Night Born

by K L Reinhart

  Terak had no time to see how his guide was faring as he sidestepped Rukmol’s spear thrust.

  Remember your training! Terak tried to concentrate. That was what Father Jacques told him, wasn’t it, before he went into Everdell Forest. That he had been trained by the best. Terak swung on his hip once more as the spear lanced past him.

  What would Father Gourdain advise? To close in with the enemy. To use their size and bulk against them . . .

  Terak twisted again as the spear slashed past him, lunging forward with one of the knives to flick it up toward the orc’s neck.

  “Scrargh!” There was a deafening roar as green blood spurted into the forest air, moments before Rukmol’s buckler hit Terak across the chest and sent him flying.

  “Little elf!” Rukmol roared victoriously. “It’s always a good day when I get to kill elves!”

  Terak came to a skidding halt against the trunk of a tree, hitting the back of his head and making it come alive in agony as it compounded the older injury.

  “Get up, Terak! Get up!” he hissed at himself, already moving his legs as Rukmol charged him.

  Ixcht! Terak rolled just in time. The orc’s spear sank into the bark of the tree behind him and held firm. Without even thinking, Terak rolled back to sink one of his knives into the meat of Rukmol’s upper arm. The orc, screaming in agony, kicked him away.

  “Ach!” It felt like he had been kicked by a horse. No, worse—by an orc. He was rolling head over shoulder, seeing flashes of sky through the dappling leaves and branches above him, and hearing the grunts and snarls of the desperate fight behind him.

  “C’mere!” Rukmol screamed as he turned to chase after Terak, who jumped to his feet. He only had one knife left, since the second was still stuck in the orc’s upper arm, forcing Rukmol to hold it strangely straight at his side. The orc had abandoned his spear in the wood of the tree but Terak knew that even just with his feet and that buckler, Rukmol could still kill him quite easily.

  “You’re nothing, nothing, compared to me!” Rukmol bellowed as he closed the distance, sweeping with his buckler arm and making Terak duck.

  Terak stabbed upward after the shield whistled past his head, hoping to perform the same maneuver like he had done on Rukmol’s other arm, but the orc was too quick and Terak’s timing was off. The elf’s small blade only drew a line of green up the orc’s shoulder. Rukmol grunted and brought his buckler crashing down on Terak’s exposed head.

  Urk. There was a sharp, blinding flash of pain, and then complete and utter blackness.

  21

  The Fourteenth Maxim

  “Little elvish ytch!” Terak awoke to the guttural snarling of an unmistakably orcish voice.

  It was dark where he lay. He feared that he might have been blinded until he managed to crack open his encrusted eyelids. His head rang with every beat of his elvish heart, and he felt as though someone had dropped the entire Black Keep on his head.

  Then he remembered the fight with the orcs. Father Ella! He struggled to move, but instead, he let out a low, cat-like hiss as pain rippled down his body. He was bound, and he was bloody. His body felt as though it had been trampled, with aches and pains in his legs, stomach, and back that hadn’t been there before.

  Those brutes must have beat me while I was unconscious. He squinted, feeling a layer of something crack along his brow. Probably my own blood, he thought.

  “’Ere, this one is waking up!” came a snarl. It wasn’t the voice of Rukmol or Bugat, so Terak assumed that this must be their “lazy” companion Rodak.

  Terak let out another hiss, squirming where he lay as heavy feet thumped toward him. He pushed himself over onto his back. Dark trees stood around him, and stars glimmered between the distant black leaves.

  And the large silhouette of an orc, this one with only one ear as it bent over him. Rodak’s eyes glittered coldly.

  “Where’s my friend?!” Terak snarled, still squirming.

  “Stop your wailing, elf-sack,” the one-eared orc grunted, putting one large, gnarled, clawed foot on his chest and pushing lightly. It wasn’t a crushing step, but the orc was heavy enough that Terak had to fight to hold onto his breath as his bruises flared.

  “Bring the little grubber over here,” Terak heard Rukmol grumble. The one-eared orc seized him with both hands, heaving him over his shoulders as if he were nothing more troublesome than a sack of potatoes. Rodak grumbled, lurching across the clearing, then dumped the elf on the edge of a circle of firelight.

  The orcs had made for themselves a rough encampment in the woods consisting of a fire edged by stones, some large slabs of rocks to sleep on, and a few messes of what Terak took to be blankets. Until one of the bundles of rags groaned.

  “Ella!” Terak could see her across from where he had been laid. One of the torn and bloodied “blankets” had been her own black outer robes, now fallen to reveal her pale face with a sheen of dark blood dried to black from a nasty gash across her forehead.

  “Father?” Terak whispered in alarm, but his guide and one-time mentor was saying nothing. Her eyes closed, she breathed shallowly and rapidly. Her face was even paler than usual, almost as pale as Terak’s.

  “Father. Hear that, Rukmol? You hit this one harder than you thought!” The voice of Rodak sounded guttural and mocking.

  “It’s their way, pigswill!” Rukmol sniped. The largest of the orcs sat on one of the slabs of rock, his wounded arm held in front of him as he lanced a small bone needle through his thick skin. Terak saw the orc grimace in pain as he pulled his own flesh into a pucker, before re-pulling the thread and needle into a knot.

  “There,” he grunted, flexing the arm where Terak had buried his knife. Terak saw the leader of this little warband snarl and hiss as the clawed fist of his spear-arm shook and didn’t close properly. Good, the novitiate thought. I hope you’re never able to use that hand again!

  But the apparent injury didn’t appear to do more than irritate the orc, who kicked leaves into the fire before him.

  “All those Enclave. Everyone’s a daddy to them, even the women,” Rukmol growled, before pointing the bone needle toward Terak. “Ain’t that right, squeaker?”

  Terak hissed.

  Rukmol bared his fangs in a returning growl.

  “She put up a fight, your “daddy”,” he said, nodding beyond into the darkness on the other side of the firelight. “Bugat’s dead.” The orc said it as if that were something Terak should be ashamed of.

  “And don’t forget she stung me, Rukmol!” the one-eared Rodak said indignantly. Terak got the impression that Rodak was perhaps more slow-witted than his fellows. He had to shuffle to see the other orc settle onto a rock, holding out one of his legs to the fire. He lifted his shirt to reveal a large bandage made of Ella’s black robes wrapped around his belly.

  You’re injured. Terak remembered the grunt of pain when Rodak had picked him up. They’re both injured.

  Tenth Maxim. Pain is like water; it will overflow at the weakest point. The words of the Book of Corrections rose unbidden into Terak’s mind. Rukmol’s weapon arm was a weak point, and so was Rodak’s chest.

  But how, under the stars, could he use that against them?

  “But now, we remember,” Rodak growled, and Terak heard him say the last word as if it were a sacred act.

  “We remember,” Rukmol grunted, standing up to stomp to the edge of the circle light. He returned with a small iron pot.

  It glooped as he kicked at the fire, setting the iron pot on the exposed coals. An instant later, the horrid smell of some sort of broth or offal filled the clearing.

  What the Ungol is that? Terak gagged and coughed, earning a hissing noise from the one-eared Rodak.

  “Show some respect, elf!” Rodak growled, and his little eyes caught the dancing, dangerous light of the fires. “Bugat fell in battle. His spirit, his strength, will nourish his brothers.”

  Oh, dear Stars! Terak retched at the thought. They were going to eat their fallen comrade
. Or as much of him that would fit in that little pot, anyway! He coughed again, but all that came out was bile.

  “Shut him up!” Rukmol snapped, crouching over the brew of Bugat seriously. “Put him with the others. The Hexan will want ‘em all, I’m sure.”

  The one-eared Rodak made growling, grumbling noises as he lurched to his feet, gingerly touching one claw to his side. “Can’t we just kill this one, Rukmol? Save carrying three of ‘em.”

  Three? Even in the midst of his terrified thoughts, Terak knew that couldn’t be right. There had only been himself and Father Ella on the path. Unless any of the others of the Enclave-External had followed them?

  Or it was Mother Galda! Terak realized. Her note had said there was trouble on the road, and Ella had seemed determined to get to her. What more trouble could there have been than a traveling orcish warband?

  “I told you already, ditch-swill!” Rukmol glared at his slow-witted companion. “The Hexan will want what we catch. That was the job. And we done the job.”

  “But Bugat’s dead!” Rodak argued.

  Rukmol silenced him with nothing more than a low, menacing growl.

  “And Bugat will strengthen us for the journey home. Same for you or me. It’s the way.”

  Rodak appeared sullen at that, but whatever terrible or sacred logic Rukmol had invoked was enough to make the one-eared orc comply. Rodak lurched to Terak’s side, dragging him by the coarse rope wrappings across the clearing and almost throwing him onto one of the other bundles of rags.

  “Ooof!” grunted one of the bundles. It was Ella, wincing in her semi-conscious state.

  “Father Ella, can you hear me?” Terak whispered. He tried to shift and move his weight off the injured woman. The orcs were back at the fire, tending to the remains of their friend. Terak heard Rodak’s voice lift in a surprisingly clear tone of song—a lament as their friend bubbled and boiled.

  “Shhh.” Ella opened one eye at him.

  “Ella! Thank the—” Terak gasped under his breath.

  “I said shush!” the human woman hissed. They both held their breath as the song of the orcs carried on, strangely melodic, even given the awkward words in orcish that Terak couldn’t understand. Ella blinked, waiting for the sound to cover their whispered conversation.

  “Mother Galda is beside me. She’s hurt. We must get what she carries to the Black Keep,” Ella breathed in a rush. Rukmol suddenly stood up and added his growly baritone to the melody. The orcish version of a dirge, Terak thought.

  “Can you run?” Ella breathed.

  Terak had no idea, but either way, it was useless, wasn’t it? He was bound as tight as a brace of fish.

  “You’re the elf. You’re quick. You’ve been trained,” Ella said quickly. She moved slightly to one side. Terak realized that the woman had already freed her hands. The rope was only twined around her because she pretended to be bound. The father moved just a little, and in one hand, Terak saw one of his own knives. “I picked it up as they carried me. Wait.” She rolled back toward a shape on the far side of her that Terak hadn’t seen as a person before, it was so still and deeply wreathed in robes.

  As the orcish dirge rose to a crescendo, Terak heard Ella hiss in frustration before rolling back and slipping a small metal object made of different bronze cogs under Terak’s tunic. This was much smaller than the Loranthian Scroll had been.

  “Mother Galda’s an elf. This is an elvish translator,” Ella breathed. “The Loranthian Scroll is in code. We needed to get our hands on one of these.”

  Mother Galda’s an elf? Terak reeled from all this new information. But there was no time for surprise, as the orcs fell silent and sat with heavy thumps on the forest floor.

  Ella and Terak froze. They heard only the sound of scraping, and smelled freshly boiled Bugat-stew. The strong scent increased as the orcs started their remembrance feast. Both the novitiate and the father breathed out slowly.

  “As soon as you’re free, run back to the Black Keep. Don’t stop. Don’t pause. Put this in the hands of the Chief External or Magister Inedi.” Ella’s stare was hard and desperate. “No one else, understand me?”

  Terak nodded.

  “But we can all sneak away,” he whispered.

  “No, Novitiate,” Ella muttered as she started to move the blade, slicing at the rope that held Terak tight. “Mother Galda knew the risks and was prepared to take them. My leg is injured. You’re the only one quick enough.”

  “No!” Terak winced. He couldn’t do this! This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen!

  “Fourteenth Maxim, Novitiate.” Ella bared her teeth as she kept working.

  Only the dead know all the paths we must take in this world, Terak remembered. This was Father Ella saying good-bye.

  22

  Loyalties

  Terak couldn’t believe what was happening. His life had felt so routine a week ago. Well, it hadn’t really. It had felt like a slow hell, Terak corrected. But now, upon reflection, he realized how isolated he had been.

  Here he was, about to get carried off to the Stars-knew-where by orcs, unless he let someone sacrifice herself for him. On top of that, Father Ella had made it clear that he was the only hope for deciphering the Loranthian Scroll, dismantling the gates, and saving all of Midhara.

  Terak wanted to close his eyes and make it all go away, but he didn’t. I can’t. No matter how much he had hated the Enclave, this woman in front of him was ready to give her life for him. He wouldn’t let that happen so easily.

  “Almost there,” Ella hissed. She had so far cut one of the thick ropes that held Terak tight and was working on the next. “Can you move just a little bit?” Ella whispered, but then the very worst happened.

  “What’s that!?” It was Rukmol, rising from his emptied bowl of Bugat stew and glaring at his two prisoners sternly.

  “Ixcht!” Ella swore, sawing ever more frantically at the rope. She gave up her pretense of being bound, instead leaning bodily over Terak to get a better angle against his restraints.

  “Oi!” Rukmol shouted as soon as Father Ella moved. He dropped his bowl to the floor and burst toward them.

  “Agh!” Ella gave one final, desperate rip of the dagger and the rope frayed apart. “Go, Terak, run!” she said. Leaping to her feet, she stood over the elf’s form to meet the charging Rukmol.

  Terak shrugged and twisted, feeling the ropes start to come away. He found himself staring into the stilled face of a beautiful elven woman with skin as pale as starlight and hair as black as night. Mother Galda! She looked asleep, but before Terak could think any more, the roars of an enraged Rukmol were right behind him.

  “Run, you fool! Run!” he heard Father Ella shout.

  Terak flipped to his feet, finding them stiff, but he didn’t care. He’d jogged and stumbled through the snowdrifts of the Tartaruk Mountains. He’d taken plunges in the frozen Tartaruk lakes, then had to run his way home. The novitiate would be able to run, and run he did.

  Terak stumbled and leaped through the darkened forest. Behind him, he heard the dull, heavy thumps and cries of Father Ella’s fight as she fended off both Rukmol and Rodak with nothing but a knife.

  Terak had no idea where he was going. It was too dark to see the path, and he had no idea how far the orcs had carried them while they were unconscious. The trees around him flashed in monochrome colors as the distant starlight slanted through the branches.

  Find higher ground! he told himself. Higher ground would lead up to the mountains. Once he was above the woods, he could track his way to the ridge.

  Terak pushed himself off from the nearest tree, before he suddenly realized . . .

  The sounds of the fighting behind him had stopped. For a moment, the insane hope filled him that Father Ella had managed to kill the orcs, but then a long, ululating howl tore through the woods.

  “You’ll pay in blood, elf!!” It was Rukmol’s voice. Terak was sure of it, and he sounded enraged.

  Had Ella managed to kill Ro
dak? Terak didn’t stop to wonder as next came the sound of something crashing through the woods behind him.

  The elvish novitiate ran. Even though he was unused to this environment, his sharp vision picked out the smallest of details to aid him—leap from that rock to that exposed root, grab onto that overhead branch to swing yourself faster . . .

  If anyone had been watching, they might have seen Terak running like a ghost through the dark woods. His pale skin caught the starlight and made him seem unreal, more of a spirit of the dead than a living, breathing creature.

  But Rukmol had his own talents, and the largest of these was his pure rage. Rukmol similarly moved through the woods unlike any human. He was like a stalking predator, his eyes gleaming as they pinpointed their prey, his ears and nostrils twitching as they tracked him.

  There! Terak could feel the land rising under his quick steps. The trees were beginning to thin. He could see the silver-gray of the night sky between the black trunks.

  “Ugh!” Something heavy slammed across the back of his legs, flinging him into the dirt and sliding through the leaf-litter. Rukmol had thrown a branch that was as thick as Terak’s waist!

  The elf scrambled to pull his legs out from under the log, but it was already too late. Rukmol burst into the small clearing, bellowing his rage. The orc now wore a deep cut from just above his eye to his jawline, which sprayed and dripped green ichor as he lunged forward, stamping on the log that held Terak’s ankle.

  “Aii!” Terak shouted in furious agony. He was trapped, and he had no weapons.

  “That’s right, little ditch-snipe!” The orc paused his attack, chest heaving and falling with the effort. One arm was still held to the side awkwardly, and Terak could see where his shoulders were scored with the wounds that he himself had given the orc, but Rukmol was like a wolverine enraged. Nothing would get in the way of him and his kill.

  “I lost Bugat. Now Rodak!” Rukmol snarled at the trapped elf. “The Hexan said he wanted the elf woman kept alive. But I reckon it won’t matter if I kill you both and bring back whatever useless trinket she was carrying.” The orc gave a grotesque, wide grin. “You see, we orcs got our ways too. Orcs are loyal to orcs!”