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

by Gary F. Vanucci

  She turned to witness the Wayfarer, Dainn, standing beside her with his staff grasped tightly in his hands. His eyes were smoking white, too, the aftereffects of a spell he had just invoked. He smirked at her, an unnatural glint reflecting in his now-beady eyes. He nodded toward the trolls that were now some twenty paces away. The momentous swing of the attacking troll continued, but instead of hitting Phaera, they connected instead with as adjacent troll instead, who took offense to it. The two of them began clawing at one another.

  “Many thanks,” Phaera offered in appreciation. Dainn had transported her away with his magic.

  “This is beginning to grow tiresome, don’t you agree?” Dainn asked her.

  “Aye,” Phaera concurred. She stared down at the Wayfarer and nodded. “I despise physical confrontation.”

  “Unlike Megnus there, who was trained by our greatest warriors,” Dainn offered, gesturing toward the slagfell warrior-prince, who hacked at the trolls with tireless limbs.

  Phaera, offended by the comment, placed the sharp tip of her sword against the pale flesh of his neck, just below his chin. Phaera used the sword to angle his head up to meet her deadly gaze.

  “I am quite competent,” she explained, nodding her head toward Megnus. There was no mistaking her tone as she spoke. “I said I did not enjoy it—not that I wasn’t skilled, Wayfarer.”

  “I…meant no disrespect,” Dainn admitted, then stopped as the words were lost on her.

  Focusing her attention on Megnus fully, she removed the blade tip from Dainn’s neck and noted that his axes glinted in the flickering fire light, coated with some sort of gooey substance. As Megnus severed troll limbs, they were smoking as they hit the ground.

  She watched in approval as the slagfell prince, whom she did not care for personally, continued to lop troll limbs and extremities from their hosts. This time, however, the limbs did not grow back as the stumps were scorched shut.

  “Acidic venom,” declared Phaera, as she leaped from the ground, taking to the sky, not wishing to engage in the melee as Megnus did. She nodded at the commotion behind Dainn and directed a cruel smile upon him. “I’d move if I were you, Wayfarer.”

  Dainn did not even look at what she was referring to, but spoke an incantation and disappeared. Phaera watched the elemental creature of fire discharge flames in all directions, igniting most of the valley, and reducing the remaining trolls to ash.

  Megnus appeared to be caught in the blaze, perhaps his lust for battle getting the better of him.

  “Whatcha be doin’?” called a gruff and judgmental voice from directly beneath the hovering succubus. Both Dainn and Megnus stood upon the singed valley floor in the relative safety behind Prishnack’s fire elemental. Megnus shoved Dainn hard and whipped his helm off, tossing it to the ground. “Ye robbed me of me kills!”

  “I saved your royal hide, rather!” countered Dainn, crossing his arms over his chest in defiance.

  The two slagfell from Shadowmere continued to argue as Phaera watched the entire valley go up in flames. She basked in the chaos around her, watching the conflagration as smoke choked the air and the sun set behind it.

  Kelgarek hit the final landing and continued along, still escorted by the Dented Skull soldiers. As he rounded that last corner, he came into view of the orc chieftain, Narthrog. The proud, green-skinned orc stood with his arms folded over his chest, his royal guard surrounding him in front of the main entrance to Dragon’s Eye. As Narthrog spoke, many of Kelgarek’s own overlords and fellow Bonemasher orcs huddled in a semicircle around him.

  “What brings mighty Kelgarek to Dragon’s Eye this day?” asked Narthrog confidently, addressing his peer with the proper respect. Kelgarek continued to approach the orc chieftain, stopping an arm’s length from him. Kelgarek was taller than Narthrog, though the orc was thickly muscled.

  Orcs were leaning over platforms from above and below. More still peered out from within the entrance into the caverns behind the orc chieftain, seeing what the commotion was all about. There were shamans, honor guard and overlords surrounding the Dented Skull chieftain, rumored one of the toughest orcs to set foot on the face of Wothlondia. Kelgarek scoffed at that thought, knowing the multitude of Bonemashers behind him would fight to the death for him if he decreed it so.

  “I come with an offer,” Kelgarek finally declared, loudly enough for all of the gathered orcs to hear. “Too long have we sat by as the surface folk ignore us, or take advantage of us,” Kelgarek explained. “We have waited in the shadows for too long, watching as the humans, elves and the rest of the surface folk dominate Wothlondia. I say it ends now!”

  A chorus of cheers erupted from behind and below as many of the Bonemashers thumped their weapons on their chests or upon the ground.

  “But we have achieved peace and have become self-sufficient. Why wage war and folly as our ancestors once did?” refuted the green-skinned orc, his black eyes staring firmly into Kelgarek’s. “To what end?”

  “We should rule the surface world! We are the mightiest race to tread Wothlondia’s soil and we are the ones who shall take it back!” Kelgarek answered, retrieving his greataxe and raising it to the sky.

  “Back?” asked Narthrog, rubbing his bearded chin. “Did we learn nothing from our kin who warred with the surface folk?!” Narthrog spat in disgust from behind his tusks, drawing approving nods from his own tribe. “It took centuries to repair the damage done by our ancestors and you wish to throw this away? This is arrogance!” More cheers went up, this time from the Dented Skulls behind Narthrog. “Surely you must be mad, Kelgarek, for we wish only to remain as we are—self-sufficient. I wish no war against the surface folk.”

  The chieftain of the Bonemasher clan had heard enough. His eyes widened in disbelief at the disrespectful defiance and then narrowed dangerously. Chieftain of an orc tribe or not, he needed to be removed from his position if Kelgarek was to claim this tribe for Zabalas. There was no other choice. Orcs followed the strongest of their kind, as it had been for centuries. And only the mightiest of warriors ascended to prominence in the orc culture. All orcs adhered to this hierarchy. This was always their way.

  One minute the mighty Bonemasher chieftain leaned upon the huge double-bladed axe briefly, its head resting neatly on the ground, the next the axe head was navigating the space between the two orcs in a wide arc.

  Kelgarek’s muscles corded, swinging the axe so quickly that it belied the very size of the weapon. He handled it with the ease that a man might wield a hand axe by comparison. That swing was meant to remove Narthrog’s head, and the sudden attack caught everyone by surprise.

  Everyone except Narthrog, that is.

  The rival chieftain jumped back in response, barely avoiding the killing blow. His closest guards on either side of him were not as lucky as their heads were sent sprawling away.

  Before the lifeless bodies of the decapitated orcs hit the ground, Narthrog removed his own greatsword from his back. Kelgarek sent another overhead strike toward the green-skinned orc who again danced to the side.

  “Meet my steel!” Kelgarek called mockingly, an insult among orcs. It was meant to intimidate the Dented Skulls’ chieftain, who smiled in response to the insult.

  “I will meet your steel,” mocked Narthrog, bringing a left to right chop to bear on Kelgarek, who met its impact with the head of his axe, holding it out in defiance as the two weapons clashed but held firm against one another. “And I will best you!”

  The two chieftains, now face to face, glowered at one another, neither giving ground in this most deadly confrontation. Narthrog shoved the much larger Kelgarek away.

  “It is folly that you understand only violence, Kelgarek. We are better than this!”

  Narthrog attempted a thrust meant to pierce the throat of Kelgarek. The Bonemasher chieftain met the thrust with his forearm, upon which a thick steel band encircled his wrist. He used it to guide the thrust wide of its mark with minimal effort. He did not even flinch at the attack and silently
respected his enemy for making a stand for what he believed, no matter how foolish. But it would not matter soon, for he would die this day, just like all of the others who stood against him.

  Kelgarek kicked out, catching Narthrog squarely in the belly. The force of the kick caused the green-skinned orc to stagger back a few steps and into the waiting arms of one of his officers, who helped him regain his balance.

  “Give me your troops and your word and I will spare your life,” Kelgarek offered in a measured, arrogant tone.

  “You are not worthy to lead my orcs!” claimed Narthrog as he swung his greatsword in a right to left downward chop, meant for Kelgarek’s left shoulder. Again, Kelgarek stopped the blow with his axe head and then punched straight out with his right fist, connecting with Narthrog’s nose, which shattered under the impact.

  “I am more than worthy,” muttered Kelgarek, licking at the blood that covered his fist. “Do you not understand the worth of our people?!” he bellowed, addressing the crowd of orcs. Narthrog landed hard on his back facing Kelgarek, who stood over him, axe held high in the air, preparing to deliver an overhead chop. “Yield or die.”

  The tip of a desperately thrust greatsword bore down upon Kelgarek in response. It was wildly struck and harbored the fear of the defiant Narthrog, who was still fighting valiantly—and foolishly—despite his condition. The thrust continued, finding the flesh of Kelgarek, who did not attempt to move out of its path, but instead brought his greataxe down upon the prone chieftain’s head.

  Kelgarek released the handle of his greataxe, now imbedded in the ground and through the skull of Narthrog. He leveled his gaze to the dead orc and then addressed the gathered Dented Skulls orcs around him. Before any of them had a chance to react, Kelgarek spoke.

  “Your lives belong to me now,” he said in an authoritative tone that demanded respect.

  All fell silent again as he smeared Narthrog’s blood into his chest.

  “Unless any more of you are willing to stand before me as the next heir to the crown of Dragon’s Eye—for the edge of my axe awaits you.”

  One orc charged Kelgarek in response to his threat, a friend or supporter of Narthrog, he supposed. It did not matter which to Kelgarek. The sword tip was held straight out, intended for his heart.

  He stared unflinchingly into the eyes of the onrushing orc, unmoving as the gap closed between them. As the sword tip was about to pierce his flesh, Kelgarek swatted the sword edge to the side with unimaginable strength and caught the orc by the throat in his left hand, stopping his momentum straightaway. He hoisted his attacker from the ground as easily as if he were a child. The orc’s shield fell helplessly to the ground as his arms moved to dislodge Kelgarek’s iron grip.

  Kelgarek absorbed a few pathetic blows from the upstart orc as he walked with purpose toward the edge of the mountainside and tossed him over the side to tumble to the rocky ground below.

  He spun on the crowd and roared something bestial in nature.

  Cries of ‘Kel-gar-ek’ sounded first from the Bonemashers until finally, orcs from both tribes combined in harmony to chant their new chieftain’s name. Kelgarek reclaimed his greataxe, yanking it free from Narthrog’s skull, nodding his approval as a shaman tried hopelessly to attend his bleeding hand.

  “A truly glorious victory, my lord,” announced the shaman tending the wound. He flinched nervously as the chieftain’s gaze landed on him. Kelgarek merely raised his fist in response, wresting it from the shaman’s grip and encouraging the chants.

  “We are no longer Bonemashers and Dented Skulls…we are merely the Dark Legion from this day forth!” announced Kelgarek loudly as his eyes fell over the crowd.

  They were all his servants now.

  CHAPTER 14

  The sun reflected on the surface of the Lake of Souls as the rain clouds had all but disappeared in the late morning chill. The only reminder of the unexpected and heavy rain was the slick surface of the stony trail in certain areas still covered in deep shadow, maintaining their moist highlight. Garius trod softly and with great care upon the slippery rock as he listened to Saeunn.

  “You fought well, Elec,” Saeunn congratulated, truly commending the elf as the five of them traversed the trail.

  Elec continued along as if he hadn’t heard the compliment.

  “Wha—? Oh…thank you for the praise, Saeunn. Coming from you, it means a great deal. I am no barbarian warrior, yet still I try,” he offered, bowing his head in appreciation of her mention. “It gives me inspiration to see you fight. There was a time years ago when I left my home for more than a decade and trained myself to use these weapons,” Elec explained, grasping the hilts of his sword and dagger. He slid them from their scabbards and replaced them as they continued carefully down the path.

  “My father jokingly referred to me once as ‘Kinestath Tempus’ to further humiliate me,” Elec added with a laugh.

  Saeunn and Rose both looked to each other in confusion at the statement.

  “Ah,” Elec said, pursing his lips. “You do not understand elven dialect. The phrase is the ancient elven term for warrior, or one who fights—more directly translated, it means ‘storm of motion’.” Elec scowled in frustration. It was clear to Garius how his father’s remark made him feel, no doubt reminding him all too well the dynamics of their relationship. He had spoken with the elf on a few occasions in the past few weeks regarding his relationship with his father.

  “You see, he did not respect my magical aptitude, my alchemical studies, or my interest in tinkering with devices,” Elec continued. “And he surely did not think that the way of the combatant was a noble path; certainly not for me, and certainly not for any high elf.”

  “The way of the warrior is an honorable one,” Saeunn countered in response to the insulting observations of Elec’s father, as if to refute his claim.

  “I understand, Saeunn, and agree unreservedly,” Elec said with a smile. “I do not echo his sentiment, nor did I mention it to insult you, rather to explain that my upbringing was filled with disagreement and discontent.”

  “Your father sounds lovely,” Rose quipped sarcastically from the rear of the group, following slowly behind them and rubbing an aching shoulder.

  “The high elves of Acillia are masters of the arcane,” Garius clarified, offering up an explanation so as to support Elec’s claim.

  “Hand to hand combat takes skill,” Saeunn countered again. “My people were as skilled in combat as your people are in the ways of magic, I’d wager.”

  “I do not doubt that,” Elec stated with a disarming smile, giving her claim validation.

  “We and the Greymoors’ survivors, and all our ancestors for that matter, were countless generations of proud barbarians. My father was the bravest warrior to ever raise an axe,” Saeunn continued as if this were fact and not opinion. “Only Kernagos measured him in valor, but none were his equal on the battlefield.”

  “Greymoors?” asked the half-ogre, who looked completely out of place as he descended clumsily down the tiny path.

  Garius glanced to Orngoth with a look of consternation. The Inquisitor had studied much of the history of Wothlondia, and was familiar with the tale of the Greymoors and how they lost most of their tribe to the plague of Blood Rot over a decade past.

  “Who are the Greymoors?” Orngoth repeated.

  Saeunn paused and said nothing at first. She knelt, paused and glanced at a tattoo on her right arm, then stood and finally spoke. “They were another tribe of barbarians northwest of Chansuk. They lost most of their people years ago, falling victim to a dreadful disease,” Saeunn explained, grief evident in her voice. Garius waited to see what the half-ogre might say in response, letting it play out.

  Orngoth merely nodded to her, not pressing the issue. He carried on in silence, and Garius watched his massive hand curl around a branch which sprouted from the mountainside, which the others had simply bent low to avoid, but he could not. Instead, he used it to balance himself as he had on the way u
p. It creaked and twisted under his massive weight but held.

  The five of them remained in silence for a good portion of the descent until they made it to the halfway point, stopping on a landing to catch their breaths.

  “So, Ironskull, it is my turn to ask a question,” stated Saeunn.

  “Ironskull? You know this name?”

  “Well, you were once a member of the Ironskull tribe, no?” Saeunn reasoned. “Despite their ways, you must have gained notable achievements within their ranks. Slaying an enemy is slaying an enemy.”

  Orngoth nodded for her to continue. “Was it your ogre brethren that honed your fighting skill?”

  “They did not dampen my aggressive spirit. I am good at fighting…at killing,” he added, stumbling over the words, really trying to express his nature to her.

  “I only mean to honor your accomplishments within the barbarian culture, Orngoth. I am not looking for details on what you did to achieve them.”

  Again, the half-ogre nodded to her and bowed his head. She grabbed the hilt of a small dagger, pulling it from its sheath beneath her tunic and piercing the inside of her right forearm. She did not wince as the blade drew blood. Garius observed intently, recognizing the ritual for what it was.

  “This is tradition in Chansuk. It is how we recognize honor within the tribe.”

  Orngoth cocked his head to the side in confusion, his blue eyes squinting against the fading sun over her shoulder.

  “You are my brother,” she simplified.

  Saeunn held her arm out, a small drop of blood slowly making its way down her forearm. Orngoth grabbed her blade, understanding upon his features, as he repeated the process. The two barbarians clasped forearms together, completing the ritual.

  “Brother,” was all she said once they finished their tribal ritual.

  “’Brother’ is right,” Rose mumbled, rolling her eyes at the ceremonial custom. Garius barely held in a laugh and looked away so none would see. Rose simply continued down the hill, and then turned and winked at Garius.