The Legend of the Five and the Choosers of the Slain

Chapter 5 - Where Chaos Reigns

            About an hour after their narrow escape from the pursuing Valkyrie, the four hunters finally began to slow their pace. Now that they were on top of the canyon’s edge, they were really on the right track… the track that would eventually lead them to the Vale of Death’s Shadow, the realm of necromancers where the Five would supposedly be holding their next meeting. In the darkness of the canyon to their right, things would have been gloomy indeed, but up here on the high rocks, with the sparse grasses and trees, it was not so bad. And as usual in these situations, the hunters began to strike up a conversation.

            “Really, I believe my mustache is called a Horseshoe,” Roderick said slowly, stroking his beard, “not a ‘Fu Manchu,’ whatever that means.”

            “Who’s Fu Manchu?” put in Slobby.

            “It’sh named after shome evil guy from the Easht, I think,” Farmer answered absentmindedly, looking dejectedly into the canyon beside them, clearly thinking deeper thoughts than his companions.

            “Fu Manchu is a stupid name,” Roderick grumbled. “I refuse to believe there is anyone in the world named Fu Manchu.”

            “I’m telling you, that’s what yours is called,” said Van Pelt proudly, now inspecting his pipe and contemplating using a bit of his limited supply of weed. “I know my mustaches, boy. My mustache, at least my current one, is known as a Franz-Josef.”

            “Who’s Franz-Josef?” Slobby asked.

            “Oh, some Imperial noble or other,” answered Van Pelt dismissively.

            Farmer looked up and frowned. “I thought yoursh wash a Wing Chow.”

            “Don’t be daft,” Van Pelt snapped. “I’ve never heard of a ‘Wing Chow.’”

            “Who’s Wing Chow?” Slobby said, right on queue, though he added, “Sounds yummy.”

            Farmer looked back down into the valley. “I think he wash another Eashterner.”

            “I, my boy, know the East. Been there, even! Just look at this helmet,” Van Pelt said, pointing to the steel helmet he wore with its single, arrowhead-shaped spike on top. “Got it from an Eastern raider I killed myself.”

            Roderick chuckled. “Stop trying to impress poor Farmer, Van Pelt. I know very well you got that from one of those cheap ‘Oriental Novelties’ booths they have in the Imperial cities-”

            Roderick’s words were cut off as he was suddenly pitched head over heels, landing on his face in the dirt. Farmer stopped so quickly to avoid whatever pitfall had just caught his leader that he fell backwards onto his own rear end. Slobby simply came to an immediate halt, standing like a statue, so that Van Pelt slammed directly into him. But Slobby was as immovable as a stone wall, so Van Pelt joined Farmer on his rump in the dirt. When they finally looked up, they saw, after a bit of looking, a thin man clad in brown and black, seated calmly in the shadow of a large rock. He was clearly an Imperial, and his clean-shaven cheeks and sharp-chiseled features spoke of a high-born heritage. Roderick lay in the dirt beside the man’s outstretched leg.

            Nightknife withdrew the limb. “You four need to learn to shut up,” he said.

            Roderick got up spitting both dirt and curses. He turned to face the assassin. Nightknife was the one who had informed the group of hunters about the meeting the werewolves were holding. Normally the assassin did not trade in information, but one of the Five, or at least a great black werewolf that naturally assumed was one of the Five, had managed to keep him from killing one of his marks, and then had nearly killed him. After making his escape from the scene, Nightknife was informed by his employer that the deal was off, as he and the werewolf had made too big a scuffle. It was not long before the employer found a dagger in his heart. Nightknife took great pleasure in a few ice-cold dishes of revenge from time to time. And now that he had killed the employer who cheated him, he also wanted to take care of the werewolf that had beaten him.

            The assassin’s cold grey eyes looked up from the shadow of his hood as he said, “I hate the forest, yet I’m still able to remain quieter here than you four, who claim yourselves to be woodsmen.”

            Roderick brushed himself off. “Yes, well… we already escaped the main bit of danger to be had here. The rest lies a good way ahead, too far off to fuss over.”

            Nightknife would have laughed at this, except that he never, ever laughed. Instead he just continued his cold stare as he said, matter-of-factly, “You just escaped a group of six well-armed warrior women who could have broken any one of you, or me for that matter, with their bare hands. A group of necromancers now moves through the forest on the cliffs here, having just returned from attacking the warrior women with a small army of the undead. Ahead of you lies the main village of the Darkcliff Tribe, the most savage group of barbarians in the North. Not far off is the famed city of Dhuum, inhabited by giants and other monsters, who are constantly scouting these low mountains. Somewhere in all this move five True Werewolves, some of the most mysterious and powerful, ancient beings that still freely roam the mortal world. And here you are, saying there is nothing to worry about?”

            The four hunters stood silent for a good while after this, shifting from foot to foot and scratching the backs of their necks. Meanwhile, Nightknife’s steel eyes seemed to cut into them, mocking them like brandished blades. He would have smiled in amusement, except that he never, ever smiled.

            Finally Van Pelt blew out a sigh and asked, in a business-like tone, “I trust you’ve been scouting out the area?”

            “I have,” the assassin answered, “and you are lucky no one cares enough about you four fools to bother killing you, or you would have been found and butchered by now. Luckily, the Five, the only group that might bother taking the time to dispose of you for hunting them, are nowhere to be found, though I suspect one of them, the Brownwolf, is traveling not far behind you from his home in the Northern woods.”

            Roderick looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see the lycanthrope standing right behind him. This seemed to embarrass Van Pelt, who covered his eyes in shame.

            Roderick huffed. “The Earthwolf? Well, if it’s back there, then let’s go hunt the beast down!”

            Nightknife’s eyes cut back to him. “No. The Earthwolf is not my target. My mark is the Shadewolf, the Blackwolf. If we go after the Brownwolf, it will tip off the others, and the meeting may be called off. Either that or they will just come and eliminate you and your little troupe of fools.”

            Roderick crossed his arms. “What about you? Aren’t you part of my ‘troupe’ in this instance?”

            Nightknife’s blade-like eyes dug into Roderick’s skull. Slowly, he responded, “If any of the werewolves die by my hand, the whole world will know who it was who killed them, and what it means to cross me. If the werewolves win, and survive the meeting, then they will never even know I was there. Unless I succeed, I will leave no trace. Are we clear?”

            “Um, yes,” Roderick sputtered.

            “Are we clear?” repeated the assassin, his words like ice.

            “Indeed,” Van Pelt said with a nod. “Crystal.”

            “Good. Now listen. The Vale of Death’s Shadow, your destination, lies directly through Darkcliff Gorge, home of the most savage barbarians in the North. Either you will have to go through, or you will have to go around. If you go around, you will not arrive in the Vale in time to catch any of the Five. If you go through, you will need to be extremely careful.”

            Slobby yawned. “Let’s go then.”

            “Oh yesh,” grumbled Farmer, “let’sh jusht go traipshing through a horde of cannibalishtic barbariansh and orc-men freaksh. I shupposhe we’ll make it through… although we’ll just be a few bits of bone washing down-river by then…”

            Roderick shot them a glance to be silent and then turned back to the assassin. “What about you? Aren’t you going to help us? I’m paying you for a reason!”

            “I agreed to lead you to them,” said Nightknife, “not escort you through all danger. I’m here for the Blackwolf. I just thought I could make a bit of money on the side from you morons. If you don’t make it through, it’s none of my business. But if you do make it through and you neglect to pay me…”

            He left the threat unspoken. One thing Nightknife had learned was to let his reputation speak for itself. An unspoken threat was the most frightening one, and a simple lowered voice sometimes caused men to quake in fear at a threat more than even the loudest barbarian war cries.

            “Alright, alright,” Roderick said, loosening his collar and looking flustered, “you can be on your way then. But can’t you at least give us some advice?”

            The assassin shrugged. “I’m sneaking through directly. They will never even hear a whisper of me, and if they do, those that see me will not live long enough to take another blink. But I’m sure you oafs are incapable of such discretion, so you’ll either have to distract the barbarians to make your way across, or find some other path. There is a river that runs through the cave system, which could allow for a quick way through, or at least a decent sneaking path. I hope you are good swimmers though. Other than that, you could just fight your way through, but I don’t recommend trying. I must take my leave now. The river is that way, if you care.”

            The four of them turned to look in the direction he pointed, and when they turned back, the assassin was gone.

            “Great!” shouted Farmer, throwing his hands into the air. “How are we shupposed to just dishtract an entire tribe of barbarians? Shtart a shivil war?!”

            In the dank, putrid darkness of the cave, the two barbarians circled each other. Both were chieftains, backed up by their own clans of the Darkcliff Tribe. One was partially of orcish lineage, as evidenced by his massive underbite, receding hairline, beady eyes, and slightly off-color skin. His ragged furs were ornamented with the bones of those he had slain, and most of the howling followers behind him were similarly savage. His opponent, though human, was no less a monster. He stood just as tall as the orc-man, and equally muscular, but with hair surrounding his face and a scraggly graying beard that hung to his belt. The man was naked except for a loincloth, some primitive warpaint, splattered blood, and a thick coating of grime. The men behind him were as monstrous or more so, many almost indistinguishable from the orc-men.

            The half-orc hefted his huge spiked mace and snarled. “The sacrificial goats all was gone this morning! Who else would take them, and risk the wrath of the gods, except for YOU, Chief Bloodtracker?!”

            The human’s nose wrinkled up, the only visible sign of the snarl beneath the unkempt hair surrounding his face. “Silence, dog! I know nothing of your goats, Chief Buttbender, but you stole the supplies we raided from the Tribe of the Wolf! The men want their mead, and it is gone! Now they want war!”

            A roar echoed through the narrow cave, “War! War! War!”

The orc-man howled. “I am Chief Gutrender, not Buttbender! And if we cannot have our goats, we will sacrifice you instead!”

            Bommlech Blackbeard listened to the arguing of the tribal leaders in the room below with amusement. With any luck, another full-blown civil war would soon break out. As he finished off the last leg of goat and washed it down with the last pint of stolen mead, he belched and toasted his good fortune. Not only had he found this perfect secret room behind a subterranean waterfall to store his loot, but he’d also spread chaos all through the tribe. Things had been boring here lately, and he couldn’t wait for the fighting to start so he could wade in. He had already decided to side with the humans, though it had been a tough choice, warranting at least three flips of a standard Imperial gold piece.

            Bomm hefted his axe and jumped out of the cave, landing with a splash in the water below. It was the closest thing he ever came to taking a bath. Tossing his heavy axe over one shoulder, he headed in the direction of the shouting. As he walked through the cave, the shouting was joined with the clash of weapons. They blended to form the sweetest melody Bomm had heard since… well, since that last battle, though it had not ended quite so well. In his pocket, he still had the heads from the three arrows that had been lodged in his shoulder. One day he’d find three elf eyes to stick them in. Bomm hated elves.

            That is, he hated them about as much as he hated everyone else. Back when he’d been a regular dwarf in Clan Blackbeard, he’d fought against the larger and stronger Clan Firebeard until they’d been overwhelmed. Then, after the Blackbeards had surrendered and been assimilated into Clan Firebeard, Bomm murdered several fellow dwarves who called him offensive names while in a tavern. After a string of other crimes, he was exiled from the mines by both clans and forced to wander the surface world of the North. The ways of some of the more barbaric Northmen suited him perfectly… and here he was, Bommlech Blackbeard the dwarven barbarian.

            Bomm was passing through the quarters of the captives now. The Northmen prisoners that the Darkcliffs had captured, both men and women, looked up at him with sad, weary eyes. The Darkcliffs were not at all kind to their prisoners. Many of the things they did to them were unspeakable, and most of the prisoners eventually wound up as food, since the orc-men loved the taste of human flesh. Bomm rarely felt empathy with any creature, but he had been a prisoner himself once or twice, so he knew the feeling – the hatred that burned within the hearts of these men and women, wishing for nothing more than to jab a filthy dagger into their captor’s eyes. Or at least, that was how he had felt. Some of these did not look quite so passionate.

            Well, except for the one they called Piggy. They had captured him after a rare fight with the Bloodboars, a monstrous and rarely-seen barbarian tribe that consisted entirely of lycanthropes… wereboars, to be precise. Wereboars had a unique condition among lycanthropes. Whereas werewolves generally shifted at the whim of the moon, wereboars shifted primarily during two occasions: when they were angry, or when they were hungry. And Piggy was both. He had not changed back from his wereboar form, Bomm heard, for over a week now. As Bomm walked past, the hulking pile of filthy fur and muscle, with its dark and hideous pig-like face with broken tusks, attacked the metal bars of his cage with such fury that Bomm almost expected them to break loose. But the bars were imbedded in holes drilled deep in the stone, and they held fast. It was their toughest cage, for their toughest prisoner. The inside of the cage, just like its only resident, was coated in grime, mud, and blood. It was a disgusting sight.

            “’Ey, Piggy,” Bomm greeted the creature with a laugh. “How’s it goin’ in there? You sure done made the place a mess… an’ vice versa. You might just be the only thing in this bloody pit of a world dirtier than ol’ Bomm!”

            The wereboar could not respond, of course. Though it was said that some forms of lycanthropes retained the barest ability of speech when transformed, Piggy was much too far gone into his animal side. He was far more boar now than man, and far more monster than boar. His beady red eyes stared at Bomm like the tips of blood-soaked daggers.

            “Now, if I lets ye out, I ken ye’ll try an’ eat me alive. But I’m warnin’ ye right now, s’much fer yer own good as nothin’, that if ye does that, it’ll be the last thing ye ever tries to do on this worthless rock they call the mortal world. Get me?”

            The man-boar’s eyes blinked with the barest flicker of comprehension, and he looked sideways, left and right, as if to say he would run free rather than attack the dwarf. Just to keep the point clear, however, Bomm held his wicked war axe before his face as he unchained and threw off the bars that held the cage shut. Then he stepped quickly back as the monster slammed his face into the door, blasting it open, and rushed off down the hall, snorting all the way.

            “That’ll cause some chaos,” Bomm said, and then he turned to the other, more human prisoners. “Bah, don’ look at me with them pleadin’ eyes, ye louts, ‘less ye wants me to change me mind. I’ll let ye out, o’ course, but only so ye can cause yer share o’ chaos too. Get me?”

            The prisoners, most with throats too parched to speak, nodded their understanding with desperate eyes. Bomm moved from cage to cage, opening each one, until all of the prisoners were gone. Then he headed off down the hall himself. All of this releasing of prisoners was making him feel gloomy now; he needed some action. Hefting his axe, he moved in the direction where the din of battle sounded loudest.

            A filthy smile crossed his scar-lined face as the first of the combatants came into view. It was a group of four orc-men, all slobbering and carrying long knives, apparently headed to gut a prisoner, perhaps for food. Bomm hefted his axe and nodded back in the direction of the cages.

            “All them fellas is free now, ye cannibals,” he said. “So why don’ ye pick on someone yer own size?”

            The tallest of the orc-man stepped forward and looked down – way down – at the hairy little dwarf. Bomm took a step back. The smell of the beast was too much even for him. From spending years in the wild, Bomm had developed quite a sense of smell, and the smell of an orc was a distinct one indeed.

            “When you find someone our own size,” grunted the half-orc, “you tell him to come and find us.”

            The rest of his group had a hearty laugh at this.

            Bomm laughed as well. “Ha! That’s bloody funny that is, shorty. You think you can take Bommlech Blackbeard?”

            “Me shorty?” the orc-man snorted. “You is the one that’s shorty, little one!”

            Suddenly Bomm stopped. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his nostrils began to flare. Both of his short but muscular arms hefted the axe that he carried and swung it in a wide arc.

            “You think I’m short? I’ll show ye SHORT!”

            With a cry of the purest rage, he charged.

            The echoing din of battle reached the ears of the six Valkyrie as they rounded another corner of the constantly deepening and narrowing ravine. The walls of the canyon, where previously they had been made of a yellowish rock, now gradually darkened to a nearly black shade of grey. For a while, walking in the canyon under the overcast sky, all had seemed gloomy and forlorn. But now, the echoes of warfare awakened the warrior senses of the six women, and they grew instantly more alert and more alive. Skogul visibly itched to draw her swords.

            “Is this the valley where the necromancers dwell?” Kara asked, glancing about.

            “No,” answered Roata. “Were we in the Vale of Death’s Shadow, you would know it. This is merely the first step…”

            “Indeed,” said Skogul, “this is just the first step to getting there. This is Darkcliff Gorge. I’ve been here before, long, long ago… I had hoped I would never come back in my life.”

            Thruda gave a hearty laugh. “And it turns out you didn’t!”

            Roata gave a mirthless chuckle. “Yes… the afterlife can be quite tricky that way.”

            As they made their way around a bend in the ravine, the source of the noise became visible. Barbarian homes were built into the cliffs on either side, and some huts, mingled with or manufactured from the bones of great beasts, lay scattered on the surface far above. From out of all these dwellings now poured hundreds of raging barbarians, crawling from holes in the rock walls like rats. And even though the Valkyrie were women of the North who hated the Imperials terming their people “barbarians,” there was no other word that could better describe the creatures they now saw, except, perhaps, “savage.” They tore at each other with blood-crazed fury, some tossing their now-broken primitive weapons aside and resorting to clawing and biting as their methods of attack. There seemed to be no particular sides to the war from what they could see, just mindless bloodshed and chaos.

            “Look!” exclaimed Thruda, pointing toward one huddled group of bodies in the distance.

            There stood Bommlech Blackbeard, wading through the fray, scattering his broken and bleeding enemies left and right. Thruda laughed at the spectacle, and Skogul was grinning from ear to ear, eager for a taste of the action, while Roata watched impassively. The three Valkyrie of Freyja, however, could only stare in horror at the sight.

            “Well,” Myst said, “there’s only one way through.”

            “What?” Kara asked fearfully. “What way is that?”

            “Easy,” said Thruda with a shrug, “we walk straight down the valley there and dare any of the slavering idiots to come within a spear’s length of us.”

            Skogul laughed. “And woe betide the fools who do!”

            “Sisters,” whispered Gondul suddenly, “we are not alone. Look up.”

            The Valkyrie wheeled about, reaching for their swords. There, on a small overhang about halfway up the cliff edge, stood the four Imperial hunters that had escaped them before. The battle sense of the Valkyrie urged them to immediately inspect their armaments. The most threatening of the group was actually the oldest; the tall old man armed with a pair of swords, a club, and a short staff. He wore a light suit of chainmail and was clearly still quite muscular underneath it. The two younger, mustached Imperials were armed with crossbows, and each of them had a sword at their side as well. The youngest of the group had a medium-sized bow and a short sword.

            “Shields up,” said Thruda, “ranged weapons ready.”

            The four Valkyrie who had them raised their shields, and Gondul and Roata cocked back their spear arms for the throw. Myst and Skogul readied their bows, and since they had no shields, they positioned themselves behind Kara and Thruda, who had no spears. All of this was automatic, practiced many, many times in the realm of Valhalla, where battle practice occurred on a daily basis in preparation for the final battle of Ragnarok.

            “You there!” shouted Thruda, her voice booming. “You four hunters!”

            “Not so loud!” Kara hissed. “The savages will hear!”

            “Let them come,” said Thruda, not taking her eyes off the hunters.

            The four men above them were now shifting nervously, looking down at the six armed and ready Valkyrie. The youngest one looked ready to faint, he was so afraid. His bow arm shook as he reached for an arrow, but then the brown-haired man stopped him.

            “We are simple hunters!” this one shouted down. “We have no quarrel with you!”

            “Then what is your business in Darkcliff Gorge?” returned Thruda.

            The older of the two men armed with crossbows shouted, “What better place to hunt for monsters?”

            The younger one elbowed him. “What a woman, eh?”

            “Shut up,” said the other.

            This time the youngest shouted down, “Perhapsh you can help ush! We are looging for a way through thish ravine! We could join up and…”

            “Quiet, Farmer!” shouted the leader.

            “This could be amusing,” said Skogul to Thruda.

            “We should not interfere in mortal affairs,” reprimanded Myst.

            “That’s what we’re here for!”

            “But we should avoid doing it any more than necessary!”

            “We can take a vote,” Kara suggested.

            Roata sighed. “This is a waste of time. Let’s just move on or kill these fools and rid ourselves of a potential distraction at some later point.”

            Skogul shrugged. “Well, that’s one vote for no. I say we help them. It could be entertaining.”

            Thruda nodded. “And we can keep an eye on them too, and kill them later if they cause trouble.”

            “If they are hunting monsters,” said Myst, “then their intentions may be noble. I say we help them.”

            Kara nodded. “I agree. Gondul?”

            Gondul was already outvoted, but the Valkyrie would never exclude the input of one of their sisters. Gondul’s wide eyes narrowed as she squinted up at the four Imperials. Though she showed little emotion, as usual, it was clearly not an approving gesture.

            “No good will come of them,” she said.

            The Valkyrie exchanged glances. The sounds of battle not far off were growing dimmer now, and the hunters above were clearly becoming impatient. The youngest one was already taking a rope out of his pack and affixing it to a gnarled tree that protruded from the canyon wall, though the others were looking at him disapprovingly. Well, all except the old man, who was merely looking longingly at the battle below, sorry to be missing out.

            “Help me or kill me,” said Farmer, testing his weight on the rope, “I’m coming down.”

            “Farmer!” Roderick hissed.

            “I’m not shtaying up here to be target practishe for Darkcliff hunting bowsh!”

            With that, the man began to rappel down the slope. The Valkyrie exchanged glances again, and then the majority of the group gave a collective shrug. They lowered their shields, dropping out of their attack stance. Suddenly a wail sounded nearby, and a group of three orc-men came rushing for the second hunter as he just reached the bottom of the cliff. Farmer, who was already down, fumbled for an arrow. But the Valkyrie were faster. Before the barbarians knew what hit them, Myst lodged one arrow in each, Skogul hit two of them, and Gondul’s tossed javelin skewered one through the chest, pinning him to the ground. Roderick’s jaw fell open and he slipped and fell off the rope, landing on his rear. Then Van Pelt began his descent.

            Roderick made his way toward the Valkyrie. “Greetings, o lovely warriors! Why, never have I seen such a group in all my days.” He looked at Thruda. “You, my Lady, are the very picture of athletic feminine magnificence. You have the strength and beauty of the finest Imperial charger, only even more in the beauty department.”

            Thruda frowned. She apparently preferred the strength department.

            “Who are you?” she asked.

            Roderick appeared wounded by her bluntness. “Well, fair lady, I am Roderick Van Helsinger, and these are my fellow hunters: Farmer, the young impetuous one who can’t follow orders; Van Pelt, the doddering old fool with a superiority complex; and Slobby, the barbaric simpleton with both musculature and attitude unfit for a man his age.”

            The rest of the hunting party, now all on the ground, looked unimpressed with these descriptions. The Valkyrie just seemed to show no interest.

            “We are warriors,” said Kara, “and that is all you need to know. Our place of origin, our destination, and our intent are none of your concern.”

            Skogul looked surprised. “Wow, Kara. You sounded almost like Rynnhilda there. You usually tell us not to dismiss mortals.”

            She smiled, somewhat embarrassedly. “Yes, well… I’m just starting to regret wasting our time on these four.”

            Thruda looked around in agitation. The battle not far off was definitely dying down now, and two distinct groups of survivors had formed. They appeared to be bickering verbally more than with weapons now, and many of them were pointing toward the Valkyrie and the hunters.

            “I agree,” said Roata. “We should definitely get moving now. I think we are already going to suffer for this distraction.”

            “Tell those fools to come on then,” said Thruda.

            “Alright, idiots!” shouted Skogul. “Let’s go!”

            Roderick looked even more hurt now after these comments, and he played with the end of the rope dejectedly.

            “Shuch a good rope,” said Farmer, sniffling a little. “It’sh really a shame to leave it tied up there like that, but it can’t be ‘elped now. It’sh one of my knots, sho it’s not coming looshe anytime shoo…”

            He was interrupted by a crackling and snapping from above, and then a crash from nearby. He turned to see Roderick lying on his back, covered up by the broken tree limb with the rope tied to it.

            “Hooray!” exclaimed Farmer. “My rope!”

            Roderick spat out a twig. “Beautiful. Now I can hang you with it.”