“I’m going to make you squeal,” the orc promised, speaking in the common tongue, saliva running down its chin.
Portia struggled with all her might, but she was no match for the orc’s raw strength and ferocity. Her breath came short, in frightened gasps, and she could not think of any spell to save her. What madness had made her think she could fight these things, that she had any chance of saving Nachtwald? She could not even save herself. She was going to die here, horribly, and nothing she could do would prevent it.
Finn’s dagger struck the orc between the shoulder blades, causing him to rear back. Finn kicked the orc in the side of the head and the creature fell, writhing on the floor. Finn stepped forward and stabbed the orc in the throat with his second dagger. When the orc continued to flail, he stabbed him again and yet a third time, until the creature stopped moving.
Portia was on her feet in an instant. She rushed forward and put her arms around her brother. Still holding his bloody dagger, Finn put his arms around her and the two held each other tight. Not since they were small children had they clung to each other with such affection, but the moment was cut short by a shout from Ander.
“What are you doing? Run!”
They turned to see the Northman flying toward them with one of the ogres, bloodied, but far from defeated, in pursuit.
Portia snatched up her staff from where it had fallen, took Finn’s arm and ran after Ander who was apparently making for the side door by which the four orcs had entered the hall.
The three of them passed through the open door and found themselves in what looked like, for all intents and purposes, a kitchen. There was a large pantry on one side, the door hanging open, and a large orc with a meat cleaver standing silhouetted in the doorway.
Portia had never seen a female orc before and the sight was not inspiring. If anything, this creature appeared to be even larger and fiercer than her male counterparts. She was wide through the hips with breasts like overfilled wine skins, and a face that could curdle new milk. The female rushed at them, swinging her cleaver. She knocked Finn’s dagger away and very nearly took his head off with a backhanded slash. Finn snatched up an iron pot and used it as best he could to fend off the blows while Portia scrambled to get out of the way.
Loth came through the door from the hall at just that moment, slamming it shut behind him. Barely had he crossed the threshold before the door was struck a thunderous blow that split the wood and loosened dust from the ceiling.
“They don’t seem to like us,” Loth said, stumbling back.
In the same instant, the orc burned by Portia’s fireball leapt out of the pantry, his face and arms smeared with some kind of thick white lard. He had a long knife, a butcher’s knife, in his hand and ran at Portia. She tried to move aside, but before she could take more than a step, Ander swung around and cut the fellow’s hand off at the wrist. The orc cried out in pain as his hand, still gripping the knife, fell to the floor. He stumbled back, blood spraying from the stump of his arm. Ander followed up the attack by removing the orc’s head from his shoulders, cutting his scream short. The head bounced along the floor, rolling to a stop at the foot of the female orc. She paused to look at it, appearing very sad all of a sudden. Perhaps this was her mate or someone she had been close to. Perhaps it was a friend or close relative. It hardly mattered. Finn hit her with the cast iron pot, laying her out cold on the floor.
“I can’t believe you hit a lady,” Portia said. “How unchivalrous of you.”
“Trust me,” Finn said, snatching up his fallen dagger and steering her away from the scene. “That was no lady.”
* * *
Ander pushed open the kitchen door and emerged into what looked like the main corridor down which they had come only minutes before. A quick look in both directions assured him there were no other foes close at hand. He stepped out, motioning for the others to follow.
“I thought the orcs had gone,” Finn said, “but it appears there are still plenty of them about.”
“Would you leave your castle unguarded?” Ander asked.
“What about Retch and Pilfer?” Portia said, looking around.
“They’re gone.” Loth emerged from the kitchen and threw the door shut behind him. He slid his sword back into its sheath and unslung his bow, knocking an arrow. “They led us into a trap and then ran for it. I supposed we pushed them just a little too far.”
“And you gave them money.” Portia scowled at her brother. “I can’t believe you!”
“Do I look like a fool?” Finn asked.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
Finn rolled his eyes at her. “I made it up. Do you honestly think Lusive would bury good silver out in the woods? With any luck, those two will be digging for days, until they’re devoured by wolves or some other tragedy befalls them.”
“Come on. We have to go.” Ander grabbed Portia’s hand and started moving along the passage. They had gone only a short distance when the two ogres appeared behind them, red-eyed and angry, and ready to continue the fight.
“Onar and Iden!” Ander swore. “Those two don’t give up.”
He ran, with Portia and Finn close on his heels and Loth bringing up the rear. They came to another set of doors on the right and Ander slowed, reaching for the handle of the nearest. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and leapt inside, dragging Portia and Finn with him. Loth sprang in after them and slammed the door shut, throwing his shoulder against it while Ander picked up a heavy bar, left leaning against the wall, and dropped it in place. Barely had he done so than a thunderous blow made the doors jump in their frames and knocked him back.
“Hey, Ander, umh,” Finn said, tugging at Ander’s arm.
“What now?” Ander turned. The room they were in appeared to have once been a library. It was a long angular room with a vaulted ceiling and row upon row of shelves lining the walls. The shelves were empty, sagging in places, and covered in dust. Surprisingly, there was also what looked like a well at the front of the room, near the doors through which they had just entered, a large circular opening with a low stone wall surrounding it.
A short distance from the well stood a small group of orcs, all clad in leather armor. They were gathered around a smaller orc in crimson robes who wore a bleached skull of some fanged beast on his head as a kind of helmet. The robed orc had a book in his hands from which he appeared to be reading. Ander was not sure which amazed him more, the fact that they had managed to run headlong into another nest of enemies, or that orcs could read.
The orcs, for their part, seemed equally surprised to see Ander and his companions. But their surprise did not last long. The orcs were already drawing weapons and moving toward them with murder in their eyes. Behind Ander the double doors were rocked by a second blow and then a third. Dust filtered down from the ceiling and the stones surrounding the doors trembled.
“Ogres on one side of us and orcs on the other,” Ander growled. “This day just keeps getting better.”
Chapter 22
Blayde watched as the host of orcs and goblins swelled along the edge of the field below Southside. For two days the orcs had been encamped there, burning to their heart’s content. Now there was little left of the community, save for the footprint of streets where houses had once stood. Buildings had been pulled down and the lumber used to fuel their fires or for more sinister purposes. They had used the time to build catapults and ladders, readying for the assault on the walls. Even now a pair of trolls hauled barrels, filled with planking and pitch, to within bowshot of the city, positioning them at intervals of about 60 feet apart. Orcs stood close at hand with torches burning in their fists, ready to ignite the makeshift pyres. Blayde had a sinking feeling she knew what the purpose of those barrels was.
“They mean to burn us out.”
“So it would seem,” Rayzer said. “Although they’re more likely to burn us in since there’s nowhere else to go.”
The rain had dwindled to a thin drizzl
e, and the night air was cold. The breath of the orcs rose in plumes of smoke, and a thin mist drifted toward them off the river, giving the scene an eerie, surreal quality. More orcs emerged from the woods, like ghosts appearing through the shrouds of mist. Goblin archers scurried to take their places, positioning themselves close to the pyres with arrows knocked. After that, no one moved and the air was deathly still. The orcs clutched their swords, spears, axes, and cudgels, watching. The defenders standing along the city wall looked back at them from across the river, anticipating the inevitable attack.
“What are they waiting for?” Rayzer voiced the thought that was on everyone’s mind.
“I don’t know,” Blayde said, “but it can’t possibly be good.”
The wind came up, howling out of the northeast. At least that was what it sounded like at first. But this was no natural force that swept over them, high above their heads. It wheeled and turned, then came on again, lower this time, and with a shrill cry that froze the blood and chilled the soul. There was a stench like graveyard dust and decay, and a thrumming sound, like the note of a harp string. The wyvern with Durog mounted on its back appeared out of the blackness. It circled the city, coming in low, so close that the townsfolk and soldiers gathered there could see the warlord’s face and hear his laughter, the maniacal sound of a mad man.
The wyvern dropped out of the sky to land with surprising agility on the main road, a stone’s throw from the bridge. The creature was as big as a ceratu with great leathery wings and a head like a bull on a long serpentine neck. Across its back was a kind of saddle, an elaborate harness and leather straps that held the orc warlord in place. Durog swung a leg over and dropped lightly to the ground, moving with the grace and sure stride of a stalking tiger. His armor was black and he wore a great helm, shaped like a ram’s skull, the massive horns curving down along the sides of his head. Across his back rested a two-handed sword with a blade as wide as a man’s hand.
Durog motioned to the orc soldiers nearest him and, after a brief conversation, a smaller, bow-legged orc emerged from the horde, carrying with him a torch and a short pole to which a swath of dirty white cloth had been hastily tied. The two began moving toward the bridge while the smaller orc waved the white cloth and shouted “parley” in a voice like broken glass.
“I suppose we have to go down,” Blayde said, urging her brother to follow as she moved along the parapet toward the stairs.
“Why? What is there to talk about? They want to kill us and we want to kill them. Seems simple enough.”
“It’s kind of tradition. They want to discuss terms, give us a chance to surrender—even though they fully intend to kill us all later.”
“It’s a stupid tradition then and a waste of time. We should just get to the trying to kill each other part.”
“What’s your hurry? You got somewhere else you need to be?”
Father Moram was waiting for them by the gate, his war hammer nestled in the crook of his arm. He looked up as Blayde and Rayzer descended the stairs, but before he could speak, a horse came galloping along the road. Sir Henri pulled back on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop, and leapt from the saddle. He handed the reins to one of the startled soldiers as he came toward them.
“Sir Jon and Sir Ducar are in place. The other arrangements we discussed are nearly completed and none too soon by the look of things.
“It seems they mean to observe the niceties,” he added, arching an eyebrow.
“For all the good it’ll do,” Rayzer grumbled.
Father Moram motioned to the soldiers on the gate to open it.
“Stay close,” Blayde said to the men. “We may be in a hurry when we come back.”
The four emerged from the city, walking side-by-side as they made their way along the muddy track toward the two orcs waiting at the foot of the bridge. They marched across the bridge, pausing less than two yards from their adversaries. Blayde took a moment to size up the orc warlord. He was big, the biggest orc she had ever seen, and as ugly as the rest. Her blood was on fire and the urge to draw her sword and plunge it into the warlord’s chest was almost irresistible. Beside her Rayzer stood, still as moonlight, but she could sense the tension in his frame, like a taut rope that was ready to snap.
“What do you want?” Blayde’s voice was low and deadly.
Durog considered each of them in turn. “I am Durog og Bharog, Chieftain of Clan Red Claw and Warlord of the Orc Nation. And this useless wart is my second, Golfim.” He indicated his companion with a dismissive nod of his head. “I’ve come to parley with you.”
“To what purpose?” Sir Henri said. “Your intentions seem pretty clear. Withdraw your army and maybe then we can talk.”
“My army stays until you give back these lands, stolen from the orcs centuries ago.”
Sir Henri gave Durog an indulgent smile, gazing at him like a petulant child. “If I remember my history correctly, it was you orcs who were the invaders, plundering this country after your mad flight from the Dreamland. If there are any who should ask for recompense here, it would be us.”
“Lies. Filthy lies and half-truths written by humans, humans who are long since dead and rotting in the ground.” Durog spat in the mud at his feet. “Curse them. But I did not come to debate history. I have come to offer you this one chance to save yourselves from a painful and humiliating death.”
“You mean to kill us anyway,” Blayde said. “Why should we believe a word you say?”
Durog looked at her as if she was something small and insignificant that he would like to crush beneath his boot heel. “What choice do you have? You have something I want,” his eyes shown with desire, “and that I mean to take from you, unless you give it freely, of course.”
“And what might that be?” Sir Henri asked.
“Magic. Old and powerful magic. The sorceress has promised it to me and I have come to collect.”
“You are misinformed,” Father Moram said, “there is nothing for you or your kind here.”
“I know it’s in there, old man. Give me the Golden Phial now and we can avoid a lot of pointless killing and running about. I have taken Arrom’s Rock and made it my seat of power. I claim it by conquest of war. I will abide there and rule over these lands as it was in days of old. After you’ve given me the Golden Phial, you will empty this city and leave this land forever. Or you will die here. That’s my offer.”
Blayde felt Sir Veryan’s presence. She felt the power of the sword at her side, and she was filled with indignant rage toward this loathsome creature. Despite the cold, her face burned and her fingers itched to take hold of the orc’s throat and squeeze the life from him.
“We have your spies. They have been fairly caught and can no longer help you. In fact, they can no longer help themselves.”
“Spies?” Durog’s face revealed genuine puzzlement. “What spies are those? If you are trying to trick me, elf, you will have to do better than that.”
Blayde forced herself to remain calm, giving nothing away. But it rankled her soul. If the dark elves had not been working for Durog, then who? The sorceress was still a possibility. Perhaps she had acted in secret without her pet warlord’s knowledge. It hardly mattered. The dark elves had been exposed and now they were dead or escaped and could no longer interfere, come what may.
“We are not about to abandon Nachtwald,” Blayde said, changing tact. “We will resist you with all our strength. You have no right—”
“I have every right!” Durog snarled, spittle flying from his lips. “I have the power and the will to take whatever I want. You doubt me at your peril. If you have not agreed to my terms by the time this conversation ends, then this city will die and die bloody. Mark my words.”
Sir Henri glanced her way and Blayde could see the wrath in the knight’s eyes. Even Father Moram seemed ready to lunge at the orc. Durog, for his part, appeared to sense the warring emotions writhing in each of them. They wanted to kill him here and now. Only their collective sense o
f honor stayed their hands.
“We will not leave,” Father Moram said, “not under threat nor by coercion. You will not find the Golden Phial and if you try, it is you who will suffer the consequences.”
Durog barked laughter at the priest. “You have grit, old man, I’ll give you that. But we’ll see how much courage you have when your city is in flames and your people are screaming and dying.”
“Draw that pig sticker of yours,” Rayzer snarled, “and we can end this here. What say you? Just you and me?”
“Your pet seems quite keen to kill me.” Durog smiled.
“He’s not a pet. He’s my brother. And he’s not alone in wanting to kill you.”
Sir Henri took several steps forward, standing only inches away from Durog. “Begone, orc,” he said between gritted teeth. His hand clenched his sword hilt until the knuckles turned white. “This parley is at an end. You and your foul brethren will quit this field at once or I will strike your ugly head from your shoulders and mount it on a spike.”
Durog remained unmoving, grinning at the knight. “Your funeral, bucket head. In the past few hours, I have flown far and wide over the lands surrounding Nachtwald. My orcs have destroyed every village and hamlet within 30 leagues. No one knows of your troubles here. No one will come to save you. You are alone in the night, and very soon you will all be dead, and no one will even remember your names.” He turned his head to regard Golfim. “Come on. We’re done here.”
Durog turned on his heel and strode away. “Get rid of that damn thing, will you?” he said to Golfim, and the bow-legged orc casually tossed the flag of truce into the mud.
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 27