Red Sky at Dawn (3 page)

“As granted by the Charter of Trust, let it be known that I, Kraganere of Dorkhun, Tenth King of the Eighth Kingdom, declare a state of peril, and as such, the powers of the council are hereby revoked until said peril passes. Let it also be known that all Kiredurks under my rule are from this point forward sworn enemies of all ogres.”

Master Sondious, gathering his composure after the initial dejection, set his mind to the tasks that needed accomplished.

“My king, our first priority should be to hire Ghaldeon blacksmiths from Kehldeon. Our smiths are not sufficient to prepare for what lies ahead.”

“Agreed,” Kraganere said to Master Sondious. Then, he turned to his page, who stood at-the-ready. “Dispatch riders at once to bring back as many blacksmiths as will come. Offer whatever compensation is necessary to attract their services.”

The page rushed from the room.

“As a statement of your justness in this matter,” Master Sondious continued. “We should allow all ogres currently within our borders safe passage out of the kingdom.”

“Why show compassion for the traitors?”

“This action will establish that you are on the side of justice and are not attacking unarmed civilians for the sake of quick revenge.”

“Well stated,” Master Londragheon said. She was often considered the wisest of the council. “The Ghaldeons are more likely to reject revenge, and we need their alliance for this campaign.”

“So be it,” Kraganere said, motioning to a second page. “Send word to every township that all ogres within our borders are to leave at once, and as long as they comply with this decree, their exit will be safe.”

The now defunct council murmured their collective agreement with the suggestions of Master Sondious and the orders of the king, and to the former, a contemptible enthusiasm had settled upon them. The kingdom was on the verge of losing its very essence as peaceful, and they were affirming it with smiles and congratulations as for a good harvest. While he had been the one to offer direction, Master Sondious recognized the gravity of the decisions. Many good dwarves and ogres were going to suffer terribly, and he did not find anything worthy of cheer in that fact. He had offered the suggestions because, as chief advisor to the king, that was his job, and if he stayed engaged with the king, he could bring to bear a measure of rationale and logic to this process.

As Master Sondious thought this, Kraganere rose from his seat and silenced them again by raising his right hand. Then, he spoke with a calm, firm voice.

“Council members, you are welcome to remain as advisors, but until the peril ends, you are relieved from your duties on this council. I alone will decide the actions of this kingdom. Prepare yourselves and your families accordingly. We are at war.”

Gathering Strength

Roskin woke with a start and scrambled to his feet, drawing a dagger against an imaginary foe. The dream had felt real, and he was suddenly consumed by the dark fear that lingered on the periphery of his mind. For the first time, he saw what haunted him: a sickening image of Dorkhun in ruin and his father in disarray. While he had grown to accept the dark fear, this image that gave shape and substance to the feeling was horrific and more overwhelming than even the maelstrom that had seized him at Black Rock.

After a few minutes, he regained his composure, sheathed his dagger, and wiped sweat from his forehead. Sunrise was still an hour away, so he decided to check on the prisoners and ascertain for himself that their bindings remained steadfast. The prisoners’ hatred swelled each day, and their attempts to escape had grown more fervent since the throat slashing of the day before. While sentries watched them through the night, Roskin liked to see for himself in the dark that the straps and chains were holding.

The early morning dew soaked through the cuffs of his pants, sending chills up his legs as he strode through camp. Almost two weeks had passed since Crushaw had freed him and the other slaves, and in that time, the old general had organized the motley throng into a fairly efficient regiment. Roskin, who would one day be king of Dorkhun and commander of an enormous military, studied the manner in which Crushaw took charge each day. He didn’t act superior to anyone, especially the slow and weak, and he didn’t set himself apart from the mass to show his authority. Instead, he projected a confidence that was contagious, and he led not through fear and threat but through respect and dignity. From the battle-hardened Tredjards to the elves who rightly despised most humans, the entire regiment looked to him as their leader without question.

Thinking about Crushaw’s leadership, Roskin crept through the sleeping orcs and scanned the wagons to make sure the straps were tied. As he neared a group of three, the dark fear flared up, this time showing an image of Crushaw with a blade at his throat, and Roskin turned and sprinted as hard as his back – still sore from the lashing he had received for escaping – would allow. He drew his dagger as he neared where the general slept and prepared for whatever enemy he might find.

When Roskin reached his friend, he found him wide awake and alert, without a hint of trouble. Still, for nearly half an hour he searched the area for any sign of danger, but nothing was awry. For the first time, the rush of fear had given an image not connected to reality. Finally satisfied all was well, he gave up his search and returned to Crushaw.

“What was that?” the old man asked.

Roskin, exhausted and pale, shrugged and sat at the edge of the wagon’s bed.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Crushaw persisted.

“Just thinking about home.”

“We’ll get you there, young master.”

“I know, Red. I have faith.”

“It won’t be easy. We’ll need more troops to get through. Some have been telling me about the mountains. We’re too outnumbered to fight those orcs.”

“What’s your plan?”

“There are several plantations between here and there. We need to free more slaves to swell our ranks.”

Crushaw explained that the Slithsythe Plantation, with its strategic location near the Crimson Road of the wilds, was the exception rather than the rule. The orcs surmised that it made sense to station troops there to guard against both slave escapes and potential invasions, but most plantations, especially those this far inside orc territory, had very few soldiers on the grounds, and in fact, many relied solely on overseers and lowly orc field-hands for protection. Crushaw believed they would have little trouble freeing a dozen plantations.

The entire camp began to stir, and Roskin returned to his campsite to gather his things before the day’s march began. Between the images of Dorkhun in ruin and Crushaw in danger, he was already drained, and the march loomed as daunting. Still, he gladly accepted the sore legs and feet, for each advance towards the land of the Marshwoggs got him one day closer to home.

***

As he watched the runaway creep among the sleeping orcs, Suvene wondered what the rock-brain was up to. Given the extraordinary disregard for life these slaves showed, Suvene half expected the dwarf to kill someone in his sleep. When the runaway was within arm’s reach of Suvene, it suddenly and without warning turned and ran towards the phantom. Suvene couldn’t believe he was a prisoner to such a stupid and foolish lot.

He knew enough of geography and astronomy to know that they were at least a month from the mountains, moving at their current pace, and they were traveling exactly the direction he had guessed they would. Now, all he needed to do was free himself and reach one of the two fortresses near the Pass of Hard Hope, where thousands of well-trained orcs were garrisoned. If those soldiers could be forewarned, an army could be roused to greet the slaves before they crossed the mountains.

Each day, Suvene studied the slaves’ habits to find his best opportunity for escape. Through the night and during meals, they were well-guarded, so those times were out. During the day’s march, the hunting party moved in a fairly broad perimeter around the mass, so his odds of slipping by them if he did manage to get away from the wagon were slim. The only time that offered his best hope of escape was during the daily drills.

While the slaves drilled with the stolen weapons, the guards that watched the orcs often became enthralled by the sparring and would ignore the captives for several minutes at a time. All Suvene needed was a day when they were camped near terrain that would offer adequate cover, and he would slink into the brush or tall grass or trees and disappear during the drills.

He had already practiced removing the strap that bound his wrists to the wagon, and he could free himself from it in less than thirty heartbeats without attracting attention. When the time was right, he would take his chances and run for one of the fortresses, and by all that was just in the civilized world, he would avenge his failure and strike down the phantom.

***

Two days after Roskin’s dream of Dorkhun, he and nine others, including Molgheon and Vishghu, slunk through the tall savannah grass on the edge of a massive cotton plantation. Molgheon had already scouted the area and, as Crushaw had predicted, found only a handful of soldiers guarding the big house. With Crushaw still hobbled, she took charge of the raid and developed the strategy for seizing control.

She would lead four other archers to the western side of the house to cover the five who would strike from the northern side. Leinjar, a veteran Tredjard who had been captive with Roskin at the Slithsythe, would lead the strike team. Under cover of darkness, they would position themselves outside the big house and attack just as the sleepy orcs exited the modest barracks. Molgheon’s archers would take down any overseers or lowly orcs or even slaves that tried to assist the soldiers. With any luck, the entire plantation would be taken in a matter of minutes.

From the tall grasses, Molgheon led her team across a cotton field and onto the tops of two work buildings near the big house. Leinjar waited until the archers were in position before leading Roskin and the others across another field. Even though sunrise was a couple of hours away and the entire plantation seemed sound asleep, Roskin feared every rustle of grass or leaf would rouse attention and spoil their surprise, and the slow walk through the field, though barely three hundred yards, felt as if it took an hour.

When they reached their hiding place, Roskin’s mouth was dry and his legs were rubber. The four dwarves dug in behind a water trough between the big house and the barracks. The ogre hid behind a small shed. He had been in several battles, but this was his first ambush. He didn’t much like the stealth, for he preferred an open battle on equal terms. However, Crushaw believed that the chaos of marching the entire army onto the plantation would leave too much opportunity for orcs to escape and have troops waiting for them at the next plantation. A surprise attack by a small force had the best chance to control the situation, he reasoned.

Time crawled by, and boredom weighed on Roskin like dew on the cotton leaves. The young Kiredurk, filled with rage and shame at what the orcs had done to him, was ready to attack them at first sight, but the tedium lulled him into a memory of home, causing him to lose focus on the doorway of the barracks. The others must’ve fallen into the same trap, for when the door opened, none motioned to get ready. The first orc to emerge sniffed the air and mumbled something in orcish to the soldiers still inside.

When he heard the orc’s voice, Roskin’s heart froze and his limbs turned weak. For a moment, his hip and back ached at the memory of the Slithsythe, but just as fast, the ache mushroomed into rage, and without waiting for Leinjar’s signal, Roskin jumped from behind the trough and drew his sword.

The orc looked at the Kiredurk as if seeing an unexpected friend, but the expression quickly changed to agony as Roskin drove his blade into its belly. As it slumped to the ground, dark blood flowing onto the worn path of the doorway, Roskin greeted the next orc with a horizontal slash across the throat. That orc collapsed onto the first, and both died within seconds.

The third orc emerged with its pike ready and drove at the Kiredurk with a ferocious lunge, but Roskin, much too deft for such a clumsy attack, stepped to the side and drove his sword into the orc’s exposed ribs. In that instant, a fourth orc was about to reach him. Roskin tried to withdraw the sword but found it stuck fast in the thrashing body. He grunted and tugged on the hilt, but the blade was wedged too tightly and wouldn’t release. The fourth orc stabbed at him with a halberd, and Roskin let go of his sword and dove sideways to escape the blow. As he scrambled to his feet, he drew from his back a pair of ancient throwing axes that Crushaw had given him. They were light as air in his hands, and instead of hurling them at his foe, he used them like regular hand axes and exploded into the fourth orc with a series of slashes. The orc staggered backwards, squealing from the lacerations on its arms and chest, but Roskin closed in, his fury boiling in the faint light of dawn.

***

Since Roskin had control of the main entrance to the barracks, Vishghu moved to the rear of the building and, using her massive club, crushed the skull of an orc trying to crawl out a window. Inside, the remaining soldiers stood back to back in a circle, their hands trembling from fear of death. As she peered through the window, Vishghu felt a twinge of pity for the beasts. They were all about to die, and they knew it, were powerless to stop it, and she would be, at least in part, a cause of their demise. Unlike the Tredjards who all knew someone killed by them and unlike Roskin who had endured several weeks of torment and torture at their hands, Vishghu had no reason to hate them. Her lack of hate left room for sympathy, and she considered letting them slip by and run for the fields. But emotions aside, Vishghu was a dutiful soldier, and to let these orcs escape would put all of them in danger. She stood her ground and readied her club to strike any that might attempt the window again.

To her left, she noticed a group of orc field hands, armed with hoes and crude machetes, running to the barracks, but most of them didn’t make it, for Molgheon and the other archers cut them down as they crossed the open ground. The ones that did avoid the arrows were greeted by Leinjar and the other two Tredjards. Whatever dreams of honor and glory the field hands might have harbored were dismissed quickly by the vicious dwarves.

Vishghu had led these Tredjards into battle at the Slithsythe and had seen firsthand just how ferocious they could be. They had spent many years as slaves, fighting in hand-to-hand battles against other dwarves to amuse the orcs. From torment, starvation, and their years as what the orcs called “leisure slaves,” these Tredjards had become even more bloodthirsty than most of their kin, and for them, any opportunity to kill an orc was greeted warmly. As they tore apart the hapless field hands, Vishghu had to look away.

***

After seeing Vishghu out the back window, the remaining soldiers decided that their best chances were through the Kiredurk, so they formed a tight line and charged. Roskin backed from the entrance and crouched defensively to receive them. With a powerful right backhand, he struck the leader in the chest and pirouetted in the opposite direction to avoid the stampede. The leader crumpled to the ground, and the next two tripped over it and smashed face first on the hard earth.

Roskin danced and chopped through the remaining four, spinning and grunting as the ancient axes sliced flesh. Before any of the four could even swing its pike or halberd, the dwarf had mortally wounded them all. Then, he extinguished the two on the ground. When he was done, his clothes and beard were damp with sweat and orc blood, and the Tredjards, finished with the field hands, gathered around the carnage.

“Impressive,” Leinjar said, his wild eyes scanning the scene. “We’ll secure the big house.”

Once they left, Roskin found his abandoned sword and ripped it from the orc’s ribcage. After wiping it clean on another orc’s shirt, he sheathed the sword and then cleaned the axes and slipped them into the straps on his back. He had expected to feel better after killing them, as if their deaths would avenge the anguish from the Slithsythe, but the emptiness had only widened with the battle. Now, the thrill of battle spent, he simply wanted to be home.

While the others secured the big house, he sat on the damp ground and sharpened his sword. Once the masters were subdued, Leinjar, Vishghu, the Tredjards, and the archers led the prisoners strong enough to march to the main camp where Crushaw waited. Molgheon remained behind to watch the older and feebler orcs who would be left at the plantation. After securing them to the porch, she sat beside Roskin and watched him run the blade along the whetstone.

“You fought well,” she said. “Not much impresses me, but you have skill.”