by Sam Ferguson
Garrin took another bite of his meal and thought about that for a moment before letting his mind drift across the icy pond to distant memories. Before he knew it, he was singing an old tune that had often wormed its way into his mind since his days in the Frontier Legion.
Dreams of yore, long forgotten
Hopes of those now downtrodden
Dreams of home
Dreams of love
Grant me strength from above
We will go home, we will go home
We will go home, across the waters
Shadows stretch over our fathers
Reachin o’er across the waters
Land of mist
Land of kin
Grant me strength from within
We will go home, we will go home
We will go home, across the waters
The trapper nearly blushed when he finished the song and found Richard listening to him.
“Where did you learn that song?” Richard asked.
“It’s a Tarthun camp song. The words are different of course, since they speak their own language, but one of the men I fought with back in the legion was good with languages. He translated it once after he heard some prisoners singing it each night.”
“Your comrade befriended prisoners?” William asked sharply between mouthfuls of food.
Garrin nodded. “It isn’t wrong to learn from the enemy. It’s a good song.”
“Perhaps,” William offered. “Though I dare say not all enemies are worth listening to. You can’t reason with everyone.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked William.
“Think on it, whether or not Garrin here learned a folk song from the Tarthuns isn’t going to end the war between our peoples.”
“Maybe not, but it helped us understand it wasn’t a war worth fighting,” Garrin said flatly.
Richard blanched and his mouth fell open.
William rose from his spot and set his food on the ground. “Excuse me?” he snarled.
Garrin shrugged. “The Frontier Legion was an expeditionary unit. That means we killed people to take and control their lands.” The trapper folded his arms and locked his brown eyes with William’s gray-blue orbs. “Tell me, is it wrong for a Tarthun to protect his homeland simply because we are the invaders? What makes us better than them? Why should we have the right to take their homes?”
“They’re savages,” William replied tersely.
“Aren’t we all?” Garrin shot back.
“It seems that perhaps we have hired a coward as our guide,” William sneered. His nose was tilted high in the air and his voice was dripping with confidence born out of his arrogance.
Garrin shook his head. “I did my duty to the very best of my abilities. I just didn’t look back when I received my discharge papers.”
William shook his head, and looked as though he was about to say something else, but just then Kiska howled long and loud. All of them turned their heads to the split-tail.
“Come on, let’s finish our food and then get to bed,” Garrin said. “And while you two pick away at your food as though table manner matter out here, I’ll tell you a tale that explains what I mean.”
“You have a tale of enemies becoming friends?” William asked skeptically, letting the snide remark pass by.
Garrin nodded. “We learned this in our initial training as we prepared for the Frontier Legion. It’s a fairly significant history that is still passed on to new recruits. I sought out and read the entire first-hand account after sitting through the lecture where we were given the rough outline and hand-fed the moral of the story. Lazar of Oleant, the man who wrote the account, included every detail. I won’t do it justice, but it is a good tale to set us on the right foot for an adventure.” Garrin gestured toward the mountains in the direction of Geberron Pass as though to indicate the journey they were setting out on.
William nodded his assent and sat back down to gather his plate.
Garrin moved in closer to the fire and offered another morsel of food to Kaspar. The Dryfoot mink took the food, but instead of eating in the canister, it bounded over to curl up in Richard’s lap. Richard lifted his food and stared at the animal nervously.
“He won’t hurt you,” Garrin said. “I think he likes you.”
“What’s his name again?” Richard asked.
“Kaspar,” Garrin replied.
“Go on and tell us your story,” William said impatiently as Richard began stroking the white animal in his lap. Kaspar let out a quick series of clicks and chattered away softly as it leaned into Richard’s hand.
The trapper nodded and then cleared his throat, his eyes looking out beyond the mountains, letting his mind’s eye find the scene where the story began.
“The morning sun broke over the jagged spires of the Koshtiryn Mountains as it always did, bathing the valleys below, and the city of Oleant, in its warm, golden light. The alabaster towers and the shining citadel came alive with people, each eager to go about their day as they always did. None of them knew of the impending doom that lay just beyond the mountain pass. Nor did any of them know that this would be their last day of peace.
“Lazar was in the library, his nose buried in a book, when he was startled by the sound of armored feet clip-clopping along the wooden floor. Lazar looked up and saw his brother leading a group of five men in full battle dress.
“Lazar’s brother stood half a head taller than the others, with wide shoulders seeming even larger that day underneath his steel pauldrons. A red cape was fastened in place by two emerald colored rings on his shoulders.
“Lazar’s brother, Borean, announced that they had grave news. Borean turned, and the men behind him produced a parchment and brought it to Lazar. They roughly shoved Lazar’s books aside. Lazar would normally have opened his mouth to protest their discourtesy, but his words failed him when he saw what it was they had placed before him. It was no parchment of paper, it was a stretch of skin, of human flesh, that they unrolled for Lazar to see. He held a hand to his mouth, fighting the urge to scream and turn away to retch. Lazar was not the soldier Borean was. Lazar had been brought up a gentleman-scholar. He read of wars and the atrocities done to the victims of such barbaric tribes as the Varvarr, or the Tarthuns, or the various orcish hordes, but never before had he seen the horrors first hand.”
“Hold on a moment, Garrin,” William said. “That is a bit much for Richard here.”
Richard shook his head, “I don’t mind it,” he said. “Honest, it’s okay.”
“Can’t keep a boy from a good campfire tale,” Garrin said with a sly smile. “Besides, I promise it has a point.”
William stuffed another bite of food into his mouth and motioned for Garrin to continue.
The trapper smiled. “The message was written in Common Tongue,” Garrin explained. “Lazar stifled his senses and pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles up onto his nose. He peered down at the text, written in blood, and stumbled through the barely legible letters. As he studied the letters, he saw something peculiar. He saw a round seal with an eagle’s head inside. It was an orcish symbol. Somehow, an orc had written in Common Tongue.”
“Impossible,” William scoffed. “Orcs are too dumb for such intricacies.”
Garrin held up a finger. “And therein lies my first point. The orcs in this tale had learned about their enemy, and it gave them an advantage.”
“Rubbish,” William said.
Garrin shook his head. “Feel free to travel back to Richwater and go into any barracks and ask the men there, they will all tell you the same tale. This is required learning.”
William’s expression softened then and he glanced over at Richard, who was still petting Kaspar and eagerly waiting for the story to continue.
Garrin turned back to the boy and smiled wide, the firelight casting shadows upon his face as the sun began to drop behind them. “The soldiers with Borean began to argue and debate about what to do. Some wished to strike out against the
orcs while others said it was hopeless. Only when Borean called them to silence did the soldiers listen to Lazar. The scholar asked how the letter had arrived, and Borean explained that it had been carried in the hands of the man the skin was taken from.”
“That’s a bit morbid,” William said with a frown.
“War is not all glory and poetry as the bards in the great halls would have us believe. Battle is brutal.”
William nodded his agreement, but cast a scrutinizing glance at Richard as if trying to decide whether the boy should be listening to such a tale.
Garrin continued on with his tale. “Lazar told them that it was not only the words on the message, but the fact that skin was used for it, denoted a warning of total and complete destruction. The orcs had sent a declaration of war. He also surmised that if the message had come through to Oleant, then Fort Derengard, which guarded the mountain pass to the north of the city from, had likely already fallen.
“Borean asked Lazar if the orcs could be beaten. You see, Lazar had devoted much of his studies to orcish culture, language, and warfare. He was of the belief that knowledge of the enemy was crucial.”
“What did he say?” Richard asked with hungry eyes.
Garrin shook his head. “Lazar told them the only chance they had to survive was to run and flee the city. He said that the best chance for survival was to load as many citizens into barges as they could and sail away while the soldiers prepared the valley to the north for battle, and tried to hold the orcs off for as long as possible.
“Borean turned and addressed his men, a couple of them many years his senior, with such poise that none of them uttered a word of protest to his orders. Borean said, ‘Gather the city guard. Those of us who have made it our life’s work to defend the city will rise to the task. We will go and prepare the valley before our city, near Aider’s Bridge. That is the one choke point between our city and the mountain pass. The orcs will have to come through it, and it is there that we will cut them down. Go, gather the men and meet me in the fields.’ The warriors left, almost running out of the library. Then, Borean turned to Lazar and instructed the scholar to gather the councilors and flee upon the barges with the other citizens.
“No one knew the fate of Fort Derengard, or how the orcs managed to overtake it without the soldiers there sending any warning to Oleant. All they knew, was that death was knocking at their door.
“Lazar spent the next few hours scurrying about the city. He gathered the councilors and had them load the women, children, and men too old to fight into the barges. Lazar instructed all others to grab whatever weapons and tools they could carry and meet Borean in the field.
“When the barges were full and on their way down the river, Lazar grabbed a sword and spear and led a group of several hundred men to the valley. When they arrived, Lazar saw the city guard busy digging trenches and pits, placing pikes and traps both in and around the holes. Lazar quickly set his men to work, sending a few to aid each group of laborers in the field.
“Borean objected to Lazar remaining behind, but Lazar stamped the butt of his spear on the ground and told his brother that he would not leave him to die alone at the hands of the orcs. They spent the remainder of the afternoon slaving away in the trenches and pits. Near the rear of the army, Borean was hastily putting together a pair of crude onagers and catapults. They also made tar balls, and toward the beginning of the evening the army covered the pits and trenches. Borean then made his men stand in rank, close enough to the bridge to keep it within range of their archers, and far enough that he hoped to draw the bloodthirsty savages toward him and into the pits and traps.
“Lazar stood in the forest along the west side of the valley. He was to lead a group of fifty spearmen in from the side after the armies came toe-to-toe and all the traps and catapults had been used. The waiting was the hardest part of the day. Knowing that someone was coming to attack, but not knowing when they might arrive.
Garrin shook his head then and threw another bit of wood onto the fire. Sparks rose up into the air and he looked back to Richard and continued his tale. “There were no war drums, as are oft mentioned in the old ballads. There were no shouts or screams. The birds overhead still sang their songs and the river continued rushing by. A breeze blew through the valley, but all else was still.
“The sun was starting to fade behind the western horizon when Lazar saw the first ranks pour out from the northern forest. They lined up along the river bank. Lazar counted each and every dark suit of armor he could see. Before long he started counting by twenties, and then by hundreds. His heart sank and his throat dried when he realized that the enemy was easily several thousand orcs strong. They clanged and pounded their shields with their curved swords and their sharp axes. The cacophony reverberated through the valley, drowning out all else.
“From Lazar’s place in the forest, he watched as his brother ordered a volley of arrows to be shot. The shafts tore through the air and rained down upon the orcs. Many of them fell, some of the bodies tumbling down the banks and being swept away into the rapid current. The orcs tried to answer with their own bows, but their arrows fell short of Borean and his men.”
“Did the men in Oleant have better bows then?” Richard asked.
Garrin nodded his head. “Oleant had always been known for producing fine bows. Borean sent two more volleys into the enemy. The orcs tried to cover with their shields, but still many of them fell. A sharp, high pitched horn blew from across the river. Orcs in the back pounded their shields like drums as several hundred jogged their way to the bridge.
“Borean and his men formed a semi-circle, concentrating their fire on the bridge. They dropped dozens of the orc warriors, but the orcs kept marching on. They trampled their dead and wounded alike, without the slightest regard.
“Another horn blast sounded and a group of orcs attempted to cross the river. Fortunately, Aider’s Bridge was the only feasible passage. The river current swept all of the orcs down into its depths, drowning each one foolish enough to venture in. Even those who stripped their armor first found themselves pulled under the surface before they could reach the middle of the river, let alone make it to the opposite bank.
“Borean had prepared well for the battle. He and his men held the orcs off for almost a half hour, until they ran out of arrows. By that time there were bodies all over the bridge and both banks. Still, the orcs trudged through, slinging corpses over the edge of the bridge and clearing the way for their army to cross.
William cut in with a shake of his head and a frown of disgust painted across his mouth. “The whole scene is so appalling. How could they have such a disregard for life that they would be willing to sacrifice so many of their own just to cross a bridge?”
Garrin nodded to acknowledge the sentiment, but he didn’t stop the story to answer the nobleman. He continued on, saying, “Soon the orcs crossed the river, marching to advance on Borean and his men. They rushed forward, fanning out into a thick wave of black and green. Borean sounded two blasts on the bugle. The onagers and catapults were unveiled and they sent flaming pitch-balls into the advancing horde. Blood curdling screams filled the air as flames erupted out and devoured several orcs at a time. But even this did not stop them.
“They came on, falling into pits and running into pikes as they sprang into position. The orcs literally hacked their way through the pikes, and through their own wounded, in their lusty advance to get at Borean. The two forces clashed.
“That is when Oleant’s hidden warriors jumped out of the trenches and rushed in around the orcs. Lazar took heart when he saw how quickly the first wave of orcs was cut down. He thought that perhaps they might win the day, but he was wrong.”
Richard pulled Kaspar up close to his chest, hugging the creature close for comfort as the tension built in the story.
Garrin reached a hand up to the sky and raised his voice. “Lazar heard loud, crackling fire and looked up to the sky to see that the orcs had also brought trebuchets with
them. They rained fire and stone down upon the valley, killing their own as well as many of Oleant’s soldiers. After a few pummeling volleys, the orcish trebuchets targeted Oleant’s onagers and catapults, destroying them in seconds.
“Then the next wave of enemies crossed the bridge. Through the haze and smoke, Lazar could see his brother. His grand cape was torn, blood smeared across his once shiny armor. In that moment, Lazar found courage that he didn’t know he possessed. He charged out from the trees, the other spearmen following closely behind him. He ran through the field, carefully picking his way through the pits and traps that now held mangled, mutilated bodies. They sprinted to Borean, biting into the enemy flank only to be swallowed in turn by the much larger second wave.
“There was a chaotic clash of shouting, growling, and blood. Lazar slew a few of the orcs before his spear shattered and he had to use a sword. Unfortunately, Lazar never reached his brother. Borean disappeared in the sea of orcish soldiers, and Lazar fought well into the night.
“When the sun disappeared, it left only the lingering fires from the pitch-balls to illuminate their struggles. The metallic odor of blood flooded the air and smoke blocked out the sky. Oleant’s men fought valiantly, and they held the orcs on the field more than long enough to ensure that the barges had reached the sea.
“Lazar fell that night on the field, succumbing to his wounds and losing consciousness.”
Richard gasped and covered his mouth with his right hand. Kaspar buried his furry face into the crook of Richard’s elbow. Garrin leaned forward, lowering his voice.
“Lazar regained his senses the next morning. His head ached, and his body felt as if it were broken in several places. His ribs burned when he inhaled and caused him to choke and cough. He struggled to his feet only to find a field filled with bodies and blood. Lazar looked out to the river and saw tents pitched on the other bank. Orcs moved about, preparing their food and celebrating their victory.