A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) Read online

  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!”

  One of the captains from Wolf Clan opened the door, his face covered in mud and sweat. “Forgive me, Warchief, but I bear a message from Captains Fargon and Sharrog. A great army of the enemy crosses the Lond River. They will meet our breastworks at the Gallond within a week.”

  Slar waved the captain away, relief setting into his heart for once, rather than apprehension. “Thank you, Captain. Send word to all commanders. The horde marches with the morning.”

  The door closed behind the officer after he bowed his way out.

  Slar renewed his grip upon Tealla, who gave herself up to him with vigor. “I want you to come with me,” he whispered into her ear. “I need your words to keep me faithful to our people first.”

  Her passion redoubled when they lay down upon the bed.

  The long, cold shadows of early morning sliced across the mass of orcs and trolls gathered before Slar. He could not avoid their stench. Ninety thousand warriors from six clans marched past his perch on a small knoll, their faces fierce under red and black banners. Their boar skin capes well cleaned and their wounds mostly healed, Brother Ortax and Brother Aern stood nearby. Tealla wore a heavy cloak of fine, green-dyed wool and stood just at the edge of Slar’s coterie. I’d have her at my shoulder, but the chieftains would scream. At least I was able to convince the dwarf woman to stay behind. Her presence would unnerve them even more.

  “I think we’ve done it, Warchief.” Baylax rubbed his jaw, leaving a black smudge when he took his hand away. “Brother Ortax solved the encasement issue, and now he has the lot of ‘em.”

  A twinge of excitement crawled up Slar’s spine as he watched another cluster of grunts trot past, a coiled snake stitched in their banner. “Excellent work, forge master. If I can get the rest of my plan to unfold so well, I will be assured of success.” He reviewed a pack of trolls who followed their handlers like excited dogs, eager to be out for a stroll. “You should gather the greater part of your smiths and head for Dragonsclaw. They could use your aid there in building our new citadel. Leave only a few here at Highspur to keep the garrison cared for.”

  Baylax slapped his one fist against his heart. “As you command, Warchief. The Fires see your forces to victory.”

  Slar pursed his lips. I fear that the flames of our pyres shall be the only victors.

  Two days forced march brought Slar’s horde down into the valley of the Gallond River. The gray-brown grass of the Wastes had been churned to black mud where the advanced orc army prepared a wide array of defenses on the near side of the river. Wooden spikes lined the upward slopes, and the few siege engines salvaged from Highspur lined a wide area behind. Over a hundred thousand orcs had dug thousands of trenches and pits, some covered with fireproofed skins, while more spikes lined others.

  “Fargon and my son have been hard at work,” Slar called to Dradlo of the Bear Clan, who marched today at his side. At least his bluster is easier to stand than Sarinn’s simpering.

  “They have done decent work,” the Bear Chieftain allowed. “Now that another thirty thousand Bears have joined them, the work will go much faster.”

  Slar held his tongue and watched the cluster of orcs trot up from the command tent of the vast encampment. Soon he picked out Sharrog and Fargon, and a few other faces he would rather not see, especially among the shamans. Ortax and Aern stood close at his shoulder, while Dradlo and Sarinn organized their warriors into camps.

  Striding out from the group, even the friction between them could not dampen the smile of pride on Sharrog’s face. “See what we have prepared, Fa…Warchief? We have trenchworks ready for your new arrivals.” He looked at the orcs around him. “Not that Snakes should mind being that close to the ground.”

  Harsh laughter rose from even the shamans.

  My son has learned to lead as well as fight.

  Nodding in approval, Slar clasped his son’s wrist. “You have done well, Sharrog.” He looked to Fargon of Wolf Clan. “And you too, my old friend. Your folk took it worst at Highspur, yet they still stand in front here.”

  Fargon bowed his head to Slar, but pointed to the son of the Ram Chieftain. “Bathlor’s people took it hardest at Kirath, may their ashes drift on the Flames.”

  The young warrior from Ram Clan dropped to one knee before Slar. “Yet no loss is as great as that of your strong right arm. Radgred Boneshaker was the paragon of a warrior. His leadership is sorely missed.”

  Slar ducked his head in recognition. “How did he die?”

  Dropping his eyes, Fargon’s voice slipped low. “I held Wolf warriors in reserve, while the Rams moved to sack the city. Radgred led them. He took the mayor and executed him.” He looked up. “Radgred was inspecting the granaries when it began. The first explosion took him.”

  Slar spat. “We will burn the wizards back.”

  Shouts of agreement sounded from the whole group.

  Cupping his hands to be heard, Slar called out to the entire throng of warriors gathered before him. “We brought great stores from Highspur. Full rations for all tonight!”

  An even larger shout rose from the orcs.

  “Good.” Slar placed his arm about his son’s shoulders. “There are many things we must talk about.”

  “I have obtained the beasts, Father.” Sharrog cleared his throat. “They are more difficult to manage than one might think. They dislike us as much as we dislike like them.”

  Slar let his son go. “Do you have a team?”

  The excitement clear in his voice, Sharrog replied, “I do, and I shall lead them. We will be ready.”

  “Good,” Slar whispered. “I have the weapons you will need. Brother Ortax and Forge Master Baylax finished them just before we left.” He tapped his temple. “They are d
elicate and may be used only once.”

  Sharrog laughed. “Then I will just have to aim well.”

  The Blue Knights warned against our plan. They felt there were too many uncertainties in trapping the Dragonsouls away from our world. They had the right of it there. But they were also the ones who called for creation of the great shield to protect us from the Cataclysm. Little did we know how wrong that idea would be. – “The Spirit Trap” by Leolan “Lastking” Calais

  Elyl Falana took a deep breath to steady himself before he pushed against the long-grayed lifewood. Within his mother’s dining room, most of the family already gathered. Celedra herself sat in a tall, carved chair draped in purple velvet. She gathered a fox pelt cape closer about her thin frame.

  “Welcome, my second eldest son,” the ancient woman called. “You are, as always, immediately on time… never a moment early.”

  Elyl bowed his head. “I always endeavor to be punctual, Mother.” He looked across the table at Garon. “Greetings, Brother. Glad to see you and your knights have returned safely.”

  Though Garon only nodded in his direction, Elyl knew he wanted to embrace. I understand brother…propriety.

  Placing his hands on the back of his seat, Elyl looked down to the end of the table. “Stepfather. It is pleasing to see you again,” he lied. “I trust the coffers are full.”

  Sarzon bowed his dark-locked head. “Stepson.”

  Elyl looked to Sarzon’s right at the young elf who sipped at a warm broth. “Sadron, my younger brother. How goes Telagier?”

  His black eyes first darting to those of his father, Sadron laid down his spoon. “Well. The port operates again, but we still remain in secret.”

  Catching Garon’s attention for a split second, Elyl gave Sadron a near sardonic look. “I’m sure that’s due to your diligence.”

  At his stepfather’s left hand sat the first child Sarzon had birthed with his mother. It was her presence that had slowed Elyl’s steps when he first entered the room. “Sarzine. It has been longest since I’ve seen you at the family table. I would...hope to hear a story of where you have been these last few years.”