The Heir Of Westfall [The Alurian Chronicles Book 1]

by Christopher W. Wilcox, Sr.

  "I count eight of them,” Winterstar said.

  "Lots of ground between here and there. They will see us coming and have time to prepare for us,” Prince Brightblade observed.

  "True, but while they ready themselves for us, most of the villagers might be able to escape,” Winterstar said.

  Rory was still watching the ogres when one reached into the circle and picked up a child. Rory snapped up his bow and fired an arrow at the ogre's head. Guided by the force and loaded with surplus energy, the arrow slammed into the beast's eye, releasing the energy in a concussive moment, showering bone, brains, and blood over the nearest ogres. As the now headless body toppled over, the child wriggled free and ran back to its mother.

  "Seven left, and they know we are here,” Rory said, as he nocked another arrow and let it fly. It struck a second ogre at the base of its skull, severing the spinal cord before punching out the front of its throat. “Make that six."

  The remaining ogres roared in rage at the sudden death of two of their group, and they spun around to face the pass, sweeping up their massive clubs. Made from small tree trunks and embedded with flaked slabs of flint, these formidable clubs were now brandished as the ogres howled their challenge to the elven warriors.

  Mounted once more, the prince led the charge. While the warriors thundered down the trail toward the remaining ogres, the war mages tapped in to the ley lines to cast about for whoever was in charge of this group and to defend the elves from any magical assaults. Rory drew his two swords and prepared for battle as Storm began to pull in front of the charging mass.

  Storm suddenly veered to one side, causing the whistling club to swing harmlessly to the side. Rory's Wolf Fang whispered in pursuit, severing the thumb from the hand that held the club. The club fell to the ground and the ogre screamed in pain. Before it could strike at the source of its pain, Rory had slashed deep along its side with the other sword, scoring a deep wound along the creature's ribs. Storm surged past the ogre and it turned to keep him in view.

  Swiftstalker was riding behind Rory. When the ogre turned to face Rory as he passed, Swiftstalker was suddenly looking at the creature's back. He leapt from his horse onto the ogre's shoulders and upper back, and drove the point of his great two-handed sword deep into the junction between the fell creature's head and neck. As the ogre toppled over dead, the nimble elf flipped from the creature's back, landing on his feet near Rory.

  The other ogres had also been slain. The majority of the war party had formed a barrier between the ogres and the villagers. Seeing their nightmare over, the villagers surged forward in a wave of cheering, smiling faces. Seeing the color and badge on Rory's clothing, the village elders made their way to his side.

  "We cannot thank you enough for saving us, but we never expected help to come from Westfell."

  "I alone am from Westfell. I am Rorrick, Heir of Westfell. You owe your rescue to the Lords of the Great Forest, and here is their leader, Prince Brightblade,” Rory said as the prince rode up.

  A hush fell over the crowd as the villagers all bent their knee in homage to the elven prince. The prince said, “Please, rise. You have been through too much to kneel before a prince not your own.” He turned to the village elder near Rory. “Do you know where these ogres came from?"

  "No, Your Highness. They fell upon us during the night. This is an isolated village and we kept no watch. One moment most of us were sleeping in our beds, and the next, sheer pandemonium reigned as the ogres tore our homes apart around us. They herded us into the square and have been amusing themselves by ripping us apart and eating us in front of the rest.” The elder looked over at the ogre with the arrow through its neck. “Who is the bowman who slew the first two ogres?"

  Prince Brightblade said, “That would be Lord Rorrick, Heir of Westfell."

  The elder rushed over and clutched Rory's hand. “I am forever in your debt, my lord. The child was my granddaughter."

  Rory patted the man's hand. “Then keep her safe and help her forget this horror. That is all I ask of any man, to protect their children as best they can.” Turning to his father, he said, “Prince, I believe the ogres came from further to the east. There are signs of the trail they broke approaching the village in the night."

  As the war party readied themselves to move on, Swiftstalker struggled to pull his sword free from the impaled ogre. Rory rode over, leaned down from his saddle, and grabbed the hilt of Swiftstalker's sword. With a mighty heave, he wrenched the blade free. “You're supposed to pass between the bones, not through them, Uncle. You might want to see if you nicked the blade."

  Swiftstalker wiped the blade with fresh snow then dried it with his cloak before sheathing it. “You know darn well the edge is enchanted. It would take a lot more than thick ogre bones to nick that blade."

  Rory glanced up as the battle mages rode by on their way to rejoin the column. The sight of a familiar face wiped the smile off Rory's face.

  "Arianna! What are you doing here?"

  "My job, Rory, the same as you."

  "I thought you handled negotiations with dwarves! At least that's what you said."

  "That is true enough, but what is all this if not another form of negotiation? Making an offer of ‘Stop what you are doing and I will stop killing you’ and seeing how the other side reacts. Seriously, though, there has to be someone behind all this and that someone has to be using magic to control the ogres,” Arianna said.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Ogres never travel in packs. They are solitary creatures just as likely to attack each other as they are anyone else. Yet here we found a band of eight of them working together. It just isn't natural, if such a term could be applied to such a fell creature. So while you brave and stalwart types are dispatching the monsters, we are looking for the one controlling them. And speaking of brave, that was a nice move, removing the thumb so the club would fall."

  "Just a lucky stroke."

  Arianna had sidled her horse beside his, and now she leaned over to place her palm against his cheek. “Hardly that. I know how precisely you control that sword of yours and how accurately you can aim an arrow. Thank you for saving the child."

  "Enough of that, you two!” grumbled Swiftstalker. “We have a war to win."

  Arianna laughed and leaned over, kissing Swiftstalker on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, and of Rory.” With a wave of her hand, she rode off to rejoin the other battle mages.

  * * * *

  Rory could sense another group of fell creatures in the next valley. This group felt different from the ogres. They were Orcs. Smaller than ogres, but just as nasty, orcs usually lived belowground. They were slightly shorter than a man, but much stronger and their long arms gave them a greater reach with the swords and pikes they carried. Their vision, adapted to life underground, gave them an advantage during the night, which was their preferred time to attack. These were pack creatures that were used to hunting together. They were sly and intelligent, unlike the larger ogres and they knew the elves were coming.

  "They know we are coming,” Rory said. “They are divided into groups and positioned to attack us as we enter the valley."

  "How many of them are there?” Winterstar asked.

  "About twenty groups of thirty or so,” Rory replied. “This will get messy. We are going to take casualties unless we can figure out some way to take them on a few groups at a time."

  Prince Brightblade said, “Orcs are not magic users, so they might be susceptible to some magical interference. We need a battle mage here to talk strategy. Send for Arianna."

  Arianna arrived out of the darkness. “You sent for me?"

  The prince explained the situation they would face in the next valley and asked if she had any suggestions.

  "Yes, I do. The Orcs can see much better in the dark than we can, so we must attack them when the sun is at its brightest. We have already been working on the weather and tomorrow shall be bright and clear, with plenty of bright light reflecting off th
e snow. But we need to keep them trapped in that valley and not sneaking up on us, so we have established a barrier, somewhat like the Veil, around that entire group of Orcs. They won't know it's there unless they try to leave. Finally, throughout the night, we will systematically melt the snow around their feet and then freeze it into heavy ice, trapping them. When it is time to attack, we will drop the barrier in front of our warriors to let them pass, then put it up again to prevent any of the Orcs from escaping. The ice around their feet will hamper their movements and prevent one group from helping another. The rest will be up to the warriors."

  "Sounds like a good plan, Arianna,” said the prince.

  "One more thing,” she added. “We have also placed a barrier around this camp so everyone can get a good night's rest before the battle. We have established a watch among the mages so all the warriors can sleep."

  Winterstar said, “That will be much appreciated, although I imagine some of the inexperienced warriors may find it hard to sleep tonight. The anticipation is often worse than the battle itself."

  Rory walked Arianna back to the battle mages, pausing for a few stolen kisses along the way. She wished him well in the morning's battle then ducked into her tent.

  * * * *

  The sun rose in a cloudless sky, making the mounds of snow and ice sparkle like diamonds. The elven warriors wrapped a length of filmy gauze over their eyes to cut the glare. Their heavy cloaks had been rolled and tied to their saddles, and the horses had been picketed near the battle mages. In the battle to come, the horses would be a liability rather than an asset. In addition, any horse the Orcs captured would become their next meal; Orcs loved the taste of horsemeat.

  The elven warriors had divided into four teams of thirty each, and they slipped silently into the valley. As the first group of warriors attacked a hidden pack of orcs, the rest of the elves charged past to deal with the next group. Soon, the four groups were attacking four packs in an almost even battle.

  While the numbers on each side may have been close, the battle was not even. The orcs had been blinded by the rising sun and completely unaware that their feet were encased in six inches of ice. Unable to move, they were quickly slaughtered.

  While the warriors were engaged in the initial fights, the remaining packs began hacking at the ice around their feet with their swords. Many were unsuccessful at chipping away at the ice but still managed to free themselves from its icy grip by the unfortunate tactic of inadvertently cutting off their own feet. Their warm blood often melted the ice enough to the free others. In this manner, the size of the packs was reduced by as much as fifty percent.

  The fight now became a bloody melee with most warriors fighting multiple foes. Rory found himself confronted by as many as ten orcs at once but his use of the life force to speed his own reactions eliminated any advantage the Orcs may have had. His twin swords a constant blur showering blood and bits of orc in every direction, Rory hacked his way through an entire pack. A thrown pike slammed into his back, but failed to penetrate the mithrail mail. It did knock him forward momentarily, plunging his sword to the hilt through an orc. He was forced to let go of the blade as another orc tried to remove his head while he was off-balance. Wolf Fang intercepted the descending blade and Rory's dagger plunged into the eye and brain of his attacker.

  As he spun to face his next attacker, Rory realized an orc was sneaking up behind Prince Brightblade to stab him in the back. Rory pulled his arm back and threw his dagger, sending it into the back of the orc's head to the hilt, the tip of the blade punching through the skull at the nose. Quickly retrieving his dropped sword from the corpse at his feet, Rory sprang to his father's defense. Together they fought and killed every orc they came against.

  The battle lasted for close to two hours before the remaining orcs tried to break away and flee. Encountering the barrier erected by the battle mages, they turned to fight, but were slaughtered without quarter. The white snow of the valley was now a sodden mass of red with spilled blood and entrails, severed limbs, and bodies everywhere. Not all of the fallen were orcs; twenty-eight elves had also perished and another forty had wounds of varying severity. The battle mages moved among the wounded, using the Forces of Life to repair their injuries.

  Prince Brightblade walked over to where Rory was sitting and sat next to him. “You seemed to have lost this,” he said, handing Rory the dagger he had thrown. “I found it in the darndest place; embedded to the hilt in an orc skull. Took some doing to get it free again, too. Thanks. I never even knew the orc was there until he fell dead behind me.” Shaking his head, he said, “Of course, throwing away a weapon in the middle of a fight is not the brightest move to make."

  "Neither is letting someone kill our prince. That choice was easy,” Rory said, tiredly. “What shall we do about all the bodies? I cannot see leaving them for the locals to deal with."

  "Burn them. Two pyres. One for them and another for our warriors. We will deal with it tomorrow. Tonight we rest."

  Rory lay in the darkness of his small tent, his mind reliving the bloody scenes of the day. He was not plagued by guilt over slaying the orcs, but he was remorseful over the death of so many warriors. He wondered over and over if there had been any way to reduce the number of deaths. The flap of his tent whispered open and he knew it was Arianna. She nestled into his arms and pressed against him as he held her, both seeking comfort and companionship in this valley of cold and death.

  * * * *

  It had taken all morning to gather the six hundred and seventy-three orc dead into a single pile. It had been a bloody and gruesome task, made worse by the need to find all the detached pieces. The mound of the dead was close to fifteen feet high. The stack of elven warriors was substantially smaller, and gathering their remains had actually been easier since they were all intact. They had all died of a sword or spear thrust.

  There was no wood in the valley so the pyres had to be lit and kept burning through the use of magic. Thick black smoke rose into the clear mountain air as the fires burned. The elven warriors and mages remained quietly nearby to ensure the job was done completely.

  One of the sentries came up to the prince to report a large group of mounted warriors was approaching. Rory sent his senses questing outward and was relieved to see that it was the Duke of Kendrahl and his men. Winterstar called his warriors to order and, by the time the duke rode up, the elven warriors were aligned in neat rows as if for inspection.

  "Hail Armand, Duke of Kendrahl,” called out the Prince of the Great Forest.

  The mountain air shook with the echoed, “Hail, Kendrahl!” from the elven warriors.

  Armand rode directly up to Prince Brightblade. “Hail, Prince Brightblade of the Forest, and hello to you, Lord Rorrick, Heir of Westfell. I thank you for coming to Kendrahl's aid. I passed through a village a few valleys back that spoke of your valor in defeating eight ogres. The bodies in that pyre seem too small to be more of them."

  "That is all that remains of six hundred seventy-three orcs that came against us yesterday,” Prince Brightblade said.

  "Your losses?” asked Duke Armand, nodding toward the smaller pyre.

  "Twenty-eight,” replied the prince.

  The duke gazed out at the remaining ninety-two elven warriors and was awed. They had taken so few losses against such a terrible foe. He turned as Rory spoke.

  "Duke Armand, I believe this incursion is over. Neither I nor the battle mages can find any further taint within Kendrahl. Like an evil fog, it has fled before the coming of the sun. We found no trace of whomever was behind this but we will not stop looking. You have our promise to watch over Kendrahl as we do over Westfell and Aluria."

  "That is indeed good news, worthy of celebration. Please accept my earlier invitation to call on Kendrahl Keep while my men take over the patrol of Kendrahl lands. Your warriors have gained a place of honor among my people."

  "Speaking for myself, Duke Armand, I would regretfully decline,” Rory said. “The past few days weigh hea
vily on me. I brought no fancy clothes fit for your court and have only this bloody surcoat and mail to wear. With your permission, let me call on you in the summer after we return from Spring Court in Aluria. Let my visit to your keep be in happier times."

  The sorrow and pain in Rory's eyes was clear to see, and the duke could only nod his acceptance. “Prince Brightblade, the invitation to visit extends to you as well. Come back with Lord Rorrick and let me thank you properly for wiping this scourge from Kendrahl."

  "Your Grace,” Rory spoke once again. “I ask a boon from you. With your permission, I would create a monument here to honor our dead who died for Kendrahl."

  "We would be honored to create such a monument, Rory,” Duke Armand said.

  "I'd prefer to do it myself.” Rory walked over to a massive granite boulder that lay right where the thickest part of the battle had been and where most of the elven dead had fallen. Rory concentrated, drawing on the life force from all around and tapping into the ley line that ran through the mountains. He visualized exactly what he wanted and then poured all that energy into his vision. Rory and the boulder were both shrouded in a golden nimbus of light that blazed like a miniature sun for several dazzling moments and then faded. The face of the boulder had now been planed flat and polished to a high luster. Etched into the surface were the words, On this field, the following elven warriors died defeating an overwhelming force of 673 orcs to preserve the lives of the citizens of Kendrahl. Below the words were the names of the twenty-eight dead warriors. The entire message was repeated again in the elven language.