Twinsoul: Chapter 6

Chapter 6:  Tasks

                       

The hills and valleys between Reylyn’s lair and Cagar-Tugan had a special kind of majesty about them.  The dawning spring gave way to lush grasses that grew from the fecund soil of the northern hills.  Where there was no vegetation, proud stone pushed up from the ground in proclamation of the earth’s strength.  The foothills of the Tharkas Mountains further south were awash in green, a sea of life washing at the base of the eternal monuments of stone.  Such grand sights made the trip worth it in Varcor’s opinion. 

The landscape was indeed beautiful, but to Varcor, much more impressive were the inhabitants.  He saw independent farms and larger farming villages dotting the landscape from the vista atop Reylyn’s mountain, but experiencing them up close gave Varcor a deeper insight to his kin.  Wherever he went, he saw honest, hardworking people doing their best to live a quiet life.  The simple folk, not knowing him or his companion, smiled and nodded in greeting as they passed through, courteous and respectful. 

From what he had read, this was far different from the orcs of the past.  The orcs were once known and hated across Kayledon as a warlike, vicious, cruel existence, a plague upon the good people of the world.  They constantly sought to increase their territories, and when not at war with humans or elves, constantly bickered amongst themselves and murdered each other.  Now, only their superior physical strength and tusked faces made them any different from the other folk of Kayledon. 

In a week’s time, they arrived at the gates of Cagar-Tugan.  This sprawling mountain city was the result of hundreds of years of architectural advancement and decades of building.  Besides its reliable structure, its tactical placement was well thought out and utilized to its fullest.  The city was nestled among the lower, inner mountains of the Tharkas range, guarded on the south and east by its taller outer peaks, and the Shosoran River giving additional support to the south.  The main road that traveled to  Olimport and Martoth and ran through the city was made to follow the natural contours of the range, making the roads more defensible.  There was also a road that led out of the kingdom, passing through Westway, the Valoran outpost that served as trading ground for the two countries, but it could easily be closed off from would be intruders, leaving the west the only viable direction for attack.  Only a fool would try to siege the orcs.  This had indeed been their saving grace during the time of the Horde.

Varcor had mixed feelings as he approached the high stonewalls and forbidding, heavy doors.  He had always thought of the High City as strong and proud, a bastion of orcan accomplishment.  It was his home.  But now that he had returned from the countryside, with the smaller, humbler dwellings, he felt as though the isolation and military preparedness of the city was a throwback to the darker history of his people.

“Uncle,” Varcor said suddenly, “do you spend much time around the people of the city?”

Kronta scratched his bald head.  “Not quite sure what ye mean by that, m’boy.  I get a drink at the Golden Gauntlet on me nights off, if that’s what ye mean.”

“Are the people here anything like the ones from the villages we went through?” the prince asked.  When Kronta gave him a funny look, he elaborated, “What I mean is do they seem as content, as peaceful as the villagers?”

Kronta gave this a moment’s thought, then shrugged.  “City life’s different, you know, with everyone comin’ and goin’.  Never really peaceful, though, always a criminal or gang doin’ what they aught not to do.”

Varcor shook his head.  “That isn’t really what I meant.  I don’t know if you can tell me what I want to know.”

Kronta screwed up his face in concentration, thinking about the prince’s question.  His eyes lit up, and he said, “If yer talkin’ ‘bout the way the people are, ye don’t need to worry on such things.  City or village don’t change the fact that an orc’s an orc, an’ we’ve all come a long way.”  The big orc sighed and shrugged.  “That is, save yer father.”

Varcor’s eyes narrowed inquisitively.  “What do you mean?”

Kronta began to answer, but the gates began to open the moment he opened his mouth.  Beyond the walls was an escort of ten orcs, ready to bring the returned prince to the castle.  Kronta shook his head, and whispered, “I’ll tell ye later, at the castle, without so many ears about.”

Varcor nodded slowly, not understanding the big orc’s need for secrecy, but respecting that he was not as learned in the situation as well as Kronta.  Together they greeted the escort, and were guided to the castle, which served only to give Varcor time to worry.

As they walked through the town, Varcor felt something was out of place.  His father never wasted any opportunity to celebrate, especially on occasions like this one.  He was compelled to ask Kronta about it, but something in the soldier’s pace, the way he looked over his shoulder, made him save the question for later.

Unfortunately, as soon as the escort came to the castle gates, the guards there informed Varcor that he was to go see his father immediately.  Kronta shrugged helplessly, offering no explanation or aid.  Without any logical recourse, Varcor instructed the two guards to have them bring him to the audience hall.

“We would,” one guard hesitated to say, “but our instructions were to bring you to the king’s private quarters, not the audience hall.”

“What?” Kronta sputtered.  “Tha’s not protocol!  His majesty wouldn’t ask for anythin’ so improper!”  The guard only shrugged, and reiterated that the orders came from the king himself.

“It’s all right, Uncle,” Varcor said calmingly to Kronta.  “I’ll do as he wishes.  I wouldn’t want these soldiers to be in trouble on my account.”  The guards seemed relieved to hear Varcor’s words, and that worried him no small amount.

They brought him to the second level of the castle, where the banquet hall and guest rooms were, then to the stairs leading to the third level, where the royal family’s quarters were, and were intercepted there by a single orc. 

“General Ganash,” Varcor said, recognizing him immediately by nothing more than his manner.  He was by far the most disciplined orc Varcor had ever met.  He stood with a wide stance and his arms behind his back, patience evident on his rough features.  “It is good to see you again.”

The general nodded at the soldiers, not even glancing at the prince until the other two had disappeared around the corner of the hallway.  He looked tersely to the prince saying, “Come this way.”  He was climbing the stairs before Varcor could even say a word.  The prince had a bad feeling about this situation, made worse by Kronta’s earlier words.  He tightened the gauntlet on his right hand, and followed the general up to the top floor.

Once there, Ganash led him right, in the direction of the king’s study.  Varcor started to protest, but stopped himself, for most of the soldiers knew that the third floor was for the royalty and their personal guards only, and was by all accounts the king’s “private quarters.”

Upon arriving to the study, Ganash opened the door and gestured that Varcor should enter first.  Apprehensively, the prince did as he was instructed, walking cautiously past the general and into the room.  Varcor peered about the room, seeing it vacant.  He strode over to the desk at the far end, where a pile of books covered the surface.  He recognized some of the titles as copies of ones he read in Reylyn’s company, but there were others he did not recognize.  Those he did were history books about the Horde, a tome on demon physiology, and a primer on the hazards and precautions of summoning.  One book piqued his interest, a red cloth bound book with a silver rune inscribed on the front, which he did not understand.  The book otherwise had no title.

He was about to open it when he heard Ganash enter and lock the door behind him.  The prince once again started to protest, but Ganash cut him off.  “I need to speak with you, my lord.”

“You could have told me that,” Varcor said angrily, “instead of skulking about the castle like some invader.  Where is my father?  Why have you brought me here?”

“I brought you here because it is where your father is not, and no one would dare think of coming here unbidden,” Ganash told him evenly.  Varcor’s surprise was surpassed when Ganash’s face twisted into an expression of a man hounded by fear and doubt.  “Praise Faarthus that you returned when you did!  It might be our last chance.”

Varcor was stunned.  He honestly could not comprehend what could possibly get under the skin of the one person he thought was unshakable.  “What is it?  Does this have to do with what Kronta tried to tell me?”

“He tried?  Faarthus bless him as well!” Ganash said, crossing his right arm to his left shoulder, a sign of praise to Faarthus.  “Yes, my lord.  It is something he and I have been talking of for some time now.”

“What is wrong with my father?” Varcor said, as loudly as he dared.  Up until now, he did not think anything was seriously wrong or that his father was in some sort of danger.  It was clear that if something had upset the stalwart Ganash, then either of those things could be true.

“Outwardly, he is as he always was, but during the past three years he has become increasingly obsessed with his other projects, and has devoted a large portion of his coffers to their progress.”  Ganash looked to the desk, where the stack of books drew Varcor’s attention again.  “He spends long intervals here with his books and with Iksol, studying endlessly.  I do not know what he intends to achieve, but with books like those, it cannot be anything good.”

Varcor shrugged.  “Father has always been interested in other planes, and after the Horde, many rulers have developed an interest in extra planar attacks.  This is not so . . .”

“I fear he means to summon a demon, Varcor,” Ganash interrupted.  “I have seen experimental chambers, prepared with magic circles and other paraphernalia I could not identify.  I think he may already have.”

Varcor still shook his head.  “To learn weakness and susceptibilities of their kind, or for other studies.  I have read about this before.”

“You do not understand!” Ganash pressed on, not dissuaded by Varcor’s arguments.  “I have told him of the evil he works with, as Kronta has.  He admits openly to us that he has spoken with demons, and means to summon more!  He claims that his endeavors will eventually be for the good of all the orcan people.  I have done a fair bit of reading of my own, and this is exactly the course of behavior believed to have brought about the coming of the Demon Horde, the fall of the Lost Land, and the arrival of the Mist.”

Varcor wanted to shout, to scream that what he was saying was just not possible, that his father was a good person and strong ruler.  But he had indeed read the same things that the general was now telling him.  He could not bring himself to discount the evidence, or the shaken tone of the one person he was told had never been frightened of anything.

“Reylyn has her suspicions as well, I have corresponded with her without His majesty’s knowledge during your trip from her lair,” Ganash told him.  “We both believe that you are the one who could ever talk sense into him.”

Varcor nodded, but deep inside he questioned whether or not his father would listen to him.  If he was deep in the thralls of his research, there would be nothing to convince his father of a better path.  In fact, he was still not entirely sure that his father was the one making erroneous judgments.

As soon as Ganash had seen his nod, he moved to the desk and picked up the red book, handing it to Varcor.  Varcor eyed him, then the book, saying, “What is this?”

“I do not know what is in it, but your father recently spent a small fortune for its procurement.  It is not written in any language I can understand, so I need you to take a look at it.  Not here, but when you are away from the prying eyes of our good Iksol.  Judging by the price your father paid for it, I do not doubt that it is of importance to his plans.”

Tentatively, Varcor accepted the book, and placed it in his satchel.  “Shall I go to see my father now?”

Ganash shook his head, chuckling.  “It would be inappropriate to see the king in your traveling garb.  The only reason we are having this talk now is that he thinks you are using this time to prepare for a proper reception.”

Varcor smiled and nodded.  “Always a firm believer in formality.”  Giving Ganash one final nod, he headed out of the study, and went to his room to prepare for the meeting with his father.

******

           

Varcor walked down the steps to the main hall some time later, after having washed and changed out of his apprentice robes into fine clothes that had been brought to his room beforehand.  He felt awkward not wearing his robe, so he had opted to wear a crimson dress cloak that he had stored away in his closet.  He kept his gauntlet on, and had been surprised when he found his father’s ruby-pommeled sword in his room.  It had significance in the eyes of the people of Faarthusia as the sword of a ruler, worn and wielded only by the king or queen.  He had left the sword in his room, and was prepared to ask why it had been left there.

His question was answered the moment he was heralded into the audience hall.  His father, Toras Voldur, sat upon the stately throne atop a dais on the far side of the hall.  Flanking him one step lower were his advisor and his retainer, Iksol on the right and Ganash on the left.  Before Varcor had left, the prestigious right position had been where Ganash sat.  More importantly, he noticed what now replaced his father’s sword. 

The blade appeared to be made of dark iron, a much more durable metal for weapons than normal iron, mined from the Tharkas Mountains.  But it seemed to be alloyed with hardened crystal, making it somewhat translucent and giving it the illusion of a shadow sliding down the edge.  The hilt resembled outward facing ram horns, and the pommel was set with a fire opal.  The sword rested against the arm of the throne, and his father’s hand rested on top of it.

His appraisal turned to the king as he approached.  Ganash had spoken truly when he said that his father had not outwardly changed.  He carried himself in the same dignified manner, moved as deliberately as before, and stood as one might stand on top of the highest mountain, proudly and self-assured.  But Varcor noticed a haze in his eyes, a darkness that might have been from lack of sleep, or perhaps something deeper.  He might not have changed in appearance, but his eyes and new sword reflected the inner darkness growing in the ruler.

“Well met, father,” Varcor said as he approached.  He forced a pleasant look to his face, despite a growing awareness that the near future would indeed be anything but pleasant.

Toras stood up from the throne and walked down the dais to his adopted son, his arms spread wide to embrace the youth.  “Well met indeed, Flamesoul.”

Varcor returned his father’s hug, not missing the reference to his nickname.  He had many, many questions, but they would have to wait.  At this moment, he did not want to believe that his father was capable of consorting with demons or endangering the country and himself.  All he wanted to believe in now was the man who had raised an orphan son who had appeared from nowhere, a man who made every decision with the interests of his people and family in mind.

He needed this, or he would never be able to help his father.

After the hug was released, Toras looked his son over once, and gave him a curious look.  “Why do you not wear the sword I sent to your room?”

Varcor struggled not to scream his reply.  “Father, it is the sword of the ruler of Faarthusia, and it is not my place to wield it.”

Toras waved away those words as if they meant nothing.  “Tradition must change eventually.  It is only a sword after all.  This blade was a gift, and I find I prefer its balance to my old one.”  He smiled.  “After all, I received the old sword from my father, and now I give it to you.  The tradition shall live on, yes?”

“Yes sire,” Varcor answered, but still had a hard time accepting the answer as final.  He decided to let that topic sit for now, and move on to something that had been bothering him since he had arrived in town.  “I must admit, I had expected more.”

“More?” Toras echoed, guiding his son over to a table prepared for tea.  “How do you mean?”

“What I had understood was you would be holding a reception for my return, with guests and a banquet.” His father’s questioning look remained the same, and he continued.  “What I mean to say is you celebrate the return of a successful raid against encroaching ogres and goblins more than you have lauded the return of your own son.  I get the feeling that no one but the soldiers who escorted me had any idea I have returned.”

His father laughed then, and started pouring the tea.  “My dear boy, do you feel neglected?”

“Not at all,” Varcor said with a smirk.  “It’s just that you had less of a reaction to the consummation of my education than you did to the first words I spoke.”

“If I may interject, Majesty,” Ganash said as he came over, “my lord’s observations are not without truth.  Indeed, you threw a grand celebration when my lord took his first steps.”

Toras chuckled, and nodded.  “Yes, I understand you both very well, though I will point out that both of those were more private affairs than you make them out to be.”

“Majesty, you had invited the king of Valora to both occasions,” Ganash said dryly.

“He is a good friend, after all,” Toras pointed out, then he sighed.  “Indeed, I would have liked to have much more to do than this, but I thought it best if our first reunion in three years be a quiet one.”

Varcor looked at his father suspiciously.  Toras Voldur was never one to do anything quietly, especially if it involved his son.

The king’s tone became serious.  “Also, before we can celebrate, there is something I would have you do.”  He motioned for Iksol to come over, and the dark-haired priest made his way to his king’s side.  “There is a matter of national importance that requires your attention, Varcor.”

“National importance?” Varcor asked, now totally baffled. 

“Yes, my son,” Toras said.  “This is not to be spoken of around the public or anyone else uninvolved.  This is why no one must know you are here yet.”

“Despite the secrecy, the task is basically a simple one,” Iksol explained.  “You must go into the eastern kingdom of Shae’Ildarae, to the Cavern of Crystal.  There you will find a group of adventurers, led by a half-elf sorcerer of Solreth.  You must bring them here, dead or alive.”

“What is this rubbish?” Varcor spouted, no longer able to contain his frustration.  “First you tell me you have some secret mission for me, now you ask me to commit murder for the sake of our country?  We are at peace with the elves, but they still do not trust us!  Sending the prince of Faarthusia to attack one of their own – on their own land, no less! – is nothing short of asking them to retaliate!”

He looked to his father.  “Surely, with all the work you have done to win the favor of the fair folk, you cannot concur with this conspiracy?”

The king of the orcs, unaffected by Varcor’s ranting, gave his son a look of unfaltering conviction.  “In truth, the idea was mine.”

If Varcor had a reply to that, it was refusing to budge past his teeth.  He could only stare in horror at the madness that surrounded him.

“You forget, Varcor, that ever since you came to him, your father has been gifted with prescience,” Iksol said sternly, looking ruffled from the prince’s verbal barrage.  “His Majesty has had a vision concerning the future of our race, and you shall play an integral role in what is to come.”

Varcor calmed visibly at those words.  He knew of his father’s prophetic visions, and had actually witnessed most of them play out completely as his father said.  Though this ability had not been revealed to the public, most suspected that the king of Cagar-Tugan was either a genius or a seer.  Of course, those who did know of his gift knew he was both, for future sight (or accurate future sight) was a very rare talent and the ability to interpret the visions so well took incredible cognitive skill and memory.

“The half-elf Iksol mentioned is someone who can help to damn or save our people, by his life or death,” Toras said, picking up where his advisor left off.  “He is more valuable alive, but if he resists, then he must be destroyed.”

“Who is this sorcerer you would have me kill?” Varcor asked, still unsure of how he felt about the situation.

“His name is irrelevant, you may ask it when you meet him,” Toras said.

“What’s so special about him?” Varcor pressed.  “What could the kingdom of orcs possibly want with one half-elf?”

“If his exploits are left unchecked, he could bring us to ruin,” Toras explained.  “If he works with us, however, he could be the first stepping stone of our rise to respect and greatness.”

“What is it he could do for us?” Varcor asked, no longer quite so doubtful, but honestly curious about this person he had to find.

“In truth, it is his potential that interests me, not his current level of skill,” Toras said.  Varcor gave him a doubtful frown, but the king patted the air.  “I understand your reasonable reservation in this matter my son.  So I’ll tell you a little more of why I am interested.  It is my firm belief that this nameless half-elf sorcerer may help us fulfill the Prophecy of Unity.”

Varcor’s eyebrows rose and his pulse tripped and stumbled.  He certainly had not expected his father to say that.

Toras smiled at his son’s reaction, and went on.  “All of my visions since you have come to me are culminating in this one event, this precipice of glory or ruin.  You must bring him to me, or remove him as a threat.  Failure in this matter may result in our damnation.”

No pressure, Varcor thought sarcastically as he struggled to breathe normally.  This information was taxing to him, and the realization of the enormous burden his father had just placed unceremoniously upon his shoulders was stressful to say the least.

As if his father read his mind, he chuckled and shook his head.  “But you hardly need to hear that now, so soon after your journey.  I am sorry, my son, but you realize that I would not have mentioned it if it were not drastically important, don’t you?”

Varcor nodded.  “I understand father.”

Toras beamed.  “Good.  Do not think of this now.  Let us finish our tea, and then you can start getting the rest you need to be on the road again.”

A sudden thought struck the prince.  “When shall I be leaving?” Varcor asked.

Toras thought a moment, and then answered, “You must get proper rest, so no sooner than three or four days.”

Varcor nodded, relieved that he did not have to leave quite so soon.  He would have plenty of time to use the vast library at in the city and his father’s personal collection to try and find the person responsible for the Demon Horde, and their connection to Reylyn.  He would not have enough time for thorough research, but enough to have good leads when he began his proper search after he returned from his father’s task.  Not only that, but perhaps he could interpret or at least identify the tome Ganash had given him, which might give him insight to his father’s recent behavior. 

The future of Flamesoul seemed fraught with tasks.