He began setting out the pans and powders he would use to create his initial assault on the Lucent Empire. It was a lower-order work of alchemy, but it would meet Black Herran’s requirements. The testing and creation process would be swift, leaving him additional time to allocate to his more interesting and intricate creations.
He cackled to himself. It was so good to be busy once more. There was always so much to learn, and so many wonders to craft.
“Is it wise to leave that madman to his own devices?” Verena asked as Black Herran led them beyond the wall and deeper into the steep-sided valley, where the last dregs of winter stubbornly held on, blocking all passage between north and south. “Should he not be kept under armed guard?”
They tramped through slush and dwindling drifts of snow, crossing over a small, mossy stone bridge spanning the icy stream that wound down the centre of the valley. “He cannot cause us too much damage,” Black Herran said. “At least, not yet. Every hand is needed to bolster the town’s defences.”
“That will not last,” Verena replied. “He is a demon.”
Black Herran snorted. “Oh no, he is far worse. The inhabitants of Hellrath are voracious and vicious, but he is an unfeeling monster.”
“Enough of that man,” Lorimer demanded. “Let him do his work while we do ours. What are your thoughts on defending this town?”
Black Herran gestured at the Mhorran Valley opening up ahead of them. A few farm buildings and fenced pasture studded the ground either side of the stream, tufts of grass poking through patches of melting snow. No smoke rose from the thatch, and no goats or sheep grazed on hardy grasses – most were already slaughtered, salted and in the storehouses.
Lorimer lifted the strip of cloth protecting his eyes and squinted up at the surrounding hills. “I see glints of metal or glass from the peaks. Yours or theirs?”
“Our watchers,” Black Herran said. “Shepherds who know the goat tracks and secret ways through the hills. They will light signal fires when they see the enemy approaching. The rocks are steep and treacherous, not suitable for an army to pass through, but it is possible a handful of the enemy could slip past into the southern plains, if they don’t break their ankles first. Those small numbers, if any, should not be a concern. I have demons placed to deal with the likes of them.”
Amogg grinned, baring tusks. “We will fight axe to axe and tusk to tusk. As it should be.”
“Then let us hope the Lucent army expect the same kind of straightforward battle,” Lorimer said. “These sheer walls and rocky hills will prove no barrier to me. They will learn to fear me.”
“That too, is necessary,” Black Herran said. “They must advance through the valley fearing attack at every turn. I want their soldiers pissing themselves in terror. Their torment will fuel my demonic magic, allowing me to deliver the death blow.”
“It’ll be a slaughter,” Tiarnach said. “And I dinnae mean o’ them. What’s to stop them merrily carrying on and overrunning your wee town right after they take the wall?”
“By then they will have learned to dread the fall of night over several sleepless ones,” Black Herran said. “Between my magic and Lorimer’s fleet-footed night assaults, they will quiver in terror at the very thought of venturing blind into the darkness. They must be forced to march their troops through the neck of the valley and then wait until dawn to attack the town walls with overwhelming force.”
“What then?” Verena asked. “If my fleet is to engage the wallowing buckets they call ships in order to prevent an army landing to your rear, I need to know there will be a reason for it. Why should I put my crews at risk if this place falls to the next wave of troops pouring through the valley?”
“Once the Falcon Prince is slain,” Maeven spat, “the empire will crumble. He is the power behind everything.”
“If we kill enough men then he will be forced to come in person,” Black Herran said. “I will see to that. There are monsters that only their inquisitors could hope to defeat, and he cannot possibly show his oh-so-righteous empire and glorious goddess succumbing to dark magic. Then he is all yours.”
Amogg, Tiarnach, Maeven and Lorimer exchanged warning glances, each determined to be the one to slay him. Verena nodded thoughtfully, accepting the answer.
“What would ye have us do now?” Tiarnach said. “Sit on our arses and wait for the bastards to trot up ready for a fight?”
“Maeven and I have rituals to prepare,” she replied. “I would like you and Amogg to take the militia in hand and forge them into warriors that will stand instead of run.”
Tiarnach yawned. “I’ll do my best. It would be grand to go into battle with true warriors again.”
“I make them more afraid of me than little men,” the big orc said.
“That will work,” Black Herran said, smiling coldly. “If they can stand before you, they can stand against anything. And as for you, Lorimer, please learn the lay of the land and prepare to make the enemy huddle around their fires in abject fear.”
She led them back towards the town and they studied the incomplete log palisade encircling it, and the townsfolk deepening ditches. A procession of people passed them, towing a log over rollers and then carefully sliding it into a post hole before packing it with stone and mud to keep it in place.
“We’re buggered if they get this far, eh,” Tiarnach said. “At least the logs are green and won’t fire easily.”
“Best get to work shoring up the defences then,” Black Herran said.
“We have time yet,” Verena responded. “My sailors know a thing or two about carpentry; I will order them to assist in the construction. The big orcs Amogg brought with her may also come in useful.”
“Give Ragash and Wundak meat and mead,” Amogg replied. “They carry big tree each. Easy.”
The party lapsed into silence for a long moment, studying each other and remembering how easy it had felt back in simpler days when they had all hung on their general’s every word, overawed by her presence and power. Now a white-haired old woman stood before them, physically old and weak but somehow still in charge.
Black Herran cleared her throat. “I have prepared lodgings at our finest inn. You can’t miss it; it is the only one of any size. We will gather here again at dawn tomorrow to discuss a proper defence strategy. Amogg, Tiarnach, I have instructed the militia to gather in the market square for you to inspect. I would value your opinion on their current usefulness.”
“I think we have all had enough of each other for one day,” Lorimer said. He disrobed and fell to all fours like a beast, spine cracking and popping, hands and feet sprouting claws. He loped to the edge of the valley and scrambled up the sheer cliff-face, barely slowing as his claws and unnatural strength carried him up, up, over the edge and into the barren and icy hills beyond.
They went their separate ways without exchanging another word.
CHAPTER 18
Tiarnach spat on the cobbled square and looked up at the similarly unimpressed mountain of orc that was Amogg Hadakk. “What do you make o’ this lot o’ fools?”
The fifty most skilled members of the four hundred-strong Tarnbrooke militia that Black Herran could spare stood in uneasy and uneven ranks, each dressed in a jumble of scavenged armour and weapons. Some wore old, dented helms and breastplates a century out of date, or badly rusted mail that left a dusting of orange behind with every step. But the majority had to make do with linen gambeson padded with wool, and their mother’s best copper pot with a leather strap riveted on for a helmet. Most clutched working tools like axes and hammers or hunting spears, with a few of the poorer peasants holding wooden pitchforks and slings. A few proudly wielded old swords and shields passed down from more adventuresome parents and grandparents. If these farm boys were the best equipped and most experienced warriors Tarnbrooke had to offer, Tiarnach reckoned the rest must have been poor indeed.
Townsfolk paused in their tasks, baskets in hand, to cast an admiring eye over their defenders. To them,
they were the largest and deadliest army any of them had ever seen. Children gawped at the shining spear heads and freshly sharpened axes, and picked up sticks and loaves of bread to masquerade as warriors themselves. The adults didn’t know any better than their children how piss-poor this militia really was. Against common bandits they might do fine, but against a disciplined army, they would be frightened rabbits facing down hungry wolves.
Amogg looked down, sneering. “Lucky humans are so many. Only reason you took old orcish homeland.”
“Hoi,” Tiarnach said, standing straighter. “Don’t you dare say the Cahal’gilroy were no’ the match of any orc.”
“These not your people,” she replied.
He didn’t have a witty answer for that, but he felt the need for hard drink rise up from the black and gnawing pit of guilt inside his belly.
Amogg searched the ranks of sweating, shifting men. “So few. Where are your females?”
“They don’t tend to follow the path o’ the warrior,” Tiarnach replied. “Not in these baby-soft southern lands.”
She stared at him incredulously. “I not understand. They have arms and hands. They have axes and knives. Why they not fight on wall if enemy come?”
“Damned if I know,” he replied. “Humans are bloody weird.”
She huffed and stomped over to the militia. Their lines bowed as they backed away from her looming presence. “Weak,” she snarled, and hoisted one up by the front of his gambeson with a single hand. He squeaked and dropped his spear as his toes dangled in mid-air. She roared, spittle flecking his face, and shoved him back into his friends. Five went down in a tangled heap.
“Weak as grubbs,” she said as she rejoined Tiarnach. “Best use as shield to slow down enemy while I chop heads.”
“We need them to stand and fight,” he protested.
“Make them,” she suggested.
He eyed her slyly. “How do you feel about throwing a fight? I’ll show them a mere human can beat even you.”
Her belly rumbled with laughter. “Amogg fights or does not fight.” She patted her axe, then turned to leave. “I go find females to fight. Must be better than this.”
Tiarnach sighed and scratched his beard, watching her broad back disappear into the town on a mission to harass every adult woman she happened across, give them a shake and demand they fight with her.
“Right, you lot o’ pissy babies,” he shouted. “What the fuck was that cringing cowardice? I can smell you shitting yourselves from here. May as well cut your balls off, ya eunuchs.”
With the big orc gone the militia regained some of their bravado. One of the men who had been bowled over shoved forward to face him. He was a big lad with shoulders like a bull and a face only a drunken mother could love, and her a few cups downed at that.
“How do you expect us to fight that monster?” the lout demanded. “She picked up Bertrand here and tossed him away like a cored apple.”
“Like anything else that lives an’ breathes,” Tiarnach said. “You poke the angry orc full of holes. She’s no’ a god.”
“Love to see you try that then,” the lad demanded, a mocking grin on his ugly face as he pushed right up into Tiarnach’s space, nose to nose.
Tiarnach considered their respective heights. The lad had a few inches on him…
He cracked his forehead into the man’s nose. It crunched and bent sideways spraying blood everywhere. His knee rammed up into the lad’s crotch, lifting him off his feet just in time to receive Tiarnach’s brutal right hook that sent him flying backwards into a crumpled and mewling heap.
Tiarnach grinned and spat, feeling the boy’s blood staining his beard a deeper red. “Aye, Amogg’s no’ a god. Me, I was the fucking war god o’ the Cahal’gilroy and I’ll see you cringing curs fight or I’ll kill you all myself, then I’ll go make your women scream with pleasure. Which o’ you bastards is next? If you can make me bleed, I’ll buy you a horn of ale. If you can’t, then you’re keeping me supplied all night long. It’ll be sodding expensive when I drink your inn dry.”
Nobody stepped forward, so he grabbed the nearest spear and ripped it from its owner’s hand, then used the butt to brutalise the unfortunate man’s balls. The militiaman sank to his knees and vomited.
“Ain’t using those now, were you? Next!”
That got them motivated. They came for him, hesitantly at first. He contemptuously downed the next two and mocked their manhood. The rest charged with foolhardy arrogance emboldened by numbers.
He felt no fear as he rampaged among them, spear spinning and knocking heads until it got caught up in a tangle of straps and mail. He dropped it and fought hand to hand, never staying still so they could bring their overwhelming numbers to bear. Kicking. Punching. Biting like a feral beast.
It was refreshing to let go and fight as he used to, albeit less lethally. A shade of his old battle-joy returned, and he felt young and vital again as he bathed in their fear. At least, until three men joined forces to tackle him to the cobbles. Even then, two quick punches to two soft bellies and he rolled free and surged back to his feet.
The third man enveloped him in a bear hug from behind. “Got the mad bastard! Finish him off before he leaves us all bleeding in the dirt. He’s just one man.”
As a moustachioed militiaman’s fist bounced off his hard skull with a yelp of pain, Tiarnach bellowed with laughter. “Yes! Yes! That’s the spirit. Fight!” He sank his teeth into a hand holding him and he was free. They would learn to fight half as well as his weakest Cahal youth one way or another. He kicked the moustachioed man in the face and elbowed the one behind him in the belly, winding him.
“More!” The fun was only just beginning.
What is with these pathetic humans? Amogg thought, tossing yet another useless wailing creature to the dirt, disgusted by their weakness. How could any race survive if these were the strongest they could spawn? These humans seemed to prefer digging in dirt and growing crops to achieving glory. Perhaps she just needed to look harder. She had fought human warriors before and on occasion even been mildly impressed before she took their heads. Perhaps humans should embrace proper orcish ways and treat their spawn like grubbs – then only the strongest would survive to breed.
A female human emerged from an alley carrying a stack of firewood. It dropped its load and squeaked as she hoisted it off its feet. “You fight,” she demanded. “I give weapon.”
Urine dribbled down the human’s leg and she spat out frantic “no”s. Her voice was deeper. Ah, Amogg was in error – this was a male without facial fur. “Females do not fight. Males do not fight. Even grubbs better than adult humans.” She tossed the runt into the mud and forgot he ever existed.
She spotted another young human herding two boisterous, curious young away from the scene with a broom, a female for sure from the long skirts, curly hair and a ring through her nose. “You – come fight. I give weapon.”
The human spun and pointed her broom like a spear aimed at Amogg’s throat. “Stay back, beast. You leave my sisters alone or I’ll set about you.”
Amogg paused, eyeing the blunt length of wood held in small shaking hands. She wrapped a hand around the hilt of her big axe and leaned it on her broad shoulder, sharp steel glinting. The human female did not run or wail, despite Amogg being twice as tall, five times as heavy with muscle, and wielding a steel axe against her wooden broom.
“Finally,” Amogg said, baring her tusks in pleasure. “What is name?”
The human blinked, as if surprised she spoke the trade tongue. In fact, Amogg spoke several languages to varying fluencies. To know your enemy, you had to be able to speak to them. Humans always thought orcs were too stupid to learn their language, and always said too much.
“Penny,” the human said.
“I Amogg Hadakk. You are female?” Amogg wanted to be certain this time.
The human blinked, confused. “Er, yes.”
“I too female. You would fight me, Penny?”
Pen
ny stood straight and narrowed her eyes. “If I have to, darlin’.”
“Good. I give you sharp weapon. You fight for me now. Your male warriors worse than grubbs.”
Penny’s mouth opened and closed but the broom remained where it was. “Uh, what’s a grubb?”
Amogg frowned. Were humans so ignorant of orcish life? Of course, she did kill almost every human who encroached on their lands…
“Grubbs are small creature before they grow to become orc. Weak. Stupid.”
“So… like human children?” Penny said, kicking one of her curious younger sisters back behind her.
“Yes, like human children. But intelligent and useful. Come, you fight. You know other females who need weapon?”
Penny shook her head, confused.
Amogg huffed and battled the broom to one side, deftly sweeping the human named Penny up under one arm. She stomped off carrying the squealing human like a side of pork until she returned to the market square where the militia were currently… where the militia had been drawn up to show off their shoddy armour and weapons to their new war chiefs. Now forty lay scattered across the blood-spattered cobbles in moaning heaps, clutching groins and broken noses.
The remaining ten bruised and bloodied men had Tiarnach surrounded. They held spears and swords and axes while he was barehanded and badly out of breath.
Amogg chuckled and dropped Penny to the cobbles. “There is male who fight good. Fierce. Warriors of Tarnbrooke weak like mindless runt of grubbs. You see?”
Penny winced as she climbed to her feet, rubbing her bruised elbows as she stared at the impossible scene before her. “How can one man have possibly defeated forty?”
“That not man,” Amogg replied. “That a god. Or was. Amogg is unsure of current theological status.”
Penny stared at her.
The huge orc shrugged, slabs of muscle rising and falling. “Amogg ate a human priest once. He talked lots while pot boiled.”
The Maleficent Seven Page 17