his homework, Kern thought.

  Lastly, he pulled a wooden box from the bottom of the pack; it was about the size of a plate mail helmet with a wooden lid on two brass hinges. Slowly and with great interest, he opened it. The interior was divided by little wooden slats, creating four separate compartments, each one containing a glass bottle cushioned securely in a bed of hay. Kern carefully lifted one out; it was a typical-looking potion bottle with a bowl bottom and a long neck leading to a little cork stopper. Inside this one was a red liquid, swishing about like a sparkling glittery wine. Kern studied the bottle and saw the letters ‘STR’ engraved; immediately he thought, Strength.

  The next bottle was identical, except that the liquid was a dull green, and a teardrop shape was embossed on the side of the glass. Kern placed the bottle back into its compartment. As he lifted the third potion, he heard a noise coming from the south. Quickly he placed the bottle back into the box, closed the lid, and slid it back into the safety of his backpack.

  He grabbed his bow and nocked an arrow with a practiced movement. Aiming the bow downwards, he headed swiftly but silently towards the edge of the clearing, kicking Galandrik as he passed. Galandrik woke fully and immediately, and grabbed his two headed great-axe. Rising stealthily to his feet, he made his way over to Kern and whispered, “What is it, ranger?”

  “There are voices coming from the south – quite a few of them too,” Kern replied, peering through the black-on-black shadows of the trees.

  “Should I wake the others? We can’t leave them asleep.”

  “Yes, go wake them,” Kern said, still looking intently to the south. Galandrik made his way over to Ty and Solomon and shook them awake.

  “What is it?” Ty asked the dwarf, rubbing his eyes.

  “Kern heard voices from the south, lots of them,” Galandrik answered.

  All three slowly moved southwards through the trees, bending low and keeping as quiet as possible; every now and then Galandrik would tread on a branch, and Ty would look over his shoulder to scold him with a frowning glance.

  Eventually they reached a rocky mound and climbed up so that all four were at the top and peering over. Deaths Wood was only a few yards away, but between them and it was a dirt path. It branched off from the road, heading westwards towards the northern marshes. About forty yards away, they could see a band of orcs marching towards them. In the middle of the band were four orcs carrying a large log on their shoulders, and tied to this log hands and feet was what looked like a human, stripped bare apart from his leather leggings.

  “I count ten, maybe twelve,” Kern whispered to the others. “Right – Ty, you go down with Galandrik and hide on the other side of the path. I’ll attack from up here. As soon as I fell the first orc, jump in,” he said before turning to Solomon. “Can you help, Solomon, or not?” Kern asked the guide.

  “Sure, I can do some ranged damage,” Solomon whispered back.

  “Good. Get going, you two, and wait for my attack,” Kern said urgently.

  But Ty balked. “Just let them go past on their way.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Kern said in disbelief. “There is a human tied to a log down there, and it’s our duty to help him.”

  “Plus there are twelve orcs to kill!” the dwarf added.

  “There will be plenty of time to kill orcs later, and the human may be already dead,” Ty argued.

  “Don’t help, then! But that means you don’t get to help when we loot the orcs,” Kern smirked.

  Ty was silent for a few heartbeats, then said, “Okay, but this is the last time.”

  Kern winked at Galandrik.

  Ty and Galandrik darted between trees, and soon they were on the other side of the path. Galandrik held his axe close to his chest and crouched down behind a massive bush, while Ty climbed a small tree and waited patiently. “Yes sir!” Ty whispered to himself bitterly.

  Soon the band of orcs was just yards away. Up on the mound, Kern notched an arrow to his bow as Solomon held up his staff and whispered an incantation. Kern waited until the band of orcs was directly below them. He nodded to Solomon and stood, letting fly his first arrow. It thudded into an orc’s neck, felling him instantly. Kern notched a second.

  Solomon held out his staff; from its head flew a bolt of blue lightning that hit another orc square in the chest, consuming him in flame. The orc screamed and fell, rolling on the ground in agony.

  Galandrik leapt from the bushes, swinging his axe wildly into the bulky side of an orc, slicing through his arm and into his torso. The orc dropped. Ty jumped down from his vantage point, drawing his daggers as he went. He landed behind an orc and rammed the duelling daggers into both sides of the orc’s back, then withdrew them and struck again, twisting as he did so. The orc toppled forward, dead before he hit the ground.

  The four orcs carrying the log dropped it instantly, and the human let out a tortured cry as he hit the ground with a thud. One orc turned to face Galandrik and swung his sword, but Galandrik blocked the blow with his axe, then swung himself. He hit the orc in mid-thigh, the blade cutting deep to the bone. The orc screamed in rage and pain as he fell, holding his leg as blood poured from the gaping hole.

  Another orc ran at Ty, swinging his sword in blind fury. Ty rolled under the first attack, but the orc followed up with another swing that Ty only just managed to avoid. He backed up against the tree he had jumped from, and the orc raised his sword above his head, looking down at Ty with fury in his eyes. Ty couldn’t do anything but raise his daggers, as if they could block the inevitable sword blow – but that blow never came.

  The orc’s eyes rolled back in his head as he fell down dead next to the tree, face-first in the dirt with an arrow quivering in his back. Ty heaved a sigh of relief and gave Kern a tight nod.

  Galandrik faced another, but before the orc could manage much more than a half-hearted attempt at swinging his sword, Galandrik had beheaded his attacker; his head bounced a few feet away while his body slumped gracelessly down to the ground.

  Two more orcs died trying to run up the slope towards Kern and Solomon; an arrow to the chest made short work of one, and the other was engulfed in flame by the magic erupting from Solomon’s staff. The remaining two orcs, at the rear of the band, ran for the forest – they knew the battle was over and further fighting was pointless. Galandrik started to give chase, but stopped, knowing he could never catch them – and even if he could have, he didn’t want to enter Deaths Wood.

  Ty picked himself up from the ground, bushing dirt from his clothes. Kern and Solomon loped down the slope as Galandrik walked back to the group. The human on the ground spoke in a hoarse voice.

  “Bravo, my good fellows, my brave rescuers. I am forever in your debt,” he said, somehow dignified even while lying nearly naked in the road, tied by the hands and feet to a log.

  “What makes you think we’re going to untie you?” Ty answered, rummaging through the packs and pockets of the dead orcs.

  “Even if you don’t release me, it’s better for me to die here than be eaten by
those foul creatures,” the log-bound captive replied.

  Ty rolled his eyes as Kern said, “Of course we’re going to untie you! Ty, what are you waiting for?”

  Rifling through the belongings of the last corpse, Ty said shortly, “Busy.” He came up empty-handed other than a couple of leather necklaces, each one with a tooth threaded on the thong. He threw one of the cords to Solomon. “Here, a special present to commemorate your very first orc battle.” He made no effort to hide the mockery in his voice.

  “Thanks, I’ll treasure it always,” Solomon replied drily, slipping the necklace into his pocket.

  Kern finished retrieving his arrows from the dead bodies, then gave Ty a glare as he hurried over to the captured man and cut the ropes that bound him.

  “Thank you, good sir,” the human said as Kern helped him to his feet. “I am Nuran the paladin. My party was ambushed by those evil creatures, and only I survived,” Nuran said, sadness lacing his voice. He was a tall man, at least 6’5”, with a handlebar moustache and a courtly air.

  “Come back to our camp and tell us all about it. I think there’s some rabbit stew left, though it may be cold now,” Solomon said, walking back towards the camp. Nuran walked to one of the orc bodies and retrieved a cloth sack containing his possessions.

  “Good idea, Sol. Right – Ty, Galandrik: start shifting the dead off the road – and if they’re not dead, make it so,” Kern ordered.

  “So Solomon can swan off to the camp and babysit some strange human, while we have to clear the mess up? How is that fair?” Ty argued, planting his hands on his hips.

  “Life isn’t fair, so just do it. Why the attitude all the time?” Kern snarled back, kicking an orc’s head into the thicket.