The Order of the Trident (Eldarlands Book 1)

by Samuel Rikard

  Krenin jumped, hearing the first sounds of battle. Had his friends come to rescue him? No, they betrayed me and left me here to die. The realization washed over him. He didn't have any friends. If they returned, it was for the purpose of killing him and claiming the treasure. If it wasn't them, who knew about the treasure? And who would be willing to face the dragon? He pulled against his chains, testing their strength for the thousandth time. He was growing weak with the lack of food, relying on the small bits of moss and fungus he could reach. “I have to get out of here.” He calmly stated to himself, letting the weight of the chains fall back to the ground.

  The half-orc looked around for anything he could use as a weapon in the event it would be needed. The room was littered with jewels and gold, glowing like a beacon in the low-light cavern. He scanned the nearest pile, hoping to find anything he could use to defend himself. Even if his chance of success was fleeting. He crawled toward the pile, his shackles pulling against his arms. He didn't need to see them to know the thick bands were cutting into his wrists. He could already feel the deep, red bruises forming in his green-tinted flesh. He scooted on his rear, letting his arms pull behind him. The tendons in his shoulders tensed from the odd movement. It hurt, but it was a small price to pay for freedom. His feet just within reach, he kicked at the pile, uncovering new trinkets and treasures not previously seen. Coins spilled all around him, threatening to cover his legs. Again, he kicked, feeling something sharp against his foot.

  He withdrew his leg, bending it to see the bottom. A shallow gash laid across his calloused heel. Sharp means a weapons. He felt relief for the first time since awakening in the cavern. Carefully sticking his feet back into the pile, he swept the treasure away, hoping to find the item that cut him.

  A weakened roar echoed off the walls, telling him the battle was nearly over. Worry set into his stomach. He was running out of time, he had to act fast. He could feel the edge of the item, but it was too heavy to dislodge. He needed to unbury it. He looked around for something, anything to dig it out. A decomposing body lied not far from him, the remains unrecognizable, aside from the fact that it was human. The skin and meat was nearly gone, leaving the majority of a shattered skeleton and a few pieces of rotting skin to tie it together.

  He took a deep breath and pulled himself from the heap. Moving to the body, he grabbed hold of one of the arms. Twisting it above its head, he felt the dried tendons snap. Pulling as hard as he could, using his other hand to secure the rest of it, he heard the pop, watching the ball separate from the socket and the arm came free.

  Moving back into position, he extended his reach, using the bone hand as a scoop. Shoveling the treasure away, he saw, for the first time, what had scraped him. Lying there amidst the scattered loot was his battle axe. He smiled, looking down at the lost weapon. Knocking it closer to him, he discarded the arm and picked up his weapon. The leather wrapped handle felt good in his hand, like a favored toy that had been misplaced long ago.

  He listened for the sounds outside the entrance to his prison. The sounds of battle had all but subsided. All he could hear now were voices--, human voices.

  He spun the axe in hand, facing the blade away from him. Pulling against his shackles, he put as much pressure on the stakes as he could, hoping they wouldn't ring out. He smacked the sides, working them back and forth. Within a moment, he was free.

  ***

  “Correct me if I'm wrong, but in the stories I've heard of dragons. Aren't they usually accompanied with tales of treasure?” Malakai asked, looking deeper into the cavern. His eyes squinting in search from the flicker of his torch.

  Gareth wiped the thick blood from his cutlass. Looking down at the dragon's head, freshly severed to ensure the creature's death. “I’ve heard such stories. We'll need the head as proof of victory, but there's no harm in exploring further, especially if there's treasure involved.”

  Ravion lifted the blood soaked pike, plucking the tip from the dragon's heart. Flipping it around, he quickly thrust is forward, impaling the head upon the long shaft.

  Kane turned, hearing the sickening pop behind him. He watched the slender scout lift the boar-sized trophy, the shaft flexing against the weight. He carried it to the wall and laid it to rest, where the blood could drain without soaking the wooden handle.

  Ravion glanced at the young warrior, noting his interest. “It makes transportation easier and offers a slightly more intimidating means of displaying victory to one’s enemies.”

  Nodding his understanding, yet still sickened by the supposed tradition, he turned to accompany the others deeper into the cavern.

  The group slowly made their way into the unknown, following the contours of the moist and jagged walls. The sound of footsteps and jingle of gear echoed all around them. The torch flickered against the faint breeze, creating shadows on the far wall, keeping them all on edge, ready to be ambushed at any moment. The ceiling lowered forcing them to crouch down or risk hitting their heads. Moving little faster than a crawl, they found a narrow passageway, just large enough for two men to stand side by side. How a dragon, be it a small one, could move through such confined spaces was a mystery in its own right.

  One by one they stepped through the narrow passageway and into a large chamber, glowing from the orange flame. Pile after pile of gold, silver and gems stood illuminated, displaying only the closest piles. Even in the darkness, they could see how large the room truly was. It was far from full, but it looked to go on forever in the darkness.

  They stood in awe, lost in the sight of the treasure before them.

  A coin hit the ground, ringing out in the silent room. Gareth leaned closer to his companions, whispering as quiet as possible. “We're not alone.”

  ***

  The half-orc ducked down behind one of the piles of treasure, watching the torchlight flicker off the walls. It messed with his vision, making it hard to see the men headed toward him. Squinting against the blinding light, he watched them step into the small room, lost in the sight before them. He leaned in, getting a good look at their faces. They were human by all appearances, except for the tall one, maybe. He had the look of a half-alfar. It was so hard to tell with that accursed torch. In his quest to get a better view, he hadn't realized how much he was leaning against the pile. He felt it shift beneath him, several pieces sliding from their perch. Adjusting his position, he removed his weight, halting all that he could. His heart sank, hearing a tiny coin bounce off the stone floor. It rang out, betraying his position. He closed his eyes, silently cursing himself.

  He tightened his grip around the axe and readied to defend himself. Today will not be the day I meet Osirus! He waited for them to charge, surprised at their lack of action. Perhaps they didn't hear the trumpet-like coin, announcing his position?

  He glanced over the pile, stealing a quick look. They were still standing there, admiring the loot before them. The one carrying the torch stepped closer. He had a foreign look to him, his mustache twisted and curled toward his nose. He wore dark red leather on his shoulders and arms and had a slightly curved sword in hand.

  “How do you reckon we get it out of here?” he asked, turning toward the others.

  “A cart at a time, I suppose.” The heavy, bald one announced, scratching his head.

  It seemed he was in luck. They clearly hadn't heard him. This meant he had a chance to get the first strike before they could recover. And with any luck, the short one's armor looked like it might fit him. Lifting his axe, he exhaled a deep battle shout and jumped up, aimed to cut down the man with the torch.

  ***

  A cool breeze carried the scent of pine through the air. Birds chirped from their perch, and squirrels frolicked around the sides of the massive trees.

  Kane took another exhausted step, listening to the crunch of leaves beneath his boot. The sun beat down on him, draining his energy with each step. Sweat poured from him, dripping into the linen tunic beneath his armor. He wished he could admire the orange and brown
leaves littering the forest road, but he was preoccupied. The dragon's head weighed a ton from atop the pike. Why they had to transport it that way seemed silly. But the others insisted. The crunch of sticks and leaves were muffled by the commotion behind him.

  The half-orc grunted. Sweat beading down his green-tinted flesh. His small tusk jutted from his lower jaw, displaying his gritted teeth between them. A thick rope was draped around him, securing his arms to the twin poles dragging the ground behind him. He pulled hard against the overloaded gurney. Gold and silver were piled high on the crude contraption, held in place by a patchy, canvas tarp.

  Gareth, Malakai, and Ravion marched on all sides of the orc, keeping him in line.

  “That's enough grunting, you green-skinned bastard. You don't have that much farther to go.” Gareth taunted, keeping the half-orc's anger constant but controlled. “You've been given plenty of water. Another mile and you're good for all the bread and water you can stand.”

  Krenin pulled hard, dragging the small portion of treasure behind him. His rage kept him moving, kept him strong. The thought of escaping the bald man and biting down on his throat made him smile. The sweet taste of blood in his mouth gave him hope.

  “What the hell are you smilin' about? You failed. You attacked to early. You could have also done without that weak shout before rushing us. You might have gotten a blow in before we captured ya.”

  His words were infuriating, but he wasn't wrong. As much as he wanted to kill him, he was kind of likable. He's kind of like an orc. Krenin shook the thoughts from his head. He's my enemy. I was defeated and he did not kill me. This humiliation will not go unpunished.

  Ravion hid his smile, knowing exactly what Gareth was doing. He had to keep him fueled or he would die from lack of food. Never mind the fact that he would have made the trip much easier if he weren't being used as a mule. Though it made sense. The half-orc was young. He attacked prematurely. For that, he had to be subdued. His only saving grace was that he hadn't hurt anyone. But using him as a slave seemed wrong.

  Gareth looked over at the scout, reading the concern on his face. “Ravion, run ahead and announce our arrival. Let the people witness the fall of their dragon. They should celebrate after they've feared for so long.”

  The ranger picked up the pace, surpassing the young warrior at the lead. He crested the hill looked back, timing their speed. It was amazing how quickly a wider step could advance your position with no more or less energy. Calculating their arrival time, he turned and made for town.

  They could hear the commotion before they reached the forest edge. The smell of meat and wine lingered far and wide. Reaching the clearing, they heard the cheers of joy erupted from those who saw the dragon's head. More and more people rushed to the road, hoping to see the heroes responsible for the beast's death.

  Kane felt the eyes upon him. It was a wondrous feeling, but he wasn't sure he cared for it. He smiled, passing them, hoping to reach the pub and get inside as quickly as possible.

  Ravion stepped in front of the group, rejoining them. He didn't care for the attention, but Gareth wasn't wrong. These people needed cause to celebrate. Perhaps it was for the best.

  Krenin lugged the treasure past the wall of humans. He hated being placed on display like this. Why didn't they just kill me? Do they want to execute me publicly? Though why are these people so happy? I'm a nobody. It's not like I'm the Thievesmaster Zanthin. He kept his eyes straight ahead, walking where the bald man directed. If he was to die, he'd go out fighting. But now was not the time.

  ***

  Smoked meat, pipe tobacco, and the smell of wine radiated from the tavern. Bards played their music, and patrons cheered their joy into the wee hours of the night. Every seat was filled, leaving a large number standing throughout the common room.

  The largest table at the center was littered with cooked boar, fruit, bread and the finest ale, mead and wine of Shadgull.

  Master Remle De Leon sat at the head, rocking his tankard back and forth in tune with the music.

  Gareth sat beside him, content with his roasted turkey leg and ale, while the patrons scrambled to be near them. Each one trying to make themselves known to the heroes.

  Kane sat back in his wooden chair, feeling the effects of the mead in his head. He laid his tankard to rest on the table, the light brew within sloshing against the sides. Grabbing a piece of bread, he took a bite hoping to regain his composure.

  Ravion sat properly, refusing drink. His sword hung at his side, ready for use if needed. His eyes darted about the room, cautiously scanning the crowd for any would be aggressors. His elongated pipe rested in his hand, a light waft of smoke slithering from the bowl. He took a puff, blowing the solid white cloud into the air.

  Malakai spoke through the food in his mouth, retelling the story of the battle and how they narrowly escaped the dragon with their lives. He was careful to add as much excitement and detail as possible to keep the listeners interested and on edge. His hands moving with embellishment, his tankard in place of his sword, small amounts spilling out as he stabbed and slashed reenacting his part.

  A loud crash shook the walls, silencing the music. Hearing it stop, the crowd grew quiet, listening to the muffled outside world.

  The warriors jumped up, grabbing their weapons. Many of them too drunk to stand, let alone fight.

  The pub doors busted open with an unnatural darkness spilling into the room.

  Gareth stood, letting his chair fall behind him. Drawing his cutlass, he glared at the void. “I knew I'd find you here, you dark-skinned bastards.” his tone low but deadly. He sprang forward into the darkness, disappearing from sight.

  Ravion drew his longsword. “Dreu?” he whispered to himself. Sword at the ready, he casually stepped into the night, following after the bald warrior.

  Kane heard uncontrolled screams all around him. He looked around the room, watching the darkness roll in like a wave. It devoured over half the room, absorbing several of the patrons. The unnatural darkness moved, as if it were alive. It traveled across the room, leaving a wake of dead bodies where cheerful citizens stood moments before. Blood poured from the fresh wounds, seeping into the cracks of the wood planked floor. Lifting his greatsword, he charged, ready to halt the strange shadow. Swinging with all his might, the blow struck home, sinking into something solid but soft. He twisted the blade, shoving deeper, hoping the wound was fatal. Withdrawing his strike, he spun around, ready to attack again.

  The darkness in the room faded, leaving a black-skinned alfar where it had been. It's body laid lifeless on the floor, a nearly black blood seeping from the chest wound.

  Kane looked into its fading eyes, feeling something familiar but unknown in the wicked creature.

  ***

  The barred cell was growing chilly in the night. It was bare, save for the wooden cot and empty bucket resting in the corner.

  Krenin laid on the wood and canvas bed, his feet overhanging the small structure. He wished they would have at least left him a blanket.

  He sat up, hearing the screams echo through the single barred window. Several shadows rushed past, reflecting in the outside lanterns. He watched, as best he could, seeing their light disappear, leaving an unnatural darkness to wisp through the small portal. It was unsettling. The darkest night can't hinder my vision. But this-- mist?, he questioned. I can't see through it.

  His fear grew seeing the same shadow seep through the cracks of the jailhouse door. It licked at the keyhole, threatening to come inside. He stepped to the door of the single cell, pulling the bars with all his strength. It was returning but he was still far from peak. And worse, he was completely unarmed.

  The door busted open, spilling darkness into the room.

  He braced himself, ready for his death to come, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. Raising his fists, he stepped back, watching the shadow approach the cell. He could hear something alive in the darkness, something intelligent. He heard a familiar click, telling him
the door was unlocked.

  The void engulfed the door and floated closer to him, leaving no place for escape.

  Krenin felt the wall at his back, telling him he was out of time. Clenching his fist, he roared and leapt into the shadow. His fist beat down, colliding with something-- soft? He felt it give with his first swing. Again he hit, feeling a warm sticky liquid on his knuckles. He struck again, and again. He hadn't realized the shadow had faded, leaving a frail, black-skinned creature beneath him. He felt its skull give way, the mush inside spilling out onto the floor.

  He looked at the black gore covering his hands. Wiping them on the creature's clothes, he stood, picking up the crude sword it had been carrying. Its handle was too small for his large hands but it would have to suffice.

  He looked up to see another shadow come into the room, this time moving straight toward him with blinding speed.

  Timing his attack, he threw the blade up in defense. To his surprise, the metal rang out, telling him is was locked against another. Refusing to give the enshadowed creature another chance, he slid his blade down, letting it glide against the parried weapon. Reaching the crossguard, he twisted and thrust deep, feeling the tip sink into the obscured creature.

  Ripping the sword free, he watched a second monster fall from the shadow and land hard on the wooden floor, a pool of black ooze spilling out.

  He grabbed the second blade and rushed out the door. I'll no longer be a prisoner! And that means I'll have to die, and what better way to die, than in combat?

  Chapter XIII

  Order to Chaos

  Darkness wrapped around him on all sides. He couldn't tell where one ended and another began. Swiping wildly, Gareth felt his cutlass bite into one of the foul creatures. Spinning around, he connected with another. The shadows were starting to fade, allowing him to see the moonlight rain down upon him. Glancing around at the pile of dying dreualfar, he lunged in once again, feeding the numbers. The black, sticky blood dripped from his face. He didn't need to look down to know that he was covered in the soupy substance. It's not the first time, it won't be the last! Another body fell at his feet, washing over him with a sense of pride. A satisfied, wicked smile glowed bright in the enveloping darkness.