The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (22 page)

Elec reached out and took the offered dagger, turning it over in his hand and feeling the master-crafted balance. He perceived that the blade was perfect in all ways… and sharp too, from the looks of it.

“Aye,” Elec said in response to the offer. “I’d like that.” The two elves rummaged through the debris and ruins there and found gems, some copper, silver and gold coins scattered about, and also a small statue of a wolf. It seemed to be carved from ivory, Shardrin reckoned. “This might fetch a coin or two,” he smiled, cleaning the statue thoroughly with a sash of leather and then placing it neatly in his belt pouch.

“I’d better check on Adok,” Elec mentioned, looking round one last time. His eyes appraised the hard stone walls and floor, the all-but extinguished fire that had been blazing for hours, and the carcass of the giant that would no doubt attract denizens from deep below in the tunnels of the subterrane. Stray animals from above would also wander into the cavern, such as the dire rats they’d seen earlier, to feast on what was left after that. He sighed and wondered what it all meant.

Then he shook his head and followed Shardrin out of the passage into the chill air of night. Adok was outside the cave entrance, as if waiting for his return. When they got back to their camp, Elec could see that Adok had laid out several of the dire rats on the floor.

“At least we won’t starve,” Elec laughed heartily. Shardrin joined in after seeing the carcasses.

The two of them sat around the campfire and Elec uncovered the runes on the dagger—more ancient elven text that read:
Wyrm’s Fang
. The elves discussed the fine blade, the ancient ways of their ancestors and the powerful magic that must have been awakened centuries ago. The night faded relatively quietly as the two high elves slept peacefully and in shifts.

The next nine months passed with Elec learning the two-handed fighting technique of Shardrin the Scoundrel. He studied the different uses for both dagger and sword, how to employ them together and when to perform dissimilar actions with them. 
Wyrm’s Fang
turned out to be the sharpest blade they’d ever seen. They had tested it on many different structures and densities, and found that it could cut into stone without even the slightest marring of the blade.

Over and over, every day, the two of them practiced the maneuvers until Elec felt that he had a somewhat firm grasp on the concepts of swordsmanship.

“Now it is up to you to practice them,” Shardrin said. “I must take my leave as I have many beasts still to track and hunt for their pelts.” Elec simply nodded, for he had much more to do as well.

Shardrin left that day after the two of them shared a final meal and some wine that Shardrin had been saving. Then Elec and Adok were once more alone in the wilderness.

As the seasons passed from summer to winter, Elec continued furthering the studies of both botany and alchemy and exploring the three islands that surrounded Acillia. Adok came and went, sometimes disappearing for days, but always returning to find Elec, who took to the air with him regularly for several hours at a time, exploring the countryside and surrounding waters of Sunrise Bay.

The high elf spent the following decade in solitude, coming to grips with everything that had transpired between him and his family. He studied and practiced his fighting techniques and even had a few run-ins with wild bears, cats and even one time with a Tyrantian crawler—the size of three bears. Adok had of course assisted him with those sharp talons of his when the Tyrantian creature crested the hill in search of food, Elec recalled.

His notes on his alchemical findings were copious and comprehensive, detailing effects both wanted and unwanted, and the steps that were to be taken to lose those unwanted outcomes. Elec was beginning to truly find himself and discover what his purpose was within his alchemical practices.

He was deep into a process on this day and chewing on a piece of stale bread. It was chilly and the ground was becoming more unyielding with each passing day, yet some of the vegetation continued to persist through the cold near the shore. It was then that he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Slowly, he slid
Wyrm’s Fang
from its sheath, ready to whirl about to face the unknown assailant, preparing the magic teleportation of his boots just in case.

“You look well, nephew,” called a familiar voice. Elec spun to see that before him stood his Uncle Faorath. “Well, except for that unsightly fur you have on your face!”

“Uncle?” he cried, his eyes, growing wide and a smile forming on his face. He had thought about his magnificent and generous uncle many times over the last ten years and often wished to return to Acillia to visit him, but could not garner the courage. His uncle embraced him in a lengthy hug.

Elec had not even realized that his facial hair had grown thick this last year. He had taken to ignoring it, and many more of his hygienic duties.

“What brings you here?” Elec asked him bluntly. He saw past his uncle to the griffon that he called his own and wondered where Adok had gotten off to this time.

“My mission is twofold,” Faorath explained. “Do you know what year it is, nephew?” Elec scratched his ear. He had stopped taking accurate measurements of the passing of days some four years ago or so. He shook his head to indicate that he did not know.

“It is 65 P.A. now and things are amiss,” Faorath began to explain. “First let me present you with news and a task that our people are asking of you. It would appear that several tribes of orcs and goblins have taken up arms around Wothlondia, my boy.” He sat on the ground and bade Elec to do the same. “Apparently the goblinoids no longer want to trade with the surface folk. The people of Stonehill are claiming to have seen some aggressive behavior. Nothing is known for sure, but we have theories, derived magically and through reconnaissance of our own,” Faorath said, keeping his eyes on Elec’s.

“We need someone—hopefully you—to take notice to Safehold and then Oakhaven,” Faorath continued, standing now and wiping the cold from the seat of his pants beneath his robes.

“Why me?” Elec enquired.

“Because we feel it will do you some good to have contact with the outside folks—the humans and forest elves, among others. You had previously expressed a desire to cohabitate and meet these other races,” he reminded his nephew, staring up into the clouds and blue sky. “It is important, Elec, all this information we have divulged and the theories we have put together. It is time for man to hear it before it is too late.”

Elec nodded. “I understand,” he said.

“I would consider it a personal favor to myself as well,” Faorath went on. He pulled out a small leather bag. “On an unrelated note, I have something for you.” He reached into the bag to produce a ring. It shone faintly, even in the gloomy air beneath the recent cloud cover.

“What… is it?” Elec demanded, truly amazed to simply behold the magnificent item.

“Speak the word on the side there,” Faorath said, pointing to the script, “and I will show you.”

Elec did as he was instructed. Suddenly, the air around them began to shimmer and fade back and forth, in and out, until a clear and present shift in the planes occurred.

“Wha—?” Elec exclaimed, startled at the event unfolding before him. Faorath bade him to follow and he stepped through the inter-planar gateway. Once hesitantly inside, Elec saw what could only be described as a full-fledged laboratory. There were tables littered with burners and flasks, as well as other alchemical equipment,

“I have had this made for you over the last few years,” Faorath stated, as if it were no major accomplishment. “I figured that it might come in handy since you liked to travel.” He held his arms out and pointed to the walls around the room, which had many of Elec’s books from Acillia already lining the bookcases, and countless empty flasks and shelves set up to store his mixtures and other supplies. Elec was speechless.

“I... I do not know what to say.” Elec once more hugged his uncle tightly. “I cannot thank you enough for this gift!”

“I know you will make use out of it,” Faorath added with a smile. “You can come and go as you please. There is a small part of the astral plane tied to this ring that is yours now and always.” He turned to see Elec thumbing through some of his older books he’d collected but had not brought with him on his long trip. Until now, he was not sure if he would ever gaze upon their pages again.

“I will return in a week to hear your decision,” Faorath said as they exited the extra-planar lab. Elec spoke the word once more and the magic came to pass, in reverse order this time, until there was no trace of the shimmering doorway. Only the chill air remained.

“No need,” Elec declared, placing the ring in his own belt sack and seeing Adok returning once more. Faorath’s griffon neared them as well. Neither of the magical beasts moved to attack one another, they simply remained quiet and still. “I will do as you have asked, uncle.” Elec began to pack up his supplies. “I shall leave in the morning for Safehold.”

“Very well, Elec,” Faorath nodded as he mounted his griffon, grabbing the reins and turning to face him again. “I believe in you and that you have a bright future, no matter what that may be. Your path is an honorable one. That is all that we can take to our graves—our honor.”

Elec smiled agreement, waving to his uncle as he took flight, then watched him fade into the sunlight until he could no longer see him.

”Looks like we’ve got some work to do,” he observed to the giant eagle, tossing a piece of bread into his mouth. It was then he noticed another bag on the floor near Adok. He peered inside and found another fresh helping of Moontear berries from this year’s harvest. He smiled once more, a long and hearty grin that made him feel truly happy for the first time in years. He went about setting up his lab the rest of the day, beaming the whole time as he popped one of the white berries into his mouth and chewed, savoring the flavor.

Reflections

Orngoth left the grotto of his own accord. His barbarian ogre brethren were going about their everyday routines, mostly sleeping and eating, within the series of caverns they now called home on the lower western side of the Blackstone Mountain range.

At dusk yester eve the Ironskull tribe had encountered a pack of ferocious mountain bears approaching their cave entrance. There were three bears all told, with paws as big as a man’s head and claws sharper than any dagger. When they stood on their hind legs, they were taller than any of the ogres. Each bear weighed at least one and half times that of a full grown ogre and had a mouth full of razor sharp teeth.

They did not stand a chance against the Ironskulls.

As the ogres dined on the cooked flesh of the bears, Orngoth had to wait for scraps as usual. But this time, instead of lingering, he decided he would come back later when they were all sleeping to claim his portions.

The cool breeze coming from the north was chilly today, penetrating the furs he wore around him and causing bumps to permeate his skin. Underneath the furs were oddments of chainmail that he had managed to salvage from the armored horses of some of their victims, and which he now wore draped loosely across his massive back and chest. His ram-horned helm sat firmly atop his head and his dark, bristly hair was bound beneath it, aiding in his warmth. He barely wore any clothing at all, mostly fur-covered leather boots and a heavy chain loincloth over woolen undergarments.

The ogre clan had moved around a lot in the last few years, Orngoth recalled, scavenging food here and there and sacking passersby in caravans. Sometimes their victims were wandering sellswords or mercenaries whom they happened upon. Occasionally, they would invade the dwellings of some of the less aggressive humanoids, taking what they desired. Ogres were cruel to begin with—
barbarian
ogres were even more bloodthirsty. This was beginning to bother Orngoth more than a little as he felt that what they did was… wrong. There was really no other way to describe it. He did not feel good inside when the ogre clan raided a village or pillaged a road-weary group of travelers. He did not know how or why—he only knew that it
felt
wrong.

This fact made him reflect upon his birth mother. She was the only explanation for these emotions, Orngoth reasoned. She was human; he had discovered that much, as had the Ironskull ogres. And he had very faint recollections that at some point in his childhood, he had belonged to a family of humans who had abandoned him somewhere. He was also told that he was ‘lucky’ that the ogres had found him and claimed him as their own those many years ago. It was an ogre female in the clan named Hazel that took him in and cared for him for those first years. She had died a while ago, but Orngoth remembered her deeds better than he recalled what she looked like. She had been kind to him at least and that was what he remembered most.

Further evidence of his ‘impurity’, as the ogres called it, was the color of his skin. It was less in the yellowed tones of the ogres and more along the shades of pink of the humans. It was also free of the warts and boils commonly found on the hides of his ogre brethren. His eyes were reflections of the bluest of skies, quite unlike those of any ogre, whose eyes were always as black as the darkest caverns of the Subterrane.

Orngoth was treated callously and with minimal care by the Ironskulls. The clan had been given their name by Muurg, their leader and chieftain. He was a brutish hulk of a thing, with a bloated belly and stiffened muscles atop his back and arms like none Orngoth had ever seen before. However, Orngoth was no slouch either when it came to size and strength, weighing as much as a horse and standing tall amongst the pure blooded ogres.

Muurg was fairly intelligent and extremely cunning for an ogre. He had deciphered Orngoth’s human heritage from the features he displayed shortly after Hazel claimed the boy as her own. Orngoth received daily beatings and the catalyst was the simple fact that his veins were ‘polluted’ with the blood of the humans. Muurg instigated the attacks with an insult here or there, and the barbarian ogres did not need much more in the way of incentive. Scars and fractured bones sometimes lingered as results of the thrashings, at which time the ogres would simply leave him lying in a pool of his own blood as they walked away laughing. But Orngoth would never plead for them to stop, nor would he show any signs of fear. That would result in his death. The ogres did not stand for cowardice in any fashion or render any mercy whatsoever.

Orngoth did not blame them for their ways as he understood what the barbarians felt when they entered the state of the frenzy. He felt it oft times, too. There was nothing much he could do when he sensed the fury well up within him. It was uncontrollable, he admitted. Once his eyes washed over with the red of anger, there was naught that could be done until it left of its own accord. Besides, this
was
his family now after the humans had abandoned him.

As he wandered down the path of the winding hill and into the valley below, his contemplation of past events dissipated. He continued, heading toward the copse of ironwood trees at the apex of a faintly hilly area, where he often quietly sat, alone with his thoughts. This was a place of peace for the half-ogre. The much needed tranquility of nature’s most beautiful surroundings offered him a brief respite from the hatred and heartless behavior of his clan.

He strolled over to where he’d laid the club he had been crafting—a thick bough of ironwood that brought him a sense of calmness when he cinched his thick fingers around it. He sat and leaned against the familiar, wide tree trunk to once more smooth out the club’s handle. He removed his small dagger and a whetstone, sharpening the blade for what seemed like an hour. He then began using the sharp edge of the blade carefully, moving it up and down the club’s shaft with awareness and care. Shavings of ironwood fell softly to the ground. The club was slowly taking shape, for he had been working the hard wood for months now, venturing out every day while the rest of the clan slept off their meals.

Suddenly, the sound of moving brush to his right flank jarred him from his peaceful thoughts. Something was approaching through the thick foliage—something that was either unaware or uncaring of the noise it made, shuffling loudly toward the outer edge of the thicket. Orngoth waited with the club in his hands for whoever—or whatever— it was. The club was weighty, with tough ironwood bark lining its shaft and rigid natural protrusions near its top edge.

Finally, Orngoth saw the source of the noise as it emerged from the brush, fully presenting its bizarre outline plainly in the clearing—a Tyrantian crawler.

Orngoth had seen them once before from a distance a few years after the ogres first found him. He had been young, but he remembered gazing down upon them from a hill high above as several of the crawlers had torn into a pack of wolves. He was told that there were at least three types of the Tyrantian creatures—the worm, the crawler and the skimmer. There were rumors of more types, but that was merely speculation.

The worms were snake-like things that spat venomous poison and had huge mandibles surrounding multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth. The skimmers were huge wasp-like creatures with stingers that shot a paralyzing poison and could pierce flesh as easily as a spear. And the crawlers, one of which peered up at him over the row of foliage not twenty feet away, were like giant insects. They had two sets of arms—a pair with spear-like tips and another clawed set with three fingers and a thumb for grabbing—and teeth that could tear flesh.

Orngoth gripped his ironwood club and squeezed it tightly as the creature approached. The crawler, at least as tall as a man and with thick limbs like tree trunks, was hunched over. Then it saw him and lunged forward, using all six of its limbs as it bounded toward him. It crossed the span of twenty feet in a single heartbeat.

Orngoth was ready, though. His club was raised behind him and he reared back and slugged the thing hard with a left to right action, knocking the Tyrantian to the ground some five feet away. It held still for another heartbeat but then found its footing by bending its joints in odd ways. This seemed completely foreign in nature to Orngoth, for he had never seen animals that could bend like that. The crawler’s chitinous frame appeared to have withstood the brunt of the club’s blow and it immediately leaped once more at the half-ogre. This time it found its mark.

Orngoth’s club went spinning from his hands and his ram-horned helm went flying as the full weight of the creature landed upon him. The Tyrantian was as dense as a full grown ogre, Orngoth noted. Its clawed appendages pinned his arms to either side with an inhumanly strong grip.

The half-ogre barbarian peered skyward and realized he was sloping downward slightly on the crest of a hill, under the canopy of a wide berth of trees.  The Tyrantian opened its maw wide, bearing teeth like tiny daggers, and snapped at him. Orngoth jerked his head to the right and the teeth came up empty. Once more it snapped its jaws to the left but found naught but vacant air instead of the flesh it desired. As it lunged once more, Orngoth felt the anger growing within him and he struggled to free his pinned arms. Then, in one forceful motion, he brought his knees up hard into the creature’s underbelly and knocked it forward and off balance. It held onto Orngoth’s lightly tattooed arms and brought some flesh with it as it tumbled head first down the angled hill.

Orngoth rolled to his belly and then got to his feet whilst watching the crawler come to a stop a short distance away. He glanced to the side and spotted his club. He launched himself that way, feeling the reassurance of solid wood in his hands just as the Tyrantian beast sprang at him once more. This time when he swung the club, he was angry. He caught the Tyrantian in midair and the impact made a sickening thud as the shell of the creature cracked under the sheer ferocity of the blow. The crawler’s outstretched left arm bowed under the pressure and twisted in a direction that even
it
was not meant to bend in.

The crawler hit the ground hard but charged again, on five limbs now as its left arm hung limply at its side. Again the impact of the club hit hard on the shell, this time on the chest that was open to attack. The crawler slashed with its right claw and tore into Orngoth’s left shoulder, but was sent flying straight into the ground as the half-ogre barbarian went in a sideways arc, planting the club into the ground in front of him. Greenish-black ooze emerged from the thing’s chest—the shell was softer there, Orngoth realized—and the ichor covered the leaf and moss littered ground.

Orngoth roared as he stood triumphant over the dying body of the insectoid creature. He proceeded to take out the rest of his anger on the dying carcass. More of the creature’s blood and innards flew about as he hammered the gargantuan club over and over into the beast. With each strike that followed, the sound that had begun with a solid crack of bone and armor ended in a squishy, bubbly sound of liquefied bone and gore.

Finally Orngoth glared down at the dead and misshapen thing that had once been a Tyrantian crawler. In its stead was an unrecognizable mass of pulp. The victor was covered in dark greenish goo from head to toe from his assault. He was breathing deeply and his muscles ached from the exertion. He slumped to the ground, rump first, and sat in the remains for several more moments before retrieving his ram-horned helm and wandering off, dragging his club behind him, to find the nearest brook several miles to the northwest to wash himself.

As the behemoth known as Orngoth knelt in front of the shimmering waters of the brook, he felt a distinct calmness engulf him. He leaned over and peered into the stream, seeing his reflection in the surface as the sun shone brightly overhead. He removed his ram-horned helmet and stared again into the water. He noted the mop of coarse hair about his head, and his blue eyes, and acknowledged his marked differences from the ogres. He had what could only be his mother’s features, he assumed.