Nordruaut
Stone shards and dust sprayed like sparks from frosty stone mugs smashing together. It was a hardy brawl of booze and fellowship as Nordruaut men and women washed away the cold with strong, warm ale and talk as tall as their gigantic bodies. Two men faced one another across a gray slate table, a stack of empty stone mugs resting beside each like growing trophy collections. They drank, and the room went silent. The younger man listed further with every gulp of mead, to the warning oohs of the crowd. When he placed the mug on the stack and seemed to steady himself, everyone cheered. His opponent was older, much older, his strong body wrinkled and his thinning hair white as frost. He drank his ale so slowly that several viewers let go of their held breath. As his chin and chest became drenched in frothy warm spirits, everyone laughed. He dropped the partially-filled mug to the table.
King Rasaol grabbed the white-haired man by the scruff of his mangy gray pelts and tossed him into a chair, where he either passed out or was knocked unconscious. The king stretched his muscular bare arms to display their full power, purposefully flexing as he lifted the largest stein in the room to his lips. It was great enough that he should’ve held on with a second hand, but didn’t dare, and hoped no one noticed the slight quiver. Standing opposite each other, they tipped back and drank in giant gulps.
“Go...go...go,” echoed throughout the long hall as their audience pounded on tables and stomped the stone hall floor.
Shouts from sixty Nordruaut revelers echoing between the walls of Owenqua would be enough to make a human go deaf, or frighten full armies into surrender. It made the old king smile behind his keg.
A bevy of younger Nordruaut maids oohed at the king’s stamina as he downed the contents of his mug. The tiniest trickle of dark brown ale dripped along strands of long braids and beard to wet his bare chest. The king wore a light leather vest too small to close around enormous pectoral muscles, providing a full view of overlarge abdominals that shuddered with every deep gulp. He looked a Nordruaut of a mere two hundred instead of a ripened three hundred and seventeen.
The king squinted as he finally emptied the bucket shaped like a mug. He took a deep breath that rattled his chest, and his hand was shaky—had anyone else noticed these signs of aging? When he was absolutely certain the brew would stay under his belt, he lowered the mug to boisterous cheers. Rasaol wiped ale froth from his mouth and chin before squeezing it out of his long dark red beard and braids. His opponent coughed ale back into the half-full mug to the bellows and rowdy laughter of their audience. With the strength to uproot a small tree, Rasaol threw the stone mug to the floor. He hoped they wouldn’t see the worry on his face. It had to break; it was the tradition and showed strength. Several gasps followed the mug as it slid across the floor and stopped under the boot of a Nordruaut who’d just entered. The stone mug shattered against the visitor’s raised boot and sprayed across the floor like an icicle on a frozen lake. Cheering hid Rasaol’s deep sigh.
The visitor closed the tall wooden door to the hall, brushing off chunks of mug, remnants of ale, and frosty winter. Tiny balls of ice dangled from the furs he removed in layers then placed onto a maiden’s outstretched arms. The disrobing revealed a tan, muscular body with arms almost the size of Rasaol’s. The king smiled as the snow mask was removed, and marched over to him.
“Jarle, you came.” Rasaol clasped arms with the other man.
“By your request.” Jarle’s lips thinned in a careful smile.
Rasaol reached out and grabbed at the air until he held a flask of mead. He handed it to the old Nordruaut. Jarle hastily downed the entire contents and set it on a table, unbroken.
“Eh,” Rasaol grunted at the discarded tradition. “Welcome, we have much to discuss.”
Men and women stood and nodded respectfully at Jarle as he passed. “Impressive,” he said with raised eyebrows. “It looks like you’ve gathered every leader from eastern Nordruaut. Am I the only one from the west?”
“The only one we need. They will listen to you,” Rasaol said. “If you will listen to me.” He then yelled so all could hear, “There are stories to tell!”
All went silent inside the walls of Owenqua as King Rasaol paced before the raging fire. Nordruaut men and women, old and young, hunters and soldiers, sat with crossed legs and slouched shoulders, each clad in the barest of leathers. They were spread about the enormous round room, holding their collective breath until their king began his story. The bonfire in the center of the room snapped loudly, making several jump as the flames rose to the spacious hole in the stone dome overhead, battling cold air with embers and ash.
Rasaol’s face was a mask of anguish and pain. He held a finger out dramatically, pointing at each of them. “Most here are too young to remember the war my great-grandfather survived, the war that changed Nordruaut. When you hear this, you will believe as I do that we may have changed too much.
“You have all heard stories of the terrible war of elements that raged across Ehrde, and how the great hunter protected us from them. Just as the elements battled, there was also a war of men across all nations. The barbaric Angorians, Mendahir of the woods, creatures who lived in the ocean, and humans from all corners of Ehrde battled with vicious ferocity.”
He sought their faces, trying to make eye contact with everyone in the hall.
“We were hunters, just as we are today, and no match for the combined forces of the Mendahir and the Angorians. The beast, the deceiver, the all-powerful Magic tricked those powerful nations into an alliance. Together, they destroyed our homes and our lands. It was almost our end and the decision was made.” He began to shout, raising a fist in the air, “We marched to those drums of war.”
He paused to see some eyes wide with surprise, and many nods of excitement.
“The Nordruaut marched to protect our lands, to protect our people. We are here today because we won that battle!”
Rasaol’s voice fell to a whisper and he looked down.
“But the cost of this war was too high. Water again reigned as champion, but spends her days seeking to free her people, lost and alone. One of the most powerful races on Ehrde, the Mendahir, was destroyed so entirely even their ghosts are almost gone. Because of this, it was agreed that, to protect Ehrde, the barbarians of Angoria would be divided, separating the men and women forever.”
“The warrior Nordruaut agreed to become hunters once again, watching over Ehrde just as the great hunter guards the Vivek. The Vivek who keeps balance over the elements for thousands of years until the moment Magic finds freedom and the war begins anew.”
His eyes widened as he stood up straight. “This war is upon us now! We have seen the magics of the Vex’kvette, heard tales that the dragons have returned, and seen the birth of an Al’eyrn! We will not wait to be defeated, nor will we be killed off like the Mendahir. Nordruaut will fight as one to protect Ehrde, even if they don’t want it.”
He lowered his head in finality. Together, sixty Nordruaut chanted, “And so it is said, and so it must be told.”
One Nordruaut did not chant. Jarle stood at this revelation. “No! How do you know this to be true?”
“That my father said it should be enough.” Rasaol thumbed his chest proudly. “We need to come under one roof. All of Nordruaut needs to gather, to prepare for the monsters and the war that is coming.”
“Monsters?” Jarle said in an uncertain tone. “We have hunted the monsters from Vex’kvette. Few remain.”
“The real monsters, Jarle, the ones with power,” Rasaol continued. “The wielders. Especially the one with the sword.”
“Angst?” Jarle asked. “Angst and his friends are powerful, but they are not enemies. Their hunt was true.”
“Of course you believe this, you were with them,” Rasaol agreed. “But if you were on the march? If we were to defend against Unsel, would he champion them? Would he face you in battle?”
“Yes,” Jarle said. His lips were pressed together in a tight grimace. “That sword he wi
elds is more power than we can face.”
“Do you say we cower and hide?” Rasaol looked around the room. There were mumbles.
“No,” Jarle said. “The hunt becomes the march.”
The fretful mutters of eastern tribal leaders accompanied the stomping of feet. They smacked the ground together, the sound of an army marching to war.
“Unsel may not be our enemy, Jarle, but Fulk’han is!” His voice raised once again. “They have already sent killers to our home.”
“What?” Jarle snapped. “But the zealots are a meager people.”
“No longer. They are changed by the Vex’kvette and worthy of the hunt!” Rasaol could see the wild look of concern in Jarle’s eyes. “You have much to learn, my friend. Together, we must prepare to face champions,” Rasaol pleaded.
“But how?” Jarle asked.
The feet continued their vehement cadence as Rasaol led Jarle around the fire to a shadowy, cold corner of the room. The gray stones were dark from wet, and the darkness met frost as if it battled the bonfire. Frost-covered stones crunched underfoot and chilled the air until Rasaol breathed fog, and his joints stiffened.
“Unsel has Angst and his sword,” Rasaol declared. “Now Nordruaut has a weapon.” His torchlight danced over the giant war axe Ghorfjend.
“You found another,” Jarle said nervously, reaching out but hesitant to touch the blade. “And you have an Al’eyrn?”
“We have a champion,” Rasaol announced.
The sound of mugs pounding and feet stomping could be heard for miles.
Fulk’han
Dusty snow clouded the air as Guldrich’s stallion skidded to a halt. More steam huffed from his nose than from his mount’s. He’d barely stopped during his three-day ride home to the capital city of Fulk’han, and he was sore. Late afternoon shadows fell across his gray arms, hiding the kill marks, and bringing a chill to the already-wintry air. He dismounted, patting the horse in acknowledgment for not dying.
Guldrich had much to tell the new emperor about the traitorous queen now ruling over Unsel. Fulk’han had assisted and supported her, and, finally, in trade for their help, the bitch had turned the tables on them. It was the worst deceit—Unsel should’ve already been a part of the Fulk’han empire. Instead, it was a raggedy mess ruled by a young girl and without the protection of that wielder.
It wasn’t like anyone needed a reminder of their hatred for Unsel, but it rose from the heart of Fulk’han like a wound. The giant tree-like remains of their Takarn-Ivan spread deep roots throughout the coliseum. Guldrich stood before the husk and stared at its enormity. Long tentacles reached high into the clouds like branches attempting to touch all things. Fulk’hans knew this was their Takarn’s last message, a call to expand. That they were destined to extend their reach, amassing an empire for his return. With a deep breath and clenched fist, he strode past the faint glow emanating from Takarn-Ivan’s carcass and into what remained of the castle entrance.
The castle had been destroyed by Ivan, reformed into the arena where he’d battled Angst. Days after the fight ended, it was decided to create the new headquarters for their empire directly under Takarn-Ivan’s remains. The Fulk’hans had aggressively excavated around root-like tendrils, digging out rooms and hallways. Their work was hasty, and shoddy, but had potential for greatness and was enough to host a war room and house an emperor.
Two smaller gray men smashed their chests with closed fist in salute as he entered, and he nodded in reply. The war room was a square, twenty-five feet from end to end with a single entrance. An oval table rested in the center, covered with a map of Ehrde. Three gray men hovered over the map—General Arbeter on the left, Sergeant Advisor Beld on the right, and, in the middle of it all, their new emperor, Gath. All looked up at his arrival. Gath shrugged off a purple woman who’d been rubbing his shoulders, and her long tail slapped the table at the rough dismissal.
“Tell us about your failure,” the emperor demanded. “This should have been easy without their wielder and his weapon.”
“There were other wielders, and they ousted us before we could begin,” Guldrich growled defensively. “All is not lost. The queen is dead, as is Tyrell.”
“Tyrell?” General Arbeter asked. “That must’ve been a fight. How did you take him, and the queen, but not the kingdom?”
“It was deceit.” Guldrich’s thin gray lips curled. “Just as Alloria took the crown, she brought forth her team of wielders—a well-trained militia that killed everyone. But they set me free, proving they are weak.”
“Angst and his companions are still missing?” Gath asked.
“Yes,” Guldrich said.
“We have time to strike!” General Arbeter slammed his fist on the map. “We send in more men!”
“How many do you need?” the emperor asked.
“All of them, Your Majesty,” Arbeter said, rubbing his hands together.
“They have other wielders,” Guldrich snapped. “And Angst is rumored to return soon. We’ve missed our window. We can’t go without our own champion.”
“I thought you were our champion?” Beld asked, his eyes narrow.
The three gray men and the purple woman all looked to Guldrich, who shook in anger. He clenched his fists, and lowered his head.
“We will determine your fate at a later time,” Emperor Gath stated darkly. With two fingers, he beckoned for guards to escort Guldrich from the room. “There is more important work to be done than dealing with your failure.”
As the two gray men wrapped their arms around his, Guldrich made eye contact with the purple woman, who winked seductively. It didn’t help.
Vex’steppe
ANduaut struggled against the ropes, blood dripping from an open cut on his cheek. He lay on the floor of his tent, his hands and legs bound behind his back. He heard the tent flap pull back and could only assume death was coming. Pale bare feet beneath flowing dark robes took two steps before the man kneeled. He tsked noisily and snapped his fingers. The ropes began untying.
“What happened to the guards I left with you?” the Vivek asked.
“Those weren’t guards, they were birds,” ANduaut snapped. “I told you they wouldn’t be enough.”
“Birds?” The ageless man rolled his large eyes. “Not just birds. They were Cavastil birds, the same ones you couldn’t defeat.”
“Yeah.” ANduaut rolled to a sitting position, his numb arms flopping helplessly.
Vivek sighed impatiently. “And?”
“They ate them.” ANduaut winced as he flexed blood back into his fingers.
Vivek gripped ANduaut’s neck and lifted him up with one arm, bringing the young man to eye level. “They what?”
“My tribe, my ex-tribe, ate them before binding me,” ANduaut choked out. “Your five guards lasted about five minutes. What did you expect?”
“More than five minutes! They weren’t even mine. I had them on loan.” He dropped ANduaut, who landed lightly on his feet. “No human could’ve survived a battle with those things.”
“We aren’t exactly human,” ANduaut said, rubbing his neck with his hand. “Where did they come from anyway?”
“I borrowed them. It was a trade.” The old man tapped a long finger to his lips.
“It’s only been two weeks, and my people already hate me.” ANduaut wrung his hands together behind his back. “The only reason they haven’t stripped the skin from my bones is that I carry my father’s stadauf.”
“Why am I underestimating everything?” Vivek muttered under his breath.
ANduaut picked up his father’s twin-bladed wooden staff, twirling it like a toy. Sharp stone blades whisked the sand floor of his tent with every turn. He stared at the stadauf and wanted to cry. It couldn’t have been for his father; he felt no guilt for killing him. He must still be mourning the loss of his love, EnDaer—one of the few things in this life that had brought him happiness. He wanted, more than anything, to be left alone, but he’d promised to stay and lead in ord
er to live.
“Of course they hate you.” The ageless man rolled his bulging eyes. “You sent away their sex. I’d hate you too.”
“You said the Berfemmian weren’t on our side.” ANduaut was confused. “Of course I sent them away.”
“It was the right thing to do, you’ll see.” Vivek looked him up and down. “Did you really want to mate with a female?”
“Of course not.” ANduaut grimaced.
“You weren’t the only one. There are a few more like you,” the old man said then replied to his silent surprise. “What did you expect in a country without women?”
“What about the rest of them?” ANduaut said. “They won’t follow me!
“Sometimes change requires sacrifice,” the man said.
“Haven’t I sacrificed enough?” ANduaut asked.
“No,” Vivek replied dismissively.
“But, how do I do this without EnDaer?” he whined. “They’ll just try to kill me again.”
Vivek stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Why do you have to do this by yourself?”
“Well, I just thought—”
“Stop thinking already!” he snapped. “Before you destroy us both.”
ANduaut gripped the stadauf with both hands, feeling the dark, red ring dig deep into his finger. A constant reminder that the Vivek ruled over his every action.
“I may have a new second for you,” the ageless man said. “A champion.”
“Really?” he asked hungrily. “How is he a champion?”
“Not he,” the Vivek said. “She.”
“Oh.” Disappointment weighed heavily on his shoulders.
“Remember? Sacrifice,” he said. “If my plan works, she may be the most powerful human in Ehrde.”
“And if that doesn’t happen?”
“I’m sure something will make its way through that thick skull of yours.” The ageless man rapped a knuckle on ANduaut’s forehead. “Now, follow me. You’re of no use here, especially if they do decide to kill you.”
Angst Box Set 1 Page 83