She grabbed the spyglass and trained it on the rider. “Looks like an old man to me.”
“Not just any old man.” Dagorat had to think fast. Attack or deceive? Better to get some information than to get revenge. Deceive and put him at ease. “Stay out of sight.” He ran to his horse, mounted and galloped away. Once well out of sight, he put up his hood and guided the gelding onto the road to approach the rider at a casual pace. Soon the two of them came face to face.
The old man reined to a quick halt. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” His hair had grayed and thinned, and his face had new wrinkles, but it left no doubt as to his identity.
“I know that voice,” Dagorat said. “Do you not have any kind words for an old friend, Hamish?” Hamish. The blacksmith who’d visited so often. Who’d taught his younger self to hate the wealthy, and set him on the path to sowing havoc in Easterly. Back in Mentiria, Cyril had made him wonder if Hamish had secretly been working with the Golgent. And here was the proof. All he’d learned from this man was a work of evil. He fought down the rage again. Time to put on an act like never before, if he wanted to get some information.
“How do you know my name? Who are you?” Hamish unsheathed his sword. “Keep your distance.”
Dagorat lowered his hood.
Hamish’s eyes widened. “Is it truly you?” A great grin crossed his face. “Sigilmund Atracail, as I live and breathe! Or do you still go by Blackmond?”
Sigilmund. He sat stunned for a moment. Nobody had addressed him by his actual name in years. All the peasants in Easterly knew him as Blackmond Moonshadow. Even Cyril didn’t know his birth name, and neither did Katrina, for that matter. His father had been the last person to call him by his true name. And that had been so, so long ago.
“Oh, pardon me,” Hamish said. “Perhaps I should call you by yet another name, hmm?” The blacksmith climbed off his horse, and Dagorat followed suit. The blacksmith threw his arms around Dagorat and squeezed as hard as an old man could. “It’s good to see you, my boy. What brings you here? I thought you’d fled Easterly years ago.”
“I did. But when I heard about a great weapon stolen from Mentiria, and on its way to the Golgent, I came to help in the fight. Is it true?”
“Aye, laddie. The Orb. Now it’s in the hands of our lord and master, Lamortain.” He took Dagorat by the shoulders. “You’re not too late. The walls of Ethelton will come crashing down. Baldomir and his nobles will be humbled as they kneel at the feet of Lamortain and Xantasia.” He let out a snort. “If they aren’t cooked in their boots first, of course.”
Dagorat raised a brow. “They’re strong enough to take the city?”
“More than Baldomir can imagine.”
“I haven’t heard of any skirmishes lately. Nor seen any patrols for miles.”
“Aye, Lamortain planned it that way. Small engagements in ever-lessening numbers. Nobody in Ethelton has reported anything in months. ’Tis meant to catch Baldomir by surprise.” He rubbed his hands together. “Oh, to see the look on the royal fool’s face when he sees a host fifteen thousand strong marching on his great city!”
“Fifteen thousand? You can’t be serious.”
Hamish grinned. “Oh, I’m serious, and you’ll see them soon. We’ve lost the advantage of surprise; Baldomir knows we’re gathering.” A horn blast echoed across the hills, coming from the direction of the enemy encampment. “Did you hear that? Now they march. That horn has called them to muster.”
“How was the surprise ruined?”
“Word came to us about the arrival of Elves in Ethelton. Somehow the Elves knew about us, and warned Baldomir. Now they’re preparing for our attack. But it won’t be enough.”
“This Lamortain bloke, with such a vast force, he must be a great commander,” Dagorat said. “And he has the Orb? He may be worthy of my dirk to serve him.”
Hamish laughed. “Frostbite? You still have that old thing?”
Dagorat smiled thinly and continued as if the old man hadn’t spoken. “However, if his numbers are that great, he doesn’t need me.”
“Of course he does. It’s not too late. They won’t attack until tomorrow at sundown.” The blacksmith beamed. “And of course, he’ll pay handsomely for your service.”
Enough. He had all the information he wanted. Time to end this farce. Dagorat narrowed his gaze. “I’ve already done him a lifetime’s worth of service. I sold my soul to do it. And I never saw so much as a thin copper coin.”
Color bled away from Hamish’s face. He glanced around as if hoping to find allies on patrol, then fished at his belt for a signaling horn. But Dagorat ripped the horn from him, threw it to the ground, and continued his advance. The blacksmith backed away, hands up in defense.
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” Dagorat spat on the old man’s boot. “You used to come by the farm when my father was away. You filled my head with hatred for Ethelton and the nobles. I became a thief and had to exile myself from my homeland. I turned my back on my family. I thought I did those things out of love for the peasants, but I was really working for Lamortain and the Golgent, wasn’t I? Weakening the kingdom for them. All. Because. Of you.”
“P-please, Sigilmund,” Hamish said.
Dagorat landed two sharp jabs to the man’s stomach.
He doubled over, clutching his gut. “Why?” he wheezed. “I was a good friend to your father.”
Warmed by the blood rushing through his veins, Dagorat snarled, “You only befriended him in order to use me.” He backhanded Hamish across the face, sending him to his knees. Dagorat loomed over him. The sight of him helpless and wheezing enraged him further. How dare he play weak when Dagorat wanted to fight? He leaped onto the old man. With a flick of his wrist, he thrust Frostbite deep into Hamish’s chest. “You ruined my life. So tell me, ‘old friend,’ how does it feel?”
Blood spurted when Dagorat yanked out the blade. Hamish’s eyes fixed upon the dirk as he gurgled his death rattle. Dagorat wiped the blood from his blade on the old man’s sleeve. Another gasp and Hamish toppled over. Breathing hard, Dagorat closed his eyes, and with a conscious effort, made the rage bleed away. When he regained control, he opened his eyes and admired his kill. He wiped some blood from his boot, and the smile left his face. How would Katrina react to his blood-stained clothes? Too late to do anything about it. Best get moving and explain later.
Dagorat pulled the saddlebags from Hamish’s horse, tied them onto his own, and then patted down the dead man’s body. His probing hands passed over a bulge under the bloody coat, causing a jingling sound. Some booty for the kill. He pocketed the coins with satisfaction, spat on the corpse, mounted up and galloped back into the hills towards Katrina. A sense of relief soared through his being. Hamish’s blood had healed a festering wound in his soul better than one of Cyril’s best tonics. A wound he hadn’t even known was there.
Horse lathered and puffing, he approached Katrina, who had mounted up, ready to go. She stared at the blood, and then at his face. With a long, heavy blink, she broke eye contact. No questions asked.
The rumbling thunder of hooves shook the ground. A patrol of orcs came over the crest of the hill and skidded to a stop. For a moment, everyone held still, both parties equally surprised. Then the lead orc pointed at them and screamed.
Dagorat and Katrina slammed heels to horseflesh and took off, back toward Ethelton. Their scout horses, bred for swiftness and endurance, outdistanced the orcs. Arrows stuck in the ground around them. Poor aim. An interesting tidbit of information to tell the king.
Soon the patrol fell back behind them, left in the dust. After another mile they needed to stop and rest the horses. Dagorat’s poor chestnut heaved with every stride.
With a tug on the reins, he slowed to a trot, but Katrina’s mare galloped past him. Her body slumped forward over her mount’s neck, a black arrow sticking out of her back. Dagorat’s heart pounded. Only the loops of leather around her hands kept her in the saddle. He sped up to ca
tch her. Leaning over, he grabbed her bridle, and with both arms straining, he managed to slow down both steeds. As he brought them to a stop, she slid off the side and tumbled to the ground.
“Katrina!” Dagorat jumped down and ran to her. He rolled her over.
His hands jittered when she groaned. Dear Light, preserve us. Her shirt had become bright red. The arrowhead protruded from her chest near the heart. In his head, a voice screamed in wordless terror. No, no, no! He lolled her head and cradled it on his lap. She strained to breathe. With every gasp, blood bubbled around the arrowhead.
Katrina struggled to turn her head, and gazed up at him. Slowly, her hands moved to rest on her lower abdomen. “Dag,” she whispered. “It’s too late for us, isn’t it?”
Us? “What do you mean?”
“My baby.” She closed her eyes. “Our baby.”
Baby? Dagorat fell still. A baby. No! He ripped a sleeve from her shirt and scrambled to staunch the flow of blood from her chest. All his other cares faded to nothing. He had to save his child! But nothing he did worked. He rocked back and forth, trying to comfort her, tears streaming down his face. A baby, his baby, who would never see the light of day.
Katrina coughed up a flood of blood and released a gentle hissing wisp of a breath. Her head lilted into his lap, and her body went limp.
Dagorat’s lips tasted the salt as his tears soaked his face. Despair overtook him, filling every nerve, every fiber of his being. How could he have let her come along? How could he have let those orcs get her? His wife and child transformed into lifeless lumps in mere seconds. He’d failed to protect them. The promise of a better life, ruined. A great howl arose from him into the dwindling light, screaming until he thought his lungs would tear from his chest. He clutched Katrina’s body tight to himself, unwilling to let her go. Convulsively, his hand kept going to where the baby grew. Used to grow.
He stared at the sleeve that hid Frostbite. How simple to ease his pain.
Hooves thundered again in the distance. Dagorat stared towards the noise, snarling, pulse pounding wildly. A chance for vengeance. He fished his wife’s throwing daggers and sword from the saddlebags, led the horses off into the sparse woods and hitched Katrina’s to a tree. Hiding behind some shrubs at the roadside, he wet his lips and gripped a dagger by the point.
Five orcs clattered by; once they passed, he released a dagger. The last rider fell, the blade lodged in its back. Another stopped and wheeled around, presenting a perfect target. He felled this one, piercing its heart. The remaining three galloped a good distance down the road before they reined up and whirled. Spotting Dagorat, one howled, and the pack charged at him.
Dagorat leaped onto his horse and it reared up on its hind legs. He stormed toward the orcs, broke to the right at the last second and lodged the final dagger in the eye socket of the leader. Only two left. He jerked his reins to make his horse zig-zag back up the road, evading their arrows and pulling ahead. Recklessly, he steered the gelding into the woods, winding back to where he’d left the mare.
The orcs’ horses were bred for strength, not agility, and they struggled to keep up through the maze of trees. As Dagorat jumped a stream, a frightened shout came from behind. He slowed and looked over his shoulder. The front orc’s mount balked, and his fellow rammed into his tail. One slipped off to the side, struggling to regain his seat, while the other careened away through the small, slender trees.
Dagorat wheeled around, rode up next to the sideways orc and slid his sword along his throat. Blood gushing from the wound, the disgusting creature slid to the ground, one foot caught in a stirrup. Terrified, the horse bucked its way back toward the road, eventually dislodging its rider to lay broken on the ground. Dagorat slipped back into the trees and stopped. Silence. Where was the last one?
A neigh in the distance answered that question. He took off in pursuit. Soon the last horse came into view, riderless, head down and breathing hard. A rustle sounded to the left; he spun his mount around and blazed towards it.
There he was, running for another copse on the other side of a field. Dagorat sped across the distance, and the foul creature stopped and fell to his knees. “Vystbo nash!” the orc cried out in desperation. A plea for mercy, no doubt.
He dismounted and readied his weapons: Frostbite in one hand and Katrina’s sword in the other.
“Vystbo nash! Grohlkah vystbo nash!”
“No mercy.” Dagorat moved toward the orc with slow, deliberate steps. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”
“Grohlkah trahn vystbo nash!”
Dagorat sneered at the beast. All these years he’d spent trying to become a better man. And for what? Why be a good man, anyway? To earn a wife? To learn to be a father? He sneered. No point in any of that now. But they must pay for what they’d taken from him. In pain. And blood. His sword sliced the orc’s leg. The creature scrambled away and made a feeble attempt to stand and run. Instead he hobbled two steps and fell, snarling.
As Dagorat stood over his prey, the orc swung an arm at him. Frostbite caught it, the blade penetrating down to bone. Dagorat twisted the blade for maximum pain. Using Frostbite to hold the arm stiff, he raised his sword and lopped off the hand.
The orc clutched his stump and screamed.
Good. Let it hurt like he’d been hurt. Dagorat wrenched Frostbite out of the arm, then severed the orc’s other hand. With a fountain of blood spurting from each wrist, the orc lay down and howled. Dagorat drove Frostbite into the orc’s legs, catching the arteries. Each puncture produced more blood and louder screams. “Die! You pile of swine shit!” But his anger wasn’t sated. He carved up the orc’s face, slicing off chunks of flesh and flicking them to the ground. Struggling to breathe through the mess that had replaced its nose and mouth, the orc no longer reacted. Eventually the creature rolled over and died.
Dagorat kicked its head, stomping with his heel until the skull cracked. Pieces of squashed orc brain scattered on the ground.
Five down, fifteen thousand to go. Would it be enough? Rage burned in his chest, seeking release. He stabbed the orc in the chest. Again. Again. And again.
CHAPTER 23
GOLGENT ON THE HORIZON
THE NEXT MORNING, THE CLAMOR of preparations in Ethelton had not eased. Voices, hammers, saws, and other activities blended into a symphony of commotion. People stayed absorbed in their various tasks, and not a soul paid any attention when Dagorat wearily rode back through the main gate. He’d lost count of the many times he yanked on Katrina’s mare to make the blasted animal keep up. The limp form of his wife was fastened to its back, bouncing around like so much baggage. He couldn’t set eyes on her or he might go mad.
Crisp hoof beats came up from behind; Dagorat peered over his shoulder. Lieutenant Lyghur approached at a smart trot with a gagged goblin prisoner tethered to his horse. The creature stumbled along behind, half running and half dragged, gibbering in a shrieking voice through its gag. The ruckus in the streets quieted as workmen stopped and stared at the lieutenant’s prisoner. A number of rough men shouted obscenities at the goblin. Others noticed Dagorat and his burden, and nudged the loudmouths to shut them up. As word spread, a bewildered silence fell upon the once bustling thoroughfare.
For lack of any better direction, Dagorat let Lyghur pass and followed him to the quartermaster, near the palace. Word must have gone ahead, for a number of the king’s commanders awaited them. Lyghur jumped down and jerked the prisoner forward to collapse on the ground in front of him. “Commander Lakewood,” he said to the tallest one. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
Lakewood curled a lip. “What a foul, disgusting creature.”
“Aye, sir. But it may know something useful.” Lyghur held up a sheaf of papers. “Also, notes from my scouting mission. The king must see these immediately.”
Commander Lakewood grabbed the goblin by its tether and dragged it to another commander. “Here, Garstill, loosen its tongue.” Garstill gave an unholy grin, and hauled the ugly thing away. Ye
sterday, Dagorat might have pitied the creature. But not today.
Lakewood addressed the other commanders. “We must confer with the king.” He marched off, motioning for Lyghur and Dagorat to accompany him. But Dagorat didn’t move. Once the commander noticed, he stopped and spun around, craning his neck up at him. He studied the other horse with a raised brow. Cocking his head, he asked, “What do you have there? Who is that?”
“Where’s Cyril?” Dagorat said in a flat tone.
Lakewood moved closer toward Katrina. “Is that a woman?” Dagorat’s face must have answered exactly who she was, for pity filled the man’s eyes. “Come down from there, soldier. Come down and rest.”
Soldier. What a joke. Soldiers didn’t bring their wives and unborn babies on missions with them. Clumsy and half-hearted, he slid off the horse and landed on his rump on the ground. Maybe if he stayed here, nothing else bad would happen. He rocked back and forth, staring at the dirt.
Lakewood’s voice rang out. “Bring Master Cyril here at once!” Feet clattered away, and shouts rang out for Cyril. Dagorat sensed a presence kneeling next to him. He picked his head up to find Lakewood regarding him kindly. “You have orc blood all over you.”
“Not enough.” Dagorat stared at the ground. He thought Lakewood kept talking, but didn’t pay any attention. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t….too late. Katrina. Her dead eyes stared back at him. Did she blame him? Would he see her again one day? What of their child? Was the little soul gone forever? Fresh tears welled up and threatened to spill out. Funny, he’d assumed his supply had been used up.
“Make way!” Cyril’s voice pierced the din in the background, and penetrated Dagorat’s despair. Blearily, he stumbled to his feet as his friend came running up. The mage skidded to a stop at the sight of Katrina. His jaw dropped, and he bowed his head before putting a hand on Dagorat’s shoulder. “Old friend, I’m…I’m so sorry. By the Gods, I...” He swallowed hard. “What happened?”
Storm of Divine Light Page 24