A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga)

by Hartke, J. T.

  “May the holy Fires bless our sons, so they may be stronger than us. May the many battles we fight be so they need fight no more. Let the Fires grant they see better days.”

  — Traditional prayer at Orcish birth ceremonies.

  Slar emerged from the dank lower tunnels and closed the heavy, iron gate behind him. He snapped shut the most intricate lock the forge master had been able to craft. His dark master’s prison remained quiet, unmolested by the thousands of orcs that filled Dragonsclaw, save a few brave shamans and Slar himself. The fire in his gut had been quiet as of late, too. No one will disturb Galdreth’s rest, but perhaps I should set a guard?

  Above his master’s tomb, the upper network of natural and orc-carved tunnels he passed through twisted with the speed of their excavation. The dozens of orc warriors, shamans, and stewards he passed within the mountain all offered deep nods of respect. Slar returned every one. No need to waste the newfound respect Galdreth’s display earned me.

  Where the main tunnel met a twisting, wooden staircase, he found Radgred standing next to a tall, wide-shouldered orc Slar had longed to see. An extra long scimitar slung over his shoulder, a gift from Slar long ago.

  “Grindar!” Slar embraced his eldest son, who towered over him by several inches. “You have brought the reserve warriors from Blackstone?”

  Grindar returned his father’s gesture, his warmth less exuberant. “Father. It is well to see you.” He pushed back a step to clasp Slar’s arm in the greeting of a warrior. “I mustered twenty thousand more.”

  Releasing his son’s wrist, Slar frowned. “But I ordered fifty. What is Lagdred hiding?”

  Sighing, Grindar shook his head. “Lagdred is still chieftain of the Boar Clan, Father, even if he recognizes you as Warchief. You must remember, there has not been a true Warchief since Wild Tiger. Lagdred insists there are no more warriors with enough skill to wield a sword. He wants to keep a few strong backs at home for the harvest in just a few weeks.” Grindar tilted his head. “And he is right. We have to feed this army somehow.”

  Slar wagged his finger, anger creeping into his voice. “We will feed off the fat of the humans once we move southward.” He looked again at his son, who wrinkled his black brows in petulant grimace. “Did you at least bring more shamans? Bear and Snake each brought more than Boar, Ram, and Wolf combined.” At the thought of the shamans, Slar’s gut knot twisted after its long silence. “I believed fighting shamans from my own clan was difficult.”

  His grimace deepening, Grindar scratched the day old black scruff on his jawline. “Twelve joined us. I could find no more. Messages have been sent to the Ram Clan. Perhaps some more will come from them.”

  “Twelve!” Slar stopped in his tracks. Radgred hung behind him, watching the exchange with rare quiet. “There are that many alone still hiding up at Denwich Monastery. Did you not explain that Galdreth has ordered them here?”

  Grindar’s big shoulders heaved with a sigh. He looked down, his blood red eyes unable to meet his father’s. “I did not have time to spend three weeks wandering in the Dragonscales to gather a handful of crazy old monks. I gathered what I could. You set the timetable. In the last several months I have gathered almost a hundred thousand Boars at your call. That is…what…half, maybe, of the men in our entire clan. Do you wish to teach women the sword, like my sister Shana learns to be a shaman? Shall our babies also die at Galdreth’s command?”

  Slar pulled his fist back as if to strike his son. Radgred moved to stop him, but Grindar held out his chin. Straining with all his will, Slar unclenched his fist. His stomach spun, a burning sensation like caustic ooze spread through his intestines. He forced a breath and lowered his arm.

  “I will not argue this point with you, too.” Slar stretched his fingers. “You are my left hand as Radgred is my right. Your younger brother may have room for such romanticized hyperbole, but you and I do not. We must lead our entire nation to war and victory.”

  Slar reached out a hand, and his son did not flinch. He grabbed the scruff of Grindar’s coat and pulled him close. “Look at how many have gathered. Do you not understand that we cannot support these numbers trapped north of the Dragonscales? We must either grow or die off.” Slar’s tone sharpened. “Would you rather die on a Human spear, or have one of your sons die on a Mammoth Clan scimitar? They are beyond even the Bear and Snake in number. If they choose to turn on us, the Boar Clan will die.” He clutched his son’s strong shoulder. “Don’t you see? Instead of the Mammoth looking at us, Galdreth and I have them looking to the south.”

  Watching the thoughtful look on his son’s face, Slar paused.

  “I see your point, father,” Grindar said eventually. “The Boar, even allied with the Ram, are overshadowed by the Mammoth, and the Bear and Snake would certainly make alliance with them.” He nodded with a grave frown. “We must use this moment to change the game board.”

  Slar clapped his son on the back. “I knew you would understand this where Sharrog does not.” He gestured toward the staircase. “Come. We must attend the shaman’s council. I need you to stand beside me.”

  “Thankfully, the Warchief has seen wisdom, and put a shaman from Boar Clan in command of our latest mission to obtain Galdreth’s vessel.” Brother Ortax smiled at Slar, who sat in his chair with Grindar and Radgred at his shoulders. “While dwelling in the past accomplishes little, I must wonder how much sooner the vessel might have been captured had this course of action been taken sooner.”

  Slar eyed the leader of the Boar shamans. What does he think to do in weakening me? Does he not understand that the other clans are scheming against us?

  He signaled Radgred to lean in close. “We must have a private conversation with Brother Ortax.”

  Radgred nodded, fingering his axe hilt and watching Ortax from the corner of his eye. “Yes, Warchief.”

  Ortax strolled through the center of the semicircular chamber. Seven chairs sat in a curve facing what would eventually be a window cut into the mountainside. Six orcs rested in those chairs, Slar in the middle – the single empty one to his far left. Sargash of the Mammoth or his chosen leader would sit there. If they come.

  Narrowing his gaze, Ortax retreated a step. “However, the Warchief is wise in his current plan.” He bowed, deep and with respect, and then scanned the other chieftains and their proxies. “We shall have the Master’s vessel soon.”

  The shamans gathered among the chairs tapped their staffs upon the stone floor. The clacking bounced off the walls in a cacophony of support. No Bear or Snake shamans applauded, however, and Slar understood from Ortax’s frown that the Boar shaman noticed. Perhaps Ortax begins to see what I mean. We must definitely speak in private.

  A shaman wrapped in a thick bearskin stalked out into the semicircle. He fluttered his cape about him, the head of the long dead grizzly fashioned into a hood. “Perhaps a closer involvement of the other clans in the planning process of these raids might yield a better result. For nearly a turn of seasons, the Warchief and the Boar Clan have been alone in their leadership.” Fargon of the Wolf growled from the chair at Slar’s right hand. The Bear Clan shaman ignored him. “And for a turn of seasons, they have failed to capture Galdreth’s chosen.” More growls rose from the Rams and Boars in the room. A few Bear and Snake shamans tapped their staffs. “If this mission does fail, then perhaps we might be consulted in the next plan.”

  Slar rose from his seat, making certain to shift the sword upon his hip. He kept his voice calm. “Perhaps it should be restated who commands the horde.” His words were for the shaman, but his eyes did not leave Chieftain Dradlo. “I may be Warchief, but I am not the master of our people. It is Galdreth who commands – Galdreth who plans when and where we will strike, be it to find the vessel, or to strike with this horde. I would not have thought another display of our Master’s power would be necessary so soon. Galdreth prepares to go unto the Mammoth Clan, but I am certai
n another demonstration can be arranged. I cannot, however, guarantee that it will be as painless as the last.”

  At mention of Galdreth’s name, many of the boisterous shamans wilted back a step. Even Dradlo lowered his fire-orange eyes.

  He has tasted Galdreth’s wrath, just as the rest of us.

  A sudden shuffle of feet and murmur of voices sounded from the side entrance of the chamber. A ripple of shamans opened a pathway. Two Boar warriors entered the room, one dirty and exhausted from the field. He stood with pride before his Warchief.

  “Warchief Slar,” the cleaner warrior began, “this messenger has come in from the westward scouting parties.” He looked about the room at the crowd. “Shall we adjourn to a private room, Warchief?”

  Waving his hand at Dradlo and Sarinn, Slar shook his head. “We are all allies here, Sergeant, united under Galdreth. Any news from the scouts can be shared in this council room.”

  Radgred huffed from his position behind Slar’s chair. Fargon and Grindar both frowned.

  The scout bowed deeply. “Yes, my Warchief. It is an honor.” He stood at attention. “The humans have placed a significant force out into the field. At least a thousand, mounted on horses.” Slar heard a few spits of distaste from the assembly. “They are heavily armed and provisioned for an extensive march.” A smile crept across his face when he bowed his head again. “They have seen nothing, Warchief. They have no idea that we are aware of them, or what numbers we have.”

  Slar slapped the leather wrapped handle of his scimitar. “We have them.” He turned to Radgred and Grindar. “Prepare the last stages of our plans. We have had just enough time.” Slar chuckled and grabbed Radgred’s shoulders. The old orc offered a slight grin. “I knew they would come out of their hole if we pricked at them enough inside their own lands.”

  He turned his gaze back to the Bear and Snake chieftains. “You see, there is a greater plan at work here. They have turned their eyes toward us. Soon, the vessel will become complacent within the safety of his hiding place. Then we will strike.” He looked at Fargon, Radgred, and his son in turn. “Before they understand what they truly face, we will have smashed their fortress and be eating their winter stores in the Free Cities.”

  “The Northlands are barren. They would be our graveyard. How the Orcs survive at all, I do not understand. I think that was the plan when we signed the Great Concord, but somehow they still thrive. Perhaps they are tougher, or smarter, than we give them credit.”

  — Lord Marshal Horatio Vonstrass, 284 A.R.

  Earl Boris Mourne, General of the Royal Guard, spat onto the long, green grass spreading about the knees of his horse. He wiped his untrimmed mustache with a leather-gauntleted hand, before lifting the brass and crystal spyglass to his eye and scanning the mountain ridge that loomed ahead. A long spur of the Dragonscales shot out to the north, capped by a bulk of piled, black stone known as Dragonsclaw.

  “That’s where we’ll find them.” He slapped the spyglass shut. “They are watching us – smiling at us.”

  Captain Silios Vonstrass trotted his gray charger forward. A mottled gray and green Fadecloak fluttered about him. “I will go out with the next squad. We will push all the way to the ridgeline.”

  Boris shook his head. “I don’t want any scouts caught too far from the protection of the main detachment. We will move forward one more day, find a defensive position, and then send out parties to reconnoiter the ridge. I want an elf ranger with each unit. You will go with Gael himself once he returns.” Boris held up his hand at the Bluecloak ranger captain, whose proud nose lifted toward the sky. “You are to follow him. His one eye is better than either of yours, and he has led rangers since before your greatest grandfather hopped the boat.”

  Silios saluted and spurred his mount forward, shouting orders to his team of men. Sergeant Hall rode a shaggy draft horse up beside Boris.

  “He’s a Vonstrass. He’ll not like taking second position.”

  Boris wrinkled a lip at his oversized friend. “Since when did you become my court advisor?”

  Hall chomped on the unlit cigar butt between his teeth. “Since you ordered Joslyn to stay behind at Highspur, sir.” He pulled the butt out with sausage fingers and spit a piece of tobacco onto the ground. “I should have brought Brawny too.”

  Boris sniffed. “Just get the column ready to move, Sergeant.”

  Bowing from his saddle with a smirk wrapped around the cigar, Hall shouted back at the long line of men. “Mount up!”

  His voice bellowed over the line, echoed by junior officers. The battalion heaved into their saddles, chainmail peeking out from under their blue cloaks. Steel-tipped lances glinted in the sunlight slipping over the dark ridge to the east.

  In the distance, Boris heard the creaking wheels of the wagon train. We will have to leave them behind before long.

  In little more than a minute, the detachment had mounted and sat in formation to advance. Boris nodded to Sergeant Hall.

  “Battalion! Ho!”

  A mid-toned, three-note sequence sounded out from the bugler. The long line of cavalry lurched forward, Boris at their head upon his black stallion.

  “We’ll find them soon, Balthar,” he whispered to the chomping beast. He patted the stallion’s withers. “Then you can run, boy.”

  Boris watched the sun sink far behind the train, dipping at last where Highspur Mountain hid in the haze of dusk. The swiftness with which it fell from the sky reminded him of how soon winter would sweep upon them. “This is a good spot.” He looked at Hall, who still chewed on the same unlit cigar from that morning. “Break for camp, Master Sergeant.”

  The big man turned his heavy-footed steed back toward the column. “Detachment! Fall out!” He swung his leg over the saddle, hopping down with a grace that always surprised Boris. “I’ll make certain our defense lines are tight.” Hall looked up at Dragonsclaw, looming in the twilight. Boris thought he noticed a slight shudder. “Tighter.”

  Captain Vonstrass hopped onto a fresh horse brought up by one of his rangers. He had been silent all day. “I will double our screening scouts. I intend to lead a party myself, if that sits well with My Lord Earl.”

  Boris frowned at Silios. “Your actions do sit well with me, Captain. Your command of the Bluecloak rangers is unquestioned. However, Lord Gael Calais commands all rangers attached to Highspur.” Boris lowered his gaze. “When we scout the mountain, I want the two of you working together, not in competition.”

  Silios nodded his head. “Yes, My Lord, understood.” He reined his horse around and rode out with two of his men close behind.

  Magus Gaeric Taland trotted his brown steed up beside Boris’ stallion. His red-trimmed blue cloak lay draped over the horse’s haunches. “His Vonstrass pride could be trouble.”

  Boris shook his head. “Silios is a good soldier. He knows how to follow orders.” He swung his leg over Balthar, hopping down to the ground with a groan he had not expected.

  A yellow-trimmed Bluecloak with two silver stars trotted over from the command. “Do you need me to examine you, My Lord? I could ease the soreness in those joints.”

  Laughing, Boris shook his head and waved Doctor Forstra off. “No thank you, doctor. Save your Talent for our coming needs. I will work out the soreness myself.”

  For the next hour, Boris moved through the forms of the Lion’s Stretch, flexing his muscles and strengthening them. When finished, he wiped the sweat dripping from his brow with a towel offered by his steward.

  “Thank you, Private.” Boris sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a good bath.”

  Private Delattre nodded, his face regretful. “We have extensive baths at Highspur, fed by the springs deep within the mountain.” He sighed. “They wash away a hard day’s ride quite well, Milord.”

  “I know.” Boris opened the flap of his tent, no different from that of any other soldier, save he
had no bunkmate. “It will be nice to get back there.”

  “I will find them.” Gael Calais’ one violet eye focused on Boris. “I sense them out there. We will do our best to draw them out and lead them back to you.”

  The marble-sized, magic-infused glowglobe on Boris’ camp desk fought back the shadows within the tent. Outside the sun had not quite yet brightened the sky.

  I got a solid four hours of sleep, Boris lied to himself.

  “Good.” He nodded to Gael. “You are the bait. This spot is as defensible as anything we have seen out here. Our base camp will remain nestled in this gully with mountains to our south and east.” He looked at Hall, who took up most of the tent. “When I take the cavalry out to close the trap, you will stay here with a reserve company. You’re better on foot than on horse and you know it.” Boris turned to lay his hand on Gael’s thin but sturdy shoulder. “We will be ready when you return.”

  Blowing out the little glowglobe, Boris held back the tent flap for Gael to exit. Hall followed close behind. Outside, Captain Vonstrass stood at attention with two dozen Fadecloaked rangers. He saluted Boris and Gael, fist over heart. His men followed suit.

  “Good morning, My Lords,” the captain said with a smile. “It is a fine day for a hunt.”

  His men whooped a single grunt in unison.

  From the shadows, half a dozen elves in similar cloaks stalked into the light of the small fire. An amethyst eyed woman stepped to their fore.

  “We are prepared as well, My Lords.” Her voice did not hold the ferocity of the Bluecloaks, but the stares of the elves certainly did.

  Boris nodded to both leaders. “Best of luck today. Keep your eyes and ears sharp.”

  Gael walked over and stood next to his second. “Ours are the sharpest.”