Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1)

by Nicolae Ovidiu Baiculescu

  “Of course, my lord. I’m to provide you with an alteration potion for you to take the shape of anyone you wish, as well as the voice. But, I…” the man hesitated.

  “You what?” Guzheraak asked loudly.

  “I… I need to know in advance exactly who you’re going to transform into, otherwise the potion will not work.”

  Guzheraak gurgled, “It is not I who needs the potion, it is him.” He pointed at Pakto who was just as surprised as the trembling man in front of him.

  “Me, master?” asked Pakto. “Why would I need it and who should I transforrrm into?”

  “Quiet creature,” growled Guzheraak, “you shall do as I tell you. Besides, you will be transforming into me. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, to have a great body of an orc champion? To be a proper Gholak? Well this is your chance!” His grin widened.

  Pakto let out a noise of amazement that Guzheraak read as excitement and gratification.

  “Wizard, I’ll be needing him to look and sound like me, for at least half a day, that is all you need to know. Can your potion achieve it or should I be looking elsewhere?”

  “I shall do as you bid, and my alter-potion will work for the time requested. Though, I will need the coin in advance. You will find the potion in a flask at this very spot in two days’ time.” The man indicated to an aperture in the well’s wall.

  “Mh,” Guzheraak groaned and forced his gaze deeper into the man’s eyes, “if you just think to trick me wizard, I shall come find you in that fetid stinking little hut where you came out from, and make you wish you were never born. Here’s your coin!” He placed a leather purse filled with golden coins in the wizard’s small hands.

  The wizard nodded and darted into the fog, not even taking the time to count the coins.

  “Masterr, what do you have in mind forr me?” Pakto then asked.

  Guzheraak exhaled a steamy breath. “You’ll have to speak with Jaro during his shift, pretending to be me. He has insulted our ruler, Felduror, one too many times and I think he deserves punishment for his insolence. I will be hiding in the tower and as soon as he says something wrong, I shall come out and expose him. This way it is not only my word against his anymore.”

  The small orc appeared confused for a little while and then he brightened up and smiled. “I will be looking just like you, masterrr?”

  “If that wizard’s potion is good for something, certainly,” Guzheraak replied, drawing pride out of the little orc’s tearful eyes.

  Most likely the dumb creature was feeling honoured beyond belief for being granted such an opportunity, he thought.

  After two days, Pakto brought to his master a pear-shaped flask, filled with a thick, purple liquid, which he had retrieved by the well. There was a tiny string that held a note, that Guzheraak read aloud;

  My Lord,

  I am pleased to provide you with the finest of my potions. But for it to be effective, you need to drink it in the same instant as your servant, and not a moment before having spilled two drops of blood, each of you, in the flask. Give the blood time to dissolve and then the magic will take effect instantly.

  Your humble servant, D.

  “Simple enough,” said the big orc, taking out a double-edged dagger from his well-furnished belt. “Give me your hand, Pakto.” He extended his big palm towards the smaller orc.

  Pakto hesitated, allowing a whine to abandon his mouth, and Guzheraak pulled him forwards with a sudden move.

  “Be brave, creature, you’re about to become me.” Guzheraak laughed and slashed the skin of Pakto’s palm, letting two drops fall into the little flask.

  He then cut himself too, an even wider gash, and smiled as he allowed two bulky drops of blood to mix into the potion. Once the second drop reached the still fluid, the concoction started swirling vigorously for a long moment and once it stilled itself again, it turned into a dark and vivid purple.

  “Put a bit in your mouth, but don’t gulp it yet! I’ll tell you when,” Guzheraak said.

  Pakto did just as bid, his face paler than before.

  Then, Guzheraak sipped his bit of potion, kept it under his tongue and once ready, he lifted the little orc’s mouth with his fingers so they both swallowed the potion at the same time.

  Pakto was shivering now as he gulped down the liquid. And after two blinks he fell to the ground, eyes rolling over. Guzheraak tried to laugh at the orc’s weakness only to find himself unable to speak or move; he could only hear the heavy thud his own body made as he collapsed to the ground.

  They woke sometime later, dazed and confused in the same humid air.

  There was no pain as Guzheraak lifted himself with dizziness, to a blurry vision. Pakto was puking with vigour, crouched on the ground. His clothes were torn to shreds, leaving the turgid muscles of his renewed-body protrude impressively. His hair was longer and darker.

  He was bigger. Stronger.

  “Impressive!” Awestruck, Guzheraak reached out and touched Pakto’s back.

  He bent to measure with both hands how wide that torso was and started laughing while aiding the befuddled Pakto to his feet.

  “How marvellous this body is,” he continued.

  Pakto swallowed confused and looked around his own, new body. He weakly chuckled with surprise as soon as he saw his big palms.

  “Masterr,” he managed to say before he swallowed twice, “this is magical…” his words trailed to a brief silence, and a quick exchange of glances, before exploding into wild laughter.

  Guzheraak joined in the glee. The more Pakto laughed, the harder it was for him to stop; they sounded just the same, a very awkward, but pleasant sensation to witness. He bent with palms on his knees, breathing slowly and trying to break the laughter that was getting the best of both of them.

  “I am you!” Pakto failed to detain the tears of laughter that started falling from his eyes.

  “No, I am you!” added Guzheraak, losing at another miserable attempt to be serious and compose himself.

  The laughter was genuine and cleansing and it took them a long time to calm themselves and regain some self-control. Even more so as Pakto kept pulling a funny face that made it hard to stop.

  When the laughter subdued completely, they continued to marvel. Pakto continuously looked around himself, stretching and kicking his legs and checking the muscles on his veiny arms, chest and stomach. He did not appear bothered to be almost naked.

  Guzheraak appreciated how the potion had worked and was struck to see his twin-body flex and perform as well as he knew he could, in front of his own eyes. He also appreciated the determination and content of his slave, who no doubt would do as he was told, to please him. Most certainly he himself would, if places where exchanged and he had been granted such a unique opportunity to demonstrate himself.

  He then imparted the last details of the meeting, that would soon take place between Pakto, embodying him, and Jaro, who was about to start his guarding shift. There was no time to waste and they had to be quick to reach the tower.

  Once there, they stood hidden and waited for the dragon to take to the air on his scouting routine, and only then, made their way to the top.

  As decided, Pakto had to wait on the tower’s platform to greet the dragon upon landing, and Guzheraak would hide behind the wooden door, within hearing distance.

  Not long after, the Drakhahoul returned and landed with a loud thump on the square blocks of white stone.

  Oh, how he wished to see his slave’s face right now, Guzheraak thought. Pakto had never stood face to face with a Drakhahoul, very few Gholaks had ever been allowed to.

  The gust of air hit at the door as Jaro, seemingly welcomed the orc with a threatening pose, as usual. But there were no words from his slave, and he wondered if the potion had transferred any of his own courage and nerve.

  “Gholak.” The dragon’s voice was loud as it bounced around the top of the tower.

  No reply came from Pakto.

  “Have you come to apologise?�
�� continued Jaro, in a more defiant tone.

  Speak you coward!

  Guzheraak measured it was taking Pakto too long to reply, and feared that his plan would fail. The only consolation was that the dragon did not see, nor sense anything wrong; the potion was working.

  “I…” Pakto cleared a wavering voice, “I came here to tell you that Felduror has been far too kind towards your race and has always placed your kind above all others. It’s only fair that you should ask forgiveness for your insolence and all will be well among us.”

  Very well. If courage was not completely transferred with the potion, certainly his knowledge has, thought Guzheraak as he appreciated the orc’s words.

  “My insolence? You dare talk to me like that, creature?” Jaro almost barked.

  Very well, indeed.

  Guzheraak was pleased to imagine how easily it was for him to anger the young dragon. He envisioned the Drakhahoul swelling his chest and moving his long neck and those bat-like wings, like he had always done when threatened and upset. From there, it was easy to lure the beast into a false step.

  That image made him smile cunningly behind the door while he searched for a slit to be able to witness the sight.

  He found it. Not too big, just wide enough to see half of the dragon’s body at one end of the tower’s opening, and just a small portion of Pakto’s.

  Something was wrong.

  Pakto did not speak anymore, he appeared still as a statue.

  Amazingly wrong.

  He could almost see the usually green-yellow eyes of the dragon, turn black as tar; it had occurred in the past, but briefly, way briefer than now.

  Olive-green fumes were uncontrollably released from the dragon’s nostrils, accompanied by a frightening growl that shook every stone in the tower.

  To his annoyance, the hidden Gholak found himself gulping nervously at such a terrifying sight. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like to witness it first-hand. He had to admit that he did not want to be there, not now. Almost feeling sorry for his ignorant servant, he crouched to check lower on the slit, as the dragon lowered his neck. Most likely there were tears in Pakto’s eyes and he was wetting his new robes, unable to speak or say a thing that might spare his life.

  It’s far too late now, comrade, he confessed.

  With a sudden step and a twist of his long neck, the Drakhahoul snapped at the frozen orc as if it were a rotten twig. His powerful jaws made a loud cracking sound as they closed in on the long-haired head and swallowed it briefly in his big mouth, only to spit it to the ground as soon as it had been cleanly cut from his neck.

  Guzheraak swallowed nervously, his fingers curling into a shaking fist.

  Pakto’s headless-body fell to the ground heavily and almost instantly, like a hallucination, he slowly started to shrink and turn into the usual, harmless body of the deformed creature he had always been.

  Unworthy to be called a Gholak, though your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Guzheraak allowed his thought to fill him as he witnessed the despair and frustration of the dragon.

  The realisation of the ruse forced Jaro to an ear-splitting roar that made the tiny pebbles bounce on the floor. It echoed around the valley as the muscles of his limbs started desperately to shake, perhaps overwhelmed by the inexplicable deceit. He kept it alive for as long as his lungs allowed. There was a sad vibration to it. The green-yellow eyes returned as his howl faded and Guzheraak was sure that those were tears that started forming in his eyes.

  The dragon lowered his head. Was that shame? Was it fear? There was no possible justification for his action which would definitely earn more than mere reprimands. Guzheraak knew then that Jaro would try to flee and so he anticipated him by kicking the door to splinters.

  Jaro felt like he was waking from a bad dream, a nightmare. The proud smile of the orc who had stood in front of him could’ve infuriated the wisest of the mighty beasts. Yet, the sight of the beheaded small orc made him retreat from his threatening stance. Blood was spreading in a puddle and almost reached his left paw’s claws. He retreated back a step further.

  “How is this possible?” Astonished, Jaro did not need a reply to read the trick out of Guzheraak’s face.

  He had been deceived, an evil trick, too low even for such an unimportant creature like an orc.

  There were steps on the stairs, multiple steps reaching from below and the smirk on the orc’s face grew wider. Jaro hesitated, confused by what was happening.

  “Bear witness, acolytes,” the orc spoke proudly, as three acolytes came through the broken door, “this Drakhahoul has killed a harmless messenger, whose only fault was to deliver a message on my behalf.”

  The fake sadness in Guzheraak’s voice was as palpable as the morning’s thick blanket of fog. If any of the orcs had to die, then this one was supposed to.

  “Bind his wings and let his mightiness, Felduror, as well as our enlightened king Belrug, know of such a miserable affair. He shall be trialled on the spot.” The orc champion pulled a bull’s horn from his belt and started blowing with all his might while the acolytes bound the dragon’s wings, preventing him from taking to the air.

  From the high tower the sound of the horn echoed vigorously in the surrounding valleys and after its last bounce died down, a roar of warriors lifted in response. Every orc in the empire would be compelled to present himself when the horn of battle was rung.

  The three acolytes succeeded in binding the two mighty wings of Jaro with a spell and were now descending the stairs to run and take the news to the citadel.

  “What have you done?” In utter disbelief and sorrow, the voice of the dragon sounded worn.

  “You should’ve known better than to mess with me,” came the reply of the proud orc as he checked behind him, as if to confirm they were indeed alone.

  A mingle of feelings entrapped the young dragon’s body. His mind painfully pounded inside his skull and the only thing that kept him from biting off the insolent orc’s head was the revolting sensation he had experienced only few moments before. No one had ever warned him of such a shameful feeling; taking an innocent life. How could he have ever been such a fool to fall for the deceitful scheme of the cunning orc? A part of him told him to run and save himself, yet another was keeping him still as a stonewall. Although deep down he wanted to escape, among the throng of thoughts that were constantly crossing his mind, he considered jumping to his death from the tall tower.

  Such is the shame I have to live with. I am a disgrace to the entire Drakhahoul race.

  Heavy steps of rowdy running orcs announced the stampede that was on the way. They must have moved in hundreds, and they made Jaro’s ears pulse achingly, their heavy metal-boots crushing the tussock-patterned plains around the tower.

  Too long had they been idle and too silent had these valleys been without a war to quench their thirst for blood. The occasion would be like a feast to manifest some anger, a long-subdued anger. The horde let out enraged calls and cries, so terrifying that would make any brave Drakhahoul falter.

  But Jaro was not afraid anymore. He had renounced the brief urge to flee and abandoned his big head to rest on his forelegs. From where he stood, he stared without a blink in the lifeless eyes of the decapitated head. There was no light and passion in those grey irises, there was no hint of treachery.

  Who knows what he had been promised to take part in such a devious plan? he wondered as sorrow filled his tearful eyes, compelling him to fix on the staggered expression, frozen in the moment of death, on the small orc’s face.

  Just like himself, the helpless orc had been another victim of Guzheraak’s deceit. Though nothing seemed to matter anymore.

  The army had reached the tower and the orcs piled into an angry crowd of fetid beasts, their weighty scent inebriating for Jaro’s sharp senses.

  From the many growls, yells and howls a single voice reigned, compelling the others to follow. A unified and guttural chant soared in the air as the throng of Gholaks started invoking
the ancient name of their past, present and future chieftains – a battle cry used to instil fear before a battle; ‘Gharrakuul, Gharrakuul, Gharrakuul,’ leader of all. The earth trembled as they stomped their feet on the ground.

  Undoubtedly enthralled by the sound, the champion orc approached the edge of the tower and filled his chest at the sight of the faithful warriors. He lingered wordlessly, apparently basking in the disgraceful moment, which he most likely considered a triumph.

  He lifted his right fist, high in the air. The rowdy horde stopped chanting.

  “Brothers,” the orc commenced, “you’re gathered here to bear witness of a tragic misfortune. Our brother, Pakto, my dearest servant and friend, has been killed in cold blood by a Drakhahoul. Eaten alive.”

  An angry growl of the horde lifted in the air and Guzheraak had to insist for it to desist.

  Jaro watched, almost lost in his own reasoning.

  “Brothers,” the orc continued, “I invoke the highest court of the Aranthian empire to judge as it seems fit the heedless dragon. Although I do hope that an example shall be made, as no life is bigger than another, independently of how big or small a beast one is.”

  His words instigated another unanimous chanting of agreement, raised to the air accompanied by vigorous clapping, weapon smashing and heavy stomps on the ground.

  Every single being that lived between the two rows of walls must have trembled in fear at that sound. The humans that shared the lands with the orcs, most likely kept quiet and hid in the safety of their homes, fearing for their lives and those of their children, unaware of what occurred.

  The acolytes reached the citadel. Jaro could tell by the sight of the other Drakhahouls who were flying in haste towards the tower. At the head of their battle-formation, Belrug-the-Black, the dragon king, biggest of them all. He was leading the others to witness his misfortune. Alongside him, his mother, Sereri the white dragoness, who was carrying the old man, Felduror, the powerful wizard. He was the most devoted servant of the empire and counsellor to the dragon king himself. He was the one to fear.