“I need a volunteer,” Sir Eris said, his voice cold as a tomb. He looked around at the other boys. Three were the sons of wealthy merchants, one the son of a knight who owed allegiance to Baron Cedric. The others were only stable boys who obviously didn’t have enough to do and had turned out to watch in hopes of seeing some real swordplay.
“Come on then. Surely one of you would like to give our lord’s brat a proper thumping.”
No one moved, not even the two older boys, both of whom knew their business well. They looked uncomfortable in their battered gray armor, gazing at the ground in front of them and refusing to make eye contact with Sir Eris. Finn allowed himself a moment of intense satisfaction. This reluctance on the part of his fellow students must surely puzzle and infuriate Sir Eris, and he was not a man who took such betrayals well. Baron Cedric would hear of it no doubt.
“Alright then,” said Sir Eris. “I’ll do it myself.”
Finn could almost hear the smile in Sir Eris’ voice. The knight was a head taller than him, barrel-chested, strong as a mule, and twice as mean. It hardly seemed like a fair fight.
Sir Eris pulled on his helm and picked up a sword and shield. “Prepare to defend yourself,” he said, turning to face Finn.
“If you insist,” Finn said, dropping his shoulders in feigned weariness.
This brought a snigger from one of the merchant’s sons. Finn shot him a look that quieted the boy at once. Finn hated having to perform in public. In his mind, humiliation was something best experienced in private.
Finn dropped the visor on his helm and dutifully raised his blunted sword and scarred shield, bending his knees as he prepared to receive the attack. The sword was too heavy for him and he had difficulty holding it steady. The shield was like an anchor on his arm, and it was exceedingly hot inside the metal that encased his body. He took a deep breath, preparing for the worst.
Sir Eris lunged forward, bringing his sword down hard on Finn’s shield. Lightning shot up the boy’s arm, numbing his fingers. Finn swung his sword in a wide, clumsy arc. Sir Eris easily knocked it aside and his counter stroke caught Finn on the side of the helm, setting his ears to ringing. Finn staggered, half-turned, and hacked at the knight, once, twice, three times. Sir Eris parried the attacks with ease. He struck Finn across the chest, then swept the boy’s feet out from beneath him. Finn fell back, sprawling on the hard-packed earth, his sword and shield clattering away from him.
“Yield,” Finn gasped. All the breath had gone out of him and the back of his head felt as if he had been struck with a club.
Sir Eris crouched beside him, his armor glinting in the sunlight. “You are, without a doubt, the worst student I have ever taught. Were I Baron Cedric, I would drown you in the river and there’d be an end to it.”
“Have I mentioned,” Finn wheezed, trying to drag air into his lungs, “how much I enjoy these inspirational little talks?” Sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging and blinding him.
“If you intend to kill me, you should probably just cut my throat now and save us both a great deal of trouble.”
Sir Eris leaned in close. “Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind, boy.” He rose to his feet.
“I’m done with you, all of you. Lesson over!” He announced to the group. The knight turned his back on them and left the field without another word, leaving Finn just where he was.
The other boys, and the few observers, drifted away, muttering in low voices and laughing behind their hands. No one gave Finn a second glance. They wouldn’t fight him, thanks to a few well-placed bribes and threats, but his tactics hadn’t won him any friends. That hardly mattered. Friends were a liability. Friends made you vulnerable.
Finn lay still for several minutes, letting his breathing return to normal. The day was warm and the practice field smelled of dust, hay, and horse manure from the nearby stables. He raised the visor of his helm, drawing in a long breath, and then tried to stand. The weight of the armor bore him down and he found it difficult to even sit up. He collapsed back onto the dirt and spent a few more minutes contemplating wisps of cloud as they drifted by.
“Are you just going to lie there all day?” said a rather high-pitched male voice. Finn raised his eyes to see a dirty-faced groom with a frightening shock of yellow hair.
“Oh, hello, Kolus,” Finn said. Kolus was one of Lusive Picket’s stable of thieves, beggars, and pickpockets whom the old master thief affectionately referred to as his Gutter Rats. At least Finn assumed it was meant affectionately. He didn’t know the boy well, but they had worked together on occasion, and that made them allies if not friends. Today Kolus was dressed like a stable boy, in a dirty tunic and breeches, and straw in his hair.
“If you must know,” Finn said, “I’m preparing a rather stunning attack that will surely take Sir Eris by surprise.”
“You know he’s gone, right?” Kolus looked around. “Along with everyone else.”
“Ah,” Finn said, enjoying his own theatrics. He mustered his best stage voice, enunciating his words with great enthusiasm. “The coward has left the field while his enemy yet lives. His arrogance shall be his undoing.”
“If he isn’t your undoing first,” Kolus said, unmoved by Finn’s bit of drama. Obviously, he was not a fan of the theater. “Would you like some help with your armor?”
“That would be much appreciated,” Finn said. “I seem to have lost my squire.”
“I don’t believe you have a squire, m’lord.” Kolus said.
“That would explain it.”
The boy grabbed hold of Finn’s arms and pulled. Between the two of them they managed to get Finn on his feet. He shuffled to a nearby bench, set in the shadow of the castle wall, and collapsed onto it. The bench groaned beneath his armored weight.
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here?” Finn said, wrenching a gauntlet off his left hand and flexing his numb fingers.
The boy leaned in close and in a conspiratorial whisper said, “Master Lusive sends his regards.” He touched the side of his nose. Finn absently returned the gesture. “And he asks that you come to see him as soon as possible.” The groom began unbuckling straps and removing greaves and vambraces.
Finn glanced around the yard but there was no one within earshot. “That may be difficult. His lordship has been keeping a rather close eye on my comings and goings of late. Any idea what Lusive wants?”
“No, m’lord, but he seemed most insistent.”
“Lusive is always insistent,” Finn said.
Kolus smiled at that, showing teeth almost as yellow as his hair. “Aye, that he is.” The boy removed the breastplate and helped Finn haul the chainmail hauberk over his head, letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground.
“Thank you. I think I can manage the rest and it would be better if you didn’t linger. We wouldn’t want to draw any undue attention.”
“As you wish, m’lord,” Kolus said, bobbing his head. “All that glitters may not be gold...”
“...but is still mine for the taking,” Finn said, repeating the Gutter Rats’ motto.
“Stay sharp, m’lord.”
“You too.” Finn touched the side of his nose once more. Kolus mirrored him, then, grinning, left the field to resume his chores. Finn considered that for a moment, wondering what Kolus was really up to, but decided it was better if he didn’t know.
Finn finished removing the armor, leaving it on the ground beside the bench. Someone else would have to drag it back to the armory. Stripped down to his padded shirt and leather chausses he felt almost himself again, although his limbs and torso ached from where Sir Eris had repeatedly struck him.
Finn looked around the ward. He could hear the hum of voices, the barking of dogs, and the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer, all the sounds of castle life. But they remained distant. A few guardsmen stood on the wall above him, but none looked his way and the practice field remained still and empty.
Finn leaned down and rem
oved a dagger from his boot. It was old and worn down, sharpened many times, but still useful. Finn glanced around again and then turned to face a quintain some 20 feet away. He measured the distance with his eyes, flipped the dagger into the air, catching it by the blade, then drew back his arm and threw. The blade flickered through the intervening space, a glittering flash of steel in the sunlight, and struck the quintain with a dull thwack. The point of the dagger was buried an inch into the wood, still quivering, at roughly the level of a man’s heart.
“Take that, Sir Eris, you pompous ass.” Finn whistled as he walked over to the quintain and wrenched the dagger free, sliding it back into his boot. What was the point of dressing up in armor and hacking away at your enemy with a sword when it was just as easy to kill him from a safe distance? Why go to all that trouble? He was sure there was some very noble reason for it, some chivalrous rule about maintaining the illusion of a fair fight. Finn didn’t believe in fair fights; the whole idea was rather stupid in his opinion. The idea was to win, and that often meant taking advantage of the other man’s weaknesses. Why pretend otherwise? Finn shook his head, putting the matter aside for the moment. He was more interested in what Lusive might have to say and why the old thief wanted to see him.
Chapter 4
Durog led an army of orcs and goblins, along with a few trolls, down out of the mountains and along a steep, winding path that descended into a landscape of rolling hills and woodland. Climbing to the top of a grassy knoll, he paused to look out across the intervening sea of dark trees. There he saw a lone mountain, like the stump of an impossibly large tree. And on its flat top perched a ruined castle that resembled, as much as anything, the broken crown of some long dead king, gray and sullen in the starlight. They had come at last to Arrom’s Rock.
Durog sucked in the cool night air and grinned, remembering the improbable string of events that had led him to this moment. It had taken months to put the deal together—a fortune in bribes, several fortuitous accidents, a few cold-blooded murders, and a lot of bargaining with some of the foulest black-hearted brigands ever to draw breath—but it had finally come together. He had to hand it to the dark elf witch. She had a knack for negotiation and wasn’t afraid to get blood on her hands when necessary. Durog was beginning to like her—well, as much as he liked anyone.
The journey through the mountains had been the most difficult part. Their course had brought them close to Khara-Har, the capital city of the dwarves. In days of old, the dwarves had kept a closer eye on the mountains bordering their country, but with the Arkirian border guard in place and an alliance with the Wudu, there was little need. The dwarves, like the Arkirians, had grown complacent. When news of the Belgari tribe’s massacre reached them, it would stir their forces. But that didn’t matter now. It was already too late. Still, Durog wasn’t taking any chances. He had kept his movements secret, hiding his warriors in caves and gullies during the day and only moving in the dark. The nights had been long, forced marches through hostile environs, barely pausing for food or drink. The orcs were hardy folk, despite their grumbling and complaining. The promise of villages to plunder and fresh blood to be spilled kept them going, but Durog was as thankful as any of them that the long trek was finally over.
“Keep them moving,” Durog growled to his second, a squat, bow-legged orc named Golfim. “The sorceress will be waiting for us, and I want to get everyone inside before the sun shows her ugly face.”
Not waiting for a response, he started off down the hill and into the shadows of the forest. He loped through the trees, reveling in the cool darkness and the stillness of the night. He was anxious to see this hidden fortress Jankayla had talked about, the subterranean halls that, ironically, had been built by the dwarves to hide Aedon and his forces when the dark elves had overrun Arrom’s Rock. Now those same halls would house Durog and his folk, and he would use that forgotten stronghold to rain terror on his ancient enemies.
* * *
An hour passed before Durog emerged from the trees and climbed the last few yards to the base of The Rock. It rose above him, a tower of earth and stone that blotted out the night sky. Orcs and goblins crept from the forest, gathering around him. Durog signaled for them to follow as he began moving around the base of Arrom’s Rock, making his way over the rough, rutted ground toward the south. In a short while he came to a dry gulch, flanked on either side by massive rock formations. He followed this up the slope, the ground leveling out as it neared the towering rock face. He paused, facing a wall of smooth, flat granite, rising hundreds of feet above him. This was the place, the secret way that Jankayla had spoken of.
“Pilfer! Retch! Where are you clowns?” Durog roared. “Get your pimpled butts up here. Double-time!”
There was a good deal of pushing and shoving, and then a pair of goblins, one dressed like a jester and the other wearing a shaman’s robes, stumbled out from the huddled mass. The two scuttled forward and dropped to their knees in front of Durog.
The jester wore a large floppy hat, curly-toed shoes, and colorful garments of red and gold. There were bells on his hat and on his feet that jangled when he moved. In one hand he carried a wooden stave with a painted face and smaller version of his hat at the end of it.
The shaman was a soft, plump creature. Like all goblins, his nose and ears appeared too large for his face, and his skin was gray as old pudding. He was clad in dark blue robes and a cloak of the same color. He wore a necklace of bones and tiny skulls and a headpiece like a winged lizard with yellow eyes.
There were damn few shamans in this lot, probably because of the trolls and their ability to suck magic. Shamans and trolls didn’t mix very well. Durog had only one shaman of his own among the orcs, and he was a lame, one-eyed brute who was mad as a maypole and all but useless in battle. So, bringing along a goblin shaman seemed like a good idea. But the shaman and jester came as a set, kin perhaps, and from what Durog could see, never parted. They were members of the Little Fist clan, a minor tribe who seldom did anything notable, and they had been something of an irritation ever since the army left the Dark Lands.
“How may we serve you, oh mighty leader?” Pilfer said. The shaman peered at Durog from beneath his clumsy headdress, doing his best to look humble and subservient.
“Open it,” Durog took a step back and folded his arms across his chest, waiting impatiently.
“As you wish, oh magnificent one,” Pilfer swallowed hard.
The goblin turned to his companion. “Where is it?” he said.
“I thought you had it,” Retch mumbled, looking frightened.
“You know I don’t.” Pilfer punched his companion on the shoulder. “You were supposed to hold onto it. That was the deal.”
“If you two miscreants don’t have this door open in the next two minutes, I’m going to skin you both and feed you to my warband.” Durog said, showing his fangs. He couldn’t help but wonder why the sorceress would choose to entrust these two with valuable information. Probably just to irritate him.
Retch began to shake all over, the quivering of his limbs making the bells on his costume jangle, a discordant cacophony that put Durog’s teeth on edge. The goblin checked all his pockets one after another, then went over them again before finally pulling off his hat and reaching a hand into it. He rummaged around for a moment until he found a small bit of parchment with some words scrawled across it in goblin script. He squeaked and clapped his hands, doing a little dance in a circle until Pilfer slapped him across the back of the head and took the parchment from him.
“Stop messing about,” Pilfer said. “And get out of the way.” Pilfer pushed him away. Retch stumbled to within reach of Durog. He crouched there, grinning at the ferocious orc as he began shaking again.
Pilfer turned to face the rock wall, reaching up as far as he could and placing a hand on the cold surface. He read the parchment, reciting words in the language of the first people. The goblin repeated the phrase several times, until the wall beneath his hand began to
glow, a pale luminance that revealed a series of previously unseen symbols etched into the stone. The largest of these, directly beneath Pilfer’s palm, was the image of a sun contained in a circle, with tongues of flame, like daggers, running around the circumference. The outline of a door appeared next, a massive portal 10 feet tall and at least six feet wide. There was a low grumble, a belch of sound that emanated from deep within the mountain. The door shifted, opening a crack, then it swung to, grinding on ancient hinges. Pilfer sprang back as the door yawned to reveal an arched opening into a dark chamber, and further back, a wide staircase that climbed up into the mountain.
Durog growled in appreciation. He turned to face his army. They were still coming up the gulch, gathering before the now open door, their breath and the heat off their sweating bodies throwing up a cloud of mist in the cold air. His army. Durog liked the sound of that. No longer was he simply Durog, Warlord of the Red Claw. Now he was Durog, Warlord of both the orcs and goblin nations. This was only the beginning of course. More would come, and with every victory his army would grow. Durog cleared his throat.
“Well, boys,” he said, “welcome to Arrom’s Rock. This is the moment we’ve been working so hard for. How’s it feel?”
There was some grumbling and shifting about, but no one said anything loud enough for him to hear. Durog narrowed his eyes and gnashed his teeth. He let out a low, guttural snarl, one hand going to his sword hilt.
“Listen up, you pathetic worms!” Spittle flew from his black lips. “I’ll knock the head off the first grunt who so much as complains about the weather. You got me?”
There was more shuffling and assurances of good faith. Some of the more terrified goblins made a half-hearted stab at showing enthusiasm.
“My ancestors ruled these hills, back before the wretched elves, the hairy, in-bred dwarves, and those pale-skinned humans all moved into the neighborhood. When the gates of the Dreamland were opened, the orcs were the first to come here. These were our lands. We were kings and princes back then—and we will be again!”
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 4