Between Dark and Light (10 page)

“Me and my troops will camp on the trail tonight to keep watch. If they attack, you put up that gate, and we’ll hold them off. If they don’t, there’s nothing to worry about. Either way, there’ll be no more bickering amongst ourselves. Understood?”

The master mason and the foreman both nodded.

“You dwarves shake hands and let this go. Our enemy is down there.”

As the dwarves shook hands and apologized, the captain turned and went to assemble his troops. While he didn’t relish the idea of sleeping on the narrow trail, he would rather keep everyone at ease by creating a buffer between the unfinished gate and the Great Empire. He didn’t anticipate an attack tonight, but since he couldn’t say for certain, this was his best option to ease the workers’ fears. One thing he had learned from fighting the ogres was fear could be an enemy worse than the opposing army, and the last thing he needed before the general arrived was a riot.

***

Vishghu sat across from her mother and waited for a response. The clan elders stared at the matriarch, their expressions as varied as their opinions. Some relished the idea of marching to confront the Great Empire but had differing opinions on where and when, and others believed they should hunker down behind their fortifications and wait. Still others didn’t trust Evil Blade at all and proclaimed the plan an outright double-cross to lure them into the open. Throughout the debate, Vishghu remained resolute that his plan was their best hope to defeat the humans and mend relations with the Kiredurks. After an extensive pause, her mother cleared her throat.

“Vishghu, answer one question. Why do you trust Evil Blade?”

“While he may be vicious and ruthless,” Vishghu responded, choosing her words carefully. “I have witnessed firsthand that he keeps his word.”

Several ogres scoffed at her, but the matriarch raised her hand to silence them.

“How so?” she asked.

Vishghu stared down in concentration, trying to frame her response into one solid image that would convince them. She had seen so many examples of both his brutality in battle and his sense of duty that she wasn’t sure how to narrow it down to one perfect instance. At Kwarck’s gate, he could’ve killed her but chose not to. On the Slithsythe, he could’ve fled but stood his ground against certain death to give her time to find Roskin. In the shadows of Hard Hope, he had saved her life, and among the Marshwoggs, he had stayed by her until she was able to travel. In her heart, she knew he would never go against his word, but explaining that to her own kind eluded her.

“She can’t think of one example,” an elder said.

Those who didn’t trust Evil Blade erupted into a cacophony of slurs against the old man. The matriarch rose from her seat and bellowed for silence. She looked at Vishghu and asked again for an illustration of his trustworthiness.

“See these scars,” she said, pointing to her legs and pulling up her shirt to reveal her abdomen. The elders gasped. “I got these fighting the orcs to escape their lands. When we reached the Marshwoggs, I was too weak to walk. Evil blade could’ve left with the dwarves and elves to seek refuge, but he didn’t. He remained by my bed until I healed. Then, he willingly returned to Kwarck’s to serve out his exile. Why wouldn’t I trust him?”

“And you are certain he will attack on the Winter Solstice?” her mother asked.

“So certain I will stand in that field alone if I have to. He will be there with the elves, and this will be our best chance to weaken the Great Empire and drive them from our lands.”

“Then, our clan will stand with you,” the matriarch said.

A grumble of dissent ran through the elders.

“Those who wish not to fight can hide like cowards,” the matriarch continued, her voice a low growl. “But those of us with spines will ride to Rugraknere and lure out our enemy.”

The crowd fell silent, and she dismissed the elders, ordering them to send as many riders as they could summon to request assistance from the other clans. As Vishghu rose to leave, the matriarch asked her to sit by her side, and the young ogre obeyed. While they waited for the riders to assemble, the matriarch didn’t speak, and the two sat quietly. Instead of being uncomfortable, the silence felt intimate. Throughout her childhood, Vishghu had thought her mother overbearing and overly critical. Nothing had pleased the clan leader, and Vishghu often felt as if she were a disappointment. Sitting there in silence, however, she sensed her mother’s pride, and for the first time in her life, Vishghu knew her mother approved of her. She wanted to say something but feared destroying the moment, so she remained quiet and soaked in the warmth of long-awaited approval.

When all the riders had gathered, the matriarch gave detailed instructions for what to say to the other matriarchs. They were to explain that Vishghu had learned of the Great Empire’s plan to attack her clan in the spring. The council of elders had decided to march to Rugraknere in winter to strike them before they were ready. The runners were to explain the plan had been devised by the council, and most importantly, there was to be no mention of Evil Blade or an army of elves. When she finished with the instructions, the matriarch made each rider swear an oath to follow her orders precisely. After each had sworn, she told them to ride to as many clans as each could reach and dismissed them.

“Dictate the time and place,” the matriarch said to her daughter, as the riders jogged off to find their mounts. “And you control the kind of battle being fought. I never thought of it that way before. At last, the Great Empire will feel the might of the ogres unleashed on them.”

Vishghu looked at her mother and smiled. Crushaw’s plan was in motion, and she liked her mother’s orders not to mention his name or the elves. The more desperate the situation seemed, the more clans were likely to respond, and the bigger the force they could gather, the more likely the Great Empire would be to march forward to meet them. With any luck, there would be heavy snows the week of the solstice, but even if that didn’t happen, at that time of year, there would be at least a few inches of snow already on the ground, giving the ogres the advantage. Her mother studied her face for a heartbeat and returned the smile. Then, she told her daughter to gather the soldiers and instruct them to train for battle. Vishghu nodded and hastened from the village square to find the clan warriors.

Chapter 6

A Shroud of Darkness

Crushaw picked at the scab on the inside of his left arm, the brown crust flaking off and drifting to the ground. He had awakened the elves two hours before sunrise for another ten mile run and now awaited their return. For two weeks, he had worked them nonstop – running them twice a day, drilling throughout daylight on weapons and formations, and teaching about tactics. Of course, most of the training was delegated through his captains, and while they proved to be quick studies on formations and strategies, their swordplay fell short of his expectations. They were skilled enough to take on average soldiers, but he anticipated General Strauteefe’s forces to be the best of the Great Empire, for he had impressed upon his replacement the importance of daily drills. At this moment, the elves would be slaughtered in pitched battle against them.

Since they had arrived, he no longer helped in the fields, and as daylight grew, he watched Kwarck lead Stahloor, Alysea, and Suvene into the crops to harvest. He and the orc stayed far from each other, eating at different times and walking in opposite directions if they crossed paths. Seeing the orc each day brought back memories of the plantation – beatings he had repressed, humiliations he had forgotten, scars he had hidden from himself. Growing up a slave had shaped him into the warrior he became, a cold and merciless killer who thrived on victory, and while old age and experience had mellowed that part of him slightly, seeing the orc regularly reminded him of why he had become infamous as Evil Blade. The masters had seared hate into his heart. Now, he wanted to be remembered as more than the slaughterer of ogres. That was no legacy to leave behind, and as he looked back on the jumbled memories of his life, he wished there were more there than images of death and pain. For that, he hated the orcs more than anything else.

Despite himself, Crushaw admired Suvene, for the young orc worked in the fields as hard as any slave the old man had known. The hard work demonstrated dignity and pride, something Crushaw had never seen in an orc. And the more the old man thought about Suvene’s sense of duty, the more impressed he became. Not only had Suvene risked his life to escape and warn his people, he had also then hunted Crushaw down to avenge the death of a friend. The world would be a better place if more had that kind of moxie. Like General Strauteefe, Suvene would make a good replacement when Crushaw was gone, and he was glad Kwarck would have someone dutiful to assist on the farm, even if it was an orc.

The nomads were due any time, and Crushaw hoped they would arrive this day because too much time was lost cooking. He needed those extra hours each day for more sword work, and once the nomads arrived, Kwarck had promised to allow Stahloor and Alysea to join the archers. For now, the wizard needed them for the harvest, but both were highly skilled with bows, and Crushaw wanted them in the army. Of the ten thousand elves, only a tenth had bows, and he was disappointed with that. Their long bows would be the difference in the battle, and he had hoped for twice as many. While a thousand would be enough to thin Strauteefe’s ranks, it might not keep his crossbows out of range.

As he mulled these thoughts, the elves came into sight, sprinting the last mile as he demanded. When they reached their campsites, the captains and twenty-five leaders ran to him to receive their daily orders. He would give the elves this much: so far they had lived up to their oath. Despite grueling runs and constant training, he had not heard one utterance of dissent, even as he pushed their bodies to their limits. Had he pushed human soldiers this hard, he would’ve had to make an example of several each day, but the elves bore the rigors without complaint. He was certain that was due, in part, to him telling them they were soft of heart. The fact that they had responded by proving him wrong gave him hope they would learn to wield their swords to his satisfaction.

“You orders, General?” the third swordsman asked, sweat dripping from his nose after the run.

“After breakfast, three hours of swords for everyone, even the archers, and I’ll come to each campsite to inspect your progress.”

The elves bowed and broke off to deliver the orders, so Crushaw strode to the house to find what Kwarck had left him for breakfast. In the kitchen, his plate was filled with eggs and sausages, and he ate heartily, anticipating the exercise he would get demonstrating footwork, cuts, draws, and rakes the next three hours. Teaching his techniques was exhausting work, and repeating the instructions over and over at each campsite fatigued him. By lunchtime, he would need at least an hour to rest, and in the afternoon, he would repeat the process, this time drilling on formations and explaining tactics to each captain. In all his years as a soldier, he had always found teaching the most draining work, especially when the majority of his students struggled with basics. As soon as he finished his last bite, he retrieved his sword and headed for the first campsite, hoping the elves would show progress and the nomads would arrive.

***

Crushaw flung open the door to Kwarck’s kitchen and stomped inside, cursing the elves under his breath. Suvene rose from the table and left the room, but the other three stared at the old man. He leaned his sword against the wall, crossed the room, and poured himself a fresh glass of water. Then, he scowled at Kwarck before draining his cup in one long gulp.

“What’s the matter?” Kwarck asked, setting a plate for him.

“They’re pitiful,” he responded, pouring another glass. “They can’t learn the basics of wielding a sword.”

“It’s only been two weeks,” Stahloor offered.

“How is it you people can speak three languages, march in perfect formation, run ten miles twice a day, yet not be capable of learning how to maintain footwork while performing a simple forward slash? One of you please explain that to me.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Kwarck said, motioning for Crushaw to have a seat.

“It is,” Crushaw huffed, sitting at the table. “A handful in each camp can fight well enough, but the vast majority won’t last ten minutes in real battle.”

“Can I help?” Alysea asked.

Crushaw nearly laughed and then almost ripped her head off for the absurdity of the question, but she was merely trying to be helpful, so he smiled at her instead and thanked her for the offer. Then, he explained that what he needed was to spend more time at each camp, breaking them into smaller groups to give more individual attention.

“Then do that,” Kwarck suggested.

“If I do, then we’ll have a couple thousand decent swordsmen and seven thousand walking corpses. There’s not enough time.”

He looked out the window and spotted Suvene near the barn, sitting alone and staring south. As he looked at the young orc, an idea came to him. Crushaw excused himself and bolted from the table. As he opened the door, he grabbed his sword and strode straight at Suvene. As he approached, the orc looked at him and jumped to his feet, crouching in a defensive posture.

“I’m not here to fight,” Crushaw said in orcish, tossing the sword at Suvene’s feet.

“What’s going on, Crushaw?” Kwarck asked in the common tongue, walking behind the old man.