The fortress Occa-fer

         







The Fortress Occa-fer





“You pay me now.”

Arndenon stared at their Bendeen guide, his outstretched, opened hand—the large toothy grin and greed filled eyes. The guide’s other hand rested on a flattened coin bag hung from his belt. A spry, older, pot-bellied man dressed in a weathered, sleeveless, long shirt and tattered pants that shredded down to his knees, the guide, Narras, extended his hand a little farther, smiled a little broader—acted like the simple gestures would be enough to get him the coins he wanted.

With no words other than movement to turn from the scraggly appearing poor man, Arndenon looked across the gentle flowing waters of the Turine River, from the clump of trees and brush, towards the ruins of the Occa-fer. The fortress had a long history, starting off as a cavalry outpost, succeeding to an armed garrison then a flank of well trained, professional soldiers. Through each incarnation, the occupiers renovated and upgraded its walls and defenses that stood unyielding to the attacks by the Glonadens, Pitans and Cagthans. Occa-fer kept its purpose for over five hundred years before the soldiers abandoned it to time and memory—lost in a vast land of branching trees, prickly brush and head height grass. It was the fortress as the guide expected them to believe it was.

“You will get no coins until we know for certain it is Occa-fer.”

Arndenon glimpsed around to eye the haughty bodied Caderen address the guide. Bathed in the color black—boots, pants, shirt, gloves, beard and hair, Hartinal grew hostile from an upbringing as an orphan, unloved but for the girls whose level of affection could be bought with the right amount of coin. He learned to fight in the slave camps of Noln-tee, weapon use in the Pens of Billesbor, and to kill as an executioner in the court of King Philidor the Tenth. He pulled out a knife, of several he carried and raised it into view.

“If you have lied and led us astray, we will cut and leave you for the Karibes.”

The guide frowned, closed and pulled back his hand—glanced away to the others of their group.

Arndenon followed Narras’ motion, glimpsed the spearman, Bortic, the Purran wizard, Lazrador, the Aglan priestess, Sharwae, and Taulo, the sort of a thief, weapons-man—an adventurer in the loosest choice of words; and wondered why he traveled with them. He had asked the question many times since they had left Morvencord and had yet to find an answer why. The most troubling thing he could not understand was why he stayed when he could have left-never joined them.

He went to Morvencord in search of the treasure of the fortress on the words from a man dying by the river Lhadris and asked for a guide in the city when he met the Aglan priestess. He had adventured with her once before, found her methods crude, but efficient to the task before them. She overheard his inquires, reasoned it could only be for the fortress and proposed a joint venture with her and others who came to the same task. They had Narras, who would guide them for a few coins, food, drink—and the promise of his not entering the fortress for the curse upon it.

They formed their group in a bar that seemed more like a barn, sealed their union with a toast of warm Voak grain and Mallow leaf ale then started what would be a twenty two day journey to the fortress.

Shaking his head, Arndenon turned to the guide. “What of the Vendren? They are said to occupy the fortress.”

“No Vendren. They go far.”

Narras pushed his hand towards the distance then lifted his other arm—pointed at the fortress.

“Occa-fer safe, you go.”

Bortic frowned. “If the fortress is safe, where are all the men who came for the treasure?”

“They in Occa-fer…. Where you will be….”

“After all these years,” Arndenon asked, confused by the guide’s response.

“Then we will see them when we get there.”

The thief picked up his pack, turned and started away.

“Wait.”

Hartinal stopped with a step and looked back to Narras—pointed with the knife he still held.

“You are the guide and will lead us to the fortress as you are paid to do.”

The guide patted his coin bag with a hand, grinned. “You come.”

Behind Narras, Hartinal, the others followed to the dilapidated bridge across river to the fortress.

Having the same doubts to the others’ companionship, Arndenon lingered to go with them. When Sharwae looked over her shoulder with a teasing smile, Arndenon moved after her, followed the others downriver to the bridge, crossed over the water to the ruins.

The Bendeen guide continued to a broken section of the wall, climbed onto the stone, pointed out with a hand and looked back with a grin—a mischievous smile that seemed daring of the others to follow him further.

“Occa-fer.”

“We will see.”

The thief had taken the first steps towards entering the ruins before half of the others realized he had spoken. No sooner than he had gone inside, Hartinal and the others moved into the ruins through the main gate—its door gone from the passage of time.

Glancing around the exterior of the fortress—the emptiness of the river and surrounding land, Arndenon walked to the broken section of the wall and climbed atop the low stone where Narras stood.

“The fool was right about the men who came before us.”

Taking a quick look at Sharwae, her hand extended towards the ground and courtyard, Arndenon saw the skeletons and remains of men who died in the pursuit of the treasure said to be buried in the fortress. Bleached white from the sun, the bones must have rested there for ages, while others seemed fresher from within weeks or months of death—scattered by the Karibs that feasted on the flesh of the dead. Dry, dark brown leaves littered the ground, blown in from the trees outside.

Bortic walked a few steps into the compound, glanced around—gestured.

“This is a fortress. There should be dead here.”

Bortic kicked the skull of one of the dead, sent it rolling a short distance across the ground—looked up.

“It does not mean this is the fortress we are looking for.”

Arndenon shook his head, surprised by the spearman’s disregard for the dead. “This place fits what I have heard of Occa-fer.” He pointed. “There is the sundial the fortress is supposed to have.”

Almost every fortress has a sundial of sorts. It does not mean this is Occa-fer.”

Sharwae left the company of the wizard, walked forward, crouched down and swept some of the leaves away.

“There is a stone beneath these leaves. It is what the fortress is said to have.”

“Occa-fer is not the only fortress that had stone flooring,” Hartinal pulled out his sword. “It looks like the guide has misled. I think it is time we release him from our services.”

“We have not looked around enough to know if this is Occa-fer,” Arndenon stabbed out with his hand. “Like the sundial. There is to be an inscription on the stone.”

“Then let us see if there is. Furdral…!”

The wizard swung his arm and hand before him, brought a burst of air through the fortress—swept the leaves from the ground and revealed a large, circular stone beneath them.

“There are carvings on the stone.”

Sharwae walked around the disc.

“One is an image of a Karib, a tree, tower and a grave. There is a fortress gate, a hill, the river and a stone hut. Here is a sword and shield, a fruit, the emblem of the Hanavas, and the last is a carving of soldiers.”

Arndenon nodded, looked past Hartinal towards the thief—Sharwae. “There should also be an inscription in the stone. He paused, drifted in thought. “With the dial, give it a spin.”

“To the vault, look twice to see the treasure within….”

Sharwae read the final words. “How did you know?”

Shaking his head, Arndenon looked to the guide. “He told us the truth. This is the fortress, Occa-fer.”

Narras smiled, held out his hand.

“You pay me now.”

Hartinal held his sword into view.

“You have your life in payment, guide. Go, before we take that from you.”

The smile and extended hand remained.

“I will get rid of him.”

Taulo raised his bow—readied with an arrow.

“No,” Arndenon thrust out a hand to stop the execution. Seeing the thief let down the bow, he reached into a pocket with his opposite hand—pulled out four Sedarian coins and gave them to the guide. “Go,” he nodded once towards the river. “Hurry home where you belong.”

The guide cinched his bony fingers around the coins, turned to leave then came back.

“Death in Occa-fer. Death for them. You go to live.”

Arndenon grinned, pushed out a near silent laugh—looked towards the river. The thought came to leave the others to their fates—but for the treasure. “I will follow in a moment. I need to speak to the girl.”

“Stop….”

“Go,” Arndenon shoved the guide from the wall, watched Narras land on his feet then move away.

“You….”

Knowing the word sounded for him, Arndenon turned, jumped from the wall and faced the others. They had separated to have clean lines of sight—the better to attack from.

“No one told you to pay the guide.”

“I did not know permission was needed to give him what he was owed? Besides you wanted him gone and now he is.”

“You are not in charge here and it is time you learn who is.”

Arndenon reached for his sword, prepared to fight, but stopped as movement caught his eye. Sharwae walked towards him in a beguiling step, seemingly unconcerned to the others. She smiled temptingly, embraced—kissed him then pressed her lips to his ear. She whispered.

“If you know where the treasure is, it will save your life. But know, the others will kill you when it is found.”

Sharwae pulled from the embrace.

“I know you love me, but there is no future for you with me. You should go like the guide told you.”

Arndenon smiled. “If I leave, you will never find the treasure,” eyes drifted to Hartinal. “I can help you find it, unless you still want to fight over my paying the guide?”

Hartinal sheathed his sword.

“The guide is gone as you said. That leaves more treasure for us. Now it is time for you to earn your place in our group.”

“Where is the treasure? We will search for it.”

Taulo pointed with a finger. “He knows where it is. Let him take us to it.”

“I have a guess where it is,” Arndenon lifted a hand to the courtyard—a vague movement directed at no specific place to anyone who saw it. “It deals with the dial and the inscription on its base.”

Sharwae pointed. “The inscription said to turn the dial towards the vault to find the treasure.”

“Let us see if it is right.”

Taulo remained to his words, like he expected another to complete the task the priestess spoke of then with a haughty smile, a confident stride, he moved to the dial and took hold of the wings of the gharvit. He released them. Glancing at the others, he retook the wings then with a grunt, twisted the gharvit around until the extended arm of the statue pointed towards the carving of the vault.

“It is done.”

“Keep turning it,” Arndenon ran several steps towards the thief then stopped. “The dial has to spin twice before stopping on the vault.”

“Do not worry. Taulo can turn it again.”

Having backed from the statue, the thief moved to hold it like before. At the moment of his approach, the statue spun around then stopped.

Taulo shrugged. “It is pointing at the carving of the wall.”

A bluish light came from the statue’s hand, extended to the ruined fortress walls. The gharvit spun around—slowly.

“What is happening?”

“Look.”

The voice drew attention, but Arndenon ignored the alarm, watched the light move around the interior of the fortress—and in its wake, the broken walls renewed into pristine barriers as high and strong as when first built. The gharvit stopped moving—the light faded.

Sharwae pointed. “Look at the walls. They are rebuilt, but why?”

“It must be to protect us from something outside the fortress.”

The gharvit spun again, stopped with its hand pointing at the carving of the soldiers. It held for an instant, rotated, projecting a violet light—stopped and in the aftermath, thirty Verdren stood on the top of the fortress walls. Tall, man-like creatures with gray, leathery skin, black eyes, mange of yellow hair, sharp teeth and dressed in animal fur, remnants of cloth, the Verdren hunted mostly with sword and ate anything they could kill.

Arndenon backed towards Sharwae, Hartinal and the others. “The walls weren’t reformed to protect us. It is to keep us from escaping.”

“What do we do now?”

“We fight,” unprovoked, Arndenon ripped a throwing knife from his belt and hurled it towards a Verdren on the wall. Struck in the chest, the warrior fell dead to the ground.

A howl of voice erupted from a Verdren as others leapt from the wall to fight.

“Rartar…!”

The wizard hurled his magic at the warriors, took out five warriors as they charged to the attack. Armed with a bladed, short staff, Lazrador sent a fireball at one Verdren then met the sword of another with his own weapon.

The spearman heaved a spear through the heart of a Verdren in mid-jump from the wall then turned to another. Using a long spear, Bortic stabbed an onrushing warrior then pulled back to fight two others who had followed the first.

In the desperate moment, the thief took hold of the dial and spun the gharvit to point its hand at the carving of the gate. The statue whipped around, threw Taulo to the ground then came to a stop. Taulo scurried to his feet, up to the gharvit to see its hand pointing at the carving of a grave. Four Verdren surged forward. The thief ducked behind the dial as a sword crushed against the statue. Pulling out a knife, Taulo jumped at the warrior, stabbed the blade into the Verdren’s side—drove the warrior back. Pulling his knife out, he let the warrior fall—whipped around and threw the knife into the chest of the second Verdren. Taking his sword, Taulo fought the other warriors as they closed on him.

“Crissaus…!”

Sharwae’s voice filled the air with a word of magic—withered a Verdren she had thrust her hand towards. At the edge of the stone disk of the sundial, she spun away, swung back with her spiked mace at another warrior. She came around again, blocked a blow above, in front of her then jabbed the flat of her hand against the warrior’s body.

“Tdar…!”

The Verdren crumpled to the ground—dead. Three other warriors hesitated from the fight, watched as Sharwae lowered her spiked mace, smiled. The Verdren raised their swords and attacked.

To the distance, Hartinal left two dead warriors in his wake—ran towards, met blades of another. Jumping back from a blow, he reached into a loose pocket on his hip, pulled out a handful of searing dust and flung it into the eyes of the Verdren. The warrior blinded in pain, Hartinal slashed the Verdren across its stomach then cut off its head when it bent over. Turning, he charged another warrior in its advance.

Catching glimpses of the others in the fight, Arndenon deflected the Verdren sword, sliced the warrior upward across its chest. As the Verdren fell away, Arndenon swung his sword around and down, clipped a second warrior on the shoulder. Caught by surprise, the blow took the warrior to a knee.

Arndenon kicked the Verdren to the ground, turned and raised his sword to block the down-strike of another warrior’s weapon. The strength of the Verdren forced him down, but Arndenon fought to stand—hold the warrior’s weapon aloft. In an agile move, he dipped the blade of his sword down, let the warrior’s weapon slide off his. He brought the hilt of his sword quick to the warrior’s chin and knocked it back then swung his sword at the Verdren as it fell away, drew blood from it. He hurried after it, and when it rose to attack, drove his sword into the warrior’s chest and put it to the ground.

Movement took Arndenon around. “Look out!”

Across the courtyard, Taulo dodged the repeated blows of the Verdren’s sword, deflected some harmlessly away. He retreated further, backed against a stone pillar—ducked under an angled strike of the Verdren’s blade. Redirecting the blade of his own sword, Taulo stabbed the Verdren, stood and pushed the impaled warrior away. He turned to the call of voice, into the blade of another warrior’s sword. Grabbing hold of the Verdren, so it could not get away, Taulo pulled a knife out from its sheath, swung it to cut the warrior’s neck then collapsed to the ground.

From the distance, the spearman glimpsed the thief’s death, raised his weapon to block a Verdren’s sword. The spear shattered in two from the down-strike. Bortic clubbed the warrior with the end of the lower, broken half of his spear then whipped his foot into the back of the Verdren’s leg—took it to a knee. Spinning around, he clubbed the Verdren with the lower end of the spear and put the warrior on its back. Releasing the lower end of the broken spear, he turned the upper half point down then drove it into the chest of the warrior. Standing, Bortic glanced to the left. Nine strides closed him to a Verdren he stabbed in the back, drove it forward then pulled his spear out and let the warrior drop to the ground. He met a warrior that turned from Hartinal, deflected blows with the point of his spear. The fight took him around, back to the fighter.

“Taulo is down.”

Bortic’s voice carried the words as he moved back to back with Hartinal, fought the Verdren before him. A sudden pain took him in the back. He reached for it and only glimpsed the warrior in front, when the Verdren thrust the blade of its sword into him.

Hartinal spun from the spearman as the Verdren stabbed forward with its sword. He saw the blade pierce the spearman’s body—Bortic caught between the two warriors, the weapons they carried. Before the Verdren moved from the spearman, Hartinal thrust his sword into the warrior’s back—his shoulder forward and knocked Bortic, the two Verdren to the ground.

The dead spearman and Verdren landed on top of the second Verdren, who alive, struggled to break free. Stepping over the dead, Hartinal stabbed down with his sword and killed the pinned warrior.

“Ristor…!”

A word of magic cut the air. Flames whipped around two Verdren, killed them. Turned, the wizard swung his sword at a warrior and scattered another that had charged in from the side. The warrior flung forward with its sword, miss-stepped and lost its balance to a fall. Grinning to the sudden advantage—the easy death for the taking, Lazrador jerked his sword over his head for the down-strike on the Verdren. He jerked around to the sharp pain in his leg—the knife protruding from his thigh. Clasping the knife in his hand, he pulled the weapon out, lifted it up to view.

“You? I should have known.”

Lazrador dropped the knife, thrust the same hand forward.

“Nilsfar…!”

The fireball shot across the courtyard, exploded against the fortress wall.

“Nilsfar….!”

Lazrador threw another fireball into the air. It struck a stone column, exploded in a roar of sound, light and shards of stone. He raised his hand to call the magic again as the blade of sword erupted from his chest. The Verdren pulled out his sword, stepped back from the wizard. Lazrador spun as he collapsed to the ground, landed on his back. Dying, his gaze remained on the warrior as it stepped forward for the kill—drew in close and raised its sword to strike.

“Nilsfar…!”

The word of magic came nearly as subtle as the hand raised to cast the fireball at the Verdren. The warrior exploded back from the magic—dead as the wizard on the ground.

“Hartinal…!”

Sharwae called the fighter’s name, rushed to where he lay. Put on the ground by the force of explosion moments before, Hartinal lay covered with dust, bits of stone, still like asleep until he moved.

“You are alive.”

The priestess reached to the fighter, took him by the hand as he moved—helped him stand. As he rose, Hartinal stepped into an embrace with Sharwae—shoved the blade of his knife into her side. She gasped in pain, pulled back bleeding—blood on her hands, the word of question in her eyes, silent voice.

“Sharwae…!”

Arndenon raced to the girl, caught her as she fell then lowered her to the ground, cradled Sharwae in his arms. Gazing into her eyes, he had no words of comfort to give her—knew she was dying and that he could do nothing for her. She glanced at the fighter, revealed what Hartinal did to her.

Looking up, Arndenon glared at the fighter. “Why?”

“I only did what the others would have done given the chance.”

“You killed your friends for a treasure?”

“There is only enough treasure for me. As for the others, their use came to find it and having that, their friendship is no longer needed. Having told us how to find the treasure, you are as expendable as her…the others. Now, it is time for you to die.”

Arndenon grabbed his sword, spun from the priestess to stand—whipped around and met the fighter’s sword with his own. Striking several times at the fighter, he deflected an angled blow with his sword then fisted a hand and struck Hartinal in the face.

The fighter collapsed back several steps, righted himself—his sword.

“Wait,” Arndenon stuck out a hand. “We do not have to do this.”

“We do not, but I do.”

With a yell, the fighter charged, struck out with his sword.

Arndenon blocked the weapon, deflected another then struck several times with his sword. Shoved back, he raised his sword to strike again, but saw the fighter’s hand leave dart to the side then whip towards him. Arndenon spun away to gain distance from the fighter—felt the spray of searing dust hit him, grimaced in pain from a sudden cut on his arm from the point of Hartinal’s sword.

Continuing around, Arndenon swung his sword that was blocked, deflected down and left him open defensively. Movement came quick and Arndenon ducked under the fighter’s sword, righted his own then drove the blade up into Hartinal’s chest.

The fighter contorted in pain, radiated disbelief from his eyes, and as Arndenon stared, regretted having killed the fighter, he released his sword, stood and backed away. He watched as Hartinal dropped to his knees, collapsed backwards to the ground.

A thought of death sparked a memory and Arndenon moved to the dead fighter, pulled his sword from Hartinal’s body then raced to the priestess—knelt down to her.

“Sharwae,” he said in the whisper of a voice.

The girl barely opened her eyes, spoke no words—smiled weakly.

“Stay alive,” Arndenon placed a hand on her arm. “I will find a way to save you.”

When Sharwae closed her eyes, held still as if death had taken her, Arndenon glanced away to the hope of finding a way to help her. The wizard lay dead and the healing spells with him. The thief and spearman could not help carry the priestess or go for help, and held no potions that would be of use to any of them.

Nearly giving up hope, Arndenon left Sharwae and hurried to a point of salvation—the sundial. He kicked away a dead Verdren crumpled against the gharvit, took hold of the statue, but only thought to turn it. Glancing over the stone base, having decided where to point the hand towards, he spun the statue around twice—careful not to point it towards any one carving until the final, second turn. Nothing happened.

“Come on,” he muttered. “You have to work.”

An instant fluttered by then another before the grating sound of moving stone filled the air.

Surprised some trap had not befallen him life before, Arndenon eyed the square opening in the sundial stone—thought whether to remain where he stood or trust it being what he intended it to be. Exhaling, he moved to the opening, stared into the darkness—eyed the stairs covered in the descending blackness.

The point of sword before him, Arndenon took the stairs down to the floor of the chamber, glanced around the cramped room, found it empty, dust filled—appealing as a tomb then crossed the short distance to the end-wall, the stone table before it. Upon the stone counter, centered beneath a thick root severed at its end, a long neck, unadorned, wooden cup collected the pale yellow sap dripping from the plant. Reaching out with his hand, he pulled back, sheathed his sword then took the cup, turned to leave. Through a breath, another—the silence and emptiness of the small room, Arndenon walked to the stairs, took them up. Outside, he started for the priestess, but stopped to a whirling sound from behind.

Expecting the worse to happen—some new adversary to fight or being sealed in the fortress forever, Arndenon spun back to see the statue complete its turn—point at the vault as Taulo had made it do four lives ago. As the statue settled to a stop, the stone with the carving of the vault slid open—revealed a filled chamber of glittering coins and jewels. A curl of a smile, greed filled eyes, Arndenon went to a knee and placed his hand upon the treasure he could not believe was real—that fortune gave him. But the smile faded, eyes closed to the memory of the others who died and would never share the wealth he had found.

Sighing, opening his eyes, Arndenon stood, and as he did, the stone started back to seal the chamber close. Dropping down like before, he grabbed a handful of coins and stuffed them into a pocket. When the stone slab slid into place, hiding the treasure again, he hurried to the girl, went to his knees beside her, bent over to her. “Sharwae,” he whispered.

A moment took her eyes to open in the slightest of movement.

Grinning to the joy of her being alive, he cradled, lifted up Sharwae’s head—moved the rim of the cup to her lips so she could drink. He eased the yellowish liquid into her mouth; just a little to drink then removed the cup—waited.

A moment came and went. Another passed—a third before he sighed, hung his head, saddened that the effort of salvation failed. Resting her head to the ground, Arndenon stood, turned.

“You are leaving me?”

Arndenon whipped around, looked down to find Sharwae alive—her gaze upon him. He dropped to a knee, embraced her hand with his. “I did not think.”

“I would survive?”

Arndenon shook his head. “That the drink I used would save you.”

“It seems to have done what you wanted it to.”

Grinning, Arndenon helped the priestess to her feet—embraced her in his delight. A sound came, distracted him to look across the courtyard. “Not again.”

He separated from the girl, pointed at the sundial as the gharvit spun around—stopped.

Leading Sharwae, Arndenon moved to the sundial, close enough to see the gharvit pointed at the carving of the gate. A little dismayed, confused, he looked to the fortress gate to find it opened—the walls faded to disrepair as they stood when first entered.

“What does this mean?”

Arndenon shook his head then gestured. “It means we are free. Come on.”

Starting to the nearest opening in the fortress walls, Arndenon stopped, came around to Sharwae’s embrace of his hand.

“What about the treasure?”

Arndenon grinned. “You drank it.” a finger stretched out towards the cup left behind on the ground. “It is the treasure meant to be found.”

“You found a cup from the carving of the vault, the inscription that read the treasure would be found there?”

A half smile appeared. “The chamber beneath the carving of the tree held the cup. It is a carving of the tree of life.”

“Yes, the tree of life. How wonderful. I am happy to be alive, but are there no coins, jewels or anything else?”

“Just the cup, but if you want more, I heard there is a treasure of coins in the hills of Gallanthal,” Arndenon started away. “But it is guarded by a giant mandrol.” Turning back, he stopped, reached into his pocket—pulled out a coin and tossed it to Sharwae. “Well?”





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