by J D Franx
“There has to be another way,” he shouted, stepping forward.
The witch stopped but didn’t turn back. “What you felt one month back was caused by a magical disaster here in central Talohna. One so severe it has caused an unpredictable cataclysm. If what you say is true and you are only here because of it, then I promise you and your people will never return to your own lands, the world has been too damaged and further changes are on the way. Talohna is home to many races, many different magics and cultures. Unless you wish for constant war, you must learn to compromise, Jarl Engier. Turn over the woman and the magic users before the time stated and the Orotaq will make the best allies you will find anywhere in Talohna,” she said, and left without another word.
“She’s right,” Eira said with a soft sigh.
Engier winced. Of course, the witch was right, but he still wouldn’t sacrifice her, Sabjorn, or Drengr. Even the rogue necromancer was beginning to rub off on him.
“Yes and no,” he said. “With magic so prevalent in this land, the Orotaq would never believe we only have three magic users. It would lead to fighting anyway.”
A set of footsteps echoed off the rocks behind them.
“So, we are fighting then, are we?” Brenna asked. Only a half dozen steps behind her, Sahar bowed quickly but offered no words.
The two were returning from their sweep of the surrounding area and Engier shrugged at her question. “So it seems,” he said. “Get the camp ready for an attack any time after dawn. With their sensitivity to bright light, I doubt they will attack during the dark.”
Sahar cleared his throat, earning him everyone’s attention.
“Something you’d like to add, scout?” Brenna inquired.
“If the barrier around their village is magic, why not get Drengr to destroy it like he did the spikes?”
“And have his magic react like it did when we found Brenna, perhaps?” Engier reminded him.
Sahar answered with a sheepish bow, “Sorry, my lord.”
“It’s all right,” Engier said. “Never apologize for offering an idea, there are no bad ones at this point.”
As if encouraged, Sahar tried again. “Is there a reason why we don’t attack them?” he asked. “Hit them tonight, use the dark to our advantage.”
“Step up beside me, scout,” Engier suggested. “Watch and learn.”
The scout did as he was asked without question, and Engier pointed down towards the meadow located just up from the beach where the Orotaq were camped. The war chief Gorak had returned several minutes before the witch, but as she crossed into the main part of the camp, a magical light bloomed around the perimeter, crossing back and forth over itself until covering the whole camp. Several seconds passed before the magic faded, showing no visible trace it was active. Until you hit it, Engier thought, rolling his shoulders at the spark-filled memory.
“No surprise,” Brenna muttered. “We cannot rely on Drengr to bring it down, and though it’s not a full shield like the Ama Taugr can create with the proper rune, it does act more like a fence. A fence we can’t get our army past without warning them.”
Engier snorted. “A fence that also creates jolts of lightning strong enough to make you change your mind about going any further. Once your brain unscrambles, that is.”
“Speaking from experience, my Lord?” Sahar asked with just a slight hint of mirth.
Engier imagined the story of him and the fence was quickly making the rounds through camp, so he frowned at the scout but didn’t dignify the remark with a response, instead focusing on the problems before him. “A small group might get in.” He paused to glance at Eira and only continued after she gave him an uneasy nod. “With Eira’s help, but a full attack will never work.”
“Any chance one or two good scouts could get in and shut down the magic from the inside?” Sahar persisted, looking at Eira. Brenna’s clan were tenacious, among everything else they offered.
The Skeyth woman shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, but quickly added, “If I had to guess I’d say the magic is tied directly to whomever is casting the spell. It’s continuous, he or she would need to be actively casting all night. One good scout might be able to get far enough into the camp. I doubt the tent would be hard to find, but the spell caster will most assuredly be heavily protected and the moment the spell failed the whole village would be aware of it. Death would follow shortly for whomever went.”
“It would be a cursed hero’s run,” Brenna suggested.
“Hero’s run?” Eira asked.
“There are no living heroes in Northmen society,” Engier explained. “A hero’s run is an order or task given to a Northmen even though there is little chance of returning alive, even if their task proves successful.”
“It has to be worth the risk,” the scout pressed. “The dark will give us the edge we need to balance their size and strength.”
“He speaks true, Engier,” Brenna agreed.
“It’s a hero’s mission,” he spat. “Even if he kills the spell caster, the village will notice when the defenses go down like Eira said, and the price will be a slow death.”
“Then ask for volunteers,” Brenna insisted. “It has to be better than facing them head on in battle when it’ll take four of us to bring down one of them. Fighting them head on will be the end for our people.”
Engier rubbed his aching head. It seemed like all he’d done for months is ask for his people to stand fast and die, or to go off and die on some hopeless mission. Even the simple act of sending out hunters to feed the caravan had resulted in well over a dozen deaths. Every scout and warrior they lost weighed heavily on him, as did the guilt eating at his soul for the children they lost to the Skeyth and would now likely never recover. Vada’s return was a small victory when stacked against the rest of their losses.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s try it. Sahar, it’s your idea. Do you want to go? Eira will get you through the magic, but understand, after that you will be on your own.”
The scout nodded with a big smile and Engier could see the pride in his eyes, almost no fear accompanied it. “Yes, Jarl Engier,” he said. “I’ll find the spell caster and drop that shield. Have our men ready, my lord. I will not let you down.”
“You two go,” Engier said, pointing to Eira and Sahar. “Eira, report back once he’s inside. Brenna, wake the armies, I want them in place when that shield goes down.”
“Split the men?” she suggested. “Hit from the beach side as well?”
“Definitely,” he replied. “There should be room to get into position along the beach. Place one twenty-man archer unit to cover each of the sides that we don’t attack on.”
“Consider it done,” she said and turned to leave. Eira and Sahar were already gone, so he sat back and studied the camp.
His axe was sharp and his armor repaired. There was nothing to do now but wait.
Chapter Twelve
OROTAQ CAMP
SOKN LAND
“What do we do?” Sahar asked from just outside the magical barrier when Eira waved for him to stop.
“I’ll make the barrier visible. You’ll have to find a spot large enough to get through. The pattern shifts and changes so you’ll have to time it right.” While he knelt and waited, the Skeyth woman poured something from the pouch around her neck into her hand and then used a deep breath to blow the particles out in front of her.
He gasped at the myriad of bright lines when they appeared.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” she whispered.
“Unlike anything I’ve seen and I’m a forward scout,” he answered, smiling.
“See?” she added when the pattern of crossed lines shifted. “They have learned from the other night, the breaks between the lines are smaller. You need to be careful, pass through without touching the detection lines of the spell.”
“Or?” he asked.
“Did you see Engier shiver at the mention of it?”
“I did,” he chuckled.
“It hits hard,” she said. He could see her struggle not to smile at Engier’s misfortune, but it quickly faded. “They might have increased the energy for the spell, it might even be lethal now.”
“Great,” Sahar muttered.
“They don’t know we’re here so take your time and wait for a bigger opening. The pattern is changing every thirty to sixty seconds.” As if on cue, the lines shifted and an opening appeared in front of them at waist height, but it was too small for a Northman.
“Perhaps the next one will—” Eira began but stopped when Sahar leapt through the opening head first as if he were a mountain cat. He hit the ground quietly and rolled free of the magic without touching it. “Or not,” she finished. Her voice carried a note of respect for the agile scout.
“Any suggestions?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Find the heavily guarded tent and you’ll find the wizard casting the spell?”
“All right.” Sahar turned, disappearing into the dark. He knew Eira would return to report his success, giving him about two hours to drop the barrier so that the clans had time to fight in the dark before dawn lightened the night sky.
Sahar ghosted through the camp, dodging a few guard patrols. After an hour of searching, he realized how big his task actually was. Over four hundred tents occupied the meadow above the beach and after finding nothing that looked like a guarded wizard’s tent, he decided to push further into the camp’s center.
He stopped beside a wooden wagon, easing himself underneath when a patrol passed. It was only the second he’d seen in the last little while and the short hairs at the base of his neck twitched in concern. He wondered if they were really that confident about the magical shield or if they did not see the Northmen as much of a threat. The patrol left and he slid out from under the wagon and moved deeper into the camp.
Keeping an eye on the subtle lengths of shadow cast by the thin sliver of moon in order to keep track of his allotted time, Sahar was about to give up and return to where Eira would meet him should he fail when he crept around one of the tents located within the camp’s inner ring and caught sight of two huts, each guarded by four Orotaq warriors standing alert in front of the tents. Sliding through the dark shadows thrown by the tent and carriage to his right, he crept forward for a closer look. One of the guarded huts directly across from him had to be what he was looking for. Animal horns and antlers hung from the larger of the tents and shiny pelts of animal hide hung across the door, but the second tent was a bit smaller, and far more ornately decorated. Symbols and strange characters had been sewn or weaved into the fabric of the tent. Some of the strange marks glowed with a dull, ethereal light, while bleached white bones and antlers, all marked with similar symbols adorned the front of the tent. It was clearly a wizard’s hut, and he suspected the first tent belonged to Gorak, the war chief. He sighed and then drew a deep breath. Engier was right, with the wizard’s hut located so deep into the enemy camp, this was a one-way mission with only one ending should he be caught.
“Then don’t get caught, Sahar,” he murmured as he steeled himself and pulled back, quickly working his way around and through the maze of other tents before finally getting a view of the backside of the strange tent. Though heavily armed guards stood watch at the front entrance, only a lone guard kept watch at the rear. Unlike at the front, the rear guard had a distinctly female form under her robe. She was smaller than Sahar and at least a few dozen pounds lighter, so he crept ahead, slowly working his way closer to the hooded figure. Stopping within ten feet, he realized it had to be a wizard that kept watch. The guard was extremely vigilant and never focused on any one direction for more than a few seconds, yet they carried no weapons beyond the dagger at her waist, and no tell-tale bulk of armor showed beneath her robe.
Sahar sat cross legged in the deep shadows and continued to study the hooded figure while he pulled a black leather pouch from within his bracer and a small glass vial from the row of assorted flasks stitched to the inside of his armor. Lifting it above his head in order to catch the light rays from the moon, he sighed quietly. The vial of widow’s sap was nearly empty and without access to the widow’s tulip that grew in Sokn’s deserts, no more could be made. The events of the last month had depleted his stocks of healing tonics, poisons, and antidotes. Pulling the cork stopper, he grabbed one of the dozen bone darts from the leather pouch and dipped it in the vial, scraping it along the bottom and sides. A viscous red sap clung to the point when he removed the dart—just enough to do the job.
After returning the pouch and vial to their hiding spots, he slid a hollow twelve-inch tube of carved and polished whalebone from the backside of his sword’s sheathe. Carefully placing the tainted dart inside the ivory tube without touching the red poison, Sahar waited until the hooded figure turned his way then took a deep breath and blew into the tube. The dart shot out, striking the wizard in the throat. The effects were almost immediate, the guard took a single step and then collapsed without making a sound. Sahar was right there to catch her. Laying the wizard on the ground, the hood fell back and he saw his guess had been correct. The wizard standing guard was a young woman, no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. Two strange symbols had been tattooed on her face, one on each check. Despite her age and unconsciousness, the young woman’s features still held a hard edge he recognized in those accustomed to violence. He left her tied and gagged in the dark shadows behind the tent even though it would be hours before the poison wore off and she woke.
Pulling a small dagger from the sheath in his boot, Sahar cut a small slit in the hide tent and peered inside. Thick smoke drifted from four spiked incense burners hanging from the support poles enveloping the tent’s interior. The little bit of pungent smell escaping from the slit in the hide nearly made him choke and cough. When his eyes began watering, he leaned back and swallowed the irritation before pulling his mask up over his nose and taking another look. The stench lessened but still tugged at the back of his throat and burned his eyes.
“Cursed witches,” he mumbled softly, noticing the hooded wizard who sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of the tent. The body shape of the wizard was also feminine and he frowned. She was a witch, and actively casting magic for the shield. He could see the trigger lines pulsing from her body, but they turned invisible before exiting through the tent’s roof. If Eira was right, the shield should fall the moment the spell caster was dead. Sahar moved over a few feet, searching the hide tent until he found a natural seam used to sew the hides together. Using his small blade, he quietly cut through the stitches and drew his short sword before stepping into the tent without alerting the spell caster.
The tent was nearly twenty feet across, but the experienced scout covered the distance to the witch in a single second, driving his curved blade into the woman’s back. Clamping his hand over her mouth, he jerked the blade to the left, tearing through her heart as he withdrew the sword from her body. He held her down as she bled out and in less than a minute, she was dead. The pulsating lines to the shield winked out as her final breath fled her body. Rising from the dead woman, he hurried to the back of the tent and peeked out in time to see the last of the shield fall from the sky.
Within moments he could hear Engier and Brenna’s attack begin as they hit the far side of the Orotaq camp. He smiled and turned back, stepping over the witch’s body in the hopes he could kill the guards out front, but instead they entered the tent in the company of the woman from the peace meeting. Sahar stopped short and stood tall, her name already on his tongue.
“Cardessa Effelia,” the woman said, introducing herself. “In case you forgot.” She stared at the young woman lying dead at his feet, but quickly added, “That is disappointing. I had high hopes for that apprentice, not many earn the favor so young.”
“Favor?” Sahar asked, knowing any information he could escape with might help. Should he actually escape.
“Demon favor, lovely,” she answered, as if he should already know. “We
Dead Sisters draw upon the favor of demons in order to cast magic. You really should learn how this land works. If you had, perhaps you’d have known better than to attack this camp.”
As the sounds of battle reached a fevered pitch, Sahar realized what the witch meant. “It was a trap,” he gasped, shaking his head at not seeing it.
Effelia’s sly grin answered him long before she spoke. “Not in the sense you mean. This foolish child should have known you were in this camp long before you could get close enough to kill her. She was lazy with her intervals and it allowed you the time needed to pass through the grid lines. But... Not all young ones have what it takes to fully become part of the coven... I digress, apologies. The Orotaq may not like to fight in the dark... But they are more than capable of fighting at night with my coven’s help. Secure him and bring him with us.”
With no other option aside from dying for nothing, Sahar surrendered his weapons. It was rare for a Northman to do so, but he believed he could do more damage when he was brought before the Orotaq war chief. Once Gorak lay dead at his feet, the Valkyries would gladly carry him to Valhalla making his death one worthy of a Northman. After searching him and finding most of his weapons, he smirked at the hooked dagger they missed. They led him from the tent and forced him to follow the witch through the camp.
“You’re already too late,” he said, as they escorted him to the center of the war camp. “My people are inside your perimeter. These ugly giants might be immune to magic but they still fall under a sharp enough blade if it is swung hard enough.”
“This is true,” Effelia answered without looking. “Especially with the enchantments imbued into some of your weapons, something we will talk about at great lengths once this attack has been squashed. As you will see, the sole advantage you gained by attacking at night is about to disappear.”
