The Orb of Truth

  Billwick Softfoot stood and turned toward them, “It is time, heroes of Ruauck-El.”

  “Come with us!” Bridazak pleaded.

  “It has been an honor, Bridazak. You must see this quest through to the end. Stay clear of the Reegs. Adon cahl-raw.” His final words spoken in Ancient Ordakian.

  Bridazak was awkwardly compelled to embrace Billwick, and felt a rush of warmth as the affection was returned with an even stronger grasp. The moment in the quiet folds of the old one’s white robes brought peace to Bridazak. The mysterious Dak finally separated from him and then threw the hair samples he’d gathered earlier into the open doorway of light. A blue aura erupted; the alchemy of the final components. The smell of mountain air blew into the temple.

  “Well met, Bridazak!”

  Dulgin and Abawken walked through together. Bridazak entered the brilliant opening backward, slowly taking each step, keeping his eyes on the grandfatherly Dak as he disappeared into the blue light. The wall that had kept Mannaseh’s forces at bay came down. Billwick knelt and lifted his eyes toward the ceiling once again, with his arms outstretched and a smile of victory on his face. The darkly clad humans apprehended the Ordakian and the mystic leader commanded others to give chase and enter the portal. Swords drawn, two approached the lighted doorway; as they entered their flesh sizzled and they watched themselves dissolve before their own horrified eyes. Screams faded as their ashes spread throughout the chamber. The gateway snapped closed like a bolt of lightning. A thunderous crack resounded.

  The staff of the wizard began to glow. An emerald hue revealed the twisted outlines and partial faces of Billwick’s captors, who turned the Ordakian to face the mage.

  “Where are they?”

  “Beyond reach. You are too late.”

  “Who are you?”

  Billwick responded with silence. The mystic leaned in, “We have ways of making you talk, so I suggest you be forthcoming, Halfling.”

  He did not speak, but instead smiled brightly.

  “Fine! Take him away!”

  The two militia tried to push him forward but they were unable. Their hands, gripping his softly glowing skin, began to slip, finding nothing to grasp. More men came in, but the mystic gestured for them to hold. They stopped and watched the mysterious halfling transform into pure white light and ascend beyond the ceiling above. Each man raised his arms to shield his eyes from the brilliance, and then the darkness returned. Billwick Softfoot was gone.

  Out of rage, the mystic pointed his staff and a searing jet of fire ignited the two who had failed to retain their captive. The others backed away from the human bonfire.

  “Manasseh will not be pleased.”

  The trio now stood in a rocky valley with mountains on either side of them, near a small creek running through the sandstone. The land was bare, with little vegetation growing in the warm and dry terrain. The sunlight was already waning as it descended behind the mountain.

  “Well, I suggest we follow the creek and see where it takes us,” Abawken suggested.

  “I’m glad you guys are here with me. I couldn’t imagine doing this alone,” Bridazak professed.

  “Ah, don’t get all sentimental on us now, ya blundering fool. My axe is getting hungry so we best be finding it some food, if you know what I mean. That damn mystic would really hit the spot right about now.”

  “Master Dwarf, you are one amazing individual. I pray I never encounter your equal.”

  “Not to worry about that, Huey, I’m the only one left in my family.”

  They began their descent into the valley, following the creek in search of someone named Xan. Bridazak stretched open the Scroll of Remembrance and thought about his name, Bridazak Baiulus, which felt both foreign and familiar at the same time. Could this artifact really connect him to his unknown past? He laughed inside; this was not about him, it was about the Orb. He walked alongside his friends, an old one, and now a new one, and refocused on finding the peculiar healer who somehow managed to live in pain. He smiled as he thought of Billwick Softfoot, and couldn’t deny the strange feeling inside, the stirring of deep emotions he had buried for so long. It felt like hope.

  .

  10

  The Puppet King

  “How many times must a King see failure in his subjects before he says ‘enough’?” King Manasseh’s words lingered in the slightly drooped heads of six mystics in the circular, marble-floored tower. The Tower of Recall harbored four open ledges leading to the view outside. He menacingly approached the lead mystic, who dodged making eye contact with his master. The feared King scanned around at the other red robed subjects. The room remained deathly quiet.

  “How does an Ordakian continue to elude my best?” There was no response from anyone.

  “ANSWER ME!!!” The King shouted at the top of his lungs. Spittle flew from his enraged lips into the face of the wizard in front of him.

  The trembling voice crackled to life, “My King, it has had some help.”

  “A Dwarf and a human? That is what you consider help? That is what’s besting my best? Then perhaps I need to find better!”

  “My liege, there is something different about this group.”

  “Different? Explain yourself.”

  “Your magnificence, I have sensed a power that radiates from the Ordakian. It is something that I have not felt before. Perhaps it is a magical item. We have discussed this amongst ourselves, and—”

  “Discussed?” the enraged King interrupted him. “I am the one who gives permission to discuss, Constable! Your group of misfits sicken me!”

  “Forgive us, King Manasseh.”

  “Three times they were in your sights and three times you failed to retrieve for me the lowliest, the weakest, the most insignificant creature in all the realms! I will not stand for this, Vevrin!”

  “Yes, my King. I will not fail you again.”

  Manasseh laughed aloud, “I decree upon your words that any further failure will result in your immediate removal from existence. I will see firsthand to the torture of your body and soul for a hundred years.”

  “Yes, my—”

  “Get out of my sight! You disgust me! All of you!”

  Each head bowed to the sound of shuffling feet quickly exiting the sparse room. The walls were made of a black stone and the grey marbled floor had veins of red that swirled in random patterns. In the center of the chamber was a large, five-foot-wide pedestal with a silver basin at the top, filled with murky dark water. Manasseh walked to the southern balcony and leaned his hands on the black stone railing. He stood on the highest point of his castle and gazed upon his vast kingdom, but all he could see was the gaping wound of failure left behind by incompetence. There was no more room for error; he would take no further chances on Vevrin. It was time for him to take matters into his own hands.

  For a moment he watched the laborers working on a new section of his castle expansion below. The hammering and chipping of stone spoke to him of progress. A training arena to groom better soldiers was being prepared. He had already started to gather the young men from the villages, towns and cities.

  Off in the distance, his pet dragons and their riders practiced maneuvers over the desert. The grey sand, like ash from a volcano, was the endless marker for those travelling toward Kerrith Ravine. This castle was one of a dozen throughout his land; a military deployment center. His men trained in a place feared by all, The Desert of Guilt. The deadly and mysterious Reegs from Kerrith Ravine roamed the dunes.

  He spotted one of his commanders sending out a group of ten training soldiers into the ashen terrain. This was their final test, after all of the combat techniques were ingrained into their bodies. Half would return, hopefully, and become part of his elite. In months he would be ready to start invading the other Horn Kings, and then nothing would stand in his way, if only he could find this elusive Dak, and gain the favor of the Dark Lord.

  “What are you doing Halfling? Where are you going?” He whispered the quest
ions as he looked out onto the horizon.

  King Manasseh turned to face the empty room. His black cape caught the wind as he walked back inside to approach the waist high pedestal in the center. The cloudy liquid was still—he stared at his reflection. It was time for him to gain information to help him track down this fugitive.

  He plunged his face into the magical Pool of Recall, gripping the rim of the basin. Bringing Vevrin to mind, and then the Halfling, he was shown the three encounters that had transpired—the lair of Oculus, the town of Lonely Tear, and then finally, the temple in Everwood. He waited for the pool to show him anything more he might have missed, bitterly viewing the temple scene—the site of his greatest disappointment so far—again and again. The Dark Lord, whose taunting tone still rang in his ears, ‘Another chance, my son,’ had come to inform him of their whereabouts. How had he found them when his mystics could not? Once given the location, Vevrin had embarrassed him with his failed attempt at opening a portal into their position. The Dark One stepped in and completed it with his own power, but Vevrin had still allowed them to escape. Where were these insolents now? He demanded the pool show him what he could not see—how could he reach them? He pulled himself upright, the murky water leaving dark tracks as it ran down and soaked into his tunic. His face wore a menacing grin of satisfaction.

  He winced in pain as his senses returned, realizing he must have passed out, again. It was dark as night in the dungeon hole. He began the arduous task of attempting to learn the status of his own body. Blood dripped from his chin and he barely heard the sporadic splash as it hit the cold floor below him. His wrists and ankles were completely numb, which he was thankful for, as he remained suspended in the air by manacles chained to the wall. Uncertain if he was capable of wiggling his toes, he remembered his hair-patched feet and his head of hair being pulled out in clumps at his last torture session, bringing with it rips of skin, like weeds pulled from a garden. That brought on the nausea once again. His left eye was swollen shut, and his right ear had been chewed to pieces by one of the tormentor’s pet rats. His nose and several other bones were broken or shattered, and intense pulses of sharp pain periodically shot through his broken body.

  Spilfer Teehle had seen better days. He hadn’t told them about the box with the strange writing that only Bridazak could understand. Keeping him alive long enough to give them all the information they needed was their goal, but he wished his last breath of life would leave his body. Enduring all the pain and long stretches of silence was beyond any Ordakian. He missed Bridazak, and even Dulgin’s dwarven tirades. Spilf’s split lip curled with a slight smile as he realized he even longed to be called ‘Stubby’ again. It seemed it would be a miracle if he got out of this one. They were wearing his will down. He was running out of hope.

  Spilf was suddenly jostled. He could barely hear through his damaged eardrums; everything sounded so far away. His good eye fluttered open and shut, but he couldn’t assemble his wits enough to grasp just who was in front of him. One of his shackles came undone around his wrist, and half of his body slumped forward awkwardly, but was caught and balanced mid-swing. Another shackle released around his broken right ankle. He was being freed, but by whom? The person was saying something to him, but he only heard garbled sounds. Seconds later he was lying on the ground. He cracked open his eyelid and was blinded by torch light. He fought through the stinging pain as his eyes slowly worked to focus on the blurry form hovering over him. A liquid of some kind was poured over his face, and the healing began as the magic of the potion was released into his body. His vision cleared, and the once-deadened sound returned as his ears popped open to the voice of his best friend. It was Bridazak standing over him. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and reached up to grab his cheeks.

  “Spilf! It’s me!”

  “Bridazak! It’s really you. How?” Spilf coughed.

  “We came to rescue you.”

  “Where is Dulgin?”

  “He is guarding the portal we need to go through.”

  “I didn’t tell them anything, Bridazak.”

  “It’s okay. Are you able to stand?”

  “They broke my ankles. Do you have another healing potion?”

  “I found the potion inside your cell. There was only one. What did they do to you, Spilf?”

  “They asked so many questions.”

  “What do they know about us?”

  “They tracked us using the mystics, and they wanted to know who was helping you escape. They lost contact and were unable to scry your location several days ago.”

  “I know.”

  “Does that mean you opened it?”

  “Not yet. What else do they know?”

  “They kept asking me how you were blocking their magic, but I never told them about the box, or the prophecy.”

  Bridazak paused, “That box is nothing but trouble. It is what caused this entire mess.”

  “Don’t say that, Bridazak. They didn’t kill me, so it must be significant. Even after all of this, I still believe there is something important about it. It chose you, and you must find a way to open it. Remember, you are the only one who can decipher the writing.”

  “I won’t do it unless I have you by my side.”

  “Bridazak, Kiratta said to protect it at all cost. You shouldn’t have come.”

  “It will be okay. Let’s try and get you out of here.”

  Bridazak tried to lift Spilf up, but the dead weight of his body was too much for him.

  “I will have to get Dulgin to help carry you out. I will be right back.”

  “Can I see Lester and Ross? I miss them so much.”

  “They are standing guard at the portal with Dulgin.”

  Spilf’s body jolted to Bridazak’s strange response. His longtime friend suddenly let him drop to the floor, carelessly. Spilf watched as Bridazak transformed before his eyes into King Manasseh. His heart sank, and his last wisps of hope dwindled as he realized he had failed his friends and given his enemy all that he knew. Death was imminent. Soldiers entered the room; the sound of the dragging chains being gathered to shackle him echoed in his healed ears.

  “I’m sorry, Bridazak,” he whispered.

  “Thank you, Halfling. You have been very helpful,” King Manasseh spoke.

  “You can’t stop him.”

  “And what makes you think that? This box he possesses?”

  “A day is coming when—”

  “When what?” he chided.

  “When people will speak of you no more and your kingdom will fall. I won’t rest, even in the afterlife, until that day comes.”

  “We will see about that,” the puppet King said while walking out of the cell to leave Spilf trapped within his guilt.

  Vevrin stood before his King once again. They were alone in the war chamber, on opposite ends of the large, wooden, central table. Several maps of the realms laid scattered across the top. The walls of the room were adorned with large tapestries, depicting past battles of King Manasseh’s victories, and he looked forward to adding more. Vibrant colors and masterful stitching told the tales of his conquests, but all that mattered in his mind was finding one-lowly-little Halfling.

  Manasseh rolled out a map of his lands; sliding his hands and extending his arms to smooth it out, “Here is where we have seen and encountered this, ‘Bridazak’. There is no pattern, so it is a waste of time to try to strategize where he will appear next. Also, you are still unable to scry his location,” he accused, “so, we must entertain this prophecy that our captive mentioned. What do we know of a prophecy?”

  “It is fragmented, cryptic and not tracked by any of our historians; it’s more story and myth than a recorded or known prophecy, my King. The stories now seem all but forgotten.”

  “Well, I suggest you start remembering these stories, because somewhere in them we will find the halfling and his destination.”

  “It revolves around The Holy City, the ancient city lost to Kerrith Ravine. No one has
ever seen the city since it was separated, five hundred years ago, from the rest of the realm. Some even say that the city is pure myth and never existed, though we do have sparse writings and occasionally the rare, long-living creature that gives testimony to it.”

  “Perhaps this place has something to do with where he is going. But, how will he get through Kerrith Ravine? I think our scope is too grand; we need to simplify our search. The halflings are friends—good friends. I believe I know how to bring out our missing Ordakian. It’s an old method, but highly effective when dealing with people who have a heart.”

  Vevrin understood what he wanted, “I will have riders set to go before the day’s end.”

  “I want to see something within an hour. There is no time to waste, as I don’t know what I’m racing against, exactly.”

  His longest serving mystic saw another opportunity to pet his master’s ego, “Your intelligence and wisdom are great, my Lord.”

  Manasseh leaned back with steepled hands under his chin, “Vevrin, I can feel another addition of a tapestry to my wall forthcoming. Don’t you think? Once we have captured this Halfling, we will be launching our offensive against the Eastern Horn King, but in order for that to take place, I need you to make this happen. Do not fail me again. Continue your research into this prophecy, and go as far as necessary, even if you have to reach out to your brother in the West.”

  Vevrin cooly glanced at Manasseh’s countenance at the mention of his sibling, and checked his own before replying, “As you wish. Would you like me to dispatch the prisoner, since he has given us the information we needed?”

  “Dispatch? That is such a clean word, Vevrin. I like, ‘maimed till he goes insane,’ or, drain his blood for the dogs, or even leave him to be eaten to death by rats.” A dark thought washed over the King’s face and then he continued, “No, let’s keep him alive for the time being. You may go.”