Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1) Read online

  W I N T E R H O R N

  BOOK I

  of the

  TOKENS OF BENEVOLENCE

  series

  Written and illustrated by

  Baiculescu Ovidiu Nicolae

  Copyright © 2020 Baiculescu Ovidiu Nicolae

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9798553366247

  Cover design and art by: Baiculescu Ovidiu Nicolae

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  www.oxhid3.com

  For might and magic believers.

  Table of Contents

  The Lonely Tower

  The Fire

  Winterhorn

  The Old Man

  The Boundless Mark

  The Citadel

  The Armoury

  Amongst The Clouds

  Shifting

  Sallncoln

  Bilberith’s Sceptre

  The Calling

  The Drakonil Order

  The Cave

  A Change of Plans

  Quick

  A Lapse in Judgement

  Call for Action

  Divided

  The Rescue

  The Choice

  About the Author

  Character Map

  The Lonely Tower

  Jaro / Guzheraak

  “The wizard can wait!” Jaro bellowed his frustration to the skies with a heavy voice while fighting the strong and cold blasts of wind in mid-air.

  The young Drakhahoul had only recently been recruited into the services of Arkhanthï and his first task was the defence of the citadel’s far, eastern gate. If at first the task presented itself somewhat interesting to him, after a couple of weeks he became annoyed with his role. There was barely any action involved, except a repetitive and dull taking-up-to-the-sky, scan the surroundings and then back to the tower or the ground. An unworthy activity for a dragon. A waste of time. He was never allowed to venture too far, none of the dragons were. And if any of them tried to leave the two, distant rows of walls, the magical wards would prevent them from doing so. Yet, often he had indulged in a few escapades as high as he could reach, but only when the other Gholak guards were not around.

  Felduror, the wizard right-hand of the dragon king, had reproved him multiple times already, always threatening to make an example of his bad behaviour with a severe punishment if he were to continue with his misconduct. Though, he had never actually done anything. So many threats had been issued by the old man, that the dragon had turned almost fearless to his idle words.

  However, there was a more pressing matter that concerned the young dragon; someone was spying on him and reporting back to Felduror. He always came to the same conclusion as to which of the four guards was telling on him, but he could never actually prove it. For no particular reason, other than the fact that orcs have always hated dragons, a rancour had gradually grown between him and a Gholak that went by the name of Guzheraak.

  Guzheraak was an orc champion who had proved himself as commander of the front contingent in every battle he had led at the wizard’s commands. To any other beast in the realm, his brute scarred-face and tall, muscled body instilled terror and demanded respect. There were very few among his own race that would dare contest or disobey his orders. Yet, he was not a real match for the young dragon.

  At thirty years of age, the Drakhahoul was well-muscled and thrice the size of the Gholak. He was one of the most skilful flyers, even if he was the youngest, and was also able to wield some magic. But that was not what made him distinct. All dragons were born with the ability to wield the power of the mind and they also had a specific power to exert control over natural elements. That Jaro had these abilities was no exception. Though, while others were capable of breathing fire, ice, or could control the winds and summon other unnatural elements to their aid, Jaro’s ability was different. Very different and unlike any of those known by the ancient dragons; he could breathe poisonous vapours. This was such a rarity that many of the elder dragons initially thought there was something wrong with him, yet in time, they realised it was his aptitude to gather toxic elements from his surroundings and use them. And so, his name became Jaro-the-Venomous, hatched from the egg of the dragoness Sereri-the-White, who herself was the right-hand of the wizard, Felduror.

  The fact that Guzheraak was outmatched by Jaro, did not placate the orc’s anger. On the contrary, to the eyes of the young dragon, he had only become more imaginative when it came to blemishing Jaro’s attitude towards the empire. And mainly, the orc-brute always found a way to irritate and infuriate him.

  Jaro shook his head forcefully, while propelling himself even higher with his powerful wing-strokes. It served more to shake the fury growing inside himself, stirred by the memory of the orc’s challenging face, rather than achieving new height.

  The cold air appeased his mind. Up here was rough and challenging, though he liked it nonetheless. He liked to feel his body ache with the soreness of his muscles as they throbbed after long hours of fighting nature’s blows. Surrounded by solitude, it was him against the winds. Like his mother, the ice dragoness, cold felt like his natural environment, a place where his body thrived. And, although he had never known his father, he liked to think that it had been his as well.

  The Arkhanthï’s citadel was only a tiny speck from up here, where he practiced his flying skills in the strong and harsh early-spring currents. The winds were so cold that ice was continuously forming and cracking upon his strong scales; layer upon layer formed and broke with the effort of his strong wings. It was one of the best practices a young dragon undertook, to strengthen the mind and body.

  It was time to return to the tower.

  With a swift drop and a series of circular glides, he landed back on it. A potent thrust of his wings shook the ice off his body and he regained his bearing with a couple of long deep breaths. Once composed, he scanned the surroundings, feeling somewhat guilty that he had abandoned his duty in search of exercise once again. He heard steps approaching on the stairs below.

  From behind the creaky wooden door that led to the top of the tower, Guzheraak appeared with a defiant smile. “Once again, ’bandoning your post, Jaro!” the orc exclaimed leaning on the stone wall, his perfidious glare inspecting the panting dragon.

  Jaro knew then that this brute was the spy.

  “And why would it be of any concern to you? Have I ever failed in doing my duty?” asked the dragon.

  “We both know very well that small ’scapades, while on duty, do not result in a just punishment for you, mighty creatures,” Guzheraak retorted, “an orc gets decapitated while a dragon gets a mere reprimand. Like it has already happened many times. We both have witnessed it, if you recall.” His smirk turned sharper, his eyes narrower.

  “Could it be that we’re not alike? That Drakhahouls hold more importance to the empire’s cause than Gholaks?” Jaro replied sharply. “Everyone knows that having a Drakhahoul as a king, bothers you orcs a great deal – more than I could justify, I could add.”

  Guzheraak scoffed and tilted his head, clearly offended. He appeared troubled by the dragon’s words.

  “Of course you hold importance to the dragon king, just as we do to the wizard. Felduror knows how to compensate the services of his faithful and l
oyal orc comrades. Under his sole command the powerful foot-force of our armies could make anyone bow to our powers. Even you, the mighty Drakhahouls.” A grin formed on his fanged-face as the orc took a step towards the dragon. “Do you think that the few dragons that still live in the citadel could defeat the hordes of Gholak armies?”

  There it was again, the challenge on the orc’s face. Those four overgrown, sharp fangs that bent over the pale skin of his cheeks and chin, almost as if he was biting his own face. That angry light in his small eyes, the fearless spark that made Jaro lose his temper every time.

  Against his pounding heart and the venom-glands that instinctively started to swell inside his throat, the dragon forced himself to composure and restrained himself from spitting acid in the brute’s face. He let out a low, guttural growl of dissatisfaction.

  “What is that I have ever done to you, Guzheraak?” he asked. “Have I ever offended you? If that is the case, let me remedy and put an end to this petty quarrel that does no good to any of us.”

  The orc spat on the ground in disgust and moved away from the wall, slowly and confidently approaching the dragon. “It’s not what you’ve done, dear Jaro, it’s what your race is doing to this empire by the simple fact of existing.” The orc’s voice became more irritating, his words louder.

  What was that scent the dragon felt emanating from the Gholak’s skin? And was that a provocative bearing on his swollen chest and tight fists?

  “The Drakhahouls?” Jaro managed to say instead. “What are they doing to the empire?” He stood to his full height, slowly advancing towards the orc, meeting his stare. “It is because of our race that humanity has found a better and safer life and we all can live in peace.”

  Another step.

  “It is because of us, that this empire has thrived and reached the state in which you came to pledge your allegiance.”

  Another step.

  “It is because of us you’re even here, orc!” Livid, Jaro was now standing over Guzheraak, his full stature shadowing his small opponent.

  The orc did not falter, nor did the grin of overconfidence vanish from his marked, pale face. His right hand tightened around the hilt of his sheathed blade and he took another, confident step towards the dragon. His breath was now dewing over Jaro’s cold snout scales.

  They were standing face to face, intently awaiting the other’s move.

  The orc’s leather suit crackled beneath his chest and metal plated shoulders as he tightened his hand around the handle of his deadly sword. The skin around his nose and mouth quivered with anger as it started revealing the full length of his boar-like fangs.

  The dragon’s throat throbbed vibrantly and Jaro felt the veins on his long neck pulse in accordance with his anger. A grumble vibrated deep inside. His talons pushed and splintered the hard stone of the floor, while the roar inside his throat grew deeper. His opened maw emitted a glowing-green light and timid wafts of vapour.

  Guzheraak seemed to appreciate the seriousness of the dragon’s carriage and took his hand up to the blade’s pommel.

  “We shall see.” The orc swiftly turned away and slammed the door behind him as he descended the tower’s stairs.

  Jaro shook off his fury, and waited for his heart to cease drumming inside his chest. This time had been very close, he had almost let the venom out. A strong bitter taste of metal and acid permeated the inside of his mouth and throat and he had to swallow repeatedly to make it fade.

  The bold behaviour of the orc always managed to make him lose control. The thought infuriated him more now that he had failed to compose himself yet again. Every time he intended to ignore his threats and every single time he failed. He did not like that Guzheraak knew which nerves to hit – it could get very dangerous, very fast.

  Though, after a few moments of fighting the negative influence left by the encounter, Jaro managed to calm himself. Half of his day’s guarding-shift was complete and he decided that the second half would suffice to forget and put the unfortunate affair behind him.

  He spread his wings and let out a shrieking roar that echoed through the valley. With a vigorous pounce he launched himself from the tall tower taking to the air, this time to do his duty.

  Guzheraak returned to the hall where all the orcs met when off-duty – if duty could be called having to stay idle in the hope that another conflict would break out. More than three years had passed since the wizard had had a real need of his Gholak armies, and then too, it had been for way too short a time. The orcs now found themselves getting fat and growing lazy, having to fulfil petty tasks between the two rows of walls.

  A gathering of drunken Gholaks, spiritedly arguing by the entrance, stopped at the sight of their chieftain, clumsily saluting with their quivering bodies and half-opened eyes. He pushed an unlucky one standing in his way, making him tumble in the mud, to the enjoyment of the others who started laughing loudly. Once past the entrance, he walked the long corridor that led to the tavern built inside the enormous hall. A snoring orc, fallen asleep on the counter, got pushed to the ground accompanied by the empty pint that broke over his head, failing to wake him. After sitting comfortably in his new seat he lifted his finger in an attempt to order the strongest mead, which arrived just before he looked at the barkeep on duty. He smiled, pleased that everyone knew their place in here, and took a long sip of the strong liquid.

  Meanwhile, to his left, a small orc was staring. Guzheraak knew that he followed him like a shadow wherever he went, where access was possible for such an insignificant creature. He was his chieftain after all, his protector, and Pakto knew better than to disturb the champion orc. He’d have to wait for Guzheraak to call upon him or look at him before imparting the news or prepping for any sort of task his master had planned for him.

  Though, this time he wanted to let the creature wait for a moment, he didn’t want to hear his irritating voice just yet. But, the small creature – actually the smallest Gholak in the entire camp, the one that would bring shame to their notoriously, terrifying race – slowly pushed his head from behind the chair, and bothered his field of vision.

  “So?” Guzheraak grunted annoyed, not even deigning his slave with a look.

  “Master,” bowed Pakto. “I’ve ve-verry good news. I’ve found someone that’ll be able to helps us in aur causs.”

  “Us?” replied the chieftain, looking down at the smaller creature. “There is no us in this, creature. There is only me, while you… you can thank me for being my slave. You see that nobody dares pick on you any more, now that you work for me. Be grateful for that, creature!”

  The small orc shrunk under the counter and Guzheraak raised his finger to ask for a second round.

  “Yes master, ’m verry grateful to your lordship.” Pakto bowed again. “Howeverr, the one in question,” and he closed in to avoid being heard by the others, “is an acolyte and can procurre the potion you requested, and can be verry, verry discreet about it. He only asks forr a small amount of coin in exchange for his serrvices.”

  “Good. I shall like to meet him. Arrange for it, Pakto! Tomorrow at dawn, by the well,” Guzheraak replied while getting off his chair. “And, here,” he gave his pint to Pakto, “you can finish this!”

  “Thank you, masterr,” replied Pakto.

  As Guzheraak departed he turned his head. “And don’t forget to pay for it,” he said and then left.

  The next day, before the first crack of light, Pakto was waiting at the well accompanied by a cloaked human.

  Many stories told that the abandoned well was haunted by the ghosts of those that perished in its depths – many centuries ago, in a time of war when Arkhanthï did not even exist, the tribes that invaded the lands decided to drown or leave their enemies to die of starvation. It was said that their laments could still be heard to this day, and, although the water was still pure and aplenty inside, nobody dared to approach the doomed place. Time had decayed it and allowed nature to take its course, making it a very distinct landmark. Overg
rown ivy and other rampant plants had taken over the entire place, externally as well as inside the shaft, covering every single rock, piece of rotten wood and rust-eaten metal. A piece of the broken roof had collapsed inside the shaft and was hanging dangerously by the chain and bucket. On windy days, the dried-out well would hoot a ghostly noise that would echo through the walls of the hills in between, making those that knew the place avoid it all the more.

  The early spring still carried the cold bite of winter air and the fog was so thick that it was hard to see more than few feet ahead. The uneven candle-torch they used, only made visibility worse – its beam of light spread on the moist billows of fog and bounced back, glowing into their eyes. They had to kill the flame to make it there in time, and still Guzheraak had not arrived. He was never late.

  The hooded man let out a small cough which Pakto ignored, absorbed in checking the surroundings in lookout for his master. Yet, the coughing worsened.

  “Are you well?” Pakto asked.

  “I am. It’s only the cold air. I should be fine if we do not linger much longer in this soggy weather.” The man somewhat recovered, though he still swallowed with difficulty.

  “What’s all this fuss?” the rasping, deep voice of Guzheraak came from behind the well.

  They both turned around on their heels, surprised, and looked at the big Gholak.

  “So you are the one that will help me, human?” he impatiently asked, circling the small man who barely reached the height of his chest.

  The man did not move and stood quietly when the orc took the hood off his head and bent sideways to inspect his features.

  “What’s your name?” Guzheraak asked.

  “I am called Dharamir, my lord,” the man replied.

  “And has my slave told you what I require?” Guzheraak demanded, pleased to sense fear in the man’s voice.