The Irda

by Linda P. Baker

She dropped the last ten feet and landed with a bone-jarring thud. “Two or three new companies of Ogres, wearing yellow, with a shiny star here.” She sketched a square above her left breast. “What was left of the other group has joined them.”

  “Clan Signet,” Eadamm interjected. “What are they doing?”

  She smiled. “Camping.”

  Eadamm’s lips stretched back in a feral grimace. His teeth were white against his dark skin. “We’ll attack at dusk.”

  “I don’t see why we should attack at all,” Jeb, one of Eadamm’s generals, protested. “We’re free. We’re less than three days’ ride from the plains. From home!”

  Eadamm resettled a stolen Ogre sword more firmly around his hips. Though some of the others wore stolen Ogre finery, he’d refused to wear even a cloak from his former masters. He wore a blanket, with armholes slashed in it, over his torn and stained slave garments. “And how long do you think you’ll be free if we do nothing to stop the Ogres. Perhaps you’d live out your life a free man. But what of our people? If we don’t stop the Ogres, they’ll just kidnap new slaves and start over.”

  Jeb peered at him. “You just want to protect your old master!”

  Eadamm started to retort, but instead shrugged. “Again, if we don’t, how will we ever be secure in our homes? Igraine’s followers must persevere. For our safety.”

  Jeb looked at the plans Eadamm had been sketching in the hard ground. “I don’t agree.”

  “You don’t have to stay with us if you don’t want to,” Eadamm said gently.

  Jeb straightened, his hand going to the dagger tucked into his belt before he realized Eadamm meant no offense. For a long moment, he regarded his friend. “I have nowhere to go. But do we have to attack in the dark?”

  “It won’t be any darker than it was in the mines. Until we’re ready for light,” he added cryptically.

  * * * * *

  Eadamm was right. Perhaps to the Ogres, who had not toiled in darkness for years, it was night. To him, even in the wee hours before dawn, that darkest time before sunrise, the craggy canyon in which the Ogre troops had chosen to sleep was plainly visible. The crags and sheer faces of the canyon walls were shadowed and spooky, but the tents of the Ogre troops were outlined sharply.

  The blades of Ogre swords flashed in the moonlight as the humans swept down on the camp, pouring into it from both ends, cutting off any chance of retreat. Eadamm’s people carried stolen weapons and homemade ones—lovely swords of elven design taken from some rich estate, pikes hand carved from elm wood and capped with hand-hammered metal, axes stolen right out of firewood, hoes and rakes and scythes still smelling of grain fields.

  Eadamm led the first charge, riding at the front of his people. The sounds were overpowering; screams of rage and vengeance about to be realized echoed off the canyon walls. It surged in his blood, fueling his battle lust. He met his first opponent, a wild-eyed sentry, and cut him down with one quick slash.

  The Ogre response to the attack was sluggish but fierce. Attacked from two sides, they poured out of the tents, leapt from their blankets to meet Eadamm’s troops.

  Shrieks and death cries filled the air. Sword rang out against sword, pike against pike. Over the din of weapons striking each other, Eadamm could hear an Ogre commander trying to rally his archers. Eadamm wheeled and charged in the direction of the voice. The Ogre had the presence of mind to send an arrow whizzing past Eadamm’s ear before he was cut down.

  The humans torched the Ogre tents, sending up an eerie light, which cast their shadows, several times enlarged, dancing on the canyon walls.

  The Ogres, caught in disarray, rallied quickly, forming pockets of resistance against which the humans battered. They grabbed up shields and pikes and fought back-to-back, protecting the archers, who rained arrows down on the humans. The arrows flew up and out of the circles of Ogres, appearing as if by magic.

  Again and again, Eadamm’s people rushed the lines, skewered an Ogre here, one there. But again and again, the humans were repelled.

  Stragglers, caught too far away to join in the protective circles, fought hand to hand, silhouetted against the flames. Humans picked up bows and quivers of arrows and picked off those Ogres who thought they could climb up the canyon walls to safety.

  For sheer ferocity, the humans equaled the larger, better-equipped Ogres. In sheer force, they were no match. For each human killed, Eadamm felt the decimation to his numbers. For each Ogre who fell, another stepped forward to take his place.

  He stood in his stirrups and yelled for one of the soldiers on foot to bring him bow and arrow. He lit the feathers from the flames of a burning tent, nocked the arrow quickly, and let it fly. The burning signal sailed in a high arc over the battle. Even before the wildly dancing flames had disappeared from overhead, a bolt of blue sizzled upward into the sky, like lightning in reverse.

  Though he was expecting it, the brightness of it blinded Eadamm and panicked his stallion. The big animal reared, pawing in midair. Eadamm felt the momentum of the horse’s action toss him backward. He went sailing through the air and landed with a bone-jarring whump!

  As he gasped for breath, his vision deserted him. Stars danced before his eyes, but whether from the lightning or the fall, he didn’t know. Then he could see, figures blurry and indistinct, both atop horses. As he strained to see, the larger figure leapt from his saddle, carrying the smaller one to the ground.

  His vision cleared to reveal Jeb and a large Ogre female, locked in a death grip. He tried to stand, to go to Jeb’s aid, but his balance was off. He stumbled, went to his knees. Dimly, he was aware when the larger figure lifted a gleaming silver dagger. She lifted it high in the air, then brought it down again and again. The man who had been his second-in-command since the escape from Khalever slumped.

  A woman who had escaped from Bloten rushed to Eadamm’s side. As she helped him to sit, the lightning sizzled again, lighting the night as brightly as the sun lit the day. The woman, hearing the warning whine of the spell building, covered her eyes.

  This time, Eadamm was sure it was the magical lightning of their one human wizard that left spots of color dancing behind his eyelids. He could see barely two feet. Despite the disorientation, he scrambled to his feet and remounted the skittish horse.

  All about him, the Ogres were in disarray, blinded and frightened by the magical flash of light. The lines of carefully tied horses had broken loose and were careening through the camp.

  Eadamm veered like a madman through a large group of Ogres, cutting a bloody swath through the group. Hacking with his stolen sword, he stabbed and slashed his way through and out of the circle on the other side. Inspired by his bravery, a group of humans plowed through behind him, cutting down their enemy left and right.

  For several minutes after the magical lightning, the battle raged around him. Surging through the flames and smoke, the humans pressed their advantage. The Ogres scrambled to regain their defense, but to no avail.

  The humans surrounded the few last groups of Ogres and hacked and slashed their way to victory. Until, at last, the mere sight of so many humans, bloodied, was enough to make the few remaining Ogres break formation and run.

  The humans gave chase, but Eadamm called them back. “Leave some to carry the tale,” he shouted.

  Two of Krynn’s moons, near to setting, hung low in the sky. It seemed only minutes ago that the battle had begun, rather than more than an hour.

  Jeb was dead, pierced through so many times that it seemed the Ogre had been trying to obliterate him rather than just kill. Eadamm knelt at his friend’s side and covered his broken body with the fine woolen cloak that had been torn half off him. It was muddied, ripped, stained with the blood of Ogres and Jeb himself.

  “We won,” Eadamm told his friend. Only then did he notice how quiet the canyon had become.

  Anel stared at the female Ogre who stood before the Ruling Council. Although every hair was braided and neatly in place, she still appeared harried and fri
ghtened.

  “The forest killed them?” Anel asked, her voice disbelieving even though she had already heard similar reports from the three guards who had escaped. She glanced at her fellow council members. Their faces were equally stunned.

  The warrior nodded. “We were lucky. Our group leader saw the danger, and we managed to pull back, rested, and regrouped. Then, when we were ready to attack again, that’s when the humans surprised us. We—We were in the back. We barely escaped with our lives. My brother was … Raell …” Her voice choked off. “He was one of the unlucky.”

  Anel nodded in sympathy. “We will sing for your loss.” She motioned an aide to step forward and lead the female away. She didn’t need to probe the mind of this one. She’d already probed the first three for truth. Except for minor details, this fourth story corroborated the others.

  “We must send another company,” Teragrym began even before the door had closed. “A stronger, more dedicated one.”

  “Who do you suggest?” Enna responded acidly. “They have defeated our best. And from where? We need more guards for the estate trails. Two more supply caravans were struck this morning by runaway slaves. And to where? Our scouts have died alongside most of the Redienhs warriors.”

  “Then we must begin conscripting from the common classes. Train harder, faster, better,” Teragrym said dryly. “And we must send mages.”

  Narran flipped open his fingers, sending a jagged flash of light shooting toward the ceiling. It sizzled and disappeared. “Which of us do you suggest, Teragrym?” he asked angrily. “Perhaps you want to send one of your children?”

  “We have to fight magic with magic, not swords. I do not prefer to send my family into danger, but what I must do, I will do. As you will.” He fixed Narran with a withering glance. “But don’t worry. For the moment, I have someone besides you in mind to command a counterstrike.”

  “Then you may proceed accordingly, Teragrym,” Anel said. “Enna, you will institute a program for selecting and training more guards.”

  * * * * *

  Calmness. Serenity. Eight days of safety.

  Butyr’s young sister had been one of those killed, as well as two sons of the wild Aliehs clan, and five others they couldn’t spare, but they had gone on.

  The last days had been a healing time, a calming time, though with none of the comforts to which Khallayne had been raised and barely enough food, and that ill cooked.

  Her legs aching and belly rumbling, without a home, she had never been happier. Jelindra, a young female Ogre barely a hundred years old, her pale hair still tied with childish ribbons, rode by her side, hanging on Khallayne’s words as she taught the young one the incantation for disguise.

  “We’re close now, Khallayne.” Tenaj rode back from the front of the group to interrupt the lesson. Jelindra grimaced with disappointment but obediently rode away, still counting off the lines of the incantation on her fingers.

  Khallayne watched her go with a smile. “I think she’ll be very good someday. She’s very accepting of the power.”

  “I’d like to learn,” Tenaj said very quietly, very shyly. “I’ve never been very good, but …”

  Khallayne smiled with pleasure so genuine that the expression lit up her face. “Oh, Tenaj, you have no idea. This is unbelievable. My whole life I’ve had to hide my magic. Now everyone knows, and instead of being punished, they’re asking me to use it more! I’d love to teach you, anything you want to learn.”

  They both had to gallop to catch up with Lyrralt.

  The whole company wanted to go into the city, but they understood the danger involved. Lyrralt had not wanted to go, but had been chosen, along with Tenaj and Khallayne, to check out the city, to spy.

  The city of Thorad was as unlike Takar as Lyrralt’s father’s estate was different from the king’s summer home. Like Takar, it was a center for trade, but unlike Takar, it wasn’t walled. Built after the Ruling Council had brought peace, the young city had sprung up in the very center of the Khalkists as the hub of the Ogre empire.

  It was laid out in the orderly, wagon wheel style of old, its outermost ring consisting mostly of taverns and inns. All the buildings had high, sloping roofs, the better to shed the heavy snows of winter, and the windows had folding wooden shutters that could be closed to shut out the elements. Today, they were all thrown open to let in the warming rays of the unusually warm fall day.

  Lyrralt was glad to the see the streets filled with traders, merchants, and travelers. He slowed his horse, wondering which way would be best. They needed information and supplies, but it had to be done without arousing suspicions.

  “What do you think?” Tenaj reined in beside him.

  “Well, the easiest way to get information in the castle was to sit in the dining hall. I have little familiarity with such places as these.” He indicated the rough-looking inns and taverns lining the street. “But I suppose they’re the best place to start.”

  Tenaj nodded agreement, pointing to one across the street.

  There were several horses crowded to the hitching rods outside its door. He shrugged and steered his horse toward it. The one Tenaj had chosen was as good as any other.

  Inside, the inn was dark, but warm from a crackling fire in a fireplace as large as any in the castle. There were perhaps twenty other guests in the room, mostly at the bar. The tables and chairs in the cramped dining area were gray stone, and as soon as he and Tenaj sat down, Lyrralt understood why the fire was kept hot. The stone leeched the warmth from his body right though his cloak.

  An Ogre wearing a huge medallion with the sigil of Hiddukel brought the three travelers some wine without being asked. He bowed to Lyrralt, saying, “You’re welcome in my inn, Lord.”

  Lyrralt relaxed at once, knowing they’d come to the right place. All merchants worshiped Hiddukel, god of ill-gotten gain and greed, but, fearing to insult their customers, who were sponsored by other gods, few did so blatantly. He leaned close so that he could speak without being overheard by the other diners. “With luck, I’ll be able to get the information we need out of this one.”

  Tenaj nodded. “If I stood at the bar, I could listen in on the conversations.”

  “And I could find another place.” Khallayne sipped her wine and made a face. “Preferably someplace with better food and drink.”

  Lyrralt nodded, motioned them closer. “Listen for anything at all that might tell us what the council is up to. Anything. A large supply order or an inn too full could mean a guard unit on the move. And anything at all about Igraine. How do the citizens feel about him here? What have they heard?

  “Most of these people are traders. They travel most of the year. We might learn of someplace where we could settle. The others wouldn’t like to hear of it, but I don’t think there’s anyplace in the Khalkists where we’ll be safe anymore.”

  “I agree,” said a voice behind Lyrralt.

  Lyrralt whipped around, his hand automatically slipping inside his robe for his dagger. How had the two who stood staring down at him sneaked up without being detected?

  “Who are you?” Tenaj asked suspiciously, her hand also hidden under the table.

  “I’m Bakrell. This is my sister, Kaede. We didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you.” The female Ogre spoke in a sweet voice.

  The two, brother and sister, smiled the same smile and took seats on the stone bench on either side of Lyrralt without being invited.

  Except for the smile, the two were so different, Khallayne’s immediate assumption was that they must have had different fathers. Kaede possessed skin as dark indigo as Jyrbian’s and Lyrralt’s, eyes so pale a silver that they were almost white. Her brother had medium royal-blue skin, average silver eyes, average build and height. He would have blended into any crowd, from royalty right down to the lowliest shopkeeper. Except for his expression. Despite the smile, he looked at all of them from under his brows with a strange intensity.

  She shivered. T
he temperature felt as though it had dropped ten degrees.

  “Waiting for us?”

  “Yes. Not you, exactly, but for someone from Takar. For someone traveling with Lord Igraine. We’ve heard … many things.”

  “We wanted to know more.” Kaede’s voice was as light, as beguiling, as her brother’s was dark. “We … We want to join you. The talk is of nothing else. Of the new life you—Lord Igraine—will build out of the old. I—We want to be a part of it.”

  Khallayne stared at her through slitted eyes. There was something about her, something she thought she ought to recognize. Had she seen her before somewhere? “You said the mountains aren’t safe?”

  Bakrell nodded. “We left Takar the week after Lord Igraine escaped. We’ve been forced to take back trails to avoid the troops.”

  The two strangers both had their hands on the table in plain sight. Lyrralt relaxed a little, eased his hand out of his robe. “How long have you been here?” He took a sip of his wine.

  “Over a week. We knew—well, we hoped someone would come this way. We thought you’d need supplies.”

  “What we need,” Tenaj said, “is information. About Takar.”

  “The last we heard, the word in Takar is that the Ruling Council is determined that Igraine be caught. We don’t know if it’s true, but the main trails out of the city are heavily watched.”

  Tenaj grimaced. “It’s what we expected.”

  “So what do we do now. Live on the plains among the humans?” Khallayne asked, half sarcastically.

  Kaede’s expression brightened. She turned to her brother. “That would be exciting, wouldn’t it?”

  “Among the humans?” he asked. “Surely there is a better alternative?”

  Khallayne looked at Kaede. “Have we met? I have the feeling I know you.”

  “Perhaps you’ve seen me in the castle. Bakrell and I visited occasionally. I know I’ve seen you. That’s how we knew you were from Takar. I’ve always admired your unusual beauty. I’m so glad we spotted you. We’ve been watching the taverns for days.”

  Kaede sounded sincere. Their story sounded honest. Everything seemed right except for their clothing. They wore simple garb that didn’t stand out in the surroundings unless one recognized quality. Khallayne wore the roughest clothes she owned, and the trail was beginning to tell on them. The cloth of Kaede’s and Bakrell’s tunics and cloaks was the finest material. The clasp at the throat of her cloak was brushed gold, the bands on his wrists polished silver. They seemed unlikely refugees.