The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) (83 page)

“I have been given this…ransom note,” the queen began to speak in an angry and frustrated tone before she calmed and continued. She passed it to Heramon, seated immediately opposite her, and watched as the assembly passed it around to be read while she spoke.

“I have been warned against pursuing action against this unknown man. But I fear that to sit idly by will also be sending my daughter to her death. Representatives from Oakhaven, Highport, Safehold, Karn and even Merithia have offered assistance in the way of advisors and troops to aid in the search for Amara,” continued the queen as she stood. “I feel that I should empty troops from Norgeld first, in small forces at that, to attempt to find her.” This drew nods of support from the table.

“It is wise to keep the forces small,” called the voice of one elderly gentleman, clapping his hands together.

“We can always secure more troops if need be from the generous offerings of our allies,” called another voice. Murmurs continued for a few moments as Queen Lynessa regained her seat.

“I will send the Pridemoon Hammer back to Semmeroth as asked in hopes of freeing my daughter, for I would pay any price,” Lynessa continued.

“And the Pridemoon Hammer is not even the greatest artifact that my family owns,” Heramon stated. “It seems but a small price to pay for the return of the child.” More nods and murmurs of acquiescence followed.

Lynessa looked at him with tears rising in her eyes. She could not hold them back any longer as thoughts of her daughter being held prisoner by some unknown person or persons came to mind. Heramon went to put his arm around her and she accepted the bestowment of his comforting. She had not had a shoulder to cry upon for years, she thought.

But then, Heramon whispered something to her, “What about young Jorlin?”

Queen Lynessa regained her composure and peered into Heramon’s eyes of blue that so reminded her of her late husband’s, and replied.

“Who do you think is going to carry the Pridemoon Hammer to Semmeroth?”

Heramon responded with a look of confusion, followed quickly by a look of agreement. “A fitting task for one with so much trust to regain, my lady.”

“That is all for now, my lords,” instructed the queen, seeing the ransom parchment resting on the desk. She read it over a few times more, and when she looked up, only Heramon remained.

“I assume Sir Jorlin was not informed of his upcoming quest?” asked Heramon, staring into her light brown eyes. Queen Lynessa removed her crown and shook loose her sandy blonde hair and ran a hand through her hair.

“He was not.”

“I shall remedy that situation immediately,” Heramon stated as he spun and made his way down to the dungeons below the castle to speak with Jorlin Walden.

Morning came upon him as Xorgram, still in a dream state, rubbed his left eye and felt hesitantly for the right, with the fleeting hope that perhaps it was flesh and blood once more. His hand stroked the cold prosthetic, and he flinched, frowning at the cruel reality that was his fate.

His depression was short lived however as he noted favorably that he was in the company of a blonde and supple-bodied woman. Cassia slept silently beside him. The dwarf stirred and sat up in his bed, climbed out and walked some ten paces to recover a pitcher of water. He flinched again as he caught his appearance in the reflection of the silver jug. He did not have his eye patch on and therefore saw the scar left behind by the damned troll, Bilonus. That was the troll leader’s name he’d recalled after finding the gang that made their lair in the mines those some odd years ago.

His reaction was one of revulsion and regret when he saw not only the scar that intersected his right eye, but also the black prosthetic orb that sat in his eye socket. He had gotten so used to the thing in his eye that he often slept with it in these days.

Xorgram was once a handsome dwarf, until Bilonus robbed him of that outward beauty. It was certainly a deep enough scar, hideous in its appearance, especially when he did not wear his eye patch, which covered at least a good portion of it.

“A problem?” called a woman’s throaty voice from behind him. That voice and its tone made him grin, tossing aside what was present in his thoughts. Xorgram rubbed his black beard and let his hair fall in front of his face again.

“If you think that scar is bothersome, you don’t know what women like, silly dwarf,” Cassia teased, sitting up and shaking her head so that her hair flung about wildly. It came to rest covering her bare chest.

“I’m not that vain,” Xorgram bluffed, trying hard to believe it himself, but failing to do so. He knew Cassia detected his lie, but she had the good sense not to add to the dwarf’s shame.  She slid off the side of the bed and began to dress herself. Xorgram blushed as the woman began pulling her pants up to cover her shapely thighs and buttocks. Then she strapped her jerkin back on over her chest and midriff, spinning back to face the dwarf only when she was fully dressed.

“We have business, yes?” Cassia asked the dwarf, thinking them already late for the meeting, which Xorgram himself had scheduled with the entire coven. He bit down on an apple and tossed one to her. She caught it and began to ravenously consume it.

“Aye,” Xorgram said, wiping the juice of the apple from his lips and beard and heading toward the door. He breached the door, closing it behind him and waiting for Cassia to ascend the ladder ahead of him. She did so, knowing that it pleased the dwarf and he knew that she enjoyed his attention as well. It was a symbiotic relationship the two of them shared—one looking for attention and the other always eager to give it.

“Like what yer’ seeing, dwarf?” Cassia called to Xorgram behind her, never even looking back to see.

“Aye. I hate to see ya goin’, but I’m lovin’ to watch ye leave,” he said with a laugh as he climbed after her.

They reached the top of the ladder and headed into a side passage off the main route that ended in a large hand-carved chamber. The spacious hollow was extremely well lit, with torches in sconces on the walls and a ray of natural light coming through a fissure that gave not only the light of the sun’s rays, but a fresh breeze as well.

Surrounding a feast in the table located at the center of the room was the entire assembly of leaders that made up what Xorgram named the coven. These thirteen leaders of the Blackstone Brotherhood each had his or her own set of responsibilities within the organization, given by Xorgram himself.

The dwarf surveyed his leaders silently while the gathered members began to break their fast.

Xorgram noted first the pair of taur that stood beside one another. Skuros Brax, the animated and more aggressive of the pair, stood with his spiked ball and chain weapon hanging on his right hip, and was shoving food into his bull-like face. Kroskus Narr was the companion of Skuros, a quieter, yet just as intimidating, warrior, with twin axes strapped to his back. They were both heavily muscled with black fur covering their bodies and horns protruding from the sides of their skulls.

Krewel Warskull sat with his hammer and shield strapped to his back and several tattoos covering his right arm. He was a former barbarian and very much enjoyed hanging the skulls of his victims from a chain on his belt.

Vanion, a forest elf, sat quietly with his familiar hawk, which he often employed while hunting or scouting. It occurred to Xorgram that the elf might be able to see through the bird’s eyes, though he never did confirm that. Vanion did not partake of the feast and instead stood on the outskirts of the gathering.

Synewulf sat next to Krewel, his long blonde hair hanging in front of his face as he tore meat from a bone. He was a man who employed sword and shield, and had a reputation as a dirty player when it came to fighting.

Then there was Amtusk. The half-orc was the precise counterpart of Synewulf, for he fought with honor, respecting highly the honor that comes with combat—some claimed to a fault. He sat alone, watching Vanion’s hawk with passing interest as he chomped on an apple.

The last of his raid leaders was his beautiful lover, Cassia. He could not help but respect her prowess in battle, for as good a mistress as she was, her ferocity and savagery in a battle were fought with the same intensity. He certainly was glad that he was not the target of her ire, for she was as formidable a warrior as she as a lover.

Sitting at the far end of the table were the scholars, as Xorgram liked to call them. There was the gnome inventor, Fuddle Mucklewink, a brilliant tinkerer and engineer who built himself a pair of mechanical legs years ago when he lost his lower half in the same fight where Xorgram was relieved of his right eye. His goggles were strapped over his slicked back auburn hair with the familiar gray streaks running along the sides as a complementary accent. He was brilliant and innovative, as well as one of Xorgram’s closest friends.

Kilkutt Axegrind sat beside him, once more going over the plans for their latest research with regards to the shadowsteel. Kilkutt was not only the best smithy Xorgram knew, but he was also his distant cousin. His short-cropped red hair was almost longer than his beard, due to the fact that he kept burning his beard to almost nothing in the fires of his forge. His superbly corded arms were also covered in numerous scars and burns. He most always wore a leather apron and the dwarf rarely bathed. His aroma was actually quite repulsive mostly, even for a dwarf, Xorgram thought with a chuckle.

Then there was Skilgo Firehammer, the wheezing slagfell dwarf and head miner that meticulously watched over each and every event in the mines. He was bald, as was the strange defect of the slagfell after centuries of burrowing under the earth. He did wear a long grey beard, which he often stroked, watching and inspecting everything that went on within the ebonite mines.

The resident medic was a forest elf, a druid named Darmorn, who on many occasions was able to call on a combination of organic compounds and also the regenerative powers known to exist in the Feyfields. That was the place where druids were able to tap into and manipulate the strange magics within that strange realm to access the powers of nature.

The last of his coven was the warlock, Helene. She often spent countless hours alone or talking in tongues to something or someone that Xorgram did not quite understand completely—nor did he care to. He knew that black magic and the like simmered deep within the woman. But, she was loyal to Xorgram and his vision above all else. The woman was gaunt and her skin was that of pale ash, which contrasted with the bright red lipstick that she insisted on wearing. Her garb was mundane and consisted of skulls and fetishes hanging from her belt and from around her neck, which she used in her dark rituals. One benefit to her powers was the constant procession of mites, gremlins and imps, as Helene called them. They were lesser demons which were made to eerily patrol the outskirts of Hollow Hill’s village. They were there in order to ward off would-be investigators, though complaints of harassment could be heard oft times from those who lived in the structures above ground.

Yes, it was quite a group of assistants with which he surrounded himself.

“What is the plan?” asked Synewulf as the feast continued and the conversation ceased.

 “I be plannin’ on havin’ a few groups of ye reach further out to be seein’ if we can both find any caravans to relieve of their belongings
and
to see what opposition be comin’ from Norgeld….
if
the queen be stupid enough to send her own Watchmen to start sniffin’ us out instead of just payin’ the ransom,” Xorgram said. This order drew audible murmurs from most of the coven members about having to be away for up to a month from Hollow Hill.

“An’ I got Grogo set up in Semmeroth to be gettin’ me Pridemoon Hammer. This’ll be makin’ Kilkutt’s job easier when forgin’ the durned ebonite into shadowsteel.”

“What is the Pridemoon Hammer?” asked Darmorn, standing and stretching.

“It be a magical hammer of legend, made centuries past by an unnamed smithy and mage,” Xorgram explained. “The hammer’ll make ‘im protected from all fire, and better yet, it be havin’ other magics that’ll speed Kilkutt’s smithin’. He’ll be able ta forge ‘em no time.”

“That ain’t possible!” Kilkutt added, boasting to his prowess at the anvil. This drew hearty laughs from most everyone gathered.

“Yer smelly ol’ arms be needin’ all the help they can get!” teased Xorgram, though he knew of no greater smithy in Wothlondia than Kilkutt Axegrind.

“And maybe ye can be growin’ that beard out while yer at it,” Xorgram added with riotous laughter, moving to swipe at the singed, red beard that seemed to shrink on a daily basis. Kilkutt’s red hair was barely touched atop his head, but his beard was singed badly, making it stand out as a shame to his dwarven ancestry. His jaw firmed in response to the teasing and he untied his apron and steeled his gray eyes, moving into a fighting stance and shoving Xorgram away.

“I’ll be takin’ ya down if ya keep waggin’ yer tongue,” Kilkutt mockingly threatened, a wide grin plastering his face. Again, the uproarious laughter continued as the observers ate and drank their fill.

Even before Kilkutt had begun putting hammer to anvil daily, he had been a strapping lad with muscles on top of muscles, Xorgram recalled. In their youth, Kilkutt bested most of the dwarves of Monolithia in any feat of strength.

“So, how is the exchange to be made?” inquired Amtusk, removing the levity from the room. He listened to the response and watched Kilkutt refit his ever-darkening apron around his waist.

“Lynessa’s contact be meetin’ Grogo in Semmeroth. He’ll be contactin’ them and not the other way ‘round. And if I know Grogo, he’ll aim to fix it so he ain’t followed. He be a bit cruel fer me own tastes, but he be reliable,” explained Xorgram with a somewhat concerned look. “After he gets the hammer, he be makin’ his way here. Plus there be gold in it for Madam Shona if it goes down nice an’easy.”

“So the gypsys queen is in on it?” Amtusk asked.

“Aye, I ain’t one ta’ do business in her town without her knowin’. Xorgram looked at the faces of his leaders and added a final thought. “Don’t ye be worryin’ about Grogo. Them gypsies’ll get him away good an’ safe. I told Madam Shona she might e’en benefit from a shadowsteel blade if she wanted.”

“Who’s goin’ and who’s stayin’ then?” asked Krewel Warskull as he took a piece of cloth to one of his skull fetishes and rubbed the exterior clean.

“Synewulf be goin’ west, Vanion be goin’ north and Krewel be takin’ his team east,” Xorgram instructed.

That drew a puzzled glance from Amtusk, while Synewulf leveled a vidictive smile at the half-orc that did not go unnoticed by Xorgram.

“Why am I staying behind? Is this because of what happened yesterday?” Amtusk asked, his amber eyes wide with disbelief.

“I have need of you fer…
other
purposes,” Xorgram stated as he approached the half-orc and pulled him aside, away from the rest of the group. “Ya just lost yer troops and might be harborin’ some kind of anger, yes? Besides, I need ya to keep an eye on Rogoth fer me,” Xorgram whispered to the half-orc. Amtusk stared back at him skeptically, his jaw hanging open still.