Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)

by Ben Marshall

  Katchanga bowed his head, his eyes dimming for a few seconds as a wall of mist appeared beside him, and he chanted softly in the language of Nature, that was spoken solely by himself and the mighty dragons who had been the original Guardians when the world had still been but a millennium old, rather than the ancient domain it had become through the many Ages that races had been born into it. The ancient warrior stepped halfway into the mist as the swirling vapour took on the image of a misty mountain vale within its immeasurable depths. Fog swirled around the mighty peak that burst from the canopy, and it seemed to the barbarian that he was looking upon a realm as yet untouched by the presence of any who were not in the service of Nature and her husband the Treefather.

  “Come into my world,” Katchanga whispered as he faded into the image, and the barbarian heard the words of his Founder once more within his head. All creatures must do the will of Nature… He blinked once before striding into the mist, which closed over him as he saw his village fade into darkness, though the fleeting image of Katchanga appeared surrounded by the flames that had burned within his eyes and behind his words. Dareinax saw again the stag’s head before all became blackness, and he felt himself falling into calmness as words flowed over him. Her Guardian would not lead one of Her children astray.

  ***

  September 26th, 1190

  “The Berinain are too intense in their desire to destroy the Camentari to agree to our request, the King’s hatred of his neighbours running too deep for reason to penetrate,” reported the Elven messenger with quiet anger in his voice as he stood before the Council.

  “The same is true of the Camentari, who are discovering the folly of creating enemies upon all sides of their empire. Aithan Curith would not send a regular soldier from his land while the war lasts, let alone his dearest son.” The Head Ambassador was calm in his manner, for he was old enough to understand failure and had departed his homeland with the knowledge that success had been almost impossible, but the Council members were all wise enough to know he was secretly as saddened by events as his young subordinate.

  “Then it is as we knew it would be, yet wished it wouldn’t,” the Head of the Council told the gathered messengers and fellow Council members who where gathered within the central atrium of the Citadel, the larger of the three courtyards within the stronghold and the one that served as the meeting place when the Council was summoned with serious business to attend to. All looked up with surprise as Katchanga strode from the double doors that served as the Eastern entrance to the courtyard, Ullyssil and Dareinax following in his wake. The ethereal silence with which the golden-skinned Elf moved was countered by the soft sounds from the various parts of his officer’s ridged armour scraping one against another, though it was the apprehensive glances given by the barbarian that drew their attention above all else, and the Council members wordlessly watched the trio walk to stand beside the messengers, the Head of the Council waiting patiently to speak to his revered friend.

  “I see your faith in the nature of the tribe was not misplaced Katchanga, yet still your heart seems saddened.”

  “Indeed it is, for my warrior has reported to me that Rothil was unwilling to comply, and instead continues to prepare his people for a slaughter at the hands of a nation that itself faces extinction. It pains me that the wisdom of his mother appears to be lost within his heart, as if my belief in his lineage has been misplaced.”

  “It sounds to me rather that her will runs strong within him, and he has displayed the wisdom to avoid starting any conflict beyond his raids. Do not give up on him yet, for it shall be during the adversity he shall face upon this quest that your sister’s blood shall reveal itself to be within him.”

  “Yet still it grieves me that we must resort to desperate measures against the being who could be my nephew, when in addition we must strike against five other targets.”

  “We cannot offer you the soldiers to carry out what we must resort to, for they are too unfamiliar with the land to be able to avoid discovery before they can complete the task.”

  “That is for the best, for thy men would serve the cause better by preparing for the arrival of the others, while thy messengers head to the factions we have yet to ask the compliance of.”

  “White Tiger, let me be one of those who helps you to bring the targets in,” spoke out Dareinax, his voice soft yet echoing with strength and passion despite his body showing him to still be uncomfortable within the fiery surroundings that were so amazingly different to the open tundra and plains he had been raised upon. Even the realm now ruled by Katchanga, the mountain vale full of mist and ancient trees that sat between Valinia and the Southern reaches of the Fire Elven lands, had seemed unnatural to him, yet he hadn’t felt the soft tingles of fear he was experiencing within this realm where even the unpredictable force that was Fire fell under the control of beings who were mortal instead of gods.

  “Thou cannot enter the lands freely, for thy people are believed to be savages by the Men of the West, and thy presence would be treated with hostility they would deem fitting. The Ancient Laws do not apply to those who are not of the tribes within Barid, and thy status as the Stag’s mortal shell would not protect thee. My own troops shall carry out the task, for they have ways that are not possible within others, and may Providence be on our side when the time comes.”

  “May Providence be on our side,” echoed the gathered beings as each departed to prepare for their next tasks, each hoping they would not fail a second time.

  The Reasoning of the Elder Races

  September 30th, 1190

  The ring of mountains surrounding the Gateway, the stone-wrought building that led into the Dwarven city beneath the Khazinan Mountains, was a surprising hive of activity in the late morning sun, with nearly a hundred of the citizens of Guthingol busy among the peaks with their axes and digging tools. Ever since Lonariel’s exit from the land several weeks earlier, Brietrin Doomhammer had ordered his people to prepare added fortifications in case the horde from the Kuhiar hall descended upon them in the coming months. The narrow passes within the mountains had been blocked off by immense and devastating landslides, leaving a single trail left open that an enemy would have to traverse if they were to mount an attack upon the city, while a myriad of traps had been crafted within the clearing that surrounded the stone building, a small patch of green pasture within the ring of frosted peaks that had been named the Thrones of the Magnari, the exalted gods who presided over every aspect of Dwarf life. So intently were they working that none of the Dwarves noticed a swift shadow pass above them as the creator flew to descend upon the open trail. So intently were they working that none of the workers heard the crunch of heavy footsteps upon the rock as a stranger came into their midst.

  “Where’s yer King at?” boomed the deep, earthy voice behind the Head Surveyor as he poured over the hasty sketch displaying the intended locations of the deadly traps. The Dwarf jumped in surprise, causing the few soldiers around him to reach for their axes before staring in amazement at the stranger beside them.

  That the stranger was a Dwarf was readily obvious from both his voice and appearance, yet his armour was unlike any from the Dwarven clans. It was forged from thick plates of toughened steel yet each plate was a small scale that was bolted to its neighbours, giving the armour the look of dragon scales upon the warrior, each scale bronzed at the edges as if the warrior was truly a draconic beast of tremendous age. His helmet was almost as incredible in appearance as his scaled armour, covering only the eyes, neck and the top of his head. Instead of the horns that were usually upon the helmets of Dwarven warriors the stranger had a large crest of stiff red horse hair that ran from the centre of the front edge down to the nape of his neck, while sapphires were found all along the helmet’s edge.

  “Well?” he asked with great impatience as the Dwarves of Clan Doomhammer gathered around him and stared with the utmost curiosity at the unknown Dwarf.

  “He’s overseeing work within the Ga
teway and Guthingol,” a human worker told him, wiping the dust away from his loose white shirt and swinging a pickaxe as he walked towards the group. Sweat was pouring down his back from the day’s exertions, but he was smiling good naturedly at the group and extended his hand to the strange Dwarf.

  “My name is Farim Dumary, Master Dwarf, from Lebruskt. I’ve been helping my bearded friends since I and some colleagues discovered the threat that lies within the mountains.”

  “Hail and well met Lebrusktan. Me given name is Gallows, Commander of the melee force of Katchanga. On behalf of me master I must speak ter King Brietrin Doomhammer on a matter of utmost importance,” replied the Dwarf, extending his own hand in a gesture of friendship.

  “Then I shall take you, though he is incredibly busy these days with preparations in case we are attacked.”

  “Me Lord made me aware of the current situation, and the matter on which I must speak with King Doomhammer is related ter yer problem with the orcs and giants.”

  “Then let us not delay,” Farim told him, turning and striding towards the entrance to the Gateway with the Dwarf matching him through a swift and orderly march, a large war axe swinging idly across his back and tapping against the scales of his armour.

  Brietrin was within the entrance chamber of the stone building, using an upturned cart as a makeshift table over which he had placed several maps and diagrams that were scattered with Dwarven runes, and he looked up with surprise and indignation as the odd pair entered. Fifty workers were busy within the many chambers and the halls that made up the interior of the Gateway, before the sloping passage leading to the gates of Guthingol, and all halted in their work to stare at the strange attire of Gallows, who seemed completely unconcerned at what was going on around him.

  “In the name of the Magnari what is going on here?!” he thundered at the pair of them, his anger making several of the workers hastily resume their duties lest he turned on them as well.

  “Forgive the interruption King Doomhammer, but Lord Katchanga has ordered me ter request the presence of one of yer clan at a special meeting within the lands of the Fire Elves. A weapon of the enemy has been found that would allow yer foe to easily eliminate ye, and it must be destroyed before it can be reclaimed by its creator.”

  “Is this the amulet the Elven Loremaster brought here before he left?” Brietrin’s voice was suddenly calm and full of concern, for he had heard the strange voice in his head ever since the departure of Lonariel, the malice within the words almost driving him mad with its unceasing whisper.

  “Indeed it is King Doomhammer,” Gallows told him with a bow of his helmeted head, the movement causing his armour to rattle slightly as the scales shifted position against their bolts.

  “I know ye,” a white-haired Dwarf suddenly told Katchanga’s warrior, stepping into the light offered by the open doorway and glancing up towards the carving upon the Gateway’s ceiling. There, barely distinguishable between the carved figures of Brietrin and Katchanga could be seen a helmeted head bearing the same crest as that worn by the dark-bearded Dwarf from Katchanga’s service. Such a crest was unique as far as any of the Dwarven records showed, making the figure unmistakeably that of Gallows. The white-haired Dwarf, whose beard extended so far below his rotund waistline that it had been wrapped around his crimson robes like a sort of sash, strode towards the unique warrior with his arms open in friendship.

  “Hail Loremaster,” responded Gallows as he returned the gesture before turning his attention back to Brietrin. “What say ye, King Doomhammer? Will ye send someone ter the meeting?”

  “Since the Elf was here I have been reading through the ancient records Me King, and I found the trinket he carried ter be capable of unleashing the power of demons upon the world. No preparations could let us resist such powers as were unleashed last time the amulet was used. We survived last time through the intervention of Lord Katchanga as he set about ter free us, when he saved our brave warriors from a massacre for trying to overthrow the army of orcs and beings from the East that were within our homes. Ye cannot refuse aid ter Lord Katchanga if he deems it necessary that one of us should go.” The old Loremaster looked earnestly at Brietrin, pleading with his grey eyes for him to agree to send someone to the meeting the strange Dwarf spoke of, but the King turned his head away with an angry shake.

  “We have too much work that needs doing here for someone ter go wandering off ter foreign lands, and who does he wish ter have attend anyway?”

  “He believed that ye would not wish for someone else ter have all the fun of battle that is offered, if at the meeting ye agree ter aid him in the destruction of the amulet. Ye have all the necessary plans ready, and this human seems more than capable of helping yer workers ter carry out the work.”

  “Though I do not understand the Dwarven runes your citizens are more than capable of translating for me, and your diagrams are clear and precise. There shouldn’t be any problems with completing the plans in the next couple of weeks,” Farim agreed.

  “Yer promise me lots of fighting ter add notches ter me axe?”

  “Yes I do King Doomhammer, and I offer the chance for extra warriors ter join yer men in any battle within these mountains against the foes that ye’re planning for.”

  “If the amulet is the one me Loremaster found in his books, then I cannot allow it ter remain and used against us instead. I’ll gladly be present at this meeting ye were talking about,” Brietrin proclaimed, surprised to hear the malicious whispering end after only the first syllable. It was almost as if his own words had ruined the efforts of the magic that had been unleashed, or made them no longer required for the task to be done. Gallows clapped his hands together in happiness at the successful conclusion, part of him happy to see that his people were so much more reasonable than the foolish humans that had been spoken to, while another part of him was happy that his master’s boundless trust had been rewarded.

  “I have a mount here ter carry us ter the lands of the Fire Elves if ye’re ready ter go,” he told King Doomhammer proudly, his armour rattling slightly from his excitement, the crest upon his helmet waving gently as his movements generated a soft and slow movement of the air that had been still a moment ago.

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes, I just have ter pack a few…essentials first,” the proud King told him before heading towards the Dwarf city and the extensive hall of his forefathers. He returned an hour later to find Gallows and the Loremaster reminiscing the battle that was depicted in the stone overhead, kitted out in a tunic of rough leather though his backpack clanged metallically as he neared them.

  “Me armour and some good ale. I hear them Elves only drink weak wine rather than the proper drinks of we Dwarves and I don’t want ter be thirsty,” he explained gruffly as he motioned for the ancient warrior who served Katchanga to lead him to the mount he had travelled upon.

  The mount in question was a majestic black horse much like the winged mounts of the Elves, but it didn’t have the feathered appendages of the beast Lonariel had ridden. Instead it unfurled wings like those of a draconic beast, the muscles attached to them clearly defined and showing far greater power than those possessed by the horse the Loremaster had flown upon.

  “It is a beast that was created by Katchanga’s master before we were all forgiven by Nature, now part of the herd that dwells within Me Lord’s realm and serves him when our enemies take ter the skies through cowardice,” Gallows explained calmly before he spoke to the mount in his rough accent.

  “We return in triumph, and we can both stop pretending that I can ride ye.” The mount snorted before whinnying in what appeared to be laughter of agreement, trotting over to stand beside the two Dwarves and flexing its wings. Brietrin appeared apprehensive of the creature, its deep black eyes appearing to be empty pools within its face as it regarded him fearlessly. As he climbed onto the strong but unsaddled back of the horse he wished he hadn’t put his weapons in the pack with his other equipment, though he was thankful that the p
ack was tied to a length of rope extending around the steed’s belly rather than being left for him to carry.

  The black mount flapped its powerful wings as it trotted a few paces before leaving the rocky trail far below, moving through the air with a swiftness that would rival the wyverns and was far beyond the meagre pace of a more common winged horse. Soon Brietrin could see nothing of his realm’s existence save the Gateway, a mere dot in the distance that was indistinguishable from the mountain peaks it had once been part of, and he wondered if he had truly made the right decision.

  ***

  September 30th, 1190

  The day dawned with a serene beauty over the island city of Perolene, home of the Elven faction known as the Elves of Glory. The faction had become so-called due to the magnificence of their realm, an island of lush green meadows and loose forests of pine that was ringed with white cliffs, leading to dazzling reefs of many colours beneath the crystal blue of the ocean that surrounded the island of Halingol. The crimson light of the sun burst through the wispy clouds to alight upon the many villas of whitest marble and fiery red slate, the shadow of the winged horse seeming a terrible blemish upon the quiet beauty of the city, even from the hundreds of metres above the scene that the Head Ambassador maintained as he searched for the fabled Palace of the Fulfilled. The seat of power within the faction, it was named from the belief that the royalty of the realm had achieved the ultimate end, by being the rulers of the most beautiful place in Naturien. Though such beliefs were held by every faction in regards to their own lands, the Head Ambassador couldn’t disagree with the Glory Elves and their claim as he looked down upon the fair and tranquil land.