by Ben Stovall
Krolligar dragged the palm of his hand down the front of his face. He was weary from travel, and it weighed on him noticeably. Inaru leaned in close, “How is Rhu holding up?”
“He is doing well … enough. The Blood Ravens were told he won leadership from Barduss, only the few that were present at the stones know the truth. His fighting style is not unlike my own, though he relies on the shadows and tricks more, as the Ravens often have. Father has had me working with him in secret to ensure his success.” Krolligar frowned and his eyes were cast upon the ground. “And his cooperation.” Inaru placed a hand on the orc’s shoulder sympathetically. “Thank you,” his brother said. Krolligar looked over his shoulder to see the orcs heading toward their temporary campground.
Inaru shut his eyes tight. He turned around and began making his way into the city’s center, Krolligar close behind. “Based on what Joravyn saw, we have about a week, maybe ten days to prepare—to get these forces to work together,” he said. “I only hope we can actually accomplish it.” With that, the orc turned and made his way into Souhal, no doubt glad to be home. Lytha hoped he could find some time to relax before the planning began, for his sake.
Twelve
Inaru quickly crossed the city, the cobblestones slick from the melted snow. It had been two days since the arrival of the orcs, dwarves, and forces from Daralton, and so far, the disparate groups had managed to work cohesively. He shivered as a gust howled through the street. It had gotten slightly warmer, but Inaru was sure the runoff water would make the roads treacherous in the morning after a long, wintry night.
He neared the western edge of the city, briskly walking toward Norvacka Park. Warchief Ironjaw had requested his presence, sending a messenger to the Unruly Pony who refused to leave until Inaru accompanied him. The courier moved much slower than he, however, and Inaru was leading within moments of departing the inn.
They arrived and made their way toward the Ironjaw Clan’s gray tents. Snow that refused to melt was piled in large drifts on the edges of a path the orcs had cleared. What little of it had melted caused the ground to be muddy and marsh-like, much to Inaru’s dismay.
The sun was low in the sky, having barely peeked over the horizon thus far. Many of the tents he passed had the telltale sounds of orcs dreaming within. Grunting, moaning, snoring—all of it. He approached the end of the area the dull tents occupied, and looked around realizing he’d missed the warchiefs tent, whether in his haste or due to his wandering thoughts he was unsure.
The courier caught up, breathing heavily as he doubled over, hands on his knees. “Sorry,” he stammered in between his throaty gasps. “The warchief’s tent is over there, the fourth one.” Inaru scanned the area the messenger mentioned, seeing no shelter large enough for a warchief. He cocked his head to the side, realizing the tent was not any grander than the others. He glanced at the courier who held a hand up. “He stays in a normal one, sir. He says if the men can make due in tents like that, he can do the same.” Inaru stifled a slight smile that spread across his face and gestured for the courier to lead him there.
The runner pulled back the flap, and Inaru ducked inside. Everything considered, it was large enough for the warchief. In fact, Inaru’s own tent was quite a bit smaller, and he’d always had plenty of room. Ironjaw was seated at a small chair he had brought in, most likely purchased from a carpenter in the city. His bulk seemed nearly too much for it, but to the credit of whoever the craftsman had been, it did not even seem to notice when he shifted.
The warchief was preening over some papers by the light of a lantern on a table beside him. Inaru was surprised to see the furnishings, having never taken any into his own tent, but then, he knew he’d never been camped in a city for so long. Inaru cleared his throat, and the aged orc looked up at him. “Ah! You’re here,” he said.
“You needed to see me?” As Inaru asked the question he realized he’d been too drowsy before to even consider why Warchief Ironjaw wanted to meet with him. He’d been expecting a summons from the warchiefs, of course, as the unofficial liaison between them and Souhal, but couldn’t think of anything the Ironjaw clan could need so early in the day.
The warchief walked a short way to the right-side of the tent and hoisted a long wooden box onto the table. He motioned Inaru over. The case was a dark wood, cut well, smoothed out, and finished with a deep stain that made the flames from the lantern dance on its gleaming surface. The large orc regarded Inaru patiently. He took a step back, holding a hand out toward the box. “Open it,” he said.
Inaru arched an eyebrow at him, but did as he asked, unlatching the top and lifting it. Inside was an axe laying on a bed of gray cloth. It was steel, a leather wrapping around its hilt for grip, and despite its orcish origin, it was more beautiful than any weapon he’d ever seen. The haft rose to a large head, a glowing orcish rune etched into its side. The primary facet of the magical script was a “Z” shape turned slightly, set over a few sweeping lines that were styled to look tumultuous and swirling. Inaru whispered, “Storm …”
“It belonged to my father, and his before him, and so on,” Ironjaw explained. “The rune is ancient, etched by the great orc mage-smiths years ago. Its like is not replicated these days; orc magic has become to … blunt. Forceful. This—” he ran a finger over the rune, tracing every curve with care “—required subtly. Gentleness. A warm, loving, guiding hand pouring the essence of magic into a weapon with the utmost precision. Only the dwarves could hope to rival the crafting of the axe. However, I doubt even the archmages of Kual’apir could replicate the magic here.” The orc’s strangely tender hand pulled away from the weapon, as he turned the box toward Inaru. “I want you to have it.”
‘Warchief—you can’t be serious!” Inaru exclaimed. He stared at Ironjaw with disbelief.
“It … I cannot wield it well. I’ve used huge, heavy axes my whole life. It sits in a box, forgotten. I would see it held again, Inaru.”
“Why me?” Inaru asked, incredulous. He knew the question to be fair, given that the warchief had an entire clan he could hand the axe to. Ironjaw paused, rolling the question around in his head as he considered his words. He turned back to the blade and smiled.
“You have impressed me, Inaru,” he began. “Both during the wars and recently. It takes bravery to speak out against your own clan much less … much less your father. Then, you return to him, swallowing your pride to ask him and the other warchiefs to simply participate in a battle for our own lives. There are too few orcs like you, my friend. They do not all share your honor.” The warchief lifted the axe out of the box and offered the grip to Inaru. “I would rather have someone worthy, no matter the clan he is from, wield the axe.”
Inaru’s mouth fell agape as he considered Ironjaw’s words. Breathing deep, he accepted the weapon, holding it carefully, becoming accustomed to its weight. “I will not make you regret this, Warchief Ironjaw.”
The large orc smiled. “I do not think you will.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Ulthan couldn’t bear the saddle anymore. On King Aldariak’s orders he’d been riding to the kingdom’s westward villages to get the people to safety. The monarch had loaned him a gray mare for the job, and the paladin had become painfully aware of how unaccustomed he was to riding.
Ulthan was glad for the chance to take a break. It was about midday, but he’d managed to ride into Vakal’s Ridge. He saw no reason he couldn’t stay to eat a warm meal in the town’s tavern once his business was done.
Without delay he made his way to a small edifice that stood near the center of town. A dark-skinned man in his thirties approached.
“Greetings, Ulthan,” the man called.
“To you as well, sir,” the paladin responded. His reputation seemed to precede him, as he’d never seen this man before. But he wore the sigil of the Vakalik family that owned the land the village was built upon. King Aldariak had informed him most of the family wintered in Kual’apir, and they left a castellan in charge of their affa
irs in Gandaraar while away. Ulthan could garner this man was him and handed him the royal decree.
The castellan’s eyes widened. “Word from King Aldariak? I’ve … I’ve never …” The man broke the seal and read the letter carefully. “All the western villages must evacuate to Souhal? An army of … what? Mister Ulthan this must be a mistake!”
“I’m afraid not. All your townspeople are in grave danger. I met and faced the harbinger of this army myself,” the paladin said with a frown. He scratched his goatee. “How many horses do you have in the town?”
“Thirty-four.”
“Villagers?”
“Over four hundred.”
Ulthan looked away as he grimaced. “Have the people pack light. Gather as many carts and wagons as you can. It won’t be a comfortable ride, but you should make it.”
“What if … what if they don’t want to leave their homes?”
Ulthan bit his lip before repeating the line he’d been asked to give to all the village leaders, “We don’t have time to argue with them. Leave them behind.” The aged man’s eyes grew large and teary with the sentence, and Ulthan had to struggle to retain his composure. The castellan finally nodded and sulked away.
When he was far enough, the paladin released a sigh from the depths of his chest. Turning on his heel, he made his way to a building called the Viper’s Den Tavern. With a shove the oaken door gave way revealing a warm room with tables all about. Unlike the Unruly Pony it did not possess a second floor of rooms to stay overnight. Ulthan assumed the village didn’t see many travelers and the few it did were accounted for well enough. He stepped up to the counter. A young woman with brown hair and a fair complexion approached him from the other side. Considering the locale, she was beautiful. “What’ll you have?”
“Water, please.” He took a seat and unlatched the strap his swords and shield hung on, setting it down beside the stool.
“Not beer, milord?”
“Sadly, no. I need to get back in the saddle soon. And I’m not a lord.” The woman shrugged. “What do you have to eat here?”
She was silent for a moment as she filled a glass with water and set it down in front of him. “Banana bread, mutton, chicken, potatoes, bit of pork, some fish from—”
He signaled her to stop with his hand. “I’ll have some pork, a chicken leg, and if you could toast some bread and layer some cheese on it.”
“Daralton cheddar or Aelindaas white?”
Ulthan considered the choice. “The cheddar.”
“At once, milord,” she smiled. Ulthan opened his mouth to correct her again, but she disappeared into the kitchen. The paladin took a deep drink of his water, feeling the refreshing coolness rain upon his insides.
“Ulthan.”
The paladin turned at the noise quickly, his hand reflexively grabbing his sword from the ground. The visage that he encountered shocked him even more. It was Lytha’s father. “Imynor! What are you doing here?”
The old man smiled broadly. “I trade goods and services with the town. I taught many of the people here how to write and read. Can’t grow much food at home … old bones, heh. Just thought I’d stop and eat some of Paul’s famous banana bread, then I saw you!”
The paladin set his blades down bashfully. “Where does he get the bananas from?”
“Kual’apir. The Vakaliks have a plantation. They love them and have some shipped every few weeks.”
The paladin nodded at the words. “Well … had anymore visions?”
“You want to know if you’ll win the battle,” Imynor said. “I haven’t seen anything.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing you need to be concerned about.” The seer smiled softly as he spoke the words. The woman returned from the kitchen and approached them both with a small, sincere smile.
“What can I get for you, Imynor?”
“You already know, sweet Bella.”
“Pa will have it out in a moment,” she said, returning to the kitchen. A long, peaceful silence stretched between them.
“I saw you in a vision of mine once. A long time ago,” Imynor suddenly said. Ulthan only looked at the man with surprise. “It remains unclear to me to this day. Would you like to hear it?”
The paladin nodded.
“To say it has been muddled by time would not properly explain how little I remember of it. Not that it was clear to begin with. I believe … I believe the first thing I saw was you, standing alone. On either side of you were people. I could not make out their faces, but it was obvious you cared for them all deeply. Next, they grabbed your arms. They pulled you toward themselves, these two differing groups. You began to break. They tore you apart …
“And then I woke,” Imynor explained.
“What do you think it means?” Ulthan asked.
“I thought on that for some time. But coming here … seeing you … I don’t think I was meant to know. I think I was merely meant to tell you of it. And now I have.” The waitress returned with a plate in either hand. On the right sat Ulthan’s chosen meats and the toast with cheese melted to its surface. The left was a rather large hunk of warm bread. She set them down in front of them. Ulthan handed her a gandari crown, and she accepted the payment with a bashful smile. Ulthan hefted the chicken leg to his face and took a bite. Paul had cooked the meat slightly too long for Ulthan’s preference, but the flavor was not lost, though it was certainly dry. Imynor withdrew his purse and produced some silver quarters as Bella placed his bread in front of him.
The girl pushed his hand away. “That’s not necessary, Imynor. Bread’s on us,” she explained. Ulthan thought better of speaking with his mouth full of food.
The aged man persisted. “Take it, Bella,” he said sternly.
“Pa said you’ll never owe us a penny. I won’t.”
“You will, child,” he whispered. The seer tucked the coins in her hand and patted them closed. “Take it. Please.”
Bella’s brow furrowed as her shoulders raised. Her head hung low as she pulled her hands from Imynor’s own, and she retreated into the kitchen. Ulthan nearly asked about it, when Imynor said, “Have you ever had this before?” He pointed to his bread.
“I can’t say I have,” the paladin admitted.
“Then you must try some!” The seer lifted a knife from his plate and cut off a slice for Ulthan. His hand seemed to shake as he offered it, and the paladin sniffed it as he rose it to his face. He took a bite, and the moist bread’s flavor alighted his mouth. It was sweet. Delicious. The paladin had to admit surprise at the strong presence of the banana’s flavor, as he’d thought it could be lost in the bread. But Paul’s recipe was faultless.
“Mmmh,” Imynor sighed happily. “It’s absolutely perfect. You hear that Paul? Perfect!” he shouted. A hearty chuckle echoed from the kitchen’s ajar door. Ulthan continued eating his meal. By the time he was done, Imynor had nearly finished the entire loaf. He cut off another slice and offered it to the paladin, and Ulthan had to admit he’d be remiss not to enjoy its splendor yet again. It was just as good the second time.
With the bread finished, Imynor rose and patted his belly. The seer withdrew another two silver quarters from his bag and placed them down on the counter. Ulthan did the same. They walked together to the door, exiting the warm, delightful establishment and returning to the bitter cold of the outside.
“That was excellent. Absolutely excellent. I daresay Paul made the best loaf he ever has. And he thought to refuse payment! If I ate for free I’d eat up all their crowns!” Imynor laughed.
Ulthan smiled as they approached his horse. He and the seer stood side by side, time passing slowly. “Will you be evacuating to Souhal with the rest of the villagers?” he asked.
“Ha! No, Ulthan, I will not. I can’t afford another house, if it gets pillaged I might as well go with it!”
Ulthan scratched his chin. “What about Lytha? She’s worried sick about you.”
“She will be fine,” the seer whispered with a
sincere smile. “Lytha is a grown woman. She’s lived by herself in Souhal for eight years. Tell her … tell her she doesn’t need to worry about me.”
“I will,” Ulthan nodded. Silence stretched between them.
“And … And keep her safe.”
Ulthan blinked at the juxtaposition of his two statements. “I … of course, Imynor. I’ll do everything I can.”
The seer nodded slowly at the promise. “Thank you, Ulthan. Have a nice journey back to Souhal.” With that, the seer turned, and walked away with the aid of his cane. Ulthan watched him disappear into the woods and cursed at the hour. He had three more hamlets to visit by tomorrow.
And so he rode.
✽ ✽ ✽
Torvaas silently made his way through the Torgashin tribe’s camp, being careful to remain hidden. The tribesmen who Valan Rivrak had sent to Souhal hadn’t shown him any more kindness than those in Torgas’hallan, and while he couldn’t change their view of him, he could at least make sure he wasn’t seen.
Graal Wylan had asked him to come by, through way of a courier. Torvaas had spoken with him briefly when he arrived, but had not since. It was not their first meeting, of course. Torvaas and Graal Wylan were friends as children. The general’s father had been a soldier that worked closely with Torvaas’s own, but who had unfortunately given his life to ensure that none of the Torgashin were left in the village when the flooding came. After that, the two drifted apart. When Torvaas had spoken to the soldier a few days prior, he seemed glad to see the rogue. Torvaas had assumed that he held some animosity toward him due to Valan Rivrak’s words, but the man had shown no sign of it.
Torvaas arrived at Graal Wylan’s tent and found the flap held open by a stick. He ducked inside, and made his presence known by clearing his throat.