The Andor: Book One of the Legends of Tirmar

by Mark Dame

  “They want to send him to Uskleig and hand him over to Jarot, a fate worse than death itself.”

  “And yet that’s exactly where you want to go. Wouldn’t giving him to the orcs accomplish what you wish anyway?”

  “Our hope is to not end up Jarot’s prisoners.”

  The Thane laughed. “You must be a fool. If you attempt to break into Uskleig, Jarot’s prisoners is exactly what you’ll become. That is if you aren’t killed in the process.”

  Gudbrant clenched his jaw, but said nothing.

  “And truthfully, Captain, I don’t know why you would believe this boy’s story anyway. He hardly looks like an Andor. At least according to the stories.”

  “Stories handed down for over a thousand years. Certainly a few details may be distorted.”

  “Regardless, he doesn’t look like a legend.”

  “Please, My Lord,” Flyn said. “I don’t know anything about legends or your stories about my ancestors. I just want to save my friend.”

  Theodard looked at him for a few moments before answering.

  “Well, you may claim to be whomever you wish. I shall not let it bother me anymore.” He turned back to Gudbrant. “So, Captain, it has been some time since we have had a visitor from Garthset. Perhaps you can enlighten us with news from Asgerdale?”

  They rested for two weeks, recovering from their ordeal at Gurnborg. Adalbern brought a healer to attend to Flyn’s injuries. By the time they were ready to start out again, the pain was gone, though the healer told him the scars would never go away. All things considered, he supposed it could have been worse.

  The healer was able to help Harvig as well, though he had to re-break Harvig’s nose to fix it. He spent several days with his nose bandaged.

  By mutual agreement, the party’s identity wasn’t revealed to the citizens of Hemdown. Captain Adalbern and Thane Theodard were concerned that if news of their presence leaked out to the orcs, the city may face an attack. Gudbrant’s concern was of the enemy discovering their plans to travel to Uskleig.

  The orcs never attacked Hemdown, though reports of increased orc patrols continued to come in. Gudbrant had requested to be kept informed about the orcs’ movements, and Adalbern had agreed, grudgingly. Each evening, a messenger brought the day’s reports to the group during their evening meal. They hoped to stay in Hemdown until the activity subsided.

  Gudbrant spent the days looking for information regarding the land between Hemdown and Uskleig with little success. He found a few people who used to live on farms, but none who had been east of Hemdown in the last ten years. Even the traders avoided the land between Hemdown and Uskleig.

  Two weeks after Flyn and his companions arrived in Hemdown, a grizzled trapper named Byorn checked into the inn. That evening, after many rounds of ale, Byorn spoke of strange creatures he had encountered in the Nidfel Mountains to the north. Flyn and Gudbrant gathered around with the other inn guests to listen to his tall tales.

  “So there I was,” Byorn was saying. “Just me and the beast, a wall of rock to my left, a thousand-foot ravine to my right. I had nowhere to run. We stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. Its eyes glowed red as coals, its fangs like daggers, its foul stench filling the air. Every time it stepped toward me, I waved my torch in front of me, forcing it back.

  “I don’t know how long we stood there, staring each other down, but I knew my torch wouldn’t last much longer. If I didn’t make a move soon, the beast would get the best of me.”

  Byorn paused to take a drink of his ale and look around at his audience, who leaned closer.

  “Then I saw my chance. It threw its head back and howled into the night, whether in frustration or to intimidate me, I don’t know, but I used its distraction to my advantage. I leapt forward, swinging my torch at its head with all my might. It tried to move away, but too late. The torch struck it in the head, knocking it back, the flame singeing its fur. Before it recovered, I struck again, this time hitting it square.

  “The beast stumbled back and I swung again, driving it to the ledge. Just before it went over, it grabbed my arm, its claws digging into my flesh.”

  Byorn pulled up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing a nasty-looking red scar.

  “It almost pulled me over the cliff with it, but I managed to catch hold of a tree. It glared at me with those red eyes and I swear by the gods it spoke as it fell. ‘Your soul will burn!’ it said. Then it fell and I heard its screams echo from the ravine.”

  A murmur rolled through the crowd. A few left, commenting that the old man was a liar or senile. The rest ignored the skeptics.

  “What was it?” one of the inn’s guests asked.

  “That I don’t know,” Byorn said. “Half man, half beast. A face like a wolf, arms and legs like a bear. Whatever it was, I never saw nothing like it in all my days.”

  “It was a vargolf,” another man said.

  “There’s no such thing,” someone else said. “Vargolfs only exist in children’s tales.”

  “They do exist,” said yet another man. “I saw one once when I was a boy.”

  The room erupted in argument. Byorn sat back, drinking his ale and watching the fray with a grin.

  “Come on,” Gudbrant said to Flyn. “I want to talk to this man.”

  Flyn followed Gudbrant to the table where Byorn was seated.

  “Excuse me,” Gudbrant said. “You seem to be a man of the world. Would you mind if I asked you more of you travels?”

  “Not at all, my good man. Please, join me.” Byorn motioned to the chairs at the table.

  “My name is Gudbrant and this is Flyn.” The pair sat down across from Byorn.

  “If you liked that tale, let me tell you of a time I was hunting boars in the Fuldarl Forest.”

  “Actually, I’m more interested in your adventures in the Nidfel Mountains,” Gudbrant said.

  “Ah, well, the Nidfels are a cold, dangerous place, as I’ve told. The wolf creature I battled wasn’t even the most terrifying beast I’ve encountered there.”

  “But why the Nidfels? Aren’t you worried Jarot’s orcs will catch you?”

  Byorn laughed, his eyes sparkling. “There are far worse things than orcs in those mountains.” He drained his ale and shouted for another before continuing. “No, even the orcs are afraid to travel in the Nidfel Mountains.”

  “But what of Uskleig?” Gudbrant said. “Surely they aren’t afraid to travel there?”

  “Uskleig is at the eastern end of the Nidfels,” Byorn said with an air of smugness. “Where they meet the Estlaegs. The orcs patrol the Estlaegs, but they let the creatures of the Nidfels protect that approach to the city. Not until you get within sight of the citadel itself will you find hide or hair of an orc.”

  “That is truly amazing,” Gudbrant said, eyes wide in mock astonishment. “The orcs are so powerful. Why should they be afraid?”

  “You have much to learn of orcs, my friend.” Byorn laughed again. “They’re big, and they’re strong, even brave, when up against a weaker foe. But orcs are a superstitious lot. Stories of demons and other powerful monsters keep them out of the Nidfels.”

  The innkeeper brought Byorn’s ale to the table.

  “Let me buy your drink for you.” Gudbrant turned to the innkeeper. “Please put this on my bill.”

  The innkeeper nodded and left.

  “Thank you, friend. I can always tell a man of good upbringing, and you, sir, are one.”

  “It’s the least I could do for your time. You certainly have had some interesting adventures,” Gudbrant said. “And you surely must be the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

  “Between you and me,” Byorn said, lowering his voice, “this town is full of cowards.” He sat back, nodding his head.

  “Well, we don’t want to take up any more of your time,” Gudbrant said as he stood up. “Thank you for indulging us.”

  “Anytime, my friend. Perhaps tomorrow night I can tell you of the time I battled
a nykkyn.”

  “You are indeed a man of wonder,” Gudbrant said. “Perhaps we will join you tomorrow evening.”

  Flyn followed Gudbrant back to the table where the rest of the party was waiting.

  “You don’t believe those stories he was telling, do you?” Flyn asked after they sat down.

  “I believed your tale. Why shouldn’t I believe his?” Gudbrant said.

  “But that’s different.”

  Gudbrant grinned. “No, I don’t believe his stories of fighting off a vargolf or a nykkyn. But I learned some valuable information from him.”

  “What could you possibly have learned from him that was of any value?”

  “I learned that the orcs don’t patrol the Nidfel Mountains. And that means we can approach Uskleig undiscovered.”

  “But what of all the demons and monsters that keep the orcs away?”

  “Surely, Flynygyn of the Andors, you do not believe the ramblings of an old wanderer?”

  “But if there aren’t any monsters, what keeps the orcs away?”

  “Fear. Fear that there may be monsters in those mountains. And perhaps there really are some powerful creatures living there. But if our friend Byorn can survive there, then I have no doubt we can as well.”

  “If he was actually there.” Flyn was dubious.

  “I believe he was. One thing about tellers of tall tales. There is usually a nugget of truth to their stories. I would suspect he was in the Nidfels and actually saw a wolf creature, but I don’t believe he fought it.”

  “So when do we leave?” Sigrid said.

  “Are you still sure you want to join us?” Gudbrant said.

  “Aye. You lads saved me life. For that, I shall give you what aid I may.”

  “Very well. We welcome your help. As to when, I think we should leave soon. Flyn is healed and we are all rested. We’ll spend tomorrow gathering what supplies we may need for the journey and set out the following day.”

  “Good,” Harvig said. “The sooner we rescue Brenna and the Andor’s friend, the sooner we can return home.”

  Randell nodded in agreement.

  Chapter 11

  Flyn and his companions left Hemdown fully rested and recovered. Flyn was glad to be on their way again. During their stay, he learned more of the horrors of Jarot and his minions. Their treatment of cooperative prisoners sounded miserable. What they would do to the uncooperative ones was too terrible to mention. The more he learned, the more anxious he grew about Kel. He was afraid if they took too long, they would find his friend already dead, either from torture or outright execution.

  Gudbrant and the others tried to convince Flyn that Kel’s capture wasn’t his fault, that it was just bad luck. Flyn pointed out that whether it was his fault or bad luck, he couldn’t just leave his friend in the hands of Jarot. He would go by himself, if necessary, to try to rescue Kel.

  But all vowed to join Flyn on the journey to Uskleig. Gudbrant was willing to sacrifice everything, even his life, if necessary, to save Brenna. And while he had suggested Harvig and Randell return to Garthset, neither would return. Remembering what Gudbrant had told him about Randell and Brenna, Flyn understood why Randell wanted to go. But Harvig was a mystery to Flyn. He wondered what would compel him to join such a desperate cause. He obviously admired Gudbrant, and had sworn to protect his captain, but he never spoke of why. When Flyn had asked, Harvig had merely said he owed Gudbrant, and would not elaborate.

  Of all the party, Sigrid was the oddest. She had no allegiance to Flyn or Gudbrant, other than the rescue from Gurnborg. Gudbrant and Flyn both tried to convince her that she owed them nothing and did not need to come on a quest that would very likely end in all of their deaths. But she would not be dissuaded. Flyn felt there was another reason. Perhaps she was still looking to avenge her brother’s death. Or maybe it was something deeper. Whatever the reason, Flyn was glad for her help.

  They had resupplied in Hemdown, purchasing extra provisions and a mule to carry them. Like the clothing, Sigrid wasn’t able to find armor in her size, though she did find a helmet and had settled for a leather hauberk that came to her knees. A local cobbler made her a pair of custom-fit boots. She had even found a proper battle ax to replace the orc mining pick.

  After their shopping and paying for their stay at the inn, Gudbrant’s coin pouch was significantly lighter. As none of them wanted to stay in Hemdown any longer than necessary, the end of Gudbrant’s coin was of little concern, though Flyn promised to pay him back, somehow.

  Gudbrant had learned of a path that spanned the length of the Nidfel Mountains. The Yord Trail ran from the Estlaegs in the east, all the way to the Adimark Tundra where the Nidfels ended in the west. Though there were no maps of it in Hemdown, from what he had learned, the trail most likely passed very near Uskleig. Gudbrant suggested they travel to Kaldersten, a small trading outpost in the foothills of the Nidfel Mountains, to learn more about it, maybe even find a map.

  With plans made, on the morning of their fifteenth day in Hemdown, the small party left by way of the west gate. No orc patrols had been spotted west of Hemdown, so they felt safe traveling by road, which would ease their journey in both time and comfort, as there were several small villages along the road to Kaldersten.

  Their first day ended in the village of Inefel, where the northbound road to Kaldersten met the westbound road. The village consisted of nothing more than a tavern, a general store, and a few homes. Gudbrant was still concerned about Jarot’s minions discovering their plans, but west of Hemdown, travelers were more common than to the east, so the group drew no undue attention.

  The next morning, they started north. The spring rains had mostly ended and summer was in full bloom, making their travel mostly pleasant, in spite of the heat.

  With no sign of pursuit, they relaxed, enjoying the summer air, and purposely not discussing their destination.

  The lights of Kaldersten appeared in the distance the evening of the twentieth day from Hemdown. For two days, the road had climbed steadily through hilly terrain. Topping the largest hill they had climbed thus far, they discovered a large valley before them. In the center of the valley lay Kaldersten, glittering like a gem in the dirt. While the travel had been easy, the group was determined not to spend another evening sleeping on the ground. With their destination in sight, they pushed on into the evening.

  According to Gudbrant’s source in Hemdown, Kaldersten was a trading town, much like Hemdown in its early days. As Kaldersten was more of a frontier town than Garthset or Hemdown, Gudbrant warned that they should not expect much help there, though they would also not arouse much interest. People in frontier towns stuck to their own business, as long as you stuck to your own. Gudbrant was told that travelers in Kaldersten were known to forage the Nidfel Mountains for gems and precious metals. Nowhere else in all of Tirmar could they expect to learn more about the Nidfels—both its wildlife and passages through the mountains.

  The town was in the middle of Kalderdale, a long, narrow valley in the foothills of the Nidfels. Roughly half of the population of Kalderdale lived in small farms that dotted the valley. The rest lived in Kaldersten itself, providing services in old, rundown buildings. The faded signs advertised general goods, blacksmithing and tailoring services, mining supplies, and other needs. The local inn, its sign showing an ice-covered beer stein and proclaiming the name as The Frozen Mug, dominated the main street through town. Kaldersten had no defensive walls, not even a town guard patrolling the streets. In fact, the streets were mostly deserted.

  Gudbrant pulled open the door to the inn, spilling bright light into the street. Most of the tables were empty, with only half a dozen or so patrons who looked up from their meals as the travelers entered. Stairs on the right wall led to the second floor, and on the left, a large fireplace with a stone hearth provided warmth against the chilly northern evening. Along the back wall was a bar and a pair of swinging doors, presumably leading to the kitchen. The rest of the room was filled with lon
g tables and benches. Lanterns hanging from brackets on the walls provided the room with warm, cheery light.

  “Health and happiness, travelers,” a man called out from behind the bar. “Welcome to The Mug. Will you be staying with us this evening or just stopping in for a hot meal?”

  “We’d like rooms, if you please,” Gudbrant replied. “For two nights. And boarding for our mule, if you can manage.”

  “That we can, sir.”

  The innkeeper came from behind the bar and shook hands with the travelers.

  “My name is Svendar,” he said. “Anything you need, just ask.”

  Svendar was taller than all the travelers but Harvig, with thinning gray hair and an unshaven face. His eyes gleamed over his round, red cheeks. His clothing, though clean, was old and grease stained. An equally old and stained apron was tied around his prominent waist.

  “Fortunate for you, we’re not very busy yet,” he said as he led them upstairs to show them to their rooms. “Another few weeks and we’ll be full for the summer, though I’m sure we would manage something.”

  “Our fortune would seem to be yours as well,” Gudbrant said, smiling at the old man.

  “It would indeed, my friend. I’ll have washing water brought up to your rooms. You may join us in the common room when you are ready for your evening meal.”

  With that, Svendar disappeared back down the stairs, leaving the travelers to settle in.

  After cleaning up and changing clothes, the group gathered together again in the inn’s common room. The innkeeper brought them roast beef, potatoes, beans, and warm bread with butter. Cold ale filled their mugs, which were frozen as the name of the inn promised.

  By the time their food was served, they were almost alone in the common room. A scruffy-looking man sitting by himself in the corner, drinking ale from a no-longer-frozen mug, was the only other guest. He watched the group intently as they ate, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  “What do we do now?” Flyn asked Gudbrant, trying to ignore the man.