A Gleaming Path

by Jeffrey Pawlak

  It was their third night in the desert, and just like during their trek through the mountains, Baldaron remained reticent about his destination and his plans. He rarely spoke to the Baroso. He kept his rare conversations mostly to his uncle, Golric, and his second-in-command, the huge Wraithling called Captain Ironbone.

  As they stopped and began to make their camp for the night, Golric summoned every armored soldier under Baldaron’s command back to him. His hand glowed with dark magic, and the silent suits morphed into wisps of red light that eventually flew to his long, crooked fingers. Once all of the Wraithlings had returned to him, Golric promptly huddled beside a small fire that was built for himself, Baldaron, and Ironbone, even though he was the only one among them who seemed to have a need for it. Ironbone did not feel cold or warmth without any flesh upon his body, while Baldaron appeared to be immune to the chill that came to the desert at night.

  Tauroc watched the man as he and the other Baroso gathered around the bonfire they made on their side of the camp. If the cold penetrated even the Baroso’s natural layers of warmth, it surely would reach far into the body of a human, the Rockclaw chieftain had assumed.

  Yet, that night, like any that they spent in the Arid Reaches, when the temperature around them plummeted, Baldaron did nothing to acknowledge the freezing air, his muscles sparing neither a twitch nor shiver. The man stood alongside Ironbone on the opposite side of their camp like a statue, staring into the empty horizon.

  Whatever it was that he gazed upon, or was searching for, Tauroc could not know. In a way, the Rockclaw chieftain was content with that. He believed that there was nothing to gain from understanding the diabolical desires of a man like Baldaron.

  Tauroc looked back to the roaring fire that he and his fellow Baroso gathered around. The blaze that the Rockclaw warriors built that night was perhaps the largest and hottest of any during the time that they spent enslaved to Baldaron’s will.

  The huge fire reminded Tauroc of the kind that his tribe regularly had burning in the center of their home upon the ridges in the Tower Mountains, Rockclaw Rise. Although his tribe built several huts in their settlement for shelter from the most unfavorable weather, they preferred to spend most of their time outside, especially when they slept. The great bonfire that burned in the heart of Rockclaw Rise warded off both the cold, as well as the darkness of night, allowing the Baroso to bask in nature’s boundless, pure air.

  Tauroc longed to see that great bonfire again, along with the rest of his village and the many members of his tribe. It was more than a month that he had been away, marching across Tordale under Baldaron’s dark command, while the cubs, she-bears, and elders of the Rockclaw Tribe remained behind to clean up from Baldaron’s attack and await their kin’s return. Tauroc hoped that they were coping with this terrible circumstance. He did not worry for their safety, as the she-bears were just as strong and ferocious as the male warriors, and many of the cubs, like his son, were more than capable of defending themselves. But he was sure that there must have been terrible uneasiness within the village while so many of the warriors were away on a dangerous journey, under the order of a man who threatened to eradicate their tribe, should they not cooperate.

  But it would all be over, soon enough, Tauroc continued to remind himself. He was not sure when that time would come, but he tried to believe that it would not be many more days before Baldaron saw the Rockclaw Tribe’s use fulfilled. When that happened, the sinister man would allow them to return to their ridges, where they could hopefully regain some semblance of peace in the wake of the devastation that came to Tordale.

  Soon enough, we’ll be home again… Tauroc told himself.

  “You’ve turned your eyes toward Lord Baldaron and I several times tonight.”

  The voice broke Tauroc’s thoughts. He looked up from the fire and saw Ironbone standing beside him. The great Wraithling took a seat upon a rock next to Tauroc, a wicked grin never fading from his skull. “Is there something about us that’s beginning to capture your fascination, Tauroc?”

  Tauroc sneered. “Not my fascination. But perhaps my disgust.”

  Ironbone chuckled. His red eyes scanned the Baroso that sat about the fire. Most had gone quiet and stared at the skeletal giant as he spoke with their chieftain. “You continue to abhor the man who spared your life, and many of your own kind?” Ironbone asked, apparently to mock Tauroc’s hatred.

  “Yes,” Tauroc answered, immediately. “And my kin feels the same, I assure you.”

  “At least you’ll be able to say that you have kin when all of this is over,” Ironbone said. “That is a lot more than many others will be able to boast.”

  Tauroc was both enraged and sickened by Ironbone’s comments. They were painful reminders to him of the horrors that Baldaron brought to the land of Tordale, atrocities which Tauroc and his tribe unwillingly aided.

  “Why does he keep us?” Tauroc asked. “We know nothing of this desert. We cannot guide him to any place here.”

  “Of course not,” Ironbone interrupted. “Lord Baldaron was born in and grew up in these parts. Few in the world aside from himself and his uncle know as much about the Arid Reaches.”

  “So, what purpose is there in keeping us enslaved among his army?” Tauroc growled.

  “He must admire the strength and ferocity of you Baroso even more than he would admit,” Ironbone said. “Aside from his own troops, your tribe might very well be the most fearsome group of warriors on this continent.”

  “And yet your master saw for himself that we Baroso are not his, nor his army’s equal.”

  Ironbone’s grin widened. He seemed to take pleasure in hearing Tauroc admit his tribe’s inferiority to Baldaron’s dark power. “That is true. But you and your warriors still bring noteworthy strength to Lord Baldaron’s ranks.”

  “He wants to have us by his side so that we can watch him conquer this land region by region?” Tauroc snarled.

  Ironbone shrugged. “That is a possibility, I suppose, but you must realize this, Tauroc—I know as much as you do about what Lord Baldaron has planned for your tribe. He speaks just as little to me as he does to you about subjects like that. I am not even sure if he’s divulged all of his thoughts to his own uncle. You can expect him to continue isolating himself for a little while, now that we have come to the desert. This is his homeland, after all. It’s the place where he was born and raised, and then saw everything he knew and loved destroyed in a single day. It’s a realm that tried to end him, but failed. I have to imagine that returning here for the first time in many years is bringing back a host of memories for him. His thoughts are with himself, not with the curiosity of his subjects.”

  Tauroc’s lips curled at the mention of the Rockclaw Baroso being referred to as Baldaron’s subjects. “So, will he ever tell us when we will be free of our pact?”

  “He will, eventually,” Ironbone answered. “But I assume it will not be until he feels you truly understand the reasons for why he recruited your tribe, and why he’s kept you among his army for as long as he has. Lord Baldaron prefers to keep many of his desires and ambitions private; rather than speak of them, he chooses to display them for all to see. He ascribes to the belief that actions strike deeper than words. It certainly explains why he had his uncle hide all of his Wraithlings, and make us appear vulnerable.”

  Tauroc’s brow furrowed. He did not understand what Ironbone meant by those last remarks.

  When Ironbone eventually turned and faced the Baroso chieftain’s bemused expression, the undead warrior smirked.

  “You are not aware that we have been followed for the last few hours, are you?” Ironbone asked, and aimed his eyes into the murky horizon. “There is a fairly large group of bandits that have tracked us since late in the afternoon. I would guess that there are a few dozen of them, more than enough to outnumber you and your tribe. Now that Golric has summoned back all of Lord Baldaron’s soldiers, we must appear much more vulnerable to those bandits’ eyes. If that is
the case, it is only a matter of time before they decide to head our way. The people who manage to live in this desert are brazen and ruthless. They will not spare an opportunity to ambush what they think is an unsuspecting party to plunder.” Ironbone chuckled softly to himself before continuing. “Unfortunately for those bandits who discovered us, they have no idea that Lord Baldaron understands their way of life even better than they do. They are about to attack a man who wandered this desert as a child and not only survived its merciless grip, but was forged into the most powerful being ever to walk this continent.” Ironbone’s chuckle quickly escalated into deep laughter. “They’re heading right into a fate worse than death.”

  As Ironbone continued to laugh, Tauroc noticed several dots of light appear in the distance. They seemed to multiply in number as they began to slowly draw nearer while spreading out across the horizon. The sounds of shouting and hurried footsteps soon joined their arrival. It took only a few moments for the sounds to rise from far-off murmurs into a chaotic chorus. By then, Tauroc was able to discern the horde of bandits that ran through the darkness.

  With torches and weapons in hand, the desert outlaws stormed into the firelight and encircled the camp. They were grizzled, wild men who very much looked as if they had all been chiseled into savage marauders by the unforgiving desert. Those with hair let their disheveled locks flow freely from their heads. Just about all of them bore some kind of mark of a previous battle over their faces; scars, missing teeth, even some with roughly fashioned eye patches. A few wore light armor or chain mail, but most donned thick, flowing cloaks over their ragged shirts and pants. Several had tawny skin, indicating that they were native to the Arid Reaches, while many more were tanned by the sun’s rays. These men must have been among the countless who came to the Arid Reaches from distant parts of Tordale, seeking to exploit the troubled region.

  About half of them wielded bows that had an arrow notched firmly within the string, the arrow pointed at any of those among Baldaron’s ranks within the camp. The rest brandished a variety of axes, daggers, spears, and curved swords.

  The men did not attack, but instead stood with their weapons aimed at their intended victims, holding all where they stood. One of the bandits soon came forward, who Tauroc assumed was their leader. The man was tall and garbed by a flowing cloak the color of stone, which concealed most of what appeared to be a simple vest and leggings beneath. His skin was darkened by the sun’s oppressive rays, although not darkened enough to hide the long scar that ran from beneath his left eye down to his chin before becoming lost in his thin, black beard. His messy hair fell into short, curled locks, and a dusty bandana held it from falling into his eyes.

  He wielded a curved sword as he began to pace within the campsite. “It’s unusual to find Baroso in this desert,” he said with a callous grin. “You beasts don’t tread beyond your mountains too often. When I first got word that you were moving through here, I thought my boys were wrong, but here you stand before us, a pack of the great ‘Bear-men’. I doubt you have much in the way of riches in your possession, but there’s still a good deal of satisfaction in saying that we took down a band of Baroso. Your kind are like prized game to us.” The man looked about at his fellow bandits. “Am I right, boys?”

  As the other outlaws cheered and hollered in response, Tauroc realized that they were guilty of a terrible misunderstanding. These men who attacked the camp seemed to believe that he and the Baroso were in charge.

  “Pretty strange group you are, though,” the leader of the bandits continued. “Earlier in the day, you beasts were walking alongside a whole army of other soldiers. Now you’re just sitting around your fire all by yourself. Did you happen to run away from the rest of your pack?” He then turned his eyes toward Baldaron and Golric. “Or did you nab a few prisoners before you went rogue?”

  Tauroc almost feared for the man as he began to approach Baldaron and Golric. “Are these men your slaves, now? You know, we don’t take too kindly to slavery out in these parts. If you’re going to force your victims to follow you after you’ve beaten them and taken everything, you might as well just kill them!” The man stopped midway between the Baroso and Baldaron, throwing his head back and breaking into laughter.

  As most of the other bandits joined him with their own chuckles and cries, Baldaron stood and silently watched with a calm smile.

  The leader of the bandits eventually ceased his laughter, and continued. “Or maybe I’ve got the wrong idea, and these humans are actually friends of yours. This one over here in the black armor and that long hair is nearly as big as one of you Baroso.” He then turned and stepped toward Ironbone. The undead warrior had never stood from his seat since the bandits arrived, nor turned away from the bonfire. The leader of the bandits came up behind him and tapped Ironbone on one of his shoulder plates. “The same with you, big boy. For a human, you’re a mountain of a living thing.”

  Ironbone finally lifted himself to his feet. He turned, and showed the leader of the bandits a ghoulish grin. “Not quite human,” he said.

  The leader of the bandits nearly collapsed. He stumbled backward, a look of both shock and horror coming over his features as he looked upon Ironbone’s skeletal face. It was only when Ironbone stood in full view that the rest of the bandits seemed to finally notice that he was no living creature of flesh and blood. Several of them loosed startled cries, and some nearly dropped their weapons.

  “Wha-what are you?” the leader of the bandits gasped. “A monster?”

  “No,” Ironbone answered, and turned his eyes toward Baldaron. “But he is.”

  As panic quickly began to set in across the horde of bandits, Baldaron turned to Golric. “Uncle, would you like to show these men where the rest of my army lies?”

  Golric cackled devilishly as both of his hands became enshrouded in crimson light. “With pleasure!”

  The blood-red light arced from Golric’s fingertips and flew out in a multitude of bolts across the camp. They touched down on the desert’s sandy floor next to every last bandit, instantly materializing into the forms of Baldaron’s armored Wraithlings.

  Most of the bandits were so awestruck that they had no time to defend themselves. The ghostly suits of armor lashed out with their cruelly-shaped weapons, disarming the men of their bows and blades before they delivered crippling blows that threw the men to the ground.

  A few of the bandits, including their leader, reacted quickly enough to fight back against the sudden onslaught. Their leader, along with some five others, brandished their weapons in time to fend off the Wraithlings, but it only saved them for a few moments.

  Ironbone was upon them at once. He struck with his jagged sword and bladed shield, overwhelming the men with unnatural strength and speed. Those who attempted to deflect his blows had their weapons thrown from their hands before Ironbone caught them with one of his deadly edges and brought them to their knees. Those who struck back found that even when they did manage to land a blow, their weapons were incapable of inflicting any pain or damage to Ironbone’s skeletal form.

  Tauroc watched as the men fell one by one beneath the undead giant’s savage attack. In the middle of it, a shrill shriek split the air about the camp, momentarily drowning out the sounds of the numerous melees. Tauroc looked out into the desert and saw that a dozen of the bandits had ran off in a desperate escape. Before they retreated even fifty yards, three huge, winged shapes came hurtling out of the sky and landed upon them.

  The men stood no chance as they came face to face with Destrala and her sisters. The Strife Wings ripped them apart with fang and claw in such a gruesome display that even Tauroc was forced to avert his eyes.

  When he returned his gaze to the camp, the slaughter was over. Every last bandit lay upon the ground, disarmed of their weapons, and incapacitated with terrible wounds from the Wraithlings’ or Ironbone’s attacks.

  Yet, not one of them had been killed.

  Tauroc soon developed a grim suspicion as to why they
had been kept alive. He looked to Baldaron, who finally moved after all that time. The man strode forward and approached the leader of the bandits. Although Baldaron kept his eyes fixed upon the leader, he seemed to speak to all of the bandits while he spoke.

  “You said before that if you’re going to take everything from your victims, that you might as well just kill them. I agree. There are far greater uses to be found in those that you conquer than slavery. In the case of these Baroso, they have offered me great strength in battle, as well as knowledge of certain corners in this kingdom that I have traveled.”

  Baldaron stopped just in front of the leader, and aimed his devilish smile down at the man. The leader of the bandits struggled to keep himself on his knees, clutching at an awful gash over his chest that Ironbone had inflicted, while staring up at Baldaron with a look of pure terror.

  “Now, when it comes to you and your men,” Baldaron continued, “you offer me your very existence.”

  Baldaron reached down and wrapped one of his enormous hands over the man’s throat. The leader of the bandits initially struggled as he sat within Baldaron’s grip, but when Baldaron’s eyes suddenly became engulfed in red light, the man froze. Droplets of glistening energy began to appear upon the man’s body, racing from his head before crawling onto Baldaron’s arm and disappearing into the black armor. The droplets became more numerous as the seconds went by, more and more appearing every moment as they ran over the man’s form and into Baldaron’s.

  It was not just the leader of the bandits. Each and every one of the other outlaws went stiff like statues before they, too, began to tremble. Their eyes rolled into the back of their heads, and their jaws fell open, loosing only choked gasps. The same tiny bits of energy flowed over the mens’ bodies before flying off their flesh and through the air, all converging onto Baldaron.

  At last, a ghostly form emerged from the leader of the bandits. It looked just like the man, as if his body had been morphed into pale blue light. The shade wore the same clothes as him, and bore all of the same physical features; even the broadened eyes and gaping mouth that revealed his expression of horror.