The golden casket was carried forward and set before Tag Makk. He closed his eyes, listening to his master's commands. Machel watched the beaten citizens and they stared at him. His bluish skin was a curiosity in the desert, as was his short copper hair and eyes. He waited for Tag Makk to finish and then led him to the great house where Machel had setup quarters for his lord.
Shadow Runners moved through the city killing anyone with a weapon. They ignored those who had given up but all resistance was crushed. In the Merchant's Hall a man stood waiting for them, dressing as a noble, graying hair tied behind his head, he held two swords and beckoned the Shadow Runners to join him in the dance. The arrogance of the Shadow Runners diminished as the first three fell at the man's feet.
"Is that all you have?" asked the man. "I've had better students who were half your size." They rushed him and the man's sword danced and sang and drank deeply.
Two more Shadow Runners fell in their own blood. The man breathed harder but still smiled.
"The desert has made you slow. You fight as children. You should have sent your best swords. Best hurry now, the dawn comes."
Soon a dozen more Shadow Runners joined their comrades and the man recognized the inevitable. Still, his swords sang as he rushed them.
Later, soldiers dragged the man to Tag Makk. The man was not a Penarol, but his clothes were made of fine cloth and his weapons were oiled and polished. The man was badly beaten and Tag Makk's Shadow Runners would not do that unless the man put up a fight. By the damage they inflicted the man must have been a fierce fighter. They dropped the man before their lord and bowed.
"Where did you find him?"
"In the merchants' hall," said Salie, one of the Turuck warlords. He was the first new Warlord chosen when Tag Makk returned from the desert with the Menaloch. Salie was short for a Turuck but broad and muscular. His long black hair fell in two braids.
"He fought with two swords and killed ten Shadow Runners before he fell. Ten Shadow Runners! I never saw such a fighter. His skin is fair so he must come from Eslenda."
"Do you lie to me? This man killed Shadow Runners?"
"It is so, my lord."
"Eslenda? Do you come from Eslenda?" Tag Makk's common tongue, while heavily accented was actually quite understandable. The man tried to raise his head to look at Tag Makk, but he collapsed. Machel nudged him with his foot.
"He will not speak now," asked Machel. "Shall I kill him?"
"No. There is no hurry. Lock him up somewhere. Put a guard over him and call me when he awakens. I would hear about this fighter from Eslenda from his own mouth."
Tag Makk sat on his platform while the people of Penarol bowed before him and swore obedience to the Turuck Overlord. He watched each one and looked into their eyes filling him up with the power of victory. Perhaps he would choose a new wife from this city. He desired children again; his last ones grew up and started their own lives. A father can be proud and he would be again. He would tell Machel to keep an eye out for his next wife.
His evening nap was short. Machel came to him shortly after nightfall to tell him the Eslenda fighter had regained his senses and took some food. Tag Makk grinned at the prospect of talking with the stranger. There were so few who would tell him the truth. The stranger would assume he was a dead man thus freeing his tongue. He was curious how an elderly man could best his Shadow Runners. The mark of the Menaloch was upon them. It would be nice to hear an outsider's opinion of his fighters. It would be a good evening.
The stranger was sitting in the corner eating stale bread. His eyes followed Tag Makk into the room. The stranger was much older than Tag Makk expected. His long silver hair was loosely tied behind his head. His face was red and puffy from the beating he received. He had killed ten Shadow Runners of Turuck. Ten who had the touch of the Menaloch. Tag Makk decided right then not to kill the stranger.
From his sword skill to the frayed but elegant clothing, Tag Makk concluded the man was nobility from Eslenda who had not been home in some time. The Overlord smiled as he noticed the heavy ring on the man's hand. The rumors had a bit of truth in them after all and it was coming together into a story worth recalling.
There were few swordsman of such skill and age and the Menaloch had dropped him into the hands of the one who could use him to full advantage. Tag Makk knew him now. The man was renowned for his blade although he was rumored to be dead. Well, not yet. Tag Makk sat in a chair provided by a guard and the golden box sat at his feet.
"I hear you fight well," said Tag Makk. The man remained silent but still watched his host. "You appear older than I might have imagined from the reports I received. How is it you have left Eslenda to come to me?"
The stranger looked away.
"Your prowess with the blade is not unknown to me, Sir Norman."
"You know who I am?" There was concern in the man's eyes and his diction was still precise despite his wounds.
"Yes. Why you hide with the Penarols is nothing to me. The intrigues of Men hold no interest for me. Your kingdoms fall to dust soon enough. What you can teach my soldiers will reward you greatly. We are masters of the war hammer but the sword will add a needed dimension to my army. Do you have an interest in training my men?"
"Perhaps. Are you going to invade Eslenda?"
"Eventually. I am in no hurry at the moment."
"But you will strike there?"
"I will. It appears to be the next logical step after Masina. And Liannest after that," he spoke the last aloud but to himself.
"I will teach your soldiers if I may fight alongside them."
"Ah, Sir Norman. My soldiers will be the finest in the world. We shall sweep your king from his throne."
"He's not my king," snapped Sir Norman.
"Ah, I understand usurpers. Will you crave the fatal blow to King Henry yourself?"
"If it's convenient."
"So proper. Will my soldiers need to learn the courtesy of knights? I'm afraid that will be a bigger challenge than teaching swordplay."
"As you say, but it is central to the training."
"My army is greater than any in Eslenda. Perhaps I don't need you after all. We will overrun them without your help."
"Perhaps, but your losses will be great. Your army will be much reduced and may not be able to hold all your conquests. Which ones will Tag Makk surrender?"
"I do not surrender!" Tag Makk's voice crackled with power and the golden casket seemed to murmur.
His soldiers cringed and waited for the deathblow. The stranger laughed but the sound was thin and did not grow in strength.
"Rely not on strength alone. The deceits of smiling courtiers have brought death to many fools. I don't believe you to be a fool, Tag Makk. Do not even trust me."
"Believe me, Sir Norman, I will not." Tag Makk grinned. "I know you were the favorite nephew of King Robert and might have had the Eslenda crown yourself, but for the deceits of your brother Richard, who then proceeded to lose the crown to Henry Islen. Richard was a coward, who ran at the sight of Henry with a sword. You would not have run from Henry, but your brother had already exiled you. I have heard all the stories from Eslenda, and I know that you would stop at nothing to kill King Henry and reclaim your birthright. But know this - I will use all the weapons I have to crush my enemies. I want the world at my feet."
"And the Daerlan?" asked Sir Norman. "Do they figure into your plans?"
Tag Makk did not answer.
"I know the Turucks and Daerlan to be kin. Is there a need to strike at them? They will fight different than the soldiers of Eslenda. They use.."
"I know how they fight!" snarled Tag Makk. "Do not lecture me! We will see to them after Eslenda falls. I dreamt of their fall for centuries." He spoke to himself. "Let it come soon."
"What is in the gilded casket at your feet? An idol? A special jewel for luck?"
Tag Makk glared at the swordsman. The murmurs in his head stopped. His expression softened. "Would you like to touch it?"
&nb
sp; "I already hear the whispers from it. There is darkness there that covers you and your people. I can see how it twisted you into night creatures. I have no desire to touch it."
"Well, perhaps you won't have to. We shall see how well my soldiers fight after you train them. Only my Shadow Runners need to touch it, but that may change. Would you teach the Shadow Runners too?"
"If you wish."
"You aren't afraid?"
"I noticed they died just as easy as your regular soldiers. My blade was not impressed with them. Be wary you do not overestimate them."
"I believe you are too free with your tongue. Will you need it for the training?"
"Of course."
"Then don't force me to rip it out!" Tag Makk roared. Sir Norman did not back away. He nodded and kept his grin to himself.
"Do you have any more need of me at this time? I wish to sleep and recover my strength. I am an old man now. And your soldiers did kick me severely after I was down. It is a wonder I can even stand."
Tag Makk stared at the old man.
"You will be awakened at sundown and begin the training." He abruptly left the room. Machel watched Sir Norman for a moment.
"Whatever else you are, Eslendian, you are brave." Machel touched his forehead in a salute and followed Tag Makk.
Left alone, Sir Norman sighed and slumped down to rest. He was nearly spent, but he still lived. He would have his revenge on Henry Islen and on Tag Makk too. He had spent so many years away from home. Would they think him dead? His grandchildren would not know him. But Henry would know him and fear him and that thought would sustain him through the coming days.
Chapter 1
Loric Greyrawk opened his eyes and saw the swarthy complexion, long bushy black mustache and red eyes peering closely at his own. His mind quickly processed the image, one he recognized but then his other senses kicked in.
"Argh, do you ever chew mint leaves?" asked Loric, waving his hand in front of his face.
"Good, you're awake at last," said Blackthorne the sorcerer. "Your head wound was worse than I first thought. Bled for quite a while. Didn't think you had so much of anything in your head. You should be fine now."
"The Turuck scout?"
"Dead."
Loric sat up slowly, rubbing his black hair with his pale blue hand. Blood had soaked the bandage and his fingers spread the blood and sand across his forehead. Loric was a tall swordsman, half Man, half Celaeri, an elder race of Amloth. The Celaeri blood granted him long life, if he didn't cut it short on his own. He stood slowly unlimbering.
"He was good at his task; I didn't see or hear him."
"The Celaeri blood is overrated, perhaps?" asked Blackthorne.
"You are the only thing overrated, Blackthorne," answered Loric. "If I want to know how great a sorcerer you are, all I need do is ask you. I could hear an endless discourse of your great discoveries that have eluded the rest of Landermass."
"Do you insult me? I did not want to come on this journey; I was perfectly content with my research but Kerreth was insistent. I should have been more determined however it is difficult to deny a being of Kerreth's size and strength. If I do not get the proper respect I will tell Kerreth that I shall return home."
"I doubt that it is possible to insult you, Blackthorne. You haven't any feelings to insult."
"One day, Loric, your wit will leave you in a place you cannot escape. You are not as clever as Kerreth so your limited charm is lost with your words. I agree with Kerreth when he told you to keep your mouth shut and have people think you are stupid than to open your mouth and prove it."
"Come on, let's get after the Turucks again. Kerreth will have both our heads if we mess this up."
"Well, the fault will not be mine. I did not agree that following the Turucks was necessary."
"Naturally."
"It is an army of Turucks, Loric. How could they give us the slip?"
"Kerreth wants a firsthand account of what is happening. Where have you been the last thousand years? It's the way Kerreth has always been. Taina says he was sending Gorm out with the same instructions in the beginning of the Talos Company."
"Until Altair was killed. Then Kerreth wouldn't let Gorm or Taina out of his sight."
"Guilty feelings?"
"I assume so. He felt protective of the Talos family so Altair's daughter and his brother stayed close. I think Jalic Deade and Barken Fole handled the scouting after that."
"Why did he always send Daerlan and Tuors to scout?"
"Because Men are slow and noisy. I wouldn't be out here if not for my sorcery masking my movement. Darkin would be out here but Kerreth doesn't want him mistaken for a Turuck soldier."
"There's one question I always wanted to ask Kerreth or Navir and that was the origin of the Talos Company. I never felt comfortable asking them. Do you know if Navir suggested it when he was king?"
"Yes," said Blackthorne. "Navir felt his efforts against the Menaloch were hampered by being king. He did not have the freedom to do what he wanted. He asked Altair Talos to gather a group together that could search for the Menaloch and its minions. The initial idea was to defend Liannest from the outside so the Daerlan people did not have to revisit their violent past.
"Altair started with his brother Gorm, Taina, Jalic and a couple other Daerlan. It wasn't too long before they bumped into Kerreth Veralier and offered him the Captainship of the company."
"Just like that?"
"That's the story. How many centuries have you been in the company? I think you joined before I did and you don't know the history?"
"Well," said Loric. "There always seems to be something else to do."
"Luckily there are no taverns out here or we would only have tales of serving lasses to tell Gerrand. Come to think of it, you've done that before."
The warrior and the sorcerer made their way down the bluff to pick up the trail of the Turuck army. Blackthorne, as was his wont, walked with his eyes closed; his sorcery sensing the area around him. Loric held his long curved blade sword at the ready. The sword was lighter than it looked allowing him to carry it in battle position for long distances without tiring. It had been forged by Celaeri metal smiths in the far depths of time and never lost its edge.
They were members of the Talos Company, a band of mercenaries made up of unique individuals. They all possessed superior fighting skills and were long lived. No one with a mortal life span such as a human's would be accepted in their ranks. Some of the members, such as Kerreth Veralier, their leader, had been with the Talos Company for several thousand years. It was a singular life for a singular group.
Blackthorne was a Man mostly, but had studied the arts for so long that he outlived the island people that gave him birth. Wielding such power changes the wielder and the residual of spells and incantations seep into the very flesh. His sorcery sustained his life and he carried a gnawing urge to learn more and more about magic and its uses. He did not share much of his own knowledge, just dribbled out bits here and there when absolutely necessary.
They moved quickly over the ground raising no sound where they passed. Two hours later they rested near an overhang of rock just past the crossroads to Penarol City.
"Pity the Penarols," said Loric. "Good fighters, but better tradesmen. The Turucks will not be delayed long."
"No, indeed. The Turucks seemed to have picked up their pace."
"What are they doing?" asked Loric. "They had stayed in the south of the Koberi desert for eons. Now they are moving with speed and determination."
"The Menaloch," said Blackthorne.
"It truly survived? How did it get to the Turucks?"
"Loric, I do not have all the answers, as unlikely as that may seem. However, the Menaloch has never been one of my studies, I don't appreciate the Jungeguds. No subtlety."
"Yes, I can see how you appreciate subtlety, since you lack it."
"Sleep lightly, Loric, lest I garrote you in the night."
"Would you use your own hands
?"
"No, of course not, it was the image I was after."
"Wasn't the Menaloch defeated by Cothos in battle?" asked Loric.
"That was the legend. Cothos, the strongest Altengud came out of hiding and tricked the Menaloch into tripping a spell that imprisoned the Menaloch in a carved idol. Now this was subtlety; Cothos had created some talisman the Menaloch coveted and wrapped a spell around it to trigger when the Menaloch touched it. So the Menaloch eagerly searched for its own imprisonment. It couldn't escape but its power could still reach out. It was lost in the dim reaches of time until the Daerlan found it and brought it home to Arda. It destroyed Arda and the Daerlan fled Anavar and founded Liannest on Amloth. When the Turucks returned to Anavar, the Menaloch found them."
"For someone who knows so little, you know a lot."
"I did not say I knew little of the Menaloch, I said it was never one of my studies. Loric, it is well you are handy with a sword, you cannot work your brain."
"A compliment from you is two-edged."
"I did not compliment you," said Blackthorne. "Come, we've rested long enough."
The dawn was still hours away. The desert air was too hot for travel and the Turucks had adapted to the night and its shadows very well. Loric and Blackthorne traveled quickly in the cool dark but they were not so vain as to expect their passage to be unnoted. The Turucks set rear guards as a rule and the consciousness of the Menaloch was aware of much. The Turuck army had done nothing to mask their passing, so confident they were in their might. Discarded food, bones, broken weapons, dead prisoners littered the desert, providing entertainment for the night creatures of the desert. As Blackthorne had said; how could they lose the trail of the Turuck army?
Blackthorne stopped. Loric stood motionless.
"Twenty yards ahead on the left," whispered Blackthorne. "Something lives."
Loric moved forward in a crouch, his sword close to his body ready for a lunge. A man lay in the dirt, wounded and discarded by the Turucks.
The Ghost Of Eslenda (Book 1) Page 2