A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2)

by J. T. Hartke

  “I had taken to sleeping in here before you arrived, Father.” Sharrog cleared a central table of empty mugs and plates, replacing them with a sheepskin map. “But it will do for a place where we can have light and not create a target for the enemy.”

  Brother Ortax brightened his shining ball so that they could better read the marks on the map. Curling tusks marked places along the south side of mountain symbols, approaching a sinewy line.

  “They approach the river.” Slar cracked his knuckles. The occasional pains in his stomach had reappeared since battle had engaged, but this news eased them into subsidence. “We must only hold through the day tomorrow. Then we will crush the humans.”

  Ortax pursed his lips around his lower fangs. “The vessel is among the army. The last tracing stone senses him.”

  Slar rubbed his grizzled chin. “Then we will need to be prepared to find him once the battle turns our way.” He looked at his son. “Your team is ready? Brother Aern as well?”

  Sharrog sniffed the air that rose from deeper in the tunnel. “We are. The Brother has faced his fears with courage, and he found his way onto the tamest of the beasts.” A nervous laugh slipped from Slar’s son. “He only got bit once.”

  The humor not finding purchase with Slar, he pointed the stack of furs that smelled of his son. “You are sleeping here still?”

  Still searching the map, Sharrog shrugged his shoulders. “It gets the beasts used to my scent, and me to theirs.”

  Pride welling up in his chest, Slar folded his arms. “A wise idea, my son.”

  Ortax lit one torch with his power then snuffed out his ball of light. “If I may, Warchief. It has been an exhausting day, and tomorrow is certain to be worse. If I may find my rest for the night?”

  “Go, Brother,” Slar bowed his head, “and rest well.”

  The shaman left the chamber, weariness slowing his steps.

  Slar turned to examine his son. As he looked Sharrog up and down, the sourness in his stomach faded to nothing. “You are learning well. I knew you were a great warrior, but I was never certain of your leadership.” He placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder. “I was wrong. You will not only take your brother’s place, you may well surpass my hopes even for him.” He put his other hand on Sharrog’s opposite shoulder. “And yet you are your own man, and you have earned my respect no matter what.”

  Sharrog followed his father’s gesture and the two stood there a moment in a warrior’s embrace.

  “Our people will follow you for years to come, Father,” Sharrog said. “You have brought us to the greatest glory since Wild Tiger. Orclings for generations shall sing the songs in praise of your honor and strength.”

  They bumped their chests and released, Slar grunting to his son as he backed out of the side chamber and into the tunnel. The stench of the foul beasts below drove him quickly to the surface. Out in the night, the air felt fresh, despite the hint of smoke and death from the battle.

  Slar enjoyed the star-hung night sky for only a few steps before a large orc wrapped in a luxurious bearskin appeared from around the corner of another trench.

  “Ah, Warchief, at last I have found you.” Dradlo’s wide form cast a shadow even in the darkness. Two Bear Clan shamans and half a dozen warriors stood close behind him. “Even a Warchief cannot hide from those who follow him.”

  Unable to completely avoid the barb, Slar scanned Dradlo’s coterie. “If I needed such an entourage, I might be easier to find.” He moved forward before the Bear chieftain could respond. “What do you need, friend Dradlo?”

  The orc tapped his staff upon the ground and glowered. “Too many of our clan’s shamans are dying in your front lines. We require them to protect our clan on your left flank.”

  Pain shot up his throat from his stomach. The fiery knot of acid roiled deep in his gut. “Chieftain, shamans from every clan gather near the center to hold that part of our line firm. Rams and Wolves have taken the brunt of most of this war. The Boar have died in numbers almost as great.” He squinted one eye. “I would hope the Bear Clan would be ready to earn more honor. Perhaps you would care to lead the charge against the enemy in the morning? Then more shamans could join you.”

  Dradlo drew himself up, gripping his staff as if he meant to break it. “We have more honor in our clan than a bunch of walking pigs have earned in the stretch of eternity. The Bear Clan stood in Galdreth’s vanguard during the Dragon Wars! We will do so again tomorrow.”

  Wary that the puffed up chieftain’s anger might ruin their plan for the next day Slar lifted one hand. “Be prepared, Chief Dradlo. Our great surprise will spring upon the enemy tomorrow. Do not overextend yourself until they arrive.”

  Dradlo eased his grip upon the staff. “Sargash?”

  Slar nodded.

  “At last,” Dradlo said, waving for his guards to follow him down the trench. “Now we will at last see real victory.”

  Slar watched the Bear walk away without acknowledgement. I should kill you for turning your back on me, but I need you to kill humans tomorrow. When this is all done, however…

  The flash from a fireball crashing a hundred yards down the line lit up the night sky.

  “When will this be done?” he whispered.

  His command tent sat in a deep depression, shielded by shamans and thick fireproofed hides, protected on all sides by ridgelines and trenches. Two large Boar warriors snapped a salute, while one held the flap open. Inside the scent of roasted meat with garlic and herbs wafted over him.

  “If you have not eaten, my Warchief,” the sweet feminine voice called, “I have prepared something for you. You must keep your strength – for our people’s sake.”

  The thick bearskins piled at the rear of the tent called him with a greater siren’s song than the meat, or even Tealla’s sweet lips. He gestured toward his waist. “My swordbelt first, please.”

  Tealla rose from where she kneeled next to a charcoal brazier turning skewers of sizzling goat. “Of course, my Warchief.” She deftly unhooked his belt and wrapped it around his leather scabbard. With extreme care, she leaned it against a stand and returned to loosen his cuirass. Her fingers danced through the ties and buckles. Then she heaved it over his head without difficulty and hung it on the stand next to his sword.

  Slar threw himself down among the stacked pelts and lifted one foot in the air. Tealla heaved against the heel, and with a sigh of relief from Slar, his boot slid free. He wiggled his thick-clawed toes.

  “You seem quiet tonight, my dear.” Slar tugged softly at her diaphanous sleeve. “I enjoy your words. What keeps them inside your head?”

  Tealla bowed her head. “Forgive me, Warchief. My thoughts are dark and sad. They are not fit for sharing.”

  Slar took her hand when she reached for his second boot. “I insist. If your thoughts cause you sadness, I wish to know them.” He cleared his throat. “Tealla, you are the freshest spring my life has seen in decades. It has been a long winter since last I found a woman that drew my heart as well as my loins.” He kissed her fingers. “You also happen to be very bright, which gives your words that much more weight. I would not have you here with me if I did not wish for your counsel.”

  The woman sighed and kissed his hands. “First things first.” She turned, pulled off his second boot and tossed it next to the other.

  A sigh of contentment broke from his lips. “Ah. Thank you, my dear.” The golden chalice from Highspur’s vaults suddenly called to him. He took a deep draught of the ruby red wine. It, too, came from Highspur’s supplies and tasted of a summer Slar had never known. “Now that your Warchief has found some comfort, tell me what saddens you, Tealla.”

  Seeing the way her lips drooped, Slar sat up and reached out to guide her down beside him. He offered the wine. “Here, take a sip and tell me.”

  With a soft sniffle, Tealla drank deep from the chalice. She handed it ba
ck and pulled on a long strand of her glossy hair. “Today, during one of the valiant charges of the Boar Clan…one led by your honorable son, Captain Sharrog…during the charge…my brother Drannak…” A single sob wracked her shoulders. “He died upon the field of battle.”

  Her voice broke off and Slar sat down the goblet of wine. He placed both hands on her shoulders and felt their tiny tremble. The scant scab over his wound from the death of Grindar, and the barely registered gash on his soul at Radgred’s loss, began to bleed pain along with Tealla. She wrapped her arms about him and he drew her in close.

  “He was only a year older than I,” she whispered against his chest. “He protected me from the cruel boys in the village until I was old enough for him to teach me to protect myself.” She giggled. “I cannot believe the patience he had with me when he first put a knife in my hand. He was never more proud than the day he heard you were to be Warchief of the clans, and that he would serve as a warrior in your horde.” She batted her long, black lashes. “Unless it was the day he heard that I was in your tent. He told me how honored he was to be my brother. I had never heard that from a man before.”

  Slar lifted her chin. “I am proud of you.”

  His lips met hers in a deep kiss that escalated into a long, slow burn of passion. An hour later, his belly full of meat and his eyes unable to remain open, Slar leaned in close to Tealla’s ear. “I will have a pillar carved with your father and brother’s runes in our new fortress at Dragonsclaw. They will be remembered by warriors young and old for the remainder of time.”

  Tealla hugged him and kissed the point of his ear. “Thank you, my Warchief.” She sighed, and her long lashes closed together. Her voice slurred as she slipped off to sleep. “I only hope someone is left to read them.”

  Her soft snores taunted him while he laid there, her final words haunting him even more so. Before the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in his tent, Slar glided out from under her arm. He donned his armor and sword, leaving her to sleep.

  The sounds of a waking camp met him outside the tent. Different guards stood there, these of Wolf Clan. Slar sighed. “Today, warriors. Today we change the world.”

  When Wild Tiger’s horde was at last crushed before the walls of Gavanor by a unified army of Gannonites, Hadoners, Sarians, Elves, and Dwarves, it was believed that the Orcish threat had been destroyed beyond their ability to return. The siege of Kerrigier was lifted and the other Free Cities liberated. Still, the fear that came with Wild Tiger’s attack became the foundation of the Great Concord, which literally founded Highspur. The majesty of that fortress has been made clear in this History. – “History of Gannon” by Elyn Bravano

  Jaerd stared at the eastern horizon, his heart willing the sun to rise. Only a hint of gray crept into a sky still dotted with stars over the enemy camps. The scent of beans hung over their hill, this time enhanced by the aroma of frying bacon. Too bad it’s the last of it. No need to let the men know. With any luck, a wagon train will arrive today.

  Tomas Harte appeared at his shoulder, coalescing from the pale cyan of pre-dawn. He sniffed the air. “It’s a good day to have a solid breakfast. Likely we’ll not have time to break for lunch.”

  Turning to the paladin, Jaerd lifted one eyebrow. “Do you think King Arathan will fully commit today?”

  “Do you believe we should have committed our forces yesterday and had this slaughter over with?” Tomas lifted his chin, focusing his gaze on Jaerd.

  Folding his arms, Jaerd turned back to the swelling dawn. “It is not my place to question His Majesty.”

  A huff escaped from between the paladin’s lips. “So you say. And such is the problem with a glorious tyrant…no one questions.” Tomas looked to the east as well, the dawn shadows deepening his thoughtful expression. “Arathan has fought more battles than any man alive, I’ll grant, but he knows that as well. It has made him arrogant and deaf to anything but agreement. He has surrounded himself with generals and nobles that match that desire – men who know only how to say yes to their king.”

  A slice of pink topped the farthest rise, and Jaerd felt a sense of hope peak in his heart with it. “I’ve seen that in Gavanor. The duke promoted me because of just such concerns.”

  “Arathan and his advisors have missed something key, mostly because of their ignorance of the enemy.” Tomas folded his hands behind his cloak. “Six orc banners hang above the enemies’ lines. There are seven orc clans, since back in the Elder Days.” He looked again at Jaerd. “The Mammoth Clan is missing. And what worries me most is that Mammoth is known to be the largest clan of all.”

  The pit in Jaerd’s stomach that had kept him from sleep sank further into his bowels. He flashed a look at their latrine. “Perhaps the Mammoth Clan, because they are so large, refused to join this horde. I thought the orc clans were usually at each other’s throats?”

  The paladin shook his head. “Dorias and I agree that if the powers we believe have risen are truly driving this horde, then there is no doubt that all clans will be taking part in the war. The odds of more than a few clans united are so rare they make it almost unthinkable the Mammoth Clan will stay in the Northlands alone.” He scrubbed his beard. “The question is, just what role are the Mammoths going to play?”

  They stood in a moment of silence, both watching the rosy glow turn black and purple into blue. It’s not so different from any sunrise at home, standing on the hill at the Gryphon. It has been so long since I stood there.

  A sudden shout sounded from the tent the paladin shared with the wizard. “Wake!” Dorias dashed out into the air, tossing his cloak over his shoulders. “Boris! Wake!”

  The earl strode from behind his tent, still in full armor. “What is it, wizard? You’ll rouse the whole army.”

  “Good that I do. Merl has arrived upon a horror!” Dorias waved for Tomas and Jaerd to come closer. Even Gwelan came out of his tent armed and ready. “He left the eaves of the Bloodwood early to regain sight of General Darax’s camp.”

  Earl Boris stomped closer, his expression more urgent. “What did your raven see, sir?”

  “They are dead!” Dorias cried out. “Crushed and slaughtered by some vast force while they slept. Merl circled over the camp a long time and found no survivors. They were overwhelmed before most could draw their weapons.”

  Boris clutched his hands. “Who did this?”

  The wizard shook his head. “Merl hurries south along a wide, heavily trampled trail. Among the dead Bluecloaks he found a number of orcs.”

  Jaerd sucked in his breath, the horror of fifteen thousand dead comrades dawning in his mind. “At least they took a few with them.”

  A meaningful tone to his voice, Dorias spun his finger in the air. “The dead orcs had swirling tusk tattoos.”

  “Blast me in the bloody Flames!” Boris spat on the ground. “Looks like we’ve finally found the Mammoth Clan.” He stepped toward the picket lines, cupping his hands over his mouth. “Sergeant! My horse!”

  Jaerd moved to follow. “We need to get this news directly to the king.”

  Boris held up his hand. “I will take it myself, Captain. The king will only listen to me. You take command of the rear guard.” He pointed at Tomas. “Listen closely to the Lord Harte. His advice will save your ass.”

  An enlisted man led Balthar out into the open of their camp, the dawn glittering off the black stallion’s silver-studded tack. Boris jumped into the saddle and gave his horse a heavy spur. Balthar leaped forward and galloped down the rise toward the river. Boris’ blue cloak fluttered behind him like a banner.

  “He’ll rush us into trouble,” Dorias said, gritting his teeth. “He’s too much like his father.”

  Tomas shook his head in disagreement. “He also has a touch of his mother’s sense.”

  Emerging from the shadows, Gwelan Whitehand buckled a leather helm on his shaved head. “Great men are ofte
n impetuous.” He drew his longer sword and began rubbing it with a cloth. “It’s what puts us out in front of the rest of you.”

  Beckoning their messenger over, Jaerd gave the man a hard expression. “Get word to the line commanders, we’re going to be needed today.” The messenger snapped a salute and dashed down the line of the rear guard.

  Jaerd pointed at the sergeant who had brought the earl’s stallion. “Get Capt…I mean, General Mandibor up here.”

  The sergeant saluted and trotted off toward the Free City command tent.

  His heart racing, Jaerd stepped in close to Tomas and forced a whisper. “There are eight thousand Free City men in my command, and I only have a dozen Bluecloaks of my own. I don’t even have a lieutenant.” He lowered his voice. “Mandibor is a brazen fool, but he’s now a general by rank. How does a captain give orders to a general?”

  “You make it happen. The Earl of Mourne ordered you to take command of the rearguard.” Tomas clenched his fist in front of Jaerd’s face. “Take command of the rearguard.”

  Comprehension working its way through his mind, Jaerd waved to a pair of Bluecloak enlisted men, a sergeant and a corporal. “Come here, you two. You are the first to report ready today.” The men jogged over and stood at attention in front of him. “Give me your pips, sergeant.”

  The man paused the barest of seconds before removing the bronze discs from his collar. Jaerd pinned two of them on the corporal’s tunic. “You are now master sergeant of this detachment. Well earned, Sergeant…”

  “Maidson, sir,” the man replied, a stunned look on his face.

  “Master Sergeant Maidson of the king’s rearguard, congratulations.” Jaerd pointed to the man who snapped back a sharp salute. “And you, Sergeant…”

  “Roper, sir.”

  Jaerd reached up and plucked a single star from one side of his own collar and pinned it to the shocked soldier. “I am giving you a battlefield commission. You are now Lieutenant Roper, adjutant to the commander. Me, as it is now, though if I fall you listen to the Lord Harte. Understood?”