The Shaman of Neroterra (Tales of Azuleah)

by Adorno, Daniel

  Contents

  Copyright

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  Map of Azuleah

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  FREE BOOK OFFER

  For Readers

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Daniel A. Adorno

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America First Publication, 2016

  Cover design by Daniel Adorno Lost Coin Press

  534 Tamarack Trail

  Farmington, MN 55024

  http://www.danieladorno.com

  For my sons, Gabriel and Julian, for their playfulness and joy. These stories are for you.

  Chapter 1

  The Snowy Lane

  The cold wind whipped through the trees of the forest and dusted the snow off the pines all around Silas and his company. It was a tranquil evening, but the early winter’s cold bit harder than a dragon woken from its slumber. They rode at a leisurely pace through the woods of Neroterra, which held the last orc stronghold in the continent of Azuleah. Silas’ father, King Alfryd, had received an envoy from Neroterra the previous fortnight asking for help on some fool’s errand. In decades past, the king would have beheaded an orc with the gall to enter the court of Gilead Palace, but no more. His father had made a treaty with Banupal, the orc chieftain, a year ago when the Aldronians failed to storm Neroterra’s defenses. Orcs were brutish, stupid beasts with little understanding of strategic warfare, but not the half-orc, Banupal. He possessed a cunning mind unlike his dimwitted kin. The terms of the treaty stipulated aid from the King of Aldron if the orcs of Neroterra were in dire need. In return for this provision, Banupal swore never to invade any surrounding towns in Joppa. He would settle his kin in Neroterra and content himself with the spoils lurking in the mines of that former bastion of the dwarves.

  Silas believed it was a foolish deal, but his father agreed to it. The nobles of the Four Houses wondered if the old man had lost his mind. Silas decided not to press the issue, choosing to trust his father’s wisdom. But now as he rode in the night with a dozen men into an orc stronghold, he questioned the decision.

  “How much farther, Asher?” Silas asked the old man riding the mare to his right.

  Asher, a grizzled warrior unfazed by the frost forming on his beard, consulted his map. “I’d say a quarter mile, sire.”

  Silas kicked the flanks of his bay mare, Arabella, increasing her speed to a canter. The rest of the men followed at a similar pace. Steering the horses through the trees proved to be a difficult task with mounds of undisturbed snow blanketing the ground. Arabella shivered slightly anytime her hooves sunk into a deep pile of snow. The gusts of howling wind didn’t help. He knew they needed to reach Banupal’s village soon or else suffer frostbite if they camped in this bitter cold.

  Their situation improved when they reached a clearing where a thin trail rounded through the forest. The snow-packed lane allowed the horses to advance at a decent clop. The scent of smoke emanated from some unseen part of the wood, inciting both relief and dread. Asher had smelled it too. He clasped the hilt of the broadsword hanging at his side. A visible unease fell upon the men and they slowed their steeds to a trot along with Silas and Asher.

  “We’re close now,” Asher said, tucking the worn map between his gambeson and chain mail.

  “All eyes on the forest. We needn’t be caught by surprise if we stay alert,” Silas commanded them. Rounding another bend in the road, Silas spotted a dark mass blocking their path. As they approached, the fresh hewn oak logs and brush piled on the ground became visible to him. Silas darted his head to either side, realizing the snow embankments lining the road created a trench that made escape impossible on horseback. Fool! He’d walked right into a trap.

  Arabella snorted uncomfortably. A flash of movement amid the trees caught Silas’ eye. Two of the men holding the rear, Leif and Troy, unsheathed their swords. Asher and the rest armed their crossbows while Silas searched the dark wood around them. Orcs are not known for their subtlety. They are lumbering creatures with no penchant for stealth. But these were Banupal’s forces, an altogether different breed of orc. To underestimate them would be a costly mistake.

  “Form a circle,” Silas ordered, unsheathing his sword. The men broke the line and maneuvered their horses into a tight circle in the snow. Each man faced the forest in a different direction, all watching and waiting for movement. Asher aimed his crossbow at the darkness, shifting anxiously on his saddle.

  “I thought we had a treaty with Banupal, my lord. Why are they ambushing us?” Lief, a stocky man with a thick mustache, asked.

  “They’re orcs, Lief. How many orcs do you know that’ve kept a treaty?” Asher replied.

  Silas ignored them. He kept watching the swaying branches and wispy drifts of snow cascading off the trees. Behind a large oak, he saw it. A hulking figure advancing slowly. Perhaps one of Banupal’s envoys? He wasn’t waiting to find out. Asher and the men aimed their crossbows at the approaching orc, but the order to fire never came.

  The snow banks along the road burst open as orcs brandishing spears rushed out of their hiding spots. The horses whinnied in panic, rearing back on their hind quarters and ejecting riders from their saddles. Arabella reared back violently, forcing Silas to grasp the reigns. But he could not hold his grip and fell backwards onto the frozen ground. The orcs surrounded them in an instant. They held out their spears and rusted scimitars at the men’s necks and sides. No one dared move including Silas, who’s jugular stood a half-inch away from the tip of an orc’s spear. From the corner of his eye, he saw the large orc who distracted them emerging from the forest.

  He stood a good eight feet in height with crude iron armor shielding his chest, arms, and legs. A neck wide as a tree stump held up a dark green visage peppered with piercings in both nostrils and ear lobes. His subordinates looked to their leader for a command. He grimaced at the sight of Silas. “Dispose of them,” he growled.

  Chapter 2

  Banupal

  “Wait!” Silas yelled. “You would dare bring war upon Neroterra by killing Aldron’s prince?”

  The orc commander eyes widened. “You are…Dermont?” His gravelly voice tinged with the guttural accent of orcs.

  Silas narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

  The orc scratched his round chin then surveyed the surrounding scene. A dozen Aldronians held at bay by the blades and spears of his orc warriors. Silas wasn’t sure if the orc was considering the truth of his claim or contemplating how to kill them. Orcs were unpredictable creatures. He grunted something in Balek, the orc language, and his troops lowered their weapons. Silas stood up from the ground and grabbed Arabella’s reins then rubber her nose to calm her. The mare looked less spooked than the men, who were unsure whether to retaliate or stay put. Asher offered a concerned gaze, but Silas kept his eyes on the big orc leader.

  “We received a summons from your lord, Banupal, for a meeting and this is how you receive us?” Silas growled.

  “Apologies, prince of Aldron. But many men try to invade our land. We are just being careful,” the orc replied. “We will escort you t
o Neroterra. Your associate has already arrived.”

  “My associate?” Silas asked, raising an eyebrow. The decree from his father had only included him and a contingent of his choosing. Naturally, he chose Asher and his vassals in the Drakengard to accompany him—thirteen capable warriors trained to take on dragons. Who else had been summoned?

  “Felix Gryn is also awaiting an audience with Banupal. Come, I will take you to him,” the orc grunted. He ordered his underlings in Balek and they followed in filed ranks of two. A trio of orcs moved the logs blocking the path then advanced along the road.

  “Gryn is here? Why?” Asher asked.

  “I don’t know,” Silas said, mounting his horse. He pressed his foot into Arabella’s barrel and she moved forward at a decent canter. They followed the orcs through the tunnel of snow-covered trees leading to Neroterra. All the while Silas pondered why Felix Gryn, the governor of Tarshish, might be here. Gryn was a man of dubious standing in Aldron’s court, an opportunistic politician who did little to aid the fortunes of his subjects. Tarshish was once a prosperous port city profiting from the maritime trade brought in through the Sea of Lagrimas. Ships carrying fine silks and linens from the Southern Isles and precious metals from Allesmeade had filled the coffers of the merchant class. But under Gryn’s administration, corruption and crime had soared. Merchants had to pay higher taxes and shops closed their doors due to bankruptcy. Shortly thereafter, a black market emerged and became known as the Spindle. Whether the Spindle is connected to Gryn or not remains a mystery. Several high-ranking members of the Spindle now operate in towns throughout Joppa, securing lucrative deals with merchants and nobles to smuggle goods in and out of Tarshish. The whole organization is a blemish on a once proud city now tarnished by one man’s arrogance and greed.

  The orcs slowed their pace in the woods once the tree canopy opened. A full moon shone in the cloudless night sky, illuminating the snow underfoot. There was a clearing ahead where a large gate stood, presumably the entrance to Neroterra. A giant wooden wall with stakes encircled the city, shutting off any unwanted visitors. The orc leader approached the gate and rapped on the cedar door with his fist. A panel set in the gate slid open and yellow eyes peered from within. After a short discussion in Balek, the gatekeeper shouted to unseen guards behind the entrance. The gates slowly swung inward allowing the orcs and Silas’ company inside.

  In his teenage years, Silas had once visited Neroterra—an ancient city dating back to the Golden Millenium before Kraegyn and the dragons of Ghadarya terrorized the land. The town was an unimpressive ruin in those days. Nothing more than a row of wattle houses with thatched roofs encircling a stone basilica which held an altar of Yéwa. On the edge of the town stood an abandoned dwarven mine, long forgotten by the sons of Ulfric. Most men of Joppa made poor miners so the mine fell to disuse when the dwarves left. For several hundred years it merely served as a humble outpost between the cities of Tarshish and Sylvania.

  But the memories of the Neroterra Silas remembered faded when he stepped inside the orc-occupied town. The wattle houses were no longer standing. In their place stood tall huts fashioned from animal skins and erected on the bones of large beasts. Smoke rose from many of the crude dwellings, wafting putrid odors that caused Silas’ eyes to water. The orcs leading his company fanned out to their homes where she-orcs and their offspring awaited their arrival. Hateful stares filled the orc families watching them gallop along the dirt path running the center of the city. The large orc leader marched ahead, gesturing to the familiar basilica in the city's square. As they drew closer, Silas realized the place had transformed considerably since Silas last laid on eyes it.

  The simple wooden roof of the structure was replaced by a bronze spire jutting toward the heavens. Horns of bone stretched out like spindly fingers from the top of the spire down to its base. The stone edifice was a brilliant white, appearing like an extension of the snow covering the ground around the building. Macabre statues of the orc pantheon lined the round courtyard of the basilica like dark sentinels watching their advance.

  “Wait here, men of Aldron,” the orc leader said. He trudged through the snow and entered the structure. Minutes later, he reemerged and stood to the side. The half-orc, Banupal, walked out along with Felix Gryn, who grinned at Silas. Banupal was shorter than his orc commander and dressed unlike any orc Silas had ever seen. He wore a purple robe with a glittering brocade pattern and a gold sash cinched around his slim waist. His jet black hair flowed down from his scalp to rest on his shoulders, framing his olive green face.

  Banupal looked at Silas and his men with a bored expression. “It’s about time. Come inside, we have much to discuss,” he said.

  Chapter 3

  Restless Slumber

  The air inside the redecorated basilica reeked of incense and burnt meat. Silas, Asher, and Felix Gryn sat together at a long table along with the rest of the Aldronian soldiers. Exhaustion and anxiety had set in among the men after riding so long with little sleep. The king had stressed urgency to complete this errand in Neroterra. Silas, not wishing to disappoint his father, pushed his men hard to complete a month-long journey in just two weeks. They rarely pitched their tents and when he allowed it, they only slept for a few hours. He had prayed to Yéwa for a meal and an immediate audience with Banupal to discuss the important errand everyone was going on about. But in typical orc fashion, Banupal delayed any meeting until morning. At least they would be fed and allowed quarter in the basilica. Although he feared what orc gruel awaited them.

  A fat she-orc in a stained smock served them a plate of dark meat resembling beef doused in a foul smelling gravy. Most of the men poked at the meal with their crude utensils, except Leif, a stocky soldier with a bushy mustache. Leif picked off chunks of the meat and shoveled them in his mouth. Those sitting around him watched curiously to see if he’d retch or fall over dead. When he didn’t, the others joined in—making pained faces as they chewed the food, but they ate it nonetheless.

  “Stewed moose flank is an acquired taste for most people,” Gryn said, spooning food to his lips. “The orcs have a love affair with gravy. All of their meat is swimming in it.”

  Silas frowned and shoved his plate aside.

  “Not eating, your Highness? It’s not as good as the meals at Gilead Palace, but Banupal and his kin might be quite offended if a royal refused a meal,” Gryn said.

  “I don’t care what the orcs think. We’re here to discuss an important errand, not eat their slop.”

  Asher and the men abruptly stopped eating, looking at him curiously. He sighed, gesturing for them to continue eating and they happily resumed the meal.

  “My lord, if I may be so bold—we represent the king. It is our duty to acquiesce to the customs of the orcs, our allies by treaty,” Gryn explained.

  “I know what my duty is, Gryn. But tell me, what is yours? Why are you here?” Silas asked. He narrowed his eyes at the thin, balding man sitting across the table. Gryn cleared his throat and locked eyes with Silas, unintimidated by the prince.

  “It just so happens I was traveling with my valet and squire on business from Sylvania. The road brought us near Neroterra, so I thought I’d drop in and meet with Lord Banupal. We have trade dealings to discuss, you see. Tarshish imports meat and fish quarterly for a handsome fee,” he said with a smirk.

  “You trade with the orcs? They aren’t a sovereign nation. Does my father know about this?”

  “No, he does not young Prince,” he replied in a condescending tone. “But it might be to our political advantage not to force an embargo on the orcs. Aldron’s treaty with Neroterra is flimsy and we needn’t cause undue friction.”

  Silas scoffed. “You think the orcs pose any threat to Aldron? We could have slaughtered the lot of them—”

  “And yet we didn’t,” Gryn cut in. “Ask yourself why that might be, my Lord.”

  “Because my father is too benevolent,” Silas quipped. He always wondered why his father didn’t finish what th
e goblins of Northerwyld started and wiped out the remaining orc clans. Banupal’s clan was the last remnant in Azuleah, save for nomads wandering the northern wilderness. No man needed their filth so close to Joppa, but Gryn implied something else was at work here. Not just mercy, but some unseen gain. He might have to press Gryn about it further, but not in front of his men. No soldier wished to follow a naive prince who didn’t know the true answers to his father’s decisions.

  After the men supped, and the maid gathered the dishes, an elder orc with a wiry frame lead them to their lodgings. They descended a spiral staircase near the foyer of the basilica that led to an underground hall. Nestled at the end of the hall was a locked door illuminated by a candelabra overhead. The orc pulled out a rusty key and opened the lock before stepping aside to allow them entry. Inside, a spacious cellar lined with piles of straw and lit torches hanging from the walls awaited them. Empty casks and honeycomb shelves lining the interior confirmed the room once housed the basilica’s wine supply. The reek of mildew and aged wine hung heavy in the air. It was a lousy hovel compared to the rooms Silas typically slept in, but it trumped sleeping on the frozen ground outside.

  “Lord Banupal shall receive you an hour past the dawn,” the elder orc muttered. “Erlgad be my name. Pound the door if ye need me…sirs.”

  “Quite good, Erlgad,” Gryn replied with a curt smile.

  Erlgad sneered then exited the room, grumbling something under his breath.

  “He seems hospitable,” Asher said, inciting chuckles from some of the soldiers.

  “I’ve seen dungeons that look more welcoming than this place,” Silas said, unbuckling his belt, letting his sword and shield fall next to the straw pile.

  “These lodgings certainly need work,” Gryn agreed, running a gloved hand across a stream of cobwebs overhead.

  “Can we trust these orcs to keep their word about an audience? Are we sure they won’t kill us in our sleep?” Asher asked, genuine concern present in his voice.