The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 02 - The Rise of Malbeck

by Jason McWhirter

  “I’m sorry, Kilius. No one should have to bear witness to such an atrocity,” Taleen replied softly.

  Myrell was crying openly now, but she managed to regain her composure and quickly wiped away her tears. Kilius reached out, briefly touching his sister’s hand before returning his gaze to Jonas. His eyes were hard and determined.

  “Sir, my sister and I would like to accompany you on your quest. We have nothing left here.”

  Jonas was just about to respond when Kilius quickly added.

  “I can fight.” Kilius didn’t miss Jonas’s eyes flicker toward Myrell. “And so can my sister. My father taught us well. We will not be a burden.”

  Jonas looked down into the fire momentarily before glancing over at Taleen and Fil. They offered no resistance or advice and it was clear that they were leaving the decision to him.

  “Sir, my name is Jangar and I too would like to travel with you. My family died long ago and I can fight as well.” The man that spoke was older, around forty winters, with a few streaks of gray highlighting his impressive beard. He was powerfully built, with strong square shoulders and thick muscular limbs. A life of hard labor had kept these villagers in shape.

  “Before you make this decision, you should know what we face. You may wish to change your minds after you hear of our mission.” Jonas’s eyes scanned the group as he spoke. They listened intently and Jonas even saw Korgan in the shadow of the fire lean in to hear of their tale. “Malbeck the Dark One has returned. His armies have already taken Tarsis and are now preparing to march to Finarth, the last stronghold in the east. The king of Tarsis is still alive and we’ve been told he is somewhere in these mountains. Shyann has asked me and my companions to find him and to bring him back to Finarth. He is being pursued by evil minions of the Forsworn and we are his only chance of survival. If you join us, you will be marching toward the greatest evil that has threatened the lands since the great wars. You may very likely be marching toward your deaths.”

  There was a pall of silence around the fire as the men and women digested his words. Taleen and Fil looked from person to person as they thought about what Jonas had said. Finally Kilius spoke up again.

  “Cavalier, I am not afraid of death. I was taught by my father that no man is worthless, that all men can do something to further the cause of good. Your cause is just, and I would like to be a part of it; however, I will not have my decision influence my sister or the others here. I suggest we all think on it and make the decision by morning.”

  “Words spoken like a leader, young Kilius. Decisions like this should not be made in haste when anger and revenge still weigh so heavily on your heart,” counseled Taleen.

  “I agree. Your judgment is sound and full of reason. We will speak of this in the morning. Let us rest now, for we will rise before the sun does and you have some thinking to do,” replied Jonas, standing up from the fire, and ending the conversation.

  ***

  Fil opened his eyes slowly as something far away in his mind interrupted his sleep. It was a sound, something out of the ordinary. Slowly he rolled out of his bed-roll and scanned the dark clearing. The previously roaring fire had disappeared, leaving behind a pile of burning embers. The light was minimal but it was enough for him to see Jonas, Taleen, and a handful of the freed slaves lying near the dying fire.

  Fil heard the sound again, the sound of bodies shuffling in the tall grass. His eyes adjusted more to the darkness and as he scanned the clearing he saw a few men creeping through the tall grass about fifteen paces away. They were moving away from the fire toward the tree where Korgan was chained. Just as the scene registered in his groggy brain, he heard a yell followed by more sounds of a struggle.

  Fill grabbed the short sword that he kept by his side, and hurriedly ran toward the commotion. It was dark, but his eyes adjusted enough to see three men struggling with Korgan while a fourth stood before him with a sword in his hand. Fil wouldn’t have seen the blade if the man hadn’t turned slightly causing the moonlight to sparkle from the polished surface. Then he understood. Four of the villagers had decided to enact their revenge on the slave trader.

  Fil hesitated; he did not know what to do. He would not strike down a villager who was just looking for their revenge. Who knows what atrocities happened to these men and their families at the hand of this slave trader. Fil did not know the details but he assumed that their anger must be insurmountable. But he could not just let them kill the man. That did not seem right either.

  Korgan was struggling and yelling furiously, but his chains limited his movement. The three men holding him were hitting him with abandon, but the slaver was tough and he continued to struggle violently against his attackers.

  Suddenly a bright light filled the clearing and the men instantly stopped their attack. Fil glanced behind him as Jonas quickly strode forward, his body emanating beams of white light. The men holding Korgan instantly relaxed, as if the light had sucked away all their killing rage. The man with the sword lowered the weapon, his features softening, replaced by calmness that he didn’t think possible at that moment. Jonas stepped near the man holding the sword.

  “I understand your anger, but you cannot kill him like this,” Jonas addressed the men loudly. More of the villagers were now up and moving closer to the scene.

  “But sir, you do not know what this man did to our families, you were not there. He deserves to die.” The villager that spoke was the same man carrying the sword. He was tall, thin, and middle aged. Jonas had learned that his name was Byranoll.

  “Byranoll, you’re right. I was not there, but I do understand your anger. My entire village, including my mother, was completely wiped out, massacred by boargs. I do not know what to do with this man, but I do know that if we kill him like this, then we become just like him.”

  “Sir, everyone here witnessed his atrocities. He would be found guilty in any court, and he would be sentenced to death,” Byranoll continued, his voice softening, losing some of its anger under the pressure of Jonas’s words and magical light.

  “You are wrong, slave! We are in frontier lands, lands that are not under dominion of either Tarsis or Finarth! In these lands the strong survive, and that is me!” Korgan was yelling loudly, his bloody and bruised face contorted in killing rage. “You are nothing, and under frontier law I have every right to impose my strength on those beneath me!”

  Suddenly, Korgan bolted forward unexpectedly, there being enough slack in the chain to allow some limited movement. The man holding the sword, caught by surprise, didn’t have time to react before Korgan grabbed his wrist, slamming his other fist into Byranoll’s stomach. Byranoll pitched forward as Korgan ripped the sword from his grip. Korgan, quick as a cat, reversed the momentum of the sword in one smooth motion, and brought the razor sharp edge down on Byranoll’s neck.

  Jonas screamed as Korgan attacked. The surprise move was so quick that he didn’t have time to react. No one did. Byranoll’s head separated from his body, his blood spilling across the forest grass.

  The other two villagers were closest and they reacted first, simultaneously leaping forward to grab the slaver. But the man was a whirlwind. As one of the villagers reached for him, Korgan shot his foot out like a kicking mule. The man flew backward as his friend simultaneously tried to grab the swordsman. Korgan, ducking under his reach, sliced the sharp edge of the blade across the villager’s belly, spinning away quickly as the villager fell to the ground, moaning in agony.

  Korgan had turned to face Jonas and Fil when an arrow suddenly flew from the surrounding darkness, burying itself halfway to its fletching in the slaver’s forehead. Korgan’s eyes crossed momentarily trying to see the arrow that had pierced his brain. He fell to his back, the stillness of death embracing him.

  Everything had happened in a matter of seconds. Fil and Jonas ran forward to see if the other villager was dead. It only took Jonas a few seconds to see that the man’s wounds could not be healed. His bowels had been completely cut in half des
troying too many of his vital organs. His blood had soaked the ground and even if Jonas could heal the wounds, the loss of blood would surely kill him anyway. The dying man moaned in pain, rolling briefly on the ground before losing consciousness. As his blood pooled around him, death rescued him from his agony.

  Jonas, briefly stunned, was angry at himself for not seeing the attack coming. Frustrated and saddened, he stood up and glanced behind him, looking for the bowman. His body, still glowing, allowed him to clearly see many of the villagers standing at the edge of his magical light. Jonas caught their expressions and followed their gazes to Myrell, who was standing calmly with one of the slaver’s bows in her hand and a quiver on her back. Her face was hard and impassive.

  “That’s justice,” she said, her eyes devoid of emotion.

  Jonas said nothing, mostly agreeing with her. He was saddened by all the death. But he could certainly empathize with the villagers and Myrell’s action. Not knowing what else to do, he simply walked away.

  Two

  The Hunters

  Gullanin stood before Balzrig, war leader of the Gould-Irin orcs, and was amazed at the sheer size of his creation. Orcs were known to be strong and thick of limb, but Balzrig was a Gould-Irin orc. Using the magic of the Ru’Ach, Gullanin had created him to be significantly larger and stronger than his cousins. He was even larger than the other fifty Gould-Irin orcs that stood behind him. Balzrig, several heads taller than a big man, towered over Gullanin, who looked frail and pitiful in comparison. But Gullanin had created the Gould-Irins to be submissive to him, and to serve him without question. When Gullanin looked up at his warrior, Balzrig would did not make eye contact.

  That is good, thought Gullanin, he knows his place.

  The huge war leader wore enchanted plate mail, and in the center of his chest plate was the embossed image of Gould’s white eye. His long arms, bare and muscular, ended in large clawed hands protected with steel gauntlets. A skirt of banded steel hung to mid-thigh, his large muscled legs protruding from it like thick tree trunks. Balzrig’s shins were covered with steel greaves and his huge feet were encased in sturdy leather boots wrapped with bands of steel. His wide neck, nearly as thick as his thighs, supported a knobby and bony head, and though more or less human in shape, the resemblance ended there. His massive square jaw filled with long yellow teeth, his pig like nose, and his mane of greasy black hair that grew all the way down his neck to the base of his muscled back, gave him a distinctly animal-like appearance. Strapped to his broad back was a huge two handed sword and a quiver of black arrows, each as thick as his thumb. In his right hand he held a short black curved bow, the stained wood as thick as a human wrist, tapering to two re-curved ends that had been capped with human bone and carved into points. The bow was shorter and stockier than a woodsman’s bow; it looked more like a cavalry bow, but much thicker and heavy in appearance. All in all, when compared to their smaller cousins, the Gould-Irins looked more human. The other fifty Gould-Irin orcs, though similarly outfitted, did not possess Balzrig’s great size or power.

  Crouched behind Gullanin were the Hounds of Gould, three beasts spawned from the blood of the recently murdered high priests to the Forsworn. Gullanin chuckled to himself thinking about the gruesome role he played in their destruction. He had simply followed Malbeck’s orders and slit their throats as they were immobilized by his master’s magic. He did enjoy it though. The three priests had always competed for dominance, and it wouldn’t have been long before the power struggle turned into all out violence. With three easy strokes from his knife he had eliminated his only threats, making him Malbeck’s right hand man in the struggle of the Forsworn to dominate Kraawn. Gullanin had a long history with Malbeck. He knew him originally as Malbeck Dysander, ruler of Banrith and conqueror of all the lands north of the Lyre River. Gullanin’s father had served Malbeck’s father as his court wizard, and Gullanin, following in his father’s footsteps, as was typical of court wizards, became the next court wizard after his father’s death. No one, not even Malbeck himself, knew that Gullanin had killed his own father so that he could take his place prematurely. Gullanin, even at the young age of thirty, had surpassed his own teacher and father in the art of magic. His thirst for power even surpassed his love for his father. But that love was minimal at best, and their relationship was primarily based on their service to their lord, Malbeck’s father, King Brandus Dysander, who by all accounts was a decent man and an even better king. But the same could not be said for his son, who, after his father’s death, began the downward plunge into becoming the man, the king, who had plagued his kingdom in wars, taxes, and slavery. Gullanin, whose temperament and lust for power paralleled Malbeck’s, became his right hand man in these endeavors. When Malbeck sold his soul to the Forsworn, Gullanin did the same, and together they strived for more power. Magic, combined with the power of the Forsworn, kept them alive well past the average lifespan of a human, but it all came with a cost. Malbeck became the Dark One, changed into half man and half demon, and after his defeat during the Great War, Gullanin stopped at nothing to try and bring his lord back. After hundreds of years, nearly a thousand in total, he had finally succeeded. Now they were at it again. This time it would end differently.

  The hounds, each the size of a large bull, stood on four thick legs ending in dragon-like paws tipped with three curved claws, as black and shiny as obsidian, each as long as a man’s middle finger. Strong and razor sharp, they were capable of rending steel. The beasts’ legs twitched with anticipation, waiting for the orders to begin the hunt. They growled menacingly, a deep low rumble which caused the orcs to shift uneasily. Baring their razor sharp teeth they looked to the dense forest, the draw of the hunt and the smell of their prey causing them to salivate, thick spittle dripping slowly from their gaping jaws.

  Gullanin absently thumbed the amulet hanging around his neck. It was this magical talisman, given to him by Malbeck, which enabled him to control the hounds. He was thankful for that, for he felt that these demon hounds would rip him to pieces if they had the chance. Perhaps there were remnants of the three priests left in some part of their brains. Indeed, there were times when he felt that they eyed him knowingly, as if waiting for him to make a mistake, so they could tear him to shreds and consume his flesh.

  Gullanin pushed the thought away, turning his attention to his war commander. “Balzrig, are you ready to serve me?”

  Balzrig continued to stare straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with his master. “Yes, my Lord, what are your commands?” Balzrig’s voice was gravelly and deep, some of his words difficult to understand through his tooth filled mouth.

  “You are to follow the demons into the mountains, and find the king of Tarsis and destroy him. Can you keep up with the hounds?”

  Gullanin saw Balzrig’s beady yellow eyes glance toward the beasts for a quick second. “Yes, master, we can run all day and night.”

  “Good,” replied Gullanin, turning his back on his Gould-Irin, and facing the hounds. “I will be traveling with you, but you will not see me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Gullanin knew that the orc probably didn’t fully understand, but he was trained well and he did not question his master.

  Gullanin, holding the magical amulet in one hand, whispered his commands to the beasts. You may hunt now, search for your prey and destroy him. Make sure the orcs can follow your trail. As Gullanin’s thoughts drifted to the hounds, he momentarily felt them collide with the demons’ minds. The sensation repulsed him and he unconsciously stepped backwards a few paces. Their demonic thoughts quickly wrapped around his brain, stroking his mind with tendrils of suffocating hatred. Their thoughts, dark and heavy with despair, were filled with hatred for him and everything around them. He heard them whisper…..Yessssss......and then the connection was broken. Their mental touch had lasted only moments, but it left a foreboding stain of darkness deep within him. He shook it off and watched the hounds leap into the trees, disappearing i
nto the dark forest with incredible speed. They sprang from one shadow to another, Gullanin barely able to follow their movements.

  Lifting his right hand he pointed after them. “Go, Balzrig, do not lose the trail,” he ordered. Balzrig simply nodded his head and bounded down the hillock with long powerful strides. The rest of the Gould-Irin followed, the only sound being the rhythmic pounding of their boots as they disappeared into the forest.

  Gullanin smiled as he turned around to look at the smoldering city of Tarsis. He could hear the thousands of orcs and goblins howl and scream as they continued to loot the mighty city. The sun had just set and he could see dancing campfires spring up all across the grasslands before the burning city. Smoke and fire still rose into the night air days after the city’s destruction. Tarsis was a large city and it would take days to loot it and burn it to the ground. There were still remnants of the Tarsinian army roaming the countryside, but they were small, dispersed groups without any form of leadership. The surprise attack on their city was so complete that they barely had time to prepare for battle before Malbeck’s army destroyed them.

  Malbeck, using the power of the Shan Cemar, was able to move his entire army under the cover of a sinister fog, a mist that masked their visibility as well as any noise they made. The Tarsinian scouts who had got caught in the evil mist were suffocated by the toxic miasma. Gasping for air, they inhaled the vile fumes, which burned their eyes and lungs as they died in agony.

  With the scouts dispatched, there was no one to warn the garrison that Malbeck’s forces were so near. Silently his army marched to the city’s gate in the middle of the night. Malbeck then sent the evil mist into the walled city itself, killing any guards who were no doubt diligent at their posts. The mist, being a short term weapon, slowly dissipated as the magic shaping it unraveled. Despite Malbeck’s power, he could not maintain a spell that powerful for too long. He then sent Gullanin himself in to open up the huge iron doors that denied them entrance. Gullanin’s magic easily accomplished that task, given the fact that there were no living guards to stop him. With the gate open, the massive army quickly overran the surprised Tarsinian forces, a feat that proved much more costly than expected. Gullanin was grudgingly impressed with the Tarsinian Knights’ valor on that night, and the king himself was something to behold. He fought like a mad man, killing any enemy that neared him. He did not tire and not a single orc or goblin could reach him with their blades.