The Shaman of Neroterra (Tales of Azuleah)

by Adorno, Daniel

  “But sire…”

  “Follow my order,” Silas told him. Asher nodded without further dissent and ran toward the kneeling man. The other men fanned out on the hill, some with swords drawn and others with crossbows trained ahead. They trudged through the snow in pairs, disappearing behind spruce trees as they searched for the shaman. Silas cautiously approached Urbengal’s hut. A long strip of deer hide hung over the hut’s entrance. Silas reached out with his left hand and yanked the hide away. A low sigh of relief escaped him when he realized the goblin wasn’t inside. The small hut contained nothing but discarded fish bones and a pile of foul-smelling blankets that served as a bed. A yell from one of the men startled him. It was Morton.

  “Orcs!” the young man cried, pointing to six orcs emerging from the trees. This group was not part of Lofur’s original force which seemed strange to Silas. Had Urbengal possessed them somehow? Morton and Troy led the charge against the new threat. Swords flashed quickly as the two men attacked. Silas ran toward the skirmish, looking around for the rest of his contingent. Asher had already fled with Felix, so he didn’t expect to see him. But it troubled Silas that no one else was visible on the hilltop. He turned his attention to the orcs, who were successfully fending off the advance. That’s when Silas noticed the orcs’ weapons. They wielded Aldronian swords.

  “Stop!” Silas yelled, but a second too late. Morton thrust his sword and skewered an orc with his blade. The orc fell backwards into the snow, blood pooling beneath him. Before their eyes, the orc at their feet transformed into Geoff—one of the stoutest warriors he’d known. The color drained from Morton’s face at the sight. But they had little time to grieve—the rest of the orc-men continued their attack.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Troy asked, narrowly missing a slash to the head.

  “They’re hexed. Fend them off as best as you’re able, but don’t kill them!” Silas ordered. Two orc-men advanced at him from both sides. They thrust their swords at his torso. He parried the first thrust then dodged to avoid the second. Turning on his heel, Silas punched the hexed soldier on his right and knocked him off his feet. The second soldier swung a vertical cut aimed at Silas’ shoulder, but he expected that move. He sidestepped the attack at the last possible moment. Then he gripped the broadest part of his sword, where the blade met the cross piece, and flipped it so the hilt faced upward. Silas swung the sword and smashed the pommel into the soldier’s face. The orc-man doubled over then sunk to the ground unconscious.

  Morton knocked another soldier out, but struggled to keep his defense tight. Meanwhile, Troy was successfully defending two of his compatriots’ swipes with powerful ripostes. The lithe man slashed the hexed men at the knees, bringing them down quickly. A few more shallow cuts at the arms disarmed them. Troy kicked one in the head and struck the other with the flat side of his blade. The field was clear except for the lone orc-man dueling Morton. The man’s movements were fluid and flawless, exhibiting the type of discipline only a veteran possessed. Silas reasoned it was probably Leonard, the soft-spoken Allesmeade native with an unrivaled skill in swordsmanship. They’d fought in many campaigns together against the Draknoir and Silas was familiar with his adept handling of the blade.

  Sweat poured down Morton's face as the young man barely parried a blow to his torso. Another quick horizontal cut followed from Leonard. Morton jumped back to dodge, but the tip of the sword cut a line across his cheek. The boy lost his footing in the wet snow, falling on his side. Silas rushed towards Morton, but Troy—the faster of the two—reached him first. He delivered three quick strikes, but Leonard parried each with ease. Their fight turned into a complicated dance with swords flashing and striking in elegant strokes. The sight was an odd one, considering orcs are neither graceful nor quick, but Leonard’s abilities transcend the spell Urbengal has cast.

  Silas finally jumped into the fray, hoping to turn the fight in Troy’s favor. But Leonard’s offense was unshakable. He deflected both Silas and Troy’s attacks with ease, proving he was the master swordsman. “Leonard, it’s us! Don’t let that goblin filth take over your mind!” Silas yelled. Leonard grunted in response, but continued the assault. He drove Silas back with a trio of powerful swings that nearly disarmed the prince. Leonard prepared for another hard swing at Silas, but Troy jumped in again. He stepped to the right with a quick thrust at Leonard’s left knee. The stroke missed, leaving him open to Leonard’s next attack—a downward swing at his head. Troy narrowly ducked beneath the swing, but Leonard caught him with a hard kick to the shin. His leg made an audible pop as the bone snapped from the strike. Troy screamed and writhed on the ground, clutching his injured leg beneath the shadow of his former brother-at-arms. Pressing his advantage, Leonard reared back to thrust his blade down for the killing blow. But Silas struck first.

  He stabbed Leonard under the collarbone where a gap in the plate armor existed.The fatally wounded soldier reverted to his human form, gazing at Silas in shock. He reeled to the side, but Silas caught him before he fell. “My lord…I’m sorry…I could not—could not see you,” Leonard said between shuddering breaths.

  “It’s all right, Leonard. Rest now, dear brother.” Silas laid him flat on the snow, clutching his hand. Leonard’s breathing slowed and his eyelids drooped. Silas recited a prayer aloud—the same prayer his father spoke at his mother’s funeral. “Though the light of Ysbryd leaves you now, He sends you forth to Yesu’s door. There you shall live forevermore. An eternal home that never fades. Where Yéwa shields you from the enemy’s blade.” Leonard was still now, his eyes devoid of their former intensity.

  Silas rose and looked around him. His men were gravely injured or dead, their bodies scattered on the white expanse of the hilltop. To his left, Morton stood up and released a heavy groan. Blood had stained the right side of his face where Leonard’s sword cut him. Bleary-eyed and dazed, the boy looked as though he would collapse at any moment. “Easy now, Morton. Catch your breath,” Silas said, grasping his shoulder to steady him.

  Morton nodded and let out a weak, “yes, sire.” The squire sat down on a rotting log nearby, staring at his feet blankly. Meanwhile Silas tended to the wounded, starting with Troy. Tears streamed down Troy’s face as he clutched his broken leg. Silas carried the man over to the log where Morton sat. He found a large tree branch, snapped it in two, and place the pieces beside Troy.

  “Morton, I have to set the bone. Can you hold him?” Silas asked with a rueful expression. Morton’s eyes widened, but he nodded and clutched the wounded man’s shoulders. Silas placed a twig in Troy’s mouth to bite on through the procedure. “Are you ready, Troy?” Silas asked grimly.

  The younger man straightened and his face became like stone. Then he nodded resolutely. In one swift motion, Silas grabbed his leg and snapped the bone in place. Troy’s body heaved in pain almost knocking Morton off the log. A torrent of labored breathing escaped him and he whined softly as Silas created a splint from the broken branch. When the leg was finally bound, Troy leaned back into the snow and sighed, content that the matter was over. Silas stepped back to gather his thoughts, unsure what course of action to take next. Urbengal was still in the forest somewhere planning his next move. Silas had grossly underestimated the goblin’s powers. He had crippled Silas’ entire force in one fell swoop. Now only he and Morton stood against the shaman—the odds were against them. Asher and Felix were nowhere in sight. His second-in-command likely fled back to the camp where the horses and Gryn’s valet were waiting. Perhaps it’s time to abandon this entire affair, Silas thought. He needed more men to defeat Urbengal.

  A loud crunch of snow interrupted his thoughts. He wheeled around to see two figures approaching. It was Asher and Felix, but something was wrong. Asher’s face looked whiter than the snow beneath his feet. Felix sauntered behind the older man, a menacing look on his face and something stretched out in front of him. Silas soon realized it was Asher’s sword, pointed at the elder man’s back.

  “Felix, what the devil are
you doing?” Silas asked. Morton and Troy glanced in his direction, confusion passing over their faces.

  “My lord, he’s been—” Asher started then winced in pain as Felix pushed the blade tip into his upper back.

  “Quiet, fool!” Felix said, gritting his teeth. He grabbed the collar of Asher’s tunic and pulled him backward. He brought the edge of the blade to Asher’s neck. “Drop your weapons or he dies.”

  Morton held his sword defiantly and Troy—despite his crippled state—had loaded a bolt into a crossbow. Both of the young warriors turned to Silas when Felix uttered another threat. “Do as he says.” Silas nodded. They reluctantly threw their weapons aside. Silas gripped his sword tighter for a moment, but released it when Felix squeezed the blade against Asher’s neck. A thin trickle of blood ran down the old warrior’s neck. Silence loomed over them until Urbengal’s familiar cackle echoed around them. The short, grotesque creature appeared from thin air behind Asher and Felix. He surveyed the scene with unfettered glee, content with his handiwork. Flashing a crooked smile, he locked eyes with Silas.

  “It seems I’ve dealt the masterstroke, my dear prince.”

  Chapter 9

  Masterstroke

  The goblin paced in front of Felix and Asher, twiddling the fingers of the hand covered by the gauntlet. The gauntlet itself looked unremarkable to Silas. It was a dull metal glove that extended to the goblin’s elbow. Three rows of small spikes ran along the forearm and a round, faded gemstone topped the area above the wrist. But despite how plain it looked there was an ethereal quality to the glove. As Urbengal paced and fidgeted his fingers, a faint purple glow emanated from the glove. Urbengal mumbled excitedly at the gauntlet as though the two were carrying on a conversation. The performance was wearing thin on Silas.

  “What do you want, shaman?” he asked boldly.

  Urbengal looked up at him with an eyebrow raised, regarding him like a child who interrupted an important discussion. “What do I want?” Urbengal repeated. He chuckled to himself. “I want to see my kin alive again. I want every orc of the Northerwyld slain and impaled on a stake. I want…” he paused a moment, twiddling his fingers again. “I want everyone to bow at my feet like the goblin kings of old. The reigns of Nemorr, Lashik, and Tymonas would not compare to Urbengal’s, I think—har hee hee!” Urbengal giggled.

  Silas frowned as the shaman stepped closer to him. Urbengal lifted his gauntlet hand, palm facing outward and smiled. “Tell me, Prince of Aldron. Do you fear death?”

  Silas considered the question a moment. The physical pain of dying in combat or being tortured certainly unnerved him, but death itself was a different matter. Since the day he lost his mother as a child, a part of him longed for death. It seemed a welcome thought to die and be reunited with his departed mother. Perhaps that’s why he enlisted in the military as soon as he turned thirteen—the earliest age Aldronian boys could join the ranks. As a prince, he needn’t have enlisted until much later in his teenage years like his father had. Military life was arduous and often the youngest recruits were not nobles, but peasants who needed the stipend for their families. Most of the nobility sought the distinguished roles the kingdom proffered upon them: generals, captains, knights, and the like. None of that appealed to Silas. He joined to avenge his mother and to commit his life to protecting Aldron. If death found him before vengeance came, so be it.

  He stared at the wicked conjurer before him and squared his shoulders defiantly. “I do not fear you nor do I fear that trinket you wear. If you wish to kill me then be done with it,” he replied, keeping his eyes fixed on Urbengal’s.

  The shaman cackled again. “Strong words! Strong words, your Majesty,” he said in a mocking tone. He lowered the gauntlet and stroked his pointed chin. “You humans are all the same. Irreverent and bloated with overconfidence. But here you stand with friends wounded and dead in the snow. Beaten by a goblin and his little trinket, hee hee.”

  Silas said nothing, ignoring the goblin’s diatribe. He darted his eyes around him, scanning for any means to improve his bleak situation. Behind Urbengal, Asher stood deathly still in Felix’s grip to avoid the sharp blade cutting him further. Then Silas caught Felix’s mouth moving. The governor’s eyes were wide, and he mouthed, “keep him talking” while nodding to Urbengal. Silas furrowed his eyebrows, unsure what was happening.

  Urbengal noticed his confusion and said, “what’s the matter, your Highness? Oh, I see. You’re worried about your friend there. Pity, terrible pity. He will die at my command. I say the words and that hideous man there will spill his lifeblood on the ground.” He smiled wickedly. Silas turned to Felix, but he became stone-faced once more. Suddenly, understanding came over him and an idea formed in his mind.

  “Wait! You needn’t kill him—he’s nothing to you. Why kill a knight when you can kill the King’s son?” Silas said, not thinking through his words. He simply wanted to keep Urbengal’s attention fixed on him.

  It worked. Urbengal’s eyes widened as he weighed Silas’ proposition. “Yes, killing you would cause quite a stir in Aldron, wouldn’t it? You are just as guilty of killing my kin as the orcs! But there’s no need for haste. None of you will leave this forest alive, so long as I have a say. And I’d like to save you for last, Prince.”

  Silas’ heart sank. Urbengal wasn’t taking the bait and from the corner of his eye, he could see the pained expression on Felix’s face. Urbengal smiled once more before he started toward the men behind him. Silas clenched his fists, whispering a curse to himself. Asher would die if he didn’t do something. And Felix will perish too. He felt the desperate stares of Troy and Morton on him. They would be killed too, along with the rest of the unconscious men he had failed to protect. He couldn’t let that happen so he tried a different approach.

  “It’s a tragedy about the goblins, Urbengal. A real shame,” he said ruefully.

  Urbengal wheeled around to face him, eyebrows raised.

  “You’d think with such a powerful conjurer like you they might have survived, but I suppose shaman are no match for determined orc warriors,” he said, shrugging.

  “You know nothing of my power, insect! My name means “claw of Urr”, do you understand the significance?” Urbengal seethed.

  “Please enlighten me,” Silas said, feigning interest which spurred the goblin’s temper further.

  “Urr is the high god of all goblins. His wrath is fierce and his thirst for blood insatiable. His menacing claws rip his enemies asunder. I alone of all the shaman and acolytes in Rumatheed held the distinguished honor of being the instrument of Urr’s bloodlust,” he said. His red eyes looked down at the gauntlet and he clenched his fist. It glowed slightly, channeling his anger. “This…this gauntlet knows power. Even now it courses through me—hee har!”

  Despite how much the gauntlet unnerved him, Silas kept his face disinterested and in an even tone said, “if it’s so powerful why is Neroterra still left standing? You hide here in the woods in a crude shack, casting illusions. I’ve seen more impressive feats. Tell me, goblin, can that gauntlet control an army? At a word, my men would fly to battle and die for their king. Can your gauntlet command men like that?”

  Urbengal frowned then a look of malice flashed in his eyes. “Oh yes, my prince. It can move mountains to my bidding,” he said. He turned to Felix and pointed at him with the gauntlet hand. “You! Drop that old wretch and kill this one!”

  Felix complied, bashing the back of Asher’s head with the pommel of the sword and striding toward Silas. Inwardly, Silas was glad he forced Urbengal to act impulsively, but now he wasn’t sure if Felix's possessed state was true or not. Felix’s eyes looked resolute and vicious as he closed the distance between them. Silas glanced over at Morton and Troy. Their faces betrayed a mix of conflicting emotions. Troy was pale and still wincing from his injury, but a fierce anger brewed behind his anxious face. In contrast, Morton’s face filled with fear. He quickly looked at the crossbow near his feet with longing, but made no move toward it, look
ing up at Felix helplessly. Silas remained calm even when Felix stood several inches from him brandishing Asher’s sword.

  “Kill him. Run him through with his own sword!” Urbengal commanded, pointing at Silas’ blade in the snow.

  Felix nodded and tossed Asher’s sword aside. He reached down to pick up the prince’s broadsword then turned his face slightly so Silas could see him. Felix winked at him as he gripped the sword’s hilt. A wave of relief swept over Silas. Whatever spell Urbengal had cast on the others wasn’t working on the governor. And now Urbengal would pay for it. In one quick motion, Felix rose, turned on his heel, and thrust the blade into Urbengal’s stomach. The ugly goblin shrieked and hurled curses at his attacker. For a moment, Silas thought they had defeated the shaman, but a blinding flash of light shot out of the gauntlet.

  The blast hurled Felix into the air and he fell several feet away from them. Blinking madly to dispel the haze, Silas finally saw Urbengal on his knees. The goblin lifted his open palm at him, ready to unleash another torrent of power from the gauntlet. He froze, waiting for the strike. But it never came. Urbengal’s arm drooped, and he glanced at the sword embedded in his gut in disbelief. “You filthy rats! This…this was my chance. To rule unchallenged. The power…the gauntlet. He promised I would have it. Me…Urbengal.”

  Silas frowned, taking in the shaman’s rambling. “By who? Who promised it to you?”

  Urbengal gazed at him, confused by the question. He sunk lower to the ground with each second. “The Master, of course. You…know him, hee…har. You know him well, son of Dermont.”

  “You’re dying, goblin. Your words make no sense,” Silas said.