Heroes of the Gem

Heroes °f the Gem

Brian Haas

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Copyright © 1996, 2009 by Brian Haas

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-2530-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-2531-7 (ebbok)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/11/2009 

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Heroes °f the Gem

1

Tolmath followed the smaller man into the street. We can get more supplies Troc, began Tolmath. I have enough gold so let us first find some wine and food, then we can buy your gear.

Troc whirled upon Tolmath with a killer look on his face. Gods smite you down Tolmath! There is more to life than the gold in your purse. With that he spun back around and entered the tavern. Some friend, worries more about his stomach than saving a companion from becoming a worthless beggar left to wander Wek’s stinking streets.

Tolmath shrugged his muscled shoulders in amazement. The little man who wallowed in self-pity before him was an excellent fighter with a disturbing past. He knew Troc had grown up on a small island in the empire of Quardonia. His parents were killed one night when Troc was but ten years of age. The young boy watched as pirates burned his village to the ground. Homeless, Troc wandered the island for days. He was found and grew up under the guidance of a master thief and assassin, a master of knives, Yerben the Slicer.

Troc could throw a knife over 30 yards with deadly force and precision. Later in his early manhood, Troc wandered the lands with a group of marauders. The looters taught him the skills of a hunter and the use of the new long bow. Within the hunter boiled a horrible animal ferocity which appeared at times possessing the young man beyond his control. Tolmath grimaced at the thought of what this small man would become.

The two men entered the Bashful Squid, each enveloped in his own thoughts. Tolmath stared in repulsion at the filthy tavern smelling of rotting fish. His father would never allow a place like this to exist. Mugs and pitchers cluttered both tables and the floor. Primarily seamen, burly and unkept, occupied the place gambling, drinking and eyeing the serving girls. The two men found a table that was almost clean after the empty mugs were pushed aside and unto the floor.

What kind of rat hole have you brought me to now? whispered Tolmath. The heat from outside causes this place to smell like a cesspool.

Troc laughed slightly while watching a scantly clad wench walk by carrying a sloshy jug of wine. This is a good place for information about recent happenings, he replied. Besides, some friends of mine are to meet us here sometime this afternoon.

What friends? Tolmath asked suspiciously. I didn’t know you had friends here in Ansia.

I have been in Ansia before, but only briefly, started Troc. While I was here I met Ardun, a very respectable mercenary…basically, Hey! Bargirl!

Tolmath groaned at this recent bit of news about friends. So far this country was against his morals. Being the son of a baron gave one a distinct outlook on life. Fine taverns with other noble friends as companions is how it should be.

He watched a serving girl thread her way towards the table, a fiery look on her young, soft face.

What will it be? she asked half-heartily.

Give us two ales, girl, and some meat. Troc ordered while slapping her nearest thigh which produced a small squeal as she scurried away. He laughed as he watched her cross the room towards the kitchen. Swiftly, his face changed to reveal a look of burning hatred. A rage foamed in his eyes as a thunderstorm soaks up the sunlight while brewing. There, he said softly through clenched teeth.

Tolmath tried to find what Troc saw but he could only see groups of people around the room. What is it Troc? he asked quietly.

Troc threw his chair back and stood up angrily, his lips curling back in a growl. You have robbed your last man, fools! he bellowed, quieting all in the tavern. Five men stood up from a table across the room and shoved it over. Ale and meat spilled upon the wooden floor as the men brought weapons out.

Tolmath watched in fascination while the other people simply cleared the floor to gather along the walls, well out of the room of any conflict.

One of the five men, whom wore a leather cap, grinned slyly. Apparently, our friend wishes to lose more than a few pouches and trinkets, eh? The man was called Thindel the Mangler who usually stole from people at night and then mutilated their bodies. He is wanted in many cities but the guards could never seem to catch him. Today he and his men had thrown a sack over Troc’s head and beat him while taking his few possessions.

Maybe a taste of steel will teach him to let affairs pass. A longsword whispered from Thindel’s sheath.

Troc studied the situation, his quick mind reviewing the possible plans. As the five men began to advance, Troc’s hands disappeared into his tunic, reappearing in a shower of silver. The bystanders heard only a whistle of air followed by meaty thuds. Two thugs in front of Thindel fell to the floor dead. A pair of knives sprouted from the chest of both men, buried to the hilt in their flesh.

Thindel cursed as his two men dropped like sacks. He moved ahead of the others who stood in sudden fear of this flying death. The master killer stole forwards towards Troc with little fear of the throwing knives. This was only because he noticed Troc now drew a sai from his belt.

Tolmath’s battle mind clicked into action even as the knives were slicing through the air. His hands clutched the now free greatsword underneath the table. Thindel and Troc circled each other trying to find any weakness. Tolmath kept his eye on the remaining two thieves finally regaining their wits. They both carried longswords like Thindel and held them poised as they slipped behind Troc. Tolmath bounded from behind the table swinging his mighty sword.

The two thugs scrambled to defend themselves from this new danger. One went down in a screaming heap when his knee shattered like an egg shell beneath him. The other leaped outside and somehow avoided his left arm from being sliced off completely. The deep cut along the forearm testimony to Tolmath’s fighting prowess.

I’m going to eat on your heart for weeks, pig! swore the thug, his sword darting forward stabbing Tolmath deep in his right thigh. Tolmath grimaced in pain, his right leg losing all feeling. Before dropping to the floor, he swung the sword upwards slashing through the mouth and head of the thief. Eat on this!

Blackness enshrouded Tolmath blocking out all reality. Out of the corner of his eye Troc saw Tolmath fall. He swore underneath his breath as he turned his attention back to Thindel. With his trained eye, Troc watched the Mangler prepare to spring. Planting his feet apart, he prepared to impale the cutthroat.

Thindel sprang like a large cat but not as Troc had initially suspected. He leapt first upon an overturned table in one swift leap. Before Troc could register what was happening Thindel jumped into the air and executed a flip over the now startled Troc. As Troc turned to ward off the attack of Thindel, he caught a vicious thrust in the arm meant to skewer his back.

Troc swore as the long sword plunged through his upper right arm. He stumbled back dropping his weapon and fell sprawling over an upturned chair. He watched through hazy eyes as Thindel approached with a smirk of satisfaction upon his sweaty face.

Don’t worry, little worm, said Thindel, wiping sweat from his forehead. I’m just going to slce your head off and make it quick.

Troc’s mind whirled for any type of plan to save himself. Since nothing short of pleading for mercy entered his mind, he determined to die honorable. He glared straight into Thindel’s eyes and spat at him.

Thindel’s face turned from a look of hatred to a look of horror and pain. He staggered forward coughing up blood until he fell in a heap on the floor. From the back of the master killer a large, gleaming battle axe still quivered. It’s large head sunk deep into the clean flesh and bone, creating a spurting river of blood down to the floor. One side of its double axe head was a deepening crimson, the other a brilliant polished silver.

Troc stood up and leaned exhausted upon a chair. His arm was soaked in blood, which he vainly tried to keep stanched with his left hand. He stared in amazement at this dead man and thanked his God Omar for his life. He glanced around the room searching for his savior. In the doorway stood a stout, misshapen man crying violently. The man’s arms appeared too long and were overdeveloped. He had a higher forehead than most and his eyebrows were black and bushy. His skin had a brownish tinge to it and his hair was bristly where it covered his body. Before entering the tavern fully, the man sniffed the air inside deeply. Evidently satisfied, he stepped over bodies and furniture to approach Troc.

Friend Troc, exclaimed the short man, I save life once again?

Trying to hide his pain beneath a broad smile, Troc greeted the man warmly. Well Ardun, glad to see you could make it in time for our party. Your throwing arm has improved, I am grateful to see.

Ardun laughed hard like a wild beast, Not true. I try to hit his sword only. I slipped in a puddle outside and I miss, replied the man shrugging his shoulders.

Troc smiled weakly sliding down into his chair. He stared at Ardun and started reliving memories of his friend. Most people took Ardun to be only a hideous man, when in fact he was only half human. The human side came from his mother and the other part was from a raiding orc. He stood about five feet tall, but a little stockier than ever possible for a human male. The half-orc’s face was surrounded by short, black hair. His face, only slightly different from a man’s gave him almost a puppy dog appearance. His eyes were large, soft and set in a permanent look of bewilderment. Troc knew Ardun to be the kindest and gentlest person he ever met, but if his friends or an innocent were threatened he could become violently angry.

Ardun bent down to look at Troc’s injured arm. Troc hurt! I help! Ardun went to retrieve his axe and ripped a large section of cloth out of Thindel’s tunic. He returned quickly and began to bandage Troc’s arm.

You kill many of these men? Why? inquired the half-orc?

Troc grunted, They stole from me and I got revenge as the bandage was tied over the wound.

No need kill, stated Ardun.

Troc stared at Ardun violently, Why shouldn’t I kill something not worth living in the first place. Should I walk up and ask them politely if they would return my belongings! Wake up and use your head Ardun!

Ardun’s face sagged at the rebuff, Ardun stupid. I sorry. The half-orc kept his gaze to the floor like a kicked dog. Troc sighed getting up from the chair. He forgot how much Ardun believed violence was never a good answer. What’s said is said, thought Troc as he walked over to the unconscious Tolmath.

Tolmath lay sprawled upon the floor, still bleeding heavily from the gash in his leg. His face was a pasty white and his chest barely moved with breath. Troc quickly stopped the flowing blood enough to examine the wound. There was a deep cut across the thigh. He swore to himself as he checked the thugs swords. Upon two of them he found that which he feared, a small bit of poison on the tip of the blade.

Ardun, come here! cried Troc draping Tolmath over his good shoulder. "Search the dead thieves for money and give it to the tavern owner, grab my bags and knifes, afterwards meet me at the temple at the end of the central