by Ben Stovall
The hours passed by quickly enough, however, spending them tending the fire and thinking. He did his best to avoid the actions leading to his exile, but … it haunted him still. The orc guessed the hour to be just past midnight, and he was satisfied that nothing was coming; he splashed some water on the fire and crawled into his tent, the warmth of his furs enough to lull him into sleep.
Morning came, the sun shining through the tent’s fabric. Inaru was glad it had finally poked through the covering of clouds that smothered the sky the last three days. He exited his tent and began to dismantle it. Once done, they packed their bags and moved on, exiting the crossing into the Lowlands after a couple of hours. The plains rolled on for miles in all directions. Across the horizon was a circle of five large stones, reaching into the sky.
“What are those?” Lytha asked.
“The Stones of Raknor, the first great chieftain of the gandari orcs. There he brought the disparate clans of the time together and took them under his banner. They joined as one to fight a great enemy, but what the enemy was has been lost to time, I’m afraid,” Inaru explained. “It is a sacred ground for the orcs. Blood is rarely spilled there, and only in honorable duels. Fights for leadership of a clan are often there, to ask our ancestors to support the champion they favor.”
“I didn’t know the orcs had anything like that,” Lytha replied. “It’s a beautiful sight.”
Inaru nodded and pointed to the north slightly. A river ran into a lake. On the far shore, a spiked log wall jutted out of the ground, and melting snow tugged at the edges of the outpost. “That is the home of the Bloodmaw clan. Let’s go.”
The walk was not long from the end of Hayll’s Crossing, and after about an hour they arrived at the southern gate. Two orcs stood atop a tower overlooking the entrance, and the watchmen shouted down in the guttural language of the orcs, Orvok, asking who was there.
“I am Inaru. I have returned,” Inaru answered.
“Is that the human tongue you’re speaking?” one responded, bile in his voice, though it was also Gandari.
“It is. I am accompanied by a human and do not wish her to be unknowing of my words,” Inaru said, his voice flat. The orcs exchanged words in Orvok quickly, looking out to them every so often. Inaru grew irritated. He called to them again, “If you are not sure whether to allow me entry or not, ask my father, though he will likely take your heads for the inconvenience.”
One of the two looked down and shrugged knowingly. The other scampered off, while the original signaled down to open the gate. The large wooden slabs slowly parted to reveal the orc village. Inaru gaped at how much it had changed. It was larger, for one – more room for more orcs, no doubt. The smith still worked just inside the gate, though now he had a proper roof and assistants. The longhouse remained where it had been, and Inaru saw the orc who had run off approaching it, darting inside. He frowned.
Inaru and Lytha began making their way to the longhouse, when a large orc in very heavy armor emerged, accompanied by one wearing leathers not unlike those Lytha favored. A sneer twisted the scar on the armored orc’s mouth, revealing his broken tusk. Two more long healed incisions marred his face – one down the brow and the other along the cheek. His gargantuan axe hung from a shoulder strap, swaying as he approached.
The smaller orc had shorn the hair on his scalp to the roots – baring the top which was only nominally longer – and a cropping of stubble covered his jaw. No scars marked his face. A couple of nicks dotted his arms, however, and Inaru knew he had another long one down the front of his chest. This orc carried two daggers at his belt on one side, and a square-headed mace of fine steel on the other.
Inaru knew these two well. Warchief Uldrik and Krolligar were their names, and they were—
“Son,” Uldrik said, nonplussed. “You have returned.”
“It’s good to see you live, brother,” Krolligar added. Inaru was glad his brother’s voice sounded genuine.
Inaru caught Lytha’s shocked expression at the indication that these two were his family and wondered if he should have told her. It was too late now, of course. He stepped forward and bowed to them. “Rise, boy,” Uldrik said, his voice still neutral.
“Warchief, I have grim news,” Inaru said.
“Have your precious humans decided to attack us? Have you finally learned what they are?” the large orc spat. Inaru caught a dirty look toward Lytha as Uldrik accused them.
“No,” Inaru continued, hoping he would not be interrupted again. “A great force marches from the west, beyond the Gray Sands. It will destroy all in its path. From Souhal to the Lowlands.”
“Hah! You come to ask for orc aid to defend them? Why am I not surprised that you are no different than when you left?” Uldrik scowled.
“Father,” Krolligar said, “Inaru would not return unless absolutely necessary. He may have left the clan, but even he could not allow us to be washed over and slain like mongrels.”
“He certainly seems to perceive us as so. He is only here to ask me to throw our lives away.”
“Warchief Uldrik, the humans cannot stand against the force alone. They seek allies in the elves, dwarves, and the scaleskin. The orcs live on this land just as they do, and they should be able to count on us to defend it. Or is the Bloodmaw clan still too concerned with its warchief’s pride that it could not be bothered to save its own home?” Inaru asked, belligerent. Uldrik scowled at him. Inaru did not back down. “Surely you can see that if Souhal falls, the Lowlands would be next, and would not put up nearly as much of a fight.” Inaru held the warchief’s contemptuous gaze.
Uldrik snarled. “Perhaps I have more confidence in my clansmen than you do, exile.”
“Father,” Krolligar stepped between them, “I think it would be prudent to listen to my brother. If the force can crush Souhal, it will defeat us as well, in time. We do not have enough orcs to hold the crossing against an army capable of razing a city.”
“Krolligar – a moment.” The two began to whisper lowly in Orvok. Lytha crept closer to Inaru.
“What are they saying?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. I can’t hear them,” Inaru replied. He hoped his father would not behead him. Perhaps they’d let Lytha leave, at least? He knew it was far more likely the clan would throw her head on the adjacent stake.
“Very well,” the warchief said suddenly. He walked back toward his son. “Inaru, we have both been indignant here. I, however, do not think I can spare any orcs for your precious Souhal.”
Inaru tried to keep his emotions in check, barely controlling the volume of his voice. “Why is that, warchief? Has something happened?”
“Another spat with the Ironjaws.”
“Who perpetrated this?” Inaru asked. Uldrik growled angrily in response.
“We cannot leave our home undefended. Every single orc clan in the Lowlands will raze it before dawn, destroying everything we have built. Souhal will not have our aid as long as this is the case.” Uldrik’s visage twisted into a sly smirk, and Inaru understood.
“A summit, then, at the Stones of Raknor.” Inaru sighed.
Uldrik held a wry grin, “You will speak on behalf of Souhal. If all the clans agree to aid you, we will as well. If they do not,” Uldrik paused, and cackled after a moment, “I will let them decide what to do with the likes of you for even proposing such a thing.” The warchief offered a hand, and Inaru narrowed his eyes, before begrudgingly shaking it. The warchief erupted into another loud howl of a laugh. “Excellent! You and your friend can take the small house just over there.”
Inaru seethed but controlled himself as he and Lytha approached the small wooden building. He heard a command to send word to the other clans and rushed himself inside the shoddy edifice with his companion.
Once indoors, Lytha arched a brow at him. “Did that … not go well?” she asked. Inaru’s frown and furrowed brow answered her before he did.
“No,” Inaru said after a moment, “it didn’t. He wants me t
o appeal to all the clans to aid the humans—to aid Souhal.” The orc looked her directly in her eyes. “He seeks to humiliate me before allowing the other clans to tear me to pieces.” He looked around the small wooden cabin and wiped his brow. The orc sweat profusely, and he was sure if Uldrik could see him he would cackle until his voice was hoarse. “Barduss will refuse for sure. Uldrik can be certain of that, and that alone would be enough for him to maintain his honor and refuse. With two clans keeping their soldiers in the Lowlands … none of the other chieftains will feel safe enough to agree.” Inaru shut his eyes tight as he finished. “If it comes to my death,” his voice wavered as he thought of the possibilities awaiting Souhal if he was to die. He slowly gathered his composure and whispered, “You must run as fast as you can back to Souhal. Do not stop to camp. Do not stop to eat. If you do, they will find you, and they will kill you. Warn them. The orcs will strike when Souhal is weak.”
She nodded. A sudden knock on the door startled them both. Inaru felt a scowl cross his face as he flung the door open to see Krolligar. “May I come in, brother?”
He opened the door wide and closed it behind him. After entering, Krolligar turned and they hugged each other tightly. As they broke, he clapped his hands on Inaru’s shoulders. “By Ovaruk, it’s good to see you again.”
Inaru smiled, but it quickly faded. “Was the summit your idea?” he asked.
“It was,” Krolligar said. “It was the only way to stop him from killing you today …” Inaru nodded, thankful. Krolligar frowned. “Why did you rile him up? The last time—”
“I remember.” Inaru frowned grimly. Krolligar nodded. “I am sorry for what … for how it …”
“Not like I gave you much of a choice, wildly flinging myself at any challenge for his favor. I truly thought I could win, ha! It seems so funny to think back on it now.” Krolligar smiled. “I could … I could take you and your friend out of here, sneak you both out at night.”
Inaru shook his head, “Uldrik will know it was you. I will not have you dead so that I may run. I will speak before the clans at the stones.”
Krolligar’s brow furrowed sadly. He nodded and turned to leave. The orc gave his brother a last look over his shoulder, and then he was gone. Inaru sighed and began to wonder what he would say before the clans. He sat in one of the three rough chairs in the room and noticed Lytha took a seat on the other side.
“I had assumed your brother didn’t survive his wounds,” she said.
“I had worried so. There was no way to be sure, but I would not execute him.” Inaru rubbed his brow. “He has … he’s changed a lot. He is as disillusioned with our father as I am, now.”
“Uldrik … How is it that man raised you?” Lytha asked.
“He didn’t.”
“Then … your mother?”
“No.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “I never knew her. Whenever I asked the clan about her, they looked on me with pity or scowls. I stopped asking.”
“Then how did you learn anything you know?”
Inaru looked up at the woman, noticing the slight concern in her eyes. “As a son of the warchief, I was taught to read, write, and fight better than most orcs, especially in the Bloodmaw clan. Uldrik taught me most of the fighting, but another orc taught me the rest. I read a lot. When we would … when we would raid caravans and towns I would gather any books I could. I learned a lot about Gandaraar and Kual’apir. Dwallfarr and Auzix. The Whitemarsh and the Gray Sands. Souhal. Everything I knew about them came from the books I took. I learned enough to know what the orcs did wasn’t right. There was a better way. When the war started, and the battles were much worse than the raids, I refused to continue.” Inaru shut his eyes tightly and swallowed hard.
“So mostly the books, then?” Lytha asked.
“Yes. And Tyrdun. I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere without him.” Lytha considered his words in silence before standing and exploring the shack.
Inaru sat alone for a few long minutes, taking his large hand and running it through his short hair, wondering if the others were faring better.
✽ ✽ ✽
Ellaria groaned, scowling, and tossed the timber aside. Tyrdun shot her a curious look. “What’s wrong there, lass?”
“All this damn wood is too wet from the snow, I can’t get a fire going,” she said, frustration plain. “Wish we had some magic about now.”
“Aye – that’d be nice. But I can do it without any,” Tyrdun claimed as he approached her. She handed him the flint she had, eager to see his plan. Tyrdun grabbed some moss from a hollowed trunk nearby and piled it into the pit with the logs. Then, the dwarf drew a bottle and poured it over the mound. It splashed slightly, little droplets falling outside the ring of stones Tyrdun had placed. He struck the flint, sparks catching the mosses and instantly catching fire. It was different from most fires Ellaria had seen, however, as the flames were tall and bright. After a moment, it died down to resemble a blaze she was used to, and she looked at him with her mouth agape.
“How …”
“It’s an old ale so gritty even we didn’t want t’drink it. But the brewers managed to recoup their losses by selling it as a kindling – fire oil.”
Ellaria frowned. “Doesn’t all dwarven ale taste like dirt?”
“That it does. Imagine how bad this must be if even we refused!” Tyrdun laughed. “Now, we should be at the mountain entrance quick enough come tomorrow. Get yeself some rest.”
Sleep came quickly enough to Ellaria, and before she knew it, Tyrdun woke her to take her shift on watch. She sat on the ground near the dying embers of the fire Tyrdun had made and looked out to the woods. Groggily, Ellaria rubbed her eyes, yawning all the while. Then, the elf heard a cracking twig from the dark forest around her and became alert. She jumped up to her feet, drew her bow, and nocked an arrow aiming toward the noise. Something inhaled quickly in response, shocked. One foot following the other, she crept toward the trees. Just as she neared the source, the culprit took off running. She cursed under her breath, and looked to the camp behind her, unsure whether to give chase and leave the tents unattended, or to allow whatever this was to get away. She gave the woods a longing look, and her curiosity got the better of her.
Ellaria ran in long strides, the path their guest had taken obvious due to its haste. A yelp of pain shot out ahead of her, and the sounds of something tumbling stole into the air. The huntress slowed to a sudden stop at a steep hill and saw a small, doubled over body at the base of the incline.
“No! Please! Don’t hurt me!” the voice cried, before howling in pain again. It was a man, and his accent was not unlike Tyrdun’s. She looked down the hill for a safe path, and saw splashes of blood on the rocks, glistening in the moonlight. The elf hurried her way down the hill to the man, sheathing her bow and arrow both. She reached the wounded dwarf, who had obviously landed on his leg roughly, possibly broken. He was aged, wrinkles cradling his eyes. The dwarf was bald, with a braided beard of orange hair descending from his face, matted with blood and mud both.
“Please,” he said, “I didn’t mean ye any trouble!” Tears rolled down the man’s face, as he winced in pain. Ellaria drew a vial Fanrinn had given her from her pack, wishing he’d spared more than three. She pulled the cork and held the open end toward the dwarf’s face.
“Drink this,” she said, trying not to sound forceful.
“What is it?” he asked, his eyes darting between the vial and her gaze.
“It’ll help.”
He hesitated, pursing his lips.
“If I wanted you dead—”
“Right. Fine.” The bottle touched his parted lips and he drank. The man relaxed from his numbing pain.
“What were you doing?” she asked. “Why’d you run from me?”
“I’m sorry, m’lady! I saw the smoke from ye fire and thought ye might’ve been the others. When I saw ye were an elf, I was worried ye were an outlaw!” he said.
“What others?” She looked over the dwarf
’s leg, longing for her brother’s medical expertise.
“Ye have nae heard? They don’t know what’s happened in … wherever you’ve come from?”
“What’s happening in Aljorn?” she pressed, worried.
“It’s been attacked,” he muttered, a bead of sweat rolling down his face, “by our ancestors.”
Ellaria’s eyebrows shot up in shock. Aljorn attacked—by the dwarven ancestors? She thought of the tales of Aljorn’s Grand Crypt – a sepulcher built of dragon bones to house the dead. Had the invaders sent more than one harbinger? She looked toward the mountain, visible over the trees, and immediately found it hard to breathe. Returning her gaze to the dwarf now with her, she asked, “How did this happen? Where are the other dwarves?”
“We dunnae know, m’lady, and the others are in a camp somewhere around here! I did nae make it out of Aljorn until long after the others had, I don’t know where they’ve gone!”
She frowned thoughtfully. “Can you walk?” The dwarf considered the question, then nodded. “Come with me,” she said, “my friend and I were headed to Aljorn, but I suppose now we’re headed for this camp.”
They followed the path she’d taken chasing the dwarf and returned to the camp to find Tyrdun awake outside his tent. He eyed the dwarf with her and arched a brow. His shoulders rose. “Well, at least you had a good reason.”
Ellaria felt her jaw tighten. “This man is from Aljorn. He has … unpleasant news.”
Tyrdun’s expression darkened. Ellaria and the dwarf explained the situation as they knew it. “No,” Tyrdun said when they were done, “that does nae sound good at all. What was your name?”
“I am Baridan Radin,” he answered. Ellaria realized she hadn’t asked in her haste.
“Does King Thorstan still live?” Tyrdun asked. Baridan’s eyes were suddenly transfixed with the ground, and that was all Tyrdun needed for an answer. “How about his son, does he live?”
“I don’t know, m’lord. I think the prince escaped with the others.”