A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) (20 page)

The warrior fell forward, spreading himself prostrate with fear. “Yes, my Warchief. I obey.” He lifted his head slightly. “Our advance forces took Kirath with little resistance. They executed its mayor and took the food stores.”

Slar ground his teeth. “What makes that news dire?”

Lowering his head so that it touched the stone, the warrior hurried to get the words out. “It was later in the day when suddenly the entire city began to go up in flame. The granaries first, then those damn kindling houses. They burned like dry grass, and soon the fires consumed the entire city, including the food stores and almost fifteen thousand warriors.”

The sky spun above him, and Slar nearly collapsed against the stone parapet. The pain in his gut tore at his insides, burning and threatening to make him vomit. The dwarf woman moved to aid him, but he held up a firm hand.

“No!” he barked, harsher than he intended. “Their damn mages! They have cursed us with the Fires again!” He slammed a fist against the stone repeatedly until blood splattered across its unblemished surface. A sudden thought leapt to his mind. “Radgred? My son Sharrog? They were in the van. Have they survived?”

The warrior remained in his prone position. “Your son still leads our army, great Warchief.”

Momentary relief was broken by a slice of fear that shot through Slar’s heart, masking the burn in his stomach. “And Radgred?”

Shifting so that he looked his Warchief dead on, the warrior spoke with immeasurable respect. “Radgred Boneshaker is no more. His ashes mix with thousands of his brothers, burned on a field of victory.”

Though he stood in the open air, Slar felt as if the entire weight of Highspur Mountain had come crashing down on him. At first his breath would not come, and a dark, hollow feeling sucked at his chest. Then, his breathing quickened, and only his death grip on the parapet kept him steady.
Radgred! You fought a hundred battles at my side. You fought a hundred more before I was ever born. How is it they killed you in our time of victory? What will I do without your strong arm?

Slar lifted his head and belted out a shout of rage and pain that carried far over the Northlands. Orcs working far below looked upward. A flock of snow pigeons burst forth from hiding near the mountain’s shoulder. The messenger lay flat against the stone, while Charani stood in a corner with her head bowed.

“We will burn them.” Slar seethed with a consuming rage that roiled through his head. “I swear by the Fires, by Galdreth, and by all that burns, I will watch them die screaming!” He roared as he ripped an unlit iron sconce from the wall and hurled it over the parapet. Ignoring the wrenching pain in his elbow, he turned to the warrior who had delivered the message. “Go! Take word that Sharrog and our remaining advance forces are to pull back to the Gallond River until we can reassess our battle plan. We will supply them from here.”

The warrior scurried backward on his belly and down the stairs without a sound. The dwarf woman, however, sidled over toward Slar, her hands folded within the sleeves of her robe. Through his pounding rage and despair at news of Radgred’s death, he noticed that her face remained calm, almost beatific. She knelt beside him where he had slid down against the stone wall.

“My Lord Warchief,” she whispered vehemently into his ear. “These things are the will of Galdreth. They are the expressions of our Master’s Chaos. Your companion died obeying that will. No one could ask for more from life.” The whites of her eyes glistened, and a manic grin showed sharp teeth. “Do not despair, for in becoming the instruments of Galdreth’s will, we become more a part of the growth and change created in Chaos. The strong shall survive it. The new world will be stronger, and those who perish in creating its will shall be remembered as martyrs.” Fervor and passion played back and forth across Charani’s face. “If we are all consumed by the Chaos, it will only be to our eternal blessing in the glory of Galdreth!”

Slar’s rage took pause as he assessed the woman. It cooled into a sick worry that burned next to the knot in his gut.
This one is mad. She would lead us all to our deaths. Perhaps that is all we are – madmen and martyrs.

A powerless mage is a dead mage. – Macrim the Blue

T
allen pushed open the door of the Iron Maiden, and a wave of sounds and smells washed over him. Sweet wine and spilled ale mixed with roasting meat and a slight hint of urine. A minstrel played a reedy flute, and dozens of military officers and mid-rank nobles shouted, laughed, and sang in time with the music.

Or maybe not so in time,
he thought to himself when he heard three men caterwauling who wore cloaks of midnight blue splashed with a crescent moon and stars.

At a different table, two officers in red and black watched the men of House Magdon. One whispered to the other behind his mug, and the second returned a soft chuckle, his eyes darting back at the Magdon men.

Tallen strode forward, wading his way through the crowd.
If this were the Gryphon, I’d be ready for those men to start a fight. I suppose that shows what kind of times we live in, that there aren’t more brawls breaking out in a place like this. Everyone knows the real fight is coming.

At a quiet table along one wall, Tomas, Dorias, and Gwelan all sat staring into their mugs, save Dorias whose head popped up the moment Tallen neared.

“Ah, my friend. Please, come join us.” He waved to an empty chair and signaled a barmaid, who offered a cheery smile. “We have much to discuss. I hope you are feeling better since we…returned from Kirath.”

Tallen nodded, though the head bob reawakened a small tinge of the pain that had battered all three of the mages’ heads for several days after Kirath. That first day, Tallen had not left his bed, though both Dorias and Joslyn had visited him. The Ravenhawke had brought plenty of his rejuvenating liquor. Since then, the headache had receded – for the most part.

Tallen sat down at their corner table. “Most of my parts seem to be back in place.”

Dorias smiled then turned back to Tomas, picking right up where their conversation must have let off. “It has been almost a week since Kirath. Boris may be content to scout the Wastes until the Waters dry, but we must be moving onward. With Gwelan’s help, we can slip through enemy lines.”

“Ha!” the shaven-headed man replied as he curled a gold coin across the back of his knuckles.

Tomas put his mug on the table, his face never rising. “We cannot. We must wait for Arathan.”

Dorias almost spluttered his ale. “Why?”

The paladin ran his finger along the mug’s rim. “Because there could be a quarter million orcs between us and Highspur, not to mention how many more might be north of the Dragonscales.” He looked up at Dorias. “Our original plan required that Highspur be available to us as a base. It required we use stealth with an unaware enemy.” He shook his head and went back to staring at his ale. “They will be swarming the countryside with scouts everywhere between here and the Norvus River.”

Leaning toward Tomas, the wizard lowered his voice. “What if we went directly north
through
the Dragonscales?”

Gwelan snorted even louder than before. He shook his head, and the mug of ale went to his lips.

“Not possible,” Tomas answered, staring into his ale. “Even if it were just the four of us. The terrain is too harsh, and there are things that hunt in the Dragonscales that none of us would want to face.”

Dorias sat back, and Tallen examined his crestfallen expression.
He knows Tomas is right.

Gwelan flipped the gold coin up and caught it before deftly slipping it into his pocket. He turned to Tallen. “So how go things with your brother and sister? Your reunion with them must be both a relief and a surprise.”

The swift change of subject delayed Tallen’s response while he watched the paladin and wizard stare at the table. After a few seconds, he turned to Gwelan whose expression urged him to reply. “Jaerd has been extremely busy with Earl Boris and the army. He is at the command post most of every day. I think he’s even taken to sleeping there.” Tallen cleared his throat. “Dawne left yesterday for the Bardic College in Kerrigier. I still can’t believe she was at Highspur. She told me most of the story, and things were very dire there.”

The strange sense of confusion he felt at discovering his sister among the fortress’ survivors still flashed in his mind. He had always stood up for his little sister, and now she had been well beyond his protection, without even his knowledge.
It scares me more than I ever thought it would. At least Jaerd was there.

He drew his thoughts back to the three men around the table. “Tilli went with her. I don’t think she means to be a bard too, but she promised to watch over Dawne. I think what happened at Highspur really affected her. She wants to get away from the war…at least for a while.”

After a short sip of ale, Gwelan pursed his lips, his bitterness from more than the beer. “Who can blame her?”

Dorias leaned back and folded arms across his chest. “We must do something. I cannot sit idly here in this city while forces move in the wilderness.” He drank deeply from his mug. “We must do something.”

Tomas rose to his feet. “Then we shall. I will visit Boris, and I will see that we join the next group of scouts headed into the Wastes.” He drained his own mug. “We will see for ourselves how crowded with orcs they have become.”

Gwelan sighed. “Well, so much for changing the subject.” He reached for his dual swords hanging over the back of a chair and gave them a loving caress. “Come on, girls. We’ve got work to do. ”

A pretty waitress set a mug of sweet ale down in front of Tallen just as the others stood. He sighed, took one long swig that cooled his throat and warmed his stomach, then followed his friends out the door. The waitress gave him a sympathetic smile as he placed a silver penny in her hand.

Outside a heavy pallor of black smoke hung over Novon. It flowed from the dozens of smithies that pumped out weapons of war day and night since their arrival, not to mention the hundreds, maybe thousands of additional campfires from both soldiers and refugees. The smoke stank, reeking of coke and over-charred meat. Tallen tried to wave it away with one hand, but only succeeded in stirring the stench farther up his nostrils.

“Try growing up in Avaros.” Gwelan wrinkled his nose. “The smell of fish was the best part.”

A few blocks down the street, the command headquarters rose against the skyline. Once a bank, and most recently a warehouse, the building now crawled with soldiers from dozens of different noble houses. Plenty of Bluecloaks marched in and out of the main entrance along with the household warriors.

A familiar voice shouted from the second floor balcony. “Ah! Tomas!” Boris waved his hand from where he stood, surrounded by aides. “Please come in, all of you. I have a favor to ask.”

Inside, the smell of sweat and pipe smoke replaced the stench of burning coal. Dozens of men moved about or wrote hurried dispatches. One moved markers shaped like horses, dragons, and armed knights about on a map of the Western Realm and Free Cities. A large crown sat near the city of Magdonton.

Boris trotted down the stairs, Jaerd and Joslyn not far behind. Tallen’s brother gave him a familiar grin before standing at attention behind his commander.

“It is fortunate you arrived when you did.” Boris clasped the paladin’s hand with a hearty shake. “It saved me sending a runner.” He scanned the group. “I need some volunteers.”

A ripple of excitement shot up Tallen’s spine, colored by a nervous twinge in his abdomen. Boris’ face held a serious cast, despite his light words. Jaerd’s jaw looked ready to cut glass.

“Anything we can do,” Tomas answered, his demeanor matching that of the others.

Boris nodded as if he knew he had no need to ask. “My rangers have made it to the ruins of Kirath, and no orcs remain there. Yames was sacked and much of it burned, though we left little for them to take.” He led them over to the map spread on an oak table. A soldier adjusted the position of a knight from Kirath to the large river crossing the Wastes, and then stepped away. “We have scouted to the River Lond. The enemy has retreated across it, but we cannot tell in exactly what numbers.”

Casting his eyes toward a Bluecloak ranger with two stars on his tunic, Boris lowered his voice. “Our scouts have had difficulty slipping past the orc sentries. I need someone that I know can get through their lines, and I am unavailable at the moment myself.” He examined Tomas, Dorias and Gwelan in turn. “I know the three of you have slipped in and out of some of the most heavily guarded places in the world. I need you now.”

The earl turned his ice blue inspection on Tallen. “And I will need you to go, too.”

Jaerd shifted his feet, but remained silent.

“To be frank,” Boris continued, “you are the bait. If the enemy still seeks to capture you, as they did in Dadric, Gavanor, and on the Wizard’s Isle, your presence might force them into an action they are not prepared for.”

Deep thoughts wrinkling his brow, Dorias reached up to scratch his goatee. “That was the essence of our original plan. It may be dangerous, but the three of us should be able protect him. Besides, his power may come in useful, especially if we come into contact with large numbers.”