“Should we proceed?” Haern asked as he drew his swords. “Whoever did this might still be near.”
Thren shook his head, walking nonchalantly into the midst of the gore.
“If there was an ambush planned, it’d already be sprung on us,” he said, glancing about as if looking for something. “These butchers have already moved on.”
Haern followed his father, and he winced at the smell. From what he could tell, the deaths were recent, perhaps only the day before. He stepped over a severed hand, kicked at a crow pecking at a face, and then searched the ground for any sort of belongings, finding none.
“Bandits?” he asked.
“It seems as such,” Thren said, kneeling down before a mutilated head, half a spine still connected at the base. He brushed aside stiff, dark hair to reveal an ear torn in multiple places.
“The last of the Sun Guild who fled,” Haern said, guessing at what his father was inferring. “Whoever killed them ripped out the earrings.”
“That would be my guess,” Thren said, standing up and giving a disapproving glare about the hill. “Though whoever did it has rather poor taste.”
Haern took a step closer to the large fire pit, and he pulled his cloak over his face, unable to stand the stench. Leaning over, he saw a crude spit and, within the fire, a collection of bones. Hoping he was wrong, but deep down knowing he was not, he reached inside and pulled out what could only be the bones of a man or woman’s arm.
“Poor taste?” he said, tossing them back down and looking to Thren. “They massacred them all and then ate one for dinner. Poor taste doesn’t begin to describe what happened here.”
Thren crossed his arms.
“The more savage outlaws are known to have cruel tastes. It may still be bandits.”
“If they are, I hope they decide to move against us next,” Haern said, breaking the spit with his heel. “I’d love the chance to remove their scum from this world.”
Thren laughed.
“Ever the hero,” he said. “But you may just have your chance. Whatever group did this made no attempt to hide their movements. Their footsteps lead on ahead of us, and if they had such fun with their last ambush, I suspect they’ll do it again. Let us see just what kind of men we are dealing with.”
They continued on down the hill toward the next, taking time while they had the height to search for any possible sign of bandits, smoke from a fire, or movement on the road. So far, none, but their eyes were open, their ears alert.
“Perhaps we should leave the road,” Haern suggested after half an hour.
“Extra care here is probably justified,” Thren said. “I have no intention of being some sick bastard’s meal.”
Their speed dropped immensely doing so, but Haern felt better. Despite fighting against the brush and constantly ducking at the grasshoppers and beetles that zipped about as if angry at their trespassing, he preferred knowing no one would easily spot their approach. Haern led the way as Thren followed, head down, arms crossed. They kept the road to their right, always ensuring it was just within sight.
After the fourth hill, the land evened out, and the trees grew farther and farther apart, the thick shade from the canopy above growing spotty, the sun peeking through with ever increasing regularity. Less than half a mile from the forest’s edge, Haern heard the first unnatural sound of the entire day. It came from the direction of the road, and he froze, lifting a hand to order Thren to do the same.
“You certain?” Thren whispered, and Haern nodded. Slowly, each stepped toward the nearest tree, leaning against the thin, pale trunks so they could better hide. Peering around, Haern watched the road, listening for what he’d heard before: laughter.
A minute crawled by. Worried he’d been imagining things, Haern kept his head low and crouch-walked to the next tree, shrinking the distance between him and the road. The grass rustled beneath him as his weight settled atop it, and not for the first time, he wished he could have had training in dealing with the natural world. But Thren had only wanted him to rule a criminal empire in the city; why would travel in the wildlands ever matter?
He was just about to stand and declare he’d only been tired and hearing ghosts when a loud, guttural roar sounded throughout the forest.
“Fuck it, Gremm; we’re going back.”
Haern pressed closer against the tree, and from his vantage point, he watched as over thirty men emerged from hiding amid the forest on the opposite side of the road. A spark of panic flickered in Haern’s chest as he realized how unaware he’d been of their existence, how different their luck might have been if they’d been traveling on the other side.
As the men stepped out, all brandishing crude weapons specked with rust, Haern frowned at their strange appearance. Something about them was wrong, and while he couldn’t place it immediately, it nearly screamed at him from his gut. From behind him, Thren ducked low and made his way near, crouching and looking around the other side of the tree so together they could watch the bandits gather into a crowd in the center of the road.
“Get back here, you pig cunt,” one of the bigger men shouted as a group of seven began heading the way Thren and Haern had come from.
“I don’t believe it,” Thren whispered as the seven sent back rude gestures without hardly missing a step. “We were wrong. Not men. Orcs.”
Orcs? Haern leaned out closer, closely scanning the faces of the men. Their skin was sickly looking, nearly gray in color. Their hair was long, unkempt, and clearly uncared-for. Many had tattoos and ritual scars cut into their skin, and their ears were long like those of an elf, except instead of curling upward like Graeven’s had, they drooped downward. All of the orcs were tall, their chests broad and their arms and legs thick with muscle.
“No one’s coming for miles!” one of the seven orcs shouted as they marched along the road. “I ain’t sitting here doing shit. We go back, wait for more to come. Deeper in the forest we stay, the better.”
“What are they doing out here?” Haern asked as several more of the larger pack followed after the rest, clearly in agreement with the sentiment. “Shouldn’t they be trapped in the Vile Wedge?”
“They must have crossed one of the rivers,” Thren whispered. “The paladins of the Citadel used to patrol the lower reaches of the Rigon and the Gihon, but with its fall, I doubt anyone has taken up the responsibility.”
“Come on, Gremm,” one of the lingering orcs said to a particularly large orc bedecked in brown leather armor and carrying a massive ax over one shoulder. “No harm in checking back. These roads go both ways, after all.”
“Stubborn jackasses,” Gremm growled. “Go on, then, but next time you all ignore me like that, my ax starts swinging.”
Haern and Thren watched as the last of them trudged down the road, calling out insults and shouting for the orcs farther ahead to wait up. As Gremm left, Haern caught sight of a sack slung over his shoulder, the bottom of it stained red, a limp hand hanging over its side.
“We have to stop them,” Haern said, rising to his feet.
“There’s thirty of them,” Thren said, frowning at him. “And I fail to see any reason why we have to do anything.”
“We nearly stumbled upon them ourselves. Whoever follows after us will do the same. We can’t let another group of travelers suffer the fate of the Sun guildmembers.”
“We can,” Thren said. “And we will. It isn’t your job to protect the world, Haern, nor play the savior for every damn stupid person who walks the land. We have a task at hand, and that is what matters right now. If someone travels this road unaware of the dangers, that is their own fault, not ours. We avoided their ambush, so let whoever follows us do the same.”
“You’ll disregard their suffering so easily?” Haern asked.
Thren stepped closer, and he spread his arms wide and gestured to the wilderness filled only with flittering beetles and grasshoppers.
“Whose suffering?” he asked. “You’d have me weep for men and women who ma
y not even exist? The next party those orcs attack may be well-armed men transporting goods for the Gemcrofts, and they’ll butcher every single one of the gray-skinned brutes. You don’t know, do you? What you do know is that you’ve seen someone bad, and now you want to stop them. Gods, you’re like a child.”
“These aren’t even bandits,” Haern insisted. “You saw what they did. The mutilation. The cook fire.”
A beetle landed on Haern’s cloak, and when he tried to brush it away, its spindly black legs remained hooked on the cloth. Frustrated, Haern swatted at it again, hard enough that it struck a tree beside him and crushed its glittering green shell. Thren saw it and smirked.
“Will you kill all the beetles in the world, too?” he asked. “We’ll never even make it out of this forest.”
Haern looked once more to the northeast and the path the orcs had taken. It felt wrong to leave them be, but they were already pressed for time …
“They are but thirty,” Thren said, as if able to read his mind. “And by finding Luther and discovering his plans for our city, we may spare the lives of thousands. Don’t be foolish, and learn to control your emotions. The goal must always be weighed against the cost, and right now, those orcs mean little more than shit to you.”
Haern clenched his jaw, and with a sickening feeling in his stomach, he turned away and resumed their travel. He said nothing, and with his decision obvious, Thren let the matter drop. They continued on, an hour passing by as the midday sun began its slow descent. With every step, Haern felt worse. If he’d been on his own, he’d have avoided the orcs no differently from how he had with Thren. But something about using Thren’s reasoning made him uncomfortable. In some ways, he agreed with it. The people of Veldaren were more important, the risks to the city far greater than what a few wretched remnants of an ancient war between the gods could do.
But still it bothered him, and when he glanced back and saw the fire, he froze.
“What is it?” Thren asked, and then he too saw the trail of smoke rising above the forest. “That fire may only be the orcs setting up camp.”
Haern stared at it. It was a campfire, all right, and several miles behind them on the path.
“What if it’s not?” he asked.
Thren shrugged.
“Then we’re too late. They’ll have to fend for themselves.”
“No,” Haern said, and this time Thren’s answer would not suffice. “No, they won’t.”
Boots thudding upon the packed dirt, he raced along the road. After a moment, his sprint settled into a jog, and he focused on keeping his breathing steady. He kept his eyes straight ahead, staring at the smoke, trying a hundred times to decide its meaning. Was it just a campfire? A message? Was it only the orcs and he was acting like a fool?
He looked back only once, and when he did, he saw his father following.
Thren caught up to him after the first mile. Both of them were winded, but Haern pushed on, knowing if the camp was not yet under attack, it would be soon. The sun continued to set, and in his gut he knew that if the orcs were to attack, they’d do so after nightfall, perhaps several hours after to ensure all were asleep. Assuming whoever built the campfire wasn’t alone and easy prey.
Damn it, thought Haern. Too much I don’t know. We should have taken them out when we had the chance!
“You’re going to get yourself killed trying to save everyone,” Thren said as they climbed their way up one of the hills.
“Thought weakness was what would kill me?”
Thren let out a laugh.
“They’re the same thing, you fool. Now run harder, or must an old man show up a youngster?”
And then he was ahead of Haern, pushing himself on, and to Haern’s shock, there was a smile on his face. Sucking in breaths, cloaks billowing behind them, they both chased the smoke in the distance as the sun settled down behind the trees, and out came the stars. As they neared, Haern realized the smoke came from the same hill as the first ambush, and for a moment, he felt relief. Perhaps it was only the orcs, camping where they had before, and no one was in danger. He mentioned the idea to Thren, who chuckled.
“We’ll still kill them,” he said. “I didn’t run all this way not to get blood on my blades.”
Haern slowed to a walk, and Thren did the same. They were at the base of the hill, and as they climbed, they both needed to recover their breath. His sides were cramping, his legs sore, but Haern knew he could push himself harder if he needed to. There was no limit to his body he’d not been trained to break.
Halfway up the hill, they heard the first shouts over the din of the cicadas. It was the orcs, there was no doubt to that, and they sounded in a jovial mood. Haern drew his sabers, his father his short swords, and together they veered into the trees to ensure no one spotted their approach. Amidst all the hooting and hollering, Haern knew their stomping through the brush would go unnoticed, and he quickened his lead, until at last they reached the crest.
He’d expected the orcs to be feasting, perhaps wrestling and fighting or doing whatever it was they did, but instead he saw two wagons and a fire burning between them. The orcs had formed a circle surrounding the camp, their weapons held up into the air as they mocked those inside. Haern crept closer, baffled.
“Why don’t they attack?” he asked, slipping even closer.
“They have,” Thren said, crouched beside him as together they moved through the trees. He pushed aside a low branch, then pointed. “Look there, by the left wagon.”
Sure enough, he saw two orc bodies crumpled at the entrance. It was odd, for they were clearly dead, yet there were no marks on their skin, no blood pooled beneath them. Haern tried to see if he could spot any survivors, but they were no doubt cowering hidden behind the thick white canvas that covered the wagons.
“Something’s spooked the orcs,” Thren said. “Looks like they might be doing a bit of yelling and screaming to prepare themselves for another charge.”
Haern took another step, putting him almost to the edge of the clearing. To his left and right were two orcs, both holding large axes above their heads and screaming out profane things they planned to do to the bodies of whoever was inside the wagons. He put his blades to the ground, felt the cold grass bunch beneath his knuckles.
“If we hit hard, we can scatter them before they know we’re here,” he said.
“Better to kill them all now and leave no chance for them to escape,” Thren said. “I’ll sneak over to the other side, find where they seem most careless. Once there, I’ll wait for your signal.”
“My signal?” Haern asked. “I thought you said all this was folly?”
“It is,” Thren said. “And it’s your folly, so you can choose when we strike. I trust you to know when the time is right.”
Haern opened his mouth, closed it, then remained crouched beneath one of the low-hanging branches as his father hurried away, fading into a gray blur in the night.
Later, he told himself, turning his attention back to the clearing. The circle around the two wagons was slowly tightening, the shouting intensifying. Haern spotted their leader, Gremm, near the middle of the path, clanging together two swords above his head in a bid to gain their attention.
“No devil magic will keep us back!” Gremm hollered. “No pitiful human trickery will keep us from dragging you screaming from those wagons! We’ll cook you over your own fire, won’t we? Won’t we!”
The orcs cheered in affirmative.
“Come on out,” Gremm continued. “Fall down on your knees, and we’ll make all you die quick instead of slow. Quick now, or slow later. I’ll make you watch us eat you, I fucking swear it by the spirit of the Scorpion!”
Haern saw movement from one of the wagons, and he rose to his feet knowing he had to strike before anyone threw away their lives. He looked to the orc on his left, then right, to decide who he would strike first, and that’s when the blinding white light hit. It came from the wagon, a great flash that burned into his eyes and made
it seem like the brightest of days had descended upon the hill. Turning away and jamming his eyes shut, Haern let out a cry from the pain.
A priest of Ashhur? he wondered. That explained why they were not yet overrun. He opened his eyes, saw spots swimming in his vision, but he knew the orcs would be suffering far worse than he. Already one of them fell dead, a golden sword materializing in the air and slashing through his body. The others groaned, stumbling and crying out their fury. Haern took in a breath, gripped his sabers tight. The time to attack was now.
He gave no war cry, no challenge to frighten the orcs, nor a signal to alert his father. Their deaths would be enough to send Thren into action. He sprang to his feet, leaping toward the orc on his right. His right arm extended, thrusting the tip of his blade through the side of the orc’s neck, and then he turned to the left, yanking free his sword so that blood and gore flew through the air. Both weapons, one clean, one smeared red, crashed down atop the orc’s back and shoulder, catching him in mid-turn after hearing the first’s gargled cry of pain.
As the orc fell, Haern looked to the far side of the camp, and he saw two more drop, his father appearing behind them like a specter. Meanwhile, the rest let out cries of fury, and Gremm led the charge toward the two wagons. Haern caught Thren’s eye for only the briefest moment, but he saw his nod and the implied strategy. Thren would guard the wagon nearest him, while Haern would go for the one where the flash originated. Breaking into a run, Haern charged after the battle-raging orcs, needing to kill more before they could realize his arrival and turn. The first one he caught he sliced through the hamstring, then danced over the body as it rolled. The second he came up alongside, then leaped into the air, twirling as he did. His sabers sliced cleanly through the orc’s throat, and then Haern landed on the opposite side, still running.
Their cries of pain were enough to alert the others, though, and several turned to face him, bringing their weapons to bear. Outnumbered four to one, Haern never even slowed. As their crude swords and axes swung, he leaped into the air, extending his legs to slam his heels into the chest of the leftmost orc. His momentum carried both to the ground, and despite the jarring hit to his knees, Haern immediately dashed away, cloak spread wide to disguise his movement. An ax failed to hit Haern, instead burying itself in the chest of the fallen orc and ceasing his angry protests. Upon landing, Haern tucked his shoulder and rolled once, then exploded back out in a flurry of slashes. The first two batted out wide an orc’s sword, the third slipped between his ribs and into a lung, and the fourth cut across the jugular vein in his throat for good measure.
Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts Page 5