The following is the first few chapters of a new project that I hope to launch in 2025. These first three chapters I will offer here (because I am too eager to keep it to myself) so that you can take a look at this upcoming project and look forward to it with me. Keep an eye on my website and facebook page for updates on this story.
Chapter 1
I don’t know about this Don,” Roland cautioned.
“It’ll work,” insisted Donivar. “It just needs a certain amount of bravado to pull it off.”
The two brothers were peeking tentatively out of the shadows of an unobtrusive alleyway on the edge of the grand square. It (that is the square) was a bustling hub of activity. Humans, dwarves, and even a few woodland elves mingled and sauntered about in the crush of chaos that was the market.
Burly bellows could be heard from a group of dwarves exclaiming over the price the local smiths were charging for “superior” craftsmanship. Nearby a human officer, placed to keep the peace in this part of the city of Wiltonburg, looked nervously at the escalating “haggling” that the dwarves were doing. His sweaty forehead and fidgeting fingers implied that he had dealt with this crew before and did not hope to deal with them again. Purposefully (and perhaps wisely), he turned his attention away from the group and trundled off in the direction of the perfume peddlers. A close observer would be humored to note that the officer, so studiously focused on ignoring the dwarves, walked right past a produce cart right as a sly wood elf slid an apple off and into her cloak.
These were not the primary interests of Donivar and Roland. They were sizing up the squat hut in the center of the square. Donivar’s eyes twinkled with hopeful enthusiasm while Roland’s looked more like suspicious slits almost hidden by his bushy eyebrows. (Most claimed they had grown large from all the exercise he gave them in his signature skeptical look.)
“Well,” Donivar said with an adventurous grin, “here we go!” He confidently strode out of the shadows and into the crowd, not even bothering to check if his brother had followed.
“What will we do when they get angry?” Roland asked when he caught up.
“Angry?” laughed Donivar. “That will only happen if you let that pessimism of yours ruin the whole thing. Just let me do all of the talking.”
Donivar was the picture of the confident adventurer. That is, if the confident adventurer had been modeling for a thrifty, lack-luster, type of hero. He wore his least worn tunic and the trousers with the better patches in them. His belt shone with well-worn use and from it hung a not fully rusted sword in a crude approximation of a scabbard, made from odd bits of shoe leather (sown cleverly together with the laces from said shoes). His own shoes were of a battered leather, and an attempted literal spit shining early had simply resulted in rehydrating the dried mud and smearing it more evenly over its surface. But the young man’s face belonged to a resplendent nobleman.
In his twenty-first year, Donivar had an athletic charm that was just coming to full fruition. His wavy blonde hair hung just past his slightly pointed ears that marked him and Roland as having some non-human blood in their distant past (Donivar held that it was elvish, though Roland dismally asserted that it was likely gnomes). His blue-gray eyes took in the world with an eagerness to collaborate with it in all of its possible adventures. This message was accented by the winning smile he kept carefully attached to his mouth.
The sign hanging from the building read “Quest Station: Receiving and Sending”. Below the sign was a large open window and a long counter. A mousy man stood behind the counter fidgeting with a large posting board that hung on the back wall. He was arranging and updating the various parchments that were posted to it.
The brothers reached the counter and waited approximately two polite seconds before Donivar reached over and rang the service bell no less than nine times in a row.
The mousy man turned a vexed gaze on Donivar matched by the one Roland was giving him from behind.
“Good afternoon, my good man!” Donivar began, being sure his smile was extra dashing. “We’re new here and in need of a quest to carry on in the goodly way of helping the poor wretches of this city…and make a living.”
“What’s your name, traveler?” queried the man behind the counter.
“Gendolar…The Auspicious,” answered Donivar, running a hand through his sort-of-washed hair.
“And where do you hail from, Mr…Auspicious?” returned the man, crossing his arms.
“The humble town of Little Dovling. It’s just across the Henroot Swamps.”
“Ah, yes. Little Dovling. Well, I do not have any quests that lead back that way. Would you be willing to take on a local quest for those living here in Wiltonburg?”
“If that is the noble thing to do in this noble career’s scenario, then this noble fellow says: yes,” replied Donivar with a wink.
Roland groaned and rolled his eyes.
“Very well then,” replied the mousy man, chewing on the words. “If I could just see your questing license?” He held out a hand for the requested identification.
Donivar gave a loud bark of laughter.
“That’s just the sort of thing we thought he’d ask, isn’t it?” he asked, turning to Roland, who gave a pleading look that begged not to be dragged into this. “We never get asked that sort of thing in Little Dovling—being professional questers and all. I just stopped carrying it at this point,” he shrugged helplessly.
“So you have been undertaking quests without carrying the proper documentation?” the mousy man inquired in a dangerous tone (or as close to dangerous as a mousy man can get).
“Well, no,” choked Donivar. “I mean I keep it on my person unerringly when in the field. Just not when I’m in town or chatting at the Questing Station.”
“But a quest is what brought you to Wiltonburg,” reasoned the mousy man. “Ergo, you must still have your license.”
“I lost it in the swamp,” hedged Donivar, trying to hide the nervous sweat breaking out on his face.
“Hmm,” intoned the man, raising an eyebrow. “In that case I can make do with your I.D number for now and have you fill out a replacement form to get a new card for you.”
“Oh, that would be nice,” croaked Donivar in a tone that made it sound like it was anything but nice. “What would be the procedure if I didn’t remember my I.D number?”
The mousy man blinked blandly at Donivar, who attempted to fall back on that dashing smile—though it looked more like a nauseated grimace at this point.
“I suppose,” the man said crossly, “that you would need to go to the academy and present your certificate of completion to be reissued a license, or, since you likely don’t have that either, they would have you retake the completion test before issuing a new license.”
Donivar stared at the man for a moment weighing the options.
“Is this the point where we are supposed to conspire to use money to smooth this whole thing over and get me a quest?”
“Excuse me?!” exclaimed the mousy man.
“Because, you see,” explained Donivar, “I can make that happen. But I don’t have any money…yet. You see where I’m going with this?”
Roland let out a sharp breath and grabbed Donivar by either shoulder.
“Just stop the agony now,” he implored, pushing his brother away from the hut and any further embarrassment.
Chapter Two
The Dusty Saddle was a fairly active tavern, even in the mid afternoon. A good-natured arm wrestling match was going on between a traveling group of dwarf merchants and a couple of human farmers at one large round table. In another corner, a woman in a deeply cowled cloak tried in vain to keep her curly locks from spilling out of the hood, as she delivered intelligence to a wealthy looking man who had hired her to do some unobtrusive snooping. A bellow erupted from a muscular butcher as half a pitcher of ale was sloshed across his front. The bristling man jumped up to his towering full height and demanded an explanation of the willowy serving boy who stammered something about being tripped and pointed limply at a gnome wearing a mischievous grin and quickly dropping a coin on his table in payment before scurrying for the door. Eventually, the butcher settled back down to his chair and grudgingly accepted the cup of ale the boy offered him—free of charge, of course. The man did not even notice the second gnome who had lightly plucked the enraged fellow’s coin pouch during the commotion. The furtive creature weaved through the crowd to catch up to his companion—they would split some of the money with the boy later for such a good performance.
At the counter sat Donivar and Roland, a contemplative silence hung over them as they had just finished the telling of their disastrous endeavor to their friend, Sal.
Sal was one of the serving girls at the Dusty Saddle. She was of average height, had a tangly tumble of brown hair, and a sharp scattering of freckles on her face. She had come to know the brothers as they frequented the tavern taking on odd jobs for its upkeep for a few coins or washing dishes in exchange for a meal. The owner of the establishment, Mr. Sourwood, was fond of the brothers and had given them a task to perform more often than not.
“At least you didn’t make total fools of yourselves,” Sal offered in consolation, though the uncertain tone in her voice was not very comforting.
“No,” Roland asserted. “Donivar was the only fool made in this undertaking. My reputation only took peripheral damage.”
“I just don’t understand why they guard those quests so jealously!” groaned Donivar, banging the counter with a fist.
“You haven’t been through the schooling,” stated Roland simply.
“Because he doesn’t have the money or a noble sponsor,” added Sal.
“Which is why I need to find a way to work around that,” sighed Donivar. “Yes. This is all the very logic that led to my plan in the first place.”
“But surely it would be easier to find a way into the school than try to scam a quest off of one of the stations,” Sal reasoned.
“Not without money to buy his way in,” inserted Roland. “And, in our station in life, money is not that plentiful.”
Sal grunted in acknowledgement as she cast a critical eye over her worn dress.
“I suppose I could find a way to convince a nobleman to sponsor me into the school,” mused Donivar.
“Right,” Roland chuckled. “Start by asking the hundred other urchins who’ve tried it.”
“But how many of those hundred would have come that close to pulling one over on the Quest Station?” asked Donivar defensively.
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Roland innocently. “But the end result still looks about the same.”
“What you need,” said Sal, in a tone that warned them both to stop it there, “is something to catch attention and show your potential. If you could do something daring or bold that displayed your aptitude for the questing life then perhaps the nobility would see you as a worthy investment.”
“Sal, that’s genius!” Donivar exclaimed. “But what could I do?”
“Community service,” Roland answered dryly.
“I’ve heard rumor that the roving orcs bands have set up their camps in the caves on Winslow’s Heights just east of town. Everybody believes it to be the Wolf’s Blood tribe. With a reputation like their’s you should be able to catch attention if you just bring back one head.
“Perfect!” Donivar cheered. “We will make for Winslow’s Heights immediately.”
Chapter Three
Donivar burst out the front door of the Dusty Saddle and marched down the street with purpose. Roland came stumbling out the door behind him, gushing forth his doubts about the validity of this plan. Donivar paid him little heed as he turned onto Royal Avenue, the most direct route to the north end of Wiltonburg.
Royal Avenue was one of the major streets of Wiltonburg, a rather large primary town in this region. Many people were bustling about on errands, commutes, and the odd aimless stroll. A group of old men stood in the gateway of the market square entrance talking about the various arbitrary signs that indicated a vicious winter this year. Further on, a knot of young girls descended upon the bakers shop, giggling over the latest gossip in their circles.
Donivar circled wide into the middle of the avenue to circumvent a large crowd that was gathered to watch and cheer for a pair of wood elves doing an acrobatics performance on the busy street. They shimmied up lamp poles and dropped with a tumble on the cobbled street. Then one of them would run at the other and jump, using the other’s cupped hands as a spring board to launch over his head into a front flip.
It was impressive, perhaps. Donivar felt that the pair’s heritage and innate abilities made it a bit unfair.
“So you don’t plan to get killed, right?” clarified Roland, following Donivar around the crowd.
“Not at this early stage,” replied Donivar offhandedly. “Though it is certainly a common risk in the business of questing.”
“Never mind the philosophical points on the matter,” retorted Roland. “What I really want to know is how are you planning to kill even a single orc in that tribe—one of the most infamous of tribes.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll find one that is sick, weak, and separated from the tribe,” growled Donivar. “I’ll figure it out when we get there.”
Roland shook his head.
“You realize that I’m only following you because it has a slightly better chance at a comfortable future than our lot as urchins, right?”
“I can’t imagine they’re that much better,” laughed Donivar. “Though you are correct. Our station in life doesn’t promise much in the way of advancement.”
“It does seem to promise a pleasantly orc-free existence,” mused Roland, suppressing a smile.
“Bah! Where’s the fun in that kind of normalcy?” Donivar shot back. “This is going to be exciting! Just watch and see-“
“Oh, that’s all I plan to do in this operation,” assured Roland, cutting off his brother’s pitch.
“It’s going to be just like the tales we’ve heard all our lives,” Donivar asserted, trying to keep his verbal momentum. “We’re going to be the heroes in this story. Two brothers, storming an orc dwelling, and coming back to accolades of a new path for their lives in the service of others. Kind of beautiful, huh?”
“Except for the part where we likely get torn to shreds by the orcs,” Roland shrugged.
“Just watch,” said Donivar, wringing the handle of his sword with one hand. “I’ll figure something out.”
***
“I’m watching,” smiled Roland. “But I haven’t figured out what I’m supposed to see.”
Donivar hadn’t really thought that finding the orc encampment would be that difficult. Once one left the major roadway outside of the town and then left the smaller road at the base of the mountains, the speed of their search dropped alarmingly. Now it was nearing dark and the duo had found no cave-ish signs yet.
“Really, the darkness is good for us,” observed Donivar as he swung his mostly dull sword at a bushy sapling that stood in his way. “Perhaps we can spot some kind of fire or other light to steer us in the right direction.”
“Great,” said Roland. “So we can ask the orcs for a place to stay the night, right?”
“No, to point us to our trophy,” corrected Donivar, still swinging his sword repeatedly at the sapling. “We acquire that and then we make our happy way back home. Shouldn’t take long once we find that cave.”
“How long exactly are you planning this venture to be?” Roland asked dryly, noting the lack of visible damage to the sapling. “Are we going to be home by curfew?”
“First we have to find the orc camp,” Donivar grunted, sweating hard as he continued to bash the sapling to a pulpy kindling that was still very much upright. “Then we’ll have to watch their movements and determine the best way to sneak in. After that we choose who looks like they ought to be picked off.”
Roland nodded slowly.
“So you’re not thinking this will be a quick in-and-out type of thing?”
“No,” admitted Donivar, panting from his continued exertion. “We might make it back by early dawn at best.”
Roland deliberately stepped to the side of his brother’s demolition efforts and walked around the sapling.
“Perhaps we should seek to expedite that a bit?” he asked raising a thick eyebrow.
Thump.
“Did I just hear a thump?” asked Donivar.
“Yeah, that was my expectations falling flat,” Roland snorted, taking the lead and waving for his brother to leave his antics and follow.
Thump!
Roland dove for the scant cover of a skinny tree.
“Don, I think I hear a thump now too.”
“I think it came from that way,” Donivar pointed to up the incline a bit from where they were. “Let’s go check it out.”
They crept through the tangle, making a valiant effort at stealth but failing to devastating effect. Roland had the uncanny ability to step on every dry stick and ultra crunchy leaf in their path. The only thing louder was Donivar’s shushes and commands for silence—which he made extra loud to make sure that Roland heard them. Thankfully, the thumps were growing louder as they approached, perhaps covering the cacophony of their personal parade.
“Do those thumps sound fleshy to you?” asked Roland, in a half whisper.
“What?” asked Donivar, befuddled by the randomness of that presumption.
“I mean, like, their not playing volley ball with some unfortunate Gnome or Goblin, right?” Roland elaborated.
“No. I mean, I don’t think so,” Donivar ventured.
“Hmm,” grunted Roland, unconvinced.
They bumbled onward for a bit, paying closer attention to the “fleshy-ness” of the thumps’ quality.
“It seems almost rhythmic,” Donivar observed.
“Like a properly executed back set followed by a spike?” asked Roland with growing horror for the poor gnome or goblin.
“No,” barked Donivar. “Enough with the volleyball! It sounds more like some kind of ceremony or ritual.”
“Or it could be a cross court to a dink that incidentally becomes a net foul,” muttered Roland.
Donivar glared at him.
“That’s how the rest of the team looked at the one that fouled,” said Roland, unabashed.
“Aha!” whispered Donivar, ignoring his brother as the cave finally came into view.
The duo crept (in their clumsy, clunky manner) closer, keeping a lookout for any sentries that had been posted outside. Seeing none, they were able to use the undergrowth to their advantage and creep nearly to the entrance of the cave. At the edge of the undergrowth, they got down on the ground and attempted to slither the last few yards on their stomachs. This was achieved by a spectacularly elaborate mixture of rolling, floundering, and crawling without bending elbows or knees.
Somehow they made it to the edge of the cave. Peering in they saw that the opening led into a great cathedral of a cavern. They also saw a gathering of orcs.
They saw a large gathering of orcs.
The whole tribe (with the exception of smaller children) seemed present at this gathering. They were milling about in a large, heaving mass. There was a buzz of intense chatter and an air of anticipation. Several in the crowd were cheering. All in the crowd had their attention lashed to a crude stage of sorts fashioned from a massive stalagmite trunk that had had its spire sheered off. On that stage stood a group of six orcs.
Five of these had strange contraptions that Donivar assumed must be what they used for some kind of public torture of sorts. They were outlandish in design and their exact function eluded him.
As if to oblige his curiosity, one of them reached down to his strange implement, a large hardened mushroom that he held upside down and had three strings running from the cap to the stem, and plucked one of the strings. This caused a deep note to emanate through the cavern.
Next came the thump that had brought the duo here. It came from a female orc who sat on a hollowed stump that had been hewn out from its root ball and given a loose sheet of wood to cover a hole over the cavity that had been made inside it. The female slapped this cover and produced a satisfying woody percussion.
Another began to strum on a metal framed variation of a mandala., while a fourth picked at a few strings on a smaller version of the mushroom base.
The fifth orc hopped about in a lively manner with a small hand instrument. It was a hoop made out of a light grain wood and had a piece of leather stretched across it to make a surface for her empty hand to thwack upon. This caused the numerous small shells attached to the hoop by small cords make a rattling and clinking sound with each jarring beat upon the leather surface.
Finally, the sixth orc opened his mouth and sang.
JRileyPeak 