The Promised Ones [The Wells End Chronicles Book 1] Read online

  “As far as I can tell, no one has yet, friend Bal,” The storyteller added sagely.

  They walked the rest of the way to the cottage, lost in their own thoughts. The place where Bal and Doreen chose to raise their adopted niece and nephew stood at the edge of a small wood on the eastern side of the village of Beri. The cottage was described to them as cozy, which meant it was cramped, but the rent was right. The thatched roof had leaked when they first moved in, but Bal managed to patch them all with pitch, sweat and a few choice words he had learned in his earlier days. Doreen made sure it was kept scrubbed clean, and in spite of their poverty, Bal's skills at woodcraft made sure there was food for the table.

  The scent of baking sweetroot met Bal and the storyteller as they turned into the path leading to the cottage. Nought breathed deeply of the aroma, pulling the mix of caramel and spice deep into his lungs. “Ahhhhhh, but that smells good.”

  “You're welcome to share our table. There's always room for one more.”

  “Even if there really isn't, hmm?” The storyteller replied.

  “The creek behind the cottage usually has fish in it. A nice trout goes well with sweetroot. We've never gone hungry, nor have those we've taken in,” Bal said, with a touch of pride.

  Nought sniffed the air once more. “I'm sure you haven't. I'm sure you haven't.” He smacked his lips in anticipation.

  “The storyteller's here! Aunt Doreen. The storyteller's here!” The twins came running from around the backside of the whitewashed cottage.

  Nought noticed they'd changed from their previous outfits to ones of rough woven burlap. The girl would have to be talked to. She was too well advanced in her puberty to be wearing such a loose weave. At least the boy had a decent breechcloth wrapped around him, and he was wearing a thong around his neck, with a small bag tied to it. Their feet were bare and stained green from the grass around the cottage. To the casual eye, they'd look to be simple country folk. Better and better.

  Doreen came out of the door centered in the front of the cottage, wiping her hands on a piece of sacking. “Storyteller. You honor us.”

  “We've an extra mouth for supper, Doreen.” Bal announced as he stepped inside the cottage. “I'll be down at the creek.”

  The twins’ eyes grew large. “You're staying for supper? Here? With us?”

  The old man chuckled. “Don't act so surprised. I'd walk twice the distance to have such an attentive audience. My stories are no fun at all if I've no one to share them with.”

  * * * *

  Nought pushed himself away from the rough-hewn table. “Ahhh, yes. I don't believe I could eat another bite. That was simply amazing, Doreen. Who knew the humble trout could aspire to such gustatory heights?”

  Doreen blushed under the compliment. “It wasn't all my doing, sire Nought. Bal caught them, and the children did the cleaning...”

  “Don't be so modest my dear. Accept your due when it's offered. Folk get little enough of it in this world. You prepared a masterpiece, and I'm proud to say so.”

  “Thank you, sire Nought.” Doreen's blush deepened.

  “It was good, Aunt Doreen.” Charity affirmed the storyteller's praise.

  “Real good.” Adam agreed, with his mouth full of sweetroot.

  Bal stood up, taking his empty plate with him. “As my nephew, who insists on talking with his mouth full, said, real good, honey. You outdid yourself.”

  Nought reached across the table, and picked up the pitcher of tisane. He poured a measure into the earthenware mug. “And you brew a fine tisane, as well. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was dining in one of the finer establishments of the bustling city of Beri.”

  Doreen laughed behind her hands.

  “You're a shameless flirt, storyteller, and you know it. But I thank you for brightening our home.” Bal took his plate over to a small sideboard with a shallow wooden basin sitting on it; He placed the plate into the basin. “Adam. Take the bucket to the creek, we've some dishes to wash.”

  “What?”

  “You know the rules. She cooked, we wash.”

  “Yes, Uncle Bal.” Adam picked up the bucket, and trudged out of the cottage.

  “Adam. Wait up.” Charity got up from her place at the table, and ran out after her brother. She caught up with him at the creek.

  “Aren't you excited? We've got the storyteller all to ourselves. The best storyteller in the whole world!”

  Adam didn't answer.

  “Adam! Did you hear me?” Adam!”

  “Shh!”

  “Don't you shh me! You're not Uncle Bal, even if you are five minutes older you can't mmmpphhh!” Adam's hand over her mouth cut off what else she was going to say.

  “Shh.” He whispered, “Listen. Don't you hear it?” He took his hand away from her mouth

  “Hear what?” She whispered back.

  Adam pointed across the creek into the deep of the wood. “Out there.” He kept his voice at a barely audible level. “I've never heard anything like it. It sends chills right through me, and it sounds big.”

  Charity listened, trying to catch what her brother was hearing and she wished she hadn't. On the very edge of her hearing, was a snuffling, grunting sound. The pitch was bass deep, with an edge to it that grated along her nerves. Adam was right in his feeling. Whatever was making that sound was big ... and hunting.

  “I wonder what it is? Could it be some kind of pig?” Charity breathed her question into Adam's ear.

  “Never heard a pig sound like that.”

  Charity saw the eyes first. “Adam!” She shrieked. “Look!”

  He looked in the direction she pointed. A pair of glowing red spots was looking at them from out of a hulking black shape just across the creek.

  Adam could feel his knees going weak. He grabbed his sister by the arm. “Come on. We're getting out of here.”

  They turned to run back to the cottage, and slammed into two more of the things. The last thing Adam could remember thinking was that they smelled like one of the stray dogs in the village when they got wet.

  * * * *

  “Ogren. It had to be Ogren.” Nought ran a hand over the trampled soil at the creek's edge.

  “How many?” Bal held Doreen to him. He could feel the moisture of her tears against his shoulder.

  “Are they dead?” She choked out the question.

  The storyteller looked up and shook his head. “I don't think so. If the Ogren were going to kill them, we'd have found sure signs of it. Blood, at least, or a body part or two.”

  “Nooo!” Doreen shrieked out.

  “Nought!” Bal objected.

  “Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I tend to be a little too clinical, sometimes. It comes from storytelling, you know. What I was trying to say was, I believe the twins were taken alive, probably captive, and the poor things are probably scared witless. What concerns me is that He used Ogren to do it ... strange.” Nought rubbed a bit of the soil between his thumb and forefinger.

  “How many?” Bal repeated his question.

  “Eh? Oh, yes, you asked that earlier, didn't you? Three ... I think. Yes, three for sure. I think the sorcerer's involved in this. Ogren never cross the spine unless they're driven.”

  “You have to find them. You have to.” Doreen pleaded with the storyteller.

  “I'm going with you.” Bal looked grim.

  Nought looked over his shoulder at Bal. “No, you won't. You and Doreen are going to pack up what belongings you have, and you are going to move as far away from here as you can. I would suggest Southpointe as an example. Gilgafed sent those Ogren. I'm sure of it now, and he never does anything in halfway measures. More will be coming after you, if I don't miss my guess, and unless you have a company of the watch to call on, you don't want to be here when they arrive.”

  The mention of the sorcerer's name did not have the desired effect on Doreen. “But the children, Adam and Charity, what about them?”

  “They're out of your hands, now!” Nought sn
apped. “What do I have to do to get you to think?”

  Bal took his wife by the arm. “Come on, Doreen. It's up to him, now.”

  Her eyes were huge. “You mean he's...?”

  “That's exactly what I mean.”

  “But he's dead!”

  “Tell that to him. Let's go.”

  The storyteller went back to his examination of the trampled ground. “Ogren.” He thought. “What is that fool Gilgafed playing at?” The beasts were temperamental at best, nearly as bad as Garlocs. He began to wonder if Bal and Doreen's keeping the twins ignorant of the world they were born into was wise, after all.

  Nought looked over his shoulder, making sure Bal and his wife were well away. He then reached out a hand, and held it over the area where the Ogren sign was most prominent. The air under the palm of his hand began to glow. Beneath the hand, areas of the soil picked up the glow, forming the shapes of clearly defined hoof prints along with the bare footprints of two young humans. From the looks of things, the struggle was brief, and only three sets of prints left the area of the creek heading east. They were all hoofed.

  He stood and straightened his robe. “If you've hurt them, Gilgafed, there won't be enough left of you to keep in a specimen jar.”

  Sounds coming from the cottage told him Bal and Doreen were doing as they were told. They would be gone well before morning. Southpointe would do well by them. He made a mental note to make sure their economic status was considerably higher there than it had been in Beri, and then he snapped his fingers. A staff appeared in his right hand, ornately carved, with a wolf's head at the top. Softly whistling an ancient melody in a minor key, he began following the line of glowing prints, as they led him eastward into the Dwarflands.

  Chapter Two

  Charity woke to bouncing ... and the smell of wet dog. That snuffling, grunting sound was louder. In fact, it was right next to her. As her head cleared further, she realized she was being carried on someone's shoulder. She turned her head to look, and remembered why she was being carried.

  The Ogren carrying Charity ignored her attempts to break free, as well as her shrieking into its goat-like ears. The heavy horns curling at the sides of its head protected its eyes from attack. But when she tried biting the ear next to her mouth, the Ogren rapped her on the head, knocking her back into unconsciousness.

  The one carrying Adam's limp form turned and barked a question at its companion. A grunt answered him, and the Ogren continued on their way through the dark wood, and into the downs bordering the Dwarflands.

  * * * *

  Pestilence, also known as the Fire Island, sits just over sixty miles off the eastern coast of the Verkuyl peninsula. A long-extinct volcano, it has been the home of Gilgafed the Sorcerer, for millennia. There, he bred his armies of Ogren, Golem and Trolls, along with other nameless creatures, waiting for the day when he would be able to take back the power that the philosopher King had wrested from him.

  Now, it appeared that fortune had finally smiled, after long centuries of disdain. Unless he was terribly mistaken, he had finally found the last remaining scions of the house of Labad. A few of his Ogren were even now carrying them to his loving embrace.

  The sorcerer reached out and pulled a velvet cord hanging next to the thickly padded chair he presently occupied. Scant minutes later a bedraggled-looking little man with a big nose, sparse mouse-brown hair and a nervous habit of dry-washing his hands appeared at the chamber door.

  “You summoned me, master?”

  “Ah, Cobain. You made good time. Yes, I did summon you. That's what the tinkly little bells mean when I ring them. You know where I keep my special brandies, do you not?”

  Cobain knew, and inwardly he winced. Delivering one of the small casks meant a trip into the very bowels of the mountain, and then the long, long climb back to Gilgafed's chambers here at the top. “Yes ... Master. I know of them.”

  Gilgafed chuckled and held out a coin-sized disk of vellum. “Bring me the two casks with those dates. The one I choose not to broach, you can return to its rest.”

  “Yes, master. Thank you, master.” The servant took the disk and read the dates on it in resignation. Two trips to the catacombs. At least the master was in a good mood; perhaps he wouldn't be whipped if he dawdled a bit.

  The sorcerer leaned back in his chair, and placed his feet onto the polished ebony desk before him. Now for the planning. After he had those two brats in his clutches, he could see about ending the life of that meddling Wizard with his tendency to butt in at usually the most inopportune time.

  He laced his fingers together behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. “What to do ... What to do.”

  * * * *

  Nought followed the glowing prints of the Ogren across the downs east of Beri and into the Dwarflands. The beasts were maintaining a swift pace; swift enough that he was gaining little ground, if any, on the party.

  “I think I'm going to need some help.” He mused. “The Dwarfs have no love of Gilgafed or his Ogren. Perhaps they won't like the idea of them trespassing.” He chuckled. “No, they won't like it at all.”

  He stopped and reached into his tunic, pulling out an ornate, hand-sized mirror, which he placed onto the rock-strewn ground. He knelt in front of the mirror, and said a single word. “Show.”

  The surface of the glass distorted, and then began to swirl in a counterclockwise motion. Flashes of scenery flickered through the distortion, and then steadied into a face looking back at the storyteller.

  “Wizard. What means this?” The voice was deep with a gravel-like quality, but there was also a gruff friendliness in its tone. “I have business to attend to.”

  “Rest assured, Galtru, this is no social call.”

  “I assumed that, from the hideous hat you're wearing. Are you out scaring children with those foul tales you call stories, again?” The dwarf worked a finger into one of his ears and examined the result. “What disreputable name are you using this century, Milward? Bifflbug? Frustensketch? Nought?”

  “Be nice,” he murmured, “a party of three Ogren are crossing your lands.”

  “What is that to us?” Galtru shrugged. “As long as they cross them completely and keep to themselves, we care not.”

  “They have a pair of captives I have a particular interest in; you may, as well, if I'm not mistaken.” The Wizard suggested.

  The Dwarf looked unimpressed. “Unless they're the progeny of Labad himself, I've better things to occupy my time with, Wizard. Good journey.” He began to turn away from the point of the scry.

  “What an amazing thing!” Milward, dropping the persona of Nought like a bad habit, exclaimed. “Right, the first time. Are you sure you're not a Seer?”

  Galtru turned back to face the Wizard, with a scowl creasing his brow. “What are you saying, old one? Is senility finally creeping into that ale-sodden mind of yours? Speak plainly, for once. I'm a Dwarf, not a Dragon. I don't care for riddles.”

  The Wizard nodded. “Very well, Galtru. Plain speaking, as you ask. Gilgafed finally succeeded in finding the scions of the house of Labad. It's his progeny tucked under the arms of those Ogren trotting across your lands. I followed them through the downs, but I fear I'm gaining no ground.”

  “You could ride a horse.” The Dwarf said quietly.

  “And you could marry a Garloc. What will it be, Galtru? Will you aid me, or not? The sun is beginning to rise. They're going to start looking for a place to hide.”

  “Keep your temper, Wizard. No, the Dwarves will not shirk their responsibility. We've guarded Labad's heritage for over a millennia, we're not going to fail in our task because of a few clumsy Ogren that managed to stumble across your charges.” Galtru's smile was bleak.

  Milward bowed his head to the Dwarf's image in the glass. “I am obliged to you, Galtru. I leave the details to you. One other thing before I go.”

  “Ask, Milward. I may, or may not answer.” The Dwarf's expression revealed nothing.

  “This heritage
you've been guarding, what is it?”

  “That is our concern, Wizard. You do your part, we'll do ours.”

  The Wizard ended the scry. “Damn obstinate Dwarves. They'd sooner roast alive than reveal a secret.”

  He picked up the glass and placed it back into his tunic. The rising sun cast long shadows into the grassy hills west of him. A calling bird greeted the dawn with its hooting cry. Shading his eyes against the sun's light, Milward gazed in the direction the kidnappers trail led. He almost felt sorry for the Ogren. Almost.

  * * * *

  “Stop poking me.” Adam cried out sleepily. The nightmares had finally gone away, and he wanted to stay asleep as long as possible.

  The poke came again, and by reflex he lashed out with a foot by reflex. The barking grunt of pain that answered his kick pulled him fully awake.

  A creature out of one of the stories they used to hear in the village writhed on the ground in front of him. Two others like it stared at him in the dim light. They were big. Much bigger than Uncle Bal. Their faces looked like a goat's, but they had tusks like that of a boar. Their broad chests were covered with rudely sewn hides, and their loins were hidden behind knee britches sewn together just as haphazardly. Horns curled like those of a ram sprouted from each side of the forehead, and curled back into a coil above the floppy, goat-like ears. The feet appeared to be split-hoofed and heavy. Thick curly hair covered what skin he could see, and the stink coming from them told him where the wet dog smell originated.

  In spite of the injury he'd done to their companion, the other two creatures seemed indisposed to intervene. Adam tried to get a bearing on where he was and what was going on.

  It looked like he was in a cave of some sort. The dim light ‘s source came from behind the two beasts before him. Underneath him, the floor of the cave was sandy and dry, but he could hear a faint sound of water dripping.

  “Ohhhh.”

  The soft moan sounded like his sister. “Charity. Charity!”