Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1)

by Nicolae Ovidiu Baiculescu

  Although the oldest of the imps had been allowed into the most private rooms, the wizard learned that he had no interest in the secrets that lay within, which is why the imp gained Felduror’s trust. Yet, that was not all he liked about him.

  Felduror briefly listened to the creature’s careful stepping between the broken shards and instantly comprehended that something troubled him.

  It has never been easy with this one, perhaps he’s the most stubborn of all the imps in my service, thought the wizard.

  Abnormally, he had had no need to constrict his wings like he did with the others; apparently the beast was numb in his muscles, even if to the common eye, they appeared well-formed and decently muscled. He could never fly properly and certainly could not escape by use of his wings. Fortuitously, that hadn’t been the case with his wealth of magical capacities. On the contrary, this imp had proved to be far more capable than the rest, abounding in magical strength and resourcefulness. It had been an immensurable pleasure for the wizard to deprive him of such a burden, collecting his wealth and leaving him as plain as whatever creature he resembled nowadays. Because this was not an imp anymore. If anything was left to him, then it was hatred, hatred towards him, his master. He could feel it in his silence and his fake humble eyes, every time he looked upon his withered wrinkled face. At times he was almost certain that it was disgust that he could perceive in his big, round eyes. Disgust for forcing him to obey and having reduced him to such a state. Still, there was nothing he could do about it, some creatures were meant to serve, some to rule.

  The imp tried to make him acknowledge his presence with a low hum.

  Oh yes, that was it. The thought was clearer now than before.

  The creature could not speak. How was it that he had forgotten already? Especially since he himself had chopped clean his tong in half.

  Or was it more than half?

  It had been few months after his powers had been unwillingly taken out of him. In what Felduror still considered to be an act of good faith, he had offered the mutilated imp a different life; a life of servitude as a keeper at one of his libraries, a life nonetheless considering the alternative was permanent unconsciousness. He had known then, as he remembered now, that the imp would not give away such opportunity, but only because of the hatred he had accrued inside. A hatred that had made him wish to live when there was nothing else to live for anymore. The weight of his magical strengths had been erased, only to allow space for rancour against his master. And that Felduror had to learn at his own expense. The wizard had seen what the insolent creature was capable of when offered a chance to live again; the imp had tried to poison him. The weak attempt of poisoning the wizard’s chalice had ended very badly for the imp and as punishment he had lost the very thing that had stung Felduror the most that day – his tongue. He had considered a painful death, perhaps meat for his orc chieftains, who preferred their preys alive. But somehow, it hadn’t felt right at the time, and now he was only too content of having taken such decision. One would only expect that such a severe and painful retribution to have sufficed on placating his anger and resentment, yet the imp had surprised again his master on multiple other occasions, which had followed during the long years of servitude. At each one of these wretched affairs, he had received a suitable punishment, less intense perhaps, since his inventiveness was starting to become a reason of amusement and entertainment to Felduror.

  The creature let out another hum.

  “One moment creature!” Felduror replied with anger.

  Being more than three times taller, the wizard turned towards the imp and did not bother to look downwards. He brushed his long white-beard, totally lost in his recent recollection, which he realised had distracted him from more important matters.

  What was I supposed to do?

  Even if he was not, Felduror must have appeared very lost in thought, because the imp did not lose the chance to squat furtively over the shards-rich floor and leap at his side with a lethal blow.

  “Ahhh!” the wizard screamed in pain, pushing the creature away.

  The imp rowdily rolled over the rubble and lifted himself back on his feet almost instantaneously, panting with a grin of repugnance and achievement on his face. The bloodied, pointy shard was still in his hand, his four small fingers clutched tightly around it. Miraculously, he had struck his master in the lower spine.

  The wizard propped himself on the wall he was facing and pulled the very tip that was still buried under his skin.

  A mad laughter escaped him, even if he was breathing heavily. “Ha-haa, that was a good one, Quick!”

  It came to him right now the why of the peculiar name. Quick was the name he had given the imp, as on every occasion the creature attempted to harm him, he revealed himself to be rather swift.

  “I was wondering when would your next attempt might be. It had taken you quite a while, I was starting to consider you had grown weak!” He threw the extracted piece of shard to the floor.

  The imp’s face was contorting with furious expressions. Could he contemplate another leap? His hand definitely suggested it, shaking visibly and firmly holding onto his shattered weapon.

  How he regretted having his tongue cut. If the imp could’ve spoken, the wizard knew he’d have an ear-full of the most exquisite insults.

  That had been a mistake, Felduror agreed subsequently as he stood silent and listened to the creature’s throat-mumbles. There was some pain, he realised as he passed his finger through the aperture in his mantle. Had it been another of his servants, their heads would have stood next to their feet; his royal mantle was not some common rag. But, he appreciated the creature’s ingenuity and effort.

  He checked attentively about his wound and with surprise realised it had been the most successful so far. He decided to heal it through magic; he did not want the creature to know too much about the weakness of his flesh.

  “You almost hit me properly this time, imp,” Felduror said, pretending the shard hadn’t penetrated as deep as it had. “Still, I have had enough of these games. I summoned you here for something else. Fetch me Guzheraak and be quick about it!”

  The imp hesitated for a moment, as if incredulous of the punishment that did not arrive. His mumbling ceased.

  “What are you still waiting for?” the wizard barked.

  With a quick hop the creature dropped the broken chip to the floor and ran out of the door, careless of the debris he scattered.

  The door opened with a squeaking noise when Quick returned. The wizard thought it hadn’t taken him too long, or had he been utterly immersed in his damned manuscripts again?

  “My master.” Guzheraak, pushed the little imp heavily against the wall and knelt in front of the wizard, not the least disturbed by the sharp debris. “At your service!” His head fixed at his master’s feet, his breathing deep.

  “That would be all, imp. Back to your chores!” With a gesture, Felduror indicated the door.

  Quick dashed out silently.

  Knelt as he was and with his thick spine bent, the orc was almost taller than the wizard, who himself was above average height.

  Yet, no matter how tall orcs were, Felduror knew he had this one’s utter respect and devotion. Not once had he gone against his word.

  “How soon can your Gholaks be ready?”

  “Ready?” There was confusion in the orc’s guttural words.

  “Ready for raiding!” Felduror spoke gleefully.

  Guzheraak lifted his sight from the floor only to look with admiration upon his master’s face.

  The wizard knew what the word would mean for his servant. He saw his eyes gleaming with pride and honour, most likely feeling privileged to be summoned for such a triumphant command in the main tower.

  “As soon as I have reached their halls and dragged them out of their beds, my liege!” Guzheraak replied, his chest swelling with excitement.

  With a nod and a sign of the wizard’s thin hand, the Gholak stood.

  He sh
adowed him with his bulky size, and were it not for the stench of meat and leather the orc emanated every time he moved, the old man would have let his reverence linger.

  “Very well. I want a full squadron of the best of your comrades ready at dawn in the main square! You are to depart for Sallncoln in the company of a few acolytes!”

  “As you wish, my lord!” The orc appeared resolute but strangely reluctant to keep the same eye-contact as before.

  “Is everything well?” asked the wizard.

  The beast’s eyes scurried sideways, “Everything’s well, master. Ahem,” Guzheraak cleared his throat, “I only thought I remembered something. Maybe the sudden call made me imagine things, I beg forgiveness, I shall be on my way!”

  Though as he turned and bent his head to pass through the small door, Felduror ordered him to stop in a peculiar voice, “Perhaps you were remembering me?”

  As the orc champion turned, he stood utterly lost in astonishment.

  The expected reaction for such a naïve brute, thought Felduror, who now was embodying someone else’s body.

  “Dharamir?” Surprisingly, the orc remembered the name.

  “The very same,” laughed Felduror in Dharamir’s altered voice, “don’t tell me you are surprised!”

  Guzheraak stood speechless.

  “You think you could ask about a potion or anything regarding magic in my realm and I wouldn’t find out about it?” Felduror laughed sharply.

  “Forgive me, master, for my rudeness, but why? Why would you hurt a Drakhahoul?”

  “That is not a question for you to ask?” the wizard’s voice returned to normal, to ensure there would be no further questions from his servant. “Even so, I confess that you and I want the same thing. And if I am to succeed with my plans, there will be a special place for such a special servant as yourself.”

  “I beg forgiveness, your highness, it was not my place. I’m at your service until I return to the pits of hell!” With a tight fist crossing his heart and his eyes fixed on the floor the orc pledged his allegiance once again, before taking his leave from the library.

  Good, very good.

  It was time to make a definite move, one that would bring his plan to a point of no return, crucial to the accomplishment of his quest.

  When the orc’s steps faded and the much desired silence had been restored, Felduror returned to his scrolls, determined to spend at least another good hour or two before returning to his chambers.

  Though, as he placed his both hands on the reclined desk that supported the many scrolls, papers and parchments, an external field of energy disturbed his peace; someone has used magic at the citadel, and he knew none of his acolytes would dare.

  A Lapse in Judgement

  Nuuk

  An unexpected thud broke inside the vast and unlit space of the armoury, causing a havoc that could’ve alerted even the drunkest of the Gholaks guards, had they been present – the two that were on duty at the time were warming themselves in the cabins further down the path that led towards the walls, convinced that nothing would occur during their absence.

  I really need to get better at this! Nuuk’s thought was almost a whisper.

  He stretched his back with a row of cracks as he lifted himself from the dusty floor. If he had failed miserably with his landing, at least he had not hurt himself this time. Except that now, he had to fight to free his feet out of a meticulously-fashioned, royal chair’s frame which he just landed in.

  Once free, he cautiously listened for any noise and soon realised there were no guards outside the door. He fashioned himself a torch out of a broken stick he found lying around, using the very weakest of spells he knew. Then he briefly tried to mend the cushion over the hollow frame he had broken, but gave up as soon as he realised there was nothing he could do to fix it in a short time.

  With one hand placed on the bag, a reassuring pat to his sceptre, he slowly started the laborious walk among the many objects, scattered erratically inside the armoury. He had forgotten the chill emotion the place had given him the first time he visited, yet he knew he would be safe as long he had a place locked in his mind to quickly shift to. Shifting, as the witch had instructed, required that the place be well known as none could possibly travel to places never seen. So with a safe place locked in mind, and the sceptre safe at hand, he felt confident his mission would be a success. Besides the loud, hasty patters of the mice and rats, he made good progress without any disturbing sounds or unfortunate happenings and soon he reached the golden carriage which he inspected incredulously one more time.

  He heaved a sigh as he passed his hand gently on the heavily dusted door, leaving a long trace of his fingers where the gold shone at its brightest.

  From there to the entrance was rather simpler than where he had landed to and he extinguished his torch before pressing his left ear against the solid wooden-door. No breathing, fighting, no growling and no farting. The only sounds were the small hissing songs of the drum fire-pit that was burning behind the doors and that was supposed to keep the guards warm. He knew it was safe to go out.

  Still, he pulled out the sceptre from his bag and slowly opened the door. There was no one, but instead of being welcomed by the morning’s light, he was befuddled to find out that full night ruled over the land. Momentarily, he lost concentration and failed to understand what had happened, almost blaming the sceptre for such a mysterious deed. He forced himself to think harder and nothing came. The conundrum made him lost precious time, time he could not comprehend anymore, and he closed the door and rushed out and away as lightly as he could, only stopping after a good forty steps to calm himself, realising that nobody could have possibly seen or heard him.

  He sighed and closed his eyes. With a good, long breath, he released his tension and opened his eyes to look up towards the vault of heavens. An itching sense of marvel engulfed him as he realised he was standing under the clearest sky he had seen in a very long time. A denser knot of thousands of celestial sparks was cutting across the entire sky, from east to west; a gash on an otherwise seamless blanket of deep, dark blue. Like everything related to heaven and hell, its purpose was unknown to him and Iprorim lore. He could appreciate, nonetheless, its light which was aiding the cold, glowing, white of the full-moon. He felt ensnared by the marvellous sight. Right in the middle of the bright patch he could make out all sorts of colours; blue, orange, purple, red, yellow, a bit of green. To his pleasant surprise, he failed to spot any trails of cloud. No smudges of imperfection to blemish the vast, infinite canvas of the above. His allure increased when a star died out on the horizon, travelling at high speed across the sky, splitting the darkness of that area in two. It was a custom among Iprorims to think of lost, loved ones as the dying-star meant that someone else of his kin had left earthen form to ascend the unknown above. He whispered something in the ancient language to aid the wandering soul find true peace, once in the realm of the spirits.

  It was time to go.

  Cloaked by the magical powers inside the sceptre he picked up his pace and moved towards the main tower. He shuddered and almost screamed, as out of nowhere two Gholak guards almost bumped into him. They were returning to their duty of guarding the armoury, heavily reeking of ale. Once again he had forgotten that the sceptre kept him hidden from the external world, his fast-beating heart did not fully trust it. With another deep breath he cast away the brief moment of fear and regained his composure, waiting to calm before moving on.

  Although during his short walk he had not seen any other living soul, he soon started perceiving the scent of a Drakhahoul, and not the characteristic dragon scent. No, this trail was of a different sort entirely. It stung the inside of his nose quite heavily and he knew it was not a good sign. Whenever the scent of a Drakhahoul was so pungent it meant that the dragon was infuriated. In his long years of servitude inside and outside the citadel, which was the only place he had had the opportunity to see the dragons, he had only once seen the maddened eyes of an infuria
ted dragon. The unfortunate day had been earlier in spring, when the young, green dragon, Jaro, had been punished for disobedience and his mother, Sereri-the-White had lost her self-possession and started behaving like a maddened dog. A mad-dog with wings, he had thought, completely unaware of what had caused her anger at that time. Her otherwise bright, blue eyes, had become black in the bitterness of her mind’s frenzy and her body was out of control; she spat fire for the longest time towards the sky, clouding even the tallest of the five towers with her black smoke and white, burning flames, growling her sorrow to exhaustion. Some of the darkest smudges of smoke are still forged on the stone on that side of the tower, unable to be erased. It had been a frightful sight and one of the unhappiest moments too, when he understood the reason for her manic behaviour.

  Though as he reminded himself of that ghastly moment, he was quite doubtful that something similar had occurred. It couldn’t have been that another dragon had been punished. Perhaps Sereri, the dragoness, caught in the night’s most intimate moments, had allowed herself to be reminded of the awful moment and had flung her rage and sorrow to the skies once more.

  At the sight of the giant, double doors, Nuuk dismissed the thought of the dragon’s scent and gave in to wisps of fear, emotion and cold. Awkwardly, there were no guards; the thought obliged him to wonder why he found the armoury’s doors unlocked too, but he dismissed the thought. He approached the doors and made sure they were unlocked by pulling one of the lower knobs with the softest of touches.

  He held his breath and widened the small crack of the door to allow his thin body through, without allowing in too much of the night’s light to penetrate within. As soon as he stepped inside, he closed the door only to find himself surrounded by pitch black; just one of the many small windows, symmetrically arranged around the high walls of the entrance-chamber, had been left without the shutters closed. Unfortunately, its dull, bluish-white diffusion died a few feet from where it entered.