The Orb of Truth

by Brae Wyckoff

  Bridazak saw the shadowy figure move back deeper into the black of night, and then it was gone. “Nothing, my friend. Just lost in my thoughts is all.”

  “Yeah, well, you should gather up your stuff cause first light will be here soon,” he said as he picked up his satchel and resumed packing.

  The Ordakian continued to search, and saw the mysterious figure once again. Bridazak nodded his head ever so slightly.

  “I see you. Whatever you are,” he said under his breath, edging closer to the window.

  It vanished back into the night. Bridazak peered at the table to see the wooden box, where it waited patiently. He scooped it up with his small, dexterous hands. “What do you hide inside, I wonder?”

  .

  3

  A Disturbance

  The darkness was his masterpiece. His cold heart mirrored the black of night, and whispers of his impending world domination echoed in the halls of his domain. It was only a matter of time before the four kingdoms were completely under his reign, and the people left without hope. He had separated the created ones from their creator five hundred years ago, and forever silenced the god of light.

  This entity sat upon a black glass throne, revelling in the thought of his conquests throughout the known realm. Pride welled up inside and there was a slight smirk on his face. His eyes were red and his skin black. Cold blood coursed through his body—a being so full of hate that his appearance was hideous to the forsaken world.

  His followers, cast down from The Holy City alongside of him, bubbled up out of the murk: demons and the undead. Slowly, his army had infiltrated the land, encouraged wars, brought more greed, and created more gods to be worshipped. Ultimately, he had established four strategic puppets, known as the Four Horns. There was nothing to stop him as he continued to squeeze the life out of the people and the land, and swallow it up into his realm of shadows. The scraping of claws reached his ears and caused him to conclude his thoughts of the past and his future.

  “Yes, Sigil. I could smell your foulness approaching. What news do you bring?” the creature whispered from the throne.

  “My Lord, a situation has been reported from the land of Manasseh that needs your attention,” the beast gurgled with confidence. Sigil, the Dark Lord’s commander, was foul indeed. Spikes protruded from his muscled body, and his skin glowed a darkened red, as if he showered in blood. He stood nine feet tall with four arms, and had claws as razor sharp as any magically enhanced weapon ever created. His teeth were black and pointed. Pupil-less eyes revealed no life.

  “What has our puppet done now that I need to be bothered with, Sigil?”

  “It is not him, but a strange disturbance from a small town on the edge of his land, my King,” Sigil replied.

  “What do you mean, disturbance?”

  “A strange aura manifested, and one of our agents within the town was spotted by a created one.”

  The dark being on the throne turned into smoke and simultaneously transported twenty feet away, softly growling his discontent in Sigil’s face. “Show me what the agent saw,” he whispered into his commander’s deformed ear while circling him. The Dark Lord bested Sigil’s height.

  Sigil opened one of his clawed hands to reveal a sapphire of extreme value. The gem activated and produced a ghost-like image of the recorded scenario. The dark pair watched the soundless chronicle as faded images told the story of the encounter. The creature of the night was on top of a structure, overlooking a small town of a hundred buildings of various sizes, scattered about in clusters. Trees swayed in the night breeze and the moon was partly showing behind the clouds. A sudden flash of light ignited in the community, brilliant and blinding. On the far side of the hamlet a glow pulsated, like the rhythmic beating of a heart. The spy glided to the ground and then made his way through the shadows until it finally reached the lambent source, emanating from an open window.

  Before the agent could move closer to the domicile, an Ordakian came into view. He had a bright glow all around him. The Dak stared out into the night, and spotted the agent. A red-bearded Dwarf stepped behind the child-like race to peer out, but soon walked away. The spy tried to move further back into the darkness, but the light intensified from the room and flooded the area. The Ordakian nodded his head to show that he could still see the shadow creature. Vulnerable to the mysterious beacon and the increased power it radiated, the agent teleported back to Kerrith Ravine. The vision ended and the dazzling gem returned to normal.

  “What creature can see my shadow agents in the natural when they do not want to be seen, Sigil?” the Dark Lord rhetorically asked.

  “There is none,” the red behemoth replied.

  “I would say you are correct, until now. Very intriguing. I have not seen this before,” he paused, “perhaps one of the fallen ones created a magical item that allows one to see our realm of shadows.”

  “Shall I send more to investigate?” Sigil responded.

  “No, I will discuss this matter with Manasseh and have him deal with this. It is time that I reveal myself to this manufactured king of ours.”

  It had been a long day for Manasseh, the ruler of the North Horn. A grueling schedule of overseeing expansion efforts, training his growing army, deployment of spies and assassins, and strategizing in council with his mystics. The night had come and it was his time to quiet himself in the solitude of his private wing. He walked to his chamber, the thumps of his gold encrusted boots resounding throughout his halls. His black cloak of the finest linen of the realm swept in behind the gliding movement of his six-foot frame. Jet black hair fell to his shoulders, straight and flawless. Steel blue eyes, angled face, and a muscular body exuded power in the sight of his subjects. He brought a strong presence wherever he went, and his reputation for brutality permeated the land. A click sounded as he unclasped his cape, letting it fall to the cold, slate-tiled floor. Before him was his bed, the grandest in the region. The walnut frame was a lacquered black finish with ornate carvings of dragons in flight. Descending from the ceiling and cascading over the edges were silks of rich colors, draped in thick layers to prevent anyone from seeing inside. Candelabras on either side cast shifting shadows about the room.

  Relaxed in the stillness, he sat in his replicated throne—the soft red velvet chair captured his tired body as he pulled off his heavy boots and silk shirt, tossing them to the side. He fell back into the high, cathedral shaped seat and closed his weary eyes.

  He opened his eyes when he thought he heard someone shuffling on his bed. It wasn’t unlike his head mystic, Vevrin, to send him someone to keep him company, but he was always informed. Vevrin knew not to surprise his King.

  “You can leave. I’m not in the mood.” His voice echoed through the stark room. There was no response, but again he could hear someone shifting in the confines.

  “I said, leave,” his tone was deeper. Again, no response. He stood and glared toward his sleeping haven. A silhouette of a hand brushed along the silk. Angry with the intrusion and the defiance, he strode to the bedside and pulled the draping away, “I will have you flogged—” He stopped short when he found it empty.

  A strange garbled whisper echoed behind him, and he swung around with a summoned dagger now in his hand. The King could sense a presence of someone in the room. A chill encompassed his exposed chest and arms.

  “Guards!” he called.

  Instantly, two men in black armor with red painted shoulders burst through the double doors. They wielded polearms; the halberd consisted of an axe blade topped with a spike, mounted on a long wooden shaft. Helmets adorned with two horns shielded their faces. They scanned the room with their weaponry lowered.

  Another whisper reached his ears, “I’m behind you.” He sharply turned to see nothing but the fixated shadows of the room.

  “Fan out,” he ordered his men.

  He turned at the sound of a clash behind him to find his guards on their knees. Their weapons clattered to the ground and blood sprayed out of their open
necks. Headless, they collapsed to the floor. There was no sign of the intruder, or the guards’ heads. The doors slammed shut.

  “Show yourself!”

  “How is it that a human can live for four centuries?” a booming voice questioned. King Manasseh did not respond as his eyes darted around the room. “Where does your power come from? Who gave you your strength?” it mocked.

  “Who are you?” Manasseh countered.

  “I’ve watched you. I’ve groomed you.”

  “I demand you show yourself!”

  A seductive female voice spoke behind him, “I’m right here.”

  He spun around to face her. The naked brunette stunned him as he stared at her chilling beauty. Her stance was awkwardly stiff as her head was bowed and her palms faced up, at her sides.

  “How did you get in here, woman?”

  Another voice startled him from behind, “I have my ways.”

  He turned quickly and the same woman stood before him. “Let me rephrase that. How did you get in here, witch?” There was venom in his voice on the last word.

  Her bowed head lifted and her closed eyes sprang open in a flash. They were pearl black. She broke a smile to reveal black, jagged teeth, and took a step towards him. The half-naked King backed away and then fell into his throne. She mechanically moved closer—each step was rigid. He was fear stricken, but attempted to slide over the arm of the chair. Her slow posture suddenly shifted as her hand hastily swatted at Manasseh. He caught her arm in mid-swing and then plunged his dagger deep inside her chest. She instantly disappeared, but he still felt the evil presence. Jumping out of the chair, he scanned the room defensively.

  “I’m not afraid of you, demon,” his resolve returned.

  “You should be. You will be,” the Dark Lord responded. His voice echoed through the room so that Manasseh could not pinpoint his location. He was enjoying this first meeting, playing with his puppet.

  “What are you and why have you come?” Manasseh yelled.

  “I am your Master and you will bow to me,” said the self-titled King of Kings. Manasseh’s blade suddenly turned white hot in his hands. He released the weapon and tried to stop the pain of the burn with his other hand.

  “Sit!” Manasseh was launched forcefully into the red chair and his hands were pinned down on the arm rests. Out of thin air, a wisp of smoke manifested as the evil visage unravelled: standing ten feet tall, the red eyed, black skinned behemoth smiled. He soaked in the fear emanating from the pathetic human before him.

  “I am your Father. I have groomed you from birth and brought you into greatness. It is finally time for us to meet and for you to ascend to the next level of power. I am the ruler of death itself. I am the creator of all the chaos and corruption you see in the lands. I am your destiny, and I am the god of all gods; you will worship me as they do.”

  King Manasseh was shocked by the words this creature spoke. Could it be true? His source of power and strength rested below his castle. He could sense the connection under his feet from the depths as it flowed into him. “Yes, can you feel it?” Centuries had passed without a word from this deity and yet his voice seemed familiar. “Yes, it was me.” How? Why? Yet here he stood. His thoughts battled his soul as he tried to reconcile the truth. This dark one had power he could only dream of, and he wanted it. He could see the advantage of having such an entity by his side, and pictured overtaking all the Horn Kings and ruling the entire world.

  “My Lord and my God,” he bowed his head. His hands were released by the unseen force and he moved off of the chair to kneel.

  “I accept your worship. Now rise and receive my instructions.” The human lifted his head and stood. “I want something to prove your worth to me.”

  “Anything,” Manasseh said.

  “Good. You will capture an Ordakian for my pleasure. This creature was last seen in Gathford. He travels with another of his race, and a Dwarf. I only need the blonde one. When you have retrieved him, call upon me and I will hear you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my Lord. I understand and it will be done.”

  A smooth stone, cradled in gold and attached to a leather strap, appeared magically around Manasseh’s neck. Smoke swirled inside it, and he marvelled at the depths of the darkness. When he looked up, his master had vanished. He knew his marching orders. This Ordakian would be his before the next full moon. His mystics would locate his prize and teleport with twenty of his best fighters. What a simple task this would be, and then, he would have his deity’s favor to crush his enemies.

  Manasseh began to laugh softly and then it built into a hearty roar. It was a night that would rival all his nights; he soaked in the glory of what transpired.

  “I’m coming for you, Halfling!”

  .

  4

  Oculus

  “Welcome to the Plains of Shame,” Dulgin announced.

  The shimmering golden fields went beyond their vision.

  A dry smell of wheat mixed with a tinge of berry briar patches washed over them as a slight breeze rustled across the open land.

  “Oculus’s Lair resides deep inside. C’mon.” Dulgin, now wearing his rusty plate mail, clattered ahead of the Ordakians. His weapon matched his attire; a huge Dwarven battle axe rested on his shoulder.

  Spilf nudged Bridazak, “You know what this means right? Dulgin’s History Hour.” Spilf wore his leather armor under his dark green shirt and pants. A grey cloak draped down his back and his ornate dagger, with a snake-head hilt, was sheathed at his side.

  Bridazak gave a slight smile. “It gives him something to do while we travel, and I never mind his stories.” He also wore leather protection underneath his brown pants and beige shirt. Strapped around his back was a quiver of arrows. His short bow he carried in his hand. A sheathed dagger on his hip completed his ensemble.

  “A great battle in the Bronze Age of Ruauck-El was fought at this very location. Why, you ask? I will tell you why.”

  “Can’t wait,” Spilf whispered sarcastically.

  “It was said that the Orcasians and Humans arranged for this land to be a neutral trading ground, until the Orc scum betrayed the union.”

  “How so?” Bridazak asked, now curious.

  “The Orcs invested in dark magic and their leader was transformed into the likeness of the Human King, Darius, because he knew the royal family was scheduled to make a tour of the new establishment. The doppelganger timed his visit with their arrival, and slept with the Queen. She eventually birthed a son from that ill-fated night, and the hideous half-orc child revealed the truth of what had transpired. A war ensued and many thousands of Orcs were slaughtered. An easy victory for the Humans as their cavalry swept across these golden plains, which were renamed The Plains of Shame.”

  Spilf chimed aloud, “Speaking of cavalry, are you guys ever going to tell me why we don’t use ponies to get around? It would be so much faster and less wear and tear on our feet.”

  “I will defer that to the Dwarf. Dulgin, why don’t you tell Spilf about the ponies,” Bridazak said sarcastically. He knew that Dulgin would not ever talk about that event. Their bearded friend had vowed to never ride a pony or horse again.

  Dulgin growled at the two Daks. “It’s not my fault that your kind doesn’t wear boots,” he spouted.

  “That still doesn’t answer why we can’t ride.”

  Dulgin turned sharply and cut the Ordakian off, “Listen here, Daky, we ain’t ever going to ride those damn things and that is final. Got it?”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever, Dulgy.” Spilf jabbed back in retaliation.

  Bridazak smiled at the confrontation. It was quite entertaining. Dulgin did not respond and continued walking ahead of them.

  Not alerting their burly friend, Bridazak lowered his voice, “Hey, by chance did you mention anything about the full amount of our score with Dulgin the other night?”

  “He was too busy drinking.”

  “Good, I’m afraid he’d have spent our nest egg on all the
Dwarven Ale in sight. It’s getting more and more difficult to find as the years pass.”

  “How much do you think that diamond ring is worth?”

  “I would say double what we received in coin.”

  There was a lull in the conversation. Bridazak then asked, “Did you see anything on the streets in Gathford when you went out to get supplies?”

  “No, why?”

  “I saw someone hiding in the shadows, but couldn’t make out who it was.”

  “Do you think it was Thule?”

  “No, this individual was extremely gifted in stealth. I think I was lucky spotting him myself.”

  “Actually, come to think of it, I had a creepy sensation at one point, like someone was watching me. There was a cold shiver that went up my spine, but it went away and I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Let’s be mindful of the possibility that someone might be following us.”

  “Now that we are out of the town, it’s our laws that reign. Dulgin would love to put his axe to use again, and when’s the last time you used that bow of yours?”

  “Not since the Gathford archery contest several months ago.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s the reason Thule and his goons started bothering us. You gave them an education in archery, that’s for sure.” They laughed at the memory as they continued to slosh through the waist-high, golden stalks.

  “I’ve almost got it.” Beads of sweat trickled down Spilf’s brow.

  Bridazak watched his friend methodically maneuver his tools of the trade to bypass the trapped entrance. “What is it with you and those rusty picks you like to use? I just don’t know how you do it using those things.”

  Spilf peered up with a cocky smirk, “Someday I will have to let you know my secret.” He went back to work and a moment later, announced, “There, got it.” The magical glyph of fire fizzled away in a puff of smoke around the sealed, debris-covered entrance. Dulgin continued to scan the area. It was a desolate land—dry, rocky, and depressing. They had arrived at the lair of Oculus—an ancient, abandoned keep, crumbled and scattered. There was a foreboding about the place, a sense of depression intruded into their minds.