When her hand was empty, she began to make strange gestures. To Orin’s disbelief, a red glow followed her arms as she circled them in wide, sweeping motions. Suddenly, the air around her seemed to crackle with bright sparks, accompanied by a sucking sound.
The elf opened her eyes, turned to Orin, and said, “We did not destroy your camp.” Glancing toward Toothless, she said, “Kill her.”
“Wha . . . no!” Orin said.
Toothless bowed, and said, “Yes, Milady Amastacia.” Then, indicating Orin, he asked, “What about this one?”
Zayra smiled at Orin dangerously and said, “Aeson will come for him when the tent is packed. He’s mine.” With that, she clapped once and disappeared with a snap, terminating the sucking sound.
Orin stared at the spot she had been, dumbfounded. She had simply vanished. He couldn’t fathom it. Thinking he was perhaps seeing things, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, then snapped them open again, but the elf was still gone.
His brief distraction ended abruptly when he saw his people being shoved back down the slope, all except Natalia, who still lay on the ground curled in pain.
Toothless walked over to her and yanked her up by the hair. “No,” Orin shouted. “No, no, no, please, no,” he pleaded, tears welling in his eyes.
The man laughed at him. “No?” he said. “I suppose I ought not to. Let her live, right? Heh heh.”
Orin barely understood the man’s accent, and right away, the voice grated on him. “Yes, please. We can escape together. Please.”
Laughing, Toothless glanced at his companion, the only other one of the group who had stayed behind. The dull-looking youth laughed along with him. From his belt, Toothless took out what looked like one of the blacksmith’s knives. Scared again, Orin shook his head rapidly, “No.”
“Don’t worry,” Toothless said, with mock sincerity. “I don’t want to kill her.” The man smiled, displaying his empty gap of a mouth. “She’s much too pretty to kill.” He reached down and grabbed one of her breasts, squeezing it roughly.
“Don’t you touch her!” Orin yelled. The dark, curly-haired youth hit him in the stomach, expunging all of his air. Toothless pulled Natalia to her feet and used his knife to carefully cut the clothes from her body.
As her garments fell around her in a pile, she meekly stepped away from the man. She stood there, naked and filthy, staring at the ground and trying to conceal her private parts from the men.
The young man pushed Natalia over onto her hands and knees. Meanwhile, Orin cursed them, still gasping for air and pulling at the ropes that bound him. From Natalia’s demeanor, he could tell this wasn’t the first time she had suffered at the hands of these men.
“This one’s gotta nice set of teats on her, don’t ya think? Heh heh,” Toothless said to the other man, starting to untie his pants.
“Aye,” Curls responded excitedly. “I’m next, I’m next.”
Orin finally got his air back. Scowling at the men, he shouted, “I’ll kill you!” Curls hit him in the stomach again, but he had expected the attack this time and had kept his muscles tight. Murder painted his face, and he yanked on the ropes again. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought they were starting to give. Toothless stepped behind Natalia and dropped his pants.
He frowned at Orin when he saw his dark glare and angry spittle. “Aw, you’ve done spoilt the mood,” he said, standing up and retying his pants.
Orin relaxed a little . . . until Toothless pulled Natalia up by the hair and slid the knife across her throat. Blood rushed out and painted her chest crimson. Although it happened so quickly, time seemed to slow for Orin. His wife looked into his eyes as she fell, mouthing the words, “I love you.”
“Natalia! Oh no . . . no! Natalia,” Orin said, panicking.
The men laughed. Toothless said, “Didn’t like that? Heh heh. Well, I tell you, I didn’t either. She was a good one, but I bet you knew that already. Heh heh.”
His chin resting on his chest, Orin breathed deeply, his face pressed into a dark scowl. He didn’t hear the man’s taunts. A black fissure had risen between him and reality.
Despair, hopelessness, fear, and panic threatened to overwhelm him, but over the last few days, fury had created a permanent niche within him, keeping him focused. This quiet, deadly anger flooded over him, drowning out all his other emotions.
He sucked in his breath and pulled as hard as he could, certain that he could feel weakness in his binds. The ropes loosened a little, but hardly enough. Gritting his teeth, he flexed his muscles and pulled harder on his restraints. As the cords cut into him, he could sense pain floating somewhere in the back of his head; he knew it was there, but he couldn’t really feel it.
Toothless’s companion laughed. “He thinks he’s going to break the ropes.” Curls’ fist hit him again, but this time, it met with a solid wall of flesh and muscle. He went back for another swing and, at that moment, Orin felt the rope around his wrists give. He caught the fist in midswing and watched the young man’s eyes widen.
Curls tried to pull away, but Orin’s hand was like a vise, squeezing, crushing his fingers. Screaming, he tried to pry the blacksmith’s grip away with his free hand.
Toothless charged forward with his knife, but Orin shielded himself with the youth’s body. The knife embedded in Curls’ back, and Orin shoved him, knocking both of his attackers to the ground.
He shook his other arm free, and the ropes fell to his feet. His ankles, bound to the tree, suffered deep cuts as he pivoted forward, falling on top of the prone men.
Reaching for the knife, he clasped Toothless’s hand. The horrid man had beat him to it, and Orin struggled with him for control of the weapon still stuck in the dead man’s back.
Toothless wrested it away and hacked at Orin, but the blacksmith caught the man’s arm, twisting it until he dropped the blade. Orin retrieved it and slashed at the bindings around his ankles. Meanwhile, Toothless rolled away and leaped to his feet. Then he stepped over and kicked at Orin, while the smith worked on his bindings.
“You like kicking people when they’re down?” Orin said, as he caught the next strike under his arm. Scrambling upright, he kept a tight grip on the man’s foot, pulling his feet out from under him and knocking him onto his back. As his blood slowly filled his veins, he stomped his tingly feet to get some feeling back.
“Let me go,” Toothless shouted as he kicked at Orin’s knee with his free foot. Catching the man’s flailing leg, Orin wrapped his massive hands around Toothless’s ankles and spun as hard as he could, twirling the man like a top and bashing his head into the tree Orin had just escaped from.
Attracted by the commotion, other men came running back up the hill. As they neared, they drew their swords from their waists and slowed their advance. Even though Orin was alone, naked, and only armed with a knife, his bulk and recent exploits intimidated them.
With uncanny speed, he tossed the knife at the closest vassal. It pinwheeled toward the man, its pommel thudding into his forehead. He fell backward, and the knife bounced away, clattering to the ground. With a hand on his forehead, he scrambled back to his feet, cursing, a lump swelling above his brow.
Seizing a hefty stick, Orin held it out in front of him like a sword. The three men circled him. Outmatched, the blacksmith turned and ran up the hill, and the group gave chase.
A short man caught up to him first. Turning to face him, the blacksmith deflected the sword with his stick, ducking low. He flipped Shorty over his back, then tossed him the rest of the way over using the man’s momentum. The short man landed hard on the ground, and Orin turned quickly, smashing his stick onto his face. Then, stepping onto his wrist, he wrested the sword from him.
The other two men caught up, and Orin parried a hack aimed at his head. He danced around the man with a long, droopy face to avoid being flanked by his bald companion. He pushed Horseface into his partner, and the two of them stumbled into a tree.
Before the commotion could attract more attenti
on from the remaining elves or their slaves, he resumed his race up the mountain. The roots hurt his feet, but he ignored the pain until his foot twisted, and he tripped, landing on his knee. He pushed himself up, limping onward with a sprained ankle.
His two pursuers caught up to him again. He dropped to the ground as a blade swung over his head. Gripping his attacker between the legs, he stood up, lifting Horseface into the air and throwing him downhill. The man crashed into the ground a few feet away and rolled.
When Baldie swung, Orin had to stumble backward to avoid the blade. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and his back landed on a rock. He rolled off the rock and picked it up. It weighed more than he had guessed it would, and as he lifted it into the air, he felt a slight pinch in his back.
Baldie hesitated midswing as he watched Orin raising a rock the size of his torso high over his head. Halting his attack, he turned to dodge the comet about to end his life, letting out a curse. The blacksmith tossed the stone onto the fleeing man’s back. Something unidentifiable splashed out of the other side of the boulder when the man fell, and Orin grimaced at the mess.
By this time, Horseface had recovered from his impact with the ground and was advancing on Orin once more. He swiped, but Orin danced around some trees. When the man lunged forward, Orin swung around the thin trunk of the nearest pine. His sword pinched his thumb against the tree, severing it. He lost his grip and slung away, rolling over some roots.
Leaping to his feet, he rounded on the man. The thumb on his left hand screamed at him, but he hardly felt it. While the man struggled to seesaw his wedged sword out of the tree, Orin charged, punching him in his narrow chin. There was a loud crack from the impact, and the man buckled, falling to the ground, his face smeared with blood from Orin’s missing thumb.
Before he could get up, Orin sat on him. Horseface struggled, but it was like a child struggling against an adult. With the remains of his hands, the blacksmith strangled him. Horseface pleaded for his life through his constricted air canals, but Orin continued until the man’s face was completely purple, his eyes bulging, and his struggles ceased.
He remained sitting on the man for a while, breathing heavily. As he relaxed, pain set in. He couldn’t hear any more pursuers, so he rolled off Horseface to lie on the ground, wincing. His missing thumb throbbed and bled, his back seemed to stab at him every time he moved, his ankle hurt mildly, and his head continued to throb.
After spending a good while lying prone and staring up into the sky, he finally got up, trying to move his back as little as possible. He felt lightheaded, and sharp pains knifed his spine, but he pushed the agony to the back of his mind, because he still had at least two men to deal with, and two elves.
He tore off a piece of the man’s clothing and wrapped it around his thumb. Trying to relax the muscles in his back, he stretched, only to recoil into a painful slouch.
Trying again, he eventually worked out the kink, but it still hurt terribly. The Havallan’s pants didn’t even come close to fitting Orin’s muscular frame, so he ripped the rest of the man’s shirt off and wrapped it around himself as best as he could.
As he reached down to pick up the sword, an arrow thudded into the ground next to it. Looking up, he saw elves in a tree, aiming their bows at him. He snatched up the corpse’s blade as he rolled forward to take cover behind a trunk.
He knew he didn’t have much time. The elves would flank him from higher ground, then easily pick him off with their missiles. Pushing off from the tree, he began to hobble-run, zigzagging between the trees, arrows thudding into the ground around him as he went. The knot in his back made breathing difficult. Every time he sucked in air, his back painfully tightened.
As he neared what appeared to be possible cover, he stopped behind a tree, taking a few deep breaths. Peeking around the tree, he pulled his head back to the safety of the trunk as an arrow whizzed past his face.
He resumed his sprint and soon found himself against the base of a cliff. The ridge stood about fifteen feet over his head. Disappointment stabbed him through the chest when he noted the lack of cover he had hoped for. The cliff extended far to his left.
Glancing to his right, he saw a crevice farther along that he may be able to hide in. Unfortunately, musical laughter rang out directly above him before he could dash in that direction.
Chapter 11: Annihilator
From atop a high hill, Samara surveyed the land before her. Her hair and clothing whipped around her as she leaned into the strong wind. Standing on the rocky crown, she shaded her eyes from the sun’s blinding beams.
Below her lay a beautiful, grassy valley speckled with yellow and red wildflowers. In its center, a wide pond reflected a copse of pine trees that reached down the slope to her left. Across the tarn from the forest, a stone Havallan outpost rested behind a wooden wall cut from logs.
A copper mushroom dome rose above the walls, sitting on the light-colored stone octagonal outpost. Her mother had told her stories of Havallan buildings, but this was even more impressive in person. When Samara had asked why they had built the domes, her mother had said that they had religious significance, something to do with the sun.
On each corner of the fortress, a multitiered pillar extended higher than the main building, but not quite as high as the central dome. Each of these pillars was capped with its own cupola, smaller versions of the central one. Extending from these were white flags, each emblazoned with its own red sun.
Around the stone building lay a scattering of wooden structures of various rectangular shapes and sizes, and from her vantage, she saw people walking around, a lot of people. They littered the pond on wide boats, much different than the narrow crafts the river people used.
The last time she had seen that many people was at the Gathering. Back then, she had the protection of her father, whom she had clung to practically the entire time.
In retrospect, the Gathering had probably contained many more people than the settlement below did, but that had been only one brief period in her life. She had spent most of her life on the plains, moving every couple of seasons with her tribe of almost three hundred people.
“So many people,” she said. “What are those white things flapping in the wind with the red sun on them?”
Those are Havallan flags. They believe the sun is God looking down upon his children. Nodding, Samara continued her examination of the strange building. She saw more red suns displayed around the structure. On the southern side of the outpost, two broad paths of bare earth slithered off to the south and west.
“What are those long places with no grass on them?” she asked.
Those are roads, Samara. Paths the Havallans build to move easily from one place to another.
“What are they like?” she asked, overwhelmed by the differences between her people and the Havallans.
The Havallans? Illtud asked. She nodded. Over the last couple of weeks, she had learned that she could speak to Illtud with her thoughts; however, she still spoke to him out loud, mostly to break the silence. The Havallan Empire is intrusive. Like ants, they spread out and take what they want. I would be very careful dealing with them.
Frowning, Samara asked, “Can’t we just go around?”
We could, but eventually the Havallans will become unavoidable. Besides, I feel you would like some real cooked food, a soft bed to sleep in, Illtud said.
“I would like to see it, but . . .” She glanced down to the knife. “I have nothing to trade.”
They would just take anything you had to trade anyway, Illtud said. So you should just take whatever you need.
Incredulity lengthened her face. “That’s not right.”
Samara, let me tell you a story. Before the evil Lord Havelle, ruler of Havalla, trapped me in this gem, my family lived in a peaceful village by the sea. We fished for food and traded with our neighbors for other goods. We lived happily like this until the Havallans came. At first, we tried to trade with them. Then . . . Illtud paused.
They took everything. They murdered my family. I studied magic in order to try and get them back. I . . . I . . . He paused again. I failed! They took everything from me, and I could do nothing about it.
“When you said your mother lived far away, I didn’t know you meant she died,” the girl said sadly.
I didn’t want to upset you with such a sad story, my sweet, the voice responded.
Slow tears crawled down Samara’s cheeks. She knew what it felt like to lose her family, but at least she would see hers again soon. “I wish I could help you,” she muttered.
Me too. Unfortunately, it’s too late for me. However, you could help those people down there, he suggested.
“How?” she asked.
Look carefully at the people. Do you see the ones dressed in white with the red sun? he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
They are in the Havallan army. They are the ones that go around and take whatever they want, whenever they want, he said.
“But how can I help them?” she asked.
Not them. The other people, Illtud said.
“What can I do?” she asked.
We go down there and take the Havallans’ magic, Illtud said, eagerly.
Samara asked, “Wouldn’t that kill them?” She knew the answer to the question, and it scared her a little. She hoped that Illtud knew something different. His answer disappointed her in a way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
Of course it will, he said.
“I don’t want to kill anyone.”
No, I wouldn’t think you would, he said. I suppose those poor people will continue to suffer.
Samara studied the people milling around. “Why do they let the Havallans take their stuff? Why don’t they fight?”
They’re just simple people, and the Havallans came with weapons and mages. What could they do? Illtud paused. They need somebody with strength and power like yours.
She began to wonder how her tribe would handle such a situation. They would fight, she knew they would. Even kill if they had to. She had seen them do it when they had been raided by the Wolf tribe. “I—” she hesitated.
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