Sixteenth of Harbinger

Belkai rose that morning to the sound of birds in the trees. She laid there with her eyes closed, a soft smile on her face as the warmth of the morning sun rested on her through the open window. The bed was empty beside her, Davos having risen early to join Lithmae and Loranna on a hunt. She was free to indulge her morning rituals without interruption. She didn’t move as she whispered,

“In the flow of the air I feel life itself. In the dawn of the sky I see your face. In Elkur I have life, through Elkur I touch life.”

The mantra served to still her mind and help her release the darker thoughts that came with the night. As she went silent, she reached out with her senses, a mental stretch equivalent to her husband’s morning physical exercises. She traced the sparrows as they flitted about above her cabin before they searched for food. A mouse rummaged in the bushes nearby, and Belkai guided it to some choice delicacies. The creatures of Narandir had learned the voice of their new lord and welcomed her embrace. It hadn’t been like that at first. They had resisted, as little as a bird could resist her power. But what little fight they put up had faded as they learned not to fear this strange influence. She did not seek their slavery, as Mishtar had, only desiring to enjoy their beauty. Growing up in the Dominion, she had heard stories of forests and the woodland creatures, but she had never imagined just how vibrant they were. From the moment she had first entered Narandir searching for the Recluse she had been overwhelmed by its natural glory, the whispers of the trees and the abundance of life. It couldn’t last, she knew. That was the morbid reality. How certain she had been those weeks ago when she had heard Delorax’s compromise and refused to submit. Since then things had been quiet, a calm before the inevitable storm, but a calm that made her more afraid than outright conflict would have. Whatever the Arcane’s next move would be, they wouldn’t stop with threats. War would come to Narandir, Belkai was certain of that, and it was her fault. If she won this fight, there would be another. It would not stop until either Narandir was burned to the ground or the Arcane were destroyed. There would be no middle ground. In her quest to save herself from Ashelath, she had brought Narandir to a point of no return. She felt tears forming in her eyes as her mind followed a hummingbird somewhere in the distance. What had she brought upon this forest that had become her home?

“Have mercy on me,” she found herself whispering – but to whom? There was no reply from the morning air, just a growing mourning for what might soon be lost.

***

The day was drawing past noon when a lone horse and rider approached the Citadel. Arak had placed some of the elven mages along the walls to serve as lookouts, and the youngest of them was the first to alert him to the arrival. Arak took the stairs three at a time and stood beside the child – at eighteen, he was far younger than the orc – as he looked to the east, away from any local civilisation. Even at this distance, he could tell that the rider was an orc. He frowned. Most of his kin preferred to walk rather than use an animal best suited for carrying weapons and supplies. It was a holdover from the days of infighting between the clans and, later, warfare against the enemies of the Palians; a mounted orc was an easy target for enemy archers. Dismounted, you had more time to find your opponent and kill him before he could take a second shot – and the horse was an effective shield. Orcs weren’t known for their love of animals. Only a desperate or wounded orc rode a horse, and only a comrade rode directly for the Citadel instead of following the road towards the nearby village.

“I’m going out there,” Arak told the lookout, who nodded without saying anything. He could no doubt feel his concern, Arak knew, once again appreciating the benefits of working with these mages. So much could be left unsaid, making room for more important conversations. They also accepted orders much more easily than the average orc. It was easy to trust someone when you knew what they were feeling.

The horse began to falter as Arak left the Citadel, and he broke into a run as the rider collapsed to the ground. As he drew closer, he recognised the body shape and his heart began to race. He fell to his knees beside Shalah and reached out shaking hands to roll her onto her back. The tattered remains of her jerkin were loosely wrapped around her head to ward off the heat and he watched as her chest struggled to rise, her breathing ragged.

“Gods hold you,” Arak whispered, and gently lifted her in his thick arms, cradling her against his bare chest as he headed back for the Citadel. The horse had collapsed, but Arak knew that someone from the village would soon come and take it away for meat. Orcs were not ones to waste. He was met at the gate by Glish, his heart wife, who put a hand on his shoulder with concern on her face.

“Salatia is gathering the healers,” she told him. “Be quick, but watch her legs.”

He took careful note of Shalah for the first time. Her skirt was ripped from the long ride bareback, and her legs were heavily burned. She was covered in cuts, as if she’d been hacked at by a dozen swords.

“Gods, what happened to you?” Arak whispered. He looked back to Glish. “Where is Salatia?”

She pointed out the building, and Arak moved as fast as he could to find the healers. Glish forced away her sadness as she watched him step inside the building. She had no jealousy for his love for Shalah. She was lucky Arak had only chosen two wives, and that he loved them both equally. For all their quarrels, Glish and Shalah had become close friends, complementing each other in their devotion to house and husband. So as Glish followed Arak, her heart broke not just for his pain but for her own.

She stepped inside to find Shalah laid on a stone table, her clothes completely stripped away to reveal the full extent of her injuries. Her legs had been seared by an intense flame, which frightened Glish. Orcs were built tough, and Shalah had honed her body far beyond normal expectations. It was no house fire that had caused such severe burns. Something had torn at her flesh from her waist up, and it seemed to Glish that it was a miracle she was still breathing. Salatia brushed a strand of chestnut hair out of her face as she began to spread a pungent ointment over Shalah’s burns. The orc groaned, her eyes fluttering open and locking onto Arak’s face hovering over her.

“Brildua,” she whispered hoarsely. “We heard the Brildua.”

Glish watched as Arak’s face tightened before he asked, “What happened, Shalah? What did this to you?”

“We heard the wind,” Shalah repeated. She winced as Salatia’s movements caused a strip of skin to slip to the floor. “Then it came.”

She reached out a hand and seized Arak’s arm. “It was a dragon, Arak. It had an army to distract us. Then it took us.”

His eyes widened in recognition. “It had deposited eggs.”

Shalah nodded. “The bastard took Ugnar. He is gone.”

“I’m sorry.” Arak leaned down and kissed her softly on the forehead. He looked up to Salatia, who held his gaze with soft eyes. She won’t make it, Glish realised, and felt a searing pain in her heart.

“They’re coming for us,” Shalah whispered as she began to slide towards unconsciousness. “The dragon was a distraction.”

“Who is coming?” Arak’s question came too late as Shalah’s eyes closed. Her chest went still, and Glish left the room as her clanmate took her last breath. Arak’s roar followed her outside, the desperate cry of a man whose love had been ripped away.

***

Arak emerged from the house an hour later, leaving Salatia to bury the body. He had wept over Shalah’s cold form, sworn his vengeance, and was now left with the agony of her sudden departure. There had been nothing that he could have done to save her, he knew that. He entertained no guilt over allowing her to travel east on her own, his duties had held him in place at the Citadel. She was tough enough to kill most things this world could throw at her. Surviving this long after a dragon attack was proof enough of that. As he made his way towards his house in the northern corner of the compound, he paid no attention to the mages around him. They knew of Shalah’s passing, of course, and stayed silent as their mentor made his way past. Most bowed their heads, a statement of sympathy unseen but heartfelt. No matter their race, all respected Arak and loved his wives as adoptive mothers. They all felt the pain of her passing and knew to give Arak the space that he needed. He was almost in a daze as he stepped inside his home, opulent by Ikari standards. He stood frozen in place on the burgundy rug at the entrance, staring unseen at the rich tapestry that Glish had made and put on the wall two years ago. He didn’t notice Glish at first until she rested a hand on his shoulder. He slowly turned to face her, his eyes filled with a sadness that he couldn’t hide.

“Shalah was a sister to me,” Glish whispered. She took a step closer and placed her other hand on his broad chest. “I loved her more than words could say.”

Arak knew that this was rare. Many heart-wives resented the skin-wives and the privileges that they shared. Shalah and Glish were among the few that truly loved each other as well as their bond mate. He cupped Glish’s cheek and forced a weak smile.

“I love you, Glish,” he told her softly. “I will kill those responsible for this.”

“I would not expect anything else.” She pressed her lips against his, then stepped back. “What do you need?”

Arak was about to respond when they heard a ram’s horn, one long blast followed by three short ones. A lookout had spotted a threat. Glish’s hands fell away as she stepped into the next room. She came back bearing a war hammer, which she threw to Arak. He caught the six-foot shaft and flexed his fingers on it, eyes running over the iron head and six-inch spike on the rear. He could feel a blood rage building, and forced it back for the time being. First he had to determine the threat and rally the defences. Then he could unleash the fury that he felt threatening to consume him. Glish retrieved two bronze-coated maces, which she twirled in her hands before nodding to her husband.

“Find Salatia, make sure that she is armed,” Arak ordered, and his wife stepped past him without a word. He let out a low growl, then moved outside as a student ran towards him.

“What is the alert?” Arak growled. The mage hesitated only for a moment at the rage emanating from the orc, then replied,

“Daria spotted movement to the south. Humans travelling with big wolves.”

Arak frowned. Daria was a young Svaletan girl, only a few weeks out of her silent year. She had yet to make her pilgrimage, and was far too easily distracted by the male Brilhardem, but she had enough wisdom to make up her for lack of experience. She wouldn’t have called an alert without good cause. Arak followed the mage across the compound and up the wall to find Daria preparing to blow another blast. He let her do so, then called out,

“We all heard you, girl. What do you see?”

“Over there.” She pointed, and Arak followed her motion. He sniffed the air, noting the unusual smell. Almost human, but not quite. There were seven of them, each with a big wolf beside them. They marched slowly, calmly, but with the bearing of those preparing to kill. Each human had a curved blade strapped to their hip, and they wore nothing but ragged loincloths.

“Who are they?” The question came from the mage who had met Arak, and Daria shrugged.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Stop using your eyes, Child of the Wind,” Arak said softly as he watched the figures approach. “What do you feel?”

Daria’s breathing steadied as she closed her eyes and sent forth her senses to investigate. When she spoke, her voice was shaky.

“I don’t know. I can’t focus on them, something’s interfering. But the wolves…they’re not wolves.”

With a twinge of fear, Arak remembered the report that Belkai had given about her encounter with the Sons of Retribution. He knew at once that he was looking at another group of werewolves. It had never been likely that Adrianna and Kane had been the only ones in existence. Rumours had always abounded about the creatures, but to send fourteen against the Citadel? Arak had a hundred mages at his disposal, as well as the clan forces in the nearby village. Who are gone, he realised with a start. The strongest fighters had travelled east to respond to the warning signal from Sargo’ran. While there were many orcs remaining who could fight, they were the young and the old – the inexperienced and the weakened. The dragon was bait, Arak thought. He whispered a curse, then said,

“Daria, you did well. Watch them. Ilail, stay with her. Make sure nothing else is sneaking up on us.”

He ran down the stairway to rally the Brilhardem. For the first time in its history, the Citadel was at war. Every mage in the compound was a trained killer, he had made sure of that, but they were mostly prepared to fight as individuals. They were not an army, not a combat team. He had a dozen archers in the whole company, and they scrambled onto the wall with a mix of elven, Svaletan, and orcish bows. Arak silently cursed his lack of preparation. Every bow had its own capabilities. Aliri bows were lethal at long range, the Svaletans less so, and Arak doubted either were powerful enough to stop the beasts that were approaching. Orcish bows could stop a troll in its tracks but lacked range. They weren’t prepared for this. He had organised the others in groups of three, staggered around the compound on roofs or in the alleyways between buildings. An orcish company could hold this, Arak thought bitterly. There were two watchtowers near the Citadel gate, and he sent a single mage to each with a collection of spears in addition to their swords. Every mage had been warned that their powers would not kill a werewolf. It would come down to old fashioned combat. It was a brilliant move by the Arcane, Arak knew, though he was confident of success. He had taught his people well, but still he wished that he had Brimur and Belkai by his side.

“Master Arak?”

He turned to the young initiate who had come up behind him while he was surveying the hasty defences. He was a Wexton, just recently returned from his pilgrimage. Arak couldn’t remember his name.

“Their leader is approaching the gate. It seems they want to talk.”

Arak grunted and headed that way with the initiate following close behind. He pushed the iron barrier open and left his comrade inside the walls. He stood alone on the dusty path and planted his war hammer in the dirt, holding it one handed, his free hand hanging by the sword strapped to his waist. He didn’t have to wait long. The man who came into view was a good half foot shorter than Arak, about fifty years old with greying hair. Arak guessed that he was from a northern tribe. They had a particular weathered look about them. He stood four feet from Arak and crossed his arms.

“You stand before the Brilhardem,” Arak announced in a deep voice. “State your business.”

The man smirked. “The Brilhardem have, through their support of Belkai Androva the Defiler, violated the Arcane. Delorax requires your peaceful surrender and submission.”

Arak didn’t move a muscle even as the man glanced at the war hammer. When he responded, his voice was calm despite the uncertainty that he felt.

“The Brilhardem do not bow to the Arcane, only to Elkur.”

The man shook his head. “Your defiance is noted. You have one last chance to submit.”

Arak growled and leaned forward. “You do not understand. We bow to no one but Elkur. Delorax has no authority here.”

“So be it.” The northerner glanced at the walls and shook his head again. “Remember, mercy was offered.”

Arak said nothing as the man left, heading back towards his companions. He heard the sound of Daria’s horn again. They hadn’t waited for his response, hadn’t wanted it at all. It had all been another deception.

The archers on the southern wall were already firing as the first wave of wolves charged forward. The escorting humans stood back, and the more astute of the mages knew that their defences were being tested for a breakthrough even as they knew that they had no choice. Arak’s fears were quickly proven correct. The longer range Aliri and Svaletan arrows quickly slammed into the incoming wolves, but they kept coming, barely noticing the blades that pierced their toughened skin. Those archers soon stopped firing, casting their bows aside. Ignoring Arak’s warnings, they reached out and sought to take hold of the wolves even as those with the orcish bows let loose. The results were little better. One wolf collapsed as three thick arrows smashed through its skull. It wasn’t enough.

Daria was one of those who was relying on the magic that she had given herself to learning. With eyes clenched shut, she desperately searched for the incoming beasts. She could feel them for moments at a time before losing contact. She gave up trying to stop their hearts or burst their lungs and instead used the bursts of contact to trigger nerve responses. She could hear yelps of pain, but knew she was only postponing the inevitable. They would reach the wall. Her eyes flew open as her hands took hold of her sword and pulled it from its scabbard. Beside her Ilail held two small axes, eyes locked on the wolves as they reached the wall. Of the six surviving, four attempted to climb the fort. Each beast was four or five feet in height, six once on their hind legs. They leapt and scratched at the thick stone, and though they tore through the masonry they could not get enough of a hold to climb. Daria was just starting to breathe easy when her senses gave her a moment’s warning. She glanced up as one of the distant figures raised a black shape – a wand, she realised, too late to act – and pointed it at the wall as he spoke words that she couldn’t hear. The ground cracked, a solid line that sped forward until it hit just to Daria’s right, sending a six-foot section of wall crumbling. The crash was enough to topple her and Ilail down the stairs just as the first wolves came through the new gap. Ilail was the first to his feet, meeting the charge head on. He swung his first axe with all his might, lodging it in the neck of the wolf that targeted him. His second axe caught it in the cheek, and he was preparing to rip the two blades through the broken flesh when the wolf threw its head to the side, sending him crashing to the earth. He cried out in pain, eyes wide as the wolf leapt upon him with the blades still embedded in its flesh. Daria reacted too late to save him. As the wolf’s jaws closed around his throat, Daria jumped onto its back and jammed her sword through its skull, sliding off as it went slack. She had no time to reflect on her first kill as she turned to face the next beast that charged.

Arak had still been at the gate when the two wolves charged. There was no time to even slam the iron doors shut as they bounded through, their hungry eyes set on the big orc. Arak waited for them to approach, then let out a mighty roar and swung his hammer in a bone crushing curve. It caught the first wolf in the jaw, sending it skidding backwards. Before it could recover, it was skewered by a pair of spears hurled from the nearest guard tower. The second wolf attacked Arak while he was still recovering from the swing, but it had underestimated the reflexes of an angered orc. He reversed his movement, and the six-inch spike carved the creature open from its throat to its stomach. It went down in a fountain of crimson as Arak let out another roar. He felt the crash of the southern wall’s rupture and cursed as he ran towards the breach, knowing even then that they wouldn’t hold. There was a loud crackling, then the two guard towers were torn apart by forks of lightning. Spellcaster, Arak thought, enraged by his losses. His teeth were bared as he leapt over debris and tried to make his way towards the southern wall. Movement to his left caught his eye and he turned to see Glish and Salatia slowly making their way towards the gate, no doubt to see if the mages from the towers were alive and needing help. Glish still held her maces at the ready, and Salatia bore a golden-hilted elven sword.

“They’re gone,” he called out, and Salatia visibly cursed.

“We’ll reinforce it,” Glish yelled back. “The wall is breached. Someone saw another group of these things approaching from the east.”

“I’m already moving,” Arak promised, and turned away as he kept running. Glish watched him move, then motioned for Salatia to keep moving.

“Anything comes through that gate, it dies,” she growled, and Salatia nodded wordlessly as she glanced at the charred remains of the towers. Glish noticed her look and told her, “A lot more will die before the day’s through, Salatia. Shalah was just the first.”

It was the cold calculus of war, Salatia knew, and now the Brilhardem were at war. She stood next to Glish facing the gate, her fingers wrapped tightly around the sword hilt. This was the weak point. Most of the Brilhardem were focusing on the breach, where the attackers were pouring through. Salatia was beginning to realise that this wasn’t an attack meant to kill them all. There had to be a different goal. It never occurred to her to think that she herself was a main target.

When the attack came, it wasn’t from the gate. Salatia heard a scraping on a nearby roof and spun to see two olive-skinned men in loin cloths approaching them with curved swords in hand.

“Glish!” she yelled just as the two men dropped to street level. The orc spun to face them, only to be tackled from behind by a wolf that had entered through the gate. She rolled onto her back and brought a mace up to meet the beast’s jaws, jamming its handle between its jaws. It yelped and jerked back a little as it bit down unexpectedly on the solid handle. It gave Glish the precious seconds she needed to bring her legs up and kick it off, readying herself to bring the other mace into action as she rose to her feet. She roared at the wolf as it cast the mace aside and turned its gaze to her, hunger burning in its eyes.

Salatia kept her eyes locked on the two men who were bearing down on her. Never stop moving, she remembered from the lessons of her youth. Stand still and you’re dead. Both men attacked at once. Salatia was two hundred years old, but she hadn’t lost any of her speed or agility. She sidestepped the first attack, swung her blade to stop the second, and let out a kick that caught her target behind the knee, setting him off balance. Before he could recover, Salatia sliced through his throat and left him in the blood-soaked earth. The second man was faster. While Salatia dealt with his comrade, he was bringing his sword around for another strike. Salatia leapt backwards, but too late. His blade cut through her arm, drawing blood but not doing any major damage. The elf cursed and swung at his torso. He parried and kicked her in the stomach, almost doubling her over with the pain. You will not die here, a voice whispered in Salatia’s mind, and she dropped and rolled under his next swing, slashing upwards as she passed by him. He screamed as the blade cut through his groin, falling to his knees in a fountain of crimson. Salatia rose to her feet and looked him in the eye as she plunged her sword through his chest.

Glish had managed to avoid the wolf’s jaws thus far. It was fast, but she was stronger. A series of dodges and powerful kicks had kept it at bay, but she knew that it was learning. It was starting to feint, almost catching her when she fell for its tricks. She blocked out the sounds of Salatia’s fight, knowing that distraction was death. In that she was correct, just not about the source. As the wolf charged, she brought the mace crashing into its face, breaking its jaw and sending chunks of tooth flying through the air. As it spun away, a second blow crushed its ribs and threw it to the ground. With a low growl, Glish planted a foot on its throat and raised the mace for a killing blow that never came. A sudden blast knocked her to the earth, and as she rolled onto her back she saw Salatia crumpled against a wall. Another man stepped into view, this one carrying a black wand. Damned spellcaster. He ignored Glish and moved towards Salatia, replacing his wand and unsheathing his sword.

“Your husband is an abomination,” he growled, kicking Salatia between her thighs. She screamed and rolled onto her back, hands instinctively coming down to meet the pain. It was exactly what he was waiting for. Her body wide open, he raised his sword to plunge it down, but Glish was there. She tackled him to the ground, his sword falling just out of his reach. A single punch turned his nose into a bloody mess while her other hand reached down and pulled out the dagger she kept strapped to her leg. As she brought it up to his throat, she felt his wand push into her chest between her breasts.

“I’ll see you in hell,” she hissed. His eyes were blank as she drove the dagger through his throat, severing the arteries even as a flame burst out of his wand and blew a hole straight through her back.

***

There was no dramatic end of the battle for Arak, only the realisation that he had run out of things to kill. With a sickening crunch, he brought his war hammer down and crushed a wolf’s skull, then stood over it steadying his breathing as he felt the warm blood of his victims running down his skin. He looked around to see the surviving mages confirming their kills. Nothing moved. Arak shook his head in surprise. They had made it. He looked over to Daria as the young Svaletan dropped to her knees amidst the bloody remains of a friend. She wept freely, covered in the blood of men, elves, and werewolves. They had lost much for this victory. Delorax would pay for this, Arak swore to himself. For now, though, he lifted his hammer and made his way towards the gate, where smoke still rose from the shattered towers. He knew that he needed to take control and find out the casualty levels. He needed to reorganise the Order and determine the next step. He had to find ways to alert Brimur and the mages who were on assignments. Most of all, Belkai had to be alerted that Delorax had made his move. He had duties towards the Order, but first he had to see if the gate had held – if Glish had survived.

He found Salatia limping towards him, using a wall to hold herself steady. He caught her as she collapsed, sitting her gently against the building. He could see bruising along her leg through the tattered remains of her pants, and her breaths came in ragged gasps. She would live, but she was hurting.

“Glish?”

Salatia just shook her head, trying to steady her breathing and stop the pain. The spellcaster’s blast had knocked her senseless, and only now was she realising the internal damage. She heard Arak’s body fall to the dirt, knew what he was seeing as he looked upon Glish’s shattered body. She squeezed her eyes shut as his pained roar filled the Citadel, the cry of one who had lost his heart.