by Stefon Mears
“Cavan must know something we don’t,” Tohen said. “We’ll have to cut them off.”
“If we pick a fight in the Firespears’ territory,” Qalas said, “we’re inviting them to sweep down on us.”
“Are you afraid of orcs?” Tohen taunted.
“I have no problem killing an orc. I have no problem killing ten orcs. But when a hundred orcs surround me, I don’t expect to live to collect a bounty.”
Tohen tried to stare down Qalas, but the dark-skinned hunter stared him right back.
“If the Firespears kill Cavan, we lose the prize,” Tohen said, still meeting those dark blue eyes. “If this priest helps Cavan, we probably lose the prize. Now are you hunter enough to risk the chance of fighting orcs? Or would you rather go chase rabbits?”
Tohen didn’t wait for an answer. He dug in his spurs and sped off the road and into the fields of great goldenrod.
Qalas, Rudyar, and Lutik were right behind him.
All around Tohen, the great goldenrod grew high enough to brush his horse’s shoulders. His hooves kicked up dust now, as well as filling the air with the licorice scent.
Tricky riding, this. And dangerous. Fields so tall could hide rocks, snakes, holes. But at least Cavan and his companions faced the same problem. And the hawks were further south than Tohen’s men had been behind Cavan.
Cutting them off was just a matter of riding close to the same speed, and finding the right angle…
* * *
The game trail was nowhere near as wide as the road, but it was wide enough for Cavan, Ehren and Amra to ride single-file between the stalks of great goldenrod all around them. Not swiftly, but swiftly enough. It would do.
Riding with a goal, a purpose that could be met that very day, that was enough to give Cavan patience. The bright sun seemed cheerier as it passed its zenith, the pale sky bluer, even the smell of the goldenrod sweeter.
If Ehren had still been singing, Cavan might have joined in for a verse.
But Ehren wasn’t singing.
“Many orcs worship a god of darkness,” he called out to Cavan. “Randech.”
“They won’t attack you on sight,” Cavan said, over his shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll wait until they hear you sing.”
Ehren ignored the jibe.
“Randech favors the sacrifice of enemies during the darkest hour of night. And a priest of Zatafa…”
“We aren’t going as enemies.”
“But do they know that?”
“Trust me.” Cavan smiled back at Ehren as he led his blue roan, Dzink, through a series of curves and cuts along the trail. The great goldenrod grew higher in patches near here. Some would be as high as Cavan’s chin, were he standing. Mounted, they reached only his thighs, and gave him a decent view of the fields around him.
But there wasn’t much to see. A little roll to the land, here and there, too low to call hills. A few odd trees here and there, covered by dark green leaves on their many, snaky gray branches. Whatever they were, they looked stunted among the height of the goldenrod.
“I do trust you,” continued Ehren, “but—”
Amra cut him off with a whistle. A three-note trill that called all three horses to a halt.
Cavan twisted in his saddle to look back as Ehren and Amra bunched in closer.
“I would remind you two,” she said, just loud enough for Cavan to hear her, “we are riding into hostile territory.” She raised a hand before Cavan could object. “Potentially hostile territory at least. And these damned weeds grow tall enough to hide a double-fist of orcish ambush.”
Amra smiled. “So please, for me, try to keep your focus on where you’re going before arrows start flying.”
An arrow whistled past her head.
“Down!” Amra yelled, but Cavan and Ehren were already off their horses, and Ehren barked the command word to make the horses lie down.
More arrows fell, but their targets were moving now and those shafts vanished into the goldenrod.
With a roar, two men came running at the trio. From the game trail behind them came a skinny, one-eyed man with a great sword even longer than Amra’s. From ahead came a bear of a man, scarred and bearded, wielding an axe and shield. Both wore leathers studded with steel.
And both wore the insignia of Duke Falstaff on their left shoulders: crossed black spears on a field of yellow.
“Damn it,” swore Amra. “I knew I should have ordered the charge instead of the halt.” Her dark sword was in her hands and she slipped forward to meet the one-eyed man.
Ehren thumped his staff and cried out to Zatafa in the language of old lost Penthix, the first kingdom to revere the sun goddess. Light flared brighter than a shaft of sunlight in a storm, all focused on the direction the arrows flew from.
Cavan pulled his longsword and a handful of goldenrod blossoms and moved to meet the axe man.
The axe came down at his head. Cavan sidestepped closer, cutting at the axe man’s exposed right side, but still the axe man got his shield in the way. Cavan blew power across the goldenrod blossoms. A sharp breath, to send them into the axe man’s face.
The blossom’s clung to his face, but missed the axe man’s eyes.
From the corner of his vision, Cavan could see the others. One-eye was quick with his sword, but Amra was quicker. She pressed him hard and already had split his leathers across his chest in a cut that must have been shallow since he was still fighting.
Ehren was out somewhere among the goldenrod with his staff. Hunting blinded archers.
But one of the archers wasn’t blind. Came out of the goldernrod, and Cavan was glad he’d forced the axe man to turn to his right. Both opponents were before Cavan now, instead of flanking him. The archer to his right and the axe man straight in front of him.
The archer had dropped his bow and gained a longsword in his left hand and a dagger in his right. A short man, tanned nearly as dark as a forest elf, with graying black curls and evil-looking black eyes. And he wasn’t just an archer. He had a purple stripe across the upper right corner of his duke’s sigil, marking him as the duke’s chief huntsman.
The axe man came in high. Cavan came across low.
Cavan stepped left again and cut the axe man’s thigh, just behind the knee. Blood watered the trampled goldenrods of the game trail. The axe man bellowed. Tried to twist and swing at the same time. Went down in a heap, between Cavan and the chief huntsman.
Cavan grabbed another fistful of goldenrod in his left hand.
“Stop or die!” bellowed a deep voice in Ruktuk, the guttural tongue of orcs. And with that command, orcs came out of the fields from every direction at once.
* * *
Big orcs. Small orcs. Orcs with pale green skin and orcs whose green skin was so dark they might have had ogre or troll blood. Orcs with wild black hair dreaded out and orcs with long brown or orange hair, greased and knotted into braids, each with a tiny blade at the end. Orcs shaved bald. Orcs with short tusks, orcs with broken tusks, and orcs with yellowed tusks so long their lips drooled nonstop.
Every orc was armed with an axe, a spear or a broadsword. Most of the orcs had three or four battle scars, and those were just what Cavan could see. All of them were armored, most in hides or leather but some in patchworks of chainmail.
The air filled with the scent of blood and dirt and foul sweat. The smell of orcs.
Cavan knew immediately who was in charge. Not the tallest or the broadest orc, but the one all in a single set of chainmail, not patchwork. Coif, hauberk and greaves, none showing even a spot of rust. The one who had a great sword on her back, but hadn’t drawn a weapon. She had one small tusk on the left side of her mouth, and a broken tusk on the right that was thick enough it must once have been much, much longer. Her skin was dark, and her long brown hair braided with blades.
None of the humans threw down their weapons, which was good. Cavan had already warned Amra and Ehren that orcs would take it as a sign of weakness. Among orcs, throwing down weapons wa
s not merely surrender, it was tantamount to begging for one’s life by offering to become a slave.
That the hunters didn’t throw down their weapons meant they must have dealt with orcs before, and not just fought them. Interesting.
“Who dares spill blood on Firespear ground?” asked the orc leader in Ruktuk, her yellow eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Cavan and the chief huntsman spoke at once. The chief huntsman in common Rentissi, the tongue of old Rentiss, a kingdom which had once spread from sea to sea, and whose language had long outlived it. It seemed that all across the land, the various peoples all still spoke and read and wrote Rentissi.
Cavan, though, spoke Ruktuk right now.
“These renegades are wanted,” the chief huntsman started.
“We know the glory of the Firespear,” Cavan started.
“Stop!” the orc leader bellowed, in Rentissi. She glared at the chief huntsman. Narrowed her eyes. “Ears.”
The chief huntsman scoffed, but moved his graying black curls away from the tips of his ears to show that his ears were round as any human’s.
The orc leader held her glare for a moment, body language saying she still had her doubts that the chief huntsman was not at least part elf. No doubt due to the deep tan of his skin, so close to the hue of wood elves that he might have had some elf blood, even if it didn’t show in his ears.
She turned to Cavan and flared her nostrils, which for an orc was a gesture of consideration. Probably appreciating either that Cavan was more obviously human, or that he’d spoken her own language. In Ruktuk she said, “You first.”
“My riders and I know the glory of the Firespear. We come not to raid. We seek no spoils. No captives. We come to talk with Iresk the Hawkspeaker, if he will honor us by listening.”
“He … speaks,” the chief huntsman said in what sounded like Ruktuk attempted by a goblin, “lies. No trust.”
The orc leader spat at the feet of the chief huntsman, and Cavan had to fight not to smile. An orc would not smile at the dismissal, would add to the insult by not even acknowledging it. And Cavan knew the orc leader was watching for a mistake. Finally she nodded at Cavan, and said, in Ruktuk, “Why?”
“You lead, and are worthy of respect,” Cavan said with a slow nod. “But those words are for Iresk the Hawkspeaker. I am Cavan, called Oltblood in the human way. May I know who commands so many?”
The orc leader laughed at a traditional orc greeting from the lips of a human, but gave the traditional response.
“Commanding so few gives me little honor, but I am Grench, called Trollkiller in the orc way.”
Trollkiller? If this orc made a habit of killing trolls, she was not someone Cavan wanted to square off against. Possibly not even someone Amra would…
Never mind that. Amra would do it. But as she was pointing out earlier, only if she felt it necessary.
Grench turned to the chief huntsman and spoke Rentissi. “Why are you here? By what right do you ambush on Firespear land?”
The chief huntsman pursed his lips for a moment, as though trying to remember the right orcish words, but then gave up and spoke Rentissi.
“I am Tohen, called Great Hunter.” Grench spat, but didn’t interrupt as Tohen continued, “I have tracked this man and his … riders across the Dwarfmarches for my lord. My chief.” Tohen pointed at Cavan. “He wants this one’s head, and I must let no one stop me from bringing it.”
A weak start, in Cavan’s opinion, but a good finish.
“He is no splinter,” Cavan said. “His chief rates him little better than a foundling.”
Several of the orcs around Cavan chuckled at that, since it was less a direct insult that could lead to a challenge, and more general mockery. “Splinters” were the orcs most valued and trusted by their chiefs. “Foundlings” were wandering orcs from broken or beaten clans, usually the weakest because the strongest would be welcomed into a new clan. Sometimes foundlings were taken into new clans, but when that happened they were considered expendable until they proved themselves.
Grench flared her nostrils. “What do you know of splinters?”
“I know if I were a chief, my two riders would be my splinters. We eat, we fight, we kill together. I trust them at my back. I trust them when I sleep. I trust them with my blood, my life, my offspring, and my captives. We walk as three. We fight as one.”
Grench nodded, looking Cavan up and down again. She nodded at Tohen.
“Why does this one want you?”
“His master wants lands that should be mine in the human way. He sends dogs to worry my head from my neck.”
“I AM NO DOG,” yelled one of the huntsmen in good Ruktuk. This was one Cavan hadn’t seen before. Must have been the other archer. He had the ebon skin of the deep south and short-shorn black curls.
Grench looked from this huntsman to Cavan without moving her head.
Cavan tapped his knuckles together, the orcish equivalent of a shrug.
“I do not know them. I know their master. Their master I would meet with sword or axe. These … are merely between me and their master.”
Grench smiled at that.
“No!” Tohen said. “I’ll fight you single combat for—”
“You have not earned single combat,” Grench said. She spat at Tohen’s feet again, emphasizing her point. To her people she spoke in Ruktuk.
“Cavan called Oltblood, his horses, and his riders come with us to see the Hawkspeaker.” She took in a dozen of her people with a gesture. “Give these others a breath to bind their wounds, if they can. Then escort this self-named Great Hunter and his humans to the road. If they cannot walk, kill them. If they object, kill them.”
Grench looked at Tohen. “You understand?”
Tohen was gritting his teeth so hard Cavan wondered if he’d cracked any. But Tohen nodded.
Grench then turned back to Cavan. “As we walk, you must tell me who named you orc-friend. For only an orc-friend could know of splinters.”
And they began to walk.
4
Four years ago…
The Wailing Woods didn’t wail, at least not that Cavan had heard. And he’d been riding south through them for three days now.
The trees were giants. They grew so tall and thick in this part of the woods, they had to be as old as the elves said to make this forest their home. Cavan hadn’t seen any elves, but he’d seen a great many trees.
They grew in two main types. The ones with the grayish brown trunks grew thinner, which meant that if a lance were driven through one, the tip and the handle would probably be visible. That wasn’t true of the trees with the reddish trunks. They grew so thick a stout tower could be carved through their innards and still leave walls thick enough to withstand a short siege. All around them grew thick underbrush that must have hidden colonies of animals, to judge from the rustling and cracking alone.
The branches of both tree types started at least a hundred feet up, and the lowest looked thick enough to bear four fully armored knights riding abreast. The grayish brown had thin, pale green leaves with six fingers, whereas the reds had needle leaves of dark green. All those branches wove into a canopy that kept the summer sun at bay, and the air below as cool as a gentle spring. And as fragrant. The reddish trees smelled warm, like hickory smoke. The grayish brown ones smelled darker, almost peaty.
No doubt each type of tree had its name and its uses. Master Powys would have known both, and their histories, and any magical applications they could be put to. Perhaps if Cavan had known any of those things, he might still be at Master Powys’ tower in the center of the forest, studying magic.
Instead he was riding home to Oltoss on a blue roan colt, a parting gift from Master Powys. Riding home along a slender ribbon of black dirt road.
Riding home to tell Kent of another failure.
Cavan knew he should have accepted an escort back to Oltoss, but he was too ashamed. A failure as a warrior, despite the longsword at his side. A failure as a wizard, des
pite the pouch of spells dangling from his belt. If he met his death on the road, well, at least his string of failures would end.
Even growing a beard was proving too great a task for Cavan, so he kept his olive skin shaved smooth. Not that his cheeks required much shaving.
As he rode, he snacked on nuts from his pack. Cashews and walnuts, with raisins for sweetness. Three more days and he would be through the woods and onto the wider road that would lead to the capital. He looked forward to seeing blue sky above him once again. Despite their height, the trees had begun to feel constricting. In fact, he might want to—
A stone thumped Cavan’s head. Pain spiked from the right side of his skull, just above the ear.
The world spun about him. Cavan slumped in his saddle, shaking his throbbing head. Knowing he should do something. His body didn’t know what.
Rough hands grabbed him. Yanked him down. Slammed him to the black dirt. Cavan tucked his head just in time to save a second daze. But his ribs took the impact. Kicked the air out of his lungs.
Cavan tried to breathe. Only got enough air to pick up the smell of blood and dirt and rank sweat.
Cavan knew something about that smell from his warrior training. Something that came together when he saw the green hands and arms of his assailant.
Orc.
An orc on top of him. Thin, but with ropy muscles. Thick animal hides armoring the torso. Small tusks. A trio of warts on the left cheek. Short black hair puffing out in dreadlocks.
The orc went for Cavan’s sword.
Cavan found his dagger first.
Pressed the tip past the hides and against the green belly above him.
The orc’s hand stopped moving.
The orc met his eyes. The orc’s were yellow. The pupils big.
Cavan wheezed. Air still eluding him. The orc glanced down at Cavan’s still-sheathed sword. Cavan pressed the tip of his dagger a little harder.
The orc raised his hands.
Cavan jerked his head to the side. The orc got off him. Cavan followed, keeping his dagger against the orc’s belly. Air finally started easing its way into Cavan’s lungs, but it wasn’t much of an improvement. Every breath ached from his shoulders to his waist, and his head still throbbed in time to his rapid heartbeat.
