Tales From Orin Nodd

By J.C. Witman

As the humidity weighed on him, Aren grew tired of the constant barrage of bugs that insisted on carrying out suicidal attacks on his face. He swatted away the small creatures and then reached for his water bottle. Taking a drink of the liquid, he used the moment to catch his breath.

Trekking through the jungle, tweets and annoyed squawks of birds filled the air. Aren, a soldier of the Ulger army, one of the four intruders into the normally human-free environment, pulled on the straps of his backpack. He could not get them adjusted currently, and the bag continued to rattle his armor.

Aren watched the three men in front of him carry on. He was a newcomer to the group, who was not only younger than the others but also much less experienced in the ways of battle. He knew very little about his new companions, other than they were all rather famous in the Ulger army. They gained their fame by completing tasks that had set them apart from the rest of the soldiers. Bugs and humidity aside, he considered it a great honor to be assigned to the mission.

“We are almost there!” Captain Emmitt called back to the others. “The outpost is not more than an hour away.”

The captain drew his sword and sliced wildly at the overgrown brush. He cursed as he struggled to cut through a particularly thick vine.

“There we go,” he said as he defeated the plant and stomped deeper into the forest. “This way men!”

“You don’t believe the stories,” Wendel, the tall, thin, bearded member of the group, whispered to Aren as they continued. “Do you?”

Aren had heard the rumors. This outpost, deep in the mountainous jungles of western Ulger, was not one where many volunteered their services. It was shrouded in stigma from the stories of disappearances and soldiers going mad that had made their way back to the Ulger camp. Most believed this phenomenon was the outcome of being isolated in the western mountains, or from a jungle sickness.

However, some said the area was cursed. It had been three weeks since the last communication was heard from the outpost. As a result, the team was sent to report on the situation. This mystery did nothing but fuel the superstition. He was not one to believe in curses, but he was raised in the Ulger army since he was young, and Aren was sure there was more he had to discover about the world.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Aren then stumbled on a rock, made slick by the constant dampness of the forest. His armor shook as he caught himself on a slime-covered branch.

“But I’m ready to get out of this place.” He said, shaking the substance from his hand.

“Me too,” Wendel said. “The sooner we get to the outpost and confirm the whereabouts of the men, the better. I just hope we don’t run into anything unnatural…”

“Of course they are real,” a voice dripping with sarcasm belonged to their third companion said. “Ghosts, curses, the Giant Crystal Snow Tiger, they are all real!”

“You don’t have to be a jerk about it,” Wendel replied, taking off his helmet and wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I’m just trying to have a conversation.”

“Anyway, I’m sure we will find out what is going on soon enough,” Aren said, feeling the need to fill the awkward silence that had fallen on the group.

The third member chuckled.

“Smart kid.” He said, “you stick with me, and you will be okay. No need to focus on myths and legends. Just keep your mind focused on what’s real. The real power is greater than you know.”

“So dramatic, Bernald.” Wendel laughed. “The real power is in the weapon in your hand.”

He held up his ax. The wooden pole was about equal to the length of his tall frame. A droplet of water fell from the treetops and rolled off the thick ax head. One side was sharp, the other was a hammer. On the head was etched a symbol of a flower Aren did not recognize.

“There will become a time when weapons like that will be useless,” Bernald replied gruffly.

“Everyone knows there isn’t a weapon who can stand against my ax. Don’t be a fool.”

Wendel’s grip tightened around his ax, while Bernald’s hand inched closer to the sword hanging from his belt.

“Are you two going to stop arguing and get up here!?” Captain Emmitt shouted. “We are here.”

Aren had been too enthralled in the conflict escalating between Bernald and Wendel to have noticed the captain was nearly out of sight. They quickened their pace and soon caught up to Emmitt. Pushing aside some large leaves, they made their way out of the brush and into a large clearing. He had almost forgotten how bright the sun was, as they had traveled for weeks under the shrubbery that stretched up into the heavens.

They set down their supplies. Before them stood a large stone structure. It had four walls surrounding a smaller, but sizable building. Cracks split the eroding stone and vines crept up the walls. The outpost was different from any of the Ulger buildings Aren had seen. It gave him the impression it was built long ago for something that was once important but has since been forgotten.

“What is out here that would warrant staying in this dump?” Wendel said what Aren was also thinking.

“Whatever its purpose,” Emmitt said, motioning over to the once sturdy gate that was reduced to a twisted pile of steel. “It looks like it was attacked.”

Aren studied the sight for a moment.

“It almost looks like they are bent out,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yeah it does,” agreed Wendel. “What is this place?”

“It’s a tomb,” Bernald answered.

“A tomb for who?” Aren asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Emmitt interrupted. “We need to spread out and report.”

Aren looked up at the wall. Dread filled him. He wished it would be enough to see that no one was around and report back what had happened. Instead, they split into pairs. Wendel and Emmitt went to search the perimeter, while Aren and Bernald climbed over the remains of the metal gate, and entered the outpost.

Making their way through the courtyard, Aren could see four watchtowers. One on each corner of the wall. The grass was not cut short, but also not overgrown to the point it looked abandoned. Aren found it strange, there were no permanent structures for the men to stay in. It was an eerie feeling to see all the empty tents, the smoldered fire pit with a pot of stew on top of it, and no one around.

“What happened here?” Aren said. “Where did everyone go?”

He waited for an answer, but when he looked up, he saw Bernald was already making his way into the center structure. Aren hurried over to him as the older man looked at the stone wall.

“What are you doing?”

Bernald ignored him, and he walked around to the side until he came to a stop. In front of them was a pile of rubble from a gaping hole in the side of the building. Aren then followed Bernald as he climbed over the fallen stones and entered into the darkness.

“What is going on?” Aren said again. He could hear the stuttering in his voice when the cool, damp air rushed him. His hand instinctively reached for his sword.

The darkness was cut through by the torch Bernald stuck up. Without saying a word, he went deeper into the tunnel and the light of day disappeared behind them. Aren struggled to keep up with Bernald, but he continued to move quickly down the tunnel. In the glow of the flame, he could make out strange curvy symbols etched into the surrounding walls.

“What language is this?” He said catching up to the man.

“One older than Ulger, or any other country of this time,” Bernald mumbled.

“Maybe we should go back and let the others know what we found.”

“It may already be too late for them,” Bernald said. “Our only hope is what lies in here.”

“What is going on!?”

“An ancient power has been unleashed,” Bernald said. “What we need to stop it is in here. At least, I hope it is.”

Aren hurried after Bernald and they soon came to an opening. Inside the room were broadswords, sabers, spears, axes, and weapons of all kinds. They were covered in dirt and dust. Bernald got started looking through all the weapons. Aren stood off to the side, unsure of what to do to help. Finally, Bernald stood up, gripping a sword in his hand.

“That’s what you need?” Aren said. “It doesn’t look like anything special to me.”

“It’s a very old weapon with a history that bestowed upon it a great power. It is said a woodcutter’s son once took up the mantle of a knight and defeated a more powerful enemy. Using this sword, that man went on to be a great king and hero. Those who wield this sword can harness his power.”

“What is out there that we need such a weapon?”

“This armory belonged to a warlord, who a long time ago grew obsessed with collecting rare weapons. One day, he came across a very powerful tool that drove him insane — and made him almost unstoppable. It wasn’t long before he began to slaughter allies and enemies alike. He continued until his people sealed him in here thousands of years ago.”

“He couldn’t still be alive, could he?” Aren said, looking back to where they came from.

“No,” said Bernald. “He is dead. But that tool is active.”

Then a frightening cry echoed down the corridor. Startled, Aren turned to face the direction of the sound. While he struggled to force his feet to move, Bernald rushed back down the hallway from which they came. Willing himself forward, Aren followed the glow of the torch until they could see the orange light of the setting sun.

In the courtyard was a being, human in form, dressed head to toe in rusted armor. The armor was broken, and a green light came from its joints and cracks.

The warlord, Aren realized. He lives!

Wielding a shield on his forearm, he was engaged in battle with Wendel and Captain Emmitt. There was no weapon in their enemy’s hand, but the two men were struggling to defeat him. Wendel struck out with his ax. His tool of war was no match for the warrior’s strength. The warlord used his shield to knock him to the side. Captain Emmitt also rushed at the attacker but met the same fate as Wendel.

Aren inched forward, ready to help his comrades, but Bernald stopped him.

“Wait,” he said.

“Why?!” Aren cried, “can’t you see they need our help?”

“You can’t help them,” Bernald said. He stood unflinching.

While they were speaking, the strange warrior leaped high in the air, and then descended on Captain Emmitt as he struggled to stand. He drove his shield into the man’s head. Crushing it. Aren could only watch in horror as Emmitt lay motionless. The warlord then took Wendel by the collar, and moving faster than anything he had ever seen, took off through the gate and disappeared into the woods.

Shaking himself free of Bernald’s grip, he ran into the darkening woods. He knew he had not thought through what he was going to do once, or if he caught up to the warlord. If warriors as skilled as Emmitt and Wendel could not defeat him, he was not sure what he could do.

Coming to a stop, he battled to regain his breath. His body trembled, and his fingers strived to hold onto his weapon. He listened for any sign of the warlord in the deep brush. There was silence. Then suddenly he saw him. The ancient warrior stood before him. The strange glowing shield was raised, and he now held Wendel’s ax in his hand. Wendel was nowhere to be seen.

Crying out, Aren attacked with a wild and ferocious vigor. However, his efforts were to no avail. Without taking a step, the warlord swung his shield and knocked him to the ground. Aren felt his breath leaving him, and the searing pain in his stomach as he gasped for air. Struggling to stand, he saw the warlord approaching.

“Your time has come!” He heard the familiar voice echo through the trees.

The speaker, Bernald, stood with the newly discovered sword in his hand. As the warrior turned to face him, Bernald flew toward him and engaged the attacker. With some effort, he was able to slice off the arm that held Wendel’s ax. The warlord stood still as the metal instrument hit the ground. There was no cry in pain, no staggering, only silence. He stared at Bernald. The shield on his arm pulsed with energy, the green light illuminated from the piece of armor.

“The shield of Ernestus will be mine!” Bernald shouted.

Aren watched Bernald attack the one-armed warlord with sword techniques he had never seen before. But his quick strikes were full of strength and effective in bringing the warlord to his knees. Bernald stood over the fallen warrior. Raising his sword, he chopped off the warlord’s head and then drove his sword into his chest.

The green light dimmed before a white light rose out of the warlord’s corpse. It hovered for a time before Bernald reached out his hand and the light disappeared into him. Bernald yelled out in pain when the power entered him and he collapsed. Not sure what to do, Aren made his way over to his companion.

“Are you ok?” Aren stuttered.

Bernald stood slowly and turned to look at him. The round shield that had previously been the warlord’s now appeared on his forearm. Aren took a step back. Bernald seemed different than how he was before.

“Kneel,” he said, pointing his sword at Aren.

“What…?”

“Kneel,” he said more sternly. “Pledge yourself to me and my master, and I can spare you.”

“Your… master?”

“Yes,” Bernald said. looking at his shield. “He has returned, and a new era is about to begin.”

Shaking, Aren slowly got down on one knee.

“I am in awe of your skill and power,” Aren said. “I pledge myself to your teaching, my lord.