The Chosen by Kris Kramer (read the beginning after the end novel TXT) 📕

looked like hairless rats, eyes pale as if blind. They swarmed from some of the other huts toward the dwarf.

“Master!” Pjodarr called and thrust his arms forward. Wind rushed past him, hurling some of the creatures through the air. They simply righted themselves and charged toward Blade again. The dwarf hacked at them with his sword. Gruesome roared and leapt onto a mass of the hideous beasts. He stamped them underfoot and smashed their little bodies with his hands. But the rest of the vermin simply ignored him and continued toward the general. Sharp roots poked from the dirt at the shaman’s beckoning, stabbing a few of the albino rats, but many just squeezed past them. None of the things made a sound, even as they died. They continued their onslaught of the dwarf, climbing up his armored legs. A dozen of the creatures crawled around on him. Flailing shield and sword wildly, Blade fell on his back and a dozen more covered him.

Pjodarr rushed to his master, but fell back with a cry as the Warshield unleashed a spray of lightning from his entire body. The slave held his right hand painfully and looked at Gruesome. “Help him!” The havtrol scrambled to the dwarf’s side, clawing little bodies off him. Lightning flashed again, but Gruesome snarled back the pain. As many as the dwarf killed, double that number took their place. His arms swung in a panic. The edge of the great sword sliced easily into the havtrol’s unprotected left hand. Gruesome rolled backwards and watched in horror as Blade became a mass of writhing, pale flesh. The things completely covered the dwarf.

“Master!” Pjodarr shouted to the night. “Master!”

Soft, blue light cascaded over them, coming from the village’s center. There, just a few yards away stood two figures, one tall and lean, draped in chain armor from head to toe, a large sword held in both hands in a warrior’s stance. The other was only a few inches shorter and leaner still. The clothes weren’t visible under a dark cloak, but the face was that of a young man. His eyes squinted in concentration as his mouth moved in a rush of whispered words. In his right hand, he held a staff of black wood. The blue light emanated from something set atop it.

As one, the white rats stopped moving. Blade lay motionless beneath their still bodies. Then their noses all twitched in the air, and every one of the vermin moved slowly toward the young man, until they completely encircled him and his friend. Gruesome moved his hand to the hammer on his right hip. He looked to Pjodarr. The shaman was crouched just a step away, singed hands trembling. The sorcerer waved his left hand over the ugly creatures, and then whipped the staff over his head in a flash. Gruesome started as all of the tiny, white forms exploded in a small shower of dark blood. Not a one of them even twitched afterwards.

The young man looked down at his clothes, as if to make sure none of the blood spattered his own dress, before walking toward the three of them. The light from his staff dimmed and vanished. His armored companion followed diligently, weapon at the ready.

“Hello,” the young man said softly in norovid, the language of humans from Bergmark. His accent was sharp, unlike any Gruesome had heard from Calderan or Anduain folk. He held his left palm out, and Gruesome could now see that his hair was short and blond. The thing on his staff was some sort of cloudy-blue quartz, carved in the shape of a skull. The wizard nodded to each of them and fixed them with a wide smile. “I am Tarac. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

 

Chapter 7

 

“This is my guardian, Folik, please forgive his silence. He is not rude; he simply has no tongue to be able to speak.”

Gruesome and Pjodarr stared at the young man. Never had the havtrol witnessed such magic as this Tarac performed. And now he spoke to them as if they were simply travelers meeting in the commons of some great hall.

“I am Pjodarr,” the shaman returned in norovid, never at a loss for words, although his usual greeting was far more blustering. “Yon is my master Blade of House Thurin, General of the First Army, Lord of Northwatch. This is Gruesome,” he waved his shaking left hand in the big brute’s direction. “Mighty warrior of Clan Beartooth.”

“Ah, I see the helm,” Tarac said gleefully. “How remarkable.” He bowed low, Folik doing the same. “T’would seem I am in honored company. I beg your forgiveness beforehand, but I am not experienced with the customs of dwarf and havtrol. We have traveled most of this way alone, following the river.”

“Yes, well, would you mind if we get ourselves somewhat settled then, sir Tarac? I would see to all of our wounds.”

“Oh, you are a shaman! How delightful! Of course, tend to your companions. Folik and I will await you here.”

With a grimace, Pjodarr spoke soft words. His body shook as white magic flowed out from him. He sighed in relief and shook his now-healed hands, then rubbed them together. He walked over to where Gruesome still knelt on the ground and placed both hands on the havtrol’s thick chest. With more ease he cast the spell that sent a wave of healing magic through the warrior’s body. Gruesome felt the sting of mending flesh as the cut on his hand closed and the small burns under his armor washed away under the shaman’s spell. The slave shared an odd stare with the havtrol before moving on to Blade.

“Master,” he soothed and helped the dwarf to his feet. “Let us see how you fare.” He walked Blade behind the hut that held the old woman’s corpse.

“Is there a problem?” Tarac’s face showed real concern.

“He lets no one see his master out of his armor,” Gruesome rumbled.

The pair returned shortly. “Not a mark on him,” the shaman said quizzically, in the language of dwarves.

“I would suspect as much,” the young sorcerer said, again using norovid.

“You speak dvarid?” Pjodarr asked in the human tongue.

“Speak, no. Understand, some. I read it better.”

“And trolvid?” The shaman inquired, somewhat bemused.

Tarac bowed to Gruesome. “Alas, no. My people have no dealing with your own. So there was no one to teach me.”

The havtrol merely shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, perhaps, we would all be content with using norovid, then, Tarac.” Pjodarr bowed his own head to the much younger man.

“I would greatly appreciate that, and again apologize for the inconvenience.”

The wizard’s politeness was…unnerving…to Gruesome. He’d met with all manner of folk, from lowly slave to noble king, and none displayed such bizarre manners. The shaman was better at dealing with people, so he decided to hold his tongue. Pjodarr walked to another hut and pulled back the flap. He stared for a moment, then stepped back and moved the silver mask to the top of his head. He looked at the havtrol with sad eyes, his tattooed face unreadable in the dark.

“They are all dead, good shaman. All those that remain here, anyways.”

The old slave nodded slowly. “Gruesome, would you mind starting a fire for us while I retrieve the var?” He then walked further into the village, and the warrior knew what hut he sought. With his stomach in knots, Gruesome drew flint and steel and bent over a large circle of stones set amid several of the huts. Central fire pits like this were set throughout the village to be lit in the coldest parts of winter.

It was quite a while before Pjodarr returned with the var. He’d taken his time putting the kits back on them. Gruesome knew why. Humans and dwarves went to great lengths to hide their grief and fear from others, where havtrols celebrated their emotions. Not that a havtrol knew fear. But rage at your enemies, joy at the birth of your son, sadness at the loss of a loved one, these were what defined each soul. Sadness. This thought brought emptiness to Gruesome. Sadness filled him now. For the past five years. Sadness for his own actions. But his honor would be reborn.

The five sat quiet around the fire for some time. Well, three sat. Folik and Blade both stood, as if on guard.

“Have you eaten?” Pjodarr asked solemnly.

“Not since yesterday.” Tarac shrugged. “I am not the best hunter.”

“We will all eat, and talk. I’m sure we all have questions.” The shaman then busied himself preparing a stew of the tough wyvern meat he’d dried out.

They ate in silence. Blade shoveled deliberate spoonfuls of the awful stew into his mouth, and then dropped the spoon and bowl to the ground. He drank deep from a water skin when Pjodarr offered it to him. Folik took no sustenance, nor did Tarac offer him any. Gruesome and the slave exchanged glances at this, but said nothing. Finally, the shaman leaned his back against a large stump and fixed his cool, gray eyes on the young wizard.

“What happened here, Tarac? Who killed these people?”

“I-I cannot say,” the sorcerer shrugged. He sat with his hands clasped over his belly. Gruesome had time to study the man more during their meal. The boy, for he was truly more boy than man, was tall for his age. But his face gave it away: innocent eyes, energetic smile, and the smooth skin of the privileged. His clothes were of deep purple, plain but finely woven. His thick, black cloak was lined with dark fur. His leather boots were dyed the same purple and also lined with fur, and as well-cared for as the rest of his attire. He wore no charms or trinkets, as most wizards were apt to do. Even Pjodarr had a necklace of small skulls and other items under his armor. The wizard’s staff was another matter. It was of ornately carved wood, painted such a deep black that it looked to be the natural color. The crystal skull on top was unremarkable; the moonlight did not even shine off it. But Gruesome remembered the soft glow from before, and Tarac kept the staff close at hand at all times.

“Do you not know, or do not wish to tell?”

“Oh, I do not know at all, good shaman,” Tarac stammered. “I only know that no one living was left here.”

“How do you know?”

“I was searching the other side of the village when you all arrived. I went through many of the other huts.” He shifted his wide eyes to the ground and scraped at something with his foot. “I went through more than enough of them.”

Pjodarr’s eyes never left Tarac’s face. Gruesome watched the shaman intently, and wondered what worked in the man’s mind. Havtrols never shared humans’ curiosity.

“Were they all killed the same? A single blade through the heart?”

Tarac nodded. “They went peacefully, in their sleep, at least.”

“Small consolation for a young life cut short by murder.” Masked grief tinted his words.

“When Drogu calls, all must answer.” The death god. Gruesome’s chest tightened. He met the shaman’s eyes. Pjodarr leaned forward.

“Where are you and Folik from, Tarac?”

The boy raised his head to meet the old man’s gaze. “I am Tarac, High Priest of Drogu, and Shepherd of the Souls of Durum Tai.”

Durum Tai! City of the dead!

Gruesome rose slowly to his feet and pointed his finger at Folik. “What is that thing, boy?” The armored figure stepped between Tarac and the havtrol, sword held up. Gruesome’s hands caressed the hammer and axe at his hips.

Tarac held out his left palm. “Peace, good warrior, we wish no fight.” Gruesome growled. “Folik is my guardian. He will only fight to protect me.” The sorcerer stood up and exchanged long looks with both the havtrol and the shaman. Only Pjodarr remained seated. “It was only for that purpose that I raised him.”