Chapter 3

Sweet Home Strudhyne

Novembre 23, 5599

A week after his defeat at the hands of Maidawn and Shorn, Grizill Toefungus found himself standing outside Strudhyne, the blorc capital. His mind wandered back over the torturous week he had just endured.

After he and his Black Plague warriors were defeated by his accursed prince and that blasted human girl, Grizill had fled from the Hourm Council of Elders, vowing to hunt Shorn down again after he gathered the rest of his warriors. He stumbled upon his horse about a myle from the grove where his fighting force had met their fate and was soon galloping through the piney trees, headed for home. He traveled north throughout the rest of the day until he felt he might fall off of his mount from sheer exhaustion. That night, he camped on the edge of the Latibule Forest, dreaming of ways to kill his prince, Shorn Zogstomp.

The next day, in the rain, he slinked across a thin section of the Cayuse Plains, all the while keeping an eye out for centaurs, a race of beings he believed to be equal to the blorcs in their fighting abilities. Once he’d crossed the open plains, Grizill hugged the east side of the Boscares River, weaving his way between the trees, until he had traveled far enough to cross the river without entering Dr’gÿn Thickett. As he continued north, the intensity of the rain decreased. Unfortunately for him, night was quickly approaching and he knew he needed to rest his horse. By evening, the rain had petered out. Now in green goblin territory, just at the southern edge of the Neeft Valley, he made a fireless camp hoping he wouldn’t be discovered by any wandering goblin hunting parties.

Grizill was happy with the speed of his travel across Chelt. He found that he was making much better time than previously when he had his group of six blorc underlings with him as they tracked Shorn.

That night, while he was sleeping, a band of goblins descended upon him. His scimitar had been mysteriously destroyed in his battle with the human girl. So, using no weapon other than a heavy stick, he fought off the smelly goblins and even managed to knock out a few of them with firm cracks to their thick-skulled heads. Unscathed so far, Grizill found himself staring at the remaining goblins as they surrounded him, their short swords pointed at him. Knowing there were too many to battle successfully, he leaped onto his horse, leaving his bedroll and blanket behind. He rode the rest of the night across the Neeft Valley as he fled north toward Scoria, a land made up of active volcanoes.

The next day found him slowly walking his horse through the beginning of Scoria. He had to be careful, as boiling pools of mud were often hidden, and he needed to prevent his horse from getting injured. After all, he didn’t want to walk all the way back to Strudhyne, so he proceeded through the dangerous land as carefully as he could. Each night, he was forced to remove his burning boots to let his heated feet cool off. As he made his way through this strange land, he found that he had to skirt around erupting volcanoes, jump over small lava flows, and was sometimes required to walk alongside the larger flows until he found a place to safely cross, all the while avoiding the bubbling mud pools. It wasn’t an easy trek, as Scoria was basically a dead land that offered little food or clean water for him or his horse. Occasionally, he was able to find a boiling hot water spring, which usually smelled and tasted of rotten eggels. But at least it was water.

Finally, after multiple days, to his great relief, he arrived at the entrance to Knöl Pass. The canyon remained griffin free, as no new griffins had come to take the place of the ones that Shorn had killed when he’d previously passed through. Grizill was able to find little clumps of berries still hanging from an occasional bush and some grass for his horse. His journey through the High Steppe Mountains was uneventful, for which he was grateful.

The Black Plague captain finally descended into the Febrile Desert, feeling a certain sense of relief. This was home. Even though it was a wasteland created by the blorcs through deforestation, he felt comfortable here. He filled his water skin, which he had made out of the skin of a rabbit he had been lucky enough to kill with a rock, in a small stream that trickled down from the mountains. He hopped back onto his horse and set out over the sandy, rocky terrain. He knew this would be the last source of water available to him until he reached Strudhyne. Even though winter was just starting, it was still quite warm in the desert during the day, as there was not a single tree for shade. The suns shone down on his head relentlessly, trying to beat him down with their water-stealing rays.

After two thirsty days of travel, he finally found himself standing before the gigantic double gate that gained entrance to the largest of the blorc cities, Strudhyne. Brumel and Pasq had set a few hours prior, and the moon, Asan, was only a sliver in the sky, casting little to no light.

His horse had perished early that morning from lack of water, forcing him to walk the rest of the way. His water supply had run out the night before.

Grizill weakly banged a fist on the smaller blorc-sized door that appeared in the left gate.

“Yes?” The inquisitive voice floated through the cracks between the thick wood planks.

“Let me in,” Grizill whispered, his throat parched and dry.

“Who’s there?” the guard asked. “I can’t hear you.”

“Grizill, captain of the Black Plague,” his cracked lips whispered.

“What? I can barely hear you. Since you refuse to speak up, I’ll inform you that the gates will open when Brumel rises. Please take a seat and wait for morning. Thank you.”

Grizill banged on the door again, and added a frustrated kick. “You’ll open up right now!” he screamed in a hoarse whisper.

“I’ll do no such thing!” the guard bellowed back. “Now sit down on that rock over there.”

Finding resolve in his anger, Grizill was able to muster more energy for his response. “You darned well better open up right now if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, ho, I’d better, huh?” the guard chuckled.

A tiny opening appeared in the smaller door of the gate as the guard slid a piece of wood to the right to peer outside. He put his eye to the opening and focused on the bedraggled blorc standing outside the gate.

Grizill poked the guard in the eye with his finger.

“Hey!” the guard yelled, slamming the peephole closed. “Just for that, you’re gonna die!”

Grizill stepped back, crossed his arms, and listened to the guard releasing the multitude of locks on the door. This went on for a bit, and then, with a loud creak of rusty hinges, as blorcs knew nothing about lubricants, the door opened just enough for the guard to slip out, brandishing his sword. Spying the offensive blorc a few steps away, he raised his sword and shouted, “It’s a good night to die!”

 “True,” Grizill replied, “so you’d better stop right there or you’ll be the one dying.”

The guard froze, finally recognizing Grizill’s voice, his sword hanging in the air above his head. He started shaking so badly that he dropped his weapon. He bowed to the captain. “I most humbly apologize, Grizill Toefungus. I didn’t know it was you. You’ve been gone for a long time. We all thought you were dead, or something.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Yes, sir, I see that now,” the guard said, still bowing. “Welcome home.”

Grizill smiled, causing his cracked lips to bleed, but he didn’t care. Under normal circumstances, he would have taught this guard a lesson. But he was happy to be back in Strudhyne. Wiping the blood from his lips with a dusty sleeve, he took a step forward.

The guard eyed the captain’s boots uneasily as he drew abreast of him.

“You were only doing your job, keeping the Capitol safe,” Grizill said as he shambled by. He stopped and whispered in the guard’s ear, “Next time, find out who you’re talking to first before attempting to kill them. These are dangerous times.” With that said, Grizill slapped the guard on the back of the head, knocking his helm off.

“Oh, yes sir, yes sir,” the guard babbled as he scrambled after his helm. As he stood, he plopped it back on his greasy head. “I certainly will. I’ve always wanted to be a member of the Black Plague, you see. And I’d be happy if you’d consider . . .” The guard turned around and realized that he was talking to himself. The Black Plague captain had disappeared. The guard sighed, his shoulders falling in defeat as he walked back through the open door in the gate, closed the door, locked it, and waited for the next blorc to come by. He sighed again, already bored.

Grizill looked around the plaza. On unsteady feet, he weaved his way toward the well and tripped over something, barely staying upright. He looked behind him and saw the smallest of pebbles.

How is that even possible? he thought. All of a sudden, I feel beyond tired.

The well was only a short distance away, but it seemed to be receding further away as he looked at it. He took a staggering step forward, and then another. He teetered on his feet, almost falling. He was so close to getting some water, but he suddenly felt light-headed as his brain turned foggy.

Need water, he thought.

Again, he tripped over another pebble, but this time it sent him to his knees. He raised his head toward the life-giving water that he knew was so close. On his hands and knees, he crawled toward his goal, his dry, swollen tongue hanging out of his mouth. Eventually, he found himself leaning over the side of the well. The parched blorc pushed the bucket over the side, the handle attached to the winch beside him spinning around rapidly as the bucket hurtled into the darkness. Grizill heard the bucket splash onto the surface of the water below. He pushed himself up, and with shaking hands, grabbed the handle of the winch that would bring the bucket back up to him, full of life-giving water. Around and around he turned the handle, slowly causing the water-filled bucket to climb the well. Finally, the bucket rested there, swaying in front of him, but it seemed so far away. He took one of his hands off of the handle and shakily reached for the bucket. In his weakened state, the weight of the water was too much for him, and his hand slipped on the handle, releasing it. As the bucket plummeted back down the well, Grizill reached for the rope. He grabbed it, but it slipped through his weakened grip until the bucket smacked into the water below.

“No!” Grizill yelled, collapsing against the side of the well.

As his vision shrank to pinholes, darkness overcame him and he passed out. His last thought was that his king would be very disappointed that he hadn’t been strong enough to give his report right away, no matter what he had gone through.

His news for King Gridarg Zogstomp and Reilyk the Red, the king’s advisor and black mage, would have to wait.