The Trials Of Ashbarn ( Book 5)

by Jeff Gunzel

  There was no front room or hallway to speak of, only a long, dimly lit stairway descending into darkness. The thick air was humid and musty, a stark contrast from the cool night air. Azek took Ilirra’s hand and they began their descent. Even though they moved along at a steady pace, a mouse would have made more noise.

  When they neared the bottom, Azek raised a hand and slowed his steps. They could hear the muffled grunts and thuds of practiced combat. Azek rounded the corner, then moved silently across the empty room. Despite the blackened cobwebs that clung to the ceiling, dozens of footprints tracked across the dusty floor—further evidence this abandoned shack was not all that abandoned. His back to the wall, he inched across before peeking through a glassless square opening. There might have been a window once, but it was hard to tell now. The grunts and groans were clearly coming from this second room. He motioned to Ilirra, who tiptoed around and glanced through from the other side. Her jaw swung open like an iron gate.

  A thin, gray mat covered every inch of the floor, making shoes unnecessary. A very large man stood shirtless and barefoot on the center of the room. Various faded scars crisscrossed his chest and shoulders. He wore nothing but a pair of loose-fitting black pants and a hooded black mask that hung down below his chin. The chilling attire gave the giant the likeness of an executioner. The man’s thick arms and back glistened with sweat, reflecting the dim light from four lanterns hung from the high ceiling. His stance was low and powerful, legs spread wide with his elbows planted on his knees.

  He was surrounded by other shirtless men, also wearing the same black mask and pants. All were barefoot and most were seated on the floor, legs crossed. Although not nearly as big as him, each was lean and well muscled. Hardened bodies seemed as if carved from wood, physiques chiseled from repetitive daily training. All were sweaty, most still breathing heavily, proof of their recent activity. The big man spread his hands out to either side, then pointed out three individuals. “You will not always have a weapon in hand, so you must become a weapon. Dangerous and deadly, even with your bare hands. You three, come,” the big man grunted.

  “Morcel,” Ilirra whispered to herself. She was already sure it was him. After all, there were only so many men that size walking the streets of Taron. But now, hearing his voice, she was certain.

  Without hesitation, the three men rushed fearlessly across the mat. With similar height and body types, they were extremely difficult to tell apart. The two at Morcel’s back left their feet and soared through the air, while the other dove hard at the giant’s knees. The man going low was promptly met with a hard knee to the face. A whirling elbow knocked a second from the air, while the third’s flying kick struck home. He caught Morcel in the back of the shoulder with a fierce blow that would have floored any other man. But the force only made the giant stumble a few steps.

  Morcel rolled his numb shoulder to relieve some of the tightness. “Good,” he grumbled in a low, gravelly voice. The other two were already back on their feet. He eyed the three, circling like vultures. “Just like I showed you. Attack as a single unit and you cannot be stopped, no matter how big or skilled your opponent. Let’s go. Again!”

  As if reading each other’s thoughts, the three exploded at once into a frenzied assault. Morcel whirled about with impossible speed, his forearms and wrists intercepting fists and kicks with hollow, meaty smacks. His feet pivoted constantly as he stepped forward, backward, then shuffled to the side in an endless circle in a strategic dance, its purpose to always keep two attackers within sight.

  However, the three soldiers were highly skilled and well disciplined. They shifted from side to side, keeping no more than an arm’s length between them. Caught in the frenzied dance, they never once collided or got in each other’s way. The perfect spacing made their attacks that much more effective. Whichever two ended up facing Morcel would simply unleash an all-out assault with sharp pinpoint strikes that would have decimated a lesser foe. But even so, they knew not a single strike would find its mark. Not against this foe. But that was never the intent...

  Morcel’s arms pumped and whirled, blocking blows with blinding speed that belonged to a man half his size. But no matter which way his feet shifted, the soldiers made sure one man was always at his back. While the other two occupied the giant with their vicious onslaught, the third could attack from behind. As good as Morcel was, he was no match for this calculated assault.

  The man behind threw a hard punch at the back of the giant’s neck. Morcel’s head fell forward, spittle flying from his mouth. Recovering quickly, he whirled about, launching a wild backhand. The assailant ducked as it whooshed over his head, missing him by a hair. Morcel grimaced as fire shot up the back of his leg. He dropped to one knee. The man who kicked his leg quickly coiled around Morcel’s neck. He pulled the giant backward, squeezing his neck like a python.

  The other two leaped on top of the giant, snatching his hands. Before he could react, both of Morcel’s arms straightened, then snapped out to the sides. With tight grips on his wrists, thumbs facing upward, the two assailants drove their hips into his elbows. His arms trembled from hyperextension, threatening to snap at any moment.

  In a flash the mighty warrior had been immobilized, stretched out flat in a human crucifixion. With both arms trapped in tight armbars, all his air being choked out, all he could do was stomp his foot in submission. The three released him, then rolled backward onto their feet. They stood at attention, arms at their sides. Morcel sprang back up. The giant removed his hooded mask and rolled his neck with a series of pops and cracks. But for a man who had just lost a sparring match, he looked pleased. With a large, toothy grin splitting his face, he dismissed them to go sit with the others.

  While walking back, one of the men pulled up the bottom of his hooded mask and spit a wad of blood on the floor. The wad contained more than one tooth. Spitting again, he raised the mask a little higher. “Do not remove it,” came the call from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at Morcel then lowered it back down.

  The giant gazed around the room, his bright green eyes piercing and unsettling, yet displaying no lingering anger from his defeat. “Good work today, men,” he said at length. “You all took another step and proved once again you are not to be doubted or underestimated. They dare to call you the ‘soulless’ and claim you have no place in our society. Well, I say damn them all. I would rather fight by your sides than an army of thousands. Forget who you once were. That long road of suffering and despair has led you to this moment. Your new lives start now, and the world will soon know who you are.” His wide, toothy grin returned. “The darkness is coming. This much we know for certain. And when it dares to enter the world of men and war is upon us...it will be met with the purest savagery ever seen. The mountains will shake, and gods themselves will look away, trembling with fear. The ‘soulless’ will no longer be ridiculed and scorned by society. They will be saviors...”

  Azek led Ilirra back up the steps. They hurried out the door, heading back towards the palace gate. Once able to gather her thoughts, Ilirra broke the silence. “By the gods, what did I just see? And why did you deem it so important that I witness it?” Azek marched on, ignoring her. “Answer me, damn you!”

  Azek stopped with a sigh and turned around. “It seems you lack the patience of a ten-year-old,” he said calmly. “So I suppose we will now have this conversation in the middle of the street, in the dead of night, no less.”

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “Yes, this is indeed much better than sipping tea in a warm room. Fine, so be it.”

  Her lips tightened, but she allowed him to continue.

  “They call themselves ‘The Watchdogs’—a secret unit who train day and night under the tutelage of Morcel.”

  “I was under the impression you recently relieved him of his duties,” she said dryly.

  “So I did. But that mutual decision was made in the best interest of—”

  “Then what the hell was that!” she i
nterrupted, pointing back the way they came.

  He shrugged and looked off into the distance, clearly unshaken by her growing impatience. “Although the big man’s fighting prowess and weapon skills are nearly unmatched, he is too unpredictable to hold rank in my army. Too...chaotic and lawless to be trusted with such responsibility.”

  “Yet you’ve allowed him to take command of this elite team. These...‘Watchdogs.’”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” he said, holding up his hands innocently. “Morcel is not enlisted anymore and no longer answers to me. I have no authority over him or the Watchdogs. They are vigilantes, not recognized by any branch of our army. They answer to no one.”

  “And how many are there?” she said. “I saw perhaps two dozen or so.”

  “I’m not completely sure. Fifty? One hundred, perhaps? He works with them in small groups. They take shifts, so I’ve never seen them all at once. And because they remain anonymous, even amongst themselves, it’s very hard to be certain.”

  “Why is that?” she said, sounding particularly interested. “If they are working as a team, why hide their identities? Especially from each other.”

  Azek crossed his arms. “I wondered the same thing at first,” he said, gazing back towards the worn-out structure. “It turns out that is also part of their discipline. They are taught to fight as a single unit and not to think of themselves as individuals. They hide their faces because their former identities no longer hold meaning. All that matters now is their loyalty to Morcel, and each other. Their old lives are dead.”

  “Their olds lives? What is that supposed to mea—” Her eyes bulged out. “The soulless,” she whispered. “No... It can’t be.”

  Azek’s smile widened. “Yes.” He let the simple answer hang in the air.

  She hadn’t made the connection until now. When the savage humans were no longer under Dragot’s control, they had been forced to adapt to modern society despite being fifth-generation men and women who knew nothing of the world outside of stone prisons. They couldn’t communicate, had no skills, and were nearly afraid of everything. Even now they were shunned for their lack of refinement, despite the incredible progress so many had made. Even though unjustified assaults on their kind were a daily occurrence, the Queen’s soldiers often looked the other way.

  Some were learning trades. Others worked in the palace, cleaning, cooking, and even learning to play music. But no matter how hard they tried to fit in, they would always be branded for live. Whispers in the streets followed them when they walked by. Be careful. It’s one of them. Forsaken savages. Hide your children from these monsters. They are soulless.

  And so the name stuck. The soulless would never have purpose in life. Never would they be fully accepted, no matter how hard they worked to discredit the myths and rumors. The seeds of prejudice were planted deep, and would no doubt fester for years. In regards to this unfortunate reality, they truly were soulless.

  “The upcoming war is of a more...personal nature to them. Wouldn’t you agree?” said Azek, his face hard as stone once again. “For once in their lives they have been given a purpose, a chance to get revenge against the darkness that once enslaved them. To rise up and grab this vile force by the throat. After all, what does one have to lose when it seems he never should have existed at all?”

  Ilirra raised her fingers, rubbing circles around her temples. “Why did you show me this?” She sounded tired. “What does any of that haunting image have to do with—”

  “You and I can’t stop this dark force that threatens our existence. Were those not your exact words?”

  She stared at him blankly.

  His voice softened. “You and I are not alone in this. Those brave men have made a choice and are determined to see it through, no matter the outcome. The Gate Keeper himself should have died many times already, yet he still draws breath and pushes on.” He softened his voice to a near whisper. “Jade still remains at his side. Despite all odds, I’m beginning to think those two can move mountains when they work together.”

  Ilirra opened her mouth to speak, but only nodded in response.

  “Don’t take the weight of the world and place it squarely on yourself. We are not alone in this, and I swear to fight on as long as our friends do. Hope just may be our strongest ally.”

  Feeling numb, she collapsed against his chest. “Aid to our cause seems to come from the most unlikely sources,” she whispered against him. “If this is to be our end, I’ll look our enemies in the eye before I fall. I swear my resolve will not waver again.”

  Azek held her close, time slowly passing by. Standing together in the street, not a single wagon rolled by. The stars twinkled away peacefully, the night sky watching over them.

  Chapter 3

  The High Priestess leaned forward in her skeletal throne. A white table with empty chairs, all assembled from polished bone, spread out before her. Shantis gripped her silver goblet so hard it began to creak in protest, threatening to collapse in her hand. She tipped it back, downing yet another swallow of ice-cold water, then relaxed her grip, rolling it around in her hand. Tiny jewels encrusted around the rim sparkled in the lamplight. Hiding her growing impatience was becoming more difficult by the minute.

  Shantis hardly noticed when a servant scurried up and refilled her goblet from a plain silver pitcher. She was too preoccupied, bouncing her gaze between the doorway and the bone-framed oil paintings on the wall. One of her favorite pieces portrayed a ritual of sorts. Both crytons and humans joined hand in hand, circling an open fire. The artwork was very old, even by cryton standards, and she couldn’t help but wonder when it was painted. Was this before the Undead War? Were the two races allies at this time, or was the portrayal nothing more than a fool’s wish? Then I am the greatest fool of all, she thought.

  Her champion, Brinkton, stood to her right with his back pressed firmly against the wall. His eyes were small, like little yellow beans, and his nose was wide and flat. An underbite made him appear as if he were constantly growling, but his reputation had nothing to do with his looks. This brute was one of the finest warriors amongst the crytons. A killer amongst killers, he was the personal bodyguard to the High Priestess.

  On this day in particular, Shantis looked to share her bodyguard’s scowl while continuing to frown at the doorway. Once again she had called another meeting to discuss recent events involving the Gate Keeper. As usual, the other representatives were taking their time to arrive, forcing her to wait, testing her patience.

  “Who do they think they are?” Shantis grumbled to Brinkton in their native tongue. “The humans have reached out to us. Eric and his friends have proven to be substantial allies. Yet here we sit doing nothing to aid them. What more has to happen to our village before we take action?”

  “Since when does mindless action seem more applicable than wisdom and common sense?” came a sharp reply from outside the room. Shantis stood from her chair. Two tall men entered the room, each wearing a scowl similar to her own.

  “Coompall. Graten. I’m glad to see you’ve finally arrived. I was beginning to think something had happened to you both, seeing as I called this meeting to start some time ago,” said Shantis, trying to force down her anger.

  “By the looks of things, I would say we’re early,” said Coompall smugly, the taller of the two.

  Shantis ignored the sarcasm and waited for them to sit before returning to her own seat. The same servant ran up to them and placed silver water goblets in front of each. Shantis ran her fingers through her long white hair, drawing it back. It was thin by human standards but marvelously thick for a cryton. Her numerous gold and silver bracelets clacked away even with the gentle movement. She ran a hand down her white dress worn only for these meetings, smoothing it out. She was stalling, composing herself so as not to say something out of anger. “Yes, I suppose you two are the first to arrive. I assume the others will be here soon enough.”

  “You assume much,” said Graten, a broad man with eyes
smaller than Brinkton’s. He blinked constantly, those yellow dots darting all around the room.

  “My patience wears thin with these constant delays,” Shantis hissed. “I’m having a hard time believing the true Gate Keeper’s sudden appearance is of such little importance to everyone. The prophesies are unfolding right before our eyes, yet all we do is delay.” She rose from her chair, her bright yellow eyes piercing through each of them in turn. “For years we have avoided the humans. We hid like animals, afraid to let our presence be known to the world. But my friends, the Undead War was a long time ago. The Gate Keeper has come! Crytons and humans will once again work together. We must stand together and face the darkness that threatens our world. When this vile force brings pain and death, sweeping across the world like a raging forest fire, it will show no prejudice. All are fair game in the eyes of the darkness. We, too, must show no prejudice. We must stand together with our brothers and sisters.”

  “Brothers and sisters, she says,” came a taunting voice from outside the room. In walked a tall female wearing a low-cut red dress. Her white hair was even thicker than Shantis’s. Long and wild, it flared out in all directions like a sunset, each braid ending in a tiny red ribbon. With gold and silver bracelets running up each arm and several hoop earrings to match, it was clear this woman had gone to great lengths to make an appearance.

  “How good to see you, old friend,” said Shantis. Instead of standing, she drew herself up in her chair, back straight as a board. Filista Umyon was more than a little familiar with the High Priestess. She often voiced her opinion against Shantis’s authority, and had long made it clear she could better serve the crytons if given a higher rank. But her obvious lust for power and occasionally alarming temper made the others think better of it.

  Despite her shortcomings, this woman was no fool. Shantis knew this. When under control, she actually made for a good advisor. She was a competent woman who was not afraid to speak her mind. Therefore, she was always asked to attend such events, if only to get an extreme opinion on the subject at hand, a daring assessment few others would offer.