The Chronicles of Arain
Chapter One, Tlog
Oren woke to the sound of bells clanging; they chimed eight times, so it was eight o'clock, almost time to break his fast. He pulled the bedclothes aside and stood, surveying his room. It was not very large, but large enough. In his room he had a chest where he stored his spare clothes and belongings, a small bed-side table with a washstand, and his bed.
On one of the walls there was a small window which looked out over the city of Tlog. Oren loved to stare out of this window for hours on end, watching blacksmiths working in their forges, watching traders selling their wares and watching people living their daily lives. The palace of Tlog was at the very top of the mountain the city was built upon, so from his window Oren could see even beyond the great walls of the city and out into the sea to the west and the Aral River to the east. Now Oren went over to the window and stared out, thinking about his life.
Oren had lived in Tlog since he was born. His father had been killed by Nargz giants when Oren was three and his mother had died in childbirth when he was born, so Oren had no parents. The King Thormgold was his uncle and when Oren's father was killed, Thormgold had made his nephew a sort of adopted son. Thormgold had never married and had no children, so he was glad to have someone he could trust to rule Tlog well after he, Thormgold, was gone.
Oren was fifteen and had heard all his life of the great and heroic deeds of his uncle the king, and all his life had dreamed of going on great quests to the Dragon Mountains, Orlvin Forest and the Northern Desert, battling Nargz Giants, Dragons and Morg Raiders all the way. But Oren had never even been out of the kingdom of Tlog. It was not as though his uncle had forbidden it, he was not the sort of man to worry about things like this, it was just that Oren had never really thought about actually going on any of those quests, and they had just been childhood fantasies, games to play with his friends. “But now,” Oren thought, “I might actually go on one on those quests.”
For the night before, his uncle, the king, had told him he had some news for Oren, and that he would tell him in the morning. Oren had lain awake for hours last night, not able to fall asleep for the expectation of his uncle's news. But now that he was awake, Oren was reluctant to go see his uncle, afraid that he might not like what his uncle had to tell him. Suddenly there was a knocking at the door. Oren tore his eyes away from the hustle and bustle of the streets and called, “just a moment.” He went over to his trunk and lifted the lid, pulling out a tunic, some stockings and a belt. He pulled the red tunic on over his white under-tunic that he slept in, tied the leather belt around his waist and pulled on the brown woolen stockings.
Then he went over to his bed and while he was putting on his leather shoes, he called, “Come in.” A servant opened the door and said, “The king Thormgold wishes your presence, Master Oren.” All the servants and cooks in the palace of Tlog called Oren, “Master Oren” He hated it and preferred just to be called Oren. But the servants still called him it anyway. Oren finished putting on his shoes and followed the servant down the passage that led away from his room. He turned left, then right, then left again and stood in the doorway of Thormgold's chamber. The servant opened the great oak door and Oren stepped inside. His uncle was sitting in a chair by the hearth, a fire crackling before him and a book on his lap. The servant bowed, then left, closing the door behind him.
“So, Oren. You have come to see me. I suppose you are wondering what I have to tell you.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oren.
“Well, I have some news for you, I think you will like it, but then maybe you won't, as it requires going on a certain quest…” Thormgold said these last words with a growing smile on his face.
“A quest! Why, sir, I hope you don't mind me saying so, but I have dreamed of going on quest all of my life!”
“I know,” said Thormgold “that is why I picked you to go. Now, you should leave tomorrow morning. I don't have time to explain the details now; I shall have to do that later. If you come to my chamber before dinner I will tell about it. Now, off to the hall to eat your breakfast.”
“Thank you very much, sir!” exclaimed Oren. And he left, closing the door in time to see the smile on his uncle's face as he read his book. Oren walked down the hallway and turned left onto a staircase. He went down it until he reached the great set of doors. They were at least ten feet high and made of oak with huge iron straps to strengthen them.
Oren pushed open the great doors and stepped inside. A huge table in the shape of an egg was set in the middle of the hall, with exactly one hundred chairs surrounding it. Oren sat down in his chair which was to the left of the King's great seat.
On the right of where Thormgold sat was where Berovin, the wise man sat. Oren knew very little about Berovin, other than that he had lived at the palace in Tlog since as long as Oren could remember and that he had been a great warrior in his day. But Berovin was old now, at least seventy. He did little but talk for hours on end with Thormgold and read many books of learning. It was said that he had read every book in the Tlog archives. But Oren did not think this was true, as his uncle had once said that there were at least five thousand books in the Tlog archives!
“Even a man of seventy cannot have read that many books!” thought Oren.
And there Berovin sat now, leaning over his porridge with a tired look on his face.
“Good morning, Berovin.” Said Oren
“And to you Oren. So, has Thormgold told you of what he wants you to do yet?”
“Yes, he has told me. And I am greatly looking forward to it!” Oren finished eating his porridge and left the hall to go down to the armory. Usually at least two or three of the captains who were second in command only to Thormgold would be coming to visit the king, leaving their armor and hammer-axes behind in the armory. Oren would admire the gold-tinted steel plates and peaked golden helmets in awe, hoping that some day; hopefully soon, he would get to wear them too. But even more than the armor in splendor, were the hammer-axes. Ever since their empire had been founded a thousand years hence, the Tlog people had been using great hammer-axes to fight with. At least six feet in length, with a hammer at least a foot long and half that length wide, made of solid iron at one end, and a great double-edged axe at the other, men armed with these weapons were a force to be reckoned with. But it took much strength to wield a hammer-axe successfully as they weighed about twenty pounds. But the Tlog warriors were trained exceptionally well and most could even whirl the weapons above their heads and bring down the hammer end on an enemy's skull, cracking it open before hacking another foe right in half at the waist with the axe end.
Oren admired the Tlog warriors. Most were big, with large muscles and grim looks on their faces. In the past, Tlog had had immense armies of these men, but in recent years, The Tlog army had shrunk, until even the most in-experienced warrior was relied upon for heroics. Oren left the armory and went back up into the palace. There he spent a few hours, first caring for his horse, Moroly ( whose name meant swift in the ancient toungue of Tlog), then reading a book of old Tlog tales of heroes and dragons, trying to kill time. He was tired from lack of sleep the night before and the armchair that he was sitting in was so comfortable that Oren could barely keep from falling asleep. He was just getting to the good part of the story, when the hero Glarmhied was about to kill a Nargz Giant when he dropped off…
When Oren awoke, the sounds of bells again filled his ears. This time they rang only four times, but it was not the bells that had woken him, it seemed, but that Berovin was standing over him.
“I wondered where you were.” Said Berovin. “You see, Thormgold was looking for you so he could talk to you, So he asked me if I had seen you, I told him I hadn't, but that I would tell him if I did. Then I came here to do a bit reading and found you.”
“Oh.” Mumbled Oren, still not fully awake. Does the king wish to see me now?”
“Indeed he does.” So Oren followed Berovin out of the Archives and down the hall to his uncle's chamber for the second time that day. But this time when he opened the door, the room was filled with light. The curtains had been thrust aside and there were papers and books strewn everywhere.
“Thormgold may not be here yet, but you can wait in here until he comes back.” Said Berovin. Oren walked into the room and stared around. Behind him, he heard the door close. He went over to the table under the biggest window and looked at was on it. There were several large stacks of books and pieces of parchment in varying stages of decay, a few larger books, some of which were left open, and a few old maps of different parts of Arain. Oren glanced at these; one was of the kingdom of Tlog, one of the Dragon Mountains, one of the Lands of Kronin and one of the Dead Lands, with the fortress of Skaeth in its corner. Oren looked particularly at this last one, for many small marks had been made all over it lots of little arrows and dots. Oren wondered what they meant but a few seconds later had forgotten all about them, for footsteps could be heard in the hall outside the door. Oren turned quickly, as he did not think his uncle would approve of his looking at his private papers.
Oren quickly, but silently, leapt over to the other side of the room, to make the impression that he had been there the entire time. He made it just in time, for exactly as he made it to the side of the chair in front of the empty hearth, the door opened.
Thormgold walked into the room. He greeted Oren and sat down in his big armchair.
“Sit down.” He said, gesturing to a smaller chair that stood beside his own. “Now, I suppose you have waited all day to talk to me. Am I correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I may as well just get to the point. The kingdom of Kronin has long been Tlog's ally, but in recent years they have begun to ignore us. I wish for you to go to Kronin with a message to give to their king, Arzil. It will be a dangerous journey, for many leagues lie between Tlog and Kronin, but I think you can handle it. I have ordered the servants to pack you some food and water. You can take a few of your own items but be selective, as you do not want your horse to be more tired than she has to be. You should take a sword also, but no heavy armor. Now, you should be off to pack, but before you go you I have some things for you."
Thormgold walked over to the table Oren had been secretly looking at. He picked up a map of Kronin, a small leather bag, and, from inside a chest that stood by the window, a sword in its sheath. His uncle first handed Oren the map.
“Use this well,” He said “It is a map of Kronin and the lands surrounding it.” Next he gave Oren the bag. “Some money for you to use on your journey, do not spend this on trifles.” He said these last words harshly, but Oren saw the twinkle in his eyes. Lastly, he gave Oren the sword. Oren examined this closely; it had a golden pommel, with a single encrusted red stone in the center, and a curved silver cross-guard in the shape of dragon's wings. Oren drew the sword, and swished it through the air. Its blade was about two and a half feet in length, and had a gentle curve that ended in a sharp point.
“Thank you, sir!” Exclaimed Oren. “This is a wonderful gift!”
“It was once your father's.” Said Thormgold “It was forged ages ago and was passed down through you family, and your father said before he was killed that when the right time came I should give it to you. It should serve you well. Its name is Razoch, which means troll-slayer in ancient Tlog.” As Oren stood admiring Razoch, he said, “Thank you uncle for these gifts, but now I must pack if I am to leave in the morning. Thank you and good night” “Good night Oren, I shall see you off in the morning.”
Oren left the king's chamber and went down the hall to his room. He went over to the chest once he got there and opened it taking out his pack. In it, Oren placed an extra set of clothing, a small hunting knife, a small fire-making set, his larger, fighting knife, and many other small things. Also in his pack he put his uncle's gifts, all except Razoch, which he placed on his bed, before he left his room to go down to the hall for his dinner. Hours later, when Oren returned, he was tired and could not wait to get to sleep. But before he did, he picked up Razoch and stood in the window, watching the city of Tlog slowly fall asleep. Little did Oren know how long it would be until he stood there again.
by Henry
Young Writers Camp, Oakland
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