The Warlock's Fortune: Act One Read online

  The Warlock's Fortune:

  First in the novella series by

  Wrath.V.Schulz

  Act One

  Chapter 1: The Grand Ruse

  ~Fenrir~

  With my fingers digging into the dirt, I drag myself forward. My eyes peek over the lip of this mound and I spy my prize sitting, legs crossed and surrounded by two others, a half fields run from where I watch. Captain Arvid had failed to mention anything about companions. This hunt won’t be as simple as I’d thought.

  The target, Reinn, keeps a sword resting at his side and hides himself beneath a thick leather chest piece held on by two wide straps clinging to his shoulders. To the targets side is a female companion, her brown hair is cut short and dirt pollutes her face. She bears no armour, but around her waist two small daggers are held within their dark leather sheaths. She looks to be better suited for thievery than fighting. The other is shrouded in darkness, as his large maroon cloak ripples and forms around him, seeping over and protecting his face from the light. A few strands of wispy grey hair fall from his hood. The figure conjures a story that had been long since forgotten. Warriors of nightmare. Demon swordsmen who wield great power through their blades, cutting down any unfortunate enough to cross them. My stomach churns as if I’d eaten spoiled meat. I cannot recall where I’d first heard this tale but even the most outlandish myth often has some truth behind its lies.

  “What were the swordsmen called?” I ask myself, as if I would suddenly recall.

  I gather my composure again. Though the figure rests further away from the fire, and the other two, I’m sure he doesn’t carry a sword. Men don’t wield magic like the stories say, this is no warrior of nightmare. I’ve been alone in the woodland too long, I’m growing superstitious. I dispel the tale from my mind and focus on the task at hand. Reinn is still unaware I’m coming and despite his companions, a surprise attack from the shadows will surely put me at an advantage.

  After sliding back to the bottom of the hill, I begin my approach through the shadows of the large trees that cover this land. It's a bright night, even for a full moon. The air is still and cold. The cracking and hissing of their fire pierces through the quiet hum of the forest. With the moon glowing at my back, I stalk the shadows, bearing my sword as a wolf bears its teeth. Approaching directly behind the target, I watch carefully for any sign of detection. My heart races as I cast my eyes back and forth between the cloaked figure and the woman, my hands shiver against the cold wooden handle.

  The moment before I’m close enough to strike, the cloaked man rises to his feet. His pale skin glows in the fire’s light and silver pins replace his eyes as they lock onto me with a deadly blaze, a soul piercing stare. This quick and unnerving action freezes me for a moment. The bandit turns lazily to inspect what had startled his companion. Quickly, I spring my ambush and plunge my sword through his back, piercing the leather armour. My blade cuts true, impaling his heart and killing him almost instantly. In the same moment, the dagger wielding woman springs to her feet.

  “Reinn, no!” she screams while soaring toward me. Her attacks are upon me before I can pull my sword from the bandits back. I leap aside, narrowly passing out of the way, then draw my trusted dagger. Much time has passed since I’d held the sapwood handle in combat.

  Quickly slashing and stabbing, she twirls and then lunges as she strikes at me. I try to stay out of her reach, evading backwards and defending when I must. As a heavy sweeping slash misses me by a hair, I see the opportunity needed to reach her. Before the next attack, my shoulder drives into hers and as she’s stumbling away, trying to regain her footing, I hurdle forwards and slash my dagger across her unprotected chest. The thick blade of my dagger tears a large cut into her torso, blood pools around the wound and she falls to her back, screaming in pain. It's now I realize I’ve lost track of the cloaked figure. My first instinct is to return to my sword, though as I turn to it shivers are sent through my bones. It’s been removed from the dead bandits back.

  As the groans of pain and quick terrified breaths subside from the dying woman, she utters her last words with her final breath, “Vithar have mercy.” The night is silent now, not an animal, nor wind, purely silent. My arms shake and my nerve fades more with every pump of my pounding heart. Creeks and cracks seem to shatter the silence, emerging from all directions. I turn towards every noise, attempting to find the figure before I’m struck dead. Reinn’s sword. It’s sheath still holds it beside his corpse. It’s my only hope. I dash toward his body. Behind me, there is a burst of noise as boots crunch into dirt and twigs, a cloak begins to flutter and crack. I find the blade at the bandit’s side. The sword and sheath separate as I swing into stance and ready myself. The man crashes into me. His weapon is a boulder, slamming down from above my head. My own blade clashes against it loudly and I’m forced to a knee. The figure towers over me, bending himself to produce as much force as he can. I struggle to hold his sword off, keeping it a bay just long enough to return to my feet and jump backwards. He quickly peruses, with powerful and precise strokes of my stolen sword.

  This man looks to be more than double my age and yet he’s faster than most men in the land, the swift attacks also carry great strength. I cannot attempt to strike back, only try to parry these monstrous attacks as I retreat. A single clean strike would surely be the end of me. Suddenly, my back hits a tree and I realize the next flurry of attacks will surely overwhelm my defence. The wrinkled man begins twirling the blade beside himself, grunting in some pain. The sword hisses as it cuts through the air. As it grows louder the blade is cast alight. The sword spits fire and smoke as he swings it with the might to cut me in two. I lose any proper defence, again locking my sword against his. My arms buckle and twist. The flaming sword draws closer to my neck, almost singeing my jaw. I grab the blade tip, trying to match his immense strength. The blade edge cuts into my palm and blood trickles along the sword. My blood explodes into steam as it touches the flames of the magic fire. Exerting all my might, I finally push his sword away and step around him. The blade glides above my head as I duck under his next mighty slash, which digs half-way through the tree I’d been trapped against.

  With his sword trapped and no other defence available, my blade drives through his chest unanswered. The cloaked swordsman staggers backwards, almost shocked at his defeat. His hands wrap around the handle of the sword I’d plunged into him. He roars. Slowly the sword in his chest, is being pulled free.

  My heavy breaths bellow forth, I’ve not faced such a perilous battle before. I sluggishly unsheathe my dagger once more. Do I flee or fight on? I fear for what magic this demon is still capable of. The sword flings free of his flesh. It cracks and fizzles before bursting into a massive, blinding ark of flames. The trees around us sizzle and catch ablaze. The weapons heat alone feels as though its searing my exposed skin. He takes a step forward, with the hole in his chest dripping dark blood and the forest burning around him. I step backward, what hope do I have. With another step towards me, he falls to a knee. The sword plunges into the ground and sizzles, like steak on a bed of coals, before most of the flames disperse. He looks at me, panting very deeply, and utters something in a language I cannot understand. His silver eyes continue to peer deep into my soul. After a few deep breaths, he collapses to the ground, finally releasing the sword from his grip.

  I too fall to my knees, continuing to stare at his motionless body, ensuring he isn't returning to life; the sword remains standing.

  It’s been some time since he last took a breath and his body is still motionless, he must truly be dead. I return to my legs, unstable, and move over to his body. The tree I’d been pinned against cracks loudly before snapping and crashing
to the ground. As burning leaves float about the night air, I take a moment to look at the destruction he had caused, many trees are still ablaze around me. I laugh for a moment, at my own stupidity, for wanting to fight a Warlock. That was it, the tales called them Warlocks.

  The entire sword, although not flaming, glows with heat. I’ll leave it standing where it is, mine was freed from the tree when it fell anyway. Before I move away from the Warlock’s corpse, something catches my eye. The end of a scroll poking out from a pocket inside the cloak. I reach for the dead warrior’s concealed pocket, still uneasy. The scroll slides free of his bloodied cloak and I begin to examine it. My vision grows blurry. My mind clouds and my head hurts. Before me are indistinct images, flashing past quickly. Something beautiful and mystical. Then a great temple, swallowed by sea. Riches, vaults filled with gems and coins, more than you could ever spend. I snap back to the forest suddenly, dazed and confused. In the moment, I couldn’t understand, but after the vision the Warlock’s final words seem to ring through my ears, save the treasure.

  Camping out in the thicket never yields a good night’s rest, and I always dream of a warmer bed. Tomorrow I’ll be back at Rohtar’s Inn, putting my head on a soft bed with a belly full of mead and meat. The Inn has kept me warm for many nights since the beginning of the last Frost, when I stumbled into town half frozen by a blizzard that raged for a week. Though it’s buried within the thickest forest in the east, Halvar is just the newest town I’ve worked through, collecting coins and exhausting jobs. Just another collection of houses, farms and shops huddled together by the Army. Seems to be more wanted men throughout the land than days past, the Army is everywhere now. The roads have become wide and dusty as the surrounding forest is too thick for most folk to traverse. Soon I’ll be walking them again, pressing forever onward to the next flea ridden village in my way. The night grows colder, I eventually drift away from my thoughts and into a shallow slumber.

  My face is known by the soldiers of the hilltop camp, beside Halvar, and I’m permitted to enter without disarming. I think most of the soldiers envy me, I answer to no-one and carry a larger coin pouch then most of them have ever held. After I've been let through the gate, the main track leads me past three rows of tents and into the dusty centre of the camp. The large cube tent is Captain Arvid’s, where he’s always waiting. Arvid is shorter than most and skinnier too, his skin clings to his cheekbones like he hasn’t eaten for many days. He’d have never gained the rank of Captain without so many men dying in the south.

  “Ah, Fenrir, my favourite butcher,” Captain Arvid lifts his head as he notices me from behind an old shivergold table, where he’s writing out pay for the soldiers, “Reinn give you any trouble?” Arvid jokes, with his wispy voice barely reaching my ears.

  “A day’s trek north,” I exhale. “I’m fortunate to have slipped past the beasts that roam that part of the scrub.”

  “I don’t know why the laws were changed,” Arvid ponders as he gazes around to the sack holding the bandits bloodied head, “What am I supposed to do with all the putrid skulls? Maybe the dogs will have ‘em.”

  “I’d say, some hunters were caught claiming jobs they never did. Got the King making us all prove our kills.” I untie the sack from my shoulder and throw it to the faded golden feet of Arvid’s improvised desk.

  “You know Fenrir, you can bring the bounties in alive and get a few extra coins,” Arvid says before meeting my eyes to emphasise his words, “is killing really that fun?”

  “It’s not a game Arvid. Just give me the bloody coins!”

  “Bloody indeed,” he winces as he draws a pouch of coins from the bottom draw of his desk. “Catch.” Arvid throws the pouch to my side. It lands firmly in my hand. “Say Fenrir, you said you were leaving town after this bounty, did you not?”

  “I had. Why?” I tie the pouch to my belt just behind my sword.

  “Put simply, I’m curious. What made you choose a life of solitude?”

  “I’ve no good answer,” I utter, glancing at his pale face. Quiet falls in place of my words as Arvid runs his fingers against his jaw, feeling the prickles of a day-old shave.

  “You have your coins, off with you then, your stench is consuming my tent.” I make my way back towards the cloth flaps of the entrance, giving Arvid a slight wave as I go.

  The clouds glow with a fading orange as the sun begins to hide from sight, yellow and orange light shimmers off the lakes calm waters. Townsfolk say Halvar was built after a farmer found the lake and built a house next to it. If he found it as the sun was setting, I could almost understand why. A breeze brushes my face and with it, the scent of a hearty soldier’s stew. I know it's time I go celebrate my last hunt in town with some drinks at the best tavern around, The Giant Slayer.

  The street lamps have already been lit and the stone path that forms the road to the town square is dancing with flickering red light. As usual, few people are still about as dusk sets in, the taverns and inns cast swaying shadows onto the street and the blacksmith is out with his young apprentice, forging some manner of armour. As I walk the breeze fetches me smells of freshly baked bread, newly brewed stews and ready to eat meat. I can almost taste the seared venison, plates served by the dozen. No doubt The Giant Slayer will settle my rumbling stomach, and dull my aching bones.

  It’s a little darker tonight than it was last night, less magic about. Yelling and laughter begin to echo from the tavern well before I lay eyes its hearty walls. As I finally reach The Giant Slayer, men and women crowd the doorway, shuffling past one another as they squeeze through the usually fat entrance. The wooden building is wide and long, a sight onto itself but it's the honey roasted venison that most men come for. Ondray the bard is scarcely challenging the roar of the crowds, unable to strum loud enough to even be heard halfway across the common room. With an empty stomach, I stroll inside and find a good place to spend the better portion of the night and of my new coins.

  “Hey Sigren, what's a man have to do to get a drink around here?” I yell to the bar hand. She turns away from the table she was serving, her golden hair sagging out of the quickly made bun.

  “Oh Fenrir, I’ve missed you. Where have you been?” Sigren asks, merrily shouting back to me as she struggles to move between the large groups of peasants. “It’s been really quiet without you.”

  “I can see!” I laugh, glancing around at the rowdy crowd.

  “You know what tonight is don't you?” she asks, pinning an eyebrow up.

  “I’ve no clue dear.”

  “Fenrir, what sea-bound island raises younglings who do not learn of tradition?” Sigren jokes with a giggle in her words.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say as I lean closer to her flushed lips.

  “Today was the first day of Growth. As the sun’s down we feast, to celebrate a new season.”

  “Of course, I know of tradition. I best begin feasting,” I say, stomach emptier than a termite ridden tree.

  “Leek and hare stew is sellin’ by the bucket. Want a bowl for half pay?” She interrupts with a curious offer.

  “What am I to say?” I enquire eagerly.

  “Well, you’re to,” she says prolonging her words as she inches forward with her hands tied together behind her back, “kiss me.” She’s moved so close, I barely lean forwards to press my lips against hers. Only a moment passes before the jesters emerge.

  “That lucky dog’s back, and ‘e’s already smooching it up with our lady Sigren. Piss off for a bit so we’ve got a chance ay!”

  Sigren straightens out, casting a stern stare toward the farmers, “finish your food!” She growls as she moves away to continue her work but before she fades back into the crowds again, a dream of ale appears to quench my dry throat.

  “And a bottle of something nice,” I yell, “I’ve some coin to spill.”

  I sit alone amongst the crowds, slouching into the stiff chair. The cut on my palm stings as it rests against the tables edge. I’d bandaged it with a piece of cloth,
torn from the Warlocks robe. Dark stains seep through the soft fabric, hinting at the wound below. The Warlock bore no weapons, needing to steal mine. Then, a mere man, cast fire to metal. Hearing stories doesn’t quite prepare you for the reality of things. Luck had permitted me to survive that fight, nothing more. Perhaps I’ve yet something to gain for my efforts, what kind of scroll does a man like that carry?

  I reach around to the side pocket of my pants, twisting in my armour to reach it. The scroll is a tattered, stained piece of paper wrapped with a red ribbon. A strange feeling overcomes me, a daunting feeling, fear. I sigh, calm my hands and then loosen the knot. The scroll unfolds, revealing some map. I don't recognize what’s laid out before me. Portions of the scroll are left blank with only a few shapes being detailed by mountain ranges, cities and rivers. Various markings and symbols surround a handful of spots. The tavern erupts with shouting for a moment as two peasants argue. I’d best examine the map in private. I don’t yet know what treasure I’m being drawn to, nor what dangers I’ll face. After I re-roll the scroll and place it into the fold of my shirt, I scan the surrounding groups, assuring no curious eyes had watched.

  When Sigren returns with my meal, I thank her with another smile and a generous number of extra coins. That woman is as sweet as honey, I’m sure I’ll need to visit her in the morning. My hand stings again as I place the bowl onto the table in front of me. I unwrap the piece of cloth around my hand, revealing a dark wound reaching deep into my palm. A good splash of my ale should stop the gash rotting. As I pull the cork free I pause, this is sure to hurt a great deal. The first drips splash into the bloody wound and fire runs through my arm, I clench my other fist tighter than a fat man in armour. The burning eases, after a moment or two, and I bandage it again before settling into my stew. Sigren had filled the side of the bowl with extra slices of fresh bread. I stuff myself like a pig. Drinking and eating as I listen to the crowd’s boastful stories of their glorious Rights of Age, each claiming some greater feat, at a younger age, than the last.