by Cindy Dees
* * *
The pair of orcs were almost on Will, their weapons raised high over their heads, their eyes aglow with bloodlust. He feared Rosana was right. They were all going to die. Bloodroot! Talk to them!
Still nothing.
Do I have to be at the point of dying before you bestir yourself to save us both?
“Dead meat we are,” Sha’Li muttered.
To Raina’s credit, she did not flinch even once as the orcs charged them.
At the last moment before the Boki warriors slammed into them Eben shouted, “We’re here to see the Sleeping King!”
A huge greenish-brown orc pointed out Rosana’s tabard and grunted something that sounded like, “Bal. Tha. Zar.”
A disgusted groan went up among the other Boki. What was that all about?
They were hustled none too gently in a tight cluster, surrounded by a cadre of hostile guards to a fire burning in the center of the sprawling camp. It threw off a dancing, even cheerful light, in marked contrast to the grim visages of the Boki pouring into the space. The fire circle was crammed with Boki, male and female, all big, muscular, armed, and dangerous looking. Will felt puny among them. He might have attained most of his adult height already, but he had yet to fill out as a man and still retained the gangly cornstalk leanness of youth.
An aged Boki with dozens of bones twined into his matted hair stepped forward, and right behind him the last person Will would have expected to see in this place: a large, jovial-looking human wearing a soiled White Heart tabard.
“Who are you?” Will blurted. He was backhanded across the face for his troubles, a casual swipe that laid him out on the ground.
He picked himself up slowly and dusted himself off as one of the Boki guards pulled Rosana forward and grunted, “Balthazar.”
The White Heart man exclaimed to Rosana, “Good heavens, child, what madness brings you here?”
“I would ask the same of you!” she retorted.
“I am Emissary Balthazar of the White Heart. I live among the Boki to teach them of the Heart. I know their ways and how they think. I can help you communicate with them.”
Apparently, the fellow had done his job, for the sight of Rosana’s tabard had stayed the orcs’ clubs. One of the orc warriors, a big fellow with scars all over his arms, grunted something in not quite intelligible common.
“He wishes to know why are you here,” Balthazar translated.
“We seek asylum from Anton Constantine,” she replied to the White Heart brother.
A hiss went up at the governor’s name that nearly drowned out Balthazar’s groan.
Rosana glanced over her shoulder at Will and he nodded encouragingly to her. “And,” she continued in a lower voice to Balthazar, “we seek the Sleeping King. He might also be called the Mythar. We want to wake him up. Perhaps the Boki can tell us where to find him?”
Balthazar frowned. “Are you sure this is what you wish to ask them? They will kill you for it.”
“It is, in truth, why we are here,” she replied. “Will, he can explain more.”
Will stepped forward to do just that, but the Boki who’d slapped him shoved him back into line with the others.
Balthazar commenced speaking rapidly in syllables flavored heavily with a Boki accent. It seemed to be taking him entirely too long to repeat what Rosana had said, but eventually a roar of rage went up among the orcs and the nearest ones brandished clubs in the party’s direction.
Balthazar leaped in front of their little cluster, his arms spread wide. He shouted for their hosts to halt and the orcs paused in the act of surging forward. The White Heart man muttered over his shoulder without looking away from the furious mob, “If there is more to your story that might stop the Boki from killing you all, now is the time to tell it. And quickly.”
Will stepped forward again, and again was shoved back.
Cicero tried next. Perhaps his kindari heritage and kinship with the forest would earn him a measure of respect among the orcs. “Surely, the Boki know of the threat to the land. Surely, they feel the attacks upon the forest, feel the damage. We wish to help stop all of that.”
A few of the shamanically decorated Boki nodded as Balthazar translated. The murderous mood of the mob eased a fraction.
“And?” Balthazar prompted.
“And,” Cicero added, “they need to hear what my human friend has to say.”
All eyes turned to Will. Any advice? Anything, Bloodroot? The tree spirit within Will was stubbornly silent. He huffed. Fine. He would do this himself.
Will reached for his laces and opened his shirt wide.
A gasp went up.
Balthazar turned all the way around to stare at Will’s chest. “What is that?”
Will lifted his chin at the Boki. “They know. Tell them it is not merely a piece of Bloodroot. It is heartwood. I hold his spirit within me.”
Balthazar turned to an aged Boki whose dress was adorned liberally with teeth and bits of bone, as if he were a shamanic thorn. “Is this possible, Thar’Ok?”
The old Boki shuffled forward slowly and laid a huge, calloused hand over the disk. He stared into Will’s eyes for long seconds. And then slowly, very slowly, nodded his head once. Twice. The thorn grunted a single syllable. “Troo.”
The orcs went wild. Whether they shouted in joy or outrage or utter disbelief Will could not tell. His companions huddled closer to him as Balthazar shouted to be heard, “He said you speak truth!”
“They will help us then?” Will asked.
A long discussion followed among the Boki leaders, if size and number of scars indicated seniority among these creatures.
Balthazar stepped aside with Will and the others while the debate raged on. The White Heart member spoke in a low voice to them. “Since you are here, I have a message I need relayed to the Heart in Dupree. I do not know if any or all of you will leave this place alive, so I am going to break Heart protocol and tell you all in hopes of the message reaching its intended destination.”
Will and the others nodded at Balthazar.
The White Heart man murmured low and fast, “I have good reason to believe that there is a traitor in the colony. Someone who double deals with the Boki and stirs them to violence.”
Will started. “Are they not already plenty violent enough on their own?”
Balthazar shook his head. “That’s the thing. The Boki warlord and other most senior leadership of the tribe have no interest in provoking Anton or in invading the colony. And yet, someone incites certain … more angry … factions within the Boki to do both. I believe payments are being made by the traitor to ensure that another insurrection happens.”
“Who is the traitor?” Raina asked in a hush.
“It has to be someone at the highest level of colonial government, with enough resources to buy himself or herself a war, and with a vested interest in benefitting from another greenskin invasion.”
Even Will could not miss the emissary’s implication. Anton was behind paying off the Boki to invade Dupree.
“Are you sure of this?” Rosana asked.
Balthazar shrugged. “I do not have direct evidence. But I have lived with these people for fifteen years and more. I know them extremely well. And it is clear to me that I speak the truth. I have overheard arguments about it. I have seen fights among the Boki themselves over whether or not to proceed with another insurrection, and during those fight, accusations have been made by Boki with no reason to make such accusations were they not true.”
Raina frowned. “The Heart cannot make a direct accusation against the governor without witnesses or tangible proof.”
Balthazar threw them all a frustrated look. “It is why I have not spoken up before now. But I believe an invasion is imminent, and the colonists must prepare themselves lest there be another slaughter like before. I cannot in good conscience remain silent.”
“You should come to Dupree. Make a report yourself,” Raina urged him.
“The Bok
i will not let me leave. They know I have seen too much. Whoever is dealing with the traitor blocks my departure in the Boki council, and the others do not want their dirty laundry aired to the outside world.”
Rosana nodded solemnly. “We shall see to it that your message is delivered as soon as we get back to Dupree.”
Will winced. Just what they needed. To get embroiled in yet more political wrangling, particularly against the governor himself.
Someone yelled for Balthazar and the White Heart member left them to go speak to the Boki elders. Eben used his height to look over their captors and report on what he saw. “I think they want to kill Will and take the disk. Balthazar seems to be arguing that killing Will won’t detach the spirit within him from the boy’s spirit.”
“Tell them Balthazar is right!” Rosana cried.
Raina added urgently, “Tell them I am a ritual caster and Balthazar speaks truth. Will’s and Bloodroot’s spirits are joined as one. Only a major ritual might separate them.”
Might? Will stared at the arch-mage. Might? He could be stuck with this tree spirit forever? Although the way Will felt now, forever might not be more than a few days away. The crowd of orcs parted and several heavily scarred, older Boki approached the party, still arguing.
Thar’Ok threw up his hands in obvious disgust. He stomped over to Will and grunted, “Hoo-man. No wuh-thee. Give Bloodroot ovuh.”
“Not worthy?” he repeated. Balthazar nodded behind Thar’Ok.
“I did not choose Bloodroot. He chose me,” Will stated slowly and clearly.
“No wuh-thee. Know too much. Kill hoo-man.”
Something broke within Will. A dam of rage he’d been holding back ever since that night in Hickory Hollow. Ever since Adrick collapsed, dead, with a Boki spear through his belly. Ever since he watched Lars gutted like a sheep. Ever since he realized his parents had sacrificed their lives for him. The rage surged up in him like a tidal wave, swelling until he could barely contain it.
The mob pressed in on them from all sides, brandishing mostly wicked-looking clubs, but a few axes and pikes glinted among them. Sha’Li hissed behind him, and a rock flew out of the crowd, striking the lizardman girl in the side of the head. She cried out in pain.
Will’s rage spilled over. His entire being went white-hot with it and red rimmed the edges of his vision. He shoved forward between Eben and Cicero, batting them aside like flies. He raised his right hand high beside his ear and let go of his rage, hurling a massive ball of magic into the pile of logs burning at Scar Arm’s feet.
The bonfire exploded. Literally. Blazing logs went flying every which way. Glowing embers made a stunning fireworks display overhead before they began raining down upon everyone around them. Hoarse screams erupted from the Boki as they scattered in all directions, dodging the burning missiles. Where there had been a bonfire moments before now there was only a shallow, ash-lined depression in the ground.
Darkness fell upon the clearing as the debris finished raining down. A few logs still burned here and there upon the ground, but no other light illuminated the shocked faces of the Boki. Still, it was enough to see them all staring at him, stunned.
“I’m the one who was chosen to wake the cursed king!” he snarled from between gritted teeth. “Chosen by my father, and chosen by Bloodroot himself.”
The vignette was still for a moment more, and then Scar Arms called out several commands in orcish. The Boki leaped into action. Some went to fetch torches, others quickly laid a new bonfire and got to work lighting it, but the majority stamped out the small fires burning across the clearing and checked the roofs of the huts for smoldering embers.
Eventually, the bonfire was restored, the camp made safe, and the Boki reassembled around Will and the others. But this time the guard from before stood well back and showed no inclination to lay a hand on him. Will stood at the front of the group, and all eyes were upon him now.
Thar’Ok was the first to speak. “Who be thee, hoo-man?”
“I am Will Cobb. I hail from the Wylde Wood, and I have been brought here by my companions and by Lord Bloodroot to wake the Sleeping King.”
His announcement was met with deep silence. It occurred to him that they had not laughed at his words. In fact, they seemed to take his announcement entirely seriously. Almost as if this sleeping-king legend was real, after all.
“Why Boki buh-leef thee?” Thar’Ok challenged.
Why indeed? Will didn’t believe it himself. He was just a boy who’d had a crazy father and been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The whole string of events that had brought Will to this place at this moment could add up to either colossal bad luck or the hand of fate. The Boki could take their pick. He didn’t much care which it was.
He shrugged. “I am here, am I not? Believe me, it was no easy feat to stay alive and get here. Were I not bound by my quest, I would never be mad enough to walk into your camp and hand myself over to you. “
“Hoo-man stoo-pid come hee-uhh.”
He had to smile sardonically at that. “I agree.”
“Where hoo-man get?” Scar Arms demanded, his club raised in one hand, his other stubby green finger pointing at Will’s chest. Will registered vaguely that the dark red wood of the weapon was strikingly similar in color to the disk upon his chest.
“I fell on it, and it just … stuck to my chest.”
“Why Bloodroot choo’ thee?” Thar’Ok asked, incredulous.
Will shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
He thought maybe Thar’Ok looked awed for a moment, but he wasn’t sure, for the orc turned away quickly and began conversing in grunted undertones with Scar Arms. Before long, a number of other Boki had joined what turned into a pitched argument. The orcs with stuff in their hair seemed arrayed against a half-dozen big, scarred warriors made from the same mold as Scar Arms. More wood was brought for the fire and the discussion almost came to blows more than once before their dispute was finally resolved.
Balthazar reported, “The warriors disagree with shamans in this matter. The warriors think Will should die, but the shamans think he should be given a chance to complete his quest.”
Raina, who had never once budged from his side, drew in a sharp breath. She murmured, “So. The Boki do know where the Sleeping King lies.”
She spoke urgently to the White Heart man. “Ask them why Bloodroot would attach himself to my friend and lead his steps to this place if he did not wish for them to help us?”
Balthazar looked regretful as he relayed the response. “The warriors have decided. Will Cobb is not the One.”
Desperation wrapped around Will’s throat. He was so close. Somebody in this mob obviously knew something about the Sleeping King and was just being stubborn about telling him of it. If only he could prove he was who he said he was—
“Let me fight for it,” he blurted. “Honor combat. Let me prove that I’m the One.”
Balthazar’s gaze lit with interest. “I do not condone combat, but they will kill you all, otherwise. Perhaps this way only you die, boy.” Balthazar translated quickly, sounding as if he negotiated for the lives of the others. Another argument ensued, this one blessedly much shorter and less heated than the first.
“Are you sure, Will?” Raina asked doubtfully. “Everything is at stake, here. Everything.”
“Can you think of any better solution?” he retorted.
A sigh. “No.”
“Then I fight. Maybe I die; maybe Bloodroot decides to get off his leafy arse and help me win.”
Balthazar turned to Will triumphantly just then. “Done. The Boki accept your offer of honor combat. In return, your friends live.”
A shout went up among the Boki. Three syllables, repeated over and over. For her part, Raina grabbed him fast and slammed a bolt of healing magic into him that hurt like fire for several seconds. He appreciated the sentiment, but he doubted anything would help him, now. At least her casting caused the Boki to stand a little farther back from her
as well.
Eben murmured beneath the din, “I think they’re saying something about ‘to the pit.’”
“What’s that?” Will asked back.
“I have no idea. But the title seems fairly self-explanatory, does it not?” the jann replied wryly.
Will had been afraid of that. Many hands reached out for him, dragging him forward roughly.
He barely had time to call back over his shoulder to Raina, “Don’t let Rosana watch!” before he was hauled out of sight of his friends and swallowed in a seething mass of green-brown bodies. They led him to the edge of the village and a clearing that reached into the woods beyond the huts.
“Yon be pit, hoo-man!” Thar’Ok shouted in his ear on a fetid breath that all but knocked Will over.
He looked where the orc pointed and saw a giant hole in the ground. It was mayhap thirty feet across and ten feet or so deep. A single rough, wrist-thick rope hung down the side of the earthen pit.
“Choo’ weapon, hoo-man!”
Will reached for the staff still shockingly slung across his back, and he drew it forth, brandishing it across his body. It might be primarily a defensive weapon, but it acted as a shield of sorts in a pinch. And it was the one weapon with which he was truly comfortable. He would need every bit of his skill to make a decent showing before he died in this fight. It was a foregone conclusion that he would lose, of course.
He swung the staff experimentally and remembered wryly his mother saying that he had all the tools to become as great a warrior as his father. Little had Will known then of what she spoke. Who would have guessed that threshing and sweeping and mowing could teach a boy the rudiments of combat? Too bad Ty had never deigned to finish his training.
“This staff will do. And I have a name, by the way. It is Will Cobb.”
