The greater Orc seemed to be invigorated by the quelling of its blood thirst. It came at Jacob more controlled, feinting with a thrust at Jacob’s stomach before stepping forward and trying to grab Jacob in some sort of wrestling manoeuvre. Jacob unleashed his might; he sliced his own blade across his body, knocking the Orc’s sword away from his stomach and shattering the poorly made steel in a clang that rang out through the battlefield like a cracked bell. The prince of Man, Lord of Light, took a firm grasp of the creature’s tusk with his left hand and lifted with inhuman strength. The Orc clawed at Jacob’s hand, but its enormous claws slid ineffectively against the dazzling armour. Slowly the Orc was lifted from the ground, then with a huge roar and a great surge of power Jacob lifted the monster above his head and slammed the creature down with such phenomenal force that all around heard bones exploding out of the now paralysed Orc’s joint sockets.
Jacob stood over his beaten foe and looked down upon him with naked hate in his eyes. He turned to address the warriors of Man. ‘I read once’, he began, his voice calm, his breath steady and even not showing any signs of exertion, ‘that animals that grow tusks show their dominance by the tusk’s size’. With that Jacob seized one of the broken Orc’s tusks and with contemptuous ease he snapped one, then the other. Throwing them to Brondolf, he said in a loud clear voice, ‘They will make a nice wedding gift for my future bride.’ He laughed a mocking sound and pointed towards the Orc. ‘This is the enemy without fear?’ The Goblins in the horde still able to move backed away, cowering before a power they could neither fight nor comprehend.
‘I brought you to this place to see the enemy for what they are. Weak! Without cause! The servants of Darkness will fall before the light!’ As Jacob spoke the sky crackled with sheets of lightening, streaks of luminosity dazzling to behold even in the throes of daylight.
The Orc looked up at Jacob, terror clear in its eyes, with its mouth in a grimace as its head shook in its fear. Men of the brotherhood crowded round to look upon a sight they had never heard of before, let alone seen with their own eyes. A greater Orc afraid.
‘Whom do you serve?’ Jacob said in a voice calm and quiet yet filled with power and authority.
‘Talek’ken, king of all Orc and those who serve’, the Orc stuttered.
Jacob turned his blade upon the fallen beast. ‘Whom do you serve?’ the prince roared in a voice that startled the once fearsome Orc.
‘Vor’rok, Lord of the Dark One’, the Orc said, defeat in its voice.
Jacob turned and directed his words at the warriors of Man. ‘It serves the Dark Lord, yet it fears me.’ He brought his sword to bear and lifting its bloodied point to the heavens he let out a roar of primal power, a power to dwarf the oceans and humble the mountains. Lightening flew from his sword’s point. At the same instant, a bolt overhead struck, and the two bolts of raw energy met a mile above the battlefield in a thunderous explosion that shook the foundations of the earth.
Jacob brought his sword down, leaving a shimmer of heat in the blade’s wake. It struck the Orc and passed through the cowed creature’s neck as if it were water. Jacob turned the blade and slid it into its scabbard and turned to Askia.
‘My standard, brother’, he commanded. Jacob took the standard from Askia and ripped from it the sigil, the badge of the kingdom of men, to the gasps of all warriors in sight. He grasped the nine-foot shaft of polished oak in his right hand and retrieved the dead Orc’s head with his left. He held the severed head up for all to see. ‘Behold, the broken Orc!’ He took the severed head and rammed it upon the point above the ragged remains of the flag and thrust the butt end into the ground.
‘Behold my war banner! The broken Orc!’
Gymir looked upon his prince and lord and with awe, excitement and hope in his voice he raised his sword to the sky and roared, ‘The broken Orc! The broken Orc! The broken Orc!’ The chant was taken up by all as Jacob turned towards the jungle. He knew the war cry carried deep within the enemy’s domain.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Unwilling Servant
Cameos sat at his desk, alone and silent in the chambers of the chieftain. Before him lay the open tome, the scriptures containing the true histories of his people. His fingers traced the lines of text, the words that had begun the transformation of the Elven race.
The foresters now made charcoal that burned far hotter and longer than the firewood they had previously harvested from the great subterranean forest. The blacksmith who, for his entire span of eight hundred and twenty-two years in the forge, had only made the same small collection of saw blades, tree felling axes and animal slaughtering and butchering tools, now made fine steel. And with the help of apprentices they stocked the newly built armoury with rack upon rack of short swords, daggers, dirks and throwing javelins.
Cameos meditated upon the evolution of his people since the messages he had received from the Mother and knew now was the time to record those changes in the tome. He took out a small clay dish and lay it beside the tome. Drawing a dagger from his belt, he opened a vein upon his wrist and filled the dish with warm pulsing lifeblood. When the dish contained sufficient blood for his needs, he took a rag and quickly bound the minor wound, knowing the laceration would cease bleeding in seconds and be completely healed within the hour.
He took a writing quill from the desk and sharpened the tip with his dagger. He placed his dagger on the desk, turned to a blank page, dipped the quill in the fresh blood and began.
I, Cameos, son of Camochee, chieftain of the Elven people, put our endeavours to parchment.
I write in mine own blood, as it is with the blood of our people that the cost of our survival will be paid.
The price is high. Mother asks for great sacrifice, and I weep for the grief we endure.
There is discord amongst kin. Despair looms above the people, dimming the lights of our eternal ancestors.
There has been murder. Foul. Made in secret and shadow. Macik son of Malacil has paid for these crimes, though with a heavy heart I took his head.
We came across a feared enemy from myth and nightmare. The Ratton.
Many nests of the abhorrent creatures have we found. Without mercy our slaughter reigned.
Seven and twenty of our brethren fell. Their flesh torn beyond the Mother’s healing.
Our tunnel’s growth is great. Our people industrious. Like ants, they work as one.
I feel the return of the greatness we once were. Our plans are within our sight.
We shall take the home of Man; the heart of their kingdom shall be ours.
And from that heart we shall pour like blood, until every inch of land is Elven.
A knock on the door and a call from without caused Cameos to lay down his quill. ‘Come’, he said in a voice filled with irritation.
Thakern entered and stood just inside the chamber as Talako closed the door and resumed his duty as keeper of the door. Cameos looked upon his most trusted bondsman and friend. ‘Will you really wait for permission to sit? By the Mother, Thakern, sit down’, he said, feigning exasperation.
Thakern smiled as he glimpsed the gentler side of his chieftain and remembered the youth he had been only years before. ‘I bring word from the tunnel encampment. We have obliterated the seventh Ratton nest. We have listening posts stationed throughout. They hear no noise of the creatures. It is believed we have cleansed the earth of the abomination.’
Cameos looked thoughtful for a moment then said, ‘Then it is glad tidings you bring. There is still a long way to dig before we reach the heart of the lands of the treacherous.’
‘There is more my chieftain, as you instructed. We have buried the filth of the Ratton and covered their decay with good soil of Mother earth. The chambers will make fine encampments and the people work with vigour, but it has been many days since they have seen their chieftain. Too many days you are alone in this room, pouring over texts and drawing your plans.’
Cameos became animated, but rather the anger that Thake
rn expected, Cameos was filled with excitement and joy. He jumped from his desk and retrieved a large, rolled parchment and unravelled it upon the desk. He used his dagger and the small clay bowl that held now congealing blood, to weigh the curled edges down. He playfully slapped Thakern on the shoulder and pointed to the centre of what Thakern could now see was a map.
‘Here,’ Cameos exclaimed, ‘is the true strength of their kingdom, it is their seat of power. They call this great fortress Sprettaman, the “Spark of Man”.’ Cameos said these words with a snort of derision. ‘They speak untruths even in the names of their buildings.’
Cameos noted Thakern’s eyes upon the dish of blood and became aggravated at Thakern’s lack of attention. ‘It is only blood, my friend. I am writing our journey upon the scriptures of our people. It is a time of great pain and testing. I thought mere ink ill-suited to the task.’ He stabbed his forefinger down and used it to trace the path of a circle he had drawn encompassing the sketch of Sprettaman and its enjoining town and farms.
‘This line runs a path of seven miles.’ Cameos looked hard into Thakern’s eyes and seeing he now had his full attention, smiled and continued. ‘This line.’ He stabbed again at the map as he spoke. ‘This will be our new realm. We can create a tunnel, following the path of this line. We shall dig the tunnel wide and deep, to the very foundations of the Mother if we must. But, my friend, we shall leave the ground above intact, with supports to hold the roof of the tunnel until we attack. Then, when we are ready, down it falls!’ Cameos smashed the heavy table with a balled hand with enough force that Talako enquired from his guard position if all is well? Cameos smiled; his face was full of excitement as he envisioned his plan coming to fruition.
‘You see, my friend’, Cameos said, as he rolled up the parchment. ‘We shall create an impenetrable border. And inside this border there is fresh food, livestock, and crops. We shall grow in strength. In sunlight we shall grow.’
‘It is a fine plan, my chieftain. Bold and cunning. Your father looks upon you with pride, I am sure’, Thakern said in a soft voice. ‘But your people need to see your face, to see the pride you have in their labour. And your mate and son see you less and less, I fear.’
‘I hear you Thakern, I do, but it is not your place to tell me how my time is best served. It is your place to build our army. I shall make plans for its deployment.’ He took on a lighter tone. ‘Come brother, we can eat with my Releaka and Caleak. She will be pleased to see us both, though my son has become a mystery to me.’
‘A mystery?’ Thakern asked, concerned.
‘Maybe it is my absence of late, but I see him watching me, careful of my presence as if I am to be feared.’ He made a dismissing motion and said, ‘Ah, maybe I was the same with my father, though I remember it not. He keeps a weary distance.’
Thakern looked thoughtful for a moment then said, ‘Maybe it is time to introduce him to the martial arts. You are a warrior, and he has little understanding of warrior ways. He is young, not yet ten years, but he is first son to the chieftain.’
Releaka came to her mate’s arms with unhidden joy. ‘My love, so glad I am to see you.’ She kissed him and drew him deep towards her. ‘And to see you smile is twice the blessing.’ Cameos untangled himself from her and she greeted Thakern warmly, saying. ‘And it has been far too long since the three of us shared food and conversation.’
Cameos called to his son who was sitting at a small table in the corner using fine brushes made from animal hairs to paint brightly coloured inks on to an old parchment. The boy looked up from his art as if unaware of his father’s entrance until he had his name being called.
‘Father’, Caleak said in surprise, then stood and crossed the small space and took his father’s hand and gripped it in the way of a warrior.
Cameos looked upon his son proudly and said to Thakern. ‘He has the grip of a carpenter’s wood vice.’ Caleak smiled, taking his father’s praise highly and turned to great Thakern in the same way. As the ten-year-old boy gripped the master of combat’s hand Thakern pretended injury as he exaggerated the boy’s strength.
‘Ow! He has the strength of ten! My hand is ruined. Bless the Mother for she made me a spare.’ All four laughed, and soon the talk passed to things of a mundane nature. They ate and drank and talked and laughed. Thakern proposed introducing Caleak to the ways of the fist and foot, and although Releaka voiced her opinion of the boy being too young Thakern’s assurances pacified her.
The evening wore on and the group took great comfort in their bond, and as Thakern was getting ready to make his farewells, he remembered Caleak making art as they entered. ‘I saw that you are becoming an artisan of pictures, my young friend’, he said to the boy. ‘May I see?’
‘Of course, Master Thakern. I shall fetch it.’ Caleak went to collect his artwork with the slight smugness of a child who is about to impress with their work.
Releaka said in a low voice, ‘He has been working on it for days. I saw it yesterday full of bright colour and beauty. He went to the charcoal burners this morning, and he has been working on it for the day’s length since. He has not let me see it all day, telling me he had made it for his father.’
Caleak returned and held the painting up for all to see. It was indeed a thing of beauty and great skill for one so young. Cameos stood in all his glory, the crowning Sabretooth tiger headdress looking radiant against the paleness of Cameos’ skin.
They all looked on in silence, though not at the powerful contrasts of colour, nor the elaborate detail the youth had managed to capture. They looked on in stunned confusion. And fear.
In the painting, Cameos’ form and features were portrayed perfectly. The level of detail would have been astonishing had it been made by an artist of Elder age; from a youth it was almost supernatural. Covered in the skins of the ancient Sabretooth, the undeniable symbol of the chieftain of the Elven people, Cameos stood erect and powerful. And from his mouth poured a black smoke. Drawn onto the portrait with charcoal, the whirling shadow flowed from his open lips, spilling onto the ground, only to rise and encompass Cameos. Such was the skill of the drawing that the smoke seemed to move, flowing, turning, pulsing out of Cameos and shadowing him in darkness.
‘What is this?’ Cameos said softly. Fear rose with him, gnawing at his strength.
Caleak pulled the picture back so he could look upon it whilst still facing his mother, father and Thakern. ‘It is you, father’, he said confused, as though he thought it quite apparent.
Cameos stood, his arms hanging at his sides, hands clenching into fists as he spoke. ‘Who told you to draw this? Name them boy!’ Cameos’ anger was threatening to overwhelm him and he was struggling to remain calm. ‘Who drew this picture Caleak? Tell me truthfully and I shall forgive your deception.’
Caleak looked evermore confused. ‘I made it myself, father, as a gift for you.’
Cameos took a deep breath and said, ‘A gift? Your mother said you had worked on it for days, and it was bright and beautiful. She told me you went to the charcoal burners this morning. Who told you to draw in this darkness?’
‘I spoke to no one father; I just took some scraps that litter the floor around the charcoal piles.’ He looked from his father to his mother, tears beginning to form in his eyes. He looked back to his father, hurt beginning to overpower the confusion. ‘I just put on the parchment what I saw, father. I am sorry I have angered you.’
Cameos softened a little at the distress of his much-loved son. ‘But this imagery of Darkness, my boy, its disturbing. An evil thing.’ His anger rose again as he studied the picture. ‘It is a thing of death and decay. It is the Darkness!’
Caleak turned to his mother, head tilted. He looked about to see if he was being made sport of. But no one laughed. There was no great joke upon the young boy. ‘But father… you are the Darkness.’
Cameos struck the boy hard with a closed fist. The boy cartwheeled into the smooth clay walls of his home, falling to the floor. He neither moved n
or made a sound.
Releaka pounced with the speed of a desert cat upon prey. She stood before Cameos in barely held fury, flexing her clawed fingers. She bared her teeth and took on the stance of a warrior. Hissing through her rage, she said, ‘Move towards my young and you will fight me, Cameos. By the Mother, I shall take your life!’
Cameos took a step back. ‘It was not my intent to strike him so.’ He seemed shocked by his own actions.
The boy stirred, the movement calming his mother who stepped backwards towards him, though her eyes remained on Cameos, cold and calculating.
Thakern spoke in a quiet voice. ‘Now is the time for calm.’ Though his voice was soothing, his manner was tense. ‘Maybe we should take a walk, old friend, to take the coolness of the night air and the peace of the stars.’
Cameos turned on his friend. ‘How many times in one day must you be reminded of your place, Thakern? It is not here. I shall seek you later to talk of matters that concern the Master of Combat. This is a matter of family.’
Thakern looked at Releaka, who had recovered the boy and was holding him tight. She gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head, and Thakern turned and left.
Cameos walked slowly over to the mother and child, his hands open in a gesture of peace. ‘Caleak, I am sorry to have stuck you in such a way.’ He dropped to his knees, tears forming in his eyes. ‘Please forgive, my son.’
Caleak pulled himself away from his mother’s embrace, now fully recovered and astonishingly joyful. ‘Father, it is not your fault.’ The young boy turned to his mother as if nothing had happened and said, ‘May I have some sweet fruits now, mother?’
The Banner of the Broken Orc: The Call of the Darkness Saga: Book One Page 33
