Empire of Hate

By Gary Borum

Powerful wielders of magic escaped the great flood on earth and entered a realm where even greater forces of evil resided. After some time, their descendants had become capable of good, and Crios sent them some lords of law. The master of all darkness created beings out of the fabric of chaos. These chaos lords battle against the force of law. A minion has amassed a large army and is striving to bring the borderlands under the empire of hate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645440130

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Empire of Hate

Gary Borum

Copyright © 2019 Gary Borum

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64544-011-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64544-013-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prologue

Quicksilver, a high elf, peered over the edge of the chasm. Below, a caravan of six wagons moved along the uneven floor. It took four horses to draw each of the heavily laden flatbeds. They were nearing an area which was a bottleneck, narrowing to about twenty feet in width, before taking a sharp turn. The walls of the chasm here were at their lowest, not quite two hundred feet high, though no challenge to his keen eyesight that surpassed that of any human.

What happened next was expected since a similar event had transpired a week ago. So it was no surprise to Quicksilver when a couple dozen goblins and kobolds burst from the shadows around the bend. A dozen goblins rushed forward in a ragged line, while the kobolds gathered into a triangular formation. It was this maneuver that Quicksilver had wanted to see for himself. At the head of the wedge was a tall, heavily muscled hobgoblin. That surprised the watching elf. It boded ill for the defenders of Goodmoor.

A half dozen mounted guards spurred ahead to meet them. The goblins and guards crashed together. With their long swords flashing and superior advantage of height, the horse-mounted guards broke through the ragged line, leaving a third of the goblin force lying in bloody heaps upon the ground. Heedless of the carnage wrought upon them, the goblins, with short swords raised and screaming forth savage war cries, continued their mad rush toward the wagons.

The guards were reigning in and preparing to wheel about, when a shower of javelins fell upon them. Three found fatal marks, and two guards tumbled from their saddles, while a mount pierced through its throat and thrashed at the sky with its forehooves. The rider was unceremoniously thrown to the rock floor, where he lay groaning.

Those remaining wheeled about again to face their new adversaries and charged. The wedge held as the three mounted guards smashed into it. In a quick flurry of flashing steel and stabbing fire-hardened wood, the fight lasted only five minutes. Then the kobold wedge moved on, leaving behind two of its members and three dead guards. The riderless horse was in panicked flight heading around the bend.

The guard that had been thrown, horseless now, had shakily regained his feet. Sword drawn, he waited for the kobold wedge to meet him. When they were less than ten feet away, he attacked. The hobgoblin leader stepped forward to meet him, while a pair of kobolds in the first rank circled to either side. Steel rang as long swords met. The man slashed with frenzy, driving the hobgoblin back, all but oblivious to the kobolds stealing up on his unprotected rear. He no doubt believed the defeat of the hobgoblin would panic the kobolds and send them scurrying back into the shadows, leaving only the goblins to be dealt with. At point-blank range the two kobolds hurled their javelins, just when he had knocked aside the hobgoblin’s sword and was about to drive home his blade. His leather armor offered little resistance to the fire-hardened, needle-sharp wood. One found his heart, and he fell upon his face without uttering a sound. His sword clattering to the stone at the hobgoblin’s feet.

That left a single guard. He was sitting atop the lead wagon with a medium crossbow cocked and ready. Sticking in the wood between his legs was his long sword, the hilt providing an aiming rest for the crossbow.

He waited until the dun-and-green-skinned goblins were almost upon the wagon before he fired. The quarrel caught one of the ugly four-foot-tall savages in his chest; flesh parted and bone splintered in a bright spray of blood. Using the crossbow as a club, he smashed it over the skull of the first goblin to clamber up the wagon. The creature went down, blood streaming from nose, ears, and mouth.

Quicksilver noted the man was giving a good account of himself and was contemplating if he should help.

The guard snatched up his sword and beheaded the next goblin and was about to repeat the act, when a kobold javelin buried itself in his stomach, followed by another through his throat. He fell off the wagon, still swinging his blade. A goblin, too slow to move, received a nasty slash across its arm, causing blood to spray those nearby.

Quicksilver shook his head. His long white locks brushing against a black-spotted cream cloak. It was not a total loss though. The guards had delayed the raiders long enough to allow the wagon drivers to escape. For a few minutes, he considered a retaliatory measure but decided against it. Instead, he recited a brief incantation with appropriate hand gestures and rose quietly into the air, his bright silver chain mail gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

Flying over the chasm, he got a last look at the hobgoblin directing the kobolds and goblins in opening the crates.

Below, a ray of glaring sunlight hit the hobgoblin square in the eyes, causing him to blink and stop in mid command. Recovering, he scanned the sky, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be a giant owl, before it vanished over the far rim of the chasm. Noting with satisfaction the increasing thickness of the shadows, he returned to directing the little three-foot-tall horned kobolds and the devilish-looking goblins, his own muscular six-foot frame appearing like a giant among them.

Chapter One

Quicksilver finished his sanguinary tale of the ambushed caravan. Looking at the drawn features of his companions, he could tell they were deeply upset by this last outbreak of brazen audacity by the minions of chaos, led by the warlord Haitan. Besides him there were two men: There was Mantil Moor, a wizard of some fame, tall and thin, with flowing white locks and sharp features that gave him a hawklike aspect. He was garbed in a full-length deep-green robe. The other man, Ryan Goodkin, also wore a robe, but his was a pristine white that seemed to glow. His face was fleshier, and he had full lips, broad forehead, and strong chin. It usually wore a wide smile but not now. Quicksilver was a stark contrast in silver mail, bow slung over his back, and long sword strapped on his hip.

It’s time we take the measure of this, Haitan, Mantil stated, his cheeks turning red. A sure sign that his anger was growing, Quicksilver recalled from their adventuring days.

Let’s not be hasty, Mantil. Before we expend our energy needlessly, we should send in a few agents to feel out and needle this upstart kobold chief, replied Ryan.

After all, he continued, we both have pressing affairs to handle right here. And we are in truth getting too old for this stuff ourselves, better to let those in their prime of youth have a chance at glory. Me, I would rather play the patron than the hero.

Nice speech, Ryan! Exactly, who do you have in mind to lead this expedition? asked Moor, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Someone even you will be forced to admit is capable and has the willpower to succeed. A former student of yours, Ironblood Witchhunter.

Mantil almost started his feet, then relaxed back into his plush velvet lined chair, a grim smile on his lips.

He was a quick learner, had a natural talent for the finer nuances of the art. However, he cast it aside, becoming a warrior monk, saying that it felt cleaner.

How long has it been since you last saw each other, Ryan asked, his tone filled with sympathy for his friend.

At least five years, replied Mantil. How will you find him?

Through some cousins of mine, the Thornwhistles, said Quicksilver, beginning to feel left out of the discourse.

I will send one of my best clerics and some men-at-arms, the moment we have a clear idea where he’s at, if you agree, said Ryan. Looking at his friend, he sensed the conflicting emotions that fought within him. After all, Mantil had loved the young man, like a father would his own son. He had been deeply hurt when Ironblood had sought his destiny elsewhere, claiming that magic had defiled him.

Goodkin knew, but never told Mantil, that an augury had proved the Hand of Crios was involved.

After deliberating for a few minutes, Moor nodded yes. A hint of moisture gleamed at the corner of one eye.

I would send some of my better students and men-at-arms, but crucial experiments and previous obligations to the commander of Krellon prevent me.

I understand, said Ryan.

There was a long period of silence that Quicksilver finally broke.

I can supply an elven scout.

That would be great, responded Ryan. "Well, gentlemen, I must be leaving.

There are dozens of items to arrange before this mission can be launched. Take care and may Crios be with you."

He rose from his plush chair and headed for the door. Mantil made to follow.

There’s no need my friend, I know my way out.

It was not long after that, when Quicksilver took his leave. Alone now, Mantil Moor clothed in his flowing green silk robe, was brooding over the turn of events. Staring at the wood stacked neatly in the fireplace, he pointed a finger, spoke an incantation, and watched it burst into flame far brighter than normal. For an instant, he thought he saw the features of Ironblood, but the aspect changed and the fire shrank down into a comfortable blaze. Too bad these new problems were not as easy to resolve.

Hours passed before Mantil roused himself from the trance he had seemed to be in. At the door leading to the den was a young nude woman with waist-length raven hair, awaiting his notice.

When he glanced in her direction, she smiled and asked, Would the Master care for anything?

No, my dear.

She added several logs to the fire, stirred the ashes, and then retired, leaving the glowing embers to cast their dim radiance upon the haunted countenance of Mantil Moor, renowned far and wide as the famous green magician.

*****

Eight days later, Ryan lifted his white-streaked head from the list he had been contemplating and acknowledged the presence of the boy standing in the doorway. The youth was wearing a plain white ankle-length linen robe.

You have news, he said.

The boy started to stammer, caught himself, then gushed forth, S-sir, the elven scout from Lord Quicksilver has arrived.

Ask him to join me for my afternoon repast.

He also said to tell you, sir, that he is fully provisioned and ready to depart.

Very well. Send for Curate Zyber, and have the men-at-arms who are to accompany her make ready.

A few minutes passed and there came a tentative knock at the door to his study.

Come in.

He watched as Viola Zyber stepped gracefully into the study. Again, he could not help but notice that his young disciple was becoming a very beautiful woman, with flowing golden locks that caressed her lower back, wide violet eyes that had bequeathed to her, her first name. A full womanly figure that even her billowing robes failed to hide. Even more remarkable was the intelligence and great wisdom within the brow of this near flawless specimen of flowering womanhood.

Good afternoon, Viola, you bring a refreshing sight to my tired, book-worn eyes. His right hand made a gesture that indicated his book-covered desk and the hundreds of volumes filling the shelves lining the walls of his large study.

Greetings, sir. I was told that the scout has arrived.

Indeed he has, but I wish to say a private farewell and present you with a few gifts to smooth your trip along.

He pushed away from his desk and crossed the room to a huge trunk sitting in the far corner. Removing a key from a chain on his waist, he opened the double lock and pried the heavy lid up. From within, he pulled forth a specially tailored suit of white-enameled plate mail, with a gray dove painted above its left breast. Next were a matching winged helm, small enough to fit a woman, and a round shield. The shield bore a larger and more finely detailed dove emblem embossed in pure silver, coated with a clear tarnish-resistant glaze; following that was a polished oak scroll case. Finally, he drew forth a gleaming white staff, not enameled but of a natural white wood that was very rare, six feet in length.

He turned and motioned her to come toward him.

For proving thyself in service and dedication, becoming my best disciple, I present you with these gifts.

Tears filled her eyes. I don’t know what to say that would express my gratitude, sir.

There is no need, dear. But harken to what I have to say concerning these gifts, for there is more to them than meets the eye. This suit here is wrought of a unique steel alloy, known only to the high elves. It is extremely strong yet a quarter of the weight of ordinary plate mail. Thus, it negates the encumbrance so tiring in most good armor, nor does it hinder one from swimming, which is quite amazing in itself.

Viola nodded in agreement, then asked, But why is it white?

"Other than the religious significance of purity of thought and chastity of action, it has two important properties. The first being in any background of white, such as snow or fog, it causes the wearer to seem almost invisible while preventing any discomfort from the cold of the weather.

Second, once a day upon the command word of shine, it becomes emblazoned with a dazzling white light."

He saw the wonder in her gaze.

"There is more yet to come. Behold this simple helm. It has the property of allowing the wearer to mentally communicate with doves, pigeons, and other harmless fowl.

"The shield has been imbued with a d’weomer to increase its hardness and the bearer’s protection. Having what the mages, in their technical lingo, call a mystical enhancement. Also, twice a day, at the command word dove, a large dove will appear and perform whatever service desired, except physical attacks. The magical creature will remain for one hour each time, unless slain, then it vanishes, not to be summoned forth again until the next day.

"The scroll case contains some maps of the territory you will be passing through and a clerical scroll with four powerful mystical enchantments placed upon it. Infused with the power of Crios and channeled through me.

At last we come to my staff—Kwaelin the Protector. Made of the vibrant living wood of the ancient Zymor tree, the king of trees in size, vitality, and age. This staff contains great powers breathed into it by our lord and master, Crios. Its strength is limited only by the pureness of heart and degree of faith of its wielder. With it in hand, a cleric’s abilities are doubled, for nonoffensive measures only. Further, it can produce all curatives from light wound to full healing—five times per day. And should the bearer receive a fatal wound and be near death, it automatically recalls him to his home.

Ryan handed the items one by one to the wide-eyed, speechless young woman.

One more thing, he added, passing over the staff. Any creature possessing the unnatural life force of what we call the undead will be instantly destroyed upon touch with Kwaelin.

Viola felt a rush of vibrant energy course through her when she grasped hold of the staff.

Never had she felt so alive.

Thank you, sir, cried Viola, her eyes awash with emotion.

You can thank me best by a swift and successful return.

He took her into his arms for a tight hug and gentle kiss upon her flushed brow.

It was a somber martial procession that rode through the crowded outer courtyard toward the slowly opening main gate, led by a resplendent figure in white armor astride a huge white stallion called Blizzard.

Viola, her vision misty, took in the scene. Her fellow clerics were shouting words of encouragement and cheer to the departing party. The immense granite-block church, with its tall angular spires, had numerous elegant stone cottages surrounding the rear portion of it, encircled by the high granite wall that protected the compound from assault.

Atop the wall, above the gate, stood Ryan Goodkin. Waiting as patiently as a carved statue for the procession to pass below him. He seemed infused with light from the morning sun beaming on his white robe.

She brought the party to a halt at the gate. Looking up, she met her mentor’s gaze.

Remember, Viola, his rich deep voice pierced through the tumult behind her, that the lives of these men are as much in your hands as yours is in theirs.

I understand, sir. Fear not, I shall bring them back, if it be the will of Crios.

And you, my faithful men. I charge you. Let not a single hair be harmed upon her head if humanly possible.

Together, the four men-at-arms lifted their right arm and shouted, We swear by Crios that any who wish to harm her shall have to tread across our dead bodies!

May Crios be with you then!

Viola urged Blizzard forward, followed closely by the men who had pledged their life to defend her and the elven scout. A great responsibility settled upon her shoulders.

On the wall, Ryan watched while the brave troop trotted off. He stayed there until they had dwindled into the distance, along the western road. Then turning, he passed a few instructions to a curate nearby. The orders were swiftly relayed through the courtyard. The heavy brass gate, eight inches in thickness, began to close. Thick chains creaked in protest with the sudden strain put on them.

Ryan glanced about, the Glyphs of Warding upon the outer surfaces of the gate and wall were intact. Everything else was in order. Speaking a Word, he vanished. In his inner sanctum, he knelt before a small plain white altar and started praying.

*****

The road ended after about thirty-five miles, becoming a waist-high grassy plain, broken up with clumps of trees, like islands upon a green sea. It was early evening, so at the first copse of beech trees, Viola called a halt and dismounted. It felt good to stretch her legs.

A slight breeze brought the fragrant aroma of Zenzula blossoms and cooled her perspiring brow. Doffing her helm, she let the intangible, cool fragrant fingers caress her head more fully, under the thickening shade of the beech trees. She wished she could doff the armor also but thought better of it, considering the territory they had just entered.

Scanning the small glade, she almost immediately sensed that something was wrong.

Turning toward Flenwic, the elven scout, she started to ask him if he noticed anything awry, when a savage scream broke the near silence.

From the underbrush on the far side of the glade erupted a dozen orcs brandishing long swords. Her four guards formed a box, placing her and the scout in the center. Flenwic drew his bow, notched an arrow, and fired. An orc staggered a couple more steps, then keeled over, with an arrow sprouting from the front and back of his throat.

He had time to fire one more arrow before the orcs were upon them. This shot was less true and found a thigh, instead of a throat. Nonetheless, the hapless target gave out a terrible cry as he crashed to the ground, his wounded leg refusing to bear his weight.

The front guards almost buckled upon contact with the first group of orcs and would have been overrun, if not mounted. After that, the party was completely encircled and the discordant clang of steel against steel filled the air.

In clear, crisp tones that even the din of battle could not drown out, Viola spoke a prayer.

The effect was instantaneous. Her men-at-arms, who were on the verge of faltering, renewed their attack with greater ferocity, thrusting back the orcs.

Despite that, it was not long until Targas, the man-at-arms directly in front of her, started to slip from the saddle. Blood flowed freely from a large gash in his right side. Viola touched Kwaelin to his wound and said, Flesh be sealed! Strength return!

Before the man’s startled eyes, the blood stopped flowing and the flesh began to merge together, and in a few heartbeats, the wound had vanished. He charged into the fray again, dealing a fatal blow to an orc, who had momentarily relaxed his guard, thinking the man was helpless and dying.

Viola drew an invisible circle in the air around her and spoke the words that placed a protective charm called sanctuary on herself. She was about to place a time dilation effect also when a shout from the elf drew her attention. One of her men-at-arms to the rear had fallen and two orcs were rushing through.

The elven scout let fly the arrow he had nocked and ready. At point-blank range, the power behind it was sufficient to drive it completely through the breast of the foremost orc. He went down.

The orc behind him tripped over the body, allowing time for the scout to toss aside his bow and unsheathe his long sword. Without giving the orc a chance to regain his feet, he stepped forward and delivered a slash across the throat from ear to ear. The orc made horrible gargling sounds until death silenced him.

Viola moved to the fallen man-at-arms. His name was Leng Si, she thought. He was near death. Flenwic filled the gap left by his fall.

Viola knelt beside the man and examined him. He had taken a thrust that had parted his chain mail and slid up, right under his heart. That meant massive internal bleeding. And he was too close to death for anything but a full heal to bring him around. Yet the time to effect a full Heal, even with the staff, would be too long. He shuddered and took a ragged breath. That made her decide. Placing the staff lengthwise atop his body, she intoned a special prayer. The wood became suffused with a bright white light, engulfing Leng Si in its glow.

She had placed Death’s Door upon him. It was an enchantment that stabilized his condition by putting him into a sort of suspended animation. Now, she could concentrate on the skirmish and mend him later.

A quick survey of the conflict told her the status. Six orcs were down, and the rest bore minor wounds of one kind or another. Her men were likewise scored with minor nicks and cuts. A couple bore more-serious wounds—Cuelor, with a deep cut on his right outer thigh, and Missan, with a wide slash across his left shoulder. Both would collapse, if the fight continued much longer.

Missan was in worse shape, so he needed treatment first. Recovering the now dim Kwaelin, she stretched it out to lightly touch Missan’s wounded shoulder. Again flesh reknit itself with incredible rapidity.

Thus renewed, Missan laid about him with savage fury, slicing off the hand of the orc facing him and delivering a vicious chop to the side of the orc attacking Cuelor. It was a mortal wound and the orc went down. The orc whose arm now ended in a bloody stump turned and fled for the underbrush. It was fortunate, since with the respite, Cuelor sagged forward in his saddle, his face deathly pale beneath his helm.

The fight was all in the front row now, with the elven scout and Targas under the onslaught of a couple of foes each. Missan, full of energy made haste to aid his besieged fellows.

Viola used the lull in fighting to mend the injury Cuelor had sustained. Then he rejoined the fray. In short order two more orcs were slain and the other two fled.

At the edge of the underbrush, the orcs were confronted with a short, stout, bearded apparition that proceeded to slice them apart with a gore splattered battle-ax.

The dwarf looked about him, with a grimace of disgust on his ruddy face. He buried the head of his ax into the ground, repeating the act several times.

While he did this, Viola used her staff to mend Leng Si and brought him out of Death’s Door. With that accomplished, she started binding the minor injuries on the others. It would have been more expedient to use the staff, but this way, she conserved power that might be needed later.

She was tying off the last knot, when the dwarf sauntered over to them.

Kind of dumb to let them buggers get away, you know. Good thing I happened by.

Viola looked him square in the eye and said, I believe that was unnecessary bloodshed. They were defeated and would not have bothered us anymore.

Young lady, you might be right about them, but their buddies back at the home tribe might have other thoughts.

How close is the main tribe? asked Viola.

About ten miles, northwest of here.

Then we are in danger, said Viola. Could you lead us to a safe place, mister?

The name’s Stonebrow Highbreak. He paused, then added, I might be persuaded.

What would it take, said Targas, with a sharp edge to his voice.

Well, from what I see, you need someone to take care of loose ends. A lot would depend on what your mission is, replied Stonebrow.

We are seeking a warrior monk named Ironblood Witchhunter, said Viola.

I’ve heard of the man, said Highbreak.

He knew the man real well as a matter of fact. Witchhunter had helped his clan remove a curse placed on them by an evil priest of Set, by sending him on a one-way trip