CHAPTER EIGHT
“Captain,” Shomas said quietly, though less quietly than he intended, for he had almost run to catch up to the army captain, and the wizards was a bit out of breath. “I don’t wish to alarm you-”
“But you’re going to anyway,” Raddick looked around instinctively, seeing no obvious danger in the thick woods of the foothills they were climbing.
“Er, yes,” Shomas’ face turned even more red, nearly matching the color of his beard. “There is a band of orcs behind us, to the south.”
“How close?” Raddick turned to peer through the trees to the south, in the direction they had come. Seeing their captain reach for his bow, the army troop fanned out silently and without needing orders. They had all seen signs orcs had recently been in the area they were traveling through, even glimpsed roving bands of orcs from afar. The army troop was less than twenty soldiers, a number intended to move quickly and quietly, to perform their mission with little fuss and return across the border of Tarador. In any major battle, they would be hopelessly outnumbered.
“A league, perhaps a bit more?” Shomas answered. “I have been trying to locate them exactly but, alas, that is not my best skill as a wizard. They have been getting closer, I fear they are tracking us.”
Raddick muttered a curse under his breath. He was in a bad position to flee from pursuit. Because they were headed up into the very rough terrain of the mountains, they had no horses, not even a pony or donkey to carry provisions. Everyone, even the wizard, was weighted down by a pack. Any escape would require running uphill, for that morning they had seen a large group of orcs downhill to the southeast and they dared not go in that direction. Lord Feany was a master wizard but, the man freely admitted, not very handy in a fight. He could not cast a fireball and his skill with nature could at best only slow down a large party of the enemy. If he were forced to use destructive magic, the effort would drain his energy so much he would be unable to walk.
“Thomas,” Raddick called out, ordering the man to him. “Take the pack from Lord Feany and distribute his things.”
“Captain, there is no need-” Shomas began to protest.
“Forgive me, Lord Feany, but there is every need. We must move with speed, and orcs are tireless in pursuit, it might be days before we can rest. Please, use your energy to conceal our movements if that is possible.”
Shomas shrugged and held his hands out to the sides in chagrin. “That, too, is not my best skill with magic,” he said with regret that he had volunteered for a dangerous mission so far from the borders of Tarador. The unique skills of Paedris and Cecil may be urgently needed elsewhere, but if Shomas were to fall victim to orc arrows and Koren Bladewell were lost as a result, in the end it would not matter what Lords Salva and Mwazo had done.
The first night after the pirate ship had given up chasing the Hildegard, the weather turned foul, with gusty winds out of the northwest and driving rain. Captain Reed was forced to sail in a more southerly direction, standing out farther to sea and delaying their planned turn toward the west. The following two days held much the same, although the Hildegard was able to make some progress in a westerly direction, and Reed was satisfied that no pirate ships were likely to lay across their path.
Overnight, the wind veered so it was coming from the northeast, and that morning dawned to a partly blue sky dotted with clouds rather than the low, solid overcast they had been enduring. With the wind now favoring her, the Lady Hildegard heeled over moderately and the crew quickly found the point of sail where their ship was most happy.
They glided on, hour after hour in the steady breeze, the crew hardly needing to touch a sheet or guide the great wheel. It was so pleasant, so favorable, so unusual that the crew began to mutter amongst themselves. Began to cast sidelong glances at the two wizards who sat by the rail, engrossed in reading or merely enjoying the ship’s progress. Finally, Captain Reed, concerned that talk by the crew was becoming uncomfortable, with some men making hex signs to protect themselves, left the wheel and approached the two wizards. Lord Salva was engrossed in reading a battered leather-bound book, while Lord Mwazo had set his own book on his lap and was gazing out to sea. “Your Lordships?”
“Eh?” Paedris was startled, seeming just then to remember he was on a ship instead of back in the library of his tower at the royal castle. “Oh, hello, Captain,” he greeted the man with a smile. While the ship had struggled with foul weather, the captain had been up on deck most of the time, so the wizards had taken meals in their own cabin and had not the chance to speak with the ship’s master.
“I trust you are enjoying this pleasant day?” Reed asked with a strained smile.
“Yes, very much so,” Paedris replied, and Cecil nodded agreement. “My compliments to your crew, why, I barely feel the ship moving beneath us! If only every day at sea were like this, I would travel more often.” Paedris had struggled to sleep and eat during the heavy weather, wishing he could easily perform a spell upon himself to sooth his unsettled stomach.
“Er, yes,” Reed stared off to the horizon above the wizards’ heads, then at his shoes. “About that. Your Lordships, while we appreciate, very much appreciate,” he stumbled over the words, “this fine weather. The crew feels it is unnatural, and that no good can come of it.”
“What?” Paedris looked at Reed as if the man had grown an extra head.
Cecil chuckled softly, understanding the captain’s meaning. “Paedris, the crew believes this favorable weather is our doing.”
“It’s not?” Reed expressed surprise.
“No,” Cecil shook his head. “It is certainly not anything I did,” he declared with a quizzical look toward Paedris.
“Don’t look at me!” The court wizard protested.
“Good,” Cecil exhaled, relieved.
“I would have told you if I were to, attempt something so foolish.”
“I hope so,” Cecil replied with a tilt of his head. More than once during the time the two wizards had known each other, he had to restrain the more aggressive instincts of the court wizard. “Captain Reed, it would take extraordinary effort, certainly beyond my ability, to conjure up such favorable weather over so long a time. As Lord Salva has explained, we dare not use magic of any significant power, lest we attract the enemy’s attention. There are certain, subtle ways to influence the forces of air or sea, but they take time and are not so dramatic as,” he gestured to the blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds, “this.”
Reed scratched his beard. “Hmm. Perhaps it is best the crew thinks our two wizards did bring us this weather, to protect us and speed our passage.”
Cecil shared an uncomfortable look with Paedris. “Captain, we think it is not wise to mislead people about wizardry; this is how the public gets silly, superstitious notions that wizards can turn people into frogs-”
“Although such notions can be useful at times,” Paedris interjected.
“Quite so. Just because neither of us caused the winds to blow in a particular fashion, that does not mean the spirits did not do so on their own. That would be an omen that the spirits favor our mission, hmmm?”
Reed pursed his lips. “Would that be another superstition, Lord Mwazo?”
“No. The spirits often act in ways we do not understand, and they mostly act without our knowledge. Even the most powerful wizards can only bend the spirits to their will for a tiny fraction of time.”
“It would be good for the crew to know the spirits favor us,” Reed flashed an unconvincing smile. “Very well, I will tell them. Thank you, your Lordships.” With a curt bow, he strode across the deck back toward the wheel.
“Cecil,” Paedris whispered to avoid being overheard. “Why did you let the man think the spirits granted us this fine weather?” He asked, mildly annoyed.
“Because we don’t know they didn’t,” Cecil replied with a raised eyebrow. “You told me it cannot be a coincidence that we find ourselves on the very ship that brought Koren Bladewell back to Tarador.
Now we find winds speeding our passage toward our destination.”
“Ha!” Paedris grimaced. “That could also mean the spirits know we are heading toward our doom, and they wish to be rid of us sooner.”
“Paedris,” Cecil sighed, “why must you look on the dark side of everything?”
“Because my experience tells me that is usually correct?”
As Koren and Bjorn climbed toward the north side of the ridge that was the local summit of the last foothill, the going became harder as the land rose steeply. While the towering mountains now behind them were mostly bare rock on their upper slopes and scrub brush at lower elevations, the foothills tended to be thickly forested, which made for slower progress as they had determined to stay off any well-traveled roads or trails. Bjorn had wanted to go a longer way to the south where a meadow went up and over the ridge crest, arguing they could see the meadow was relatively easy terrain to cross. Koren had insisted they go the shortest route, straight ahead, and though he now regretted it, he didn’t admit it and Bjorn was tactful enough not to say anything. Even when to climb the last hundred yards, they had to hold onto tree branches tangled with vines having sharp thorns. “Ah! Damn it!” Koren pulled back his hand and sucked on a thumb bloody from being stuck deep by a thorn.
“I thought wizards could see the future, and avoid being pricked by thorns,” Bjorn teased to lighten the moment.
“If I could see the future, I would have agreed to walk up through that meadow like you wanted,” Koren lamented. “We should-Shhh!” He held up a hand for silence. The breeze had shifted, and now that it was blowing from the south, it was bringing sounds toward them.
Bjorn stood still, calming his labored breathing. “I don’t hear anything,” he said quietly.
“I do,” Koren declared, pointing to his left ear. “Wizard hearing, remember,” he explained, only half joking.
“What do you hear, Oh Great Lord Bladewell?” Bjorn retorted before getting the sinking feeling that, sooner or later, Koren would be addressed as ‘Lord Bladewell’ by everyone, and it would not be any kind of a joke.
“There is,” Koren stood still, listening intently. Did wizards have extra sharp hearing? Probably, and at the moment Koren wished he knew how to make his own hearing sharper. “There’s some sort of, I think, fighting. I can hear lots of shouting.”
“Who? Who is shouting?” Bjorn asked anxiously.
“I can’t understand any words, it’s, it’s a jumble. Too many shouting at once.”
“Orcs? Do any of them sound like orcs?”
“I’ve never met an orc,” Koren admitted with dismay. “What do they sound like?”
“Their language is harsh. I used to speak it, at one time,” Bjorn strained his throat to utter a few words of orc speech. “That’s all I remember. Koren-”
“I know. If it’s orcs, we run. But, Bjorn, if it’s dwarves, and they need our help-”
“And if we can help. If there’s a hundred orcs against a dozen dwarves, the two of us can’t do anything but get ourselves killed. Unless you can do some sort of wizard thing?” Bjorn added hopefully, then regretted saying it. He might only have given Koren a terribly bad idea.
Koren held out his right hand, palm upward, and tried to conjure a fireball. Nothing happened, not even when he closed his eyes, concentrated intently and pleaded with the spirits. Demanding the spirits do as he wished also did nothing. “No,” Koren said, disgusted with himself. Then he pulled the long bow out of its sling, bent it to the ground and fitted the string. “I do have a full quiver of arrows, and one thing I know for certain is that I never miss.”
With a grim nod of agreement, Bjorn gripped the hilt of his sword. While he also carried a bow, his skills were pitiful compared to Koren. In a fight, Bjorn’s best way to be useful was to close with the enemy and attack with his sword. The two climbed the last few yards up the ridge, Koren cursing himself not waiting to ready his bow until he finished the climb, as he needed both hands. He paused a second to sling the strung bow over one shoulder, he heaved himself up to clear the ridge.
Orcs. It was orcs, Koren could see them even through the trees. It was his first view of orcs, and the sight made him stand still, mouth agape. Not quite agape, for his lower lip quivered slightly from fear. Orcs. He had heard so many tales of mankind’s worst and most ancient enemy, the foul orcs of the mountains. Shorter than men, orcs were about the height of dwarves, although orcs tended toward being skinny rather than broad and sturdy like dwarves. Koren had read some speculation that the almost gaunt appearance of orcs was caused by a poor diet, lack of abundant food in their mountain lairs, and lack of basic hygiene. Mothers in Tarador urged their children to wash themselves, especially to wash their hands before eating, by telling children they did not want to be sickly like filthy orcs.
From the distance, even Koren’s sharp eyes could barely see the faces of the orcs, and most of the enemy wore helmets with grotesque, hideous masks. They reminded Koren of the men of Acedor he had seen that fateful morning in the sleepy village of Longshire, when a line of the enemy had stepped forward from the treeline, and the peace of a Spring morning was shattered.
They saw orcs, but, to Koren’s great surprise, the orcs were not fighting dwarves, they were fighting a group of men. Not just men, from their tunics Koren could clearly see these were soldiers of the Taradoran Royal Army. Taking in the scene quickly, he estimated eight men, two of them laying on the ground already wounded, besieged by more than twice as many orcs. Pulling the bow from his shoulder, he reached back for an arrow though they were yet too far away.
Bjorn gripped his arm. “Koren, wait. Those are Royal Army soldiers. If they do have orders to kill you, is it wise to help them? There are likely many more orcs coming, we could quickly be surrounded and overwhelmed.”
Koren tugged away from Bjorn, breaking the man’s grip angrily. He took a step forward. And stopped. Bjorn was right. What obligation did he have to the Royal Army, or even the entire realm of Tarador? None, he had none.
What he did have was a conscience. Orcs were the enemy of all mankind, not only those of a particular nation. He had an obligation to defend the helpless against the cruelty of orcs. “Bjorn, neither of us can stand here and do nothing. If it comes to it, you do the talking. My name is Kedrun, right?”
“Right,” then Bjorn grabbed the strap of Koren’s quiver of arrows. “Wait! You are a wizard, and we need wizards in this war far more than we need men like me, or even a half dozen soldiers,” he gestured with his sword toward the cluster of men besieged. They were now standing back to back in a circle, with the two wounded men on the ground inside the circle. As he spoke, one man was hit in the chest by an arrow, his chain mail protecting him from death but the impact making him stagger. “If needs be, you run, save yourself so you can learn true wizardry. One of you is worth a hundred, nay, a thousand soldiers. Promise me!” Bjorn tugged on the strap, making Koren turn to face him.
Koren did not like the idea of running again, from anything. A part of him wanted to tell Bjorn he had no right making demands of him, yet another, smarter part of him saw the common sense of Bjorn’s words. Koren nodded, then when Bjorn tugged on the strap again, he spoke. “Yes! All right, yes! I will run like a coward and save myself if it comes to that. Will that make you happy?”
“No,” Bjorn replied as he released the strap. “But if I die today and you later avenge me by burning the enemy with wizard fire? Aye, that will make me happy.”
“Pray that never happens,” Koren swallowed hard, fearing he would never create more than a feeble flame above his open palm.
They ran down the hillside, leaping over fallen logs and rocks, stumbling through underbrush. Koren halted and jumped atop a flat rock when a tiny voice in his head told him the distance was now within his range. Bjorn continued on down the hill, running pell-mell with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. When he saw the first orc’s head fly back as the creature was struck dead in the eye by an arrow,
he shouted a challenge, and the startled orcs turned to see one man racing toward them. That gave the besieged Royal Army soldiers a momentary respite, and they pressed the advantage as more arrows thudded into the orcs.
When Koren jumped onto the rock, surveying the scene to choose targets, he breathed deeply to slow his pulse. A shaking hand, the royal weapons master had told him, could throw off his aim, and although Koren never had missed yet, it was good advice.
What made Koren’s pulse flutter was not the run down the hill, nor the prospect of battle, but fear. Fear not for himself, but that his reliable, perfect skill with a bow was now something he recognized as part of his wizard skill. His only useful wizard skill, the one unnatural ability he had command over, if he still had even that. He could not create spells, make potions or conjure a fireball, would his skill with a bow fail him now that he knew it was a gift from the spirits? The spirits had not answered his call, his desperate pleas, his demands nor his futile offers to bargain with them. Would they now refuse to help guide his aim with a bow?
Deceptions (Ascendant Book 3) Page 15
