Therik’s party came to a halt around twenty paces from Brogan. Stiger moved over and joined the thane. Brogan’s eyes were upon one orc in particular, who stepped forward from the group. Stiger took this one to be Therik.
Another large orc, this one wearing armor, positioned himself directly behind the king. He carried a large standard emblazoned with an image of a black stag. The warrior proudly planted the standard in the ground. Stiger took it to be Therik’s personal banner.
Brogan took two steps forward and spoke in dwarven. “I have come at your request, King Therik. We come in peace, to talk with the king of the tribes.”
“I thank for honor you show by coming to our call,” Therik said in a rough but passable dwarven. The orc king’s voice was a deep baritone and filled with confidence. “And I thank you for coming to meet me. We also come in peace to speak with thane of clans.”
It surprised Stiger that the orc spoke the language of the dwarves, but then again, he had been told that Therik was different from others of his kind. Stiger reminded himself to stay on his toes.
“I have brought with me a representative of the Mal’Zeelan Empire, a proven leader of men,” Brogan said and gestured back toward Stiger, who took a half step forward. A look of distaste appeared briefly on Brogan’s face, before rapidly being covered up. “This is Legate Delvaris.”
Therik’s eyes swung over to Stiger, as did those of his party. At first there was mild interest, then Stiger read a flash of surprise, followed by anger. One of the orcs behind the king said something loudly. Another gave an animal-like roar of anger. The others began shouting, gesturing, and pointing at Stiger, speaking amongst themselves.
Dog, sitting at Stiger’s side, growled menacingly and stood, ears back and teeth bared.
Brogan looked over at him, a clear frown forming on his bearded face.
“Dog,” Stiger ordered firmly, looking down at the animal. “Down.”
Dog ceased his growling and sat.
“How you get that?” Therik demanded in the common tongue. The king took two steps closer to Stiger. He pointed directly at Stiger’s chest. “How you get that? I must know.”
For a moment, Stiger was unsure what the king meant. Then it dawned upon him, and his hand went to the gold torc that he had hung on his chest armor. He fingered it a moment, considering his response.
Brogan flashed him a warning glance.
“I took it in battle,” Stiger said, deciding that honesty was the best action he could take. “I killed the orc to whom this belonged.”
The king’s eyes seemed to bore into him, almost as if Therik was trying to determine if Stiger was lying. Several in his party looked ready to draw their weapons. Then the king’s gaze swept over Taithun’s dwarves. Stiger read calculation in the orc’s eyes. Therik turned and said something that sounded quite harsh in his own tongue to those behind him. They stilled, all eyes shifting from Stiger to their king.
“To get that . . .” Therik’s hand went up to his own neck, where he pulled down the front of his tunic to reveal a golden torc nearly identical to the one that Stiger wore. “You must kill chieftain. To lose a hoharithan, without losing one’s life, is to lose what you call honor. No chieftain would stand such loss without giving life.”
“He died well,” Stiger said.
Brogan’s eyes fell upon Stiger in clear dismay and rage. Gnashing his teeth, the thane looked ready to explode. Before he could say anything, Therik continued.
“My people want kill you for such a brazen display and attempt to provoke my anger. There can be but one hoharithan. I tell you now, I not seek your life. You show honor by coming, and great courage by displaying that.” Therik pounded his chest with a large fist. “I show you same, chieftain killer. You keep battle prize, for now. I give you warning. One day I may challenge you and take it from your lifeless corpse.”
“And I give you fair warning,” Stiger said, “many have tried to take my life.”
“We have much in common, I think.” Therik gave a bark of laughter that was part snort. “But you have not faced me, yet.”
“Let me know when you want to try,” Stiger said.
Therik grinned and then gave a respectful nod, which Stiger returned. The orc king sucked in a great breath through his nostrils, shot a hard look at his followers, who shifted uncomfortably, and then returned his attention to Brogan.
The tension seemed to drain away and Stiger relaxed a little.
“The journey here was long. We make camp now,” Therik said, switching back to dwarven. “After the sun goes down, and moon up, we talk, then we feast, yes?”
“We are camping over there.” Brogan pointed to a spot a hundred yards away, where the wagons had been parked. A team of dwarves was busy erecting tents. “Where will you make camp?”
Therik glanced around, clearly looking for a suitable spot.
“There,” Therik said, pointing at a nearby building that only had three remaining walls standing at shoulder height. “Good?”
“Acceptable,” Brogan said. “We will meet back here after sundown and talk. As the moon climbs high in the sky, we shall then feast.”
“I find that good,” Therik said. “We bring the wood, fire, and food. You bring more food and spirits? We share. I have a taste for dwarf spirits, make sure you no forget.”
“I will do so,” Brogan said, “and I’ve made sure to bring a supply of the kind you prefer.”
“Done,” Therik said with a satisfied nod. The orc king shot Stiger a look, then turned away, walking boldly toward the ruin where he had said he would camp. The orc with the standard picked it up, eyed Stiger a moment, and then turned to follow his king. Stiger noticed a number of hostile looks thrown his way from Therik’s followers, before they too followed their king.
“You could have ruined everything by wearing that thing,” Brogan said furiously. The thane clenched a fist. “Had I realized what it was, I would have demanded you leave it or at the very least conceal it.”
“But I didn’t ruin things, did I?” Stiger said, rather than admit he had not known that the torc was, in orc culture, the sign of a chieftain’s rank. Stiger sucked in a breath. The orc king was not what he thought he would be.
“Watch your insolence with me, human,” Brogan spat, “or I may kill you myself.”
Brogan spared Stiger a last furious glance and stomped off toward the dwarven camp.
“That could have gone better,” Father Thomas said. “You do have a certain way with people that seems to bring out intense dislike.”
Stiger rolled his eyes at the paladin.
“He will get over his anger,” Jorthan said.
“Brogan or Therik?” Stiger asked.
“Both. Though if I am any judge, I believe you earned Therik’s respect. I understand that not to be an easy thing. Make sure you don’t lose it.”
Jorthan turned away and followed after his thane.
“Did you really take that in battle, sir?” Pixus asked, stepping closer with Sabinus.
Sabinus threw Stiger a warning glance.
“I did,” Stiger said. He decided to change the subject. “How about you show me the camp you are building?”
“Yes, sir,” Pixus said and led the way.
Let’s provoke the orc king further, the sword hissed.
Stiger had almost forgotten the sword’s presence.
No, Stiger said to the sword. We are here to talk only.
It will come to killing soon enough, the sword said. The followers of Castor cannot be trusted.
Chapter Sixteen
Stiger scrambled up onto the mound. Grass and small bushes grew thick over the mound, a few corners of fallen stone blocks poking up and out of the soil and vegetation.
A soft breeze stirred the leaves of the nearest trees. In his armor, Stiger was uncomfortably hot from the afternoon sun and his exertions. The breeze was more than welcome. Atop the mound, he took a moment to survey his surroundings. He thought the mound had once be
en a decorative wall.
The mound ran in a curving line to his left for another twenty yards, before becoming obscured by the encroaching forest and brush. To his right, the ruins of the wall disappeared into a grove of trees, which had grown up closely along both sides.
He looked to his front at the remains of the structure that the wall had once apparently enclosed. Despite the growth of brush, trees, and tall grass doing its best to conceal its nature, Stiger thought it might be an amphitheater. The backside of one at least.
It consisted of a small hill that seemed unnaturally rounded, with a series of stone columns jutting up from its top. Most of the columns had broken, while others had fallen over or were tilted at odd angles by ground settling. They had the appearance of being decorative, not load-bearing, which meant they had never held a roof. He had seen imperial amphitheaters of a similar style.
Curious, Stiger carefully worked his way down the other side of the mound, watching where he put his feet. The rubble and ruin of this ancient city was dangerous enough. Add to that the low-lying brush and ivy that seemed to run over nearly everything, the prospect of turning an ankle became very real.
Stiger paused. He untied his canteen and took a hearty swig of water. Stopping it back up, he returned the canteen to its place on his armor harness.
Stiger took a breath of fresh air, savoring it. The air was free of the decay and mustiness that had pervaded the underground. He glanced once more around, enjoying the solitude of the setting.
It had occurred to him a short while after Therik’s arrival that he was no longer under guard or immediate supervision. Theo had even decided to camp with the dwarves. After Stiger had toured the budding legionary encampment, he found there was nothing for him to do. Had he actively contributed to the construction of the encampment, as legate, it would have seemed odd and potentially raised uncomfortable questions.
So, while Pixus and Sabinus worked Fifth Century and oversaw the building of the camp, Stiger had quietly snuck off to do a little exploration. This was the first time he had been on his own since stepping through the World Gate. It felt wonderful to once again be his own master, even if it would only be for a short time.
Deer tracks, perhaps half a dozen in total, tracked the ground before him. He bent down to examine them. They were fresh, made within the last few hours. Amongst the undergrowth, he had already seen numerous game trails and a wide variety of tracks. Stiger understood, with all of the brush and grass, this was the ideal environment for deer and other animals like boar, for there was plenty to feed on.
He worked his way up to the hill, pushing through the grass and stepping around thorny scrub oak that had grown up nearly to the height of his shoulders. Instead of climbing the hill, he followed it around until, as expected, he came to a large gap. This would have been one of the entrances.
Time had worn away the walls of the entrance, nearly filling the gap in, but there was still a path of sorts. He made his way through the rubble-strewn entranceway, making sure his footing was secure, the debris unshifting before taking each step.
Sure enough, it was an amphitheater, and a good-sized one at that. He estimated it could have held more than two thousand spectators. Stopping just inside, Stiger discovered age had not been a kind friend. The amphitheater was in terrible shape. Grass, bushes, and young trees grew all together, looking more like a wild thicket than a stage for theater. It was all thoroughly overgrown.
The spectator benches were still in good shape, if a little uneven in places. One section had thoroughly collapsed, as the foundation at that point had given way. Looking over the collapsed portion, Stiger wondered if the amphitheater had underground spaces. He decided that if it did, it would be too dangerous to explore.
He climbed up the stone benches, stepping from one to another, until he came to the last row at the highest point, just beneath the columns. Grass and small bushes grew between the benches. Brushing away the layer of dirt that lay atop the stone, he sat down and relished the feeling of being off his feet.
“How long has it been?” Stiger asked the empty amphitheater. “How long has it been since someone sat here and enjoyed a show?”
There was no answer, of course, just the sound of the breeze rustling leaves and the call of song birds. Stiger contemplated the setting before him. He found it exceedingly peaceful. He could hear no voices, just the wind and birds, many of the same sounds one found deep in the forest, well away from people.
He wondered what plays had been performed here. Would he know any of them? At one time in his life, Stiger had enjoyed theater. That had been before he had become a soldier. It had been years since he had attended a show.
“Aegisthus,” Stiger said to himself. It was a play that was reputed to be ancient, even predating the empire. The Aegisthus was considered a traditional play, and regularly performed around the time of the High Holy Days. It was said to have been consistently enjoyed since the time of Karus. Had that play been put on in this ruin of an amphitheater?
Stiger had brought his haversack. He opened it and removed some of the precooked rations that Pixus had supplied, salted pork and hard cheese. He took a bite of the pork, chewed, and swallowed. He was about to take another bite when movement in the bushes below near the center of the amphitheater caught his attention.
A large animal was working its way through the brush, rustling loudly and disturbing branches. Was it a deer? Stiger went still. Of large game, besides deer, he had seen bear and boar tracks, too.
Nose pressed to the ground and sniffing along, Dog emerged into view. The animal looked as if he were hunting something. Stiger knew what he was looking for. After several moments of intense sniffing, Dog looked up and spotted Stiger. He gave an excited bark and bounded up the stone benches.
“Easy, boy,” Stiger said with a laugh as Dog jumped up on his chest, almost pushing him back to the next bench, licking madly at his face. “Easy there. Come on now.”
Dog’s enthusiasm subsided as Stiger began scratching at his neck. It also helped that he fed Dog a piece of the salt pork, which was almost instantly wolfed down. As Stiger chewed on his cheese, Dog settled himself down next to him on the bench. They sat together for a long while, with Stiger alternating between scratching and rubbing the dog’s neck. Stiger was enjoying the peacefulness and quiet of their setting. Dog’s presence was also comforting.
As they so often did, Stiger’s thoughts turned to Sarai. He wondered what she was doing at this moment. The afternoon was wearing on. He figured she would soon likely begin preparing her supper. He wished he were there to enjoy it with her and not here in this long-dead city. Dog, perhaps sensing his mood shift, placed his head down upon Stiger’s leg and gave a soft whine.
Stiger glanced down at the animal.
He felt absolutely no threat from Dog, only a sense of reassurance, perhaps even empathy. And yet, he got the exact opposite from the sword. Both had been sent to him by a god. The High Father, whom Stiger worshiped and honored, had arranged for the sword to come into his keeping. Stiger found that more than a little ironic. He had sworn to the High Father, and in return the god had given him a sword that had a mind of its own and wanted nothing more than to dominate him.
Glancing down at Dog, he had questions that needed answering.
“Who sent you?”
Dog did not answer.
“Are you here to protect me? Help me?”
Dog again did not answer, just lay there with his head on Stiger’s thigh.
“Not one for a lot of words, are you?”
Eyes closed, Dog started to snore slightly.
Stiger let out a slow breath and turned his gaze back to the amphitheater. Small birds flitted in and around the brush. He watched as they played and chased after one another. One with bright blue feathers landed on a bush with small red berries just a few paces away. The bird eyed Stiger and Dog for a few moments, head twitching this way and that as it looked at him with first one eye and then the other. App
arently deciding they were no threat, it deftly pecked at the red berries, neatly picking one. It swallowed the berry, then took wing and flew off toward the center of the amphitheater, quickly disappearing amidst the brush.
The city, once teeming with people, had become a refuge for animals. In a way, Stiger found that fitting. Nature was reclaiming what human and dwarf had in effect borrowed. He knew with certainty that Eli would have enjoyed the thought of it too.
A soft growl disturbed his thoughts. Dog had raised his head and was looking down toward where Stiger had entered the amphitheater. Stiger sucked in a breath and was immediately on guard. An orc stood below. Not just any orc, but Therik.
Hands on his hips, Therik quietly surveyed the amphitheater. He seemed completely unaware of Stiger, until his gaze tracked around. The king froze and then looked about once again, this time appearing to scrutinize his surroundings thoroughly, as if searching for hidden threats or the possibility of ambush. He eventually returned his gaze to Stiger and gave a slight shrug.
“You here alone?” Therik said, taking a few steps nearer before climbing over several of the stone benches.
Dog’s growl intensified. The orc ceased his forward movement, gaze falling warily upon the animal.
“Call your dog off,” Therik said.
“Quiet,” Stiger said absently, wondering why the orc had come. Dog continued to growl. “That’s enough.”
Dog fell silent, but his gaze never wavered from the orc king.
“You alone here?”
“Yes,” Stiger answered in dwarven.
“You speak the language of the little ones,” Therik said, switching to dwarven. “That is good. Makes it easy to speak. Common is a difficult tongue.” Therik glanced around. “Like you, I alone.”
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