Chapter 13
Fragments
by Daniel Olarnick
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“Rider coming through “shouted the watchman at the northern tower of the stronghold that had become the gateway for the Black Dragon Inn.
The rider, Brian Judd, was well known to the guard, a former lieutenant of the Red Cavalry, he had ridden alongside Captain Karl Strange throughout the Great Orc Uprising, commanding the left-flank of the Stallion Patrol.
Judd whipped his panting stallion, urging him forward well beyond the last of his stamina.
He dismounted, letting the reins trail from the lathered-covered horse, while a stable attendant came forward to lead the exhausted horse away.
He ran into the Great Room of the inn, shouting aloud, “Captain Strange, it's an attack on my village,” he exclaimed, as he struggled to catch his breath. “Orcs and stalkers,” he gasped, “attacked the village of Trent and torched part of it.”
Karl held Judd around the shoulders, ordered the bartender to bring him a foaming hot drink of coffee laced with brandy.
“Brian, tell me what happened.”
“They attacked the west gate, just after sunset, maybe 30 of them … orcs and nightstalkers … maybe more than that. They carried off one of the Talisman sisters. We followed them into the woods … it was a trap … they slaughtered us … I barely escaped.”
“We'll mount up and ride. Crossbows and swords only. The Orcs have attacked Trent. Arm yourselves,” commanded Captain Karl Strange to the Ready Riders in the Great Room.
A group of ten horse-soldiers downed their drinks, answered “Aye, Capt. Strange,” left the Great Room and marched off towards the stable and the armory
Karl Strange ran up to his room, fastened his leather armor, grabbed his crossbow, shafts, short and long sword, fastened them, and strode off towards the stable.
Dora, his head cook, gathered together the provisions for a cold hard ride, dried meats, cheese, making sure the riders would have something to keep up their strength, “May the Dragon Gods keep them safe,” she was heard to mummer during her preparations.
The people within the inn were not strangers to the dangers that surrounded them. Each knew what was expected of them, as they bolted up the windows, posted watch guards, while others ran towards the stable to gather their mounts and ride out to their homesteads.
“No need to worry, travelers. You're safe within the walls of the Black Dragon Inn; it is warded and sealed. An armed escort patrol will see you to your destination,” pronounced John Chaplan, one of the captains of the Stallion Patrol, as he strapped on his saber. “We will be at your service.”
The inn was locked down within the hour. Archers climbed the surrounding fortress walls, notched bows held ready.
Karl's thoughts went to his war stallion, Triumph, who he had set free for the breeding season at Black Horse Canyon.
“I need a mount, Master Donovan,” said Karl to his head stable master.
“I have this filly, Capt. Strange. She's fleet and can go all day, a bit untested for --”
“She'll do fine. I'll need her speed to get me to Trent within the hour.
“She can fly, Captain,” replied Donovan.
*
The scribe absentmindedly tended to the dinner fire, as he attention was drawn to a newly found crystals that the Skull spit out when they were alone, and never in the presence of Utre and Ebon. The scribe knew better than to inform either one of them – not that they would believe him.
He had studied the scribal legends involving the machinations of the Crystal Skull and vowed not be become seduced by its power.
Still, the crystals were beautiful and sang wonderful songs.
The scribe had lost yet another sparring session with Utre and his body bore bruises that might take weeks and weeks to heal. Utre, no doubt, was trying to make him a worthy opponent to defeat in death.
Utre stood erect, sniffed the air when he heard the drums vibrate throughout the forest, attempted to get a fix on the scent of the orcs.
“Damn,” uttered the scribe, Ebon Grupe muttered the same sentiment.
Another day and they would have made it to the Black Dragon Inn, met their operative and handed off the accursed crystal skull.
Who thought that, wondered the scribe as the three of them stood in silence, wondering the same thought.
The mongrel got up with a distinct growl; its cropped ears picked up, as he sniffed the air for the orcs that would be accompanying the sounding drums.
The scribe ran his hands over the back of the mongrel. The Mongrel was cured from the scribal poisons that had coursed through his body. Of this, the scribe was positive.
The mongrel began to encircle their encampment, marking its boundaries.
The scribe did not understand how it had happened, but the tiny white curly-haired beast was growing stronger each day – stronger and bigger, and now he bore fangs.
The scribe knew he would need an illusion stone to disguise the mongrel's appearance eventually.
“War drums of Passion Creek Orcs,” said Utre to no one in particular, hefting his hammer up and placing it within the shoulder straps behind his hairy back.
“Are they coming our way, Utre?”
“Only a fool attacks the camp guarded by Utre,” proclaimed Utre, the prince of trolls, as he brought his right hand across his left breast with a thump.
Nevertheless, Ebon Grupe, who had found an abandoned cave earlier in the day, suggested they barricade themselves for the night, sealing off the entrance with thorn-branches, and safeguarding them for the night.
“Good idea,” agreed the scribe.
“Humans and men-men (Trolian for halflings) have no courage for night-fighting. Ha, Ha, Ha,” grunted Utre, but he began gathering up the razor-sharp thorn bushes that were prevalent in the thickets. He swallowed down the raw bison the scribe had set aside for him, grunting with satisfaction at its enhanced flavor.
*
The western wall of the village of Trent was smoldering as Karl led his patrol into the boundaries of the village.
The survivors of the attack, had placed the women and children in the back of the prayer temple, guarding the temple entrance with archers and armed warriors, and the young men who bore slings bearing sharpened crystals, stood ready to shoot down anything that emerged from the Brooding Black Forest.
“Take the women and children back to the Black Dragon Inn. No one is safe if the orcs and stalkers have banded together,” ordered Karl Strange, dispatching six of his riders as an additional safeguard. No one questioned the orders of Karl Strange.
Karl Strange rode on with four of his finest warriors, fully armed now with lances, his pack of bloodhounds leading them ahead, following the scent of the orcs and their captive.
“Why attack the whole village to kidnap one woman,” asked Justin.
“Perhaps, a breeding sacrifice. A ritual of theirs. No one knows the minds of the orcs and their leaders.”
*
The inner chambers of Castle Moultrance, reverberated with songs of joy as the heralded group of the two dozen entertainers from Mew staged the play, “The Betrayal.”
It was a wonderful play, selected to entertain the princes and their royal entourage from the warring kingdoms of Windspear and Chaviva. Theirs was an ancient war involving a trade route that ran through both kingdoms.
Of course, the Ambassador from Mew would collect a tribute from both warring families, which in turn allowed him to pay tribute to Charisse, courtesan to Moultrance the Magnificent.
All kingdoms deposited their country's treasures within the fortress mint of Castle Moultrance.
Karm-Niwob, royal scribe of the Kingdom of Mew had written centuries before:
The Benevolent Being saw that it was good:
And so it came to be known that The Lord Moultrance and his descendents shall guard the wealth of all kingdoms.
So it has been from the beginning of time, so it shall remain.
Magically enhanced white sapphires surrounded the actors, causing images of an ancient civilization to spring up before the eyes of the royals.
The Betrayal was an entertaining story of fidelity, passionate love, and the eventual betrayal by the villainous Odan the Scribe.
Without warning, a blinding light surrounded the chambers; the walls of the chambers shuttered and turned blood red as white lettering appeared beneath a flaming crimson crystallized skull.
None of the performers or the royals assembled was aware of the change that occurred in the chambers, save Moultrance and Charisse.
Then the crystal skull spoke, “Remember my question? You have yet to answer it. Think hard, for I am back,” followed by a laugh familiar to both of them. Its message was clear.
All returned to normal. The play went on.
Malifiance, the ambassador from Mew bent forward, whispering into the ear of Charisse, “The Kingdom of Mew mourns for the passing of your sister goddess Tifone. Would a golden sphinx erected in her likeness be fitting?”
“Half-sister,” she corrected, “but let it be done. And what of that task I assigned to you, Malifiance?”
“I have contracted the Assassin Guild. I am told their choice for this assignment would be --.” Malifiance paused, to let the effect of his choice sink it “—Tason,” he said, awaiting to see a glimmer of recognition in her pale-blue eyes, but none came. “He awaits your command.” Malifiance bowed as deeply as his rotund frame would permit.
Charisse dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“Shall I attend to this human who is linked to the Betrayer, my lord Moultrance,” purred Charisse.
Moultrance nodded, his eyes never taking themselves off the actors who performed the ancient play that he had written so many lifetimes ago. “My name will live for the ages.”
Moultrance suddenly remembered a conversation held long ago, on a star-filled night, when he and Odan were both so young that their immortality was never in doubt. It was Odan who proposed the problem to Moultrance, “How can you kill someone who cannot die?”
*
Karl Strange rode on, his hunting pack of hound dogs racing ahead of his mount, hot on the trail of the fleeing orcs, as they made their way deeper and deeper into the black brooding forest. The men left in the patrol were all seasoned veterans. They knew the terror that the girl must be going through and each vowed to track down her abductors and save her.
The night came upon them suddenly, as a black and brooding moon appeared in the sky.
They caught sight of three of the trailing orcs left behind to battle the on-charging Stallion Patrol. Brian Judd rode on Karl's left, as the rest of the patrol charged forward.
Ten orcs in total attacked – ten orcs died – and the patrol closed in on the fleeing pack and their prized captive.
*
There were only four hounds left alive from the orc attack, one of them Karl knew to have the best sense of smell broke away from the pack. Karl followed, signaling for the rest of the patrol to continue, motioning that he would circle around.
Into one of the smaller hallows that constantly surrounded Talos he followed the hound. There, in the center of the valley, stood the abducted child, 14 year-old Joan Talisman.
Karl Strange feared ambush, although he wanted to charge ahead to her rescue, but he had not lived a long life as a fearless fighter to throw caution to the wind. Yet, the sight of this child, tied up and staked, stripped of her clothes, made him whip his filly onward.
*
Safe within the cave, its entrance protected by the thick razor-sharp thorn bushes, Ebon Grupe watched, as down
in the valley, the orcs had staked the female, setting their trap.
“We're too far away to help,” said Grupe.
“We have to do something,” said the scribe.
“Do nothing. Female is as good as dead. The rider is dead. We live.” snarled Utre.
The crystal skull spit out a crystal, it began to sing its song, “S oporose.”
The inside of the darkened cave flashed with lightning and thunder.
*
A spear sailed through the air, striking the hard-charging filly on the flank. She reared up. Karl struggled to help her keep her feet and close the gap between the girl and himself.
An on-rushing pair of orcs sprang out of the high brushes, thrusting their spears at the filly, as Karl's saber sliced left and right. He dug his spurs into the filly, rocked forward, knowing that the horse would lash out, striking a night stalker that sprang from the underbrush. Her hooves hit the beast squarely in the face. Karl reined the filly around, charging into the group of three orcs that charged forward, screaming their war chant.
They froze, momentarily, long enough for the horse to trample two of them, as Karl's crossbow rang out its dart piercing the fleeing orc's heart.
*
Karl Strange saw the trap closing about him, but pressed his mount onward. His sword out, he cut through two nightstalkers and two more orcs, leaving the grass stained with their blood.
Leaping off his horse, he cut the child free of the ropes that bound her, throwing his riding jacket around her, he swiftly remounted his horse, and hauled the child up behind him. “You're safe now, child,” he said calmly but the child knew better, as she clung on to her rescuer's back.
The remainder of the Stallion Patrol had doubled back, followed Karl's trail and entered the valley. They did not concern themselves about any thoughts of a trap. Their duty was to Captain Strange. He would lead them out of this battle.
Somehow, they fought their way out of the wooded hollow, rode hard for the forest clearing, and made their stand there. Karl carried Joan Talisman up to a clearing. There was an overhang of rock protecting their rear.
“Don't let them take me again,” she pleaded to Karl. Her understanding and his were foreboding and deadly. He would slay the girl, if all were lost.
“I won't,” said Karl.
An onrushing group of orcs closed in on them in battle formation. The riders fought on and on, but soon the numbers became too great for them, as one rider after another was cut down and slain.
Karl fought them off as best he could. Joan clung to his leg. She held a fighting knife in her hand. It dripped of yellow orc blood.
Another group of ten orcs came at Karl Strange, he fought savagely until his sword arm was weary – a sound filled the air of the forest. The black moon faded from the sky and a silver moon took its place. It was a horrible sound. The orcs froze, looking around. It was the sound of a terrible howling beast.
Then the very darkness of the night seemed to move. A black caped man wearing a skeleton face guard appeared, striking at the orcs with vengeance, as the orc standing in front of Karl lost its head to a glistening bladed staff.
To his left, a giant troll, stood erect, and swung his deadly hammer bringing death wherever it landed.
To his right Karl saw a menman emerge from an envelope of darkness, toss a bolo with deadly efficiency, followed by a bladed boomerang that swooshed through the air, found its target and returned to his outstretched jeweled gloved hand that shimmered and glowed in the darkness of the night.
They formed a fighting trio that cut the orcs and night stalkers down.
Turning to face the remaining orcs, the black-caped man twirled the staff above his head, and then knelt down, sweeping it before him. From the tip of the staff shot a blue-red flame, torching the grass, burning the orcs, driving back the night stalkers into the terrible howling beast that awaited them, attacked them, his white form moving as a blur, causing death wherever he appeared.
The black garbed man turned, bowed and disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared, his companions followed closely behind him.
The terrible howling beast disappeared into the underbrush, pursuing the remaining orcs out of the forest clearing.
*
Karl mounted his injured filly, lifted Joan Talisman behind him and rode hard for the safety of the Black Dragon Inn.
“Who was that man – who were they, Captain Strange?”
Karl Strange remained silent, ignoring the question, sensing that their paths would cross again.
***
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