Chronicles Of Aronshae (3 Book Omnibus)

by J. K. Barber

  “Damn that ice bitch to hell! Only she could pull off this crap!” He cursed as he pulled the dagger out of his side and stabbed it into the heart of the unconscious orc at his feet. Mala pulled another vial from her pouch and offered it to Branden, but the smith shook his head. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled the cloth off the bread and shoved it under the padding in his armor where the dagger had entered. Mala closely watched him, while still holding Dara. When the smith briefly exposed the wound, it did not appear to be deadly, and Dara breathed a sigh of relief.

  The sound of plate and chain, clanging together in organized footfall, came from the main street around the corner. Branden and Mala put their backs to the side of the house behind a stack of crates, slowing their breathing and trying their best to pretend not to exist. Branden held his two-handed hammer loosely with one hand and put his other arm protectively in front of the women. A unit of a dozen men paraded past, while two orc scouts ducked their heads into houses. The clip clop of horse hooves followed.

  Mala’s heart skipped a beat as the leader of the foreign army came into view on the horse. The horse itself was dirty, its long black coat mangy and matted with sludge, but well fed by the look of its massive size. The rider was a beast of a man. Mala eyed him with vigilant scrutiny. She had only seen this man from across the battlefield, and now here he paraded past into her city liked he owned the place. This man had broken what was until this day unbreakable. She scowled and felt her body want to shift and rip the man into shreds.

  Sensing Master Swordswoman’s intention to act, Branden laid a hand on Mala’s, which held Dara. The swordmistress glanced to Dara, who looked back up at her friend with worry in her eyes. Mala sighed silently and settled to memorize every part and piece of this man to remember him; when she met him again, one of them would die for what he had done to this town and to her friends. His plate armor was enameled black and spiked at the shoulders, elbows, and at the toe of his boots. From his helm sprouted a plume of black hair. His helm did not have the white-grey bat wings that his officers had. He carried the odd standard of the white ice crown on a black background in one hand, the end of the flag pole in his stirrup. On his back was the two-handed curved sword she had seen from her tower viewpoint. It was almost as tall as he and bloodied. So he does fight alongside his men, Mala thought.

  The swordmistress then caught sight of what was mounted on one of the sword’s spikes. Master Pieter’s head, the large pommel spike running up through his skull, stared blankly at the sky. Dara saw it in the instant that Mala did, putting her own frail hand over Mala’s mouth as the warrior woman’s body jerked in shock. Dara shook her head “no” at her friend. Mala looked down at Dara again. She wanted to scream and dismember the bastard. Had Dara not been in her arms at this exact moment, she would have. The dark leader disappeared around the next corner behind his men. Mala’s lips trembled, and Branden put a hand on her shoulder.

  When the company was far enough away and out of earshot, Branden took Dara in his arms, and Mala slumped to her knees, her eyes filling with tears.

  “That bastard!” The swordmistress cried in a harsh whisper. Branden crouched at her side, setting Dara gently down, and put his arms around Mala. Dara hugged her tightly as well. Mala’s body was racked with grief, as she mumbled, “I should have never let that stubborn lout have his way. I should have stayed with him at the gate! Oh, Pieter…”

  “Mala,” Dara spoke hoarsely, “this is not your fault. And had you not helped Branden, he and I would both be dead, killed by that orc patrol I heard you fight outside. Had you stayed at the gate your head would be on that spike too.” Branden loosened his grasp on Mala, standing again with his wife in his arms, and surveyed the alley. He nudged the dead orc next to them with the toe of his boot, saying, “They will soon wonder where this scout went. We need to get going,” he whispered. Mala wiped her eyes and tried to regain some composure. Seeing that the swordswoman was calming down, Branden said, “Now, Mistress, if that troop was heading where I think they were going, the south gate has been breached as well.” The smith looked deeply into Mala’s eyes, hoping he could get her to focus.

  “We’ll have to take the tunnel then,” the swordmistress said, reigning in her emotions and concentrating on their predicament. Our survival depends on me getting it together, Mala thought. She took several deep breaths. After a moment, her face was calmer, yet still streaked with tears. “I’ll take you there. It is not close though. We’ll have to be careful with those patrols.”

  “What tunnel?” Branden asked.

  “You will have to trust me,” she eyed him cautiously.

  Knowing that this woman before him was not entirely human, and that his wife had kept this from him, the smith hesitated. Dara squeezed his hand. He glanced at his wife, saw her reassuring countenance, and then looked Mala dead in the eyes. “Very well,” he said.

  Slowly, they worked their way through the back alleys towards the Great Tower. They rounded one corner to dodge a patrol, and Branden almost butted heads with a Snowhaven warrior. After the two men jumped back weapons brandished, they recognized each other as allies and quickly piled into the corner together to wait for the nearing patrol to pass by. When the coast was clear, the warrior saluted Mala, helped his sorceress out of a crate, and came to attention. The sorceress curtsied. They were both filthy and covered in what appeared to be soot. “Mistress Mala, Parinan and Mashara reporting, ma’am!”

  “At ease, warrior,” she nodded and the two relaxed. “How did you come to be here and what news have you?”

  “We were stationed at the South Gate. When it was taken, we were overwhelmed and managed to slip along the wall onto the roof of the wood mill. We hid in the chimney until the enemy wasn’t so clustered together, and we could slip away. Although, we didn’t know where to go. The enemy is everywhere,” the young man reported distraughtly. Mala nodded gravely.

  “Well, we can get you out of here. We were on our way to a secret tunnel, its whereabouts only entrusted to the Masters. Come with us,” the Master Swordswoman said.

  The two nodded, and Mistress Mala started off again down another alley, the survivors in tow. After what seemed an eternity of ducking, hiding, and sneaking between buildings, Mala came to the door of what appeared to be a decrepit shack, a block from the Great Tower. They slipped in quickly, as there was a mass of enemy troops in front of the tower attempting to break down the stone wall where the door had once been. The shack only had one room. It was covered in trash, cobwebs, and a ratty straw-stuffed mattress on the floor. The stench of rot, urine and feces was almost unbearable.

  “Sorry about the smell. We had to do something to throw of the scent of many people recently traversing here. Those orcs can smell as well as any hunting dog,” Mala said in low tones. She pushed on the edges of one of the old, unfinished floorboards. Off-balanced, the board tipped up, and she was able to remove it. Cool air rushed up from under them. She removed six more of the wide heavy boards in the same fashion and laid them aside. Mala helped the warrior sorceress pair down the ladder, which was just under the lip and dropped into a dark pit.

  “There should be lanterns at the bottom, as well as flint and tinder. Mind your step,” she said. as they descended. Parinan went first, and Mashara tucked her blue velvet robes into her belt so that she could climb easier. She followed when her warrior counterpart was a few feet down.

  Branden laid a pale Dara down on the mattress and tried to give her some water. She managed to cough some down but was not faring well.

  “We are almost there, my love. Just a little longer and we will be out in the fresh mountain air again,” Branden said, as he stroked her dark hair.

  She nodded weakly in response and whispered, “I love you.” He kissed her forehead and then lifted her almost weightless form, as Mala beckoned them down next. She wrapped her arms around his neck. With one arm around her waist and one on the ladder, they went down. A lantern below sparked to life, illuminating roughly
hewn stone around them. Mala pulled the wooden planks back into their place from below, her injured arm clinging to the ladder while she worked the planks into place, exactly as they had been before.

  Chapter 21

  Earthen moisture had seeped through the algae-covered rocks, causing them to be slippery and making the tunnel treacherous to travel through. More than once Branden, cursing each time, had stepped into a small stagnant pool of water that soaked his boots and pants. He held Dara tightly in his arms, her head resting against his broad chest. Mashara crinkled her nose at the ripe smell of mildew, sweat and earth. Mistress Mala held a lantern in the lead, while Parinan brought up the rear with a lantern in one hand and Mashara’s hand in the other. The party had passed several other tunnel entrances on their right that lead down. Mala, however, kept along the main tunnel.

  “Where do those other tunnels go, Mistress?” Parinan asked when they stopped to rest for the first time. Branden was breaking out some of the food and water he had brought, for they were all hungry.

  “Those lead to the gem mines. This tunnel was created not only as an escape route from the city but also in case there was a cave in at the mines. That way, the miners had only to come here, and they could exit safely into the mountains south of town. None of them were told the other end comes up into the city,” Mala said, as she took her portion of cheese and bread with whispered thanks.

  “Why was the tunnel kept a secret though?” Mashara asked.

  “As a student in Snowhaven, you know how the locals here are so leery of outsiders, right?” Mistress Mala said.

  “Yes Ma’am. I noticed that the day I arrived from Aeirsga two years ago,” the girl said and bowed her head, allowing her dark hair to cover her face, as she blushed under Mistress Mala’s intense gaze.

  “The Administrator and the Masters kept it secret to prevent any unwanted visitors from popping up in our town. When the Ice Queen reigned, she could have easily launched an attack from beneath us had she known about the tunnel’s city entrance. Had it been common knowledge, we may have lost this town years ago,” Mala’s voiced choked slightly as she finished.

  At the reminder of their home’s demise, nothing else was said. The sense of loss silenced them. Dara had looked around while they rested but took no food. She smiled weakly and then fell asleep against her husband’s chest. Mashara was shivering, her robes and cloak soaked. Parinan wrapped an arm around her to share his warmth. Their repast done, they packed up and continued down the long tunnel.

  When the weary Snowhaven residents stepped out of the tunnel into the open air, the sun was rising in the east. They were all exhausted but continued south until dusk to get as much distance from town as possible, fearing that the orcs may find the tunnel entrance. Dara was deathly pale, and Branden took off his cloak, adding it to her blankets to keep her warm. Even though it was spring time, it was still chilly in the mountains.

  That night, Branden’s arms visibly shook when he tried to lift anything, tired from carrying Dara for so long. Strength gained from years of hammering at the forge had not been enough to prepare him for carrying another human for a day and a half. After all their wounds were cleaned and bandaged, Mala told everyone to rest and went to gather what sparse wood she could find for a fire.

  On the morning of the third day, they awoke to Branden crying out. Mala leapt to her feet, drawing her sword in one fluid motion from the hardened leather sheath at her side, only to find the blacksmith kneeling over Dara, her still form dangling from his arms and her blankets having fallen away. Branden wept as he held her. Mala’s sword fell from her hands, and she went to the large man’s side. Tears welled in the swordmistress’ eyes, knowing all too well what had happened.

  Parinan held Mashara, both crying, not because they knew Dara well, but because it was another death in many they had seen with the fall of their home. Mala dried her eyes after a bit and waited until Branden’s sobbing had stopped, keeping a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. After a time, he laid Dara back down, rose and went to sit on a rock on the edge of their camp in the foothills. Mala knelt over her friend, kissed her on the brow with a whispered prayer to the Great Mother, and then covered the dead woman’s face. She took the straps that had held the blankets on Dara, as they had traveled, and fully wrapped her friend’s body.

  Tears streaming once again, Mistress Mala gathered wood for a pyre. Seeing what she was doing, Parinan and Mashara helped gather and arrange the wood in a spot not far from camp, where there were no overhanging trees. When they were finished with their pyre around mid-day, Mala went over to the still stone-faced blacksmith, once again laying a hand on his shoulder. His calloused, work worn hands were tightly clenched around his wedding band, and his face was haggard with grief. He was looking at the iron ring, running his fingers over the engraved runes that she knew read “Always” from the band Dara also wore.

  “As her husband, it should be you that lays her to rest on the pyre,” she whispered. He nodded, slipped the ring back on his finger, and rose. Solemnly, he lifted his wife’s body, carried her the short distance, and laid her on the pyre. Mashara had gathered a few of the spare wildflowers that had bloomed early and arranged them around the body. Branden murmured a weak thanks as the sorceress finished. She nodded and moved back to a respectful distance, where Parinan stood.

  Mala retrieved a burning branch from the campfire, while Branden rested his hand on Dara’s head one last time. Completing his goodbyes to the only woman he had ever loved, he took a step away and extended his hand for one of the flaming timber. Mala complied, and Branden set fire to the base of the pyre. They packed what was left of their camp, the last of the remaining food having been eaten the night before, and continued south with empty stomachs.

  That night, Branden looked back the way they had come. As the sun set, he could see the smoke of his wife’s, still smoldering pyre in the distance. He sat and watched until he could no longer see it, and the dark of night closed in. He didn’t notice Mala leave and return a little later with a small deer across her shoulders. Everyone was too hungry and too wrapped up in sorrow to question how the deer had been brought down. The smell of cooking venison and his grumbling stomach finally awoke him from his stupor.

  Midmorning of the next day, dirty and exhausted they finally arrived at the Trade Star. The crossroads were heavily fortified with Illyander troops and hundreds of thickly-woven, undyed canvas tents. A refugee camp, visible from where they stood on the front line, had been set up under a larger tent at the southern part of the massive camp. The four of them were carefully watched as they approached.

  Mala saluted the nearest soldier, who asked them a few questions. Satisfied that they were not part of the enemy army, he took them to his superior officer, a woman by the name of Captain Tenshi. She assigned them a guide to get them settled into the refugee camp. Mala breathed a sigh of relief to see at least fifty women, children and elderly when they arrived.

  General Frey, hearing of their arrival from Captain Tenshi, had sent summons to Mistress Mala and Branden to join him at his tent, after they had gotten cleaned up and their wounds tended to. The two said their goodbyes to Parinan and Mashara, wishing them luck, and headed to the command tent, which was to be their temporary home.

  The command tent was dyed in blue and red stripes. It was at the center of the tents next to the Trade Star’s massive obelisk. Years had passed since Branden left Snowhaven, and he had forgotten how massive the obelisk was as it towered over them. A few more town names had been added on its four sides, since last he had been here, and the stone had lost some of its polished luster. The massive command tent’s entrance had the Kingdom of Illyander’s blue and red entwined dragon crest above the door. Despite his glum mood, Branden felt pride looking at the symbol.

  Captain Tenshi, a slim but battle-hardened warrior, waved to the guards. The tent’s flaps were opened, and she ushered them into a small meeting area. A short but solid man stood behind a polished wooden desk. He wa
s handing a handful of scrolls to another captain, a younger man with long blond hair tied back with a leather cord, and giving him instructions as to their destinations. This was obviously the General from his engraved, burnished plate armor. The engraving on the chest piece was a masterful replica of the kingdom’s crest: two, entwined mythical dragons their tails curling around one another and their wings outstretched behind them. No colored enamels had been used, but the detail down to the very scales on the dragons was amazing. The rest of the armor was simple but very well made and fit the man perfectly. His helm, a red, horse hair plume bursting from the top, rested on the desk. His shield leaned against the desk, and it was engraved to match his breastplate. General Frey’s face was round but his jaw firm. Short-cropped sandy hair complemented his sharp blue eyes.

  “Yes, Captain William, thank you, that will do,” General Frey said, smiled at his comrade and dismissed him. The captain formally saluted his commanding officer and exited the tent. The general started to turn to Captain Tenshi, when he set eyes on Branden and his whole face lit up. “Branden Ironwright!” The general exclaimed and strode forward, grasping forearms with Branden roughly but as one would an old friend.

  “Cewin Frey! I thought it might be you leading this riffraff, when I heard the name in camp,” Branden replied and laughed heartily, something Mala had rarely seen him do. “By the moon, they made you General! Should I be afraid for the kingdom?” Branden asked and winked at the shorter man. General Frey released Branden’s grasp with an energetic smile.