Following the Heartstone

By Craig Henson

Rune is a man who walks his life alone. Sometime soldier, part time treasure hunter, itinerant drifter, his fortunes have waxed and waned with his latest venture. That is, until, he steals a mysterious ruby idol and his past begins to catch up with him.
Caliban is half-orc, torn between two worlds. He lives on the fringe of orc society, patrolling and protecting the tribal lands with other misfits. Until redemption and acceptance are offered, on the condition he helps reclaim a lost ruby idol.
One object pulls two men together and the consequences of their conflict have reverberations that echo through the foundations of the societies that they think they are no longer part of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Henson
• Release date: Oct 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310581632

Craig Henson

Author: Craig Henson has been married 43 years. Once a student in psychology in college. A change in plans led him on a path of personal growth and fulfillment. Knowledge is power and having the tools necessary to gain that knowledge can make a world of difference in your Love Life. "The key to having a more profound and loving relationship lies in your ability to understand one another completely" I have discovered those tools. Craig has developed through research and trial and error a method to help those wanting to improve their relationships. His insights will help all who read it. Improving relationships is his primary goal.

Book preview

Following the Heartstone

By Craig Henson

Copyright 2013 Craig Henson

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1

Waking Wild

The Pursuit

Magic’s Disgrace

Memory of a Mission

Blood on the Beach

Licking Wounds

Part 2

Ingot

Where is the War band?

Rumours and Threats

Slaves

Alchemy

Preparing to Leave

Mountains that Move

Part 3

The Voyage Begins

A Chance to Escape

Unexpected Friends

The Tower

Last Chances

Threats All Around

The Fate of the War band

Walking With Giants

Part 4

Conspiracy

Negotiations and Rewards

Springing the Trap

Nowhere to Run

The Beast Within

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

His bare fingers clutched at the brutal rock of the thin edge, booted toes scrabbled for a grip on the slick face. Stone bit into fleshy tips, cutting through his calloused warrior’s hands, releasing beads of blood to mix with the slime of the cliff. He hung suspended above the raging torrent by the strength of his arms alone. The river raced down the narrow chasm far below, swelled by the spring rains, laughing at the feeble efforts of the lone man. Black spears of broken rock pierced the foaming waters, waiting to thrust into his falling body.

A toe spike found a hold. He pushed up, taking the weight from his burning arms.

Hells, he murmured, barely allowing his voice to rise, even in this place of roaring rivers. He looked for a way forward.

The narrow ledge he sought was just out of reach. It beckoned for him to make a lunge, daring him with the breath of the river. But he was too wise in years to trust to chance. He sought another toe hold, punching the spike into a crevice, and inched forward. Slowly, so slowly, his fingers probed upwards. He could feel the ledge. A thrust from his thighs, one more heave from weary arms, and he was up.

The narrow ledge was like a highway after the rock face. He looked back to the remains of the rotten bridge that had once spanned this ravine. Only the thick poles and the traces of rope remained to tell him that he was on the right trail.

He ran his fingers through his cropped blonde hair. It was plastered slick to his scalp by the dripping water, masking the hints of grey. He adjusted the pack on his broad back and stretched out his long limbs.

He eased along the ledge, testing each footstep, not trusting to the ancient path. Ahead he could see the dark hint of an opening. Thick moss and drooping ferns masked the entrance but he knew it was there, he had seen it drawn on a solitary mouldering map. Hunched in the dim glow of candle flames he had committed this route to memory, the one traveller who had been this way before had recorded his escape in a spidery hand. Now he sought to retrace those steps for a very different purpose. The opening would lead to a rough stair, and that in turn would lead into the bowels of the earth. And deep in a hidden crevice he would find what he sought.

He stooped into the opening, brushing the moist ferns aside. The river roar faded to a chuckle. Stopping, he drew a short torch from his pack. Striking flint to tinder the flickering sparks revealed coiled carvings in the stone. The torch caught and he held it aloft. A narrow stair led downwards. In a half crouch he descended.

***

The cavern was wide and dimly lit. He could not make out the roof but could hear the drip of water into a hidden pool. He waited.

The torch was long since extinguished, safely wrapped in his pack. He had felt his way through the last few passages, trusting to his other senses; the touch of cold stone, the sound of the distant river, the smell of life ahead. The boot spikes were stowed away. The scabbard of his long knife, his only weapon, was wrapped in cloth. The metal greaves were covered by his long laced boots. Even his leather cuirass was blackened with earth to give as little reflection as possible, no hint of his silent movement.

He huddled against a stalagmite, pressed to its grey surface as if he was one with the rock. In front of him was a dip, then a wide shelf of rock. The shelf protruded from a passage, much wider and more travelled than the narrow opening he squeezed through to gain access to this room. The room was illuminated by the soft light of glow-worms twinkling from the ceiling, and two luminescent braziers that marked the passage.

As the hidden watcher waited, a lone supplicant entered the cavern from the wide passage. His black robe hissed as its long hem brushed the rock. He bent over in prayer to a low dais that occupied the middle of the shelf. On the dais was a solitary statuette, glowing with a warm red light.

The supplicant raised a golden chalice. His head was covered by a cavernous black hood as he held it to his lips, supping deeply. He placed the chalice in front of the statuette. Reaching into the folds of his robe, he drew forth a single gold coin, placing it solemnly on the edge of the dais. Low chanting drifted through the cavern. Slowly, the robed supplicant rose. Pausing, he bowed once to the statuette, and then turned to shuffle out the passage.

The hidden watcher stayed for long moments more pressed to the stone of his stalagmite. The cavern was quiet but for the dripping water. Silently he unfolded from his watching place and slipped down into the dip. Crawling like a creature of the caves itself, he climbed to the rock shelf. He perched on the edge, blue eyes hawkishly piercing the faint light over his long thin nose, and then he moved.

First he gathered the golden coins. They lay thick around the dais like a crust of honey. Carefully, one at a time, he placed them in the pack, wrapping each in thin cloth, masking the noise. He worked quickly but his ears were tuned for movement from the passage down which the supplicant had disappeared. He was sure of himself. He had observed for long hours and knew the movements of this cavern, there would not be another supplicant soon.

Next he took the chalice, tipping the liquid gently onto the rock before wrapping it and placing it in the pack. He adjusted the load. The once empty pack now bulged with wealth, but there was room for one more thing.

Finally he took the statuette. He held it reverently to the light, before confining it to the wrappings of cloth. It was made of a single thick ruby, glowing like a bruised heart. The front was carved in the likeness of a cross-legged man. The face was almost bestial, the eyes reddened circles, glowering from deep recesses with an inner light. A coiled and twisted beast sprawled across the figure’s back, rising in wicked spikes.

Finally, I have you, he whispered, less than the volume of dripping water. He had read the accounts from the few travellers who had ventured to these parts, seen every scrawled drawing that existed, read the translations of strange tongues, and now the research had bared fruit. He held the ruby idol in his hands.

He dared linger no longer. With a final look to the empty dais, he slipped back down into the dip.

***

It was several hours before the theft was discovered, many more before the hidden passage was found, and then the pursuit began.

Part 1

Waking Wild

Pain, confusion, fear, the feelings assaulted his senses as he struggled back to consciousness.

Saphina, he croaked through cracked lips, drips of blood trickling through his stubble. She was in danger. He fumbled for a weapon, anything. His hands clawed woodenly in the dirt, finding nothing. His unwilling brain struggled to make sense of where he was, sifting the present with flashes of the past.

Saphina was there in the dappled sunlight. Her hands clasped awkwardly, new dress pale against the olive of her sun-kissed skin. She was on her family’s farm. No it couldn’t be. He had never known her on the farm, only in her full ripeness, lined up in offering with the other courtesans. He had first seen her with a wisp of a worldly smile, warm brown eyes beneath a black fringe. But even that was years ago. His brain was sluggishly slow.

He cuffed his pale red rimmed eyes. Saphina was not there, just a dazzle of sunlight grasped in tree fingers. He was in a thick nook of leaves, caught in a tangled knot of roots and branches. Urgency forced the fear from his strained mind. His mission came tumbling back. He was Rune, alone in the wilds, and the key to Saphina’s salvation lay hidden in his backpack.

Desperately he searched. He barely remembered stumbling into this tree clogged gully in the depths of the night. The pack was caught scant feet below his refuge. His sword and bow were still strapped securely to it, the lid lashed tight. He fumbled for his canteen, took a long slug of water, letting the cool liquid spill over his parched lips as he gathered his thoughts.

I must have slept. He mumbled. Even his own voice was harsh in his ears. How long since he had spoken to another?

He had travelled hard and fast for so many days, barely pausing as he ran, snatching fitful moments of rest in the hollows of trees or pressed into crevasses. Always the orcs were behind him.

He thought he had lost them in the wastelands of the central plateau. The browned bog-lands with their hidden pools, towering clumps of razor edged toe toe, and groves of wizened trees swallowed up man and pursuer alike. But no, the orcs were too good. He should have been able to throw some false trails, double back around the pursuit and rush north to his destination, the city of Willowforge. But somehow, they saw through his ruses and forced him eastwards, always eastwards, away from Willowforge, away from Saphina.

They had driven him into the ragged forest of the foothills. They had driven him up into the Giant’s Teeth. He shuddered again at the thought of those twisted trails. The Giant’s Teeth Mountains were the jagged bite that gnawed the soft coastal human held lands from the heartland plains of the central plateau. He had risked the Giant’s Teeth, any moment expecting an icy death or the cruel attention of their ever watchful guardians. He found the secret passes that pierced the Teeth, slipping past their broken crowns. He had stumbled down the seaward slopes of the Teeth in a blind fog. He knew not whether the orcs pursued him still or he ran on the dregs of his own panic but either way he had stumbled. He had slipped into the forest and slid from consciousness, to wake here, in a valley of dappled sunlight.

The fear gripped him again. He had slept or drifted into unconsciousness for hours. It was time to flee.

He checked his body in the routine of long habit. No injuries marred his limbs or torso. His hardened leather kept him safe in his dazed stumble. His legs felt strong, strong enough to walk at least. He tightened his belt, his stomach pinched and flat from lack of food. That would have to wait. The pack with his weapons he heaved onto broad shoulders. Even after many years with Long bow and sword he felt the weight of the wrapped coins dragging him down. With luck he would not have to bear it much longer.

He knew that on this side of the mountains lay the sea. He needed to get his treasure back to a town and safety. Well, whatever safety there is in the company of greedy men. And then he could think of getting to Willowforge. It was no more than a day or two to the coast. The next large town was called Ingot, if he remembered rightly. And then he would be back in civilisation. He scratched the grey flecked stubble on his chin. Thoughts of a shave, a bath and some hot food crept into his mind, inevitably tied up with memories of Saphina.

Natural caution informed his movements as he left the gully. Somewhere a tui warbled announcing its morning quest for nectar. He moved stealthily and quickly as only he could; flittering through the trees like a passing shadow. He hugged the slopes, following the trickles of streams downhill. The forest thickened and thinned eventually parting around scatterings of strewn boulders. He wove through rough paths and faint game trails, always keeping to the firmer ground, the fear of leaving a print competing with the need for haste. Now and then he paused, but there was no sign of pursuit.

His relief was almost palpable when he saw the thin line of a cobbled road and the first tower on the Outland’s Wall. It marked the outskirts of man held domains. Constructed in times past, before the chain of Wizard Towers, now the crumbled unkempt wall would turn no invaders. The lush vegetation of this wild land had already begun to reclaim its prize. Pine saplings breeched the wall and a thicket of tree ferns sprouted in the lee of the tower. Only the broad banner on the crenulated battlement showed that the tower was still inhabited.

Rune slipped past beside the tower and over the tumbled wall. The archway showed signs of fresh repairs, pale blemishes on the ancient grey. Civilization meant riders and guards. At any moment he expected to be hailed from above but no sound came.

Although not truly wild like the lands without, the land within the Outland’s Wall was regressing from farmland to forest. The farmers were no longer there, the initial settler fervour blunted on the anvil of the forest. They had either returned to the towns or sought easier land to tame further to the south. Though large stands of trees were confined to the ridges and the gullies, the flat lands were a mix of shrub and stringy grasses gone to seed. Thick heads of corn and maize peered from prickly prisons of overgrown gorse hedges. Stones, set at one time into walls, lay jumbled as hummocks beneath the reclaiming weeds. Only the road was well enough travelled to remain intact.

Rune weighed his options, the fields were overgrown and difficult to pass while the road was flat and clear. He was in human lands now and his natural caution must make way for the sake of speed. Every moment was time that Saphina might not have. He set his weary feet on the remains of a cobbled road and slogged on.

He made far better time loping along the cobbles. The sun rose before him until it was a pale orb overhead sifted by the wispy clouds. Beneath the light cloud cover the day was hot and muggy. He felt obvious and exposed on the rough road. The sensation grew until an uncomfortable prickling at the back of his neck told him he was being watched. He had not survived this long without paying attention to those small feelings and his hands subtly checked his weapons as he moved. His peripheral vision checked the ridge lines and the stands of trees.

A party of riders watched him pass from the edge of a forest on a nearby ridge. Their brown garb blended in with the dappled shadows under the trees. He counted five, lightly armoured on fast mounts, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more. Dim sunlight glinted off spear blades as they turned to ghost back into non-existence.

Rune wasn’t sure what their presence meant. The more careful creatures of the wild learnt to keep back from the human held lands. A man travelling alone was unusual, but of little concern, or so he hoped. A man travelling alone could also be considered easy prey to those who held the power of law to themselves. Justice was rough and with those who held strength on the edge of the wild. He had learnt that lesson before.

The road ran fairly straight but ahead there was a dip in the ground as it curved around a small knoll. As soon as he turned the corner he grabbed his bow from its linen cover, stringing quickly in long practised fashion. Notching an arrow his eyes flickered from the shaft to his escape route.

A hill ascended steeply to his right, its side dotted with scrubby bushes and twisting gorse. If a mounted threat appeared he could easily scramble up the knoll and lose them in the twisting passage of ridges and valleys. If they were not mounted, he would have to rely on his speed through rough terrain.

The clopping of hooves on the cobbles announced a single rider trotting around the bend. His brown tabard was marked with a pearly crescent moon. He was a border patrol rider, paid by a local baron to police the edge of the wilds. The rider was un-helmed with a shock of sandy blond hair. He advanced with the confidence of youth, unaware of Rune standing pressed against the bank at the side of the road.

A second rider followed, more cautiously than the fist. He was older, un-helmed like the first, with short steel grey hair. He sat his horse easily but his eyes moved constantly under bushy brows.

Ease it up there Walt, the elder rider murmured to the youth.

The younger man curbed his horse and looking enquiringly back at his companion.

I have more men. The grey haired man’s calm eyes came to rest on Rune half-hidden in the shadows.

The youth turned his horse, eyes widening as he too saw Rune. Burt?

Easy, Walt, replied the older man.

He has a bow.

I see that Walt. Our friend here knows not to start anything he can’t finish. Burt sat easy, watching Rune, the tension around his eyes and a hard edge to his lined face belying his calm manner. Now you won’t be doing anything funny, will you son? Burt drawled.

A horse snickered.

Kerb ya beast, Walt. Burt’s gaze never left Rune’s face. The casually held reins were inches from his sword hilt. No need for anger, let’s just chat.

Rune waited.

Now a curious man may be wondering what ya business be here but I’m just a simple man that wants no trouble on my patch. Burt continued.

There was the sound of hooves behind Rune. He half turned to flick his eyes to the rear. A third rider trotted slowly along the road from the opposite direction. He stopped a fair distance away and stood in his stirrups to call across to the grey haired Burt.

He seems to be alone. Trace and Mayd are casting about a bit to make sure.

Burt nodded in acknowledgement. So, sonny, is there anything you need to tell me? One man alone ain’t exactly regular here.

Rune paused, considering his response. These were border riders and this was their land. They had probably seen him well before he first noticed them. They would know that he came out of the ranges and not from the coast road. He needed an easy reason for his presence, something to ally suspicion but not too contrived. He decided to give them the truth, almost. I was in the wilds.

Burt raised an eyebrow, indicating he should continue.

I was told there might be some easy profit to be had. Apparently there is a lost wagon not too far in. Rune allowed his shoulders to slump in defeat, hoping they would read his body language as a disappointed privateer, My information was wrong, he sighed for emphasis.

Ya seem old enough, sonny, to know there ain’t no such thing as easy profit. Burt’s face softened in sympathy.

Rune had read the man well. Easy money gone hard was the tune of the common soldier.

And by the look of ya, Burt continued looking him up and down, ya seem like you could go a meal. He turned to his younger companion, indicating the shelter of the knoll with a wave of his hand, Lunch time eh Walt?

The offer of food drifted a memory of Saphina into Rune’s mind. They were at a rough kitchen table, idly talking about nothing he could remember, but easy talk, talking like people long used to each other’s company rather than a couple who spent a few snatched weeks together between his expeditions. She laughed at something he said and pressed a napkin to her mouth to stifle the mirth. He reached across the table and brushed her hair away from her face. She looked up, warmth welling to overspill from her eyes. It was that look he ran back to. That was what he needed to save.

The Pursuit

Caliban was worried. It was three days since they had lost the tracks and the Warlord was getting impatient. He stood silently under the deep shadows of a large tree on a windswept ridge, his broad orcish nose raised slightly to take in the breeze. The fait waft of man and horseflesh mixed with steel and leather mingled in his nostrils. A patrol of horsemen had been this way recently. He scanned the surrounding countryside for further sign of the patrol.

The ridge marked the end of the low foothills that jumbled either side of the now tranquil river. It curved to Caliban’s right, following the flattening of the hills as they became lower broken grasslands, patched with tangles of remnant forest. A faint trail, easily visible to his trained trackers eyes, twisted through that lowland away from the river and towards a low ruined wall in the distance. The wall was long since abandoned but he could see a lone tower. One of those strange cloth things that men used to announce their presence flew from the top on a long pole.

Tobrug won’t like this. We are too close to man things, whispered Ur-ban-Garth in a barely audible hiss. His pinched face squinted up at Caliban as he squatted easily on dark legs, resting his bow across his knees. Ur-ban-Garth had grown used to the light in his time with the orc trackers but, like most orcs, he relied on his powerful senses of smell and hearing in the daylight.

Caliban shaded his pale blue eyes to examine the tower. He was gifted with day-sight far beyond that of true orcs. It was one of the traits he inherited from his mixed parentage. While most orcs were broad and bent, he was tall, straight-backed and long-limbed, much in the way of men. His head was topped with soft brown hair that refused to stay tied-back in orcish style and instead fell loose around his shoulders. His looks had singled him out in the pit with the other whelps but he had fought his way through in true orcish fashion.

Tobrug can suck on dung, he replied turning to his companion.

Ur-ban-Garth also was tall and lean for an orc, but it was not this that had veered him away from the warrior path. He too was misfortuned by birth. His father Garth was the former chief of the Lone Peak Clan who whelped him on a young mother late in life as his hold on strength and clan waned. Ur-ban-Garth was too young to threaten the new chief and escaped the death quest as the factions fought for control. However, he too, had to overcome his linage as he grew. He was lighting fast and able to defeat his opponents from an early age but, like Caliban, he was drawn to the orc trackers, the "outlanders’, away from the den and the infighting of the warrior class. Now the two young trackers were responsible for the direction of a whole orc war band.

Ur-ban-Garth chuckled, I’d like to see you try and make Tobrug suck dung.

Caliban smiled in reply. It would be a hard task to take on their powerful Warlord and leader.

Tobrug was thickset and powerful in classic orc fashion. His brute strength, tempered by ambitious cunning, had seen him rise quickly in the warrior ranks to Warlord. He had torn challengers apart with his bare hands. He had the fear and respect of his band and would do whatever it took to succeed. That was why he was trusted with this unusual command.

Caliban turned to look behind him. Further down the slope, the rest of the band hunkered in the safety of bushes and boulders, more natural for plains orcs than tall tree lined ridges. They were far from the home of the Heartland Tribe and in the bright of day but the seasoned warriors feigned indifference. They lounged around on the rough ground idly inspecting weapons or chewing on hard trail-tack but Caliban could see their quivering nostrils detecting any scent or hint of danger. Worry or hesitation was un-orcish, but mistakes were punished by death. He shuffled nervously; his life depended on finding this trail.

***

Caliban had noticed the change in the trail back on the central plains on the other side of the mountains. The man must have realised he was being tracked. His trail suddenly became more obvious and Caliban anticipated a double back. He quickly led the confused war band back along their own trail with a screen of scouts to cut off the return.

However, the man was good and did not come close to their trap. He turned towards the forest rather than risk passing the orc line. Only Ur-ban-Garth’s sensitive nose caught his scent and headed them on the trail again. This time the man went fast and hidden. Caliban was hard pressed to follow him through the trees, finding only small signs to confirm his path. They tracked the man over the Giant’s Teeth Mountains, through the hidden passes, and into the foothills, but they were always too far behind no matter how hard Tobrug drove the war band on.

Do we keep following the river? Ur-ban-Garth asked. He tried not to show it but Caliban could see the concern in his eyes. It was many seasons since a war band travelled this far from the heartland and all were on edge.

No, I think the road is our best bet. Caliban looked to the faint trail that led to the abandoned tower. That was the most likely place for the man to pass through the broken wall. And if Caliban didn’t find sign soon then he, as head scout, would be held to blame, and he knew what that meant, meat was running low.

Tobrug made his hulking way up the slope to stand beside Caliban. What do you see? he asked, his massive bulk settling against the tree.

Caliban could tell by his tone that Tobrug was nervous too. There seemed to be a lot at stake in finding this one man. Maybe Tobrug also was up for the butchers block if they failed.

Caliban stopped the lie that was coming to his tongue, and decided to be honest. There is still no sign

Ur-ban-Garth hissed in surprise at Caliban’s candour.

But he must have gone this way, Caliban continued, He will seek his own kind eventually. Our hope it that he loses caution as he gets close to man lands,

Tobrug paused for a while, considering. We have one more day to find sign, he stated, holding Caliban’s gaze for a few moments. Just find the trail again, light-eyes. Tobrug turned and stalked back down the slope to his band.

Ur-ban-Garth let out a long held breath.

Caliban had got off lightly. A different commander might have killed him for losing the trail, but not Tobrug. Perhaps the leniency indicated faith in Caliban’s tracking abilities, or perhaps it had something to do with the cloaked Shaman. His presence in the band was barely discussed but he made them all nervous. If a war band of this size far from home was unusual, then a Shaman of the hidden claw was exceptional. There was a rumour that he was there because the man had defiled some sacred site. And the Shaman had been huddled with Tobrug in heated debate ever since they lost the trail.

Magic’s Disgrace

The stew