Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I

by Shelby Morgan

  She sensed their emotions now, from where they stood ready to do battle. There was no fear. The army puzzled these brutish creatures more than it frightened them. The thick stone walls were nearly impenetrable, as they well knew. The army could lay siege, but such a siege would be difficult if not impossible to maintain so far from their own supply lines.

  Yet the Orcs would open their doors and charge straight into the waiting army simply because it was there. She wondered belatedly if Orcs could even feel fear. They ruled their land because they were physically powerful and well disciplined and they cared not for their own individual lives. Their loyalty was unquestioning. They lived to fulfill the will of their King.

  Much like a colony of ants.

  Seanen had disappeared again, so well camouflaged that she could only feel his presence as he stopped before a massive bound door sealed with an elaborate looking lock. She heard the slight metallic ping of picks on tumblers as he went to work.

  Yarwyn blended into the stone wall, her own magic shimmering around her like a blanket of darkness, as three huge Orc Palace Guards came marching down the hall.

  A sharp click sounded. The guards paused by the door where Seanen had stood only moments before. She looked, and looked again, but she could not see so much as a shadow of the man. She couldn't even feel him in her mind now. He'd shut down all of his emotions, becoming truly invisible to her.

  The Orc Guards' faces blanked in amazement as the Treasury doors drifted open. The Orcs sprinted into the room, turning left and right as they searched amidst the chaos for intruders. Yarwyn slipped her arm around the last one's neck, slicing him from ear to ear to drop him where he stood.

  Ahead of her and to the right another one of the ugly gray creatures spun to face his invisible opponent as she moved toward the third. Attacking had broken her magic, but that didn't necessarily hurt her any. The leader of the Orc guards had heard her victim fall and he turned now to jabber loudly at her, pointing in obvious agitation at the bloodied corpse in the doorway.

  Yarwyn shrugged as she stepped over the body to cross the room. The Orc's level of agitation rose as she failed to answer his protests, but she still felt nothing from him but surprise as she plunged her dirk into his heart.

  "I think you will find this weapon more to your liking."

  The Orc fell dead at her feet, and still she felt nothing. Not even a vacancy where it had been. She stared at the twisted thing as the blood dripped from her dirk. How could they hope to win a war against things that felt no fear?

  Seanen's voice pulled her back. She wiped her blade on the dead Orc's tunic before sheathing it, only then turning to see what Seanen held in his hands.

  She nearly forgot to breathe. Her mouth watered with an ache to possess at the sight of the ancient bow Seanen held in his hands. She'd heard of the bow, of course. Nemesis. Every Ranger had heard the legend of Nemesis. The bow was smaller than she would have expected, her experienced eye telling her the silver-inlaid rosewood measuring but 60 inches from tip to tip. The bow glowed dully in Seanen's hands, a dim light seeming to emanate from the deep blue crystals set into the risers. No one had laid hands on the bow for generations. Not since Talandar had fallen in the battle of the Lost Races.

  Seanen seemed to sense her reverence, placing it gently in her nerveless fingers. She lifted her eyes to thank him, but he was gone again, searching amid the reckless piles of debris for some new treasure. Practicality took over. A bow that had lain tossed in the corner of a massive storeroom such as this for over a century might not take well to being forced into service.

  There were no polishing clothes to be had in a place like this. Yarwyn wiped the bow down with a rag hacked from the dead Orc's tunic. The silverwork was badly tarnished, looking more black than silver. Numerous dings and scratches marred the ancient surface. One of the Iolite stones was missing. She searched the area where the third Orc had dropped, his neck snapped easily in Seanen's strong grip. On a haphazardly stacked wooden shelf she found a cracked leather bow case containing the missing blue-violet stone and a neatly rolled package of bowstrings. Several quivers of age-hardened arrows lay scattered about as well.

  The strings appeared to be a fine silk-spun wire. She checked each string carefully for wear and rot, but they appeared ageless. Yarwyn fitted the first string to one ivory tip and drew the other down carefully, listening for any sign of weakness. Better to hang it on the wall in the Rangers Hall as a reminder than to break it now after all these years. The wood curved easily under her hands, amazingly light and springy for its age.

  She had no tools to reset the missing stone. Still, she cleaned the small bit of blue fire and placed it into its hole, taking the assembled piece to the small slit of a window to see it more clearly in the sunlight. A small gasp of astonishment escaped her lips, and she almost dropped the bow as the Iolite gems caught fire, blazing forth an eerie blue light that burned the tarnish away from the silver, heating the wood so that it came alive in her hands.

  "You will need this," Seanen offered.

  Yarwyn looked up to find him holding a set of finely crafted Elvin mail of emerald green. She had no soft leather tunic to wear beneath the mail. The colorful silks would have to do for padding. She smiled at the picture she would present. Her smile faded as she looked beyond the mail to the man who held it easily in his hands.

  Gone was the cowed slave in remnants of a tattered kilt. Before her stood the most impressive Warrior she'd ever laid eyes on. Seven foot tall and broader of shoulder than the average doorway, he was one of the few men she'd ever seen capable of wielding the mighty battleaxe he now held. The blackened ring mail he wore might have been made for him. The belt at his waist held both an ebony hilted dirk and a short parrying sword. Even the crest on his helm–a green drake etched into the metal and swooping down with wings wide spread so that its head rested between Seanen's eyes–looked right.

  The kilt sash that crossed his chest was different, a blend of muted blues and greens of a fine woven wool that had survived the years with little signs of age. A bronze-gold broach the size of a man's fist clasped the tartan plaid at his shoulder. Seanen of the House Lindall looked, indeed, the Lord he should have been.

  More than the kilt about him was different. He felt different to her. Almost a stranger. "The mail was your father's," she speculated.

  "My father drank himself to death when I was four. This was my grandfather's."

  Something akin to anger began to form at the back of her brain. She shook her head, trying to make the pieces go another way, but they fell together too neatly. She recognized that thing that burned within him now. Pride held its own lust, as strong as the one he'd felt for her only this morning.

  He wanted retribution. He would restore his family's honor. "This is why you entered the Rogues Guild. To learn the skills that would bring you here one day. To take back what has been stolen from your family."

  His voice remained quiet, calm in the face of her accusation. "I am the bastard son of a bastard house, remember? I joined the Rogues Guild because I was hungry, and a boy on the streets had few choices. I stayed in the guild after I came under Lady Lochinvar's protection because I wanted to. And because she asked me to. I stand here beside you today because you went to that guild and asked for a token. Think you now that my guild picked the wrong man for the job?"

  Yarwyn opened her mouth, then shut it again, trying to find the words to answer truthfully. "I think I am afraid. Afraid of who you will become once this is over."

  His face softened. "I am who I am, Yarwyn. I am a Rogue. That means I can be a Warrior or a thief as the need arises. The thief got us in here. The Warrior will get us out. Would you have me lie to you, and tell you the chance to reclaim my grandfather's legacy meant nothing to me? I will not. But these things, they are just trappings to me. The chance to avenge my grandfather's death, however, means everything."

  It would be easier, so much easier, if things were as they had always been. If she had
n't learned to care. Yarwyn did her best to swallow her fear. She felt drained and as cold as the stone beneath her feet. "Then we will deal with what comes after when the time comes. Let us get the deed done and over with. I am ready." She held out her arms and Seanen slipped the mail shirt over her head.

  Seanen tried, she conceded that point to him. She could feel him try to contain the laughter that bubbled up. It was no use. She looked down at herself and shook her head. The mail fit well enough, but bits of colorful silk stuck out at all the edges. She pulled the mesh cap over her head, knowing it would pull at her hair when she tried to take it off. Attired much like the court jester on a very bad day, she slung the ancient bow over her shoulder, gathering up as many quivers as she could carry.

  Seanen's hand on her shoulder stopped her. She turned to look up at him, expecting to see the laughter in his eyes. Instead there was something else, something that moved her in a way no words of apology ever could have. He leaned down to kiss her, to stamp her with his own possessive seal, to tell her the only way he could that nothing between them had changed. She moved into his arms, holding him fiercely until she had absorbed as much of his warmth as she could.

  "It is time," he whispered.

  Chapter Seven

  Siege cannons had moved into place. Gallons of hot oil rained down upon the Orcs, setting the closest ones on fire, and blinding those around them. Showers of boulders crashed amongst the lines. The archers loosed thousands of arrows on every target within range. Still, the Orc line held, as indeed the attackers had known it would.

  Seanen watched, sickened by the carnage, by the useless waste of it all. So many would die today, and for no purpose. There was no reason for this war. No reason for the Orcs to have strayed beyond their mountains. In all their search of the castle, they had found nothing beyond the occasional slaves and a few Dark Elf males whose bodies they had left to molder in the small stone rooms below. Something, someone, had stirred the Orcs to threaten the Human and Northland populations, and still they did not know what. Nor were they likely to find out, as all who knew the answer would soon be dead…

  Tranorva's battle cry split the air. Hundreds of Men and Northlanders took up her cry. Tranorva's troops held the left hand side of the field. The combined forces of the Human Houses, under Lord Mâkakao, held the right. Swords and battleaxes rang out. Casters traded spells till the air lit up like fireworks at a festival. Rank upon rank of Orcs went down, their blood making the stone-paved courtyard slick. When one Orc fell, another one would shove the body out of the way and take its place.

  From the parapet above the courtyard, separated from the mêlée by a hundred meters and a wide moat whose depths Seanen could attest to, the Orc King watched the battle. Twenty members of the Royal Guard surrounded the King, waiting to do his bidding as he growled and pointed toward the battle. More troops were massed at the gates, waiting for the King's signal. As the numbers on the field began to thin, the King would wave his hand and order the replacements up.

  It was a slaughter, really, more than a battle. The Orcs had neither the numbers nor the discipline to counter the highly trained warriors under Tranorva and Mâkakao. They fought with a persistent brutality, swinging their war hammers and hatchets with strength enough to tear a man in two, and many a man went down, but not enough to turn the tide.

  Angered by his losses, the Orc King threw up both hands, ordering his reserves into battle en mass, no longer holding back. It was the signal Yarwyn had waited for.

  From high above on the watchtower parapet he caught a glimpse of brightly colored silk. The Orc Guard to the right of the King went down, a single arrow protruding from his left eye. Almost before the first Orc had hit the ground, the Orc to the left of the King had joined his fellow, a small shaft vibrating from his chest as he toppled back on his heels. Chaos ensued as the Guards tried to move the King to safety, only to find bodies piling up in their way.

  Seanen stepped from the shadows and raised his battleaxe high above his head. "Lindall!" he cried as he brought the axe down, cleaving the first Orc in his path from crown to stern. "Lindall!"

  The Orc King was shouting now, ordering the reserves he'd already sent into battle to come to his defense. Yarwyn had thinned his party until there was but a handful of Guards left clustered about him, and those were crowded close as much for protection as his own personal defense. The Orc King turned to face Seanen, his heavy silver battleaxe ready in his hands. The axe might have been largely ceremonial, but the Dwarf who crafted it had given it a finely honed blade as well.

  Arrows rained down on the King as well, but they refused to penetrate his enchanted mail. The Orc King stopped where he stood, staring at Seanen with eyes that held more intelligence than Seanen had expected. The Orc King spoke, his voice harsh and guttural, his thick tongue managing to make himself understood in Seanen's own language.

  "So. You have come again, Man-thing, as your words once promised. I had feared you would not come in time. I have grown old waiting for you. Your death amused me last time. I will make the torture longer this time, until you beg me to end your life again. I have sent out Raiders searching for you, so that I can go to my grave in peace. This time I will defile your body, placing your head on a pole, so that your ancestors will not welcome you home. You shall not return to trouble me for a third time."

  Rage clouded Seanen's vision as he raised the dripping axe high over his head. "It is you who will die, King, this very day. I will defile your body when you are dead, and I will throw your head to the men below! You will not return to trouble my people again! Your nation shall lay in ruins, and your ancestors shall not write your name in their family books for the shame you have cost them. You will regret the day you decided to war with House Lindall!"

  The Orc King charged, feigned, then backed away, circling to Seanen's left, then swung again, bringing the mighty battleaxe up with a back swing that almost caught Seanen off guard. The old Orc was quick on his feet for one of his age, and powerful enough to chip the stone when his swing came down short of its mark.

  Seanen waited, darting in then pulling away, trying to test the old one’s strength. They both feigned, looking for any sign of weakness in the other’s defense, then swung, their blades lockig in midair with a jolt that numbed Seanen’s shoulders. The axes tangled on the rebound, and the old Orc attempted to use his weight advantage to knock Seanen off his feet.

  Prepared, Seanen stretched to his full height, attempting to twist the weapon from his smaller opponent's grasp. Neither tactic worked. The two battled in a test of strength and agility for the space of several minutes, until Seanen changed his tactic, lunging suddenly forward, letting the Orc King's own weighted resistance pull him off balance.

  The battleaxes slid apart with a loud metallic ping and the Orc King staggered backwards, regaining his footing all too quickly for Seanen's peace of mind. The rain of arrows had stopped, as the King's Guard had fled or died beside him, and any attempt Yarwyn made now to hit the King himself would be just as likely to find Seanen as its mark.

  The Orc King was old and shorter than Seanen, though not by much. But he was still an excellently engineered piece of fighting equipment, and age did not seem to have slowed his reflexes or dampened his strength. Their blades clashed again with a sound like a storm moving in. Seanen had counted on his relative youth to turn the tide of battle, but the Orc King showed no signs of tiring. He circled warily, an evil grin splitting his ancient gray skinned face.

  "I am glad you have returned, Lindall, for I had grown weary of waiting. I have lived long, and killed often, but I would not have missed this opportunity to kill you again. I shall go to the halls of my ancestors as the only king ever to have defeated the same enemy twice. This battle shall be legendary. When we share our ale around that table in the great hall of beyond, I shall tell the story of your deaths with great enjoyment. You were worth waiting for."

  Seanen felt the anger boiling in his blood threatening his reason. He s
wung again, intent on cleaving the old Orc asunder. Instead his axe met air as the King danced out of his way. He felt a searing pain split his right thigh as the King's parry grazed him, the blade deflected by the ancient mail, but not the force of the impact. Seanen reeled backwards from the blow, nearly losing his footing.

  The air around the Orc King shimmered with angry blue heat. A wave of fear hit Seanen, like a fist to the gut. He would die here, and there would be no one to protect Yarwyn. He had to get away. He had to run, had to find her…

  The Orc King simmered in bright red flames before him, breaking the chain of the magic. Vines rose up from the stone floor, twining about the King's feet. Lightning crackled through the air, spitting at the defiantly raised battleaxe. Recovering quickly, Seanen surged back into the circle of magic, battling against the Orc King with all his strength. It mattered not that he no longer fought alone. The victory would be no less poignant for having shared it with his mate. For no other could have come to his rescue.

  His feet rooted in place, the Orc King still managed to swing his mighty battleaxe with a force that threatened to splinter the handle on Seanen's axe as he parried the blow. The air around them had turned purple now, and Seanen felt a renewed strength flow into his arms. He swung again, pulling back at the last second as the King reached to parry the blow that never landed, trusting the magic to support his weight. The vines chose that moment to dissipate.

  With the strength of three generations of rage, Seanen reversed his battleaxe's swing, bringing the sharp honed blade up to split the creature from groin to gullet. The Orc King looked only mildly surprised as his entrails spilled out over his sundered mail. With a strength that defied all logic, he raised his axe again, catching Seanen with a swing that split the black leather greave from his forearm and stained his grandfather's mail with a hot smear of dark red blood.

  "Die, you bastard!" Seanen bellowed, swinging the axe once again with all the power of his rage and pain. The Orc King merely offered up an evil grin, making no attempt to block the blow that severed his head from his shoulders. A hiss of swirling blue-green smoke rose from the corpse as the body sank slowly to the stone floor.