The Books of War: Prologue [2]
Yorric 1
Yorric knew his cousin Benjenn was seeking something in Eriador, that much was certain from what Yorric could puzzle out from the mess of research he had glimpsed in his cousin's room, but Yorric cared not to know just what it was his cousin wished to find. He was sure Honey-Mouth sought some book that would bore Yorric to tears! Some obscure tome on the song of bees that some eccentric, studious ancestor had written, no doubt! With claws better suited to writing than fighting, just like Honey-Mouth!
Still, Yorric found it quite odd that whatever Benjenn sought, the search for it had kept him from celebrating a friend, for Honey-Mouth had been absent from Bryony's birthday party, and Yorric had thought she was counted among Benjenn's friends. He had also heard the Locksleys remarking on Benjenn's absence at the end of the evening's festivities, the siblings wondering where Benjenn had gone, and why he had been away so long.
Yorric found himself pondering such things now, despite his disdain for his cousin.
After carefully putting a deeply slumbering Bryony to bed in one of the Knackered's available rooms, Yorric returned to the common room, sipping on chamomile tea provided by Warryn Locksley, as the party hostess, Tivlyn, had retired for the evening shortly after Bryony had nodded off. Yorric returned to the map of Eriador that had captured his attention earlier in the evening, staring up at it as he sipped his tea. He thought back to everything he had glimpsed in Benjenn's room when he had snuck inside. Long he pondered what he had seen; the stacked books and candles, arranged as a map of Eriador, if one looked upon it all just right, pointing to a destination....
All at once, that destination struck Yorric like a lightning bolt.
Angmar.
Shock and genuine concern twisted in Yorric’s gut. Angmar! A land of malice, and dark magic, where sunlight could not penetrate the sinister smog that clung to that vile place, and nothing wholesome grew. What could Benjenn possibly be seeking there?! Only death he would find, Yorric was sure of it, for he thought Honey-Mouth had neither the grit nor strength of claw to survive such a place.
For a moment, an insidious thought twisted in Yorric’s mind:
The clan would be better off.
No!
The words were his father's, not his own!
The thought filled him with shame and he pushed it from his mind just as quickly as it had surfaced. None of his kin deserved to die in such an evil place as Angmar! Despite his disdain for Benjenn, Yorric found that he did not wish his cousin to come to harm.
The fires in the Knackered had burned low, only embers now, and the common room was empty save for Yorric, everyone else had gone to bed. That served Yorric’s purpose well! The more that went, the more attention they would draw. Company would slow him down, and his best chance to aid Benjenn lay in speed and secrecy, and the only company he would have been happy to have was Bryony's, but he would not risk her safety by allowing her to accompany him to such a place.
He left a note for Bryony, telling her that he had to fast and seek another vision in the woods, and that he could be gone for a while, for vision seeking could often take a great deal of time. She would of course be angry, but he would gladly weather the storm of her ire to see her remain safe.
He left in the early hours of the morning before anyone awoke, shifting to his bear form and traveling fast, keeping the East Road in his sight as he charged forth, and then followed the Greenway North. He left the gentle rolling hills of Bree-Land, the oak, birch, hawthorn, hazel, rowan, yew, and ash, to the higher hills and pines of the North-Downs.
The grasses of the North-Downs were bent low by restless winds, heather and shrubs clutched stubbornly to the slopes, and pale stones jutted from the ground like broken teeth. Ancient ruins crowned many of the heights, crumbling watchtowers and shattered walls, remnants of the kingdom of Arnor, stood half swallowed by grass and time. Their stones were lichen streaked and cracked, their stairways spiraling into nothing.
Yorric ceased traveling only when exhaustion demanded he sleep, lumbering under some tree or bush and snatching the barest minimum rest his body required, before he was up once more and pressing onwards to Angmar.
He left the North-Downs, and to vile Angmar he went, a land harsh, cold, and hostile! The sky was always overcast in sickly hues of gray or greenish haze. Snow and ash mixed in the bitter wind. A land of jagged peaks and narrow mountain passes. Movement often felt treacherous, with winding paths carved into rock and sudden drops, the low lands desolate, the swamps containing a miasma of despair.
A barren land it was, vegetation sparse, dead trees twisted by cold winds, thin scrubs struggling to survive. This Witch-Realm felt more like a blasted wasteland than a living wilderness. Angmar made Yorric’s fur bristle with abhorrence! Yet he continued to traverse the desolate, cursed land, seeking Benjenn.
Benjenn 1
Benjenn’s large brown-fur ear started to twitch as it was assaulted by the harsh sound waves of a tremendous log being lobbed atop an already roaring bonfire. He forced a hazy and badly swollen eye open - the other swollen so badly it was completely closed over. Jagged rock walls of black, volcanic stone encapsulated the clearing in which they camped, and the air was thick and translucent with a disgusting smelling smog; like rotten eggs, or sulphur. The crackling fire met his gaze from behind a rack of dark, iron-wrought bars and four shabbily-dressed and grimy-faced figures lounged beside the pyre.
“Da’ fires ready Rotter, ya’ great lump a’ dust - get ya’ blade for da’ skinnin’,” one of them croaked. The creature he was addressing grumbled as he got to his feet and went about searching through a stained burlap sack. As he approached Benjenn’s cage, he heard the occasional word through his muttering, “cheeky, rotten maggot,” he managed to sift out.
Realisation came to Benjenn as an unwelcome visitor. Thunder and honey, they mean to skin and feast upon me, he thought to himself. He spent a moment piecing together what he recalled of his movements before awakening inside his newfound prison. It proved difficult, like trying to catch smoke with an open hand - and each time Benjenn thought he could remember, the memories seemed to leak away. Benjenn likened it to a vivid dream which, upon awakening, seems to fade away in real time as you try to recall.
“OI! I said ta’ get ta’ da’ skinnin Rotter - we’s starvin’ ‘ungry here, ya’ useless sack a’ worms,” the bellowing growl of their de jure commander came again.
“Right at once, Blix - you’re, ahem… Blix-iness!” came the closer creature's neat reply.
Benjenn slowly tilted his head to examine his lumbering bear-form, trying to avoid unnecessary attention from the rag-tag pack of what he saw clearly against the whipping orange light of the pyre, were goblins. Though he felt little pain from it, Benjenn could see his wrist had been snapped and his huge left paw hung limp and lifeless. His left flank seemed to be slashed to a significant depth and a laceration lay with congealed blood surrounding the wound. His fur surrounding this gash looked black amongst the matted bloodstains.
One eye, one arm and a deep wound - I don't particularly value my chances here, Benjenn considered silently. Perhaps there is nothing for it - perhaps this is it.
Benjenn closed his remaining good eye once more. His head awash with the embrace of Rothlung, the fraternal clasping of his shoulder, the shield at his side in a skirmish. He opened his remaining eye once more and gazed up at the sky.
The smog was so thick and encompassing that nary a star could be seen. Yet suddenly as Benjenn peered, one light appeared to break through, then another - and another. These radiant pinholes cast against the thick and dirty curtain of night brought a steeling to Benjenn’s resigned spirit.
Then, they appeared to shift against the sky, oscillating between their paths so quickly that a form was made, no, not a form - a face! The face appeared vividly in the emerging stars, a face most familiar to Benjenn. This cannot be real, I must have succumbed to some trance or dream, he reasoned with himself.
A weathered face with shoulder length, messy dark-red hair and piercing eyes gazed down upon Benjenn from the inky depths of the sky. “Do you mean to resign to your fate, little brother?” a booming voice that seemed to vibrate the inside of Benjenn’s head asked. Benjenn quickly shifted his eyes to the goblins, though it seemed they did not hear the same rattling voice that he did.
No I-.. I have not resigned brother, I am but.. weary, I should like to slumber, Benjenn responded to the apparition. Though no words came from his lips, the face in the stars seemed to comprehend him nonetheless.
“Should you slumber now, Benjenn, you will never leave this cursed vale. This is not where your story ends. You must rally yourself to resist. Control your breathing, as I showed you in brighter days - and remember the words I spoke to you” it reminded him.
“You have a fire within you, Benjenn,” these final words echoing as they jittered throughout his skull.
The face then re-arranged, stars moving in chaotic unpredictability until they were indecipherable. Then, as quickly as the chaos had emerged, order did the same and slowly began dragging the bright, twinkling lights into another form, another face. This final freckled-face gazed down upon Benjenn and spoke no words. But the sight of it filled his belly with a fire as large as the goblins' tremendous funeral pyre. A pyre meant for me, Benjenn thought.
No - he had not resigned. Not yet..
Yorric 2
Yorric had been forced to double-back more than once. The labyrinthine passages between sheer rock faces made navigation no simple task for even those with the greatest directional aptitude. But as he crested an ashy hill, a significant smoke-stack in the distance caught his squinted eyes.
With the speed of a host of wild horses, he bounded towards the smokestack, ignoring the spiky stones underfoot as he sprung into a sprint. He could not be certain he would find what he sought at this camp, but he resolved at the least, he could gather information from the unfortunate souls that had pitched up there.
Yorric slowed his pace as he climbed one of the rock walls that surrounded the messy campsite. He shifted himself tactfully behind a boulder and surveyed the scene below with keen eyes. Four vile goblins, he thought to himself with disgust on his furry face, and what do they have here?
Yorric’s gaze suddenly met one of the most miserable sights he had been unfortunate enough to cast his vision upon. A great brown bear lay in a cage atop a cart. A dried pool of dark blood was all he had for a bed. Yorric could see on the rear-left of his flank, two or three thick, cleaver-like goblin blades emerged from Benjenn like he was a colossal pin cushion. His head lay rest on his right paw and Yorric could not see if his eyes were open. Of course Honey-Mouth has found himself in such dire straits! Yorric thought harshly, even as he hoped he was not too late to aid his cousin.
Suddenly, voices of conflict rose up to meet Yorric and he turned his gaze to the pack of Goblins that produced them. “Rotter ya’ cursed weasel! Get ‘im skinned NOW! We’s ‘ungry I saids!” a deep, commanding voice ordered.
“But, you’re, ahem… Blix-iness! If we’s skin ‘im before the others arrive, we’s gonna’ waste ‘alf the meat off the bloody thing!”
Yorric saw the large goblin stride up to the one with the skinning knife and collar him by his throat, holding him up against the rock wall - all the while the smaller goblin kicked his legs and struggled.
“OI!” he barked, as the smaller goblin scuffled to try and prise himself free. “Imma’ one in charge ‘ere ya’ rotten little badger! And if Blix sez’ its time forra’ skinnin’ then it’s time forra’ skinnin’! Blix will be skinnin’ you if ya’ refuse his orders again, worm!”
Through muffled, gargling noises and coughing, choking sounds the smaller goblin managed “oh yes, Blix! Din’ mean nuffin’ by it, oh, your Blix-iness!”
Before he could truly process the scene unfolding in front of his eyes, Yorric saw his opportunity to strike, and strike he must, the thought of a Beorning being skinned filling him with rage and horror. He lashed his huge, fur-padded shoulder into the boulder behind which he hid. The great basalt rock first, remained immobile. However, as Yorric maneuvered his shoulder lower to gain leverage on the great boulderstone, slowly it began to wiggle.
Yorric could hear the sound of whipping, open hand strikes and the smaller goblin sputtering his remorse against the clanking of chainmail and in between each forceful thrashing. When, summoning all his might, he released one final heave into the great stone, and it tipped over the edge of the canyon wall.
THUNK, it went as it crashed, furiously tumbling down the rock face wall, gaining vicious momentum with each passing second. The goblins all turned to see the source of the ruckus and before they had a chance to maneuver away, the mighty, bone-shattering rock crashed down upon their bodies. Three of the goblins were caught as the boulder crashed into the opposite side of the canyon wall, crushing to dust anything caught in between.
Through the emerging dust cloud, Yorric saw the small goblin that had been disciplined by the one named Blix, protruding out from the side of the resulting rock-pile. His torso stuck out, but it was clear his legs and lower body had been compressed by the thunderous crash and the creature spat out a black, viscous substance into a pile beside him in between cries of suffering.
The larger one, whom Yorric recognised to be the one they called ‘Blix’, had managed to dart out of the path of the rockfall and was hurriedly making his way off into the smog - abandoning those caught in the vicious scene. The great bonfire continued to crackle, interspersed with the anguishing cries of agony that two of the goblins produced. The third one caught by the rockfall, Yorric noticed, was not producing any sound at all.
He made his way down the treacherous climb to the canyon bed in which the goblins camp rested. By the time Yorric had reached the scene, another of the goblins had ominously stopped screaming. He tried his best to absorb the anarchy surrounding him and first rushed to survey his grievous cousin. The boulder had glanced the cage which housed Benjenn and sent the cart spinning, fortunately smashing the bars on the side of the cage which had been warped beyond use by the force of the boulder and created a sizable gap by which means escape was possible. But, it had also resulted in knocking Benjenn onto his side, his brown fur sticking out through the bars of the far side. His jaw was agape and his teeth visible, along with his pinkish-grey tongue.
That's when Yorric spotted it. Gently and with the ever so slightest of movement, his tongue dipped and retracted - Benjenn was breathing, Yorric reasoned. He turned his gaze to the fallen bear’s chest to try and corroborate his diagnosis and grimly, saw no signs of life.
But, after employing the use of his snout against Benjenn’s chest, what he felt was undeniable. A moment after he removed his wet nose from Benjenn’s fur, Yorric saw Benjenn’s badly bruised eye open. The scarlet eye considered him for what felt to be an eternity - at one point Yorric feared the worst, until it twitchingly moved to gaze him up and down.
Then, without so much as a sound uttered from the wounded bear, he seemed to melt away like butter in a pan, but amongst a flood of cascading brown fur. His snout and face shifted like jelly and bones seemed to shrink and contract, occasionally darting from the mess of fur in jerking motions. Finally, Yorric cast his eyes upon his bloodied cousin, lying on the floor of the cage in the fetal position. Both his eyes were bruised and swollen, one completely shut. Blood ran down the length of his lower lip and had dried in the hair on his chin and he clutched at his left wrist, locking it straight.
The final goblin that had been sticking out of the rockfall had now ceased his wailing, and Yorric quickly surveyed the direction in which Blix had scarpered. Though difficult due to the smog and smoke of the bonfire, Yorric could not see any figures emerging. Safe for now, he thought, I just need to get him on my back and we will fly from this wretched place. What a fool he was to come here! He has no grit, though such a thought seemed to echo rather hollow in Yorric’s mind now, untrue. No strength of claw! Yet he had come here, alone. That took grit. Courage.
Benjenn 2
It felt like the greatest fever dream he had ever surmounted when he saw the face of Yorric glaring at him through those disgusting bars. It had taken all the encouragement of his stars above to release the gift and return to a man - but Benjenn knew that Yorric stood no chance of fleeing with him as a great lumbering load. His strength however, was tapped. Benjenn did not think he could even muster to stand on his own two feet.
His head felt dizzy, spinning like a top. He kept on drifting in and out of consciousness as his vision in his remaining eye waned. When he was next lucid, he was laying on an uncomfortable shifting form that ran at a steady, but secure pace. He recognised the shifting bones of the form, however, and knew that he was atop Yorric, but where he could not say. Then, it was not my imagination, he thought. He looked up at the stars which rested overhead now liberated from the smog.
Quickly as they had before, a celestial parade of shifting, magnificent starlight weaved and crossed into unnatural geometry. First chaotically, then creating form and pattern, before at last from the shifting lights, the face of The Red Bear emerged once more from the cosmos.
“I told you, little brother. This is not where your story ends. The clans of Beorn stand at a crossroads, Benjenn, I see it so clearly now. A true danger musters in the North, while the clans bicker and feud amongst themselves, all vying for power rather than harmony with one another, and with nature. This cannot continue, Benjenn, or it will be the doom of our people.
To defeat the Goblin threat from the North, you will need to be brave. You will need to be resolved. You will need to be diplomatic, Benjenn. And you will need to be wise. I know you to be all of these, dear brother. But now is the hour you must put your virtues into practice.
You must unite the feuding clans and find the Books of War, Benjenn. This will be the salvation of the line of Beorn. This is your task. This is what the cycle has destined for you to do, and you must succeed. Or else when this new war-tribe appears on the horizon one bitter-cold night, our disjointed people will never muster a chance to defend themselves, and Beorninghús will burn.
What you face is not easy Benjenn, but you must rise to the occasion. The Books of War are scattered and finding them is no simple task. You must accept help, my brother, though I fear your needless and incessant defence of your pride will hamper you. I must go now. Goodbye, little cub…”
Benjenn saw the face fade and wanted nothing more than it to stay. His frantic eye flicked up and down for any trace that his brother was with him, if only for a moment longer. But, he was not. The stars simply seemed to fade slowly and lazily back into their rightful positions. Benjenn felt a tear roll down the side of his cheek and passed out once more.
Yorric 3
Yorric did not cease his traveling until the wicked realm of Angmar was behind them, the North-Downs seeming a cheerful, hospitable paradise compared to the Witch-Realm he had departed from with his cousin. Yorric finally came to rest under some pine trees near a stream and carefully rolled Benjenn off his back, Yorric’s fur swiftly fell away to expose skin, hair and cloth, muscle and bone shrinking, rearranging inside him until he sat there in the form of a man. He pulled himself over to the stream, drinking deep before he filled his canteen, bringing it back to Benjenn and carefully helped him to drink.
Yorric carried little in the way of healing supplies, but had enough to be of some use to his cousin's wounds, to stave off infection at the very least! Goblin blades were filthy, that much was a certainty, and often they carried poison upon them, though he prayed the ones that had pierced Benjenn carried no poison! He had a salve of honey and herbs from the Vales, and he applied some to Benjenn’s wounds after he had cleaned and stitched them, then with wood and bandages, he made a splint for his wrist. He didn't bother taking out anything to write with, for he was too tired to write, and Benjenn was in no state to read anything.
Yorric fed his cousin some honey, then ate a little of the remaining food he had packed, before he collapsed back to fall into the slumber of the utterly exhausted. His last thoughts before succumbing to sleep were briefly of his father, of what harsh opinions he would hold for him now, if he knew how he had aided Honey-Mouth, but mostly he thought of Bryony, hoping she would not be too angry with him for being away and not telling her where he was going.
And he found himself sincerely hoping that Benjenn would survive the journey back to Bree-land.
