by J. T. Hartke
Ranier smiled. “I don’t think I’ll lose my commission over it. I will return shortly.” He slipped out the door.
Maddi and Ami scurried about the house, throwing together a few travelling bags. Less than half an hour passed before the knock returned. Ranier stood outside with three horses and a mule. Maddi slung the strongbox to the mule’s rigging and hung the satchels they had prepared.
“I can get them to the village of Breydon.” Ranier swung up into one of the saddles. “From there they can go almost any direction but west.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She clasped his hand, before turning to hug Ami. “You must remain quiet and unobtrusive…” She looked down at Tanya, who had streaks on her cheeks, but no longer sobbed. “…quiet as a mouse, you hear? Can you do that for me?”
Her cheeks puffy and turning red, Tanya rubbed her eyes. “I can be quiet. I had to all the time when I lived with Mama, or Briscoe would get mean.”
Maddi choked back the tears that threatened to push their way to the fore. “Very good. You are always very good.” She hugged Tanya, whose grasp about her waist seemed higher every day. “I hope you aren’t too much bigger when I see you again.” Kneeling down, she pulled the girl to her chest. “I will come as soon as I can, I promise.”
“I know,” Tanya cried into her hair.
Before the sun set, Maddi had her own horse and pack, and looked back down the River Road toward the wide wall of Gavanor. She had made certain the Temple guards had seen her ride out, though she could not find the prior, the High Elder, or the Lord Doctor. No tears came to her as she thought of Ami and Tanya, but a hollowness ached in her chest. She turned eastward, where Tallen and her other friends waited. Friends strong enough to take on the elder. And that flaming Tymin Marten.
When the Dwarves switched sides during the Dragon Wars, the People of Gan forged a sense of trust with them. The Elves, however, seemed to trust them even less, as though they felt if the Dwarves had betrayed one side, they might well betray the other. – “An Almanac of Dragon War Tales” by Julianos Sofra
Slar peered up at the narrow chimney of rock and the distant tower far above it. Six weeks and we still haven’t taken it. Maybe I should remove a few heads to make a point.
The caves and tunnels of Highspur no longer smoked, and his masons had begun re-hanging the fallen gate. From Slar’s vantage on the roof of the bastion, now bearing a single black banner, the fortress had begun to look inhabitable again. Now it will be our great fortress, though the work at Dragonsclaw will be even more magnificent.
Boots sounded on the steps leading out on the roof. “Warchief, the…emissaries…have arrived.”
Slar turned to the messenger, a young orc not far past his first hunt. No calluses had formed on his weapon hand, and a nervousness hung about his face. “Bring them in, grunt.”
The young orc saluted and jogged back down the steps. A few moments later he emerged again, three stocky forms wrapped in dark cloaks following behind. They moved out onto the roof and pulled back their hoods to reveal pink, roundish faces. Dwarves. They stood before Slar, sour expressions hidden behind thick beards. One carried a bound chest. He set it on the stone flags.
“Greetings Warchief Slar of the united Orc clans,” one of the other two intoned. “We come as ambassadors of the Galdrian Cult. It was two of our members who gave their lives to allow you within this fortress.”
Shadowy memories of his son’s last charge haunted Slar. He snarled. “Them and thousands of my kin.”
The dwarf bowed again. “As you say, Warchief. Your people have suffered long, and it is fair time for their vengeance.”
An unbidden scoff left Slar’s throat. “What have you come to offer us, dwarf?”
A flash of bruised pride crossed the dwarf’s face. “Only our allegiance, and that of ten thousand of our brethren in key positions within the Dwarven army, the Rock, and its surrounding villages.”
Slar rubbed his freshly shaven chin. “That could become useful when our armies move on the Rock. Do more of your people have sympathies that lie with Galdreth?”
The dwarf nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. Very few believe our dark Master had anything to do with the dragon raid of last year. Most don’t even believe we exist, much less great Galdreth.” He made a flaring sign with his palm and fingers, as did the other two dwarves. “But they know power and strength when they see it, and our dark Master has that aplenty. Once revealed, they will jump to follow Galdreth.”
Pausing a moment to let the possibilities sift through his skull, Slar examined the dwarven ambassadors. The one who had carried the chest stood slightly taller than the others, while the one who spoke had more gray streaking through his beard. The last one had no beard.
Slar put one hand on his scimitar hilt. “Very well, I shall take news of your allegiance to Galdreth upon my next communication with our Master. In the meantime, I will insist that one of you stay to serve as…councilor to me during the coming war.”
The three dwarves looked at each other for a moment. Then the one who had not spoken stepped forward. “I will stay. I am Charani Millhouse, my Lord Warchief.”
That is a female’s voice!
Slar kept most of the surprise from his expression. He stood there a minute in the sunlight, letting the mountain breeze cool his head. “A woman, eh? My daughter trains to become a shaman. The world changes in many ways.” He folded his arms. “Then you shall stay and be my councilor, Charani Millhouse.”
She bowed, and then signaled the other two dwarfs to leave. They slipped down the staircase with little more than a final dip of their heads.
“So, Charani Millhouse, what do you propose I—”
Another set of boots came charging up the stairs and out onto the roof. The breeze took on a greater chill. An involuntary shudder ran up Slar’s back. This time the messenger looked to be a veteran, with a scarred face and his clothes dirty from a long road.
“Warchief.” He knelt before Slar, his head hung low and his shoulders shaking. “I bring dire news from the front.”
The knot of pain deep in Slar’s gut flared back into his awareness. He scowled to cover a grimace. “What is it, warrior?”
The messenger looked at the dwarf woman.
“She is my newest councilor, and I will have her hear any bad news as well as the good.” The pain in his stomach forced his voice into anger. “Tell me!”
The warrior fell forward, spreading himself prostrate with fear. “Yes, my Warchief. I obey.” He lifted his head slightly. “Our advance forces took Kirath with little resistance. They executed its mayor and took the food stores.”
Slar ground his teeth. “What makes that news dire?”
Lowering his head so that it touched the stone, the warrior hurried to get the words out. “It was later in the day when suddenly the entire city began to go up in flame. The granaries first, then those damn kindling houses. They burned like dry grass, and soon the fires consumed the entire city, including the food stores and almost fifteen thousand warriors.”
The sky spun above him, and Slar nearly collapsed against the stone parapet. The pain in his gut tore at his insides, burning and threatening to make him vomit. The dwarf woman moved to aid him, but he held up a firm hand.
“No!” he barked, harsher than he intended. “Their damn mages! They have cursed us with the Fires again!” He slammed a fist against the stone repeatedly until blood splattered across its unblemished surface. A sudden thought leapt to his mind. “Radgred? My son Sharrog? They were in the van. Have they survived?”
The warrior remained in his prone position. “Your son still leads our army, great Warchief.”
Momentary relief was broken by a slice of fear that shot through Slar’s heart, masking the burn in his stomach. “And Radgred?”
Shifting so that he looked his Warchief dead on, the warrior spoke with immea
surable respect. “Radgred Boneshaker is no more. His ashes mix with thousands of his brothers, burned on a field of victory.”
Though he stood in the open air, Slar felt as if the entire weight of Highspur Mountain had come crashing down on him. At first his breath would not come, and a dark, hollow feeling sucked at his chest. Then, his breathing quickened, and only his death grip on the parapet kept him steady. Radgred! You fought a hundred battles at my side. You fought a hundred more before I was ever born. How is it they killed you in our time of victory? What will I do without your strong arm?
Slar lifted his head and belted out a shout of rage and pain that carried far over the Northlands. Orcs working far below looked upward. A flock of snow pigeons burst forth from hiding near the mountain’s shoulder. The messenger lay flat against the stone, while Charani stood in a corner with her head bowed.
“We will burn them.” Slar seethed with a consuming rage that roiled through his head. “I swear by the Fires, by Galdreth, and by all that burns, I will watch them die screaming!” He roared as he ripped an unlit iron sconce from the wall and hurled it over the parapet. Ignoring the wrenching pain in his elbow, he turned to the warrior who had delivered the message. “Go! Take word that Sharrog and our remaining advance forces are to pull back to the Gallond River until we can reassess our battle plan. We will supply them from here.”
The warrior scurried backward on his belly and down the stairs without a sound. The dwarf woman, however, sidled over toward Slar, her hands folded within the sleeves of her robe. Through his pounding rage and despair at news of Radgred’s death, he noticed that her face remained calm, almost beatific. She knelt beside him where he had slid down against the stone wall.
“My Lord Warchief,” she whispered vehemently into his ear. “These things are the will of Galdreth. They are the expressions of our Master’s Chaos. Your companion died obeying that will. No one could ask for more from life.” The whites of her eyes glistened, and a manic grin showed sharp teeth. “Do not despair, for in becoming the instruments of Galdreth’s will, we become more a part of the growth and change created in Chaos. The strong shall survive it. The new world will be stronger, and those who perish in creating its will shall be remembered as martyrs.” Fervor and passion played back and forth across Charani’s face. “If we are all consumed by the Chaos, it will only be to our eternal blessing in the glory of Galdreth!”
Slar’s rage took pause as he assessed the woman. It cooled into a sick worry that burned next to the knot in his gut. This one is mad. She would lead us all to our deaths. Perhaps that is all we are – madmen and martyrs.
A powerless mage is a dead mage. – Macrim the Blue
Tallen pushed open the door of the Iron Maiden, and a wave of sounds and smells washed over him. Sweet wine and spilled ale mixed with roasting meat and a slight hint of urine. A minstrel played a reedy flute, and dozens of military officers and mid-rank nobles shouted, laughed, and sang in time with the music.
Or maybe not so in time, he thought to himself when he heard three men caterwauling who wore cloaks of midnight blue splashed with a crescent moon and stars.
At a different table, two officers in red and black watched the men of House Magdon. One whispered to the other behind his mug, and the second returned a soft chuckle, his eyes darting back at the Magdon men.
Tallen strode forward, wading his way through the crowd. If this were the Gryphon, I’d be ready for those men to start a fight. I suppose that shows what kind of times we live in, that there aren’t more brawls breaking out in a place like this. Everyone knows the real fight is coming.
At a quiet table along one wall, Tomas, Dorias, and Gwelan all sat staring into their mugs, save Dorias whose head popped up the moment Tallen neared.
“Ah, my friend. Please, come join us.” He waved to an empty chair and signaled a barmaid, who offered a cheery smile. “We have much to discuss. I hope you are feeling better since we…returned from Kirath.”
Tallen nodded, though the head bob reawakened a small tinge of the pain that had battered all three of the mages’ heads for several days after Kirath. That first day, Tallen had not left his bed, though both Dorias and Joslyn had visited him. The Ravenhawke had brought plenty of his rejuvenating liquor. Since then, the headache had receded – for the most part.
Tallen sat down at their corner table. “Most of my parts seem to be back in place.”
Dorias smiled then turned back to Tomas, picking right up where their conversation must have let off. “It has been almost a week since Kirath. Boris may be content to scout the Wastes until the Waters dry, but we must be moving onward. With Gwelan’s help, we can slip through enemy lines.”
“Ha!” the shaven-headed man replied as he curled a gold coin across the back of his knuckles.
Tomas put his mug on the table, his face never rising. “We cannot. We must wait for Arathan.”
Dorias almost spluttered his ale. “Why?”
The paladin ran his finger along the mug’s rim. “Because there could be a quarter million orcs between us and Highspur, not to mention how many more might be north of the Dragonscales.” He looked up at Dorias. “Our original plan required that Highspur be available to us as a base. It required we use stealth with an unaware enemy.” He shook his head and went back to staring at his ale. “They will be swarming the countryside with scouts everywhere between here and the Norvus River.”
Leaning toward Tomas, the wizard lowered his voice. “What if we went directly north through the Dragonscales?”
Gwelan snorted even louder than before. He shook his head, and the mug of ale went to his lips.
“Not possible,” Tomas answered, staring into his ale. “Even if it were just the four of us. The terrain is too harsh, and there are things that hunt in the Dragonscales that none of us would want to face.”
Dorias sat back, and Tallen examined his crestfallen expression. He knows Tomas is right.
Gwelan flipped the gold coin up and caught it before deftly slipping it into his pocket. He turned to Tallen. “So how go things with your brother and sister? Your reunion with them must be both a relief and a surprise.”
The swift change of subject delayed Tallen’s response while he watched the paladin and wizard stare at the table. After a few seconds, he turned to Gwelan whose expression urged him to reply. “Jaerd has been extremely busy with Earl Boris and the army. He is at the command post most of every day. I think he’s even taken to sleeping there.” Tallen cleared his throat. “Dawne left yesterday for the Bardic College in Kerrigier. I still can’t believe she was at Highspur. She told me most of the story, and things were very dire there.”
The strange sense of confusion he felt at discovering his sister among the fortress’ survivors still flashed in his mind. He had always stood up for his little sister, and now she had been well beyond his protection, without even his knowledge. It scares me more than I ever thought it would. At least Jaerd was there.
He drew his thoughts back to the three men around the table. “Tilli went with her. I don’t think she means to be a bard too, but she promised to watch over Dawne. I think what happened at Highspur really affected her. She wants to get away from the war…at least for a while.”
After a short sip of ale, Gwelan pursed his lips, his bitterness from more than the beer. “Who can blame her?”
Dorias leaned back and folded arms across his chest. “We must do something. I cannot sit idly here in this city while forces move in the wilderness.” He drank deeply from his mug. “We must do something.”
Tomas rose to his feet. “Then we shall. I will visit Boris, and I will see that we join the next group of scouts headed into the Wastes.” He drained his own mug. “We will see for ourselves how crowded with orcs they have become.”
Gwelan sighed. “Well, so much for changing the subject.” He reached for his dual swords hanging over the back of a chair and g
ave them a loving caress. “Come on, girls. We’ve got work to do. ”
A pretty waitress set a mug of sweet ale down in front of Tallen just as the others stood. He sighed, took one long swig that cooled his throat and warmed his stomach, then followed his friends out the door. The waitress gave him a sympathetic smile as he placed a silver penny in her hand.
Outside a heavy pallor of black smoke hung over Novon. It flowed from the dozens of smithies that pumped out weapons of war day and night since their arrival, not to mention the hundreds, maybe thousands of additional campfires from both soldiers and refugees. The smoke stank, reeking of coke and over-charred meat. Tallen tried to wave it away with one hand, but only succeeded in stirring the stench farther up his nostrils.
“Try growing up in Avaros.” Gwelan wrinkled his nose. “The smell of fish was the best part.”
A few blocks down the street, the command headquarters rose against the skyline. Once a bank, and most recently a warehouse, the building now crawled with soldiers from dozens of different noble houses. Plenty of Bluecloaks marched in and out of the main entrance along with the household warriors.
A familiar voice shouted from the second floor balcony. “Ah! Tomas!” Boris waved his hand from where he stood, surrounded by aides. “Please come in, all of you. I have a favor to ask.”
Inside, the smell of sweat and pipe smoke replaced the stench of burning coal. Dozens of men moved about or wrote hurried dispatches. One moved markers shaped like horses, dragons, and armed knights about on a map of the Western Realm and Free Cities. A large crown sat near the city of Magdonton.
Boris trotted down the stairs, Jaerd and Joslyn not far behind. Tallen’s brother gave him a familiar grin before standing at attention behind his commander.
“It is fortunate you arrived when you did.” Boris clasped the paladin’s hand with a hearty shake. “It saved me sending a runner.” He scanned the group. “I need some volunteers.”