The Adventures of Larson and Garrett - Infestation

Infestation

Larson and Garrett Adventure the Third by Aaron Dennis

Published by www.storiesbydennis.com July 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Larson and Holden traveled from town to town, from city to city, and helped all those with a true need, or cash, or both. They felled the roaming bandits of Shun 'Ahd, they cleared Grover's Cave of a cloud of giant bats, they wiped out the undead trudging about Leerak's tomb, and then, after five, long years, a great calamity sent Larson spiraling into deep depression.

Larson and Holden had been hired by a powerful family of merchants who ran the city of Dragonhead. Although their backdoor shenanigans consisted of shady deals involving drug smuggling, black market sales of magick relics, and high end prostitution, the job the two mercenaries had undertaken seemed to be a rather valorous deed; Larson and Holden were supposed to dethrone a black hearted noble named Gregory, Lord Fultheim, a disreputable individual known to fund a gang of bandits that terrorized the city's outskirts.

The bandits, who had called themselves the Wicked Five, were five brothers in league with Lord Fultheim. While the nobleman funded their raids, they provided him child slaves whom were whisked away from their parents during those raids. These parents were mostly honest, hardworking folks, but one family was related to the merchants of Dragonhead, and when the parents of siblings were slain during a shipping run from Dragonhead to Bethelhoss, and the children were brutalized and sold to Fultheim, the head merchant, an old man named Enrique Rulasio, hired the newly arrived Larson and Holden to kill the Wicked Five, steal into the Fultheim hacienda, rescue all of the children, and bring the still living Gregory before old Rulasio.

Things took a turn for the worse when Fultheim seemingly allowed himself to be captured. During a snowy night in the month of January, Larson and Holden towed Lord Fultheim by ropes secured to his wrists down the long, canopy covered road from the Fultheim hacienda to Rulasio's second home, a small cabin out in the wilderness near Mount Oros. Unbeknownst to the mercenaries, Fultheim had discovered Rulasio's plan, sent an assassin to the cabin to kill Rulasio, and wait for the arrival of Larson, Holden, and himself. As soon as the three entered the cabin, the assassin blew a poisoned dart from his blowgun. The first projectile struck Holden's throat, but the second dart merely bounced off Larson's field plate.

Staring wide eyed through the slit in his spiked helmet, Larson honed in on his attacker, let go the ropes binding Fultheim, pulled the great sword from his back, and chased the killer through the cabin's backdoor. Unfortunately, the assassin fled into the snowy mountains, and rather than giving chase, Larson stormed back into the cabin. Fultheim had fled, too, but Holden lied twitching on the ground. The young warrior knelt by his friend, pulled the dart from his throat, took his hand, and tried his best to placate the dying man.

"Larson, Larson, " Holden coughed.

"Don't talk, old man, " Larson whispered. "Save your strength. I'll carry you back to Dragonhead and to the healer."

"No, " Holden choked as tears flowed from his eyes. He mustered a brave, caring smile and spoke. "Larson, this is way it has to end. Finish the job. Don't look back, and never let your guard down."

Larson cried, too. It was the first time he had ever cried tears of grief. Nothing in his life-not his father's disappearance or his brother's-had ever emptied him so thoroughly of life. His throat tightened, his chest swelled, and his stomach churned.

"Please, Holden, please don't die."

"It's all right, kid. It's all right. I've had a good run. Only one regret. A man can't ask for more. Promise, " he choked and wretched as spasms rocked his body. "Promise me, " he gagged and wheezed.

"What is it?" Larson sobbed.

"Fight...all of them."

"Who?"

"The, the wicked."

Holden grew still. He passed away with a smile of peace on his aged visage. Larson shivered with a twinge of sadness that ran straight from the universe and directly into his heart. His body shook from within, and facing up towards the cabin's rafters, he shut his eyes shedding more tears before erupting with a violent scream. The Gods themselves acknowledged his pain.

****

Following the death of Holden, Larson spent the better part of a month-and an immense portion of his vast wealth-bribing every tavern keeper, corrupt, city guard, rival merchant, and noble-loathing, indentured servant. His goal was to learn the whereabouts of both the assassin and Lord Fultheim. Upon gaining access to that information, Larson found them-and a handful of bandits-holed up in a series of caverns up high on Mount Oros. In late February, Larson avenged Holden's death, returned to Dragonhead, paid restitution for his botched job, and even managed to incite the authorities into action; they imprisoned the entire Fultheim family. Justice was served, but it left the young fighter with a bitter taste.

While Larson had never abandoned his quest to find his missing father and brother, he had run into a wall years ago. The last and seemingly useless bit of information involved some men in white garb. It certainly sounded as though the man seen with those in white fit Largo's description, but where they went was as much a mystery as who they were; monks of Bo' Shed, God of Serenity, wore white garb, and so did the priests of Odra, God of Diligence, but then again, so did some of the other non-religious factions.

Immersed in fulfilling contract after contract, he had little time to ponder his family's wellbeing or their unspoken predicament. Holden had consoled him once by saying that wherever they were, Larson would eventually join them. They were either dead, which although sad, it was an inevitability in one way or another, or they were alive somewhere, and that if that was the case, something Holden very much believed was true, then some unseen force was whisking the Ross men away, and Larson would join them in that effect. Ominous as that sounded, he half expected to vanish himself, and wake up in a dungeon somewhere with his family, which at least meant some form of closure. To date, he had not been whisked away, and drowning in self-pity, he visited many a raunchy tavern and bordello where he was usually recognized as Holden's apprentice.

Being recognized had its perks, but also its detriments. One of those detriments was that every saddened widow, jilted lover, want-to-be adventurer, and half-wit lunatic-who thought he saw a vampire-pressed Larson to go and solve their problem for free. Holden had told him to help people. His father had told him the same when he was a boy, but for the first time in his life, the young mercenary had no drive. He was a zombie in field plate; a steel man with a sword strapped to his back, a helmet with a brass horn in the center, a great deal of money, and too much free time on his hands.

****

One day, while swilling ale in the city of Fargo with his helmet by his elbow and his long hair tied back in a ponytail, he wiped amber droplets from his beard. Straining to listen to a young, foolish man, who was claiming there was treasure in Atjibur, Larson shook his head. Judging by the extremely large, blonde headed, na?ve man's proclamations, the mercenary came to understand that Atjibur was an abandoned temple deep beneath Mount Lod where the former cult of White Wraith used to worship Golguhaar, God of Destruction. Larson had read in a library in Coal Hearth that he was one of the old Gods that had been defeated before the Second Age, but as Gods never die, so long as someone worships them, the cult of White Wraith begged for his resurgence. They had failed when some of the mountain elves-tired of sacrifices and ritualistic nonsense-bolted through Lod's extensive caverns, destroyed the magickal entrance to Atjibur, and sealed the worshippers away forever. The young man, however, seemed unaware of that tale and made claims that Atjibur was a dungeon laden with treasure. Larson laughed openly, and that drew attention.

"What's so funny, mate?" a stout, dwarven patron asked.

Larson shook his head, ignored the patron, and called out, "Hey, boy!" The patron shrugged, returned to ogling the tavern's comely singer, and paid no more attention to whatever was taking place. "Hey, " Larson called again, and many turned to look at him. "Blonde boy with big dreams." The young man turned. He was a bit slack jawed and taken aback, but gave his attention and pointed to himself. "Yes. Come here."

The young man excused himself from his friends or whoever the patrons were. They appeared disinterested in his story anyway. He ambled over towards Larson, accidentally bumped a chair with his immense physique, and came to the warrior's side. Larson scrutinized him. He was tall, as tall as Larson, and in his prime of twenty, he was over six feet. The young man looked to be about fifteen, as old as Larson was when he killed the wolf of Pallisade. The young man was also a bit soft around the midsection, but had large shoulders and powerful arms and legs. He was a soft-looking brute if that was a thing.

"Yes, Sir, " the young man asked.

"There's no treasure in dungeons, " Larson said with condescension.

"There is, too, " the young man rebutted. "Adventurers get their fortunes in dungeons all the time."

"Don't be stupid, " Larson spat and chugged his ale. He slammed the stein onto the counter. "Dungeons are old constructs, and I mean old, a lot of them thousands of years old, and they're picked clean. All that remains is traps, piles of corpses, or in the best of scenarios, some bandits mount their raids from them."

"But not Atjibur."

"Even Atjibur, " Larson sighed. "Do yourself a favor, son, leave adventures to the adults. There's no need to round up a team of friends, or worse yet, a bunch of mercs who care only about their money. You'll get yourself killed. There's nothing but death in Atjibur."

The young man's face fell apart. He sighed, and his eyes glossed over. Larson eyed him with disgust, but it wasn't really aimed at the boy, it was aimed at himself for having shattered the young man's dreams. Better to wizen him up now when he's young, or he'll get his fool self killed.

"Hey, " someone else called. A thin, blonde man, who appeared about Larson's age and wearing a beautiful, white, silk shirt, a black vest, and black pants sauntered over. He had a rapier hanging off his waist. Fine features and clean fingernails gave him the look of nobility. "What's your name, boy?"

"Um, Darrell Dude, " the young, blonde boy answered with an upward inflection.

"Well, listen, Dude, " Larson started in. "Find yourself a nice job in the mines. You're big. You'll do well there."

"Lighten up, " the thin man said to Larson. "This, Dude, or what have you, has the right to seek adventure, and your claim that all dungeons are picked clean is inaccurate."

"Thanks, " the Dude started to say, but the thin man raised a hand to cut him off.

"The Labyrinth of Zanosh certainly has treasure hidden within its walls, " the thin man attested.

"The Labyrinth of Zanosh is a Gods damned death trap filled with magickal traps!" Larson retorted.

"Well, certainly, but anyone with even a rudimentary understanding of protection spells can wander down a few levels and make out with some treasure, " the thin man replied while waving his hand dismissively.

"You're being as dense as that, Dude, here, " Larson howled. "If such rudimentary protection spells can get anyone down a few levels then people have been down a few levels and picked those areas clean. Don't you see the flaw in your logic?"

"You know what, " the thin man said. "Leave the Dude out of this. I'm clearly not as dense as he is, but I have to admit...you do make a valid point...perhaps rudimentary understanding was poor phrasing. All I meant was that there are dungeons in this world left to crawl for those with guts, and if you'll recall, you used to have guts, so maybe don't go giving the Dude such a hard time."

"My name is Darrell, " the Dude said with an upward inflection.

"Shut up, Dude, " Larson and the thin man said simultaneously.

Larson then glared at the thin, blonde man. I had guts? Larson thought. The two men defiantly raised a brow at each other. The thin man then ran a hand through his long, blonde hair, smiled, and introduced himself.

"My name is Garrett, Garrett Ansalle."

"Do you know me, " Larson asked, slowly.

"You're Larson Ross."

There was such a silence in that coal miner's tavern that everyone heard a mouse fart. It was a squeaky, little sound. Apparently everyone knew the name Larson Ross, and they had all grown interested in the conversation that had ensued, although Larson had been too loud and animated to notice it before. He then glanced around the room. Most people quickly looked away.

"So?"

"You fought with Holden, " Garrett said.

"You knew him?" Larson's voice was firm.

"Of him...I heard he died recently. I'm very sorry."

"Who are you guys?" the Dude was obviously baffled.

"Larson, here, was a top notch adventurer, " Garrett replied. "Unfortunately, his good friend and mentor recently fell in battle. I'm Garrett, a world class, um, " Garrett's eyes darted about for a moment. "Oh, ah, I'm a world class fencer. Yes...that's it."

The tavern remained quiet for a moment, but eventually the singer started up again, glasses were emptied, and Garrett offered to buy Larson a round. Larson, Garret, and the Dude, slowly wandered over to Garrett's table where they resumed their conversation, and Larson resumed drinking.

"So, Dude, " Garrett started. "What's a young fellow like you want with adventure anyway? It's a difficult life."

Larson eyed Garrett. He did not look seasoned at all. In fact, he looked like a bookworm playing adventurer; someone who read one too many embellished tales.

"My mom's sick, " the Dude whispered. "I need to find a way to get some money quick because the healer's increased the price of treatment, and if I can get my hands on something that's worth a lot, I can make a lot of money and buy her cure."

Larson winced. A wave of guilt washed over him. He had treated the poor youngster so harshly, and all the boy wanted was to help his mother.

"You'd be better off finding a good job, " Larson warned. "Your poor, sick mother would be worse off if you got yourself killed in Atjibur."

"Mayhaps a subtler adventure then, " Garrett asked, cheerfully.

The Dude perked up, but Larson shot Garrett a look of mild contempt. "Don't get him killed."

Flashes of that day at Barry's in Pallisade erupted in Larson's hazy mind. Garrett frowned. His eyes grew fierce. Either the tavern's torchlight created a magnificent glare off his baby blues, or there was a real fire behind those eyes.

"I've never gotten anyone killed, " Garrett said with a constricted tone. "And I don't intend to start with the Dude."

"You guys know my name is Darrell, right?"

"Pipe down, Dude, " Larson said. "Garrett...I'm hesitant to ask, but what have you got in mind...not that I'm entertaining the idea."

Garrett's frown immediately morphed into a Cheshire cat smile. "My friends in the elven community in the mountains would like a cave cleared of a goblin infestation-just a nuisance I wasn't going to bother with. There's no fee attached, you see? And I only came into town to see if someone else was interested in the job."

"So you thought some fool want-to-bes were going to jump at the chance to get creamed by goblins?" Larson furrowed his brow.

"What's life without a little zest, eh?"

"I can do that. I got a good sword and everything, " the Dude claimed.

"First of all, " Larson stepped in. "Driving goblins from their homes is something the likes of which those arrogant elves would find no problem with."

"What do you mean?" Garrett sounded somewhat insulted.

"I mean, they're not monsters. They're goblins, and they have a right to live in the mountains."

"They are monsters, " Garrett corrected. "They raze, pillage, and murder; all they do is kill."

"Wouldn't you if someone encroached on your territory, " Larson posed. "If anything, they're animals like boar or mountain lions. They may not construct houses, till the land, or read books, but they craft tools, they have a society, they live off the land, and only arrogant elves or ignorant humans would bother to go and kill them for no reason."

Although Larson had killed goblins with Holden, it had been made evident that those particular goblins were purposefully butchering a rancher's cattle. Besides, it wasn't for no reason; it was for money, he mused. Garrett placed his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. He rapped the fingers of his left hand on the wooden edge for a moment, obviously deep in thought. The action drew Larson from ruminations, yet left him to acknowledge the hole in the pit of his stomach, the loss of Holden.

"I had never looked at it that way, " the fencer finally said. "Nevertheless, they are infringing on the elven community. This is new. I have visited those particular elves before with my mother and father, and there was never a goblin issue before. Now, things are different. The elves have a right to peace as well, and I think you'll agree; you can't forge an alliance with goblins...orcs, maybe, but not goblins."

Larson arched a brow. It was his turn to wonder. The Dude looked at them both.

"Is there money in it, " the boy asked.

"I was going to offer a reward out of my own pocket if the job was done, but there's always something in goblin caves worth selling. They steal, and they usually steal shiny things; daggers, silverware, jewelry; they really like gems, " Garret mumbled with his chin still in his hand.

"There ain't no job around here I can work to get the money I need as quick as I need it, " the Dude said.

"Larson, " Garrett said and faced him.

"What, " he breathed.

"I know you're having a difficult time with Holden's passing...I'll bet if the three of us go together and take out the goblins, you'll be able to get your mind off your troubles."

"First of all, " Larson spoke, sternly. "Don't presume to know my mind. Second of all, I'm not taking him with us, and third of all, I don't know that I trust you. Frankly, you seem a bit shady to me. I don't think you're a fencer."

Garrett straightened up and leaned back with an over dramatic look of feigned insult; his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was agape. He even gasped.

"Well...I do fence, but certainly we are more...or less than we seem to be, no?"

They all grew quiet. The Dude thought twice about saying something, but figured he'd just be told to pipe down again. Larson considered the fact that he'd hit a wall in his search for his family, and Garrett thought about how the elves were going to owe him if he did the job for them.

"Why don't the elves kill the goblins, " the Dude eventually asked.

"Well, how about that, " Larson said, slowly. "The Dude, here, just asked the most pertinent question."

Garrett blinked, quickly. "Well, I uh, you see." He then broke into a gale of laughter. "The truth is that they tried, but the goblins have some kind of sorcerer in their employ."

"A man, " Larson asked.

"No, and that's the disturbing part. He's a goblin who wields powerful magick."

"I though goblins were dumb, " the Dude interjected.

"They're supposed to be, " Larson affirmed. "Holden told me something, though." The two leaned in. "He said there was something fishy going on in the world like maybe there's an imbalance of magick, or forces, or something. He noted a steady rise in monster activity or even in general magick activity. The elves have certainly been quiet lately, no doubt researching destructive forces, which have obliterated them time and again; they certainly don't seem to learn. Also, the worshipping of deities has been on a steady decline. Humans are shifting away from the Gods and joining the elves in what can only be classified as a worship of magick."

"Tarielle is Goddess of magick, " Garrett said.

"Yet I have never seen a temple of Tarielle in the towns or cities I've visited."

"They talk about her in magick schools."

"Well...maybe this goblin issue is worth looking into, but I want to speak to the elves first, " Larson warned.

"What am I supposed to do, " the Dude asked.

"Get a job, " Larson said, but Garret simultaneously, said, "Come with!"

"No, " Larson said, emphatically. "If you two go together, I'm out, so pick your partner, Garrett. Will you adventure with Larson or this Dude?"

Garrett half smiled and snickered. "Larson and Garrett does have a better ring to it than Garret and the Dude."