Gun’drak strode purposefully down the
long corridor leading to his Lhesh’s audience chamber, eyes focused straight
ahead, booted feet echoing with each step.
Torches flickered from sconces along the walls, casting eerie shadows. Standing to either side of the ornate bronzewood
doors before him were two hobgoblin guards.
Both warriors stood straight and tall, great spears in their right hands
and banded shields in their left. The
warriors were standing so still as to resemble statues at first glance. Inwardly Gun’drak praised the guards’ obvious
diligence.
“Sir, Lhesh Haruuc expecting
you. You go in,” grunted the guard to
Gun’drak’s left.
“Very well soldier, carry on,”
replied Gun’drak with a slight nod of his head.
Gun’drak pulled the great doors open,
and immediately brought his mailed palms up to shield his eyes from the intense
light radiating from within. Through
squinting eyes, Gun’drak stepped cautiously into the room.
“Lhesh Haruuc?” Gun’drak said tentatively.
“Yes, come in my old friend,” replied
Haruuc in his baritone voice. “It’s too
damn bright in here! The light globes have to be softer,” boomed Haruuc to
someone Gun’drak could not yet make out, his eyes having not yet adjusted to
the intensity of the light.
“Yes my Lhesh,” came the quivering
reply.
Suddenly the lights went out and the
room was pitch black.
“Am I surrounded by utter
incompetence?” Growled Haruuc. “If these
globes don’t come back on immediately, and at the proper intensity, your
head’ll be adorning my wall!”
Gun’drak heard rhythmic chanting, at
least as rhythmic as his harsh sounding people could be, in the language of
magic. Several moments later the crystalline globes throughout the chamber
flared to life, but this time with a much softer luminescence. With the light’s return, Gun’drak was able to
reorient himself within the large audience hall. He was facing Lhesh Haruuc, who was seated
above him on his massive throne. To his
right stood Rothak the magewright.
Gun’drak thought Haruuc was quite an
imposing sight, seated as he was in his throne.
He wore banded plate armor over a chain-mesh underlay. The skulls of vanquished enemies adorned his
shoulder pads, flanked by the tusks of those same victims. Haruuc’s own tusks were still long and strong,
jutting from his lower jaw to just below the top of his upturned nose. Gun’drak’s tusks were large in their own
right, but nothing compared to Haruuc’s.
Haruuc’s course black hair sprouted out from underneath the back of his
razor-ridged helm, and spikes of cruel metal sprouted from all his joints. As if Haruuc wasn’t formidable enough by
himself, he carried a mammoth, jagged-edged bastard sword on his hip that was
reputedly enchanted so that any wound inflicted by the blade would never
heal.
Haruuc rose from his throne, brow
furrowed, hands clenched and milky-white eyes boring into Rothak. Rothak shrank visibly under his withering
stare, but dared not move. Haruuc
stalked down the short dais to stand before the trembling mage. Haruuc grabbed Rothak’s throat with his right
hand, easily lifting him off the ground and bringing them eye to eye. It wouldn’t have surprised Gun’drak at all if
he killed the mage right then and there.
Gun’drak couldn’t help but wonder,
while witnessing this display of power, how he would fare in combat against his
Lhesh. He shook his head after only a
moment’s thought and chuckled ever so softly when he came to the honest
realization that he’d lose, and lose quickly.
Haruuc’s body trembled with rage as
he held Rothak aloft for what seemed like an eternity, never blinking
once. Finally his visage softened and he
dropped Rothak to the floor with a thud.
The magewright clutched at his throat and gasped for air.
“You’re making progress Rothak,” said
the Lhesh in a calm voice. “Now see to
the dining hall. I tire of smelling
burning tar while I dine.”
“Yes, my Lhesh,” croaked Rothak. He rose stiffly to his feet, bowed to Lhesh
Haruuc, then to Gun’drak, before hurrying for the exit.
“Oh, and Rothak,” said Haruuc, barely
above a whisper, “Don’t disappoint me again.”
“No, my Lhesh,” stammered Rothak as
he departed.
Gun’drak
wondered how Darguun would ever to be taken seriously as a nation when its
magewrights struggled with the simple task of illuminating the city with light
globes. Feats of such minor wizardry
were taken for granted in human metropolises such as Sharn.
Still, he knew better than to reveal this thought to his Lhesh.
Gun’drak knelt on one knee and bowed
his head in deference to his Lhesh.
“Stand up my old friend,” Haruuc said,
waving his hand upward as he spoke. “Thank
you for coming so quickly - then again I expect no less of you.”
“Of course, Sire,” replied Gun’drak,
rising and standing close to his Lhesh.
Lhesh Haruuc put his spiked arm
gingerly around Gun’drak’s shoulder and led him to the back of the audience
hall and through another exceptionally stout bronzewood door into his private
chamber. With a snap of his fingers four
light globes ignited, one in each corner of the room, bathing the chamber in
light like that of an early morning sunrise.
Gun’drak and Haruuc exchanged approving glances.
“Have a seat,” spoke Lhesh Haruuc,
motioning to one of the high-backed chairs seated around the polished oak
table.
Gun’drak took a seat opposite Haruuc
across the table.
“Why have you requested my urgent
arrival?”
“Always so direct, my friend,”
replied Haruuc. “I have long admired your
single-minded sense of duty. It is
precisely that sense of duty that compelled me to call upon you.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“Gun’drak, I have a most urgent task
for you; a task that will change the fortunes of the hobgoblin people
forever. Just last week, Seetho-Jing returned
with a most magnificent discovery from deep within the Torlaac Moor.” Haruuc leaned over the side of his chair and
opened a chest near the edge of the table.
Reaching in, he pulled forth a rolled parchment. Leaning across the table, he gently handed
the parchment to Gun’drak. “This scroll
contains all the information I need to restore the Dhakaani Empire to its
former greatness and reinstate our kind as rulers over all Khorvaire.”
Gun’drak took the scroll from his
Lhesh, but pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows skeptically. He thought to himself that this scroll could
not possibly reveal anything
significant enough to validate all that Haruuc had boasted.
“I see apprehension upon your face my
old friend.” As he spoke, he absently stroked the short thick hair sprouting in
patches from his chin. “I don’t blame
you. Open the scroll and read it
yourself.”
Gun’drak did as his Lhesh
commanded. He unrolled the dry parchment
and began to read.
Lhesh Haruuc never took his eyes off
Gun’drak as he read the scroll. How
similar his old friend was to himself he thought. Had circumstances been different perhaps it
would have been Gun’drak leading the revolt against treacherous Breland and
Cyre. This was his most loyal captain,
and the one hobgoblin Haruuc trusted not to betray him under any
circumstance. He gauged exactly where
Gun’drak was in reading the scroll and anticipated exactly when he expected to
see his mouth drop open with awe. Sure
enough, he was right.
Gun’drak’s eyes went wide and his
mouth hung agape. Both hobgoblins sat in
silence for long seconds.
“You’ve discovered the location of
the Imperial Crown of Sarath-Ak,” Gun’drak finally managed to whisper.
Haruuc leaned forward in his seat, a
toothy smile on his olive-colored face.
“Now do you understand my words were
not idle boasts?” Said Haruuc evenly.
“Yes, my lord,” said Gun’drak
eagerly.
“One by one the clans will bow to me,
including that mangy cur Mograath and his followers, the Kalkor. With the combined might of the clans behind
me, and the alliance with Sora Katra in place, King Boranel and Breland will be
crushed!” Haruuc clenched his fist
tightly before him for emphasis. “After
that, the other nations will fall easily and I will be ruler of all
Khorvaire!”
Haruuc folded his arms across his
massive chest, reclined back in his chair and grinned with greedy satisfaction.
Chapter One – The Hunt
The great black bear lowered his
snout to the ground, took several large sniffs, and then raised his head to the
sky, searching for the same scent he had
already been tracking for several hours.
In a moment he found it, wafting on a gentle breeze. The bear ran, slowly at first, then with more
urgency through the dense brush, following the scent as clearly as if following
a well-marked trail. Twigs, branches and
even small saplings snapped, cracked, and easily broke from the force of his
charge.
Running steadily onward, the bear
enjoyed feeling the wind whipping against his thick fur. He bounded up a slight hill, then down the
other side into a small creek. The water
was crisp and cold, a stark contrast to the still humid evening air. The sun was setting in the west, casting long
shadows across the land. The golden
flecks, marking the Rings of Siberys, shimmered ever more radiantly in the sky
as day slowly faded to night.
Some distance behind, a solitary
figure stalked the bear’s clearly marked path through the forest. The figure was dressed entirely in black,
from the dark cowl and flowing cloak covering his head and back, to the black
boots on his feet. Although not
particularly tall, his strides were long and sure. He effortlessly bounded from fallen log, to
rocky outcropping, to tangled brush, without missing a step. He carried a long sword strapped to his left
hip, and had a small, hand-sized crossbow slung across his back. He was gaining on the bear, he knew it, and
it was only a matter of time before the battle would begin.
The bear splashed through the creek
to the other side, and then headed up a much steeper sloping hill. He was aware he was being followed and knew
his pursuer was getting closer. He
wasn’t particularly concerned so long as he arrived at the source of the scent
before his pursuer did. As he crested
the hill he abruptly stopped, his target coming into view down below. Two large campfires marked the end of his
search.
Perched high atop the hill, he
watched the wretched creatures scurry back and forth about the make-shift
camp. In his estimation they were
particularly vile looking. Although they
were almost four feet high, because of their stooped posture and lack of
clearly defined heads, they appeared much shorter. They resembled two creatures rather than one,
as if two goblins had been smashed into one body. Four spindly arms sprouted from their grossly
elongated torso and two large, misshapen mouths dominated their chest. The whitish-grey color of their bulbous
bodies made their beady-red eyes stand out even more distinctly. He counted the creatures as they scurried too
and fro. There were at least a dozen, and
perhaps more: an easy night’s work.
The breeze shifted and the bear
caught the scent of his pursuer and knew he was near, at least at the foot of
this very hill, if not closer. The time
was right. With a deep throaty growl preceding
him, the bear charged down the hill, his taut muscles propelling him swiftly.
The dolgrims heard the bear’s roar
echoing through the shallow canyon, followed by loud crashing sounds bearing
straight down on them. They began to
panic and scatter in all directions, some grabbing weapons, some running into
their crude hide-huts, while others simply froze in terror.
The cloaked-man also heard the roar
and knew he had to pick up his already intense pace if he was to arrive in
time. He wasn’t worried. He knew once he reached the hill’s summit that
getting down would be quick and easy.
Two dolgrims managed to grab weapons
and run to the side of the camp where they heard the unseen enemy approaching. Each clutched round wooden shields in their
lower left hands, crossbows in their upper two hands, and short, jagged swords
in their lower right hands. They
squealed back and forth in high-pitched tones, trying to steady each
other. All the steadying in the world
could not have prepared them for the nightmare that approached.
The bear exploded out of the forest
right in front of the two dolgrims. With
a great leap he was upon the dolgrim to the left, his massive bulk knocking the
second dolgrim off his feet as well. The
crushing weight of the bear stole the air from the dolgrim’s lungs stifling its
death-cry, as the bear’s massive claw raked through flesh and bone from the
bottom of its second mouth to its groin.
The second dolgrim managed to skitter
to its feet in time to watch the other get torn apart. It hurriedly fired its crossbow, barely
grazing the top of the bear’s head. The
bear tossed the lifeless carcass aside with a flick of its paw and turned upon
the second adversary. The bear rose up
on its hind legs, towering nearly three times the dolgrim’s height, and
bellowed a challenging roar. The dolgrim
froze, rooted to the ground. Its death
was quick. The bear’s giant paws
literally ripping its face off.
The remaining dolgrims managed to organize
themselves. Four dolgrims stayed back,
crossbows nocked and ready in each set of the creatures’ arms. Six other dolgrims circled the bear, spears
at the ready. With a shrill cry from
their war chief the crossbowmen fired. A
hail of bolts struck the bear’s hide, mostly in the chest region, but several
found their mark in his head and abdomen.
The bear howled in pain and rage as
the bolts pierced his body. Two dolgrims
with spears rushed in, one spear impaling the bear’s right forepaw and the
other his side. The bear lashed out at
the spear that was sticking in his paw with his left forepaw, splintering its
shaft into kindling. The dolgrim looked
quickly down at his now useless weapon and back up just as the bear’s immense
jaws crushed its right shoulder. In an
instant the dolgrim was jerked hard into the air and ripped in two.
Undaunted, the other dolgrim’s rushed
forward, spears jabbing and poking the bear wherever they could. The bear turned in circles, swiping and
pawing at the spears that were coming at him from every angle. His breath was coming in ragged gasps now and
he could feel the blood draining from his body.
Suddenly the bear collapsed with a shudder, and lay unmoving.
Reaching the hill’s summit, the
cloaked-man heard the sounds of battle below.
Looking down he could see the shadowy images of combat. He watched as the dolgrims surrounded the
bear and began impaling him with their spears, and he knew this was his
cue. Grabbing the small crossbow with
his left hand, and drawing his long sword with his right, he stretched his arms
out wide, pulling the folds of his cloak tight.
“Sirak,” spoke the man, and the cloak
shimmered for an instant, leather transforming to a translucent membrane. The man felt the ever so subtle hint of a
breeze, and leaped off the ridge. Like
the wings of a bat, the cloak caught the shifting air currents and propelled
the man silently down the hill and straight towards the battle.
The lead dolgrim cautiously prodded
the still bear with its spear, once, then again, and the bear did not
move. The disgusting creatures exchanged
nervous glances with each other, then began hopping from foot to foot, braying
and screeching at the sky in victory.
So loud was the screeching that they
did not notice one voice fall silent, a small crossbow bolt buried to its
fletching in the dead creature’s eye.
They did however notice the great black wings that cast a shadow over
their encampment.
Several dolgrims scrambled to reload
their crossbows as the cloaked-man spoke the word “Sirak” again, and landed in
their midst, his cloak resizing itself to fit snuggly on his back. The cloaked-man snapped his sword out
straight, disemboweling the closest dolgrim, then whipped it out quickly to the
right, slashing a garish wound across the face of the next dolgrim. Three dolgrims managed to reload their
crossbows and took aim at the cloaked-man.
They fired at him, or rather where he had been, for the bolts never got
close. The man did a back hand-spring
and easily dodged the oncoming quarrels.
However, this bought time for the remaining three dolgrims to scoop up
short swords and small morning stars in their right hands and wooden shields in
their left.
They had the cloaked-man surrounded
and believed they had the advantage.
Thinking to catch him in a rush, they all charged. The man fended off the blows of the nearest
dolgrim with his sword, while he kicked out hard with his left leg. The kick did no damage, having been blocked
by the dolgrim’s shield, but the force was enough to knock the creature off its
feet. The third dolgrim knew it had the
man. It stabbed straight with its short
sword, while it brought the morningstar around in a hard, arching swing. Impossibly,
the man somersaulted over him and landed on his feet, sword at the ready.
The crossbowmen reloaded and were aiming
at the twisting, whirling man, but something else caught their eye
instead. The bear’s body began
convulsing violently. Paws elongated into human-like appendages, its torso
stretched and heaved until it resembled both man and bear, and its head shrank
down, twisting and popping until it looked like a hairy man, with a bear’s
snout and ears. The crossbow quarrels
embedded in his flesh shot out, with the wounds sealing shut behind. The dolgrims stared at each other in
disbelief and confusion.
With a guttural roar the werebear
exploded into motion. He slashed his
clawed right hand across, turning the closest dolgrim’s face into a mask of
crimson gore. In the same motion he
picked up a morning star lying next to him with his left hand and caved the
other’s head in.
Hearing the werebear’s roar, the
three dolgrims engaging the cloaked-figure turned their attention momentarily
to the grisly scene unfolding behind them.
This distraction was all the cloaked-man needed. He stepped forward into his thrust, sending
his sword bursting completely through the back of one of the dolgrim’s and out
his lower mouth on the other side. He
then took a step back, spun to his right, withdrawing his blade in the process,
and slashed out wide, scalping the next dolgrim. Before the body could hit the ground he took
the short sword from its lifeless fingers.
The third dolgrim looked from the werebear to the cloaked-man, unsure
where to strike. The cloaked man ended
all doubt for him with a thrust of the short sword to the eye. The remaining dolgrim dropped its weapons and
ran as fast as it could into the dark forest, with the werebear quick on its
heels.
The cloaked-man searched the
ramshackle tents. He wasn’t interested
in the few bags of coin he found in one or the filthy clothes and supplies he
found in another. In the third tent he
found what he was looking for. Laid out
in a line on their stomachs, gagged and tied, both hand and foot, were four
humans: a man, woman and two children.
He produced a large dagger from a sheath in his boot and quickly cut their
ties.
With the gags removed the children
began screaming and scrambled to the back of the tent. The woman immediately followed after her
children, and hugged them both tight against her bosom. The man turned over as soon as he could,
willing to die in defense of his family.
The cloaked-man grasped his wrists so tightly that there was nothing the
man could do.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe now,” said
the cloaked-man in a calm tone.
The man struggled for a moment, his
body having to catch up with what his ears had just heard, and then his body
relaxed.
“Thank the Sovereign Host you found
us,” said the man, tears welling up in his eyes.
The cloaked-man released his grip on
the man, and pulled his cowl back revealing his blue eyes, smooth fair skin and
sandy-brown hair. The freed villagers
eyed their savior for long seconds until the father broke the silence. “Vigilaron?”
He asked.
“At your service Jarret,” replied
Vigilaron with a comforting smile and a nod of his head, as he helped the man
to his feet. “Now, I need to get you and
your family out of here quickly before any more of those vermin show up.”
Sylvia, the mother, ran to Vigilaron,
threw her arms around him in a tight embrace and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you, thank you,” she repeated over and over.
Vigilaron hugged her back. “I’m just glad you’re all safe.”
After several long moments Sylvia
finally let go of Vigilaron. Just then,
they all heard the crunching of twigs and leaves outside the tent.
“Everyone all right in there?” Came a
deep booming voice.
“Everything’s just fine Grim,”
replied Vigilaron. “Did you get the last
one?”
“Don’t ye be worrying about that one,
I took care of him,” returned Grimlar with a chuckle.
Vigilaron led the family outside the
tent and over near the still blazing campfire to warm them up. They all stopped abruptly when they saw the
sight before them. Grimlar stood with
his back to the fire, nude except for the filthy rag around his waist. Vigilaron had long ago gotten used to seeing
his large friend with not but a rag standing between him and full nudity. He did, however, wonder how the family would
react. He got his answer quickly as
Sylvia’s hands shot out incredibly fast, covering both her children’s eyes
completely. With a mischievous look on
his face, Grimlar eyed Sylvia, then Jarret, and finally settled his gaze on
Vigilaron and just shrugged his shoulders.
“Uh, how can we ever repay the both
of you?” Asked Jarret uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry about it,” said
Vigilaron graciously. He turned to
regard Grimlar. “Put some clothes on
will ya,” he chided.
“Sure, just as soon as we get back to
town,” returned Grimlar with a wink.
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