Adamtheon - Awakenings

A bloated, orange sun hung heavy in the sky as the pair made their way towards the poor village in the foothills of the Aronas mountains. Ripe fruits hung on laden branches in the fields around them but both men knew the people who tended these vines would never drink any of the wine they produced, never eat any of the grapes.

“Are you sure this is the place?” A deep voice growled.

Children halted to watch the immense creature as it walked into their home village, some of the younger ones starting to cry merely from the sight of it. Thickly corded muscles sat beneath light blue skin that looked to be more scar tissue than actual skin. Finger thick veins pulsed with vital blood as the creature stomped into the village square, massive boots thumping on the packed earth there.

“Definitely looks like the place that weasel described to me,” the orc’s companion muttered, casting an eye around the place.

As little more than a gathering of mud and thatch huts thrown together on the side of a mountain, the nameless village was as savage and pitiful as any Amael had ever seen. A few scrawny goats pawed the ground in search of the food they could smell just feet away. Chickens pecked at seeds only they could see and several wary pairs of eyes stared at the large creature beside him.

Zsham, Amael’s orc companion was definitely imposing at seven feet, yet Amael gave off a dangerous air of his own. Broad shoulders led down to the narrow waist of a trained sword-mage and his bright blue eyes seemed to be everywhere at the same time. He carried himself with the grace of a dancer, as light on his feet as the performers in the king’s palace, five hundred miles south.

“We could take this place between us,” Amael commented as he gazed at a pair of scrawny men approaching them. “With ease,” he added.

“Uh, is-is there anything I can help you gentlemen with?” One of the men asked.

Prematurely aged by the harsh lifestyle he had in the mountains, he had leather brown skin and wrinkles deep enough to grow plants in, despite appearing youthful. He wore an obviously home made garment that resembled a dress with long sleeves, the clothing patched and dirty. Both men looked fearfully from Amael to Zsham, the latter stepping back to allow Amael to speak to them.

“Gentlemen!” Amael cried, making them flinch. “I am Amael and my tall, but peaceful, companion here is called Zsham. We have come to your fine home on the recommendation of a gentleman by the name of Hilionis, who after being plied with several large decanters of the fine wine you produce in this very village, told us your blacksmith is a gnome called Taraki. Is that correct?” Amael flashed a white smile.

“Uh, y-yes, sir,” the villager said as a fly crawled across his right cheek.

“Yes, sir!” Amael laughed, slapping his leg and turning to Zsham. “You hear that, my friend? This great man believes I’m a sir!” Amael chuckled while his orc companion stood silently. “Tell me, my man,” Amael continued, putting his arm across the villager’s shoulders. “Is there any chance we could speak to Taraki? See him for a few minutes?”

“He went to secure some supplies,” the villager said. “There have been reports of raiders in the foothills and so he went to find something to defend us...if they come here.”

Amael rubbed his face with his hands, as if washing, but with dry fingers. He pulled his cheeks down, staring at the villager with his eyes wide for a second before smiling.

“Of course. So tell me, my good fellow, is there an inn around here that we might rest while he returns? It really is important I speak to him.”

“Well...not until you get to Slingor town,” the villager said. “It’s ten...”

“Ah, yes, we came through there, beautiful place,” Amael said sarcastically.

The villagers sniggered.

“Rather than returning to that pit, is there anywhere here we might stay?”

“Unfortunately not, sir. We’re already crowded as it is and...”

“Nowhere we can build a fire? Throw or bedrolls down? We’re relatively hardy you know?” Amael asked.

“Well, yes I suppose there is but...”

“Great, it’s settled then,” Amael declared, holding his hand out.

“But we’ve...”

“Lead on, sir,” Amael said. “Lead on.”

The lithe man started to walk away but the villager shouted, bringing him around sharply.

“Wait!” He cried weakly. “You’re not listening. As well as the threat of raiders we’ve been hearing the call of a puma in the hills at night. You can’t sleep outside.”

Amael smiled at the villager, a pleasant stretching of his face that did not reach his eyes. The other man swallowed as Amael spoke.

“See my large companion here?” He asked. “Do you think he’s more than a match for a lone puma?”

“Well, yes, but...”

“My good fellow, I’m grateful for your concern, but you needn’t worry about us. We’ve both faced more violent opponents than a mountain cat and survived,” Amael threw his arm around the man’s thin shoulders again. “What did you say your name was?”

***

Zsham shook his square-jawed head as his friend worked his verbal magic on the villagers, charming them with his wit and natural charisma until they were almost entranced. Amael gave off a kind of friendly psychic scent that made almost anyone around him feel at ease in his company. Combined with his words and gestures, this talent he had for persuasion served him well. Firewood was brought and stacked before them, a large bucket of fresh water and several blankets.

The big orc had wondered if the sword-mage was doing the same thing to him. Talking him in circles until he was utterly charmed. Yet listening to him speak to the villagers, he knew the way Amael spoke to them was different, still respectful and friendly but completely different nevertheless. In the two years they had been companions he had seen Amael use his verbal magic on a number of occasions, his other magic less so. It appeared, to the orc, that his ability to charm almost anyone was innate, it was just part of who Amael was, while the rarer magic he could wield was a conscious decision. And far less subtle.

Zsham sat, leaning his broad back against the smooth rock of the mountain, his thick hands gripping the shaft of his twin blade battleaxe as the point between the blades sank into the ground under its weight. He sighed, wondering exactly why he was here. He rolled his neck, cracking the vertebrae loudly and smiled, revealing the full length of his fangs as his thick lips tightened.

He knew exactly why he was here, ever since Amael had helped him escape from the arena where he had been forced to fight, to kill, he had loved him like a brother. Zsham took out a large knife that looked small in his thick fingers and a chunk of cherry wood he had been working on for some time. He turned it over in his hands, his fingers surprisingly agile as he manipulated the wood. The legs were already there, and even though he had not added much detail it was obvious to anyone who saw it, it was deer. A doe now the antlers had snapped off after a short fall down a ravine reaching this village.

Zsham shaved minute sections of wood from the block, shaping and refining the doe as the world seemed to fade around him. His concentration centred on the animal he was carving to such a degree that the village fell silent and all he could hear was the sound of the knife cutting the wood.

It might have been hours later when Amael joined him, seating himself silently and peering at the creation in his large blue hands.

“That’s coming on nicely,” Amael said, adjusting his cloak and swords. “I managed to persuade the gent that greeted us gave us a couple of fish,” he added, presenting a wooden plate with a pair of grilled trout on top.

“It doesn’t look like they’ve got much,” Zsham said. “Maybe we should let them have it back, find something in our packs?”

The orc watched as the sword-mage realised he was right, the poverty in the village was obvious and a little colour rose in Amael’s cheeks at his thoughtlessness.

“Ah Zsham,” he said, chuckling. “That big heart of yours will end up getting us in trouble, but you’re right, they need this more than us,” he added, rising. “I’m going to go find him and give it back,” he smiled.

Somewhere in the hills around them the growling whine of a puma echoed from the rocks.

***

Bright sun shone into Amael’s eyes waking him from a deep and pleasant sleep that had involved dreaming about several of his past loves. He rolled into a standing position and stretched, glancing around for his gigantic companion who was nowhere to be seen.

How do you lose a seven foot orc?

A crunch of gravel made him spin to see a young woman approaching him with curious eyes. Amael appraised her as she stepped towards him with a simple basket in her hands.

She looked completely out of place in these poor surrounds, appearing as elegantly as anyone he had seen at the palace. Long, flowing, silken hair fell in dark waves over her shoulders and down her chest. Her simple garb left little to the imagination as it was obviously old and clung to her figure tightly. She smiled demurely at Amael as his eyes traced the lines and planes of her body, her own eyes cutting away from his.

“Good morning, sir,” she said in a high, clear voice.

“Much better now the company’s improved,” Amael said with a smile.

She blushed, her skin pinking prettily.

Too young for you, Amael.

“So to what do I owe this pleasant and welcome visit this fine morning?” He asked.

“I was asked to bring you a little breakfast,” she said, peeling back the cloth cover from her basket.

Inside were a pair of simple bread rolls and some odd-looking fruits.

“Well thank you very much,” Amael said, pleasantly. “We should...”

He halted as something caught his eye and he shaded his vision from the morning sun.

“Riders,” he said darkly. “Headed here,” he turned to face the woman, staring into her eyes. “Let everyone in the village know. Go. Raise the alarm!”

Her eyes went wide with fright as his entire demeanour altered, changing to become the dangerous man he could be. The old looking man that had greeted them yesterday appeared, staring down the dusty trail that wound down the mountain like a ribbon. Amael could almost hear the bones rattling together as fear took hold of him.

“Folaris,” Amael muttered gently. “Have you any idea where my friend Zsham is?”

“N-no, sir,” the villager stammered. “I h-haven’t seen...” his gaze went back to the dust cloud stirred up by the approaching band.

“They only let you know they’re coming to frighten you,” Amael said in his calm voice.

“W-what?” Folaris asked, turning to look at Amael with a sick expression on his face.

“The raiders,” Amael nodded at the group. “They only stir all that dust up to let you know they’re coming, that way you’re scared when they arrive and more likely to give in to anything they ask,” he reached out and squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Don’t hand them the power,” he added.

Folaris backed away, running across to the shack he lived in while Amael watched the raiders approach. He knew from bitter experience what these men were capable of but also knew they would prefer not to kill anyone here.

Fewer people, fewer resources, fewer opportunities to steal.

Amael swore beneath his breath when it became obvious just how many there were, at least seven in the main force and possibly as many following somewhere as backup. Amael briefly considered just letting them do whatever it was they wanted but reasoned that would be less than conducive to a positive outcome when the gnome returned.

He took a seat on a log and took a bite from the virtually tasteless roll the woman had brought him, chewing it thoughtfully as the raiding party rode into the village.