He looked left and right. Verbena was in shock. His men were looking to him for a cue. Newman pressed a palm down to signal wait.
In a surprisingly level tone Goldenrod asked, “Why did you bring us here?”
“The orcs.”
“The orcs?”
The apprentices were shocked someone would treat their master with such disrespect. Newman watched their hands. If either raised one to Goldenrod his axe was coming out.
“Yes, they’re becoming a greater threat every decade. They breed so fast. Every deer or votha or dunu is a host for their young. They’ve discouraged contact with the other villages. More than one has been wiped out. They keep attacking the apprentices I send out to gather rare herbs. If one comes back full of worms that’s easily fixed but there’s nothing I can do for the ones who are eaten.”
Newman’s palm itched for the haft of his axe.
“We elves don’t have a gift for violence. So we needed you to bring the orcs under control.”
“As mercenaries.” Goldenrod’s voice was low and cold.
“No, simple exterminators. This isn’t a war. It’s vermin control.”
“Fine. We’ve slaughtered hundreds of them. We’re done. Send us home.”
“How can I send you home without someone there to receive you? And there’s plenty more orcs to kill.”
“No there aren’t. We haven’t seen an orc in weeks. The ones who survived the battle ran and didn’t come back.”
“Yes, they ran.” The sorcerer manipulated the scrying pool again. The viewpoint rose into the air. The last rays of the sun glinted off the river. It kept rising. A spot of light came into view.
“That’s where we are.”
The view kept spreading. A few other villages came into sight. As the view widened they saw the mountains Newman had visited south of the camp . . . and then the whole ring they were part of, marking the rim of a crater.
“And now we see all the land within the Blasted Ring. There are orc bands everywhere but where you killed them.”
Flecks of green light, the bright green of orc skin, appeared. The area around the human camp stayed black.
“The surviving orcs fled and joined other bands. They told of your violence and the slaughter you wrought. When orcs hear of such a threat they have only two reactions. Flee to seek a safer hunting range. Or attack the threat to destroy it. I’ve used a persuasion to convince them to attack. They’ve spread the word of humans to the other bands. Now all the orcs inside the Blasted Ring are on their way to you.”
“How many?” demanded Newman.
“A hand of hands of hands of hands of hands.”
Newman was still in too much shock to do the multiplication. Verbena, who’d been handling the trade negotiation, translated. “Over three thousand.”
“There’s no way we could survive an attack like that,” said Goldenrod. “And if we’re all fighting we’ll starve this winter.”
“Of course you’ll defeat them. You killed ten or twenty for every one you lost before. And now you have magic.”
“We’re not all fighters. There’s old people. Children. Cripples.”
The sorcerer shrugged. “If you cannot handle the task I will summon others to succeed where you failed.”
“No. You will cast another persuasion. Convince the orcs to avoid us.”
Now he was amused. “I will not.”
“You will,” declared Goldenrod. “Or we will force you to do it.”
The elves laughed. The sorcerer and senior apprentices openly. The junior apprentices without lifting their heads. Even Aelion chuckled.
“You are brave, in an endearing way. But you know attempting that will result in your destruction.”
Goldenrod pulled her Bowie knife from its sheath. She stabbed up at his belly.
Before the thrust landed the sorcerer shoved his palm into her face, knocking her flat.
“Leave the pale-haired one. Kill the rest.”
Newman reached behind him to grab the haft of his axe. Pulling it forward brought it across his body in a prime parry. Then he had both hands on it, pulling it out of the harness, and readied it for a swing as he rushed at the sorcerer.
His first swing was deflected before it even reached the elf’s body. The sorcerer stood still, only watching him. Newman braced his feet to put the whole power of his body into the next blow, swinging at shoulder height for maximum force. The axe bounced back in mid-air. The recoil knocked Newman into the shelves. He fell to the floor.
One of the embassy guards rushed at the sorcerer, sword high. The elf clasped his hands together. Rasp was smashed against the ceiling of the hollow, wooden spikes tearing his flesh.
Ymer drew her obsidian blade and struck at Verbena in a single motion. Blood splashed the healer’s face as Crusher blocked the blow with his left arm. The arm fell limp. He swung his sword at Ymer, cutting her arm. As he pulled the sword back for the next blow the cut closed up, leaving only a few drops of blood as evidence it happened.
Verbena touched Crusher’s arm. She closed up the wound, knitting muscles and tendons without scars. She felt the signs of shock beginning and cured that too.
Fighter and elf traded blows. He could block her short knife, but the wounds he left healed instantly. Then Ymer went limp. Her head cocked to the side as Aelion pulled his knife out of the back of her neck. “I always hated her,” said the elf.
Osdul flung a fireball into the face of the nearest human. Lanyard’s hair and clothes went up in flames. The apprentice flung another at Deadeye, who had an arrow nocked and aimed at him.
Deadeye dropped to the floor, letting the fireball pass over him. He loosed the arrow into Osdul’s belly.
The elf pulled out the arrow with a momentary spurt of blood. Another arrow pierced his chest. As Osdul pulled it out a third impaled his eye. The elf crumpled to the ground.
As Newman tried to climb to his feet one of the junior apprentices jumped on him, wildly swinging a knife. He used the haft of his axe to deflect the knife arm but felt a sting where his scalp was cut.
Verbena caught up to the burning man as he rolled across the ground to put the flames out. “Lanyard, stop! Let me help.” She put her hands on his blistered face.
“Ow. Okay. Better. Ow.” Lanyard stood and drew his knife.
Ithuil flung an icicle into Pritchel. The man went down on his face. He sent another icicle into Crusher’s chest. That man stumbled but kept his grip on his sword.
Aelion came next. Ithuil sent an icicle straight at his heart, but the wanderer waved his hand and it shattered into harmless bits of ice.
Then Crusher stabbed the apprentice in the throat. He kept twisting the sword in the wound as the elf fell.
Aelion looked at the icicle sticking out of Crusher’s chest. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Yes. The trick. Is not minding. The pain,” panted Crusher.
Wrestling with the axe wasn’t getting Newman anything but more superficial cuts. He let go with one hand and drew his Ka-bar. He stabbed the elf in the belly.
“Hurts, but I can heal, human,” hissed the elf.
Newman pulled the knife through the elf’s gut. Instead of leaving a gash the knife moved through the elf, wound healing as the metal moved on. A hand locked on Newman’s knife arm, pulling it back.
Pulling weakly. Elves didn’t have more muscle. They had a longer moment arm from their long limbs. Crushed together like this the elf couldn’t use his leverage.
Newman hooked his other arm around the elf’s neck and pulled. He kept cutting. The elf flailed and squealed. The Ka-bar cut the elf’s heart in half. Pink blood sprayed over Newman’s torso. The elf went limp.
He rolled to his feet, flipping the lochaber axe to the ready.
Verbena was bent over a kneeling Crusher, pulling something from his chest. Another elf rushed toward her, knife outstretched.
The axe cut through the elf’s arm and into its chest. Newman twisted the handle to pull it loo
se. He looked around.
Two elves kneeled in the pose he’d first seen them in. Deadeye and Pritchel, both bleeding, stood over them. The rest of the apprentices were dead. Verbena moved to Pritchel and lifted his shoulder, searching for his wound.
Elf blood wasn’t really pink, decided Newman. It was just paler than human blood so it seemed pink by comparison.
The tree hollow was full of comparison.
The sorcerer hadn’t moved. “This ferocity is why you will defeat the orcs.”
Goldenrod stood before him, poking at the invisible bubble with a finger. “You will persuade the orcs to avoid us.”
“No. You’ve ruined centuries of my labor. But you can’t harm me. You can’t make me cast against my will. As I need new apprentices, you will become one. In time you will learn my magic. Then you may persuade orcs as you wish.”
The sorcerer looked around the bloody room. “The rest of you may atone for this atrocity by going home and killing many, many orcs.”
No one had a response to this.
Newman stood beside Goldenrod and leaned his axe in. When he felt the barrier he kept it there.
Goldenrod took a deep breath. “Your magic is now mine.”
White light flowed from the sorcerer to Goldenrod, pouring into her eyes, her mouth, her hands, her heart. As the flow stopped she screamed in pain, clutching her chest. She fell to her knees and bent over.
“What? What?” The sorcerer waved his hands.
When he felt the barrier gave way Newman pulled the lochaber axe back and swung hard, pivoting his hips to put the weight of his body into the blow.
The blade cut into the sorcerer at the base of his neck. The blow went at an angle, coming out under the shoulder. The sorcerer’s head and arm hit the ground still connected.
The body toppled into the scrying pool. As it hit the spell shattered leaving only a puddle of blood.
Goldenrod’s scream faded to moans. Newman turned and knelt down to embrace her. “Honey? What’s wrong?” He searched her torso for wounds.
The wooden spikes holding Rasp to the ceiling vanished. He fell to the ground. Verbena rushed to him. She pressed her hands on his wounds, stopping the bleeding and sealing the holes in his flesh.
Aelion was panicking. “You killed him? The whole village will want to kill us!”
“We’d already killed the apprentices,” said Deadeye.
“No one cares about the apprentices. He cast the peace enchantment. He cast the protection that kept orcs out of the village. It’s going to be overrun, just like the others.”
Goldenrod vomited blood. Not the coffee-grounds vomit of partially digested blood. This blood was bright red, completely fresh. She vomited more into the puddle under her.
Newman cried, “Verbena! Help!” Combat he could handle. This terrified him.
“Give me a moment.” The healer squeezed the last of Rasp’s wounds shut. Then she crawled the ten feet to Goldenrod, too rushed to stand.
Verbena ran her hands over Goldenrod’s back. “Stomach and esophagus are ruptured. Multiple tears. I’m reconnecting as best I can . . .” She went silent, eyes closed, face intent.
Newman held Goldenrod’s hand. He stayed still, not wanting to interrupt the magic. The blood coming out of her scared him more than all the blood he’d ever lost.
“Okay. Bleeding’s stopped. But it’s a weak seal. Her magic is fighting me. Goldenrod, can you hear me?”
She nodded.
“Good. Don’t talk. No eating, no drinking. We’ll see if you’re healed enough to drink tomorrow. If not, Lady Burnout taught me a way to rehydrate someone. We’ll need a stretcher for you.”
“We’re on it,” said Deadeye.
Aelion finished closing Deadeye’s wounds and said, “We must flee.”
“We will,” said Newman. “But we need to get ready.”
“What about our gear?” asked Crusher.
“Is there anyone here without elf blood on him?” asked Newman.
Rough chuckles answered him.
“We’re not walking into the village like this. We’ll improvise lean-tos on the way back. Lanyard, what the hell happened to you?”
The burn victim’s heavily tanned face was now pink and hairless. Blisters covered the top and sides of his head and his chest.
“I caught a fireball in the face. I’m not blind any more. And not complaining.”
“I was in a hurry, all right?” said Verbena. “Let me recharge and I’ll work on him some more.”
“I thought it took you overnight to recover your magic?” asked Newman.
“Not here. This place is just overflowing with magical energy.”
Goldenrod sat up and pointed at the shelves.
Newman followed the gesture. “The books?” Nod. “You want to take the books?” Nod nod nod.
He walked over to the shelves. “This is what I get for marrying a Ravenclaw,” he muttered. Louder: “I don’t think we can take them all. They’re heavy.”
He brought one over to her. The pages were thick leather. Runes were burned into both sides. A thick piece had been stitched in to hold an elaborate diagram.
Goldenrod nodded. Newman went back for more. As he picked one up she shook her head. He moved to the other side of the gap where he’d taken the one from. Nod.
“You want the newest ones?”
Nod.
The age of the books showed on their bindings. Scruffs, stains, cracks were absent on the ones he grabbed. He put them down on the nearest piece of dry floor. Holding them before Goldenrod and flipping through the pages brought nods.
“Stretcher’s ready,” said Deadeye.
“I think everyone’s as healed as I can get them tonight,” said Verbena.
Newman ordered, “Let’s head out.”
Loading Goldenrod onto the stretcher without straining her took his full attention. The fighters lifted it smoothly.
A gasp caught his attention. He turned to see Aelion wiping blood off his knife with some leaves. The two captive apprentices lay bleeding from cut throats. “Can’t have them telling people which way we went.”
Newman put that aside for later and picked up the books.
***
Aelion could make his hands glow. They used that to hike through the woods when there wasn’t enough moonlight to let them travel safely. Newman insisted on a ten minute rest break every hour, as well as he could time them by the stars.
This break was early. A stream gave them a chance to drink their fill. Goldenrod had stayed asleep when they set the stretcher down, so they didn’t have to worry about rubbing it in.
When the star he was measuring by disappeared behind a leaf Newman said, “Are you ready for another march or do we need to camp here?”
Crusher answered, “That whole horde of vengeful elves thing keeps me from feeling sleepy.”
Several laughed in agreement.
“I’ve cast some spells to obscure our track,” said Aelion.
“Does that prevent them from following us?” asked Deadeye.
“Depends how many spells they cast to track us.”
Everyone began standing. The stretcher bearers lifted Goldenrod as gently as they could but she woke up.”
“Hey. Where are we?”
“In the woods,” said Newman. “Marching home. Go back to sleep.”
“No. I figured something out. Help me stand up.”
Verbena said, “Try not to talk so much.”
“It’s all right. Help me stand.”
Goldenrod swung her legs off the side of the stretcher. Newman let go of his corner of it to catch her.
“Good,” she said. “Now, everybody, group hug.”
Verbena burst out, “Don’t try any magic! It could kill you in your condition.”
“This isn’t my magic. It’s his. Now. Group hug.”
The men looked to Newman. He said, “Huddle up. Do it.”
“Tighter. Close together,” ordered Goldenrod. “Aelion, l
ean over and touch your head to mine.”
When the elf complied she began chanting Elvish words. A sudden blackness seized them.
Then the stream and trees were gone. Campfires lit the night.
Newman looked around. They were in the Kingdom’s encampment. It looked like a normal night. Someone was singing a Scottish folk tune. Goldenrod sagged into his arms as she passed out.
He swept her up and headed for the Chiurgeon’s tent.
“Hey, they’re back!”
The normal routine vanished. People surged forward to greet the returnees. “Hello!” “Welcome back!” “Did you find the elves?” “How did you get into camp?” “Will the elves feed us?”
Newman called, “Lady Burnout!” as he approached the tent.
The flap opened. Burnout held it as he went in and laid Goldenrod on the examining table. Verbena followed him in.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Lady Burnout.
Newman didn’t know how to answer that.
“Magic,” said Verbena. “Two different kinds. She used her power and it ripped her stomach and esophagus apart. Then she cast a spell with stolen magic. She fainted.”
“With this much damage I’m not surprised.” Lady Burnout looked up at Newman. “You have anything you need to do?”
In other words, ‘Stop hovering over me.’ Newman said, “I should report in.”
“We’ll take good care of her,” said Verbena. “She’ll be fine.”
Newman walked back to the clearing between the Court pavilion and the common pavilion where they’d arrived. It was practically a party there. Every member of the expedition was surrounded by at least half a dozen people asking what happened.
Everyone looked so short.
Newman looked around for an authority figure. King Ironhelm was watching the commotion from by his tent, flanked by a squire and herald. He walked up to them, turning a reflexive salute into a bow.
“Good evening, Your Majesty.”
“Welcome home, your excellency. How did it go?”
“Terribly. We did fine with the common elves, but meeting their top magic user turned into a bloodbath.”
Lord Joyeuse held his torch closer to Newman. “Literally,” said the squire.
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