“Alright! Alright!” He muttered several colorful oaths under his breath as he hefted his massive frame, pushing off on the table to steady legs gone numb from sleeping in armor. His feet felt as if they had become extensions of his heavy plate boots. It was as if his joints had rusted during his impromptu nap.
Torus yanked open the guardhouse door and peered down at the little man who stood on the threshold. He might as well have been a city rat, Torus thought. The black eyes set a little too close together, a nose a little too long and pointed to be attractive, even for a man. He wore simple dyed linen, much patched and still fraying in many locations.
“Yes?” the lieutenant demanded peremptorily.
The little man’s hands worried at the wide brim of the floppy hat he clutched between dirt-stained fingers. He looked back over his shoulder, and then back at the lieutenant, clearing his throat incessantly.
“Um, sir, the villagers, they, uh...”
Torus ground his teeth. Getting angry wasn’t going to help matters. He knew that as soon as he raised his voice to this quivering creature in front of him, that it would be completely useless trying to get any worthwhile information out of him. He stood aside and swept his arm in a wide gesture.
“Please, come inside.”
He was unaccustomed to any type of civility, Torus realized as the man stepped sideways past him into the guardhouse common room. The lieutenant pulled out a chair and gestured, a bit firmly, for the man to take a seat. He poured a cup of spiced wine from the skin warming by the hearth and passed the tin cup to his guest. The man’s thin fingers grasped it as if he had been handed a holy golden chalice. He took a sip of the wine and sighed. Some of the rigidity left his frame as the hospitality and the drink began to have the desired effect.
“How can I help you?” Torus asked, deciding to try a soft touch.
“Well, sir, the villagers asked me to come to you. They...we...know that you have men down by the tree line. We, uh, we think something may have happened to them.”
“Why do you think that?”
The man swallowed, his throat bobbing up and down in a nervous tick that threatened to drive Torus past the edge of his patience.
“Sir, we was doing a bit of trading with your boys. You know, sweets and ale and the like, and we goes down there to play at dice sometimes. We ain’t looking to get them into trouble...”
“Whatever trouble they get in, isn’t your concern, now tell me why you think something’s happened.”
“Yes, Sir. We was going to take some bacon down to your boys this morning, but there’s no fires and the tents is all pulled down and grass is all torn up around the camp. We didn’t get close, on account of them wood-dwellers still being around. They shoot arrows at us if we is gettin too close to the trees.”
Torus swore under his breath and the man reddened. The violence with which the man’s hands started shaking threatened to splash the wine over the rim of the cup. The lieutenant reached across and plucked it from his grasp, setting it firmly on the table.
“You’ll take me there, immediately.”
Torus grabbed his helm from the shelf above the table and picked up his long sword from the rack beside the door. It was a well weathered weapon, with many dings and scratches. It had been his since he had been sworn into the guard as a youngster and had served him through his entire service. The feel of it sliding into the scabbard slung over his shoulder was comforting and brought a sense of peace to him that few things did.
He reached up and pulled the rope that led to the bell in the barracks. The loud pealing echoed through the room and the mousy man clasped his hands over his ears.
“Get up, you lazy bastards!” Torus roared down the hallway. “There’s trouble and we need to see what kind.”
To their credit, his soldiers appeared through the doorway momentarily, pulling on plates of thick leather armor and buckling on scabbards and quivers. They presented themselves to the officer with a crisp salute, which he returned before he looked them over. Not bad for an emergency muster, he thought. He pulled a strap here, untwisted a buckle there, but the three kids in his charge were as ready as they were going to be.
It was fortunate that the path down to the tree line wasn’t too far from the guardhouse. The nearer they got to the forward camp, the more nervous the villager became. Before long, they reached the split rail fence that separated the village proper from the wide swathe of land that marked the border between the Imperium and Aldstock, the ancestral home of the elves. The villager refused to go any further, showing a surprising amount of backbone that Torus wouldn’t have believed he possessed had he not seen it.
Torus wondered for a moment if the man or the villagers hadn’t had something to do with the attack, but that didn’t add up. Why would the man have come to tell them that something was amiss? Certainly they’d have tried to avoid the confrontation altogether. Besides, the man was genuinely afraid of going any further toward the camp. They had been there before, playing dice, so there was no reason that he should not want to return unless he really felt there was something wrong.
From the gentle slope above the camp, it was obvious that there was something amiss. The tents, normally pulled taut against their supporting poles, sagged limply toward the dew-covered ground. The fire rings had been scattered and no whisper of smoke scented the morning breeze. Clothing and cookery items were scattered about. Most disturbing, however, were the weapons that lay, abandoned, around the camp.
Whatever had happened here had happened quickly and with the element of surprise. Torus drew his sword, prompting the others to ready their weapons. Two archers and two swordsmen suddenly seemed like long odds. It didn’t help, Torus thought, that these boys were as green as spring grass. None of them had been in combat and spilled blood. Shooting an arrow at a training target was one thing. Shooting one at something that shot back was something else entirely.
He motioned silently to the archers, who nodded and spread out on the ridge. Another gesture and the boy with the sword fell into step beside him. Their approach to the camp was agonizingly slow, eye and ear alert for the slightest warning or indication of danger. As they neared the closest tent, Torus knew they would find no survivors here. The wind brought the smell of sewer sludge, tinged with the thick coppery smell of spilled blood. It was the smell of death. Torus had smelled it on enough battlefields to know that whatever had happened here had been a massacre. He didn’t look forward to what they would find.
Torus nodded to the boy, urging him into position across from him, outside the flap of the nearest tent. The lieutenant flipped the flap open with the tip of his sword. The boy beside him dropped his blade and promptly vomited into the grass by his feet. As a soldier, Torus judged him harshly, but as a human being, he couldn’t fault the boy. Inside the tent, a scattered mass of flesh, tissue, and bone that had once been one of their brothers-in-arms. Whatever had torn him apart had done so some hours ago. The offal was already beginning to blacken with decay. The stench was nearly overwhelming.
A shout went up from the ridge, and Torus whirled, his blade at the ready. A man stood at the edge of the tree line. He was naked from the waist up, his muscular arms held high above his head. In one he grasped an ornate bow. In the other, a bunch of arrows. He wore breeches of forest green and brown boots that seemed to blend into the ground where he stood.
He walked forward in measured steps, never dropping his eyes from Torus’ face. Torus sheathed his sword. He knew an armistice when he saw one. Besides, the look on the elf’s face was raw enough that Torus could recognize it even at this distance. He was terrified.
“You may call me Dendrel,” the elf said as they came within speaking distance. “My people are not responsible for this, certainly you see that?”
“Torus,” the lieutenant replied, gesturing over his shoulder. “I’m not certain of anything, but I’ve never heard of that kind of brutality from your kind.”
The elf shook his head, sadnes
s reflected in his oval, deep blue eyes.
“Our people aren’t so different,” he said slowly. “This, I think, is a common enemy, if an old one.”
“Then you saw who did this?” Torus was growing impatient. If the elf or his kin had seen who the attackers were, they could pursue them immediately and call up reinforcements from elsewhere along the line. Even to Dragonfell and Blackbeach if need be.
“Yes. Your men were slaughtered by the Xarundi.”
It took a moment for that thought to register. For a moment, Torus was certain the elf was mocking him and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. The elf dropped his bow and arrows in the grass at Torus’ feet, looking up at him with those sad eyes.
“You’re mad.” Torus’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
“If only I were.”
The elf moved to the side, slowly lifting the flap to the tent that was sagging there. Deep score marks marred the tent post. A footprint in the soft dirt was reminiscent of a dire-wolf, but far larger.
“A wild animal,” Torus said, half-heartedly. The answering look the elf gave him was no longer sad, but disdainful.
“What animal do you know of that walks on two legs, like man, and has such deadly claws?”
Torus didn’t answer. He had nothing to say.
* * *
A mass of black shapes moved along the road toward the village. The pack was silent and only stood out from the night's blackness when the moonlight fell on sleek fur or reflected in luminescent blue eyes. They loped along easily, covering the distance between Aldstock and the sleeping town as fast as a man on horseback.
The leader stood eight feet high, a full foot or so taller than the tallest of his closest kin. He loped along on powerful hind legs, thickly roped with muscle and designed for springing with terrible speed on unsuspecting prey. His arms were equally powerful, with huge hands and fingers tipped by razor sharp claws that slipped in and out of their sheaths with unconscious agitation.
Glowing blue eyes were set above a narrow muzzle and strong jaw. The Xarundi's ears were erect and swiveled two and fro, alert for any sound that might indicate danger or detection. He smelled the stench of man and his nose twitched in hunger and anticipation.
“Where?” growled one of the pack in the guttural tongue of the Xarundi. The language was harsh and sounded very similar to the dialect of their simpler lupine cousins. A series of growls, yips, and snarls served to convey the basics of language.
“Close. Can't you smell the reek of them?” Zarfensis wrinkled his nose in distaste. The settlements of man were growing entirely too close to the ancient forest. They would need to be shown their proper place and made to respect their rightful masters. Snarling quietly, the High Priest called the clerics up from the rear ranks. Their magic would be needed. First to confuse and cause panic among the prey, second to heal any of the Chosen who might be injured in the struggle against the pink-skinned, hairless, vermin. The infestation spreading across the land like wildfire.
They were near enough to the settlement now to make out the sentries as they patrolled on the high wooden wall that surrounded the little village. Zarfensis called the darters forward and snarled an order. Four Xarundi raised long, hollow tubes and, as one, fitted darts into the near end. Each feathered dart was tipped in a poison so potent that a mere drop would cause a sleep that lasted for days and might never end. The amount of poison on each dart was enough to kill a fully grown Xarundi. A human would have little protection against its effects.
“Fire,” Zarfensis growled.
There were muted thumps as each darter fired his weapon. Up on the wall, the human guards slumped over at their posts. One fell over the outer wall, hitting the ground below like a sack of vegetables collapsing in on itself.
“Now,” the High Priest growled, dropping his jaw in a grin. “We eat well tonight.”
The Xarundi closed the distance to the heavy wooden gates with a speed and ferocity that would have terrorized the people of the village, had they had any warning. Without the guards at the top of the wall, the only alert the village would have would be the splintering wood of the Xarundi pulling the gate apart. A feat which they performed with little resistance, as their sharp claws tore easily through wood and pitch.
The gate fell, and the Xarundi poured into the village, pulling down lanterns and torches as they went, plunging the village into darkness. They crashed into doors, knocking them off their hinges and filling the night with the screams of the panicking villagers. As others began to awaken and run, the powerful wolf-men ran down their quarry, tearing out their throats and gorging themselves on the blood and flesh of their prey.
A few of the humans tried to put up a fight, but the clerics made short work of them with spell and staff. The entire attack was over in less than an hour. Every living thing in the village lay dead or dying, except the Xarundi. Slowly, the pack began to reform around the High Priest.
“Orders, Your Holiness?”
Zarfensis's long black tongue flicked out, cleaning off the blood and gore that dripped from his long talons. Once they were clean, he turned to his second in command.
“Collect the offal and set it to burn. Then burn the village. I want nothing left standing.”
~~~~
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I just can't,” she screamed, throwing the blade down in the grass by her feet. She wanted to cry and in truth, she was dangerously close to tears, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
The Captain just stared at her, his lips set in a thin, white, disapproving line. She knew she was disappointing him, but they had been training for four hours and she was sore and tired and frustrated.
“Pick up your weapon.”
She took a little too long to follow his order and she paid for it with a sharp slap of the broad side of his scimitar across the backs of her thighs. She yelped, and this time she did start to cry.
“I don't understand why this is so important to you anyway,” she sobbed. “Maybe you are wrong!”
“I'm not wrong,” he said quietly. “You need to focus. You need to center and stop getting distracted. Only then will you be able to channel your power.”
Tiadaria bit her tongue. She wanted to tell him exactly where he could stuff his center and his power and even his scimitar. She had told him off once. Exactly once. She'd had the bruises for days afterwards. There were times when she thought that “training” was just a synonym for “thrashing”. At least, that's what it felt like.
“On your guard, little one,” the Captain said, shifting effortlessly into an offensive stance.
She raised her sword, resigned to taking the beating he would no doubt dish out in response to her stubborn outburst. Then she noticed the men at the edge of the training field. Her grip went slack, the sword nearly falling from her fingers.
The Captain turned to look over his shoulder, seeing that she wasn't being obstinate this time. He sheathed his scimitar and crossed the training field in long strides.
She watched the men talk from a distance. He was shouting, she could hear his voice from where she stood, but she couldn’t make out the words. His posture was menacing, his arms flailing about in emphasis of whatever he was saying. Her stomach lurched in response to his mannerisms.
He was agitated and getting more so by the second. One of men dropped a hand to his belt dagger and the Captain took a step back. His hand went to the hilt of his scimitar, but the taller of the men, clad in a voluminous gray robe, raised a warning hand. He said something to the Captain, who looked at Tiadaria. He shook his head, his face set in an angry scowl.
Whatever was going on, it wasn't good. Tiadaria knew the beginning of a fight when she saw one. She had seen more than one brawl in the longhouses and it wouldn't be long before the conflict at the edge of the field came to blows. She wasn't going to wait around to find out how it turned out. She plucked her practice sword from the grass, turned on her heel, and set off in a dead run.
Her lungs ached with the effort of keeping her legs pumping toward the wood. The felt the pressure of the air change on her left and she ducked right. She was thirty feet from the edge of the wood. Just a little longer and she would be safe. She could slip into the wood and—
Her frantic thought was cut off as something slammed into her shoulder, spinning her around. An invisible blow slammed into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her and sending her falling backward over her own feet. She crashed into the ground, her head snapping forward as she hit the drought-hardened ground. Tiadaria's world went black.
She floated back and forth between states of consciousness. Things would lighten for a moment and then slip away. She could smell dirt and blood, but everything sounded as if she was underwater. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the Captain calling her name. He sounded upset.
Tiadaria wanted to tell him that she was okay, that she was just very tired, but she couldn't seem to open her eyes, much less make her mouth work. She heard someone tell the Captain that she was alright, that she would recover completely in a few hours. Of course she would recover. She had just fallen down.
Suddenly she was seven years old again. Even though she had been scolded time and again about climbing the watchtowers, she had picked her way to the very top of the tower that overlooked the valley. She had stayed there most of the day, only climbing down as the sun was slipping low to the horizon. Her brothers thought it would be fun to teach her a lesson, so they waited at the bottom of the tower and shouted at her, scaring her, as she descended. Her foot slipped off the cross-rung and she fell fifteen feet to the frozen earth below. Her brothers hadn't known what to do when she wouldn't wake up, so they ran to the village and brought their mother and father. It was scant consolation that the boys got just as much of a punishment as she did. She'd had a headache for days.
The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 Page 6
