The King's Summons

by Adam Glendon Sidwell

  The orc holding Blaze squeezed tighter. “Say your prayers, puny human,” the orc said, his breath hot in Blaze’s ear.

  “Where is she?” a voice yelled. Blaze recognized the blinded orc’s voice, coming from somewhere behind her. “I’ll end her myself!”

  Oh, Goddess, please let his eyesight not have come back yet.

  “I’m right here!” she yelled.

  Thwack!

  The orc holding Blaze stiffened, then crumbled. Blaze tried to scramble free, but the heavy monster fell on top of her. With a mighty heave, Blaze pushed the unconscious orc off her legs and stood up only to be seized by the orc that had been trapped in the snow. He held her up in front of him by her collar.

  “I got her!” he crowed, waving his club in the air. “Say good night.”

  She couldn’t win a contest of strength with this behemoth. And she had only a thin thread of fire left—no more than enough for a single spark.

  But not all battles were about strength. It was a matter of knowing your enemy’s weak point. Hit them where they were the most sensitive.

  An orc was like a mountain of muscle. It had no weak points.

  But sensitive . . .

  Blaze raised a finger and shot a spark into the orc’s nostril.

  The orc bellowed in pain, dropping her instinctively as it drew its hands toward its tender, smoking nose.

  “Bye, now!” The red tint faded and the world turned back to white.

  Blaze fled, leaving the orcs to nurse their wounds as she picked her way through the cover of trees toward the village below.

  “Cernonos,” Blaze muttered to herself. The orc captain trying to capture the jotnar had mentioned that Cernonos wanted the Iron Collar.

  Who was Cernonos?—Or what?

  Didn’t Blaze have enough troubles already?

  Chapter 8: Breaking In

  Blaze lay on a ridge several hundred yards away from the small village of Hetsa. As she watched from afar, she felt numb. But it wasn’t from the cold: the town lay in ruins.

  Smoke curled over the houses. The roofs—both wooden and thatched—were charred and burned. Some of the buildings, homes, and dwellings were nothing more than ash and empty foundations.

  But it was the dwarves themselves that scared Blaze.

  Lines of dwarves walked through the town, heads bowed and feet dragging. Orcs walked beside them, cracking whips and barking orders. Other dwarves, mostly youth, ran from house to house, carrying food trays or water buckets.

  Blaze watched in horror as one orc took a sip of water from a dwarf boy’s bucket and threw the rest in the young dwarf’s face.

  “By the Goddess, what happened here?” Blaze said to herself.

  The orcs herded the line of dwarves into a large building carved out of the mountain. There must have been at least two dozen of them. The last dwarf, hunched over with gray hair, was a few paces behind her fellows. The orc nearest to her kicked her savagely, and she picked up her pace and scurried after the others. Laughing, the orcs slammed the door behind her. Two orcs crossed spears in front of the large building’s front entrance, while the rest, looping arms and singing a war chant, paraded back out into the town. The sign outside the building read: The Musty Beard.

  “That must be the town tavern,” Blaze muttered to herself.

  The young serving dwarves continued to move between houses, but now most of the dwarves carrying water and food ended up in the tavern itself. A few orcs still prowled around within the village, eyeing the young dwarves. One yelled when a youth dropped a plate of cheese in the snow. Most of them had gone into the few buildings that were still left standing.

  Blaze slid down the ridge, pursing her lips in thought. The village was lost, but what could she do? The dwarves weren’t fighting. It appeared as though they had just given up. Someone had to mount a resistance.

  She peeked over the ridge and caught a whiff of freshly roasted meat and frothy mead. Oh how hungry she was.

  They must be planning something. She needed to figure out what was going on. She didn’t want to do anything rash and ruin whatever plans they might have. But finding the right dwarf to give her information would be the challenge.

  She could just move on. The village should solve its own problems. What did she care?

  Frowning, she tossed the thought aside. She wanted to groan. There was a slim chance that Princess Sapphire was trapped in there with the rest of the villagers and that the orcs had not recognized her yet as one of the princesses of prophecy. If that was the case, then it was even more urgent that Blaze find her. How did I get myself into this?

  Things were clearly not as bad as King Jasper had feared. They were far worse.

  If the Musty Beard was where they were herding the dwarves, that was where she needed to be. Blaze studied the large structure carved out of the mountain. If there was a dwarf that she should talk to, he would be in there.

  Moving carefully, Blaze continued down the foothill toward Hetsa’s edge, making sure none of her footprints were visible behind her. Her cloak’s velvety fringe was great for brushing her path clear.

  The cloak, still coated in snowflakes, would also serve as natural camouflage against the snow-covered slope. Whenever Blaze thought an orc was staring at her, she could freeze in place. So far, no one had spotted her or raised any alarm.

  Blaze stalked up to a small hut on the edge of town and pressed against the wall, her ears perked for any approaching orcs. She crept along the side of the wall, then peeked around the corner.

  Now that Blaze was closer, she could see the tavern carved in the mountain in greater detail. It looked to be about the size of three dwarf-sized houses. The entire structure was one piece, with no seams or cracks across its surface. Windows gleamed within precision-cut holes, and an impressive set of double doors, complete with intricate carvings, barred the entrance. The Musty Beard was as impressive a building as any Blaze had seen. It was just what you’d expect from dwarves—building their tavern as a stronghold.

  The two massive, spear-wielding orcs stood guard between her and the entrance. This is where they held the captives, possibly even important ones.

  Thankfully, her hour and a half of surveillance had given her some rest to reignite the fire within. If only she weren’t so hungry. This time though, she wouldn’t attack. The situation required a more subtle approach.

  She snapped her fingers, producing a spark which she carefully fed into a flame as long as her forearm. Peeking around the corner again, she willed the flame toward the pair of guards.

  The orcs leveled their spears at the approaching flame. Blaze bit her lip and continued to feed her inner fire into the flame. It grew larger and larger until it was as big as a large cat. Keeping it small enough was key. She had to concentrate.

  “What is that?” one of the guards said.

  “I think it’s a Fire Gel,” the other muttered.

  Furrowing her brow, Blaze concentrated on shaping the fire into a teardrop, along with two slits near the top and a gash near the bottom. She turned up the corners of the fiery gash ever so slightly.

  “Is that fire smiling at us?” said one of the orcs.

  “That is definitely a Fire Gel,” the second orc said.

  Blaze bounced her hand up and down. The small flame turned and bounced away from the orcs, heading down the street toward a narrow building with a sign bearing a meat cleaver.

  The orc’s tattooed faces split wide in anger. “That Fire Gel is going to burn the meat!”

  The two orcs bolted from their post, yelling and hollering and scooping up large snow mounds as they went.

  Blaze scurried to the front of the Musty Beard. Glancing behind her, she raised her arm into the air. The “Fire Gel,” nothing more than a carefully crafted puppet of flame, leapt into the air and landed on the roof of the butcher shop. The thatched roof began to smolder and smoke.

  “Aahhhhh!” cried one of the orcs bel
ow. “Not the meat!”

  Blaze chuckled and scrambled up a pile of firewood to a window that was unlatched.

  Unlatched?

  Why would the Orcs leave a window to the building with captives inside unlocked?

  Blaze climbed through anyway. She was about to find out.

  Chapter 9: Freyr

  From the window sill’s vantage point, Blaze surveyed the tavern. It was massive, with seven rows of long tables lined by several dozen chairs.

  Blaze didn’t have long to take in the sight. The tavern was mostly empty except for a dozen or so orcs sitting near the back of the room, noisily gorging themselves on meat. She slipped off the sill and skidded across the floor, sliding beneath a table; she hoped they hadn’t seen her.

  The hope that she had found Princess Sapphire and could quickly free her faded. This was going to be harder than that.

  The smell of the food reminded Blaze of how long it had been since she’d eaten.

  This first chamber of the tavern was not where the orcs kept their prisoners—it was their mess hall. They must have herded the dwarves into some back room. So she’d have to find that, sneak in, and free them.

  Or she could get out before those orcs captured and tortured her. But the smell of roasted meat and potatoes was just so enticing.

  Cries for help came from the orcs fighting the blaze across the street.

  “Something is going on out there,” one of the orcs at the table said.

  Blaze crawled along beneath one of the long tables, using her elbows to prop herself up and propel herself forward.

  Down at the other end of the table, an orc with bright orange feet stood, pushing away his chair. “If there is trouble with the dwarves,” he said, his voice full of authority, “I’m gonna roast them.”

  “Ay!” the other orcs chorused.

  With the thumping boots and the clanking of metal weapons, the orcs rushed out of the tavern, yelling and hollering war cries. Blaze watched their scarred, calloused feet pass before breathing a sigh of relief. The scent of fresh food and spirits filled her lungs.

  There were no orc feet that she could see in any direction. She cautiously pulled herself off the floor.

  The tavern was lit by candles lining the walls, casting flickering shadows across the room that kept her eyes darting from one side to the other.

  She beelined for the food at the other end of the table, grabbed a ham steak, and shoved as much as she could into her mouth, chewing quickly.

  “Hello,” a voice said from somewhere up above her.

  Blaze called upon her flame, and fire erupted from her hands. Spinning around, Blaze cocked her fists back, ready to let fly, and stopped.

  A dwarf hung in a net suspended above the table by a rope tied to the rafters.

  The prisoner in the net swayed slightly, spinning very slowly in circles. He twisted his body around to look Blaze in the eyes. As the net spun, he had to shift himself again to keep eye contact.

  Blaze did not respond.

  The dwarf tried again. “Hello there,” he said. “You are well today, I hope?”

  “Uh,” Blaze said. “Yes?” This was not the greeting she expected. Shaking her head, she got right back into things. “Who are you? What are you doing up there?”

  The dwarf sighed. “I am the Freyr of Hetsa—the mayor,” he said. “But I don’t recognize you as one of my flock.”

  Blaze shook her head. “I’m not,” she said. “I’m Blaze the Ember Mage, and I’m here to rescue you. We need to arm your villagers. We need to fight!” She climbed onto the table, stepping into some of the orcs’ food. “Where are they holding your guards? I’ll free you and then we can rescue them.”

  The Freyr’s expression grew frustrated. “You must not free me, stranger. You don’t understand the situation here.”

  “Sure, I do!” Blaze said. She reached for the net. “You’re being held captive.”

  The Freyr wiggled around in his net, spinning more rapidly. “That is not all that is happening, outsider.”

  “Oh really?” Blaze bent over the table and picked up a barstool. “What am I missing?”

  “The orcs have my wife and children,” the Freyr said. “In the backroom behind the bar.”

  Blaze paused. “Your family?”

  The Freyr cursed, his expression growing more frustrated. “The first orc came alone, traveling with a raven on his shoulder. He was looking for a rare gem—a shining zirconia we craft deep in our mines. Looks just like a diamond but dampens magic. Said it had to be a certain cut and color. It had to be black.”

  That seemed like an odd request to Blaze. A black diamond. “And did you give it to him?” she asked.

  The Freyr looked surprised that she’d ask. “Of course. He was willing to pay quite handsomely for it.”

  An orc with a raven on his shoulder. That seemed odd to Blaze.

  “I wish I wouldn’t have! It was shortly after that the rest of the orcs arrived. They had it planned from the beginning. First, they broke into my apartment within the chambers and captured my family. They threatened their lives, telling me that if I did not bow to their wishes, my family would be the first to die.

  “They commanded me to tell my village to stand down,” the Freyr said, his jaw clenched. “Now they keep me here, trussed up like a bird fit to slaughter. If I disobey, then my family will be killed.” He bowed his head as best as he could. “You must not interfere.”

  Blaze scowled. Blasted orcs. “There’s more to it than that. There’s a jotnar, and . . . the entire Reach is at stake.” She didn’t have time to explain everything.

  “And what would you do, sacrifice your family?”

  That made Blaze angry. “I don’t have a family, so how would I know?”

  But he had a point. And that frustrated Blaze. He spoke with such authority and confidence, even though he was all tied up.

  He scowled. Blaze could tell she was not welcome here.

  “Fine,” Blaze said. “I’ll free your family first.”

  The Freyr’s eyes widened. “I will not let you risk their lives.”

  Blaze laughed. “Oh really? What are you going to do from up there?”

  Opening his mouth, the Freyr bellowed through the Tavern. “Guards! Guards! Someone is trying to rescue me!”

  Grabbing her head with both hands, Blaze growled at the Freyr. “Seriously?” This was why she preferred to work alone.

  Blaze bolted across the table toward the front door, scattering plates and dishes. She hoped beyond hope no orc would hear the Freyr before they finished dealing with the fire outside.

  Her hopes were dashed before she even reached the end of the table. The front doors to the tavern burst open, and orcs spilled into the room. “There she is!” one of the orcs yelled.

  Shooting a fiery look back at the Freyr, Blaze conjured up two fireballs in her hands. “Let’s go, boys!” she roared. Good thing she’d had a sandwich.

  Chapter 10: Tavern Brawl

  The tavern’s warmth gave a welcome boost to the fire within. Blaze thrust her hands forward, shooting streams of fire at the oncoming orcs. Several fell back, throwing up their arms to protect their faces and eyes from the flame. Blaze swung her arms around, tracking the orcs who’d already run into the room to flank her. These orcs hit the ground, ducking beneath tables and chairs.

  Turning, Blaze ran back toward the Freyr, blasting fireballs out of her palms behind her. The barstool she’d placed on the table still sat between her and the Freyr. The Freyr’s confused look turned to shock as Blaze leapt onto the barstool and pushed off, bringing her hands forward. Her flames now extinguished, Blaze grabbed the rope suspending the Freyr’s net. Clambering around, she twisted her legs around the rope and shot more fireballs at the orcs coming back inside the Tavern.

  “What are you doing?” the Freyr said. “Get off me!”

  “You’re my shield, bud,” Blaze said, blasting an orc who�
��d just peeked his head over the table. “This is a good vantage point.”

  Growling, the Freyr wriggled around in his chains. Blaze nearly lost her balance, and her next fireball went wild as she sought to regain her footing. “Stop moving around so much!” she said.

  “I am trying to dislodge you,” the Freyr said. “I will not aid you in this battle, even unwillingly!”

  “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Blaze said. “You’re doing great down there.”

  “You fool, Ember Mage!” the Freyr yelled. “Get off me at once, or I will . . .”

  Thwack! An orc’s club struck the Freyr in the jaw. He immediately fell limp, his loose body swaying.

  “Oops,” Blaze said. She glared at the orc who’d thrown the club. He had a sheepish expression on his face as he turned to look to one particular orc.

  “You fool!” the particular orc yelled. “Not the one in the net! The fire girl.” His skin was a bright orange, though his white ice-themed tattoos remained prominent. In fact, Blaze noticed this particular orc had nearly three times as many tattoos as any of the other orcs she’d seen around Hetsa. His hair, stained red with dye and tied behind his back like some massive, dirty ponytail, was also adorned with beads and small versions of various weaponry. He wore a metal amulet around his neck shaped like a crude child’s drawing of a crown.

  All at once, it clicked for Blaze. This is the orc’s chief.

  Could this be Cernonos?

  The other orcs in the room stopped as their chief strode toward the orc who’d thrown the club. Grabbing the other, smaller orc by the neck, the chief pulled him close to his face. “You hit our prisoner, warrior,” he said, red spittle flying from his mouth.

  The smaller orc struggled against his chief’s grasp. “I’m sorry, Chief,” he said, gasping for air. “I’m sorry.”

  The chief dropped the smaller orc, sending him crashing into the ground. “If you’re going to throw your weapon, warrior,” he said. “Make sure you hit your target.”