Choice and Fate

By Richard De Nardi

Choice and Fate is a fantasy novel set in the ancient realm of Terra which is dominated by gods, demons, elves and orcs.

Our hero is Regis, who grieves for the loss of his village to the vicious orcs that are marauding the kingdom. His sense of helplessness grows into a desire for revenge as he develops the skills of battle from a number of people he meets in his exile from his home. Instrumental in his development are Brac and Moreen, an older couple who nurture his humane side and temper his thirst for blood.

Many adventures befall him including orc battles, dragon-slaying, and a quest for a mysterious prism in far off lands that will land him a knighthood but also bring the simmering antagonisms in the kingdom into all out war. As Ubandaran’s castle prepares for siege from the forces that would topple it, Regis is betrothed to Ubandaran’s daughter, the frosty Shardena. And unknown to the humans, the gods have much at stake in the outcome of the battle for Ubandaran’s castle, and it is not only the arrows and swords of men from which Regis’s army must protect the castle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard De Nardi
• Release date: Jun 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301748846

Richard De Nardi

Richard De Nardi was born in Camden, NSW, Australia in 1972. Since enlistment in 1991, Richard has served in the Australian Army, following his graduation from the Royal Military College Duntroon, and over a period of fifteen years served in East Timor during which this novel was conceived as well as Afghanistan. He commenced writing short stories at an early age and has progressed to include poetry and, more recently, a science fiction novel.Richard is happily married, with two delightful little boys. Apart from spending time with his family and writing, he enjoys basketball, listening to classical music and, when the occasion permits, playing the clarinet. Although, with regards to the latter, it is not well appreciated by the afore mentioned parties.

Book preview

About the Author

Richard De Nardi was born in Camden, NSW, Australia in 1972. Since enlistment in 1991, Richard has served in the Australian Army, following his graduation from the Royal Military College Duntroon, and over a period of fifteen years served in East Timor during which this novel was conceived as well as Afghanistan. He commenced writing short stories at an early age and has progressed to include poetry and, more recently, a science fiction novel.

Richard is happily married, with two delightful little boys. Apart from spending time with his family and writing, he enjoys basketball, listening to classical music and, when the occasion permits, playing the clarinet. Although, with regards to the latter, it is not well appreciated by the afore mentioned parties.

Acknowledgements

To my wife Tonette for her extraordinary patience, my mother, Ambra, for her inspiration and my sons, Alexander and Maximus, for their infinite joy.

Choice and Fate

Preface

The races confounded themselves with their brilliance, providing the gods of substance and faith great amusement over the discrepancy between what was believed to be progress and what little, if any, was achieved.

The races took the faith once invested in the gods, nature and themselves and reinvested the awesome commodity into technology and other external vessels, effectively replacing one idol for another. Why the disdain of the omnipotent? The races continued to kill and torture in their efforts to gain power that only the mighty could possess. Such progress indeed!

The gods decided to reinstate their rule by subtly ripping continents apart in an event that became commonly referred to as the Cataclysm. One thousand years elapsed and the gods were sorely disappointed as once again ambition prompted the ruling classes to indulge in war, hatred, prejudice, rape, pillage and other ‘not so nice’ stuff.

The lesser gods themselves were increasingly subject to the follies of their followers and competed for the tremendous power pooled as a result of the Cataclysm. It came as no surprise to the enlightened when the resulting celestial battles eventually disturbed the primal balance. Nobility, understanding, love and self-awareness were sought by too few and the races suffered from the neglect of the gods and their inherent weaknesses. Many attempted to seize on opportunities to conquer the realms and climb the greasy pole of power, only to find that the dirtier their hands became, the more difficult it was to retain their grip.

* * *

He is young and poses a no small risk to our plans. Arcana’s voice retained an even calm in the face of Thorac’s brooding expression. The ethereal alliance between the god of magic and the god of war was still in the ‘storming’ phase by Acrcana’s reckoning.

Few will suspect that he is my instrument and he has the breeding necessary for the task. The God of War spoke in a manner that he knew would communicate his conviction.

Well, it isn’t like you’ve been wrong before brother. Coros teased his older sibling whilst dismissing the dangerous light smouldering in the God of War’s obsidian eyes.

Be wary, little brother. Thorac felt a rush of divine energy pulsate through his ethereal body.

Arcana gripped the arms of her chair, releasing her anxiety in a measured manner. Perhaps if we test him first? The Goddess of Magic allowed her suggestion to linger, knowing that Thorac was more receptive to those ideas that he believed were his. The God of War did not disappoint her.

What did you have in mind? Thorac felt a degree of caution was due whenever Arcana offered an argument. The Goddess of Magic seemed to get her way far too often by his reckoning.

Whatever it is, it won’t matter. Coros interrupted the banter having withdrawn from his brother’s reach.

Thorac kept his focus on Arcana but directed his comment to his troublesome brother. And what do you mean by that?

It has begun. Coros pointed at the scrying pool which was beginning to ripple. Look for yourself.

Arcana and Thorac peered into the jet ink pool centrally positioned in the white pillared temple that the God of War called home. Colours took form, giving life to a miniature representation of humans in a village under attack. They watched with a casual interest.

Choice and Fate

Table of Contents

Not available in Ebook.

Chapter One

1015 PC

Sowing the seeds of hate

Regis raised his head out of the snow, oblivious to the cold flakes of snow clinging to his skin or the trickles of melting ice sliding down onto his chest, causing him to shiver. He could not recall ever experiencing the fear motivating his hasty escape nor his nerves tingling in such a dance of raw emotion teetering between panic and reason. Having never had the opportunity to ponder the profound effects of mind numbing terror or the limitations of his endurance, he was now very preoccupied with both considerations.

Gods what do I do? Regis uttered the query to an empty field whilst attempting to quell the memory of green-skinned orcs and warg-mounted goblins hunting village folk. He briefly pondered why no alarm bell rang and wondered where the mongrel mercenaries that had demanded protection money for the last three seasons had disappeared. Regis choked on how dearly his village had paid for the lack of protection. He felt short-changed of his grandparents, a home and his true love.

Where do I go? Simple thoughts burst through his head like distant lightning. He was struggling to arrange his overwhelmed senses in order produce something resembling a coherent decision. ‘To the thicket and then south to Robar’s farm or return to the village to find Aela?’ Regis’ thoughts quickly transitioned to the girl’s consuming smile and gentle touch and the profound effect upon his pounding heart, swelling groin and the intoxicating combination of embarrassment and desire. He dwelled on the memory of Aela’s sweet smell accompanying the softness of her skin and delightful curves. Regis questioned the wisdom of returning to the village in the hope that beast scum were done with their marauding. Regardless, he was not prepared for travelling not prepared to surrender the hope that someone else may have survived. His decision to return to the village was filled with dread.

Regis paused at the crest of the ridge that protected the small valley and the buildings within, from all but the harshest winter storms. From his position the village appeared benign, with the notable exception of several pillars of rising smoke. He scurried down the slope using what limited vegetation there was for concealment. The farm boy felt a growing sense of loneliness whilst approaching the gathering of homes and huts. He gave up trying to stop his nose from twitching at the smell of the tanner’s workshop which was subservient to the pleasant wood fire aroma that had destroyed no less than three in four village houses.

Aela lay face up, raped, although Regis was not certain with what. Small stab wounds and a horrific facial expression suggested that hers had been a long, painful death. He forced his eyes to traverse quickly to the other bodies that had in some way been abused, beaten or partially devoured. Regis bent over as his stomach heaved without warning. He looked down again at Aela. She was not smiling and her eyes did not twinkle. Regis looked away from her tangled body and let his eyes follow the patches of blood that led to the wall of the village chapel. On the chapel wall, Regis saw depicted an evil skull spewing forth a striking serpent painted in the darkening hue of drying blood. He tried to understand but couldn’t, and his torso expanded uncontrollably as he embraced the tragedy around him with a mournful sob.

Great anger, fear and uncertainty were burrowing into Regis’ mind as he became aware of the gravity of his predicament. The remaining folk, Regis assumed, had been taken into slavery consistent with the rumours that pervaded similar stories of other villages that had suffered this fate. Regis thought the stories of orc raiders were very exciting, as the tales of dread appeared alien and distant from Hahn’s isolated location. Now he felt a numbing sensation of childish helplessness merging with adult impotence.

Regis grabbed a shovel to remove the top layer of snow as he prepared for a mass cremation. What else could he do? He wordlessly queried. Determined to leave as soon as possible, Regis went about erecting a large pyre. Plenty of wood was available and when the bodies lay on a bed of thatching and wood he threw an ignited plank onto the heap. The fire roared as it engulfed the dead.

Regis concentrated on reciting partial prayers to the few gods that he was acquainted with. Not being particularly pious, he felt his words were grossly inadequate. The farm boy stood, attempting to ignore the increasing sense of despair as his windblown cheeks were temporarily warmed by tears meandering from red eyes. He inhaled the wood smoke as burnt flesh permeated the air to the tune of a distant bird’s occasional chirp. Regis looked in the direction of the noise, wondering how nature could be so oblivious.

Regis’ belly growled with hunger as he obliged his weary body to remain standing in the shin deep snow. He ignored the cold that was penetrating his tunic and continued to watch the fire consume those he knew. Shana the candle maker and Terry the inn keeper were among the many good and gentle folk being cremated. He looked about slowly, absorbing the hopelessness of the situation. Regis turned, put his back to the pyre and stumbled in a southerly direction. On his way out, Regis took the time to collect travelling clothes, a spear, and a sheath for his grandfather’s sword as well as a half full quiver of arrows to complement the hunting bow nestled in his left hand. Despite the weight of the stores he felt most unprepared for a future that had no direction.

Whilst walking, Regis considered the source of his next meal. His mind absently embraced the memory of his grandparents with whom he had been left with at an early age. Regis’ grandfather had told him that his parents, who were very young at the time, could not support him and his grandparents needed the help that a young pair of hands could provide. Only vague recollections filtered through his mind of a nurturing mother and a cheeky father whose face Regis was growing into. He could remember little else other than a connection to a mischievous younger brother and a sister not yet weaned from her mother’s breast. The thoughts of his early childhood brought forward the sweet feeling of belonging, followed by a lingering distaste at having been forsaken.

From what Regis understood of his lineage, his grandfather had been a senior soldier in King Tirad’s army until he migrated following an argument over some principle or another with an officer. His grandfather had taken great pains to inculcate a soldier’s principles with endless history and much tuition on the use of spear, sword and bow. His grandmother, Gewl, had taught him how to read and scribe. Snaring, fishing and hunting were taken up in his early years and, for all this, a cooking lesson or two would have been appreciated right now. That last thought penetrated his mind as he washed down the flat bread into his cavernous belly with a sip of water. Rae had once called him Coros’ pocket, having watched his young grandson plough through an entire roast. It was a fine meal. For all the conservative ways about the old man he was caring and generous. There was honesty and strength in such portions that Regis willingly extended his respect.

With those reminiscing thoughts, Regis recounted the days’ events. The orcs had come without warning, let alone resistance from the mercenaries who had been hired following the attacks on nearby villages and farms. Although Regis had the impression from the adults’ talk that the mercenaries’ offer held as much of a threat as it did the promise of protection. Rae, who had held a position on the village council, had apparently objected to the accord and wanted to establish a militia. Regrettably, the fear of defying the mercenaries and relying on the village’s scarce resources to deal with a threat overwhelmed the remaining members.

The orcs were brutal and their attack was surprisingly well coordinated. Regis had expected, from the wild hearthside stories, a display of random violence but instead the orcs took their time to disperse the villagers into small, easily slaughtered groups. Regis’ grandfather had rarely raised his voice during the many years spent on the farm but the old man knew how the battle would end and his blaring gnarled speech had instilled a chill within Regis as the village began to dissolve around him.

With many unsettling thoughts about the raid, his beloved and his family, Regis laid out his bedroll on the leeward side of a cluster of rocks. He threw another log on the fire, wary that it should not burn high, lest it be seen from a distance.

Regis fought desperately to get to sleep amidst dreams of retribution accompanied by the emotions of debilitating fear and empowering anger. Deep slumber struck and presented a clear image of ancient races united, mythical knights, the harmony of long forgotten Druids, music, art and peace. It had to be a product of his imagination but so much of it was tangible having come from books and scrolls of which he had no recollection. There was a final thought, the words dancing lightly on a wisp of shimmering air. There is a price. Silent agreement from beings unseen emanated deeply and blessed emptiness consumed him.

Chapter Two

Anger

Cold. Cold and hungry. Regis squinted as the anger he had felt the evening before was well supplanted by the effects of the elements and increasing hunger. An estimate of a fortnight’s travel to the next village was looking terribly optimistic. Regis heard the snow crunching softly under his cowhide boots as each footfall displaced the fine upper layer of white powder. He was thankful for the fresh breeze that was almost pleasant - almost.

Last night’s sleep troubled Regis greatly, and the bitter acid aftertaste continued to lace his dry mouth despite several drafts of water. He turned to view the landscape, observing a rolling plain of ice and snow punctuated by tall imposing evergreens burdened by icicles dangling merrily from thick branches. In the distance he could see the trees following the Ardenese River east to west, bringing the freezing mountain water from the dwarven lands to join with the north to south running Cerenade River.

From Regis’ recollection, following the two river systems should bring him to Tarac, his apparent village of birth. The route was familiar on parchment, given the considerable interest that had gripped him upon learning of a planned family reunion on his seventeenth summer. The thought of meeting with his parents induced a degree of trepidation as his mind lingered on the many questions desperately seeking answers.

First blood

Regis heard the horse before he saw it, a deep throaty snort followed by a man cursing. At first disorientated, he looked about, taking time to focus on a rider facing off a small band of goblins. Regis spied the rider’s sword glinting in the morning sun as the black of the man’s cloak mingled with his adversary’s green and brown colours. Regis felt his blood pumping as he ran towards the group, not really knowing why. Despite fearing the confrontation, Regis became suddenly eager to impale anything foolish enough to be wearing green skin. He felt reason siphon from his raging mind as the deafening thud of impact fed an anger never before known. Regis’ quickly drew his leg forward as the goblin gave way collapsing under his greater weight.

You may want to draw your sword. Came a polite suggestion from the twirling figure in black, followed by, you idiot.

Regis was trying to determine what was happening when a club wielding rider came thundering towards him. Ducking and rolling Regis clumsily drew his grandfather’s sword taking courage in the familiar weight. Regis heard the snarling goblin coming from behind and instinctively swung his sword whilst pivoting to confront his opponent. A sickening feeling emanating from his stomach swelled into mind-numbing despair as he came to terms with the vast difference between training under his grandfather’s strict supervision and that of a real fight. A goblin, taller than the one he had knocked down, approached with a broadening grin resting on a series of large, nasty looking dog like teeth. Regis guessed that it knew an easy meal when it saw one.

Regis high swing was a feint but the accompanying roar gave the strike some legitimacy. He continued to extend his sword on order to convey the perception of an inexperienced fighter. He mentally conceded that the deception was too easily established. As hoped, Regis watched the goblin swing its club high to block his clumsy stroke.

Regis grinned with satisfaction at the goblin’s ghastly expression. He lowered and propelled his sword forward into the beast’s chest and watched in awe as dark fluid spurted skywards accompanied by the beast’s curdling scream. Regis was astonished as feelings of bowel-cleansing fear mixed unfavourably with delusions of immortality.

Wytt paused between strokes and observed the boy’s imminent demise despite his warning. The youth’s simpleton grin remained as a goblin landed a blow to the head, knocking the lad unconscious. The goblin’s scowl suggested that it had taken exception to a farm boy ruining a simple highway robbery.

* * *

Unconsciousness gave way to excruciating pain as Regis awoke. An interesting trick. Convince your opponent that you are an utter dolt and nearly get your head taken off in the process. I am most impressed. Wytt promptly stood over Regis and in the one motion removed his glove, extended his right hand and shook at the elbow. Well met boy.

Regis noted that the swordsman’s tone was welcoming, even if condescending.

Wytt continued, I killed the others.

Regis tried to respond, only to become overwhelmed by the agony vibrating throughout his skull.

Take it easy, lad. Wytt lowered his tone in sympathy.

Regis drifted off to a troublesome sleep, noting that the swordsman’s words were delivered in a fresh, pompous accent totally alien to his ears. In the recess of his mind, Regis considered the lilting accent amusing to the ear.

* * *

Regis stirred and slowly forced his eyes open. He determined that it was early in the morning and promptly stood up albeit cautiously. Regis stumbled towards a nearby tree to place a steadying hand against the solidity of the trunk and relieve himself with a joyful sigh. He completed his toilet and lazily watched the sun shedding a false dawn across the landscape with black and grey giving way to the deep greens and browns of the trees and the glaring white of endless snow.

Regis commenced a familiar morning routine that was noteworthy due to the absence of his grandfather’s watchful gaze and his grandmother’s endless banter. He noticed that there was something different about the movements. He swung the sword in fixed poses with a darker motivation than simply appeasing his grandfather’s expectations. Regis flexed his tight muscles and ignored the slight increase in pain as his blood pumped through his battered body. The patterns, at first without weapons and then with, had commenced at an early age. Regis recalled his grandfather’s great delight at his pre-adolescent awkwardness. There was genuine mirth perhaps at Rae’s own long forgotten childhood memories. Regis continued to do the forms at dawn and dusk since the raid, as much to keep occupied as to preserve the memories of his grandfather.

Slower, and keep the sword balanced. Wytt’s deep voice castrated the pleasant silence.

The refrain caught Regis unawares, but there was no mistaking the tone of authority.

Who taught you those forms? Wytt enquired whilst suppressing his amusement at the lad’s amateur performance.

My grandfather was a soldier in King Tirad’s army. Regis thought he should have devised a lie but he knew how poor he was at deception.

Wytt smiled in recognition of Regis’ youthful defiance. Is that so and where is your grandfather now?

Regis responded with a brief account of the attack on Hahn and subsequent loss of everything that held meaning. For the first time he felt a sense of guilt at having to admit to running away from the orcs.

Wytt listened. He concealed a growing anger at yet another act of wanton destruction concomitant with such raids. Wytt felt, more than heard, the infliction in the lad’s voice. Do you believe you are a coward?

I don’t know. I may have been able to help protect the village. I may have been able to save my grandparents or even Aela. Regis’ let the sentence finish whilst wallowing in the many possibilities tormenting his mind.

That’s a lot of maybes. More than likely you would have been bludgeoned to pieces. You would have done no one any good even if all you could offer were the services of an undertaker. Wytt delivered his words with care. He knew from experience that it wouldn’t do for the lad to become immersed in self doubt.

Regis studied Sir Wytt’s lithe frame and judged that the swordsman was young, with the look of accumulated experience having weathered his features prematurely. Your name, sir? Regis asked timidly, in the hope of changing the subject at hand.

Sir Wytt, Baron of Lestonshire, Kingdom of Argos. Wytt replied.

Regis noted that the prompt response was delivered in a highly educated and formal tone. He vaguely recalled that Argos was a continent far to the south and west. Sir, may I ask, what brings you so far from your homeland?

Wytt smiled. That would be none of your concern.

Regis was stung by the curt riposte and thought ‘so much for gratitude’. Not knowing what else to say, he continued his forms to finish with the two-handed bear’s parry followed by a poorly executed cobra’s strike.

Wytt had been watching casually whilst preparing breakfast and decided to approach the lad. I think you are going to some tuition.

Regis sighed. Do you think you can help?

I think it would be impossible not to. Wytt worked with the youth well into the morning, constantly exposing the lad’s clumsiness and inexperience. He concentrated on imparting those lessons that would most likely keep the boy alive. The sword is no farmer’s tool lad. You are best using that plain looking spear than resorting to the use of this fine blade. Wytt paused to emphasise his next comment. That is until you are suitably trained.

Regis kept repeating the forms as the swordsman accelerated from frustratingly slow movements to a heart thumping pace. He persisted if for no other reason but to avoid the arched eyebrow and arrogant smirk delivered by Wytt as a quick stroke demonstrated the many flaws in his fumbling defence. Regis’ irritation exploded into anger whereby he delivered a feint using the tiger’s claw to disguise a low quasi cobra’s strike.

Wytt moved deftly aside and halted the lesson. Crude but effective. The same manoeuvre, for want of a better word, that you employed yesterday, is it not?

Yes. Regis exhaled. He panted heavily and derived some satisfaction from the fleeting look of respect from the nobleman.

Do you always wait until desperation dictates thought and action? Wytt inflicted his statements in a cold fashion that inevitably ended in a question.

What would I know? Regis forwarded, with as much rebelliousness as he believed would be tolerated. Regis understood quickly that he had misjudged as a swift cuff nipped his ear.

If I wanted sarcasm I would have consulted my mother by marriage. Wytt commented casually.

Yes sir. Regis opted for a subdued tone.

Wytt absently asked. Do you have any immediate plans or would you see fit to keep me company the next day or so? My mount’s leg needs to heal before I continue on my way.

Regis applied a little thought before asking do you know how to cook?

Wytt looked up at the heavens, as it so happens, yes I do.

* * *

Wytt reflected on the three days spent camping in a hollow by a fast running creek. Despite keeping the lad occupied with sparring sessions and tuition on the bow, spear and sword, he had taken the youth hunting in the afternoon, more to impart trail, cooking and healing lore than to stock up on food. Up until now, Wytt would not have believed that so much fare could be consumed in a single sitting. He brought his mind to the present and quickly scanned the horizon for a potential ambush noting that dusk which was fast approaching.

Regis moderated his lengthy stride to coincide with the knight’s. He knew to keep his tongue quiet when the older man was in thought. This was often. He hadn’t appreciated how much he had absorbed through the lectures and training conducted over the days since the goblin assault and despite the knight’s manner he was beginning to like nobleman and in particular the stories of past battles and quests. Tonight though, no such banter took place and Regis detected a quiet discomfort with the anticipation of tomorrow morning’s farewell.

Wytt prodded the fire. I know I’ve told you a little about the journey I am on Regis. What I didn’t tell you is that I am somewhat to blame for my current predicament.

Regis could not disguise the feeling of being forsaken devouring his countenance. He recognised a farewell speech when he heard one. From the swordsman’s words, Regis began to comprehend the awesome responsibility associated with adult concerns.

Some advice lad, Wytt whispered. He suspected that the silent youth before him would resent his pending departure. Wytt forced his words out. Do what you know is right. Always.

Regis thought the comment most cryptic but didn’t want to question the matter further. He responded with as much confidence he could muster. I’ll try sir.

Wytt smiled at Regis reassuringly before taking up first watch next to an ancient pine tree.

* * *

Regis awoke the next morning noticing the fresh set of hoof prints trailing north and west. He sighed as he reached for a slip of precious paper scribed in fine print. He read the correspondence. Dislike farewells. Thank you for the friendly sword. The letter was signed ‘Wytt’. Damn, Regis regretted not having the opportunity to bid the gallant nobleman farewell. He had come to realise just how important the opportunity to say goodbye was in life. He ate, packed and walked, leaving behind a smouldering fire.

Regis cursed silently as he smacked his head on a low lying tree limb. He felt a growing sense of frustration whilst seeking a place suitably protected from the elements for the night which was quickly approaching. Always the head, he thought, as a small lump was expanding across his temple almost as if the other two bruises on his forehead were seeking company. Regis identified a hollow among the trees and moved quietly to collect wood, start a fire and prepare a meagre, highly unsatisfying dinner. He measured out a small quantity of paraf whilst reflecting on the endless source of entertainment that the viscous, flammable liquid had proven to his mischievous friends. Now he appreciated how precious the fluid actually was. The cold was quickly irritating Regis as the sharpness penetrated the several layers of clothes as well as his heavy blanket and ground mat.

The lack of good food in traditional quantities compounded the effects of the chill and threatened to overwhelm Regis’ mood with ample misery. The loneliness, so unfamiliar until the day his village was attacked, pulled tears down his face. Regis cried himself to sleep on thoughts of a protracted death brought on by cold and hunger with no one to witness even so much as his passing. Alone. The thought of being alone was a potent evil toying with his mind. All his fears were associated with the feeling of solitude, threatening to drown him in the thickness of nothing, groping for his throat in an effort to silence a scream that no one would hear. Regis thought that dawn would not come that long, dark night.

* * *

Regis peered through his blanket, breathing down into his chest to preserve whatever warmth his body could generate. So distracted by his state of misery he spilt warm tea down his trouser leg upon spying the line of travellers moving northwards. Regis paused to better assess the approaching column. He thought there was something odd in their motion but his curiosity and desire to be in the company of fellow humans motivated him to trek in a northerly direction in order to force a meeting. Taking advantage of a large knoll, Regis looked down on the travellers, who were maintaining a slower pace than he had anticipated.

Regis held his breath as three large green-skinned orcs exposed their previously clothed bodies to the warmer late afternoon air. He quickly assumed that the prisoners were the end result of a similar raid to that inflicted upon Hahn. As they neared his position it was apparent to Regis that half of them would die before their journey’s end, probably to be dined upon by their captors. Briefly, he thought of his grandparents and the likelihood of their survival.

The anger burned inside and Regis was considering what he should do. Why he felt a responsibility to these people he had no idea until the underlying words that Sir Wytt had imparted began resonating from deep in his head. ‘Do what you think is right.’ Regis knew that the right thing would be to attempt some form of rescue. Alternatively, the smart thing would be to hide in the lightly wooded knoll and run as far and as fast as his lanky legs could carry him. Regis guessed he would not be known for his intelligence, if he would be known at all.

Regis mentally assessed his simple plan. He had spent some time observing the villagers who were huddled against the lee side of the knoll. To his horror, the beasts appeared to be exchanging coins, pointing every now and then to the villagers and singling out the particularly weak ones, probably gambling on what will constitute tomorrow’s breakfast. Regis tried to focus on his plan which, being one of assassination in the wee hours of night, would demand a great deal of nerve to stop him from tripping over every second clump of snow as was his custom of late.

Regis inhaled deeply and silently offered a prayer of thanks for the impenetrable blackness that had consumed the lingering deep purple-red hue of dusk. He began to position himself towards some bushes located closest to the band of villagers. He lay down his sword, removed a couple of arrows and placed his bow close to hand. Feeling very proud of his forethought, Regis got comfortable and waited for the orcs to commence their evening routine, if they had one. He hoped that at least two would sleep whilst the other kept watch.

Horse dung. Regis muttered under his breath as the largest orc of the trio came lumbering towards him, attired in what would charitably be referred to as a loin cloth. The beast’s behaviour suggested to Regis that the orc was intending to urinate on the bush that constituted his concealment. Regis judged that the orc stood not more than five yards from him although the beast’s attention was clearly oriented to monitoring the villagers.

Regis continued to curse and as the few pungent drops came forth, he moved quickly to bury his grandfather’s sword deep into the towering orc’s huge muscular neck. He felt the sword parting the soft tissue surrounding the enormous throat, slicing vocal chords and travelling directly into the subhuman brain. Regis felt his face relax from its previous fear-induced contortion into a highly satisfied smile. With the sword firmly planted in the orc he let go of the hilt and grappled for his hunting bow.

Regis attempted to hold the bow steady with his quivering hands and in a sudden instant of extreme self discipline focused on his approaching adversary. He watched the arrow fly through the air and land with a thud an inch or two off the centre of the second orc’s torso. Regis noticed the spray of dark fluid spurting out on impact, although the orc appeared not to care as it bellowed and started to lumber towards him.

Ho protect me. Regis called upon the patron deity of farmers, realising that this situation was well beyond the demigod’s portfolio. He released a second arrow into the orc’s chest, this time a little higher than the first. Amazed, Regis watched as the beast continued a further five paces before stumbling awkwardly to the ground. He observed with growing alarm the third orc powering towards him, lathered in animalistic rage.

Regis wrenched his sword out of the beast lying dormant at his feet. He quickly appreciated that this was no goblin. The size and potency of the orc drilled fear deep into the recesses of his mind, drumming out the false bravado that had sustained him thus far. The fiercely menacing club was swung with deliberate strokes, clearly the orc’s preferred weapon of choice, as Regis did all he could just to parry. Not for an instant did he attempt to meet blow for blow, realising the sheer power confronting him. Regis gasped curse after curse as he weakened, allowing the orc a window of opportunity that nearly saw his left arm pulverised. Tears welled and broke free on his face as the hurt began to dull his movements. His strength and endurance failing, he waited for the inevitable.

Finish him man. The desperate command came from somewhere behind the orc. Regis was stunned when the orc lurched forward with surprise and irritation adorning the beast’s features, consuming the otherwise fixed expression of blood lust.

Regis heard the panic in the voice of the man voice that had put a discarded club to good use. He leapt forward with his sword pointing towards the orc and felt the thrust twist sloppily through the orc’s lower back, slashing internal organs with a sickening sucking sound. Regis stood watching the orc fall as his vision slowly blurred and his consciousness gave way to the abyss of sleep.

Well met. Regis recognised the villager who had assisted in the fight but was distracted by the pain emanating from his shoulder and upper arm, currently subject to a woman’s none too gentle prodding and ministration.

That bloody hurts, Regis whined from his lying position.

It will hurt a good deal more should you resort to language like that in my presence again young man. The woman’s retort was quick and harsh.

Regis felt a sharp twinge drill into his arm as a strip of cloth was used to secure his limb. He thought that the middle-aged woman’s accent implied a higher than usual standard of tutoring, particularly when compared to the large man that had intervened in the fight earlier.

And what be your name? A third man questioned him in a thick drawl.

Regis, sir. Regis was not in the mood for conversation as he conceded his physical wellbeing to the middle-aged woman.

Well young Regis, pray tell what brings you to our aid? the first man asked quietly.

For which we are unable to pay you for, slid in yet another individual to the obvious disgust of his companions. What? What? The younger man appeared ill prepared for the stares of his fellow villagers. I am simply making clear what all of us know, regardless of how much we needed his help.

He rescued us Warden, attempt a little courtesy. This came from a younger woman with flowing shoulder length blonde hair and better than plain features enhanced by an inviting smile.

Regis considered that if he felt uncomfortable in the gaze of an enraged orc, he was thoroughly unnerved by the solicitous nature of her demeanour.

Leave him be Rachel. The middle-aged woman spoke with authority.

Her mother perhaps, Regis thought, although there was little resemblance. Regis moved his fingers tentatively in order to see how bad his arm was and, satisfied that nothing was broken, he hesitantly stood up and approached the large man that had initiated the introduction. What be your name sir?

The large man smiled at the lad’s stumbling approach. Well met young Regis. I am Brac and the happy lass who has mended your arm is called Moreen.

What are you going to do now? Regis asked.

Rest here and then go right back to our village on the morrow. Brac responded.

Don’t you think it a little dangerous to remain here? There may be orcs nearby. Regis suggested looking to the north whilst taking an offered stick of dried meat.

I doubt it, and considering we have you to protect us, I don’t think we have much to worry about. Brac responded taking some enjoyment at the boy’s awkwardness.

Regis gagged over Brac’s response.

Whether or not there are orcs about, it’s pointless to move around in the darkness. Better for all to get a night’s sleep and a half decent meal while we can. Brac put his arm on Regis’ shoulder to encourage the lad to accompany him to the gathering of villagers.

Regis sat quietly listening to the rest of the talk. He had learnt that the liberated prisoners were from a village called Durn, located three days due south and east. Noticing that an older couple were greatly discomforted by the cold, Regis handed over his travel blanket with an encouraging nod whilst retaining his deerskin jacket.

A noble act young Regis, somewhat unusual to others among us. Moreen spoke from her niche amidst some rocks that the snow was not deep enough to bury. She smiled at the youth as he retreated and with some effort she closed her eyes and sought sleep.

Regis felt the beckoning call of sleep whilst exchanging pleasantries with the other village folk and promptly excused himself to bed down. Regis was more than surprised when he felt a warm body slide alongside his. He felt his mouth moving without any words coming out. The situation had the distinct arrangement of a dream. Regis judged that his surprise must have registered on his face as Rachel giggled like a babbling brook, sounding horribly loud. Rachel, this is not proper.

I know. Rachel whispered in response. Oh don’t look surprised. I saw the way you were spying on me.

Regis allowed himself a small smile of self-gratification. The thought brought an image unbidden of Aela and once again tears welled.

Rachel misinterpreted the sudden change of mood and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. I didn’t mean to upset you, she whispered sincerely.

I was thinking of my girl and… Before he could utter another syllable, Rachel became colder than the snow he was lying on, leapt up and ran to her rug. Hells, Regis whispered to himself before dismissing the near frolic and closing his eyes to quest for a good night’s sleep.

* * *

Regis settled into his familiar morning routine and greeted the other village folk with increasing ease, except for Rachel, who had retained her winter’s night demeanour. Not overly perturbed, which invited several more frosty looks, Regis went to bid Brac farewell.

Where are you travelling to lad? Brac asked politely whilst privately amused at the lad’s naivety.

Further south and west to a village called Tarac. Regis replied.

Why don’t you come with us? We could use a sword and I am beginning to enjoy your company, although others appear a little objectionable. Brac tossed a mischievous smile in the direction of Rachel and Warden. They deserve each other, he added in a discreet tone.

Regis was experiencing the same sinking feeling he had the evening prior when deciding to free the villagers. The notion of responsibility to a community, regardless of how small, gnawed at Regis’ mind, playing with the implied obligations and commitment. Up until yesterday he had been a free spirit and even if it meant being alone it was preferable to the imposts associated with that of companionship.

Are you all right? Brac looked at Regis trying to determine the cause of the concern scribed on the boy’s face.

Yes, I’m fine. Regis decided it was an appropriate moment to explain his concerns. Brac, you should know that I let my village down. I wasn’t even certain of freeing you. I’m no swordsman, just a farm boy.

Brac relaxed. Last night, you were a swordsman and the fact is you chose to free us whether more by circumstance than not doesn’t matter. I am guessing that I would know a coward if I saw one and there isn’t one where I’m looking.

Brac kept his gaze firmly on Regis as the lad got up and packed the few remaining items of use into a sack.

Regis nodded in appreciation and tried to ignore the fact that he still felt the coolness of solitude. Despite his concerns the more Brac spoke the more Regis came to enjoy the quiet conversation and listened intently as the big man discussed the virtues of blacksmith trade.

Brac breathed deeply enjoying the morning air whilst walking with Regis at the head of the group. He hoped that his references to finding a decent apprentice were working its way into the lad’s mind.

Brac, did you see that? Regis was enjoying the banter as the mid morning sun alleviated the imposing cold but a brief flicker of movement in the distance had caught his eye.

See what? Brac replied quietly whilst looking in the same direction as the youth. Zorbarin’s hammer - your eyes are keen.

I think it’s a deer, Regis offered as Brac nodded in agreement. What do you think? Regis prompted.

I was going to ask you the same. Brac’s words were rushing out at the prospect of having the first hearty meal in what seemed like an age. He nearly fell over laughing as Regis appeared to be on the verge of drooling.

Work our way into the thicket, Regis spoke hurriedly. If we are quiet, we might get close enough.

Brac held his hand up high in order to indicate to the others to follow Regis.

Regis strung his bow and moved forward from a downwind position. He cast Brac a gesture to stop the smithy from calling out. Regis had hunted before but the unspoken pressure of so many people wanting a good feed was beginning to tug at his concentration.

Brac placed a comforting hand on Regis’ shoulder. Just relax, lad. You’ll make the shot. And if you don’t then we’re no worse off, yeah?

Regis smiled in appreciation of the kind words whilst slowly placing the arrow against the taught string. He nudged forward towards the woodland animal, watching carefully where he put his feet.

Brac followed the arrow from its point of release to where it landed with a thud, causing the deer to roll. He caught his curse as the animal returned to its feet albeit rather stunned. Brac was surprised at Regis’ quick handling and release as a second arrow buried itself into the rear right flank, effectively dropping the deer. Well done, lad but who taught you to hunt like that? Brac asked.

My grandpa knows a thing or two about using a bow. Regis smiled whilst getting up from the little hollow they had occupied.

Brac grinned in response, well done grandpa. The anticipation of a good meal had greatly lifted his spirits.

Despite the feast fulfilling his physical appetite, Regis felt a depressive mood weighing on his mind. He looked around and was frustrated at how long it took the villagers to get ready for departure. Regis became progressively uneasy to the point where he snapped at a young couple arguing over a pointless issue. He should have kept his mouth shut. The couple immediately got back to packing and the group found the cohesiveness that was previously lacking. He noticed that even though they awaited Brac’s direction, the villagers strangely began deferring to Regis as though he had a position in the pecking order. Regis sighed, giving thought to how would move on once locals to Durn returned to their village.

Durn

Regis entered Durn casting a weary gaze over the demolished buildings complemented by bodies that were inflicted with horrific violence. It was evident that the orcs had more time to play with their victims and Regis took a moment to marshal his resolve having not anticipated the rawness of the emotion welling within. He sought Brac from the now scattered villagers to find the big smithy looking at a wall with a dark stain detailing a skull and striking serpent. Regis hissed a description of the design.

Brac turned. Seen it before have you?

Regis nodded absently. He tried to avoid externalising his anger and guilt. He was becoming aware of the habit which served to avoid the emotions that threatened to engulf him with the previous week’s events. Regis’ feelings were consuming his mind from the inside as he tried to suppress the vile memories. Never having travelled beyond Hahn, Regis took some time to note that Durn was three or four times larger and appeared to capitalise on the river trade as well as goods being delivered by cart across the ferry lying dormant on the far bank. Regis assumed that some of the villagers had made it across before the orcs attacked and remarked as much to Brac.

Maybe, Brac answered as tears welled in his eyes. He did not resent the intruding comment made by the youth but the destruction of his smithy indicated yet another end to a life’s endeavour. Brac choked on the sob forming deep within his chest.

Anxious to occupy himself in the presence of the large smithy’s obvious distress, Regis commenced the routine of piling bodies for a funeral pyre. Before long several villagers began assisting with the gruesome task with Warden among them. Regis lifted his head to the older boy who had lost his chirpy arrogance and stood opposite the makeshift grave offering an empathetic nod.

For the second time, the sickly sweet smell of burning human flesh induced vomiting from Regis. He could see that many of the others were succumbing to the same compulsion. He was crying openly, reflecting on the many lives lost at Hahn, wondering when his personal misery would stop. Regis participated in the prayers, although they were hollow in comparison to the wailing of the women before moving towards a solitary rock overlooking what had once been the village square.

Regis sat idly when Brac’s voice cut through the air in order to summon those present to a meeting. He watched as the predicament became increasingly obvious to the village people. The villagers fell into a circular argument relating to whether they should leave or stay when again Brac spoke. What are you going to do Regis?

Regis gritted his teeth and hesitantly replied. I am going to Tarac where I hope to find my father and mother.

A long pause extended uncomfortably across the group. Regis appreciated that those present didn’t want to abandon the village but at the same time were coming to accept the enormity of the task required to rebuild. Regis hoped they chose to stay.

I am going to Tarac. Brac stated with finality.

Regis felt like hitting the smithy with something big and heavy.

I am going with Brac. Moreen looked at Brac with such a variety of emotions that both appeared confused.

Oh hell. Regis whispered under his breath as he anticipated what would come next. And sure enough, the gathering followed Brac’s decision, leaving Regis to bite his tongue in frustration.

* * *

Brac assisted Regis by greasing him liberally with whatever wool fat that could be recovered from the soap makers stall.

Regis spoke softly, what you did wasn’t fair Brac.

Fair to you or the others, Regis? Brac responded whilst applying the thick substance.

Regis hadn’t considered what was in the interest of the villagers, but not wanting to appear a fool, he replied instantly, both.

Brac saw through Regis’ obvious guise and walloped a wad of fat onto his back where it would take the boy an age to rinse it off.

Regis spat out his words. What did you do that for?

Take a bloody good look around you Regis. This is the hard end of life so welcome to a grown man’s lot and the first thing you better get straight is that nothing comes fair. Brac tried to mute the harshness of his reply.

Regis grunted at the older man before turning towards the water. He wanted to reply with something meaningful but fell well short of a worthwhile comment. Instead, Regis focused on the task at hand. He knew he was a good swimmer but the thin layer of ice capping the surface gave cause for concern. Again he silently cursed the villagers that escaped using the ferry, as they had severed the line that joined both banks in an obvious attempt to prevent pursuit.

Holy mother of Darth! Regis felt his body explode with cold as he plunged into the river. He swung his arms powerfully without even trying to fight the strong current. He simply accepted that he would have to walk a reasonable distance up river when he got to the other side. If he got to the other side! Every follicle testified to the water’s chill and contracting lungs fought for air. Regis took a moment to orientate his direction noting that he was approaching the halfway mark. With the best of his energy spent, he continued pushing through the collection of icicles populating the surface. Regis