21

The rolling hills broke up the monotony of surroundings inherent to flat plains, but conversely it limited the field of vision of the marching men. The terrain was all too often marred by the passage of the goblins, allowing Gareth and his companions to trail the horde’s march with ease. Fortunately the five men had the prescience to bring provisions, for the goblins left nothing behind to forage. Farm crops were gone, wild plants plucked bare. Slain livestock and game animals were left to rot where they lay. The only signs of animal life were the infrequent overflights of various birds.

The men passed through a farming village that reeked of death and pressed on without stopping, despite the need for rest gripping their tired legs. They left the abandoned buildings behind them as they ascended a gentle slope. The community went out of sight on the descent down the opposite side, and Jarek mumbled another complaint as they went up yet another incline.

As they crested the ridge the vista spread before them was not simply another wide valley between hills. What Gareth saw below wrenched his gut. A lone family of Torian farmers—a middle-aged man and woman and their adolescent daughter and two adolescent sons—found themselves surrounded by a handful of rough-looking men brandishing farm implements.

The father and his two sons also wielded farm implements, but they were outnumbered. Gareth had barely registered the scene in his mind when one of the sons went down after being slashed across the chest by a raider’s scythe. Even as the father and his remaining son fought, two raiders grabbed the sobbing daughter and bore her to the grass, tugging at her clothes, as the girl pleaded for them to stop.

“Filth,” Alistair growled. “Vile filth.”

Gareth wordlessly drew his sword and sprinted down the slope without bothering to take his shield off his back. He asked for, and received, the divine power of the Eternal Father in his muscles.

A stone bullet, launched from Tasakai’s sling, hurled past Gareth and crushed the temple of one of the daughter’s assailants just as he was about to open the girls’s tunic. The other assailant, intent on baring the poor girl’s breasts, took over for his slain comrade. The girl slapped him, and he responded by punching her in the mouth. She went slack.

Tasakai’s second shot struck the second assailant in the side of the head, caving in his skull. Blood sprayed across the girl’s face and partially-exposed chest, and her assailant fell dead.

The raiders realized they were no longer alone with their victims. They turned to face Gareth and his companions.

Gareth arrived first, his sword held in both hands. With the Eternal Father’s divine strength and his own hatred aiding his swing, the knight hewed a raider cleanly in half at the waist. He quickly reversed his stroke and gutted another. He took one hand off his sword to punch a third raider across the jaw with his gauntleted fist.

A raider attacked the knight from behind with a scythe, but Jarek intervened. With two rapid swings of his scimitar the woodsman slashed the raider first across the gut then across the throat.

A raider advanced on the terrified daughter with a large butcher knife. He poised the weapon to stab her merely out of spite, but before he could land the lethal blow Alistair bashed the man away from the girl with his shield. The raider landed on his back, and Alistair ran him through the chest with his spear.

Only one raider still lived, the one lying stunned after Gareth’s steel-clad punch. Alistair stood over him.

“You are mere filth,” Alistair said menacingly. “Your fellow man across the land is reeling under goblin attacks, and you prey on those already suffering.”

“I yield,” the raider cried.

“The girl’s pleas are still fresh in my ears,” Gareth said. “No mercy came her way.”

“Agreed,” Alistair said. “Actions have consequences.”

Alistair thrust his spear into the raider’s throat, killing him.

“Good riddance,” Jarek said. “They were no better than goblins.”

The fire of battle faded from Gareth, and he took stock of those around him. The mother was kneeling beside her fallen son, sobbing, cradling his head in her lap. The youth was clearly dead. The father and the surviving son stood unmoving, their expressions frozen in shock. The daughter sat curled on the grass, her shoulders shaking with her own sobs.

Alistair and Jarek moved among the fallen raiders, ensuring they were all dead, while Gareth and Tasakai warily watched the horizon. Sagron, oddly, was still at the top of the ridge.

The surviving son snapped out of his shock before his father did, and he slowly approached his sister. He knelt beside her and gently touched her shoulder. She jerked away, screaming in terror. When she finally saw her brother’s concerned face, she melted into his comforting embrace.

Sagron finally descended the slope, joining the others. Jarek threw a glare at the dwarf.

“Just where the hell were you, Stubby?” the woodsman demanded.

“There is no glory in fighting mere bandits armed with farming tools,” Sagron replied.

“Glory!” Alistair snapped. “How about fighting because it’s the right thing to do? A just cause.”

“Just causes offer no true rewards. Fighting for gold gives you a roof over your head and food in your belly, and fighting for glory gives your name immortality. Ears will perk at the mention of Sagron the Horridim-Killer, but few will remember just another adventurer slaying a mere handful of ruffians.”

Gareth thrust his sword into its scabbard and faced the father. “What happened here?”

“We’re on our way to the coast,” the farmer said. “Goblins marched across our farm, and we succeeded in hiding from them while they razed our fields. We came out with our lives intact, but the goblins destroyed our farm.”

“What’s on the coast?”

“Word is going through the farming communities in the horde’s path that if we can make it to Ungar’s Point on the coast, Minotian galleys from Ephasis await just offshore ready to transport any refugees to the safety of Imperial territory.”

“We were hoping to board one,” the farmer’s wife said.

“You were attacked en route by these marauders,” Alistair said.

“Yes,” said the farmer. “I guess bandits have been prowling the lands already trodden underfoot by the horde, preying on the easy pickings of refugees.”

Alistair looked to Gareth, and the knight nodded.

“We’ll escort you as far as Ungar’s Point,” Alistair said.

“It’ll be little trouble for Jarek to reacquire the horde’s trail after we do so,” Tasakai said.

“Damn straight,” Jarek said.

“Thank you for this,” the farmer said. “May the ancestral spirits bless your kindness.”

“What!” Sagron cried. “I’m here to kill a Horridim, not babysit peasants.”

“Then go ahead on your own, Horridim-Killer,” Gareth said.

“Go jump in a lake and sink, knight.”

“How about I throw you in a lake, Stubby,” Jarek said.

* * *

The refugees from Vairn arrived safely in Ephasis without further incident. They weren’t the first; a village of tents had been erected just outside the city’s walls. Near the refugee camp, the Imperial Twenty-Sixth Legion was bivouacked. The escapees seemed more at ease having so many well-armed legionnaires near them.

Most of the knights entered the city after seeing to the refugees, for their ship was tied to a pier in Ephasis, waiting to take them to their next mission. Adrie and Callida watched all but Reynard and Torrin ride away.

“The refugees are delivered,” Adrie said. “My husband had no further orders for you to give me?”

“No, Sister Adrie,” Reynard said. “I’m accompanying the knights to the rendezvous with the expeditionary force amassing southwest of Orok Tor. I strongly implore you, not order you, to return with me, and from the rendezvous point head for the safety of Orok Tor.”

“I can’t, Brother Reynard. I have to return my husband’s horse to him. A knight can’t be without his steed.”

Reynard smiled. “The Eternal Father’s blessings upon you.”

“And to you.”

The priest tugged on the reins of his horse, riding out of the camp. Torrin, on foot with the reins of his steed in hand, remained in place.

“You’re riding after Gareth,” he said.

“That’s our intent,” Adrie said.

“I can’t let you go alone.”

“You don’t have the authority to stop me.”

“You’re right.” Torrin stepped closer. “Gareth was named the commander of our company by an ordained priest, and he in turn put me in command in his absence. He entrusted me with the company, to guard the refugees on their escape to Ephasis. That mission is complete, but mine isn’t. Just as he entrusted me with the responsibility of leading the company, I must take upon myself another responsibility.”

“Which is?”

“Giving you my sword during your search for Gareth.”

“You want to come with us?” Callida asked.

“I must.”

“Do you have the authority to leave the company?” Adrie asked.

“I am the company’s commander in Gareth’s absence,” Torrin said. “I can detail a knight to accompany you on your dangerous mission, but I can’t task another man to do what I wouldn’t take on myself. Therefore, it is my responsibility to protect my commander’s wife.”

“We get our own knight escort?” Callida said. “Nice. He’s cute, too.”

Torrin looked away, his cheeks coloring.

“You’d better keep up,” Adrie said, climbing astride Firebrand.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Torrin assisted Callida up into the saddle behind Adrie, and the priestess urged Firebrand to a trot. Torrin mounted his own steed and kept pace. They crossed the bridge that spanned the river near Ephasis and headed northward along the coast.

“How do you plan to find him?” Torrin questioned.

“I’ll find them,” Callida said. “I have a spell on Alistair and Gareth which allows me to track them wherever they’re at.”

“Wizards can do that?”

“Well, yes, because I did it.”

“I suppose I didn’t realize how much power wizards have.”

“How long have you lived in Orok Tor?”

“I’ve been with the Orok Tor Company for a little less than a year.”

“And in all that time you haven’t talked to any wizards?”

“Truthfully, you’re the first wizard I’ve traded words with.”

“How about a sweetheart? Is there a sweetheart waiting for you in Orok Tor?”

“No.”

As they rode northward along the coast, every so often they passed scattered groups of Torians plodding southward for Ephasis. While Adrie and her two companions weren’t yet traveling along land scoured by the horde—the goblins had marched north from Vairn—the word of the goblin scourge must have reached outlying homesteads, who fled for the safety of the Minotian legions in the Ephasis Province. The passing people looked haggard, carrying few possessions, as if they had fled their homes with little but the clothes they wore when they’d learned of the goblins’ sack of Vairn.

Adrie empathized with their plight, but she could do little about it. Sadly, she watched the pitiable face of each passing person as she guided Firebrand’s path.

“We should start heading inland sometime,” Callida said as she shielded her eyes from the noonday sun.

Adrie nodded in agreement. She altered Firebrand’s path slightly westward, and eventually the sea disappeared from view. Sightings of fleeing Torians became even more infrequent, and when the evening hours wore on the three riders saw no one.

With the sun well below the horizon, the trio stopped to make camp. Adrie pulled Gareth’s tent from Firebrand’s saddlebags while Torrin pulled his own tent from his steed. Shelters pitched, the knight mentioned gathering firewood and ventured into the darkness.

Adrie’s thoughts were consumed with how Gareth and Alistair fared, but she did notice the look of interest that Callida maintained on Torrin as he worked. The wizard was young yet, easily infatuated, and Torrin was certainly appealing to look at.

There was a time, long ago, when Adrie remembered looking upon Gareth with infatuation, back when they still lived in Delgan. That infatuation had begun when she first started to have an interest in boys, when Gareth and Alistair were more interested in wooden swords and toy soldiers than in girls. That spark had blossomed into the deep love both she and Gareth now felt for each other.

And she was not going to let him face what could be his greatest danger without her at his side.

Torrin returned to camp carrying little more than scrub brush. He laid the wood in the patch of dirt he’d cleared in the grass, then went to his saddlebags to search for his tinderbox.

Callida snapped her fingers, and the campfire roared to life. Torrin, still searching for his tinderbox, turned to look at the flame.

“You’re traveling with a wizard now, Torrin,” Callida said.

“I...uh...I see that.”

* * *

Arriving at Ungar’s Point on the coast about mid-morning, Gareth and his companions and the farmer’s family saw two Minotian galleys already nosed onto the beach. Refugees were quickly being ushered aboard.

“We’re here,” Alistair said. “Go on. Quickly.”

“Thank you again,” the farmer said. “Thank you all.”

Leading his family, the farmer headed for the ships.

“Thank yous don’t feed you,” Sagron said. “He could have at least thrown a few coppers our way.”

Jarek leaned toward Gareth. “Is that how I sounded when I complained about being a charity?”

“Almost,” Gareth said.

“My apologies, clanker.”

“None needed, woodsman. Your actions on behalf of Vairn outshine any bellyaching you may have done.”

“Well, I still haven’t forgotten that thief Formar stealing my stash of gold.”

“The peasants are safely on the coast and about to board the ship to Ephasis,” Sagron said. “Shall we now go kill the Horridim?”

“Yes,” Alistair said.

* * *

The hovel had been built from sod, as there was little useable wood in the area. Fields stripped bare of their crops surrounded it, and the ground still bore the scars of goblin boots. There was no sign of what had happened to the homesteaders, so Adrie couldn’t tell if they had fled before the horde or had joined Elarac’s army of the dead. Regardless, night was falling and this was as good a place as any to camp.

Tying Firebrand to a hitching post, she took up her quarterstaff and surveyed the homestead. The horde had already passed through more than a day hence, so she didn’t believe she had to worry about a goblin attack.

Torrin tied his horse next to Firebrand and turned to help Callida down from Gareth’s steed. The wizard accepted his offer, sliding her hand into his and climbing down from the white warhorse. Torrin returned to his own horse and began collecting his gear to pitch his tent.

“Why set up your tent, Torrin?” Callida asked, looking over his shoulder. “We have a house here.”

“It’s not ours,” Torrin said.

“It’s not being used.”

“The owners are either fleeing, and wouldn’t appreciate strangers trampling through their home, or they are dead, and it wouldn’t be right to take from the dead before their bodies are properly laid to rest.”

“Anyone else will stay in the house.”

“Anyone else can do as they will, I’m not imposing myself on that house.”

Callida gave an exasperated snort and folded her arms across her chest. She looked at Adrie.

“I’m setting up our tent, Callida,” Adrie said. “You can stay in the house tonight, or you can stay in the tent with me as you’ve been doing.”

As Adrie and Torrin pitched their respective tents, Callida gathered a few lumps of peat from the bin at the side of the house to build a fire. The wizard cooked a stew, and the trio settled down to eat. With the sun down and the moonless sky dark, the campfire provided the only illumination for miles.

As she ate the stew, Adrie felt uneasy about the orange glow coming off the fire. Though she couldn’t see the horizon in the darkness, she knew they were on flat ground with no trees or hills to block visibility.

“This fire will be seen for miles,” Adrie said.

“It won’t,” Callida said. “I put a spell on it. The fire won’t be visible much beyond the homestead.”

“Have we found Gareth’s trail yet?” Torrin asked.

“I’ve had Gareth’s trail since we left Ephasis,” Callida said. “Alistair’s too.”

“How? They left from Vairn.”

“Because it’s not a trail they’re leaving behind for me to track. I put magic tracers on them only I can sense, and I know which direction they are compared to me.”

“How did you put a tracer on them without their knowing?”

“Easily. Stand up, I’ll show you.”

Torrin hesitated, but he set his bowl aside and stood. Callida did likewise, and she moved around the fire to stand before the young knight. Adrie observed with interest.

“I cast the spell on both palms,” the wizard said, holding up both hands with palms facing upward. “I then laid the spell first on Alistair when I said goodbye to him.”

She hugged Torrin, putting her right palm on the back of his neck and kissing his cheek.

“Then I put it on Gareth as I said goodbye to him,” she continued.

She hugged Torrin again, putting her left palm on the back of his neck and kissing his cheek.

She stepped back. “See? Simple.”

Torrin rubbed the back of his neck. “You didn’t just mark me, did you?”

“No, silly, I was just demonstrating how I put the spell on them.”

“Oh. Interesting. And the hugging is part of the spell?”

“No, I just had to touch them on bare skin somewhere. The hug was a good way to do that.”

“And the kiss on the cheek?”

“A misdirection.”

“I see.”

“Would you like me to demonstrate again?”

“No need. I fully understand.”

Actually, he didn’t, Adrie thought. The priestess noted the expression of frustration on Callida’s face. The young wizard was clearly flirting with Torrin, and he hadn’t a clue. Adrie remembered it had taken Gareth far too long to recognize her subtle flirtations for what they were. Gareth was always direct in everything he did, and he responded better to directness than to subtlety.

“You’re not very bright, are you,” Callida said.

Torrin was taken aback. “What? I told you I understood how you put the spell on them.”

“Never mind.”

“What did I do to earn being called a fool?”

“It’s what you’re not doing.”

“Such as?”

“I said never mind.”

A perplexed look on his face, Torrin sat down and picked up his bowl of stew.

“Callida,” Adrie said. “Come here.”

Callida did, her face scrunched as she looked across the fire at the bewildered knight.

Adrie leaned close to the wizard and murmured, “I know what you were trying to do.”

“Was Gareth as stupid?” Callida asked, just as quietly.

“Callida, there is something you need to know about men. Just because they’re clueless to our subtle cues does not make them stupid. Men are not stupid. They just think differently than we do.”

“If you say so, Adrie. They seem awful obtuse to me.”

Torrin seemed uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the two women across the fire from him. He stood.

“I’ll take first watch,” he said. “I’ll go...check the perimeter of the homestead.”

“Be careful,” Adrie said. “Knights aren’t invincible.”

“I know, Sister Adrie, I’ve seen far too many of my brothers-in-arms killed.”

“You have, haven’t you.”

Torrin moved off on his patrol.

Gareth hadn’t told her much about his time away from her with the company of knights. He’d told her about his wounds, only because she saw his scars, but he hadn’t said anything about the engagements themselves. The same haunted look she had just seen on Torrin’s face when he spoke of the lost knights had been on Gareth’s face as well.

She had been angry at him on their last night together, and she hadn’t been able to look at him, never mind talk to him, yet she still knew he hadn’t slept much that night.

“I’m retiring for the night,” she said. “Tell Torrin I’ll take next watch.”

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Callida said.

“Callida.”

“All right, I’ll tell him.”

Adrie climbed into her tent and stripped down to the breechclout she wore under her leather skirt and tucked herself into her bedroll. She lay still, staring at the glow coming through the canvas of the tent walls from the fire outside. Although she was tired, sleep was long in coming.

* * *

Knight Commander Sigurd Bruner, commander of the Seventh Regiment of the Knights of the Republic, stepped from his tent into the crisp morning air. Activity was all around him, as men moved about the camp. The bivouacked troops were beginning to stir.

The Seventh Regiment was not alone on the field. It was joined by the Northern Republic’s Second Infantry Brigade, the Twelfth Legion of the Minotian Empire, a contingent of dwarven warriors from the Iron Kingdom, and a handful of wizards from Orok Tor. The army was the expeditionary force sent southward as a reconnaissance-in-force to probe the strength of the goblin horde.

Sigurd strode through the camp, making his way to the tent of Jarl Hakon Caegar, the first son of a dwarven clan king and overall commander of the army. The knight commander entered.

“Good morning,” Hakon said.

The dwarven jarl was hunched over a map spread across a table, smoke billowing from the pipe clamped in his teeth.

“Good morning,” Sigurd said. “I was summoned?”

Hakon gestured to the others at the table. “I called a meeting. Our scouts have returned.”

Sigurd nodded and moved to stand between General Derek Thord, the commander of the Northlander brigade, and General Gaius Verilius, the commander of the Minotian legion. On the map before them, the wooden markers symbolizing the combined forces of the gathered army were placed near the shore forty leagues south of Orok Tor.

“We’ve located the vanguard,” said Master X’halian, one of the last elven wizards in Orok Tor and leader of the wizard contingent. He set a red marker on the map, well south of the expeditionary force. “Two tribes advancing ahead of the rest of the horde.”

“Do we have a size yet of the horde?” Hakon asked.

“It’s too scattered for an accurate accounting,” the wizard master replied.

“The rest of the Combined Army is still marshaling near Orok Tor. The last message from the Conclave says that two Kabaarite emirs are sending troops to join the Combined Army.”

The Conclave, called in full the Conclave of Westfall, was a summit of participating leaders gathered in Orok Tor comprising the Consul of the Northern Republic, the Emperor of the Minotian Empire, the High King of the Iron Kingdom, and the Chief Magus of Orok Tor. They had convened specifically in response to the horde invasion.

“No word on my people’s response?” X’halian question.

“Nothing from Elvinwyd,” Hakon said. “What about the knights who had engaged the horde near Vairn?”

“The survivors are aboard ship sailing north,” Sigurd said. “They’ll join us in about two days.”

“Numbers?”

“There are many too wounded to fight, even after the healing abilities of the unit’s chaplain. There are maybe a hundred and twenty men fit to fight.”

“Once they arrive, they’ll meld with your Seventh Regiment.”

“Understood.”

Hakon thrust a finger at a region of the map between the markers depicting the expeditionary force and the goblin vanguard. “We’ll deploy here to engage the enemy. South of this spot the ground becomes very flat, and not very defensible.”

Sigurd leaned close to the map, at the area under Hakon’s finger. “That’s not much more defensible. The topographic indicators on that map suggest a shallow slope there.”

“It’s still higher ground.”

“True.”

“Our mission is not to defeat the horde. Our mission is to fight a delaying battle so as to allow the Combined Army to marshal its forces.”

“Commander Valard attempted a delaying action at Vairn. The goblins didn’t cooperate.”

“As brave as his attempt was,” Hakon said, “he simply did not have the forces available to engage enough of the horde to force the goblins to stop their advance. We may have that.”

“May I suggest a running engagement,” Gaius said. “If we stand and fight, we risk being enveloped and destroyed. We engage until they commit a good portion of their horde, then we withdraw before they envelop us. We hit them again, force them to engage, then withdraw. And so on.”

“Aye, it might work,” Hakon said. “My dwarves are adept at rapidly building fortifications, so we can fight a defensive battle with each successive engagement.”

“What about the walking dead?” Derek inquired. “The reports from Vairn say the walking dead exudes an aura of fear that only the strongest wills can resist.”

“That can pose a problem,” the dwarven jarl said. “If we hope to have a chance at success, it requires we keep our forces intact. We can’t do that when we have men running away at the sight of the walking dead.”

“My wizards can ensorcel the troops,” X’halian said. “Counteract the fear aura.”

“What else can be expected from the army of the dead aside from the fear aura?”

“There is very little in the Council of the Magi’s archives on the walking dead. The undead hasn’t walked the earth since the days of the svartalfar’s primacy, and that information is locked away in Elvinwyd’s archives.”

“Which we have no access to.”

“And neither do I,” the elven wizard admitted. “King Ilyathan banished all elven wizards from his realm. ‘Human magic’ is what he calls wizardry. However, we now have reports from the attack on Vairn. Those battle reports say the undead is very resilient to weapons damage, but vulnerable to arcane fire.”

“I’m grateful for the presence of you and your wizards, then,” Hakon said. “Normally we dwarves don’t put much stock in the hocus-pocus of magic, but this is one situation where I’d tell my skeptical brothers to bugger off.”

“When do we move?” Sigurd asked.

“We have one more day of drilling to better mesh our varied forces,” Hakon. “The day after tomorrow we break camp.”

* * *

Ak’nar loped at a steady pace across the plains, never stopping, even with the pain wracking his neck and shoulders. The All-Powerful Master Iskvar had bidden him to find the townsfolk and deliver the surprise, to render the Horridim’s revenge on them.

What surprise was that? Ak’nar didn’t know, but it hadn’t been his place to question his All-Powerful Master, especially since he’d been spared the fate of the rest of his tribe.

Onward he moved, always running. It had been a few days since he’d left the Horridim’s camp, and he hadn’t stopped moving. How could he do so without need for rest? Whatever the All-Powerful Master had done to him with the spider bite, the pain in his neck and shoulders was matched by an endless supply of endurance. He didn’t even need sleep.

His stomach did growl with hunger, however. When he’d stopped three days ago to grab a handful of berries to sate his hunger the pain in his neck and shoulders became so unbearable that he had to resume his march before finishing his meager meal. He couldn’t even stop to relieve himself; he had to soil his trousers.

Ak’nar was getting close to his quarry. He could smell the scents of those who were present at the battle where Chieftain Garagfal was slain. Ak’nar didn’t understand how he could detect those particular scents, and from such a distance, but he never did understand the magic of the All-Powerful Master.

Another few days or so, Ak’nar will deliver Iskvar’s revenge and be free of this pain.