The War of Stardeon (The Bowl of Souls)

by Cooley, Trevor H.

  She stopped and turned on the armored orc with a hiss. He was one of only two under her command that could speak. The other orcs had been too heavily modified. She ached to kill them. She ached to kill them all actually. Ewwie had made each of them a challenge. But the two talkers she wanted to kill most of all. She probably would have already done so if Ewwie hadn’t told them to call her ‘Commander Talon’. She kind of liked that.

  “The mistress wants to know how many,” said the orc. “The bladecats can smell large numbers, but their scents are jumbled.”

  “It doesn’t matterss to uss,” she said. “We hunt the wizardss.”

  The orc would have frowned if its face were still capable of movement. “The mistress wants to know if there are enough to be a threat.”

  “Tell the female I don’tss care,” Talon said. In truth, she wasn’t sure how many there were. The encampment they had discovered at the base of the cliff had been quite large, but she wasn’t sure how many had passed through into the caverns. In fact, she wasn’t sure how they had gotten in there in the first place. If she had not found traces of her brother’s scent ascending the cliff face, she might not have found them at all.

  The trail at the bottom of the chasm was so narrow that it was impossible to calculate how many had marched out of there. “The numberss were large, but they ssplit here. Some wentss that way,” she said, pointing to the east. Then she pointed to the north. “But the wizardss went thiss way. And that is where we headss.”

  The orc hesitated. “Mistress feels that some of us should follow the others and see where they went.”

  Talon didn’t deny that she was curious too. Her brother had traveled with them after all. “No! Ewwie said to killss the wizardss sso that iss what we do.”

  The others gathered around her. One of the bladecats let out a growl and Talon rounded on it, her tail at the ready, poison dripping from its end. Ewwie had made the bladecat by combining a porcupine with a mountain cat and turning its quills into bladelike razors. So far she greatly preferred them to the orcs, but this was the first time one of them had turned on her. She could see the shriveled moonrat eye embedded in its forehead and wanted to rip it out.

  But it didn’t attack. Instead, one of the armored orcs jumped on its back and it sped off in the direction Deathclaw had gone.

  She darted at the orc that had spoken to her and grabbed his neck with one hand, digging her claws into his armored skin. “I leadss! I!”

  “We . . . cannot deny the mistress!” it said. “She made those ones go. The rest of us follow you . . . Commander Talon!”

  Oh how she wanted to kill it. Take it apart. Watch it melt like Ewwie’s creations always did. But Ewwie asked her to kill the wizards and now she was one orc and one bladecat short. She might need the rest of them.

  Talon released his throat. “We go!” she said and ran to the north, following the wizard’s trail. The others followed at her heels, the extra speed Ewwie gave them allowing them to keep up. Once the wizards were dead, if any survived, she would kill them too.

  Chapter Thirty

  I’m big-big! Gwyrtha said for perhaps the tenth time, taking great joy in the fact that she towered over the warhorses and chargers that made up Captain Demetrius’ cavalry.

  We know, sweetheart. Justan had increased her to three times her normal size this time. Justan looked like a child sitting on her saddle. He had wanted to grow her even larger, but Master Coal had advised against it. Increasing her size too much would reduce her energy and limit the other modifications he could make. The wizard had a point. Making her larger would increase the fear she would strike into the enemy, but it would also make her a bigger target.

  So Justan had held back on her size and instead spent some of her energy hardening her scales and toughening the various other skin patches that made up her hide. Now that he was done, her reserve energy was only a quarter of what it usually was. It was a dangerous balance. There was no telling how long the battle would last or how much energy he or the other bonded would need.

  “You ready?” Hilt asked. The named warrior trotted up to his right, Beth sitting right behind him. “She’s impressive enough I think!”

  “I’ve done all I can,” he replied. He wished he could tweak the changes a bit more. But there wasn’t time. Everyone was ready to start.

  He leaned out as far as he could over the saddle and reached out his hand to help Beth climb aboard. Beth had said that riding on Gwyrtha would help her concentrate and Justan hoped it was true because she had perhaps the most important role in the attack. She sat high up on Gwyrtha’s shoulders, straddling the rogue horse’s neck and holding on to her now thick and wiry mane.

  “You going to be okay sitting up there?” Hilt asked.

  “I can’t think of a better place!” She laughed and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Gwyrtha’s thick neck. “Oh, you are such a good girl! Yes you are!”

  I know! Gwyrtha agreed.

  “We’re ready, Captain!” Justan shouted.

  Captain Demetrius unsheathed his longsword and held it high over his head. “Charge!”

  Now, Fist! Justan sent, knowing that the ogre would give the signal. Both armies would attack at once to further disrupt the enemy.

  The cavalry surged forward, Gwyrtha taking the lead. Captain Demetrius rode on her left flank and Sir Hilt on her right, Samson right behind them.

  The centaur had grown in size as well, much larger than Justan had ever seen him. He held one spear in each hand and was fully armored. At first Justan had been confused because he hadn’t been able to see Master Coal, but then he had realized that the wizard had fully immersed himself in the bond. His body laid forward flat on Samson’s back, partially submerged in the thick bony plates of the centaur’s skin and covered by the centaur’s stiff wiry pelt.

  The east side of Reneul soon loomed ahead. Justan could already see a few trolls standing in the streets, swaying back and forth under the witch’s control. He pulled Ma’am off his back and drew an explosive arrow from one of several leather quivers strapped to the side of Gwyrtha’s saddle. The arrowhead glowed a sinister red.

  “Beth, are you ready to start?” he asked.

  “I already have,” she replied.

  Justan switched to his spirit sight and didn’t see anything at first. Then he saw something so faint he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it. A thin white haze poured from Beth, flooding ahead of them faster than the horses could run.

  Beth had figured out how to create a spirit cloud that would muddy the spirit magic of another witch. When she had first explained the concept to the rest of them, Justan was concerned that her powers would disrupt the bond, but she had assured him that she could tune it specifically to the mother of the moonrat’s signal. It was how the four bearers of the lodestones had traveled through the Tinny woods unnoticed.

  As Justan watched, the white haze flowed over two trolls in the streets ahead. They broke into a run, one of them jumping into the shadows and tearing into a confused pair of moonrat eyes.

  It was time to begin. Justan focused in and took a deep breath. Time slowed down and his senses increased three-fold. He had been preparing for this moment for weeks and now it he was ready.

  Justan pulled his feet from the stirrups and stood on Gwyrtha’s back, his body fully aware and adjusting to Gwyrtha’s every movement. He drew back the explosive arrow and smiled at the familiar buzz of the dragon hair string that filled his ear. Ma’am was eager to fire. He saw his first target, a troll, running out of the doorway of a two-story house. He fired.

  The arrow shot forward faster than most eyes could have followed and struck the troll square in the chest. There was a sharp crack and the troll’s tall form was jerked back into the house and exploded into an enormous fireball, flames bursting from every window.

  The effect was more devastating than he had imagined. Justan drew another arrow. This was going to be fun.

  Jhonate spun, swe
eping her staff behind her, and the orc commander’s head fell from his shoulders. She glanced to her left and saw the ogre, Fist, cave in the helmet of one of the other orc leaders with one swing of his wicked mace. She nodded in approval as she saw that Poz and Qenzic had made short work of their opponents as well. Only Jobar was still having a hard time.

  The orc he had chosen was a big brute covered in a mismatched set of heavy armor looted no doubt from fallen warriors. Jobar had managed to disarm it and had gotten in a few good strikes with his daggers, but he had also managed to get his face bashed in pretty badly.

  Fist went to help, but Jhonate grabbed his arm, holding him back, and yelled, “Qenzic! Poz! Go check on the others. Jobar, the rest of us are done here. Are you coming?”

  The squat man growled and sheathed his daggers. As the large orc swung another fist, Jobar ducked the blow. He dove under the orcs arm, then slid behind it and jumped up, grabbing it by the neck. The orc twisted and grabbed at him, trying to throw him off, but Jobar got an arm around its throat and wrapped his legs around its waist.

  He clenched his arm and arched his back. The orc threw punches over its shoulder right into Jobar’s face, but it had no leverage and as Jobar strained, the punches grew weaker until finally it collapsed. He rolled off of it, breathing heavy, and Fist walked over and bashed its head in for good measure.

  Jhonate held out her hand and pulled him to his feet. “Idiot! Next time do not take on the biggest one, Jobar. You slow us down.”

  Jobar spat out blood and grinned at her with a split lip. “Whatever you say, Daughter of Xedrion.”

  “Come. We have fallen behind,” she chided and they ran out of the tent to catch up with the others.

  While the original plan had been for the entire force to charge directly to the front gates, Justan had noticed that the orc leaders had set up command tents in the outskirts of the city far from the walls of the academy. Even better, they were just off of the main road.

  As the rest of the force fought their way to the academy’s gates, Tamboor’s howlers had charged into the orc forces in front of the command tents, screaming in full battle fury. While they caused chaos within the orc ranks, Jhonate’s strike force, consisting of Faldon’s graduate class and twenty retired members of the Assassins Guild, had made a beeline for the tents.

  Poz ran up to the tent as they exited. “The attack was a success, Daughter of Xedrion. Every orc in the command tents is dead.”

  “And our losses?” she asked.

  “Two,” he replied. “Retirees.”

  Jhonate’s brow tightened, but she let no emotion show on her face. “Call in the howlers. We need to catch up with the others.”

  “And the dead?” Poz asked.

  “We must leave them.” The words felt like ashes in her mouth, but this was one mission where they wouldn’t be able to lay their fallen to rest.

  “But . . . it was Melo the Dash and Smiling Ty. They were-.”

  “We will never make it to the Mage School with the bodies of our comrades weighing us down,” she insisted. “The best we can do perhaps is take up their weapons so they don’t go to the enemy.”

  Poz frowned, but nodded and ran to carry out his orders.

  She felt Fist’s large hand rest on her shoulder. “A leader’s burden is not enviable,” he said.

  “Is enviable your word of the day?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said in his deep voice. “It’s a terrible word for today.”

  Tamboor and his howlers had decimated the orc sub commanders and their staff, but now the orcs were fighting back. The advantage of a berserker force was creating surprise and terror. If their force was large enough and fast enough, they could wipe out enough of the enemy in the first few minutes to cause a rout. The disadvantage was that their fighting style was almost exclusively offensive. Warriors adapted during battle and after the initial surprise was over, the enemy often figured out how to fight back. If that happened, a berserker force could take heavy losses.

  This was where academy berserkers were superior. Each one of them was trained to obey a signal that would snap them out of their rage and allow them to retreat. Every group of academy-trained berserkers had a caller, whose job it was to determine when the tide of battle had shifted and reel them back in. Tamboor’s men had chosen Zambon for this task.

  When Poz signaled him that it was time to move on, Zambon raised two fingers to his mouth and let out the piercing whistle that called them back. The men rushed back to join Jhonate’s group, but Tamboor was not among them. Zambon had to let out the call three times before Tamboor reappeared, covered head to toe in orc blood.

  The man twitched, breathing heavily, barely keeping himself under control. Zambon tried to trade swords with him, but Tamboor pushed his hands away and ran to catch up with the rest of Faldon’s army. The berzerkers followed their leader, Jhonate’s team at their heels, passing hundreds of orc dead along the way.

  Lenui Firegobbler let out a stream of curses as he stood at the forefront of the dwarf formation, bashing the orc front lines to jelly. “Garl-friggin’ frog-eatin’ nose-pickin’ sons-of-goblins!”

  He hadn’t worn a full suit of armor in nearly fifty years. He hated the stuff. Didn’t even like making it. Plate armor was stifling and heavy and hampered his movements. He had hoped to avoid it this time around but his stupid brother had showed Bettie his old suit of armor from the War of the Dark Prophet over two hundred years ago. Of course she had insisted Lenui wear it again. The durn woman was moodier than ever lately and she had shouted him down until he finally let her help him into the suit. The dwarf forces had cheered when they saw her strap the breastplate on.

  At least he was bashing orcs. It suited his temper.

  “Yer lookin’ like the Lenui of a hunnerd years old!” Shouted Pall, who was fighting to his right. The old dwarf stabbed a tall orc through the groin with his sword and let the dwarf behind him take it out with a spear to the neck.

  “Shut up! I hate this dag-burned crab suit!” Lenui snarled, planting Buster between one orc’s bulgy eyes with a satisfying thud. Why had Chugk insisted on keeping the stupid armor anyway? He had asked him to sell it years ago before the other dwarves went and put it in a museum or something.

  The armor had been one of Lenui’s youthful exuberances, forged during the time when he first caught the smithing fever. His daddy had laughed and encouraged him, pointing out techniques to make it better. Lenui spent a year’s worth of earnings getting the ore magicked and spent months more of his precious time shaping and runing and coloring the metal.

  He had been so proud when he finished it. Every piece shone like polished silver, the runes filled with red iron. On the breastplate was a large F made of gold-colored steel on an oval background of red iron. He had placed an even larger version of the same symbol on his shield and a smaller one on his helmet.

  It was a suit of armor fit for a king, but Lenui in his stupid pride had worn it into battle himself. The old timers had laughed at first, saying that the F stood for Fancypants. But Lenui had showed them what a Firegobbler could do in battle. The armor withstood the toughest blows and shone bright no matter how much blood was spilled on it. It helped him survive some of the worst defeats and proudest victories of the war. In some ways he supposed he should be grateful for it. The armor had been the way Lenui had made his name, but it was also one of his greatest mistakes.

  He could see it even now in the eyes of the other dwarves. He had crafted a hero’s armor and the others still believed in it after all these years. Bettie had no idea what she’d done by making him wear it. They were seeing him as the hero of Thunder Gap once again. He could only hope this battle wouldn’t have an ending quite so tragic.

  With Lenui’s shining figure leading them, the dwarf front lines moved steadily forward over the bodies of the orc dead, dwarf shieldbearers in front with short weapons followed right behind by dwarves with spears and poleaxes to keep the enemy from climbing over them.
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br />   Edge had known the value of a dwarf army. Their lines were firm and rigid, good at moving an enemy, and he had placed them on Faldon’s right flank pushing the orcs towards the troll infested side of Reneul where Beth had disrupted the mother of the moonrat’s magic.

  It was working. Lenui could hear the screeches of trolls tearing into the rear of the orc forces. The orcs began to panic, pressing in on the dwarf line in an attempt to get away. Their lines began to buckle.

  “Hold firm, dag-blast it!” he shouted, busting orc heads and hands and kneecaps and whatever came close enough for Buster to hit.

  “You heard him! Hold!” shouted Pall and the call went down the line as the dwarf troops did just that, planting their feet and felling every orc that tried to get past them. Soon the orcs learned to fear them just as much as they did the trolls and the dwarf line began moving forward again.