Orin The Great Ch. 01

(medieval fantasy, mostly straight with some homoerotic undertones)

The Demon Of Dunnidale

Let us now draw our attention to the rustic landscape of a world known as Nuart, which its original settlers knew better as New Earth. This is a world of adventure and enchantment, and thanks to its massive influx of natural magic, it is a world of great sorcery as well. For several hundreds of years, Nuart has thrived in what we would term as the Medieval Age, for that is the age from whence the first inhabitants arrived. But enough about the planet itself, for surely you will understand more about this world as our tale progresses.

Instead, let me direct your gaze toward the vast expanse of untamed woodlands, with a scattering of shrubbery-encrusted rolling hills and the peaks of a great corridor of mountains seen in the far distance. Through this great tangle of trees and cutting though the forest like a jagged tear in the earth, is the single, desolate road that joins the villages of Bathum and Dirk's Gutter. It is on this solitary path that we come across the wary form of Orin the Younger. He is not on the path itself, but treading stealthily some five yards away from the road's edge.

A strapping young man of eighteen years Orin was, handsome in a rugged and manly fashion, yet possessive of charm, wit and a smile that endeared him to ladies both young and old. His hair was hued in a sandy blonde, while his eyes were a shade of brown so dark as almost to be termed black. As his body was still blossoming into adulthood, the prominence and strength of his shoulders had only just begun. Orin was only a few inches taller than the average man, and if need be he could quickly lose himself in a crowd. Purposefully, the young man's clothes had been cut a bit generously to belie the man's budding musculature and sturdiness.

You see, Orin was the offspring of a mercenary of no small infamy, at least in some parts of that great land. His father was once known as Orenn the Fearless, later as Orenn the Stout, and finally, as Orenn the Dead. During the latter stages of his life, Orenn had contracted with noblemen to train their sons as knights, and with the coarser types to train their sons as mercenaries, or on occasion even as assassins. Much of the man's formidable knowledge and insight had been passed on to his own son.

When the old man passed, there was nothing left to tie Orennsen, or Orenn's Son, as the young man was then known, to the small village his father had retired to. Orin sold the entirety of the property and possessions left to him as an inheritance, save for a scant few articles. Also the young man changed his name to what it now presently was, from Orennsen to Orin, both to keep his father's memory alive, and to differentiate the Younger Orenn from the Older one. Finally, Orin set foot on the dirt road that led away from the place of his birth in order to fulfill his own destiny.

On his person, Orin carried a meager lot of items. He wore a tan tunic, tied at the waist by a cord of strong, thin leather, this under a darker brown leather vest. For his lower half, he sported a leaf-green set of leggings and dark brown, ankle high boots.

His weaponry was as would be expected from a man of his day and age. He carried a simple hunting bow over his shoulder. The quiver slung across his back held all of eight arrows, for he'd lost a few after wounding, but not killing, wild game such as boar or deer. In the sheath at his side, he carried a short sword with a blade the length of two of his feet, at the small of his back and in his left boot were secreted two small and, in the hands of one who knew how to use them, very lethal daggers. The leather cap he'd tied around his belt wasn't as harmless as it looked, either, for hidden in its inner seam was an assassin's garrote made of very fine chain mail.

The young man's knapsack was lightweight. All that was bundled up within it was a change of clothing which would allow Orin to pass as a courier for a nobleman of modest worth. Also, he carried few provisions such as a rapidly diminishing supply of water in a cured goat's bladder.

So hungry was he, that when Orin caught scent of roasting meat, he halted his pace. Further into the woods and like a shadow he moved, until he discovered three men lazily sitting around a small campfire. Quickly, he gauged them to possibly be a gang of old bandits, and only a day or two from becoming beggars, for Orin saw neither horses nor any sort of sturdy armaments among them.

As an exercise, Orin calculated how long it would take him to dispatch the trio to their doom. A pitifully short time, he decided, unless they became aware of his presence beforehand and had time to gather both their wits and their bows. After that, it would be a contest between his agility and maneuvering, pitted against their tenacity and marksmanship.

Orin's father, however, had bestowed upon him the matter of the sanctity of life, and the idea that he should not rob a man of his existence unless Orin's own life were in danger, or unless he was being paid to take it. The young man was still deliberating this last part, over whether or not he wished to be employed as an assassin for hire, but that was a matter he could afford to put off for now.

At the moment, Orin only wished for a few mouthfuls of the hare the three older men were roasting on a spit. To this end, he crept up next to a stout tree and whistled out as a bird, then abruptly changed his call to that of another fowl, before finally returning to his original tune. Any man who had spent time out in the wild would recognize this as an artificial warning. A second after, all three men were scrambling about for their weapons.

"Who goes there?" One of them challenged the forest.

"Orin, son of Orenn the Fearless."

"We know of no such man! What do you want?"

"I am a simple traveler, and I caught the scent of your fire from the road. I would gladly pay a ha'penny for a portion of your meal, if you were but willing to spare it."

"How many come with you?"

"I am alone."

"Show yourself!" The man demanded.

"I cannot. You three are armed. I fear that if I show my face, your arrows will strike me down. Are you men of honor or men of dishonor?"

This last question could be rightly taken as an affront to an honest man, Orin knew, for in those lands a man's word was worth its weight in gold. Indeed, the man who answered him scoffed at the implication.

"We are men of our word. Come forward, if you will. We will not shoot at you unless we are provoked."

"Are you bandits?" Orin further tested them, because one could not be too careful out in such desolation as what he presently found himself in.

"No, Orin, son of Orenn, we are not." The man replied.

Orin watched the man relax, and return to take his former seat on the ground.

A second man soon sat down as well, but the third studiously kept watch. This was the best that Orin hoped to get, as he left his hiding place and took several steps closer to them. Had he been in their shoes, undoubtedly he would be watching a newcomer as closely as this last man was watching him.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to know our names?" The only man who'd thus far spoken asked. "I am Judson, and sitting beside me is my brother Ackerley. The man standing is Bartram. What then is the name of your village?"

"Bilge Barrel." Orin replied.

"Quite a ways from home, are you?" Ackerley scratched his head. "What's a young lad like yourself doing so far away from your mother's bosom?"

"My mother passed some time ago, my father more recently." Orin divulged. "I wish to see more of this earth than what I'd already seen in my own village."

"The wanderlust has you, has it?" Ackerley nodded. "I had that same wanderlust once, and what I saw of the outside world made me come straight back!"

He started laughing.

"Sit down, young Orin, sit down." Judson urged.

Orin would comply with the invitation, but he first sought out the eyes of the last man standing. Bartram nodded his consent, before the watchful man finally seated himself beside the other fellows. In order not to be discourteous, Orin followed suit a moment later.

"Would a ha'penny suffice for a few bites to eat?" He repeated his offer.

"What need have we for coin, out here in the woods?" Judson shook his head. "Have you anything edible to trade?"

Orin pulled from his knapsack a small stock of almonds, blueberries, cheese and dark bread. For the next couple of minutes, he negotiated for a share for the hare, as well as for the filling up of his canteen. Alas, the three men had no arrows to spare.

After the deal was shaken hands upon, they all began conversing at length, as men wanting for new company tend to. They spoke of the general state of things in that small pocket of the world, of past conquests and battles, both on the battlefield and on the bed, and of the proximity and highlights of any villages in the vicinity.

"Have you any knowledge of a place where a man such as myself can find adventure?" Orin asked later.

"No adventure left in these parts." Judson shrugged. "The only things around here are all these trees." He chuckled. "One you get past those, you'll find even more trees!"

Orin glanced at the other men. Ackerley shrugged in much the same way as his brother had, but Bartram, the most mysterious of them all, solemnly met his gaze.

"They say the Devil has taken root in Dunnidale." Bartram revealed. "That's not too far from here, if you're willing to make the journey."

"Oh, don't tell him about Dunnidale!" Judson scolded. "You know well that place has the Devil's curse on it!"

Not one to be easily spooked, Orin insisted on hearing more of the place.

"I cannot rightly say what lies at the bottom of it." Bartram related. "But what I have heard from the mouths of men that have come from there is this. Dunnidale was the same as any other place, up until about a generation or two ago."

"It was a prosperous place, sure enough." Ackerley nodded. "A good place for trade, as I recall it."

"So it was." Bertram went on. "A young couple was murdered there. One was from a wealthy family, the other from a poor one, but I cannot rightly remember which was which. The gist of the tale is that some witchcraft was performed right after their deaths took place, and before their souls could completely leave this earth. The Devil himself, they say, was summoned to go there and to take possession of those very souls. Both lovers were cursed, even after their deaths."

"Tell him the rest, now that you've gone and let the cat out of the bag." Judson frowned.

"They say that somehow, the soul of the girl escaped the clutches of the Devil and fled into a cave at the outskirts of Dunnidale. They say that when the moon is at its brightest and at the advent of spring, as it was on such an unholy night when her life was taken, that the girl's cries can be heard all over the village. She is looking for her lost lover, those who have heard her say, for her soul is unaware that the Devil has him in his black grip. And the girl's cries, they are so enthralling and so sweet to a man's ears, that they seduce the young men of the village into attempting to rescue her from that cave. When these men get near the mouth of that evil place, they say the Devil himself will show his face and drive all these men away. Such a fear does the Devil put into these men, that all of them flee from that cave, and what's more, they flee from their homes in Dunnidale as well."

"And they never, never come back." Ackerley added.

"Tell him about the reward now." Judson said, as he removed the spit from the fire, and began to cut himself one of the paltry portions of meat that was still left. "Go on."

Bartram nodded. "So many mothers of Dunnidale have lost their sons in this manner, that the people there have taken to offering a goodly collection of coin to anyone who can drive the Devil away from that place."

"To this very day, that reward still stands." Ackerley said.

"Many adventurous sorts have tried to claim that reward." Bartram revealed. "Big men, strong men, men who have killed scores in battle. All of them have failed. Some are said to have fled into the dead of night, through the forest and without even returning to the village to breathe a single word of what transpired there. The handful who've hurried back to Dunnidale to claim whatever horse or belongings they'd left at the local tavern have said this; the Devil stood before the foot of the cave. His face was so hideous and frightful that they never stepped near enough to enter the cave."

"The girl's accursed soul is still there." Judson said, looking up at the darkening sky, and at the glowing moon. "And I'd say she's set to begin her wailing in maybe three or four day's time, if I have my seasons straight. She's said to begin her wailing on the first full moon of spring."

"Aye, the first full moon of spring." His brother confirmed. "That's correct."

"Will I have time to get there, do you think?" Orin asked.

The two brothers laughed up a storm.

"You're not thinking of walking all the way to Dunnidale, are you?" Judson asked.

"Har, har!" Ackerley bellowed. "This poor waif thinks he can upset the Devil! Har, har!"

Orin found his cheeks reddening from humiliation. Sheepishly, he turned to one side.

"Better men than you have tried to rescue that girl's soul." Bartram reminded him. "What do you possess that those men did not?"

"I'd just like to hear this woman's lamentations for myself if I could, to see if this is all true or not." Orin stated. "Have any of you actually been to Dunnidale when all this is taking place? Have any of you heard this lady's cries with your own ears?"

None of them had.

"It could all be lies then, or half-truths, yes?" Orin asked. "If it's all the same, I'd like to know which road I must take to get there."

Shortly after, and hoping to make some progress before the full setting of night, Orin the Younger was on his way to Dunnidale.

Three days later he arrived there, and to a very somber welcome. Very few residents were to be found in the village streets. Those that were present did nothing save to ignore Orin's requests for information, and directly afterward they turned their backs on him. Every door was closed and every window shuttered, as if the plague were running rampant, or as if the crop season were about to bear a very dismal harvest.

Orin kept up his stroll around the village, until he spotted a fat old man desperately attempting to waddle away from him. Hurriedly, the youth went to catch up to him, for the man's pace was languid. Orin stepped directly in his path.

"A shilling, sir, if you would tell me the truth about the demon of Dunnidale." He offered.

"Out of my way, boy!"

Orin allowed the old man to push him aside, but persistently, he stepped before him a second time.

"Two shillings, sir. All I ask is for more information. That is all."

"If you know that there is a demon in Dunnidale, then that is all there is to know." The old man grimaced. "You've come at the right time, and that isn't by accident, is it? Someone has already told you the legend."

"Well, yes, but I haven't decided whether it is true or not."

"Oh, it is true." The man's grimace softened into a scowl. "Some unlucky youth will be drawn to the Devil's Cave and perish tonight, or else be frightened away from his home and family never to be seen again."

"In which direction does the cave lie?" Orin excitedly asked.

"What are you aiming to do? It's a direct path to the pit of Hell, if you go there tonight."

"I am an adventurer." Orin replied. "And I would try my hand at besting this demon, and at releasing the two souls he has bound with him."

The old man scratched at the stubble of a beard he had. "I suppose it would be better for you to perish willingly, than for one of our local youths to suffer unwillingly, and their families besides them. Very well."

And so, for the price of two shillings, the old man divulged all he knew about the legend, which closely matched what Orin had heard from the three vagabonds. He also gave Orin instructions on how to find the haunted cave.

"Is there still a reward for the demon's banishment?" Orin wondered.

"Alas, boy, there is not." The old man shrugged. "The townsfolk here have given up on ever being rid of this curse, for it has been so long since they've been yoked with it. It has been many years since they've offered a reward."

Orin felt slightly deflated, for what good was an adventure if there was no reward to be gained at the end of it? The best he could hope for was to have the demon's cave named after him. The recounting of his deed would be spread by word of mouth, and help him achieve a hero's grand reputation.

"Have you a bard here?" Orin asked. "If I am successful, I would at least have a song written after me, that a bard may sing it to travelers that pass by this place."

"If you were to best the Devil, I would write this song myself." The old man chuckled. "What have you that other men do not have, that makes you think you will succeed where so many others have failed?"

The three vagabonds had put that very question to him, Orin recalled, only three days before. "I have no good answer for you. I can only declare that I will step into that cave as bravely as any other man has before me. If you please, would you tell me the name of the two cursed lovers?"

"Rohanna was name of the poor serving girl, and the merchant's son who fell in love with her was Silas. I would wish you good luck, except you'll need much more than luck to survive the night."

Orin dismissed himself and took his leave, undaunted by the grim prospects that faced him. This was due mostly to his youth and exuberance, and inexperience.

He went directly to the cave, and explored its entrance in the fading afternoon sun.

To him, it looked like any other cave. He spent the next couple of hours collecting tinder for starting a fire, and the larger branches necessary for maintaining it. After striking his two flint-stones together to produce the necessary spark, he got his little fire going. Once that was burning steadily, he used a dagger to cut the twigs and leaves away from two of the sturdier branches, and rubbed an ample amount of sheep fat on an end of each. Now, on top of a warm fire, he had two torches to guide him into the cave.

As the evening gave way to the night, Orin began to deliberate whether he should be inside the cave as it got dark, or stand just outside of it as a host of men had assuredly done before him. He would wager that very few of them had been in the cave when the wailing first started. In the hopes of throwing the demon off its usual routine, he picked up his two torches and made his way inside.

Hardly had Orin taken half a dozen steps into its mouth, when he began to feel an ominous foreboding. He looked about him in all directions. Nothing but crags and crevices met his eyes, along with an occasional old and dusty spider's web, and nothing at all to explain the sinister atmosphere that had begun to haunt that place. In a rare occasion, the young man felt a lump of fear in his throat, and a powerful instinct to leave that place as soon as possible.

"There is no glory in retreat, only humiliation." He mouthed out loud, using the force of his voice to strengthen him. His father had taught him that saying. It had been one of the first things he'd ever learned from the man.

Orin's first impression was that the tactic worked, as the dread he'd been feeling seemed to fade before him.

"I am Orin, son of Orenn the Great!" He bellowed out, becoming emboldened enough to stride into the furthest recesses of the cave. "I have come to prove my manhood against man and dark spirit alike, that my name might be spoken of in reverence and awe, as my father's name was before me!"