A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) (34 page)

The sun had begun to set. The scent of boiling beans mixed with the fouler odor of violent death wrestled inside Jaerd’s nose when Tomas and Dorias returned, exhaustion and blood on their faces. Jaerd offered them a bucket to wash, when the Bluecloak messenger arrived, his silver trim showing some of the wear of road and battle. The man handed a rolled and sealed paper to Earl Boris, offered a sharp salute, and then galloped back the way he had come. Boris broke the wax seal and scanned the note in fading light before handing it to Jaerd.

Casualty rate estimated at four enemies to our one. Will renew assault at first light. Awaiting news of vanguard. Rear guard to remain in position to protect the wounded and the wagon train. Empty wagons are to begin transport of wounded back to friendly territory.

“Well, thanks, but we already did that,” Jaerd whispered to himself before passing the note to Dorias.

Boris looked to the wizard. “Can your raven shadow General Darax?”

“I sent him winging north a few hours ago,” Dorias answered with a nervous glance in that direction. “He watched them cross onto the western bank of the Gallond just before sunset. They are presently camped a few miles south of that ford, ready to charge southward at dawn.” The wizard closed his eyes. “Merl is resting north of their position in the foothills of the Dragonscales. It was the closest shelter he could find.”

The earl’s face pinched. “They will need to swing westward and come upon the enemy’s rear. Their flanks are too solid for General Darax’s numbers.”

Tomas stared into the fire. “We should have made them come at us across the river instead of charging into their defenses.”

Striding up out of the evening gloom, the newly-minted General Mandibor of the Free City Guard lifted his hands to warm them at the fire. “Another day or two, and we are going to have plenty of wagons for wounded. Our food stores are beginning to dwindle.” The former rogue unbuckled his sword belt and wrapped it around his rapier. “We’d be lucky to feed this lot all the way back to Novon if we left tonight.”

Earl Boris folded his arms. “We have a clear supply line all the way back to the Free Cities. That is part of the reason we left so many to guard the pontoon bridge over the Lond. A wagon train should arrive tomorrow.” He turned to Jaerd. “We will need to be ready to receive and distribute everything, even if there is a pitched battle down on the river.”

Keeping his concerns to himself, Jaerd saluted Boris. “Yes, sir.”

Mandibor spat into the fire, the spittle sizzling on the burning plank of a broken barrel. “We’ll be ready. There’s nothing that gets a soldier moving faster than a chance for fresh grub.”

Distaste plain in the curl of his upper lip, Earl Boris shifted his stance. “Thank you, General. Your men have proven quite able for novice soldiers.”

The Kirathi looked up at Boris and the shadow cast by the firelight sharpened the near-point of his ear. A similar sneer crossed Mandibor’s lips. “And your eastern nobs seem to fight well enough, though I imagine it’s the workaday men down there doing the real fightin’.”

“I heard the Baron of Forksmeet lost his son today with the cavalry.” Boris removed his gauntlets and tucked them behind his belt. “And the Duchess of Allanor lost two grandsons. Baron Conton Vault had his shield arm broken and lies in a wagon headed for Novon right now, with six enlisted men lying right next to him.”

Mandibor frowned, turned, and stalked back into the approaching night, his rapier clacking against his armor.

Boris leaned close to Jaerd with a rare hint of a smile. “I didn’t have to tell him that Baron Vault fell from his horse while it stood still, and his own weight crushed his arm, did I?”

The brightest star was Wild Tiger,

His eyes the color of his namesake.

And when he met the Southron Hordes,

They feared his horn at daybreak. – Shared Clan traditional

S
lar crouched next to his son under the globe of dim light created by Brother Ortax. They hugged the edge of the trench, keeping their heads low to avoid giving the humans a target in the night. Sharrog led them through a doorway into a hill, squared off by large support beams. Down into the bare earth they descended, through a tunnel wide enough for six orcs and tall enough for one to stand on another’s shoulders. They entered a smaller side passage, avoiding the foul, dusty scent that rose from farther down the larger course.

“I had taken to sleeping in here before you arrived, Father.” Sharrog cleared a central table of empty mugs and plates, replacing them with a sheepskin map. “But it will do for a place where we can have light and not create a target for the enemy.”

Brother Ortax brightened his shining ball so that they could better read the marks on the map. Curling tusks marked places along the south side of mountain symbols, approaching a sinewy line.

“They approach the river.” Slar cracked his knuckles. The occasional pains in his stomach had reappeared since battle had engaged, but this news eased them into subsidence. “We must only hold through the day tomorrow. Then we will crush the humans.”

Ortax pursed his lips around his lower fangs. “The vessel is among the army. The last tracing stone senses him.”

Slar rubbed his grizzled chin. “Then we will need to be prepared to find him once the battle turns our way.” He looked at his son. “Your team is ready? Brother Aern as well?”

Sharrog sniffed the air that rose from deeper in the tunnel. “We are. The Brother has faced his fears with courage, and he found his way onto the tamest of the beasts.” A nervous laugh slipped from Slar’s son. “He only got bit once.”

The humor not finding purchase with Slar, he pointed the stack of furs that smelled of his son. “You are sleeping here still?”

Still searching the map, Sharrog shrugged his shoulders. “It gets the beasts used to my scent, and me to theirs.”

Pride welling up in his chest, Slar folded his arms. “A wise idea, my son.”

Ortax lit one torch with his power then snuffed out his ball of light. “If I may, Warchief. It has been an exhausting day, and tomorrow is certain to be worse. If I may find my rest for the night?”

“Go, Brother,” Slar bowed his head, “and rest well.”

The shaman left the chamber, weariness slowing his steps.

Slar turned to examine his son. As he looked Sharrog up and down, the sourness in his stomach faded to nothing. “You are learning well. I knew you were a great warrior, but I was never certain of your leadership.” He placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder. “I was wrong. You will not only take your brother’s place, you may well surpass my hopes even for him.” He put his other hand on Sharrog’s opposite shoulder. “And yet you are your own man, and you have earned my respect no matter what.”

Sharrog followed his father’s gesture and the two stood there a moment in a warrior’s embrace.

“Our people will follow you for years to come, Father,” Sharrog said. “You have brought us to the greatest glory since Wild Tiger. Orclings for generations shall sing the songs in praise of your honor and strength.”

They bumped their chests and released, Slar grunting to his son as he backed out of the side chamber and into the tunnel. The stench of the foul beasts below drove him quickly to the surface. Out in the night, the air felt fresh, despite the hint of smoke and death from the battle.

Slar enjoyed the star-hung night sky for only a few steps before a large orc wrapped in a luxurious bearskin appeared from around the corner of another trench.

“Ah, Warchief, at last I have found you.” Dradlo’s wide form cast a shadow even in the darkness. Two Bear Clan shamans and half a dozen warriors stood close behind him. “Even a Warchief cannot hide from those who follow him.”

Unable to completely avoid the barb, Slar scanned Dradlo’s coterie. “If I needed such an entourage, I might be easier to find.” He moved forward before the Bear chieftain could respond. “What do you need, friend Dradlo?”

The orc tapped his staff upon the ground and glowered. “Too many of our clan’s shamans are dying in your front lines. We require them to protect our clan on your left flank.”

Pain shot up his throat from his stomach. The fiery knot of acid roiled deep in his gut. “Chieftain, shamans from every clan gather near the center to hold that part of our line firm. Rams and Wolves have taken the brunt of most of this war. The Boar have died in numbers almost as great.” He squinted one eye. “I would hope the Bear Clan would be ready to earn more honor. Perhaps you would care to lead the charge against the enemy in the morning? Then more shamans could join you.”

Dradlo drew himself up, gripping his staff as if he meant to break it. “We have more honor in our clan than a bunch of walking pigs have earned in the stretch of eternity. The Bear Clan stood in Galdreth’s vanguard during the Dragon Wars! We will do so again tomorrow.”

Wary that the puffed up chieftain’s anger might ruin their plan for the next day Slar lifted one hand. “Be prepared, Chief Dradlo. Our great surprise will spring upon the enemy tomorrow. Do not overextend yourself until they arrive.”

Dradlo eased his grip upon the staff. “Sargash?”

Slar nodded.

“At last,” Dradlo said, waving for his guards to follow him down the trench. “Now we will at last see real victory.”

Slar watched the Bear walk away without acknowledgement
. I should kill you for turning your back on me, but I need you to kill humans tomorrow. When this is all done, however…

The flash from a fireball crashing a hundred yards down the line lit up the night sky.

“When will this be done?” he whispered.

His command tent sat in a deep depression, shielded by shamans and thick fireproofed hides, protected on all sides by ridgelines and trenches. Two large Boar warriors snapped a salute, while one held the flap open. Inside the scent of roasted meat with garlic and herbs wafted over him.

“If you have not eaten, my Warchief,” the sweet feminine voice called, “I have prepared something for you. You must keep your strength – for our people’s sake.”

The thick bearskins piled at the rear of the tent called him with a greater siren’s song than the meat, or even Tealla’s sweet lips. He gestured toward his waist. “My swordbelt first, please.”

Tealla rose from where she kneeled next to a charcoal brazier turning skewers of sizzling goat. “Of course, my Warchief.” She deftly unhooked his belt and wrapped it around his leather scabbard. With extreme care, she leaned it against a stand and returned to loosen his cuirass. Her fingers danced through the ties and buckles. Then she heaved it over his head without difficulty and hung it on the stand next to his sword.

Slar threw himself down among the stacked pelts and lifted one foot in the air. Tealla heaved against the heel, and with a sigh of relief from Slar, his boot slid free. He wiggled his thick-clawed toes.

“You seem quiet tonight, my dear.” Slar tugged softly at her diaphanous sleeve. “I enjoy your words. What keeps them inside your head?”

Tealla bowed her head. “Forgive me, Warchief. My thoughts are dark and sad. They are not fit for sharing.”

Slar took her hand when she reached for his second boot. “I insist. If your thoughts cause you sadness, I wish to know them.” He cleared his throat. “Tealla, you are the freshest spring my life has seen in decades. It has been a long winter since last I found a woman that drew my heart as well as my loins.” He kissed her fingers. “You also happen to be very bright, which gives your words that much more weight. I would not have you here with me if I did not wish for your counsel.”

The woman sighed and kissed his hands. “First things first.” She turned, pulled off his second boot and tossed it next to the other.

A sigh of contentment broke from his lips. “Ah. Thank you, my dear.” The golden chalice from Highspur’s vaults suddenly called to him. He took a deep draught of the ruby red wine. It, too, came from Highspur’s supplies and tasted of a summer Slar had never known. “Now that your Warchief has found some comfort, tell me what saddens you, Tealla.”

Seeing the way her lips drooped, Slar sat up and reached out to guide her down beside him. He offered the wine. “Here, take a sip and tell me.”

With a soft sniffle, Tealla drank deep from the chalice. She handed it back and pulled on a long strand of her glossy hair. “Today, during one of the valiant charges of the Boar Clan…one led by your honorable son, Captain Sharrog…during the charge…my brother Drannak…” A single sob wracked her shoulders. “He died upon the field of battle.”

Her voice broke off and Slar sat down the goblet of wine. He placed both hands on her shoulders and felt their tiny tremble. The scant scab over his wound from the death of Grindar, and the barely registered gash on his soul at Radgred’s loss, began to bleed pain along with Tealla. She wrapped her arms about him and he drew her in close.

“He was only a year older than I,” she whispered against his chest. “He protected me from the cruel boys in the village until I was old enough for him to teach me to protect myself.” She giggled. “I cannot believe the patience he had with me when he first put a knife in my hand. He was never more proud than the day he heard you were to be Warchief of the clans, and that he would serve as a warrior in your horde.” She batted her long, black lashes. “Unless it was the day he heard that I was in your tent. He told me how honored he was to be my brother. I had never heard that from a man before.”