Wizard Warrior

By Jeff Rogers

Have you ever wondered whether or not ‘middle earth’ actually exists? Perhaps you believe it does. Where exactly is middle earth? Well, legend has it that it is actually an imaginary place where elves, dwarves, demons and giants live with humans and dragons – children and grownups believe that middle earth is a real place. And who can argue with that?

Wizard Warrior is adventure/fantasy at its best and follows the adventures and misadventures of Fundem Tarralion and Iscandar, his magic sword.

Trapped by sorcery he had been given the ultimate penalty of imprisonment beneath miles of unmapped rock. His body had been sustained and held in a type of limbo by the sorcery. Fundem had been a champion, a prince of the realm. He had led glittering hosts to the darkest realms and had prevailed. He had dueled with demons and giants.

None had prevailed against Fundem either by sword of spell. Would he prevail again?

The book takes the reader on a whirlwind of exciting clashes and the fight to free their lands from evil.

This quote from the book says it all - 'Fundem fell quiet and his friends suddenly saw all the years and burdens that sat upon his shoulders. They asked no more questions and reflected upon the momentous events stretching back into the far distant past. To Aldrick, Fundem seemed an ancient historical book come to life. In fact since meeting Fundem he had felt his reality fading into the stuff of legend, as if he was being written into a book and was merely a bystander. Aldrick shivered at what was to come. He hoped he had strength enough to last the journey.'

From priceless treasures to fire breathing dragons and magic spells, this story has it all. And all the time, we will wonder what exactly is going on at the bottom of our gardens. Middle Earth rules!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Rogers
• Release date: Apr 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458158970

Jeff Rogers

Jeff Rogers lives in Melbourne, Australia although his soul was long ago captured by Bilbo Baggins when he stepped out of the round door to begin a journey down the endless road of imagination

Book preview

Wizard Warrior

By Jeff Rogers

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Jeff Rogers

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www.thewizardwarrior.com

Maps are available on this website

CHAPTER 1: ESCAPE FROM DARKNESS

Something stirred the silence. A long forgotten tunnel deep underneath a mountain bore witness to the return of life. This was a place that only ever knew tapping drips of water or scratching groans of restless rock. It was more than dark here for the air held a blackness that was complete and perfect. It was as if the rock had squeezed the very concept of light from existence. Yet still some came as heralded by the muffled tramp of boots stirring reluctant air.

Soon a troop of orcs stirred the blackness. Their leader was Gereb Balag and he was not amused and this meant that his troops were becoming sore. Whilst Gereb was an orc like the others he didn’t regard himself as the same for his fangs were particularly long and his hands were extra strong, strangler's hands. Where his fellows bore picks and shovels he carried a red dyed, serrated edged scimitar bared in a gnarly fist.

Every now and again he would lash out indiscriminately, striking one or another. Mostly they merely yelped as the flat of his blade paid out a stinging rebuke. Sometimes they would howl as shred was torn from their dark hides. Gereb's response was always the same ‐ a short, sharp chuckle.

He was angry because he regarded himself as a battle chief. Instead he was playing host to a rabble of lowly miners, filthy diggers of rock. He should have been planning his next deed of murder and robbery. Instead he was trudging downwards to the darkest and deepest part of the mines. All because of that cursed human.

Oh, it had been a great fight. Sentries had detected a party of the vicious warriors snooping about. Digging here, prying there obviously looking for something. His tribe, the black skulls, had surprised them well and good. With overwhelming numbers (always the best policy) they had slain all except one who was spared for interrogation. What did it matter if a few weak fools had died on his side? Such is life. The weak died and the strong survived. Gereb smiled at the memory of his sword slicing through a scrawny neck.

Then they had discovered the map. The men had been searching for treasure. They must have been snooping for quite a while for the maps were better than any the orcs possessed and there were strange marks in various places. The mark was the letter ‘T’; obviously ‘T’ for ‘Treasure.’ Or so someone had told Gereb (who could not actually read himself). They tried to interrogate the prisoner they had captured who refused to co‐operate despite ungentle persuasion.

Unfortunately some Vaal had heard the ruckus and investigated. They were the overlords and promptly took over. The next moment he was before old Burash who loved treasure more than life, everyone else’s life! So he had been given the lucky job of stomping these forsaken dungeons. The unlucky prisoner remained with Burash. Gereb grimaced; he would not wish that on anyone.

So they went down until finally even their dark‐sight was becoming gloomy. Orcs loved the dark. Their eyes, which bore a red glint, saw the world in those same shades. Gereb saw his companions as mosaics of bright orange hues. In comparison the surrounding walls of the tunnel were a very dark burgundy, almost black. And they were becoming darker groaned Gereb. The colder the darker, that was the way of it.

Finally the tunnel they were following petered out and came to a dead end. Upon ragged rock ahead were the last lamentable blows of forgotten miners. They stared back like signposts. Signposts of hopeless frustration, thought Gereb. At least that signalled an end to their hike. The hard leather of his iron‐studded boots was grating at sore toes.

The ten miner orcs sat, thinking to rest. Gereb had other ideas.

‘Get up you lazy swine,’ he barked, ‘before I tan your filthy hides some more.’ Gereb brandished his scimitar threateningly. Ten weary orcs promptly stood, though one or two groaned. Gereb kicked one such groaner hard resulting in a load resounding grunt. ‘And no moaning either.’

The orc leader then walked slowly forward to examine the tunnel’s end. It was as he expected. No trace of anything shiny or precious! What a waste of time. He snorted; at least he could rest awhile.

‘Alright vermin get to work,’ he ordered sharply.

Orcs wearily unpacked picks and shovels and the sound of tapping soon echoed about the tunnel. Gereb yawned and slouched back on a long low boulder half jutting from the wall. He attempted to snooze however the sounds of tapping made it hard to relax. Soon he was yelling for them to hurry up and find something worthwhile.

He had almost reached a comfortable doze when he realised that the tapping had stopped.

‘What the hell are you idiots up to eh?’ he bellowed.

‘Come and have a look at this boss,’ an orc whimpered.

Gereb, cursing loudly, raised himself and trudged to where ten orcs were gathered. Elbowing them aside, he gazed upon their problem. Their picks had revealed a tiny spot of eerie luminescence in the rock. This gleam was reflected by a stronger gleam in Gereb’s eyes. This was the gleam of avarice. Visions of wondrous jewels sprang to mind. Legends of weird gems shining with magical light began to take substance. Gereb quickly snatched a pick and raised it before his deep inbuilt caution rang loud. He had developed a motto that had saved his skin on many occasions – risk is a dish best served to others.

‘Take this and smash it when I give the word,’ he ordered a fearful orc. he then went back up the passage and crouched behind the boulder that had served as his seat.

‘Now!’ he commanded.

Gripping the pick‐handle in trembling hands a hapless orc prepared to strike. The pick‐head seemed to fall slowly to those watching. The instant it struck a violent explosion erupted, thundering through the tunnel. Searing fire of the purest white roared out scorching ten orcs to cinders. The very earth shook and quaked with fury. It was as if all hell had been loosed.

Then, suddenly, the fire stopped. Thunderous echoes died and utter silence descended. A blackened, now hairless, head peeked over the burnt boulder to gape in horrific amazement. Before him an insubstantial glimmer of light still lingered. Wafts of slowly drifting smoke shimmered with deep violets and reds, floating in bulbous forms until wraithlike shapes reached out. Like the shifting of windblown sands upon a trackless desert the smoke swirled. Communing within a complex changing pattern it formed a mosaic of dark hues. Then, reluctantly, it seemed, the smoke disappeared. But still, a glimmer of unnatural light remained.

Gereb squinted and beheld a ragged hole exposed by the explosion. It was the source of the luminescence. Light wavered but did not fade. Grunting, Gereb clambered up and stood undecided. When no more catastrophes occurred he bared fangs, drew his scimitar and crept forward. As he reached the hole he found something exceedingly strange. Inside was a spherical room with walls carved as smooth as glass. Light came from this smooth surface, like reflected moonlight. From where Gereb crouched he could see no other opening. Senses rattled and mind awhirl, he moved closer to gain a better view.

Gereb’s terrified howl shattered the silence. Jerking his body backwards, the orc scuttled and tripped. Rising on shaking feet he turned and fled in blind panic. For what he had seen lying at the base of the sphere was enough to terrify the bravest of orcs. Eyes wide he ran and didn’t stop running, and in an instant had disappeared, footsteps fading into the distance.

Within the sphere was an elf, marvellous and long‐lived beings that are the source of much myth and legend. Though of human proportions, elves are far different. Most noticeably elvish faces had a distinct silvery sheen as if shaped from the moons reflection upon a deep mountain lake. Further, elvish ears were very elegant and styled; as if sculpted by an artist dissatisfied with the normal variety. As for the way they moved, well, no human could ever move so lightly and gracefully.

Eyelids flickered open to reveal sparkling grey eyes flecked with bright spots of light, like tiny stars. Though innocent and vague at first, they swiftly became sharp and bright. Those eyes bore the marks of both innocence and wisdom. Within their depths centuries went marching back with no hint of world‐weariness. Only clear untainted memories glinting with barely held excitement.

This particular elf’s name was Fundem Tarralion. If Gereb had known that he may have dropped dead on the spot! Fundem slowly moved, muscles trembling with the effort. So many years had he been trapped within prison that his body was refusing to come to terms with movement. Trapped by sorcery he had been given the ultimate penalty of imprisonment beneath miles of unmapped rock. His body had been sustained and held in a type of limbo by the sorcery. His mind remained alert and sensed keenly the passing of time. Time was the true punishment. Eventually, it was reasoned by the creators of the spell, a mind could not cope with the lack of stimuli would be forced to reconcile itself to the truth.

Fundem had found that his experience differed greatly from what the theorists expected. For a long time after imprisonment, he could not tell how long, his mind did turn in on itself and he relived all the moments of his life. Although not all his actions were perfect he did not condemn himself for past mistakes. In fact he found within his heart a great compassion both for himself and others. Mistakes had been made and he had sought to learn from them. The reflections actually forced him to realise what he had made of himself. He was not disappointed.

After an indeterminate time, things had changed. His mind began to both expand and narrow at the same time. He could remember thinking that surely a hundred years had passed and that he would be released soon. The liberation never came and without a reference to time he had no knowing whether he had been incarcerated for one year or ten thousand.

Soon his mind began drifting and seeing other realities. Whether his visions reflected reality he could not tell. Many strange and wondrous things he witnessed. Whether these places were real or just an illusion was impossible to tell. He seemed to float from one world to the next, each stranger than the last. Some he seemed to be able to choose and others he was taken to. At times he almost understood yet this feeling was fleeting and could never be recaptured.

He tried to work out how long he may have been imprisoned yet time had been meaningless. Some of his visions could have lasted a hundred years and he would not have known. Some had been beautiful beyond imagination. Others had been more terrible than the worst of nightmares. He had remembered being saddened with grief, joyous with laughter, tremblingly fearful and frightfully angry. Somehow he felt he had been changed by these experiences, that he was not the same person he had been in the past. Yet he could not put a finger on these changes. He felt the same yet also reborn.

The elf was clothed in black trousers and a sky blue shirt of fine tailoring. Over this he wore a long, dark overcoat of very peculiar material. It seemed to change colours appearing dark green one moment and deep brown the next. It was a magical coat, once owned by the great elf king Lideon. Made in Elvenestra it provided both protection and secret storage pockets that were much larger than they appeared.

About Fundem’s waist was an intricately wrought golden belt studded with sombre rubies, brilliant diamonds and frivolous sapphires. They seemed to glow in their own light and were indeed magical gems. They stored magic the way plants absorbed sunlight. Hanging from a chain about his neck was a dainty little dagger about three inches long. A small cross‐guard had two diamonds clasped at either end in tiny golden lion’s claws.

Fundem, still sitting in the smooth sphere, looked towards the dark, seared hole. Around him luminescence was slowly dimming. As Fundem peered out of the sphere his vision shifted perception. Similar to orcs, he too could see without any natural light. Outside dark patterns of deep purple and burgundy evidenced the utter lack of life. Silence ruled supreme, windless and oppressive.

Scratching his head with elegant fingers the elf pondered what fortune had brought him. Most assuredly luck had intervened in a most opportune way. The ancient spell that had entombed him had been designed for permanence. From the ragged look of the tunnel he could only assume that his unfortunate rescuers had been mining some type of ore. That they had perished he had no doubt for the pent up power released must have been enormous.

Smoothly Fundem leapt from his erstwhile prison and into the tunnel. The chilly air went unheeded as long unused muscles rejoiced in freedom. Then he caught an unmistakable odour hanging in the air and his eyes blazed in anger. Orcs, he thought, and not long gone at that.

In a flash he plucked the dainty dagger free from a clasp that held it on the chain about his neck. Holding it before him he spoke in a voice that held both the frivolity of laughter and the grandeur of a mountains peak.

‘Awaken Iscandar; you are small use to me as a dagger.’

The dagger’s small diamonds twinkled and blue fire twisted sending patterns dancing upon the walls. Fire spread and built in ferocity. Soon the tunnel was dark no more as blue light cast back the darkness. Fire engulfed the air before Fundem, seeming to consume the dagger. Then, suddenly, the fire abated to reveal a magnificent sword, still gleaming in blue light and graced by twirling flecks of flame. The pommel and guard remained golden but were of a metal as hard as adamantine with twin diamonds the size of almonds, star shaped and carved with flawless facets. The blade was a perfection of mirrored steel, edges gleaming as if sharp enough to slice rock.

Fundem smiled at the familiarity of his sword. Bound to his soul by

ancient magic the elders had feared to remove it. In fact Fundem doubted that they could have forced him to surrender Iscandar at any rate. He had surrendered to them of his own free will, out of a refusal to hurt those he loved. The elders held power unfathomable and may have prevailed in the end yet Fundem was not without the means to cause havoc.

In fact Fundem had been their champion, a prince of the realm. He had lead glittering hosts to the darkest realms and had prevailed. He had duelled demons and giants. None had prevailed against Fundem either by sword of spell. Legends sprang from his passing even as fear grew rooted in the hearts of his enemies.

Yet, mused Fundem, such glory is fleeting in the grander scheme. In fact pride had been undermining him at every turn. Someone had used that pride to manoeuvre him into defeat. Who would have thought the lords capable of imprisoning their own champion, the heir to the High Kings throne? Fundem, in all his might, was rendered powerless by his pride.

Fundem gazed at Iscandar and smiled wistfully. Once he had bathed in the glory of power. Now mocking shadows seemed to laugh at his naivety. With a wry chuckle Fundem strode forth down the tunnel. Had his lesson been learnt? Only time would tell.

Gereb ran in blind panic for a time before finally coming to his senses some way from the mine. Still quivering with fear he paused and listened for sounds of pursuit. Elves! Elves! Impossible, he thought. No elf had been seen in these parts beyond memory. No one he knew had ever seen an elf. The stories would never disappear though. Their mere look was said to be enough to fry poor orcs where they stood.

The sudden tramp of boots made him jump, face turning white. Then from around the corner came a troop of vaal. They were tall, with pale faces and black cloaks. Gereb at any other time would have shivered at the sight for they ruled Gereb’s tribe with an iron fist. Now he leapt for joy. With a smile on his face he went to greet his masters.

Fundem smelt the air again. Yes, the odour was unmistakable; it had to be an orc. Carefully he followed the trail of smell through the winding tunnels. As he travelled he realised that the place was like a labyrinth. Many were the crossroads where passages split or were joined by another. Although he surmised that the orc was heading the shortest route to reinforcements, still he had no option but to follow. Without guidance he could wander these tunnels forever.

Suddenly he heard the faint sounds of someone approaching. A grating voice echoed into his sensitive ears. Fundem quickly retreated to a narrow side passage he had just passed. As he did Iscandar’s fire dimmed and the sword shrunk back. Fundem lay upon the cold rock and peeked about the corner.

From down a rise in the tunnel some distance away a troop of warriors came. In the lead was a swarthy orc. It was his voice that Fundem heard complaining loudly that he should not be the one to lead. Even from this distance he could be seen shaking in fear, eyes darting left and right in terror.

Behind the orc marched six vaal striding in aquiline grace. They were of a race long reviled and greatly feared by all decent folk. Many were the names people had whispered in hushed voices. Chief among these was the name Vampire, for blood sustained their deathly souls. Like some evil folk they had not always been so. Old tales whispered of a dark betrayal that had cursed an entire race.

They were tall with manlike proportions, though more gaunt and with six fingers on each hand. Their faces were long and not unhandsome topped with long black hair tied in braids. All wore blackened mail and crimson cloaks. Some bore swords and others long hafted axes. The tallest of the vaal had an ornate rapier strapped to a polished red gold belt.

They were beings that Fundem knew well. He had fought against them in a great war when they had sought to extend their empire to the surface. They were ever denizens of the underground, dwellers of darkened cities that had never seen the light of day. Legends told of a loathsome need for blood, which they drank in crystal glasses like the finest wines; and the vintage they savoured above all others was elvish.

Fundem moved further down the side passage as the warriors approached. Ducking out of sight around a sharp bend he waited for them to pass. The scuffle of feet floated down the passage as they approached. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Fundem cursed silently. He had hoped that the vaal’s acute sense of smell would be dampened by orcish stench. His hope was in vain, for he now heard a cautious scuffle coming directly towards him.

Fundem swiftly retreated down the next stretch of corridor. To his vexation it ended in a room carved out of rock. Several piles of rusted iron lay about the abandoned chamber. Once it was probably a guardroom, though to guard from what was knowledge lost in the mists of time. Fundem gazed at the sombre walls, realising he was trapped. There was no way out.

The freedom that burned in his chest had become stubborn however. Many years he had lain helpless. Fundem’s fury over being imprisoned was still fresh in his mind. The elves he could not blame for they had been duped, their good hearts betrayed. Now an older enemy was approaching in cold murder. Well, Fundem thought, let them come. They would find his life not so easy to take. For the first time in an age he was free to strike back.

Eyes gleaming fiercely he gripped Iscandar, which fired to life. Silently leaning behind the entrance Fundem waited for the first aggressor to show his face. Although they tried to move quietly the elf's sharp ears easily noted their progress. Briefly they paused, no doubt inspecting the glowing entrance with trepidation.

Deceivingly relaxed, like a tiger awaiting a timid deer, Fundem listened intently. Then he heard a brief scuffle next to the doorway. Blisteringly swift, Fundem swung into the narrow passageway. The leading vaal managed to gape his jaws in disbelief just before four feet of glowing steel buried itself through his mail and chest to jut out rudely from the other side.

Without pausing Fundem swept Iscandar free as he leapt over the still falling vaal. The next recoiled violently as the elf hurtled towards him. It helped not as Iscandar darted down, impossibly swift, to cleave him from shoulder to navel. The glinting diamonds upon Iscandar’s crossguard were now a primeval red and Fundem’s eyes shone in a wild light.

The following fighters had little time to prepare as the elf leapt forward. Still, vaal warriors are not cowards and live to fight or die by the sword. The next, fangs bared and hissing like a cornered cat, swept his long axe diagonally downwards. This was a weapon unsuited to the cramped conditions. Fundem merely stopped short, allowing the axe to crack against stone. Then he lunged forward, driving Iscandar through another heart.

Two more vaal awaited Fundem’s assault. The last, seeing the havoc wrought so far, began backing away. The other, recognising the impossibility of retreat, cursed his companion and faced the oncoming elf. Recognising the uselessness of his axe he threw it and followed with a low dagger attack. Fundem, leaping like a panther, jumped the hurtling axe and swept Iscandar in a downward arc upon the vaal’s unhelmeted head. The sword split hair and skull to end another life.

Without pondering his victim’s brief agony Fundem surged forward, Iscandar outstretched. The last warrior turned and ran, fear reeking from every pore. Fundem however was as swift as a hawk as he swooped upon a foe now mindlessly seeking escape. Without pause he thrust his sword through the others back and rolled out of the narrow tunnel and into the main corridor.

Rising smoothly from his rush of motion Fundem surveyed who was left. There was only one, the vaal leader, and he stood indifferently in the middle of the passage, ten feet away. Gereb, the hapless orc, quivered helplessly in a heap further up the passage.

‘You fight well Dundaling’, a deeply resonant voice rang out in the old tongue. ‘Yet those you slew were of no great name. Thus do the young and foolish die. Be sure to savour victory quickly for your time on earth is about to end.’

‘It is you who are in dire strife vaal, unless you decide to aid me,’

replied Fundem.

The vaal laughed deeply. ‘Ha, I would not like to be in your shoes if you need help from me. You are here alone are you not? There are many that would kill you here as soon as look at you. Yet I will claim that honour and all the help you will find from me is a quick trip to the other side of midnight. Be it known that you die by the hand of Teomad Iz Arran. It is long since I have fought a worthy foe and drunk the fine vintage.’ Teomad tilted his head in the curious honour of his race.

‘Let it be known that Fundem Tarralion will do his best to prevent such an unfortunate event.’

‘Ha you jest’, barked Teomad as he slowly drew a black bladed sword from its golden nest. ‘That is the name of a person dead some thousand years. You shame yourself by stealing his name.’

‘Believe as you wish,’ replied Fundem, astounded at Teomad’s words. A thousand years! Even for an elf, that was an age.

With a sudden burst of instant violence, the vaal screamed a war cry and charged Fundem. Far quicker than his fellows the vaal slashed at Fundem’s face. Ducking under the swooping blow, he sent Iscandar shooting towards Teomad’s stomach. With frantic desperation the vaal clanged the sword away with a sideways flick and drove towards Fundem’s chest. The elf danced gracefully away from the deadly assault, like a butterfly floating beyond the reach of a wolf’s snapping jaws. This butterfly had teeth however and a blur of fiery blue steel shot from its folds.

Now the battle was begun in earnest. Teomad barely stopped Fundem’s quick counterattack and with the ferocity of a berserker threw a barrage of swift blows upon the elf. A weird red gleam now flickered in his eyes, mad with the lust for battle. It was not a reckless gleam, but a joyous one. For the vaal lived for the joy of battle and felt most keenly the vanquishing of a foe. Fundem’s eyes were also bright. It was not with battle lust but rather a keen appreciation that lives were on the razors edge. At any moment his could be lost and this brought everything into sharp focus. Fundem rejoiced at the opportunity to live, even if the circumstances were grim.

Fundem became like a wraith, melting away before the vaal’s flurries. Iscandar seemed like a willow stick in his hands, skilfully deflecting blows that would kill if left alone. At every opportunity Fundem poked and cut at the vaal’s arms. These went unnoticed as Teomad continued his mad offensive.

The din increased with intensity, the silence cut with clangs and grunts. Teomad’s blows increased in speed and strength as if victory could be tasted. Fundem’s eyes narrowed as he strived to finish the duel. A small opening would be found. Iscandar would flash out piercing skin. Another attack would follow forcing retreat and defence. Many times Fundem could have run Teomad through but would have paid for his life in return.

Suddenly Fundem seemed to stumble, falling flat on his back, glazed eyes looking upon impending doom. Teomad howled in victory and, ripping up his sword, brought it down in a mighty blow that was to split Fundem asunder. Real death was about to finally claim the elf with no hope of resurrection this time.

At the last moment Fundem rolled aside with incredible swiftness, the glazed look replaced by one of sharp expectation. Even as Teomad’s blade clashed in a shower of sparks against solid rock Fundem was thrusting upwards. Iscandar pierced through the vaal’s armour and Teomad fell, eyes locked accusingly at Fundem for robbing him of victory.

Fundem staggered to lean against a wall. The hectic battle had taxed his vitality, weakened as he was after a thousand years ensourclement. His mind whirled at the implications of his predicament. What would the world be like after such a time? There was evil blowing in the wind when he left it. What if the worst had happened? Then he steadied himself. Elves are born optimists after all. For while there was life there was hope. He had just survived a torrid encounter. There was no cause for panic.

Suddenly from the corner of his eye he caught the glimpse of movement. Wheeling with blinding speed Fundem saw a dark, hunched form scurrying away. Bounding forward he quickly outpaced the figure and yelled, ‘halt before I run you through!’

Gereb screamed and fell to the ground.

‘Spare me, spare me,’ he shrieked.

He glanced up at Fundem and shivered. All he saw was a towering vision of terrible splendour armed with a glowing sword that hurt his eyes.

Fundem gazed thoughtfully at the cowering orc. He knew such creatures well, the bane of many an elf. Mischief and petty evil were the staple diet of an orc. Amongst them the strongest ruled and often orcs were tools of darker masters. Fundem had once hunted orcs in mountain and dell and they had dared not utter his name at that time. Assuredly this orc could lead him to sunlight if treachery was avoided.

‘Why should I not slay you orc?’ asked Fundem.

Gereb, amazed at still being alive managed to stutter,’ please master I am just a poor miner. I have not hurt anybody. Please let me go. I will not tell anybody you are here.’

‘A poor miner eh,’ quizzed Fundem. ’That is a strange looking shovel you have.’ Fundem prodded the large blackened scimitar that hung at the orcs waist.

‘It is dangerous down here,’ protested Gereb nervously.

‘Dangerous indeed,’ said Fundem grimly. ‘Do you know what is going to happen to you’?

Gereb gulped, tongue struck in his throat.

‘You are going to die,’ said Fundem grimly, ’unless you do exactly as I ask. Be a smart orc. Your miserable life balances on a thin thread. I have a task for you. If you act truly you life may be spared. At the first hint of treachery I shall send you into the lake of fire before you can blink.’ Gereb became still and quiet – maybe his life was not over. ‘Anything, I will do anything.’ Malicious ideas already stirred in the orcs brain.

‘You will lead me from this dark place to the surface by the shortest

and safest route. If you lead me into the hands of enemies be assured you will be the first to die,’ said Fundem looking hard at Gereb.

Gereb put his head down in submission saying, ‘yes master, yes master.’ Fundem did not see the sudden glint that appeared in the orcs eyes.

CHAPTER 2: BAPTISM OF FIRE

The passage before them had widened and was now straight. Evil carvings adorned some parts of the walls and Fundem’s sense of foreboding grew. Gereb's pace had increased once they has emerged from the maze of mine tunnels. He seemed almost eager.

Gereb had a plan, and it was a good one. He laughed inside. This elf was weakened by arrogance. Gereb would show him and gain great favour from Burash. Maybe Burash would even give him a bauble or two from his hoard.

Gereb was in familiar territory now. The path they walked was not used much these days yet it led directly to the elf’s doom. Gereb had no doubt that the elf would kill him whether he helped or not. That is what Gereb would do if the positions were reversed. No witnesses. That was the best policy. Yes, Gereb thought, the tables would soon be turned.

Fundem, though he said nothing, knew that Gereb had planned an evil deed from the moment his life was spared. Such was the way of orcs. He looked at Gereb. The orcs broad, squat body seemed twisted with darkness and evil. It was strange, Fundem mused, how ugliness within was often reflected without. Gereb was leading him into a trap, yet Fundem had no alternative but to follow.

Gereb chuckled. Unbeknown to Fundem the hallway held an ancient defence. Gereb walked his eyes narrowing. Suddenly he darted to the side and pulled at a rusting lever.

There was a shriek of grinding metal and the floor fell beneath Fundem’s feet. A whole section disappeared revealing a long, deep pit. At the bottom many iron spikes had been embedded in the rock. They were filthy and coated in black poisonous gunk. Fundem could not escape and he fell.

Upon seeing Gereb’s movement he had known some treachery was afoot. With superb balance Fundem twisted and planted his feet between two wicked spikes. Looking down he gulped as one spike poked up barely an inch from his leg. He drew Iscandar and awaited Gereb’s attack.

The orc had gone. After pulling the lever he sprinted up the passage. Nearby the hallway turned sharply to end in a high iron gate. Pounding fiercely the gate was opened to reveal a vaal guard, weapon drawn. Gereb talked quickly.

Fundem, hearing Gereb’s running feet, began to intone an ancient incantation. He spoke it in the ancient tongue of wizardry. It was a language attuned to the secret powers a wizard could control and direct. The words were not so powerful themselves yet did help to sculpt a wizard’s purpose.

‘Rays abound in autumn song

Alighting upon a hummingbird’s flight

Flashing wings that feel the air.

Faster than sight’

Then he began to hum softly, an ethereal sound that reverberated about Fundem’s form. The elf’s body began to look slightly transparent. Fundem hummed deeper and softer until his voice was no longer audible. As the sound of his voice disappeared so did Fundem. His form shimmered as if he was vibrating faster and faster – like the wings of a hummingbird. Soon the pit seemed empty, dark and cold.

Fundem leapt up, grasping the edge of the pit, and hauled his now invisible body free. From beyond the gate a score of howling warriors charged out, battle orcs led by a tall vaal, wearing scarlet. Eyes glinting with bloodlust they expected to find their victim helpless, surprised and trapped in the pit. Fundem gazed at them with invisible eyes, still humming his silent tune. He smiled.

Silently he drifted past the now scattered troop and through the doorway. Beyond was a cavern of tremendous proportions. Fundem stood at the apex of a flight of stairs that descended down some thirty feet. To the right was a fortified guardhouse with solemn iron gates and high jagged ramparts. Helmed guards were peering down from the walls and others stood about the entrance, ready for battle. A vaal commander squinted from an outcropped balcony, eyes gleaming under his silver helm.

A tall castle of many spired towers dominated the centre of the cavern. It was the city of the vaal, Dragarnath. Troops of human slaves were below toiling in various tasks, overseen by hulking ogres bearing serrated whips. Amber glows radiated from the city’s windows revealing tall silhouettes peering across at the trouble. A miasma of evil was everywhere. Fundem glanced about starting to feel weary already from maintaining his covering invisibility. The city of Dragarnath had a sentient presence that drained his strength.

Quickly he descended the stairs and followed a road that ran past the castle. The cavern was alight with a reddish gleam and he passed by many soldiers and vaal as he hurried along. Behind him a commotion grew as the soldiers became consternated by his disappearance. There was the sound of a cracking whip and a resultant howl of pain. Gereb was receiving the reward he deserved, Fundem thought sardonically. An echoing horn blast sounded and he glimpsed the heavy gate clang shut. Far off in the distance Fundem heard, with a sinking heart, other gates close. He was trapped.

Standing bemused upon the road the elf saw a troop of soldiers emerge from the city to hurry towards the gate. They were led by three fearsome vaal with golden talismans and bejewelled fingers. The leading vaal was clothed in a deep black robe covered with silver inscriptions and held a ruby crowned rod that exuded evil power. Fundem recognised him to be a vaal mage and retreated swiftly into a nearby forest of boulders and stalagmites. Not all eyes could be fooled by Fundem’s illusion of invisibility.

As he crouched behind a boulder, the vaal mage slowed peering left and right however seeing nothing continued onwards. Climbing the stairs the vaal mage began intoning arcane phrases and raised his rod. The ruby atop the artefact began glowing with an unearthly light. Fundem felt his body become visible once more, invisibility stripped

by the rods potent power.

Fundem slumped down, exhausted at his efforts in so hostile an environment. Tired as he was, he knew that more work was to be done if he were to survive his predicament.

He had a card left to play. Long he had studied under Remulian the wise. Many skills were learned that some would call magic. Elves live beyond what is visible and see much that cannot be touched yet can touch the world. Fundem had loved the natural beauty of the earth, the forests and life within. He had learned that beyond the order of physical life there are other dimensions both beautiful and diverse. Fundem gained long ago the secret of changing his physical form into that of another. Unlike invisibility it was an actual physical change and could not be detected by those such as the vaal mage. That did not preclude other methods of detection however, such as passwords and common sense.

From observing the vaal, he noticed that all bore certain insignia and used secret hand signals. Fundem could very well transform himself into a vaal however when communicating with other vaal he would most probably be recognised as an impostor. Ogres were another thing entirely. They were huge hulking beasts standing some nine feet tall and almost as wide. Their size did not translate into intelligence having but a base cunning and selfish physical wants. In this place they appeared to be the slave drivers.

Fundem summoned waning strength and whispered,

‘Born of harsh rock and stone

Strength to bash and burn

Arms long with talons cruel

Eyes that see white bones’

The elf’s form grew misty and a faint sparkle shone about, flecked with gold. Fundem’s form seemed to swirl and distort and grow until there stood an Ogre, clothed in heavy leather.

Fundem lumbered out of the tangle of stone and towards the road. None seemed close and all attention was still on the vaal mage at the gate. His new form was cumbersome and very strong. Fundem felt the raw strength in his limbs, enough to smash rock and break limbs from trees. Reaching the road he headed away from the gate.

Suddenly from the gates of Dragarnath there issued another troop of soldiers led by more vaal. They headed straight up the road towards him. Fundem maintained his pace and continued onwards. The quick marching troop approached and Fundem hoped they would pass him by when the leading vaal stopped.

‘What are you doing here,’ the vaal asked suspiciously.

Fundem lurched to a stop and his now rough and gravelly voice answered, ‘food, I eat now, master said.’

‘That’s all you beasts ever do is eat. Don’t you know we are under attack you imbecile? We are being attacked by elves.’

‘Elves, me eat elf, Grachez hungry,’ droned Fundem.

The vaal snorted in derision and said, ‘you are even more stupid than the others, fall in with the other halfwits here.’

Fundem saw that five Ogres were in the troop following the vaal. He lumbered over and the troop took off once more. While the orcs and vaal were armed to the teeth, Ogres did not need such weapons. Their rock hard fists and huge weight were enough to hammer any foe. His fellow Ogres did not comment as he joined them. Whatever thoughts swam in their feeble brains were kept to themselves. Fundem did notice that he was the largest of them all standing some half‐head taller than any other.

Shortly they climbed the steps and stood before the gate amongst a host of warriors. The vaal mage was berating another vaal most energetically. Apparently the garrison commander had acted overcautiously by closing the gate. The vaal mage, finding nothing so far, wished to examine the passage beyond. Unfortunately for the garrison commander one of the old gate chains had broken and the gate could not be raised.

The vaal mage fired one more round of curses and turned to the newly arrived troop saying, ‘Bring in some muscle to move this cursed gate Valrone, that hulking one should do.’

Valrone, leading the troop Fundem had joined, signalled to the elf and two others to move forward. Fundem smiled at the ironical turn of fate. Fundem elbowed his way through and arrived before the gate. There he found the vaal mage who sneered at him and said, ‘I don’t recognize this one from the garrison.’

Valrone replied, ‘I picked him up on the way, from the eastern caves I guess.’