"Through!" the man yelled. He immediately recoiled as his gaze found the elf's wild yellow eyes. "There is no through," he continued. "All that is beyond here is the troll-filled Wilderkind."
"That is where we are going," Vinston-Fret said.
"Then I will pray for you as I pray for them," the man said, pointing to the burning pile of debris and bodies that remained.
"We need a place to sleep tonight, sir," Braxton asked, knowing the unease one could feel when speaking with an elf. "We will pay. And we need a boat. A small one, I think." He looked to Vinston-Fret for support. "We need a rower. Just a small one that will take us across the bay and up into the mouth of the river north of here."
"Ya’ll be fools," the man said with a shake of his head.
"Will you be killing trolls?" a different man asked.
"If they cross our path, yes we will," Braxton answered.
"Then I'll take you up the river," he said with conviction. "You can sleep at my place." He looked angrily at the fire. "Them gods be damned trolls took all my family. I'm the only one left so there's plenty of room."
Chapter Three
Krookin Bloodthorn, king of the wood trolls, was nervous. It was an unfamiliar emotion for the vicious leader of the second most dominant creatures of the land. Wood trolls were outnumbered only by humans and kobls, but kobls were little more than rats to the trolls so they didn't count. The wood trolls ruled everything east of the Dragon Teeth Mountains. The mountains themselves were ruled by Craggon, king of the mighty rock trolls. But Craggon wasn't who was making King Bloodthorn nervous. What had him uneasy was his failure to find the Sapphire of Souls for Pharark.
After having band after band of his trolls scour the Wilderkind Forest for the powerful gem, it eluded them. King Bloodthorn was sure that the stone's magic was somehow protecting it from discovery, however each time he tried to explain this to the demon of destruction, he found his words not only fell on deaf ears, they brought terrible repercussions. Pharark would rant and rave, and kill and crush, until King Bloodthorn trembled on his knees. Hundreds of his trolls had been pulped and devoured by Pharark's insane displays of power. The demon couldn't be stopped. Not by the combined might of all the wood and rock trolls together. Not by anything King Bloodthorn could imagine.
Worse, each tantrum only made the demon stronger for it fed on fear and misery and thrived on senseless destruction.
Now, King Bloodthorn was about to have to tell the evil thing he'd failed again, that the Sapphire of Souls was no closer to being found than it had been when Pharark ordered his people to seek it out. This terrified the king because hundreds of loyal and unsuspecting wood trolls would surely die a horrible death for this failure. The sapphire was either not in the Wilderkind as Pharark believed, or its magic protected it from being found. There was no other explanation.
King Bloodthorn sat upon his thorn-bush cathedra and looked down his tree-formed throne hall. The gnarled trunks of rowed tangle oaks twisted and curled around each other, and the higher reaching limbs formed a canopy of curving and bending branches whose leaves fully blocked out the sun's powerful light. Pools of flaming sap along the sides of the long oval room lit everything from underneath. Huge, menacing shadows danced across the thorny, leafy walls and ceiling. They mocked King Bloodthorn's tired expression as he waited nervously for the coming of the demon while trying to prepare himself for the horrors it would surely leave behind.
Debain's cell was dark and wet and smelled of rotted meat, but he was glad to be back inside the safety of its stone walls and heavy iron door, because being in the cell meant he was no longer in Reaton-Stav's torture room. Where and how the young man had learned to use evil magic with such mastery was beyond Debain, but as promised, he had discovered just how powerful his former pupil had become.
There wasn't a place on Debain's flesh that wasn't torn, cut, or burnt. He was sure he would die at one point, but the self-proclaimed necromancer had stopped and used his magic to heal him just so he could repeat his unbelievably painful techniques of torture. Debain wasn't sure what he'd told the boy, but he knew it was too much. He told him what the dwarves knew and that the medallion Braxton Bray carried was a powerful artifact. He'd answered every question he'd been asked, but he hadn't revealed the quest for the Sapphire of Souls yet, if only because he hadn't been asked about it.
Many of Reaton-Stav's questions pertained to the ship full of elves and dwarves and its purpose, destination, and what Suclair had to do with all of it. He'd been asked where the amulet and the boy who wore it were at least a hundred times. Debain held those answers back only because his daughter was with them, but it cost him dearly. He figured he would die whether he gave Reaton-Stav the location of the medallion or not so he chose to die with his mouth shut, if he could manage to do so.
Debain knew that, sooner or later, his mind would shatter like a porcelain plate on a granite floor, but the boy would have to break it. Every second he held out was a second he gave his daughter and the others on the quest to find what they were after.
From Reaton-Stav's bragging, Debain had learned that Pharark had control of Ulrich Gruell, the gothican battle lord. And how Lord Ulrich had made a deal with King Rayden of Nepram to sneak an army through his kingdom into Narvoza. He learned about the pact with the vermin and how the kings of the rock and wood trolls had called a truce and were also working toward the destruction of Narvoza.
Reaton-Stav boasted how he had built quite an army of his own, an army of corpses, and not only human ones. Pharark was the demon of destruction after all, and like a master puppeteer, he pulled the strings, manipulating Reatron-Stav and all these leaders to bring about his end.
Debain decided he wouldn't give in. He would fight until he had no fight left in him. The Sapphire of Souls couldn't be allowed to fall into Pharark's hands, for if it did, not only would Narvoza fall, but so would all the human kingdoms of the world.
Debain closed his eyes and tried to force the pain from his mind. Without magic to aid him, he had to settle for the least painful position he could put his body in and hope the rats weren't as hungry today as they had been.
He was certain most of his toes were gone. He had been in such a state of shock that, while they were eating his digits, he could only feel the breaking of the skin and the sharp tugging shakes of their heads. As it happened, it was more the anguish of helplessness than actual pain that assailed him.
He woke when his cell door opened. He was so stiff and sore that he was unable to move while one of Reaton-Stav's zombies grabbed him under the arms and dragged him down the torch-lit hallway to the torture chamber.
Reaton-Stav waited until the rotting corpse dropped Debain to the floor before rising from his padded leather seat. He strode casually over to the bruised and broken form of what was once the most powerful user of the magical arts the Kingdom of Narvoza had ever known. He knelt beside him and placed a cold, clammy hand on Debain's forehead. He then unleashed a surge of brutal force into the old man that caused Debain's back to arch, and his limbs to spasm, as the ruined joints and torn muscles inside him were magically fused back into a semi-healthy state.
Being healed like this was more painful than Debain imagined it could be. All the nerves that had finally deadened to sensation were rejuvenated back to a state of tenderness that only hurt him that much more.
Reaton-Stav wouldn't heal him all the way, just enough to keep him conscious and aware of what was happening to him. Just enough to keep his nerves raw and his mind on the verge of breaking.
After a few moments, Reaton-Stav walked back to his chair and sat down. The powerful spell that kept Debain from using magic to escape or defend himself was of a permanent nature. Even if Debain survived this somehow, he would never be able to use magic again, unless Reaton-Stav died before he did or decided to break the spell.
Debain remembered once telling the boy he would never amount to more than a side show attraction, and he was lucky he was being allowed t
o leave the Sorcerious with any dignity at all. He understood now that his anger at Reaton-Stav was rooted far deeper than his use of the darker arts. Suclair had been in love with Reaton-Stav, and the boy had used this to his advantage until there was no advantage left to use. He then discarded her like so much fodder. Remembering these things gave Debain strength as the interrogations began anew.
"Tell me what the dwarves are after, old man," Reaton-Stav hissed. "I'm in no mood to fool with you today. I promise you pain like you've never even imagined, if you don't tell me what you know."
"I know nothing more than I've already told you," Debain said. "Nothing."
"Put him on the table and buckle in his arms and legs," Reaton-Stav told his undead servant. He waited until Debain was strapped down in a spread-eagle position.
"Go get me the hammer," he commanded. "I'll give you one more chance to tell me. If you don't, then you will regret your hesitation forever."
"I don't know what you want to know," Debain answered through clenched teeth. He was already in so much pain he didn't think he could feel anymore, but was sure he was wrong.
Reaton-Stav took the heavy metal hammer from his servant and leaned over Debain so he could look into his fear-filled eyes. "You will tell me, old man. I swear it." Then, with a savage fury, the thin young man awkwardly brought the hammer down on Debain's shins over and over again until both of his legs, from the knees down, were nothing but pulp.
Just as Debain's screams faded and consciousness began to leave him, the boy put his hand on Debain's forehead and sent another blast of healing magic into him. It wasn't enough to heal his bones, just enough to keep him conscious so he could feel how broken they were.
Then the questions started again.
Lord Ulrich didn't know where it was he went when he entered the cavern that Pharark called home, but he knew it wasn't a place in this world. It was a far darker place that seemed to shift and stretch continuously while somehow staying somewhat the same. The rough, rocky walls of Pharark's cave were embedded with jewels of every size and type. Even the spiky stalactites hanging from roof, and the stalagmites jutting from floor outside the path leading to Pharark's throne, glittered. The exposed gems reflected light from two massive fire basins dug on either side of the demon's throne. The throne was nothing more than a pile of bones from every creature known to the realm and others Lord Ulrich had never dreamt of. The demon sat perched atop this pile, squatted on scaly purple legs, his small wings folded behind him. His massive, lumpy head was more eyes and teeth than anything else. Making it seem even larger was the small, flat piggish nose that lay like two open holes on his wretched face. Lord Ulrich was reminded of a cherub statue he had seen when he was but a slave boy of the kingdom. Pharark's body was like that of a chubby, malformed child.
Pharark spoke to a rock troll who was on bended knee in front of the oily pool that lay between him and the pile of bones the demon sat upon.
Lord Ulrich knew it was Craggon, king of the rock trolls, who was getting from the demon the rarest of things it ever offered. Pharark was giving Craggon praise.
Lord Ulrich hated Craggon and would love nothing more than to relieve him of his putrid head for all the pain and anguish his rock trolls had caused the gothicans back when they were first forced into the mountains. The only thing Lord Ulrich hated more than the rock trolls were the humans who had driven them there in the first place. But Ulrich was one of the kingdom's biggest mistakes. He was born in the new palace as the child of enslaved builders. Ulrich had gotten an education while he was there, a good one, and when King Barden's father was crushed under stones hurled by revolting slaves, Ulrich took great satisfaction in knowing it was his own father who had thrown the boulder that crushed the old king's skull. Only a child at the time, his quick wit and somewhat normal adult human size allowed him to escape before then Prince Barden, the new King of Narvoza, gave his first order, which was to kill all the gothicans.
Since then, Lord Ulrich had made it his life's mission to build an army capable of destroying the murderous humans, and he thought he'd done so. With Pharark came the means of doing it with total surprise, and if Ulrich had to tolerate and fight beside the disgusting rock trolls to get his revenge and take back the place of his birth, then he would do it. Once Narvoza fell, the trolls could have back the mountains the gothicans had been forced to cower in for so long.
When Craggon rose and walked past Lord Ulrich, he made no sound or expression of acknowledgment that the other was even present.
"Ahhh, Lord Ulrich," Pharark bellowed in his deep, gravelly voice. A gothican skull tumbled down the side of the pile and splashed into one of the flaming pools at its base. It ended up right beside the skull of a what might have been a small dragon. "Are your warriors in position?"
"Yes, great destroyer," Lord Ulrich answered, finding that his voice wavered and his body trembled in the presence of the malevolent demon. "As of yesterday, all my warriors are staged and ready, just north of the Nepramese border, as you commanded."
"And King Rayden? Has he kept his mouth shut?" The demon's huge red eyes were split by black stripes that widened as his bony brows narrowed and focused on Ulrich. The gothican warlord had to fight to keep from turning to run away.
"As far as I know he has.” Lord Ulrich swallowed back his fear. "Once again, he has requested to meet you personally. We are so close now, though, that we could take Nepram in a few days.” He swallowed again, then added, "If you command it."
"Not yet!" Pharark yelled. His hot fetid breath blew Ulrich's long black hair out behind him like a full gust of wind might. "I will tell you where and when to attack."
Pharark leaned down toward him. "Krookin Bloodthorn will find what I seek soon, and then we will destroy humanity completely." The demon grinned. "Now flee my presence and be ready to attack on my command."
Lord Ulrich stood slowly, trying not to betray the terror he felt, but just as he turned to walk away, Pharark put his head back down behind him. The demon's maw split as he took in a deep breath.
"I SAID FLEE ME!" he yelled with so much force that Lord Ulrich was blown a few steps forward and had no problem running out of the cavern as fast as his legs could carry him.
"Mighty Pharark, demon of destruction, answer my call for I have news of something you seek."
Pharark resituated himself atop his throne of skulls and looked down into one of the oily pools at its base. Reaton-Stav's face formed into view and rippled with the pool's oily surface.
"Mighty Pharark, master of all that is broken, please answer my call."
"What is it, necromancer?" Pharark growled, causing Reaton-Stav to step back and cringe out of fear and reverence. "What do you know?"
"I have information about the Sapphire of Souls that might interest you," Reaton-Stav said.
"Yes," Pharark hissed excitedly, "Tell me what you know."
"Your vileness, it seems that a group of elves and dwarves, along with a human boy who carries an amulet I covet, have set out on a quest to find what you seek before you can get your hands on it."
"Their quest must not succeed," Pharark bellowed angrily. "They must be stopped at all cost. Where are they now?"
"The man who told me all of this did so only after long and grueling torture. I'm afraid he will tell me no more, but I have kept him alive." Reaton-Stav smiled wickedly. "Just in case you want to find out what else he knows. I'm sure you have methods of extracting information far greater than what I am capable of."
"Yes, necromancer, I do,” Pharark smiled back, revealing his huge sharp teeth. "I will come to your Necratorium at once and handle this matter personally."
Krookin Bloodthorn had waited patiently most of the day, but Pharark hadn't come. The king of the wood trolls hoped he hadn't angered the demon. He also hoped something horrible hadn't happened, but he knew better than to leave before Pharark arrived. His nervousness grew into utter fear and paranoid visions of the wrath the demon would bring down on him and his wood
trolls grew to horrendous proportions as he waited, and waited, and waited.
Chapter Four
Though everything was still green, it was clear that autumn had set in. The trees had a slight yellow tint to them, but they were still clinging to summer. The canopy was thick with elms, oaks, and pines of all sorts. The sun's rays hardly made it through. Underneath it all, the air was thick and steamy, the foliage as green as ever. Only an occasional cooling breeze found its way to the group as they made their way, on foot, upriver on the eastern bank.
The way was slow and frustrating because the Wilderkind Forest extended right up to the river's edge and showed no mercy. It wasn't until late the first day that Vinston-Fret discovered that, if they moved further away from the flowing water, the undergrowth was not near as dense. From the river's edge, at least one hundred paces into the forest, it was simply overwhelming. The ground vegetation was so thick and lush, and sometimes dangerously thorny, that even hacking a path was impossible. Braxton's sleeves were already shredded, and his arms itched and burned from several pokes and scratches he'd taken, and Suclair's bald head was whelted and covered with red splotches and dried blood where a vine of prickle thorns had raked across it.
Both of the dwarves complained endlessly. Darblin's long green hair got tangled in one of the bushes full of pale blue leaves, and now a swarm of angry yellow flies surrounded him like a buzzing cloud. It didn't take long to get him free of the bush, but several of the lemon-colored insects still zipped around his head.
Only the elves passed untouched. It appeared to Braxton that the forest opened for them. They gracefully turned, and tucked, and moved, unconcerned and unscathed through whatever was before them. It was also clear that they fought to keep their pace slower so that the others could keep up.
Earlier in the day, the man from New Scarlee had taken them in his crude little fishing boat across the bay to the mouth of the river. The Nepramese called it simply the Big River, or sometimes the Troll's Drink. The man told them a tale that he said was once told to keep curious children from wandering too far from the villages. It was about bands of trolls who gathered at the water’s edge to drink in the mornings. He went on to say that, though the occasional creature wandered too close to the villages, no one ever dreamed the trolls would really come out of the forest in droves.
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