Radgred spit, and the forge master stared at the stone floor. Our people are fools to fear horses so. Every other race uses them to great advantage. Even the dwarves ride ponies.
“I have the pikes complete, Warchief.” The forge master bowed his head, a smile of pride visible in the glow of the cavern. “We tempered the last one this morning.”
“Good.” Slar nodded. “Woodsmaster Farrol informed me that the poles have been properly cut. See to it that your work gets delivered to him.”
“Aye, Warchief.”
Raising an eyebrow, now marked with a fresh scar from his fight in the mountains, Slar leaned in closer to the forge master. “And the catapults – you received the designs?”
The burly smith nodded. “Indeed I did, Warchief. Most intricate, and most fascinating. I see no problem with production, as long as the vein within this mountain keeps producing.”
Slar smiled. “It will.” He tapped his chest with a fist. “Well done, Baylax. Keep at it. More smiths will come when the Snake and Bear Clans join us.”
Master Baylax bowed again. “We will have forges and tools ready for them, Warchief.”
Once they mounted the dirt ramp leading out of the pit, Radgred tilted his lips closer to Slar’s ear. “That is the first you have mentioned of Snake and Bear joining us to anyone outside the war council. Was it purposeful, or are your wits aging faster than mine?”
Unconsciously rubbing the hilt of his father’s sword, Slar smiled at his old friend. “It was purposeful. There is a smith here from every tribe, town, clan, and village – and they usually know everyone in that village.” He nodded toward the swirl of fire and activity below. “When they go back to the camps tonight, the rumor will spread faster than molten iron.”
“You wish a rumor rather than announcing to the people yourself?” Radgred ran a curved, yellow claw along his jawline. “You should take some of the credit yourself – fortify your position among the Clans.”
Tilting his head to gain one last glimpse of the glowing forge pit, Slar led Radgred into the recently carved out tunnel. It twisted its way back up toward the main exit from Dragonsclaw. “That would be too presumptuous. A Warchief needs not claim credit, as credit is his due.” His lips twisted into a cunning smile. “Believe me, old friend. We will be ready to greet Dradlo and Sarinn when they arrive with their people.”
Radgred wrinkled his brow. “Those chieftains come with their warriors?”
“Yes. Apparently so moved were they by Galdreth’s visit.”
The old sergeant frowned. “I understand that, but why are you smiling like a white fox with a clutch of goose eggs? Valgrar did not come with Wolf, and he might even be seen as an ally.” Radgred shook his head. “Maybe.” The whites of his crimson-pupiled eyes glittered in the torchlight. “But none of the other clans sent their chieftain, and you have only recently worked out a rough truce in council with the shamans. The Bear and Snake will be far less amenable to you than the Wolf, Shark, and Ram.”
Slar shrugged. “It is not me who needs inspire them. It is Galdreth who is our lord and master now.”
Radgred frowned. “Then you haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”
Patting his old friend on the shoulder Slar watched a young orc in leather running toward them. “Just wait until they arrive, my friend. There are advantages to being Galdreth’s Chosen One.”
Radgred held his tongue as the courier stamped to a halt, breathing heavily from his run.
“Warchief,” the messenger slipped between breaths. “A carrier pigeon arrived moments ago.” He handed over a small piece of curled paper. “The message was relayed via Blackstone and Sourbay.”
With a sideways glance at Radgred, Slar took the paper and dismissed the messenger with a wave. The young man saluted and dashed back the way he came.
“Well…read it,” Radgred growled.
Leaning in underneath one of the torches hung upon the wall, Slar squinted to scan the message. Upon finishing it, the knot of fire and pain within his gut that had been silent for the last several weeks burned again. It throbbed, eating away at his insides. He suppressed a sudden urge to vomit. A bit of sour bile rose in his throat, and Slar tasted a hint of blood. He swallowed hard to prevent Radgred from noticing.
“What does it say?” From the expression on Radgred’s face, Slar knew his friend could sense his anxiety.
“The second team has failed. None have reported back to base.” Slar lifted the paper to a torch, watching it burn down to his claw. “I knew more strength was not the proper approach, and now we have exposed ourselves within the borders of the Human kingdom. One of our best-trained trolls, wasted.” He spat on the floor, sending the gobbet into a corner to hide its pinkish color. “I will be forced to apologize to Galdreth for the failure of a plan our master forced upon me.”
Frowning, Radgred folded his arms across his wide chest. “How will you deliver the news to the dark one?”
Slar led his friend onward. The fire in his belly subsided with movement. “It is certain that Galdreth will already know. Our master created the tracing stones that are trained on the vessel.” Slar fought to hide the pain and dread from his former sergeant. “It is only a matter of time before Galdreth appears to me. Our master should soon be rested from its journey to the Bear and Snake.” He clapped Radgred on the shoulder. “Come, old friend. Let us find some lunch, and then we will retire to await our rebuke for failing the impossible.”
The swirling black form gathered over Slar, its bright eyes shining down upon his head. The piercing agony in his mind masked the pain in his gut. He winced, a scream gurgling its way to the top of his throat. As quick as it had begun, the pain stopped. The shattering thump within his mind disappeared, leaving only the familiar companion in his bowels. Slar turned his head to see Radgred panting heavily. The veil of pain hung plain in his eyes.
You have failed again, my Warchief. Or perhaps it is just the weakness of your entire race. The screech of rusty iron rang out from the formless face of Galdreth, its shining eyes glimmering in cadence with its words. Malevolence glared down on Slar. Nevertheless, you are the only tools at my disposal. I only hope that when our victory is complete, your people will realize the honor I have granted them.
The pain returned, and Slar fought to control his rage, knowing it to be futile. He drew heaving breaths into his lungs, and his claws clenched until they drew blood from his palms. Remaining in his prone position, he bowed his head even farther. I must draw Galdreth’s attention from Radgred. The old man cannot take this.
“This was my mistake, my Master.” Slar scrambled closer to the swirling mass of black smoke, placing himself between Galdreth and his friend. “I could not get enough soldiers inside the great cities of the humans. The vessel is now in their capital, protected by thousands.” He stretched his hands out, noticing a slight quiver in them. “Perhaps we could find another…”
NO!
The concussion threw both orcs hard against the wall of the cave.
I have chosen my vessel because he is the only one strong enough and young enough for my purposes. I will have no other!
Climbing back to his unsteady feet, Slar dipped his hands in obeisance. “Forgive me, my Master, I beg of you. I did not know. I wish only to offer every idea my feeble mind might spawn.” He knelt down again, casting his eyes in Radgred’s direction. The tough old orc shook his head, fighting to come back to his senses. “We will spend every last warrior to capture your vessel, no matter where he flees. I have worked out a plan to slip into the city from the Great River delta. If we can—”
No, my Warchief.
The voice no longer pained Slar’s ears. He noticed Radgred sit up from the periphery of his vision.
My vessel will move yet once again. They will send him to their Isle of Wizards. A sizzling chuckle rang through the cavern, lit only by a brazier and the ligh
ts of Galdreth’s eyes. It is more isolated than any of the human cities. But it will require true skill and stealth from your people to capture him there. Will they be ready?
“I will lead a team myself, Master Galdreth.”
No! Fierceness returned to the steely voice. The dark spirit roiled in a tempest, then calmed. The shining eyes focused upon him. You must be the one to lead my army once the Bear and Snake arrive. However, this display will take a great deal of my energy, and I will be required to rest for some time before I can go unto the Mammoth Clan. Their lands are a great distance from my prison. It is unlikely I will return before you must move forward with our plans.
“Yes, my Master.” Despite the dark spirit hanging over Slar, a weight lifted from his heart and the tightness in his gut untwisted. At least I have peace when Galdreth rests.
Radgred tried to crawl up beside him. Slar gave the old orc a dark look and signaled him to freeze.
Now, as to the capture of my vessel. This time I want you to send shamans. The boy gains power even more quickly than I foresaw.
Slar tilted his head. “Will the wizards not detect our team with their magics?”
There is a certain place upon the Isle…
Smoke rose from a thousand campfires, clouding Slar’s keen sense of smell. But no amount of charcoal could cover the scent of nearly one hundred thousand orcs gathered on the plain that spread below Dragonsclaw. Nearly as many orcs stood behind Slar, but their far more familiar scent blew upwind.
Fargon of the Wolf Clan folded his arms and drew air into his nostrils. “I think an actual, live bear would smell better…or a dead one, for that matter.”
Folding his own arms, Radgred nodded. “And real snakes have almost no scent at all.”
Coarse laughter passed among the shamans and war leaders gathered to greet the arrival of Bear and Snake Clans.
Brother Ortax frowned at their numbers. “Only two clans, yet they almost outnumber our four. It is a good thing they come as friends.” He turned his scarlet stare upon Slar. “I hear the clan chieftains have come with their people. Can you control both Dradlo and Sarinn?”
Running his hand along the worn leather-wrapped handle of his sword, Slar stared at Ortax until the shaman lowered his gaze and covered his retreat with a cough. Slar turned his eyes back upon the newly arrived clans. “Our Master Galdreth has given me dominion as Warchief of the united clans. That will be sufficient.”
Pulling the shining steel from its sheath, Slar lifted his ancient weapon into the sky in salute as two parties of orcs broke away from the mass. One group gathered beneath a brown banner sewn with a rampant black bear. Above the second fluttered a coiled green snake, poised to strike.
Slar’s voice remained level. Not even Ortax could crawl under his skin at the moment. “Our Master will make his choice clear.”
He strode forward to greet the arrivals, Radgred, Fargon, Balthor of the Ram, and Visron, son of the Shark chieftain marching behind him. Ortax and the other shamans hovered at the rear. They have learned better their place, but shamans unite easily, no matter their clan. Sadly, it is different with us warriors.
The rock-strewn distance between the parties closed. When only a hundred yards remained, a shadow passed over the sun, darkening the sky above the assembled orcs. The darkness continued to grow. Slar’s companions mumbled and slowed in apprehension. Radgred kept pace, even though Slar had only given him a hint of today’s events. The approaching Bear and Snake delegations wavered, but shouts from their leaders drove them on.
Their chieftains will not be cowed by a shadow. At least not yet. Slar stopped, his coterie gathered about him. The darkness swelled until it hid the noonday sun, and a false dusk covered the land. Dradlo of the Bear approached first, his chest puffed out and a great waraxe slung over his shoulder. Sarinn of the Snake hurried to keep pace with his companion, working the fingers of his clasped hands.
Dradlo offered Slar the nod of an equal. “Chieftain Slar, I gree—”
“Warchief Slar!” Radgred bellowed, his fingers rubbing his own axe.
Fargon growled in support of Slar. Dradlo shifted his stance, glaring directly at the Wolf chieftain’s son.
His shamans closing about him, Sarinn spread his lips in an ophidian smile. “But tradition states that a Warchief may only be appointed with a vote of all seven clans. No more than one chieftain may dissent.”
Dradlo slammed the butt of his waraxe into the hard ground. “And two dissenters stand before you!”
Slar sensed the hackles rising on his companions, including the representatives of Ram and Shark clans. He rested the blade of his sword over one shoulder and waved his allies to calm. Slar gazed at Dradlo and Sarinn. “You make a mistake challenging the chosen Warchief of Galdreth,” he said in a calm voice. “Was it not our Master’s command that you join my army at Dragonsclaw?”
The Snake chieftain folded his restless fingers. “Master Galdreth did summon us, yes.” He paused while Dradlo glared at him. “But a Warchief of all clans may only be appointed through tradition. We cannot—”
What can you not do, Sarinn of the Snake? Obey my command? The metallic voice screeched from the sky, and the darkness surrounding them sank into night. A hushed cry of fear rose up from the thousands of orcs gathered at the feet of Dragonsclaw. Even those within the camp of clans already joined to Slar murmured in unease.
Upon hearing the voice, Radgred immediately fell into a prostrate position, as did Fargon, Balthor, and Visron. The shamans, including Ortax, followed suit without hesitation. Only Slar remained standing, one eyebrow cocked, and his family sword casually resting on his shoulder.
I must show casual courage, as if I held not an ounce of fear. The stirring in his gut told him otherwise. What boils down there must not show on my face.
Kneel before your chosen Warchief! The screech sounded across the vast plain of the Northlands. Slar remained steady on his feet, while a wave in the grass rippled out in a circle from where they stood. Dradlo of the Bear and Sarinn of the Snake collapsed to their knees, as did their entire guard, most with their faces pressed against the dirt. The thousands standing behind them fell onto their bellies, while most of the camp followed suit.
“I assume this means you no longer dissent.” Slar walked forward, tapping first Dradlo, then Sarinn, upon the shoulder with the flat of his sword. “Then rise as chieftains, and members of my war council. Your shamans should join the others after they have seen to the needs of your people.”
Sarinn stood swiftly, bowing again from the waist. Dradlo blinked first before clambering to his feet. He gave a quick, short nod, but one deeper than his first.
Slar gestured for his own supporters to rise.
The darkness that hid the day disappeared as if it had never been. The bright sun of deep summer, a sun that would not sleep long tonight, returned to the Northlands. It spread its warmth once again upon the flower-strewn meadows and glinted off the green and obsidian shoulders of Dragonsclaw.
Any man who comes to this land, willing to swear the Oath of Fealty to his new king, and swear the appropriate oaths to his liege lords, shall become a free subject of Gannon. The kingdom shall then grant unto him forty acres of unclaimed land to work, or grant equivalent kingdom marks to begin a trade should he display proof of knowledge or training in a recognized craft.
— Seventh Decree of the Navigator
The bare orange sphere of the sun peeked over the eastern wall of the Ivory Palace, setting alight the silver plated dome of the High Hall. Tallen watched the tall towers flare like torches, glowing with the first rays of morning. The blue and silver banners snapped with a steady westerly breeze, and the longest pennants reached out to brush light fingers upon the sun.
His heart hung heavy in his chest, and a slight pressure formed behind his eyes.
“Battalion! Mount!” Sergeant Hall’s voice boomed
out into the misty morning, its gray wisps just now melted by the sun’s first warmth. A thousand Bluecloaks clambered into their saddles in unison, the ranks of horses standing steady as they took their riders. Lances settled into saddle boots, and the troops straightened their conical steel helmets. Hall’s wolfhound sat still near his master’s oversized horse, his eyes drifting along the line of Bluecloaks as if he were a general on inspection.
Tallen looked up at Jaerd, whose emerald green cloak stood out against the sea of blue. “Be careful,” he whispered. “I wish we had more time together.”
Nodding his head, Jaerd reached out his gauntleted hand. “Me too. You be careful also.”
Tears threatening to well up, Tallen clasped his brother’s hand with both of his own. They had already hugged good-bye earlier to avoid all these unwanted witnesses.
The wizard in dark green lifted his hand, and the raven on his shoulder flapped his wings. “We will keep a close eye on him.”
The man fascinated Tallen. Magus Britt had arrived with him and the disinherited Paladin Lord from court before the break of dawn. I’m to be watched over now by heroes even more famous than Boris Mourne and Joslyn Britt! Everyone has heard of the Paladin Tomas Harte, and I own a copy of Dorias Ravenhawke’s book.
“Good.” Jaerd nodded to the wizard and paladin. “This young man means more to me than just his power.”
Magus Britt edged his horse closer, while Boris conferred with one of his lieutenants. The mage reached out, a small, leather-bound tome in his hands. “Something I read a long time ago. You would be lucky to find ten copies in the kingdom.” He looked at Dorias when Tallen took it from his hand. The cover, softened by use, held worn but well cared for pages. “It was written by the Ravenhawke, though I imagine it sold far fewer copies than his Tarmorian Bestiary.”
The dark-eyed wizard lifted an eyebrow. “Is that The Five Pointed Star?” He chuckled. “I doubt I even have a copy of that anymore.” He turned his eyes to Tallen. “Read it cover to cover, lad. It’s written specifically with Dreamers in mind.” Narrowing his gaze, he turned to face Magus Britt, his expression both knowing and compassionate. “Why am I not surprised that you have this?”
A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) Page 24