Forging Destiny

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  A sentry in plate mail, standing atop the gate, raised a battle horn and blew out two notes, announcing the arrival of the warchief. A second horn, floating up from the watch tower at the center of camp, replied in kind, and a mighty cheer rose up from the entire camp.

  More stone flutes joined the chorus, and as Karach passed through the gate, every Dvergr in sight stopped what he or she was doing. They stood and watched. Karach led the detachment down the main street of the encampment. Warriors exited their tents to give greeting to their warchief with a cheer or watch the procession pass by. They’d covered about a third of the encampment when a messenger appeared from one of the side streets. The young warrior rushed up to Karach and saluted.

  “Column, halt,” Greng hollered. The column came to a halt, and the flutes went silent. “Stand at ease.”

  Karach returned the messenger’s salute. The messenger spoke quickly, but it was too far away for Tovak to hear. He and the rest of the stretcher carriers set their burdens on the ground. Tovak rubbed his hands, which ached.

  “Gods, that’s a relief,” Gorabor groaned quietly. “My arms feel like they’re two inches longer.”

  “It almost makes me glad I got bit on the ass,” Dagmar added.

  “That you didn’t have to carry a stretcher?” Gorabor asked to which Dagmar gave a nod.

  “Don’t let it bother you,” Tovak said.

  “I won’t,” Dagmar said.

  The messenger saluted again and then left. Karach turned to Struugar and Greng. The three officers had a brief conversation. Struugar nodded once, gave a salute, and moved back down the column as Karach turned away, and headed off towards the center of camp.

  “Lads,” Struugar said in a clear voice, striding up to the formation, “Karach has ordered Captain Greng and the Fifth back to their tents. The Baelix Guard will carry the wounded to the field hospital.” He turned to Benthok. “Lieutenant, I leave the company in your capable hands. I’ve been ordered to headquarters.”

  “Uh-oh,” Gorabor said under his breath.

  “Stow that,” Corporal Karn hissed. “I won’t have you starting any rumors.”

  “Yes, Corporal,” Gorabor replied.

  “Baelix Guard,” Benthok called out, stepping forward to face the skirmishers, “pick up the litters, boys. Let’s get the wounded to the care they need.”

  Tovak and the others grabbed their makeshift litters and stood. Tovak’s muscles and back cried out in protest, but he gritted his teeth and took it in silence. Serena moaned softly, but did not wake.

  Captain Struugar looked over his company, and a strange expression crossed his face. Tovak couldn’t tell if it was longing, sadness, or perhaps merely a commanding officer taken by the losses his warriors had suffered. Without another word, he turned and followed in the same direction as Karach.

  “Company,” Benthok shouted, “forward march.” He strode forward, the skirmishers in tow. With the lieutenant leading them, they moved through the camp, making several turns along the way. Every Dvergr they passed, from armored soldier to lowly camp follower, stopped whatever they were doing and turned to watch as they passed.

  Benthok led the formation through the camp to the far side, where they finally reached a row of large supply tents full of crates, armor, weapons, and other goods necessary for keeping a warband on its feet.

  They came around the tents to find a wide swath of open grass. Several wounded lay out in the open. Beyond them and bordering the grass field were a number of large tents. They had clearly arrived at the field hospital. A handful of healers in the crimson robes of their trade, as well as several priests in orange and tan robes, moved around the area as they tended to the wounded, or were focused on other tasks.

  “Halt.” Benthok took a deep breath and looked over the formation for several heartbeats. “Place the wounded over there on the grass.”

  Tovak and Gorabor did as directed, as did the others. Several healers emerged from tents and began working their way over, as did a number of assistants. Serena woke. She looked around wildly for a moment before her eyes focused on them. She made to sit up. Tovak gently held her down.

  “Rest. We’ve got you to the sick tents,” Tovak said, taking a knee beside the litter. “You will soon be in good hands and I will offer up a prayer for you.”

  Serena’s eyes narrowed for a heartbeat. She sucked in a pained breath and let it out. “Thank you both and thank you for your prayer.”

  Tovak stood as a healer approached. The healer knelt down beside Serena and began looking her over.

  “Gather ‘round,” Benthok called. He waited for the skirmishers to assemble around him. “I’ve got business to attend to. I want you to get back to our own tents, drop your gear, and get some hot food in you. Once you’ve eaten, I expect you all to clean your kits. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” the assembled skirmishers said in unison.

  “Get to it,” Benthok said.

  “Gorabor, Tovak, think you can find your way back?” Benthok asked as the group broke up. “Or do you need a guide?”

  Gorabor hastily glanced around. “I think I can find the way, sir.”

  “Dagmar,” Benthok barked. “Not so fast. You’re not going anywhere. Get a healer to look at your wounds.”

  “Lieutenant,” Dagmar said, “you know I don’t like healers much.”

  “That’s an order,” Benthok said firmly.

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” Dagmar moved off towards the nearest tent.

  With that, Benthok headed off toward one of the sick tents. Tovak hesitated, looking first at Serena and then the rest of the wounded laid out on the grass. A number of healers and assistants were moving amongst them.

  “Come on,” Karn said to Tovak and Gorabor, “camp’s this way.”

  The corporal led them along the tent lines. There were two groups of sick tents. Tovak saw a couple of haggard-looking healers carrying a warrior from a tent in the first group to one in the middle of the second group.

  “Poor bastard,” Karn breathed.

  Tovak looked over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Karn glanced at the two healers as they disappeared into a tent. A pained expression crossed his face.

  “That’s where the wounded wait to die.” Sorrow filled the corporal’s voice. “When the healers have lost all hope of saving someone, they move them to those tents. They care for them—try to ease their suffering and passing—but everyone knows that once you go in there, it’s only a matter of time until you are feasting in the ancestral halls.”

  Karn’s words struck Tovak’s heart as if they were an orc’s blade. Jodin’s face flashed before his eyes. He remembered the pitched battle to defend the camp—Jodin appearing out of the darkness to help Tovak—and the belly wound he had taken. Karn had said Jodin’s wound was dire, but with everything that had happened, Tovak hadn’t had even a moment to think about it. A wave of shame washed over him as he realized he didn’t even know if Jodin had survived.

  “Are you alright?” Gorabor asked.

  Tovak didn’t answer at first. An even more painful thought slammed into him. He looked up and locked eyes with Gorabor. “I wonder which tent Jodin is in.”

  Gorabor paled.

  “Corporal,” Tovak said, “can I look in on Jodin?”

  Karn gave a nod. “Do it and let me know how he is.”

  “I will, Corporal.”

  “Come on, Gorabor,” Karn said. “Let’s go. I don’t want you getting lost again.”

  The corporal started off. Gorabor spared one last look at Tovak before hurrying to catch up with Karn and disappearing around the corner of the supply tents.

  Tovak looked about, wondering where Jodin was and how to find him. He did not know who to ask. Lieutenant Benthok stepped out of a tent with an older healer in orange and white robes.

  “Thank you, Aggen,” Benthok said to the healer.

  “Don’t mention it,” the healer said and moved off, walking away from the li
eutenant.

  A heartbeat later, Benthok spotted Tovak and raised a suspicious eyebrow before stepping up to him. “What are you still doing here, Tovak?” he asked. “I thought I instructed you to go back to camp with the rest.”

  Tovak swallowed. “Sir, if it is alright, I’d like to check in on Jodin. Corporal Karn said it would be okay.”

  Benthok cocked his head to the side, a funny expression overcoming his face.

  “He saved my life, sir,” Tovak interjected before the lieutenant could think of an objection. “I need to know if he lives or not. I would see him, sir, and thank him.”

  “I don’t see why not,” the lieutenant said after a prolonged moment of silence. “Speak to one of the healers. They will point you in the right direction.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tovak said. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t take too long.” Benthok turned on his heel. “You and the rest of the company need a good meal, your kit cleaned, and a good night’s sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” Benthok said and left him, moving back towards the healers attending to the newly arrived injured of the Baelix Guard.

  Tovak looked around again for someone to ask. He turned his attention to a young healer who was kneeling next to one of the wounded a few yards off. Her loose-fitting crimson robes almost looked like layers of gauze, and she had a wide cloth belt the color of hay. Tovak didn’t miss the splotches and streaks of blood that marred her belt or had turned the crimson cloth a ruddy brown in places. She was fair-looking, pretty even. Tovak stepped up to her, just as she covered the fallen warrior’s face with his own cloak.

  The healer closed her eyes for a moment and bowed her head. Tovak heard her whisper something, although he couldn’t make out what. He supposed she was offering a prayer to Thulla, but you could never tell with his people. Most had lost their faith. The sight of the covered corpse tore at Tovak’s heart. Before him was yet another one of his people headed for the feasting halls. The cost of war was a terrible price he’d never really considered until he had been harshly confronted by it over the last few days.

  The healer opened her eyes and saw Tovak standing there.

  “Can I help you, warrior?” Her voice was soft.

  “Yes,” he said. “I wanted to check in on a member of the Baelix Guard.” His eyes shifted to the cloak-covered body and then returned to focus on the healer. “Jodin would have been brought here yesterday, or early this morning.” He swallowed hard, remembering the sight of Jodin’s blood seeping through his fingers. “He had a bad belly wound.”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly. “Let me ask.” She rose to her feet and went to the nearest tent. “Father Maragorn,” she called out towards the interior. The side had been rolled up. There was an old priest inside. He held a wax tablet in his hands, and Tovak could now see he carried a satchel over his shoulder that contained more of them. Maragorn marked something down with his stylus and then looked up.

  “Yes, Belameth?” He moved over to them with the slow, careful strides of the elderly.

  Maragorn had gentle eyes of green, and his gray hair was tied back into a single, tidy braid. He had a long dark-gray beard with a streak of white down the center, and it had been tied off prominently with twelve prayer knots of bright orange cloth.

  “This warrior has asked about a friend of his,” Belameth said, motioning towards Tovak.

  “Name?” Maragorn asked with a weary but compassionate voice. He looked to Tovak expectantly as Belameth left them.

  “Corporal Jodin of the Baelix Guard, First Section, First Squad.” Tovak’s heart fluttered slightly, hoping Jodin still remained amongst the living. “He would have arrived yesterday afternoon—or possibly this morning.”

  Maragorn looked thoughtful. “Jodin, you say?” He slipped the tablet he was holding into his satchel and pulled another out. “Jodin … Jodin.” Maragorn ran his finger down several columns of names, and then his expression changed to one of sorrow. “You will find him in that second set of tents, right over there, first column, third row back.”

  Tovak paled.

  Maragorn let out a sorrowful breath. “You know what that means, yes?”

  Tovak nodded slowly. “Jodin will soon be feasting in the halls of our ancestors.”

  “That is not always a bad thing,” Maragorn said. “Thulla takes us all when it’s time.”

  Tovak did not reply.

  “Come,” the priest said, motioning towards the tent. “I will take you to him. What is your name, my son?”

  “Tovak.”

  Maragorn paused. “I have heard that name.” He turned to Tovak. “Several of the recently wounded spoke of a Tovak, a Pariah, new to the warband, who braved death to rescue his comrades from an enemy camp. Are you he?”

  Tovak hesitated, afraid Maragorn might send him away for being a Pariah. Taking a deep breath, he nodded his head. He was past hiding who he was.

  “Thulla bless you, my son,” the cleric said, with a good deal of emotion that Tovak took to be genuine. “Your actions … such noble deeds … speak to the character within. They will be remembered by Thulla, who prizes such virtues of the heart.”

  “Do you truly think so?” Tovak asked.

  “I have no doubt.” The cleric patted him on the back. “Our god loves us all, even Pariahs.”

  The night he’d rescued Gorabor and Dagmar flashed through Tovak’s thoughts, and he realized he had a perfect opportunity to ask a question that had troubled him since then.

  “Father, there’s something I would like to know.”

  “What is it, my son?” The cleric looked at him curiously. “You may speak plainly with me. I will not betray your confidence.”

  The priest turned away and started walking again. Tovak followed.

  “The night of the rescue … I had to—no, that’s not right …. I was compelled to kill what I think might have been a dark priest.”

  Maragorn stopped in his tracks, turned, and placed his hand on the center of Tovak’s chest to halt him as well. He searched Tovak’s eyes, a concerned expression on his face.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I was drawn to him,” Tovak said, trying to remember the sensation. He closed his eyes. “It’s hard to explain, but when I found him, alone, I was filled with such loathing.” He opened his eyes and met Maragorn’s gaze. “And looking upon him, I would swear there were black flames running over his body. They were barely visible, and to say it now, I dunno, maybe I was just imagining things.”

  “Why do you think he was a dark priest?”

  “Once I’d killed him, I discovered that he had a spider pendant around his neck. It repulsed me.”

  Maragorn was silent for a long moment. “The spider is a totem of the goddess Avaya, so he might have been a priest of that vile deity or simply a follower.” Maragorn paused, hesitating. “But you say you saw flames?”

  “Yes … well, something like flames, but they were black. The sight of him, the darkness that surrounded him, it filled me with such … rage … like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and that’s saying something. I just don’t have the words for what I felt.” Tovak considered telling Maragorn about the strange pulls, drawing him forward, but he thought it best left unsaid. For all he knew, it had just been his imagination.

  Maragorn placed a hand on Tovak’s shoulder and searched his face. Tovak found the priest’s gaze had become piercing. Perhaps he was wondering if Tovak was mad, or making it up, but his eyes finally softened into a gentle look of concern.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, my son. Thulla works in mysterious ways. So who knows, eh? I am merely a warband cleric, a lowly priest of Thulla.” He gave a slight pause. “Regardless, I would caution you to keep clear of evil priests, if that is, in fact, what you encountered. You have a full life ahead of you. There is no sense in ending it before Thulla has deemed it time to call you to the feasting halls.”

  Tovak resisted a scowl. It w
asn’t like he’d planned the encounter with the dark priest. “Thank you, Father. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The priest scowled as he considered Tovak for a long moment. “Did you touch the pendant?”

  “No,” Tovak said. “I did not.”

  “Good.” The cleric patted Tovak’s shoulder and started in motion again. “Such things can corrupt the soul. Now let us see about your friend. Perhaps a friendly face will ease his passing, at least a little.”

  A pang of guilt coursed through Tovak’s heart. What would he say? What could he do? Corporal Jodin was in the death tent because of Tovak.

  “Is there really no hope?” he asked.

  “For those who come to these tents, my son, there is little hope of a prolonged life,” Maragorn said sadly.

  Thunder rumbled off in the distance. Tovak let out a slow breath, looking up at the line of dark clouds that was almost over the camp now. The approaching storm reflected his turbulent mood. He returned his gaze to Maragorn and tried to push his worries aside. He resolved to stay as positive as he could.

  “I believe I will hold out hope for my friend until the very end, should it come.”

  “Good. That is the spirit. From hope comes strength, and there isn’t a living warrior here who couldn’t benefit from even the tiniest sliver of hope.”

  Maragorn continued on before stopping at a wide tent, its flaps pulled open. The smell hit Tovak hard. He reflexively turned his head away and tried not to gag. It was the stench of waste mixed with putrescence. Never in his life had he smelled so foul a mix. Teska dung didn’t even compare.

  He looked inside.

  A small fire burned within the darkened tent, with smoke rising up through a hole that had been cut into the roof. A dozen camp cots lay inside. All but three were occupied.

  Another priest, this one barely a youth, moved between the cots. He had black hair and a single-braided beard. With a pitcher and cup in his hands, he knelt at a cot and whispered something in the warrior’s ear. As Tovak watched, several groans floated up, and then a sucking cough from a warrior at the back of the tent caught his attention.