The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (16 page)

When she was finished, the remains of the undead enemy were scattered about and Saeunn stood, spots of burning acid on her flesh. But she did not care. She stood over her vanquished foe until she felt the strong grip of a hand clamp down on her right shoulder.

Scarr, covered in blood and gore, stared into the eyes of his daughter and pulled her close.

“This is exactly what I meant for you to avoid,” he said in as endearing a tone as he could gather under the circumstances.

“Magreth… is he—“

“Do not look,” Scarr instructed, but she could not stay her eyes. Her brother, or what remained of him, lay on the floor in a heap, almost an eroded version of the man he was. Only parts of him remained as both the disease and contagion of the Blood Rotters’ infection ate away at him.

“It is best to burn all the bodies and any others who die this night, my lord,” Syth whispered to Scarr. The barbarian chieftain nodded.

“Are you injured, my lord?” Syth asked.

“No,” Scarr answered. 

“None of this?” Syth gestured to the blood and guts and fleshy sinew that covered the barbarians skin and blonde hair. “None of this is your own?”

Scarr stared hard at the shaman and walked away. Saeunn remained distraught, holding her brother and realizing that through all of the fighting that had occurred, her father had not suffered a scratch. She could not help but feel considerable admiration and disbelief as she watched him address the gathered tribes.

 “We must gather the bodies of the dead and place them on a pyre this night,” he called out to the weary barbarians. “They died a heroes’ death and deserve this burial. So says The Champion!”

With those words, the barbarians moved to collect bodies and tinder. Within the hour, all of the bodies were gathered and burned.

Members from both the Greymoors and Chansuk tribes covered Magreth in skins and took what was left of him toward Chansuk. Scarr turned to regard his daughter, who was on her knees in the mud weeping, and went to her. He threw his massive arms around her and squeezed her tight, pulling her to her feet.

“We must go, the battle is done,” he told her. She did not respond, but merely stood, staring blankly into the horizon with tears pouring down her face. Several of the Chansuk women approached to help her.

“And Rothnarr?” she sobbed.

“Needs more attention, my child,” Syth chimed softly. “To be a true barbarian is to forsake all pain and loss and to understand that you may die at any time. You must accept that. There is no greater accomplishment than to die on the field of battle.”

Saeunn heard the words and allowed them to sink in as she walked.

The barbarians carried their wounded brethren on their backs or on horseback the few miles more to Chansuk’s gates. They were told that those who did not die outright from the Blood Rot disease would likely become zombies themselves. They all understood and collectively agreed to watch over their friends and loved ones closely.

The two barbarian tribes had fought thousands of zombies, fought for the better part of ten hours without stopping and lost hundreds of their own. Many barbarians more would be lost to the Blood Rot contagion. More still would succumb to zombification. It was all necessary in the arena of war.

The battle was won.

Saeunn sat still, tears streaming down her face and a profound throbbing in her heart that was beyond compare. She had wept for countless hours and felt there should be no more tears left to cry, yet still they came, unbidden and unending. The shaman’s words still echoed in her mind.

The village elder continued his ritual, painting the tattoos on her arm that would symbolize her great loss, as he did for each and every barbarian that attained some extraordinary feat, or had a story to tell. Each marking on her body denoted a memorable event that held an important meaning. The tattoos were personal representations of symbolic events, as well as inter-cultural achievements that were forever inscribed upon the body of a barbarian.

After the painting ritual, the shaman would perform the ceremony that would make them permanent on her arm, never to be removed. This was customary practice.

Many barbarians from both the Greymoors and the Chansuk tribes were being marked today for battle accomplishments and, more importantly, to represent friends and family that were lost to them. This was especially real to Saeunn, for not only had she lost one of her siblings with the heroic and untimely death of her brother, but she too had lost the love of her life. Both Magreth and Rothnarr were dead—slain by the foul Blood Rotter things. Never would she be the same, either in love or in war, for she had learned many lessons this day.

The barbarians would halt the further spreading of the Blood Rot plague amongst their tribes in the Stonehill region and stem the spreading of the contagion within their own ranks. But at what cost? Again, Saeunn heard the words of Syth in her mind and again, she tried to steel her emotions against the loss.

This was the beginning of her journey, during which there was much bloodshed to come. Saeunn continued to mull this over in her head as she clenched her fists so tight that the tips of her fingernails penetrated the skin of both her palms, drawing blood. A trickle of it ran down the inside of either hand and down onto her forearm, but she was numb to the pain. Try as she might, she could only focus on the sense of loss within, very palpable and unwavering in its dominance of her emotions.

The shaman continued his ritual, the vital fluid going unnoticed. Saeunn’s mind was elsewhere. Both her own blood and the words of the shaman became distant and then departed altogether, for Saeunn had turned her emotions inward, suppressing them. She took a deep breath, pushed away the pain and gritted her teeth against it all.

She now understood what it meant to be a barbarian. 

Maturation Process

The young high elf had recently celebrated his twentieth winter, and with that had reached a certain level of frustration where his own magical aptitude was concerned. Better said, it was his father who had the issue with his incompetence—Elec had come to grips with his own misgivings years prior. Making matters worse for him was the ascendancy of his siblings in that regard. His brother and sister were both progressing with better than anticipated results, making Elec’s failings even more prominent. It was not their fault, he knew, but it was a very real fact that he could not change, despite his many attempts.

His sister, Aeona, and his brother, Elandion, both older than he, were not only able to tap into the energies within the plane of Arcana, but they were capable of bending those energies and manipulating them with such command that they made them their own. They were masters of the arcane arts whilst Elec was unable to harness even the simplest of magics. He could cast some of the minor spells known collectively to the high elves of Acillia that resulted in subduing or hindering, or which had to do with trivial callings to the elements as opposed to commanding the powers of a raging storm.

Such magic was common knowledge to the high elves of Acillia, especially those of superior social standing, such as the Stormwhispers were. These high elves included Elec’s Uncle Faorath, who often visited his nephew in his workspace where he would be poring over tomes and texts continually in any subject other than those concerning arcane focus.

“Greetings, nephew!” Faorath announced loudly as he entered the room. Elec, seated at his desk, automatically grabbed a text with preparations for spell-casting on its pages and opened it in an attempt to feign studying.

“You are not fooling me,” Faorath said, shaking his head and standing with hands on hips. His uncle had wide, reflective eyes of the deepest amber, and golden blonde hair that accented the hue of his eyes. He wore the finest nature of clothing, with loose fitting sleeves that draped loosely over his slight frame. His breeches were dark blue, his shirt was silver with gold accents and he wore sturdy leather boots. There was a hint of golden jewelry highlighting his wrists and fingers.

“You may be able to dupe the others, but not me,” he finally added.

“Fine,” Elec sighed, knowing that his uncle’s sight and perceptions were more acute than those of a bird of prey. This was also the reason why he was one of the most accomplished of all the Wind Riders of Acillia.

The young elf slid the spellbook to the side, revealing his true project.

“Tinkering with mechanisms still, I see. And what is this?” Faorath looked at the device. He moved it aside and uncovered carefully drawn plans of mechanisms together with notes and alchemical theories beneath those. Faorath simply shook his head and smiled. “Your secret is safe with me, Elec. As long as you are passionate about what you do, I am content with that.”

Elec stood and hugged his uncle tightly, smiling and staring up at him, for Faorath was extremely tall, well over six feet in height.

“You know that your mother only wants you to be happy, too,” Faorath stated. Elec’s white eyes widened at that particular topic and he shook his head, tousling his long, curly black hair. “But Father—“

 “Speak not of Keryth, lad. He only knows what he was shown. He pushes you and your siblings too hard to master your arcane abilities, just as his father pushed him. He knows nothing else.”

Elec looked up at his uncle once more and sighed, knowing deep down that magic and its mysteries would always remain just that—mysteries—as far as he was concerned.

“I have something you might find useful,” the elder elf declared, changing the subject. He held up a brown leather belt with many evenly spaced loops along its surface. Elec looked at it quizzically and then took it from his uncle’s outstretched hand.

“Those loops should be solid enough to hold your flasks. I had it made especially for you.”

“So
that
is why you took a flask,” Elec exclaimed in understanding. He slid one of the beakers in place and it held firmly. He began to place more of them in the loops, one after the other, until the belt was nearly full. He then strapped it around his waist and over his shoulder and looked at his uncle again for confirmation. Faorath nodded approval that he had outfitted the belt properly. Then he helped Elec adjust it so that it fastened tightly. Elec beamed and nodded in appreciation of the gift.

“But father will never approve of my pursuit of alchemy,” Elec sighed in a deflated tone.

“No,” agreed his uncle. “In this you are correct.”

Elec removed the belt and regarded it attentively, admiring the craftsmanship and detail more closely.

“I had a very dear friend make that for you,” Faorath announced.

Elec’s white eyes stared up at his uncle; a small black dot of an iris could be seen staring back at him. Elec had extremely rare features for elves in general, let alone high elves, owning a deep blackened head of hair. His eyes revealed the milkiest of white pupils surrounded by a black iris—the exact opposite of his own and any eyes Faorath had ever seen. There was no denying that the boy was unique.

“Who made the belt?” Elec asked.

“Ah, yes—the belt. Shardrin made that for you. He is one of the most skillful leatherworkers in the whole realm.”

Elec nodded in agreement.

“You know of him?” Faorath asked in turn.

“Aye,” Elec nodded, inspecting the belt further. “He is the one who has been instructing me in the ways of the mechanic.”

Elec went back to his desk and held aloft one of the mechanisms, an expertly crafted intertwining of gears and cogs. It was one of a series that he had to practice with. When fully assembled, it formed some sort of trap.

 “I should have known,” Faorath responded. “He is an expert when it comes to those devices there. He is unequaled in that regard. The whole business of trapping is one of his strong suits. Quite the rogue, that one!”

Elec certainly had chosen a difficult path to walk, Faorath thought, knowing full well that Keryth had his hands full where his son was concerned. He would be hard pressed indeed in attempting to bend the boy’s will, Faorath mused with irony. He stood and watched Elec fiddle with the mechanism, expertly removing pins and gears, replacing them as fast as his hands would allow. Faorath could not help but be impressed by the harmonious interaction of his nephew’s fast mind and digits as they set to the task.

 “You might want to think about having him teach you a few lessons in the finer points of swordplay, too,” Faorath suggested. Elec merely nodded, transfixed with his undertaking.

“Be sure to get some rest tonight, for tomorrow is a big day for your sister and the family,” Faorath added. Aeona was to be married by week’s end and tomorrow was the rehearsal.

Elec was so engrossed that he did not even notice the absence of his uncle until the call for supper that eve, several hours later.

Elec awoke the next morning to the sound of a soft chime coming in through an open door. One of the elders of Acillia had come to greet him and stood in the doorway, here to prepare him for the wedding ceremony. Elec winced at the thought. He squinted against the newly risen sun freshly entering the room as the shade was thrown open. He pulled his hair back and dressed himself, all the while listening to the elderly high elf mouthing instructions as the sun fell over him and began to warm his flesh. This went on for over an hour. He listened distantly to the elder speak, nodding occasionally, while grooming himself and fiddling with a trap mechanism.

Elec knew of the elder, stringy and lean, with hair so white it was a contrast to even his own pale flesh. Try as he might, he could not remember his name. Instead, his mind went to what responsibilities he and his friends and family were assigned for the wedding and how they should get ready for them. Elec was to cast the simplest magic of elven lights—quite possibly the most rudimentary of all elven sorceries intended to invoke alternating lights that shone intermittently, and often used in celebratory events. Once the spell was in effect, sparks and lights shot from the hands and into the sky, shining and popping with multi-colored light.

The elder led Elec out of his chamber and down the spiral stairway to the dining room, passing through it and into the foyer. Elec swung the door wide, noticing that all of his family had left already. They had probably been escorted to the site for the wedding—a spectacular hall not far from his home where, he was told, his own mother and father had been married.

Once outside, Elec drew in a deep breath of fresh air. He took in the beautiful blue sky and the mountain range to the north that quelled the cold air and breeze from that direction, cutting it to a light and brisk gust once it arrived at the village proper. He heard a caw from above and looked to the sky to see many of the giant eagles and griffons flying with high elves mounted atop them.

His uncle instructed the Wind Riders, leading his kin in the training of these exotic creatures for use as steeds. It was one of the more famous endeavors for which the high elves were known throughout the realm.

Elec followed the elder as he led him through the village and to the façade of the glorious and expansive hall. The exterior of the building followed his people’s basic theme of spacious environments with flowing, curvaceous architecture and an organic, soft feel throughout. Round edges and domed roofs were the staple of this type of construction. Beautiful arches, adorned with intricate stonework, graced every part of the grand hall. By contrast, the high elves’ cousins, the forest elves, created structures of great height, integrating the trees in which they built their homes to keep all in a natural state. Both races of elves enjoyed spiral staircases, however. The forest elves made use of them to reach their homes in the trees, while the high elves favored them within their living spaces as a connection to their ancient past.

 Elec entered the hall and was shown where he would be stationed for the wedding. One of the elders pointed at the perch upon which he would stand in order to bathe the ceremony in the multi-colored lights.

Keryth Stormwhisper noticed his son enter and went over to him. “I assume that you will be able to handle the minor task which you were assigned?”

His father looked down on him with an intimidating look. He was taller than Elec, with silver hair and amber eyes that commanded respect. He was a well-known and powerful mage, well respected as a leader in the multitude of smaller villages on the island they called home.

 “He will be fine,” called a woman’s voice from behind. It was a soothing voice that made Elec feel at ease, despite his father’s attempt at making him feel otherwise. Alaise, his mother, was a beautiful being with eyes of violet and hair of bright gold. She bestowed a smile upon her son that warmed his heart.

Alaise pulled him away from his overbearing father and sat him next to his sister, Aeona. Her husband-to-be, Anthalion, was off doing his own preparations as the male elf was given more responsibilities and speeches to make than the bride-to-be. Elec’s friend and Aeona’s former lover, Jhaeronas, was present, at Alaise’s behest.