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Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)

Page 8

by Ben Marshall


  His axe lies beside him, still held within his wide hands, stained with the blood of many foes. He told me once that he would never fall while his axe had room for a notch or ten, and looking at the scene it appears as if he achieved that aim before the Father summoned him away to the Hall of Souls. I picture him already in fierce debate with the Dwarves of long ago, trying to decide who has the greatest war story to tell. He spoke of little else when he was not asked to impart some of his wisdom, so it is highly unlikely that he would change now his spirit roams the hallowed hall where all of our noblest find eternal rest.

  I have buried my father where he fell, writing his name in ash over the grave. His armour and his weapons I have held onto, that they might find proper place within the tombs. I have added the notches to his axe, and I can only hope I do him proud. He never truly approved of my choice of profession, believing that intellectual pursuits were more a hobby than a career for any self-respecting and proper Dwarf. Many were the heated debates we had over the matter, and eventually he relented to a compromise. I have become a proficient wielder of the axe, though I maintained my role as Loremaster so that my body would become a balanced creation.

  We moved swiftly from the place of burial, my resolve if not that of my wonderful companions, strengthened by the horrors we have seen the aftermath of. We are but a few days from the caves, and the mystery’s end.

  29th August, 1190

  This will be the last entry for a while, perhaps ever, as we are now at the orc camp that was set just outside the entrance to the Kuhiar caves. Ever since we arrived at the site, I have been unable to shake of the feeling that we are being watched. Though we are near the wild forests were dwell all manner of fell predators, notably the giant mountain cats, I can’t help but think that the watchers are humanoids. I do not think they are orcs, because it has been several hours and they still haven’t attacked us, yet I do not know of anyone save the Kuhiar that would allow us to linger where we are. Even that thought may be ill-founded, since the Kuhiar may have fallen under the dominion of the Fire Giants that have conquered their home.

  Weary from the journey, I am still unable to sleep without the image of my father’s corpse intruding upon my dreams. I have lain awake the past two nights until sleep overthrows my senses and I fall too deep for the nightmares to follow. No doubt it will be the same tonight, and come the dawn it has been agreed that we shall enter the forbidding darkness of the tunnels. No doubt my feelings of apprehension are the same as those felt by the Elven party that went after Katchanga. I have begun to believe that history is on a perpetual cycle for, although time and place may differ, I believe I have heard of such events as those of recent days occurring in the past. Was this not how it began when Carrassiel sought the rule of the Dwarven ranges? Does this mean that Moragil will attempt to improve upon his former master’s result? Oh how I pray that it is not so. My clan cannot withstand an attack if it comes now, for we lost almost all of our warriors in the attacks upon the orcs, and there are countless more of their kind that would join with him. Some people can be hired by promises of gold, others by the excitement of battle, but what promise do you need to give to a race of creatures that live only to rend flesh and bring death upon the innocents of the world?

  Excerpts from the journal of Daruil Hammerstriker, Loremaster for Clan Doomhammer.

  ***

  September 3rd, 1190

  It had been five monotonous days since the trio had been swallowed by the unchanging blackness of the caverns, the fixed blindness giving time no identity within the void. The dripping of unseen water from unseen stalactites was maddening, but it was a feature of the location that had to be borne for all their sakes. Neither member had slept since leaving the campsite, the unrelenting drip boring into everyone’s mind. Used to the darkness due to a lifetime within the subterranean hall of his birth, Daruil was less bothered by the conditions than the other two, and his worries were more focussed on the knowledge of Farim’s complete blindness, and Lonariel was little better off.

  It had swiftly become apparent that they were in trouble should they come upon any of the dangerous denizens of such tunnels, for there were deadlier beings than orcs that roamed the lightless world, and so they had formed a sort of procession. Daruil led the way, a thick line of rope hanging from his worn leather belt and leading to the much more immaculate attire of Farim. From there another strand of the coil travelled back to the form of Lonariel, who remained at the rear because his keen sense of hearing was still of great benefit to the group. It had been hard at first for the Elf to adjust to the eeriness of the echoes brought about by the stone that encased them from all directions, but the effect had lessened over the course of their journey. Daruil calculated that they had walked to within but a few miles of the mountain’s heart, though the twisting nature of their route undoubtedly distorted this assessment, and his fatigued mind had found it hard to focus due to the lack of replenishing rest. Finally he could stand it no longer, and it was clear from the way Farim swayed as he walked that he too was close to collapse. Sliding to the cool and damp earth below his aching feet, Daruil leaned as comfortably as he was able against the rocks and dirt that ran beside their path.

  “We have yet to make use of the provisions we uncovered back at the camp,” whispered a very hoarse Lonariel, the scarred left side of his face illuminated softly by the small yet gratefully accepted fire which he had conjured. The innate magic that gave his people their nickname was a thankful sight, though Daruil had to point out half-heartedly the dangers of even the tiniest fire within such a place.

  “I don’t care if we bring every foul creature in the known realms upon us,” muttered Farim, though his voice was instantly magnified by the surrounding rock as it mockingly mimicked him, “I need to bring some feeling back into my flesh.”

  Lonariel didn’t enter the conversation, his concentration set firmly on finding what few morsels they had been able to salvage from the packs containing the ingredients of a typical orc diet.

  “What’s your preference, venison or some kind of bird?” he asked at length in the musical accent of his race. He held in his hands several thick chunks of salted meat, and what could only be described as some kind of wrinkly-skinned, very meagre portions of an unidentifiable flying creature.

  “You could eat five of that “bird” and not know you’d had anything at all,” Daruil muttered with open disgust as he prodded the limp carcass.

  “From what I’ve seen during the few times I have dwelled within the halls of Dwarves, it would seem that the same would be true of the venison,” the Elf commented without any perceptible pause, the fire highlighting the small smile that was displayed upon his lightly-tanned face. The smile extended to his green eyes, making them seem to sparkle from within rather than from the soft glow of the flames that seemed also to blend with his red hair, and the Dwarf couldn’t hold his frown as Farim tilted his head back in laughter, the delightful sound seeming like it didn’t belong to the deep-voiced Lebrusktan. The tension sliced wide open, for the moment at least, the three companions settled down to dine as if they regularly travelled to such spots, and it is not too difficult to believe that the caverns hadn’t seen such a sight in any of the centuries they had existed, nor would witness the like upon their departure.

  The lightened mood could have lasted for hours within a taven, but that was not the case in such locations, and Lonariel suddenly sat bolt upright with one hand creeping towards his scabbard, wherein lay his slender curved blade, the intricate designs and the smoothly polished steel casting a faint replica of the fire onto the wall two metres further along the passage as it was subsequently withdrawn. His eyes had detected a faint flicker of movement within the softly-bathed area, and his ears could even now detect the padding of naked feet mingled with the crackling of the fire. Sensing the danger Farim moved to extinguish the flames while he reached for his broadsword, but was stopped by a motion from Daruil, who turned his black eyes to regard the gold
en-robed Elf upon his other side.

  “How high can you bring the flames?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and impassive while he reached to grip his axe, wishing fervently that he had donned the heavy armour of his people, rather than the much lighter leather tunic he had on beneath his black robes.

  “What do you have in mind Master Dwarf? The flames reveal us to whatever is out there.”

  “It could have seen us whether we had the fire or not, but no beast will willingly venture through a wall of the thing,” came the swift response, time running out as the entity moved invisibly to within striking distance.

  Understanding the logic, the Elven Loremaster brought his free hand out before him, causing the dancing flames to leap and stroke the rounded rock and stone above them while Farim moved round to stand beside Daruil and watch while the column of flames expanded to fill the passage.

  “Keep it before us and let’s follow it, and we’ll drive whatever wishes to eat us back to where it came from or force it to wait beside us, in holes where we can surround it,” explained the Dwarf, his clan’s experience with subterranean invaders coming into good use now as the beast, or beasts that had been blocked off by the rising barrier, growled with fury at their failure. The flames distorted the features of the creatures, and naught but one thing could be discerned through the shimmering haze of red and gold. Two differing races of creature stood beyond the barrier, yet neither was the less dangerous.

  Orcish grunts and bellows reached the explorers’ ears, as too did the snarling of the feared sabre panthers. Being twice the size of their more common cousin, the beasts had been known to bring down giants when out hunting to quench their insatiable appetites. It seemed as if these particular specimens had been trained, a daring feat since they were as unpredictable as they were powerful, and now served as aides to the humanoids that stood beside them.

  Bringing his head close to Farim’s, confident that Lonariel’s keen hearing would pick up the words, Daruil motioned a plan for when the fight became unavoidable. Nodding his head while a grim and resolute smile wove its way across his face, the Lebrusktan mercenary brought his broadsword out before him as the fire continued to drift through the passage, though it wouldn’t be long now before it was useless. Already the tell-tale shadow of a crossing passage had moved into view, and it was clear by the frenzied chattering that the Orcs were also aware of the implications.

  Slowing the advance as he brought his blade out behind him, his left arm crossing his torso as it joined the other hand at the weapon’s hilt, Lonariel sent more flames across the steel. The display hidden from the denizens upon the other side of the fiery wall, Daruil gripped his axe firmly with his gloved fists before whispering words of what he hoped was encouragement as the flames passed the tunnel.

  “The odds are only abou’ 10 ter 1, they don’t stand a chance.” The anxious waiting had brought out the Dwarf’s natural accent, his learned life having led him to adopt a more refined vocabulary. His new pronunciation had been the source of many an irritation for his grandfather, who “spoke as a true Dwarf should”. Not missing the significance of the strain Daruil was under, Farim gripped his comrade’s shoulder before having to leap sideways to avoid being smothered by a black-furred fury.

  Bringing his broadsword about in a swift circle, the warrior cut a deep gash in the panther’s flank before having to parry a thrust from an Orc’s crude blade of dark iron. Counterattacking immediately, he brought the weapon up diagonally to impale the creature’s soft flesh and piercing a lung. Dropping the dying foe, he moved to aid Daruil, but found his way blocked by two well-armoured opponents. His aid was scarcely needed anyway, because the heaviness of the Dwarf’s axe was proving a great benefit. Having struck a cruel overhead strike against a panther’s skull, notably the same panther Farim had wounded, he had spun to bring it crashing into the unguarded throat of an Orc, decapitating the beast easily and still finding enough momentum to drive the stout blade firmly into the breastplate of another charging enemy.

  “Yer blasted kind killed my ancestors, now I’ll send ye to meet yer own!” he bellowed as he ran into an Orc, his axe leading all the way even though a dying foe was still folded over the edge. The unconscious creature’s spiked back plate drove through the unfortunate being behind it, the weight of two bodies dragging the axe down until Daruil was actually held aloft as the two corpses fell on top of one another. Extracting his weapon from the black armour of his victim, a grunt was all the Dwarf uttered as a panther turned its yellow eyes towards him, a snarl revealing long and saliva-dripping fangs.

  Lonariel, lacking the brute strength of the ferocious Loremaster of Clan Doomhammer, was finding his natural agility of great benefit. His kin’s innate magic was proving an added bonus in this combat, since the searing heat of the flames often brought an Orc to stop short at the last minute, opening the foe’s defences long enough for the slim blade to strike through the partition between helmet and body armour. The sight of helmets upon the heads of such creatures was unnerving, since until the helmet was discovered many days ago it had been believed that orcs were too mindless to consider their defence in such a way.

  The flames had little effect at fending off the gargantuan panthers, which were driven on by bloodlust to kill the slender piece of living flesh that so irritatingly defied them. Some swiped with their rounded paws, but soon found that the heat was unbearable if the Elven sword came too close to their tender pads. Others took the more direct approach, leaping several metres in a single pounce towards Lonariel, and he often had to duck or dive to the side. Wherever he moved, however, there was always another body waiting to strike, and the performance of the oversized and seemingly fearless cats was causing the Orcs to become bolder, until even his swift reflexes were barely enough to avoid the many slashing blades that joined the melee.

  The two armoured Orcs facing Farim had been joined by a third attacker, and he was being forced steadily backwards, away from any help that could have come his way were they not also engaged by numerous foes. Bringing his broadsword to block two crude axes, the Lebrusktan gasped as the club of the third opponent sent him to the ground, the wind forced painfully from his lungs. Reaching down as the Orcs towered triumphantly over him, the mercenary snatched a dagger from the sheath just above his boot before throwing it through the gaping hole that allowed the orcs to see when wearing their horned helmets. Blood soon began to pour out from under the visor, and the creature collapsed into the fast-forming pool of dark red.

  Bringing his broadsword up in a desperate swing, Farim drove the remaining two back long enough to get a leg beneath him one more. Driving upwards from his crouched position, one Orc was forced over a metre into the air by the force of the impact as the bloodstained sword penetrated the breastplate and continued on to its beating heart. The last Orc tried to take advantage of Farim’s exposed body, but was stopped mid-swing as a small hand axe twirled through the air to strike it in the face. Knocked to the ground by the blow, the stunned beast caught a glimpse of several figures not unlike Daruil before three axes all connected and explosions filled it’s vision before all turned to blackness.

  Several Orcs, as well as Farim and Daruil, could only stare dumbfounded as six burly Dwarves, only slightly smaller than their Loremaster kinsman, launched themselves from the darkness with many a guttural cry in their harsh native tongue. Tackling the Orcs where they stood, their axes of black steel soon overpowered their surprised foes before the mysterious strangers had moved on again, passing through into the tunnels that joined the passage on both sides.

  Roused by the rings of continued battle by the outmatched Lonariel, who could barely defend against the onslaught that faced him and could not even hope to strike back against a foe, Man and Dwarf exchanged looks of bewilderment over what they had witnessed before rushing to aid their Elven companion. Launching his battleaxe into the flank of a crouching panther, Daruil quickly followed the heavy weapon and brought it out from where it had struc
k only to bring it down upon the base of the creature’s neck, ending its death throes. Farim brought his broadsword crashing against the back of an unwary Orc, the impact throwing it to the ground, where he brought the sword tip-first into its forehead. Withdrawing the weapon, he promptly turned to parry the thrust from an Orc that had realised that more than one person was upon it. Caught between the mercenary and the darting Elf, the brute felt searing heat as Lonariel’s fiery blade cut a vertical slash up its back, the flames torturing the exposed flesh before the sword was turned upon a panther that leapt for the throat of the wielder.

  Ducking the high assault, Lonariel raised his sword and sent it through into the beast’s heart, although he barely managed to maintain his grip upon it so great was the panther’s momentum. The remaining panther was swiftly cut down as it leapt for Daruil, meeting only his axe swinging across its gaping maw before being turned to cut its outstretched neck. As it fell the creature’s reaching claws raked across his stout chest, and the pain was beyond anything the Dwarf had before encountered. Sliding to the floor, clutching at his deep wounds, he was oblivious to the five routing Orcs, although they were dealt with by Lonariel’s fire, which swept back to cut them off, the flames leaping to their hides as they stopped in panic. Swiftly cutting them down, the Elf and Farim soon realised the predicament of their friend.

 

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