Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)
Page 10
Daruil and Farim were shaken from their awe and amazement by the sounds of snarls from the group that had turned down their route. Running to close and bolt the door with a series of heavy creaks and groans, the Lebrusktan turned to see that Lonariel hadn’t reacted, his gaze upon a small item that was partially concealed by a life-size statue of a long dead Kuhiar king. Climbing over the goods that barred his way, the Elf gingerly withdrew the artefact from its artificial nook and held it fully within the room’s glow. Light from a nearby fissure falling upon the trinket, as it did upon everything else that was stored inside the chamber, the Elf’s emerald eyes saw that it was a highly-decorated amulet, though it did not appear to be of Kuhiar craftsmanship. The chain that allowed it to be worn was incredibly bulky in design, and its length suggested it had been designed with a far larger creature in mind. Running a finger along the surface of the amulet’s body, he felt a rough and uneven texture completely opposed to the style that should have been employed for it to be made by the Dwarf-kin. It was engraved with a series of indecipherable and clearly un-Dwarven symbols, the flowing script more akin to an Elven hand than the squared and completely linear runes of the Kuhiar and their kin. The decorative script was set upon the back, while the front held a large, diamond-shaped piece of amber surrounded by a metal that appeared to be as yellow as sulphur. A strange aura surrounded this item, and Lonariel knew it was intended for a special purpose.
“We need to bring this amulet back for study,” he commented as he pocketed the amulet before turning to see that his companions weren’t paying him any heed. He realised why as the door shook resoundingly, something very large and powerful slamming against it. The sound echoed around the room, which suddenly seemed far smaller in the face of this foe attacking from the only way in or out of the treasury. Judging by how the blow had affected the locked door it would not take long for it to be breached, and a countless number of enemies would doubtless soon poured in. Both Daruil and Farim had already drawn their weapons, though the Dwarf was clutching his body as pain from his stressed wounds coursed through his veins. His eyes showed that he had become resigned to the belief that his time had come but, by the set of his bearded jaw, he wasn’t going to go down without taking a number of his attackers before he succumbed to Death’s call.
After five further blows of tremendous force the topmost hinge had begun to show, the rock in which it had been embedded completely gouged out and reduced to dust. A further three strikes, and the bolt was barely held in place as the wall crumbled away around it. A final crash and the supports disintegrated, bringing the door collapsing to earth and causing a mighty cloud of dust to rise. Shadows appeared in the haze, swiftly taking the fleshy forms of many Orcs and a dozen snarling sabre panthers, which easily cleared the gap from threshold to adventurers in a couple of bounds. Lonariel had barely drawn his blade before he was called upon to strike, turning the drawing motion into a slicing uppercut that pierced one of the black creature’s lungs, the wound almost instantly slaying the beast.
Daruil pivoted upon his right foot to dodge the first pouncing panther, his axe spinning round to connect with the flank of a second before he reversed the spin to strike across the first panther’s throat, cleaving muscle and bone alike before he finished off his other victim. Farim brought his broadsword out straight before him, piercing a panther’s throat as it reached with outstretched claws in mid-pounce. Rapidly retracting the blade, he slashed across the gaping maw of another but couldn’t prevent the creature’s momentum from bowling him over as the beast snarled its fury. Temporarily losing his grip on the blade, he hastily scrambled from under the many pounds of bleeding flesh and stretched to retrieve the invaluable weapon. He had barely got his fingertips around the shining hilt before he felt six inch-long claws dig into his trailing leg, the dying panther angrily lashing out with both its forepaws. Kicking the snarling creature between the eyes he wrenched the limb loose before bringing his blade down, piercing the heart as he dived forward, his weight added to the strike. By now the orcs had closed upon the prey they had pursued for the past few hours, and they raised their crude weapons high as excitement and bloodlust took control of their senses.
Rising to a crouch, the Lebrusktan made two quick parries as the nearest orcs brought their heavy war hammers swinging towards his ribs. Struggling to keep his feet beneath him, he managed to cut a deep gash across the tendons within the leg of one before standing and striking the wounded foe’s throat, slitting the jugular. The second orc, his weight thrown off by the momentum of the war hammer, had exposed his broad back as Farim turned the weapon aside, and the error proved fatal as the broadsword of the mercenary was buried hilt-deep in his flesh. The tip protruding from the other side of his body, the orc collapsed as his blood flowed across the ground beneath his feet. Lonariel was now in full swing, his blade flashing in the low light as it twirled over the weapons that were aimed at him. The Elf had lived long enough to know his limitations, and didn’t attempt to overcome the orcs’ brute strength with his own muscle. Only the Elven faction that Katchanga had been born into had such physical prowess, and he had disappeared over a year ago. As Lonariel was growing up he had sought out the warrior to instruct him and, though his mentor was seldom available and preferred to wield twin weapons in combat, he had become fully proficient with his single blade under the strict tutelage. The first battle within the mountains passages had brought home the final lesson, and even now he heard his tutor’s voice, with its Elven tones blended with a unique sense of anger behind it, repeating the final lesson: These lessons have merely taught thee the basics and simple routines that will save thy life should thee ever be drawn into combat against an armed foe. Against multiple opponents there is no given method, and all thou will be able to use are the basics and instinct. Instinct is all that stands between a warrior and his death, and is the one thing all beings possess, so never ignore what thy heart tells thee. Fierce opponents fight with their hearts alone, while the efficient use their heads, yet neither is going to triumph against someone who uses both in equal proportion. What I say now will seem to be just superficial, but the time will come when the skills will be required, and thou will fully understand the implications of this advice. How right he had been, because it was only now when Lonariel was drawn into combat against the crazed fury of the orcs, that he saw the unthinking passion as the foes relied fully upon their great strength and their sheer numbers to overwhelm any victim.
Ducking the wild swings, his blade flashing in short arcs to find weak spots in their armour-coated hides, the remembered voice of Katchanga was a source of inspiration, and he remembered the many sparring matches they had engaged in during the sessions. Centuries of war had provided his mentor with an almost impregnable defence in one on one combat, and he had seemed to barely require the advantages in dexterity that all Elves possessed. Lonariel saw himself going through the routines, his mentor forcing the movements to be mere blurs lest he was struck. Suddenly he blinked, finding that he had struck blindly against the orcs and that they lay dead or wounded at his feet. All thou will be able to use are the basics and instinct. Katchanga had been right, as he always seemed to be when imparting wisdom gained by experience.
Parrying and counter-attacking in one fluid motion, Lonariel felt the onset of fatigue with more than a little apprehension. They were still surrounded by the orcs, while the remaining panthers slinked around the perimeter of the battlefield and waited for the chance to strike, yet the Elf felt his strength leaving with each swing, and he began to also understand why his mentor had favoured two-weapon fighting. The lighter weight and added zone of defence would have been of great use under the circumstances the trio now found themselves, for each was starting to tire. The run that had brought them to the treasury had sapped their reserves, and now the simple wielding of their weapons had taken away all that remained. Daruil, fresh wounds added to his reopened ones, could barely hold his axe level as he tried to attack, and Farim was held in po
sition by five foes, their axes and hammers preventing him from making an attack of his own.
From the corner of his eye, Lonariel saw as he turned to meet a fresh assaulter the full state of exhaustion in Daruil’s stout frame. Blood seeped through his clothes, slowly dripping to the ground as he sank to his knees, and his eyes burned with fury at the futility of the fight that had been thrust upon the three of them. Turning his gaze upwards to face the orcs that now bore down upon him the Dwarf glared at them, his blood-soaked face defiant as he heard Agner’s words inside his head and then from his own mouth:
“If ye’re gonna make me have ter look at ye, ye could at least have washed!”
“Well said, cousin,” drawled a thick Dwarven accent from behind the orcs. Roaring as they were, the creatures didn’t seem to register the new arrival before twenty axes struck them from behind, a burly Dwarf holding the other end of each heavy weapon. Stunned by the sudden attack, a further score of the patrol members were cut down before they could adjust to the swift and ferocious fight that had erupted from nowhere. Pain, fatigue and loss of blood finally took their toll on Daruil as he collapsed into unconsciousness. The Kuhiar rebels swarmed over the orcs, and you wouldn’t have known that they outnumbered the Dwarf-kin three to one when you saw the cold fury that burned within each eye of the bearded warriors. Pausing for just a minute as they watched their brethren fall, the orcs assailing Farim and Lonariel dropped their defences, and the opening was all that was required for the two companions to cut them down before they joined the Kuhiar in the slaughter. The remaining panthers, snarling and swiping at any axe that came close enough, were being harried and slowly pushed into a corner by six of the rebels, who had formed a line as they advanced. Hemmed in by the diminutive warriors, the furry beasts were forced to either take to their heels or attack. Four of them pounced and, while they brought two of the rebels down with fatal bites to the throat, the Kuhiar simply retaliated by bringing their axes to bear against the sleek and muscular flanks of the large creatures. The remaining three took flight with great bounds, and the rebels turned their attention back to the few surviving orcs. Relying on brute strength alone was not sufficient to overcome the tank-like Dwarf-kin, who repaid blow for blow with equal force, while Lonariel’s flashing blade soon found marks whenever it looked as if an orc would get a lucky strike while a rebel committed himself to slaying an opponent.
The battle was concluded swiftly, the hog-like faces of the orcs showing little but fear as their numbers dwindled rapidly to none. Surveying the scene afterwards, the leader of the rebel band noted with grim satisfaction that only six of his warriors had fallen, while ten times that number of orcs had met their grisly end. It was only now that Lonariel and Farim could note the appearance of the fighters. Thick plate armour covered their bodies, forged from a similar black metal as the door had been crafted from, while blackened helmets with bronze engravings topped their heads, horns of what appeared to be bone protruding from either side in the traditional fashion of the Dwarves. The leader of the group was dressed slightly different, with his armour replacing the bronze with gold, and a crown had been included in the design for his helmet, so that it ran the length of the perimeter around his head. As the two looked on, he knelt beside the still unconscious Daruil, nodding once to himself as he saw the Loremaster’s chest rise and fall slightly. Signalling to a couple of his men, they lifted the stricken Dwarf and moved towards the door. Unsure of the rebels’ intentions, Farim’s weapon hand came out before him, but the rebel leader raised his hand to try and calm the situation.
“I am King Farlan Dark-Forge, leader of these Kuhiar. We have been watching ye three since ye entered the tunnels. I believe this was the Dwarf’s.” He held aloft the slightly tattered journal of Clan Doomhammer’s Loremaster before flicking through the past month of entries. “I have found, by reading this, that ye’re here out of an interest in finding the cause of the attacks within the region. While yer companion is unable to make the journey, I would ask that ye now return to the Hall of this King Brietrin and warn him of the many foes that dwell within our ancestral home. All that has prevented them from striking at his people is that they wish to slay us first. Go and request his assistance, or he shall join us in oblivion.”
His words, delivered in the same drawl as his greeting had been, struck a chord with Lonariel and Farim, and they couldn’t respond as the Kuhiar moved back into the tunnel outside.
“One more thing,” Farlan spoke as he paused at the threshold of the treasury, “do not linger in these mountains, for there are more enemies than the patrols that would kill ye if they see ye. Some of my warriors will be watching ye from the shadows, and will provide aid until ye leave these tunnels, but after that ye’re on yer own.” That said the king of the Kuhiar clan departed with all but five of his remaining soldiers, the perpetual darkness within the caves swallowing them as they returned to their camp with the injured Daruil.
“We’d best be on our way too,” commented one of the escorts, and the group moved out towards the fork, and started to once more make their way towards the exit, the light from the stars guiding them as a cool autumnal breeze ruffled their clothes. As he slowly walked, the rebels unwilling to make camp so close to their brethren lest another patrol came upon their position, Lonariel brought his hand up to finger the amulet within the pocket of his cloak, tracing the engraved words and wondering what they could mean, and if this trip had truly been worthwhile. True he had found the Kuhiar, and the strange trinket he now carried, but it could well have cost the life of a friend, and nothing was worth the guilt he now bore inside his heart.
Panthers’ Prey
September 7th, 1190
They made camp as the moon passed unseen into the final hours before the sun would take its place as the ruler of the skies, the exit just twelve hours from their location. The Kuhiar had several portions of food apiece within their packs and, when added to the remaining meats Lonariel still carried, the meal was the most substantial that either of the explorers had consumed since leaving Brietrin’s domain. It was only now that their ravenous hunger began to gnaw at them, and they realised just how much their battered bodies had been put through during the night. Attacking the meal with gusto, even the usually prim and proper Lonariel matched the Kuhiar for pace. It was only when he reached for his canteen that the Elf saw that his supply of water had dwindled out of existence.
“A spring flows from the mountain just a few metres from the exit to these passages, until then ye may have one of mine,” commented one of the Kuhiar, passing a bottle that was slightly larger than the Elven canteen the Loremaster had been using. The rebels knew the full extent of the tunnels, and were better prepared for long marches than the explorers. Despite the seemingly pleasant response, Farim noticed looks that showed only tolerance upon the faces of the rebels. He had heard of the age-old distrust the Kuhiar held for all three Elven factions that still existed, but had never been able to believe that such feelings could still be harboured.
“Why do you…dislike the Elven nations?” he finally asked, his question causing a couple of them to turn their faces away.
“Because, when we needed them most, not even one warrior from their lands came to us. Because we are held in contempt by those that walk the woods,” responded the leader of the escorts, his voice rising in volume though his face still showed tolerance as he turned his grey eyes to the Loremaster in front of him.
“Then why do you tolerate us now?” the Lebrusktan continued, confusion the only thing he felt, “and why don’t you feel that way about the human nations, who live closer than the Elves?”
“To answer yer questions the reason we don’t feel ‘that way’ about Humans is because, no offence intended mind, yer race has never cared much for those who aren’t yerselves, and anyway our records show that ye’re always fighting amongst yerselves, so which of yer leaders would spare warriors to aid us?”
“Fair point,” the Lebrusktan conceded. It was in
sulting to hear it put so bluntly, but it was the truth nonetheless.
“And the reason we tolerate the two of ye now is that…” the rebel seemed to struggle as he searched for the words, or was it simply a reluctance to say them? “Ye’re the only hope we have left now.” The words made the Kuhiar rebel bow his head, the admittance painful for his Dwarven spirit to accept. The meal was finished in silence, both the explorers and their escorts embarrassed by the conversation, before they all settled down for some much needed sleep, the past days more taxing than any before known by Lonariel or Farim.
They all woke late in the afternoon, a detail known only because the sky was beginning to darken once more, and each was thankful that their slumber had been uninterrupted. Neither Lonariel nor Farim had any doubts that they would have been unable to do anything if circumstances had been otherwise. After a somewhat hasty meal, owing to the fact that the Kuhiar were anxious that the explorers return as swiftly as possible to Brietrin, the group continued their walk toward the all-important exit. The hours passed in silence, each content with his own thoughts as well as aware that the exit was not fully the end of their troubles. Do not linger in these mountains, for there are deadlier enemies than the patrols that would kill ye if they see ye. The words of Farlan Dark-Forge echoed within the hearts and minds of the Lebrusktan and the Fire Elf, or Firewielder as Daruil had often called him, filling them with no excitement at the prospect of being alone in the wild and unknown mountains.