Chapter 6
A Journey to a Town called Vashmak
by Daniel Olarnick
Previous chapter's conclusion:
The Omniscient Voice: "Ah, the recap."
***
"What deed did you do, human who is puny?" asked Utre, bitterness in his voice, as he spit three times upon the scribe.
"I granted Mantell a spell of ahimsa," said the scribe, wiping the foul gold-green sputum off the top of his head.
"Uh-him-sah?" demanded Utre, as the very pronunciation by the troll demanded an explanation.
"One should refrain from harming any living being -" said the scribe.
Utre began to convulse with laughter, pounding the ground, tears of scorn came rushing from his eyes.
"Not so. The Law of Claw and Fang rules," then he grabbed his testicles, made an obscene gesture towards the scribe, laughing aloud, "Uh-him-sah for foolish humans who are puny."
The mongrel began to bark, and nip at the heels of the troll. The troll swung its arms at the dog, which seemed to easily avoid the swipe of Utre.
"Tell beast I will eat him last, should you fail."
The scribe did not answer Utre, but gathered up the mongrel in his arms, stroked his head, and began a trek towards the western edge of the desert, towards the first step on the Quest for the Relic, towards a town called Vashmak.
***
Omniscient Voice: "Our story continues."
The desert is bleak, ominous, vast, its heat intense, the sun blinding, yet the unnamed scribe, the mongrel and the troll called Utre (a prince among trolls, by the way) trudged west by southwest, guided by instinct and ancient legends that demanded the quest begin at a town called Vashmak.
The scribe carried three days worth of water in his goatskin water bag. He shared it equally with the mongrel, while the troll tore the heads off of captured bats, drinking their blood, laughing at the weakness of the scribe and his mongrel.
"Survive not without liquid. Here, drink this. Make you strong, brave, like me." Said Utre, offering him the body of a decapitated bat, its blood spurting from its headless body.
"Utre, my admiration to you, for your choice of liquid refreshment, but this puny human and mongrel dog cannot survive on bat's blood, as can a prince of trolls."
"Ha! Weaklings. How you survive when water no more? Skin of goat is small, almost nothing."
"Then, we too will drink the blood of bats. Survive we will, at all costs," said the scribe.
*
Their trek continued for two more days, the scribe was sweating profusely, but the desert heat robbed his body of its precious liquids, evaporating his water as quickly as he tried to replenish himself and the dog, all the while trying to keep up with the troll, who had set a maddening pace in his effort to reach their destination.
"The sun is a curse that should plague man only," Utre thought to himself, over and over again, a troll-like mantra.
They traveled during the night, sleeping under the cover of a camel skin tent, which shielded them from an inferno of heat and light, giving them shelter from the rays of the day, as they followed their path, trusting to dead-reckoning, and to the legend that sang its tale from one of the crystals that the scribe carried within his ditty bag.
Then, as the water bag kept shrinking, the scribe realized that traversing the desert by night only would take too long, that their journey would end in the broiling desert. He knew, too well, that the troll would, eventually, kill the scribe and his mongrel dog for their flesh and blood. The scribe visualized this happening, and knew it to be true. It was as had been predicted by the singing stone he carried. The stones never lied, and only foretold the possibilities of future events.
"Come, Utre, we must travel as the sun rises, night into day."
"Sun no good for Utre. Travel only night."
"Nonsense. Puny human can do it, so can great Utre. No?"
"Travel in the light, puny one. I will survive last. I will feast on your bones, drink your blood."
"I will inscribe your stone, to show your clan, how you braved the light of the day in the Desert of Flames."
"My stone outshines all."
The scribe nodded his silent assent.
*
The sun broke the desert sky, as they trekked on, night into day. "Here, wear this," said the scribe, reaching into his capacious ditty bag. He handed the troll a scribal cloak and cowl that would cover Utre's body completely.
They walked silently, one following the other, the dog leading them onward. Grim determination now etched in their minds. They had to reach their destination or perish in the desert.
The dog suddenly veered off their given path, heading south by southwest.
"Soon, Utre, the mongrel will find us water. I know there is an oasis out there, somewhere," he said, desperation creeping into his voice.
"Find it soon, puny scribe, before your body loses its taste," grunted Utre, pained by the heat of the day and the blinding sun, despite being covered from head to toe with scribal vestments.
"Find water for me, little one, as I know you can. Do it for me." The scribe spoke softly to the dog, as if willing him to do so, never commanding, but imploring the dog to do his will.
The scribe held a moist rag to the nose of the dog, squeezing out precious liquid drops to the dog. "Find it now! Find it for me!" the scribe commanded, and the dog began sniffing the air, walking in a larger and larger circle.
The mongrel veered off to the east, further away from the path leading to Veshmak.
The troll, blinded by the blazing sun, trudged behind the scribe. The scribe had tied a rope around the dog's neck, leading to his waist, onto the waist of Utre, binding them together. He trusted to the instincts of the dog, and to the singing stones within his ditty bag, that the scribe heard within his mind, as the three of them trudged through the smoldering desert's heat, silently marching onward, deeper into the desert, further and further away from Vashmak.
*
Omniscient Voice: The desert contains many mysteries, how life survives within its grip of sweltering heat and blinding light, is but one of them.
*
As they followed the path of the dog, the scribe tried to rid his mind of the images that began to enter it, until his mind was completely blank of all thought, save that of survival. But the image kept creeping in, that of the troll slaying them, then savagely feasting upon their bodies, was frighteningly realistic.
Endless miles and hours later, they spied a pack of desert rats scurrying ahead of the dog.
"There, Utre. The mongrel has found it for us, an oasis," said the scribe, through his parched and cracked lips.
"Survive you will, for another day," grunted Utre, as he half dragged, half carried the scribe the last few thousand yards across the desert to the oasis, as the sun began to set in the desert sky.
*
They reached the oasis, which stood off of an ancient lake, fossilized bones of unknown creatures were sticking up out of a clay-bed that formed the now dried water mass, and they plunged into the dark, green pool of water, and drank deeply.
Desert rats and hares scurried to and fro, surprised to find strangers invading their sanctuary.
Later that evening the scribe roasted some hares that Utre and the mongrel caught, over an open fire that both warmed them and kept the vermin away.
"How, in desert, can be worthless lake?" asked Utre.
"Perhaps, it is the will of the Dragon-Gods, or that of The Benevolent Being. Who can say?" answered the scribe.
Utre belched and farted in unison. "Good, it is, that dog find water before you die. To eat you when dried . ugh . better fresh and plump."
"I close my eyes, Utre, to sleep, while you watch."
"Sleep, little scribe who is soon to be fat, plump and delicious, while I hunt. The night is young and full of food."
The mongrel climbed between the legs of the scribe, curled himself up, growled at the troll, flashing a newly formed fang that protruded from his lip and glistened with the poison that ran through his body.
*
"So the scribe slept and dreamt."
*
[Omniscient Voice: _Moultrance the Scrivener leapt out from behind a huge stalagmite, his glistening razor-sharp sickle held high above his shoulders, his hands clenched together, a perfect follow-through to a well-practiced swing -- as he delivers a deathblow with the glistening blade_.]
"No, Odan, no. I'm sorry," screamed Moultrance aloud during his past recurring dream. He was sleepwalking, once again.
The Feline silently followed after her troubled companion, careful not to wake him, heeding the ancient tale that one would go mad if awoken before they returned to their bed.
Over the past decades, she had come to accept his nights of sleeping terror, of screaming walks. Whatever it was that had haunted him, mercifully, did so only in his sleep.
"What did you dream of, Moultrance?" She would ask. "Oh, I never dream," he would respond. "Never."
Strangely, he always awoke refreshed and attentive to her every need.
"The nightmares had not occurred in over 1000 years." she thought, beginning to realize their consequences
"Curse you, Odan. Let him rest," she said aloud.
"He must be eliminated," she smiled, as the plan began to develop in her mind, "and this time, for good." she thought.
*
Omniscient Voice: Eight times Odan the Scribe had found human vessels, willing to allow him to enter their bodies - forever seeking revenge - yet, the essence of the scribe had never been within the living body, at the moment of final battle, when Moultrance invariably defeated them.
"No," they had implored the Relic, "I have prayed to BeNob the Benevolent. I want to do it myself, to defeat him in honorable battle." Each being had said the same thing, over and over again, verbatim, and so they had died_.
*
The Relic: But not this time," pronounced the Relic, " this time I will be whole."
*
Moultrance screamed aloud, once again, "No, Odan, no. I am your friend -- it was my duty."
Moultrance turned, and slept-walked towards a gigantic four-posted bed, sitting down, holding his head between his hands. Then Moultrance stood, clenched both his hands together, and swung his arms in a perfect arch, simulating a consummate follow-through to his sickle-held deathblow.
Finally, he collapsed in the bed, no longer troubled, a smile upon his face.
The Feline climbed up upon the bed, assumed her human female form. She quickly tied Moultrance's limbs to the four posts, stretching out his ashen-white body. Thousands of years had passed since they were first together, and still she wanted him, desired him.
Her long ash white blond hair flowed behind her as she straddled Moultrance in deep sexual passion. Her mounted movements became a blur -- how she loved possessing him while in this aroused sleep-state.
She felt the tremors of desire rippling throughout her body as she reached her orgasmic pinnacle, the resulting spasms caused her body to assume yet another form, that of the Feline She-goddess, Charisse.
Razor sharp talons extended from her fingers. She raked Moultrance's chest, her claws leaving streaks of blood against his heaving body. She cried out in her passion and thanked the cat-gods that had created her.
She watched with gratification as the bloody streaks healed themselves instantaneously, and little trickles of diamonds formed and replaced the bloody droplets that remained on his chest. She gathered the diamonds, placing them within a crystallized jeweled box she kept beside their bed.
*
The Omniscient Voice: "At the Court of Moultrance"
The Feline stretched her body out on the uppermost ledge of the desert monolith, allowing the warmth of the sun's heat to caress her legendary, voluptuous yet ageless body.
Sounds of conflict rose up from the court arena, filling her ears with a cclamations from the Royal Court as Moultrance dispatched another assassin, one hand-picked by The Feline to test his battle skills.
She got up and strolled seductively through the royal chambers. Then she leapt up to a three-tier wide golden-railing, that surrounded the inner court, her yellow and black eyes searching intently for Moultrance -- her beautiful Moultrance.
"Ah, there he is," she smiled, as she saw him engaged in battle with four of the remaining surviving warriors she had chosen for her lover's discipline.
The warriors surrounded him. Slowly they advanced upon Moultrance, who kept turning within the closing circle of death, his eyes fixed on the advancing warriors, looking for a weakness to exploit.
They tightened their circle on him, simultaneously, cautiously; their weapons glistened in the radiant light of the mystical sun that flowed through the crystal-tapered ceiling that illuminated the monolith's inner structure.
*
Steaks of blood flowed freely from wounds on Moultrance's body, evidencing the combat skills of the warriors opposing him, with an amazing display of swiftness and agility, all the while never taking his eyes off the assassins surrounding him, he simultaneously reached behind his back, drew forth a gleaming silver broadsword, its double ringed guard shielding a gloved right hand, as Moultrance attacked with the fury of an enraged demon, somersaulting over the circling group, landing behind them, and thrusting his sword into the back of a startled warrior.
The Feline purred deeply as the white-haired, ivory skinned Moultrance brought the glistening silver sword into play, exchanging blows with the warriors, metal met metal.
Moultrance's sword crossed blades with the closest warrior,
a fearless and reckless darconite.
"Come on, darconite," snarled Moultrance. "Surely, you don't fear a mere human .
The draconite froze, imperceptibly, as the keyword human entered his consciousness, a codeword that the Feline had caused to be implanted within the base of the draconite's skull, using a mystic skill of hers, and hers alone, unknown to all, even Moultrance. The word human kept echoing within his draconite mind. The mental paralysis was just enough to allow Moultrance to follow up his advantage.
Moultrance front-kicked the startled warrior in the chest, his leather booted toe-knife, caught the draconite warrior under the chin, driving him back towards the circle of death.
Moultrance lifted the choking warrior up and threw him onto an onrushing cyclops armed with a double-headed war axe.
Moultrance thrust his broadsword forward with such force that it pierced the cyclops' armor breastplate, piercing his heart. A stream of blood flowed through the nose and mouth of the Cyclops, as Moultrance withdrew his blade, and danced away from the dying Cyclops, as it grasped at its fatal wound.
The two remaining warriors, one a barbarian, the other Duke Frazoletti of the Court of Moultrance, and plotter to the assassination attempt, future heir to the throne, closed in. The barbarian screamed a war cry, hurling himself at Moultrance. Moultrance somersaulted over their heads, his sword cutting into the back of the barbarian on his right.
"I yield, Lord Moultrance," said Duke Frazoletti, tossing his sword to the ground, lowering his head in supplication, all the while knowing that he had fulfilled his part well, following secret instructions by the Feline.
Moultrance's jeweled glove-covered hand shot out, the stiffened palm breaking the kneeling warrior's neck, as the gathered audience of court royals applauded their sovereign's display of swordplay.
"Moultrance the Undefeated," they hurrahed aloud.
Moultrance the Scrivener would write another chapter on the history of Odessa, and of the attempted assassination of himself as Sovereign of the Royal Court of Moultrance the First by the infamous and very dead Duke Frazoletti.
*
The Feline's aura glowed and caused the air to shimmer about her. In her place, a long-legged blond-haired goddess stood. Only her high-arched shaped brows and slightly slanted eyes revealed her true nature, that of a feline predator.
"Moultrance," she cried out, pointing towards the sun, her beautifully shaped finger and sharpened nail riveted towards the sky.
Moultrance stared upwards, almost shocked at seeing the Feline in her human-like form so early in the day. An unaccustomed treat , he thought to himself, as he ran up the spiral stairs leading to their bedchamber.
"Look there, Moultrance, intense storms rage on the sun. It makes the sky shimmer with flashes of scarlet. A sign!"
"The Relic sends another after me," sighed Moultrance, a sly smile crossed his lips.
"Let us be done with this," said the Feline. "Let us have this tiresome being killed off in the desert, before he has a chance to be taken over."
"Do as you desire. It matters not to me. His failures amuse me."
He gathered the feminine creature into his arms and closed the bedchamber's door behind them.
*
The scribe awoke refreshed, and remembered nothing.
*
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