Pillars of Hope: Chapter 1

Chapter 1




“Nglark faltrin sinkler!”
The shout brought Corrin to a dead stop. Orcs, he thought, glad he understood the language of his enemies. Luckily they were not all that stealthy, and even less perceptive. Corrin had a few moments before they would be upon him. Corrin climbed a nearby tree, no small feat for a dwarf, and awaited their approach.
They broke through the brush and fanned out. Their grayish-green faces scanning the clearing. They numbered six, all tolled. Five of them carried spears and wore armor made from deer hide, denoting them as a scouting party. The other wore hardened leather armor; a whip was coiled in his right hand, while his left brandished a short sword, setting him apart as the leader. From his perch in the trees Corrin decided once more that Orcs were the ugliest creatures ever created. They stood nearly eight hands tall, with grayish-green skin and big eyes with almost no white. Yellow fangs jutted from their lower jaws, causing the other teeth to crowd together. The most disgusting feature though was their nose. It appeared that when the first orc was created, it fell trying to take its first step. The fall made its nose nearly flat against its face, with the large nostrils facing out. In spite of, or perhaps because of, their looks they were extremely strong and even more ferocious.
The leader lashed out, first with his whip, then his tongue, “I told you nothing was here!”
“Sorry my captain, me thought me saw a runt,” came a whimpered reply.
“You are paid to scout, not think,” the whip and tongue lashed out simultaneously.
Corrin saw the mixture of fear and hatred in the eyes of the whip’s target. His thoughts drifted to his family, ages ago. His father lay dead, his mother the recipient of many lashes from a similar whip. Just a boy then, he shot from his hiding place and tackled his mother’s assailant. Fists flailing, he tried to torture his mother’s tormentor. Another orc grabbed him from behind and flung him roughly against the wall. Fear flashed across his face. He was certain he would share his father’s fate. The fear slowly crept from sight, replaced by a strong loathing. He scrambled to his feet, and raced to his father’s battle-axe. Though he had never used an axe on anything but a tree, he held it like a true warrior. He positioned himself between his mother and the orcs. An arrow whizzed past his ear. Behind him, his mother let out a sharp breath and a short grunt. He turned his head, just in time to watch her slump to the ground. All energy flowed from him; anger and hate now fueled him. He spun to face the orcs; something hard and blunt struck him, first in the ribs, then in the head. Slowly darkness claimed his vision; he watched three dwarven warriors storm into the room.
When he awoke, he still gripped his father’s axe. His parents lay dead beside him. The world spun as he struggled to his feet. He closed his eyes and waited for his head to clear. The three dwarven warriors lay dead on the floor, as well as five orcs, including the one with the whip. Corrin kicked that one as he left the room.
The crack of the whip brought Corrin back to the present. “We now continue scouting, we need report soon.” It was the leader who spoke.
Hatred filled Corrin’s heart and eyes. As he had once before, he leapt from his hiding place, his battleaxe in his hand. “Balethrong,” he screamed. His feet met the ground at the same time his axe met the leader’s chest. The sharpened blade sliced through the armor, and cracked through his sternum. Before he could even scream, the leader was dead. With blood on his axe, and fire in his eyes, Corrin turned on the stunned scouts.
One of the orcs regained enough composure to throw his spear in Corrin’s direction, flying well wide of its mark. Corrin swung his axe in a wide arc, slashing easily through both armor and skin. His blow tore open the belly of one motionless foe and bit deep into the thigh of another. One dropped, blood quickly soaking his armor and seeping out of the corners of his mouth. The other fell, screaming in agony. Another orc, snapping out of his shock, pushed his spear at Corrin. Corrin sidestepped the attempt and thrust forward with his left hand. The chain gauntlet collided heavily with the pig-like nose of the orc. Blood sprayed from a fresh cut. The orc wobbled, and then fell to the ground. The unarmed orc, seeing the futility of the situation, fled, disappearing through the brush. The last remaining orc stabbed at Corrin with his spear. Corrin, grabbing the spear with his left hand, brought his axe down on the spear shaft, splintering the weapon. The orc’s eyes met briefly with Corrin’s. The orc’s fear fueled Corrin’s fire. It turned to run. Corrin hefted the axe in both hands and let fly a mighty swing. The force of the blow flung the orc’s body to the side. Corrin stood there, his breathing ragged, and his heart racing.
Cleaning the blade of his axe on the thick grass, he slowly calmed down. He slid the axe back into a loop on his belt. Picking up the leader’s short sword, he knelt and slit the throat of the one he knocked unconscious. He approached the wounded orc, who was pleading for mercy. “Your kind deserves no mercy,” he said in the orc’s native tongue. With that he slowly dragged the blade across the throat of the orc. Discarding the useless blade, he examined the pouches of the fallen orcs. “A few copper pennies,” muttered Corrin, “and weapons I would not give to a child.” He took one more look at his handiwork. Disappointed at failing to kill all six, he turned and walked away, continuing his journey north.

* * * * *

In the far northern regions of Umbreria the mountains are constantly covered with snow. Few men dare venture near the mountains during the thaw, and in winter even the hardy barbarians that inhabit the Ragnathak Mountains do not leave their cave dwellings.
This day, however, was no ordinary day. A sole figure came out of the caves, down the slopes of the Ragnathak Mountain range and out onto the barren tundra below. The trek south would be a long hard one before entering the land of the Weak Ones, but the determination of this barbarian was truly to be admired.
He trudged southward, his thoughts drifting back to the circumstances that led to his departure. The tribes had all gathered for the annual Feast of the Freeze. All were present, save only a few. Urstag and Clardia Bearclaw were among those missing, being extremely ill and unable to withstand the chill winds to attend. Though this was the truth, and known by the entire Tribe of the Bear, stories began to circulate. The rumors soon were telling of how those not present were plotting to overthrow the tribal leaders, and unite the tribes under their leadership. Soon there were witnesses who had been asked to assist, and other evidence, which was all taken before Lernik Strongback, Chieftain of the Tribe of the Elk.
The festive attitude ended abruptly as the Grand Council assembled. Thamin Bearclaw and many others, including his three older brothers, Odek, Strahm, and Findys, were to stand trial for the alleged conspiracy of their absent relatives. Following the week long trial, during which the accused were sent for, the Grand Council declared Urstag Bearclaw of Clan Bearclaw, Chieftain of Tribe of the Bear, as the instigator and head conspirator. In order to restore the honor of their family, one of the clan’s warriors would have to take on a quest. The chosen warrior must journey south into the land of the Weak Ones, and recover the Crown of Trilog. The choice was left to the warriors of the clan.
A tear came to Thamin’s eye and froze upon his cheek as he pictured his feeble, dying father pleading to his children. Tears of sorrow turned to those of anger as he recalled the words of his brothers: “We shall not waste our lives chasing children’s tales!”
His father’s words rang clearly in his ears. “We shall live forever in disgrace, for I have cowards for sons!”
“I will go, Father. I shall find the Crown, and redeem you and mother. I do this only for you. All hear me, I shall redeem my father and mother, but my brothers must redeem themselves, as of now, I know them not. They are no longer my brothers, they are but vagabonds.” Harsh words for one of only fifteen winters, and yet untried as anything but a hunter. His brothers pulled their knives and advanced. Fear welled up within him, but he stood against them, spear readied, prepared to meet his fate.
“Enough!” came the voice of Lernik Strongback, also Head of the Grand Council. “Let it be known, the courage of Thamin Bearclaw shall redeem his father and mother. His brothers shall be looked upon as knaves and outcasts until they ransom their cowardice. Thamin, your bravery shall go down in the legends, and if you succeed, you will live for eternity as a hero. May the Gods be with you, you depart on the morrow.”
“Please Great Chieftain, could he not wait until after the snows? He will not survive during the freeze,” pleaded his father, falling to his knees, tears tracing paths down his weather worn cheeks.
“He must leave on the morrow,” Lernik replied, turned and walked away.
The icy wind shot through his wolf furs, and bit into him. Thamin realized he had stopped moving, as the ever-increasing mounds of snow fought to bury him. Pulling his furs tighter around him, he struggled on his journey.

* * * * *

The frail elf pushed forward, the wind tearing at her thin cloak. The howls of wolves pressed ever closer. Something kept her up. Something pushed her on as if she were being drawn, led by a will stronger than her own.
Stumbling forward, she sensed something was not right. The howling had stopped. Everything was blending together in her eyes. She tumbled to the snow-covered ground. Using all of her strength, she fought her way to her knees. Looking helplessly upward, she saw herself face to face with the snarling jaws of a White Snow Wolf. The world spun faster then all went black.

* * * * *

Thamin moved forward, head low, arms and legs dragging wearily. His thoughts constantly drifted back to family, friends, and better times. The chill wind tugged again at his furs, he felt himself wanting just to lay down and quit, but his sense of honor would not allow this. The gnawing hunger and the freezing, biting wind proved to be more than he could handle. His strength gone, his determination fading, he stumbled and fell to the ground.
The howling of wolves nearby brought him back from semi-consciousness. “I shall not die like this. If I am to die, I shall die in combat.” He did not even notice that he was talking aloud. He stood and readied himself for the coming battle.
The wolves sounded again, farther away. “What is this? The beasts have found other prey. I shall not die an outcast in the cold!” His voice resounded with new determination. He pulled himself up, and started forward. Willpower now fueled his desire. Running on the tundra as he had in the short summer months not long before, he swiftly closed on the stalking wolves.
The thought of disgracing himself by freezing pushed Thamin even harder. Through the swirling snow he saw them. “There are but four,” he muttered. He knew that under normal circumstances this would hardly be worth the effort. This, however, was far from normal.
A slight groan from amongst the wolves drew Thamin’s eyes to the prey. This was no elk nor moose, but rather a human. Knowing now that his was not the only life at stake, he acted quickly. Moving swiftly, but silently, he approached the wolves. Hoping that he had not alerted them to his presence, Thamin awaited the telltale twitch of muscle that would initiate the attack. The leader of the pack lunged forward, and Thamin flung himself into the hindquarters of the beast, sending them both reeling. Rolling quickly to his feet, Thamin threw his spear at the nearest beast catching the hapless dog in the throat, sending it rolling backwards. The blow came with such swiftness that no yelp escaped.
Thamin drew his long hunting knife and prepared for the coming battle. The remaining wolves began to encircle him, reducing his chance of retreat. Thamin eyed the closest wolf cautiously; knowing the attack would start there. Timing would be of the utmost importance. He fought to keep the blackness that threatened his vision at bay. The beast crouched upon its haunches, preparing for a powerful leap. Thamin straightened, standing at his full height, and let his knife hand fall to his side. At the sight of the now helpless victim, the great wolf lunged forward. Powerful jaws snapped hungrily at the air previously occupied by Thamin’s throat. As soon as the wolf’s muscles tensed, Thamin dropped on his back, and brought his knife directly above him. It caught the wolf unaware, spilling its guts steaming onto the frozen ground.
Thamin rolled to his knees just in time to catch the next canine and hurl it harmlessly away. Recovering its balance, it charged again, with the aid of its companion. The exhausted warrior pulled himself up. Knowing that his current condition would keep him from dealing the necessary blows with sufficient speed to kill both wolves, he silently vowed to take one with him. This battle would be his last.
His knife fell heavily upon the head of the larger wolf, splitting the skull; just a fraction of a second before the other crashed into him. The collision sent them both sprawling in the snow, a ball of skin and fur. Thamin lay beneath the wolf, awaiting the deathblow. An eternity passed, and the blow never fell. Slowly, painfully he pushed himself out from under the heavy beast. His hand rested in a fresh, warm pool of blood caused by a well-placed arrow.
Turning to thank his savior, Thamin saw only the crumpled figure, a female, her bow lying by her side. Remembering the urgency of his work, he recovered his knife, which he had lost due to his collision with the wolf, and began skinning the creatures. He made a makeshift blanket for his new charge. He gently wrapped her in the covering, and returned to his task. He stitched the furs together, making a rough, yet impressive cloak. The warmth of the fresh blood thawed his fingers as he cut chunks of meat. He quickly choked down his first sustenance in days, and cut more for his journey. After using all that he could, he placed the bones in a shallow pit and covered them with a quiet reverence. After a brief rest, he stood, picked up the young woman, and began the journey south with renewed vigor.