by RW Krpoun
These were well armed and equipped: each wore a heavy sleeveless tunic or jack of stout bull's hide to which overlapping metal scales had been sewn. Some wore leather bracers to protect their arms, others left their limbs bare to display scars or tattoos. Their iron caps likewise were decorated with clan and tribe markings, skulls, grim runes, severed fingers or hands, and other fetishes that marked the wearer’s prowess. Besides a fighting knife or dagger (or two) every Orc had a heavy, single-edged, point-less cleaver-sword called a renac that was their national weapon, and a heavy thrusting spear; those who did not carry the simple short bows generally had a bundle of javelins or a cluster of throwing clubs. Shields were of wood, covered in several layers of leather and rimmed with iron; each bore the inverted triangle containing the seven-fingered clawed hand of the Dark One that marked them as servants of the Hand of Chaos.
They were a fearsome sight, and not for the first time Henri wondered if Roger was right in thinking that they taking on too much. But he steadied himself with the knowledge that they could back off should events turn against them, while the Orcs and their masters were tethered to their wagons.
With a conscious effort he put his doubts aside and focused on the task at hand, which was to kill one or both of the Bloodweaver's assistants as soon as hostilities began. As he organized the parts of the spell in his mind he marveled at his growing expertise: prior to his joining the Phantom Badgers his knowledge and training had been purely theoretical, and on the modest side. Over the last year the Badgers had been engaged in clearing the lands around Oramere and there had been no great call upon his abilities. In the last four months, however, his experiences, aided by the written works he had acquired from the late Durutte and prodigal practice, had given him a vast increase in knowledge and application of his art. Concepts and methods that he had learned and carried as theories were now clear and sharp in his mind, and new horizons beckoned.
Duty beckoned as well; distantly he felt the stirrings of spell-casting. Although it was as faint as a mouse's cough, he knew that it must have occurred no more than a hundred feet away. Extending his arm, he concentrated, and a brilliant beam of light leapt forth from his palm, slicing apart the chest of the older of the Bloodweaver's assistants. The second beam was deflected by a hasty ward raised by the younger novice as the meadow exploded into a surging confusion of running and shouting when the archers of Archery group opened fire and the Assault group burst from the brush into the startled ranks of the Orcs.
The surviving novice saved himself by diving in amongst the oxen; unable to locate the caravanmaster Henri sent his third beam into, and through, an Orc archer's skull and cut a mastiff down with his fourth. His horizons may have been expanded but they were still very finite; he sent three sling bullets screaming into the Orc ranks, the second missing completely when he flinched away from the too-near passage of an Orc javelin.
Then it was time to go; as suddenly as they had appeared, Assault group was retreating, an abrupt, unnatural sandstorm erupting behind them to blind their opponents long enough for the Badgers to disengage. In front of Henri's group the Orcs had recovered from their surprise and were splashing through the stream towards the Badger's positions, covered by enthusiastic, if inaccurate, fire from their surviving archers.
Scrambling backwards, heedless of the mud and slapping branches, Henri rolled to his feet and dodged through the brush to his group's rally point, all too conscious of the Orc's baying war-cries behind him. Starr and Arian were waiting at the stump that was their rally point; Maxmillian, out of breath, arrived as he did. Spinning, the young Arturian expended the last of his energy in a spell that deepened the shadows under the scrub between them and the rapidly closing Orcs to the consistency of night; as the green-skinned warriors paused to wonder at this development, and then work their way around the affected area, the four Badgers safely slipped away.
Chapter Ten
Durek had decreed that they would accept the risk of a blazing bonfire the whole night long; the wet ground would prevent the surviving dogs from tracking them to this camp, should they possess the skill, and in the unlikely event that the caravan master or Orc Urchek would be willing to risk an ambush badly enough to send out a patrol the four miles separating the two camps should prove sufficient protection. The fire itself was not easily visible under the rock overhang, and in any case had a ridge between it and the caravan's camp. None the less, sentries were cautioned to watch with all their skill as the caravan wasn't the only danger in these mountains.
Maxmillian was seated comfortably near the fire, warm and nearly dry for the first time in days. Around him the camp bustled with life and good cheer as the bonfire blazed merrily around a gnarled stump that Kroh had dragged in; further fuel in the form of several dead logs steamed away their moisture while doubling as benches or back-rests. Fresh-cut branches supported blankets and all manner of articles of clothing to dry between the logs while the fire's edge was a twisted battlefield of drying socks, kerchiefs, and wiping rags. The Badgers themselves were stripped down to the decent minimum of garments to take advantage of the opportunity to dry their slender stocks of clothing; few had brought more than one set of spare clothes along and not a stitch had been dry when they had ridden into this camp. Weapons were worn or close to hand, and boots remained on their feet, both because footgear must dry while being worn, and to preserve mobility in case of a sudden call to arms. One can fight without armor or even naked, but remaining nimble while barefoot on sharp stones is nigh impossible even to a veteran.
The air was thick with odors of wood smoke, drying clothing, damp leather from boots and saddles, the sharp tang of freshly oiled weapons, and the savory smells of the ribs and hams of a freshly-killed wild boar that were roasting over the flames. It rang with noise as well, as the Badgers bantered back and forth in a half-dozen conversations that competed for attention. Beyond the light and the noise lay the wet darkness, full of dangers and strife, but for now the Badgers were ignoring it.
Pen in hand, sword across his lap, clad only in boots and an old pair of breeches gone loose in the waist and seat after weeks of field rations and regular exercise, the scholar struggled for the words to describe the scene before him. He was banned from writing about the day's events, but a night camp was a night camp, and there had been other wet weeks in their journeys. Times such as these, the magical times of good cheer and camaraderie, of shared risk and the heady wine of recent victory, were too few to let pass by.
Rolf and Kroh, bare massive torsos offering a contrast: one tall and hairless, the other squat and nearly fur-covered, sat over the draughts board, a flask between them. Rolf remained absorbed in the game, only drawn away from it for the wilder antics of his fellows while Kroh on the other hand was in his element, acting as primary instigator and cat-caller, although his game suffered for it. Starr, wearing only a shirt of Rolf's whose tails reached below her knees and made her appear a child, sat crosslegged beside the board, glue-pot and fletcher's tools neatly laid out beside her, replacing the arrows expended in today's fight; like Kroh, she took in all that went on with a child-like cheerfulness.
Maxmillian had questioned her early in their travels about her fletching skills and was told that a true archer used shafts mated to the length of arm and strength of bow; every Threll who wandered from their Forest for any length of time first secured the skills to replace their arrows. He had been surprised to learn that the legendary Threll arrowheads of iron-hard iocor wood were often replaced by ones of Human-worked steel for reasons of convenience and practicality when away from their Forests, which disappointed him a bit.
Durek sat across the fire from Maxmillian, smoking his pipe with impunity, confident that the acrid fumes that the gnarled, foot-long device emitted would drown in the swirling, smoky maelstrom of scents that warred for attention within the cleft. Due to the Captain's consideration, the historian had never gotten a look at the pipe before: it appeared to be a horn of some sort, perhaps a moun
tain goat's, with an amber mouthpiece and a meerschaum bowl that had long since gone blood-red from use, carved to resemble a volcano fully four inches high. The volcano looked to be a scale model of the actual as it belched forth clouds of smoke and sparks in equal measure. To the scholar Durek, seated on the log clad only in a loincloth, boots, and a dark bandanna covering his close-cropped hair, axe across his knees, smoke-and-spark producing pipe erupting from his beard, and alternatingly coated in bloody light and inky shadow, seemed to be a perfect model for an idol worshiped by dark, pagan peoples. The Captain, maintaining a decorum suitable to a mature Dwarf and company commander, stayed out of the bantering, but could be observed to be visibly enjoying the wit.
Bridget and Henri were tending to the cooking amidst good-natured argument as to method and practice, the priestess incongruously clad in a brightly-patterned cotton tablecloth worn toga-style with her amber swordbelt cinching it in, the tablecloth itself loot from the Serpent trove brought along on a whim by Starr and now put to a decidedly odd use. The delicate priestess made the most of her strange apparel, often interspersing her efforts at cooking and arguing with a few risqué dance steps. Henri wore boots, sword belt, and a pair of embroidered dress breeches that he had brought along for formal wear but which had suffered a ripped knee the first time he had worn them in Sagenhoft; since then they had served to replace an ordinary pair that had been ruined by harpy's blood at the Orc fort. Perhaps inspired by the breeches' original purpose, he assumed a pompous and absurdly formal air, speaking with an exaggerated accent and in general playing the buffoon.
Arian, no doubt inspired by Bridget's example, had hung his sword belt across his chest so that the griffin-headed hilt of his broadsword hung above a bare shoulder in the manner proscribed for barbarian heroes, and wearing only a loincloth, boots, and helm, was trying to recite a half-remembered heroic ballad, interspersing witty banter in place of forgotten lines, his height and bony frame giving the lie to his otherwise muscular build, and rendering him eminently successful in his endeavor to comically mock the heroic mode of ballad and song.
Janna, sitting beside him clad in a pair of breeches which were less most of the legs and a sleeveless cotton under-tunic meant to protect her from armor-chafing on hot days, was seen to be in a uncharacteristically light mood, often laughing girlishly, if nasally due to her old facial wound, at the monk's efforts at humor. Maxmillian was fascinated by this sea-change in the Silver Eagle who in his experience was a grim and efficient warrior who reminded him more of Dmitri than any of the females in the present company. Although he knew he had seen her in ordinary clothing numerous times the scholar realized that he had difficulty in thinking of her in anything but armor and full weaponry; yet here she sat, laughing and giggling like a girl, carefree as a child, displaying nicely muscled legs and a buxom figure with a bawdy demeanor and a confident grin. Janna the warrior was a familiar sight to him, but Janna the attractive woman was more than a bit unsettling to behold.
Even Roger was roused from his habitual gloom; lying stretched out full length, head propped up on a grain-bag and Moonblade to hand, he drank only lightly and took in the scene with a look that was almost peaceful. That of itself was a greater change than Janna's: Roger very seldom showed much in the way of emotion, enthusiasm, or expression. On the grim days such as they had just endured, of mud and cold and hard travel, he carried on without complaint or comment; when the opportunity for comfort at the towns and cities appeared, he simply drank until he was unconscious, or at least until Arian could get him to stop. The only emotion Maxmillian could remember him displaying was his input during war councils, and that all negative. The long-serving Badgers said that he had been a cold and cheerless man before he met his lady-love Nuila, although warmer than he was today; it was the ebon-haired Arturian who had lifted him from his shell and lightened his mood during the years they had been together.
Elonia's sudden appearance reclining at his left made him jump, but, given the noise and distraction he would have been hard pressed to notice a Sevenguard in full battle array, much less the sure-footed Seeress. She was clad in an old pair of burgundy leggings and a linen shift of deep olive pulled in at the waist with a length of green vine worn as a belt, tiny berries peering out from the still-fresh leaves. Her broad leather girdle, festooned with weapons and mysterious pouches, lay at her side.
The Seeress had always unnerved Maxmillian with her beauty and cat-like gaze that both penetrated and reflected utterly, daunting every attempt to catch a glimpse of the soul within; she had always, even when wet, filthy, or exhausted after battle, seeming to hold herself aloof from all around her, as if they all danced to a tune that only she could hear. There always appeared to be an aura of patient waiting about her, an unhurried anticipation that he had first written off as an attribute of those who scryed into the future and distant present, but he was no longer sure of that. He believed that her distance was born not of other-worldliness, but of a detachment based on a steel-hard inner confidence; supporting his opinion was the fact that she was far from being a competent enough Seer to justify her outlook.
Her manner of dress was conservative compared to many in the camp, but it affected him strangely; for the first time he saw her as a woman, rather than an enigma or an untouchable goddess. For her part, the Seeress lay with the cool authority of a cat, regarding him with the slightest tilt of haunter to the emerald-green eyes, the firelight giving a ruddy glow to her strong, well-shaped jaw and smooth forehead.
Maxmillian had killed an Orc and a mastiff today, and fired two more quarrels at Orcs, at least one of which had hit and surely penetrated, given the close range, and he had hurried through the wet scrub with his sword in hand, ready to defend himself should his flight be contested; in short, he was feeling less cowed than usual by the Seeress, and less inclined to be put upon the defensive. He had spent a great deal of time with Elonia over the past few months, at least what would be considered a great deal of time considering her solitary nature; whether this was by accident, some design of hers, or some order of Durek's he did not know, but it gave him a rudimentary confidence in his dealings with her.
"Your beauty by the firelight is amazing," he offered. "You may not be aware, but I am an artist of no mean repute. You should pose for me some time so that your charms could be recorded for all time."
An eyebrow arched delicately-as always, he marveled at her control. "I had no idea your expertise extended so far. Would the posing take long?"
"Not at all, not at all, but I must point out that I subscribe to a rare and fundamental group of artists, one of impeccable standards and exemplary skills. We strive for naught but the finest in detail, the most precise of renditions. In fact, we take this striving to the extent that we insist that our subjects model first in the nude, to assure ourselves of a proper foundation and fundament. Thereafter the clothes are added to complete the work." To his delight and amazement the other eyebrow twitched as if to join its mate; it was the briefest of movements, but he cherished the results of his sally with a delight that was surely visible.
"A pity," her voice betrayed nothing; but he had seen that twitch! "The lateness of the year must preclude my involvement in such an opportunity. Your compliments, while perhaps not entirely accurate, are quite kind."
"Not at all, not at all." Maxmillian surveyed the camp. "Quite a night; I don't believe I've seen the like in a long while. Spirits do seem to be rebounding."
"True enough. Rain is always the worst, and cold camps depress anyone. Still, I think our fight today is the main reason for the hilarity: we slew their spellcaster, half their guard-dogs, and five or six Orcs. More Orcs are wounded, and I put a quarrel through the leg of one of the Sevenguard. I believe that Durek's plan is gaining acceptance, and through it, the plan that Arian conceived for the Torc."
"Arian and you, precisely." Maxmillian absently wiped his pen dry and carefully stowed it away. "Why so modest, Elonia? You create half or more of the key planning
on this expedition, and take not even a fraction of the credit. Such diffidence is a trait I would not normally associate with you."
"Hardly an astute observation, scholar: I'm as far from the decisions as Rolf. Roger puts forth more than I, and with greater effect, which is to say next to none."
"So it seems to the casual observer at the time; but later when I review my notes before writing a full account the strangest thing occurs: suddenly it is Elonia deciphers this, and Elonia reports that, and So-and-so comes up with this idea after working with Elonia. You seem to be a veritable gardener of ideas, causing them to sprout here and there in neat rows."
Both eyebrows arched. “And what ideas have I cultivated in you, artist of obscure styles?”
Maxmillian felt the blood boil to his cheeks; packing away his notes suddenly required all his attention. "What would be life without art," he mumbled in a tone unconvincing even to his ears.
Elonia's soft laugh held no malice. "Boring indeed, Maxmillian, boring indeed." She rose to her feet. "It is my turn to take Dmitri his dinner, out on his lonely guard post." She fixed the scholar with a considering gaze. "You are growing bold, von Sheer the Fourth. Very bold, and not just in battle. I shall have to watch myself carefully around you; it is a cruel world, and a woman alone must take steps."
Maxmillian watched her go. The bravado that had led him to flirt and pry had fled in the face of her gentle sarcasm, leaving him shocked at his own audacity. Still, no harm had been done.