by Greg Ricker
The only signs of life were at small taverns that could not afford to close, unlike their much larger competition. They could offer no entertainment after what had happened that day, but men could relax, drink, and spread rumors for their enjoyment. Always the first thing people did after any event worth speaking about.
The available, young women in Gerhihn, were what Taron and Dalt used to stay up talking about.
Lightning streaked the sky, thunder exploded into fading ripples, and rain began to fall in sheets of bullets. Dalt pointed to a large, canvas awning above the front door of a butcher’s shop. They ran under it, and though already wet, they had at least avoided a sure soaking. With increasing luck, they found a bench there big enough for the both of them. They fell upon it, exhausted, and watched the downpour.
In moments, the opposite side of the street vanished, and the pole lamps appeared as floating, blurry orbs within the rain. Ten minutes it rained brutally, before the storm receded to a moderate shower. Then when the lightning began to lessen, as well, the rain depleted to a sprinkle. The hard packed stone streets were slow to absorb, and had become flooded with puddles and branching streams.
No sooner did Taron and Dalt stand to continue walking, when someone jumped out from around the corner of the butcher’s shop, and fell face first into a large puddle in the middle of the street. It would have been a better description to say the man had been thrown, or kicked by a horse, but then the two men who had pushed him walked into view.
They were Lieutenant-Commanders who, even in the dim light, also looked very alike. One of them lifted the fallen man up off the road by his collar, just far enough to punch him square in the jaw and knock him out cold, back down onto the puddled street.
The southlanders were looking at the man on the street when they heard one of the Lieutenants shout.
“Hey!” He was also pointing directly at them. “There’s two more!”
Then they were running.
Scared and confused, Taron and Dalt both reacted the same way. They fled. Getting into fights with Lieutenants did not seem wise. They ran at full speed down the wet street, water and mud splashing about their feet. They heard shouting behind them, and as they rounded a corner, one of the Lieutenants came running out of a shortcut between two houses, almost colliding with them. If he had not tripped on the empty pit of a missing cobblestone, he would have had Taron tackled for sure, especially with the southlander fumbling with his blanket roll and bow.
On the side of a large inn, The Stonewall Mansion, a flight of stairs zig-zagged to the roof, used as a fire escape. It caught Dalt’s attention, and he darted for it, Taron at his heels. Five stories in all, they had climbed only two before the Lieutenants reached the first step below. Up they ran, without a rail of any kind. One misstep, could have led to a bone breaking fall.
At the top of the fourth story, they stood even with the building next to them, and only six feet away. Taron was the first to leap across onto the flat roof, and managed to hold tight to his possessions when he landed. Dalt followed a short second after, also making the jump successfully, and they ran to the opposite side of the building.
The next roof was a little lower, and angled slightly, but only five feet away this time. However, it was finished with wet, slick-looking tiles. Looking back, they saw the Lieutenants were preparing to jump onto the second building. There was no time to waste, and nowhere else to go. Simultaneously, the southlanders landed on the tile roof, both on all fours.
Slick and wet, was an understatement. If not for gaps where tiles were broken, or missing from age and weather, they both would have slid clean off. Dalt scrambled to the top and reached down for Taron’s hand, but he was struggling to keep a hold of his blanket roll. He slid suddenly, and quickly, though only a few inches, but for a second he thought he was a goner for sure. His blanket roll, however, did slip away, and his bow fell free of it, stopping on the tiles just in reach of his right hand. At the same instant he got a firm grip on his bow, Dalt had a hold of the back of his collar, and helped him the last two feet, to the top of the roof.
The branches of a tall hickory grew over the other half of the slanted tile roof, and Taron and Dalt quickly climbed into its sturdy limbs and branches. Looking back, they saw the Lieutenants standing on the edge of the next building. They cursed them and turned back, wisely deciding not to take the same risk in landing on the tile roof. After all, they would have to come down sometime, and Baril and Blayne would be waiting for them.
Using the largest limbs to move themselves to the trunk of the tree, the southlanders quickly made their way to the ground. Taron taking longer because of his bow. Then was their chance to hide.
They could see no one around in any direction, but nowhere outside would be safe for long, and the sprinkles were beginning to grow to a shower again. They quickly stepped up to the front door of the very house they had just climbed down from. Taron knocked with his free hand, trying not to beat a hole in it, while Dalt watched their backs.
The door opened. Just an inch. As much as the chain inside would allow.
“Please help us!” Begged Taron, before anyone inside could speak. “Some men are chasing us!”
He expected to see the door slam in his face. After all, who would want to involve themselves with their trouble? Instead, it was closed slowly so the chain could be removed, and then opened fully.
Still in her nightgown, and wrapped in a blanket, Kaylel let them in, a concerned look on her face.
“Taron, and Dalt, right?” She remembered aloud, as she closed the door behind them. She studied them in the light of the room. They were obviously scared, and out of breath. As well as soaking wet.
Wet!
“My floor!” Kaylel gasped.
Seeing the footprints they had left, the southlanders leaped onto the nearest rugs to wipe their feet.
“Grandmother’s rugs!” Kaylel looked furious. “Just stand where you are, and tell me what’s wrong!”
“We saw a fight,” started Dalt, “some Lieutenants were beating a man senseless.”
“Probably a thief.” Kaylel guessed. “Or someone cheating at dice.”
“Then why did they chase us?” Asked Taron.
For that, Kaylel had no answer. Were they telling her the whole story? She had a feeling that she had heard all that they knew to this point.
Four hard knocks on the door got all of their hearts beating faster.
“Will you help us?” Asked Dalt, desperately.
Taron, appearing no less pitiful.
Kaylel stood silent so long, that the four knocks were repeated.
“Hide.” She said, and did not give them even ten seconds to do so, before opening the door far enough to peek out.
“Madam.” One Lieutenant stood outside, and knew him to be Baril Bryer. “Have you seen two young men about your property? It is a matter of....uh....importance, that they be found.”
He smiled. A little too wide.
“You may call me Kaylel, Baril,” she said, “and no. I have not. Why?”
She had always known the Bryer brothers to be the bully type, and not the only ones, in the military. For that matter, it would serve him right to search all night in the rain. All of them.
“Sorry to bother you at this hour, Kaylel.” Baril, at least, sounded sincere. “I hope you were not sleeping.”
Kaylel’s eyes grew when she saw what he was seeing.
Footprints!
Wet footprints, leading from the front door to the center of the room.
“I’ve been soaking my feet.” She said quickly, and drew the Lieutenant's attention to the bowl of water by her chair. “If you don’t mind, I would like to dry off, and get to bed.”
Baril met her eyes then. Only for a brief instant, but long enough to show some disbelief.
“Good night to you, Kaylel.” He nearly ran from the house.
Closing the door, then fastening the lock, Kaylel watched Taron and Dalt materialize out of
hiding. One behind the stove, the other behind her grandmother’s padded chair.
“Many thanks.” Taron sighed.
“If you two had not been so helpful today,” started Kaylel, “I just might have pointed right to you.”
The southlanders looked shocked.
¨However,¨ she smiled, ¨I feel I can trust you two, more than I trust the Bryer twins.¨
She could trust the prince. She suddenly realized in a random thought.
She could trust him to make her feel light on her feet.
Thinking of him almost made her forget where she was, and that two men were standing in her living room in the middle of the night, looking at her in her nightgown.
“Now,” her tone had changed to one both strict, and insisting, like a mother whose children had been caught red handed in trouble, “tell me what happened tonight.”
The southlanders exchanged puzzled looks.
They probably would have been able to tell the story better if they, themselves, knew what was going on.
Flash!
At first, as always, there was a bright white flash. Then a moving picture would fade in. When a clear focus was gained, there were storm clouds below. There were no sounds, as usual, only the rapid beating of a tiny heart. An eagle's heart. After a moment, the clouds began to lose their intensity, and break away. Only to reveal, though difficult to make out in the dark of night, that below flew a group of Dragynn. They followed the edge of the storm north, toward the Blasky Mountains.
The eagle swooped down for a closer look.
Orcs! Orcs rode on the backs of Dragynn!
How could that be?
Yet, there were more than just Orcs mounted on the halfling dragons. There were Gnolls, as well! One mounted behind each Orc, six of each.
Unbelievable!
Though the proof was there. As real as the storm that boiled beside them. They began to drop from their tremendous height, at the same instant that one of the Gnolls noticed the eagle, and...
Flash!
The vision was gone.
Flash!
A second bright light gave way to rolling grassland. It was calm, and peaceful. The wind blew in waves across the tall grass, and the vision was quite beautiful, despite the scarcely moonlit darkness. Then a road appeared ahead, and the second eagle followed it. For quite some time, until homes and farms began to appear. The farther the eagle flew, the more numerous the homes, and smaller the farms. When the outer wall of a kingdom appeared, it was obviously the gates to Merchants' Square.
The eagle was flying over Bowenn.
The city was dimly lit. The streets were nearly absent of travelers, horses, and wagons. Then the great wall of the castle grounds was crossed, and the many bodies of men and Orcs could be seen, lying about on the grounds. Their weapons and shields were strewn about. Covered in both red and yellow blood.
Then, even the eagle's heartbeat began to race, as it soared above the castle battlements. They were charred black, and smoking. Many of the smaller towers had fallen to the ground below.
It was another unbelievable sight.
The bird circled once, and...
Flash!
Elssamon Drennidell woke from his sleep. He instantly sat up in his bed. Once he woke, the visions would not return for another day or two. Sometimes the visions did not return for a week, and never before at least an hour of sleep. They came more frequently as of late, however, which was both a blessing, and a curse, these days.
The King of Ayarlyn frowned. Bowenn castle had been destroyed by Orcs! The unthinkable had taken place. If only he had seen that Nall Talbarond was all right, he would have felt a great deal better. Then his thoughts turned to his first vision. What were Orcs and Gnolls doing together? How did they come by Dragynn for mounts? What plan was taking shape that very night? Only something very worthwhile for both parties could ever ease the bad blood between the two races. But what could that be? He had seen no traces of Gnolls in his vision of Bowenn. Something else was taking place.
This was a very rare, and frightening matter.
Reminding him of just how real his visions were, he could smell the rain approaching. He could tell how far away it was, as well as how intense it had developed. Not a Dy'Shin talent, but a learned talent. Something he had over eight hundred years to practice and perfect.
He took a moment to pray for Bowenn's people, and then for Lynnwood itself.
Just when the first thunder broke the silence about his great city, King Elssamon had returned to sleep. He could do so without interruption, now. He would sleep for the remainder of the night without visions, dreaming his own dreams.
That was perhaps an even greater gift, to him.
A gift he only received between his all too frequent nightmares.
VIII
Little Death Taps
The dying mist, and light fog that followed the night, made the gray before dawn, even grayer. Danuel had no trouble sneaking his way to The Square Stable. Sneaking! In his father's own city! After learning what he had about Victor's plans, the less people that knew about his leaving that morning, the better. Only Kaylel knew.
There could be no harm from that.
He shook his head free of all thoughts, before stepping into the open street, and ran across to the large, two-story stable. Four passages, evenly spaced and completely through it, were square and wide, as well as blocked off on both ends by wooden gates, locked in place. Only those persons who owned a horse inside, had a key to those locks, and Danuel searched his coat pockets until he found his.
He wore a dark blue coat with a black collar, to match his blue shirt and black trousers. Danuel would never be caught dead without being well dressed. He had done nothing about the light brown stubbles on his face that morning, surprisingly.
Someone clearing their throat behind him, brought Danuel's head around with a jerk. A barrel-chested man with short legs, and short, graying hair, stood ten paces away, with a wooden mallet in his hand that he obviously intended to use as a weapon. It was the owner of The Square Stable, Mason Stark.
"Danuel?" Mason asked, trying to see through the thickening morning fog. "I thought you...never matter. Are you going for a ride, so early on this terrible morning?"
Danuel sighed silently. Now two people would know of his leaving.
"Yes.¨ The Prince replied. ¨I promised to meet with the outer village farmers early today. I hope I did not wake you."
"No. No." Mason chuckled. "I've been up for some time now. Will you need anything before you go, my Lord?"
"Yes." Danuel pulled a large coin out from his coat pocket, and tossed it to the stableman, who caught it quickly. A Royal Lion's Head coin, which was the highest currency in Bowenn.
"Keep this a secret, will you?"
"Yes, sire." Mason did not even look at the coin. In fact, he looked, and sounded, rather unimpressed.
It would take a year's rent from the prince to make that kind of money, and no reaction.
Danuel turned back to the lock on the gate. He heard feet shuffling behind him, and expected to see Mason walking towards his home. Then something struck the top of his head that made his eyes roll over, and everything went black.
"Sorry, sire." Laughed Mason, as he set down the wooden mallet. "I'm afraid a higher paying customer, has made other plans for you."
Mason spat on him.
"Drunken, spoiled brat!"
Chanting echoed through the stone tower, as the Gnolls entered the presence of the Dy'Shan Lord. Sawl sat up straight in his throne as he waited on his guests. He listened to their hails, but they were not for him. They hailed for Skhoragg, the Gnoll lord. Sawl could not be sure how the meeting would go, but he was pleased just to have the opportunity. He looked up from the cracked stone floor when four Orcs marched quickly into the room and stood straight, spears high, all angled at the same degree.
Six Gnolls marched passed them in single file. They carried spears as well, and wore the same black leather
and chainmail, but Skhoragg could be easily picked out, in the third position, by his grizzled-brown bear's hide cloak and golden sword. Besides being a bit taller, and of larger build. Just as most Orcs looked very alike, the same was true about Gnolls. Lean bodies with greenish-gray skin, each stood a head or more taller than the Orcs upon their long legs. Sharp teeth showed on their muzzles, even when their mouths were closed. All wore their long, dirty-red manes pulled back tightly into braids. Only Skhoragg wore tiny bones tied in his. Their rattle was the rhythm for their chanting.
Little death taps.
Only when the line stopped, and turned to face the Orc lord, did the chanting come to an abrupt halt. Skhoragg stepped forward, and the others filled the gap he had left, spears on end.
"Greetings, great Corasamon." Started the Gnoll lord, using their name for a Dy'Shan Lord. His speech was all growl, and teeth.
All evil.
"And to you, Skhoragg." Sawl responded. He spotted General Nysin standing next to his throne, just then. He had not been there only seconds ago, but it was rare that he would be on time for anything, inside of the tower. Though the General's mind was probably elsewhere. Trying to decide the easiest way to kill a Gnoll, Sawl assumed. It was that fiery viciousness that had made Nysin an Orc lord.
Bad blood, runs wild.
"I am impressed by the successes of your army." Confessed the Gnoll lord. "No Corasamon has ever sank their teeth into Lynnwood, as deep as you have. You must be quite clever. That is why I did not hesitate to accept your invitation. You have earned our respect, great Corasamon."
He bowed, slightly, and the other Gnolls did the same.
Sawl chuckled. "We both know that quick, and powerful action, is an important necessity."
Skhoragg picked up the meaning to that instantly.
The madness.
Yeenoghu had given in to it before his murder. It had been said among the Gnolls ever since, that madness is the killer of the Corasamon. It makes him too confused to stay strong. They become unable to control their powers properly. Most found it difficult to do so, as it was.