Happy Reading
-EW-
Chapter 4
By the time Orin and Sir Olan reached the Stoutheart’s rustic homestead, Galen had
informed his mother of their guest, carried in several loads of firewood for the evening, washed up
for supper, and was waiting impatiently at the table for the others.
“Are your chores done Galen?” Questioned Orin shaking the snow from his cloak and then
placing it on a wood peg by the stout oak door. Sir Olan removed his cloak and hung it between
Galen’s sturdy gray cloak and his father’s ornate ranger one. Neither man had removed his sword
before sitting down to the table.
Amazement played across Galen’s face as his mother took no more notice of the cloaks and
swords than she would have a scarf or cane.
“Yes Father...” began Galen in a puzzled voice. How could his mother not notice the fancy
cloaks or not be taken back by the swords belted at the men's waist. She was acting as if it was
common place for there to be a Knight of Everwatch at her dinner table.
“Mother, how can you be so calm when a Knight of Everwatch is having dinner with us,
and Father is wearing the cloak and sword of the legendary Rangers of Everwatch?” Cried an
exasperated Galen.
His mother, Anna, waved a hand dismissively in the air while she stirred the boiling stew.
“Orin and his brother, Olan have played at being knights since we were children, and I was there
when they were brought into the knighthood. It was a beautiful ceremony, all the knights decked
out in their shining armor and standing at rigid attention with their gleaming swords held high to
form a metal canopy while the soon to be knighted squires walked through on their way to stand
before Father Joseph and the Council of Seven. Sir Olan’s wife, your aunt Sylvia, and I cried as
your father and his brother were presented their armor and swords.” Anna recounted nonchalantly.
“Unc...unc...uncle,” sputtered a confused Galen. His mind reeling with the night’s
unbelievable events, Galen placed his head in his hands and began to mumble to himself.
“Calm yourself lad,” soothed Sir Olan patting Galen on the back as he took his place at the
table. “Your father and I will explain everything to you, but first let’s eat. I've had nothing but
pack rations for days and your mother’s cooking has always been delicious.”
Galen ate his meal quietly while he studied the three adults as they talked to one another.
Orin updated Sir Olan current actions of the roving goblin tribes in the area and that the trolltaurs,
an evil race of creatures with the upper body of a troll and the lower half of a mountain goat, were
starting to crawl out of their mountain holes and causing minor trouble for homesteads away from
the security of the few towns in the area. The brothers discussed with growing concern at the
increased activity of the evil races of the kingdom and the unusual silence coming from the
dwarven halls and Silver Forest, the fabled home of the elves. Especially the dwarves who hated
the thieving goblins and trolltaurs with as much zeal as they loved their gold and jewels. Anna
asked how Sylvia was doing and what was going on in the court of the king, Kanath the Second.
At last the meal was finished and when Galen rose to help his mother with the clearing of
the table and washing the dirty dishes his father placed a calloused hand on his forearm.
“Not tonight son, your mother will tend to the crockery. It is time that you learn the history
of the family into which you were born.”
Nervousness and anticipation turned Galen’s stomach into a flight of a hundred butterflies
as he sat back down. In a few more moments he would have the answers to tonight’s strange
events and that both frightened and thrilled the young man.
Orin handed Olan a pipe and a pouch of tabac and proceeded to light his own clay pipe that
he had removed from his coin purse. Galen watched anxiously as the two men puffed on their
pipes and blew smoke rings as they let their dinner settle. Impatiently Galen watched the rings
disappear amongst the rough wooden rafters of the Stoutheart homestead. After what seemed like
hours but had only been a few minutes Orin began to address Galen.
“The Stoutheart family has long served the Savior and the kingdom. You can trace our
lineage to the founding of the Knights of Everwatch. Your grandfather, Arin, was a hero during the
last uprising of the gorthins and their evil allies. The gorthins had swept across Allura leaving a
wake of destruction behind them. They had nearly taken control of the northern lands when Arin
led a small unit of cavalry in a last ditch effort to reach the gorthin leader, a powerful brute named
Long Fang. The knights were outnumbered four to one by Long Fang’s body guard, the Red
Fangs, but the mounted knights drove their courageous mounts through the enemy right to the
heart of the evil horde and Arin removed the head of Blood King with a single swipe of his
enchanted sword. They had to fight their way to freedom and over half of the knights gave their
lives that day, but they had succeeded in severing the head from the unholy army and the monsters
fled to the Blackstone Mountains. Unfortunately Arin received a mortal wound from the Blood
King’s last desperate swing and had to be carried from the battlefield by his brothers in arms.
“Your grandfather was given the highest honor that the knighthood can bestow as was
named a Champion of Everwatch. He was buried beneath the monastery with past heroes and
leaders of the order. It is his fabled sword, Light Bringer, which hangs above our hearth.”
For many years Galen had lain in front of the flagstone hearth staring at the mysterious
sword that hung there. Whenever he would ask his mother or father about the ancient weapon they
would answer that it was a family heirloom and not say another word no matter how much he
pleaded. So Galen had created his own fantastic tales about the sword; from slaying evil dragons
to rescuing imprisoned maidens, but they all paled when compared to the true history of the holy
blade.
A voice inside his head told Galen he needed to hold the awe inspiring blade that had
defeated the gorthin invasion and their Blood King. Guided by the impulsion, Galen slowly stood
and walked over to stand in front of the blazing fireplace. Unaffected by the intense heat that
rolled from the hearth to heat the house, Galen tentatively lifted the massive broadsword from its
resting place and grasped it firmly with both hands. A warmth quickly spread from his fingertips
to consume his whole body but it did not cause him any discomfort, instead it brought a feeling of
peaceful serenity. Galen made a couple of rough swings with the sword and was amazed at the
lightness and balance of such a large, heavy looking weapon. It did not seem any heavier than the
long-bladed skinning knife that hung from the sheath at his waist.
From the moment that Galen had risen from his seat until he had stopped swinging the
beautiful blade, Sir Olan and his father had watched with stone-faced patience, but anxiety
crouched at the corner of Orin’s eyes. They both had been tested by their father before they had
been allowed to enter into the knighthood for training. One of Light Bringer’s abilities is that it
can only be held by those of a pure heart and soul and had Galen not been worthy the sword would
have struck him dead. The warmth the blade had imparted to Galen would have grown in intensity
until the unfortunate young man would have burst into flames and been consumed by fire. As their
father had before them, Orin and Olan let out a whispered sigh of relief. Orin was especially glad
because Galen’s mother had no idea of the sword’s deadly ability and she would never have
forgiven him had Galen failed nor would he have forgiven himself. Like his father, Orin had put
his faith in the Savior and the Savior had not failed him.
“Thank you,” prayed Orin under his breath.
“He has passed,” stated a smiling Olan as he patted his relieved brother on the back. “It is
time to tell him the rest.”
“Place the sword back above the mantle and rejoin us please Galen,” ordered Orin. “There
is much yet for you to learn and the time is growing short.”
Reluctantly, Galen placed the sword back on the pegs that held it horizontally above the
hearth, and retook his seat at the plain but solid, smooth ironwood table.
“What was that feeling I had when I touched Light Bringer?” Asked a puzzled Galen.
“My body felt like I had been laying in front of the hearth as the flames from the fire warmed my
body, but at the same time everything seemed to become clearer, more in focus, I could see and
sense everything around me in greater detail. I could see each thread of cloth in my shirt and could
feel the frigid winter wind as it split and blew around our house and then melded back together on
the other side.” Galen looked around the farmhouse as if seeing things again for the first time.
“That is one of Light Bringer’s abilities. It allows its wielder to become more in tune with
his surroundings. All the Swords of Heaven have special strengths granted to them by the Savior.
Had you not been pure of heart the warmth you felt from the sword would have continued to
intensify and you would have been consumed by flames.” Stated Sir Olan.
“Swords of Heaven?” Questioned Galen, his face a mask of confusion and a little fear at
his possible near death. “What are they?”
“It is said that there are seven Swords of Heaven, or they are sometimes referred to as the
Holy Swords. Whenever mankind is faced with an overpowering evil that must be defeated by
martial conflict the savior sends an angel to earth with one of the swords to even the odds so to
speak. When it is time for the seventh sword to come to our aid it will be carried by the Savior
himself and he will wield it during the Last Battle. The only drawbacks to these Swords of Heaven
are that they can only be wielded by one certain individual.” Said Sir Olan. “A little over a week
ago the religious leader of the Knights of Everwatch, Father Joseph, was visited by one of these
angelic messengers. To be exact it was the archangel Narizz. He took Father Joseph to the ruins
of the gorthins to witness a demonic rite that allowed one of their shamans to communicate with
their demon god, Ahmah. Father Joseph then learned that there is a powerful artifact hidden in
heart-shaped stone vault in your village. If the gorthins can gain possession of this artifact by the
Bloodmoon they will be able to bring their evil god into this world. Before Narizz departed he
gave Father Joseph the holy sword, Heaven’s Justice, and told him that the chosen one to wield the
sword was somewhere around this settlement of Stoneheart. That is why I’m here. Father Joseph
sent me to find the one chosen to wield Heaven’s Justice and defeat the gorthins and their demonic
god.”
“Have you found the chosen one yet, Olan?” Asked Orin
“Not yet, Brother,” he replied. “But I plan on continuing my search and scouting the area
in the morning.”
“Can I go Father?” Blurted an excited Galen. “I know all the trails and passes in the area
plus I’m a good shot with my longbow and no one has been able to best me with a quarterstaff for
the last three years at festival.”
“I don’t know, Galen, this isn’t a game at festival. There will be dangerous encounters with
monsters and they won’t stop fighting just because you knock them down with your staff. You will
have to kill or be killed and taking a life, even a monsters, is not an easy thing to do and if it is then
you have no place in a battle.” Answered Orin.
As Galen opened his mouth to protest, his father stroked his neatly trimmed salt and
pepper beard thoughtfully and continued on, “On the other hand you are an adult now and you
could just leave if you wanted to. You are also an excellent shot with your bow with which you
could provide food if the rations run short or use it at long range against an enemy. Olan is the best
swordsman at the monastery and he could begin to teach you how to use a sword. What do you
think, Brother?”
“It is always better to travel with a companion than by yourself in the wilds of the
Blackstone Mountains and Bentwood Forest, and it wouldn’t hurt to start training the lad in the use
of the sword with the possibility of a gorthin invasion looming in the future. I would like to get to
know my nephew. Not many full grown men would stand and face a hunting gorthin let alone
armed only with a longbow and wood axe. Galen seems to be a remarkable young man. If he had
went to the monastery he would have been accepted into the knighthood,” stated Olan as he stared
intently at Galen with his gray-green eyes. “He may have even excelled better than you or I,
Orin.”
“That settles it then. Galen will leave with you in the morning to seek out the chosen one
and to scout out the gorthin army.” Proclaimed Orin as he leaned forward and smacked his palms
against his thighs. “Let’s drink a toast to Galen’s first quest as a man, to finding the chosen one,
and that the Savior will help Anna to understand why I’m sending her boy out in these dangerous
times.”
The two brothers and a very excited Galen raised their mugs to one another and drained the
remaining cider in one long pull. The knight and ranger then dropped to one knee and bowed their
heads in prayer. Galen, mimicking his father and uncle, did the same. As he began his own silent
prayer to the Savior, his father started to pray out loud.
“Blessed Savior, we your humble servants, ask that you guide us to do your will and to
assist us in our daily lives. Savior we ask that you be with Galen and Olan as they search for your
chosen one and to keep them safe from harm. We ask that you be with the villagers of Stoneheart
as they prepare to face this evil enemy. We thank you for the gift of knowledge of our enemies
plans and for the Holy Sword, Heaven’s Justice, that will pierce through the evil and destroy it at
its black heart. In the Savior’s name we pray, Amen”
After rising to their feet Orin firmly clasped Galen’s shoulders and looked squarely into the
young man’s blue-gray eyes.
“Listen to me son. Do what your uncle tells you and listen carefully to his words of advice.
He has pulled me through many tight places that I did not believe we could survive. Remember to
have faith in your own abilities. You have played, hunted, and tracked all through the wilds and
you know the area as well as anyone. Keep your eyes and ears open an enemy can be anywhere.
Lastly, remember to keep your faith in the Savior. He is always there to guide you if you are open
to him.” Orin ruffled Galen’s hair with a weathered hand and then turned to face Olan. “Why
don’t you and Galen go out to the barn and gather the supplies you will need. There are extra
saddle bags, some rope, a flint and tinder box, and maybe some other things you might find useful.
Meanwhile I’ll break the news to Anna that her boy is going to be leaving home for a while.”
Orin took a deep breath and squared his shoulders then walked towards the kitchen as if he
faced a hundred swordsmen armed only with a carving knife. Galen thought he heard his father
muttering to himself, but all he could clearly make out was his mother’s name and something
about skinning rabbits.
Close to seeing her fortieth winter Anna was still considered to be the most beautiful
woman in the village. Her curly, waist long, acorn-brown hair stood out in sharp contrast to the
flaxen blonde and strawberry red hair of Stoneheart’s occupants. Many whispered that she was
part wood nymph due to angular features, graceful movements, and lithe yet voluptuous body.
Those that were at first envious or uncomfortable around Anna’s grace and beauty were soon put at
ease by her sincerity and friendliness. But Anna’s most striking feature was her coffee-brown
eyes. They could switch from a soothing warmth to a cold hardness that made even Galen’s father
jump at her command. More likely than not, Orin was about to face those cold eyes when he told
Anna that Galen was leaving with Olan. She was likely to skin all three of them for having such a
foolish notion. Galen was not envious of his father’s situation at all.
“Come on Galen,” said Olan as he threw his thick cloak around his shoulders. “If your
mother’s temper is half as bad as it used to be then let us be far from here before her ire rises. With
that said Sir Olan opened the stout oak door and headed out into the frigid, blowing wind.
Hearing the beginning of a heated conversation drifting from the kitchen, Galen needed no
encouragement before donning his own heavy woolen cloak and grabbing a lantern followed his
uncle into the bitter cold night.
Shutting the door behind him, Galen stood on the covered porch for a few moments to let
his eyes adjust to faint nighttime light. His eyes adjusted quickly with the light of the full silver
moon reflecting off the cotton colored farm yard. Even then he could barely make out Olan’s dim
form opening the stable door across the yard through the blowing snow. Pulling his cloak tighter,
Galen raced across the icy, snow covered ground. The howling wind felt like the talons of some
ice beast from the far north tearing at his exposed face and threatening to rip open his cloak. It was
with great relief that he made it to the shelter of the barn and shut the door keeping out the winter’s
fury. The wind blew harder, battering the barred door as if in frustration.
Galen stomped his boots to remove the clinging snow from them and then hung the lantern
on wooden peg next to the door frame. Looking around for Olan. Galen removed his cloak and
through it over a bale of straw to let it dry out. Sir Olan then emerged from the little store room at
the back of the barn carrying two quarter staffs. When he was within a few feet of Galen he tossed
the young man one of the staffs.
“Okay Galen, let’s see if you are as good as your father says you are,” challenged the
knight grasping the staff with both hands and assuming a fighting stance with his legs slightly
apart and relaxed. “Staffs are not my preferred weapon, but since you are so good with it I thought
it might balance this little contest.” He finished and then spun the staff in several large circles to
test its balance.
“I can’t fight you Uncle. You are a Knight of Everwatch, the best fighters in the...” Began
an uncertain Galen, but before he could finish Sir Olan brought his staff down in an overhead
chop that would have split Galen’s head.
Galen instantly moved into his own fighting stance and placing his hands wide on the
staff raised the weapon to block the knight’s staff. When Galen felt the impact from the block
he spun to his right and tucking his right arm close to his body, deflected the other staff
harmlessly off to the side. Galen stopped his movement to the right and whipped the his staff
back to the left, catching a stinging blow to the knight’s ribs before Olan managed to break away.
“You are as good as your father said,” praised Olan as he rubbed his bruised ribs. “But I
bet there is one lesson you haven’t learned yet.”
The wily knight then launched into a frenzied assault, continuously spinning the
quarterstaff and then striking high and low. Galen’s defense was flawless, whenever it appeared
that Olan’s staff was going to score a hit, Galen’s own staff would ward off the blow at the last
second. No more words were wasted between the two combatants as they circled one another.
The only sound sounds to be heard in the make-shift arena was the whistle of the swinging
staves, the solid thok noise made as the weapons rung off one another, and the labored breathing
of the two fighters. For several minutes the two fought with no one gaining an upper hand.
Galen’s confidence grew with each passing second and when Sir Olan slid his hands
together at the end of the staff like he was holding a giant sword, Galen’s lips spread into a smile.
He brought his staff up to block the predictable overhead attack. When the two weapons collided
there was a loud bang. Galen began to shift the right while he guided the staves harmlessly to his
left and prepared to reverse his swing to strike at Sir Olan’s temporary vulnerability. But Olan had
let go of the staff as Galen began his parry and snapped a quick kick into Galen’s exposed
midriff. Surprise lit up Galen’s eyes as the air exploded from his lungs and he fell,
panting for breath, to the earthen barn floor.
“What was that?” Gasped Galen between breaths.
“That, my dear boy, is your first lesson,” stated Sir Olan as he extended a hand to assist a
wobbly Galen in standing. “You are an excellent fighter when it comes to sparring in contests,
but out on the field of battle there are no rules your opponent has to abide by. He will as likely
kick, punch, or scratch you as use his weapon. In battle your mind and body are your weapons.
A sword, spear, or bow are just extensions of your own body. Do you understand?”
“I think so Uncle. It’s not the sword that’s dangerous but the man who wields the sword.
Father explained that to me once before after an incident he had with some rowdy caravan
guards. We were getting grain for our cattle when we heard a young woman’s cry of distress
followed by a chorus of bawdy laughter. There were four guards who had been drinking too much
at the inn and were harassing Erin, the innkeeper’s daughter. Father went up to the
troublemakers and asked them to leave.”
“All he carried was an empty grain sack and each sell-sword was armed with a
broadsword. The guards just laughed at my father thinking he was some upstart farmer that
needed to be taught some manners.”
Galen thought back to that moment when he would surly see his father beaten to a bloody
pulp or worse, but Orin had seemed unconcerned as the four guards fanned out to surround him.
“The first guard lunged forward with a thrust that would have skewered my father in half,
but he sidestepped the blade and snapped the burlap bag into the assailant’s eyes, blinding him.
The guard dropped his sword and fell to his knees holding his torn face.”
“The three remaining guards sobered up and began to work as a team. Two of them a
attempted to hold Father’s attention while the third tried to slip in behind him. When the guard
reached Father’s blind-spot the two front attackers began a vicious assault which my father
countered using the tough burlap, an end in each hand, to deflect the wild swings. Sensing the
approach of the third guard’s blade, Father then dropped into a crouch and the sword whistled
harmlessly trough the space where his head had been.”
“He then sprang from the ground and slammed an extended palm into the swordsman’s
nose. The startled guard was knocked from his feet as his nose exploded in a spray of blood and
broken cartilage to lay unmoving on the cobblestones.”
“The two remaining merchant guards nervously faced Father uncertain of what to do next
when he said, ‘Take your friends and return to your wagons and do not bother the people of
Stoneheart again’. Grudgingly the larger one picked up his unconscious friend and slung him
over his shoulder while his partner took the blinded man’s hand and they quickly departed and
were never seen in Stoneheart again. It was amazing the way Father used an everyday item like
that sack, to fight off those four ruffians.”
The awe in Galen’s voice painted the fight for Olan as clearly as if he had seen it with his
own two eyes and in truth he had seen his brother handle other rogues in a similar manner.
“That sounds like Orin. He could never standby and watch anyone be bullied or
threatened, especially a woman. Many times your father got us into scrapes with the nobility’s
young men. They thought they could look down their noses at the common folk and have their
way with the local peasants’ daughters. If it hadn’t been for our apprenticeships to the Knights of
Everwatch we’d either have been thrown in the King’s dungeon to rot or been hung in the
gallows for the raven’s to pick our bones clean.” Sir Olan said with a chuckle.
“He was also the best student at the hand-to-hand combat lessons all squires were
required to take. The knights aren’t only schooled at weapons and tactics of war, but are also
taught how to use our mind and body as well as weapons. It was that kind of training that
allowed your father to best for armed and trained fighters and for me to surprise you during our
sparing. Now, let’s get your saddlebags packed and a few supplies I need to restock for the road
tomorrow. It should be calm enough to head back to house by then.” Finished Olan.
Galen gave a nervous laugh at the thought of having to go in and face his mother after his
father had broken the news to her. Suddenly adventuring didn’t sound so appealing.
“Oh, one more thing Galen,” said Sir Olan extending a hand to assist the younger
Stoutheart in regaining his feet. Galen raised his hand to receive the offered help, but Olan
reached beyond his outstretched palm and firmly clasped his nephew’s forearm. Instinctively
Galen closed his own hand around Olan’s rock-hard forearm.
“I look forward to our time on the road together. You have faced a creature out of your
nightmare’s and survived. As I have said before, not many men have faced a gorthin and fewer
still have lived to tell their tale. That makes you a very special person indeed.” Praised the
knight.
Before Sir Olan released his grip on Galen’s forearm, the young man thought he saw a
look that was both amused and speculative pass across the knight’s angular face. While
gathering his necessary supplies Galen wondered what that look might have meant and unable to
dissect anymore information from his memory he shrugged it away.
Stuffing his saddlebags with the gathered supplies and slinging them over his shoulder,
Galen carried them over to the post that held the aged leather saddle his father gave him and
draped them over it. He then pulled a thick bedroll from the storeroom and laid it on the pile.
Everything ready for tomorrow, Galen walked over to the stables to check on Mercury, his fiery
gelding, who was pawing the dirt in a mirror of his owner’s anxiety.
Galen patted the smooth silver coat of the horse’s neck after Mercury had nuzzled him
wanting affection from his master. Mercury was Galen’s pride and joy. After seeing the horse
for the first time three years ago on Master Wayne’s farm, Galen had known right away that they
meant for one another.
At that time Mercury was kept apart from the other horses due to his rambunctious
behavior. His spotless silver coat was covered with dried mud and brambles matted his snow-
white mane. Galen saw past the grime to the noble heart of the proud gelding. Master Wayne
had turned down Galen’s initial attempts to buy the horse saying that he was too dangerous for
such a young boy and that Mercury had already broken the arm of Master Wayne’s eldest son,
who was considered the best horseman for leagues around. But Galen would not give up and
Master Wayne finally gave in figuring the tiresome boy would leave him alone after the gelding
had flung him to the dirt a few times.
The surprise was on him though when Galen walked up to the horse, placed an arm over
the gelding’s thick neck, and after whispering into Mercury’s ear proceeded to ride bareback
around the farm. The astonished farmer told Galen that if he would work for him every other
day until harvest that he could have the troublesome gelding. The two had become inseparable
ever since. In his free time Galen would ride Mercury through the foothills of the Blackstone
Mountains practicing his archery from horseback or just wandering aimlessly until it was almost
nightfall and they would race back to the safety of the farm.
“But tomorrow will be different Mercury. Tomorrow we don’t race back to the safety and
comfort of home. In the morning we will begin our path towards becoming heroes,” Galen
promised with excitement in his voice. He then scooped out a handful of grain and oats and fed
it to Mercury who whinnied gratefully.
“We’ll pack the rations in the morning Galen. I’ve finished restocking the supplies I
needed and if you’ve finished loving on that horse we’ll head back to the house.” Teased Sir
Olan.
“Don’t make fun of my horse, Uncle,” snapped the proud young man. “Mercury has been
a faithful companion and very likely my most trusted companion.”
“I would never dream of it Galen. Blade, my stallion, and I have a very similar bond
ourselves,” Sir Olan apologized with a soothing gesture of his hands. “Most knights have that
type of relationship with their mounts.”
Sir Olan then replaced his heavy cloak around his thick shoulders and left the barn.
Galen patted Mercury on the nose one last time and then followed his uncle out of the barn. The
biting wind nearly tore his cloak from his shoulders before he finally managed to fasten the
sturdy, dwarven made clasp.
“That was stupid,” Galen chastised himself. “I about lost my best winter cloak all
because I forgot to think before I acted. I’d better get that under control or this may turn into a
short adventure.”
Pulling the hood tighter around his face to avoid the stinging wind, Galen trudged through
the drifting snow towards the beckoning warmth that spilled from the cozy farm house
windows. Reaching the porch steps Galen started to set his foot down on the weathered step
when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. Feeling something was amiss he scanned
the barnyard and night sky but with the blowing snow he could barely make out anything a
few yards away. Starting back up the steps Galen thought he saw caught a flicker of movement
out of the corner of his eye. Straining against the snow and wind he watched the area for more
signs of movement for a few more seconds but saw nothing.
“The excitement of the day must have me imagining things,” he stated while he shrugged
his shoulders. Entering the house and removing his snow crusted boots and hanging his cloak
did nothing to abate that nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.
Outside a monstrous shape rose from behind the woodpile that had hid him from the
human’s searching eyes. Greyfang had followed the human after watching him kill his brother,
Redtooth, and, angry at the loss of his brother and lusting for vengeance, had stayed just out of
sight of the young man. The gorthin was wary of the great bow that had so easily brought down
the ferocious Redtooth. So he contented himself with following the human and biding his time to
strike. When the wolves had set upon the man Greyfang saw his chance and had begun to
descend on the unsuspecting prey. But when the accursed knight had burst from the underbrush
he broke off his attack fearful of the knight’s crossbows. Greyfang contented himself with
spying on the humans and followed them back to their village. He was a Skyling gorthin after all
and his job was to scout the area and return to report what he had seen to Goldeneyes, clan
chieftain of the Skylings.
That reassuring thought had eased the cowardly feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe
even important enough that Canis the Blood King might promote him into the ranks of the elite
Red Fangs. Spreading his leathery, bat-like wings Greyfang propelled himself into the snowy
night sky. The fires of bloodlust replaced with the lust for power.
Inside the Stoutheart homestead no one noticed the shadowy shape as it made its way
towards the distant peaks of the Blackstone Mountains.
In his loft bedroom Galen blew out his candle and after saying his prayers jumped into
bed and pulled the thick goose down comforter up tight around his chin. It took several minutes
before Galen could clear the excitement of the day from his mind. When sleep did finally claim
him his dreams were filled with fanged monsters and a glowing sword whose beauty and purity
made tears fall from his eyes.
Chapter 5
The gorthin sat perched on a stone outcrop that jutted out from the side of the steep
canyon wall, high above the gathered mighty gorthin clans. Goldeneyes unconsciously shifted
his balance as the wind tried to tear him from his precarious seat. His delicate nose sifted the
scents that wafted up from the encampment. The smell of the cooking fires made his stomach
rumble. The Warmuh clan had come across a party of merchant dwarves and after months of
only sparring with one another the bloodthirsty warriors threw on the hapless dwarves with
murderous intent. The clans, after only feeding on rabbits and mountain goats for the last year,
haled the powerful warriors for returning with the tough but tasteful dwarven meat.
The favor the Warmuh chief, Klankor, had gained with the gift of the dwarven meat
would soon be lost with the news that the Skyling scouts had brought back. Goldeneyes smiled
evilly at the thought of the displeasure his rival would feel when he gave his report of how
weakly the pathetic town of Stoneheart was defended. A few unskilled farmers were no match
for five hundred battle hardened gorthin warriors. Goldeneyes then let the wind take him from
his perch and gently floated down to the canyon floor.
Goldeneyes strode arrogantly through the dri’ val clan’s encampment towards Rak-
Natorik, the Hall of Chiefs. He stared with distaste as the dri’ val went about their daily routine
of cooking and cleaning for the gathered clans. The Skylings, like the rest of the gorthin clans,
looked down on the dri’ val for their non-warlike ways. It didn’t matter to the gorthins that the
dri’ val were their woman, children and elders or if it wasn’t for the dri’ val the proud warriors
would have to wash their own clothes and forage for their own food. The Skyling chief tore a
chunk of meat from a cooking spit as he passed by. The young female in charge of turning the
spit, started to berate the chief until a light of recognition pierced her dull mind. She prostrated
herself on the rocky ground begging Goldeneyes to have mercy on her. Watching the young
female grovel before him stirred a different kind of hunger. Looking at the setting sun,
Goldeneyes judged that he had a little time before he was expected at Ra-Natorik. Grabbing the
girl by her long scraggly hair, Goldeneyes dragged her to the cover of some nearby boulders.
The girl whimpered as he tore away her beaded leather dress, frantically she tried in vain to
cover her nakedness with her hands. Goldeneyes gave a guttural laugh and after pinning her
arms above her head with one powerful claw he forced himself upon the terrified girl. At the
cooking spit the remaining women and children pretended not to hear the girl’s pain wracked
pleas for help and went about finishing the nightly meal.
A short time later the Skyling chieftain was cleaning the girl’s blood from his canine
muzzle as he watched his rival, Klankor, take his seat across from the flier chief. Silently
Goldeneyes studied the gargantuan leader of the Warmuh clan. Even among the giant wingless
Warmuhs Klankor was considered monstrous. Easily over nine feet in height, Klankor was the
largest gorthin to ever live. It was said that he could best the great brown bear in unarmed
combat, and Goldeneyes knew that it was more than just rumor after witnessing Klankor break
the neck of one the deadly beasts. But for all his great strength and powerful fighting skills the
Warmuh chief had the intellect of a boulder. Red-black fur seemed stretched over rock hard
muscles and his flame colored mane hung in long thick braids down his broad back. He had
replaced his heavy crag wurm armor with a simple loincloth, but his favorite weapon, an evil-
looking two-handed serrated sword, hung easily from a worn scabbard on his back. As if sensing
the gaze of the Skyling, Klankor stared back at the smaller winged chief. Goldeneyes’s wolfish
mouth split into a wide grin that showed many sharp fangs but little mirth. Klankor’s reptilian
eyes seethed with anger at Goldeneyes unspoken challenge.
“I’ve had enough of your ugly face, egg-sucker!” Roared the enraged Klankor, “I’ll rip
that smile off of your face this time and there’s no one to stop me!” In one smooth motion the
savage chief had drawn his blade and knocked the rough wooden table from between him and
Goldeneyes. Bronze plates and cooper goblets flew through the air scattering their contents of
meat and stolen dwarven ale.
“I’ll feast on your heart tonight pig-breeder!” Taunted Goldeneyes as he jumped to his
feet, barely avoiding a flying dwarven thigh bone, and drew his two wide-bladed hunting knives.
As the two combatants circled one another looking for weak points, Goldeneyes began to
wonder about the wisdom of provoking the deadly Warmuh in such a confined area where his
only advantage of flight was lost. That slip of concentration cost Goldeneyes dearly as he
slipped on some spilled ale and lost his balance. Seeing an opening, Klankor slammed his
shoulder into the smaller chief and knocking him stunned to one knee. Panting with bloodlust, the
Warmuh chief positioned himself to deliver the death blow to Goldeneyes’s vulnerable neck,
and roaring in victory Klankor began the decent of his serrated blade.
“Stop this foolishness at once!” Bellowed a commanding voice from the shadows.
Klankor, unable to stop the momentum of the massive sword, deflected it enough that it grazed
Goldeneyes head and imbedded itself several inches into the stone floor. Letting out a sigh of
relief, Goldeneyes started to regain his feet when Klankor’s muscular clawed foot kicked him in
the ribs, sending the chief spiraling through the air to land heavily on his back.
“That is enough Klankor!” Roared an enraged gorthin as he stepped from the shadows.
Canis the Blood King was nearly an equal to the Warmuh chief in size and strength, but he also
had great intelligence and the bat-like wings of the Skyling chief. Well-formed muscles quivered
with irritation under the orange and black spotted fur that covered his entire body and his clawed
hand fingered the haft of a sinister spiked mace that hung at his side. Canis’s coal black mane
bristled in anger as his cold reptilian eyes bored first into the seething Klankor, who held the
volatile king’s gaze for a moment before slamming his sword into its scabbard and bowing his
head to the powerful leader, and then to the cantankerous Skyling chief. Goldeneyes began to
sputter an excuse, but Canis exploded into action before the first words escaped Goldeneyes’s
lips. In two quick strides, Canis reached the unlucky gorthin, grasped Goldeneyes by the throat
with one mighty hand, and flung him across the hall where for the second time this evening the
Skyling chief found himself lying on the floor.
“I tire of the two of you constantly bickering with one another. Your clans are beginning
to fight one another because of the hatred between you two. The Red Fangs broke up several
brawls today alone. Luckily none were hurt to severely. The gorthins are too few in number too
fight among themselves with the upcoming events so close at hand.” Explained the exasperated
king to the two chiefs as if they were cubs still suckling at their mother's teats. “Now take your
seat Goldeneyes, the others will be here soon.”
The dri’ val hurried to reset the upturned table and replace the spilled food and drink as
Canis took his place upon a throne made from the scales of a crag wurm. The Blood King’s
orange and black fur stood out in garish contrast to the brown and green scales of the deceased
wurm. Dressed in the traditional loincloth the Blood King’s only token of power was a human
skull gilded with beaten copper that hung from a leather thong around Canis’s bullish neck.
After the king had taken his place on the throne the brutish Klankor took his seat, but not
before giving the downed Goldeneyes a smug look and a quick gesture of swiping his hand
across his neck. His pride suffering more than anything else, Goldeneyes gingerly regained his
feet and stiffly walked over to his chair and sat down. Picking up a steaming dwarven haunch
from the freshly replaced platter Goldeneyes noticed that Klankor was still staring smugly at him
from across the table. The impish chief returned the stare as he tore a chunk from the haunch
and casually stuck out his long forked tongue and waggled it at the Warmuh chief.
Canis watched the childish display and began to rub his wide, sloped forehead and
muttered to himself, “We’re preparing for a possible war with the humans and all they want to do
is kill each other.”
“They think nothing of the glory that could be the gorthins if we succeed in freeing
Ahmah.” Hissed an ominous voice from the shadows near Canis’s throne. “Allow me to lead the
Morgogs in a night raid to steal the chalice from the unpredictable humans, my king.”
“I see the wisdom in your suggestion, Cutter. I too feel that a small group of your thieves
would stand the best chance of gaining the chalice. I have even discussed it at length with
Blackfur and Greytooth, but Greytooth said that Ahmah would not be happy about the lack of
blood spilled and Blackfur said that my teeth were old and brittle and afraid that they would
break on the bones of war!” Canis finished as he slammed a clenched fist onto the arm of his
throne.
Moving with deadly grace from the shadows, Cutter, chief of the deadly Morgog clan,
came to stand beside his king and placed a firm clawed hand on the tense Blood King’s shoulder.
“Be at ease Canis. I have placed several of my best men around Ra-Natorik and each is armed
with a small horn bow and the arrows have been dipped in the venom of a graystone serpent.
Anyone even scratched by one of the poison laced arrows will die instantly and horribly,” Cutter
said smiling wide and showing long canine incisors.
Klankor and Goldeneyes shivered involuntarily as that hideous smile revealed that the
Morgog chief had coated his incisors with the gray-green poison of the greystone serpent. Both
chiefs being proud warriors hated the devious ways of the Morgogs and unlike the mighty
Warmuhs or the Skyling fliers, the Morgogs disliked open conflict. Their ways were the ways of
thieves and assassins preferring to either sneak in and steal what they wanted or to come from
behind and sink their poisoned teeth or claws into their unsuspecting enemy. Trained from birth
to be immune to a multitude of poisons the Morgogs preferred to keep their two incisors
constantly layered in poison. A Morgog isn’t truly accepted into the clan until he has made his
first kill with the poison laced fangs. Unlike the other two chiefs who only wore their weapons
and a loincloth, Cutter wore the heavy, hooded, black woolen robe of the Morgogs with
exception of his hood being dyed red to show his rank. Fearful of the dangerous assassin’s reputation
of carrying various deadly weapons within the voluminous folds of the robe, Klankor and
Goldeneyes both breathed a sigh of relief when Cutter took his place at the table.
Glancing casually at the rafters, Canis thought he caught movement in many of the
deeply shadowed nooks. Knowing that the highly adept Morgogs would keep a constant vigil
and would stop any would be assassins before they could reach him, Canis regained his
composure and for the first time tonight thought he might live to see morning. The Blood King
stared at each of the clan chiefs in turn weighing them and trying to discern their loyalties. Of
Cutter there was no doubt. The Morgogs had grown in power under Canis’s reign and their chief
knew that under the Blood Prince’s rule their covert ways would be overlooked in favor of a
more direct and brutal way of dealing with the outside world. Klankor and the Warmuhs are
loyal to whoever was the strongest and fiercest warrior and since his defeat to Canis twenty years
ago, Klankor had faithfully followed the king’s commands even though they went against the
savage warrior’s beliefs. But Canis knew that Klankor would willingly follow Blackfur if the
prince ever over threw his father. Goldeneyes doesn’t care who sits on the throne as long as he
has plenty of food and females at his disposal and they don’t try to control the free spirited chief
too much.
“My son is beginning to tire of being in my shadow I fear. No doubt he has even
approached each of you to seek your aid or support in removing me from the throne,” began
Canis as he addressed the gathered chiefs. Goldeneyes nearly choked on a mouthful of meat at
the king’s blunt statement and began to deny the accusations, but Canis continued uninterrupted.
“But after this meeting I feel that you will see the wisdom of my plans and so to will
Blackfur see the folly of his ways. Although he is a powerful warrior, and some day he will be a
great leader, but right now he lacks the patience and experience to deal with the threat the
humans pose.” Canis hoped that he sounded more confident than he felt. If the rumors that
Cutter’s spies had heard were true then the king had already lost the support of his bodyguards,
the Red Fangs, and Greytooth the shaman.
Lost in dark thoughts Canis was taken by surprise when the stout wooden doors of Ra-
Natorik were thrown wide and in walked Blackfur, the Blood Prince. He was flanked to either
side by the Red Fangs, their crimson crag wurm armor, although polished to blinding finish,
seemed to swallow the flickering torch light. Their octagon shields bore a red fang on a black
field and were like wise enchanted with the same unholy spells as their armor. Each guardsman
wore a serrated two-handed sword strapped to his back and carried a jagged trident in his free
hand. To the man they were a grizzled and veteran group who wore their scars proudly and each
surveyed the gathered chieftains as if they were sizing up an enemy across a battlefield.
“Father!” Blackfur’s voice boomed across the suddenly silent hall. “Surely you weren’t
thinking of me challenging our beloved king for the throne were you?” He questioned the
surprised king mockingly as he pointed to the half drawn mace at Canis’s side.
Slowly releasing the mace’s well-worn haft, Canis calmed himself before replying to the
upstart prince. “I would prefer an open challenge to the ways of a coward who slinks through
the shadows with poisonous of treason. Yes I know of your intentions to relieve me of my throne
Blackfur, but instead of acting as a lowly dri’ val why don’t you face me in the way of a true
gorthin warrior!”
Blackfur’s mocking charade was replaced with disbelief as the king exposed his plans but
the shock turned to white hot fury at the accusation of him being no better than common women
and children. The blood prince tore his heavy battle axe from its loop on his belt and raising the
weapon above his head, and charged the calmly waiting king.
Canis shot forward at the last second, moving inside of the downward arc of the ax. The
powerful king then slammed his head into the surprised prince’s canine muzzle momentarily
stunning Blackfur. Canis freed the mace at his side with enough force that the spiked head
rammed into Blackfur’s exposed belly, driving the wind from the younger gorthin. Reversing his
grip on the haft, the wily king slammed the butt into the already bloody prince’s face. Blackfur
crumpled to all fours a pool of blood forming beneath his down turned face.
“Finish it old one,” rasped Blackfur through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.
“Get up boy and take your place at the table with the clan chiefs.” Was all the Blood
King said as he slid his bloodied mace back into its frog and turned to walk back to his throne.
“Oh, one more thing my son,” Canis said half turning to face the battered prince. “My
teeth are not weak.” Smiling wide to show his long pointed teeth Canis then laughed as he
wiped the prince’s blood from his wide forehead and took his place upon his throne.
Caught up in his own arrogance the blood king didn’t see Blackfur look quickly at
Greytooth who nodded approvingly or the doubting looks the Warmuh and Skyling chief gave
one another. Both knew that during a challenge that the victor must kill his defeated opponent.
It is the gorthin way. But only Cutter watched the proceedings with any worry. The Morgog
chief felt a ball of ice form in the pit of his stomach when Canis didn’t deliver the finishing blow.
No matter how convincingly the words were of the Blood King, they would fall on deaf ears. By
not killing the Blood Prince Canis had broken an ancient tradition, an event that would be
unacceptable to the superstitious gorthins. Cutter knew that his king had done this believing that
humiliating the prince would strengthen his power, but the smug look on Greytooth’s grizzled
face meant that Canis had sealed his doom.
Cutter let out a silent sigh of resignation and with a single deft movement of his right
hand he dismissed the watching Morgogs. No one in the room noticed that several of the
shadows in the rafters shrank in size as the assassins quickly but silently made their way out of
Rak-Natorik. No one that is except for the keen eyed shaman. Greytooth gave the Morgog chief
a knowing smile and chuckled to himself. Cutter’s warrior blood began to boil and his muscles
tensed to propel him across the room and bury his curved venomous daggers deep into the frail
shaman’s body. Sliding his hands into the deep folds of his heavy robe he pulled his two favorite
bone-handled daggers from their sheaths.
Before Cutter could do something rash he caught out of the corner of his an eye a flicker of
movement. Keeping his hands, and therefore the life-stealing daggers, inside his robe he turned
his head slightly to see Canis waving a finger. “Not yet,” Canis’s cold reptilian eyes conveyed
when he and Cutter locked gazes. Cutter nodded his shaggy head in acceptance and swiftly
replaced his blades and placed his bare hands atop the table.
Again the shaman gave that silent chuckle as he watched the fuming Morgog tap his
sharpened talons on the rough table top. Seeking a vent for his mounting frustrations Cutter
grabbed a passing dri’ val who dropped her empty serving platter as the assassin roughly jerked
her into his lap and embraced her within his arms. His devilish eyes stared at Greytooth as he bit
the exposed neck of the whimpering female just hard enough to pierce the skin and let the vile
poison enter her blood stream. Without breaking eye contact with the shaman, who had stopped
laughing now and was watching the spectacle with wide eyes, Cutter cleared the table in front of
him with a sweep of an arm and placed the poor girl upon it.
The meeting hall grew quiet as the attention of all was drawn to the now writhing dri’ val.
She began to scream as blue-black boils grew all over her body and popped spattering her blood
and pus across the table. Her pain wracked shrieks grew to a crescendo as the poison reached
her brain and began consuming it. At last the servant’s body lay still as a purple-green soup
flowed from her mouth and ears. Through it all Cutter had not taken his gaze from the hated
shaman and he smiled in satisfaction as the bravado faded from Greytooth’s face and was
replaced by fear blended with revulsion.
Like all gorthins, Greytooth enjoyed carnage and the spilling of blood by either battle or
ritual sacrifice, but the use of poisons was considered cowardly and a waste of the precious blood
that their evil god demanded for once tainted by poison the blood was considered unworthy by
Ahmah. Greytooth swallowed a large lump that had suddenly grown in his throat and looking at
the deadly Cutter a chill ran down his spine as the venomous Morgog whispered, “Someday...”
and patted the daggers with one hand while pointing the other at the shaman.
The rest of the council went as Cutter feared it would. Canis argued that a small group of
Morgogs could sneak into the village and steal the chalice from the humans and then with Ahmah
to lead them they could then move against their hated enemy. Time and again the chiefs argued
the cowardice of the plan saying that it humiliated the fighting spirit of the martial gorthins.
Canis continually countered with recounting the last war with the humans that had nearly wiped
out all the clans. But in the end Canis bullied and threatened the chiefs into going along with his
plan. Cutter didn’t buy their charade because although their actions showed meekness; their eyes
smoldered with the fires of indignation.
Canis stood up from his throne and placing both hands on the table, glaring at each of the
gathered chiefs in turn including Greytooth and lastly his son as if daring them to speak against
him again. All turned their gazes from the king.
“Then it is decided. Cutter, gather your best men and have them ready to depart
tomorrow evening. The Warmuh are to prepare for war but they will not march until the chalice
is in our possession and Ahmah can lead us. Do you understand Klankor?” The tone of Canis’s
voice left no doubt that it was a command and not a question.
The giant warrior quivered with rage but his growled answer was a subservient, “Yes, my
king.”
“Good. Goldeneyes continue your patrols, and Blackfur, you will meet with me in one
cycle of the patrols in my tent. Do not be late.” Canis returned to his hideous throne and
motioned for Cutter to approach. The remaining council members rose to leave, but the
unpredictable king exploded into action.
Jumping to his feet and pulling the evil mace from his belt, Canis hurled the deadly
missile with pinpoint accuracy into the face of the nearest Red Fang. The unsuspecting gorthin
had no time to bring his shield to bear before the mace crashed into his face tearing through flesh
and bone alike. The bodyguard crumpled to the ground, his body no more than a lifeless husk.
Walking over to the fallen guard Canis retrieved his mace and wiped the gore from it using the
Red Fang’s cloak.
“The Red Fang’s serve the Blood King. Failure to do so is considered treason and a
crime against the throne,” recited Canis in an icy voice. The punishment for treason is death.”
Canis’s actions may have been directed at the Red Fangs but his words were for all gathered in the
hall. “Now go!” He commanded.
The Morgog chief waited patiently as the Warmuh and Skyling chiefs began to exit the
hall. Cutter’s sharp ears heard Goldeneyes mutter something about Klankor’s heritage and a
cow. Goldeneyes flew the rest of the way from the hall propelled by the muscular arms of
Klankor to land sprawling in the dirt. Laughing like a mad man, Goldeneyes launched himself
into the night sky but not before a well thrown rock cracked into Klankor’s forehead, drawing a
thin line of blood. The giant warrior stalked away spouting curses at the fleeing winged chief.
The Red Fangs shifted uneasily as Blackfur prepared to leave with Greytooth. A slight
signal from Blackfur and they stood still as stone. Turning to face his father, Blackfur gave a
slight bow and an oily, “Father,” before strolling arrogantly out of the hall. Greytooth gave the
same slight bow and then he to scrambled after Blackfur. Canis walked back to his throne and
slumped into it.
Cutter silently observed his king as the once and powerful gorthin leader stared almost
sadly at the retreating form of his son. “How long before he makes his move, old friend?”
Questioned the king. “It can’t be too far away. I gave it my best argument, but even with me
besting Blackfur the other chieftains still back the pup's plan for invasion.”
“If I were him I would try to overthrow you within the next few days while the events of
the challenge are still fresh in the chiefs’ minds. By not ordering an all-out attack of the humans
you appear afraid in the eyes of the gorthins, and that Canis is not acceptable in the gorthin faith.
Our dark master is harsh and unforgiving and demands blood to be spilled to quench his diabolic
thirst.” Replied Cutter. His face could have been carved from stone while he answered Canis
honestly, but inside he felt as if he was riding the currents of a thunderstorm.
“Your words are the harsh truth Cutter. I’d be surprised if my ambitious son waits more
than a few hours. He will lead the clans to war and then to failure.” Bursting out in deep peals
of laughter the old king stated to his adviser. “The humans are stronger than Blackfur can
imagine. He is too young to remember the last war. I fear my brash son will soon follow me to
the grave!”
Doubling over in mirth at his twisted humor, Canis laughed harder and harder till tears
fell from his eyes and his laughter took on an edge of hysteria.
The deadly assassin slowly drifted back into the shadows of Ra-Natorik and silently left
the hall. The insane laughter of the once mighty gorthin king haunted Cutter’s thoughts as he
quickly made his way across the gorthin encampment. So lost in his own thoughts was Cutter
that he nearly ran into the broad back of Klankor who was once again engaged in a heated
argument with Goldeneyes.
“It doesn’t matter now,” growled Klankor, “With his show of mercy towards Blackfur,
Canis has sealed his own doom.”
“But the news my scout has brought changes everything.” Argued the lanky flier. “It
proves that Canis is right.”
“Mercy is for the weak!” Roared the volatile chieftain as he lifted Goldeneyes from the
ground. “Are the Skylings nothing more than cubs that shy away from a little challenge?”
Flames of outrage blossomed in the Skyling chief’s eyes and he deftly drew his twin
wicked-looking daggers from his belt.
“Let go of me milk drinker before I send you to Ahmah’s Pit.” Said the flier, his voice
dripping with acid, as he placed his razor sharp blades against Klankor’s thick neck.
The powerful fighter threw Goldeneyes with one mighty hand and drew his two-handed
sword with the other. Goldeneyes twisted in mid-air and landed gracefully on his feet and
launched himself back at the Warmuh chief. With a roar Klankor raised his sword above his head
and prepared to meet the charge.
But before the two combatants could engage, Cutter appeared between them with arms
spread wide with a very nasty, poison-laced dagger pointed at each of them.
“Stop this senseless bickering for once and tell me what is going on.” He ordered.
“My scout has returned from Stoneheart with information that supports Canis’s views,”
panted Goldeneyes, “But before I could reach the Blood King this oaf intercepted me.”
“What information did your scout bring Goldeneyes? It had better be good or I’ll walk
away and let Klankor finish you once and for all.” Cutter threatened.
“The Knights of Everwatch are in Stoneheart, assassin. Is that important enough for
you.” Goldeneyes said, his raspy voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You are as dumb as a boulder Klankor if you believed your king did not need this
information. I thought you were loyal to Canis, Warmuh.” Stated Cutter, anger shining in his
yellow blood-shot eyes.
“I was until he let Blackfur live, but he showed mercy and mercy is for the weak not the
mighty gorthins.” Klankor said as he swelled his chest and pounded a boulder like fist against it.
“The Warmuhs will not be led by a toothless king. It is time for a change.”
“Come Goldeneyes we have business with the Blood King, and if you get in our way
Klankor I will gut you like a pig and feed you to the dri’ vil.”
Klankor growled threateningly but let the deadly assassin and flier pass without harm.
“We must hurry, Goldeneyes. If Blackfur hears of your scout’s information he will seek
you out, which must not happen. The prince’s pride and devotion to our blood- thirsty god will
blind him to the dangers to the clans. The fact that the knights are in Stoneheart shows that
Canis is right in being wary.” Cutter said more to convince himself than his frivolous companion.
As the assassin and flier reached Ra-Natorik, a group of the Red Fangs moved from the
shadows of the hall and surrounded the two.
“Out of our way.” Ordered Cutter. “We have important information for the Blood
King.”
The stone faced soldiers stood their ground and drew a various assortment of deadly
looking weapons and pointed them at the chiefs.
Outrage and disbelief blossomed over Cutter and Goldeneyes canine faces.
“Did you not hear the Morgog chief, dogs?” Goldeneyes snarled. “We have important
information for the king. Now clear the way.” The Skyling chief made a step forward only to
have a wickedly-barbed spear point pushed against his chest.
“So your scout has some news for my father does he.” Sneered Blackfur as he stepped
between the body guards to face the two chiefs.
“Listen to Greyfang’s report yourself, my prince.” Implored Goldeneyes.
“Yes, let’s do that.” Blackfur agreed, his mouth curled back in a sinister leer. “Klankor.
Bring Greyfang to me so I can hear his report.” He commanded the Warmuh but his eyes bored
into Cutter and Goldeneyes.
Klankor shoved his way into the steel circle of death and tossed the severed head of
Greyfang at Goldeneyes feet.
“You can ask him whatever you want my prince, but I don’t think he will answer.”
Laughed the giant warrior, an evil grin splitting his face.
Goldeneyes quivered with rage and murder filled his eyes as he stared at Klankor. “One
day you will pay for this Warmuh,” hissed the enraged chief.
Klankor lunged for Goldeneyes, but the smaller chief propelled himself high into the air
with his powerful legs and flew off into the night.
“Well assassin what’s it going to be?” Questioned Blackfur. “Are you in with the new or
out with the old?”
A slight shake of Cutter’s hooded head and the Morgog assassin atop Ra-Natorik lowered
his horn bow that had been trained on the Blood Prince. It would do no good to slay the upstart
prince now, he had gained to large of a following. As much as he wished to shove his poisoned
dagger between Blackfur’s ribs instead he said, “What is your wish my king.”
Blackfur’s only answer was to throw his shaggy, lupine head back and howl with
laughter. Sadly, Cutter noticed there was no insanity in that mirth.
Chapter Six
The wind howled hauntingly across valley of the gorthin encampment as Canis the Blood
King emerged from the walls of Ra-Natorik. The winds cry seemed to the grizzled king to match
the feelings in his heart. He knew he had made a mistake with his son, but he had hoped that by
defeating Blackfur the young prince would see his point. Noticing several of the Red Fangs
hiding in the shadows, Canis knew that his time as king was about to come to a bloody end.
“Let’s get this over with.” He muttered to himself as he walked down the steps towards
the valley floor. The once mighty gorthin leader had only walked a couple of feet when he was
surrounded by his turncoat bodyguard and approached by their captain, Patch.
“Come with us Canis,” ordered Patch, the moonlight sparkling maliciously off of the
ruby in the leather headpiece that covered his left eye and gave the grizzled captain his
namesake.
“Is that anyway to address Ahmah’s Chosen, captain?” Said Canis feigning ignorance.
“Shouldn’t your men be protecting their king, not surrounding me with bared weapons?”
“The gorthins are not lead by a weakling, toothless one.” Snarled Patch as he spat at the
ground in front of Canis.
“Do not confuse weakness with caution captain.” Finishing his statement, the mighty
warrior-king exploded into action, landing a powerful right hook to Patch’s jaw and sending the
dazed captain spinning to the ground.
Wiping the blood from his broken muzzle Patch glared at Canis. “Red Fangs seize the
king. He has an appointment with his son.” Snarled the Red Fang’s leader through bloodied
gums.
Canis fought like a devil but the Red Fangs outnumbered him and quickly subdued the
king but not without losing a few of their own.
“Bind him and take him to the Stone.” Ordered the captain as he walked up to the
defenseless king. Smiling at the bound Canis, Patch drew his spiked gauntlet back and smacked
Canis across the face. To the king’s credit he shrugged off the heavy blow and laughed in the
captain’s face.
“I take comfort in knowing that Blackfur and the rest of his lackeys will follow me into
death.” Canis continued his laughing until one of the guards came up from behind and knocked
him out with the flat of a sword.
*********************************
Canis came to when someone splashed a bucket full of icy water on him. Enraged, the
king tried to lunge towards the offender but found his limbs had been lashed tightly to a hard
surface. The king tightened his thick, corded muscles and the leather bindings creaked but did
not give.
“Greetings Father.” Said Blackfur as he walked into his prone father’s field of vision.
“Thank you for being a willing participant in my little coup. Greytooth said that you would not
kill me if I challenged you and pretended to lose. Some drivel about you feeling that I would see
the error of my ways. You have become soft and no longer do you have Ahmah’s favor. I will
lead the clans against the humans and recover the chalice for the glory of Ahmah. “
Blackfur leaned close to his father’s ear and whispered, “It is time for you to leave us, but
before you go you will help me with one more thing.”
Blackfur stood and pulled a vicious two-handed battle axe from his wide back and smiled
wickedly at his father as he stroked the demonic runes etched on the haft.
Canis could see his eyes widen in the shiny adamantite fang- shaped blades. He knew
what would come next for this was the same way he had removed his father and empowered his
own devastating mace.
His fears were confirmed when Greytooth stepped from the shadows and commanded in
his bone rattling voice, “Place your weapon on your father’s chest that it may absorb his blood as
it drains from his sacrificed body, my prince.”
Blackfur did as he was bade and stepped back as the grizzled shaman pulled a wicked
looking dagger made from the thigh bone of a dwelvinkin elf from a worn sheath hanging at his
hip. Greytooth walked around the former king as he chanted making several gashes as he went,
but instead of the blood dripping to the stone it was drawn into the battleaxe. The chanting grew
faster and higher pitched as the shaman reached a crescendo and slit Canis’s throat with the last
uttered syllable.
Blackfur’s double bladed great axe began to glow a sickly shade of red while the bound
Blood King’s body shone with a brilliant, scarlet glow. As the king’s life blood drained into the
unholy weapon it shone with more and more intensity and the king’s aura began to fade until the
once mighty Canis breathed his last breath and the glow winked out and the king’s soul fled to
whatever dark bliss it was allowed.
“We thank you mighty Ahmah for this gift to the new Blood King Blackfur so that he
might lead your warriors to victory.” Greytooth whispered as he turned to face Blackfur,
Greytooth said to the assembled clans, “I give to you the new Blood King, Blackfur scourge of
the humans and all who oppose our mighty god! To him I present a powerful weapon sanctified
with the blood of the fallen king and blessed by Ahmah himself so that Blackfur may lead us to
glory in the name of the Blood God!” He then handed the glowing weapon to the new Blood
King amidst the howls and cheers of the assembled gorthin horde.
When Blackfur took the great axe the glow winked out so all could see the unholy
weapon. The silvery shine of the adamantite blades had been replaced with the blackness of a
moonless night laced with crimson veins that pulsed with fel energy. The edges were lit with a
fire that came from the pits of the abyss and traced lines through the cool night air as Blackfur
sent the axe through a series of spins that spurred his warriors into another round of cheers.
The axe mentally communed with the king while he swung it. I am Maruk, a lesser
demon in the service of Ahmah. As long as you wield me you cannot be defeated nor may any
metal resist my bite. The flames can be turned on or off with a thought from you and when I
taste the blood of your enemies I will steal their life force and impart it to you so that you may
grow stronger. This is my pledge to you as long as you give me victims. Hissed the demon
seductively.
You will have more than you can drink soon, Maruk, this I swear to you. He promised the
demonic axe.
The Blood King addressed the gathered warriors. “My warriors, in two weeks we will
descend upon the human settlement of Stoneheart and wipe them out. No more will the mighty
gorthins hide in the mountains like beaten children. We will reclaim our homelands and use the
chalice to bring our restless god from his place in the abyss to be with his loyal followers, the
proud gorthin clans! We will then spread across the lands with Ahmah’s power and blessing and
the weaker races will flee before us or they wet our blades with their blood! This is the promise
Ahmah has made his children if we free him! Glory to Ahmah!” As Blackfur spoke and his
words became infused with the fervor of bloodlust and the flame around the axe grew higher and
brighter until at the last the king thrust the weapon skyward as if challenging the heavens
themselves.
Yes! Sighed the weapon in ecstasy, as it too was caught up in the moment.
In the valley hundreds of weapons were raised in challenge and hundreds of voices roared
praise to Ahmah, bloodlust, and conquest.
Blackfur looked to the shaman that had incited the youthful prince to overthrow his father
and gave the ancient gorthin a toothy grin. Which Greytooth returned with a slight tilt of his
head and mouthed the words, “My king,” and returned the smile.
The shaman was very pleased at the moment. It had taken little to provoke the battle and
glory hungry prince into rising against his father and he had wielded the bow that had launched
the arrow of his unforgiving master’s plan into motion. Greytooth had done as his master wished
and soon he would reap the rewards.
More to come on Monday!
By the time Orin and Sir Olan reached the Stoutheart’s rustic homestead, Galen had
informed his mother of their guest, carried in several loads of firewood for the evening, washed up
for supper, and was waiting impatiently at the table for the others.
“Are your chores done Galen?” Questioned Orin shaking the snow from his cloak and then
placing it on a wood peg by the stout oak door. Sir Olan removed his cloak and hung it between
Galen’s sturdy gray cloak and his father’s ornate ranger one. Neither man had removed his sword
before sitting down to the table.
Amazement played across Galen’s face as his mother took no more notice of the cloaks and
swords than she would have a scarf or cane.
“Yes Father...” began Galen in a puzzled voice. How could his mother not notice the fancy
cloaks or not be taken back by the swords belted at the men's waist. She was acting as if it was
common place for there to be a Knight of Everwatch at her dinner table.
“Mother, how can you be so calm when a Knight of Everwatch is having dinner with us,
and Father is wearing the cloak and sword of the legendary Rangers of Everwatch?” Cried an
exasperated Galen.
His mother, Anna, waved a hand dismissively in the air while she stirred the boiling stew.
“Orin and his brother, Olan have played at being knights since we were children, and I was there
when they were brought into the knighthood. It was a beautiful ceremony, all the knights decked
out in their shining armor and standing at rigid attention with their gleaming swords held high to
form a metal canopy while the soon to be knighted squires walked through on their way to stand
before Father Joseph and the Council of Seven. Sir Olan’s wife, your aunt Sylvia, and I cried as
your father and his brother were presented their armor and swords.” Anna recounted nonchalantly.
“Unc...unc...uncle,” sputtered a confused Galen. His mind reeling with the night’s
unbelievable events, Galen placed his head in his hands and began to mumble to himself.
“Calm yourself lad,” soothed Sir Olan patting Galen on the back as he took his place at the
table. “Your father and I will explain everything to you, but first let’s eat. I've had nothing but
pack rations for days and your mother’s cooking has always been delicious.”
Galen ate his meal quietly while he studied the three adults as they talked to one another.
Orin updated Sir Olan current actions of the roving goblin tribes in the area and that the trolltaurs,
an evil race of creatures with the upper body of a troll and the lower half of a mountain goat, were
starting to crawl out of their mountain holes and causing minor trouble for homesteads away from
the security of the few towns in the area. The brothers discussed with growing concern at the
increased activity of the evil races of the kingdom and the unusual silence coming from the
dwarven halls and Silver Forest, the fabled home of the elves. Especially the dwarves who hated
the thieving goblins and trolltaurs with as much zeal as they loved their gold and jewels. Anna
asked how Sylvia was doing and what was going on in the court of the king, Kanath the Second.
At last the meal was finished and when Galen rose to help his mother with the clearing of
the table and washing the dirty dishes his father placed a calloused hand on his forearm.
“Not tonight son, your mother will tend to the crockery. It is time that you learn the history
of the family into which you were born.”
Nervousness and anticipation turned Galen’s stomach into a flight of a hundred butterflies
as he sat back down. In a few more moments he would have the answers to tonight’s strange
events and that both frightened and thrilled the young man.
Orin handed Olan a pipe and a pouch of tabac and proceeded to light his own clay pipe that
he had removed from his coin purse. Galen watched anxiously as the two men puffed on their
pipes and blew smoke rings as they let their dinner settle. Impatiently Galen watched the rings
disappear amongst the rough wooden rafters of the Stoutheart homestead. After what seemed like
hours but had only been a few minutes Orin began to address Galen.
“The Stoutheart family has long served the Savior and the kingdom. You can trace our
lineage to the founding of the Knights of Everwatch. Your grandfather, Arin, was a hero during the
last uprising of the gorthins and their evil allies. The gorthins had swept across Allura leaving a
wake of destruction behind them. They had nearly taken control of the northern lands when Arin
led a small unit of cavalry in a last ditch effort to reach the gorthin leader, a powerful brute named
Long Fang. The knights were outnumbered four to one by Long Fang’s body guard, the Red
Fangs, but the mounted knights drove their courageous mounts through the enemy right to the
heart of the evil horde and Arin removed the head of Blood King with a single swipe of his
enchanted sword. They had to fight their way to freedom and over half of the knights gave their
lives that day, but they had succeeded in severing the head from the unholy army and the monsters
fled to the Blackstone Mountains. Unfortunately Arin received a mortal wound from the Blood
King’s last desperate swing and had to be carried from the battlefield by his brothers in arms.
“Your grandfather was given the highest honor that the knighthood can bestow as was
named a Champion of Everwatch. He was buried beneath the monastery with past heroes and
leaders of the order. It is his fabled sword, Light Bringer, which hangs above our hearth.”
For many years Galen had lain in front of the flagstone hearth staring at the mysterious
sword that hung there. Whenever he would ask his mother or father about the ancient weapon they
would answer that it was a family heirloom and not say another word no matter how much he
pleaded. So Galen had created his own fantastic tales about the sword; from slaying evil dragons
to rescuing imprisoned maidens, but they all paled when compared to the true history of the holy
blade.
A voice inside his head told Galen he needed to hold the awe inspiring blade that had
defeated the gorthin invasion and their Blood King. Guided by the impulsion, Galen slowly stood
and walked over to stand in front of the blazing fireplace. Unaffected by the intense heat that
rolled from the hearth to heat the house, Galen tentatively lifted the massive broadsword from its
resting place and grasped it firmly with both hands. A warmth quickly spread from his fingertips
to consume his whole body but it did not cause him any discomfort, instead it brought a feeling of
peaceful serenity. Galen made a couple of rough swings with the sword and was amazed at the
lightness and balance of such a large, heavy looking weapon. It did not seem any heavier than the
long-bladed skinning knife that hung from the sheath at his waist.
From the moment that Galen had risen from his seat until he had stopped swinging the
beautiful blade, Sir Olan and his father had watched with stone-faced patience, but anxiety
crouched at the corner of Orin’s eyes. They both had been tested by their father before they had
been allowed to enter into the knighthood for training. One of Light Bringer’s abilities is that it
can only be held by those of a pure heart and soul and had Galen not been worthy the sword would
have struck him dead. The warmth the blade had imparted to Galen would have grown in intensity
until the unfortunate young man would have burst into flames and been consumed by fire. As their
father had before them, Orin and Olan let out a whispered sigh of relief. Orin was especially glad
because Galen’s mother had no idea of the sword’s deadly ability and she would never have
forgiven him had Galen failed nor would he have forgiven himself. Like his father, Orin had put
his faith in the Savior and the Savior had not failed him.
“Thank you,” prayed Orin under his breath.
“He has passed,” stated a smiling Olan as he patted his relieved brother on the back. “It is
time to tell him the rest.”
“Place the sword back above the mantle and rejoin us please Galen,” ordered Orin. “There
is much yet for you to learn and the time is growing short.”
Reluctantly, Galen placed the sword back on the pegs that held it horizontally above the
hearth, and retook his seat at the plain but solid, smooth ironwood table.
“What was that feeling I had when I touched Light Bringer?” Asked a puzzled Galen.
“My body felt like I had been laying in front of the hearth as the flames from the fire warmed my
body, but at the same time everything seemed to become clearer, more in focus, I could see and
sense everything around me in greater detail. I could see each thread of cloth in my shirt and could
feel the frigid winter wind as it split and blew around our house and then melded back together on
the other side.” Galen looked around the farmhouse as if seeing things again for the first time.
“That is one of Light Bringer’s abilities. It allows its wielder to become more in tune with
his surroundings. All the Swords of Heaven have special strengths granted to them by the Savior.
Had you not been pure of heart the warmth you felt from the sword would have continued to
intensify and you would have been consumed by flames.” Stated Sir Olan.
“Swords of Heaven?” Questioned Galen, his face a mask of confusion and a little fear at
his possible near death. “What are they?”
“It is said that there are seven Swords of Heaven, or they are sometimes referred to as the
Holy Swords. Whenever mankind is faced with an overpowering evil that must be defeated by
martial conflict the savior sends an angel to earth with one of the swords to even the odds so to
speak. When it is time for the seventh sword to come to our aid it will be carried by the Savior
himself and he will wield it during the Last Battle. The only drawbacks to these Swords of Heaven
are that they can only be wielded by one certain individual.” Said Sir Olan. “A little over a week
ago the religious leader of the Knights of Everwatch, Father Joseph, was visited by one of these
angelic messengers. To be exact it was the archangel Narizz. He took Father Joseph to the ruins
of the gorthins to witness a demonic rite that allowed one of their shamans to communicate with
their demon god, Ahmah. Father Joseph then learned that there is a powerful artifact hidden in
heart-shaped stone vault in your village. If the gorthins can gain possession of this artifact by the
Bloodmoon they will be able to bring their evil god into this world. Before Narizz departed he
gave Father Joseph the holy sword, Heaven’s Justice, and told him that the chosen one to wield the
sword was somewhere around this settlement of Stoneheart. That is why I’m here. Father Joseph
sent me to find the one chosen to wield Heaven’s Justice and defeat the gorthins and their demonic
god.”
“Have you found the chosen one yet, Olan?” Asked Orin
“Not yet, Brother,” he replied. “But I plan on continuing my search and scouting the area
in the morning.”
“Can I go Father?” Blurted an excited Galen. “I know all the trails and passes in the area
plus I’m a good shot with my longbow and no one has been able to best me with a quarterstaff for
the last three years at festival.”
“I don’t know, Galen, this isn’t a game at festival. There will be dangerous encounters with
monsters and they won’t stop fighting just because you knock them down with your staff. You will
have to kill or be killed and taking a life, even a monsters, is not an easy thing to do and if it is then
you have no place in a battle.” Answered Orin.
As Galen opened his mouth to protest, his father stroked his neatly trimmed salt and
pepper beard thoughtfully and continued on, “On the other hand you are an adult now and you
could just leave if you wanted to. You are also an excellent shot with your bow with which you
could provide food if the rations run short or use it at long range against an enemy. Olan is the best
swordsman at the monastery and he could begin to teach you how to use a sword. What do you
think, Brother?”
“It is always better to travel with a companion than by yourself in the wilds of the
Blackstone Mountains and Bentwood Forest, and it wouldn’t hurt to start training the lad in the use
of the sword with the possibility of a gorthin invasion looming in the future. I would like to get to
know my nephew. Not many full grown men would stand and face a hunting gorthin let alone
armed only with a longbow and wood axe. Galen seems to be a remarkable young man. If he had
went to the monastery he would have been accepted into the knighthood,” stated Olan as he stared
intently at Galen with his gray-green eyes. “He may have even excelled better than you or I,
Orin.”
“That settles it then. Galen will leave with you in the morning to seek out the chosen one
and to scout out the gorthin army.” Proclaimed Orin as he leaned forward and smacked his palms
against his thighs. “Let’s drink a toast to Galen’s first quest as a man, to finding the chosen one,
and that the Savior will help Anna to understand why I’m sending her boy out in these dangerous
times.”
The two brothers and a very excited Galen raised their mugs to one another and drained the
remaining cider in one long pull. The knight and ranger then dropped to one knee and bowed their
heads in prayer. Galen, mimicking his father and uncle, did the same. As he began his own silent
prayer to the Savior, his father started to pray out loud.
“Blessed Savior, we your humble servants, ask that you guide us to do your will and to
assist us in our daily lives. Savior we ask that you be with Galen and Olan as they search for your
chosen one and to keep them safe from harm. We ask that you be with the villagers of Stoneheart
as they prepare to face this evil enemy. We thank you for the gift of knowledge of our enemies
plans and for the Holy Sword, Heaven’s Justice, that will pierce through the evil and destroy it at
its black heart. In the Savior’s name we pray, Amen”
After rising to their feet Orin firmly clasped Galen’s shoulders and looked squarely into the
young man’s blue-gray eyes.
“Listen to me son. Do what your uncle tells you and listen carefully to his words of advice.
He has pulled me through many tight places that I did not believe we could survive. Remember to
have faith in your own abilities. You have played, hunted, and tracked all through the wilds and
you know the area as well as anyone. Keep your eyes and ears open an enemy can be anywhere.
Lastly, remember to keep your faith in the Savior. He is always there to guide you if you are open
to him.” Orin ruffled Galen’s hair with a weathered hand and then turned to face Olan. “Why
don’t you and Galen go out to the barn and gather the supplies you will need. There are extra
saddle bags, some rope, a flint and tinder box, and maybe some other things you might find useful.
Meanwhile I’ll break the news to Anna that her boy is going to be leaving home for a while.”
Orin took a deep breath and squared his shoulders then walked towards the kitchen as if he
faced a hundred swordsmen armed only with a carving knife. Galen thought he heard his father
muttering to himself, but all he could clearly make out was his mother’s name and something
about skinning rabbits.
Close to seeing her fortieth winter Anna was still considered to be the most beautiful
woman in the village. Her curly, waist long, acorn-brown hair stood out in sharp contrast to the
flaxen blonde and strawberry red hair of Stoneheart’s occupants. Many whispered that she was
part wood nymph due to angular features, graceful movements, and lithe yet voluptuous body.
Those that were at first envious or uncomfortable around Anna’s grace and beauty were soon put at
ease by her sincerity and friendliness. But Anna’s most striking feature was her coffee-brown
eyes. They could switch from a soothing warmth to a cold hardness that made even Galen’s father
jump at her command. More likely than not, Orin was about to face those cold eyes when he told
Anna that Galen was leaving with Olan. She was likely to skin all three of them for having such a
foolish notion. Galen was not envious of his father’s situation at all.
“Come on Galen,” said Olan as he threw his thick cloak around his shoulders. “If your
mother’s temper is half as bad as it used to be then let us be far from here before her ire rises. With
that said Sir Olan opened the stout oak door and headed out into the frigid, blowing wind.
Hearing the beginning of a heated conversation drifting from the kitchen, Galen needed no
encouragement before donning his own heavy woolen cloak and grabbing a lantern followed his
uncle into the bitter cold night.
Shutting the door behind him, Galen stood on the covered porch for a few moments to let
his eyes adjust to faint nighttime light. His eyes adjusted quickly with the light of the full silver
moon reflecting off the cotton colored farm yard. Even then he could barely make out Olan’s dim
form opening the stable door across the yard through the blowing snow. Pulling his cloak tighter,
Galen raced across the icy, snow covered ground. The howling wind felt like the talons of some
ice beast from the far north tearing at his exposed face and threatening to rip open his cloak. It was
with great relief that he made it to the shelter of the barn and shut the door keeping out the winter’s
fury. The wind blew harder, battering the barred door as if in frustration.
Galen stomped his boots to remove the clinging snow from them and then hung the lantern
on wooden peg next to the door frame. Looking around for Olan. Galen removed his cloak and
through it over a bale of straw to let it dry out. Sir Olan then emerged from the little store room at
the back of the barn carrying two quarter staffs. When he was within a few feet of Galen he tossed
the young man one of the staffs.
“Okay Galen, let’s see if you are as good as your father says you are,” challenged the
knight grasping the staff with both hands and assuming a fighting stance with his legs slightly
apart and relaxed. “Staffs are not my preferred weapon, but since you are so good with it I thought
it might balance this little contest.” He finished and then spun the staff in several large circles to
test its balance.
“I can’t fight you Uncle. You are a Knight of Everwatch, the best fighters in the...” Began
an uncertain Galen, but before he could finish Sir Olan brought his staff down in an overhead
chop that would have split Galen’s head.
Galen instantly moved into his own fighting stance and placing his hands wide on the
staff raised the weapon to block the knight’s staff. When Galen felt the impact from the block
he spun to his right and tucking his right arm close to his body, deflected the other staff
harmlessly off to the side. Galen stopped his movement to the right and whipped the his staff
back to the left, catching a stinging blow to the knight’s ribs before Olan managed to break away.
“You are as good as your father said,” praised Olan as he rubbed his bruised ribs. “But I
bet there is one lesson you haven’t learned yet.”
The wily knight then launched into a frenzied assault, continuously spinning the
quarterstaff and then striking high and low. Galen’s defense was flawless, whenever it appeared
that Olan’s staff was going to score a hit, Galen’s own staff would ward off the blow at the last
second. No more words were wasted between the two combatants as they circled one another.
The only sound sounds to be heard in the make-shift arena was the whistle of the swinging
staves, the solid thok noise made as the weapons rung off one another, and the labored breathing
of the two fighters. For several minutes the two fought with no one gaining an upper hand.
Galen’s confidence grew with each passing second and when Sir Olan slid his hands
together at the end of the staff like he was holding a giant sword, Galen’s lips spread into a smile.
He brought his staff up to block the predictable overhead attack. When the two weapons collided
there was a loud bang. Galen began to shift the right while he guided the staves harmlessly to his
left and prepared to reverse his swing to strike at Sir Olan’s temporary vulnerability. But Olan had
let go of the staff as Galen began his parry and snapped a quick kick into Galen’s exposed
midriff. Surprise lit up Galen’s eyes as the air exploded from his lungs and he fell,
panting for breath, to the earthen barn floor.
“What was that?” Gasped Galen between breaths.
“That, my dear boy, is your first lesson,” stated Sir Olan as he extended a hand to assist a
wobbly Galen in standing. “You are an excellent fighter when it comes to sparring in contests,
but out on the field of battle there are no rules your opponent has to abide by. He will as likely
kick, punch, or scratch you as use his weapon. In battle your mind and body are your weapons.
A sword, spear, or bow are just extensions of your own body. Do you understand?”
“I think so Uncle. It’s not the sword that’s dangerous but the man who wields the sword.
Father explained that to me once before after an incident he had with some rowdy caravan
guards. We were getting grain for our cattle when we heard a young woman’s cry of distress
followed by a chorus of bawdy laughter. There were four guards who had been drinking too much
at the inn and were harassing Erin, the innkeeper’s daughter. Father went up to the
troublemakers and asked them to leave.”
“All he carried was an empty grain sack and each sell-sword was armed with a
broadsword. The guards just laughed at my father thinking he was some upstart farmer that
needed to be taught some manners.”
Galen thought back to that moment when he would surly see his father beaten to a bloody
pulp or worse, but Orin had seemed unconcerned as the four guards fanned out to surround him.
“The first guard lunged forward with a thrust that would have skewered my father in half,
but he sidestepped the blade and snapped the burlap bag into the assailant’s eyes, blinding him.
The guard dropped his sword and fell to his knees holding his torn face.”
“The three remaining guards sobered up and began to work as a team. Two of them a
attempted to hold Father’s attention while the third tried to slip in behind him. When the guard
reached Father’s blind-spot the two front attackers began a vicious assault which my father
countered using the tough burlap, an end in each hand, to deflect the wild swings. Sensing the
approach of the third guard’s blade, Father then dropped into a crouch and the sword whistled
harmlessly trough the space where his head had been.”
“He then sprang from the ground and slammed an extended palm into the swordsman’s
nose. The startled guard was knocked from his feet as his nose exploded in a spray of blood and
broken cartilage to lay unmoving on the cobblestones.”
“The two remaining merchant guards nervously faced Father uncertain of what to do next
when he said, ‘Take your friends and return to your wagons and do not bother the people of
Stoneheart again’. Grudgingly the larger one picked up his unconscious friend and slung him
over his shoulder while his partner took the blinded man’s hand and they quickly departed and
were never seen in Stoneheart again. It was amazing the way Father used an everyday item like
that sack, to fight off those four ruffians.”
The awe in Galen’s voice painted the fight for Olan as clearly as if he had seen it with his
own two eyes and in truth he had seen his brother handle other rogues in a similar manner.
“That sounds like Orin. He could never standby and watch anyone be bullied or
threatened, especially a woman. Many times your father got us into scrapes with the nobility’s
young men. They thought they could look down their noses at the common folk and have their
way with the local peasants’ daughters. If it hadn’t been for our apprenticeships to the Knights of
Everwatch we’d either have been thrown in the King’s dungeon to rot or been hung in the
gallows for the raven’s to pick our bones clean.” Sir Olan said with a chuckle.
“He was also the best student at the hand-to-hand combat lessons all squires were
required to take. The knights aren’t only schooled at weapons and tactics of war, but are also
taught how to use our mind and body as well as weapons. It was that kind of training that
allowed your father to best for armed and trained fighters and for me to surprise you during our
sparing. Now, let’s get your saddlebags packed and a few supplies I need to restock for the road
tomorrow. It should be calm enough to head back to house by then.” Finished Olan.
Galen gave a nervous laugh at the thought of having to go in and face his mother after his
father had broken the news to her. Suddenly adventuring didn’t sound so appealing.
“Oh, one more thing Galen,” said Sir Olan extending a hand to assist the younger
Stoutheart in regaining his feet. Galen raised his hand to receive the offered help, but Olan
reached beyond his outstretched palm and firmly clasped his nephew’s forearm. Instinctively
Galen closed his own hand around Olan’s rock-hard forearm.
“I look forward to our time on the road together. You have faced a creature out of your
nightmare’s and survived. As I have said before, not many men have faced a gorthin and fewer
still have lived to tell their tale. That makes you a very special person indeed.” Praised the
knight.
Before Sir Olan released his grip on Galen’s forearm, the young man thought he saw a
look that was both amused and speculative pass across the knight’s angular face. While
gathering his necessary supplies Galen wondered what that look might have meant and unable to
dissect anymore information from his memory he shrugged it away.
Stuffing his saddlebags with the gathered supplies and slinging them over his shoulder,
Galen carried them over to the post that held the aged leather saddle his father gave him and
draped them over it. He then pulled a thick bedroll from the storeroom and laid it on the pile.
Everything ready for tomorrow, Galen walked over to the stables to check on Mercury, his fiery
gelding, who was pawing the dirt in a mirror of his owner’s anxiety.
Galen patted the smooth silver coat of the horse’s neck after Mercury had nuzzled him
wanting affection from his master. Mercury was Galen’s pride and joy. After seeing the horse
for the first time three years ago on Master Wayne’s farm, Galen had known right away that they
meant for one another.
At that time Mercury was kept apart from the other horses due to his rambunctious
behavior. His spotless silver coat was covered with dried mud and brambles matted his snow-
white mane. Galen saw past the grime to the noble heart of the proud gelding. Master Wayne
had turned down Galen’s initial attempts to buy the horse saying that he was too dangerous for
such a young boy and that Mercury had already broken the arm of Master Wayne’s eldest son,
who was considered the best horseman for leagues around. But Galen would not give up and
Master Wayne finally gave in figuring the tiresome boy would leave him alone after the gelding
had flung him to the dirt a few times.
The surprise was on him though when Galen walked up to the horse, placed an arm over
the gelding’s thick neck, and after whispering into Mercury’s ear proceeded to ride bareback
around the farm. The astonished farmer told Galen that if he would work for him every other
day until harvest that he could have the troublesome gelding. The two had become inseparable
ever since. In his free time Galen would ride Mercury through the foothills of the Blackstone
Mountains practicing his archery from horseback or just wandering aimlessly until it was almost
nightfall and they would race back to the safety of the farm.
“But tomorrow will be different Mercury. Tomorrow we don’t race back to the safety and
comfort of home. In the morning we will begin our path towards becoming heroes,” Galen
promised with excitement in his voice. He then scooped out a handful of grain and oats and fed
it to Mercury who whinnied gratefully.
“We’ll pack the rations in the morning Galen. I’ve finished restocking the supplies I
needed and if you’ve finished loving on that horse we’ll head back to the house.” Teased Sir
Olan.
“Don’t make fun of my horse, Uncle,” snapped the proud young man. “Mercury has been
a faithful companion and very likely my most trusted companion.”
“I would never dream of it Galen. Blade, my stallion, and I have a very similar bond
ourselves,” Sir Olan apologized with a soothing gesture of his hands. “Most knights have that
type of relationship with their mounts.”
Sir Olan then replaced his heavy cloak around his thick shoulders and left the barn.
Galen patted Mercury on the nose one last time and then followed his uncle out of the barn. The
biting wind nearly tore his cloak from his shoulders before he finally managed to fasten the
sturdy, dwarven made clasp.
“That was stupid,” Galen chastised himself. “I about lost my best winter cloak all
because I forgot to think before I acted. I’d better get that under control or this may turn into a
short adventure.”
Pulling the hood tighter around his face to avoid the stinging wind, Galen trudged through
the drifting snow towards the beckoning warmth that spilled from the cozy farm house
windows. Reaching the porch steps Galen started to set his foot down on the weathered step
when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. Feeling something was amiss he scanned
the barnyard and night sky but with the blowing snow he could barely make out anything a
few yards away. Starting back up the steps Galen thought he saw caught a flicker of movement
out of the corner of his eye. Straining against the snow and wind he watched the area for more
signs of movement for a few more seconds but saw nothing.
“The excitement of the day must have me imagining things,” he stated while he shrugged
his shoulders. Entering the house and removing his snow crusted boots and hanging his cloak
did nothing to abate that nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.
Outside a monstrous shape rose from behind the woodpile that had hid him from the
human’s searching eyes. Greyfang had followed the human after watching him kill his brother,
Redtooth, and, angry at the loss of his brother and lusting for vengeance, had stayed just out of
sight of the young man. The gorthin was wary of the great bow that had so easily brought down
the ferocious Redtooth. So he contented himself with following the human and biding his time to
strike. When the wolves had set upon the man Greyfang saw his chance and had begun to
descend on the unsuspecting prey. But when the accursed knight had burst from the underbrush
he broke off his attack fearful of the knight’s crossbows. Greyfang contented himself with
spying on the humans and followed them back to their village. He was a Skyling gorthin after all
and his job was to scout the area and return to report what he had seen to Goldeneyes, clan
chieftain of the Skylings.
That reassuring thought had eased the cowardly feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe
even important enough that Canis the Blood King might promote him into the ranks of the elite
Red Fangs. Spreading his leathery, bat-like wings Greyfang propelled himself into the snowy
night sky. The fires of bloodlust replaced with the lust for power.
Inside the Stoutheart homestead no one noticed the shadowy shape as it made its way
towards the distant peaks of the Blackstone Mountains.
In his loft bedroom Galen blew out his candle and after saying his prayers jumped into
bed and pulled the thick goose down comforter up tight around his chin. It took several minutes
before Galen could clear the excitement of the day from his mind. When sleep did finally claim
him his dreams were filled with fanged monsters and a glowing sword whose beauty and purity
made tears fall from his eyes.
Chapter 5
The gorthin sat perched on a stone outcrop that jutted out from the side of the steep
canyon wall, high above the gathered mighty gorthin clans. Goldeneyes unconsciously shifted
his balance as the wind tried to tear him from his precarious seat. His delicate nose sifted the
scents that wafted up from the encampment. The smell of the cooking fires made his stomach
rumble. The Warmuh clan had come across a party of merchant dwarves and after months of
only sparring with one another the bloodthirsty warriors threw on the hapless dwarves with
murderous intent. The clans, after only feeding on rabbits and mountain goats for the last year,
haled the powerful warriors for returning with the tough but tasteful dwarven meat.
The favor the Warmuh chief, Klankor, had gained with the gift of the dwarven meat
would soon be lost with the news that the Skyling scouts had brought back. Goldeneyes smiled
evilly at the thought of the displeasure his rival would feel when he gave his report of how
weakly the pathetic town of Stoneheart was defended. A few unskilled farmers were no match
for five hundred battle hardened gorthin warriors. Goldeneyes then let the wind take him from
his perch and gently floated down to the canyon floor.
Goldeneyes strode arrogantly through the dri’ val clan’s encampment towards Rak-
Natorik, the Hall of Chiefs. He stared with distaste as the dri’ val went about their daily routine
of cooking and cleaning for the gathered clans. The Skylings, like the rest of the gorthin clans,
looked down on the dri’ val for their non-warlike ways. It didn’t matter to the gorthins that the
dri’ val were their woman, children and elders or if it wasn’t for the dri’ val the proud warriors
would have to wash their own clothes and forage for their own food. The Skyling chief tore a
chunk of meat from a cooking spit as he passed by. The young female in charge of turning the
spit, started to berate the chief until a light of recognition pierced her dull mind. She prostrated
herself on the rocky ground begging Goldeneyes to have mercy on her. Watching the young
female grovel before him stirred a different kind of hunger. Looking at the setting sun,
Goldeneyes judged that he had a little time before he was expected at Ra-Natorik. Grabbing the
girl by her long scraggly hair, Goldeneyes dragged her to the cover of some nearby boulders.
The girl whimpered as he tore away her beaded leather dress, frantically she tried in vain to
cover her nakedness with her hands. Goldeneyes gave a guttural laugh and after pinning her
arms above her head with one powerful claw he forced himself upon the terrified girl. At the
cooking spit the remaining women and children pretended not to hear the girl’s pain wracked
pleas for help and went about finishing the nightly meal.
A short time later the Skyling chieftain was cleaning the girl’s blood from his canine
muzzle as he watched his rival, Klankor, take his seat across from the flier chief. Silently
Goldeneyes studied the gargantuan leader of the Warmuh clan. Even among the giant wingless
Warmuhs Klankor was considered monstrous. Easily over nine feet in height, Klankor was the
largest gorthin to ever live. It was said that he could best the great brown bear in unarmed
combat, and Goldeneyes knew that it was more than just rumor after witnessing Klankor break
the neck of one the deadly beasts. But for all his great strength and powerful fighting skills the
Warmuh chief had the intellect of a boulder. Red-black fur seemed stretched over rock hard
muscles and his flame colored mane hung in long thick braids down his broad back. He had
replaced his heavy crag wurm armor with a simple loincloth, but his favorite weapon, an evil-
looking two-handed serrated sword, hung easily from a worn scabbard on his back. As if sensing
the gaze of the Skyling, Klankor stared back at the smaller winged chief. Goldeneyes’s wolfish
mouth split into a wide grin that showed many sharp fangs but little mirth. Klankor’s reptilian
eyes seethed with anger at Goldeneyes unspoken challenge.
“I’ve had enough of your ugly face, egg-sucker!” Roared the enraged Klankor, “I’ll rip
that smile off of your face this time and there’s no one to stop me!” In one smooth motion the
savage chief had drawn his blade and knocked the rough wooden table from between him and
Goldeneyes. Bronze plates and cooper goblets flew through the air scattering their contents of
meat and stolen dwarven ale.
“I’ll feast on your heart tonight pig-breeder!” Taunted Goldeneyes as he jumped to his
feet, barely avoiding a flying dwarven thigh bone, and drew his two wide-bladed hunting knives.
As the two combatants circled one another looking for weak points, Goldeneyes began to
wonder about the wisdom of provoking the deadly Warmuh in such a confined area where his
only advantage of flight was lost. That slip of concentration cost Goldeneyes dearly as he
slipped on some spilled ale and lost his balance. Seeing an opening, Klankor slammed his
shoulder into the smaller chief and knocking him stunned to one knee. Panting with bloodlust, the
Warmuh chief positioned himself to deliver the death blow to Goldeneyes’s vulnerable neck,
and roaring in victory Klankor began the decent of his serrated blade.
“Stop this foolishness at once!” Bellowed a commanding voice from the shadows.
Klankor, unable to stop the momentum of the massive sword, deflected it enough that it grazed
Goldeneyes head and imbedded itself several inches into the stone floor. Letting out a sigh of
relief, Goldeneyes started to regain his feet when Klankor’s muscular clawed foot kicked him in
the ribs, sending the chief spiraling through the air to land heavily on his back.
“That is enough Klankor!” Roared an enraged gorthin as he stepped from the shadows.
Canis the Blood King was nearly an equal to the Warmuh chief in size and strength, but he also
had great intelligence and the bat-like wings of the Skyling chief. Well-formed muscles quivered
with irritation under the orange and black spotted fur that covered his entire body and his clawed
hand fingered the haft of a sinister spiked mace that hung at his side. Canis’s coal black mane
bristled in anger as his cold reptilian eyes bored first into the seething Klankor, who held the
volatile king’s gaze for a moment before slamming his sword into its scabbard and bowing his
head to the powerful leader, and then to the cantankerous Skyling chief. Goldeneyes began to
sputter an excuse, but Canis exploded into action before the first words escaped Goldeneyes’s
lips. In two quick strides, Canis reached the unlucky gorthin, grasped Goldeneyes by the throat
with one mighty hand, and flung him across the hall where for the second time this evening the
Skyling chief found himself lying on the floor.
“I tire of the two of you constantly bickering with one another. Your clans are beginning
to fight one another because of the hatred between you two. The Red Fangs broke up several
brawls today alone. Luckily none were hurt to severely. The gorthins are too few in number too
fight among themselves with the upcoming events so close at hand.” Explained the exasperated
king to the two chiefs as if they were cubs still suckling at their mother's teats. “Now take your
seat Goldeneyes, the others will be here soon.”
The dri’ val hurried to reset the upturned table and replace the spilled food and drink as
Canis took his place upon a throne made from the scales of a crag wurm. The Blood King’s
orange and black fur stood out in garish contrast to the brown and green scales of the deceased
wurm. Dressed in the traditional loincloth the Blood King’s only token of power was a human
skull gilded with beaten copper that hung from a leather thong around Canis’s bullish neck.
After the king had taken his place on the throne the brutish Klankor took his seat, but not
before giving the downed Goldeneyes a smug look and a quick gesture of swiping his hand
across his neck. His pride suffering more than anything else, Goldeneyes gingerly regained his
feet and stiffly walked over to his chair and sat down. Picking up a steaming dwarven haunch
from the freshly replaced platter Goldeneyes noticed that Klankor was still staring smugly at him
from across the table. The impish chief returned the stare as he tore a chunk from the haunch
and casually stuck out his long forked tongue and waggled it at the Warmuh chief.
Canis watched the childish display and began to rub his wide, sloped forehead and
muttered to himself, “We’re preparing for a possible war with the humans and all they want to do
is kill each other.”
“They think nothing of the glory that could be the gorthins if we succeed in freeing
Ahmah.” Hissed an ominous voice from the shadows near Canis’s throne. “Allow me to lead the
Morgogs in a night raid to steal the chalice from the unpredictable humans, my king.”
“I see the wisdom in your suggestion, Cutter. I too feel that a small group of your thieves
would stand the best chance of gaining the chalice. I have even discussed it at length with
Blackfur and Greytooth, but Greytooth said that Ahmah would not be happy about the lack of
blood spilled and Blackfur said that my teeth were old and brittle and afraid that they would
break on the bones of war!” Canis finished as he slammed a clenched fist onto the arm of his
throne.
Moving with deadly grace from the shadows, Cutter, chief of the deadly Morgog clan,
came to stand beside his king and placed a firm clawed hand on the tense Blood King’s shoulder.
“Be at ease Canis. I have placed several of my best men around Ra-Natorik and each is armed
with a small horn bow and the arrows have been dipped in the venom of a graystone serpent.
Anyone even scratched by one of the poison laced arrows will die instantly and horribly,” Cutter
said smiling wide and showing long canine incisors.
Klankor and Goldeneyes shivered involuntarily as that hideous smile revealed that the
Morgog chief had coated his incisors with the gray-green poison of the greystone serpent. Both
chiefs being proud warriors hated the devious ways of the Morgogs and unlike the mighty
Warmuhs or the Skyling fliers, the Morgogs disliked open conflict. Their ways were the ways of
thieves and assassins preferring to either sneak in and steal what they wanted or to come from
behind and sink their poisoned teeth or claws into their unsuspecting enemy. Trained from birth
to be immune to a multitude of poisons the Morgogs preferred to keep their two incisors
constantly layered in poison. A Morgog isn’t truly accepted into the clan until he has made his
first kill with the poison laced fangs. Unlike the other two chiefs who only wore their weapons
and a loincloth, Cutter wore the heavy, hooded, black woolen robe of the Morgogs with
exception of his hood being dyed red to show his rank. Fearful of the dangerous assassin’s reputation
of carrying various deadly weapons within the voluminous folds of the robe, Klankor and
Goldeneyes both breathed a sigh of relief when Cutter took his place at the table.
Glancing casually at the rafters, Canis thought he caught movement in many of the
deeply shadowed nooks. Knowing that the highly adept Morgogs would keep a constant vigil
and would stop any would be assassins before they could reach him, Canis regained his
composure and for the first time tonight thought he might live to see morning. The Blood King
stared at each of the clan chiefs in turn weighing them and trying to discern their loyalties. Of
Cutter there was no doubt. The Morgogs had grown in power under Canis’s reign and their chief
knew that under the Blood Prince’s rule their covert ways would be overlooked in favor of a
more direct and brutal way of dealing with the outside world. Klankor and the Warmuhs are
loyal to whoever was the strongest and fiercest warrior and since his defeat to Canis twenty years
ago, Klankor had faithfully followed the king’s commands even though they went against the
savage warrior’s beliefs. But Canis knew that Klankor would willingly follow Blackfur if the
prince ever over threw his father. Goldeneyes doesn’t care who sits on the throne as long as he
has plenty of food and females at his disposal and they don’t try to control the free spirited chief
too much.
“My son is beginning to tire of being in my shadow I fear. No doubt he has even
approached each of you to seek your aid or support in removing me from the throne,” began
Canis as he addressed the gathered chiefs. Goldeneyes nearly choked on a mouthful of meat at
the king’s blunt statement and began to deny the accusations, but Canis continued uninterrupted.
“But after this meeting I feel that you will see the wisdom of my plans and so to will
Blackfur see the folly of his ways. Although he is a powerful warrior, and some day he will be a
great leader, but right now he lacks the patience and experience to deal with the threat the
humans pose.” Canis hoped that he sounded more confident than he felt. If the rumors that
Cutter’s spies had heard were true then the king had already lost the support of his bodyguards,
the Red Fangs, and Greytooth the shaman.
Lost in dark thoughts Canis was taken by surprise when the stout wooden doors of Ra-
Natorik were thrown wide and in walked Blackfur, the Blood Prince. He was flanked to either
side by the Red Fangs, their crimson crag wurm armor, although polished to blinding finish,
seemed to swallow the flickering torch light. Their octagon shields bore a red fang on a black
field and were like wise enchanted with the same unholy spells as their armor. Each guardsman
wore a serrated two-handed sword strapped to his back and carried a jagged trident in his free
hand. To the man they were a grizzled and veteran group who wore their scars proudly and each
surveyed the gathered chieftains as if they were sizing up an enemy across a battlefield.
“Father!” Blackfur’s voice boomed across the suddenly silent hall. “Surely you weren’t
thinking of me challenging our beloved king for the throne were you?” He questioned the
surprised king mockingly as he pointed to the half drawn mace at Canis’s side.
Slowly releasing the mace’s well-worn haft, Canis calmed himself before replying to the
upstart prince. “I would prefer an open challenge to the ways of a coward who slinks through
the shadows with poisonous of treason. Yes I know of your intentions to relieve me of my throne
Blackfur, but instead of acting as a lowly dri’ val why don’t you face me in the way of a true
gorthin warrior!”
Blackfur’s mocking charade was replaced with disbelief as the king exposed his plans but
the shock turned to white hot fury at the accusation of him being no better than common women
and children. The blood prince tore his heavy battle axe from its loop on his belt and raising the
weapon above his head, and charged the calmly waiting king.
Canis shot forward at the last second, moving inside of the downward arc of the ax. The
powerful king then slammed his head into the surprised prince’s canine muzzle momentarily
stunning Blackfur. Canis freed the mace at his side with enough force that the spiked head
rammed into Blackfur’s exposed belly, driving the wind from the younger gorthin. Reversing his
grip on the haft, the wily king slammed the butt into the already bloody prince’s face. Blackfur
crumpled to all fours a pool of blood forming beneath his down turned face.
“Finish it old one,” rasped Blackfur through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.
“Get up boy and take your place at the table with the clan chiefs.” Was all the Blood
King said as he slid his bloodied mace back into its frog and turned to walk back to his throne.
“Oh, one more thing my son,” Canis said half turning to face the battered prince. “My
teeth are not weak.” Smiling wide to show his long pointed teeth Canis then laughed as he
wiped the prince’s blood from his wide forehead and took his place upon his throne.
Caught up in his own arrogance the blood king didn’t see Blackfur look quickly at
Greytooth who nodded approvingly or the doubting looks the Warmuh and Skyling chief gave
one another. Both knew that during a challenge that the victor must kill his defeated opponent.
It is the gorthin way. But only Cutter watched the proceedings with any worry. The Morgog
chief felt a ball of ice form in the pit of his stomach when Canis didn’t deliver the finishing blow.
No matter how convincingly the words were of the Blood King, they would fall on deaf ears. By
not killing the Blood Prince Canis had broken an ancient tradition, an event that would be
unacceptable to the superstitious gorthins. Cutter knew that his king had done this believing that
humiliating the prince would strengthen his power, but the smug look on Greytooth’s grizzled
face meant that Canis had sealed his doom.
Cutter let out a silent sigh of resignation and with a single deft movement of his right
hand he dismissed the watching Morgogs. No one in the room noticed that several of the
shadows in the rafters shrank in size as the assassins quickly but silently made their way out of
Rak-Natorik. No one that is except for the keen eyed shaman. Greytooth gave the Morgog chief
a knowing smile and chuckled to himself. Cutter’s warrior blood began to boil and his muscles
tensed to propel him across the room and bury his curved venomous daggers deep into the frail
shaman’s body. Sliding his hands into the deep folds of his heavy robe he pulled his two favorite
bone-handled daggers from their sheaths.
Before Cutter could do something rash he caught out of the corner of his an eye a flicker of
movement. Keeping his hands, and therefore the life-stealing daggers, inside his robe he turned
his head slightly to see Canis waving a finger. “Not yet,” Canis’s cold reptilian eyes conveyed
when he and Cutter locked gazes. Cutter nodded his shaggy head in acceptance and swiftly
replaced his blades and placed his bare hands atop the table.
Again the shaman gave that silent chuckle as he watched the fuming Morgog tap his
sharpened talons on the rough table top. Seeking a vent for his mounting frustrations Cutter
grabbed a passing dri’ val who dropped her empty serving platter as the assassin roughly jerked
her into his lap and embraced her within his arms. His devilish eyes stared at Greytooth as he bit
the exposed neck of the whimpering female just hard enough to pierce the skin and let the vile
poison enter her blood stream. Without breaking eye contact with the shaman, who had stopped
laughing now and was watching the spectacle with wide eyes, Cutter cleared the table in front of
him with a sweep of an arm and placed the poor girl upon it.
The meeting hall grew quiet as the attention of all was drawn to the now writhing dri’ val.
She began to scream as blue-black boils grew all over her body and popped spattering her blood
and pus across the table. Her pain wracked shrieks grew to a crescendo as the poison reached
her brain and began consuming it. At last the servant’s body lay still as a purple-green soup
flowed from her mouth and ears. Through it all Cutter had not taken his gaze from the hated
shaman and he smiled in satisfaction as the bravado faded from Greytooth’s face and was
replaced by fear blended with revulsion.
Like all gorthins, Greytooth enjoyed carnage and the spilling of blood by either battle or
ritual sacrifice, but the use of poisons was considered cowardly and a waste of the precious blood
that their evil god demanded for once tainted by poison the blood was considered unworthy by
Ahmah. Greytooth swallowed a large lump that had suddenly grown in his throat and looking at
the deadly Cutter a chill ran down his spine as the venomous Morgog whispered, “Someday...”
and patted the daggers with one hand while pointing the other at the shaman.
The rest of the council went as Cutter feared it would. Canis argued that a small group of
Morgogs could sneak into the village and steal the chalice from the humans and then with Ahmah
to lead them they could then move against their hated enemy. Time and again the chiefs argued
the cowardice of the plan saying that it humiliated the fighting spirit of the martial gorthins.
Canis continually countered with recounting the last war with the humans that had nearly wiped
out all the clans. But in the end Canis bullied and threatened the chiefs into going along with his
plan. Cutter didn’t buy their charade because although their actions showed meekness; their eyes
smoldered with the fires of indignation.
Canis stood up from his throne and placing both hands on the table, glaring at each of the
gathered chiefs in turn including Greytooth and lastly his son as if daring them to speak against
him again. All turned their gazes from the king.
“Then it is decided. Cutter, gather your best men and have them ready to depart
tomorrow evening. The Warmuh are to prepare for war but they will not march until the chalice
is in our possession and Ahmah can lead us. Do you understand Klankor?” The tone of Canis’s
voice left no doubt that it was a command and not a question.
The giant warrior quivered with rage but his growled answer was a subservient, “Yes, my
king.”
“Good. Goldeneyes continue your patrols, and Blackfur, you will meet with me in one
cycle of the patrols in my tent. Do not be late.” Canis returned to his hideous throne and
motioned for Cutter to approach. The remaining council members rose to leave, but the
unpredictable king exploded into action.
Jumping to his feet and pulling the evil mace from his belt, Canis hurled the deadly
missile with pinpoint accuracy into the face of the nearest Red Fang. The unsuspecting gorthin
had no time to bring his shield to bear before the mace crashed into his face tearing through flesh
and bone alike. The bodyguard crumpled to the ground, his body no more than a lifeless husk.
Walking over to the fallen guard Canis retrieved his mace and wiped the gore from it using the
Red Fang’s cloak.
“The Red Fang’s serve the Blood King. Failure to do so is considered treason and a
crime against the throne,” recited Canis in an icy voice. The punishment for treason is death.”
Canis’s actions may have been directed at the Red Fangs but his words were for all gathered in the
hall. “Now go!” He commanded.
The Morgog chief waited patiently as the Warmuh and Skyling chiefs began to exit the
hall. Cutter’s sharp ears heard Goldeneyes mutter something about Klankor’s heritage and a
cow. Goldeneyes flew the rest of the way from the hall propelled by the muscular arms of
Klankor to land sprawling in the dirt. Laughing like a mad man, Goldeneyes launched himself
into the night sky but not before a well thrown rock cracked into Klankor’s forehead, drawing a
thin line of blood. The giant warrior stalked away spouting curses at the fleeing winged chief.
The Red Fangs shifted uneasily as Blackfur prepared to leave with Greytooth. A slight
signal from Blackfur and they stood still as stone. Turning to face his father, Blackfur gave a
slight bow and an oily, “Father,” before strolling arrogantly out of the hall. Greytooth gave the
same slight bow and then he to scrambled after Blackfur. Canis walked back to his throne and
slumped into it.
Cutter silently observed his king as the once and powerful gorthin leader stared almost
sadly at the retreating form of his son. “How long before he makes his move, old friend?”
Questioned the king. “It can’t be too far away. I gave it my best argument, but even with me
besting Blackfur the other chieftains still back the pup's plan for invasion.”
“If I were him I would try to overthrow you within the next few days while the events of
the challenge are still fresh in the chiefs’ minds. By not ordering an all-out attack of the humans
you appear afraid in the eyes of the gorthins, and that Canis is not acceptable in the gorthin faith.
Our dark master is harsh and unforgiving and demands blood to be spilled to quench his diabolic
thirst.” Replied Cutter. His face could have been carved from stone while he answered Canis
honestly, but inside he felt as if he was riding the currents of a thunderstorm.
“Your words are the harsh truth Cutter. I’d be surprised if my ambitious son waits more
than a few hours. He will lead the clans to war and then to failure.” Bursting out in deep peals
of laughter the old king stated to his adviser. “The humans are stronger than Blackfur can
imagine. He is too young to remember the last war. I fear my brash son will soon follow me to
the grave!”
Doubling over in mirth at his twisted humor, Canis laughed harder and harder till tears
fell from his eyes and his laughter took on an edge of hysteria.
The deadly assassin slowly drifted back into the shadows of Ra-Natorik and silently left
the hall. The insane laughter of the once mighty gorthin king haunted Cutter’s thoughts as he
quickly made his way across the gorthin encampment. So lost in his own thoughts was Cutter
that he nearly ran into the broad back of Klankor who was once again engaged in a heated
argument with Goldeneyes.
“It doesn’t matter now,” growled Klankor, “With his show of mercy towards Blackfur,
Canis has sealed his own doom.”
“But the news my scout has brought changes everything.” Argued the lanky flier. “It
proves that Canis is right.”
“Mercy is for the weak!” Roared the volatile chieftain as he lifted Goldeneyes from the
ground. “Are the Skylings nothing more than cubs that shy away from a little challenge?”
Flames of outrage blossomed in the Skyling chief’s eyes and he deftly drew his twin
wicked-looking daggers from his belt.
“Let go of me milk drinker before I send you to Ahmah’s Pit.” Said the flier, his voice
dripping with acid, as he placed his razor sharp blades against Klankor’s thick neck.
The powerful fighter threw Goldeneyes with one mighty hand and drew his two-handed
sword with the other. Goldeneyes twisted in mid-air and landed gracefully on his feet and
launched himself back at the Warmuh chief. With a roar Klankor raised his sword above his head
and prepared to meet the charge.
But before the two combatants could engage, Cutter appeared between them with arms
spread wide with a very nasty, poison-laced dagger pointed at each of them.
“Stop this senseless bickering for once and tell me what is going on.” He ordered.
“My scout has returned from Stoneheart with information that supports Canis’s views,”
panted Goldeneyes, “But before I could reach the Blood King this oaf intercepted me.”
“What information did your scout bring Goldeneyes? It had better be good or I’ll walk
away and let Klankor finish you once and for all.” Cutter threatened.
“The Knights of Everwatch are in Stoneheart, assassin. Is that important enough for
you.” Goldeneyes said, his raspy voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You are as dumb as a boulder Klankor if you believed your king did not need this
information. I thought you were loyal to Canis, Warmuh.” Stated Cutter, anger shining in his
yellow blood-shot eyes.
“I was until he let Blackfur live, but he showed mercy and mercy is for the weak not the
mighty gorthins.” Klankor said as he swelled his chest and pounded a boulder like fist against it.
“The Warmuhs will not be led by a toothless king. It is time for a change.”
“Come Goldeneyes we have business with the Blood King, and if you get in our way
Klankor I will gut you like a pig and feed you to the dri’ vil.”
Klankor growled threateningly but let the deadly assassin and flier pass without harm.
“We must hurry, Goldeneyes. If Blackfur hears of your scout’s information he will seek
you out, which must not happen. The prince’s pride and devotion to our blood- thirsty god will
blind him to the dangers to the clans. The fact that the knights are in Stoneheart shows that
Canis is right in being wary.” Cutter said more to convince himself than his frivolous companion.
As the assassin and flier reached Ra-Natorik, a group of the Red Fangs moved from the
shadows of the hall and surrounded the two.
“Out of our way.” Ordered Cutter. “We have important information for the Blood
King.”
The stone faced soldiers stood their ground and drew a various assortment of deadly
looking weapons and pointed them at the chiefs.
Outrage and disbelief blossomed over Cutter and Goldeneyes canine faces.
“Did you not hear the Morgog chief, dogs?” Goldeneyes snarled. “We have important
information for the king. Now clear the way.” The Skyling chief made a step forward only to
have a wickedly-barbed spear point pushed against his chest.
“So your scout has some news for my father does he.” Sneered Blackfur as he stepped
between the body guards to face the two chiefs.
“Listen to Greyfang’s report yourself, my prince.” Implored Goldeneyes.
“Yes, let’s do that.” Blackfur agreed, his mouth curled back in a sinister leer. “Klankor.
Bring Greyfang to me so I can hear his report.” He commanded the Warmuh but his eyes bored
into Cutter and Goldeneyes.
Klankor shoved his way into the steel circle of death and tossed the severed head of
Greyfang at Goldeneyes feet.
“You can ask him whatever you want my prince, but I don’t think he will answer.”
Laughed the giant warrior, an evil grin splitting his face.
Goldeneyes quivered with rage and murder filled his eyes as he stared at Klankor. “One
day you will pay for this Warmuh,” hissed the enraged chief.
Klankor lunged for Goldeneyes, but the smaller chief propelled himself high into the air
with his powerful legs and flew off into the night.
“Well assassin what’s it going to be?” Questioned Blackfur. “Are you in with the new or
out with the old?”
A slight shake of Cutter’s hooded head and the Morgog assassin atop Ra-Natorik lowered
his horn bow that had been trained on the Blood Prince. It would do no good to slay the upstart
prince now, he had gained to large of a following. As much as he wished to shove his poisoned
dagger between Blackfur’s ribs instead he said, “What is your wish my king.”
Blackfur’s only answer was to throw his shaggy, lupine head back and howl with
laughter. Sadly, Cutter noticed there was no insanity in that mirth.
Chapter Six
The wind howled hauntingly across valley of the gorthin encampment as Canis the Blood
King emerged from the walls of Ra-Natorik. The winds cry seemed to the grizzled king to match
the feelings in his heart. He knew he had made a mistake with his son, but he had hoped that by
defeating Blackfur the young prince would see his point. Noticing several of the Red Fangs
hiding in the shadows, Canis knew that his time as king was about to come to a bloody end.
“Let’s get this over with.” He muttered to himself as he walked down the steps towards
the valley floor. The once mighty gorthin leader had only walked a couple of feet when he was
surrounded by his turncoat bodyguard and approached by their captain, Patch.
“Come with us Canis,” ordered Patch, the moonlight sparkling maliciously off of the
ruby in the leather headpiece that covered his left eye and gave the grizzled captain his
namesake.
“Is that anyway to address Ahmah’s Chosen, captain?” Said Canis feigning ignorance.
“Shouldn’t your men be protecting their king, not surrounding me with bared weapons?”
“The gorthins are not lead by a weakling, toothless one.” Snarled Patch as he spat at the
ground in front of Canis.
“Do not confuse weakness with caution captain.” Finishing his statement, the mighty
warrior-king exploded into action, landing a powerful right hook to Patch’s jaw and sending the
dazed captain spinning to the ground.
Wiping the blood from his broken muzzle Patch glared at Canis. “Red Fangs seize the
king. He has an appointment with his son.” Snarled the Red Fang’s leader through bloodied
gums.
Canis fought like a devil but the Red Fangs outnumbered him and quickly subdued the
king but not without losing a few of their own.
“Bind him and take him to the Stone.” Ordered the captain as he walked up to the
defenseless king. Smiling at the bound Canis, Patch drew his spiked gauntlet back and smacked
Canis across the face. To the king’s credit he shrugged off the heavy blow and laughed in the
captain’s face.
“I take comfort in knowing that Blackfur and the rest of his lackeys will follow me into
death.” Canis continued his laughing until one of the guards came up from behind and knocked
him out with the flat of a sword.
*********************************
Canis came to when someone splashed a bucket full of icy water on him. Enraged, the
king tried to lunge towards the offender but found his limbs had been lashed tightly to a hard
surface. The king tightened his thick, corded muscles and the leather bindings creaked but did
not give.
“Greetings Father.” Said Blackfur as he walked into his prone father’s field of vision.
“Thank you for being a willing participant in my little coup. Greytooth said that you would not
kill me if I challenged you and pretended to lose. Some drivel about you feeling that I would see
the error of my ways. You have become soft and no longer do you have Ahmah’s favor. I will
lead the clans against the humans and recover the chalice for the glory of Ahmah. “
Blackfur leaned close to his father’s ear and whispered, “It is time for you to leave us, but
before you go you will help me with one more thing.”
Blackfur stood and pulled a vicious two-handed battle axe from his wide back and smiled
wickedly at his father as he stroked the demonic runes etched on the haft.
Canis could see his eyes widen in the shiny adamantite fang- shaped blades. He knew
what would come next for this was the same way he had removed his father and empowered his
own devastating mace.
His fears were confirmed when Greytooth stepped from the shadows and commanded in
his bone rattling voice, “Place your weapon on your father’s chest that it may absorb his blood as
it drains from his sacrificed body, my prince.”
Blackfur did as he was bade and stepped back as the grizzled shaman pulled a wicked
looking dagger made from the thigh bone of a dwelvinkin elf from a worn sheath hanging at his
hip. Greytooth walked around the former king as he chanted making several gashes as he went,
but instead of the blood dripping to the stone it was drawn into the battleaxe. The chanting grew
faster and higher pitched as the shaman reached a crescendo and slit Canis’s throat with the last
uttered syllable.
Blackfur’s double bladed great axe began to glow a sickly shade of red while the bound
Blood King’s body shone with a brilliant, scarlet glow. As the king’s life blood drained into the
unholy weapon it shone with more and more intensity and the king’s aura began to fade until the
once mighty Canis breathed his last breath and the glow winked out and the king’s soul fled to
whatever dark bliss it was allowed.
“We thank you mighty Ahmah for this gift to the new Blood King Blackfur so that he
might lead your warriors to victory.” Greytooth whispered as he turned to face Blackfur,
Greytooth said to the assembled clans, “I give to you the new Blood King, Blackfur scourge of
the humans and all who oppose our mighty god! To him I present a powerful weapon sanctified
with the blood of the fallen king and blessed by Ahmah himself so that Blackfur may lead us to
glory in the name of the Blood God!” He then handed the glowing weapon to the new Blood
King amidst the howls and cheers of the assembled gorthin horde.
When Blackfur took the great axe the glow winked out so all could see the unholy
weapon. The silvery shine of the adamantite blades had been replaced with the blackness of a
moonless night laced with crimson veins that pulsed with fel energy. The edges were lit with a
fire that came from the pits of the abyss and traced lines through the cool night air as Blackfur
sent the axe through a series of spins that spurred his warriors into another round of cheers.
The axe mentally communed with the king while he swung it. I am Maruk, a lesser
demon in the service of Ahmah. As long as you wield me you cannot be defeated nor may any
metal resist my bite. The flames can be turned on or off with a thought from you and when I
taste the blood of your enemies I will steal their life force and impart it to you so that you may
grow stronger. This is my pledge to you as long as you give me victims. Hissed the demon
seductively.
You will have more than you can drink soon, Maruk, this I swear to you. He promised the
demonic axe.
The Blood King addressed the gathered warriors. “My warriors, in two weeks we will
descend upon the human settlement of Stoneheart and wipe them out. No more will the mighty
gorthins hide in the mountains like beaten children. We will reclaim our homelands and use the
chalice to bring our restless god from his place in the abyss to be with his loyal followers, the
proud gorthin clans! We will then spread across the lands with Ahmah’s power and blessing and
the weaker races will flee before us or they wet our blades with their blood! This is the promise
Ahmah has made his children if we free him! Glory to Ahmah!” As Blackfur spoke and his
words became infused with the fervor of bloodlust and the flame around the axe grew higher and
brighter until at the last the king thrust the weapon skyward as if challenging the heavens
themselves.
Yes! Sighed the weapon in ecstasy, as it too was caught up in the moment.
In the valley hundreds of weapons were raised in challenge and hundreds of voices roared
praise to Ahmah, bloodlust, and conquest.
Blackfur looked to the shaman that had incited the youthful prince to overthrow his father
and gave the ancient gorthin a toothy grin. Which Greytooth returned with a slight tilt of his
head and mouthed the words, “My king,” and returned the smile.
The shaman was very pleased at the moment. It had taken little to provoke the battle and
glory hungry prince into rising against his father and he had wielded the bow that had launched
the arrow of his unforgiving master’s plan into motion. Greytooth had done as his master wished
and soon he would reap the rewards.
More to come on Monday!
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