A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  “The truth usually is.” When the king released him, Bessarias stepped back and bowed, to the crown, if not the younger elf. “As you have need of me, I shall be at your service for whatever days remain to me, High King.”

  Mael nodded curtly and turned to Caitlys. “Take him to the Crown Prince’s chambers. My son will not be needing them now that he is in the field.”

  “As you wish, Majesty.” She offered her arm to Bessarias, a little coldly. “My lord Magistras, if you will come with me?”

  Angry or not, Lady Shadowsong had not forgotten her place as a lady of the court. They walked slowly from the chamber together. Bessarias looked back over his shoulder and saw the High King staring silently at the little ivory figurines as if he could multiply them by the sheer intensity of his gaze.

  Bereth

  For the next two weeks, there were no more battles as such. Instead, the High Guard found themselves flown ragged in a seemingly endless routine of patrolling and skirmishing. The only engagement permitted by the prince-general was a surprise attack conducted by all ten regiments of the royal archers in the late afternoon when the enemy’s daily march was coming to an end and the orcs had grown tired and careless. They poured hundreds of arrows into the massed enemy before the Great Orc responded by sending out his wolfriders to drive them off, but the attack was brief, limited and to little avail. By Bereth’s account, between the wooden shields of the infantry, the metal armor of the elite troops, and the occasional shaman’s spell, seven in ten of their arrows had been wasted.

  She had been riding on the back of Mellt high over the chaotic mass of orcs and goblins below when the attack was launched, with orders to ascertain how effective it was. And, although it pained her as one whose useful contributions were now essentially limited to spotting and archery, she was forced to conclude that the royal archers’ attack was almost entirely ineffective. Even aside from the risks that had been run, the attack had not been not worth the number of arrows loosed and lost, and which would now require replacement.

  Most of their patrols were without incident, and involved little more than flying back and forth around the perimeter of the enemy army, keeping track of the various tribal banners and seeing if any targets of opportunity presented themselves in a sufficiently low-risk manner. Bereth herself killed one orc shaman she’d spotted surreptitiously separating himself from the march as he disappeared into a nearby woods with a goblin officer, presumably intending to slake an illicit appetite.

  But before they’d managed to do so, Lassarian landed Mellt on a sturdy tree branch nearby, Bereth climbed down low enough to obtain an unobstructed shot, and promptly put two arrows through the shaman and one through the officer. Neither of them turned out to have much of value on their bodies, but she did find a tattered skin covered with crude orcish runes on it. The next day, she was informed that it was a duty roster belonging to the Split Rock River warband, which unfortunately told Lord Oakenheart little more than the fact that such a warband existed. And, presumably, was in need of a new captain.

  But every shaman they could kill now was one less to imperil their own mages come the inevitable day of battle. Such opportunities were rare, however, as the sky hunters were themselves hunted from the ground. Rare was the day that bolts were not launched into the air at them, more as a warning not to come any closer than as an actual attack. No more attempts at possessing a hawk were made, though whether that was because the elves were maintaining a sufficient distance or because the first attempt failed was impossible to say.

  It was out of boredom, more than anything, that she began to sport with Lassarian. She wasn’t particularly attracted to him, and he knew as well as anyone that she would neither bond with him nor grant him the Seventh Pleasure. But it passed the time, she found his devil-may-care attitude to be contagious, and it amused her to reach around and start caressing him when they were flying close enough for Rhian, or whoever was flying lead in the two-hawk patrol at the time, to see them.

  He would curse at her and break formation, but she could tell by the way he relaxed and leaned back against her that he wasn’t about to tell her to stop. They never spoke about it back at camp, nor did he treat her any differently than before, but once or twice she saw Ilriathas staring at Lassarian suspiciously, as if he had some inkling of what was happening up in the sky.

  Well, it wasn’t Ilri’s affair anyhow, she reminded herself. He didn’t own her simply because he’d bought her an egg and it wasn’t as if she was doing anything wrong. She didn’t see him often now anyhow, as he was seldom in the camp, being caught up in various other aspects of the defense preparations back at the White City.

  It was becoming increasingly clear that those preparations would be needed, because try as they might, they could not spot any obvious weak links in the Great Orc’s defenses. The crude boar corrals were erected each evening, with one ballista pointing at the sky in each cardinal direction and at least one goblin shaman assigned to the night guards, who were, for orcs, uncommonly vigilant. They learned why one clear morning, when Mellt flew over a corral that was just being dismantled, and they saw two orcs, both of which had been flayed of every fragment of their green skin, being impaled upon a pair of spears. Given that the impalements were taking place in front of at least a battalion of orcs being actively harangued by a large officer wearing the armor of a boar rider, it wasn’t hard to guess what had happened.

  “I’ve never seen orcs that disciplined before,” Lassarian commented as they circled above the bloody scene below. “Do you think they fell asleep at their posts or something?”

  Bereth nodded thoughtfully. “No wonder we haven’t been able to get at their damned boars. And if we can’t, the Horse Lord won’t risk his cavalry against them. The prince-general will have no choice but to fall back inside Tir Diffaith.”

  Two days later, however, Bereth noticed a moderately sized pond that was not only in the path of the enemy’s line of march, but was near a large embankment that would readily serve as two sides of an oversized corral.

  “Lasri, look at that,” she pointed it out to him. “Doesn’t that look like the sort of place the orcs would put their boars for the night?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So that pond is where the boars will be watered. The stream to the west is where most of the army will drink because it’s moving and fresher. But can you imagine the boarherds bothering to do that with a closer supply right there?”

  “What about it? They always make a couple of goblins taste the water, so poisoning it wouldn’t work even if Lord Oakenheart would agree to it.” Lasri’s voice dripped with disdain. As was the case with most elves, the thought of intentionally fouling and defiling the Land as if they were no better than orcs or men was utterly abhorrent to him. Moreover, while poisoning the water supplies might be an effective tactic against some armies, it was known that the orcs would simply make do in the absence of water by drinking the blood of their allies.

  Considering that every previous orc invasion had been eventually turned back, it was strongly felt that poisoning the waters for years in return for reducing the number of goblins by one-quarter was not a reasonable exchange. But poisoning one specific body of water might well be worth it, particularly if it could whittle down the number of warboars available to the Great Orc. But how to do it? It was possible that the orcs wouldn’t bother to check that particular pond, but that seemed highly unlikely considering the heightened level of discipline to which those watching over the boars were subjected.

  What if the effects of the poison could be delayed a little? A smaller dose wouldn’t work, she knew, because anything that was sufficient to harm one of the huge boars, even over time, would outright kill a goblin. She shrugged and decided to ask one of mages about it when they got back to camp.

  It took her nearly until sundown to find a mage who wasn’t too busy to talk to her. She hadn’t met him before, but he was easy to identify as he was the only elf in the vicinity who wa
sn’t wearing either armor or flying leathers. He listened to her with polite indifference at first, but as she described the problem, his eyes gradually brightened with interest.

  “You need a way to keep the poison inert until it can be undetectably administered to the beasts,” he commented. “It’s not a delay, to be precise, although I suppose you could describe it that way if you insist.”

  “It’s not a delay?”

  “Let us call it an effectual delay. To be more precise, the poison will not actually be a poison until it is transmuted. Would you prefer to trigger the transmutation at the time of your choosing? Or would you prefer the spell to be linked to the heavens? I would recommend basing it upon the rising of Elder Sister.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Most certainly. The moons are a most potent and reliable triggering element. There are those who utilize certain stars and occultations, and there are advantages to that approach, but since your only real concern is that the beasts can safely be assumed to have drunk their fill before the transmutation, a moonrise should admirably serve the purpose. What poison did you have in mind?”

  Bereth confessed that she didn’t know what her options might be, but to forestall what she anticipated would be a long-winded lecture on various alternatives, she suggested that they find Lord Oakenheart and ask him to make the decision. Upon being approached, the High Guard commander immediately grasped the potential strategic benefit to be gained, and approved her plan to magically poison the pond without hesitation.

  It took the mage, whose name was Terfielon, until sundown to complete his preparations. Bereth, who was exhausted and so emaciated from day after day of flying that she could now count her ribs when she took her blouse off, took advantage of the delay to eat a hearty lunch, then sleep. She was much refreshed by the time Rhian and Lassarian flew her and Terfielon through the night sky and landed next to the small body of water.

  “Is this it?” The mage wasn’t dubious, he simply wanted confirmation.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she called back, running her hand along the rock wall that would so tempt the boar herders, as it would save them time erecting their nightly corral. She estimated that they could probably fit 350 boars in the area, perhaps 400. That wouldn’t account for even one-in-ten of the Great Orc’s seven thousand, five hundred-strong heavy cavalry force, but it would be the first real blow inflicted upon his army since the march began.

  It was hard, she thought, to defeat an enemy who devoured more of its own soldiers in a single day than it lost in week of skirmishes. Despite being nearly devoid of elven casualties, even Lord Malchderas’s remarkable victory had accomplished little more than save the orcs the trouble of chasing down their smaller allies in order to make stew of them.

  Terfielon had brought a small wicker basket of sorts, and he kneeled down by the pond before withdrawing several bottles, each of which he examined closely before turning to the others to dismiss them.

  “This will take me some time to prepare. I can’t cast the spell until Little Sister rises and I’d prefer not to work with the three of you looking over my shoulder, or worse, asking questions.”

  Lassarian glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. Bereth narrowed her eyes and shook her head. Was he mad? They were on a mission, and roving night scouts or a scavenging party could catch their scent at any time.

  Rhian stretched and yawned. “I was on patrol last night and this afternoon, so I’m going to take a nap. Go far enough away so I don’t have to listen to you two, will you?”

  “What?” Bereth stared at him. “You knew?”

  “You were hardly subtle about it, my dear. Now do go on and wipe that damned smirk off Lasri’s face.”

  “Just because we got friendly a time or two doesn’t mean we’re going to run off to the shadows every time we happen to–”

  The mage interrupted her with an unexpectedly vulgar invitation for all three of them to be alternatively raped by boars, cooked by orcs, or devoured by wolves, as they happened to see fit. Rhian shooed them off with a gesture and Bereth took Lassarian’s hand as he led her, stifling his laughter, away from the irritated mage. The handsome raider managed to control himself until they were on the other side of the rock wall, when he burst out into a fit of laughter.

  She didn’t see what was so funny, but the sight of him laughing made her laugh, until Lassarian finally got himself under control.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It was just that I didn’t expect Lord Magister stick-up-his-arse there to have such a filthy mouth on him! I think he may have missed his true calling as a sergeant in the catrodau brenhinol.”

  “He wasn’t very nice.”

  “Unlike me,” Lassarian murmured as he pulled her to him. “I can be very nice indeed.” He kissed her hard, forcibly, urgently, and she let herself melt into him. He meant nothing to her, well, not precisely nothing, but she knew very well that theirs was just a wartime affair, the inevitable product of time and proximity. But he was tall and forceful and sure of himself, and he inflamed her senses in a way that Ilriathas, Lord Kelethan, for all his noble heart and staunch loyalty, never had.

  “Stop,” she said suddenly, trying to pull back from Lassarian. “Stop!”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “Listen!” she hissed. Something in her voice broke though his focused passion and she felt him tense as he leaned back from her and cocked his head. “You hear that?”

  It was a soft, distant sound, but the repetitive nature of it was unmistakable. Something, or rather several somethings, was running. Then she knew what it was.

  “Wolves!” they both said at the same time.

  “We should warn Rhian and the mage,” she said.

  “We can’t let them get away,” he said as if he hadn’t heard her. “No time. And if they catch our scent then turn around to head back north, that might ruin your plan. The orcs might suspect something is up.”

  “My bow is back on Mellt!” she said, panicked. The two hawks were tethered on the banks of the pond.

  “Relax,” he urged her, running his hands over her backside, then squeezing her hips. “You have your daggers. I have a sword. What more do we need?”

  “Depends how many there are. Shhh!”

  “I make two,” he said after a moment of silence.

  “Me too.” She pointed to the northwest. “That way. With the wind, they’ll have our scent soon.”

  He nodded and pointed east. “Go that way, just a little ways. Stay close enough that you’ll be able to see me. I’ll climb up on the wall and jump them from behind.”

  “How do you know they’ll go after me? They might scent you.”

  Lassarian chuckled. “You’re female and you haven’t bathed in three days. They’ve been without their she-gobbos and dodging randy orcs for months. I could probably stand here waving my magic wand at them and they’d ride right past.”

  She sighed, then couldn’t help laughing. It was ridiculous, but no doubt he was right. No matter what the species, males tended to become single-minded when deprived. She watched as Lasri clambered easily up the rock wall, then drew her blades and began jogging in the direction he’d indicated. She could just about see him in the light of Big Sister when he waved and abruptly disappeared. For a moment, her heart leaped into her mouth, then she realized he’d probably just dropped to his belly so the goblins wouldn’t spy him as they approached. If she squinted, she could see a glint of light reflecting from metal that was almost surely his drawn sword.

  Bereth still couldn’t see the wolfriders, but she could hear the beat of the wolves’ paws getting louder. Then they must have caught her scent on the night wind, because there was a howl that sounded disturbingly close, followed by sound of the footfalls picking up their pace. She finally caught a glimpse of them less than a half-bowshot beyond the rock wall, ghosting towards her like something out of a nightmare.

  The gray fur of the wolves and the sickly yellow-green skin of the goblins made them hard to s
ee in the dark, but they came into focus as they approached the rock. The wolves were sizable, but thin, and their ribs were showing. The goblins weren’t much better, and their faces were gaunt and stretched into rictus grins of bestial excitement. Whether it was lust or hunger that drove them, she could not tell, but even in the darkness and at a distance, their desperation was palpable in their every movement.

  And, as Lassarian anticipated, their desperation made them blind to their danger. He rose silently to his feet as the pair of wolves approached his position, then leaped lightly down from the rocks, swinging his sword as he dropped on the right side of the closer wolf. His timing was perfect; the drop gave his sword additional force, and its sharp blade sliced cleanly through the neck of the beast, eliciting a scream from its rider at the sudden appearance of this deadly apparition.

  The scream caused the other rider to veer to its left, away from its companion, who was tumbling side-over-side, its feet still entangled in the rope stirrups on the headless wolf’s body. Before it could disentangle itself, Lassarian was already on top of it, and with a quick slash followed by a back-handed thrust, the goblin’s throat was opened before its mouth was filled with elvish steel. Lassarian placed his boot on the dying goblin’s chest and jerked his sword out of its head.

  The goblin circled around, its yellow eyes filled with uncertainty. Lassarian beckoned to it with his free hand, but his long sword dripping blood was enough to dissuade it from attacking. The wolf whined and took a step towards her, but the goblin took one look at the daggers in her hands and clearly decided it was in over its head. It yanked at the crude leather reins to pull the wolf’s head around and kicked the beast into a galloping retreat.

  “Dammit!” Lassarian swore, watching helplessly as the wolfrider disappeared into the darkness, fleeing to the dubious safety of the north.