The First Compact: The Karus Saga (The Karus Saga: Book Book 3)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “I said, human”—Martuke made the word sound vile as he spoke in fluent Common—“that it is good to see our warchief alive and well. However, after such a long absence, I did not expect him to return.” Martuke glanced over at Thaldus. “We all thought him dead and feasting in the halls of our ancestors.”

  “You should know by now I am not so easy to kill,” Dennig said, his eyes squarely on his second in command, “even in an adjudication circle.”

  It was Martuke’s turn to stiffen as he turned his gaze back to Dennig. Karus wondered what an adjudication circle was. But he was more than certain there was no love lost between Dennig and Martuke.

  “Gods be praised,” Thaldus said hastily, though Karus thought he detected some sarcasm in the aide’s tone.

  “Martuke,” Dennig said, and half turned, “I have the honor of introducing Camp Prefect Karus, commanding the Ninth Roman Legion, and Amarra”—the dwarf hesitated a heartbeat—“High Priestess to the High Father.”

  Martuke scowled slightly as his gaze traveled back to Amarra and hardened ever so slightly. “It seems you willingly consort with humans now.”

  “I do,” Dennig said. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Don’t forget us elves,” Si’Cara said. “You’ve been consorting with us too.”

  Martuke did not immediately reply, but his gaze flicked to Si’Cara with a look of utter distaste. Karus had difficulty concealing a smile, but Dennig showed no restraint. He grinned broadly at Martuke.

  “And elves and dragons too,” Dennig said, then sobered. “Karus I have even named a friend.”

  “Friend?” Martuke seemed truly shocked. His face twisted with loathing. “Is it not enough that you disgrace yourself? Would you now dishonor our ancestors? Would you ignore their sacrifices, their suffering?”

  Dennig’s tone hardened. “I dishonor no one, and I ignore nothing. I owe him my life and he has more than earned my friendship. Were it not for Karus, I wouldn’t be here.” Dennig jerked a thumb behind them. “And … neither would those dragons who broke the siege. In a way, Martuke, you now owe Karus your life, for the dragons are his and Amarra’s allies, as are the elves. Were it not for them, trust me, orcs would be feasting on your flesh this night. The warband would be destroyed. Instead, you and I, along with the warband, will live to fight another day.”

  Martuke and Thaldus said nothing to this, but shared a glance. If possible, Martuke looked more disgusted than ever.

  “Where is my son?” Dennig asked, clearly having tired of the game. He frowned slightly, looking beyond the two officers. “Where is Kelgan? I would have expected him to be with you to greet me.”

  The disgust left Martuke’s face and suddenly he appeared uncomfortable. He hesitated before answering. “He was injured in the fighting.”

  “Badly?” Dennig asked sharply.

  Thaldus gave a nod.

  “The surgeons do not expect him to survive the night,” Martuke said.

  It was as if Dennig had been gut-punched. He took a half-stumbling step backward, a profound look of grief overcoming him. He looked around, bewildered. A heartbeat later, he recovered himself and straightened. When he spoke next, his voice was harsh. “What happened?”

  “This morning, the enemy gained a foothold on the wall,” Thaldus said. “He was the nearest officer and threw himself into the breach. Kelgan held them off long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Before he fell, your son fought bravely, earning himself and your family great Legend.”

  Dennig turned his gaze to the cobblestone ground and remained silent for a long moment, the grip upon his axe tightening.

  “My friend.” Karus rested a hand on Dennig’s shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Dennig gave a curt nod, sucked in a deep breath, and looked over at Amarra.

  “My lady, perhaps you might help?” Dennig asked. “Like you did with Tal’Thor?”

  “I will need to see him,” Amarra said. “However, you must understand, it is up to the High Father to grant such a blessing. It is not up to me. I can only ask for a healing. I cannot promise one.”

  “You would let this witch, this human, this false cleric, near your dying son?” Martuke asked. “Where has your legend gone? Tell me, for surely it is beyond salvage.”

  “Hold your tongue,” Dennig snapped, “or by my Legend, I will see that you lose it.”

  Martuke’s jaw flexed. And with that, Dennig began striding forward. Karus went to follow, but Martuke shook his head in the negative and held out his palm.

  “Not you,” Martuke said. “You and your elves will remain here.”

  Dennig stopped, turning back. He stepped close to Martuke.

  “Never forget, I am warchief,” Dennig said in a low tone. “You may have been appointed by the Thane as my second in command … my watchdog … his spy … but never forget I command here. I trust these people with my life. They are not to be harmed, hindered, or molested in any way. Do you understand me?”

  The look in Martuke’s gaze spoke of intense dislike and a base hatred for Dennig. After a moment, the dwarven officer gave a reluctant nod and took a step back.

  “As you say, sir,” Martuke said, making the word sound grudging. “You are in command and answerable to the Thane.”

  Dennig spared Martuke a long look, then motioned for Karus and the others to come. The elves closed in around Karus and Amarra as they started forward.

  “Elves guarding humans,” Martuke said, with a slight shake of his head. “I never thought to see such a thing. What is going on here?”

  “There is a lot you do not know.” Dennig let out a weary breath. “Now, we’ve wasted enough time talking. I am wet, cold, and tired. I would see my son. Take me to him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Martuke said, and led them into the shattered town. Thaldus followed them to the gate and then remained behind.

  Passing through the gatehouse, they found the town a thorough mess. It was almost unrecognizable as once having been a settlement. The buildings nearest to the walls had either been reduced to complete ruin by the enemy’s artillery or had outright burned to the ground. Rubble and debris were everywhere, clogging the narrow streets. Paths had been cleared to allow passage, but for the most part they were very narrow.

  Battered and weary dwarves watched them pass. Karus saw no looks of hatred or dislike directed at Dennig from his warriors. In fact, he saw what he took to be a deep respect and trust, perhaps even relief that their warchief had returned.

  “How many effectives do we have?” Dennig asked Martuke.

  “There hasn’t been time to make a proper count, yet,” Martuke said, “but if I had to guess, maybe a little less than a thousand. We should have a better idea within an hour or two.”

  Dennig stopped and swung around. “That’s all? That’s all that’s left?”

  “Since you left us for the elves, it has been difficult going and we’ve seen some heavy fighting,” Martuke said. “It has not been easy, sir.”

  “No, I imagine not,” Dennig said, glancing around at the destruction of the town. “How many injured would you say?”

  “That I do not know either,” Martuke said. “After this day’s assaults against the walls, the number is surely quite high.”

  With a hand, Dennig motioned to Martuke in the direction they had been going. Martuke took the hint and led them deeper into the town, past a building that burned fiercely.

  A team of dwarves had formed a bucket brigade. Drawing from a well, they were passing buckets filled with water forward to be tossed upon the inferno. Even with the rain to assist, as far as Karus could see, they were having little effect upon the blaze. Karus thought the heat from the fire was welcome enough, for he was still very cold and wet. He was so chilled, he was almost at the point of shivering.

  Martuke led them to what appeared to be a central square. Karus felt it was almost like a Roman forum. But … the square had an alien feel to it that reminded him he was far from home. Karus w
as struck with an acute pang of loss. He and the rest of the legion would never be going back. They would have to find a new home.

  Dennig stopped cold, surveying the scene that spread out before them. The entire square was filled with the injured, either lying upon the cobbled stone or leaning against the walls of the buildings that had remained standing.

  There were hundreds of them and each had taken a serious wound, for Karus had seen plenty of walking wounded already. These before him were no longer capable of defending the town.

  Even more wounded could be seen along some of the side streets that led out of the square. Some were silent; others cried out in agony or moaned their misery to the world. The cobblestones at their feet were slick from the rain and blood of the injured.

  A pathway had been made between the injured. It led toward what Karus thought was a tavern on the far side of the square. A wooden sign with a faded mug hung out before the door, which had been propped open. Yellowed light from inside spilled out.

  Two stretcher-bearers, wearing bloodstained tunics, emerged carrying the body of a dwarf between them. Both dwarves looked exhausted, as if they had been pushed almost beyond reasonable limits.

  They unceremoniously dumped the body onto a pile of corpses that rose chest-high to the right of the door. Then, bringing the stretcher with them, they went back inside the building.

  Karus had seen such things before. Though Dennig’s people were not human, he found it still tore at his heart to see good soldiers suffering so. The dwarves seemed to be a proud and brave people. He could respect that and them. Surely many, if not most, here would perish, succumbing to their wounds and to the elements. Not for the first time did Karus think it a harsh world.

  “Can you help them, my lady?” Dennig asked, having stopped. He gestured around the square with his axe. “Can you heal them?”

  Amarra had been gazing around at the wounded. She looked blankly at Dennig for a long moment then blinked before focusing on him.

  “I … I don’t know. Let me see.”

  She closed her eyes, breathing in. Her staff flashed with muted light. She gasped sharply as she opened her eyes, her chest heaving … as if she’d run a great distance.

  Amarra turned to Dennig and seemed suddenly hesitant. A tear ran down her cheek as she shook her head. “There is nothing I can do for so many. I cannot heal your people.”

  “Why?” Dennig asked. “You were able to heal Tal’Thor. Why not them?”

  “I do not know,” Amarra said, sounding thoroughly wretched. “When I searched within, the sense I got was that the High Father would not permit such healing.” She paused. “There will be no healing this day. Dennig, I am truly sorry.”

  Dennig had become perfectly still, his gaze upon Amarra intense. The implications of what she’d said had sunk home. Karus could not believe what he was hearing either.

  Amarra cleared her throat. “It is possible that since your people follow Thulla, he will not grant his favor.”

  “Thulla,” Dennig whispered. “I don’t understand. Our god sits with the High Father. Why won’t he help?”

  “I don’t understand either,” Amarra said. “But, as I said, there will be no healing this day. That much was made clear to me.”

  “My son …”

  “I am so sorry,” Amarra said.

  Dennig gave a grim nod and looked around once more. “This is the price of victory, the cost of saving the warband. Perhaps, if we’d had more faith to begin with, things might be different.”

  Martuke shot Amarra a deeply unhappy scowl, then gestured toward the tavern. “Your son waits. I will show you the way.”

  Dennig followed after Martuke. Amarra caught Karus’s arm and drew him close.

  “I reached within,” Amarra said to Karus, lowering her voice. “I am not permitted to save them, to squander the staff’s power. The High Father made that very plain, almost painfully so.”

  “Well,” Karus said, “the High Father must have his reasons.”

  “He must,” she nodded. “We just do not know what they are.”

  Karus started after Dennig and Martuke, working his way through the square to the tavern. Those wounded that were conscious and aware of their surroundings watched them pass with deadened gazes.

  Karus found the small common room a charnel house. There was blood seemingly everywhere. Amputated body parts lay in a small pile. The blood had coated and stained the floorboards red. Blood was even on the walls. The stench of it was powerful. So too was the smell of loose bowels. Karus had come to associate that smell with death.

  A fire burned in the hearth, along the back wall. With the door open, it did little to warm the room. A table had been moved to the center of the common room. Directly overhead hung a lantern. Working under the dim light, two surgeons were bent over a patient who had been placed on the table.

  The patient grunted loudly as the surgeons worked on his left arm, which bled profusely. In a waterfall of red, blood ran from the table to pool onto the floorboards. It was clear an artery had been cut and the surgeons were working on repairing the damage.

  Off to the side, there were three dwarves lying on makeshift stretchers, clearly waiting their turn before the surgeon’s knives. All three had been severely wounded. An assistant was kneeling next to one of the injured, holding a flask to the patient’s mouth. The wounded dwarf moaned in agony, but he wouldn’t drink. Another, in a weak voice, repeated something over and over again in his own language.

  One of the surgeons looked up and froze in his work. The other turned his head to also stare in astonishment at the humans and elves, along with their warchief, as they filed into the small room.

  “As you were,” Dennig said, and with that, the spell was broken. The two surgeons returned to their work. Dennig turned to Martuke. “Well, where is my son?”

  “This way.” Martuke led them to the stairs at the back of the tavern, next to the fireplace and up to the second floor, where there was a small corridor that led to the boarding rooms. Martuke brought them to the first door, which he opened, and then stepped aside for his warchief to enter. Dennig hesitated in the doorway. Karus stepped up behind him, gazing in.

  On a bed lay a wounded dwarf, who appeared to be sleeping on top of soiled and dirty sheets. His face was bruised, and his stomach had been wrapped tightly with a bandage. His left leg had also been bandaged.

  The dwarf opened his eyes at the intrusion and slowly turned his head toward the door. He blinked several times, focusing as he took in his father. Realization dawned, followed by disbelief. He tried to sit up, but groaned and gave up.

  Dennig had gone ashen. He stepped into the room and carefully leaned the axe against the wall, before kneeling by his son’s side. Karus stopped at the door, resting a hand upon the frame. The boy appeared no more than a youth in his teens. His beard only reached down to his upper chest. His hand shook slightly as Dennig took it in his own.

  Dennig said something in the dwarven tongue, tone soft, filled with feeling, grief. Kelgan gave a nod and replied. Karus glanced back toward the stairs. Kol’Cara and Si’Cara had been the only elves to follow them up. The others had remained below. With Martuke, the small corridor suddenly felt crowded.

  “Wait downstairs,” Karus said to them. “I have no need of a guard here.”

  Kol’Cara gave a nod. Si’Cara appeared reluctant, but she too followed her brother back down the stairs.

  When they had gone, Martuke rounded on Amarra.

  “Like so many others before you,” Martuke said in a tone barely above a whisper, “despite that pretty staff, you are no more than a false prophet preying upon the hopes of others. A true priestess would heal our wounded, thus proving the truth of her words, the very proof her position is representative of the divine.”

  “Just because one makes demands,” Amarra said, “does not mean the gods will answer. Belief is a personal thing. Martuke, you either have it or you do not. If you have belief, you must be willing to sac
rifice to be rewarded …”

  “Sacrifice,” Martuke huffed. “What would you know of sacrifice, girl?”

  “More than you can possibly imagine,” Amarra said and tapped him on his chest armor. “I have given up everything that I was for my faith. I have sacrificed much.” She glanced over at Karus. “Sacrifice comes in many forms, and even then, the reward might not be what you believe you want or need.”

  “My lady,” Dennig said, interrupting them. He was struggling to contain his grief as he looked back on them. “I fear there is not much time. If you cannot heal my son, would you be kind enough to give him your blessing? Though my people have largely lost our faith, I would send him onto the feasting halls of our ancestors with the comfort of at least the High Father’s blessing.”

  Martuke looked as if he wanted to object but said nothing.

  “Of course.” Amarra moved past Karus, her dress whispering across the floorboards as she entered the room.

  She knelt next to Dennig. Kelgan eyed her warily.

  “This is Kelgan,” Dennig said in a gentle tone, “my firstborn, a great warrior and … a loved son.”

  “It is an honor to meet you, Kelgan,” Amarra said.

  Kelgan spoke in heavily accented Common. It came out as a mere whisper. “My father tells me you are a true priestess of the High Father. That he has seen you perform miracles. Is that so?”

  “I am blessed,” Amarra said, “to be the High Father’s instrument upon this world. It is as he says.”

  “Do you”—Kelgan sucked in a weak breath—“think if I pray … to Thulla with you”—his voice cracked and he spent a moment clearing his throat—“our god, Thulla, might listen?”

  “In truth, I do not know,” Amarra said. “I am willing to try. That is, if you are. I have a suspicion he will listen to both of us.”

  Kelgan seemed to gain strength from that. His voice became stronger, deeper. “Like most of our people, I have turned from Thulla. I would ask forgiveness before I cross over. Do you believe he might forgive me?”

  “I have recently found my faith,” Dennig said, laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. He looked over at Amarra. “It is fitting you should find it as well.”