The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga)

by Gary F. Vanucci

  The Forester woman was fending off and mostly avoiding Lunka’s assaults, and those that she could not rung solidly off her steel shield. She was on the defensive, yet holding her own, Orngoth saw, as he exited the brush and made it to Lunka’s side.

  The ogre was so intent on his foe that he did not hear Orngoth approach until it was too late. Orngoth’s ram-horned helm dipped with his head as he placed his shoulder into the rear left flank of Lunka’s exposed back, knocking him off balance and eventually to the ground as he stumbled and fell awkwardly to the soil, face first.

  Lunka spun to face this latest adversary. His eyes widened as he realized it to be Orngoth. His face became a mask of hatred and his eyes narrowed to level a most deadly stare upon him.

  “So… the pup has come to fight,” Lunka voiced, slowly clambering to his feet again. He threw his arms back while taking in a deep breath that caused his massive chest and bulbous belly to expand with air. Most of Lunka’s animal furs and leathers had fallen from his shoulders, leaving his massive, yellow-pigmented skin exposed for all to see.

  “And for the wrong side of the fight,” Lunka added calmly, a cruel smile crossing his face. “This time, I kill you and not even Muurg can save you!”

  With that, Lunka braced to charge, but the sound of tearing flesh interrupted the attack as the Forester woman managed to penetrate Lunka’s hide with her longsword. Blood streamed steadily from the few wounds she had succeeded in making. Lunka looked curiously at her, like one would stare at an annoying insect, until the bloodlust returned and his eyes glazed over with the red of rage.

  He swatted at her once, twice, thrice and then a fourth time, consecutively hammering straight down upon her shield. Finally he shot a left punch out with such force that it knocked her backward and to the ground. Her shield flew wide as she sprawled on the grass at the foot of the southern hill where Orngoth had been perched only moments ago. She was clearly dazed and vulnerable and Lunka stood over her, meaning to deliver a double handed hammer fist intended to end her life.

  “Do you fear the ‘pup’?” called Orngoth to the ogre. Lunka stopped and turned his attention to him. He could see that the anger controlled the ogre barbarian fully. Just then, Orngoth caught sight of the male Forester in his peripheral vision as he ran swiftly and silently to the aid of the stunned woman. Quite possibly the man had killed Bengog, for Orngoth could not see around the wagons.

  Lunka’s left arm lunged out and caught the man by his throat, raised him from the soil and snapped his neck. It all happened so swiftly that Orngoth could do nothing to prevent it. And Lunka did all this with his eyes still fixed on Orngoth. He had never even turned them to regard the approaching Forester. In one motion, Lunka discarded the clearly deceased man and charged.

  Orngoth counter-charged. The two of them met in the middle and slammed into one another as Orngoth gave into the bloodlust, too, allowing it to fuel him. His vision dimmed and blurred as the impact sent him reeling and stumbling backward some ten paces before he fell to his rump. He fuzzily saw two identical images of Lunka approach him and land another tremendous blow upon his chest. Lunka stood over Orngoth and screamed at him, mocking him or something, since although Orngoth saw his lips move, he could not hear due to the ringing in his ears.

  He had felt his ribs crack with that blow, too, and this despite his own tough hide and size. He was not Lunka’s equal in size or in strength.

  After a moment, the words began to make sense and his vision began to clear. Lunka was playing with him.

  “The pup is not that big! Not that strong either,” he heard Lunka bellow, arms raised in apparent victory and no longer pressing the attack.

  Orngoth kicked out with his left foot, connecting with Lunka’s knee. This sent the ogre’s leg out wide and knocked him off balance. Orngoth rolled past him and retrieved his greatclub, which had fallen to the side after the initial charge, grasped it and stood. He interrupted Lunka’s next swing with the solid wood of the club, and bark was sent airborne with the power of the attack.

  Orngoth countered with a sideways swing of the club, connecting with Lunka’s ribs. He heard another distinct crack. It was where the Forester woman had landed her initial shield edge strike, he realized. Another blow immediately followed, though with one hand on the club and to the right side this time. Lunka easily countered the intended feint and batted the club aside with an arrogant smile. Then Orngoth planted his right fist into the left ribcage again, causing an involuntary bark of pain from the massive ogre. Again Orngoth landed another solid punch into the same area. Lunka backhanded him in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground, but instead of pressing the advantage, the ogre doubled over in pain.

  Orngoth retrieved his greatclub and moved toward Lunka, who howled in agony and rage, the bloodlust running through him. His muscles seemed to explode from beneath the skin of his arms as he shook with fury. But, before he could do anything, a sharp point of a sword protruded from his right side. Behind him stood the Forester woman, both hands around the hilt of her longsword. Having made the strike, her shield somehow found its way solidly into her grip in the blink of an eye.

  Lunka instinctively swung at her again and again, ignoring the steel that was now seemingly part of his body, yet the Forester shrugged off blow after blow from the heavily muscled ogre. Over and over, her shield blocks parried the ogre’s assault. She even placed a few of her own ripostes now and again as Lunka’s defenses were exposed. She used the shield itself like a weapon, Orngoth admired. So, while she had his attention, he charged at Lunka once more, barreling into his weakened left side and slamming him to the floor.

  The greatclub went to work then, hammering repeatedly on the ogre’s hard frame. With each blow another crack was heard. Orngoth ignored the pleas and howls of pain from this horrible ogre who had tortured him for years. He swung his club again and again, feeling no remorse as he broke bones, turning them to powder, until Lunka stopped moving.

  Orngoth felt a hand on his arm and swung his club again, this time at the thing that would divert him from his focus. He smote the Forester to the ground with that blow.

  “Orngoth! No!” he heard through the bloodlust. “Orngoth! No!”

  He towered over her, his weapon held high, but finally he recognized the woman for who she was and heard the mention of his name. His eyes cleared once more and he let out a breath that he had been unknowingly holding in for a moment.

  “You… know my name?” was all that he could manage as he allowed her to stand. He looked down at his club, seeming to see for the first time the blood that caked its far end.

  “Wha—?”

  “You do not remember what you have just done?” the woman asked, lowering her hood to stare at him. “And yes,” she added, shaking her head and getting back to the subject at hand. “I know you.”

  This intrigued Orngoth and his eyes widened and softened at that admission.

  “You are the half-breed son of Celeste,” she declared calmly. “I would recognize those blue eyes anywhere. And you—“

  “My mother? You knew her?!”

  “Celeste was your mother, yes,” she finally admitted. “I have been tracking your whereabouts for over a decade. I made a promise to your mother years ago, when she died.”

  “How did—?” he asked her as his blue eyes began to moisten.

  “She died giving you life,” the woman gently explained. Orngoth said nothing. He merely stood frozen in place while a tumult of emotions bombarded him. A tear streamed down his left cheek and he stared blankly for a few moments.

  “My name is Lynnai,” the woman said, bowing, after a moment of silence. “I have two things for you. Your mother bade me find you and give them to you and I promised her I would do that.”

  She produced a magnificent jewel which shone with different hues as the light caught it.

  “This is a magical gem that shifts color at times. Your mother did not say much of its other benefits, if any,” she said, holding
it out before her in offering.

  Grasping the gem in his hands, Orngoth felt a sudden peace wash over him, though he believed it to be a coincidence from having been gifted this unique item.

  “This is the second,” Lynnai announced, holding a simple chain necklace that dangled between thumb and forefinger. It had a smallish orb that hung from its length. “This is quite a magnificent thing. It has minor recuperative powers that continue to work over time, healing you of injuries. It will, I am told, even bring the wearer back to life.”

  Orngoth received this newest gift and attempted to fasten it around his neck, but could not work the clasp with his enormous fingers.

  “Allow me,” Lynnai offered and aided him in donning it. As soon as it surrounded his neck, the chain shrunk until it sat tightly with very little slack. Orngoth began to panic, then relaxed once the event ceased.

  “Thank you,” he said, bowing to this intriguing Forester and touched by what she had done. “All humans are not so bad.”

  Lynnai strapped her shield to her back, retrieved her sword and went over to the body of her fallen fellow Forester. Orngoth helped her place the body of the man gently on the back of her horse. She nodded her thanks and began to trot off, but then turned to face him once more.

  “Fare thee well, Orngoth. I hope that you find your way in this world and that you learn to judge each individual as just that.” Lynnai pulled her hood up over her head and rode off in a gallop, disappearing down the road to the east.

  Orngoth began to sift through the carnage, looking for anything that might help him explain to Muurg what had happened. He decided that he would return to the ogre grotto and leave in the night if he were able, but the thought of this left him with a desperate and inescapable fear.

  Where would I go? he wondered. Then he heard something from behind the wagon and saw Bengog make it back to his feet. He was bleeding from a wound in his side, but it appeared superficial.

  “Wha’ happen?” Bengog asked, not truly understanding what had just played out. Then the ogre observed the carnage and witnessed the dead body of Lunka, or what was left of it, and frowned, or so Orngoth thought.

  “Wha’ kill him!?” Bengog said excitedly, looking around, worried that whatever had done this was still here, lurking about.

  “I did not see it myself,” Orngoth lied. “We will take the belongings that we can salvage from the wagons as usual and head back.”

  Bengog stared about, still obviously not knowing what happened, and nodded his assent.

  With that, the two remaining Ironskulls gathered what goods that they could from the wagons and threw them over the backs of the horses. They worked until the sun began to dip further into the western sky. Orngoth spent those hours, as well as the time expended traveling back to the grotto, trying to assert the courage that he needed to leave the Ironskull tribe once and for all.

  He fingered the pendant about his neck and contemplated how exactly he was going to do that.

  Chapter 6

  Distant Familiarity

  “What if we were to attempt to recover the phylactery ourselves?” Tiyarnon voiced aloud what all three of them had been thinking.

  “I been itchin’ fer somethin’ to hit fer days now,” Rolin responded in typical dwarven fashion, adjusting his helmet atop his head as he spat out the words. He scratched his ever-whitening beard and looked to Nimaira, who was hosting the meeting now that she had finished teaching a class. Her silver hair hung over her shoulder, tied back in a pony-tail. The half-elf sat in a chair adjacent to her desk and pondered the question, her eyes glancing down at a parchment she held that evidently demanded her attention, before turning to face her guests.

  Nimaira Silvershade was the current Guild Mistress of Wizardry, deservedly so, and was quite possibly one of the most dominant mages in all of Wothlondia. Here at the University of Wizardry, she was responsible for instructing and teaching the highest level of spell-casting to those who had passed their previous courses. She taught everything from the lowest to the most advanced spells available within the school of the mystic arts, and could be found tutoring novices as well as the very best of the best.

  As the half-elf woman reviewed the parchment, attempting in vain to give it the proper consideration it needed, she unconsciously crossed her legs. The lower half of her garment slid aside to reveal a shapely leg that neither Tiyarnon nor Rolin could miss. How naturally beautiful the half-elves were, Tiyarnon thought, shaking his head in admission as he admired her beauty. There was no denying that Nimaira was stunning. In fact, she was one of the most attractive people Tiyarnon had ever laid eyes upon, but she was extremely unassuming when it came to her attire as she usually wore robes that covered most of her body, especially while she was teaching.

  He read her face as it turned slightly red in embarrassment at the incident and he looked away to allow her to recover. Rolin, however, did not.

  “Whatcha’ thinkin’? I ain’t seen a beautiful woman a’fore? We got plenty of ’em in me clan at Eisenhaum,” Rolin added, with a chuckle from Tiyarnon. The dwarf was referring of course to the city of dwarves within the Brimstone Mountains which the Hardbeards called their home, as had Rolin once, many decades ago. “Some of ’em even got beards!”

  “I will give it a go,” answered the half-elf to the High Priest’s initial question concerning the phylactery, while smiling at the dwarf’s comment. She then pulled the whole of her silvery hair out of her pony-tail and shook it free. She proceeded to make a ridiculous face, further poking fun and allowing herself a certain freedom that she’d experienced over the years with these two, her closest friends.

  “If your frail human body can handle it,” she added in a teasing way, directing her comment specifically to Tiyarnon, who rolled his eyes and coughed as the half-elven woman laughed in a genuine manner. It was common knowledge to Rolin and the half-elf that Tiyarnon was at least one hundred years old. This was universally old for a human, but the High Priest of the Sun God had seemed to slow his aging process in his early forties. The other two knew this because they had traveled the whole of Wothlondia together, prior to the assault of Ashenclaw and the scorching drakes. But how he had done it was a strange and unknown mystery to them both, as Tiyarnon had never offered an explanation for it, nor did they press the issue.

  Nimaira rubbed her eyes and refocused on the task set before her now. “Rumor has it that they were seen by several eyewitnesses heading south out of Oakhaven?”

  “Aye,” Tiyarnon said, nodding. Rolin was mirroring this gesture as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “There be more to this than meets the eye, don’t ye be doubtin’,” the dwarf added, while wiping his nose and scratching his chin.

  Nevertheless, Tiyarnon, the stubborn and wise High Priest of The Shimmering One, had a lofty sense of honor and felt responsible for his apprentices’ actions.

  “Those priests were my responsibility,” said the man, eyes still on the floor and leaning on his staff. Nimaira moved away from her desk and gathered a few things, threw them into a leather rucksack, then strapped it to her back.

  “I have a few instructions for my colleagues and then we can go,” she continued, moving toward the door and disappearing through it.

  “Inform Aldranon and Aeldur of our intentions and tell them we will be back as soon as we can,” Tiyarnon instructed Rolin Hardbeard. The dwarf merely nodded and then headed out the door and down the spiral stairway where the half-elf had just gone. He proceeded out into the afternoon sun. Tiyarnon then sat alone with his thoughts as a bell sounded in the distance.

  It had only been last evening when the apprentices had reportedly left the city. The guards posted at the gates couldn’t really give a good description of them, as they were always more concerned with who was coming into Oakhaven rather than leaving it. But by all accounts, the men stationed had at the gates had indeed seen Thaurion in their midst, since they collectively described a man with blonde, curly hair who appeared to b
e leading the others.

  Such a promising young acolyte, Tiyarnon thought, his mind filled with recent memories of Thaurion. He recalled how this individual in particular had shown great potential and loyalty to the Sun God. That sort of reverence reminded him of one other, whom he’d mentored many years ago.

  The thought of this saddened and frustrated the High Priest as he attempted to focus on his meditations and prayers instead. It was at least a brief respite from the grief he carried now. Shortly thereafter, he descended the stairwell and went out into the teeming streets of Oakhaven’s Enlightenment District. From thence he walked through to the main courtyard, passing right by the Hall of the High Council, and on to the gates. He mentioned something to one of the guards, who hurried off, vanishing amidst the multitude of people.

  Rolin and Nimaira appeared just as the guard returned with three magnificent horses in tow. This made Rolin frown—he hated traveling on horseback. Nimaira had quite the opposite reaction as she very much enjoyed riding the beautiful, equine creatures.

  “I’m hopin’ yer not intendin’ on makin’ these horses speed, are ye?” Rolin asked in a phony threatening tone, knowing full well the answer to the question.

  Nimaira looked to Tiyarnon and leaned in, whispering something to him that Rolin could not make out. However he guessed correctly what it was about when his two companions shared a thinly-disguised giggle.

  “You’ll be just fine, my dwarven friend,” Tiyarnon encouraged.

  “Besides, little one, it’s not like we haven’t done this in years past,” Nimaira teased further.

  Rolin, struggling to climb onto the back of his horse, frowned at the pet name she had called him. He did not like it at all, and never had, not since the first time she had used it. But he’d never mentioned his displeasure at it and it was too late now, he figured, settling uncomfortably into his saddle and grabbing the reins of the horse awkwardly.