Age of Demons_In Search of the Amulet

by David Lawrence

  Trudging of feet brought Talarren back. He pulled on his boots.

  As he did so, he continued reminiscing. Talarren had been leading a reconnaisance party along mountain paths. He’d chanced upon Appac who’d escaped with other half-orcs. Talarren’s fighters ignored their pleas for mercy. His soldiers were about to use these half-human, half-orc creatures, most standing only five foot tall, for target practice. Talarren ordered down their bows. Reluctantly they obeyed, gobsmacked. His soldiers couldn’t believe their illustrious leader was being taken in by promises from these contemptuous half-orcs to divulge critical strategic information in exchange for their freedom.

  “Talarren, you cannot trust these miserable worms, surely?” one cried. Then, addressing Appac, he spat: “You’re in no position to bargain, you filthy orc.”

  “I’m not an orc,” Appac hissed back. “And you’d be filthy, too, chained to a bench and forced to peal turnips without so much as a wash allowed to you. If you have a cake of soap, I can wash now, if it pleases you.”

  Stunned, the men glowered at him. What was this? A half-orc armed with a dagger, in desperate straits, not only answering back to a man with a large, lethal bow, but doing it with a touch of sarcasm.

  Talarren smiled. “Tell us what you know. Do it quickly.”

  Appac scanned the jagged rocks and crevices around them. “We need to hide. We can be spotted here.” He led them to a small copse of trees among ragged rocks behind a slope. His fellow half-orcs bowed and scraped, their eyes darting to soldiers’ weapons, then to Talarren, who seemed, beyond anything they could hope for, friendly. Surely he was up to something.

  Talarren, dressed in grey and green tunic under leather armour, withdrew a rolled parchment tied to his belt. A High Elf bow hugged his massive frame, his quiver full of arrows. To his side, an impressive longsword sat comfortably in its scabbard; the sword seemed to be a spring waiting to thrust, almost with a life of its own. Appac noticed green emeralds embedded tastefully on the sword hilt, and unknown runes inscribed along its crossguard. His parchment showed a map outlining mountain fortifications and tunnels.

  “This map is wrong,” the half-orc stated, looking guilty.

  “He’s toying with us, you see?” a soldier said. By now soldiers had slung their bows across their chests. Their longswords rested on half-orc necks, all but Appac cowering on their haunches. Their dirty bodies smelt horribly. “Can’t trust no orc.”

  “I already told you I’m not an orc,” Appac said crossly. “I’m a half-orc. And this map is false.”

  “Our commander gave this to us on good authority,” Talarren explained. “A spy released this information. One of our mapmakers drew this up.”

  Appac breathed deeply, drawing himself to his full five feet. “That spy was me. I was ordered to give false information to you by Snotguts Orcmeister.”

  “Is that his real name?” one inquisitive soldier asked.

  “Never mind about that,” Talarren said.

  “That makes this half-orc a double agent,” a soldier cried.

  “A double-crosser!” another soldier added. “Talarren, why are we wasting our time? Let’s pierce them all through and be done with it. We have work to do.”

  Appac grabbed Talarren’s arm as he pointed to the map. A necklace of swords immediately surrounded him. Appac quickly withdrew, holding up his hands in surrender. “I swear I’m telling the truth. I hate these orcs. All of us half-orcs do. That’s why we’re escaping.”

  “It’s a trap. They’ve been sent by orcs to snare us.”

  Talarren studied this unusual half-orc. He was not pretty, and that was putting it kindly. His wide mouth formed a sort of craggy line. His eyes sat far apart from each other, intercepted by a tiny nose and large nostrils almost directly in line with his eyes. His large ears pointed up like an elf, however inside ridges followed whichever direction they chose, sticking out unevenly on each side of his head, with hair growing naturally from the crown up, giving him a badly sculpted monk hairstyle, his hair as wiry and unkept as bristles on a pauper’s broom. But his intelligent eyes revealed a quality Talarren found intriguing. Talarren sensed he possessed hidden qualities.

  Talarren had put on his shoes and now began making the bed as neatly as he could. The half-orc must be up by now, preparing for the day. As he tucked the warm, fleecy blankets under the mattress, he could not help but contrast Appac’s face, both then and now certainly one of the ugliest he’d ever seen with human blood, with Razel, whose beauty was unmatched by any he’d ever seen. And that included the ethereal beauty of Queen Zenobia.

  His memory took up their story. On those treacherous mountain ridges during the Scandorlands campaign, Appac shrunk back at Talarren’s gaze. “Why are you staring at me like that?” he asked. Talarren’s expression did not show the habitual disgust Appac was used to. Nor mistrust, nor horror. This was unusual.

  “Tell me what you know?” Talarren said simply, holding up his hand to silence his men.

  Taking charcoal from Talarren’s hand, Appac turned over the parchment and began drawing plans of an orc stronghold. After much convincing and doubt among his soldiers, Appac proved as good as his word. Talarren’s judgment once again proved itself impeccable. He had believed him. As a result of Appac’s intelligence, orc armies were outmanoeuvred, their shamans and witchdoctors completely taken by surprise. It resulted in a great victory. Reluctantly, at Talarren’s insistence, and how could he refuse so successful a commander, the Scandorland’s king handed Appac a generous bag of gold as a reward.

  In the aftermath of victory celebrations, held in a giant square inside Scandolands capital, Appac approached Talarren. “Nobody in all my unhappy life has ever trusted me. You did.” His lips quivered. “Everybody - orc, human, elf, dwarf - shuns me. You didn’t. But getting a king to give me a bag of gold for something I did…first time I’ve ever been acknowledged for anything, let alone rewarded…” The half-orc fell on his knees and broke into loud and embarrassing wails of gratitude.

  Between sobs onlookers stared down their noses. Appac presented his plea: “You saved me from misery. You rescued me from dark horrors. But I don’t know how to survive in your world. Would you help me?”

  Talarren finished making the bed. He crept down the passage and sat inside Appac’s empty, dark tavern. Sparrows and starlings chirped in early light, foraging for food scraps left in street gutters. He instinctively turned. Appac was half-way across the floor, carrying a lantern. Appac had never lost his knack for stealth. In fact, it only seemed to sharpen during his innkeeping days.

  Appac quietly placed his lantern on the hardwood table. He sat down. “Take me with you,” he said simply.

  In faint lantern glow, Appac’s face, ugly yet beautiful, repulsive yet compelling, held a steely intensity. Talarren didn’t understand. He repeated his request. “Please, Talarren, take me with you.”

  “To war?” Talarren asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But your inn?” Talarren protested. “You’ve built a life here. You’re running a thriving business.”

  A sad look crept into Appac’s eyes. “When you’re here, and for a time afterwards, crowds fill my tavern. Patrons flock to see a true adventurer and hear of your tales. Pretty waitresses swarm around like bees to honey. My suppliers fulfil their contractual obligations. Customers pay. But in your long absences, patrons becomes scarcer. No-one likes a half-orc. They put up with me because they know you’re my friend and I offer great food and my specialty mulled wine. When you or your adventurer friends are gone, they patron Lost Hog or Rainbow Inn or other places. I’m turning a profit, but when you’re not around, frankly, it’s difficult.”

  “But you can’t just leave,” Talarren said. “What will happen to your inn?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “But you can’t just go to war. You’re not a soldier. How will you survive?”

  “I can be your shield bearer. I can work in kitchens, or be a messenger. I’ll do any
thing.”

  Desperation in Appac’s voice cut Talarren to his heart. “Why have you never mentioned this before?” The inn had become Talarren’s second home. Appac had offered him a permanent room in his own handsome quarters whenever he needed rest and recuperation. Appac worked kitchens. Best his customers didn’t see his ugly face. They much preferred those pretty waitresses Talarren advised Appac hire when he first opened. Most patrons agreed he served better roasts than many fine restaurants. And people travelled from far afield for his specialty mulled wine.

  “The good times outweighed the lean times. Making money, mixing with regular folk, it was a dream come true.” A tear formed in Appac’s eye. “I thought I was making something of myself. Hope crept into my life. I hired a cleaner, Orcini Gumbubble. A half-orc, like me. I fell in love. She used me up and spat me out. What have I got to live for? No-one wants me. I’ll never find love. I don’t want this life any more.”

  Appac had taken Talarren’s advice about setting up an inn in Florentino, an independent city state on Reswald’s southern border, where non-human races, particularly half-orcs were tolerated more than in most other realms. His bag of gold from the Scandorlands king was more than enough for the enterprise. Reswald, at that time, Talarren had to admit, was far more welcoming of races like half-orcs, half-elves, elves, dwarves and even goblins. Reswald and Florentino had strong cultural, political and ecomomic ties, and an enterprising half-orc could make a good life for himself, as long as he held to Florentino’s customs and showed himself industrious and peace-loving, which Appac did in ample measure. Making smooth mulled wine popular with the locals also helped.

  Talarren reached across and placed his powerful hand on his friend’s narrow shoulder. “Appac, my friend, you are broken-hearted. You’re running away from everything you’ve built up over five years. Do not be hasty.” Tears ran down Appac’s sunken cheekbones. “You will find love. You wait and see.”

  “I’m too ugly,” Appac said, sniffing and wiping away tears with the back of his hairy hand.

  “Rubbish,” Talarren said sternly. “Since when are looks more important than a fine character? Than a grand sense of humour? Than intelligence, courtesy, consideration, loyalty, culinary excellence? Than warmth? Than a healthy bank account and prosperous business?” Talarren added, winking. Appac nodded feebly. “Now, how about we have breakfast together before I head off? It’s a long journey.” Hunter whined, indicating her unwillingness to go. Esmay shifted impatiently for her food.

  “Impatient as ever,” Appac laughed, scratching Hunter’s head and gently stroking Esmay’s feathers. “Look after your master, you hear? Bring him back safely.” Appac fetched pork sausages, thick rashes of fried bacon and artichokes, boiled eggs, salted cod, slices of lamb and a napkin full of fresh scones, just the way Appac knew Talarren liked them. They ate heartily, discussing various patrons and developments around town, joking and poking fun at this or that person or event. Hunter and Esmay ate just as heartily.

  Presently Talarren bade his friend farewell, gathered his weapons, a shield he’d purchased from a local armourer, and travel bag, and walked into the street. Early morning light bathed the town in dawn’s eternal promise. Already a blacksmith stoked a fiery furnace. His forge billowed forth gusts of wind. People made their way to their place of employ, treading cobbled stones as they had every day since they began their working lives. Heady aromas of fresh bread and pastries warmed Talarren’s heart. Distant shouts of fishmongers selling their wares wafted over bustling streets.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Leaving Valentino

  HE SLOWLY MADE HIS way to the Apothicus Temple precinct. Worshippers paid homage to their deity before entering the huge Temple. Somewhere ahead a bell rang, signalling the commencement of some important government function. More people poured into busy streets, bustling this way and that. Soldiers carrying shields and weapons headed off toward the small river port where waiting barges would take them downstream to the port city of Byrone, capital city of Valhals. From there they would embark on a warship bound for Xaveria’s port city of Tessor to join a small fleet setting sail for Raysal-El-Hin.

  Under normal circumstances Talarren would have joined them. But he needed speed. He made his way to his usual horse supplier, not wanting to impose upon Appac who would willingly supply one of his own horses.

  “What’ll it be this time?” Quinlin the horse saddler asked from his workshop, his gruff voice as rasping as a file scraping a horse-shoe. He yelled to his young apprentice to settle the neighing horses in stables out back.

  “One chariot, one horse. Need it now. One day journey. Your boy will need to collect it when I’m done.”

  Quinlin shook his head. “Always a crazy request. Always urgent. But you pay well, so I ain’t complainin’.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “You ain’t goin’ down to Raysal-El-Hin now, are ye?”

  “That I am. But fear not. Your horse will be tethered at Braybook with a druid.”

  “Won’t you miss our cog sailing for Tessor?”

  “Now, why don’t you mind your affairs, and I’ll mind mine?” Talarren chided him with a wink.

  The saddler shook his head again, placed hammer on anvil and yelled something to his apprentice. “Follow me,” he told Talarren, “and watch your dog don’t spook me horses.”

  Hunter threw out a muffled bark, as if warning Quinlin to mind his manners. Esmay perched comfortably on a horizontal beam affixed expertly to his backpack fashioned by Appac years earlier, another of Appac’s many skills. No question, Talarren thought to himself, Appac would come in extremely handy in future stealth operations or small-scale adventures. He’d have to give it thought.

  Half an hour later and ten silver pieces lighter, Talarren stood inside his lightweight chariot, Hunter balancing uncomfortably alongside him, prevented form falling out by wooden beams running across what used to be the chariot’s open-ended rear. His shield, backpack, bow, quiver and sword lay neatly packed to one side. His belt held his hunting knife, as well as a number of small pouches containing herbs, lotions and traditional healing ingredients used by Rangers. He brought enough coins for an extended stay in Raysal-El-Hin if needed.

  Outside town, farmers waved at his passing chariot. Talarren’s exploits had won him renown across Reswald and all its surrounding principalities and city-states, Florentino and others. For no apparent reason his mind drifted to Razel. Was it a good idea to invite her to accompany him? He needed a spellcaster, that was a given. He rarely went on expeditions without one. He needed to reassure himself and recall that Razel came highly recommended by First Wizard. True, she was eager, brave, willing. She committed to celibacy, a quality Talarren valued highly among maidens accompanying him on journeys. But her spells lacked potency…

  Aelred advised him neither one way nor another. He understood well Talarren’s character. Rangers committed themselves to justice and righteousness, renouncing marriage till evil in their time had been quelled. Yet her pedigree and availability stood in her favour. She lacked experience, but that would come with his protection and her continued study. She had made significant magical progress already.

  Wind blowing his hair, surrounded by open fields and gently wooded forests, Talarren examined himself. Would evil ever be quelled in his lifetime? The Guardians of Rohalgamoth maintained it was possible. But bloodshed, war and hardship forever seemed to be the lot of humanity. Evil never relinquished its foothold easily. Over time it had multiplied like a cancer, expanding to such proportions it threatened the very Pact of Rohalgamoth. These pleasant woodlands, the natural order and innocent folk everywhere would suffer horribly if ever the Age of Demons came to pass. Shadows were looming.

  Even so, Talarren would struggle valiantly on. He had proved his resolve many times, as Aelred had often testified. Certainly, Razel was beautiful. More beautiful than any maiden he’d ever laid eyes upon. Yet he had made a resolve upon becoming a Ranger to devote his ener
gies to defend the weak, like the noble knights and priests of former ages. What’s more, Razel had pledged herself to her profession. Magic was her passion. In her quest for excellence she eschewed romance and involvement with men. She was young, not quite twenty, and possessed little experience of worldy matters, but possessed a lively spirit of adventure and an indomitable will. At least she would not be distracted by the magnetism that seemed to draw the fairer sex to him.

  Talarren’s concerns lay not with compromising his celibate state, or hers. It lay with the danger of his current expedition, without protection of a larger force. With no battle experience and little combat history, would her safety be compromised simply to satisfy his requirement for a spellcaster? His confidence in his own ability to manage danger could not be greater. Especially with Gladron, Esmay and Hunter, his trusted companions and defenders. They had become an extra pair of eyes, ears and wings. Alone upon Gladron it was a calculated risk to pass through enemy territory till he arrived safely in Raysal-El-Hin.

  Yet with Razel accompanying him upon Gladron over eight hundred leagues, things became more risky. Especially as most of that distance would be in enemy territory. By himself, it would take Gladron roughly four days to Bethendel, capital of Raysal-El-Hin. After that Gradron would be totally exhausted. With Razel, their journey could easily take a week.

  Warships and cogs of Central kingdoms leaving from Byrone to Rationnes would take, with favourable winds, two days. An immediate southerly tide would help his fleet arrive at Rayham Fortress in two and a half weeks, if Atlantis westerlies blew in their favour. This would mean one stop for supplies at Madagas Island factoring no delays from corsairs or Mugar warships. Not to mention a merciful crossing through the Cape of Dread, steering clear of Mugar armadas and violent Samurai Winds further south.