The Shaman of Neroterra (Tales of Azuleah) by Adorno Daniel

Author:Adorno, Daniel [Adorno, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lost Coin Press
Published: 2016-04-20T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Taken captive

After the grim task of burying Leif and Philippe in the snow, Silas and the others found a trail of footprints leading deeper into the woods. One set of tracks matched Gryn’s boots while the other set were smaller and definitely not human. Silas led his men cautiously through the snow, attempting to be as quiet as the snowflakes descending upon them. He had ordered the horses be tethered to trees and left Gryn’s valet, Georges, to attend them. The portly man's face had a pallid appearance and he looked ready to vomit. Silas knew the expression all too well. Young recruits to Aldron's military academy had the same look after experiencing their first battle. Georges was a servant not a fighter and the sight of the grisly battle likely unnerved the valet. In contrast, Morton shone with confidence after the skirmish. He looked all too eager to join Silas in rescuing his master. Despite the boy’s relative inexperience in combat, he had proven himself by slaying two orcs. If his luck continued, Silas might have to consider transferring him from Gryn’s apprenticeship to his own command.

The trail turned south into a thicket where fallen trees and underbrush made it difficult to follow the tracks. “Over here,” Silas whispered to Asher, picking up the trail past a pair of withered elderberry bushes. They followed the tracks up an incline where a family of spruces overlooked the white forest. At the top of the hill, the spruces encircled a hastily built structure made of branches and logs—no larger than a tent. A fire roared in a pit just outside the dwelling and a short figure stood before the flames. Silas raised a hand to stop the men from advancing. He gazed at the figure, realizing it was Felix kneeling on the ground. His face was expressionless and pale.

“Load your crossbows and draw your swords,” Silas ordered. The men complied then followed him into the small camp. “Felix, are you all right?” Silas asked, watching the tent for any sign of Urbengal. Felix did not move or speak. He looked ahead with lifeless eyes.

“You are fools to enter here,” a raspy voice said.

Silas searched the trees, but neither he nor his men saw anyone except Felix. “Show yourself!” Silas yelled.

Urbengal let out a laugh that resembled a cackling crow. “But I’m right here, Your Majesty.” A soft glow emanated from the roof of the ramshackle hut. An outline became visible amid the light and as the glow faded, the goblin appeared. He was an ugly creature—a long hooked nose poked out of a green leathery face riddled with warts. The shaman’s beady eyes shifted to and fro, taking in Silas and his men. “What an honor to have royalty visit my humble abode, hee-har!”

“Release your prisoner, Urbengal. Unless you desire a painful death,” Silas said.

“Strong words, lad, strong words! But I’m afraid it will not come to that. I have an advantage, see?” Urbengal tucked his long fingers into his cloak and retrieved a metal glove.

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