Blood, Faith, and Steel Read online

  Blood, Faith, and Steel

  From the Journals of Brady Theirot

  And the Books of Zhenlagor

  Written By Mike Dukk

  Blood, Faith, and Steel

  From the Journals of Brady Theirot

  And the Books of Zhenlagor

  Copyright June 2012 Mike Dukk

  www.MikeDukk.com

  Cover illustration and character artwork by Alysa Avery

  Edited by Derek Petrey

  Foreword by Christopher P. Hicks

  Armored duck sketch on author’s biography page by Wes Bishop

  To my writer’s group:

  For all of their support, guidance and inspiration.

  Contents

  FOREWORD 5

  Chapter 1 8

  Chapter 2 25

  Chapter 3 38

  Chapter 4 67

  Chapter 5 84

  Chapter 6 105

  Chapter 7 119

  CHARACTERS BACKGROUNDS 122

  About the Author: 130

  About the Artist: 131

  About the Editor: 132

  FOREWORD

  by Christopher P. Hicks

  Mike asked me to write this foreword and I am honored to do so, but it clearly brings up the question, “What the heck should I write about?” Most of the forewords I've read are honorifics; an established writer writing about another established writer and saying how great and influential their stuff is. Neither Mike nor I are established writers yet, although I think we've both been doing it in one form or another a very long time. Mike's work is, in fact, great. But as I have no bona fides to back up my opinion, you're probably less than impressed. And while I admit that, since we're in a writer's group together, Mike's view and feel for writing has influenced my stuff for the better, I'm guessing you don't really care about that either.

  So, by now you've either decided to skip this and start the story (and I wouldn't blame you) or you are practically yelling at the page, “Get on with it!” For those of you still here, let me give you some background and perspective on this story. Consider this a DVD extra, a look behind the curtains of how this little tale came to be.

  To start at the beginning, Zhenlagor is a world I created specifically to run role-playing games in about twenty years ago. I added in all the things I loved about fantasy worlds and got rid of all the things I hated. Over the years it evolved into something less of a mish-mash of other people's ideas and into something uniquely my own.

  About three years ago, I decided to tell the story of one of my non-player characters as a novel. A friend of mine mentioned she was in a writing group and that I should join. Shortly thereafter came a suggestion that the group should do something creative and non-writing related. Someone threw out the idea to play a quick one-shot game, and before I knew what was happening, I was running it. And, at the suggestion of another member, I placed the game in my world so they could learn more about it.

  I threw together the game the night before (including writing all of the character backgrounds at the last minute and recruiting my wife to generate their stats) and ran it over two weekends. At the end of that second session, Mike came up to me and thanked me for the game, then asked if he could write it up as a short story.

  I agreed and assumed it would go the way of every other story someone said they were going to write based on one of my games, which is to say it would never happen. I more or less forgot about it.

  But it never went away. It kept coming back, like a zombie that just won't stay dead. Mike kept mentioning that he was working on it. I provided him with all of the background materials I had written for the game and promptly forgot about it again. Then, one very surreal evening for me, that story was his submission for the writing group.

  So there I was, months later, hearing someone else writing my story using characters I made up and set in a world that is, well, precious to me. And the worst part? It was really, really good. Good enough that some of the ideas I used in the game were sort of back written into my novel. See, the adventure they played happened in between chapters and, thanks to my procrastination and Mike's ability to write consistently, he was finished long before me. And again, it was really, really good.

  So here we are. I can't describe how exciting and terrifying it is to have someone else playing with my toys, so to speak. They're the characters I created, but influenced by the players that played them and the writer that put their words so eloquently on the page. So they're mine, but not. It's rare enough that a writer gets to look at his creations through the focused lens of another writer, and to get that chance before those creations have been released into the world? I can't imagine the odds. But that is where I find myself.

  Zhenlagor isn't just a game world, it's a part of me, a creation that I'm very proud of and very protective of. Mike has treated it and me with nothing but respect throughout this process, and I can't express in words, written or spoken, how much that means to me.

  So here lies my world in Mike's words. I suppose there is nothing to say but something I've said many, many times before:

  Welcome to Zhenlagor.

  Chapter 1

  Crisp pain roused me to consciousness.

  A rat was chewing on my forearm.

  “Ouch.” I scrambled to a sitting position. The rat squealed and scurried into the darkness.

  Ah. How lovely. I was in a dank, dark dungeon. But how had I got there? After a few moments, the cobwebs in my mind cleared, and I could remember the previous evening’s events.

  We had agreed to rid an old, abandoned keep of a pestilence of orcs and were to receive five hundred gold pieces’ worth in gems and jewels for our troubles. Orc infestations were rampant in those days, and it took hardy adventurers to drive the orcs away. My fellow compatriots and I were just such folk, and we gladly took the job.

  We never made it to the keep.

  The tall, gaunt man who had supposedly sought to employ us called himself Matthias. He had offered us a simple drink to seal our agreement. Negotiations could make one thirsty, after all, so the five of us all drank the excellent red wine offered to us.

  Next thing I know, I’m rat food.

  I stood and started to pace. I hated the darkness, but thankfully, with a few swishes of my hands and a prayer to my Matron Berythal, Archangel of Love, I would be able to call forth light bright enough to illumine the entire ten-by-ten cell.

  The spell required complex hand motions, but to add to my plight I found my hands bound by odd, lightweight manacles. They were made of a spongy, durable material. With practiced ease, I shortened my arm motions and began to incant my light spell.

  As I chanted, the cuffs cinched around my wrists and sent spasms of searing heat surging up my arms and into my shoulders. My body shuddered and I fell to my knees. My light spell was lost.

  “Cursed manacles,” I said aloud.

  “Brady? What’s the matter, Butter Mumkins?” That was Elanor, one of my fellow adventurers, and also my current lover.

  Gruff laughter echoed from a few cells over. “Elanor call Brady ‘Butter Mumkins’.” That was Birch, a male half-orc barbarian, the brute of our group. Birch enjoyed bashing skulls, hacking limbs off enemies, causing general mayhem, and giving me grief at every possible opportunity.

  I sighed. Why’d she have to call me that when she knew Birch could hear? “It’s me, Elanor. You okay?”

  “Groggy. I must’ve passed out. Matthias used Filst Root in that wine. I thought it tasted bitter,” Elanor said.

  “Birch not get to kill orcs now?” Birch asked.

  I took that to mean that he was none the worse for wear.

  “Mina, Lelliani, can either of you hear me?” I asked.

  “These
manacles are treacherous! I can’t cast anything.” Mina was our sorceress. She stood all of three feet and was always dressed in the oddest of colors; the depressed and gloomy sort wore by sad rainbows. “Has anyone seen Waspy?”

  Waspy was her familiar, a pet that Mina used as a kind of focus to attune her arcane powers. Waspy was a very annoying bat. I was always surprised that the creature never ended up as a stain upon a wall when we ran into trouble.

  From across the hall, another familiar female yelled at the top of her lungs. “Guard, oh guard! Can you please come down here?”

  That was Lelliani. She was an extraordinarily attractive half-elf, having the charismatic features of both a human and an elf. Lelliani was brash, bloodthirsty, deadly accurate with a bow, and an incredible pain in my backside. It seemed she jumped at the opportunity to make every bad situation worse. She was also my ex-lover, and ironically the best of friends with Elanor.

  Lelliani was a constant torment to me.

  Through the thick, closed door that led from the dungeon hallway, a guttural voice answered in the Orc language. “Icks shaw ta shup.”

  “Orc say ugly people shut up.” Birch laughed and cracked his very large knuckles. “Birch get to kill orcs after all.”

  The joy with which Birch spoke of killing things should’ve disturbed me. It didn’t. Birch was a barbarian, and he strived to slay anything that breathed, especially orcs.

  I tested the bonds at my wrists. “If I didn’t have on these manacles I could —”

  The lock on my door popped, and I stepped back in surprise.

  Elanor walked into the cell and kissed me lightly upon the cheek. “Already working on it, Butter Mumkins.”

  I smiled. There were benefits to having a thief as a lover. Picking locks was an obvious reason, just not the best. Elanor’s skills were many: she was lithe, cunning, and the sway of her hips captivated me. She had long curly red hair, mesmerizing blue eyes, and a perception of her surroundings better than anyone I had ever seen.

  I moved forward to return her kiss, only to have her step away and grin. “Not now, Butter Mumkins. We need to free the others.” She turned and walked back outside.

  I followed her. Birch already stood in the hallway, his large form towering over my own. His head was mere inches from the seven-foot ceiling. He was wide of shoulder, with bulky, defined muscles. Even while clad only in dirty padded clothes and still bound in manacles, he was a foundation of intimidation.

  Elanor had the manacles off of him in four blinks of an eye. She was usually faster, though she was working with only a flimsy wire and not her normal thieves’ tools. After she finished, she turned to unlock Lelliani’s door.

  “Um, Sweetie? Maybe you should leave her in there for the time being? Just until we figure out a plan,” I said in my most pleading voice.

  Elanor turned and put her hand on her hips. “Brady Theirot, she’s as good as a sister to me. She won’t do anything to get us in any more trouble.”

  Oh, I had heard that before.

  Birch chuckled. He started to say something but was interrupted by an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

  “Excuse me? Can you let me out, please? I’m Celiann Urushiol, and I ask for your assistance.”

  Birch gave a questioning look toward a solid wooden door with a barred peephole. Elven eyes peered from within. Birch shook his head. “Bad idea. Leave elf here.” Birch wasn’t crazy about strangers in our midst, and I couldn’t blame him. We’d had our share of betrayers in the past.

  Elanor, however, walked over to Celiann’s cell and unlocked the latch, then turned to stare at the half-orc with one of her “I dare you to argue with me” looks.

  Birch shrugged. “Okay. Birch think elf better left in dungeon.”

  Elanor answered with a not-so-loving smile, her argument won.

  That heartfelt need of Elanor to help others had nearly killed us on numerous occasions. The last time we let someone innocent-looking out of a cell, it turned out to be a nasty, mutated doppelganger, complete with four arms and a poisonous bite. I rubbed my neck, remembering the savage bite and the nasty fever I had received from the effects of the doppelganger’s attack.

  Of course, I wasn’t going to argue with Elanor. Not only was she my sweetheart, but she was capable of filleting me into very tiny pieces. Her temper could be quite volatile.

  “If that Matthias has her locked up, she’s got to be okay,” Elanor said. “I told you I had a bad feeling about him.”

  “Of course, dear,” I said. Whenever things went bad, Elanor always managed to have those bad feelings after the fact. I wasn’t about to remind her that she was the one that set up the meeting with Matthias. That would just get me in trouble.

  The woman who called herself Celiann walked into the hallway and nearly jumped back into her cell when Birch took a menacing step toward her. It could’ve been the tusks that jutted from the bottom of his jaw, or the fact that he towered over her; more likely, it was that he smelled really bad. The barbarian’s stench could make a hog retch.

  Celiann found her footing and stood straight, her green eyes glaring at Birch. “Matthias put me in here. He’d been speaking to my brother and me about the charitable services of the Omega Brotherhood. That was the last thing I remember before we blacked out.”

  So, Matthias had played a different trick with the same result.

  The Omega Brotherhood was a large cult, their beliefs all but unknown to those outside its membership. That was the extent of my knowledge of them. I didn’t even know they existed in Waterbourne.

  Celiann looked at us. “Has anyone seen my brother? His name is Yensid and he’s a —”

  “Icks shaw ta shup! Culshubbith vicksthy tee!” The guard rapped hard on the outside of the solid wooden door to the dungeon hallway, the eye slit of which was currently shut.

  In a blink everyone was back in their cells, except for me. Birch tucked into the previously unoccupied cell closest to the outside door and pulled it nearly shut. The others returned to the cells from which they came. I froze at the sound of the orc’s voice. Before I could move, the slot slid open and a sudden, rather crazy thought popped into my mind. I dropped to my knees in the hallway.

  I decided to pull the old bait-and-trick maneuver. I heard it worked like a charm, though I’d never tried it.

  The orc guard opened the peephole. Its yellow eyes widened when it saw me in the hallway. I put fear into my voice and spoke before the orc could think. “Kind guard, my cell door accidently opened and —”

  Then I remembered I couldn’t speak the Orcish language. Quickly I used my arms and tried to show the guard that the door had opened up on its own. I probably looked like a drunken mime as I made charade after charade. After I finished my absurd gesturing, the orc’s yellow eyes continued to stare.

  I swallowed. Any semi-intelligent being would have gone to get help before opening that heavily reinforced door. However, this guard had obviously been the most dim-witted of the entire tribe. The orc grumbled, unbolted several locks on the door and swung it outward. As he stepped into the doorway, he pulled out a wickedly curved scimitar. After peering at the other closed doors, he strode toward me, speaking Orcish and waving his sword menacingly.

  I swallowed, held up my hands, and prayed silently to Berythal.

  Birch exploded from the doorway behind the guard, catching the orc by surprise. He grappled the smaller orc and managed to put it in a choke hold.

  I sighed in relief. There was no way the guard was going to escape that.

  I had just reached my feet when the orc dropped to his knees, slipped out of Birch’s grasp, and used the pommel of its sword to bash Birch’s big toe. Birch muffled his own scream as he released the orc, and then tried to grapple the orc again.

  This time the guard was ready. Though not very intelligent in a battle of wits, the guard’s fighting instincts were superb. He whisked the scimitar toward Birch in a deft motion, scoring a hit that left a thin stream of blood across Birch�
��s chest.

  Birch growled. He took a roundhouse swing at the guard and missed, and was rewarded with another slash on his right shoulder from the curved blade.

  I had to do something. Weaponless and without my spells, I was puny compared to those two warriors, and yet, Birch was my friend. So I screamed, ran at the orc’s back and swung my manacles as hard as I could.

  Shock ran down my arms as my blow glanced harmlessly off the back of the orc’s chain mail armor. The guard’s head turned, and its sickly yellow eyes squinted as it snarled at me, like I was no more than an annoying fly. The orc spun and began to swing its scimitar.

  Three other dungeon doors burst open. Elanor swung a clumsy-looking club; I had no idea where she had gotten it. The blow struck the orc in its left shoulder. The orc’s chain mail caught some of the blow, though a dribble of blood appeared from under the small dent in its shoulder armor.

  From the opposite door, Lelliani smashed into the guard’s side. Her blow whirled the orc around, knocking it off balance.

  As the orc struggled to regain its equilibrium, Mina darted at the guard, wrapped her manacles around one leg, and then held on to the other. The guard reached for her, but Waspy swooped from nowhere and harassed the orc’s eyes. It roared, and I surmised it called for help.

  No sooner had the scream left its lips than Birch grabbed the besieged orc with two hands and hurled the orc hard into one stone wall, and then into another. The guard groaned after the second collision, and its yellow eyes rolled back into its skull as it collapsed.

  The orc hit the ground with a sickening thump. Lelliani helped Mina get untangled from the unconscious orc’s legs while Elanor searched it. She found a metal rod with a bulbous tip on one end. “This could be the key for the manacles.”

  I stepped over the unconscious orc and punched it in the face, which caused everyone to stop and look at me.

  “What?” I asked.