Realms of War a-12

by Paul S. Kemp

  The weapon snapped and Pwent caught both ends and tossed them out to the side.

  The rock slammed against his chest, knocking him back a step.

  "Oh, but yerself's gonna hurt," the battlerager promised.

  He leaped forward, fists flying, knees pumping, and head swinging, so that his helmet spike whipped back and forth right before the orc's face.

  The orc leaned back, back, and stumbled and seemed to topple, and Pwent howled and lowered his head and burst forward. He felt his helmet spike punch through chain links and leather batting, slide through orc flesh, crunch through orc bone, a sensation the battlerager had felt so many times in his war-rich history.

  Pwent snapped upright, taking his victim with him, lifting the bouncing orc right atop his head, impaled on the long spike.

  Surprisingly, though, Pwent found himself facing his opponent. Only as the orc stepped forward, sword extended, did the battlerager understand the ruse. The orc had feigned the fall and had propped up one of the corpses in his place (and had retrieved a sword from the ground in the same move), and the victim weighing down on Pwent's head had been dead for many days.

  And now the real opponent seemed to have an open charge and thrust to Thibbledorf Pwent's heart.

  The next few moments went by in a blur. Stabs and swats traded purely on reflex. Pwent got slugged and gave a couple out in return. The sword nicked his arm, drawing blood on his black armor, but in that move, the battlerager was able to drive the weapon out wider than the orc had anticipated, and step in for a series of short and heavy punches. As the orc finally managed to back out, he did manage a left cross that stung Pwent's jaw, and before the battlerager could give chase, that sword came back in line.

  This one's good-very good for an orc-Pwent thought.

  Another vicious flurry had them dancing around each other, growling and punching, stabbing and dodging. All the time, Pwent carried nearly three hundred pounds of dead orc atop his head. It couldn't last, the dwarf knew. Not like this.

  A sword slash nearly took out his gut as he just managed to suck in his belly and throw back his hips in time to avoid. Then he used the overbalance, his head, bearing the weight of the dead orc, too far out in front of his hips, to propel him forward suddenly.

  He came up launching a wild left hook, but to his surprise, the orc dropped into a deep crouch and his fist whipped overhead. Improvisation alone saved the stumbling Pwent, for rather than try to halt the swing, as instinct told him, he followed through even farther, turning and lifting his right foot as he came around.

  He kicked out. He needed to connect and he did, sending the orc stumbling back another couple of steps.

  But Pwent, too, the corpse rolling around his helmet spike, fell off balance. He couldn't hope to recover fast enough to counter the next assault.

  The orc saw it, too, and he planted his back foot and rushed forward for the kill.

  Pwent couldn't stop him.

  But the orc's eyes widened suddenly as something to the side apparently caught his attention. Before he could finish the strike, the battlerager, never one to question a lucky break, tightened every muscle in his body, then snapped his head for shy;ward powerfully, extricating the impaled orc, launching the corpse right into his opponent.

  The orc stumbled back a step and issued a strange wail. But Pwent didn't hesitate, rushing forward and leaping in a twisting somersault right over the corpse and the living orc. As he came around, rolling over his opponent's shoulder, the battlerager slapped his forearm hard under the orc's chin while slapping his other hand across its face the other way, catching a grip on hair and leather helm. When he landed on his feet, behind the orc, Pwent had the battle won. With the orc's head twisted out far to the left and the warrior off-balance-surely to fall, except that Pwent held him aloft-and unable to do anything about it.

  A simple jerk with one hand, while driving his forearm back the other way, would snap the orc's neck, while Pwent's ridged bracer, already drawing blood on the orc's throat, would tear out the creature's windpipe.

  Pwent set himself to do just that, but something about the orc's expression, a detachment, a profound wound, gave him pause.

  "Why'd ye stop?" the battlerager demanded, loosening his grip just enough to allow a reply, and certain that he could execute the orc at any time.

  The orc didn't answer, and Pwent jostled its head painfully.

  "Ye said 'for' something," Pwent pressed. "For what?"

  When the orc didn't immediately respond, he gave a painful tug.

  "You do not deserve to know her name," the orc grunted with what little breath he could find.

  "Her?" Pwent asked. "Ye got a lover out here, do ye? Ye ready to join her, are ye?"

  The orc growled and tried futilely to struggle, as if Pwent had hit a nerve.

  "Well?" he whispered.

  "My daughter," the orc said, and to Pwent's surprise, he seemed to just give up, then. Pwent felt him go limp below his grasp.

  "Yer girl? What do ye mean? What're ye doing out here?"

  Again, the orc paused, and Pwent jostled him viciously. "Tell, me!"

  "My daughter," the orc said, or started to say, for his voice cracked and he couldn't get through the word.

  "Yer daughter died out here?" Pwent asked. "In the fight? Ye lost yer girl?"

  The orc didn't answer, but Pwent saw the truth of his every question right there on the broken warrior's face.

  Pwent followed the orc's hollow gaze to the side, to where several more corpses lay. "That's her, ain't it?" he asked.

  "Tinguinguay," the orc mouthed, almost silently, and Pwent could hardly believe it when he noted a tear running from the orc's eye.

  Pwent swallowed hard. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

  He tightened his grip, telling himself to just be done with it.

  To his own surprise, he hoisted the orc up to its feet and threw it forward.

  "Just get her and get out o' here," the battlerager said past the lump in his throat.

  Who will remember those who died here, and what have they gained to compensate for all that they, on both sides, lost?

  Whenever we lose a loved one, we resolve, inevitably, to never forget, to remember that dear person for all our living days. But we the living contend with the present, and the present often commands all of our attention. And so as the years pass, we do not remember those who have gone before us every day, or even every week. Then comes the guilt, for if I am not remembering Zaknafein-my father, my mentor who sacrificed himself for me-then who is? And if no one is, then perhaps he really is gone. As the years pass, the guilt will lessen, because we forget more consistently and the pendulum turns in our self-serving thoughts to applaud ourselves on those increasingly rare occasions when we do remember! There is always the guilt, perhaps, because we are self centered creatures to the last. It is the truth of indi shy;viduality that cannot be denied.

  In the end, we, all of us, see the world through our own, personal eyes.

  G'nurk broke his momentum and swung around to face the surprising dwarf. "You would let me leave?" he asked in Dwarvish.

  "Take yer girl and get out o' here."

  "Why would you…?"

  "Just get!" Pwent growled. "I got no time for ye, ye dog. Ye came here for yer girl, and good enough for her and for yerself! So take her and get out o' here!"

  G'nurk understood almost every word, certainly enough to comprehend what had just happened.

  He looked over at his girl-his dear, dead girl-then glanced back at the dwarf and asked, "Who did you lose?"

  "Shut yer mouth, dog," Pwent barked at him. "And get ye gone afore I change me mind."

  The tone spoke volumes to G'nurk. The pain behind the growl rang out clearly to the orc, who carried so similar a combination of hate and grief.

  He looked back to Tinguinguay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dwarf lower his head and turn to go.

  G'nurk was no average orc warrior. He had served i
n Obould's elite guard for years, and as a trainer for those who had followed him into that coveted position. The dwarf had beaten him-through a trick, to be sure-and to G'nurk that was no small thing; never had he expected to be defeated in such a manner.

  But now he knew better.

  He covered the ground between himself and the dwarf with two leaps, and as the dwarf spun to meet the charge, G'nurk hit him with a series of quick slaps and shortened stabs to keep him, most of all, from gaining any balance.

  He kept pressing, pushing, and prodding, never allowing a counter, never allowing the dwarf to set any defense.

  He pushed the dwarf back, almost over, but the stubborn bearded creature came forward.

  G'nurk sidestepped and crashed the pommel of his sword against the back of the dwarf's shoulder, forcing the dwarf to overbalance forward even more. When he reached up to grab at G'nurk, to use the orc as leverage, G'nurk ducked under that arm, catching it as he went so that when he came up fast behind the arm, he had it twisted such that the dwarf had no choice but to fall headlong.

  The dwarf wound up flat on his back, G'nurk standing over him, the sword in tight against his throat.

  I have heard parents express their fears of their own mortal shy;ity soon after the birth of a child. It is a fear that stays with a parent, to a great extent, through the first dozen years of a child's life. It is not for the child that they fear, should they die-though surely there is that worry, as well-but rather for themselves. What father would accept his death before his child was truly old enough to remember him? For who better to put a face to the bones among the stones? Who better to remember the sparkle in an eye before the crow comes a'calling?

  "Bah, ye murderin' treacherous dog!" Thibbledorf Pwent yelled. "Ye got no honor, nor did yer daugh-" He bit the word off as G'nurk pressed the blade in tighter.

  "Never speak of her," the orc warned, and he backed off the sword just a bit.

  "Ye're thinking this honorable, are ye?"

  G'nurk nodded.

  Pwent nearly spat with disbelief. "Ye dog! How can ye?"

  G'nurk stepped back, taking the sword with him. "Because now you know that I hold gratitude for your mercy, dwarf," he explained. "Now you know in your heart that you made the right choice. You carry with you from this field no burden of guilt for your mercy. Do not think this anything more than it is: a good deed repaid. If we meet in the lines, Obould against Bruenor, then know I will serve my king."

  "And meself, me own!" Pwent proclaimed as he pulled himself to his feet.

  "But you are not my enemy, dwarf," the orc added, and he stepped back, bowed and walked away.

  "I ain't yer durned friend, neither!"

  G'nurk turned and smiled, though whether in agreement or in thinking that he knew otherwise, Pwent could not discern.

  It had been a strange day.

  I wish the crows would circle and the wind would carry them away, and the faces would remain forever to remind us of the pain. When the clarion call to glory sounds, before the armies anew trample the bones among the stones, let the faces of the dead remind us of the cost. It is a sobering sight before me, the red-splashed stones. It is a striking warning in my ears, the cawing of the crows.

  — Drizzt Do'Urden

  SECOND CHANCE

  Richard Lee Byers

  29 Flamerule, the Year of Risen Elfkin (1375 DR)

  The autharch's soldiers tied Kemas's hands together and pulled the rope over a tree limb so that only his toes touched the ground. Then they beat his naked back, shoulders, and ribs with a cane.

  The boy tried clenching his jaw so he wouldn't cry out, but that didn't work. Then he tried not to hear anything the autharch, alternately cajoling and screaming as the mood took him, had to say. If he didn't understand the questions, he couldn't answer them and so betray his comrades and his faith a second time.

  Preventing that was the most important thing in the world, but he could already feel that it wouldn't always be. The jolting pain would go on and on until stopping it was all that mattered. Then he'd tell the autharch whatever he wanted to know.

  So why not give in now, if surrender was inevitable in any case? He struggled to push the tempting thought out of his head.

  Then one of the legionnaires said, "Someone's here to see you, Autharch. An officer from Umratharos." The beating stopped as everyone turned to regard the newcomer.

  The stranger possessed the thin, long-limbed frame of a Mulan aristocrat, like the autharch, or Kemas himself, for that matter, but contrary to custom, didn't shave his scalp. Straw-colored hair framed a face that might have been pleasant if it weren't so haggard and severe. The blond man bowed slightly, as if the autharch might conceivably outrank him but not by much, and proffered sheets of parchment with green wax seals adhering to them. He wore a massive gold and emerald ring on his middle finger, and Kemas sensed he was displaying that to his fellow noble as well.

  Broad-shouldered and coarse-featured for a Mulan and possessed of mean, pouchy eyes, the autharch scanned the documents, then grunted. "A tour of inspection."

  "Yes," the blond man said in a rich baritone voice. "Our master"-Kemas assumed he referred to Invarri Metron, tharchion of Delhumide-"wants to make sure every noble in his dominions is loyal to Szass Tam and making ready for war."

  The autharch peered about. "But where is your retinue, Lord Uupret? Surely such an important official isn't traveling alone."

  "For the moment, yes. My men fell ill, and rather than stay with them and risk catching the sickness myself, I rode on alone. My business is too important to delay."

  The autharch blinked. "Yes. I'm sure."

  "Then I hope you'll be kind enough to explain what's going on. Why are you and your troops encamped in this field?"

  "To further the northern cause, I assure you. Just east of us stands a temple of Kossuth. Obviously, I won't allow a bastion of His Omnipotence's enemies to exist on my own lands, especially when it's positioned to threaten traffic on the Sur Road. I'm going to take the place, kill the fire worshipers, and then my wizards will raise them as zombies to serve our overlords."

  The blond man nodded. "That sounds reasonable. But what about the boy?" Kemas flinched.

  The autharch chuckled. "Oh, him. I attacked the temple last night, but we didn't make it inside the walls. Which was fine. I didn't expect to on the first try. I was really just feeling out the enemy. Anyway, after we fell back, this little rat evidently decided he doesn't like fighting very much. He sneaked out of the shrine and tried to run away, and our sentries caught him. Now we're persuading him to tell us everything he knows about the temple's defenses."

  "He looks about ready." The blond noble advanced on Kemas and gripped his raw, welted shoulder. Kemas gasped and stiffened at the resulting stab of pain.

  "Be sensible," the newcomer said. "Spare yourself any fur shy;ther unpleasantness. Give the autharch what he wants."

  Kemas felt lightheaded. He thought he was fainting or dying, and would have welcomed either. But the sensation passed, and he started talking.

  It shamed him. He wept even as he spoke. But he couldn't stop.

  When he finished, the autharch said, "That's that, then. He'll make a scrawny excuse for a zombie, but at least he won't be chickenhearted anymore."

  "My lord," the blond man said, "I would regard it as a favor if you'd give the lad to me. As you say, he wouldn't be all that impressive an undead, and I confess, I'm fond of certain pleasures. Seeing him like this, teary-eyed, barebacked, and bloody, reminds me that I haven't had the opportunity to enjoy them since I set forth on my journey."

  Kemas had imagined he couldn't feel any more wretched, but he was wrong. He shuddered, and his stomach churned. He wondered if his further torment, whatever it turned out to be, would be Kossuth's punishment for his treachery.

  The autharch cocked his head. "Since the boy isn't fit to travel, I take it that you plan to bide with me for a while."

  "With your permission. It's a stroke of
luck that I have the chance to watch you and your men actually fight a battle. It will give me a better idea of your capabilities than anything else could."

  "Well, I'm delighted to offer you my hospitality, especially if it will lead to you carrying a good report of me to Tharchion Metron." The autharch shifted his gaze to one of the soldiers. "See to Lord Uupret's horse and provide him with a tent."

  "You can toss the boy inside it," the blond man said. "It will be convenient to have him close at hand."

  The legionnaire didn't literally toss Kemas, but he shoved him. The push sent a fresh burst of pain through the boy's back and sent him staggering. He fell, and with his hands tied behind him, could do nothing to catch himself. He slammed down on his belly, then rolled over on his side to peer up at the tharchion's emissary. He was afraid to look at him, but afraid not to, also.

  The blond man's face was as cold as before, but revealed none of the gloating lust or cruelty his prisoner had expected. The officer sang something, crooning so softly that Kemas couldn't make out the words, then darkness swallowed everything.

  When Kemas woke, a pang of fear froze him in place until he remembered what had befallen him and that, in fact, he ought to be afraid. Hoping to take stock of his situation without revealing that he'd regained consciousness, he opened his eyes just a little.

  Night had fallen, and the wavering yellow light of a single lantern pushed the deepest shadows into the corners of the tent. The flaps were closed, but the blond man sat on a camp stool facing them anyway, as if he could still see out. He slumped forward with his left hand supporting his forehead, seemingly weary or disconsolate.

  Which was to say, he had his back to Kemas, and scarcely seemed alert. He had, moreover, untied his captive's hands.

  Kemas cast about. He didn't see any actual weapons within easy reach, but a wine bottle sat on a little folding table. Trying to be silent, he pushed back his blanket, rose from the cot, picked up the bottle, and tiptoed toward the man on the stool. He swung his makeshift bludgeon down at his captor's head.