Bal Toroth
by Shannon Lee Martin
Copyright 2013 Shannon Lee Martin
Any similarities between persons, places or things, living, dead, or otherwise, is what it is.
"So no one's ever returned?" Dyron asked the old man who sat across from him at the rough splintered table in the dirt-floored ramshackle hut.
"Ever," the old man replied mockingly. His dried voice carried serious conviction, his pale face contorted in intense sincerity.
"All who have been foolish enough to enter Bal Toroth's sacred domain have never returned. The locals have occasionally discovered the horribly disfigured remains of some of those wretched fools near their homes, sometimes right inside their very huts, stretched out in tatters on sticks and in other equally ghastly ways, as a warning to all those who may stupidly wish to discover whatever secrets may lie hidden in Castle Toroth.
"I have seen with my own eyes, with my own eyes, boy, one of the victims of Bal Toroth, and it even sickened a retired warrior such as myself. No, my boy, you don't want to be one of the stupid, because they and their kind are all dead, as will you be, if you continue on your ill-fated journey."
"What can be so important there," asked Dyron in a deep, serious tone, "that is worth the lives of those dead, innocent curiosity seekers which have journeyed through his domain simply to learn something new?"
"Sarcasm doesn't become you," the old man replied. "They weren't innocent," he sneered, "because they were warned. If not by me, then by someone else, I'm sure. I know not the reasons boy, but I have warned you, so do as you will. No one ever listens to me, though, so why should you be the first? I'm just a crazy old man who's trying to scare people. Oh, don't try to look as if you don't know what I'm talking about. I know what they say. I do happen to have ears, you know."
The old man stared at Dyron with contempt, unconsciously stroking his extremely lengthy, filthy, grey-white beard.
"I don't care what you say, 'cause I'm going through Bal Toroth's domain with or without directions from you, and I will reach Castle Toroth, and I will discover its secrets. I am quite prepared to deal with whatever Bal Toroth decides to throw against me, regardless of his strength."
Dyron's young features were smug, the skin around his brown eyes creased in sadistic delight. He pulled a lock of his long black hair from his eyes. Tightening the muscles of his massive, swarthy arm -- a sculpture of defined perfection -- he attempted to intimidate the old man.
"And why is it you think yourself so prepared, eh? Got a big nasty secret in store for ole Bal and his fiends? Got yourself a big sword, do ya, or perhaps you come prepared with a grand spell impressed upon you by a mighty sorcerer, or some other such laughable mockery as that? Or perhaps you personally possess mighty sorcerous abilities that can match the necromantic powers Bal Toroth is reputed to possess?
"What is it you've got that shall vanquish him, eh? Tell an old man a story, a story of how you mean to do what others have utterly failed to, for I delight in the stories from those destined to meet their death, courtesy of Bal Toroth."
"Why should I?" asked Dyron suspiciously. "What's in it for me? What if you're some spy of his or something, waiting to tell this Bal Toroth all of my secrets, and what if--"
"I am no spy of Bal Toroth! I'm warning you, boy, turn back now or your fate is sealed, as surely as I am old. . ." He paused, long enough to portray a warmly cunning smile. "And I am certain that you would like to know the least dangerous path to the castle, in fact, the only path that's safe at all. Hmn hmn hmn. So, if you want to live long enough to at least see the castle's walls, humor me. Tell an old man a funny story, won't you?"
"Well then," said Dyron happily, after he recovered from the old man's loud dramatics, and the spray of funk from his flailing arms and frothing mouth. His eyes were alight with the urgency to tell of his clever plan, to rid the world of whatever evil might lurk within the mysterious moldering halls of Castle Toroth.
"It's really quite simple. That is, of course, if you happen to have what I have. I have with me an object all those who came before me lacked the luxury of possessing. It will destroy Bal Toroth, and destroy him utterly.
"Since it is spoken throughout the land that Bal Toroth relies heavily upon magic to weave his evil, I have, for two years, searched for the means an ordinary person such as myself could use against such great magic, and finally, only two short months ago, I found that which I wasted away two years of my life." He paused. "And now, I alone possess the power to discover the secrets of Castle Toroth."
"And what might this powerful item which you possess be, oh brave, youthful one?" asked the old man gleefully, his weather-worn countenance alive with interest.
"It is an amulet I stole from a museum in a distant land, an amulet which absorbs any magic sent against the wearer and returns that spell or curse in triplicate strength upon the caster! So now the great and powerful Bal Toroth will unwittingly die by his own hand, and I will claim the spoils of victory!
"That is why I have no fear, old man, that is why I will be the first not to litter the ground in little charred pieces about the settlements; that is the reason my head will not adorn the stake in some farmer's wheat field. Tell me truthfully old man, is that not the way? Is that not the best laid plan you've ever heard to defeat the unconquerable Bal Toroth?"
The old man smiled. "I will admit, boy, that may well be the best plan I've heard yet. But do not let that give you hope, for you can never defeat Bal Toroth. He has ways of knowing even the deepest and most hidden of thoughts, and mark my words well, you will not return from his domain amongst the living."
"How do you know this? Are you a devil or something, you psychotic old fool, that knows all and can see into the future?" asked Dyron with suspicious rage.
"Do you know how old I am?” the old man raged. Do you know the things I've seen? Do you? Do you!? Leave. Leave now. Forget you ever heard of Legendary Castle Toroth! What if Toroth's not the great sorcerer you've heard him to be, and is instead a great warlord or the like, and cleaves the flesh from your bones, and keeps your precious amulet as a trophy to adorn your fleshless skull? Have you not heard of the mutilations--"
"Shut your yap, you old dried up piece of leather!" Dyron yelled, throwing his chair back in a fitful rage, "Show me to the easy path you spoke of as we agreed, or it will be your bones that find themselves fleshless!"
"There is no need for threats. I will show you the way to your death. Just give me a moment to find a scrap of paper to sketch the map out on."
The old man rose slowly from his chair, went to the small bed that hoarded beneath it a battered old wooden chest. After a few restless moments of dragging the chest out and noisily rummaging through it, he pulled out a small piece of old yellowed parchment, a chunk of charred coal, and returned the chest to its dusty confines beneath the bed.
The old man sat down as if pained by the very act of sitting, and began to map out the territory beyond the borders of which his ramshackle hut lay safely a few days' ride behind.
"Now you will follow this road until you reach the point in which it forks three ways. To reach the castle in relative safety you will take the path in the middle, for the other two lead into lands infested with vile and bloodthirsty creatures, and naturally don't lead to the castle itself, but to dead ends which the creatures use as feeding grounds for the unfortunates who do not bother to stop and chat with me, or do not bother to listen to a crazy old man.
"The castle is only a week's ride away, and as I said, the way is relatively safe. But one of your bravery need not worry in any case. Apparently you are fearless, and you may at least be fortunate enough to meet your death as a man, and not like some cattle herded into the slaughter house."
The old man
handed his roughly drawn map to Dyron, and again he smiled, a fearful and forbidding omen.
"How do I know that what you tell me is the truth?" asked Dyron. "What if you are leading me to my death unwittingly -- how do I know you're not a cohort of Bal Toroth? How do I know you're not Bal Toroth himself in disguise? Why in the insane Hell should I trust you?"
"Do you have a choice?"
Dyron stood angrily to leave.
"Good luck, fool," the old man said as Dyron made a hasty exit. "I will pray for your pathetic soul while I can, for it will soon no longer be with us."
"I'll show you, you filthy withered cretin, and when I return with Bal Toroth's secrets I will give you his head, and then I will put into your dying hands your own!"
Dyron mounted his black champion steed, and disappeared into the dismal sandy foothills of the horizon, the old man regarding his departure grimly, but without real emotion.