Willum nodded, “But-.”
“I mean no one. Don’t even tell the other council members. Report to me only. I don’t plan on bringing you back before the council unless it is absolutely necessary.”
“Yes sir,” Willum replied. But why the secrecy? Was Tad worried about the loyalty of the other academy teachers?
“Good. Now it is time I returned to the council. You should go about your duties.” Tad gave him a confident smile. “Don’t worry too much about our new representative. We are watching him.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Just head down the corridor to the left and you’ll reach the entrance.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tad the Cunning turned and walked back towards the council hall and Willum turned up the joining corridor as instructed. After a short distance, it opened into the long high-ceilinged foyer at the front of the building.
As Willum walked towards the outer doors, he looked at the tapestries depicting the glorious battles of the academy’s past and wondered if the current siege would be depicted on these walls some day. He supposed it would, if they survived.
When he reached the doors he nodded to the two guards at their posts on either side of the doors. He took a deep breath before grasping the handles.
“Going out’s always the hard part, ain’t it, Willum?” said one of the guards.
“Yeah, Zhed.” he said. “It’s nice and quiet in here.”
The architect that had designed the council building had put it together so that all sound from outside was cut out. His teacher had told the class that the effect was caused by the cunning way the blocks of stone had been put together, but Willum was pretty sure the architect had a wizard’s help. Whatever the case, it was effective.
The other guard snorted. “Quiet? I call it boring. I’d rather be on the wall looking down at the goblinoids. It’s all I can do to keep from falling asleep.”
Willum shrugged. “I would suggest you enjoy the quiet while you can.”
He pushed open the doors and walked out into a wave of sound. The academy was packed with people and the high walls caused even small sounds to echo. Students were training, smiths pounding away on anvils. Citizens rushed back and forth on errands, shouting to each other, and behind it all was the low drone of the goblinoid army surrounding them.
The Dremaldrian Battle Academy usually held around two thousand students and close to five hundred faculty and graduates waiting for jobs. When the incoming attack had been confirmed, the Training School had been halted and all trainees brought inside. Reneul was evacuated. Those who had somewhere else to go fled, but anyone who wanted to stay was brought inside the academy walls. The end result was that they now had over four thousand people crammed inside.
The dorms and outbuildings were overflowing. Cots and tents had been set up in the yards. Even many of the seldom-used tunnels underneath the academy had been opened up for people to sleep in. The council building was the only structure not packed with people.
Willum hurried along, weaving his way along the congested pathways that crisscrossed the grounds. He was late for his shift on the academy wall. This time of day he was supposed to be on the northeast corner. So far the enemy hadn’t attacked and seemed content to marshal their forces as more goblinoids joined their ranks from the mountains every day.
The faculty switched up shifts a few times a day to keep the students alert. Each wall had its own perils to watch for. It seemed that in order to stave off infighting, the leaders of the enemy army had split it into racial groups.
The eastern wall looked out over the Training School grounds where the gorcs were camped. The training tents still stood, along with the barracks and marketplace and several small arenas. When on watch there, Willum could see the gorcs crowded around them. Fighting for sport seemed to be their favorite form of entertainment.
The north wall overlooked the Scralag Hills, which had been mostly overtaken by giants and ogre tribes. They seemed to make a game of getting as close to the wall as they dared and throwing jagged rocks. The students and graduates on the wall shot arrows to keep them at a safe distance and most of their throws fell short, but every once in a while one would clear the top. The large beasts roared and hollered when one of their rocks made it over. Luckily, there had only been a few injuries so far.
The western wall looked out over what had once been empty farmland. Now it was covered in goblins. They were the most numerous and unruly bunch, always yelling and hollering, making obscene gestures and fighting amongst each other. They were more a source of entertainment for the watchers than a source for concern.
The southern wall shift was the trickiest. It overlooked the main city of Reneul which was full of buildings for the enemy to hide in. The western half of the city, which included the huge academy arena and the majority of the working class homes had been taken over by orcs. They seemed the most organized part of the army, always marching around in units and busily taking buildings apart to build siege engines. In the short time since the siege had begun, they had already constructed several catapults, battering rams and trebuchets.
Eastern Reneul had been overtaken by trolls and other monsters. Strangely, they seemed to mill about peacefully, only screeching and attacking when the orcs threw them food. At night, while the other parts of the army were aglow with torches and camp fires, Eastern Reneul would be scattered with the glow of yellow and green moonrat eyes. The unsettling sound of their chittering moans made night on the southern wall the most dreaded shift on the wall.
Willum groaned as he approached the duty desk at the base of the wall. Roobin was in charge of check-in again. Roobin wasn’t a bad guy; he was good-natured most of the time and not bad with a sword, but he had recently graduated and loved giving Willum a hard time about it.
“Willum, son of Coal, reporting for duty.”
“Oh, the mighty son of Coal, eh?” Roobin chuckled, though it was only a few short weeks ago that he had been known as Roobin, son of Roobin the Knuckle.
“Just sign me in, okay?”
“You are kind of late, aren’t you? Tsk-tsk, students shouldn’t be tardy.” Roobin dipped his quill and looked down at the log-in sheet. His smirk faded. “Lucky you. Go on to station twenty eight. I guess I don’t have to report you.”
“You were gonna report me?” Willum said in disbelief.
“Of course, except that it says here that Tad called you away. So you have an excuse.”
“Oh, so it’s just ‘Tad’ now, is it?” Willum said, getting in a jab of his own. “Just because you have graduated, you two are on a first name basis? Should I be calling you, ‘Roobin, the Well Connected’ now?”
Roobin’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up, Willum. Just go on up. You’re relieving Swen, son of Rolf, the Fletcher.”
“Yes sir!” Willum said with a salute, and grabbed a bow and quiver from the rack next to the stairs. Some students carried around their own bows, but that wasn’t Willum’s forte. He was okay with a bow, but his specialty was his scythe and throwing daggers.
He headed up the stairs pleased with the irritation on Roobin’s face, but as he reached the top of the wall, his pleasure faded. A mix of his fellow students and academy graduates lined the walls looking down at the massive army that sprawled below. The dull roar of the enemy was much louder up here. It was rough and rhythmic.
Willum was careful not to touch anyone as he walked to his station. The top of the wall was wide enough for three men to walk side by side and there was an abdomen high barrier on either side, but no matter how many shifts he took, it always made him nervous if someone brushed against him while he was at the edge.
Swen was at post twenty eight, bending over the edge and staring down unconcerned at the height. Swen was a tall man, maybe six foot four and the wall’s edge only came up to his waist. Though he was only a few years older than Willum, his face was angular and weathered, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting in the sun
. He was also the best archery student the academy had seen in decades. Swen made all his own arrows and the other students had started calling him Swen the Feather. Willum thought the name was going to stick.
“Swen I’m here,” he said. “Sorry, but Tad the Cunning called me away for a while.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” The tall man barely gave him a glance as he spoke. His eyes were focused on the army below. “I’ve been up here for eight straight hours, what’s another one or two?”
“What’s the problem?” Willum looked down, trying to see what was bothering the man. The base of the wall was clear of enemies for a good two hundred yards on this side of the school as the army tried to keep out of shooting distance. But there was one group of goblinoids that were gathered in a bit closer than the others. They were the chanters. There were groups of them all around the wall. A mixed group of orcs, gorcs, and goblins sat cross-legged on the ground, slightly swaying back and forth, chanting loudly. They had been at it for days. Every once in a while one of them would pass out and be dragged away, but they were always replaced.
“I don’t like the sound of that grunting down there,” Swen said, his voice a low monotone.
“Yeah, it gives me the shivers.”
“What do you think they are doing?” Swen asked.
Willum had asked Coal the same question the night before. He had relayed his memory of the chant and had Coal pass it on to Bettie. Her answer had been unsettling.
“They’re chanting a prayer to the Dark Prophet,” Willum said. “They ask him to bring the wall down.”
“Oh.” Swen’s face paled. The big man lifted his massive bow and pulled a long arrow from his quiver. Swen’s bow was nearly as tall as Willum and as thick as his forearm. Swen had named it Windy. It had been reinforced with runes to keep it from weathering or cracking and most of the other students couldn’t even string it, much less shoot with it. Even Mad Jon, the archery teacher, had difficulty with firing it.
“Be careful,” Willum said. “You know the rules. We aren’t supposed to waste any arrows. Only fire if they come in range.”
Swen looked at him in surprise. “Have you ever known me to miss?” He focused on the group chanting below. “I figure the one with the black feathers on his armor is the leader.”
Willum peered down and located the orc Swen spoke of. It wore some kind of headdress bristling with something like feathers and walked among the rows of chanting orcs waving its arms about as if to encourage them to chant louder. “He does look the most energetic.”
Swen pulled the arrow back to his ear, the muscles on his arms taught with the strain.
“It’ll just . . . make it.” Swen grunted. Willum heard the wood creak as he gave it an extra pull. Swen sucked in, then slowly released his breath as he fired.
Willum saw the arrow arc out, but lost track of it for most of the distance until he saw the black-feathered orc squirm and squeal. The arrow had struck it in the belly. The chanting stopped and the goblinoids pointed urgently at the top of the wall. Swen waved. Several of them grabbed their dying leader and they retreated back another fifty yards.
“Great shot!” Willum said.
“Hit it in the belly,” Swen said with a slight frown. “I was aiming for its neck.”
“Can you hit another one?” Willum asked. They were startled now. If another went down, they might not be able to chant so freely.
Swen shook his head. “Just out of range.”
“Well I’m here now. You can go rest if you want,” Willum said. “Unless you want to move further along the wall and see if you can disperse some more chanters.”
The tall man smiled. “Good idea.” He pulled another arrow from his quiver and walked down the wall looking for more targets.
Willum took his place and looked down at the mass of beasts below. A cool breeze blew and the smell that wafted up was horrible. The air on this side of the academy used to smell of tilled earth and pine trees. Now it stank of beasts and filth and cook fires mixed with an underlying rot.
Willum shuddered. It was hard to believe that this was all the work of his uncle.
Chapter One
“Ewzad Vriil is Willum’s uncle?” Justan said, mouth agape.
“That’s what he dag-gum said.” Lenny’s mouth too had fallen open.
Fist watched both of their reactions and scratched his head.
They had been standing around the evening cook fire as the sun neared the horizon and Coal’s announcement had come out of the blue. The wizard looked as though he had expected this sort of reaction. He wore a weary smile. “Yes, Ewzad’s older sister was Willum’s mother.”
Fist didn’t understand why this mattered. From the surprise in Justan’s mind, it seemed that the information was pivotal, but Fist was still confused by the importance humans placed on blood relationships. In an ogre tribe, family relationships did not matter. An uncle was only as close as any other tribe member. One’s father was the only important distinction.
“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Justan asked.
Master Coal bent and warmed his hands next to the supper pot. Lenny’s pepperbean stew was just starting to bubble and from the expression on the wizard’s face, it didn’t look like he found its appearance very appetizing. As flavorful as the stew was, Lenny’s pepperbeans did strange things to one’s system over time.
“I didn’t tell you because I did not see how it made a difference to our current situation. This information changes nothing and besides . . . it was not my secret to tell. I have spoken with him about it before, but until last night, Willum wanted this information to remain a secret.”
“I can’t blasted believe it!” said Lenny. “Yer Willum’s a dag-blamed Vriil!”
“Why do it matter?” Fist asked.
“‘Does’, Fist.” Justan said, correcting the ogre out of habit. “Why ‘does’ it matter.”
“Oh. Right.” Fist nodded. He had asked Justan to correct him anytime he spoke the human tongue incorrectly. He still struggled with verb tense sometimes. “Why does it matter?”
“Fist has a good question.” Justan sighed and rubbed his temples in an attempt to stave off a headache. “You are right, Master Coal. This changes nothing. Willum is who he is no matter who his parents were.”
“I musta missed a dag-gum story here, Coal.” Lenny said with a scowl. “I thought Willum was yer son. How’d you end up bonded to a Vriil?”
“It ain’t none of your business, you ornery cuss,” said Bettie, who was unsaddling the horses. Lenny always had been an irritable sort and his moods were all the grumpier after a long day of riding.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it!” Lenny retorted.
“Couldn’t tell by looking at you! You look like a baby dwarf who got in a tussle and found out he dropped his lolly in the dirt.”
Fist had to admit Lenny looked a sight. Half of the dwarf’s handlebar moustache and one eyebrow had been singed off during their fight with the bandham just a few days prior. Lenny had been forced to shave off the other side of his moustache to match and it had taken decades off of his face. Bettie had told him pointedly she didn’t like the look and it would be months before he looked like his old self again. On top of that humiliation, Gwyrtha had taken up burying him in the night once again and though he tried to get all the leaves out of his hair, he had missed one that stuck awkwardly out the top of his head. Bettie found it amusing not to tell him.
“It’s fine Bettie! It’s fine,” Coal said placatingly. “Willum told me last night that I should tell Sir Edge and his bonded everything.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t say ‘tell the nosey dwarf about it’,” Bettie jeered. “Hear that, Lenui? Butt out, ya oaf!”
“Dag-blast it, woman! Would you stay offa my case fer one toad-hoppin’ minute!” Lenny shouted, hopping up and down in anger.
Fist watched the two bicker in puzzlement.
She’s a half-orc, he’s a dwarf. Justan said through the bond as if that s
hould explain it. They like each other.
If they like each other, why do they yell? Fist asked.
Neither one of them is comfortable showing their affection for one another. So this is the way they do it, Justan sent. Usually I find their banter kind of cute, but right now it’s just getting on my nerves.
“Enough!” Justan said aloud. “If you two want to have a lovers’ quarrel, do it somewhere else. Master Coal was trying to tell us something.”
“Lovers?” Bettie shouted, her face red.
“Sir Edge is right, Bettie,” Coal said and from the way he stared at her, Fist could tell that they were communicating further through their bond. Finally Bettie scowled and went back to her work. “Lenny, you are more than welcome to listen. But I am quite tired, so please let’s keep the interruptions to a minimum if possible. When I finish, perhaps you will understand why Willum has wanted it kept secret until now.”
The War of Stardeon (The Bowl of Souls) Page 2