A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) (30 page)

I’ve never met an orc female. They must hide them in caves or their keeps. I’ve heard orc males do not consider them as much more than breeding devices – ovens in which to incubate the next generation of warriors. They treat their females as pure property, something we humans are far above. – Lord Marshal Kevron Spearbreaker 216 A.R.

T
he central hall of Highspur bastion squeezed in around Slar, small and utilitarian compared to most Orcish halls. The large chair at one end offered him no comfort, not that he had ever been one to desire luxury.
I’d rather have the sweet pain of tired legs after a long march, instead of the dead ache of sitting in a chair all day.

He wandered out of the audience hall and down a few passages. As always his meandering steps brought him back to the humans’ library. He pushed the door open and went inside, the strange scent of old paper becoming more familiar to him the longer he spent in the room. Drawing one claw along a table, he examined the open scrolls and spread parchments. The maps made sense, but the squiggled lines of Human writing fascinated him.
I must take a captive that can teach us the secret of reading. When Codex burned in the Fires, so much was lost.

“May I enter, Warchief?” Charani Millhouse called from the hall outside the library. The dwarf woman steeped herself in propriety. “I had hoped to ask you a question.”

“You may come in,” Slar responded. “And you may ask your question, though I may withhold an answer.”

The dwarf bowed her head while entering. “When was the last time our dark master spoke with you? I have been your advisor for weeks, yet Galdreth has not come among us. I had hoped to bask in the glory of the dark one’s radiance.”

Slar watched the woman, uncertain where his line of trust with her should lie. “Our dark master is not entirely free from the prison which our enemies created. This is why we seek the vessel. Galdreth must expend a great amount of energy to appear to us away from the chamber at Dragonsclaw.” He narrowed his eyes at Charani. “If it were not for the reluctance of Sargash and his Mammoth Clan, Galdreth would no doubt have more power in reserve. As it is, our master rests until it is time for us to meet the enemy in open battle.”

Charani bowed meekly from the waist. “Why have we not moved the main host out of Highspur? Scouts report a great army marching out of the Free Cities.”

“Dwarf woman…do you think you know all my schemes?” Slar shook with a great belly laugh. “Galdreth and I laid these plans long before you crawled out of your dwarf cave.”

Walking across the room, he tapped a map lain out on the table that showed the rivers of the Wastes. “I will make them extend their lines of supply as far as I can before I meet them in open battle. You may trust that all preparations are being made. I only await one more piece of news.” Moving his hand to the hilt of his ancient scimitar, Slar forced a toothy smile. “Now I will ask you a question, and you do not have the choice of not answering. When can we expect your people to rise up in support of master Galdreth?”

The dwarf woman’s lips spread in an almost imperceptible grin. “Our numbers grow every day, great Warchief. Fear instilled by the dragon attack last spring rejuvenated our supporter. More dwarves, both within the Rock and in the vales, flock to join our numbers – some even in the nobility.” She clasped her hands together. “There will be thousands willing to die for Galdreth the moment our dark master appears to them.”

Slar found some reassurance in her words, but her tone caused a strange chill in his spine. “Fair enough. I hope it will be sufficient to please our master.”

A knock sounded at the library door.
I should just turn this into my audience chamber. Everyone finds me here.

“Enter!” he called.

Two bedraggled shapes stumbled into the room, accompanied by one of Slar’s most trusted Boar warriors.

“Warchief,” one said in a dry, cracked voice, “we have returned, but not victorious.”

“Ortax!” Slar dashed over to inspect the two beaten orcs. “And is that you Brother Aern?” He grabbed the arm of the older shaman. “You left with Libor’s Mageslayers and half a dozen Boar warriors. Where are they?”

Brother Ortax shook his head, a note of despair in his tone. “They lie dead in the Wastes, Warchief. The vessel’s guardians were too strong. I counseled Libor against attacking so openly.”

“He did, Warchief,” Aern agreed.

“What about your powers?” Slar rose up over the young shaman. “You were to destroy their magic.”

Aern collapsed to his knees, quivering.

Stepping in front of the young orc, Ortax bowed his own head farther than Slar had ever seen it, save in Galdreth’s presence. “While Libor’s men drew away their swordsmen, we ambushed the two mages. Brother Aern’s spell not only broke those wizards’ connection to their power, it also weakened our own.”

“I warned Captain Libor it would happen,” Aern mumbled at the floor. “It is a difficult spell to control, especially at a distance.”

Ortax shuddered. “We did not account for their horses. They fought with minds and vicious wills of their own.”

The warrior behind him spat upon the floor.

“They attacked us, dread Warchief,” Aern cried, his voice approaching a sob. “Their eyes were white and filled with rage!”

“Humans can train some of their beasts to do that.” Slar rubbed his chin. “But Libor has met them in battle many times. Surely he and his warriors could handle a few humans and their horses?”

Ortax looked down at Aern where he cringed on the floor. Slar had a sense that the shamans hid something far worse than simple horses. He glared at Brother Ortax until the elder shaman gulped and spoke in rushed whispers.

“The human…the vessel…he somehow…found his way to his power, or at least one Aspect of it, despite Brother Aern’s spell.” The shaman shook his head as if searching for the words. “He killed at least eight of our party with nothing more than a twist of his power. I have never seen the like. It was…terrifying, though he spilled not a drop of blood in his slaughter.”

The leader of the Boar shamans shuddered and lifted his red gaze to search Slar. “Our power was spent. One of their swordsmen returned and, well, he killed Libor so swiftly we knew we had no choice but to return here and give you news of our failure.”

Slar fingered his sword. “There were times, Brother, when you might have called for the execution of those returned from such a failure.”

Ortax bowed his neck. “Then so be it, Warchief. I have done my duty in reporting our failure. My life is yours.”

Instead of his sword, Slar placed on hand on the shaman’s neck. “I have a feeling I will need your strength more than ever in the coming days. All our people will.” He pulled up Brother Aern by his shoulders. “You, as well, Brother. Your power will still be useful when we meet the Human army.”

Relief flooded across Brother Ortax’s face and a new friendliness settled there.

I’ve made a stronger ally today with mercy. Something all our people could learn.

The relief on Ortax’s face shifted to concern when his eyes settled on the robe-shrouded form in the corner of the library. “Who is this new face, Warchief? It cannot be a dwarf?”

Having already dealt with the same reaction from several shamans, Slar expected much the same from Ortax. “Charani Millhouse is a representative of a sect within the dwarves that worships Master Galdreth as much as we do. Allies are often found in the strangest of places, Brother.” He gestured to the guard. “Please escort the Brothers to their rooms. See that they are fed and that a healer examines them.” Slar placed his hand on Ortax’s shoulder. “Then I want you to visit Forge Master Baylax. He has a special project I want you to help him with.”

The two shamans bowed and followed the guard, Ortax casting a more familiar, suspicious glare at the dwarf woman before the door closed.

“Well,” Slar mumbled, “there is the last information I needed, though not the answer I sought.”

“Failure to capture our master’s vessel?” Charani cocked her head to one side. “I thought you awaited answer from the Mammoth Clan.”

Slar looked out the wide windows at the darkening sky. “Oh, the Mammoth Clan has been on the move for some days. We, however, will march before they arrive.” He laughed, this time the sound more bitter. “Their lateness is part of the plan.”

Leaving the dwarf woman’s unasked question lying on her lips, Slar stalked out the door and up a flight of stairs to the room he had claimed for his personal chamber. Inside, a wide bed sat against the stone wall and one wardrobe stood in a corner. Within it, he had found a pair of blue tunics with four silver stars. The tunics had burned in the narrow fireplace, and the silver had gone in his treasure chest.

On the bed lounged two women, their sharp claws lacquered with red paint. Both drew his attention with their beauty and fired his loins with their shapes. A rare roast of meat sat on a silver platter next to the bed.

“You have not eaten today, my Warchief.” The more demure of the two bowed her head. “Our people rely upon your strength.”

“I rely upon your strength, powerful Warchief,” the other murmured as she slunk closer across the bed. She dragged her nails down the leather jerkin on his chest and slipped her fingers toward the tie strings of his pants. “Perhaps I could drain you of some of it right now.”

Slar grabbed her wrist and pulled it away. “You will be gone from this chamber. I am in no mood for sluttery right now.”

The woman bowed her dark-haired head and scurried from the room. The second hopped up from the bed and moved to leave, but Slar took her arm.

“You will stay.”

The orc offered a curtsy and slipped back onto the bed. “Shall I feed you while you rest, oh Warchief?”

He sat down on the bed next to her.
Should I consult a woman? What will a woman know of war and its struggles?
He looked at her kind features.
Perhaps they know something a man might not? I already take the counsel of a dwarf woman, why not one of my own people?

Slar took the girl’s hand, tracing the henna tattoos that writhed up her forearms, neck, and onto her cheeks. “I have never asked. What is your name?”

She bowed her head, though Slar could see that she smiled. “Tealla, great Warchief. I am daughter of Dramon, son of Darbok of the Boar Clan.”

“Ah,” he said. “Dramon died during the siege of Highspur. An attack upon the northern towers, if I remember.”

“As you say, Warchief.” She sniffed.

Slar lifted her chin. “Did your father treat you well?”

“As well as any, Warchief.” She did not meet his examination. “He beat me only when I needed it, and died honorably in battle, answering the call of…the call of our dark master.”

Letting her chin go Slar pointed toward the platter of meat. The young woman began to slice a piece. The red juices ran fast.

“Do you have brothers that serve?” He watched her deft use of the sharp knife. “I remember a Drannak son of Dramon who fights with honor.”

Tealla bowed her head while continuing to slice. “He is my brother. His mother is my father’s first wife. I was born to his second.”

Slar pursed his lips. “He serves under my son, Sharrog, with our advance army, does he not?”

The woman handed him a delicate slice of the roast aurochs. “He does.”

Biting into the meat caused Slar’s stomach to rumble. The old knot of pain had not reared its head since news of Radgred’s death, though Slar’s abstemious diet and avoidance of wine probably helped. However, the savory meat slid like warm silk across his tongue, and he gestured for her to cut some more.

“Your family is from Sourbay, like Brother Ortax, correct?”

The woman’s eyes darted back and forth between the meat and Slar’s chest. They never quite rose to meet his. “Yes, Warchief,” she answered quietly. “I grew up by the sea every summer. I visit there often in my dreams.”

Slar ate another slice. “It is an awe inspiring sight.” He leaned close to her. “You will be glad to know that Brother Ortax has returned from his mission. Though it was not a success, he survived.”

The vine and knot tattoo pattern on Tealla’s cheeks rippled as she smiled. “That is good. Brother Ortax cares for the people. He drew me forth from my mother.”

“What do you think of Galdreth?” Slar dropped the question like an anvil on the girl.

Her smile froze then warped with fear. The knife stopped half way through the roast. “I worship the master.”

Slar watched her closely. “Because you fear the master.”

Tealla only nodded. She resumed cutting the meat.

Slar took another slice. “You are a good woman, Tealla.” He chewed away. “You honor your father, love your people, and respect your Warchief.” He leaned in closer. “I need to know if you are a smart woman. Can you think? I have lost my right arm in Radgred, and I need someone I can trust – someone who will speak the truth to me.” He squinted at her. “Can you do that?”

The woman lifted her face. “I can, Warchief. I can be your woman.”

Slar leaned back and stopped his chewing. “Then tell me true. What do you think of Galdreth?”

Tealla did not break her steady gaze. “I fear the dark one will destroy our people for no purpose than its own desires.”

His breath catching in his throat, Slar beamed at the female. Her words echoed a long stream of his own thoughts distilled into a single sentence. “You are a good woman, Tealla.”

He thrust his fingers into her silky black hair, and grabbed the back of her head. A quick breath slipped between her lips, and the knife slid from her fingers to clatter on the silver. Slar leaned in close to sniff her neck. The scent of wildflowers, incense, and woman hung about her body. He kissed the smoothness of her skin, where the pulse of her heart showed at her neck. Tealla turned her lips downward, and the two of them met with a deep, needful passion.

A hurried knock rang at the chamber door. Slar drew back, seeing the same regret in Tealla’s eyes that he knew in his own heart.

“Come,” he shouted, “and it had better be important!”