Looking upon the enemy camp, Tovak felt a coil of fear run through him. With the grassland, there was a lot of open ground between him and the first cover, another tree. He glanced to the lightening horizon. He had to get moving. Tovak took a deep breath and started forward at a sprint for the nearest tree, an old gnarled oak.
Reaching it, he stopped and crouched down, peeking out from behind. He could see no movement in the enemy camp. There was no call to arms. He waited, counting to sixty, then sprinted for the next tree and then the one after that. Tovak paused at each, watching and listening for several heartbeats before moving on. As he drew closer to the camp, he began to wonder once again, where were the sentries? Surely an enemy camp this size would have lookouts.
The nearer he drew to the town wall, the less the pull tugged him forward and the more unease he began to experience. He still felt like he was moving in the right direction, but the urgency and intensity of the pull had faded.
Tovak continued until he came to a low wall out in the field. It was a simple stone wall, the kind farmers made to mark boundaries when clearing fields. He wrinkled his nose. The smell of the enemy camp drifted down to him. The stench was plain awful. It spoke of a lack of cleanliness and basic sanitation. The smell was almost strong enough to make him gag.
He moved to the next wall, twenty-five yards away from the first. Every footstep brought him nearer. With each dash, Tovak kept expecting to hear shouts of alarm or for the enemy to emerge from hiding and attack. Incredibly, nothing happened.
Pushing back his fear but remaining cautious, he plunged onward. Tovak made his way up the incline of the hill, to nearly the ruined town’s edge. Still nothing, no alarm sounded. The town had once had a defensive wall, which was likely why the enemy had chosen this spot to camp in the first place. The problem was that, over the long years, large portions of the wall had crumbled and collapsed, parts of which one could simply walk through. The enemy had done nothing to rectify this deficiency in their defenses, for which Tovak was immensely grateful.
He moved up to one of the many gaps in the town wall and peeked through, looking left and right. Again, nothing moved. Vines had grown up thickly around and against the walls. Tovak suspected that the stone structures inside the town were centuries old, for the stone had been worn down by the weather. The remains of the structures reminded him of his people’s work, but in the dim early morning light, he could not be certain.
Tovak scanned once more, searching for any hint of a sentry or lookout. There were none. Another dose of fear ran though him as the full realization of what he was about to do sank home. Calming his nerves as best as he could, he slipped silently around the wall and up to the nearest tent, just yards away. From within, he could hear what sounded like snoring. He moved around the side and saw a row of tents. He crept from one to the next, carefully avoiding the guide ropes and pausing at each one to listen. Incredibly, all he heard was snoring from within, and still there were no sentries about.
Tovak paused, scanning the area around him. Where were they keeping the prisoners? Perhaps at the center of the camp? He crept forward and came to a wagon park. There were five large wagons. Next to the wagons were stacks of sacks and barrels. The teska that pulled the wagons were picketed a short distance away. None of the creatures paid him any mind.
He slipped around the wagons and came to what had once been a large building. Now it was only a shell. Most of the walls had collapsed and in the center of the ruin grew a large pine tree. Crouching, he worked his way around the building towards what he thought was the center of town. On the other side, he came to another ruin, the walls of which were badly overgrown with thorny weeds and vines.
He knelt and once again looked about, searching. He glanced up at the sky, which had turned an almost scarlet color. He had to hurry things up. Tovak started forward again, creeping from ruin to ruin, pausing to listen and glance around.
He finally came to the center of the camp and froze at the corner of a building as a monotone chant began to his front. He peeked around the corner. A corpulent, bald figure in black and red robes, clearly a priest, stood before a wooden altar, leading the chant. Tovak realized he was a human. Off to his right were six orcs with red paint covering their bodies. They were wearing skull-like masks and were abased before the altar. The orcs were the ones chanting. Off to the priest’s left stood a slim figure in black leather armor, a human.
Tovak froze in horror, his eyes snapping back to the altar. The bound body of a Dvergr lay on the altar, chest ripped open, blood dripping down the sides to the ground. Tovak looked at the face. It was Staggen.
The priest was covered from head to toe in Staggen’s blood, almost as if he’d bathed in it. The chanting continued unabated as the priest reached inside Staggen’s chest cavity and took out the heart and held it up. The chanting increased in volume.
Tovak felt like he might retch.
The sound of footsteps off to his right snapped his head around. Someone was coming. He hastily backtracked and ducked around the other side of the building, making doubly certain not to make any sound. He moved around the trunk of a large pine that had grown up next to a low-lying wall. Peeking around the side, he was able to make out two spindly goblins. They were terribly hideous creatures and half the size of orcs. They wore armor and looked to be some sort of a patrol. Were these the only sentries?
The two goblins came to a stop and gave the group before the altar what Tovak could only describe as a wary look. They turned around and quite hastily went back the way they had come.
Tovak’s heart was hammering in his chest. He feared that, had it not been for the chant, they might have heard the thuds. He closed his eyes, mourning the passage of Staggen. He hadn’t exactly been a friend, but he was a comrade. Tovak had been too late to save him. Had Gorabor and Dagmar suffered the same fate? He prayed it was not so.
From his new position, he could still see the ritual unfolding. His eyes slipped from the priest to the other human, the slim one. Without warning, rage blossomed in Tovak’s heart, and his hand fell to his sword hilt. He felt a disgust for this human, even more so than the priest. It was mixed with a deep-seated sense of unease. The human looked his way. Tovak quickly ducked back under cover.
He waited several heartbeats, then slowly backed away. Once he was safely out of view, he moved back from the center of camp. A row of tents spread out before him. He went to the end of the row and found nothing, other than orcs sleeping away in their tents. It was getting lighter out and he was beginning to feel desperate. Tovak worked his way around to the other side of the camp.
There, he found a tent that was made of finer material. The entire side of the tent facing him had been rolled up. A foreign-looking lamp hung from one of the supports, casting the interior in a soft, almost warm glow.
A rug covered the ground. There was a raised platform off to one side, surrounded by a slightly parted black curtain, exposing a pile of cushions stacked into an obvious bed. A clay plate sat on the edge of the platform, laden with a haunch of meat and some vegetables. A wooden mug stood beside the food, along with a jar. On the opposite side of the tent was an open wooden chest, with a black cloth covering a lumpy assortment of what he supposed to be personal effects. Beside that stood a rough-hewn camp table with a stool.
This must be the commander’s tent.
He stepped over and into the tent, looking everything over. He saw a large map on the table that seemed to be of the region. Underneath that there were other maps. Locations had been circled on the map on top. Someone had written on it in a scrawl he could not decipher. He wondered what it all meant, but felt it was important.
A deep, rumbling orcish voice barked something out from the other side of the tent. Tovak froze. This was followed by a reply in a lower-toned voice that was most definitely not from an orc. The orc gave a grunt, then moved off. Tovak almost breathed a sigh of relief, but then he heard footsteps coming nearer. He immediately fled, moving out of t
he tent as quietly as he could. He got down behind a crumbling stone wall, no more than five feet away, and held his breath. He heard the footfalls cross onto the carpet.
The disgust and loathing returned. Without having to look, he knew it was the man in black, and the sensation was stronger now, much more powerful than before. He’d never felt anything like it. It was almost as if he was standing in the presence of something disgusting and . . . evil. Yes, that was the correct word. The man was evil, pure and simple. He knew deep in his heart that something had to be done to cleanse this wickedness from the world and he was the one to do it.
There was the sound of liquid pouring, then footsteps, followed by the mug clunking on what he thought might be the table. Tovak raised himself, peered over the wall, and saw the human. The man’s back was to him. He was bent over, studying the map. The revulsion inside Tovak intensified tenfold.
Tovak thought he saw a strange pattern of black, smoky tendrils licking at the man’s body, as if here and there nearly invisible black flames burned at the extremities. Tovak paused for a moment, blinking to clear his vision, but the tendrils remained, flowing in strange patterns along the arms, legs, and even across the head.
What magic was this?
Tovak was certain he was seeing things, but the sight of the flames only seemed to fuel his disgust and revulsion to new levels. This man had a hand in Staggen’s death. There was no doubt in Tovak’s mind, he was a servant of evil. This was why Tovak was here, in the enemy camp. The urge had been pulling and tugging him, to this very meeting, not to rescue comrades but to murder. The realization stunned him to his core.
Tovak’s anger surged. Not only would the man’s death serve as a gift to Thulla, but it would be a reckoning for Staggen’s passing. Almost without realizing it, Tovak rose and drew his dagger. He slowly approached, the blade held ready, his knuckles white around the grip. Tovak’s heart pounded in his chest. The nearer he got, the greater the revulsion.
Sensing something, the man abruptly whirled round. Their eyes met. Tovak froze in mid-step. The man hesitated also, clearly surprised by Tovak’s presence. Then the human snarled and drew an obsidian dagger. The moment of hesitation was shattered. Tovak threw himself forward and, with his free hand, knocked the man’s dagger aside. He punched his own blade into the stomach and up as hard as he could. The man gagged, dropping the dagger.
Their eyes locked. The man grimaced in pain and breathed out an agonized breath. Tovak smelled wine on his breath. The man abruptly stilled, as if the pain from Tovak’s strike had faded. He smiled at Tovak. It wasn’t a happy smile, but one born of cruelty and malevolence. Blood flecked his lip.
“My mistress . . . .” The man was struggling to speak—and in Tovak’s own language. Tovak was frozen. “Long ago, she . . . showed me . . . my fate at the hands of her enemy. I did not believe . . . until now . . . .” He coughed and spat up a bubble of blood. “Thank you, follower of Thulla . . . thank you for delivering me to my mistress. You performed great . . . service . . . today.”
Tovak was speechless.
The priest’s eyes flicked to the back of the tent and the smile grew wider. He started to cry out to sound the alarm. Tovak slammed him to the ground and covered his mouth with his hand. The man shuddered in pain. He struggled to free himself to no avail. Tovak pulled the blade back and, with a quick motion, drew it across the man’s throat, sawing hard. Warm blood fountained over his hand and chest. The priest kicked violently for several heartbeats as he choked, and after what seemed like an eternity, he went still.
Tovak breathed out a heavy breath and pulled himself to his feet. He looked down upon the man. Blood had stained the rug, darkening the red patterns. Tovak unceremoniously wiped his hand and the dagger on a small hand towel that had been on the table.
He looked over at the dead man.
What had he meant? More importantly, who was his mistress?
Though he had avenged Staggen’s death in some measure, Tovak was seriously disturbed by what had happened. He knew he should feel satisfaction at ending such evil, but there was only regret and sadness, where before there had been anger, disgust, and revulsion.
He let out a ragged breath and re-sheathed his dagger. As he stared down into those lifeless eyes, fixed in death, he realized that whatever black tendrils he’d seen running across the man’s body were now gone, vanished, along with the spark of life.
He glanced at the maps that lay on the table. The one on top seemed to be of the Grimbar Mountain Range. The maps were old, ancient, and threadbare. He understood he had to take them. They might contain valuable intelligence for the warband. He folded them carefully up and tucked them behind his chest plate. He prepared to leave, but something made him pause again. He stared down at the dead man.
He noticed something he’d not seen before. The man had been wearing a pendant. It was a black spider, with ruby gems in place of its eyes. The sight of it filled Tovak with utter revulsion, almost making him sick to his stomach. Then he remembered Gorabor. He tore his gaze from the pendant. He realized he had not much time. Eventually, someone was bound to find the body, and when that happened, they would come looking for him.
He eyed the pendant for a long moment. Somehow, in some way, he knew it was dangerous. Careful not to touch it, he dragged the body onto the bed to make it look like the man was sleeping and closed the black curtains, then carefully looked to see if anyone was about and stepped back outside.
The first of the two suns was just peeking above the horizon and had begun to bathe the land in the first rays of daylight. Tovak sidestepped along the back of the tent and glanced around the corner. He did not see anyone.
As quickly and quietly as he could, he made his way towards the side of the camp he’d not explored yet. He passed several more tents and then saw what looked like a large wooden cage ahead. He snuck up to it, careful not to betray any noise.
Inside, Gorabor and Dagmar lay on the wood floor of the cage. Their hands and feet had been bound in rope. They’d also been gagged. Both were bloody and looked as if they’d been beaten. He made his way up to the cage. Dagmar was lying on his side, facing him. His eyes snapped open and for a moment there was terror. That faded as they widened in recognition.
Tovak held his finger up to his mouth. Dagmar gave a slow nod. Tovak found the cage was not locked. He thanked Thulla for that little blessing and swung the gate open, wincing as the metal hinges creaked with age and lack of oiling. Not waiting for any kind of a response, he stepped inside and drew his dagger.
Gorabor turned his head. One eye was swollen shut and it looked like his nose had been broken, since it was swollen almost twice its normal size. Gorabor’s good eye blinked furiously and he tried to speak through the gag. Tovak put his finger to his lips and shot his friend a wink. Gorabor relaxed a fraction. Tovak quickly cut Dagmar’s bonds. He started in on Gorabor’s bonds as Dagmar removed his own gag and began rubbing his wrists. Gorabor was free a moment later.
“Can you walk?” Tovak whispered.
“I can and will,” Dagmar insisted.
Gorabor gave a nod as well, then looked towards the center of camp. “We have to get Staggen. They took him away a short while ago. We can’t leave him.”
“He’s dead,” Tovak said. “I saw his body. We have to get out of here now, before they discover I’ve freed you.”
“No,” Gorabor whispered in dismay, shoulders slumping, “not Staggen.”
“Where’s the rest of the company?” Dagmar asked.
“Not here,” Tovak said.
“It’s just you?” Dagmar seemed appalled. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m it,” Tovak whispered back as he stepped out of the cage and scanned their surroundings. He motioned for the other two to follow. At first, for some reason, they did not move. “You can stay, if you want. Or you can come with me.”
“I’m coming,” Dagmar said firmly and stepped outside. He limped and it was clear his ankle was giving him some t
rouble. “I don’t think it’s broken, but I twisted it something good when they were dragging us back here. It caught on a tree root.”
“Help him,” Tovak told Gorabor.
Gorabor stepped up and Dagmar threw an arm around his shoulders. Tovak heard someone shifting around in the nearest tent. The others did as well. They froze.
This way, Tovak signed to them and pointed. He started off, leading the way. They moved silently, but with Dagmar’s ankle, it was slow going. Tovak led them out of the camp and around it, working their way along the town’s outer wall, back to the path he’d taken in. The first of the two suns had fully crested the horizon by the time they reached the point where he’d entered the camp. He knew that all it would take was for someone to look outside and spot them as they made their way across the open field. This time, there would be no dashing from tree to tree. Dagmar was just barely able to hobble along with Gorabor’s help.
“This is the only way?” Dagmar asked and pointed out into the field.
“It’s the way I know,” Tovak said. “We could try a different direction and try to make it back to camp the long way, but I have no idea what the terrain will be like. It could end up being very rugged and we might get turned around.”
“Right,” Dagmar said, “this way it is. Let’s go.”
Almost impossibly, they made it to the road that led down into the canyon without being spotted. Tovak could hardly believe their good fortune as they started down. He was beginning to think they might get away.
“Can I have some water?” Dagmar asked, looking at Tovak’s waterskin as they reached the canyon floor. “My throat’s as dry as a desert.”
Reclaiming Honor Page 34
