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

by Gary F. Vanucci

  He rubbed his forehead, wondering if she had caught that, and waved the rest of them on.

  With that, the five companions proceeded once more, slowly and cautiously, toward the base of the path and into Heartwood Valley, where their caravan awaited.

  Helene was running.

  She was naked. Her long black hair billowed behind her as she ran, despite being soaked with sweat. She looked back to see a clawed hand reach out for her. No matter how fast she ran, it did not seem to matter. It was black everywhere she looked and yet as clear as if she had seen it in the light of day.

  Madness!

  Sweat drenched her supple, pale form and her heart thundered in her chest as terror surged through her. “No!”

  Again she felt the presence behind her, gaining ground and closing on her. No matter how hard her muscles propelled her forward, she could not outpace it.

  Is it a demon!? she questioned as she ran on. Is Hecate displeased with me?!

  “Come to me,” the voice called from behind her, soothing and yet ringing with malevolence. She knew that if she stopped, it would claim her—mind, body and soul.

  On she ran, closing her eyes and sprinting in the gloom, tirelessly. She felt as though heart was going to burst through her bosom as her pursuer touched her soft flesh.

  She screamed as it stroked her shoulder, feeling the cold, lifeless sensation as it washed over her limbs, slowing her flight.

  She closed her eyes and screamed, sensing the end was upon her.

  She could run no more.

  Helene’s eyes shot open and she sat up in her own bed, coarsely screaming, her linens drenched and her muscles aching as if she were running, and not dreaming.

  It felt so real.

  Her throat was raw and dry. A gremlin sprung out from beneath her bed, its white eyes transfixed on her. An imp emerged from her closet hovering on bat wings and revealing a row of razor sharp teeth as it escaped the shadows and smirked. They both watched her as she lit a lantern on her night table. She constantly had the tiny demons surrounding her, an offering from Hecate for her devotion, and an unconventional source of comfort for her, too.

  She was ascending to greatness, or so she thought. Someday soon, she would be granted control over more powerful demons. That day was not far off. For now, these lesser demons did her bidding, and they sensed her turmoil at the moment.

  She threw the covers from her bare form and wiped sweat from her glistening skin. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung loosely over her door and spotted a strange marking on the top of her shoulder.

  It was where the thing had touched her in her dream…but that could not be! It was a dream…a nightmare!

  She threw on a thin cotton gown and fell to her knees. She spread out a series of candles on the floor in a specific order, placing them one by one, initiating a ritual and chanting words native to Pandemonium, asking Hecate, her Black Queen, for guidance.

  Her raven hair hung limply in front of her face as she spoke the words. Her eyes rolled over white and the candles all ignited as she finished the ritual. For several moments, she remained on bent knees within a circle of candles, eyes shut.

  When she opened her eyes, a creature lithe and beautiful stood before her. Its skin blended with the shadows on occasion.

  An avatar of Hecate! She has heard my plea!

  “Why do you…call for me…warlock?” asked the demoness, its voice soothing, yet irritable.

  “I—I fear that another spirit is trying to possess me,” she explained, staring up at the vision through dark strands of hair.

  “Is that…so?” asked the demoness, pacing about the room as if it were her own. Helene nodded, fearful to speak.

  “I hear its cries now. It whispers…even now…for you,” spoke the avatar, spinning and hissing threateningly toward the door to her quarters.

  “You know of this thing that haunts my dreams?”

  “Hecate will not be pleased! You…belong…to her,” it continued, pausing often as if searching for the precise words.

  The demon shifted about the room in an agitated manner. As it moved about, it seemed to become one with the gloom itself, shifting back and forth between the shadows, its eyes burning red, then white, and sometimes disappearing all together.

  “Its name…I cannot decipher. It is the…servant… of the demon lord of Hubris—Sammael,” it continued in a hiss. “I will give…you the power you need to resist its…temptations. So says my…queen. You are her…faithful servant…and for that you shall be aptly rewarded,” the demoness managed. “A ritual of…warding.”

  With that, the avatar began the ceremony. The flames on the candles changed in hue and intensity for several moments. Helene remained sitting within the circle of candles, as they faded to nothing. The demoness finished, the darkness consumed the space and then disappeared, leaving behind the dimly lit lantern on her bed table.

  The avatar was gone.

  Nothing remained of the presence that haunted Helene. Several imps, gremlins and mites spilled forth from beneath her bed and from the shadowed corners of the room to comfort her.

  She left her room, which was several flights below Xorgram’s. It was the only room on that particular level, one level up from the bottom, where she made her way up the ladders. She continued climbing, as there were a dozen or so levels to the mines; she never bothered to count. As she reached the surface, she progressed out of the stony passage and onto the soft ground and open air of the village.

  There was an encroaching dawn that was threatening to penetrate the gloom. It had been raining for the entire evening prior, which resulted in a damp and chilly morning. Her skin reacted as such, goose pimples covering her arms and legs as the breeze penetrated her thin gown, blowing most of the thin garments to the side. But the cold would not last long as she took a deep breath and recited the dark prayers in her mind.

  It was time again for her to bring forth more demons of her own. She began her ritual, as she had done many times over. Her spells conjured forth sprites, maulers, imps and gremlins to serve her own—and Xorgram’s—needs. The tiny demons that she summoned would remain here for several days, hiding in the multitude of shadows and the abandoned homes in the village, adding credibility to the rumors that Hollow Hill was indeed haunted.

  Xorgram’s idea worked on more than one occasion, driving away potential treasure seekers or would-be-investigators that might otherwise stumble upon the real happenings surrounding Hollow Hill. That could not happen. This was the home of the Blackstone Brotherhood.

  She finished her spell and as the things poured forth from her portal to Pandemonium, she could not help but beam. Hecate was most pleased with her, she thought. The demons huddled around her, caressing her, before willing themselves invisible, or simply vanishing into shadows.

  She made her way back toward the mineshaft entrance, passing a few of the laborers who pointed and whispered. Many of them peered out from behind drawn shades or peeked out of their windows at her as they were used to seeing her out here every few days, repeating the spell of summoning. She did not care in the slightest. She even believed that most of them made their homes in the dilapidated buildings out here because they feared her and her black magic. None of them very much liked the idea of having demons present, regardless of Xorgram’s orders to the contrary.

  Helene smiled at that and carried on, descending the many levels to her chambers, debating whether or not to tell Xorgram about what had happened to her with regards to the demonic presence. She would need to give it much consideration.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Goodbye, my friends,” called Elidyr, standing amid the foliage of the Amrel Forest, offering a dismissive wave to the riders in the caravan. The elf turned and scampered off into the trees, disappearing from Thaurion’s sight.

  Winter’s Fade was coming to an end and the sun shone down through the canopy of trees above, warming the young acolyte, but doing nothing to dismiss his trepidation. They h
ad been traveling for weeks and were taking their final opportunity to stretch. Once finished, Pendus, Jasmine and his fellow acolytes all took their places inside the caravan as it started off toward Oakhaven once again.

  Rolf was fighting a fever again and it was all that he and Alana could do to stave off the effects of his condition.

  Dryden urged the horses on and as the twilight was upon them once again, the gates of Oakhaven were within sight.

  “Thank The Shimmering One,” Alana called out in praise at seeing the familiar sight of her home in the distance.

  Thaurion, however, was not at all eager to return, despite the horrors of the past few months.

  What will Tiyarnon think of me? he contemplated for what was the thousandth time. He must think me a heretic!

  “He must know of the situation,” Alana offered, unmistakably reading the look of concern upon his face. He was certainly an open book to her.

  The last leg of the trek was in silence until the wagon arrived at the threshold of the city. Thaurion tried to think positive thoughts as the guards approached and examined the caravan’s contents. Pendus was the first to exit to speak with them.

  Thaurion’s eyes glanced over the crowd, which was choked with citizens, visitors, and the like, scanning for anyone he recognized. He peered out from the rear of the wagon and stared at the Hall of the High Council and involuntarily took in a sharp breath. It was a magnificent structure—imposing and strong.

  Then, suddenly, he saw him through the crowd.

  Tiyarnon!

  He knew they were coming!

  The High Priest stood near the gates, hood down, leaning upon his staff. His thinning white hair framed his face and there was a smile planted beneath his beard as his eyes met Thaurion’s.

  The high priest made his way through the crowd and stood at the entrance to the caravan, nodding to Alana as she emerged.

  “We have injured, my lord!” Alana explained, grasping the man by his arm and tugging him closer. “Rolf is in dire need of The Shimmering One’s grace.”

  “As is my husband,” cried a weak voice from inside the caravan. She turned to face Thaurion and he saw Jasmine’s blue eyes were moist with tears. She was seated in the caravan’s floor cradling the head of her husband in her lap.

  Tiyarnon peeked inside and nodded to her.

  “I shall do my very best, dear,” he stated to her, waving for help. As he did so, several acolytes bearing the mark of The Shimmering One upon their vestments moved to aid them. They carefully removed Rolf from the caravan, followed by Geth. Jasmine tried to help them, but the priests waved her away. The caravan was empty.

  Almost.

  Thaurion finally emerged and his eyes locked with Tiyarnon’s before quickly finding the floor. He bowed his head in shame.

  He felt the hands of his mentor on his chin, lifting his head to meet his gaze.

  “We have much to discuss, aye?”

  “It is not as is seems!”

  “It would appear so,” Tiyarnon added with a nod, a hint of a smile threatening to emerge from beneath his snow-white beard. Then he spun on his heel and inspected the wounds on Geth. The man was breathing easily despite the worry of his wife.

  “Who dressed this wound?” Tiyarnon asked.

  “It was a dark-haired elf,” Jasmine said through sobs.

  Tiyarnon nodded and smiled appreciatively. “Elec? And where are the others?”

  Alana and Thaurion shook their heads in unison.

  “They saved our lives from a band of highwaymen, my lord,” called a voice through the teeming crowd at the gates. “That elf saved my son-in-law’s life and the others saved ours. They came out of nowhere like a gift from the gods!”

  Tiyarnon smiled openly at that and nodded, thankfully accepting the knowledge that the group yet lived.

  “Perhaps you can tell me about your chance meeting in greater detail,” Tiyarnon stated with a bow. “Stay as a guest in our hall for the evening while we dine. We can speak of it then.”

  “I—we—would be honored, my lord,” Pendus replied, bowing low in return.

  With that, Tiyarnon spun on his heel and marched off with vigor, following the procession of acolytes as they hauled the injured men toward the Hall of the High Council.

  Unbeknownst to them all, a pair of violet eyes watched them from the shadows with great interest.

  “They are back!” cried a young man’s voice as he approached Ganthorpe, who was seated at the rear of The Steel Dragon. The Master of Thieves sat calmly, two men sat across from him. A hooded man who wore an eye patch and another who wore a thinly brimmed floppy hat atop his auburn hair.

  As the youth approached, Ganthorpe shook his head and averted his eyes from him as he came to a stop in front of the table, panting.

  Ganthorpe did not remember the young lad’s name, but did recall that he was a beggar from the Commons who, like so many beggars from the Commons, wanted a chance to prove himself to the Thieves’ Guild.

  Faster than the eye could follow, Ganthorpe grabbed the youth by the arm and yanked him down into the seat beside him.

  “Keep your voice down, boy,” instructed Ganthorpe as the lad seemed to go still completely in response to the command.

  “Or you’ll lose your tongue,” added Aidan as he adjusted his eye patch, and then slid it to the side to reveal his disfigured face beneath. “Or you might end up with something like this.”

  “Let’s not alarm the lad,” Zeke said with a cruel smile, displaying a row of rotted teeth. The boy swallowed hard at seeing the gruesome sights and began to fidget.

  “Take it easy,” Ganthorpe said, his eyes darting back and forth from Aidan to the boy. He allowed him a moment of silence to calm down. “Now…what is it that seems to have you so excited?”

  “I saw them!” whispered the lad with renewed enthusiasm, trying to keep his voice low. “They were coming into the gates in a caravan—the priests you were asking about. I’m sure of it!”

  Ganthorpe narrowed his eyes into thin fissures of icy blue as he regarded the boy to his left. He scratched his goatee thoughtfully.

  “Go check it out,” Ganthorpe ordered without looking up. Aidan quickly stood and exited the room and Zeke hastily followed after him. Ganthorpe watched them as they exited caught sight of them again as they appeared on the opposite side of the window glass to his right.

  “Not you,” he said, grabbing the lad by the wrist as he tried to stand. “Let’s get you something to eat, young man.” Ganthorpe snapped his fingers to the serving wench. “Get the boy whatever he wants.”

  “You did well,” Ganthorpe congratulated him. “And you should probably sit over there,” gesturing for the boy to sit across from him in the vacated seat. The boy stood and nodded in compliance, beads of sweat forming on his brow below his shaggy brown mop of hair as he moved to obey.

  “My name is—”

  “It’s best for now if I don’t know your name, lad,” Ganthorpe warned, not looking at the boy, his eyes instead finding the attractive serving wench who came into view again.

  As soon as he was seated, the server returned with a pitcher of water, some bread and a menu of items. He tore a huge portion of the bread and ravenously devoured it. Ganthorpe watched the boy eat and pondered the discussion he would soon be having with the High Priest of The Shimmering One regarding recent events.

  Ganthorpe waited for many hours impatiently in his quarters in the Warehousing District where his key office was situated, deep beneath the docks of Oakhaven. Night was upon the city now and he decided that sufficient enough time had passed to break words with Tiyarnon.

  “Do you have any news?” called a deadly and displaced voice. It sent shivers up and down the spine of the Master of Thieves, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand.

  “How di—,” Ganthorpe stated before he could silence his own tongue.

  It was the assassin, Helgoth Argentus.

  He stood before his desk enveloped in the s
hadows. Only the glint of violet eyes could be seen in the gloom staring back at him—or rather through him, it seemed.

  “What is it!? Gods!” Ganthorpe could not shake the sense of dread that this elf imposed on him. He was clearly caught off guard…again! In his own office!

  “How did you—? Never mind, what is it?”

  “What are you so worried about?” asked the assassin as he emerged from the shadows, stepping uncomfortably close to Ganthorpe. He looked around wondering where his sentries were at this very moment, then feared them likely dead at the hands of this murderer.

  “None of your guards are even aware of my presence,” Helgoth stated coldly, as if reading his mind.

  “I am not surprised,” Ganthorpe acknowledged, shifting in his seat uneasily for a moment before regaining his composure. “Now that you have my attention, what is it that you want?”

  “Want?” repeated the assassin. “I merely wish to know what you have discovered as to the whereabouts of the target. I am sure that you are aware of the priests’ return?”

  “Of course I am,” snapped Ganthorpe, standing and retrieving a long coat from a hook on the wall.

  “I did not see this Rose of which you spoke. At least none matching her description arrived with the travelers.”

  “I do not know for certain yet,” replied Ganthorpe. “As a matter of fact, I am on my way to interpret the situation by meeting with the High Priest, Tiyarnon. Right now. He’s been behind closed doors—magically sealed doors, I might add!—with the riders of the caravan.”

  “And these wounded…are they able to speak?” Helgoth asked without missing a beat, while Ganthorpe slipped on his coat.

  “I shall find out soon enough,” Ganthorpe responded.

  “Perhaps I shall find out first,” Helgoth exclaimed as he faded into the shadows, his voice becoming distant again as it too melted into the gloom.