El-Vador's Travels Read online

  Prologue

  The greatest of tales all have but one thing in common: they all begin with a blank page. A little white nothing to divulge all your secrets and desires and experiences onto, whether it be in the form of a fictional account or a literalistic interpretation.

  This particular tale is a long-suffering one that has germinated for many a decade yet never truly found its way out. Tales like that can slowly seep from an individual's core into their own life with dire consequences. Such is the manifestation of the tales within me that for the longest time I was oblivious to what I know now. The very tale I need to tell you is the one I have lived first hand.

  Sergeant Sykes remained at his post as those around him stood agape at what they had just witnessed.

  He had heard about the Elf, everyone had. The legend was spoken about with a mixture of reverence and fear from so many. Unlike most of his contemporaries, Sykes didn't prescribe to that particular viewpoint. Whether the creature was an Elf or not had no bearing on his day-to-day activities and thus he paid it little to no heed.

  Yet it seemed that since this morning the creature they called El-Vador was to become a part of his duties whether he wished it or not.

  It wasn't trepidation he felt at that, or so he kept telling himself. A good warrior was always prepared and he felt the need to hear about the more practical tales where previously he would have feigned deafness. He had to admit that regardless of the embellishment such stories were bound to contain, he now felt a strange curiosity about the creature.

  It sat in the chair before him, a vivid blue cylinder of energy pulsing around it. The magi littering the corners of the room had slowly picked themselves off the floor and stared in barely restrained terror. They had not expected this to work.

  It flexed experimentally, sinew standing out in sharp contrast to the passive face, it would appear that it was trapped. The incantation was a success.

  Sykes maintained his vigil as the creature's eyes slowly scanned the occupants of the room. He was one of three guards placed by the doorway lest the creature overwhelm the field and attempt an escape. The garrison had been very quiet when he had picked his men, most of them believed it to be a death sentence. After all, what mortal man could hope to stop a monster like this if it were to overwhelm the combined efforts of the most powerful conjurers of the era?

  The six magi had composed themselves now, apparently the energies they were manipulating in order to simultaneously create the cylindrical field and transport El-Vador unwillingly were very taxing.

  One of the older mages nodded at Sykes, who in turn pointed one of his younger guards to the door, apparently it was time to fetch the Arch-Inquisitor. The undisciplined expression of relief on the man's face as he dashed out the dungeon door was irritating.

  'Ah yes, of course he wouldn't be here. My capture has finally been achieved and the Arch-Inquisitor wants to play games.'

  The sound came from all around the room. Initially the magi looked amongst each other in confusion to see who had spoken, apparently the creature had thrown its voice somehow.

  'None of you wish to engage me then? The very nightmare from your childhood has appeared before your eyes for the first time and your collective curiosity has been quelled by fear of reprisal from your master?'

  There was no mistaking that tone, the creature was goading them in spite of its entrapment.

  'You will speak when spoken to, Elf.' Sykes replied, as angry at being baited as he was with the magi's lack of response to it.

  A faint tinkling of laughter bit into his ears, the magi cringed at the sound. 'Or you will do what exactly, my good man? Are you going to pass through the barrier that even I cannot penetrate and exact vengeance for my tone?'

  Sykes remained silent at that, feeling a little foolish.

  'Hark these words, fearless magi. For I intend to start my tale long before your Arch-Inquisitor arrives. That is why you called me here, is it not? To recount my travels unto you and await summary judgement, no? The first of my tales has a humble beginning as do most of this age, listen carefully.'

  The magi beckoned the scribes forward and quills started feverishly scratching on the velum parchment as El-Vador began to speak.

  I

  One of the first questions I am asked is how I could possibly ascertain the moments from this tale for which I was not present? Why not simply stick with a first person perspective? You will have to allow for a little leniency here fair reader, for this is more an artistic interpretation of what I consider to have happened and I believe that recounting it is necessary. There are certain... arts which aid me in conjuring the memories of the long-deceased, they paint a skeletal recollection of events. I shall not divulge any further specifics at this time, even under pain of ending this story before it has begun. Let the dead rest, even if I must do so with them.

  The cart groaned forward as the Urtaka pounded relentlessly on into the Elven lands. Surrounding it were the sounds of a multitude of booted feet marching in strict unison. Lithe Goblin archers and the broad-shouldered Orcish spear men from southern parts that the sun rarely touched made up the bulk of Chief Sarvacts' army. They eyed the small number of heavily armoured Orcish champions who rode next to Sarvacts with a mixture of distaste and envy.

  'Six weeks of pissing marching and still they won't let us eat the horses.' one of the soldiers grumbled, spitting into the mud of the road in disgust. He was in the centre of the marching band and subjected to the worst of whatever had been kicked up from the boots of his fellow mercenaries.

  An Orc next to him snorted in derision. 'As if the likes of us will be lucky enough for horse meat, you know as well as I where that'll be headed.' he answered.

  'And where's that?' demanded the first Orc. They had been arguing back and forth sporadically through the trip, he wanted his compatriot's head on a pike but the superiors wouldn't appreciate the delay.

  They had been bonded in loathing of a common enemy though, aside from the savage white skins that was. The Orcish champions were both haughty and intimidating, a perfect source of hatred from those further down the food chain.

  'They'll stay mounted in case the battle turns.' the Orc replied. 'Then flee should the Elves get the better of us.'

  This brought derisive laughter from a number of them listening. This Orcish army? Defeated by a bunch of Elves?

  Their commanding officer was less than pleased at the talk. A scarred, ugly creature that more growled than spoke. 'Shut your holes the lot of you. If that gets back to one of the champions he'll kill us for sure.'

  'Like we couldn't take him.' one of the Orcs replied, but the strain in his voice spoke of a lie.

  The Chief loathed everyone in his army without exception. What he had done at his previous posting in the depths of the capital to be relegated to the mountains in the east was unknown, but either he had pissed off the wrong people or he had committed an act horrific even by Orcish standards. It was more than likely both, Sarvacts' eyes suggested that he had witnessed a great number of terrible things, many of which he had perpetrated.

  He may not have liked his own men but he reserved his true hatred for the Elves. Those gossamer-thin creatures that should snap before them like so many fragile blades of grass had foiled him innumerable times. Sarvacts had initially been tasked with taking a small village, but after repeated failures brought about by underestimating the outlying forces' skill in battle he had finally mustered enough of an army to wipe every Elven face from this mortal coil altogether.

  Through the frozen mud of the road to the north rose the Elven mountains, it had been a long trek from the south-western frontier lands but they had finally bridged the gap that separated the two races. Bright forests obstructed their every
attempt to scale them and mist clung to the peaks to deny them sight, often descending early and foiling any attempts to press forward.

  'Urgh but I hate this weather.' muttered one of the soldiers. 'Why would you want to scale this place anyway? What is there to gain from it strategically?'

  Their commanding officer grunted in return. 'If you were a few years older and a few years wiser you'd know just what those sly creatures were capable of at the peak of their powers, hunting our lads down like animals for sport, not stopping until we were driven to the very fringes and the darkest of places.'

  They plodded along in silence for a while. But the questions weren't over yet, and before long one of them spoke up again. 'Those woods look deserted if you ask me. I see no army that could slaughter us, perhaps a cold snap has killed them off.'

  'Oh no, you can't see them,' replied the Commander. 'That's not to say they aren't out there watching. Whether you see them or not, they will spot you and put an arrow in your socket as soon as they feel the time is right. Which is usually shortly after they first lay eyes upon you.'

  More nervous silence followed, the Commander was the only one in their group who had practical experience of fighting Elves. That he was the only one who seemed to take them seriously as a result spoke volumes. Usually Orcs and Goblins would sing as they marched, drumming ferocious battle songs depicting what they intended to do to their foes and especially what they'd do to the women that were left behind. Not now, the thought of Elven eyes peering out through the forest and readying a killing shot had stolen their voices.

  Gurgash looked toward the huge Orcish flag that a standard-bearer carried at the head of the column. The great red snake on tattered green canvas, a source of pride and resolute determination to overcome any foe. Let the Elves come, they would soon feel the bite of this superior Orcish fighting force.

  Gurgash's hand tightened on the shaft of his spear at the thought of impaling his enemy upon it. Let them crawl out from their hiding, when they did he would make them scream for mercy as he split their bellies open. He couldn't help but feel that such thoughts were bravado on his part, he was entirely new to the war and to marching and conflict in general. The last few weeks had been eye-opening to say the least, there was a lot less glamour about being in an army than he had been led to believe. His cousin Harg had warned him, not that he had much choice in the matter, having been drafted against his will for this conflict.

  They forded their way across another stream, Goblin scouts dashing forward and securing the land with their heightened senses and ensuring that they weren't marching into an ambush.

  The standard-bearer splashed across, the water rising no deeper than his thighs. The Orcish champions forded the stream next, even making something simple like crossing a stream appear like it was an imperious procession. Gurgash noted that while the champions were covered by the scouts and their wary eyes, they weren't planning on forming any protection for the other troops crossing the ford. Chief Sarvacts and a selection of his toadies didn't bother crossing at all, allowing the troops to advance first lest the scouts were proven wrong.

  'Coward.' muttered Gurgash under his breath. 'The pointy white-skins have struck a fear into him.'

  The commanding officer kicked him, hard enough to stagger him and make him curse in pain. 'That's your last warning, no bad-mouthing the Chief or I spit you and let the ford carry your carcass clear of us.'

  The army had almost finished crossing the stream by this point, there had been little sign of an ambush in the water, though it wasn't really deep enough to cause impediment. Gurgash drew his sword and held it high so the blade would not suffer the water. As he crossed, his boots crunched on gravel in the stream bed, he imagined himself striding over the battlefield upon the tops of Elven skulls. Cold water poured down over the tips of his boots and soaked his feet, dispelling the daydream quite effectively. He cursed quietly, knowing that cold feet were the least of his worries right now. He would have to sit close by the fire once their marching was over, illuminated for every Elven archer to train their sights upon, or risk losing a toe to the cold.

  He squelched up onto the north bank of the stream. 'Welcome to our new Orcish lands!' Chief Sarvacts bellowed from horseback, not at Gurgash in particular but to all the men who were coming up onto dry land just then. 'There may be Elven forces that oppose us but their blood shall stain these river banks before the end of the week.'

  Sarvacts sounded very sure, though Gurgash suspected otherwise. He knew the man could bellow like a bull and make himself heard across a mile of battlefield, that didn't guarantee victory though. His cousin had told him that it was all very good to make a load of noise and bluster but ultimately actions were what mattered on the battlefield. Was his Chief a man of action or was he leading them to their inevitable doom? Sarvacts seemed obsessed with punishing and destroying every last Elf, this was probably seen as an admirable quality in a leader of Orcs. Gurgash suspected that such hatred could be a weakness when it came to strategy.

  'The prancing little things shall be crushed under the weight of our forces.' declared Sarvacts.

  'If they're so easy to overcome why are we the fifth company you've led out here?' muttered Gurgash to himself, making sure he wasn't overheard this time. It wouldn't do to end up floating down the river as his Commander had suggested. He'd probably be dead soon enough, may as well make it a dignified death for the sake of his family.

  The Orcs trudged up the mountainside and deeper into the Elven lands.

  Steel struck oak and splinters flew. The forester grunted in satisfaction and with his axe still hefted in his right hand he sheered a branch off the large log.

  Nodding to nobody in particular, he watched the branch topple into the grass, leaving another log preened and ready for the mill. 'That will do for today, El-Vador,' he said. 'We carry this final log over and leave it at that.'

  'As you wish, Father.' El-Vador replied, not sorry to see the back of another hard day. Sweat ran down his bare chest. Though the day was not warm, few days in the high mountains were warm, when pitted against an oak with only an axe in hand you were prone to forgetting the weather.

  At fifty summers, the forester's son stood on the border of maturity. He was already as tall as some in the village and his own labour at Cusband's side had given him a strength that few could match.

  Yet next to his father, El-Vador's relative prowess was nothing. Cusband belied his slight Elven build with the strength of an ox. Although his hair was now tempered with patches of grey, there was never any denying who was firmly in charge of the logging when they roamed the forests. His voice was a deep bass rumble, which made El-Vador's unnaturally high treble seem insignificant and foolish when he dared to speak contrary to his father.

  From the back of the house where the forester and his family lived, a familiar pained voice called. 'Cusband! Come here. I need you.'

  Cusband's face twisted with his own pain, a pain he never would have shown if wounded by sword or spear or arrow. 'Go tend to your mother, son,' he said thickly. 'It's really you that Murina wishes to see.'

  'But she called you,' said El-Vador, it was an old objection but he made it every time.

  'Go, I said.' Cusband set down the axe and folded his hand into a fist that seemed much more menacing. 'Go.'

  El-Vador hurried away. He didn't want to receive yet another beating from the man and loathed to subject his mother to any more emotional anguish. It was the only way his father could function, asserting his physical dominance over the boy long after it had stopped being necessary. There was nothing that El-Vador could do about it either, he knew that if he were to end his father they would probably starve and his mother's heart would be broken. Assuming he wasn't cast out of the village for such an act.

  El-Vador also knew that in spite of his outward strength, his father could not deal with seeing his mother like this. Murina was a seer, one both gifted and cursed with visions of the future that shortened her health and li
fespan remarkably. She had saved the village on numerous occasions with her predictions of weather and the changing of seasons. Somehow she innately knew when crops needed to be planted and harvested to maintain an adequate yield for the village. For all the importance placed on general practicality within village life she was revered in spite of her infirmity and the pain it caused her husband.

  She lay in bed, covered and warmed by the cured hides of wolves Cusband had slain on hunting trips with the foragers. 'My son, my El-Vador.' She smiled, though her sight seemed dim, another vision perhaps.

  'What do you require, Mother?' he asked.

  'Some water, would be nice' said Murina, her voice raspier than usual. 'The visions, they parch me so.'

  'I'll get it for you,' he said, and went swiftly to the pitcher on the table near the hearth. He poured an earthenware cup full and brought it to her outstretched arms.

  'Thank you. You're a wonderful...' Murina broke off the sentence and her eyes flashed a milky white. Her body seized in place and the cup of water fell from her hand.

  He quickly took the cup from floor where it had landed and waited for her lucidity to return.

  She eventually beckoned the water forward, drinking deeply from what was left of the cup. 'There is not long now my dear, sweet boy. Your destiny awaits you sooner than you can imagine,' she broke off again, they could both hear the sound now. 'It is now time for you to go and discover it.'

  Running feet pounded closer to their house now, a fearful voice yelled out to anyone who could hear. 'The Orcs have come!' it said hoarsely 'The Orcish army have come to Elven lands once more!'

  'The Orcs!' El-Vador's voice crackled with ferocity. 'They will pay for this. I will make them pay.'

  They were old words, words he had heard his father and the villagers say many a time. He knew not exactly what it was they had done, it was enough to know that they were evil. Finally he was of an age to do something about this looming threat that had plagued his family and village his entire childhood.