This part of my novel was one of favorite parts to write. My hope was to convey what parents and a village would be willing to do to save their children. I hope you enjoy the Fall of Roughstock as much as I did!
Happy Reading
-EW-
Chapter 13
Orange-pink rays of the rising sun crested the Blackstone Mountains, illuminating the
surrounding countryside for the apprehensive watchers of Roughstock. What they saw would
have most of them praying for the return of the blanketing darkness that hid the horror before
them.
Normally this was Captain Morlan’s favorite time of the day. The taciturn captain of the
watch could always count on seeing a bear beginning its daily hunting or a herd of white-spotted
deer returning to their hidden beds after a night of foraging for food. But not today. This
morning the vigilant captain and the walls defenders were greeted by the presence of several
hundred battle-hardened gorthin warriors.
Morlan watched as the hideous monsters taunted and jeered the beleaguered soldiers on
the wooden walls, walls that seemed little defense against the vile horde gathered before it.
Not for the first since the council’s decision to defend Roughstock, Captain Morlan
considered whether it was folly or not to defend the village. Homes and businesses can be
rebuilt, but lives cannot be replaced. By the looks of the army at his doorstep Morlan didn’t
think there would be many survivors. The stories of whole-sale slaughter by the gorthins left no
doubt that any villagers caught, including women and children, would forfeit their lives in the
service of Ahmah.
Someone clearing their throat brought the captain from his dark reverie.
“Jax, I’m sorry. I was lost in my own thoughts.” Captain Morlan apologized as he turned
to address the young boy that the mayor had assigned as a go-between.
Jax was the youngest boy to be chosen in defense of the village and had been so full of
fear and self-doubt that he couldn’t draw his bow let alone lift his eyes from the ground to aim at
anything. But the young man from Stoneheart had a talk with the boy and now Jax carried his
bow slung across his back with the ease of a seasoned campaigner. Jax returned the yellow,
murderous gaze of the gorthins with his own steely-eyed determination.
The Captain of the Watch gave Jax an approving pat on the shoulder. “I would gladly take
a hundred more of you Jax to face this evil.” Morlan gave Jax another approving pat on the
shoulder and a rare smile.
Jax returned the smile in acceptance of the praise of the veteran soldier. The stories of
Morlan’s valor while in the service of the king were near legendary and it meant a lot to the boy
to have the hero’s approval.
“Thank you sir,” Jax said while the smile faded back into determination. “Would you
like me to fetch the mayor, sir?”
“Yes, Jax. Fetch the Mayor and tell him the gorthins have arrived.”
Jax scurried down the pine ladder with the ease of a black tailed squirrel and hit the
ground at a run dashing off towards the village hall where the mayor was locked in council with
a few of the village’s veteran fighters.
Morlan watched the young boy run with his oversized bow bouncing wildly on his back
until Jax turned the corner of a building and was lost from view. With a sigh the captain turned
his attention back to the enemy gathered outside his walls.
“Maybe they will set a siege to demoralize us and weaken our resolve,” muttered Morlan
absentmindedly pulling on his neatly trimmed winter beard. “No, no siege they aren’t setting
tents or building fortification, if the beast’s do those kind of things. I would say by the way they
are all mustered around the walls with weapons and armor ready that they will attack very soon.”
He continued to study the gorthins hoping to find some way out of their dire predicament
when he thought he spotted a chink in the gorthins’ plan. A few hundred yards to the south of
Roughstock was a shallow ravine that the inhabitants used to dump their refuse. Unable to stand
the smell or some other unknown reason the gorthins were giving the ravine a wide berth.
“If I remember right that ravine’s edge is concave making it possible for someone to hide
from prying eyes above and Torpan’s tavern has a cellar opening that has access to the outside so
he can sneak in those vaunted casks of dwarven fire-fruit brandy.” Slowly a plan began to form
in the captain’s mind. “It won’t save us all, but at least it will protect the innocents.”
“The mayor is on his way, captain,” shouted Jax from the ground.
“Good work Jax. Now I need you to fetch Torpan from the Scaled Dragon tavern and
Buroc. No doubt he’ll be there also. Hurry lad, I need them here shortly after the mayor
arrives!”
Like a bolt of lightning Jax shot off towards the Scaled Dragon, nearly bowling over the
mayor in his hurry.
“Sorry Mayor Bearbreaker,” Jax apologized as he streaked past. “Excuse me!”
The mayor shook his head at the Jax’s boundless energy. The boy had been running non-
stop since he was sent to fetch him and he still wasn’t breathing hard.
“Energy is wasted on the youth.” He moaned, feeling wore out from the strain of
protecting his village in what he knew was a longshot. Gunther had put on a show of high hopes
and bravado for his people but deep down he knew they were in for a rough ride.
“Gunther, there’s something I would like to show you,” called Morlan from the catwalk.
“I know, five hundred gorthins.” Gunther quipped as he climbed the ladder to join the
captain. “Excuse me if I’m not excited about it.”
Morlan ignored the mayor’s cynical remark as he helped Gunther to the walkway from
the ladder. The mayor was breathing heavily from climbing the ladder in his weighted scale mail
hauberk and the two-handed sword with its pommel carved in the likeness of a roaring bear that
he wore across his wide back.
“The gorthins have surrounded the perimeter of the village very effectively, but they
have made one error. They have left a large gap to either side of the refuse trench and I believe
with the right diversion a small group could sneak past the gorthins and use the hidden edges of
the ravine to escape.”
Gunther mulled over Morlan’s idea while he examined the ground between the wall and
the ravine. He could see a problem with Morlan’s plan and he questioned the captain.
“There are only two entrances to Roughstock, the main gate and directly opposite it
across the village is the smaller man gate and neither face the ravine.”
“Those are the only gates known to you, but there is a certain enterprising tavern owner
that has created a way around your liquor taxes.”
At that moment Jax arrived with a downtrodden, bleary-eyed Buroc and a very
uncomfortable looking Torpan in tow. Torpan stole a glance at the captain and mayor and gave a
small squeak that seemed to match perfectly with his rodent like features. Buroc on the other
hand regarded the town’s authority figures with red-rimmed eyes that convey a profound sense of
resignation.
“I’ve brought them sir. Torpan complained that he was too busy to come, but Buroc
grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic and drug him half the way here.” Jax stated with a small
grin as Torpan tried to regain some dignity by smoothing his twisted tunic and wiping some of
the mud from his britches.
“I was merely trying to explain to the boy that I was preparing my tavern for the siege,
my lord,” weaseled Torpan. “Surely you can...”
“Thank you for your assistance in aiding Jax, Buroc, and helping our friend Mr. Torpan,
find his way here.”
Buroc gave Morlan a slight bow of his head but said nothing to his former captain. The
woodsman stood stoically next to the sniveling Torpan waiting to see what Morlan and the
Mayor wanted with them both.
“Torpan, I was just explaining to Mayor Gunther that there is a way to reach the ravine
dump without using the two gates. Would you care to inform our mayor of the secret door that
you and the dwarfs have fashioned that leads to the storeroom at the back of your tavern? The
one you use to bring in fire-fruit brandy.”
“I...I don’t know what you’re talking about, captain,” stammered Torpan, his eyes shifting
back and forth between the mayor and Morlan. “All my spirits are brought in through the main
gate, inspected, and taxed according to the law of his honor, Mayor Bearbreaker.”
“Let me remind you,” said Morlan icily, his eyes boring into the tiny miserable man
beneath him. “Every twenty seven days during the dead moon when there is no light in the night
sky, you open your secret door to allow the dwarven merchant, Thorin Redaxe, and his
dwelvinkin bodyguards to remove several casks of their Dwarven fire-fruit brandy from a hidden
compartment on their wagon and place them in your storage area, tax free.”
“How did you know that?” Asked a white faced Torpan. “I had been so careful. I
thought no one had known.”
“Those mountain elves love that dwarven potent brew as much as we humans do.
Unfortunately the dwelvinkin can’t handle their spirits like us humans and become quit free with
their tongues as long as you keep their mugs full.” Answered a smiling Morlan.
“But why didn’t you stop us?” A dumbfounded Torpan asked.
“Because on my captain’s wages I couldn’t afford to buy my favorite drink after the
mayor put his god awful taxes on it.” Stated Morlan as if it were an obvious answer.
Gunther could tell that Morlan was enjoying tormenting Torpan, and knowing how much
his captain disliked the disreputable owner of the Scaled Dragon, the mayor was worried that
Morlan would forget the situation at hand.
“I now see what you mean Morlan. That would leave less than fifty paces to the ravine,
but surely the gorthins, despite their dislike of our rubbish, would chase down anyone trying to
flee.”
“That’s true mayor. But only if something else didn’t have their attention first. If we
were to use a diversion to distract the gorthins attention from the ravine and towards the gate
then Buroc, with his woodsman’s skills, could lead the children to Stoneheart while evading
gorthin patrols.”
Gunther Bearbreaker massaged his left temple as he digested Morlan’s plan while Torpan
and Buroc awaited his decision. A fire was beginning to spark in Buroc’s eyes at the thought of
denying his brother’s savage killers some of their intended victims. Beside him, Torpan was
grinning to himself.
All of the villagers had resigned themselves to their fate and were determined to take as
many of the beasts with them as they could, but not Torpan. He had been futilely racking his
brain for some way to escape, and now it seems he had the means to do it. He figured he could
sneak out after Buroc and the children and save his own hide from those ruthless killers.
Chanting from outside the walls caught everyone on the ramparts attention, even bringing
the mayor from his inner speculations. There was the clinking of chainlink armor and the
screech of metal being freed from scabbards as the defenders fidgeted nervously as the chanting
grew louder and a wildness entered when a name was added by the howling gorthins.
“BLACKFUR! BLACKFUR!” The assembled army chanted as a large, black furred
gorthin strode forward with an evil look axe and crag wurm armor stained blood-red. A step
behind walked a mammoth gorthin wielding a serrated sword taller than an average man as if it
weighed no more than a toothpick. His close cropped orange and black fur clashing with the
brown-green of his crag wurm breastplate creating a sense of vertigo to those watching him.
Next to him was a stooped gray furred gorthin that walked with the aid of a gnarled staff and was
armed with only a dagger. Devoid of any armor and with beads, small tokens, and an occasional
skull woven into his long matted gray hair marked the wizened gorthin as a shaman.
The black furred gorthin reached the front of the army directly across from Gunther and
his party, flashed the defenders of Roughstock a toothy grin, and then stabbed his axe into the air.
The gorthin army quieted instantly from the signal of their revered new king.
“Humans of Roughstock,” bellowed Blackfur while swinging his axe in arc to encompass
the walls. “Know that when night falls my army will descend upon your pathetic village and kill
all within in the name of the almighty Ahmah! We have you completely surrounded and there is
no escape! Now is the time to beg for my mercy which I will grant with a swift death! No
matter how you die, your death serves the will of our god!”
There was the audible twang of a bow string in the ensuing silence after the Blood King’s
speech and a yard long arrow flew unerringly at the king’s yellow eye. Blackfur grinned even
wider as the arrow ricocheted off the protective shield provided by Maruk and pierced the neck
of a nearby Warmuh. The surprised warrior had only a moment to realize what had happened
before he collapsed, dead, to the ground.
“You can take your offer of ‘mercy’ and shove it up your hairy arse!” Roared Gunther as
he drew his own sword and pointed it challengingly at the gorthin leader.
Inspired by the mayor’s valiant words, the soldiers shook their fists and waved their own
blades at the assembled horde. Several more arrows were launched at the gorthins but were
deflected harmlessly by the now prepared warriors’ shields.
“Good shot Jax,” praised Morlan as he and the mayor made their way past the grim faced
boy as they moved towards the ladder. “That’s one less we have to fight now.”
Jax smiled slightly as Morlan tousled his hair while passing. “That’s just the beginning.”
And then the young boy drew another arrow and began scanning the horde for his next target.
“What I would give for more like you, boy,” chuckled Morlan at the Jax’s bravado.
“Come, Morlan,” ordered Gunther. “We need to get this plan of yours into motion.
There’s a lot to do and not much time left to do it. Torpan, start spreading the news that all the
families need to gather outside your tavern by noon. Buroc, gather what you will need to get the
children to Stoneheart and safety.”
Each man knuckled their head to the mayor and them took off at a run to perform their
duties.
Chapter 14
Gunther Bearbreaker stood atop a makeshift platform consisting of two barrels and a
couple of wooden planks holding his hand up to quiet the gathered forces of Roughstock. The
winter sun beat down on mayor in his heavy chain hauberk, but it was the stakes of the gamble
he was about to embark the village on that had Gunther sweating profusely. Before him was
gathered the entire village with the exception of a few sentries along the wall to keep an eye on
the gorthins. There wasn’t a tear in a single eye of villagers as they waited for last minute
instructions from their mayor. There were tracks of tears or a smudge of dirt across the faces of
many, but they had spilled those hours ago when the mayor had told them of the desperate plan
to save the children.
“Everyone needs to split into their assigned group,” ordered Gunther. The mass split
somberly into three groups, two equal groups of fighting men and women, and a smaller group of
small children. “Very good. Now when I give the signal the sentries will throw open the main
gates and Olric and I will lead a charge directly into the heart of the gorthin line. At the same
time Mot will open the rear man gate, allowing Morlan and Old Pete to lead a charge at the
gorthins stationed there. If all goes as planned, the remaining gorthins will rush to join the fray,
hopefully allowing Buroc and Jax to slip the children out the secret door in the Scaled Dragon
and into the ravine where they will stealthily make their way past the gorthins and eventually to
Stoneheart.”
Gunther gazed at his people and his feelings of doubt were mirrored in their faces. He
believed in his fellow villagers, but they were less than a hundred with only a handful of
seasoned fighters against a race of creatures that are bred to fight from birth.
“Father Judah, would you come forward and lead us in prayer?” Asked the mayor of a
heavyset middle-aged man in front of the platform.
Father Judah awkwardly climbed up on top of the platform with Gunther’s aiding
arm, and after rearranging his disarrayed brown robes, addressed the villagers.
“My brothers and sisters let us bow our heads in prayer before the Savior Almighty,”
requested the priest in his deep, rich voice. “Blessed Savior, you have always looked upon our
village of Roughstock favorably and even though we were founded by the less desirable of
society we have grown into a pious village and have keenly felt your sheltering embrace. We
have not asked of you nor do we feel that you owe us anything, but we beseech you in aiding the
escape of our children, your lambs, from this evil that has gathered in front of your humble
village. We do not fear the evil that is here for to die will allow entry into your paradise, but we
do fear for the heinous and vile treatment our children will face in the hands of these monsters.
We ask this in your name, Blessed Savior. Amen.”
There was a resounding chorus of “Amen” when Father Judah finished his prayer.
“Morlan, take your group and ready yourselves. I will give you till the count of one
thousand before I’ll call for the gates to be opened. May the Savior grant your sword arm
strength.” Said Gunther clasping the captain’s forearm in a final show of friendship. “Know
that you have served myself and the people of Roughstock well these past years, and I know that
you will continue to do so today.”
“Thank you, Gunther,” Morlan said returning the mayor’s firm clasp with one of his
own. “It has been my greatest pleasure to have been trusted with the safety of so many. I will not
fail the mothers and fathers of this village. This I pledge.”
Gunther once more turned his attention to his gathered people, and was surprised to see
the determined, glowering faces watching him. Father Judah’s prayer worked as Gunther had
hoped, infusing the people of Roughstock with hope, purpose, and most importantly...faith.
Pride flooded through the mayor and though today’s outcome was inevitable, he knew that their
mission would succeed due to the faith and love of this tiny frontier community.
“My brothers and sisters!” Roared Gunther. “Today the mighty gorthin army will feel the
wrath of the even mightier people of Roughstock! Today our hopes and dreams will live on in
our children! Someday when they return, and they will return, they will rebuild our village and
they will tell their children of our sacrifice and of our love! They will tell our grandchildren of
the day when the few stood against the many and that the light of faith held back the flood of
darkness so they may live on! FOR THE CHILDREN!”
Gunther punched his fist in the air and was mimicked to the person by the gathered
villagers. The air vibrated with the echoing chant, “FOR THE CHILDREN! FOR THE
CHILDREN!”
**********************************************************
Outside the wooded walls of Roughstock, the gorthin horde stared at the village in
wonder as their tufted ears twitched with agitation at the muffled chanting coming from behind
those stout walls. The lustrous winter sun slid from its hiding place behind gray snow clouds and
many of the gorthins had to squint their sensitive eyes from the gleaming rays that burned down
on them as in retribution from above.
There was a single blast from a hunting horn and the gates of Roughstock flew open, the
enraged villagers charged screaming battle cries at the disoriented gorthins. At their head was
Gunther Bearbreaker, his marvelous two-handed sword shining in the sun, blinding the
unfortunate gorthin in the mayor’s bath. With one powerful swing the Warmuh’s head was
separated from its body, and the enraged Gunther barreled past without breaking stride seeking
the black furred leader.
Next to him was Olric the blacksmith, whose cobbled platemail armor had pieces from
three different decades and clanked nearly as loudly as his wildly swinging flail as it split crag
wurm armor and gorthin skulls alike. Behind him rolled the rest of their group, driving like a
nail into rigid line of Warmuh warriors. There were screams of triumph mingled with cries of
pain as human and gorthin battled desperately against one another.
Across the village, Morlan and Old Pete’s host drove into the unprepared gorthins like a
hot knife into warm butter. Morlan’s longsword danced alongside Old Pete’s heavy, ancient
broadsword, both slashing away with reckless abandon as they worked their way deeper into the
amassed enemy. Their fellow villagers copied the pattern of wild recklessness and soon they
were completely surrounded by the monstrous beasts.
“Fight hard!” Rallied Morlan as his blade slid past a Warmuh’s slower defense and
pierced the unfortunate beast’s open mouth to burst from the back of its head. Wrenching the
blade free he continued to shout encouragements. “For the children! For Roughstock! For the
Savior!” Each time he shouted out a gorthin fell to his deadly blade.
Buroc watched with relieved satisfaction as the gorthins assigned to guard the area by the
ravine rushed off to partake in the battle. He cracked the cleverly designed door a little further to
make sure the way was safe and after a quick survey popped the door shut again. He turned to
the small group of children huddled around him in the storeroom of the Scaled Dragon.
There were twenty-one children in total, including the mayor’s two and Jax who had been
assigned to aid in the protection of the younger children. At first Jax had been angry at not being
allowed to defend the walls with the other boys his age, but after a lengthy discussion with
Morlan, the boy had grudgingly admitted the importance of his assignment.
“Let’s go over this one more time,” instructed Buroc. “Jax and Radek will take the lead
with the smallest children behind them. Following them will be Helsa and the rest of you bigger
ones carrying the babes and the ones who can’t walk well yet. I will bring up the rear and assist
any of the stragglers. Any questions?”
“Why don’t we help our parents,” Radek growled through gritted teeth, his hand
caressing the carved pommel of his knife. Touching the knife gave the boy a sense of security,
as if the giant Ox was beside him.
There was a few nodding heads in agreement from some of the other older children.
Buroc squatted down in front of the feisty Bearbreaker and placing a firm hand on each
of the child’s shoulders, looked the boy in the eyes.
“You are helping your parents, by making their sacrifice worthwhile and by carrying on
their memories as I must carry on to preserve my brother’s memory. It is not easy but we are
northmen, the most hardy and brave people of Allura and we will succeed.”
Radek straightened and returned the soft careworn gaze of Buroc with his own steely-
eyed determination.
“You are right, Buroc. We will carry on and someday I will return to rebuild Roughstock
as my father proclaimed. This I swear.” Pledged Radek his hand tightening around the pommel
of the little knife so hard that his knuckles shone white.
“As will I,” both Helsa and Jax stated as one and one by one were joined in their pledge
by the others who could understand what was going on.
Checking the door once again Buroc decided it was time to go. He slowly opened the
door and stepped into the snow covered field that led to the ravine. Loosening his sword in its
scabbard and then notching an arrow to his composite horn bow, he deemed it was time to go.
“The way is clear, Jax and Radek move quickly to the ravine and keep an eye on the little
ones behind you.” Commanded Buroc, his head swiveling back and forth trying to watch both
sides of the field at the same time.
The boys moved steadily towards the ravine, Radek in the lead with his knife drawn.
Behind him stalked Jax, an arrow knocked and ready should a gorthin notice the tiny group
stealing across the snow covered clearing. They had nearly reached the ravine when Satie, the
diminutive three year old daughter of Olric, tripped and fell down in the deep snow. Fruitlessly
she tried to regain her feet, but a combination of layers of thick clothing and knee deep snow
were making it difficult for the little girl.
“Keep going Radek. I’ll help Satie.” Said Jax as he trudged back through the snow to
help the struggling girl. “Give me your hand, Satie.”
Holding the bow with one hand, Jax reached down to the snow dusted girl and pulled her
ungracefully to her feet. Brushing the snow out of the blacksmith’s daughter’s face Jax saw
Satie’s large, blue eyes were heavy with unshed tears.
“It’ll be alright Satie.” Reassured Jax.
“I’m scared,” Satie whispered through trembling lips. “What if they catch us?”
“They won’t. I promise you Satie that I will protect you and once we get into the woods
there isn’t a man or beast that can find Buroc if he doesn’t want them to. Now join the others.”
Jax gave Satie a comforting pat on the back and then gently pushed her towards the waiting
group of young ones being watched over protectively by Radek.
Jax looked back down the line towards Roughstock and was pleased to see the rest of the
children were having no problems. The young archer then notched his arrow and started off
towards the ravine and that’s when he saw movement not more than fifty paces from them at the
edge of the clearing.
Slowly he drew back the bowstring and aimed at the stray gorthin that had just stepped
from the woods. His heart hammering in his chest, Jax held the bowstring taunt at his ear
waiting for a clear shot between the gaps in the crag wurm armor. A low whistle caused him to
look over at Buroc who also had taken aim at the gorthin, but was signaling for Jax to hold his
shot. Trusting in the hunter’s instincts, Jax held his shot in check even when his arms began to
ache and tremble from holding the drawn bow.
One Eye had been relieving himself when the humans had burst from their fortified walls
and attacked his Warmuh brothers. Anxious to spill some blood in the name of Ahmah or any
other blood thirsty god that allowed him to kill, One Eye was rushing back to the main gate
where the fighting seemed to be the thickest. Out of the corner of his good eye he thought he
spotted a group of children dashing across the area between the two on going battles. Squinting
against the midday sun, One Eye tried to confirm what he thought he saw.
He had just about made out the line of hurrying boys and girls when the sun itself seemed
to flare and its searing rays reflected off the frozen snow, blinding the sensitive eyed gorthin.
Shaking his shaggy head in a feeble attempt to clear his watering eye, One Eye couldn’t see how
close he was to becoming a pincushion.
“He’s been blinded!” Hissed Buroc. “Hurry children! Make haste before the beast can
clear his eyes!”
As one, the line of children raced across the clearing and disappeared over the edge of the
ravine. Jax waited while Helsa, the last of the group, carefully slipped over the edge of the
ravine while trying not to wake the sleeping baby in her arms, before he lowered his weapon
and slid down next to the mayor’s daughter. A heartbeat later Buroc’s wiry frame smoothly
slipped down among the wide eyed, frightened children.
“The gorthin never saw us. So far the Savior has watched over us, but it is a long run to
Stoneheart and we must be very quiet and watchful. Do you understand?”
Despite their fear and loss of family and home, the valiant young ones nodded their
heads.
“Good. You all have done well so far. I will lead you while Jax will bring up the rear to
make sure nothing takes us by surprise. Helsa and Radek, since you two are the next oldest I
will count on you to aid me with keeping an eye on everyone. Your parents would never forgive
me if I didn’t get you all there.” The stout hunter said with a smile.
The children returned his smile with their own uneasy grins and then followed Buroc into
the sheltering boughs of the forest. They silently marched into the woods without a single
backwards glance at the battle being fought behind them, fearful they would be overcome with
emotion so instead, with determination etched on their tiny faces, followed Buroc towards the
east and Stoneheart.
All but one. Jax stood at the edge of the trees watching the villagers fight their suicidal
battle against the gorthins and felt his heart tearing. Although an orphan, he had been treated
kindly by nearly everyone in the village and had never went hungry or been left homeless. All
the children in the village had been like brothers and sisters to him and now many of his friends
were facing their deaths along with his surrogate mothers and fathers while he was escaping to
safety. He knew his assignment was important but it did not diminish the feeling of abandonment
he felt as he listened to the screams of the dying and knowing that they were the cries of his loved
ones. With tears in his eyes, Jax turned his back on the village that had taken care of him and headed
towards Stoneheart.
**********************************************************
“You!” Roared Gunther when he spotted the black furred axe wielder. The enraged
mayor shouldered past a pair gorthins wearing red dyed armor and charged Blackfur, sword point
leading the way.
The Blood King grinned when Gunther cried out in pain and surprise when his sword
collided with the enchanted shield provided by the deminoc bladitoth. The burly arms that once
broke the back of the mighty black bear fell useless to his side, tingling and numb. He watched
in horrid fascination his magnificent two handed sword, a gift from the king for his protection of
Roughstock, crash to the ground and shatter into a hundred pieces.
“Time to die human,” sneered Blackfur, raising his flaming axe to cleave the wretch in
front of him. “Know that Ahmah will gorge himself on your people’s blood tonight!”
Gunther’s last act of defiance was a string of spittle that found its way through the
shielding enchantments and smacked the Blood King between the eyes. With a growl of anger,
Blackfur smote Gunther’s body a devastating blow that killed the mayor instantly. The bloody
axe thrummed contentedly in Blackfur’s hand as he strode away from the fallen leader of
Roughstock in search of more prey.
If he had taken the time to watch his victim die he would have been unnerved to see
instead of the normal grimace of a painful death, a peaceful, serene look settle on the mayor’s
face when his soul left his mortal body to join the Savior.
Morlan knew their luck had run its course when the blazing sun was eclipsed by heavy
clouds. By his side Old Pete screamed as a wickedly barbed spear drove through the veteran
soldier’s stomach ending the life of the stable owner. Morlan lashed out at Old Pete’s killer and
the tip his arcing blade tore the Warmuh’s throat out. Man and beast alike fell in a single heap,
but Morlan had no time to worry over his old friend’s death. Around him lay the battered,
lifeless bodies of his assault group. Of the fifty villagers who went out the gates only he was
left.
A fire ignited in his chest and quickly raced throughout his weary body. White hot rage
burned the fatigue from his limbs and he threw himself with reckless abandon at the tightening
circle of gorthin warriors. Even the battle tempered Warmuhs were taken back at the ferocious
dark haired warrior attacking them, and slowly their circle respectfully grew around Morlan as
they waited for an opportune time to overwhelm the berserk human.
At the center of the circle, Morlan panted heavily in his blood splattered chainmail, his
broad chest heaving as he gulped in air. Twin braids whipped back and forth when he snapped
his head from side to side seeking his next opponent.
“He is mine!” Roared a grinding voice from behind the wall of Warmuhs. “Step aside
dogs and let your chief show you who is truly mighty!”
The circle parted and in strode the giant orange furred Warmuh and his massive two-
handed sword. Klankor snarled at Morlan revealing three inch long incisors, and then rolled his
black, forked tongue across his thin lips.
“If your womenfolk’s blood tasted so sweet, I wonder how delicious the children’s will
be?” Taunted Klankor .
With a roar that was half heartache and half fury, Morlan propelled himself towards the
hulking Warmuh chief. His deadly blade whipped back and forth in x-pattern trying to drive
Klankor off balance, but with little success. An experienced fighter, Morlan changed tactics and
began raising his attacks little by little until Klankor was blocking attacks that would either have
cut his throat or removed an eye. Not until it was to late did the Warmuh chief realize Morlan’s
plan as the human quickly spun around and using the momentum of the spin to drive his
longsword faster slashed the chief’s exposed thigh.
Normally that move would have cut a normal man’s leg off, giving Morlan time to
recover from the desperate move, but Klankor’s thick fur and dense muscle protected him and
the blade only caused a minor cut. He sensed his danger and raised his well-made dwarven
blade above his head to block the descending weapon of the Warmuh chief.
The weapons collided and the force of Klankor’s blow was so much that it knocked the
sword from Morlan’s hand as it broke three of his fingers, and knocked him to his knees in the
bloody snow.
“Here, I’ll make it fair, worm,” Klankor teased, driving his wicked sword a foot into the
frozen ground.
Pain and the thought of failing the children melted the rage from Morlan’s body, leaving
him cold and beaten. But then he saw something that brought a smile to his torn lips. Looking
past the monster in front of him, Morlan saw the last of the children slip safely into the ravine
closely followed by Buroc. Warmth flowed once again into his body, but this time it was not the
fires of rage but the flame of hope. They had not failed.
Morlan focused his gaze on the Warmuh chief before him and shakily regained his feet.
With his remaining good hand Morlan drew his dagger and saluted the sky above.
“FOR THE CHILDREN!!” He shouted as he rushed towards Klankor, dagger high above
his head, and his broken hand pointing accusingly at the waiting chief.
The powerful Klankor wrapped his burly arms around Morlan as the captain struck a
glancing blow to the side of the Warmuh’s head, taking the chief’s right ear but doing no real
damage. Klankor lifted the man as if he weighed no more than a child and squeezed with the
strength of a hundred constrictor snakes. There was a loud crack as Morlan’s back bone and
rib-cage were crushed, stealing his life.
Raising the lifeless body high above his head for all his warriors to see, Klankor bellowed
his triumphant battle cry.
“For Blackfur the Blood King! For the glory of our god! For the glory of Ahmah!”
His cry was taken up by his warriors and soon by all of the victorious gorthins. They had
vanquished the village of Roughstock and its proud people and were now more than ready to
follow their new Blood King on his dark crusade against the weak humans and their impotent
god.
How many of them would have changed their minds if they had seen the placid, peaceful
faces of the dead villagers of Roughstock and could understand what those faces meant.
One gorthin did and could.
Greytooth walked among the dead and was disturbed by what he saw. Surely Ahmah was
with his people today but so was the human’s god with them. What did it all mean? Were the
humans just that way because they had been rejoined with their god or did it have some greater
meaning and if so how did it effect Ahmah’s plans.
Unable to come to a satisfactory answer, Greytooth went looking for Blackfur and the
rest of the chiefs who were celebrating in the streets of Roughstock now.
Chapter 15
There was a loud crash as another jug of wine smashed into the wooden walls of the
Scaled Dragon’s storeroom. The entire room was in a state of anarchy due to the less than tender
searching of a pair gorthins thinking to pilfer some of the tavern’s spirits.
“No wonder these humans are so weak if this berry-water is what they call liquor,”
growled a scarred faced Warmuh sniffing another of the wine filled jugs. Wrinkling his nose in
distaste he sent the crockery on the same path as its predecessors.
“Maybe there’s something stronger in these casks, Snake Tongue,” growled a silver
furred gorthin rolling a large barrel from a group of several lined up against the wine painted
wall.
Snake Tongue moved next to his companion and eyed the barrel greedily. “I hope so
Ash, Klankor and Blackfur won’t be happy with the berry-water, but there are enough casks of
whatever this is to wash away the dust of battle from our brothers’ mouths. Hand me your axe
and we’ll crack this cask open and see what’s inside.”
Ash handed Snake Tongue his still bloody battle axe, rolling his forked tongue across his
lips in anticipation. “I hope it’s some of that mushroom whiskey those bird-boned elves make.
They may blow over in a strong breeze but those tree-huggers sure can make spirits that will
make your head spin three different ways.”
With a powerful swing Snake Tongue smashed the axe through the top of the stout
barrel. Inside a golden liquid sloshed back and forth. The grizzled gorthin sniffed deeply
of the fumes escaping from the previously sealed cask.
“Could it be?” He asked himself eyes wide with disbelief and mingled with a sliver of
hope. He then plunged his shaggy head into the barrel and drank deeply of the amber liquor
inside. A minute passed and still Snake Tongue stayed submerged though the level of fluid
inside had diminished greatly. Ash had just begun to reach for Snake Tongue’s mane to remove
him from the cask by force if necessary when older gorthin’s scar laced face erupted from the
foaming barrel and shook his head like a dog, sending amber droplets everywhere.
“It is! It is!” He howled in delight. “I would not have expected these weaklings to have
the constitution for such strong drink, but by Ahmah here it is!”
“What is it,” The younger Ash asked, “I don’t remember it as anything we’ve ever had in
camp.” Staring with wonder at the spirits that elicited such cries of exuberance from Snake
Tongue.
This is the strongest drink in all the land, cub,” answered Snake Tongue with a brotherly
clap on Ash’s back. “It is very hard to come by since the dwarves and us don’t get along so
well.”
The light of recognition lit up Ash’s bestial face and his reptilian eyes widen in awe.
“That’s fire-fruit brandy? That’s Blackfur’s favorite drink! We’ll be heroes! Maybe even be
allowed to join the Red Fangs!”
“Come on let’s tell Klankor what we found.” Ordered Snake Tongue, but not before Ash
dipped his head in for his own mouthful.
“Burns going down,” sputtered Ash, pounding a hand across his meaty chest.
Snake Tongue gave the youngster another slap on their back and the two left the Scaled
Dragon in search of their chief, laughing about their new found luck.
If either of the two had looked back they would have noticed the next barrel was
shaking. There was a couple of muffled grunts and then the wooden lid popped off the cask.
Slowly a weasel faced man raised his eyes above the rim of the barrel and furtively searched the
room for signs the gorthins. Convinced it was safe, Torban slipped out of the barrel and
stretched his aching muscles.
“Whew, I thought they would never leave.” He said as he reached back into the barrel
and withdrew a small bundle. “With the stupid dog men searching the village for survivors I
should be able to sneak out and follow Buroc and the children to Stoneheart.”
The cowardly tavern owner had hid himself in the barrel when the rest of the villagers
had attacked gorthins, and had planned on sneaking out during the confusion. Unfortunately for
Torpan, he had been unable to hear the battle waging at the gates, and missed his opportunity to
escape. Not until the gorthins had entered his tavern did he realize that the battle was over and
Roughstock was lost.
Torpan cast a last, longing gaze across his ruined tavern and released a deep sigh. “She
was a good tavern. Made me lots of money she did.” And with a sniff for his lost bar and home,
Torpan turned his back on The Scaled Dragon, like he did his fellow villagers, and slipped out
the secret door.
He had barely cleared the doorjamb when a vise-like hand wrapped around his spindly
throat and lifted him from the ground. A stony voice whispered into Torpan’s quivering ear.
“I knew I saw something over here before the battle, but the accursed sunlight bouncing
off the snow blinded me. When I could see again there was nothing there.”
One Eye turned his wrist so he could look into the frightened eyes of the human he had
caught and showed Torpan a wide smile full of razor sharp fangs.
“Good thing I can back, worm,” taunted One Eye, his cold reptilian eyes boring into
Torpan as if promising painful torture and agonizing death. “I bet Blackfur would like to know
who it was that used this door earlier.”
Torpan tried to speak, to beg for his life, but all that came out of his crushed throat was a
pathetic whimper. One Eye laughed as he carried the squirming human back into the village.
At first Torpan tried to fight against One Eye, clawing at the rock hard hand around his
throat, kicking futilely against the monster’s chest, but all that got him was a couple of well
placed punches to his stomach. The rest of his trip to the Blood King was spent trying to suck in
air through his bruised larynx and holding onto the Warmuh's arm to relieve some of the strain
on poor throat. After passing several groups of victory-drunk gorthins, Torpan shut his eyes
tight to blot out their leering smiles, but unfortunately he couldn’t let go of his gorthin captor to
cover his ears and drown out their taunts and jeers.
Soon they reached the center of the village were two gorthins were engaged in a heated
argument. The larger of the two, a black furred giant, was shaking his axe in the face of stooped,
smaller gorthin. Despite their size difference the smaller gorthin was facing down his younger,
larger opponent, vehemently shaking his head from side to side in disagreement.
“The battle was a complete success, Greytooth! There are no humans left alive and we
control the village! What more could Ahmah want?” Blackfur roared, waving his deadly axe
inches from Greytooth’s gnarled muzzle.
“Ahmah is displeased my king,” stated the shaman calmly. “Did you see the faces of the
dead villagers? There were no death grimaces or frozen masks of pain and suffering. Every
single villager had a peaceful, almost blissful, look on their faces. Ahmah was unable to steal
any of their souls for his pleasure, instead He got them!”
“So what! Their weak god could not help them. He could only grant them peace in their
death. Their faith was strong and it made them honorable opponents. We were victorious with
very few casualties, our god was with us as theirs was with them except Ahmah showed his
supremacy over the humans’ pathetic god! The gorthins’ are the chosen of Ahmah and we will
not fail him.”
“What of the children, Blackfur? Where are the children of this village? You know of
Ahmah’s lust for the pure, innocent blood of children and his requirement of their sacrifice.”
“We all do shaman, there is no nectar sweeter then drinking the blood of a vanquished
foe’s offspring. The humans have hidden their children very well, but we will find them and
Ahmah will have his fill.”
“The shaman is right Blackfur. The abyss is shaking from the Blood Demon’s rage. It is
rumored that he nearly tore the sulfur baths apart before the Dark Master came and calmed the
Blood God down with honeyed words and open threats.” Maruk interjected on Greytooth’s
behest.
“My king, this weakling may know something of the missing children,” One Eye
interrupted, flinging Torpan through the air to land in a heap at Blackfur’s feet.
“I caught him trying to sneak out of a hidden door near the ravine. I saw thought I saw a
group of humans crossing there during the battle, but the glare of the sun off the snow
momentarily blinded me and when the spots cleared there was nothing. I joined in the battle to
help my Warmuh brothers in the rout, but after the battle when there no children or their bodies to
be found, I went back to the spot where I had been blinded. There were several tracks that lead
into the ravine and the edge of the woods, but when I tried to follow them the trail vanished. I
was walking back past the wall to report to Klankor when this worm stuck his head out. I
thought he might know whose tracks they were and where they were headed, so I brought him to
you, Blackfur.”
“Good work One Eye,” acknowledged the Blood King while took stock of the sniveling
man prostrate before him. “Whose tracks were they, human?”
Blackfur kicked Torpan in the ribs when the tavern owner didn’t respond, flipping the
man onto his back. In his fear of the deadly monsters into whose clutches he had fallen, Torpan
began to cry freely and his bladder gave way making him even more uncomfortable and
miserable.
“I...I wo...won...won’t tell you anything!” Torpan cried, sending a stream of tears and
spittle at Blackfur. “You...you’re jus...just going to k...kill me anyways.”
“If I promise to free you, will you tell me who made those tracks and where they are
headed?” Asked Blackfur stepping back to appear less fearsome to the cowardly man.
“How can I trust you? How do I know that you won’t kill me after I tell you what you
need to know?” Torpan questioned the gorthin leader through tear swollen eyes.
“You have my word upon my honor as a gorthin warrior and the Blood King, I will free
you after you have told me what I want.” Answered Blackfur.
Torpan tried to stare into Blackfur’s eyes, but the alien coldness revealed nothing. He
had been told once that the gorthins have a strange code of honor based on their reputation as a
fighter and to lose that honor would cause them to lose face in their martial society. Torpan
glanced around to see if he could make a break for it but there were to many gorthins and in his
heart he knew that they would catch him, torture him to get what they wanted , and then finally
kill him in the name of their wretched god. He felt his only hope was to take the Blood King at
his word.
“They are the tracks of the villagers’ children. They escaped into the refuse dump when
the villagers attacked and kept you distracted and their path leads to Stoneheart.” Torpan felt a
prick of guilt in his heart for betraying what the rest of the people of Roughstock had died to
protect, but always a selfish man, he buried the common feeling as he always did when his
conscious acted up.
“How many and are there any adults with them for protection?” Asked Blackfur moving a
step forward towards the tiny man.
“Eighteen or twenty, I was never real sure how many of the brats there were in the
village. Buroc the forester leads them and is aided by a young boy with a deadly bow,” the
betrayer answered in a high pitched whiny voice, wringing his hands in anxiety. “That’s all I
know. Please, please let me go now. You promised you would.”
“May Ahmah enjoy your soul and know that thanks to you, all of the villagers deaths will
be in vain after we catch the children,” Blackfur raised his eagerly pulsating axe over the
traitorous human cowering in front of him.
“But you promised on your warrior’s honor,” Torpan whined, raising his hands to ineptly
shield him from the coming blow. “YOU PROMISEDDDD! He shrieked as the flaming blade
severed his head.
“I promised, but a warrior only keeps his word with another warrior, not with worms.”
Blackfur laughed as the head rolled to his feet, the mouth still silently pleading. Greytooth and
One Eye joined in with their kings laughter at the naivety of the cowardly human.
“Are we celebrating already my king?” Klankor asked as he and his escort arrived at the
grisly scene. He barely gave the dead body at Blackfur’s feet a passing glance before matching
the smiles on the shaman and One Eye’s faces. “If so then my warriors have brought the liquor.
Snake Tongue and Ash here have found several barrels of your favorite drink, fire-fruit brandy in
a tavern nearby.”
“Unfortunately that will have to wait Klankor. We have found out what happened to the
children and we need to send a party after them before they can reach the walls of Stoneheart.”
Blackfur said with regret.
“I will have One Eye gather some of our swiftest scouts immediately. We will drag the
children back here for you and the shaman so that Ahmah may be appeased.” Stated Klankor, his
mirth slipping from him and swiftly replaced by the air of the seasoned soldier he was.
“Not this time. The scouts would never catch them with the humans head start and the
forester’s ability at hiding. No, I need Goldeneyes and his Skylings. One Eye, go and fetch the
Skyling chief. I heard he and his flyers are celebrating somewhere in the center of the village, a
barn, or something like that.”
With a short bow towards his king, the scarred Warmuh was off to do Blackfur’s bidding.
After much looking he found the raucous Skylings gathered in what must have been the village
stable.
One Eye loosened his sword in its scabbard and sucked in a deep breath to calm the
simmer of disgust that was beginning to boil inside him. Like all Warmuhs he looked upon the
smaller, weaker Skylings with disdain. Without any further hesitation he strode into the
courtyard of the stable and jumped back with his hand on his sword as a streaking Skyling passed
through the spot he had been standing just a second before.
“I think you frightened the mighty One Eye, Blackhawk,” snickered Goldeneyes , picking
at his teeth with the splintered bone of a chicken. “Maybe next time you should send him a
message telling him that you will be flying by.”
“Wouldn’t do no good,” replied the jet black gorthin as he landed next to his chief who
was sprawled languidly across some grain sacks. “Everybody knows that a Warmuh can’t read!”
The gathered Skylings hooted in laughter at the fuming messenger, but One Eye let their
taunts slide off his back like rain while he marched to within a few paces of the lounging
Goldeneyes. He crossed his thick arms across his wide armored chest and glared with his good
eye at the Skylings. One by one they stopped laughing as his baleful gaze locked eyes with each
one of them until finally he was staring into the golden orbs of the clan chief.
“You shouldn’t eat your relatives Chief Goldeneyes,” he snarled, his voice resonating
with ice and acid. “You never know when you might have to recruit them.”
The jovial mood of the Skylings disappeared and was replaced with the bristling of
manes, growled threats, and the rasp of steel daggers sliding from their sheaths. Abruptly One
Eye found himself surrounded by several enraged Skylings calling for his blood. Tightly keeping
his anger in check, the Warmuh ignored the knives at his throat and matched Goldeneyes, glare
for glare.
“Do you have a reason to be here Warmuh, or are you just tired of living and would like
for us to assist you on meeting Ahmah?” Snapped Goldeneyes, his tone layered with rage and
contempt.
“Blackfur requests your presence immediately.” Fulfilling his duty One Eye turned to
leave, but his way was still barred by a pair of snarling Skylings. “What’s the matter my little
sparrows? Somebody steal your eggs?”
As one they lunges for the Warmuh, points of their blades leading the way. They were
topped in mid bound by a command from their respected chief and slowly backed away.
One Eye watched with a smug smile and burly arms folded across his chest as the
Skylings jammed their weapons back into the sheaths at their waists in frustration.
“Afraid to lose a couple of your birdies, chief?” One Eye said.
In less time it took for One Eye to blink his good eye, Goldeneyes had pounced to his
side and placed a wiry arm around the warrior’s thick shoulder in a brotherly manner. “You
weren’t so smug when I took that eye of yours, but if it makes you feel better it tasted terrible.”
Goldeneyes gave One Eye an ear to ear grin and patted the fuming Warmuh soundly on the back.
One Eye gave the Skylings one last glare before stalking out of the courtyard to the
cadence of laughter. With a bow to his brothers and a gracious wave in acceptance of their
cheers, Goldeneyes turned and followed One Eye through the ravaged streets of Roughstock.
Hurrying to keep pace with the longer legged Warmuh, Goldeneyes pondered on how he
would like to sink his daggers into the bristling back in front of him. It irked him to have nearly
run after his litter brother like some kind of dri’ val , but the Warmuhs were made to march while
the Skylings were made to fly and only Ahmah decided what each pup would be. It still amazed
the Skyling chief that his mother had birthed seven pups and all were strong Warmuhs except for
him, he had been cursed with the lighter, smaller frame of a flyer.
His brothers teased and bullied him until one day he and One Eye got into a scrap and the
agile Skyling had been victorious. The memory of One Eye’s pain wracked cries and his siblings
grudging respect brought a wide grin to his feral face.
His reminiscing was interrupted by the call of his name from above. Goldeneyes held a
hand to his eyes to shield them from the harsh rays of the winter sun while he scanned the sky for
the source of the call. Within seconds he spotted the battered form of Talon dropping through the
air towards him. When he failed to spot any of the other members of the hunting party and by
judging Talon’s condition, Goldeneyes muttered to himself. “This can’t be good.”
Talon landed hard in front of his chief due to his fatigue from chasing after the humans,
the abuse he took, and from rushing back to report their failure all in the last day. Panting
heavily the scout finally calmed his racing heart and reported to the impatiently waiting
Goldeneyes.
“Well get on with it, Talon. Blackfur is waiting for me and he’ll want to know what
happened,” Goldeneyes prodded, his leathery wings flaring with agitation.
With a slight bow towards Goldeneyes and avoiding eye contact with the Warmuh, Talon
began to recount the events of the ill-fated hunting party. When Talon finished describing the
battle and how the four humans had defeated eight trained gorthin warriors, some of the Skylings
best fighters, Goldeneyes gnashed his teeth and rubbed his sloped forehead in frustration.
After a few moments of contemplation Goldeneyes decided to just tell Blackfur the truth
of the Skylings defeat instead of concocting some kind of story to cover their misfortune. His
scouts had fought well during the battle of Roughstock, nearly claiming as many slain humans
as the Warmuhs. Hopefully that would help ease the fiery king’s wrath when he learned of the
humans escape.
“Go and fetch yourself something to eat and get some rest. I’ll give the Blood King your
report.”
“Thank you, my chief,” Talon stated with relief and with another bow scurried towards the
stable were his brothers were gathered.
Once Talon limped past the frustrated chief, Goldeneyes could see One Eye staring at him
with contempt. With a snarl the chief shouldered past the now snickering Warmuh and stalked
off to where Blackfur awaited him.
Moments later Goldeneyes stalked into the town square were Blackfur and Klankor were
drinking heavily from a stout wooden barrel. As he approached the Blood King motioned for
him to join them. Goldeneyes approached his king and hated rival with the nagging feeling of
being a lamb being embraced by a pack of wolves. That feeling was coupled with the fur on his
back bristling at Klankor’s palpable air of haughtiness.
“He wouldn’t be so smug if I were to drop a very large boulder on his head,” Goldeneyes
thought to himself. “Probably just hurt the rock anyway.” His trademark lop-sided grin lit up his
face as he contemplated the thick-skulled Warmuh chief getting hit on the head by an falling
boulder and the rock spiting in twine without Klankor even realizing he had been hit.
“You and your Skylings fought well today, Goldeneyes. Let us toast to the beginnings of a
new era of gorthin rule,” Blackfur praised while handing Goldeneyes a mug of potent smelling
spirits. He raised his mug and the two chieftains did likewise.
“For the glory of Ahmah!” Blackfur said.
Tilting his mug high, Blackfur quaffed down his mug-full in one gulp. Goldeneyes and
Klankor mimicked their king and in minutes the air filled with their satisfied belches and sighs of
contentment.
“By Ahmah, Blackfur, where did you find fire-fruit brandy in this wretch of a town?”
Asked Goldeneyes while he stared at the barrel as if it were filled with priceless jewels.
“A pair of Klankor’s Warmuhs found it in a tavern. The Warmuhs also found a human
that was willing to tell us where the children are and that’s why I sent for you. The children
escaped through a hidden door and fled through the rubbish ravine. They can only move as fast
as the littlest child can move, and there is only one adult with them acting as a guide and
protector so it should be an easy target for your Skylings.” Blackfur explained while dipping his
mug into the barrel.
Goldeneyes listened to Blackfur as the Blood King recounted the events of the last hour
and felt the heavy grip of disappointment engulf his heart. The Skyling chief was proud of his
fliers and had hoped that this dark crusade would provide the opportunity to advance the
standing of his Skylings. But so far Klankor and his rock-brained Warmuhs had managed to find
Ahmah’s dark blessing and favor.
The somber chief realized that Blackfur had just asked him a question and was waiting
for an answer of some kind. Goldeneyes looked at the vacant wooden buildings around seeking
for a hint of what the king had asked him, but their response was as empty as their broken-out
windows and skewed doors. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Klankor watching with
cockiness of a barnyard rooster. Angry, but unable to figure a way to turn the events around on
his rival, Goldeneyes admitted his defeat.
“What did you ask me, my king? I didn’t catch all that you said.”
Blackfur exchanged a knowing look with Klankor before he addressed Goldeneyes.
“Have you heard from the hunting parties yet? Surely they must have caught up with
those humans by now.”
If it hadn’t have been for One Eye witnessing the return of Talon, Goldeneyes would have
lied to Blackfur, but since it wouldn’t do any good he just told the truth and waited for the Blood
King to erupt.
Minutes passed while Blackfur’s icy eyes bored into Goldeneyes’s soul. To the scrutinized
chief it felt as if something was ripping apart his mind and if it didn’t stop soon his head would
explode.
Finally the king spoke to Goldeneyes in an icy way that made his skin shiver with goose-
bumps and dread.
“Maruk has weighed your soul and found you to be loyal to Ahmah and me and that the
failure of the hunting parties was not due to poor leadership but to an underestimating of the four
humans abilities. Therefore you will not be punished and I will give you and the Skylings one
more chance to redeem yourselves. You will send Talon with another hunting party to meet with
the goblin chief, Wort, and have his wolfriders join the hunting party to track down the children
of Roughstock. Make it clear to Talon that his life and your honor hang on the success of this
mission. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my king.” Replied Goldeneyes with a deep bow and bent neck.
“Good. Be on your way, flyer.” Commanded Blackfur.
With one last bow Goldeneyes propelled himself in to the air and flew off to choose the
new hunting pack and give Talon a severe berating on his failure.
“Blackfur, let myself and the Warmuhs handle those four humans. They will not be able
to defeat my warriors.”
“No, Klankor. I need you here to control the Warmuhs and lead them. I fear there is
something very dangerous about these humans, especially the young man. I felt a connection of
some kind with him and I believe he felt it too. Our fates have been bound together.”
Then send your Blood Fangs,” suggested Greytooth from the bench he had rested his
aching joints on. “They are loyal to you and obedient of every command you give them.”
“They are a good idea but I think I will send those that excel in assassination. I will have
Cutter and his Morgogs finish the job that the Skylings failed at. With him there will be no
mistakes or excuses.”
“A wise decision, my king,” praised the shaman with a tip of his shaggy head.
“He and his backstabbers would be more efficient then my warriors,” admitted
Klankor grudgingly. “I will send for Cutter immediately Blackfur.
“Very good Klankor and after that start having the army prepare to march at the first light
of day. We must reach Stoneheart in two days’ time when the Bloodmoon rises.”
With a nod of respect, Klankor left to find Cutter and to order his under-chiefs to
start organizing the warriors to march.
A short time later found a nervous Ash addressing Blackfur and Greytooth.
“I am sorry, Blackfur. I searched everywhere my king, but I could not find Cutter
or his Morgogs anywhere. It’s as if they all have disappeared.” The young fighter apologized.
“Damned snake-kisser!” Blackfur roared, emphasizing his anger with the hurling of his
mug at a dri’ val female who was bringing him his evening meal. “Where could he and his
accursed assassins be?”
“I feared Cutter would betray you, my king,” stated Greytooth. “He was always a strong
supporter of your father and his ways.”
“The shaman is right Blackfur. The Morgogs agenda is different than most gorthins and
care little for Ahmah and his requirements of faith.” Maruk added.
“Thanks for the warning,” replied Blackfur sarcastically.
A shadow within the shadows slipped away and made its way stealthily from the village
to the sheltering trees of the forest.
“Blackfur knows of our defection and is very angry, my chief.” The Morgog reported to
the heavily cowled figure leaning against the thick trunk of a mighty oak.
“Everything is as Ozra wishes then. Return to your post and continue to report to me,
Raz.”
“As you wish, Cutter,” Raz melted in to the shadows and was gone.
Cutter smiled evilly as he reflected upon the effects he and his Morgogs would have on
their new king. “Watch your back Blackfur, for when you die I will be the hand that guides the
blade and steals your last breath.” A dark laugh escaped from Cutter’s throat and was carried
away by the wind.
More to follow in a few days!!!!!! Thanks for reading!!
![Ascent of the Holy Blade by [Westfall, Eric]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51Y6A4xBSNL.jpg)
![The Hand of the Black Blade (Blades of Allura) by [Westfall, Eric]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51pMBmBiThL.jpg)
