by K L Reinhart
“Hai!” But it was only Sister Denaal who was doing any of the fighting, Terak saw. The tribal elf was dressed in her wrappings and tattoos, fiercely fending off the three orcs with her short spear that glinted like solid silver moonlight, as she protected the other two elves behind her.
A grunt sounded as Denaal’s spear caught mottled gray-green flesh, but orcs were a tough breed, and it merely batted the spear to one side to swing downwards with its great, notched, and scarred cleaver.
“Back!” Terak shouted. Sister Denaal sprang to one side, allowing the orcish weapon to whistle past her left shoulder.
Terak took his opportunity, leaping in toward the orc to land a foot on the back of the great hand that held the cleaver.
“Argh!” Bone crunched as Terak rebounded off the orc’s hand, diving into a roll that brought him up straight in front of orc number two.
Ixcht! Terak jumped to his feet as this orc’s weapon—a large black-iron pick—swept toward his side. Just as he was sure that he had misjudged his actions, he was suddenly yanked backward as someone grabbed onto the back of his tunic.
It was Falan, not a large man by any great measure, but taller and broader than Terak was. Falan took the elf’s place, stepping forward with a duelist’s precision to skitter his blade across the back of the pick-bearer’s arm.
But there were three orcs, weren’t there? Terak had been flung to one side by the Brechan lord and was rolling over. He saw that Denaal had retreated in front of the other two elves she protected—both women and neither of them bearing any weapons—as the other two orcs closed in. One of them cradled a crooked hand against his chest and had switched his battle-cleaver to the other hand.
Terak was already moving toward them when he saw Denaal snarl in savage pride, leveling her spear and weaving it from one orc to the other. She looked ridiculously small compared to two such creatures.
“Ketarr!” Terak heard one of the sheltering elf women say, an older woman with hair that was as white as the Tartaruk snows. Summoned by her magic, a dart of brilliant white flashed forward to slam into the second orc’s iron breastplate, lifting the confused creature off the ground to crash into the trees behind.
One down. Terak kept low, slashing outwards with his blade at cleaver-orc’s thigh, while Denaal ducked a sweep.
“Urk!” Terak’s aim was true, and the cleaver-bearer flinched and stumbled, falling to one knee—just as Denaal leapt forward in a powerful arc that slammed her spear into its throat, ending its life.
That just left Falan and his orc. Terak was already spinning on one heel to see how the human lord was doing behind him. Terak was impressed with Falan’s abilities, but the assassin knew full well that orcs were a hard opponent to beat. Terak had seen them keep on fighting with arms lopped off and wounds that would fell any other race.
Not that Terak needed to worry, as he had turned around just in time to see the pick-holding orc—covered in its own greenish blood from the many wounds that Falan had scored—suddenly loose its head.
“TRAITOR!” roared Vorg, as he pulled back his gigantic battle-ax, to flick his fellow orc’s blood from the end with a smooth flourish.
Vorg and Falan exchanged one serious nod to each other at the deed, before there was a blast echoing through the night-time clearing.
BWAAR!
Turning, Terak saw that it was the orc who had been hit by the curse-bolt and flung into the trees. Its breastplate was horribly dented and still smoking as it raised the curved ram’s horn to its fanged lips once more to blow.
No! Terak turned on his hip, releasing the short blade in one overhead arc of his arm. It turned just once in the air before lodging into the orc’s neck and ending its battle-call in an instant. The orc hit the forest floor with a gurgle and a heavy thump before exhaling its final breath.
But the damage has already been done. Terak slowly turned to regard the others. Everyone’s face said the same thing.
“He called for reinforcements.” Vorg’s deep voice gave life to their fears. “There’ll be more coming this way now,” he said nonchalantly as he sauntered over in long and lumbering strides to pluck Terak’s blade from the body of the dead orc.
“Nice throw—for an elf,” Vorg sort of congratulated him. Vorg’s premonition was proved right when a deep chittering reptilian scream rose in the night.
“It’s Grom.” Vorg cocked his bald head, hearing something that no other could hear. “Something’s coming—”
“Grom!? You woke Grom!?” Sister Denaal, the fierce warrior of the Fifth Family burst out.
The Sister appeared young but had been afforded respect by the warband that she led. As with all of the strange Fifth Family, she wore wrappings of some sort of stiffened cloth.
Maybe because of the heat of this place? Terak wondered. She also sported whorled and dotted tattoos. The Fifth Family were very different from the Second Family of the northern Everdell forest. They were harsh and savage, though perhaps with the same disdain for the other races of the world that the other elf groups had.
“The First Creature!?” cried one of the two elf women that Denaal had been protecting, the older woman with the hair like moonlight. She reminded Terak a little of Mother Istarion, the matriarch of the Second Family who had been kind to him . . . sort of. This woman wore dark black robes, not the wrappings, feathers, and tattoo ink of the Fifth Family of the Elves.
“Yes. Grom the First Creature,” Terak said firmly to both. “He was imprisoned in an enchantment, and when the Hexan took the Ungol Blade, Grom was freed.”
“Grom belongs with the mountains! How dare you ask him to leave!” Sister Denaal said hotly, as the groaning, rasping roar of the ancient creature grew.
It was joined by a multitude of different shrieks calling on the hot night winds.
“Wyverns,” Vorg grunted. “Orc wyvern-riders are coming.”
Terak spun to the three elves that he had just helped save: Sister Denaal, the older elf, and the third. She was younger, with thick auburn hair and a deep purple dress like the older matriarch, also curiously not of the tribal Fifth Family. “I don’t think anyone could ask Grom to do anything, but if you want to stay here and argue, be my guest. Or you could help your Grom defend himself!”
Terak was already turning back toward the mountains just as a line of ugly crimson light burst out from above them.
“Dear Stars!” He heard Lord Falan’s intake of breath at the sight, and Terak could only agree with him.
The line of fire was the straggling flames of an orcish fire-lance—a burning spear with a bulbous clay end—which burst into flames against its target. Terak could see three darting shapes of the bat-like wyverns, and their orcish riders barely clinging onto the rough saddles, throwing more of the fire-lances down—
To burst against what Terak assumed was another dark outcrop of rock, but which suddenly moved and rose, the flames licking at the rough bark-like texture of Grom’s hide.
The First Creature was under attack.
3
The Surprises of a First Creature
“Hragh!” Vorg roared in frustration as the battle raged above them, and another of the fire-lances burst against the side of the mighty First Creature. Now there were more of the bat-like wyvern shapes winging their way toward him.
“How many?” Terak tried to count, but the wyverns were moving too quick. He had seen whole clouds attack Araxia, and right now there had to be ten or twenty converging on the ancient beast.
What can we do!? Terak hissed to himself.
Grom was large—as large as the entire Black Keep of Terak’s home, the assassin reckoned. But its long ridged body with overlong forelegs was already decorated in skirts of flame. Grom was opening and clashing his long maw at the wyvern-riders, swinging his alligator-like head back and forth, but he seemed too slow.
With one flick of the backward-curling goat’s horns on the sides of his head, Grom managed to tear one of the wyvern-riders out of the sky. It t
umbled into the darkness with a squealing thump. That was one, but there were still far too many for the First Creature to handle at once.
A gasp of air came from Sister Denaal, and Terak turned to see that she had traded her spear for a short bow, pulling back on the silver string to release a pure white arrow up into the night, like a prayer.
“Urk!”
A distant grunt, and the arrow caught one of the flying orcs through the neck, tumbling them from the back of the wyvern, who instantly wobbled and shook erratically at the loss of direction.
But there were too many up there.
We need more missiles! Terak seized up Denaal’s dropped short-spear and aimed it for a throw.
The ground shook as Grom staggered one step under its onslaught, his long triple-jointed leg rising over their clearing and slamming into the trees and rocks on the other side.
They were under the shadow of the First Creature’s neck. Terak could see Falan out of the corner of his eye, ducking further under Grom to get out of the way.
“SKreee-aRGH!” A sudden scream came as down into the clearing flew one of the wyvern-riders. It had no fire-lances left, Terak saw, but instead this orc was standing in the shoddy stirrups, thick arms over his head and whirling something in the air.
A rope!
Terak flung the Sister’s short-spear just as the orc released the rope. The smooth white shaft of wood, tipped with silver-steel, flashed through the night, hitting the wyvern between wing and shoulder, making it scream and jerk and smash into the trees.
The rope had already left the orc’s hand, wrapping around one of Grom’s thickened legs and one of the nearby tree trunks. It was weighted at both ends, the assassin saw.
But surely a mere rope can’t hold a creature the size of Grom!?
“Elf!” Terak recognized Vorg’s urgent bark of command, and he spun on his heel in time to see that the orc who had thrown the rope was rolling to his feet, unslinging a sword with a blade the size of a tree. The orc had leapt from the stirrups of his steed, letting it die, and now, with a berserker’s frenzy, was charging straight at the small assassin who had unseated it.
And you won’t find me lacking! Terak snatched his small blades from his belt and hissed at the orc in a cat-like way before leaping forward.
The orc berserker snarled back at the hissing elf, swinging with all of his weight behind the blade in a dervish arc.
“Ixcht!” Terak swore, diving to one side, out of the way, before bouncing forward with his blades ready to strike—
“Ugh!” But the orc was fast. It had spun completely around with the momentum of its blade, before stepping out to kick the elf in the center of the chest and sending him flying backwards.
Terak hit the dirt of the clearing and skidded painfully. How could the orc be so fast!? Get up, get up, get up! He forced himself to his feet, his head ringing, in time to see one of the older elf’s purple-white curse-bolts shoot through the air over their heads, taking out both a wyvern and its rider.
But the battle was met everywhere, Terak saw. There were more orcs on the ground, Falan was engaged with another of the spinning, whirling berserkers, Sister Denaal was shooting upwards, and Terak’s own orc had been joined by a second, though both were engaged by Vorg and his giant battle-ax.
What of Grom!? Terak spared a look as he was running to help Vorg. The First Creature was still surrounded by a cloud of the wyvern-riders, despite the elvish arrows and curse-bolts.
How do we win? What is the right Path!? Terak’s mind was racing as he rolled under the sweep of Vorg’s ax to slash one of the berserker’s ankles.
“Gragh!” The orc went down on one foot, but his sword’s swing still clashed against Vorg’s black-iron armor.
“Vorg!” Terak breathed in alarm, bouncing back and turning in midair to land with one of his short blades in the injured berserker’s neck.
Amazingly, this didn’t kill the orc, who shook himself like a dog, flinging Terak to one side. Terak lost his dagger, as it was still wedged in orc-flesh.
“Ugh!” The assassin hit the dirt for a second time and rolled, gaining his feet to see Vorg separate limbs from body and dispatch the second berserker, already heading for the other orcs pouring into their clearing.
“Grom! The ropes!” Vorg shouted, and Terak saw immediately what the Unwanted meant.
More of the weighted trip-ropes had been thrown against the First Creature. Now there was one leg caught in a spider’s nest that stretched between almost a dozen trees and Grom’s shin. The First Creature was stumbling to one side, pulling on his leg as he tried to secure his footing behind it, all the while being attacked by the cloud of wyvern-riders.
It was impossible to think that such a behemoth like Grom could ever fall to such small creatures, but Terak could already see great sheets of green-black ichor running down the side of the First Creature where fire-lances had been replaced by thrown orcish spears.
The only way to save him is to free him, Terak saw. He was already running to hack at the first of the ropes with just his singular knife, while the night lit up with flame and purple magics.
The taut rope separated easily under Terak’s cut, but that still left a dozen more. The elf was already moving to the second, slashing for it to fray in half, and then cutting again for it to give.
“Rakh!” A guttural challenge behind him warned Terak of company as he ducked to one side, feeling a blast of air as something whistled past his pointed ears.
It was another of the orc warriors, whether one that had come on foot or lost its wyvern to Sister Denaal or the other elf’s missiles, Terak couldn’t be sure.
It pounced at Terak, the long scimitar that it held in its hand flashing through the air.
To one side of the assassin was a clump of trees, and the only other way to go was directly toward the orc warrior. Terak had no choice but to drop to his knees as the Chief Martial, Father Gourdain had taught him, at the same time driving up his ridiculously short blade in a counter.
Ach! The reverberation of the parry was almost too much for Terak’s arm to bear. But the scimitar blade thankfully skittered above Terak’s head and through the overhang of waxy leaves, scattering them in a sudden spray of green.
That gave Terak an idea. He dove to one side as the orc was swinging his scimitar for another blow.
Terak’s shoulder thumped against the base of the next tree—one that was festooned with weighted rope wraps . . .
“Skrargh!” The orc was already incensed, and Terak was counting on it. The scimitar crashed down toward the elf, severing two of the ropes easily as Terak rolled around the base of the tree.
“C’mere!” the orc snarled, this time holding its scimitar back as he thrust one meaty black-clawed hand into the nest of ropes
“Argh!” He suddenly drew it back as Terak slashed at it with his dagger. It wasn’t a serious wound to a creature as powerful as an orc, but it worked to make the orc even more annoyed, this time kicking at the elf.
“Sss!” This time, the orc’s knee was struck by Terak’s blade.
The elf danced between the ropes that held Grom, ducking and sliding to one side, under one and then between another, as he avoided jabs and returned his own strikes with his enemy. And the ropes were pulling and moving, all around him as the First Creature sought to free itself.
But the elf had been well trained. He had, in fact, been trained by some of the very best hand-to-hand fighters, and with a philosophy that taught him how to move with the pain, with the flow of the battle around him, and not against it.
Terak ducked, darted forward, side-stepped, and ducked backwards again. When he had hit the orc’s jabbing hand and arm for a third time, he was rewarded with his goal.
The orc—who were a people not given to careful tactical thought—erupted in rage, this time swinging its scimitar in a flurry of blows in its frenzy to get at the troublesome little elf.
Twang! First one of the ropes burst apart under the orc’s b
lows.
Twang! Then another.
And then, when the third had exploded into uncoiling strands and the orc had cleared the way to run Terak through with his scimitar—
CRACK! The tree holding the few remaining ropes snapped like a chicken bone as Grom pulled, and the sharpened wood skewered the orc like a fish on a stick, carrying him off bodily into the air as Grom leapt.
“Ugh . . .” Terak had fallen backwards to the ground. Earth and roots and leaves and frays of rope fell all around him. He lay coughing and spluttering. When his senses had cleared, he pushed himself to his feet, looking up in case Grom was still staggering.
But he saw that the First Creature wasn’t even on the ground at all anymore.
Grom, the most ancient of all of the beings of Midhara, was flying.
What!? Terak gasped. He had never even guessed that Grom had wings, but there was no doubt at what the flames and the magic and the Second Moon were lighting above him.
The geographies of Grom’s back and shoulders had changed, and the bark-like textures and scales had raised and bunched along the First Creature’s spine and neck.
Out from where they had been folded and wrapped around Grom’s belly were snapping gigantic, leathery wings. Terak couldn’t even fathom their size. They appeared to stretch across the entire canopy of the sky while Grom whirled away from his tormentors.
Grom is a dragon. Terak’s amazed mind caught up with what his eyes were seeing. Terak had heard of dragons, of course—but only in terms of old myths and nursery tales. Once, he had seen a picture of a dragon in one of the Chief Martial’s Bestiaries, where a faded page of thin vellum had depicted a gull-shaped reptile that looked nothing like Grom at all.
The First Creature’s limbs were all in the wrong proportion, Terak saw, for this sight to make sense. And yet it was really happening! The First Creature had to fold his elongated three-jointed forelegs under his waist and stretch out his rear legs. Its long column of a tail flashed through the night behind him.
