The Shaman of Neroterra (Tales of Azuleah)

by Adorno, Daniel

  The horses raced down the hill, kicking up clumps of snow in their wake. Silas and Asher rode side by side pushing their steeds toward the forest where Broku’s limp body lied. Half of Silas’ company followed while Felix and the others waited atop the hill. Silas reached the body first. Dismounting from the saddle, he held his shield close and inspected the area. The woods were quiet, save for the wind howling between the trees. Nothing stirred except the horses behind him. Two thick arrows protruded from Broku’s back; one next to his heart and the other close to the jugular. He turned the orc on his side. The snow obscured Broku’s face, but a pained expression was easily visible. An arrowhead penetrated through the orc’s chest, leaving a trail of black blood in the snow. Upon further scrutiny, Silas realized the arrows were of an orcish design.

  Broku was killed by his own kind.

  Either a mutiny had occurred among Lofur’s troops or Urbengal had cast some elaborate spell to trick them. The former was more probable to Silas. He grabbed the flag still clutched in the orc’s thick hands and waved it at the men on the hillside. They quickly descended the hills. He puzzled over the best course of action now. Felix and the men gathered around, waiting for orders.

  “Sire, has Banupal betrayed us?” Asher asked, breaking the silence.

  “I doubt it. He might be arrogant, but he’s not stupid. I suspect this is Lofur’s doing or one of his warriors,” Silas said.

  “Or that shaman,” Felix added. “You heard, Lofur. We were very close to his camp. He might have hexed them…or us for all we know.”

  “It’s a possibility, but I’ll trust what my eyes see at the moment. And they see orc arrows in Broku’s back, not a shaman’s spell.” Silas stroked his chin. They were only fifteen men strong including Felix, his valet, and his squire. Lofur’s force numbered a dozen minus Broku, so the odds were in their favor, but the orcs had the advantage inside the Neroterra forest. If the woodlands weren’t covered in snow drift, Silas would consider an assault against Lofur’s mutinous lot, but Urbengal was the wild card. Not knowing whether the shaman was to blame for Broku’s death complicated matters.

  “Well, now what?” Felix asked, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle.

  Silas’ was at an impasse. Attacking Lofur would surely break the treaty with Neroterra, but retreating back to Aldron with his tail tucked between his legs was not an option. They could seek out Urbengal’s camp and take the shaman down without Lofur’s aid. From a strategic perspective, it was foolish to attack an enemy camp blind. He wasn't sure what a shaman was capable of. Spells and hexes were likely weapons, but the enchanted gauntlet was an unknown variable. An incalculable risk to Silas and his men. He had hoped to diminish the risk by enlisting Banupal’s forces to attack first. Now they were on their own.

  “We will press on and attack Urbengal’s camp,” Silas said, turning to Asher and his men.

  “But my lord, we aren't sure where that goblin devil is hiding,” Troy protested.

  “No, but we do know he’s camped somewhere on the northern edge of the forest. We aren’t in Ithileo or the Burning Woods with massive ground to cover, so scouting the area won’t take long,” Silas said.

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Felix said, crossing his arms.

  Silas scowled. “But…Lofur will be a problem. We don’t know if he’s waiting to spring a trap, dead, or being controlled by Urbengal.”

  “And attacking Lofur directly will be seen as an act of war by Banupal,” Asher added.

  “Exactly. We must attack Urbengal first. He’s the largest threat to us right now.”

  “What if he expects us to do just that? He could be the one who will spring the trap,” Felix countered.

  “I’ve considered that, but our dilemma remains the same. Our orders from the king are to aid Banupal and retrieve that gauntlet. We either follow them or flee. And as you know, Felix, my father is not fond of cowards,” Silas said, hoping the corrupt governor caught the subtle dig.

  Felix frowned and said nothing more. He caught it.

  Silas mounted his horse then led the company north, along the border of the forest. They kept to a slow canter, watching the woods to their left for signs of Urbengal’s camp or the orcs. The morning sun became enveloped by gray clouds. As they progressed around the northeastern swath of woodland, snowflakes floated down around them. “Blast this snow,” Felix cried, brushing off the flakes from the shoulders of his suede overcoat. Stifled laughter spread among the ranks and even Gryn’s squire suppressed a smile. He shot the young man a furious glance and the squire quickly looked down at his feet without a word.

  The bitter cold was prickling Silas’ gloved hands like thousands of needles. The light snowflakes turned to a steady snowfall, blanketing them in white and making the search for Urbengal much tougher. When they reached a bend in the tree line, he ordered everyone to stop and take a break. The soldiers dismounted, many with swords still drawn. Asher and a middle-aged soldier, Philippe, unloaded rations for everyone. A meal of stale bread, aged cheese, and cold water didn’t lift Silas’ spirits. He longed for a pint of hearty mead and roasted pheasant next to a roaring fire.

  “We’ll catch our death of cold in this wintry hell,” Felix protested while biting off a chunk of bread in his hand. “Can’t we at least start a fire?”

  “Absolutely not. We needn’t give away our position. The orcs and the shaman already have the advantage, let’s not make it easier for them,” Silas said. He finished the last piece of his cheese wedge then looked beyond them where the forest slope dipped to the south. Another quarter mile and they would be on the east side of Neroterra's forest. If Urbengal’s camp was here, the goblin had done an excellent job of concealing it. The snowfall made their task harder. Silas squinted as he searched between the endless rows of trees alongside them, looking for any sign of a dwelling.

  Nothing. He cursed to himself. This is a fool’s errand through and through, he thought.

  “All right, pack up the bags. We ride to the end of the northern rim and make another pass back to the hills. If we don’t find that infernal creature, we’ll head north and lodge in Sylvania,” Silas said. At the mention of lodging in Sylvania, all the men perked up including Felix. The luxury of a comfortable bed by a crackling hearth had captivated Silas since their miserable stay in Banupal’s dungeon. But retreating to Sylvania felt like a defeat. He still wanted Urbengal’s head on a pike before the day was over. With a quick prayer to Yéwa, he grabbed Arabella’s reins and led the way.

  Less than a yard into their trot through the snowy slope, a high-pitched scream cut through the air. It came from within the forest.

  Chapter 7

  The Child

  “It came from over there!” Asher yelled, pointing at a thick collection of underbrush several feet inside the forest. “Sounded like a girl’s scream.”

  Silas’ thoughts raced as he moved closer to the forest. From atop the saddle, he peered into the shadowy, snow-covered forest and caught some movement. A child dressed in a simple gray gown was on her knees, crying. “Please, someone help my Da!” she cried.

  “It’s a trick. The shaman knows we’re here,” Asher said.

  Silas didn’t disagree, but he still pitied the child. He recalled years ago as a boy walking among the ashes of his mother’s remains. The pain of her loss still tugged at him. A dull ache not mended by the passage of time. What if the girl in the forest experienced a similar grief? She might have been traversing the forest with her father before encountering Urbengal or the orcs. But the more he considered the idea, the more unlikely it seemed. What kind of father would travel so close to an orc stronghold with his child in the middle of a snowstorm? Not a good one.

  “Get your bolts ready!” Silas commanded. Everyone, except Gryn and his company, loaded their crossbows. Then the soldiers lined their horses in a row facing the forest. Silas turned to Gryn’s squire. “You. What’s your name?”

  The young man’s eyes doubled in size. “Me? I—I’m M
orton Alpheas, your Majesty.”

  “Can you handle a sword, Morton?”

  “Aye, sir. My father was a knight in the King’s army. Taught me everything he knew about the blade, sire,” Morton said.

  “Excellent. Draw your sword and come with me,” Silas ordered. He dismounted from his horse, prompting Morton to do the same. “Asher, I’ll need you too. Let’s find out what we’re dealing with.”

  “Wait a moment, you can’t go in there!” Gryn said, poking his finger toward the woods. “We don’t know what power that shaman possesses. It would be much wiser to go to Sylvania and enlist more men, Prince Silas. Besides Morton is a lowly squire, he’s not fit to fight a sorcerer.”

  Morton’s face drooped at his master’s assessment of his abilities. Silas put a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed, “If you can brandish a sword, Morton, you can follow me into battle.” Morton offered a half-smile, but looked nervously at Gryn. Silas turned to the governor. “We will not flee from here, Felix, until Urbengal is dead, and the gauntlet is retrieved. You will stay here with my men and order a volley at the sight of anything suspicious. Do you understand?”

  Gryn lifted his chin, visibly annoyed. “I do, my lord.”

  “Good,” Silas said. He turned to Morton and Asher. “Let’s slay a goblin.”

  The three men entered the woods and walked toward the girl. An unnatural quiet hovered over the place, save for the muffled sobs of the child. The crunch of their boots in the snow startled the girl. She stared at them like a doe in a hunter’s snare. As they drew closer, Silas noticed blood stains on the girl’s smock. On the ground in front of her lay a man’s body. Red splotches contrasted brightly against the snow around the girl. “Please help…Da, he’s hurt,” she said, sniffling. Silas stood several feet from the girl, cautiously surveying the woods. He stared down at the girl’s father. The man’s chest neither rose nor fell, confirming he was likely dead. Silas shifted his gaze to the blood on the snow and then he saw it. Unnatural mounds of snow surrounded the girl like a semicircle of miniature hills. The orcs were hiding in the snow—just like the previous night.

  The girl caught the realization on Silas’ face and hissed. “Fire a volley!” Silas yelled. The mounds shifted at the cry and the orcs burst out of the snow. Silas pulled Asher and Morton down to the ground. The sharp thwack of a dozen crossbows echoed in the forest. Four orcs fell backwards, bolts now embedded in their chests and necks. Others were struck, but not killed—six in all including Lofur.

  “Bring me their heads!” Lofur growled, yanking a bolt from his large bicep. The orcs charged in unison, armed with scimitars and monstrous flails. Silas rose to his feet and swiped his sword wildly at the first orc in his path. The blow connected with the orc’s chest, but the beast didn’t fall. Equipped with a flail, the large orc flicked his wrist and the spiked flail flew at Silas’ face. He ducked, missing the hit by an inch. Another swing caught the orc off-guard and landed in the monster’s unprotected ribcage. He gurgled something in Balek before falling dead in the snow. Hoof beats from behind prompted him to turn. His men were entering the forest to engage the enemy. Troy cut down one of the uglier orcs and even Morton landed a killing blow on a fleeing orc scout.

  To his left, Asher fought hard against Lofur. The orc overlord was giving his second-in-command a worthy fight, but Silas could see fatigue in the elder man’s eyes. His movements became sluggish and soon Lofur would overpower him. The orc swung his scimitar downward at Asher’s neck. The older warrior sidestepped the swing, but Lofur lunged his massive shoulder into Asher’s face, knocking him to the ground. Before Lofur could capitalize on the move, Silas charged at the orc with a rapid flurry of strikes. Lofur parried most of them, except for a horizontal cut that opened a gash on his forearm.

  “You’ll die for that!” Lofur cried, swiping at Silas with clumsy strokes that missed their mark. Silas shuffled his feet to the left then quickly to the right with each attack. “Stop dancing and fight, filth!”

  Silas couldn’t hold back a grin as he parried another stroke. The orc was tiring and getting angrier with each missed blow. Silas waited for an opening. He dodged a slash to his torso and stepped away. With his back to a tree, he waited eagerly for the orc’s next move. Without hesitation, Lofur swung the scimitar in a wide horizontal arc. Silas ducked and rolled as the sword struck the tree. The force of the hit caused the scimitar to be wedged into the tree’s trunk. Lofur struggled to free his weapon, but to no avail. Silas seized the advantage and swiftly thrust his sword into the orc’s unprotected stomach. Taken by surprise, Lofur punched the prince’s face with unnatural force. Silas careened backwards onto the icy ground, tasting blood on his lips. Pain swelled from his mouth to every inch of his face. He looked up to see Lofur staring at the sword in his gut with widened eyes. The orc pulled the sword out and tossed it aside. His face contorted into a rage-filled grimace, but when he took a step toward Silas, he lost his balance and fell to the ground. Silas slowly stood up, waiting for Lofur to do the same. But the giant orc didn’t move, he only bled profusely in the snow.

  The rest of the orcs shared a similar fate to their leader. Their bodies littered the white forest floor, hewn by swords or pierced by multiple crossbow bolts. Walking toward Asher, Silas realized the victory was not easily won for their side. They’d lost both Leif and Philippe, two brave men whose families would be devastated by their loss. Troy was inconsolable at the death of Leif, his close friend and relative.

  “What should we do with their bodies my lord?” Asher asked solemnly.

  “Wrapped them in their blankets and bury them in snow. That should keep away any vultures or coyotes until we can retrieve them for a proper burial in Aldron,” Silas said.

  “And the orcs?”

  Silas frowned. “Leave them to Banupal to worry about.”

  Morton, who suffered a shallow cut across his left cheek, approached them with a grim expression. “My lords, I cannot find Master Gryn anywhere. Philippe told me he stayed behind from the initial charge.”

  “Typical Gryn,” Asher whispered.

  “His horse is still here, but he remains unaccounted. Dear Yéwa, I hope he hasn't perished!” Morton bit his lip. He had a sincere worry and loyalty for his master which oddly pleased Silas despite his animosity toward the Tarshish governor.

  Silas surveyed the surrounding forest, but saw no sign of Felix. The man is a coward, Silas thought. He probably hid away somewhere in the forest to avoid being harmed or killed. But then Silas remembered the girl—the sole reason for this attack. He spun around quickly, searching for the body of the girl’s father. As he retraced his steps in the battle, Silas found the place where the orcs ambushed them. The same spot where the girl had hissed at Silas’ command for a volley. He expected to find the dead man there, but the blood and body had disappeared. It had all been a clever distraction. During the heat of the battle, Urbengal had fled with a hostage.

  Chapter 8

  Taken captive

  After the grim task of burying Leif and Philippe in the snow, Silas and the others found a trail of footprints leading deeper into the woods. One set of tracks matched Gryn’s boots while the other set were smaller and definitely not human. Silas led his men cautiously through the snow, attempting to be as quiet as the snowflakes descending upon them. He had ordered the horses be tethered to trees and left Gryn’s valet, Georges, to attend them. The portly man's face had a pallid appearance and he looked ready to vomit. Silas knew the expression all too well. Young recruits to Aldron's military academy had the same look after experiencing their first battle. Georges was a servant not a fighter and the sight of the grisly battle likely unnerved the valet. In contrast, Morton shone with confidence after the skirmish. He looked all too eager to join Silas in rescuing his master. Despite the boy’s relative inexperience in combat, he had proven himself by slaying two orcs. If his luck continued, Silas might have to consider transferring him from Gryn’s apprenticeship to his own command.

 
; The trail turned south into a thicket where fallen trees and underbrush made it difficult to follow the tracks. “Over here,” Silas whispered to Asher, picking up the trail past a pair of withered elderberry bushes. They followed the tracks up an incline where a family of spruces overlooked the white forest. At the top of the hill, the spruces encircled a hastily built structure made of branches and logs—no larger than a tent. A fire roared in a pit just outside the dwelling and a short figure stood before the flames. Silas raised a hand to stop the men from advancing. He gazed at the figure, realizing it was Felix kneeling on the ground. His face was expressionless and pale.

  “Load your crossbows and draw your swords,” Silas ordered. The men complied then followed him into the small camp. “Felix, are you all right?” Silas asked, watching the tent for any sign of Urbengal. Felix did not move or speak. He looked ahead with lifeless eyes.

  “You are fools to enter here,” a raspy voice said.

  Silas searched the trees, but neither he nor his men saw anyone except Felix. “Show yourself!” Silas yelled.

  Urbengal let out a laugh that resembled a cackling crow. “But I’m right here, Your Majesty.” A soft glow emanated from the roof of the ramshackle hut. An outline became visible amid the light and as the glow faded, the goblin appeared. He was an ugly creature—a long hooked nose poked out of a green leathery face riddled with warts. The shaman’s beady eyes shifted to and fro, taking in Silas and his men. “What an honor to have royalty visit my humble abode, hee-har!”

  “Release your prisoner, Urbengal. Unless you desire a painful death,” Silas said.

  “Strong words, lad, strong words! But I’m afraid it will not come to that. I have an advantage, see?” Urbengal tucked his long fingers into his cloak and retrieved a metal glove. He held the gauntlet over his head, a crooked grin forming on his lips. “At last, the Curse of Nergoth!”

  To Silas’ right, Asher made a quick hand signal, and the men aimed their crossbows in unison. A dozen bolts whizzed past Silas and flew toward Urbengal. The goblin disappeared in a puff of smoke before the bolts landed in his small body. “Spread out and find the imp,” Silas ordered. “Asher, get Felix out of here.”