The Black Keep (The Chronicles of Llars)

by Tom Bielawski

  Kharrihan burst from the trees, “A warrior approaches!”

  The approaching warrior broke Zach’s concentration and he turned toward the elf. Carym drew his batons and the three men turned to face the approaching foe. Carym silently prayed it wasn’t a powerful hurkin with a magical sword as the figure rounded the bend and strode into view. Carym was thankful that Gennevera and Bart held their flank from the tree line. He reached to his pocket to be sure the stones were still safely stored there and was comforted by the presence of their bag.

  Without warning Carym felt dizzy, he struggled to stand. His eyesight blurred and he had a vision of a rider, a headless rider on a black horse with spiked hooves that spat flame each time they struck the ground, and a vicious mouth full of wicked teeth. It held a whip of black flames in one hand and a scythe in the other, and it was armored in ancient plate mail; it had no head. He felt as though the creature were staring at him, and an eerie laughing sound haunted him.

  “Come to me!” it whispered, the sound resounding inside his skull with a cackling laugh.

  A vision. He was breathing hard now, and Zach cast him a worried glance. Carym promptly prepared a powerful spell he hoped would overwhelm their foe, and was surprised by what appeared before him.

  This was certainly not the demonic rider he saw moments before. He heard that whispering voice in his head again, laughing. He shook his head, this was a human of flesh and bone like him. Not an undead being, not an orok, not a hurkin. The man was dressed in dark blue armor with intricate silver facings and designs, clearly a man of importance. The visor of his helm was up, revealing that he was human. He had a strong jaw, firm features, and a large frame. The warrior’s armor bore an intricate coat of arms.

  Carym attributed the quiet confidence of this man to his apparent skill as a fighter; clearly he was not intimidated by the pair before him. Carym wiped sweat from his brow, wondering how he could be sweating in the wintry air.

  The warrior held out his right hand at shoulder level, palm outwards, smiling. In a powerful voice he said in Cklathish, “Well met, travelers! How fares the road ahead?”

  Carym was dumbstruck. The man was acting like nothing was amiss at all. How could he be so calm?

  “Zuharim!” hissed Zach, brandishing his new sword.

  “Yes, I am. My name is Sir Ederick Shieldsmoore, Captain of the Zuharim, in the service of Lord Charrek Argossy, the Seat of Brythynburr and Lord of Brythyn. Who are you?” His friendly demeanor vanished when Zach leveled his sword. Carym understood Zach’s suspicion, but somehow he knew this knight wasn’t one of those who were conducting their nefarious work in the Underllars.

  A hissing sound emanated from all around, like many voices whispering harshly, urgently. The knight brandished a hand sized crossbow in one hand and his long sword in the other. The companions each looked about with weapons at the ready as the sound echoed hauntingly from the snow covered trees. They caught fleeting glimpses of figures dancing in and out of sight, too swift to identify with certainty. A score of small black birds flapped angrily into the air upon the sudden movement. But Bart was fairly convinced that he knew what was about them.

  “Oroks!” he shouted, pointing to the trees.

  Kharrihan agreed as he tried to sight one of them in his bow; he cursed as the creatures were too quick for even the diminutive elf to target.

  “How many?” demanded the knight, ready too.

  “Three score, at least!” replied Kharrihan grimly.

  “Too many! We should be on our way.”

  Carym found that he agreed with Zach on that point and turned to lead the companions down the embankment and back into the wood. The knight lagged behind, as though he wanted to stay and fight but good sense told him the numbers were against them. The group moved swiftly through the trees, Zach and Bart taking turns covering any approach from behind, the knight blended in seamlessly. The group continued moving quickly, nearly running, and did not slow for ten minutes as they struggled through the dense snow covered forest.

  Seeing that no further pursuit was coming, Carym called a brief halt and the group quickly formed a circle, each facing a likely avenue of attack. They stayed in place, breathing hard, but heard nothing.

  “Odd that they do not pursue,” Carym wondered. Oroks truly enjoyed hunting their prey in sheer and overwhelming numbers.

  “Likely the band did not know how many of us there were. It would be too great a risk for the small mind of an orok to chase headlong into the dense woods, full of defensible positions and chance an encounter with greater numbers waiting in ambush.”

  Carym didn’t disagree with that logic, and saw that his companions didn’t either. He nodded to the knight.

  “You seem to be the leader of this group of noteworthy folk. I thank you for allowing me to join your flight, there is safety in numbers.”

  “Aye,” Carym replied. “Well met. I am Carym of Hyrum and these are my friends.” Carym introduced each of the companions, one by one, and each nodded politely in return, though they still would not break formation.

  “Your men are a credit to you, Carym. They are disciplined and hold true to your leadership. Are you part of a militia, or a mercenary company?”

  “Neither. Other than Zach and me, we are companions by chance,” he said. “But, we are all friends by choice.”

  Kharrihan left his position in the front of the group and stood by Carym. His expression was grim and he stared daggers at the knight. “Just what are you doing here, Zuharim?” asked Kharrihan, veritably spitting the name of the knight’s order.

  “A good question, friend from Silver Mountain,” said the knight diplomatically. “I have but yesterday returned to the Isles from the war in Al Zocar. The war has been costly in lives and in money and I must gather reinforcements for my liege, the Paladin Regent.” The noble looking man had a far-off look in his eye as he spoke, his features hardening as he looked back to the elf.

  “Who fights in Al Zocar?” asked Gennevera.

  Ederick seemed surprised at her ignorance, but was astute enough to gather her question was sincere and was gracious enough to explain.

  “Al Zocar is the seat of the Great Lord, Zuhr, and His church. It is on a beautiful island halfway between our continent and that of the Karbander nation. Al Zocar is said to be the birthplace of all life on Llars, the place where Zuhr rested among his first children in a wondrous garden after creating the world.”

  “Alas, it is also sacred to the likes of Qra’z and Umber. Two foul creatures spawned from the depths of Hades! Although the Umberites have not bothered with Al Zocar in nearly a millennium, we Zuharim have repulsed the Qra’zian pigs over and over throughout the centuries as they seek to defile our sacred land.”

  “Why cannot this place be shared?” she asked, sincerely.

  Ederick was not pleased with that question, smacking of blasphemy. “Because, the Umberites and Qra’zians are demon worshiping animals! They are unfit to walk on the sacred and holy ground where Zuhr Himself has walked!”

  Gennevera sensed that she had perhaps overstepped and simply nodded as though the knight’s explanation were perfectly sound.

  “I don’t trust him, Carym. You saw with your own eyes what the Zuharim have become!” Kharrihan was angry. Had he not been a mere four and a half feet tall, he would have been very intimidating.

  The knight looked at the short elf, perplexed and angry. “What is this about?”

  “As if you don’t know!” snorted the elf.

  Ederick looked as though he were ready to kill the elf on the spot, and probably could have done so with little difficulty were it not for the rest of the companions there. Carym decided he had better intervene.

  “In the Underllars, your brethren have been committing heinous acts of evil. Sadly, I have seen this for myself; how do you explain that, sir?”

  “You have come from the Underllars? You saw my brethren there?” asked the knight intently.

  “Ha! You see, Carym?
He knows! He knows and yet he still plays the role of gallant knight come to save us all!”

  “Easy, Kharr. This man has done us no harm. And, we must admit, we know very little about this other than what we saw in the Underllars. He will be given the opportunity to explain the damage his brethren have done to your people.”

  The elf was not pleased, but would not argue with Carym. Instead, he stood there with his hands on his hips, his eyes demanding that the knight get on with it.

  “I’m afraid I simply do not know what this is all about. There is a division of the Zuharim, called the Lupherians after Knight Commander Lupherius, whose purpose is the study of ancient lore and to herald the Return of the First Paladin, an ancient prophecy. I have been serving under the Knight Commander-General, the Paladin Regent of the Zuharim for these past years and know little of what transpires here in these peaceful lands. What I do know is that the Lupherians have been dispatched to the corners of Llars to find what they may about the Return. Alas, I know little else.”

  “Do they wear robes of white and blue?” asked Carym.

  “Indeed, they are sometimes called the ‘robed ones’ and are comprised of many knights whose sharpest weapon is their mind. Very smart, but not very skilled in martial battle skills. Many of them are men who could not survive the trials of the Knights of the Line.”

  “While in the Underllars we encountered a lone Zuharim in white and blue robes, bearing the emblem of your Order, and leading a group of rambling skeletons,” Carym paused to watch the man’s reaction. His face had hardened, however, and now he wore a mask of stone, revealing nothing. “Hideous creatures whose very existence is anathema to what we all know your Order stands for, or once stood for.” Carym had trouble keeping the edge from his voice. The very thought of the Order he once thought to join, partaking in the grisly practice of necromancy, angered him deeply.

  “This cannot be,” whispered the knight, his face pale, jaws clenching.

  Zach scowled, muttering under his breath about trusting knights, but Ederick did not seem to hear. Carym was very interested in the man’s reaction. He was definitely thinking this through. Finally, the big man nodded, let out a great sigh, and leaned against a large tree.

  “Reports have begun filtering in through our intelligence network that the Lupherians had hired necromancers, practitioners of death magic, in hopes of communicating with the spirit of the First Paladin. The reports were mostly anonymous, with little to substantiate the claims. The Lupherians who where fighting with us in Al Zocar vehemently denied the allegations as preposterous lies. We believed the Lupherians.”

  “So it seems the traitorous infidels have been making mischief of the good name of Zuhr while the rest of us fought, and died, in Al Zocar,” the man’s voice was low and bore a dangerous edge. “It seems Zuhr has chosen me to play a role in the destruction of these vile blasphemers.”

  Kharrihan wasn’t convinced. “Send him on his way, Carym. How can we believe him?”

  “I believe him,” said Carym. “He has given us no reason not to. I will not condemn this man for the actions of others who, for all we know, may be acting independently as renegades. Sir Ederick, we travel to Port of Powyss and then on to Port of Obyn on Myrnwell.”

  “Myrnwell is where I am headed too, the bastard Tywys Rhi turned down my request for aid and threatened to banish me for good,” the knight was scandalized. “Now I must seek an audience with the Rhi of Myrnwell.”

  Kharrihan unhappily returned to his position in formation, but respected Carym’s authority in the matter. Carym resolved to talk to his scout more later. He hoped that the knight would have proven himself by them.

  “Then come with us to Myrnwell, at least. Once we get to Obyn we plan to assess the situation in the rest of the Isles, and determine what our next step will be.”

  The knight nodded.

  Then the hissing sound and the rustling of branches came again from behind the party. For a moment no one moved, each prepared to fight or run. No matter which way they looked, orok sized shadows danced between trees with alarming speed and finesse. But none strayed close enough to attack them or for the companions to shoot with their bows. The hissing and crackling laughter rose and fell and was getting so loud that the companions found they must raise their voices to be heard.

  The pull of the Shadow stone surged, so strong that Carym found his hand slipping into the pouch and gripping the black stone before he realized what was happening. The stone called to him, resonated within him. He felt its power coursing up his arm and into his chest and thoughts of lashing out at the wood with tongues of black fire laying waste to acres at a time, crossed his mind. Quickly he forced his hand to let go, but the longing for that power remained.

  “We must be moving!” shouted Carym, trying to be heard among the din. He signaled for Kharrihan to run ahead and scout the way for them as the group moved out, following what appeared to be a footpath, accepting the risk for the speed it offered. All were relieved to hear the buzzing sound of the oroks dissipate.

  The companions traveled the well-worn trail for hours. They were all relieved that there had been no attacks and that it seemed the oroks were not interested in engaging them at all, rather they seemed to be merely following. Each time they stopped, the hubbub of voices and guttural noises would slowly increase the longer they remained still. And each time they marched on, the buzzing died away.

  “We are being herded!” said Carym with anger. He didn’t like the idea that he and his friends could be walking into a trap made by three score oroks. The thought would have been comical any other time, for any trap prepared by oroks was as likely as not to backfire on the stupid creatures. But not today. Today Carym witnessed a fearsome hurkin leading a disciplined band of oroks and he feared the real menace had yet to be revealed.

  Kharrihan returned to the group and reported the presence of a road ahead. A well-traveled, wide, cobblestone road. They moved to the road and stopped, not sensing pursuit for the moment. Carym silently nodded to Kharr and Bart, each scouting the road in a separate direction. They returned later as the sun began to set, their expressions grim. They reported their findings to Carym.

  “The road to the left is flanked by thick woods on both sides. It leads to a stone archway where the woods end and the road travels over low, flat land toward a keep atop a large hill which overlooks the area. A black keep, I’m afraid.” Kharrihan looked crestfallen for he understood the dire portent of his words. Bart, too, seemed to shake his head in consternation as Kharrihan finished his report.

  “What say you, Bart?” asked Carym.

  “The very same, so it is. The very same.”

  Carym wasn’t sure he heard the bard right. “How can that be?” The two scouts looked at each other with complete understanding while the rest of the group was perplexed.

  “Tis the Curse of the Black Baron, so it is.”

  “The what?” asked Ederick. “What curse?” The knight’s face paled, and he looked about apprehensively. The bard spoke first.

  “I’m something of an expert on local history, good sir. And sadly, we have already passed a wandering knight, so we did. ‘Tis one of the first signs of a border shift, the Curse of Baron Tyrannus. As you saw on the road behind us, the filthy remains of a foul Battle Ghoul, constructed of who knows how many corpses, fouling up the air. ’Tis no coincidence, sir. The borders have shifted and they’ve taken you with us, so they have!”

  The pack settled into a base of operations in the port town of Gryfu, on the southern coast of Ckaymru. There Alyksandra assumed they would find news of the person whom they sought. To their surprise, no news could be found. The spies operating on behalf of the Society in Caelambra and Amberlou, the only other possible port destinations, reported nothing also. As those two locations had been recently invaded by the Nashians and the Sargannish, respectively, Alyksandra decided to continue their search from Gryfu.

  After weeks of scouting the isle and the surrounding isla
nds, Aura reported back. “I’ve got the scent!”

  Alyksandra was relieved. Morghal had not been pleased with their lack of progress, yet he had seemed to understand something more of the situation than she did and had been patient.

  “Where?” she asked, as her Second smiled.

  “North. One day at wolf speed.”

  Alyksandra nodded. “Where does that lead us?”

  “The mountains between here and Powyss. Powyss is a large port city. I’ll bet they are working their way there to obtain passage north.”

  “Probably so,” she was quiet a moment. Then, “Our supplies are in place?”

  “Yes, pack leader.” Calepo had been tasked with finding supply staging points for the group in the surrounding countryside and even nearby islands. They had no idea where they would be headed when they picked up their prey, but they would have to be ready. And, considering Cal’s penchant for going on bloody rampages, the chore would keep him out of her hair and out of trouble.

  “What of the traitorous little informant you’ve arranged for us? Are we receiving accurate information?”

  “The informant was provided by the Society, Pack Leader,” answered Karl, it was dangerous to take credit for someone else’s work in the Society. Alyksandra nodded, understanding. “While the network through which this informant works is convoluted, the information we’ve received seems reliable. They are in fact heading for Myrnwell, and beyond to the Everpool.”

  “Good. Someone go drag Cal from whatever whore he’s rutting with. We leave for Powyss!”

  C H A P T E R

  8

  The Shadow Hunters.

  The Black Keep.