He looked up as more orcs were pouring from the forest, swarming toward them like angry hornets. There were too many of them, and despite the orc bodies piling up around them, there were still only five dwarves remaining.
“Come on, orc scum! Come feel the might of dwarven steel!” Durgen yelled as an arrow whistled from the forest taking him in the thigh. His armor deflected the arrow but a second pierced his forearm, penetrating deeply into his muscle. He laughed, yanking out the arrow as three more orcs charged him. He fought tirelessly, as if possessed. He felt no physical pain. He felt only an overwhelming anguish and fury at the loss of his only son. No pain could penetrate such grief. Orc bodies continued to pile up around him, and though he had received several wounds, he felt nothing but the intensity of his anger, an anger that fueled his arms as he wielded shield and hammer in a deadly barrage of devastation upon any orc unfortunate enough to come within his range. He glanced to his right and saw Ballick nearby, the only other remaining dwarf. They moved back to back as fifteen more orcs surrounded them.
“Good place to die, eh Durgen,” Ballick growled, holding his blood covered shield and axe in front of him. Durgen noticed that Ballick was bleeding from several wounds but did not seem to notice the pain. It would take more than a few superficial wounds to make Ballick grimace.
“Aye, but let’s bring a few more of these ‘yellow fangs’ with us,” Durgen rumbled in reply, his voice low, laced with the anger still boiling within him.
Just as they had reconciled themselves to their fate, while taking out a few orcs along with them, they saw a flurry of spears flying from the woods, slamming into the backs of several orcs, causing many of the beasts to turn around and face their invisible assailants, exposing their backs to the two remaining dwarves. Durgen and Ballick didn’t wait to see who threw the spears. They attacked the orcs ruthlessly with hammer and axe, cutting down several before the orcs turned back toward the more immediate threat. As they did so, fifteen armored men stormed in from the forest. Well disciplined, and in close formation, they cut into the astonished orcs with practiced precision.
Durgen brought his hammer down hard on an orc’s reinforced boot. The force of the blow crushed the screaming orc’s foot, causing the beast to lift its injured foot off the ground, exposing the other leg, its only support. Durgen, swinging his hammer sideways, took out its leg, snapping it in two, causing the howling monster to fall to the ground where Durgen finished it off with a blow to its head. Durgen roared to Moredin, their dwarf god, “Moredin, give me strength!” He called upon the dwarven god as he turned to face yet another foe just as he heard a man shout.
“Hold, Dwarf, we are not your enemy!”
Durgen stopped momentarily, and looked quickly about to see who had addressed him. He was stunned to see all the orcs had been slain. Next to him stood Ballick, as exhausted as he was, but miraculously still alive. Surrounding them were a group of men, all bearing the Tarsinian mark on their armor. They stood, panting from the exertion of battle, gripping weapons that dripped with orc blood.
Durgen lowered his shield and re-slung the hammer at his belt. The man who had spoken approached him. Tall, clean shaven, and almost bald, his intense blue eyes seemed devoid of emotion.
“Well met, I am Durgen Hammerhead, Master Trader and emissary from Dwarf Mount. I thank you for your assistance,” Durgen replied, his anger gradually diminishing. A feeling of utter exhaustion overcame him as his gaze returned to the body of his dead son lying next to the cart.
“I am Dandronis of the king’s men. We were moving south when we heard the fighting. We arrived just in time it would seem.”
Durgen turned away from Dandronis, stepping over the numerous dead to get to his son. Olaf was sprawled on his back, his shield lying next to him, his axe still strapped to his back. He hadn’t even had time to un-sling his weapon. The crude orc arrow was embedded all the way to the fletching just under his chin. Durgen dropped to his knees before the body, his shoulders heaving with grief as he looked upon his son. He reached out with one hand, gently closing his eyes. Then he unfastened the strap holding the axe to his back, and removed the weapon from underneath him.
Ballick approached Dandronis as the Tarsinian warriors took in the tragic scene.
“Well met, Dandronis, I am Ballick, and the dead boy is Durgen’s son.”
Dandronis’s expression softened as he thought about his own slain family. His heart ached for the dwarven warrior as he recalled his own intense pain at the loss of his loved ones.
“I’m sorry for your losses. These are indeed grave times. I wish we had arrived earlier,” Dandronis replied.
“What happened?” asked Ballick. “As we speak Tarsis smolders.”
“The Dark One is back and he brought his army to our gates with no warning, using some type of magic. We were overrun in our sleep. Few escaped with their lives.”
“And the king?” Ballick asked, trying to digest this sobering news.
“Alive by all accounts, but we do not know how he fares, or where he is located. There are remaining pockets of resistance but Malbeck’s minions are swarming over the kingdom. We are trying to find King Kromm and join with him.”
“I’ll be joinin’ ya’,” growled Durgen as he walked briskly toward Dandronis. “And I’ll be bringin’ me son’s axe to the fight. It still shines bright and is needin the smear of orc blood.”
“And your axe will be welcome, Master Durgen,” Dandronis replied easily.
“What of me, Durgen?” asked Ballick.
“I’ll be needin’ ya to return to Dwarf Mount. The king must know what happened and take further action.”
“Aye, I be thinkin’ you’re right. Although me axe craves more blood.”
“Blood you will surely shed, in good time. Now, Dandronis, would you be needin’ some of the best weapons and armor ever made?” Durgen flicked his gaze over to the three carts. Dandronis and his men smiled, realizing what Durgen was offering. Dwarven armor and weaponry were of the highest quality. Their weapons were made from special blends of metals, secret amalgams that other weapon smiths could not duplicate, though not for lack of trying. There weapons were lighter, stronger, and could hold an edge through many fights. The superior armor and weapons in the cart were reserved for Tarsinian Knights only, and the cost for a suit of armor alone was more than one man earned in a year. “Take it all, outfit your men, everything already bears the Tarsinian mark. We have food as well. We’ll call them gifts from my king for coming to our aid.”
“A mighty gift, Master Durgen,” replied Dandronis, as his men hastened toward the carts, eager to inspect their new possessions.
“Aye, it is,” replied the dwarf as his mind drifted back to his son and the magnificent battle axe that he had crafted for him, the same axe that was now strapped to his own back. Silently he promised his son that his axe would soon feed on orc blood.
Three
Companions
The six riders had been traveling hard. They had put four days between themselves and their encounter with the slavers and Jonas had spent a significant portion of that time contemplating the choices he had made that day, and the days that followed. He had agreed to take Jangar, Kilius and his sister, Myrell, with them on their mission. He did not yet know if this was a good choice. More swords would be needed, that much he reasoned, but he knew little of their capabilities, or whether they would have the resolve necessary to face the enemies they would surely encounter. He was also keenly aware of the risks of the mission, and that by allowing them to come, he may have very well signed their death warrants. Maybe he had been swayed by the fact that he understood their anger, and could relate to their desire to take action, to do anything to distract them from the pain they felt at the loss of their family. Whatever the reason for his choice, he was gratified that they were holding their own so far. The three newcomers had outfitted themselves with pieces of armor and various weapons confiscated from the slavers, as well as three sturdy horses
complete with tack and saddle.
Hagar, the ogrillion, did not want to part with them the morning they left. He was clearly agitated and he would not leave Myrell’s side as they readied their gear. Myrell had tried to tell the beast that they were leaving, but he didn’t seem to understand her. There was no way they could take on the task of allowing him to come with them. It was a liability they could not risk. After all, he was ogrillion. They knew nothing of him, nor what he was capable of. No one knew if his gentle demeanor would continue or if he would suddenly revert to his aggressive and evil nature. They could not communicate with him either. All of these things made it too risky to have him along. Myrell had approached him, touched his hand, and said goodbye. Jonas had laid a pile of food at his feet and said farewell as well. The entire time Hagar was silent, looking at everyone with wide eyes, unsure why they were leaving him. So they finally had to just mount up and ride off, leaving him alone. It was a hard parting; the huge beast just stood there with sad eyes and watched them depart. It was strange watching an animal that big and ferocious standing alone with slumped shoulders and uncertain eyes.
Tulari had led them far beyond the Finarthian Hills to the outer edges of the Tundren Mountains, the great mountain range that extended thousands of miles from the deep north into the south, far into the foreign lands beyond the great Lake Lar’Nam. Neither, Jonas, Fil, nor Taleen, had been this far north before. Kilius informed them that they were now at the outer edges of the Tarsinian Empire. The paths and trading roads they traveled were flanked by massive stands of timber and dense brush.
The sun had recently dipped behind the tall mountain peaks, the subsequent shadows accompanied by the sudden chill of the night, which crept through the forest like a hunting cat. Rays of brilliant pink and red shone behind the tall peaks as the last of the sun’s light remained. It wouldn’t be long before they would be bathed in darkness. Jonas, stroked by the fingers of an icy breeze, wrapped his blue cloak tightly around his shoulders for warmth. They would have to make camp soon.
Suddenly Tulari slowed, shaking her head from side to side. Then Jonas noticed it, the scent of smoke, something burning. Though the sun had set, it was not yet dark, and light still filtered through the canopy of the colossal trees.
Jonas, peering ahead, saw white smoke drifting through the trees on the back of a cold fall breeze. Tulari stopped and Jonas waited for the others to catch up.
Fil, seeing Jonas halt ahead, rode up and positioned his horse next to Tulari. “Smoke,” he said. “What could be causing it? It looks to be more than a few campfires.”
“I don’t know,” Jonas said worriedly.
The other four rode up slowly with Taleen bringing up the rear.
“Are we to make camp here, sir?” asked Jangar, one of the three villagers who had lost his family when the slavers attacked their home. “What is that?” he asked quickly, as he too noticed the smoke.
“Campfires?” Kilius asked, a bit apprehensively.
“No, too much smoke for that. Something bigger,” replied Jonas, staring intently toward the smoke. The smell of something burning was stronger now; the smoke was being pushed by the cool air right towards them. “Are there any villages around here?” asked Jonas, addressing Kilius and the other villagers.
“These forests are peppered with many small settlements like our own. Mostly farmers, hunters, and herdsman trying to make a life for themselves,” Kilius answered.
“Why so far out, so far away from anything?” asked Fil.
“Land near Tarsis is expensive, and the taxes can be overwhelming for a small farmer. This land,” Myrell indicated the forest around her with a swoop of her hand, “is more or less free as the king’s tax collectors do not come this far out.”
“I see.” Fil certainly understood that reasoning since he had grown up in similar circumstances. As a young boy he did not question why someone would live far from major cities. Living in Manson was all he knew. “You think a village is burning?” Fil asked Jonas.
“I don’t know, but let’s proceed cautiously and find out,” Jonas replied, nudging Tulari forward.
It didn’t take them long to find the source of the smoke. They rode over a gentle rise in the trail and came upon a vast prairie abutting a small cliff face. A gentle creek meandered through the grass and a rough bridge made of thick timber stood before them. Beyond the bridge were the remains of a small farming village. Smoke was still rising from the burnt husks of the buildings, blowing southwesterly on the evening breeze.As they neared the bridge, a ghastly scene came into view. Jonas’s throat constricted in revulsion at what he saw. On each side of the bridge a naked villager was impaled on a pole as thick as a man’s arm. The stakes had entered the decimated bodies through the bowels exiting at the top of the head. Covered with blood and gore, their limbs hanging at grotesque angles, it wasn’t until they got close that they could see that both the bodies were women. The carnage was beyond anything Jonas had ever seen.
“May Ulren’s eye protect us,” whispered Jangar as they crossed the bridge and neared the corpses. It looked as if their arms, legs, and hands had been broken before they were impaled. The bodies of the women were cut repeatedly and it looked as they had been bitten numerous times. Who could do something like this? Jonas thought as he scrutinized the unbelievable scene. It would require immense strength to impale a body in that way. Jonas then noticed something that made his heart beat faster. Cut into the abdomen of each woman was Dykreel’s mark, a ring of barbed wire.
“Jonas, do you see it?” asked Taleen, her soft voice hoarse with emotion.
“Dykreel’s mark,” he whispered. “It seems the talons of the Forsworn have reached further south than we thought.”
“What should we do?” asked Myrell, her voice shaking with fear at the mention of Dykreel’s name.
“We split into two groups. I will take Fil and Myrell while Taleen takes Jangar and Kilius. We will search the village for any survivors. Do not touch anything unless Taleen or I say it’s safe. Something dark and evil destroyed this town and we do not know what it left behind, or if it has even left at all. I do not sense any immediate danger, but be vigilant, and bring your weapons forth.”
As he spoke Jonas drew one of his swords. The rest of the group followed suit.
“Taleen, you take the east side of town and I will take the west. The village is small so we should be within hearing distance of each other. We’ll meet at the north end momentarily.” Jonas felt Tulari move impatiently under him. His great steed was clearly agitated, and rightly so.
The two groups split up, slowly riding through the burned and looted village. Jonas led Fil and Myrell down a muddy road flanked by burning and smoldering homes. The houses were simple, made of logs and covered with thatch. They had burned quickly.
“Hello! Is anyone here?” Jonas yelled, his sword held low to the side. Myrell carried a small short sword and Fil firmly gripped his long spear. They came to a home on their left that was partially burned. The front entrance still stood, held up by thick logs that were now more charcoal than wood. There was the body of a man nailed upside down to the wooden door. Metal spikes had been hammered through his ankles and wrists. The man was unrecognizable, for his skin had been flayed open on his bare thighs, arms, and belly. A knife had slit open his chest and something, or someone, had ripped open his stomach and pulled out his entrails. Some of the glistening mess lay on the ground by his head and some had been stuffed into his mouth. Jonas heard Myrell gagging behind him as he took in the grisly scene.
As they meandered through the village they came across many more bodies. Some looked as if they had been eaten while others had been tortured and killed. And no mercy had been shown for the women, children, and elderly. They continued through the carnage veering northward towards Taleen.
Jonas wrinkled his nose in disgust as they came around a corner. The smell of burnt flesh hit them hard as they approached a smoking hay barn. Jonas stopped, flanked by Myrell and
Fil. They stared in horror at the sight before them. Myrell moaned in anguish as Jonas ground his jaw in anger. Fil looked around nervously, hoping that whatever had been responsible for this horrible carnage was long gone.
A pile of smoking bodies, charred and no longer recognizable, lay before them. Crisp black husks of flesh were fused together in death. Staked into the ground near the pile was a tall pole bearing a dirty red flag lightly billowing in the breeze, Gould’s white eye painted crudely in the center.
But that was not the worst of it. Off to the side of this ghastly pyre was a circle of more bodies, five total, all staked to the ground on their backs. There was a man in the middle with his arms and legs tied to two thick poles stuck into the ground. The ropes were pulled tight, forcing his arms and legs to be splayed wide. His naked muscular body was covered in blood and his head was hanging to the side. Staked to the ground in front of him were four bodies, a woman and three children. The blood and dirt that covered their naked bodies could not conceal the many wounds that had been torn and sliced into their flesh, nor did it hide the black brand seared in the middle of their chests. Even Fil, who had little faith in the gods, made the sign of Ulren’s four pointed star as he gazed down at the mark of Dykreel.
“Jonas, it looks like the man was forced to watch these people being tortured,” Fil whispered, his throat constricting from shock and disbelief.
“It was his family, his wife and children. In Ulren’s name, who would do this?” Myrell asked, not really wanting an answer. Her voice shook with fear as she glanced around the clearing half expecting Dykreel himself to emerge and slay her.
The Cavalier Trilogy: Book 02 - The Rise of Malbeck Page 8