The Order of the Trident (Eldarlands Book 1)

by Samuel Rikard

  "Not all. One of them was found wandering the road. He informed one of my soldiers of your ship not long ago. We dispatched to see if there were any more survivors. It seems you may be the last. But we'll keep looking."

  Gareth felt a slight joy hearing one of his men yet lived. "Did you happen to catch this sailor's name?"

  Remle looked at the exhausted captain, feeling remorse for all he had lost. It seemed as though he'd suffered more than just his ship and crew. Something deeper troubled the man, something that made him feel lost yet resolved at the same time. "Yes, his name was Malakai Torne. He was taken into Shadgull City, where he regained his stamina. From there he set out to the north, toward a town called Aldridge."

  Gareth looked upon the men, "I thank you for the information. Would it be possible to barter a ride to this Aldridge so I may find this man? I have little to offer, due to Corin's need to sink my ship, but I don't mind working off a debt. May I repay the service with service?"

  Remle thought about the offer for a moment, glancing over the man's appearance. He was exceptionally well dressed for a man washed ashore. His glaze locked on the blade resting peacefully in its scabbard. “Are you any good with that.” He gestured toward the bound weapon.

  “I've heard the pointy end goes in the bad guy.” Gareth smiled, refusing to boast his prowess. It was too soon to trust these men. If they turned on him, it was best they underestimated his ability.

  Remle chuckled. "Well, my friend-- ", he paused at the thought of using the title again, "I have a problem with a young dragon attacking caravans on the road to Heroes' Gate. Unfortunately, my men have been busy with more local matters. If you would agree to take on the task of slaying this beast, I would see you not only to Aldridge, but with a small fortune to pay for expenses and to accommodate you while you're in these lands."

  Gareth felt a small trimmer of success hearing the matter of coin arise. "I'll accept your terms."

  Remle pulled a large blue bag from his waist and tossed it to the sailor. "Jem, see this man to your saddle."

  Gareth climbed atop the horse, securing himself to the rider. They set off at a gallop, disappearing into the forest.

  ***

  The fire crackled and sparked, sending tiny sprites into the night sky. Several men laid around the fire, some lost in its dance, while others were fast asleep. The gallop of a horse echoed closer, halting just out of their camp. A lone voice echoed from the darkness.

  “Get off yer asses and come take a look at this!” The lowly human climbed from his horse and pulled a frayed burlap sack from the saddlebag. It was packed so tightly that the seams stretched, threatening to burst open and spill its contents. It hit the ground, ringing out like chain links.

  The others roused themselves and slowly approached.

  Heaving the bag, with rushed, small steps he moved toward a crude wooden table, hammered between a pair of trees. Coins and small trinkets spilled from a newly formed hole in the bottom.

  “That's a good haul, Kelly. Where'd you get all of this?” A man with a wide scar across his face asked, watching him spilled the loot out into a pile.

  “I got a lead on a big score. This was the proof. There's a lot more. A whole room in fact.” He smiled smugly at the others, his superiority evident by his expression.

  They stared in awe at the amount of gold, silver, and gems resting on the weathered table.

  A large half-orc looked over their shoulder's admiring the collection. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, hoping to get a better view. “That a lot of loot.”

  “You plannin' to hit it tomorrow?” The scarred man asked, waving the half-orc away. “Go lay down. If we need something smashed, we'll let you know.”

  The green-skin yawned, flexing his arms and back. Turning around, he sauntered off toward his cozy blanket near the fire.

  “Yeah. Tomorrow's the best time. I'd hate for my informant to give the details to someone else and have them beat us to it.”

  ***

  The scent of cherry floated in the air of the crowded pub. A dull roar echoed from the patrons, minding their own, while others laughed and joked with their companions. The room was lit from above by a large basin suspended from the rafters and a flickering flame spouting from the oil within.

  Kane leaned back in his wooden chair, listening to the legs creak with the unusual weight. He watched the sparks dance from the loaded fireplace, the occasional ember skipping through the chainmail curtain blocking the fiery oven. He stretched his arms out to the side, flexing the muscles in his back, allowing it to pop several times before relaxing them, returning the front legs to the floor.

  The barmaid hurried over, careful to keep from sloshing the contents of the large wooden tankard. Setting it on the table, she waited expectantly.

  He fumbled with the leather binding of his coin pouch. Pulling it free, he snatched a small piece of copper from the bag and handed it to her. She's cute, but unlikely to have interest in me.

  She gave a light bow, revealing the deep crevice at the top of her corseted blouse. A smile breached her lips and she spun to return to her duties.

  Retying the pouch, he stuffed it under his armor, making sure it found its pocket. Lifting the heavy mug, he sniffed the golden liquid, savoring the sweet scent. Placing it to his lips, he took a long draw. The taste of fermented honey filled his mouth. “No wonder they call it the nectar of gods.” he said to no one in particular. Laying his drink to rest, two men stepped through the over sized door, catching his interest.

  They wore thick layered armor, mostly covered by matching blue and silver tabards. They marched across the tavern with purpose and approached the barkeep.

  Kane watched intently. One of the men pulled a rolled parchment from his pack and laid it on the counter. The other laid a small brown bag beside it. Judging from the shape and size, it was most likely full of coin. The first one leaned over the counter, speaking a few words through the echoing voices behind them,, none of which could be heard over the patrons.

  The barkeep nodded, breaking the seal and reading the missive.

  The two men turned and left as quickly as they arrived.

  Feigning a long draw, Kane watched the barkeep pocket the bag and disappear into the kitchen.

  A few moments later, he returned with another scroll. He carried it over to a large board nailed to the wall near the stairs. Tacking the parchment to the mass of existing bounties, the barkeep returned to the counter and started wiping the same area he'd been cleaning before.

  Curiosity peeked, Kane slammed the remainder of his tankard and wiped the excess away with his sleeve. Setting the wooden mug down, he stood, feeling the effects in his legs. Careful to retain his balance, he approached the board and read the notice.

  Wanted notifications of criminals, heroes, or simple help crowded the soft wood, full of pin holes. Even a few requests for ritual sacrifice or intimate encounters were posted.

  Kane reviewed the board, finding the newly tacked parchment.

  Attention weary travelers, the road north is being accosted by a dragon. Any attempting to travel to Heroes' Gate should seek an alternate route. Any who wish to rid the world of this beast, be at the north edge of town at first light, tomorrow morning. Reward will be given for any who assist in the assault.

  The warrior read the message once again, assuring he understood its meaning. He shook his head, clearing the fuzzy sight that was starting to plague him. Perhaps it's worth investigating. He rubbed his eyes and turned to leave, finding his feet frozen at the sight.

  An interesting man wearing brigandine armor with a short curved sword on his hip walk through the door. His head was freshly shaven, reflecting the fire light.

  He had a strange sense to him. It wasn't so much his appearance that halted him. It was something deeper. Something familiar, yet unknown. Kane watched the man approach the barkeep.

  “I need a room for the night.” Gareth tossed a silver coin on the counter. He glanced around the room
, locking eyes with the young man near the stairs. A strange glow radiated from him. It wasn't a solid aura, while that was rare, it wouldn't be the first one he'd seen. No, this man's glow was cracked and faint, like it both was and wasn't at the same time. This truly was a first. The sound of metal sliding across the counter roused him. He glanced down, snatching up the small brass key. Refusing to delay a moment longer, he headed for the stairs, nodding to the young man as he passed.

  Kane stood frozen, trying to understand what he'd just seen. Surely the mead hadn't made him see things. Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he made for the door. Glowing red men are too much for one evening. And if I'm going to aid in this dragon hunt, I'll need to prepare myself.

  ***

  A light fog had set in, hanging low in the sky. The bright moon glowed through illuminating the lantern lit streets. It was remarkably quiet considering the number of people still out, but most of the population was indoors for the evening.

  Ravion passed the signpost, lost in his thoughts. It wasn't very big. Little more than a juvenile, I'd wager. But it's still too much for me to handle on my own. I need to find someone skilled enough to combat the beast, and preferably wealthy enough to pay me for services. Maybe, if the man is gullible enough to believe the search was his idea, I can score an added bonus.

  He rounded the corner, hearing the first real commotion he'd heard since reaching town. Altering his destination, he followed the shouts to the pub. Moving toward the doors to investigate, he jumped back, narrowly dodging the wooden barriers.

  A man flew head first through the double doors, landing hard on the dirt road. Small bits of dust flew into the air, coating his clothes. He groaned in pain, rolling over to find his feet.

  Ravion watched the two men march from the tavern.

  One threw a sword and belt atop the man, while the other tossed a cavalier hat at him, spitting on the ground beside him. They turned and went back into the pub.

  "Rough night?" Ravion knelt down beside him, extending his hand.

  "You might say that. I've been shipwrecked, robbed, and now thrown from a pub because I caught a man cheating at a game of cards. I can't rightly cut him down since it seems every man at the table was loyal to him." He reached up, accepting the offer.

  "I see-- Well, there's always time for retribution another day. Come on, I'll get you a drink." He pulled the man to his feet, snatching the hat out of the dirt and handing it to him.

  He took it, patting it off against his equally dirty leather armor and loose fitting clothing. The stench of salt water radiated from him. Placing the hat atop his head, he grabbed the belt and tied it in place. “Name's Malakai by the way. Malakai Torne."

  "Ravion Santail," he stated, giving a graceful bow, rolling his hand in kind.

  The two made their way for the Inn, taking a seat at the corner table.

  Ravion signaled the barmaid, laying a few coins on the table for her.

  She appeared a moment later carrying two tankards. Laying them the rest, she snatched up the coin and disappeared again.

  "So-- I see you carry two blades. Is it safe to assume you're skilled with them?" Ravion casually took a swig, sucking in much less of the liquid than he'd let on.

  Malakai grabbed the other mug and tipped it back. "One might say that. I've spend the majority of my life on the sea. Most recently I served on a fishing vessel from Everik."

  "Interesting, Though I must admit, I'm curious. What kind of fishing vessel requires a swordsman?"

  "That's a good question. We were a fishing vessel, though it's been months since we’ve caught any fish. The port we hail from was attacked, leaving many of our families murdered. I was fortunate, my family died years ago. I didn't have to witness what much of the crew had. We set out in hopes of finding more of the creatures responsible. Maybe we could help some folks like no one did for my mates. But not all tales have a happy endin'. Our ship ran into rocks a few days south of here. I woke up on the shore near a forest road. Started walkin' and eventually ended up here. Been tryin' to decide what to do ever since. I'm lucky-- " he paused, "Armor's rarely worn on a ship. It gets heavy when wet and tends to pull you down. Captain told us we were going down, so I dressed in my best, figurin' it was my time. I laid down in my bunk and next thing I know, I'm lost, wandering aimlessly down a road."

  Ravion listened to the story, taking in the confusion and sorrow in the man's voice. He couldn't help be feel for him. Having shared a similar bond, it was always hard to say goodbye. Or worse, be denied a goodbye. But he'd never suffered a ship wreck. His departure from the sea was much more favorable. A bald man wearing brigandine armor caught his eye. He had an aura about him, reminding him of his own people, but this was different. This man couldn’t be dalari. He didn’t feel right.

  Gareth looked around the pub, spotting a familiar silhouette sitting with his back to the stair. He seemed to be in conversation with a young man, maybe in his early twenties. Though he had a much older stature. Not to mention the light blue glow radiating from him. He'd seen similar effects before. The man probably used some form of fancy magic. Though he wasn't dressed as a typical caster.

  Ravion watched the man approach. Locking eyes, he raised a finger, cutting his companion off, preventing him from carrying on in the stranger’s company. "May we help you?"

  Malakai glanced behind him, spotting the face of his captain. He jumped to his feet, nearly spilling his tankard. Without hesitation, he snapped to salute.

  Gareth smiled. It was good to see one of his men yet lived. “Relax, Malakai. The ship's gone. I'm no longer your captain.”

  Malakai dropped his arm, nodding respects to the stout man. "You'll always be my captain, Captain."

  Resting his hand on the sailor's shoulder, he continued. “I'm glad at least one of my crew survived, and I'm fortunate it was you. I'm in need of your tracking skills. I can pay for the service. And your new friend here, if he so desires."

  Ravion stood, extending his hand, "Greetings, I'm Ravion Santail. And while I haven't been in this area long, I'm known as the finest scout for days." Doesn't matter who knows me as that.

  Gareth smiled, shaking the tall, skinny man's hand. He felt a kinship to him. Like he was familiar, yet unknown. "We'll I'm gonna go see if I can find a few men capable with blade. I bid you gentlemen goodnight. I'll expect to see you on the north edge of town in the mornin’. We're tracking a dragon so be prepared." Before they could ask any more, he turned and made for the door.

  Chapter X

  The Tyrant

  The early morning sun beamed down through the trees, glistening off the layered dew. The snap of a branch echoed through the forest, accompanied by the crunch of leaves.

  Nezial rolled over and opened his eyes, careful to keep from blinding himself. Listening intently to the echoing sounds, he whispered a quiet incantation to himself. Feeling his clothing fall into place around his body, he stood and waved away his summoned bedroll. It turned back to the leaves from once it sprung. He threw his hood overhead and grabbed his belongings. Making his way toward the noises, he was careful not to be seen nor heard. Cautiously, he climbed the ravine and followed after, delving deeper into the alfaren homelands.

  A new sound echoed with the others, a voice, unknown to him, but familiar enough to understand. A smile crept to his face. Language meant intelligence, intelligence meant purpose. They clearly weren't myrkalfar, which meant they were trespassers, same as him. That meant there was chance for an allegiance. Without sound, he moved closer, stopping on the edge of a small clearing in the now dense forest. Inside the grove, three large creatures stood, arguing among themselves. Seeing the beasts, he recalled the language in which they spoke. He hadn't studied orcish since his younger years, but it seemed the knowledge had stayed with him. He watched, learning the creatures. It wouldn't favor him to give away his position prematurely.

  They stood nearly seven foot tall and had thick tusk protruding from their lower jaw. Heavy hide armor protected
their chest, with lighter leather and fur wrapped around their forearms and legs. The exposed skin of their faces and hands was stained brown. That meant they were from the eastern clan, Nezial recalled. This lot was mostly hunters and gathers, but they had relations with the northern clan, which constantly required them to pass through the alfaren forests.

  Nezial noticed two of them were young due to the lack of wrinkles and scars on their skin and armor, whereas the last stood nearly six inches taller with long white hair and a battle worn face to match.

  Each one carried a large weapon, nearly as tall as its bearer. The thick wooden handles were decorated with leather and carved markings, meaningless to those outside orc society. A thick axe head protruded from one side, wide enough to chop a human in half with a single swing. And a heavy mallet stuck from the other, perfect for crushing anything unfortunate enough to be within range.

  He'd never seen an orc before, knowing their race only by the stories he'd heard and the books he'd read. These creatures, while large and brutish in appearance, were much more than they seemed. He couldn't help but wonder how much timber these three could clear if they turned their axes to labor rather than combat. This forest probably wouldn't last long against an army of lumberers.

  But such task were rarely mentioned in his books. The orcs, even the brown ones, lived in a constant state of battle, weather with other races, or among their many tribes. The past thousand years they’d focused their ferocity against the myrkalfar, holding them responsible for their ostracism to the north. Nezial gave himself a light slap, forcing him to abandon his entire recollection of orcish history.

  The orcs spoke their guttural, deep tongue, unaware they were being stalked.