The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection

by Harrison Davies

  ‘Any news?’ Torith whispered.

  ‘I think all will be clear when the last of the traders pack up and leave,’ Marrok replied. ‘I’ve seen no change to the guards’ routine.’

  ‘Good news indeed. I shall inform the others to spread out around the King’s tent, and Jonjo and I shall return here.’ Torith retraced his steps, going as quietly as he had come.

  Marrok turned back to watch the market and in the gloom noticed a handful of shadowy figures taking up position in dark spaces between tents. His first thought was to speak with Jonjo and Torith about retraining his men in stealth, which seemed to be a little lacking. Fortunately, the guards had not seen them, or an alarm would undoubtedly have been raised.

  Right on cue, Torith and Jonjo appeared at his side and checked the market for themselves.

  ‘It seems the traders have moved on. How long till the guard passes this place?’ Jonjo asked.

  ‘They should be here within two minutes, that’s not enough time to show you the panel and get out of sight. We have no choice but to wait.’

  Those two minutes were the longest Marrok had ever endured. At any moment they could be discovered, and the mission would be a failure. After two minutes had passed, he began to think that the guards had changed their routine. Finally, they rounded the tent, swords swung at their sides and long spears clasped in their hands, used like walking sticks of sorts. They stopped suddenly and faced the trio of generals, and each man held their breath in anticipation of the alarm call.

  Thankfully it did not come. The guards checked left and right, and one laid his spear on the ground before unhitching his pants. He then proceeded to urinate on the dry ground, leaving a stinking puddle. He finished and fastened his clothing, and then picked up his spear and moved swiftly off with his comrade.

  The Generals wasted no time at all; before he was even out of sight, they crept towards King Curlicca’s tent and made sure to bypass the guard’s recent addition to the landscape.

  Marrok clutched his chest to try and curb the pain as he quickly escorted the generals to the fifth panel of canvas that separated them from the King’s quarters. He bent down and carefully lifted the loose fabric for them to see.

  Light from inside the tent sent a shaft across the ground.

  ‘Make this quick,’ said Marrok as he lifted the canvas higher so Jonjo and Torith could quietly roll under the flap and into the tent. Once inside, Marrok quickly replaced the cloth so that no light would show and give away their presence.

  His heart pounding with excitement, he retreated into the shadows and waited for whatever came next. He tried to listen but heard nothing, so he did as instructed and listened out for trouble.

  ❖

  King Curlicca dozed at a large writing desk. He was enormously overweight and snored loudly in his chair, his head rested back. He gave little grunts and murmurs in his sleep. His hands were thick and festooned with rings of all kinds, and his royal robes were dark purple with fancy edging. He wore a white ostrich feather in a felt cap that looked out of place for a Madorine, too feminine. However, royal protocol demanded that it be worn.

  A thick collapsible wooden wall divided the King’s quarters from the rest of the tent. This afforded him a measure of privacy. He was alone, and this gave Jonjo and Torith time to make a quick search of the room.

  They crept silently as they did so, looking for a likely place to hide a sacred sword, and after a time came up empty-handed. They looked at one another and shook their heads, and then raised hands in frustration as one box or another turned up empty.

  The King gave a particularly loud snort and both intruders whipped around, confident he was waking up. They stepped quickly and quietly over to him and stood either side of the portly giant. Each removed a sword from its scabbard and held it point first at the chest of the King.

  Torith coughed, and when there was no response, he coughed louder. This made the King stir, though not near enough. Jonjo jabbed his sword a little harder into the fleshy chest of the orc.

  He woke with a start, and it took a moment for the sight before him to register. He opened his mouth to yell for the guards but was stopped as Torith slapped the flat of his blade across his face.

  The King glared at Torith and rubbed his cheek with a huge fat green hand.

  ‘You dare treat a King with such disrespect?’ Curlicca demanded.

  Neither general responded, which made the King nervous enough to keep talking.

  ‘I suppose you are my executioners whom I have thus far been so cunning as to avoid?’

  Again neither general spoke. They knew interrogation would work in their favour if Curlicca were free with his voice. Beating him would yield no results, and made far too much noise.

  Curlicca nervously licked his lips, and he began to sweat as his eyes searched for an escape. ‘We are reasonable people, perhaps we can come to some arrangement? Say thirty thousand gold to just walk away?’

  ‘A very tempting offer, however, we have one of our own. How about you give us the Sword of Cerathil, and we don’t cut off little pieces of you bit by bit?’ Jonjo countered.

  Curlicca looked confused. ‘You are not here to kill me?’

  ‘Now I didn’t say that,’ said Jonjo menacingly.

  Curlicca swallowed hard. ‘Are you sure thirty thousand is not enough to tempt you?’

  ‘The sword, King, that is all we require.’ Torith prodded with his weapon.

  ‘The sword is worthless, why would you want such a horrid thing?’ Curlicca asked.

  ‘Certain people require it. So tell me where it is, and we can be on our way,’ Torith replied.

  Curlicca suddenly became aware that the sword might not be as worthless as he thought. ‘Again I say it is worthless to you.’

  ‘Did I say I wanted it? No, though I see you want to do this the hard way. My friend here is now going to take your hand and hold it out for me so that I can remove your little finger, and rest assured, we will do this until all of your fingers are sitting in that lovely jar you have over there,’ said Torith, leaning in close.

  ‘The guards will hear his screams,’ Jonjo pointed out.

  ‘Good point, we shall have to gag him first. Would you mind while I guard him?’ Torith asked.

  Jonjo reached behind the King to where a long patterned scarf rested over the back of the chair. He noted how exceptional it was compared to the itchy material he was wearing.

  ‘Nice scarf. Silk I presume? Would you open wide for me please, King?’ said Jonjo, folding the scarf into a gag ready to wrap around the King’s head.

  The orc shook his head, his bottom lip began to tremble, and his eyes widened in fear. ‘Please, I beg you. I have done much good as a King. I have transformed my people from savages to peaceful traders and farmers. They would never tolerate a King without fingers, and I fear we would return to the old ways. Please, I beg you.’

  ‘We do not wish to interfere with your rule. We require only the sword?’

  The King closed his eyes as if fighting an internal battle with himself. ‘It is here. There is a secret compartment within my desk. The leg to the right, feel under the tabletop and discover a knot. Push this, and the sword is yours.’ Curlicca swallowed hard.

  Jonjo remained at guard while Torith examined the large desk. It was beautiful wood, though not as nice as the woods found in the temple. His fingers played on the underside of the desk searching for a hidden release mechanism until he found it; a recess had been cut into the leg into which a likeness of a knot had been crafted.

  He pushed, and with a click, a sliding panel in the leg opened to reveal a space behind. He reached inside and removed a long, thin package that he placed on the desktop.

  Torith looked at Curlicca. ‘So worthless that you hide it.’

  ‘My father told me it had great power and to keep it safe for all time,’ Curlicca muttered.

  ‘Your father was right, it is powerful, in the right hands.’ Torith tore a corner of the pape
r package away and looked at Jonjo, satisfied. ‘It is real. You may gag him now, we need to leave before we are discovered.’

  Curlicca began to object. ‘You have what you came for. There is no reason to gag me.’

  ‘There is every need. We are two men up against a whole city of Madorine. You say you are peaceful, but I rather think deep down you still want to kill each other in endless civil war, and that sets me on edge. I’d rather not risk it if it’s all the same to you,’ said Jonjo as he roughly forced the gag around the King’s head.

  Curlicca tried to fight now, yet found that Torith was holding him down. He yelled in vain as a muffled cry was all that issued beyond the gag. Next, Jonjo tied the orc’s hands to strong chair arms with the remainder of the very long scarf and stood back just in time to avoid a kick from an enormous leg.

  Torith secreted the sword under his cloak, then he and Jonjo swiftly made their escape without further word to the King who was kicking, flailing, and yelling, albeit muffled.

  Jonjo gingerly lifted the flap to the tent and peeked outside. He did not see a patrolling guard and looked to where Marrok was standing. The next moment he saw Marrok jogging over to them and took that as a sign that it was safe to exit. He rolled out from under the canvas and lifted it for Torith to exit. Torith was halfway out when his eyes widened, and a grunt issued from him. Jonjo, puzzled, yanked Torith free and saw to his horror that a dagger had been plunged between Torith’s shoulder blades and he was now losing blood through the fabric of his cloak.

  It was clear that the King had escaped his bonds, though did not pursue them.

  Jonjo looked at Torith sorrowfully. ‘We have but seconds before the King raises the alarm. Can you walk?’

  Torith looked at him. Tears had filled his eyes, and he shook his head. ‘You were never any good at tying knots,’ he quipped. ‘This is the way I wanted to go. Take the sword and leave this place.’ His breathing was very laboured, and he seemed to be fading.

  ‘Stay with me, Torith, I’ll get help,’ Jonjo pleaded.

  Torith took one last look at Jonjo. ‘Go now before you all die, and this was for nothing,’ he growled.

  Jonjo nodded, and then carefully placed Torith’s head gently on the hard ground. He delved into his friend’s clothing and withdrew the sword. He turned back to Torith and took a sharp intake of breath as the realisation hit him that his friend was dead.

  An alarm bell sounded in the market. Shouting and orders could be heard coming from the other side of the tent.

  Marrok grabbed Jonjo by the arm. ‘Come on, you can’t do anything for him now. We have to get out of here before we’re all dead.’

  Jonjo took one last look at his friend and stood up. ‘You are right. After you.’

  They ran as fast as they could through the tents, heading to the trees. Marrok was certain the others would be doing the same via their own routes. They had prearranged to regroup at the base of Mount Dibor, where they would make the perilous climb back up to the outcrop halfway up the volcano. More shouts and yells and noises of running feet behind them spurred him on, despite the almost crippling pain he endured, thanks to his broken ribs.

  A minute later they had made it to the trees and continued without stopping. Jonjo was leading now, he had memorised the route and could navigate as easily by night as he could by day.

  They did not let up, as very soon they were pursued. Their pursuers, torches in hand, searched for the King’s assailants.

  Jonjo had figured that if they could reach the outcrop, the Madorine would be unlikely to follow. He hoped their thought process would lead them to the conclusion that only a lunatic would venture up the steep and slippery slope of the volcano.

  They were right, he was a lunatic for trying, yet it was the only sure-fire way of losing their hunters. At least he hoped so.

  He saw up ahead the cloaked figures of the unit running ahead of him from all directions, and he made a quick calculation to confirm all had made it thus far.

  The rocky slope of Mount Dibor was hard going, they would slip back a foot for every five feet they gained in height. It was becoming almost impossible to make any headway, and Marrok was finding the going doubly worse. Through the night they persevered, and they did it, through sheer determination and teamwork. It took all of the night, but eleven men collapsed exhausted on the top of the outcrop, just as the sun started to peek over the horizon.

  Despite aching muscles and near exhaustion, Jonjo kept watch over the precipice for signs of pursuit. After an hour of watching, he was satisfied they had given the Madorine the slip.

  He looked at Marrok and was surprised to see that he appeared as if he had spent a day in the dwarf mines of the Black Shiel Mountains. He was barely recognisable thanks to the layer of dark ash ingrained into his clothing and skin. He looked around and saw everyone else looked the same, so assumed he must too.

  ‘I think we need to find somewhere to clean up and change our clothes.’

  ‘I don’t see how we can, this place is drier than the back of my throat right now, my canteen is almost empty,’ Marrok replied.

  ‘We have a seven-day march to the border and the same to the temple.’

  ‘I have a plan, Sir,’ Private Scroggins interrupted.

  Jonjo was far too tired to object. ‘Go on.’

  Scroggins was pleased not to have been disciplined and became animated. ‘We will no doubt need to travel back by that road. I suggest we march as far as the tavern, skirt it, but one of us fills up our canteens from their well. Someone who hasn’t been seen, then when they return we can simply continue until we reach the border and collect our armour,’ he said proudly.

  Jonjo shook his head in admiration. ‘You are going to make an excellent officer one day.’

  Scroggins beamed at him. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘Well, you heard the man, let’s move,’ Jonjo ordered the unit. He stood up with a new vigour. He did, however, take one last look at where the City of Mador was situated and nodded silently in honour of his lost friend.

  The morning warmed quickly on the volcanic plains of Madorine and the exhausted unit of soldiers certainly felt its effects. They were dehydrated and had been pushed beyond the limits of endurance the night before. They dragged their feet as they trudged through the dusty grasses on their way back to the road.

  Silently a dark shape crept up behind them, one they had not anticipated. Without any warning or preamble, the man to Jonjo’s left fell dead with an arrow in his back. The unit immediately dove for cover behind what rocks they could find and faced their enemy.

  To their dismay, the enemy was not on foot, but rather floating in the air. A pirate ship as large as any they had seen was converging on their position and fired missile after missile at them. Jonjo ducked down behind his rock. He knew they did not stand a chance, his troops were not versed in the arts of magic, so were unable to offer any kind of resistance to the encroaching ship and her crew. He knew some magic, just not enough to ward off a whole ship full of pirates.

  Another man keeled over dead, followed by a third. They were sitting ducks, and the only course of action was surrender, one of the most difficult decisions for a general to consider. Two things were likely to happen: the pirates would take what valuables they had and leave them alive, or kill them and take their valuables anyway.

  It was a risk he had to take; at least he could buy some time and perhaps an escape plan would present itself. Two more men died horribly near him, and he instantly made his mind up.

  He stripped off his cloak, hid the Sword of Cerathil behind his rock, and tore a sleeve from his shirt, and then stood up to wave his makeshift white flag at the enemy.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Marrok asked.

  ‘Surrendering. It may be our only option.’

  Seconds later, a large iron anchor dropped from the ship with a rush of wind and crashed into the ground. It did not immediately take hold until it wedged itself against a rock, at which point a great creak
ing of rope and ship ensued as the hulking mass was brought to a standstill.

  Two dozen lines dropped from the sides of the ship and hit the ground with clouds of dust. Moments later, pirates descended down the ropes hand over hand until they had reached the ground.

  ‘Stand down, men, drop your weapons,’ Jonjo hissed.

  The remaining soldiers did as ordered and placed their hands atop their heads.

  The pirates circled them, effectively cutting off any escape route, and snarled or laughed. Several brandished weapons at the pitiful-looking prisoners.

  A cage came next, lowered over the side of the ship by unseen hands and lightly came to a halt on the ground. A tall, wrinkle-faced woman stepped out from the cage. She wore a hat made of black felt, and she was dressed as a man in tight leather pants and leather boots with a matching tunic. About her person a cutlass was tucked into her belt, and she wore a mean, cold expression.

  Jonjo stepped forward a pace, distinguishing himself from the rest of the unit. ‘I am General Sebastian Jonjo, Order of The Wulf, protector of the faith. What business do you have with us?’

  The Captain’s eyes snapped to his, and he felt her cold stare. He was not scared of many men, but this was a woman, and her stare was something else, so cold and uninviting that he had to look away.

  ‘I am Captain Wilhelmina Kelley or Will Kelley to my friends and enemies. My ship is the Blackheart, you might have heard of her?’

  ‘I have indeed, Captain.’ Jonjo was sure now more than anything that he and his men were going to die. The Blackheart was the most feared pirate ship of all. No one who crossed her path survived. ‘How may I be of service?’

  ‘You may not. But he will.’ Captain Kelley laughed and pointed a long, thin finger at Marrok.

  Marrok stepped forward. ‘What use have you for me that you need my service?’

  Again Kelley laughed. ‘Foolish boy, I have no need of your service.’

  ‘Then what?’ Marrok asked.