“You have your mission, my Lady, and we have ours. The master wouldn’t like us spilling secrets – though I can’t imagine you’d object to our goal.”
Rogan had the feeling they weren’t going to get anything further from these men, though his gut told him at least most of what they said was honest. His gut also told him if they lingered too long he might not be able to hold Saffron back from releasing her frustrations in a torrent of flame.
“Then we will leave you to your business,” he said, taking a step back toward the doorway. “Saffron,” he called when she failed to budge, “let’s go.” He nodded toward the door. She frowned but obeyed, as Ymrilad stood guard, joining them once they were both outside.
“Do you mean to continue east, then?” he asked.
“I mean to find Dhania, no matter what,” Saffron answered before stalking purposefully through the rain toward the horses.
Five days later they came to the end of the Solepass Road at the thriving town of Battock. It was the last outpost of civilization in the Cradle. Further east rose the foothills of the Fire-Wall Mountains – to the north, the untamed frontier of the Northern Reaches. The Black Hills lay just beyond the border of Horizon Province. Not expecting such a lengthy journey, their supply of rations was nearly gone when they reached the town, and Rogan was happy for the opportunity to replenish it. He did not fancy the idea of battling a tribe of hostile orcs on an empty stomach.
Battock had a certain charm to it – a sense of adventure in the air that no doubt came from its position on the frontier. Under different circumstances, Rogan would have liked to stay a while and mingle amongst the locals and many travelers, escaping his own concerns in shared stories from other realms. On this occasion, however, he and his companions were the ones off to daring deeds, though it seemed to him more akin to knowingly entering an ambush.
He could not let Saffron down. Nor Dhania, for that matter. She had clearly seen something in him and given him her trust, when he knew such a thing to be difficult. He thought back to the kiss they’d shared on the battlements, and how he had attributed it to the wine and juvenile infatuation when he had no right to do so. He dismissed her because of his own fruitless pursuit of Saffron, and he could not allow more harm to befall her – not after all she had been through.
A few, careful inquiries in town yielded several unconfirmed tales of orc raids on trading caravans and frontier villages, but none of the story-tellers had seen a single orc themselves. They marveled at Ymrilad, however. Some went as far as bowing before the Aasimar as they would a deity. Perhaps he was, after a fashion, Rogan thought.
They departed Battock by the eastern gate the morning after they arrived, though the paved, Solepass Road had ended. A wide trail, still regularly used, stretched before them, winding into the hills of their fate.
Saffron took charge, continuing toward the mountains along the trail, intentionally remaining conspicuous as possible. Ymrilad’s appearance may be a deterrent, she explained, but hoped three lightly-armed wanderers would be too tempting for orc brigands to resist. They did not have to wait long to find out.
Barely an hour after losing sight of Battock on the western horizon, a trembling of hooves drew nearer. Once they realized what it was, Rogan and Saffron readied their weapons while Ymrilad took flight, whipping a dust cloud beneath him as he ascended. The source of the rumble was hidden from Rogan’s view by the hillsides, but it grew louder and was moving quickly. At last, a line of horses broke free from behind a rise, two dozen or more, ridden by gray-skinned, muscular orcs.
The leader was especially massive, and directly following him were a pair of standard-bearers. Both of the banners were black, though one bore the simple white outline of three peaks, and the other the same claw and runes Rogan had noticed on the door of the farmhouse, days ago. As the train of orcs encircled them, Rogan struggled to settle his horse from near-panic while Saffron and her mount, Sheen, somehow appeared calm as statues.
“You have entered the territory of the Black Hills orcs,” the leader shouted in passable Illanese, once his followers had fallen into position. Now they were still, Rogan could see the leader’s features varied somewhat from those behind him. Though the tops of his ears were peaked and tusks bulged his lower lip, the eyes and nose seemed less bestial – more human. “Your horses and possessions are now ours. If you fail to give them up… so are your lives,” he continued.
Saffron’s expression was stoic, but she responded in a clear voice, “Are you the one they call Nejuk the Gouger?”
“I am Nejuk’s legion commander, Taurn.” The orc leader was looking at Rogan, not Saffron. “How dare you allow your woman to address me! Tell your angel friend to come down or we will shoot him from the sky.” Taurn extended his right arm and gave an order that sounded like a bear clearing its throat. A half-dozen orcs further down the train produced black, curved bows, which they aimed at Ymrilad.
Undaunted, Saffron continued, “We have been told your chieftain holds my sister hostage. He must release her to me immediately, or your entire tribe will burn.”
Taurn lowered his hand to the pommel of his saddle before seizing with laughter. “You are a bold one, Black-Hair. Are you certain you are not part orc?” All the levity then drained from his deep voice. “I was going to share you with my legion, but now I keep you to myself.”
Rogan turned his head, trying to both count the orcs and look for a gap in their circle he might exploit as a possible way out. He wanted to trust Saffron, but realized her zeal for rescuing Dhania may push her farther than their ability to manage. The orcs were no doubt stronger and more savage than the men they’d vanquished in the past.
“Are you a creature of honor, Taurn?” Saffron asked.
“Creature? You can trust you and your friends will feel pain before you die!” Taurn grasped the hilt of the greatsword slung across his back, drawing the weapon with a snarl.
Saffron reacted quickly, dismounting Sheen and side-stepping to create space between herself and the others. She began singing, raised her shield, and set her spear across it, point-forward. Rogan watched the orc commander pause, a look of uncertainty molding his bestial features. Then the tip of Saffron’s spear began glowing a dangerous red, and she twirled it quickly in a show of proficiency, a blaze of fire trailing the heated steel.
“I challenge you, then, Honorable Taurn, to single combat,” she shouted so all could hear. “I am told your people often solve disputes in such ways.”
“For what stakes?” Taurn turned to his companions and laughed, though it sounded uneasy. “We already outnumber and surround you.”
“And I command magic that will turn you all to cinders. The choice is yours.”
If she was bluffing, Rogan could not tell, though he noticed that in ceasing her singing to speak, the glow of her spearhead already waned. Taurn, however, seemed to consider the threat of sorcery seriously.
“You not use magic if we fight?” he asked.
Saffron shook her head. “Just warrior against warrior, ‘til one of us yields. If you win, we will all submit to you with no further resistance. But if I win, you must take us to Nejuk, and leave us unharmed.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Lady,” Rogan muttered through the side of his mouth. The plan seemed to be working, if only for the moment – Taurn dismounted and took a few steps forward.
“Your friends are fortunate I love to make battle, woman. You will not be.” Taurn exercised a wide, looping swing of his sword, demonstrating its impressive reach while stretching his muscles.
Saffron quickly unclasped her riding cloak and cast it off her shoulders, revealing the supple leather armor Natrone made for her in Talon Barge. She would need unhindered quickness to overcome the orc’s obvious strength, and Rogan could do little but watch and hope she was up to the task.
“There is no help within sight, Baron. We are on our own. Should I join you?”
Rogan had momentarily forgotten Ymrilad. He l
ooked up and waved for him to land. No sooner had the Aasimar done so than Taurn charged Saffron, bringing his sword down hard with both hands.
So mighty was the blow, she did not even bother trying to deflect it with her shield. Instead, she crouched and lunged forward, sliding into the angle created by the length of his reach, and smashed the edge of her bronzed shield into the orc’s chest. He stumbled back as the air left his lungs, nearly losing hold of his weapon – but not quite.
Taurn’s left hand released his sword and grabbed at Saffron, coming up with her braided ponytail in his fist. He tossed her aside like a doll before she could follow with a thrust of her spear. The force of his shove took her feet from under her, but she didn’t fight the momentum, instead using it to roll across her shoulders and back into her stance. She adjusted her grip on the ash shaft and readied for another attack.
This time the orc slashed horizontally in a wide arc, striking Saffron’s shield with a ringing clang. Rogan winced, watching the impact nearly jar the shield from her forearm. She had to get in close again or Taurn would simply wear her down.
Saffron lunged like a viper, feigning a thrust toward his left shoulder. Unprepared for her quickness, he shifted back while raising his heavy sword to deflect the blow. Faster than seemed possible to him, Rogan watched Saffron push back off her extended right leg, lift the heel a finger’s length off the ground, and spin. Like a dog chasing its tail, she crouched and whipped around, pivoting on her left foot until her extended right leg swept the off-balance Taurn’s legs from under him.
The orc commander fell backward, flailing helplessly before landing with a satisfying thud. Saffron’s boot snapped down on his right wrist a heartbeat later, and her spear’s tip pressed just close enough to his throat to dissuade sudden movements.
“Do you yield, Taurn of the Black Hills?” Saffron asked between panting breaths.
Rogan leaned forward to better hear his reply, and his horse assisted by taking a couple steps closer. He could see frustration at being bested in the orc’s eyes, but something else as well – respect.
“Why you want to find Nejuk? He will only make you a slave, like your sister.”
“Do you yield?”
Taurn seemed to taste the words in his mouth first and find them unpalatable, before spitting them out. “I yield!” he shouted. “Do not harm the intruders.”
Saffron nodded and stepped back from Taurn. “I will challenge your chieftain to a duel as well, and when I beat him, I will have rulership of the tribes.”
The orc commander laughed as he rose to his feet and dusted himself off. “Outsiders cannot challenge for tribal leadership, and Nejuk is too strong.”
“I’d wager you thought the same of yourself,” Rogan added as his horse stepped him into the conversation.
Taurn shook his head, “You not understand; Nejuk has help from the Cursed One. He gives Nejuk magic and poisoned counsel. He is why we have left the Black Hills for this place. I would challenge myself, but his gifts make Nejuk too strong.”
“Who is the Cursed One?” Saffron asked. “A shaman of some sort?”
Taurn shook his head and stabbed the tip of his sword into the ground before leaning on it. “Not an orc. Says he is part demon. Wields dark magic. Nejuk thinks he makes us stronger, but the Cursed One cares not for our tribe, and will make us fight too far from home.”
“Part demon?” Rogan wondered aloud, looking to Ymrilad and Saffron. “Perhaps Ebon Khorel sent a Gholdur War-priest?”
Saffron shrugged.
“Most likely.” Ymrilad offered.
An idea shot into Rogan’s head. “Taurn, if we were able to bolster you with magic as strong as Nejuk’s, would you challenge him then?”
Taurn raised his shaggy eyebrows, “What magic?”
“The Aasimar and I are both Shapers,” Saffron concurred, seeming to catch on to Rogan’s suggestion. “We could give you advantages, or perhaps even cancel Nejuk’s.”
The orc’s gaze moved to each of them in turn as he considered. “For the good of the Black Hills tribe, I would do this.”
“And if you won, you would let us and my sister go in peace?”
Taurn paused and then nodded, “If I have your word to help, Honorable Woman.”
Another two days of riding brought Rogan and his companions, with a full orcish escort, to the cave-infested territory the Black Hill’s army had claimed as its base. Along the way, sleep proved a fleeting endeavor, as it seemed every single orc snored like a snarling cougar.
“You know if this doesn’t go well, we will likely have to fight our way through the entire tribe?” Rogan pointed out to Saffron as they made their way into the fortified camp.
Ramparts and palisades created a maze-like tangle of partitioned spaces. The late-afternoon sun was still too bright for torches to be lit, but Rogan could picture how the place would look at night: formidable walls of sharpened timber decorated by macabre trophies of war, designs in red paint, and the iridescent eyes of battle-hungry orcs patrolling the grounds.
They entered a channel flanked by rows of wooden spikes protruding from the ground, in through one gate, and stopped before another. Taurn and his riders dismounted, so reluctantly Rogan and Saffron followed suit. The first gate closed behind them, and then the second swung open. More orcs poured through and began leading the horses into a corral. One of them spoke directly to Taurn in their native tongue, which sounded as harsh as Rogan had imagined.
After a brief conversation, Taurn turned and explained in Illanese that he told the newcomer they were his prisoners. “It is easier this way,” he explained, “but I will need your weapons to convince them.” Saffron quickly handed over her spear, but Rogan and Ymrilad hesitated. “I give them back later.” The Aasimar complied and Rogan handed over his saber, but left his dagger sheathed.
“I give Nejuk my report now,” Taurn continued. “I will challenge for leadership. If he does not kill me outright, we fight at sunset.” Taurn gave what Rogan presumed passed for a wink among orcs.
He and Saffron exchanged a look. They had not been told that was a possibility. They followed Taurn down a side path created by more spikes, where two armed orcs stepped out and snarled at them. Taurn quickly shouted orders in orcish and the guards backed down, their eyes blazing open suspicion.
At its end, the path opened into a wide, fortified circle where a bonfire blazed and a half-dozen orcs mingled. They all wore necklaces of bone. One, a foot taller than the rest and clad in black animal hides, approached. The gray skin of his face was scarred and gold capped his tusks. Heavily muscled, with the notched head of a harnessed axe peeking over his shoulders, he assessed each newcomer with clouded eyes. As the smoke-infused irises passed over him, Rogan had the feeling he was quickly dismissed as a non-threat.
The large orc spoke directly with Taurn. The language itself was sharp and angry, but the exchange boiled with an added tension. Interspersed with accusatory curses were fists banging on chests, and the gripping of weapons. Rogan thought they would come to blows in front of him. At last, Taurn spit on the ground and stalked out of the circle the way they had come. The display turned out to be ritualized.
“Do not linger,” he said in Illanese as the orcs began closing in. Rogan and the others followed the orc commander back through the maze of palisades, until they arrived at an open space filled with hut-sized, conical tents. Taurn held the flap to one of these open and gestured for his “prisoners” to enter, scanning the yard for trouble as they did.
Once inside, he explained, “The challenge has been given. We fight at sunset, unless assassinated first.” He looked directly at Saffron. “You are certain your magic will help?”
“Are you certain you can beat him if it does?” Saffron sounded as if she had doubts, and after seeing Nejuk in person, Rogan could not blame her.
“He is too sure of himself,” Taurn assessed. “He will try to prove strength by finishing me quickly. I use that against him.”
; “Much as I did to you?”
Taurn’s eyes narrowed, but he did not disagree.
“You said the Cursed One has tainted his axe, such that wounds bleed more heavily?” Ymrilad asked.
“Aye. Just one cut may kill me, even if the wound not deep.”
“And against his rage, even the bravest warrior trembles?”
“It is unnatural.”
“And finally, his skin becomes hard, like stone?”
“It is devilry.” Taurn shook his head in disgust. “I have seen this trick in battle before. He will use it tonight. The Cursed One requires orcs to sacrifice, but Nejuk allows for his own benefit. It will take all my strength to cut him.”
Ymrilad nodded. “I should be able to take care of the fear. I can sing a tune to grant you almost boundless courage.”
“I can make your blade so hot it will cut right through Nejuk’s flesh, hardened or not,” Saffron added.
“And his axe?” Taurn asked.
Rogan smiled uneasily, realizing he had no part to play in this battle. He patted Taurn’s shoulder. “Try not to get hit.”
“Huh, easy for you to say. That’s what I get for taking up with humans.” Taurn reclined on a pile of furs toward the back of the tent. Not much else adorned the space save a worn, wooden chest and a circle of stones that had seen fire. “My mother was human,” he confessed after the silence wore on too long.
Rogan cast a glance in the half-orc’s direction, but he was staring up at the tent’s apex. Rogan waited for more, but nothing was offered. Finally, he spoke to his comrades, softly enough to avoid interrupting Taurn’s reflection. “Saffron, you and Ymrilad will both be busy during the challenge, but I will not. It seems foolish to place all our hopes on Taurn’s victory, when the outcome is uncertain at best.”
“I agree, Rogan, but what other options do we have?”
“Well, I assume most of the orcs will be occupied watching the battle for leadership; Taurn said Dhania is most likely kept in the caves where this Cursed One lurks. From the sounds of it, he too may be busy with Nejuk’s enchantments. I want to try sneaking in and seeing if I can find your sister. If things go poorly with the fight, maybe Ymrilad can at least fly her to safety.”
Shiver the Moon Page 54