Lorik swung his swords in a figure eight pattern and bellowed his war cry. The soldiers tensed, waiting to see what Lorik would do. From the rear of the company a spear was thrown. It arched over the soldiers and Lorik could have easily dodged the weapon. Instead, he thrust his swords down into the muddy street and caught the spear. The metal point of the weapon was only inches from his massive chest and he held it there for a moment. The entire troop of soldiers, Lorik guessed their number to be close forty men, stood in awestruck silence. None of them had ever seen a man catch a spear in mid-flight. Lorik had never even heard of anyone doing it. He twirled the weapon around and cast it back, but not at the soldiers. The weapon streaked over their heads, and the troopers all turned to watch it fly. Behind them, their commander was not so lucky. The weapon plunged into the officer’s chest and pinned him to the ground.
A scream of rage erupted from the soldiers and one fighter dashed forward. He was shorter than the others, his chain mail held in place with a thick kerchief that was wrapped around his forehead to keep the armor from slipping forward into his eyes. He carried a short sword, and a small, plate-sized shield. Lorik was impressed with the small man’s valor, but the attack was in vain. Snatching up his swords, Lorik swung the blades, casting the mud that was clinging to the metal straight toward the little fighter. The mud hit the man in the face, blinding him. He tried to stop his charge, but slipped and rolled across the ground toward Lorik.
One quick thrust down into the man’s chest ended his life quickly. He had chain mail around his head and neck, but his body was protected only with stiff leather, which did nothing to stop the sword.
“Attack! Attack!” shouted the sole remaining officer.
The troops shuffled forward, their shields held high, their spears sticking out of the horde like spines on a sea urchin. Lorik pulled his sword from the dead soldier and then shouted at the men moving toward him.
“Do you all wish to die today? That is your fate if you meet me in battle. I have only just begun to fight.”
“Attack him!” shouted the officer who had moved up just behind his troops. Lorik guessed the man didn’t think being isolated to the rear of the column was safe after watching his superior struck down by Lorik’s spear. “He’s just one man.”
“No,” Lorik said savagely. “I am Lorik, defender of Ortis and protector of the outcasts. I have slain armies and your sad little band stands no chance against me.”
The men in front hesitated, and those behind were only all too happy to wait. The officer behind them was shouting for his troops to attack, but his orders were falling on deaf ears. Lorik felt the dark magic welling up inside him. It was almost like a nervous energy, urging him into action. He knew he could throw himself into the formation, but he wanted a more potent statement of his power.
Laughter welled up from Lorik’s thick chest as he drove his fist into the ground. The dark magic rushed through him, sending the ground rolling like a wave of the ocean toward the soldiers. The troops froze, uncertain of what to do. The wave hit the group of men and tossed them in all directions. Lorik didn’t waste the opportunity, instead he ran forward and struck down the soldiers as they struggled to regain their footing. Over two dozen men died, the rest fled—including the officer, who pushed down the man beside him in his haste to get away from Lorik who was like a farmer cutting wheat. The mud seemed to suck at the fallen soldiers, making it difficult for the men to get up after Lorik’s magical attack. They staggered drunkenly, and Lorik danced through them, his sword slicing and stabbing as he went. There were screams of pain, but many died instantly.
Lorik felt no remorse for the men he killed. They had invaded his kingdom, planned his demise, and raised weapons against him. He felt justified for every life he took, yet he didn’t take pleasure in their suffering. The dark magic inside him was whipped into a frenzy by the chaos of the battle and crackled through Lorik’s body, giving him strength and a thirst for bloodshed.
When the last of the troops managed to escape, Lorik looked around the wide street. The mud was tinted red with blood, and small, crimson puddles stood in depressions around the fallen men. Lorik felt both exhilarated and empty at the same time. He couldn’t understand why the men of Baskla threw their lives away so carelessly around him. They were loyal to their commanders, who were in turn loyal to their king, and for what reason? Was their own kingdom not enough? Did they need Ortis for some reason, or was Lorik simply a blight on their honor that they could not get rid of? He didn’t know, but the waste of lives seemed excessive to him.
Inside the fortress Lorik found dozens of villagers hiding. They had all returned to their homes, or taken possession of a home in Yorick Shire, but they weren’t warriors. The troops from Baskla had forced them to take refuge in the fortress. When he entered the feasting hall he found them huddled near the large, empty hearth at the back of the room.
“What are you doing here?” Lorik said.
The townspeople cowered, too afraid to speak.
“Return to your homes,” Lorik commanded. “I have soldiers coming. Outcast warriors who will keep you safe. In return you will feed them and see to their needs. If you resist my orders it will cost you everything you have. Is that understood?”
The people looked at him like frightened sheep. Lorik stepped to the side and ushered for the people to leave the hall. They hurried past him and he heard the gasps of surprise and horror as they went out into the late afternoon sunlight to discover the dead troops littering the fortress.
Work had been done on the great hall, and it was mostly intact. The food stores had been looted, as had the treasures that once decorated the fortress, but the building was in good shape. It was a simple structure with a feasting hall at the front, kitchens on one side, apartments and meeting rooms to the rear. The second level was where the duke’s family lived, but all around the outside of the fortress there were slots in the walls for archers to fire their deadly missiles through. Racks of weapons lined the hallway that went around the outside of the fortress, and at the rear a wide stairway led up to the roof, which was sturdy and designed to allow soldiers to fight from the top. The stone roof had not been torn through by the witch’s monsters, so the building was in good condition. It was the perfect place to rest and resupply his troops.
By nightfall they were in the city. The hall was full of outcast soldiers, most eating and enjoying the warmth of the huge fire that had been kindled in the hearth, which was tall enough for a full grown man to stand in and as wide as a wagon. The locals cooked food, mostly vegetables that had been salvaged from the abandoned city, but there was some meat from two sheep that had been slaughtered for the feast. The humans served the outcasts, but none seemed to mind. They were a timid lot and seemed satisfied just to be out of danger. For their part, the outcasts treated the people of Yorick Shire with respect and more dignity than Lorik could have hoped for. Only Spector seemed agitated.
“I should have come with you,” he hissed.
Lorik was convinced the wraith was simply jealous that Lorik had killed men while Spector was forced to wait outside the city.
“I’m fine,” Lorik said. “We have the city.”
“And they know we’re coming,” Spector said. “You let them escape.”
“I let a few of them escape, less than a dozen.”
“They will return to their king.”
“Some will,” Lorik said. “That was my plan.”
“One would have sufficed,” the wraith growled.
“You do know that those who fled would be considered deserters. They could be killed by their superiors in the king’s army. I needed to be certain news of my return reached their ranks.”
“So you let a dozen men live that should be dead?”
“I let less than a dozen live, and I hope that two or three will return to the army to spread the horror of what happened here. I want King Ricard to fear me, but even more so, I need his troops to fear us. Frightened troops, far fro
m home, won’t fight well.”
“They will fear me,” Spector hissed. “Those that live will dream of my wrath, quaking in their beds as they piss themselves until I come for their souls.”
“Be that as it may, I don’t want our small army to take a lot of casualties.”
“And what of your dragon? Will your pet come to your aid?”
“I hope so,” Lorik said.
“My Lord?” Gunthur said, bowing as he approached, his horrid face pinched with concern. “I have sentries on the roof, and scouts patrolling the outer wall, but I fear we are too exposed here. If the king’s army attacks in the night we could be surrounded and killed.”
“King Ricard isn’t this far south, not yet,” Lorik said. “We will have time to rebuild the defenses and send scouts out to find the invaders while we resupply and make plans.”
“Are you sure, my Lord? I don’t mean to question your wisdom, but I fear we are too concentrated in one place at the moment.”
“You are right, of course, but we should be fine for one night. I want the watch rotated at regular intervals, but let the rest of the men sleep indoors and out of this weather.”
The snow that had begun that afternoon continued to fall. Most of it had melted until the sun went down, but the temperature was falling and Lorik guessed that it would be well below freezing for most of the night.
“Spector will ensure that our enemy is not moving against us in the darkness,” Lorik said. “And I will be on the roof myself for most of the night. Do not fear, Commander. We will be ready when the enemy arrives.”
“Of course, my Lord. Forgive my worrisome nature.”
“There is nothing to forgive. A good officer is always welcome to share his concerns with me. See to the watch, then get some rest. I’ll need you again at first light.”
“Aye, my Liege,” Gunthur said, bowing once more before hurrying off.
“You want me to find the army?” Spector asked.
“No, just go far enough to ensure they aren’t within striking distance.”
“And if they are?”
“Then report back to me,” Lorik said, trying not to let his exasperation show.
“I will not be held back from the fighting again,” the wraith warned.
“No, if King Ricard is close by we will bring the fight to him. We own the night. I will not be defeated in the darkness.”
“Very well,” Spector hissed. “I will return with news.”
Lorik spent nearly an hour watching his soldiers revel in the great hall. A third of the men were on watch, but the rest filled the hall with jubilant voices. They were warm, comfortable, and well fed. The only thing that had been rationed was the ale. It was also the only thing that hadn’t been looted from the fortress. Great casks of ale filled one of the store rooms, but they were too large and heavy to be carried away by looters. Lorik had given strict instructions that only one of the barrels was to be tapped and the outcasts were limited to two pints each. Their larger bodies had a much greater tolerance for spirits, but Lorik didn’t want his army drunk or hungover if King Ricard was close enough to cause trouble.
Eventually Lorik went up onto the rooftop. The city was dark and quiet. The townsfolk had their windows shuttered and those that weren’t in the fortress were already in their beds by the time Lorik stepped out onto the snowy roof. The snow crunched under his boots as he walked toward the northern side of the building. A crenelated wall rose to Lorik’s waist and the cloud-covered sky blocked the moon and stars, making the fields around Yorick Shire impossible to see.
“My Lord,” said one of the soldiers. “We’ve men patrolling the walls. If there is trouble they will signal and we will in turn rouse the men below.”
“It’s a good plan,” Lorik said. “Any sign of trouble?”
“No, my Lord. All is quiet and still. Just what you’d expect in this weather.”
“Be sure and have some ale when you men go below. I expect you’ll all be needing it.”
“It is cold as a snake’s breath,” the soldier said. “But at least we won’t be outdoors all night.”
Lorik nodded as they both gazed into the darkness. Keeping watch in the total darkness was futile for the most part, but Lorik refused to be anything but vigilant. He didn’t fear for his life, but he felt the weight of responsibility for the well-being of his troops. They would have to fight soon enough and against overwhelming odds, but he didn’t want to throw their lives away needlessly.
Spector returned at midnight. Lorik was pacing on the rooftop, the sentries huddled near braziers that Lorik had ordered from the fortress. The cold didn’t seem to bother Lorik. He felt it, but the dark magic held it at bay, despite the fact that Lorik only wore a wool cloak over his shoulders to keep his clothes dry.
“The army isn’t out there,” the wraith hissed. “They are not within an hour’s march at any rate.”
“Good,” Lorik said. “I didn’t think they would be this far south. They can’t move as fast as we can under normal circumstances, but an entire army will be slow, especially in this weather.”
They stayed on the rooftop for another hour, and then Lorik went down to explore the fortress. He had visited the duke several times, but always either in the feasting hall or out in the yard where Lorik delivered the portion of rice the farmers from the Marshlands paid in taxes. They hadn’t been friends by any means, but the duke had been a reasonable man, more concerned with the welfare of his lands and the people on them than with his own elevated status. Lorik had spoken to the duke many times about the people that lived in the Marshlands. They were a hardy folk, but they enjoyed their privacy and had their own way of doing things. Mostly the taxes paid were a portion of the surplus rice that grew so well in the bogs, which the farmers employed Lorik to haul through the swamps to Yorick Shire to trade for goods they couldn’t get or make for themselves in the Marshlands.
Most anything a person could want could be obtained from the merchants and pirates that took shelter in the bay at Hassell Point on the southernmost tip of the peninsula of Ortis’ Marshlands. But the locals preferred to send their goods inland in most cases, rather than deal with the greedy sailors. So Lorik, his father, and his grandfather had made their living hauling goods through the swamps on their large wagons. And Lorik was well known to the merchants and city officials in Yorick Shire, but he’d never been invited into the duke’s private quarters, or allowed into the fortress’ many rooms that were used by the duke’s administrators.
Most of the rooms had been wrecked by looters searching for treasures. Lorik guessed that the larger cities were hit first by the opportunistic survivors of the Witch’s War. But Lorik wasn’t looking for gold or jewels, instead he was looking for more practical items and he found them in what appeared to be the duke’s private study on the second floor.
Maps of the Five Kingdoms weren’t all that difficult to find, but the more detailed maps of the local regions could be difficult to come by. The duke had a collection of maps, and one detailed the terrain around Yorick Shire, from the Marshlands to the south and as far north as Ort City. There were dozens of small villages on the map, but Lorik guessed that King Ricard would use the main road that ran north and south through Ortis, from Quelton Bay in Falxis, up through Yorick Shire and Ort City, all the way to Fisstom Harbor just beyond the border in Baskla. With the weather making travel difficult, King Ricard’s large army, and probably his equally large supply train, would use the main road to travel south, rather than cutting across the fields, farms, and villages. If Lorik was right, then all he needed to do was to pick a place on the road north that would give him the greatest advantage in a fight.
“I need men with experience writing,” Lorik told the soldier who was on duty in the feasting hall. “At least a dozen.”
“As you wish, my Lord,” the soldier said.
Some of the outcasts were sleeping, but few needed more than three or four hours of rest each night. Lorik found parchment and quills
. When the outcasts arrived he passed out the materials.
“In the days ahead I’ll be sending out scouts,” he told them. “But we’ll be moving north too, and I want them each to have a copy of this map so they’ll know where we will be.”
Lorik had marked the spot on the map he wanted to fight from. It was a long sloping field, the site of an ancient battle. They could take a position on the top of the rise and see for miles to the north. It wasn’t a tall hill, but it would force their enemy to climb the slope to meet his outcast soldiers and he hoped that might give them an advantage.
The outcasts set to copying the map. They didn’t have to be precise, but rather illustrate the landmarks so that the scouts would have a general idea of where they were and where Lorik would be taking the army.
When the sun rose he gathered his officers and gave them each instructions. Gunthur was in charge of gathering supplies and wagons to haul their supplies north with the army. Pytra was in charge of finding the fast runners to send out as scouts, and Doryn was given two dozen men to see to the repairs of Yorick Shire. Lorik planned to take the rest of the army north, but Doryn would stay behind, holding the fortress in case their forces needed to retreat. Lorik didn’t explain it that way, instead he tried his best to remain positive. In reality, he felt a pressure building inside of him. He was going to face an army with fewer than a hundred and fifty outcast soldiers. They were bigger and stronger than the soldiers they were going to fight, but they had very little training and only a handful had ever fought before.
Spector haunted Lorik all through the day. Making plans and seeing to the minutiae of taking care of the army infuriated the wraith, who wanted to rush toward the battle, but Lorik knew that despite his own powers and the strength of his outcast warriors, they would have a hard time defeating King Ricard’s army. In the past, Lorik had been successful against the soldiers from Baskla, but only because he fought them in limited engagements rather than open warfare. This time the army was being led by their king and bringing all the accoutrements of war. They would not be easily broken or overcome. Lorik couldn’t help but feel as though he’d made a mistake in not simply taking control of Bartoom. If he had kept the circlet crown he could be sure the dragon would fight for him, but that would make him no better than those who had enslaved and used the dragon before him. Or the kings that had tortured and killed so many that had stood against their tyranny and corruption. Lorik would rather die than become like Yettlebor and Oveer, men who saw the people of Ortis as possessions to use and throw away carelessly.
Chaos Raging (The Five Kingdoms Book 11) Page 12
