The first in this series of most unfortunate events began with a rumbling sound at the gates. This rumble was not the sort that merely startles small animals. No, it was the sort that struck fear across the galaxy, as it heralded the emergence of several hefty people carriers from the Trunian colony operating on giant treads. This promptly sent all the sensible scouts scurrying into the hills like alarmed rabbits, with Denor bumbling along behind them in a manner that could generously be described as enthusiastic in its level of terror. That’s right, even our hapless hero knew from his recent experiences that a heavy Trunian military presence was a very bad thing.
The second in the series of these calamities was the abrupt arrival of a breathless Andronian who looked like he had just witnessed a horrifying murder most foul. His pale visage was because he had. He pointed back the way he had come, his face a canvas of fear for people to paint dreaded assumptions upon, as people are wont to do.
“Hemrik, what’s happened?” Rodrik inquired (to his almost namesake, as the Andronians weren’t very imaginative with their naming schemes), waving a hand to signal the rest of his party to continue their brave display of tactical retreat. Their steadily disappearing backs didn’t need to be told twice.
The boy, panting and pale, collapsed to the ground. “We’ve had fatalities in the scouting party investigating the missing villagers. They went into the ravine, and I thought I should...”
“Run away?” Rodrik interrupted, his hand edging towards his weapon.
The Andronian’s hands shot up in alarm at the inference. “No! No! Find you and report back! Our leader is missing!”
Rodrik wasn’t entirely convinced by this sudden bout of responsibility but had more pressing concerns. “The rest of you, back to the village!” he ordered, to nobody in particular, as apparently everyone else had left save for one overly curious soul.
“Denor, you’re with me.”
“Understood, sir. Heading back with the rest,” Denor replied, already preparing to scuttle back to the relative safety of the village.
He didn’t get far. Rodrik, quick as a flash, had him by the collar and face down in the snow. “You’re with me, boy. Ledo told me to put you through your paces, and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
Gone was the seemingly lackadaisical man of before, as if the prospect of danger had ignited something within him. This abrupt change of character was most unfair, as it was directed entirely at one poor soul.
“Wouldn’t that mean not retreating with the rest?” Denor pointed out, quite reasonably.
Rodrik sighed, realizing he was in for one of those conversations. “Don’t you want to make a difference, boy?”
“My father always says one person can make a difference, but if it’s me, I probably shouldn't.”
Rodrik cuffed him on the ear, a gesture both as angry as it was exasperated, and marched him northward.
***
A flock of black birds, cawing their dissatisfaction, took flight and settled among the spreading spruce trees like a dark cloud with feathers. Their beady eyes fixed on Denor, who had managed to stumble to the bottom of a ravine with all the grace of a gazelle experiencing a cluster headache. At this point, Denor's knack for landing in undignified positions had taken on an air of artful precision. This definitely wouldn’t be important very soon.
For now, the two Andronian men faced a sight even more grim. Cold eyes scrutinized the macabre feast that had drawn the crows. Few could have discerned the human remains in that bloody mess, but the young warrior accompanying Denor knew immediately who the unfortunate soul had been. He was wearing a name badge, which certainly helped matters. Rodrik’s face remained impassive, but his eyes burned with the promise of retribution for this vile deed. Without further preamble, he volunteered Denor to check the remains.
“What killed him?” called the voice from above, echoing through the ravine. Denor lifted his gaze to see more of the scouting party emerging from the spruce forest, armed and grim-faced and pretending that a timid or panicked retreat most certainly hadn’t happened before their leader had arrived.
“It looks like a body, sir,” Denor replied, his eyes glued to the gruesome scene. “He was killed this morning, bound and helpless.”
At this useless observation, the man in charge made his way down with the brisk clamber of someone with too much confidence, not asking any of the other men to follow.
“What else?” Rodrik finally asked, stepping forward. The deference with which the others had parted for him marked him as the leader of any party he was in, not just their original scouting group. Some people are just born with the right blend of self-importance and stupidity to be leaders.
“They didn’t just kill him,” Denor’s voice dropped, laden with unspoken horrors. “They cut out his liver and heart, stripped the flesh from his thighs, broke and gnawed on his ribs. Also I think they did something to his eyeballs, and there’s no sign of his spleen anywhere.”
“By Tamet!” Several voices exhaled in unison, the warriors casting wary glances around. Cannibalism was the stuff of the most ancient and terrifying Andronian legends, it was extremely hard to stomach.
“These aren’t Trunian or Temrit wounds,” the older warrior muttered, shaking his head. “Even they don’t stoop to such...”
“Kraaa!” The voice of a black bird, perching on a mighty spruce branch, echoed through the forest, which was curious as it sounded like the creature was saying ‘kraaa’ instead of cawing. One of the scouting party reached for his blaster, but the another stopped him, his grip firm. This bird was unlike the others—unusually black with a blue sheen to its feathers, and large enough to rival a small eagle. He also noticed that the rest of the crows had vanished, as if acknowledging the arrival of this singular raven of plot importance. Perhaps this was the raven equivalent of their team leader, which could potentially mean that it was also overconfident too. Whatever its hierarchical importance, it regarded the Andronians with an unsettlingly intelligent eye, then flapped its wings and soared upwards with a deafening croak. From the swaying branch, something fell to the bottom of the ravine, promptly picked up by Denor. Climbing out of said ravine, the young warrior handed Rodrik his find—a few strands of black-brown hair. The older scout sniffed them, and his face darkened with a mix of hatred and superstitious dread.
"Gurruks," Rodrik grumbled. His warriors' gazes, as if choreographed, snapped to the sharp rocks rising above the forested hills, resembling the gaping maw of a giant wolf, or at least a relatively-large dog with hostile intentions that didn’t involve slobber. The scouts had their own unique take on geography, but all agreed that beyond this ridge, the civilized Andronian lands came to an end. This was mostly on account of the wildlife taking exception to any attempt to prove otherwise.
Ten of the village scouts had embarked on this grim pursuit, unfortunately they had been led by the body in the ravine. When your leader goes to pieces in a very literal sense, you tend to stop the whole scouting thing.
Twilight was settling in when the doomed Andronian band climbed the other side of the ridge, emerging onto a small plateau hemmed in on three sides by high rocks. On the fourth side, a cliff dropped away to a dense spruce forest below, where rivers disappeared into a vast underground network of caves. No one dared to enter the forest, rumored to be inhabited by the previously-named vile creatures and much worse than that. Legends varied from village to village, growing more fantastical the further one got from the forest. Yet, no legend, however terrifying, would deter the Andronians from their mission to save their kin or, at the very least, to avenge them against these foul Gurruks and their spleennapping.
Lumination was out of the question; they had no desire to advertise their presence. After a feast that could only be described as functional—dried meat and goat cheese—the Andronian warriors settled in for the night. Denor was forced into taking the first watch, positioning himself on the cliff's edge and to his own amazement, failing to fall in. Here, he seemed to merge with the shadows, transforming into a vigilant sentinel, all eyes and ears. He surveyed the vast expanse of the black forest below with a gaze as cold as a frost giant’s heart.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Or at least, that was what his job was supposed to be. After the fourth attempt at explaining stealth to the boy, Rodrik had decided to get some shut eye and let him figure it out for himself.
The older warriors eyed him with the healthy sort of skepticism that had kept them alive this long. Denor didn’t care, this campaign was his chance to shine bright. Even if ‘bright’ and Denor had previously never encountered eachother.
***
Unfortunately for the camp and everyone residing in it, Denor’s attention span resembled that of a touch screen addict. He soon spotted something flickering in the depths of the thicket. At first he thought it was his overactive imagination desperately trying to stave off boredom. Then the glow of the green lights intensified to a degree that was impossible to ignore, casting eerie flames upon the treetops. Denor's eyelids grew heavy, a traitorous sleep creeping over him, lured by the hypnotic lights. This definitely wasn’t normal. The strange lights that was, not Denor’s propensity for dozing off.
"Kraaaa!!!" A shriek pierced the night as a massive bird swooped overhead, its wings brushing his hair like an inattentive barber and using far too much punctuation to get its point across. Denor jolted awake, leaping to his feet with sword in hand on the second attempt. Squat, ugly figures crept between the rocks, their red eyes gleaming with malevolence.
"Alarm! Attack! Approach!" Denor's confused shout shattered the night, as he forgot the code word to indicate danger. This was helpfully answered by a deafening howl, which did a much better job at rousing the men. The rocks seemed to come alive with vile creatures, wriggling out like worms from a decaying apple of utmost evil. The sort of apple that went bad a mere day after you bought it. You thought you could put it to the side for next time, but no! It insidiously went off with fiendish efficiency and left you grumbling about food standards slipping these days.
Denor had never seen such a peculiar assembly: short and tall, thin and portly, some dark, some pale. Hair colors ranged from red to black, and some were so thickly furred they resembled monkeys more than evil monsters. Their low foreheads and long, clawed arms completed the simian resemblance. Faces varied from almost human to the downright beastly, fangs bared in savage snarls. They wielded clubs and crude energy axes they had pilfered from previous victims with gleeful menace.
The Andronian warriors, roused from slumber, met the onslaught with weapons drawn. It was like a filthy tide crashing over them, only to be pushed back, leaving a grim collection of corpses in its wake. Swords flashed like silver lightning, driven by imbued energies that cast a flaring glow in the darkness, cleaving flesh, severing limbs, and shattering skulls. Rodrik, belting out a fierce Andronian battle song, struck with the precision of an overzealous painter, each swing an artful stroke leaving carnage in its wake and no happy little clouds. The warriors rallied around him, fighting with grim purpose that reaped a bloody harvest from the horde besieging them and mixing the metaphor entirely.
Yet whether they were proverbial artists or farmers, the assault did not wane. More Gurruks poured from the gorges, their numbers swelling as they lunged for the Andronians’ throats. Gurn, son of Hurdok, found his sword unhelpfully lodged in a Gurruk's spine; the creatures immediately pulled him from the circle. He managed to snap one Gurruk's neck before an energy axe split through his shield and carved his head open, his body was then torn apart by the frenzied attackers, which did nothing for morale. The Gurruks surged into the gap with a deafening roar, oblivious to the deadly bolts and swords as the battle raged on. Axes, clubs, fangs, and claws tore into the warriors and overcame their shielding, creating a maelstrom of pain and death among the rocks.
Denor bore the brunt of it by being in the wrong place as usual. Positioned by the cliff, he found himself cut off, fighting alone against the horde. His first blow missed wildly, but the Gurruk he was aiming for stumbled back and was decapitated by the unfortunate strike of another. A pack of them fell upon him immediately after. Denor reaped death left and right, largely by accident, but the press of bodies hindered his swings. He hacked and stabbed until his sword got caught in a mound of dead flesh. Several creatures pounced on him, pushing him toward the cliff's edge. Sharp teeth sank into his shoulder, and in a desperate move, Denor gouged at the creature’s bloodshot eyes. The Gurruk squealed and stumbled back, dragging Denor over the edge with it. As he plummeted, the last thing he saw was the triumphant pack overwhelming the wounded Rodrik, still singing his defiant death song.
***
"Kraaa!" The exasperating scream dragged Denor out of oblivion with all the subtlety of Ledo’s cooking. Waking up brought a symphony of pain to his body, each note more unpleasant than the last. A fresh wound throbbed on his temple, crusted blood making it feel like his eyelids were glued shut. With considerable effort, he pried them open and surveyed his surroundings with a groan. He was sprawled in a shattered spruce forest, the trees growing out of swampy black silt. The tangle of branches and muck had broken his fall, along with the Gurruk corpse he was unceremoniously lying on. Denor grimaced darkly and staggered to his feet, conducting a quick inventory of his limbs. Remarkably, no broken bones, and his spleen was still present. Tamet be praised!
He glanced up to see the sun rising behind the cliffside, the jagged rocks silhouetted against the morning sky. The rocks themselves were still, possibly due to laziness on their part, and from the lack of screaming Denor knew the battle was over. Of the proud Andronian band that had set out, only he remained. That was going to be very difficult to explain to anyone but Ledo and Tycho, as he hadn’t let the proverbial cat out of the bag about the whole resurrecting thing.
Veins stood out on his face as his heart swelled with cold resolve. He had escaped the darkness, managed to shout a warning, and the creatures had paid dearly before wiping out his entire squad. Yet, the sting of guilt was a persistent thorn. They had died for nothing, and Denor was still alive. That didn’t seem particularly fair. Now, the burden of vengeance fell squarely on his shoulders—he just didn’t have the foggiest idea how he was going to enact it.
A loud caw yanked him from his grim thoughts. Denor looked up to see the familiar and irritatingly persistent raven perched atop a nearby fir. It was breakfasting on a Gurruk’s corpse tangled in the branches. The bird pecked busily at the hideous face, swallowing chunks of flesh with a relish that was both impressive and unsettling. Once sated, the raven cawed again, then dropped from the tree and circled above Denor before heading back toward the rocks. Driven by curiosity, the boy, limping, followed.
From the forest, the cliff looked like an impenetrable wall, but as Denor drew closer, he noticed narrow crevices between the rocks. The raven flew up to one of these fissures and, with an imperative caw, slipped inside. After a moment's hesitation, Denor stepped into the gorge, following a small stream that babbled along the bottom. Perhaps Denor felt a kindship to the stream, being an incessant babbler himself.
Due to not being the brightest spark, his previous adventures hadn’t dissuaded him from underground tunnels, natural or otherwise. Soon, he heard the sound of rushing water, and then he saw a small lake, nestled between stone walls. A stream tumbled into the lake like a waterfall, and behind it, hidden by the mist, a dark cave mouth yawned. The raven perched on a rocky ledge beside the waterfall, cawing insistently at Denor, there was no doubt now that this creature was talking to him. No longer hesitating, he stepped under the waterfall, relishing the cold water as it washed away blood and dirt, soothing his wounded body.
Beyond the waterfall, a tunnel stretched out, lit by shafts of daylight filtering through unseen openings. Denor walked a dozen paces, turned a corner, and froze.
Before him lay a small cave, its almost rectangular shape looking like it had been drawn by someone who had a vague idea of what rectangles were but no ruler. Twilight reigned in the space, yet light trickled in from an unknown source, enough for Denor's eyes to adjust to the murk. In the cave's heart, a stone dais stood like a somber altar, upon which an open sarcophagus of an odd, dark green stone was displayed. Within it lay a tall warrior, eyes shut, eerily similar to Denor's own appearance. However, this warrior's garb was of fabrics embroidered with gold and silver, the likes of which had never been seen in these parts. His blonde hair was adorned with a golden circlet studded with precious stones, matching the glittering array that surrounded him in his final repose.
But it wasn't the jewelry that seized Denor's attention; it was the sword resting on the warrior's knees. A long, straight blade, the steel gleaming a deep, rich blue. The hilt bore a dark red stone, and the crossguard was etched with the image of a raven, wings spread wide. He had no doubt such an artefact would fetch an enormous amount of credits should he be able to retrieve it from the body.
Denor stood frozen on the threshold, torn between a covetous desire for the magnificent weapon and a gnawing fear of the untouched form. The air was thick with ancient, almost palpable history, and yet the warrior looked as if he had merely taken a brief rest. Denor was no medical expert, but he knew that bodies were meant to decay after a certain amount of time. His gaze swept the walls of the cave, now noticing the elaborate paintings that adorned them, each telling a story that followed the next in succession.
Closest to Denor was an endless expanse of black with white dots—he recognized it immediately as space—where enormous ships moved through, each bearing the image of a raven on its sails. Next were scenes of battles against strange people in bizarre armor. Then came depictions of blonde-haired warriors, akin to Denor's, entering ruined marble cities. Directly above the tomb, a painting showed a king seated on a throne, leaning on a sword identical to the one in the sarcophagus. The images grew more majestic and terrifying, showing enormous explosions engulfing a land of white temples and palaces, fiery mountains spewing smoke and flame, and the earth splitting open to devour people whole. Further on, fierce battles raged between blonde-haired warriors and large, red-skinned savages—Temrit, whom Denor recognized instantly. The Temrit foes grew more grotesque with each image, losing their human semblance entirely. The final, crudely drawn scenes depicted hideous creatures covered in red hair, mating in dense forests and swamps with monkeys, short red-skinned women who inexplicably filled Denor with revulsion. In the background, like a dark omen, a figure dressed in black feathers loomed.
Denor turned his gaze back to the warrior and finally noticed the deep sorrow etched into his face. Resolute, the boy looked once more at the rock paintings and then stepped forward, extending his hand to the sword. As he touched the weapon, the stone in its hilt glowed a brief, vivid scarlet. Quelling a rare bout of common sense that screamed at him to discard the potentially dangerous blade, Denor secured the sword to his belt and, without a backward glance, strode toward the exit.
After all, nothing could possibly go wrong from raiding the tomb of an ancient civilization and stealing a powerful artefact, right?