Age of Demons_In Search of the Amulet Read online

  First Wizard looked up, his kindly eyes bearing the weight of the threat outlined in the pages of his tome. “Are you satisfied, Talarren?”

  Talarren nodded sombrely. “It stills me when I hear these ancient prophecies. I feel a link between the Age of Demons, events in Reswald and these Highland pirates. Which is why we must find the Amulet of Power fashioned so long ago – to protect us from this Age.”

  “Indeed,” First Wizard answered. “This artefact needs to be found. It offers complete invulnerability against Dark Arts and the spells of demons. More than ever we need to find it. I have been remiss in its search, dulled by an apparent age of peace.”

  Talarren nodded grimly.

  “I have always known you to have a sixth sense, my dear Talarren,” First Wizard whispered. “I and Ehud, my counterpart in this ancient Pact of Rohalgamoth, believe a prophetic spirit works within you, along with your Ranger abilities. You shall have Winchester to accompany you. But can I also suggest another?”

  Talarren looked up, confused. Why would First Wizard suggest another magic user to join his party? Surely Winchester was enough, especially if Caspar were to accompany him. If anything, he would choose Gatby or someone of similar abilities and experience.

  “Why, may I ask, First Wizard?” Talarren probed as respectfully as he could.

  “As a Guardian of Rohalgamoth, I too have a sixth sense. I feel she will be suitable for your journeys. Though I must warn you, she is green.”

  Nothing green appealed to Talarren on such a dangerous journey. His expression told First Wizard as much. First Wizard laughed benignly. “Always a professional, eh, Talarren? Trust me. I have a hunch about this one. Only, be patient. She can learn much from you. And she has a temperament and spirit you need.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A maiden. Not yet twenty. From Alpha Circle.”

  “That’s both a good and bad start. One of your protégés?”

  “Not mine precisely. One of my senior wizards. She has great potential.”

  “Can we risk someone simply with potential on such a perilous quest?”

  “I believe so. Trust me, Talarren.” A mysterious twinkle lit up First Wizard’s kindly eyes. Talarren nodded obediently, but harboured grave reservations. How could he refuse a suggestion from a Guardian of Rohalgamoth?

  “It’s a shame,” Talarren said as he moved to leave. “I know a half-orc I’d love to have on this quest. But he’s so far away.” He looked at First Wizard, who watched Talarren with benign eyes. “On second thoughts, I wouldn’t ask him even if he was here. He has another path. He runs a tavern.”

  Chapter Three

  Perry and Elfindi in Alonçane

  ON THE RARE OCCASIONS he was home, Perry never tired of the privileged city views his balcony afforded him. An adventurer by trade, he nevertheless delighted in coming home to his chic apartment decorated after the tastes of a fashionable lady with whom he enjoyed a brief dalliance.

  Inside, his best friend, lounging across a leather and lace sofa, looked up. He hardly recognised Perry without chainmail, sword, trim beard and thick shock of shoulder-length locks. They had just returned from a long adventure and looked forward to a few days rest and recreation.

  Alonçane, capital of Lafarrhine and greatest city in the known world – as boasted by its inhabitants - possessed an intricate skyline that dazzled visitors and citizens alike. In every direction one encountered cosmopolitan beauty, architectural ingenuity, wealth and incomparable size. It had once taken Perry two hours to carry a pregnant sow from one side of Alonçane to another, from its imposing Western Gate to the imported Obelisk of Linmosterlich marking its eastern border. For losing a tavern bet.

  Ever since then Perry liked to brag that no-one else had ever accomplished such a feat.

  “It’s not exactly a feat to boast about,” his long-time companion pointed out.

  “No Games athlete could do what I did,” he nonetheless boasted. “They probably haven’t even crossed Alonçane.”

  “I’m told they run around it every week,” Elfindi corrected him.

  “Yes,” Perry conceded, “but not walking through the city, like I did, carrying a pregnant sow.”

  Inside, lounging lazily on the sofa polishing his belt buckle, Elfindi shook his head. Whether that emaciated sow was even pregnant was debatable.

  Back on his balcony, Perry filled his lungs noisily with fresh air, his confidence sky-high now that he’d put one of his recent courting embarrassments behind him. “Tell me, Elfindi, which do you prefer – adventure or the treasure?”

  His wiry half-elf friend answered immediately. “Adventure, no question about it.” He spat with practiced precision on his bronze belt buckle, then polished it carefully. A tiny glob of spittle had landed on his sleeve before he realised his inaccuracy and quickly looked up to see if Perry had noticed.

  Perry had. His sharp burst of laughter startled a group of pedestrians promenading below. “Keep walking, gentlemen,” Perry told them. “Oops, and milady. Oh, milady, I’d wear my hair differently if I were you.” They glared at Perry contemptuously and continued on, unwilling to squabble with such a rugged-looking courtier.

  Perry turned to Elfindi. “It’s the treasure for me. Let’s drink to treasure.”

  “Let’s go to Adventurer’s Arms,” Elfindi suggested.

  Perry slapped his thigh. “What’s gotten into you? You rarely visit this spectacular city, full of more excitement than you could hope to experience in a lifetime, and you get itchy feet for more adventure. So soon?”

  “Of course I want to explore Alonçane,” Elfindi retorted, his green-tinged skin contrasting nicely with his friend’s bronzed complexion - or accomplice, some would say. “But we haven’t had a real adventure in months.”

  “We’ve just returned from one.”

  “Adventure? You call that adventure?” Elfindi’s dextrous hands buffed the silver studs lining his leather belt.

  Perry threw up his arms. “What about that landlord in Lorenzo? We sorted him out. He won’t be so quick to bully his tenants next time.”

  Elfindi shook his head, his pony-tail wagging like the tail of a black dog. “I’m talking about real adventure.”

  “Let’s go to the docks,” Perry suggested. “We’ll go to Adventurer’s Arms tonight. Besides, Monday’s are best for that.”

  “What’s today?”

  Perry pulled a face. “What do you mean what’s today? Who doesn’t know what day it is?”

  “We’re on holidays. Who cares what the day is.”

  “It’s Sunday, little boy.”

  “Thank you, O mighty mage, for knowing which day it is. When is this Hall of Summons thing?”

  “Fridays.”

  “Only Friday?”

  “Well, it opens every day by some boring notary named Buster who doesn’t know his left hand from his right. He prances around pretending he is Chief Magistrate of the Realm, but Friday is when you go. That’s announcement day. Come on, let’s head Dockside. We’ll get a carriage.”

  “Fallen out with this boring notary have you? Why doesn’t that surprise me? Carriage? We’re adventurers, not lords.”

  From the balcony Perry pounced inside like a lion. He seized his shining sword with remarkable speed and thrust it through the belly of an imaginary orc. The “orc” turned out to be an expensive cushion. “I can feel it in my bones. We’re going to land a treasure hoard soon. I know it.” He sheathed his sword into its decorated scabbard. “Let’s go see Alonçane’s sights.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Elfindi straightened his hair. Fresh tunic. Polished boots. Belt and buckle. He patted his dangerously sharp jewelled dagger concealed inside his garment.

  They each changed outfits three times. Perry revelled in donning his finery, sizing himself up in his antique, full-length mirror, finally settling on his best indigo tunic and new black, velvet-lined cloak. Elfindi donned his tailored red cotton shirt and lavish Alonçane leather boots. Each
wore a thick crocodile-skin belt glistening with shiny bronze buckle. Perry’s expensive scabbard hung impressively by his side, the gleaming hilt of his sword revealing a finely-crafted weapon. Elfindi wore a broadsword preferred by half-elves or men of shorter stature, its slick scabbard decorated with colourful and intricate Elven designs.

  In high spirits they sauntered through Alonçane’s rowdy and rambunctious boulevards and byways.

  “No watchhouse antics this time.”

  Perry understood. In their seven years together Elfindi often had to bail Perry out after being arrested for minor misdemeanor, mostly public brawling. Their temperaments and respective skills, they kept telling themselves and anyone willing to listen, perfectly complemented each another. But sometimes Perry’s immaturity landed them in trouble.

  Passers-by of every shape and description filled Alonçane’s streets going about their daily business.

  “Watchhouse days are over for me.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “Ye of little faith,” Perry said off-handedly. “No longer will I bring shame on my family name.”

  “Of course,” Elfindi replied.

  A polished carriage drove by, its white horses draped in colourful livery. “Don’t recognise that coat-of-arms,” Perry remarked. “Yet another foreign lord visiting Alonçane.”

  A worker passed by carrying a sack of flour. Perry addressed himself to the confused worker. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “Never mind, my good man. And watch you don’t drop flour on my new leather boots.”

  Chapter Four

  Docklands

  THEY MEANDERED TOWARD’S ALONÇANE’S impressive docks. As they approached they instinctively stopped to take in the sight that greeted them. Shouting and bustling noises filled streets and laneways teeming with people all the way to the harbour.

  They passed a steady stream of oxcarts filled with merchandise. Crates were crammed on top of each other piled high with flax, seeds, grains, fruit, nuts, rugs, jars of honey and barrels of beer. Wagons carrying weapons, armour and foodstuffs rattled along cobbled streets. Barrels of wine stacked on barrows flung out heady wine-scent. Carts, wagons and trolleys filled with silks, crafts, artwork and a vast array of specialties from farmers, craftsmen and artisans of Lafarrhine made their way toward the docks, ready to be packed into ships bound for ports near and far. Horses and mules were led this way and that by their masters. Horses pulling ornate carriages trotted by, their well-dressed occupants hastening to aristocratic destinations. Workmen pushed trolleys of cabbages and aubergines. Barrows of apples brushed past. In squares and tavern balconies men of all races rubbed shoulders and conducted business. Rough sailors and canny traders lined licentious laneways and unappealing alleys. Norsemen, Mugars, Easterners, Highlanders and countless other races, locals and foreign traders gave Alonçane its rich mix of cultural variety. An odd dwarf, elf, half-elf, halfling or half-orc added an exotic presence into the mix. It was a melting pot from every corner of the continents. Closer to the docks unsavoury types milled about, no doubt transacting dubious deals away from the harbourmaster and his agents’ watchful eyes.

  “Will you just look at that?” Perry said with a sweeping flurry of his hand, taking in the frenetic activity of Alonçane’s vast Docklands. “Have you ever seen such a thing?”

  Indeed Elfindi had, on previous visits to Alonçane. He’d visited ports of large cities before, but the size of Alonçane’s harbour took his breath away. It was divided into two enormous sections, split by a massive stone structure extending far out into the bay. Battlemented towers lined with platforms of trebuchets, catapults and other defence structures stood ready to defend the city. On one side floated a fleet of warships, war galleys and cogs, plus dozens of armed hulks tied to platforms or weighing anchor. Elfindi guessed there must have been a total of over three hundred warships. Men-at-arms in Alonçane colours patrolled the wide harbour platform. Massive buildings and warehouses filled with war supplies sat alongside barracks so numerous they looked like a field of anthills. Trolleys, cranes and winches appeared every so often, like a line of mechanical beasts, waiting to load or unload supplies. Further along, through iron grills preventing unauthorised entry, one could see naval shipwrights hammering, hewing and crafting hulls, working wood or fashioning masts even at that late hour.

  At one end of its massive walkway a circular platform of stone formed a solid lighthouse that stood higher than any temple spire. On its civilian side, so many ships stretched across it Elfindi lost count. The scale of importing and exporting boggled his mind. Dockworkers in their tens of hundreds loaded and unloaded every type of cargo imaginable. Braying sheep and llamas sounded through shouting, lifting and bustling. Giant cranes and wooden structures rigged with pulleys, winches and wide nets raised and lowered to angry yells from harbourmaster, officials, sea captains and dockworkers. They squeaked and whined with shouts and curses of stevedores. Wooden platforms and gangways joined dock to ship. Men carried barrels, sacks, baskets and bundles of every description. They herded horses, goats, sheep, chickens, deer and other livestock. Two foal hippogriff squawked and stamped impatiently in a cage. Occasionally a group of shackled men were led at spear point somewhere to face the consequences of their crimes – piracy or some similar misdeed. Elfindi opened and shut his eyes twice to see a small group of armed goblins, yes, armed goblins accompanied by what looked like city officials. A bear was unloaded from a nearby ship in an iron cage.

  Harbourmaster Hall was a hive of activity, with goods being registered, paperwork completed and contracts signed. Agents, buyers and sellers, owners of ships and captains, riggers, oarsmen, hunters with pelts, everyone fussed around the chaos, bustle and cacophony of the docks. Smugglers and thieves plied their nefarious trade in the midst of this manic menagerie. Rat-catchers brought in their cats and pythons to rid galleys of vermin. Druids brought in their own secrets to rid ships of unwanted stowaways.

  Inns, taverns, coffee houses and beer halls packed the vicinity, patrons spilling out into tables and outdoor terraces. Selected taverns offered good food and ale and a decent place to lay one’s head. For a good price, of course. Other taverns were not places well-bred mothers brought their daughters.

  “Which one?” Perry asked.

  “Let’s toss.” He took out a copper. On one side was engraved a unicorn head. On its opposite side was a donkey’s backside. Well, not really its backside. In reality it was a donkey carrying a load toward a field.

  “Unicorn head,” Perry said while flipping his copper high. “Remember, I don’t want my brother bailing us out of trouble.”

  “Well don’t cause us trouble then! Donkey’s backside,” Elfindi declared triumphantly. “I win. I choose that one.” He pointed to a respectable tavern.

  “Boring,” Perry said. “Did you see which way it was going to land?”

  “How could I?” Elfindi asked innocently, a glint in his eye.

  “Because I suspect you can.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Much to Perry’s disappointment they ate a hearty meal, drank good ale and discussed the merits of cogs over galleys with captains and seamen returning from ocean voyages. No fighting. No duels. No arguments. “Next time,” Perry said hopefully.

  Elfindi left Alonçane docks suitably impressed. They ambled back towards the government buildings around Great Square, a good twenty minute walk.

  “Perry, remember that massive Norseman we passed as he headed back to his galley filled with ermine furs?”

  In a mocking way, Perry suddenly imitated him, puffing out his chest, throwing back his broad shoulders and scowling at everyone around him like they were peasants not worth a pinch of salt. “How could I not? With that smug gait and massive battle axe? His ostentatious chieftain’s shield strapped to his back? Those pretentious ceremonial furs?”

  “And three cronies that looked more like gaolers of the undead than Norse traders?
”

  “All Norse traders look like gaolers of the undead. I’ll be a banshee’s hag if those mugs weren’t pirates. But yes, I did notice them. What of it?”

  Making sure to shield his hand from surrounding shops and passers-by, Elfindi revealed a large pouch snuggled neatly into his palm, a testimony to his pickpocketing skills.

  “What the…? How…?” Perry stood on their cobblestoned road, directly under a master jeweller’s tastefully painted sign. Two dandies rode by on horseback. A man carrying a pale of milk dodged out of Elfindi’s way with a, “Mind you don’t stop any old place on a busy road, sire, when people are working.”

  Perry cast his mind back to when they encountered the Norsemen. He and Elfindi were approaching the dock, surrounded on all sides by unloading, shouting and cursing. A Norse longship lay snugly berthed between two trading ships, its interior filled with ermine furs in packaged bundles protected by coarse sacks carried by its crew across a sturdy gangplank into waiting wagons drawn by long-suffering oxen.

  Not far from away, a Norse captain had approached to their left. To their right two red-faced men strained at a rope attempting to move a dozen stubborn llamas. They suddenly relented, throwing both men into Perry and Elfindi, who in turn were pushed toward the three Norsemen. At that very moment on their left, a horse suddenly got spooked by savage hissing from an enormous pair of caged crocodiles pulled along a dray by draft horses. The horse reared dangerously close to the Norsemen, who instinctively stepped back, bumping into Elfindi. Their chief grunted savagely, as if Elfindi was at fault. His offsider rudely pushed Elfindi away. The other scowled, fingers flying to his hand axe.

  A flow of adulation flooded Perry’s handsome, sunburnt features. “You never cease to surprise me. You fleeced him during that scuffle?” A pretty lady in a feathered red chapeau walked past, peering longer than was advisable at both men. Elfindi and Perry bowed. They smiled in open admiration as she passed.