Then the dwarf looked over to Hammadeen and gave a resounding, “Oo oi!”
The dryad blushed in response and disappeared into the grove.
“Ye hit ’im hard,” Pikel’s brother, Ivan, remarked a bit later. The yellow-bearded dwarf held his great axe over his shoulder with an impaled goblin still stuck to one blade.
Pikel regarded it curiously and scratched at his green-dyed hair and beard. Unlike his brother, who tucked his long beard into his belt, Pikel pulled his back over his ears and braided it, along with his hair, down his back.
Ivan heaved the impaled goblin over his shoulder and let it fall in front of him. “Hit mine hard, too,” he explained.
He put one foot on the dead monster’s shoulder, spat into both of his gnarly, calloused hands, and clenched the axe handle tightly. Bone crackled as the dwarf tugged at the axe.
“Didn’t want to wait and do this back there,” he explained between grunts. “Thought ye might be needin’ me help.”
“Uh-uh,” Pikel replied, shaking his head and looking to the spattered goblin still stuck against the tree.
Ivan finally wrenched his axe free. “Messy things,” he remarked.
“Another battle mars the forest just a few miles west,” came the melodic voice of Hammadeen.
Ivan shook his head in disbelief. “Always another battle!” he growled at the dryad then he looked at Pikel. “Bloody life, this druid thing.”
“Doo-dad!” Pikel howled.
“We ain’t found a day’s quiet since we came to this stinking—” he glanced at Hammadeen and winced—“this pretty forest.”
Pikel shrugged, offering no other explanation. Indeed, the dwarf brothers had discovered one fight after another since their arrival in Shilmista more than a tenday before. Not that they minded, given the nature of their opponents, but even Ivan was beginning to worry about the sheer number of goblinoids and giant-kin in the supposedly peaceful wood.
The dryad put her ear and gentle hands against the oak’s rough bark, as though listening to the tree. “The fight is just ended,” she announced.
“Elves win?” asked Ivan. “Not that I’m caring!” he quickly clarified. Ivan was not fond of elves. They were too fanciful and scatterbrained for his dwarven sensibilities.
“Eh?” Pikel prodded, nudging his brother hard in the arm as though he had just caught Ivan in a rare moment of compassion.
“They’re a better lot than orcs,” Ivan admitted, “but I’ve no heart for sharing a meal with either breed!”
Pikel joined in with his gruff chuckle, then they both turned on Hammadeen.
“Well, did they win?” Ivan asked again.
The dryad drew a blank and somewhat worried look, having no answers.
“Me guess’s that we should go and see what we can do,” Ivan said. “We got the one body away from them under the burned tree—even an elf deserves better than to be served up on a goblin’s dinner table!”
When they finally reached the battlefield, Pikel was the first to spot a victim: a slashed orc lying in a thick bush.
“Oo!” the dwarf squealed with delight when he got to the body and found four other orcs in similar states.
“Oo!” he howled even more enthusiastically when he spotted two dead ogres a few paces away, one with its throat pierced and the other with its head caved in.
“Someone did some fine fightin’,” Ivan agreed, circling wide around the field. He saw a dead orc and a dead orog lying beside what looked to be a small campsite, but continued on around the camp to an area that apparently had seen even more action.
Two orogs lay dead, their heads twisted almost all the way around to the back, and several orcs and orogs were strewn about the ground a short distance from them. Ivan spent a while inspecting the creatures and their curious wounds. None had been slashed by sword or pierced by spear or arrow, and even the killing, crushing blows didn’t resemble any mace or hammer marks the dwarf had ever seen. Also, the way the two orogs had died, their necks snapped in a strikingly similar fashion, hardly seemed the work of an elf.
Pikel’s call turned his brother around. Pikel was in the campsite, holding high the head and chest of the dead orog and pointing to the creature’s scorched wound. Only one weapon Ivan had ever seen could have caused that mark. He glanced back at the two dead orogs, an image of Danica suddenly coming to his mind.
“Wizard’s work,” Ivan offered hopefully, moving to join his brother. “Or …”
That last thought was answered soon enough as Pikel dropped the orog, leaped over to some brush, and produced a familiar ram’s-head walking stick.
“Uh-oh,” said Pikel.
“Dryad!” Ivan bellowed.
“Quiet would serve better in the dangerous forest,” Hammadeen offered as she appeared from a tree behind the dwarf. She gave Ivan a wink and a wistful smile.
“None o’ yer charming stuff!” the dwarf yelled at her, but even gruff Ivan mellowed when Hammadeen’s disarming smile became a frown. “This is too important,” Ivan explained. “Who fought the fight?”
The dryad shrugged.
“Well, ask yer trees!” roared the dwarf. “Was it elves or humans?”
Hammadeen turned around for just a moment then announced, “Both.”
“Where’d they go?” Ivan asked, looking all around.
Hammadeen pointed to the northeast. Ivan and Pikel ran off at once, Ivan begging the dryad to lead them.
They were relieved when they caught up to the party and found Cadderly and Danica still alive, though badly beaten. Danica was held suspended from the ground by two ogres holding a large stick tied across her shoulders and along the back of her neck. The giant monsters showed the woman plenty of respect, keeping far from her, even though her arms and legs were securely bound. One of them limped badly, and the other was all scratched and bruised. The dwarves could easily guess that the ogres had found the misfortune of tangling with Danica back in the camp.
Cadderly came next, walking with his hands tied behind his back, a hood over his head, and four orogs surrounding him and prodding him every step. Last in line was an elf being dragged by a host of orcs, his ankles bound to a plank.
“Too many,” Ivan muttered, and indeed, no fewer than twenty formidable monsters surrounded their helpless friends. He looked at his brother and smiled. “We need to set us a trap.”
“Oo oi,” Pikel agreed.
They ran off, circling far ahead of the caravan. Some time later, they stopped in a small clearing. Ivan glanced around and scratched at his beard.
He looked up a thick-limbed elm to a tumble of boulders a short distance away then back down the path to where the caravan would make its approach.
“If we can get a few of them rocks up the tree.…” the dwarf mused. His dark eyes sparkled, and he slammed his hands together twice in rapid succession. “Thump! Thump! And two less ogres to fight.”
“Uh-oh,” Pikel whispered, rolling his eyes around.
A chuckle from the boughs showed that the dryad saw the same disastrous possibilities as the doubting dwarf.
Ivan had no time to hear any protests. He pulled his brother along and together they managed to roll one large rock under the overhanging limb. Ivan scratched his yellow beard and considered how they might get the boulder up the tree, for at its lowest point, the branch was still eight or nine feet from the ground—and it was the lowest branch in the elm.
“Ye pick up the stone and get on me shoulders,” Ivan said. “Stick it in the crook and we’ll climb up and sort it out later.”
Pikel eyed the stone and the branch with doubt, and shook his head.
“Do it!” Ivan commanded. “Ye wanna see Cadderly and Danica served up for ogre snacks?”
Grunting and groaning every inch, Pikel managed to heave the two-hundred-pound rock up to his chest. Ivan dropped his deer-horned helmet to the side, stepped up behind Pikel, and dipped his head between his brother’s legs. The mighty dwarf heaved with all his might, finally
bringing Pikel unsteadily into the air.
“Put it up! Put it up!” Ivan begged between grunts. In the wavering seat, Pikel couldn’t hope to get the stone far enough from his body to clear the thick branch.
“I’ll take a run at it,” Ivan offered, seeing his brother’s dilemma. He swerved back a few steps from the tree then charged ahead, hoping his momentum would aid Pikel.
Pikel heaved mightily, pushing the stone out to arm’s length, then slammed into the branch. Oblivious to his brother’s sudden dilemma, Ivan continued on, stretching poor Pikel to his limit. The rock went atop the branch and rolled over, dropping straight at Ivan’s head.
“Oops!” came Pikel’s warning. Ivan managed to get his arms up to deflect the bomb, but he went sprawling anyway, leaving Pikel hanging from the branch by his fingertips.
“Oooooo!” Pikel wailed, and he fell, his landing cushioned by Ivan’s chest.
Unseen but not unheard, Hammadeen’s titters didn’t do much to improve Ivan’s mood.
When they had recovered a few moments later, they next tried using their ropes to coax the boulder up. It slipped out of their noose a few times—until they got the hang of properly tying it—and bounced once off Ivan’s foot. They nearly had it to the branch when the rope snapped.
Pikel wagged his head and looked nervously back down the path, thinking that their time was just about up.
“Ye’re the druid!” Ivan growled at him. “Tell yer tree to bend down and pick the damned thing up!”
Pikel put his hands on his hips and scowled fiercely.
Ivan put his fist in Pikel’s eye.
Pikel grabbed the hand and bit Ivan’s knuckle.
They rolled around on the dirt, pinching, biting, kicking—whatever worked—until Ivan broke off, a grin of inspiration spread across his thick-skinned face.
“I get ye up the tree and toss ye the rock!” he beamed.
Pikel looked around then grinned, too.
Boosting Pikel up was not a problem, but the stubborn rock proved a different matter. As strong as he was, Ivan couldn’t hope to heave the boulder high enough for Pikel to catch it. Growing as frustrated as his brother, Pikel turned around, hooked his stubby legs at the knees over the branch and reached down as far as he could.
The rock hit him square in the face and chest, but he managed to hold his precarious perch, though he had no idea of how he was going to right himself with the heavy stone.
Ivan called out support, urging his brother on. He realized—too late—that he had wandered directly under his brother.
Pikel had just about turned upright when his legs let go. Ivan managed a single desperate step before his brother and the boulder buried him.
Hammadeen’s laughter echoed louder.
“That did it!” Ivan bellowed, hopping to his feet. He grabbed the stone and tried to pry it away from Pikel, who just lay there, saying “Oo,” over and over and clutching the rock like it was some dwarf baby—and in truth it somewhat resembled one.
Then Ivan had the stone. He charged the tree and hurled it at where the limb met the trunk. It bounced off, but Ivan scooped it back up and heaved it again, and again, and again after that.
Pikel just sat in the dirt, watching his brother in disbelief.
Then, amazingly, the stone wedged into the crook and held, and Ivan turned around triumphantly.
“They’ll get here soon,” he observed, gathering the rope. “No time for another rock.”
“Phew,” Pikel remarked under his breath.
They looped the rope over the branch and started up, one on either side. Pikel, less armored and less heavily supply-laden than his brother, gained a quick advantage then put his sandal on Ivan’s shoulder—waggled his smelly toes in his brother’s face—and pushed off. His momentum carried him the rest of the way, and he pulled himself over and sat up, forgetting to keep his weight on the rope. He watched, mesmerized, as it flew by, and Ivan plummeted back to the dirt.
The yellow-bearded dwarf sat up, spitting twigs and pebbles and scolding himself for not knowing better.
“Oops,” Pikel offered.
“Tie off the rope!” Ivan growled.
Pikel considered the task and the consequences of letting his angry brother get near him then shook his head.
“Tie it off!” Ivan roared. “Or I’ll cut the tree down!”
He picked up his axe and took a stride toward the thick trunk before Hammadeen appeared between him and his target.
“Do not do that,” the dryad warned.
Of more concern to Ivan was his brother, the would-be druid, who had slid down the branch near the crook and the heavy rock’s precarious perch. Ivan had no doubt that if he went to chop at the tree, Pikel would drop the stone on his head.
Ivan crossed his burly arms in front of his chest and stood staring up at Pikel. Finally, the seated dwarf relented and tied off the rope, motioning for his brother to climb up. Soon then they sat together on the branch, Ivan impatient and uncomfortable, but Pikel, thinking his perch very druidlike, quite content.
“What are ye laughing about now?” Ivan demanded of the pesky dryad some time later. Hammadeen appeared on a branch above them, pointing to the north.
“The ogres did not come this way,” she said.
Sure enough, peering through the trees, Ivan and Pikel could just make out the distant commotion of the prisoner caravan, some distance north and moving away.
Pikel looked to Ivan, then to the rock, then back to Ivan, a sour expression on his cherubic face.
“Shut—” Ivan started, but he stopped, noticing some movement in the not-too-distant brush.
A moment later he made out an orc, foraging through the trees, cutting pieces of kindling with a long knife. Ivan considered the creature’s path and realized it would pass not too far from the trap.
“Get it over here,” he whispered to Pikel.
His brother squeaked and poked a finger into his own chest.
“Yeah, yerself!” Ivan whispered harshly, and he slapped Pikel on the back of his head, dislodging him from the branch.
“Oooooo!” Pikel wailed before hitting the ground with a thud.
Ivan paid his brother no heed. He was more concerned with the orc, who had noticed the noise. The creature crept in slowly, knife held ready.
Pikel rolled around for a moment then glared up at Ivan, but kept enough wits to move to the clearing’s far side. He turned his back to the approaching orc, put his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle nonchalantly.
The orc slipped up to the tree trunk, oblivious of Ivan holding the rock above its head. One step out, then two, then it broke into a run.
Then it was dead.
Ivan looped the rope and swung down. He slammed a heavy boot atop his squashed victim, pounding a hand triumphantly against his barrel-like chest. “I telled ye it would work!” he proclaimed.
Pikel looked at the crushed orc then up at the branch, an amused expression splayed across his face. Ivan knew what his brother was thinking: that it would have been much easier just to walk over and put an axe through the orc’s thick head.
“Don’t ye say a word!” Ivan growled. Fortunately, Pikel never had trouble following that particular command.
“I think we can get the rock back in place,” Ivan started, looking back to the crook. “If I can—”
Pikel ran him down, and the fight was on. Quite unknown to the wrestling dwarves, another orc was nearby, collecting wood. It came to the clearing, noticed its squashed companion, and considered the titanic struggle. It looked at its meager knife then shrugged and moved along, thinking that some sights were better forgotten.
TWELVE
UNDER GUARD
Cadderly.” The word came from a great distance, from beyond the edge of the young scholar’s consciousness. “Cadderly,” it came again, more insistent.
Cadderly strained to open his eyes. He recognized the voice, and he recognized the caring eyes he found himself looking into, rich bro
wn and exotic. Still, it took him a while to remember the woman’s name.
“Danica?”
“I feared you would never awaken,” Danica replied. “That bruise on your neck is wicked indeed.”
Cadderly didn’t doubt that. Even the slightest shift of his head hurt him. He gradually came back to consciousness, to see that they were in a tent fashioned from animal skins. Cadderly’s hands were tightly bound behind his back and Danica’s behind hers. Danica sat with Cadderly’s head and shoulders gently propped on her lap. No guards were in sight, but Cadderly heard the guttural grunts of orcs and orogs outside, and that noise led him to recall the battle, and the last desperate act in which he had blasted the ogre’s shoulder.
“They didn’t kill us?” he asked, confused.
He wriggled his hands around and could feel that he still wore his feathered ring.
Danica shook her head. “They were under orders not to, I must assume—strict orders,” she replied. “The orc that struck you was punished by the orogs for hitting you so hard. They all feared you would die.”
Cadderly considered that news for a moment, but couldn’t understand why it would be so.
“Elbereth?” he asked, panic coloring his voice.
Danica looked beyond the young scholar, to the back of the tent. With some effort, Cadderly managed to shift around for a glance as well. Elbereth, the elf prince, seemed far removed from royalty at that moment. Dirty and bloodstained, he sat with his head down, his arms tied to his knees. One eye was bruised so badly it wouldn’t open.
He must have sensed the stares and looked up.
“I caused our capture,” he admitted, his choked voice barely more than a whisper. “It was I they sought, an elf prince to ransom.”
“You cannot know that,” Danica offered, trying to comfort the distraught elf.
There was little conviction in the young woman’s voice, though. Elbereth’s guess seemed logical. The elf put his head back down and did not answer.
“Orogs.…” Cadderly muttered, trying to jog his memory.
He had read several passages concerning the brutes and searched his memory for answers. A prince’s ransom made some sense, but what of he and Danica? Had they, perhaps, been taken prisoner to be sacrificed in some horrible ritual? Were they to be the meat of an orog’s dinner? Neither explanation offered much solace, and Cadderly nearly jumped upright when the flap of the tent was thrown aside.
In Sylvan Shadows Page 13
