The Shining Light of Ennendreal: Rory Crystalblade Book 1

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It has been a long journey making this story, a book which I initially started due to boredom sitting in front of the TV when I thought I could make better use of my time. Setting out to create a novel in the vein I myself would like to read has required a lot of time and almost became an obsession.

As such the first thanks goes out to Faye, Callum and Dylan for supporting me through the process when I may have been spending far too much time writing instead of focusing on other roles.

To my mum, Pat, who was there when a couple of curveballs were thrown my way and aiding me both with time and financially.

To Scott and Michaela who convinced me they did enjoy the story and to have it published. Furthermore to Michaela for help with editing along with Vicki for taking the time to read the story and additional help with editing.

To my Grandparents June and Jim, who together with Michaela have financed me through to publication.

To Richard who has provided advise on marketing techniques and offered to help out when the final copy is out.

Lastly to those of you who have encouraged me along the way, making me feel like doing this was not a waste of time a big thank you to you.

Prologue

Hard vicious battles, nights of intricate planning, friends dead, no home left to call his own, and for what? It had ended now, finished, he had lost. Someone must have given him away, but who? Or had there been a gaping flaw in his designs, a variable he had failed to predict?

It no longer mattered, all that did matter was to try and keep his tired, bloodshot eyes from closing over for the final time. His eyes, once sharp as those of an eagle, were now yellow, bloodshot and swollen; they represented the agony of his body. Nothing could show the agony of his spirit.

Salt collected in multiple lacerations covering his body but they too no longer mattered. The pain had gone long ago, numbed by repetition to the point that his nerve cells no longer cared to let his mind know of their torture.

The air felt heavy and hot, the dust suspended in it making breathing difficult for him as his bruised lungs sucked and blew just trying to survive…. but what was the point?

Groggily lifting his head, he blinked rapidly to remove the layer of grime that covered his pupils, if he had had tears, he might have wept, he didn’t.

How much more could he take? The beatings had been endless, his thirst drove him mad and the sun, once his ally, now sat high above him berating his weakness with its unending fury. He found a moment for mirth as even now at the end there were those watching in the stands shouting Ahuma! Ahuma!

Ahuma. That was him. It meant great one. He did not feel so great today.

They were his people in the stands, they expected something heroic from him. He was their hope. He was the only one who knew for certain he was their hope extinguished. Did any of them remember his real name? Someone must, he hoped some did.

Wiping a greasy palm on his maroon cape he looked over at the stone gate leading to another world; it was where his captors were sending him. The glimmer of the surface between the stone pillars stung his eyes nearly as much as the sweat which his body gave up in its futile attempt to cool him. It was funny how at the end everything seems to be against you.

Kaldor, you know you will never be rid of me, he shouted, wincing as a sharp pain needled in his ribs.

Kaldor, that was the Emperor’s name, the man sending him to this other world. The Emperor did not need to shout to be heard. His voice, magically enhanced, echoed out loud and clear. You know it would not surprise me in the least if you did manage to find some way to travel between worlds and come back just to haunt me. That is why I have something very special planned for you before you go!

The Emperor’s box sat high in the stands shaded from the heat of the midday sun. Servants waved massive leaf-shaped fans around him to keep him cool. He did not need them, he could have used his powers but he preferred to bend people to his will to do his bidding, it was how he liked to break people.

The Ahuma looked back to the ground. Thirteen of his allies and friends had been sent through the Gate of Ush already, seven men and six women. The man knew their minds had been fixed so they would hunt and kill each other in this new world, the survivor supposedly being granted leave to return home a free man or woman. The man they called Ahuma would not be brainwashed, he would rather die here for the sport of this false Emperor than kill a friend in an alien world.

Unlike your comrades you are to have the curse of Murfor placed upon you. You will not know a thing about your life once you are sent through the Gate of Ush! The Emperor did not need to shout, but he did. Not your children’s names, not your mother’s name, not even your own or that of your wife, which coincidentally brings me to my next point.

The man they called Ahuma got to one knee, his body ached but he would not let it show. He refused to look weak, to look beaten. You never did find out who betrayed you did you?

The mockery in the Emperor’s voice nearly made him vomit. The Emperor signalled to someone behind him, goosebumps formed on the man’s skin and a shiver went through him in the blazing sun. No! whispered the man through his blood-soaked lips, salt and bitterness battling each other for supremacy in his mouth. A fabulously dressed woman walked up next to the Emperor, she wore a maroon dress and veil, no doubt a mockery set for him who always chose to wear a maroon cape in battle.

It can’t be, whispered the man. The crowd fell deathly silent. A solitary bird squawked overhead unaware of the game being played out below as it soared on unseen thermals, uncaring of humans. The woman removed her veil unfurling long blonde hair. The bird flew away. The man screamed. To the victor go the spoils, said the Emperor.

Elisha? The man buckled as his wife took the Emperor’s left hand with her right. Why?

A young girl in the stands shouted, Mummy, Mummy!

Noooooo! shouted the Ahuma; his daughter should not be here.

Daddy? screamed another voice, both his children were there.

Get my children, shouted his wife to the guards.

No, get them out of here, get them out! shouted the man called Ahuma.

With energy born from insanity the Ahuma garnered what strength was left in him for one last fight, this was it.

Pulling the blade they had granted him for this new world from the scabbard on his back, he let the familiar sweet feel of battle rage fill every fibre of his being. Things slowed around him. His vision changed so that an eagle would feel envious. He started laying carnage on the overwhelming number of guards assigned to keep him under control. Slicing and skewering without thought or reason he moved in a sickening but beautiful dance. Get my children away! he screamed again and again.

Finally the crowd reacted, they were his people, they had come to watch their Ahuma’s last moments and this was their chance to repay their debt to him. The crowd went berserk, futilely throwing themselves upon the army surrounding the arena. Most of them would be killed but they would be killed fighting, it was why Kaldor would never truly have absolute rule. The people in the crowd understood well that their last hope for salvation would now lie with his children’s futures. Their Ahuma was finished.

The Ahuma slipped on the open stomach of a soldier he had cut down. One half unbalanced step proved his undoing as guards took the opportunity to knock him from his feet and pile on top of him, he would suffocate.

‘Please let my children be safe,’ He thought to himself just as more pain enveloped him. He was finished. His lungs could not rise to suck in air. ‘This is how it ends,’ he thought seconds before the weight eased on him and he could feel many hands pinning him to the ground by his arms and legs, a space was created above his face and he looked directly into the sun for a moment before a wizard dressed fully in black blocked it from his vision. The wizard moved his hands to the side of Ahuma’s head. Pain like a hot poker to the eye filled his mind.

Nothing.

Chapter 1

The man lay on the ground for a while aching and throbbing. He could only see directly above at a grey, cloud heavy sky. Long grass on either side of him blocked any peripheral vision and dampened any noise except for the swish of the wind as it brushed past. His head ached like there was a rabbit trying to burrow its way out of his skull.

He rubbed his forehead and massaged his eyes; a droplet of blood worked its way from a wound on his forehead down the side of his face and eventually dripped off his cheek. Pulling his hand away he noticed it too was covered in blood. He stared: ‘What has happened to me?’ The man rolled over and sat on his knees, pain exploded all over his body with the movement.

‘Why am I so damn dirty?’ Grass spread all around him, grass at least as high as his abdomen. How had he got here in this condition? There was not a sign that the grass had been disturbed for many days. It did not make sense. Standing up as high as his aching back would allow he took a good look around. He was standing in the centre of a long grassy plain, the tips of the grass moved as waves as a breeze bent them. The plain from one side to the other must have been a good mile across; it was bordered on both sides by dense bushland. One end of the plain ended abruptly as it hit a cliff, the other end seemingly went on for infinity, slowly rising and falling with the shape of the land, broken only by the occasional boulder peaking through the grass like an oasis in a desert sea.

The man rubbed his eyes. ‘Where am I?’ ‘Who am I?’

He was finely dressed but for the dirt and blood stains covering him, his silken white shirt open to his waist, remnants of the stitching that had once held buttons hanging loosely, black leather boots looked brown from the dust on them and black trousers were nearly worn at the knees. He had a maroon cape hooked around his neck, flowing behind his back but seemingly intact and serviceable, though rather soiled. A sword was strapped to his back and another at his waist. He pulled the sword from the scabbard on his back. Surprise took him as he looked upon a blade not of metal, but of a kind of glass. It was the same color as his cape. He put one hand behind it to get full measure of its transparency and could clearly see through it. He wiped his forearm along the blade trying to clear blood from it but only smeared it worse.

‘It must be worth a fortune!’ His finger came away stinging and bleeding when he touched its edge. Written on the top of the blade near the hilt was a sentence in a language he did not understand. It read Ahuma ar vetson maishin nah hesh rory. He put the blade away, a riddle to ponder another time. Right now he had a problem. He had a thirst a small country would be proud of. Deciding the best place to find both food and water would be in the forest he headed towards the closest which judging by the sun’s position, lay to his south.

Chapter 2

King Isald felt bored. This wedding business of his daughter’s really was tiresome. Father, tell me, what do you think?

Isald’s attention snapped back to Eyeforth, his favourite daughter. You look wonderful my dear, as you did in the last five dresses you tried on. Eyeforth spun around in her wedding gown. She stood in front of a large mirror but refused to look at herself in it. Isald knew she had no care for what she looked like. However she truly did look beautiful thought her Father, if not happy.

I do not know, I think there is too much lace, said Eyeforth let me try another.

Isald grimaced. He had promised Eyeforth he would help her choose her wedding gown. He had no idea it would take so long athough he knew it as a punishment for himself.

What say you Elsie? said Isald. Elsie, Eyeforth’s mother, helped her daughter out of the wedding gown. Elsie had once been the most beautiful woman in the kingdom thus why he had taken her. Unfortunately age had caught up with her now and while still pretty for her age in her mid-forties, she could no longer be considered stunning.

It does not really matter does it your Highness? Replied Elsie. Even after all these years, unconcealed hatred stared at him from those eyes.

Come now, it is your daughter’s wedding we are talking about, a happy time, said Isald.

It is not a wedding! She is a lamb to the slaughter, a prize. No more than a gift to a brute in exchange for loyalty and nothing more.

Do not speak to me like that woman! Isald himself had arranged this pairing and while she may still be young at sixteen she would damn well do as she was told. Isald stepped down from his chair and walked towards his daughter who took her time to get out of the gown. Let me, he said pulling a knife from his belt and hacking at the gown until it lay in pieces about the floor. A fortune lay in those materials, a fortune he could afford to waste.

Eyeforth was left standing in scant underwear far too afraid to move for fear of her father.

Don’t just gawk, get the next damn gown! he shouted at the frightened maids who scurried away terrified. How much longer is this… He stopped mid-sentence as a strange sensation took him, a sensation unlike anything he had felt before, a kind of wave moving from the top of his head through to the tip of his toes. He knew exactly what this meant.

He’s here! he said to himself.

His old friend had arrived in Ennendreal at long last. He could feel it, somewhere to the west. I do not believe it, after all this time he is actually here.

Father what is it? Asked Eyeforth wide eyed and terrified.

Isald had often wondered how he would feel if he ever sensed his old friend’s arrival. Part of him had hoped the day would never arrive and after waiting fifty long years he had been certain it would not. He had almost forgotten about it in fact.

Tenk! shouted Isald ignoring his daughter. The door to Eyeforth’s chambers opened and in walked a giant of a man.

Yes Highness?

The general of King Isald’s army had been waiting just outside the room. He was a beast, vicious, uncaring and unforgiving. A crude scar ran from his left brow across the top of his nose and finished on his right cheek, a scar that could not hide the permanent scowl he wore. His eyes looked too small for his large pockmarked face and were yellow, stale but sharp. He had the soul of a maggot and an attitude towards women to match. He had massive shoulders supported by a thick set torso. He was an extremely useful asset for Isald and if marrying the man to his daughter meant retaining loyalty then it was worth it. Just the thought of having this man in villages or towns kept any possible uprising at bay.

As Tenk entered the room he feasted his eyes hungrily on the princess. Eyeforth stood rock still not looking at the man, trying as hard as she could to pretend she was anywhere else. She knew that if she attempted to cover herself or leave his presence her father would ensure she suffered consequences. She was the lure, the prize, and Tenk needed to be reminded of his reward should he follow orders.

I need you to do something for me, said Isald. Tenk your attention! Good God the man was drooling, a thin sliver of saliva glistened on the man’s thin lips.

Sorry your Highness, my bride stuns me.

Time for that later. Right now you are to get the army to check every town west of here from the Shala lands north to the Vork’s south.

Yes Highness, said Tenk not taking his eyes from Eyeforth. She crossed her legs feeling his eyes on her.

You are to search for a man, six feet in height, sandy colored curly hair and blue eyes.

How old Sir?

Thinking about it, Isald realised he didn’t know. He himself had not aged in the fifty years he had been in this world. But what if Blain had just arrived? Had he aged back in their home world?

Your Highness, are you ok?

Yes! He was thirty the last time I knew him.

Yes Your Highness. What is his name?

Blain, but I doubt he will use it. Isald himself had not used his real name for the first ten years he was on this world.

How will we identify this man?

He will be carrying a maroon sword and if I know my old friend correctly he will be wearing a maroon cape. I have no doubt once you find the correct town he will make himself known to you. He is shall we say, remarkable. If any of the townsfolk give you trouble you know what to do.

Tenk smiled, Yes Your Highness, I do.

You will do well to use caution with this man, he is exceedingly dangerous.

Yes Your Highness. What would you have me do when I find him?

Isald didn’t really know.

Your Highness, what would you have me do with him?

Kill him! Isald felt a soul he thought he had lost long ago weep somewhere deep inside.

Yes sir, anything else?

Bring me his head.

Yes sir, is that all?

Yes, you may go.

Thank you Your Highness.

The huge scarred man turned his attention to Eyeforth. Isald watched as his beautiful daughter gave way to fear and ran to cringe behind her mother as the maids had been too afraid to re-enter the room while Tenk was there. She looked like a scared rabbit and Isald found it amusing.

Farewell my love, I do so look forward to our wedding night, said Tenk grabbing at his crotch.

The Princess whimpered.

The King said go! shouted Elsie. She knew what this man was. He had had his sport with her many times over the years. All the females of the castle knew the beast within matched the visage without.

Tenk smiled knowingly before leaving.

Isald went and sat back in his chair. Finally it begins.

Chapter 3

The man once called Ahuma in his home world had been walking for hours, his body felt terribly sore and his mind almost empty. He was not sure if the rabbit in his head had finally escaped or just plain died. At least it had gone.

He could feel despair eating away at him like a malignant cancer, consuming him slowly until eventually he would have nothing left. He felt certain he had seen creatures laughing at him from the shadows, for that matter even the trees appeared to mock him, hallucinations probably, but he could not really tell.

Water, he needed water.

Looking to the sky, grey clouds covered the sun. Maybe it would rain shortly, ‘Please let it rain shortly.’!

A droplet fell on his face. Instinctively he stuck out his tongue and turned his face to the heavens – nothing! Opening his eyes and looking up, it appeared the single raindrop had been a teasing gesture from the Gods, if there were any. How that single drop could have made it through the foliage above to smack him in the face must have had some divine intervention. Or maybe a bird had just pissed on him.

A couple of large rocks in the distance caught his weary eye. They would make a nice place to die, two giant headstones to mark the passing of a man who did not know who he was. Pity he didn’t know his name, be nice to carve something to mark his own passing. Stumbling like a drunkard, he had not made it ten feet towards the rocks when an ear splitting roar rent the forest air and froze him to the spot. Turning around he faced the direction of the sound and straining his tired eyes hard he looked and hoped that whatever was out there would not find him.

Nothing was discernible through the woods as he stood mute, undecided what to do; he was almost too afraid to do anything. Could this be just another hallucination?

Snapping branches and birds taking flight was not a good sign. There was definitely something out there and whatever it may be it had evidently smelt his presence and ran hot on his trail.

His legs made up their own mind about survival and started running long before his coherent thoughts adjusted. His innate nature told him to survive although his own inner dialogue spoke of giving up.

His dehydrated, cramping leg muscles worked hard carrying him towards the boulders, what good would they do him? Perhaps his innate self just wanted to die in the same place his mind did after all.

Peeking back over his shoulder he saw an enormous dark shadow burst through a blackberry thicket, an enormous shadow with two intensely blue eyes.

Climbing hastily over the trunk of a fallen gum tree, he barely noticed as he skinned his knuckles. Another quick look over his shoulder told him the predator was an enormous black cat, swift and certain as it hunted him down. The only thing surer than his death was the fact that he had no hope of reaching the rocks.

His eyes darted around frantically and spotted the hollow trunk of a large tree blown over in some long forgotten storm, perhaps he could make that.

His lungs pulled hard for oxygen and he put every last ounce of strength his legs had left into the last few metres between him and his goal. Propelling himself hard into the hollow of the log he came to an abrupt splintery halt moments before the jaws would have had him. Crawling on hands and knees as far into the hollow as he could he realised the safety he had found would prove minimal at best, the wood of the fallen log was rotten to the core.

He felt cramped and damp in the hollow, bugs and spiders crawled over him and he had difficulty moving as his swords became snagged with every movement he made. Thankfully the cat’s head was too large to fit into the hollow although its teeth looked like they were going to make short work of the wood once it realised how rotten it was. He did not know what to do, being trapped waiting for death to come to him did not feel like a good option.

Something stung him on the face, an intense burning followed which was soon followed by stings on his neck, then his ears, arms and back.

The stings intense burning and subsequent pain brought clarity to his mind he had not felt since waking. His choices were going from bad to worse, should he wait to be eaten alive by whatever new devilry this might be or should he go out fighting, being eaten alive by the massive cat. A sting on his balls made up his mind for him. Bending like a contortionist he managed to pull his short sword from the scabbard at his waist, then turning onto his back he wriggled his body back and forth enabling him to move slowly towards the gaping jaws at the end. The burning continued to get worse.

Nearing the end of the hollow he tried to focus on those giant teeth snapping like the jaws of a giant shark. It was hard, he had to use his free hand to brush insects from his eyes while extending his sword as far in front of his feet as he could in the cramped space, trying to stab the beast’s nose or pink gums. He kept hitting teeth and nearly had the blade ripped from his fingers as the cat’s jaws got a shaky hold on it. The stinging of the miniature insects was not easing. Slapping a hand to his neck to dislodge a particularly voracious sting he saw in the better light of this end of the log that the creature of torment was no more than a tiny ant. Tiny or not he would still rather face that cat. Inching slightly closer to the giant cat’s head with his toes nearly in the beast’s mouth he made a desperate lunge just as the animal lowered its head into the log to take a better look at him.

He hit his mark. The cat lurched backwards with a squeal as the blade bit into its nose. He used the moment to desperately scramble his way out of the hollow log and brush the insects off his body. He should not have. The cat attacked. Thrown onto his back with wind bursting from his lungs he realised he was finished. The sword fell from his grasp. The creature was enormous. It had to be bigger than a horse, unless he was still hallucinating. It stood with one paw on his chest holding him fast, its head centimetres from his own. The cat drooled and slobber landed on his cheek.

What are you waiting for?" Shouted the man. Nothing! He laughed hysterically as one does when there is naught left; perhaps it was delirium.

The blue eyes of the cat stared into his own, unmoving, unwavering. C’mon! he wriggled hard trying to free himself; it was useless. Belting the cat’s legs with his fists …. futile.

You’re going to bore me to death, is that it? The big cat licked his face. He went still. The cat licked him again, the taste of salty saliva strong on his lips. He spat trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

Please, leave me some dignity.

The cat turned its head to the side in a gesture more common to dogs, then removed its massive paw and slowly backed away.

He raised himself to a sitting position. It is said to stare a beast in the eyes is to offer a challenge but where else could he look?

He offered no challenge and did not receive one. What he felt was far more complex, a kind of approval passed between him and the cat, an acceptance.

Without any sign as to why, the huge cat turned and departed, silent and deadly. The man had no idea what had just happened, the only thing he felt certain of was the fact he should not be alive. ‘Maybe I did die after all,’ he thought to himself. The burning of the ants returned en force, he was definitely still alive. Quickly unhitching his cape and tearing off his shirt he slapped his body wherever the burning could be felt. He almost wished the cat had finished him off such was the pain from the stings.

After what felt an eternity he could find no more ants to squash, pity the pain did not leave with them. Staggering the distance left between him and his chosen place of death, he passed out still metres from the boulders.

Chapter 4

He awoke soaking wet and dead bang in the centre of a large muddy puddle full of leaves and twigs. The sound of a strong wind whipping the branches of trees was loud in his ears. He felt so sore he could barely move. Turning his head to the side he sucked water from the puddle. He could just about feel the small mouthfuls of dirty water dispersing through his body. His cells tingled as they accepted the fuel of life. A shiver ran through him as a familiar roar echoed once again through the forest and memories of the previous day came flooding back.

Not again, he croaked to himself. Gingerly moving from his muddy bed he was pleased to see he must have kicked a boot off in his pain and it had landed upright collecting water from the nights downpour, not a lot, but enough in the bottom to provide him with a couple of decent salty mouthfuls. The roar came again but sounded different this time. A roar filled with pain and anger rather than that of the hunt. Pulling the shortsword from its sheath he headed towards the source of the noise, if the cat had wanted him dead it would have finished him yesterday.

Hiding behind the gnarled trunk of an elderly gum tree he confirmed what he had thought, it appeared to be the same giant cat he had seen yesterday. The cat was caught in a steel trap, three armed men stood in front of it poking spears in its face. The remains of what must have once been at least two or three more men lay scattered about the place.

A wave of sympathy came over him as he realised the cat would not win this battle, its two back legs were pulverized and would never be used again even if the animal could break free, mashed up so badly that the only option should the cat survive was amputation. The poor thing could not move. All it could do was suffer the torment being dished on it from the three men with spears; four men.

A man he had not seen at first snuck around behind the beast and stabbed a spear into its hind. This man’s spear must have been laced with poison for the giant cat slowly began to sway before one of its front legs collapsed forcing it to fall lopsided to the ground. Unable to stand, the cat turned its head and stared directly at him hiding behind the gnarled trunk, it knew he was there.

One of the three men with spears used the opportunity to stab deep into its neck; he must have hit an artery for blood gushed from the wound. The four men cheered like they were heroes who had won a great battle.

It made him feel sick. He felt terrible that this same cat had let him live just yesterday while all he could do in return was to watch it be slaughtered.

The three men up front started stabbing the cat indiscriminately taking any dignity left in its death in a bloodlust born of pure evil while the beast just stared at him unable to defend itself.

He knew he could not sit idly by.

While the three with the spears became lost in their sick ritual he edged up behind the man at the back who leaned back and guffawed with pleasure. He belted the man hard on the nape of the neck with the pommel of his sword, a death blow.

The spearmen did not notice the collapse of their friend; it gave him a moment to take stock of them up close before they saw him. He noticed behind the dirt, muck and blood that these men were all wearing the same gold and white uniform, they were soldiers.

The middle soldier of the three noticed him first, then realization dawned on him at the sight of his comrade lying flat on his face. Who th’ fuk’r you? He said.

An animal lover, replied the man.

A wha’? Wha ya do ta him?

He was feeling sleepy so I helped him lie down.

Y’ar a dead fucker!

Let’s see.

Get ‘im, shouted the soldier.

Two of the men rushed towards him with spears pointed at his chest while the third pulled his spear from the dead cat’s neck. They were predictable in their attack and it proved their undoing. Leaping towards the soldier on the left the man in the maroon cape ducked under the spear aimed at him and with his left arm brought his short sword up underneath the soldiers chin, pushing hard enough for the point to come out the top of the man’s skull spilling brain and blood before coming to a halt. Pulling a dagger from his belt with his right hand he then fell backwards and sliced it across the side of the knee of the second soldier who had tried to turn to face him, the man fell screaming holding his leg.

The third soldier either out of cowardice or wisdom decided not to launch an over enthusiastic assault, probably cowardice.

Taking his time, the man in the maroon cape put the dagger back into his belt sheath before placing his foot on the chest of the man with the sword poking through his skull and yanked his sword free. Blood spewed from the dead soldier’s mouth like a regurgitated meal. The soldier with the wound on his knee whimpered and tried hobbling away. The uninjured soldier looked scared.

You don’t have to die today you know, though it is completely up to you of course, said the man in the maroon cape.

Who are you? asked the soldier, what do you want?

Who I am is none of your concern, what I want is; if you answer a few questions for me you just might live today, answer them not or lie and I will kill you.

The soldier went pale. The man thought he could smell shit as he stepped towards him. How many more of you are there?

None!

Don’t lie to me! he brought the point of the sword against the soldier’s face, wiping blood from it onto the man’s cheek.

I swear on tha King’s life, there aint no more of us, said the soldier.

What did you want with this cat once you had killed it?

We wanted the little one; we had to get rid of tha sire first though.

Little one?

The soldier’s eyes motioned towards the dead big black cat. A much smaller cat tried to hide behind the dead cat’s legs.

Why do you want the cub?

The king wants it.

Why?

He wanted a Nightcat for his daughter’s wedding festivals. I don’t know why, he just sent eight of us out to catch one. I’m the last one left now. The soldier started to tremble and cry.

Be a man. What king are you talking about?

K…K…King Isald of course…of Lenf.

OK. Where is your camp?

About a half mile from here along that yonder stream. Follow it and ya can’t miss it.

Where am I?

Ummm…. the Whispering Woods.

The man in the maroon cape thought a moment, he had nothing more to ask. Alright, drop your weapon and go. If I see you again it will not bode well for you, understand?

Yyyyes Sir, I understand. The soldier sprinted away looking back over his shoulder; he shouldn’t have as he tripped over a fallen branch.

‘Whispering Woods,’ thought the man …‘that name does not sound familiar.’ Hearing a groan behind him he turned to the soldier with the wounded knee. He realised he must have cut deeper than he first thought for one of the arteries behind the knee of the soldier had been sliced. Bright red blood pooled out between the soldier’s fingers. The soldier had minutes left at most.

Who are you? asked the dying soldier.

‘I wish I knew!’ he thought to himself. He knew he should give a dying man his last wish and if that wish was to know his name so be it. Not knowing what else to say he decided to use the name on his blade, Rory.

Chapter 5

Rory felt disturbed at killing the three men. What if he, like them, had been a soldier for King Isald? He would just have committed murder, or even treason.

He turned to look at the baby Nightcat. The poor thing whined as it stroked its father’s face with its paw in an oddly human way, as if it was trying to wake the giant from sleep.

Sadness welled in Rory’s heart. The chances of the cub surviving on its own would not be good, it would be lucky to survive a week. Rory sheathed his sword and with his right arm extended, palm upwards he slowly walked towards it. The cat, skittish, backed away from him nervously putting a small bramble between itself and him. Rory knew he would not get any closer; the poor thing would not likely let any living thing come within ten feet of it ever again.

Instead of worrying about the cub anymore he set about releasing the sire from the terrible trap it had been caught in, which, judging by its size, could quite easily have chopped the smaller cat in two. It took some effort with his body weak from dehydration and exhaustion but slowly the jaws of the steel trap inched apart. The damage to the creature’s legs was horrific. Bones and sinew stuck out in a mashed mess and it was a wonder the creature had not suffered a massive heart attack at the shock. The bottom of one leg had been severed completely.

With the giant cat that had spared his life free of the trap that had taken its own, Rory figured there would be nothing else he could do for the dead beast. With a lump in his throat and a tear in his eye he looked at the cub. I wish you well little fella, I am sorry I was too late to help your papa. The cat inched backwards.

Rory left the heartbreaking scene behind and headed off in search of the camp the soldier had mentioned.

The soldier had given correct instructions. The stream had been easy to find and after a brief stop to clean himself and take a fresh fill of clean water, much better than that from his boot, he set off in the direction the camp should lie.

He had walked only five minutes when he saw three white tents standing desolate and lonely beside the bank of the stream he followed, they surrounded the ashes of a burnt out cook fire.

Upon closer inspection he realized the camp was a mess, above the cook fire on a spit hung the remains of what must have been last night’s dinner, it now attracted flies and wasps.

On lines between the tents hung spare uniforms more brown than white, and dirty cups and plates lay scattered on the ground with no particular thought as to why they were there.

He pulled his short sword in case the soldier had lied about any more of them being around; mind you this camp suggested the man had been telling the truth. The camp gave him a bad vibe so he decided to be quick about the search and did not spend much time on finer details. Fossicking about, he managed to find himself a few useful items including a bag he could sling over his shoulder, a small cook pot, a handful of clean cooking implements, a couple of water containers, a flint, some money, a bedroll, a compass and a map.

In the way of clothing the soldiers seemed only to carry spare army uniforms; he took one, which was about his size. There did not seem to be a lot of fresh food but he grabbed what he could and felt pleased to find two bottles of unopened whisky. Once satisfied with his stash he walked a good fifteen minutes south before pulling out the map and taking a good look at it. There was an X marked at the location of the Whispering Woods, which was where the soldier had told him they stood. Rory took the X to be the location where the camp was situated. What difference would it make if he was wrong.

The Whispering Woods were located on his map in a long narrow territory, which hugged the coast, the territory was named Malang.

He decided to start heading in the direction of the nearest village marked on the map, a village by the name of Grubwaldt, which if he read the map correctly, lay less than two days to the southwest.

Chapter 6

He came awake early the next morning after setting up camp the previous night in a small rocky amphitheatre enclosed by a thicket of trees. Light barely penetrated through the early morning stillness, certainly not enough to rouse him anyway. Instead he had been woken by something large and very much alive pressing itself against his bedroll, something that had not been there the previous evening and by the slight snoring noise he could hear, something asleep. Wiggling his body as little as possible and snaking his way towards his knife he did not like it when the thing that leant against him stirred slightly. Fearing the creature may wake, Rory thrust onto his feet, the cold air barely registering as he turned to face the intruder ready for an attack.

An attack never came. The intruder’s response was simply to stare at him, unblinking and curious at his strange behavior. What the!? Don’t you know I could have killed you? Said Rory startled to see the young Nightcat.

By way of an answer he received a yawn and a stretch as the little Nightcat wearily found its own feet, completely unfazed by Rory’s actions, it stretched out its back before taking a step towards him. The Nightcat looked only slightly larger than a fox.

What are you doing here? He said. Well at least you didn’t try and eat me in my sleep I guess. Are you hungry?

The Nightcat licked its lips, which Rory took to mean ‘yes.’ Let’s see what we have got here.

He fumbled around in his pack for some salted beef he had stolen from the camp the day before, finding it, he tossed a piece to the Nightcat who threw itself at it ferociously.

Rory took a piece for himself and sat and chewed as he watched the animal. You know, if you want to hang around with me you will need a name. How does Blacky sound? Fluffy…… Bluey, Whiskers … perhaps just Cat? Rory quietly chuckled to himself. ‘If I found a name for myself on my sword, why not for you as well?’

How about Maishan, does that sound alright to you?

The cat looked at him askance and then licked a piece of beef from one of its paws.

Well, that looks like a yes to me – Maishan it is then.

It took Rory three days to reach Grubwaldt. He could have made it in half the time but he wanted to see if the Nightcat was planning on sticking around, and once he learnt it was going to stay he spent some time trying to learn what he could about it.

He also deliberately avoided roads where he could, preferring to keep to the forest in case more soldiers patrolled the area, this slowed him down somewhat even though the forest was easy enough to traverse. His walk was quite pleasant being filled with birdsong and the sounds of running water.

The occasional brown or black snake gave him a few scares and blackberry thickets would appear which he had to find his way around, however these slight inconveniences were nothing compared to the problems he may face if he encountered more soldiers.

He appreciated the Nightcat’s companionship. Its presence distracted him from debilitating thoughts, which may otherwise have swamped him about who he was and why he was here.

They joined the road into the village of Grubwaldt at the precise location that a small rise in the road gave him a view whereby he could see the entire town and take note of its spread.

Grubwaldt loomed larger than he had expected. A large harbour was the town’s main feature and at this point in time it appeared to be half full. The buildings in the village were well established, thickset and mostly comprised of dark grey and navy bluestone which gave the town a rather gloomy look. The majority of the houses had smoke coming from their chimneys and downwind as he was the smell of burning timber lay strong in the air. There were a number of wagons coming into the village as well as leaving on a road directly behind the town, suggesting this town did a good trade.

A single road headed south out of the village following very close to the shoreline of a long sandy beach, large waves rolled in from the deep to crash not far from the shore and he could see people playing in the waves. Occasional houses or fishermen’s huts were dotted along the road, becoming more widespread the further along they went. In the distance smoke from a neighbouring village, which lay some miles away, could be clearly seen.

He walked down the hill towards the village with Maishan trotting along at his side. He needed to find a place to lay up a while, a place where he might start the process of looking into who and what he was, who knows, someone might recognise him and tell him who he was.

Rory passed a house with an old man happily sitting with his eyes closed on his front porch, he softly hummed to himself while smoking on a long pipe, wisps of smoke spiralled upwards unnoticed as the man rocked backwards and forwards idly dreaming the day away.

Hello, said Rory.

The old man gave a start, sitting immediately upright taking the pipe from his mouth he looked as though he was about to deliver a rebuke when he caught sight of Rory. Instead he stared speechless, mouth open and eyes wide. Rory thought he looked for the entire world as if he’d never seen another human before.

OK, said Rory to himself. Nice to meet you!

More and more houses became clustered together the closer he came to the heart of the town and each person he passed gave him pretty much the same look the old man had, it was rather disconcerting. Feeling self conscious, he kept moving, trying his best to look friendly and offering greetings where he could and walking with a smile. It did no good. People still looked at him as though he were a leper.

The waterfront happened to be the main commerce area of the Town, a vibrant stretch with smells of rotting seaweed and fish heavy in the air.

Finding a place to sit on an upturned barrel he wondered what to do.

There were three hotels that he could see near him so he decided to spend some time watching each to try and gauge what clientele each may house. Eventually he made his decision on one named the Grubwaldt Arms. It did not look precocious but neither did it look down trodden, the sort of place an honest worker might go for a beer at the end of the day before heading home and spending time with the family.

His mind made up, he crossed the cobbled street and made his way towards the hotel, people parting before him as he went. On a sign hanging over twin doors leading into the hotel was a picture of a winking giant hoisting a large beer. Pushing the doors open he first came to a foyer, there were a couple of people standing around talking but they took no notice of him so he moved on in. On his right a large archway led into the tavern and to his left a staircase led to the second storey.

The tavern was doing a healthy trade without being crowded, the atmosphere one of joviality and the smell in the air fresh and clean though tinged with the smells of the kitchen and alcohol. Spotting an empty table at the opposite corner of the room he made his way over. A sudden drop in intensity of the conversation of the patrons made his spine tingle. He did not need to look to understand every eye was on him. Steeling himself as best he could he walked to the table pretending not to notice, inside he felt like curling into a ball.

Thankfully by the time he reached his seat most of the customers were happy enough to start going about their regular business although most kept shooting him suspicious glares now and then.

After taking off his swords and propping them up against the wall to make himself comfortable, he heard a woman’s voice behind him.

Good day sir.

Hello, replied Rory.

My name is Breanne, could I get you something? Said the young woman. Breanne was dressed in a long Azure blue dress that fell below her knees. She had a white apron about her slender waist, long almost jet black hair tied in a pony tail behind her back. Her cheeks were pink on an otherwise unblemished white face as if she were flummoxed and she had bright blue eyes with long lashes.

Ahh … yes please. I wonder if you could help me first? Rory continued. I am not from these parts so am not sure exactly how much money I have. I am after a warm meal and tankard of lager for myself and if it’s not too much trouble a juicy steak for my friend here, he gave Maishan a small nudge with his boot.

Breanne gave a start. Oh my God! Is. is that a Nightcat?

Yeah, I believe it is, a young one.

You can’t have a Nightcat in here!

Why not, that man over there has a dog?

A dog is a bit different.

He’s harmless, look. Rory bent down and hugged the Nightcat around the head.

Breanne looked dubious. I will have to check with my father. Do you have that money?

As he bent down to rummage through his pack to find the money, Breanne added, Perhaps a bath wouldn’t be a bad idea either sir.

He felt himself go red, he hadn’t really thought about his smell. Finding the money he looked up sheepishly. Yes, a bath would be nice, and if I have enough would you have any spare clothes lying about? The ones I have on are pretty much all I have I’m afraid.

She glanced at the coin. Are you testing me? You’re really not from around here?

I really am not, responded Rory. Will this get me what I need? He hoisted the coins a little higher as if the act would increase their worth.

It is more than enough.

Enough for a room?

Yes enough even for that, for a month!

Oh!

I daren’t ask where you got the coin. C’mon, I will show you to a room and where the bathroom is then when you have cleaned up a bit come back down and I’ll see you get your meal.

OK, replied Rory, lead the way.

He followed her back the way he had come in, then, walking across the foyer she led him up the stairs and to the right. Watching her hips sway as she lifted the skirt above her knees to take the stairs he wondered how long it must have been since he had felt a woman’s embrace.

Do you do anything else here Breanne?

What do you mean? she said as she reached the landing and turned to the right.

Agh, do you entertain?

Here is your room, she replied stopping and opening a door directly over where he had been sitting below. The bathroom is up the end of this hall and to your left. Please make use of it hastily and no, I am not a whore, even if I was I would have standards and sir I doubt very much you would meet them. With that she turned brusquely away.

I didn’t mean it like that! he tried to shout as she stalked off. In reality he had.

Oh well Maishy old mate, here we are. the Nightcat stalked past him and made himself comfortable on the bed. The room was small and simple but neat and tidy, evidence that the owner cared for his work. He leaned his swords up against the wall next to the door, threw his cape over a chair and filled himself a mug of water. Taking a long draught he checked himself out in a mirror hanging behind the door. What he saw made him cough and nearly choke. ‘Oh My God,’ he thought to himself. ‘What a mess.’ He had a month’s growth of facial hair all of which looked different hues of brown and black depending on the amount of mud and grime. He had a smear of mud across his brow and what looked like dried blood on his left cheek. His hair was a tangled multicolored mess, more a bird’s nest than anything else, and the bruises on his face were a nasty yellow, not to mention all the obvious cuts and scrapes evident by his torn clothing. ‘No wonder these people look at me odd, I look like a street urchin,’ he mused to himself. Better have that bath hey mate?

Chapter 7

It was a full two hours later when Rory made his way back down to the bar. He felt a different person after washing, shaving and putting on some clothes Breanne had left out for him. He felt impressed that she had guessed his size correctly.

A hush fell over the patrons in the tavern on his arrival once again but this time he had been expecting it so it did not bother him quite so much, although it was still uncomfortable. The crowd had picked up while he had been away and a brief survey of the room suggested he would be out of luck finding a table on his own. The noise slowly intensified once again as people’s curiosity about him and the Nightcat diminished, or perhaps it had increased and they all spoke about him, this seemed more plausible given the amount of looks he received. A gorgeous blonde girl who looked no more than twenty years old seductively weaved her way through the crowd towards him. He knew straight away she had to be related to Breanne given the similar bone structure of her face and similar eyes; she however was not dressed so modestly. Hello! she said in a chirpy voice of one obviously not a scholar. You must be that man Bre told me bout that was staying with us.

That’s right, Rory’s my name. He extended his hand.

You don’t look as bad as she said, she said staring at him rather appraisingly.

Thank you, I think.

There’s not a lot of room down here at the moment. If you like I can take some dinner up to your room if you’d rather it there? she chirped.

I’d be happy to share my table with this man, said a voice behind him. An older man sat alone at a table slightly to Rory’s right, the table closest to the entrance. Rory did not figure how he had missed seeing him as he walked in.

Ah, hehe, alright, if you want ta sit there then ya can, hehe.

Rory was not certain. The other patrons of the tavern seemed to be giving the man a wide berth, then again they were giving him a wide berth also.

Why not! answered Rory.

The old man looked well to do in what appeared to be tidy and expensive clothes. He was practically bald except for some well waxed shiny hair lying just above his ears and he had a likewise well waxed red moustache and chinny beard all coming to points at their respective ends.

Name’s Roderick. The stranger introduced himself as Rory took a seat at his table.

Rory shook the man’s hand and introduced himself before Breanne’s sister leant over the table to show him the menu. The neckline on her shirt came away from her body and he got a good look down her top making him feel awfully tempted to grab her by the backside and bury his face in her beautiful well rounded breasts. Resisting temptation, he cleared his throat trying to take his eyes away long enough to make a selection for his meal, a feat he barely managed. He watched lingeringly as she tottered away; it seemed most men in the bar followed her with their eyes as she weaved between them.

So what brings you to Grubwaldt? asked Roderick.

Just travelling, thought I’d see a bit of the country.

Oh yes. Myself I am a merchant so I travel a lot also, Roderick replied. I have certainly been around a lot, never seen anyone with a Nightcat before mind you. Come to think of it I’ve only seen two in my life.

Rory said nothing.

I do believe everyone in this bar save a couple would ever have believed they would see one. Not all that common in these parts you see, so if you’re wondering why they don’t seem the friendliest sort I would suggest that is why, he smiled. You do know how big they get I take it?

Of course, responded Rory. He had seen Maishan’s sire.

You get a lot of space yourself.

Yes, I certainly do at that. In fact, if I was not good friends with the owner here I doubt I would get served at all. None of the other establishments will serve me. They just buy my goods and then hope I am on my way.

Breanne’s sister came back with the steak and vegetables he’d ordered, that had taken almost no time at all.

I didn’t get your name? Rory said to the lass to keep her bending over that little bit longer.

Hehe. Sharna, she said giving him a flirty smile and tapping his arm before she bounced away. Rory followed her with his eyes.

Cute, isn’t she? Roderick mused from across the table. Not the brightest thing mind you, bit of a handful for her dad that one.

Why’s that?

Flirt’s with everyone!

Seeing disappointment dawn on Rory’s face he added. "She’s taken my friend, causes a bit of trouble at times. See that big gorilla by the door, name’s Don. They are to be married in the summer. He works security for this place and does a pretty good job of it except he does