The distinct feeling of being watched pierced through the haze of Aroga’s jumbled thoughts. The white-haired girl stared up at her with her strange blue eyes. Don’t look at me like that, Aroga thought, I can’t help you this time. She felt absurd, willing the girl to read her mind. Well, maybe the girl could read minds—Aroga didn’t know what she was capable of. Eventually, the girl turned away and gazed down at her feet.
When they arrived at their destination, a large tent on the edge of camp, Gorza dismissed the guards then reached into her pocket and sprinkled a handful of white sand onto the girl’s face. Instantly, she dropped to the ground. “Carry her in,” Gorza ordered without so much as a backwards glance. Aroga bristled at the cold professionalism but scooped up the sleeping girl as requested.
The tent was Gorza’s private workspace, furnished with such battlefield luxuries as a table and chairs, a chest of drawers, and soft fur rugs. A fire burned in a stone pit in the center, the gray smoke billowing out through a hole in the roof. Three soldiers stood at attention when Gorza drew back the flap. These were not Ironfang’s orcs, Aroga knew—they were Irkallu operatives who answered directly to Gorza and Gorza alone. When they saw the white hair streaming out from the unconscious girl’s hood, they gasped.
“Bind her hands and feet, and gag her as well. She can use magic and I don’t fancy her escaping,” Gorza said. As two of the agents hurried to carry out her commands, Gorza gestured to the third. “I have a special task for you. You are to take a warg to Lord Alistair and report the girl’s capture. Tell him I will keep her under my watchful eye until he sends some men to retrieve her. With my father’s main army closing in on Forgeheart, I cannot afford to send my own.”
The agent nodded, committing the message to memory. “Should I report on the siege? Lord Alistair is becoming impatient.”
Gorza sighed. She knew the agent was right but Forgeheart was a massive fortress, all but impregnable, and required the maximum amount of resources that Ironfang could muster. To gather that kind of strength took time—time that Alistair was being pressured to expedite. “Tell him that we will begin the siege as soon as we may,” she said.
The agent acknowledged this, but his expression tensed. It was a message that wouldn’t exactly gladden their lord to hear.
“It’s too bad we can’t just break the siege with Bhorovane,” one of the others said.
“My father would accept nothing less than complete command over him and I don’t need to tell you how Bhorovane would take that.” Gorza shook her head. “In addition, he’s still cross with us over the Castrum Ustarius affair. I don’t think we can expect his help any time soon.”
“He has too much pride. If he were more like his master—”
Gorza laughed. “Don’t let Bhorovane hear you call anyone his ‘master’. Not unless you want to go up like a torch.”
The agent grunted. “Just saying that having a dragon would be handy, that’s all.”
Once the white-haired girl was aptly secured, Gorza turned to leave. “Stay here,” she ordered the two remaining agents. “I want a guard on her night and day until Lord Alistair’s men come for her. My sister and I must attend to our father.”
The agents exchanged nervous glances.
“What is it? Go on, speak up!”
“We thought that you might be remaining here,” one finally said. His eyes flickered briefly on the girl’s sleeping form.
Gorza looked down at them haughtily. “Ah, I see. I didn’t expect such cravenness from you.”
“But isn’t she a dragon too?”
“She is not. I’ve put her to sleep, her hands and feet are bound, and she cannot speak the words of magic. She’s helpless.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate her, neh?” Aroga interrupted with a dry chuckle. “She fought off Azriel and Bishram pretty damn good.”
Gorza glared daggers at her, then turned back to the agents, her voice brimming with anger. “If you think that guarding an unconscious waif of a girl is too much for you, then I suggest you report your concerns to Lord Alistair himself and let him decide what consequences your behavior merits.” The agents clammed up, stood at attention, then grabbed their weapons and settled into their watch. “That’s what I thought,” Gorza said. “Aroga, come.” Aroga’s jaw stiffened but she followed her sister out of the tent.
Once they were out of earshot, Gorza whirled around. “Don’t you ever undermine me in front of my men again,” she hissed.
The mounting sadness Aroga felt suddenly made her weary. “Sister, what happened to you?” she asked softly.
“What happened to me?” Gorza whispered, incredulous. “What happened to you? Leaving Benjamin’s company, abandoning our duties to our father.” She ticked the offenses off on her fingers. “Leave that girl alone, Aroga. If something happens, you’ll be the first person I suspect.”
A pang of grief pierced Aroga’s heart but she tried to keep it from her face. “She’s a child, Gorza.”
“A child who knows where the zmaj are hiding,” Gorza said. “You’ve gone soft. My sister was never such a coward.” She spun on her heel. “I’m going to wait for our father.”
Aroga watched Gorza leave, her shoulders weighing heavier with each step. Her greatest fear was coming to fruition—the fear that her sister was walking down a path she wouldn’t be able to follow.
*
*
“Up!” The rough command was accompanied by a startling rap against the metal bars. Sakrattars shot awake, his heart beating in his throat. The guard unlocked a slat and slid a few breakfast trays into their cell. They hadn’t been fed since they were brought into camp the day before, but the sight of wormy bread and tins of foul brown broth only made Sakrattars queasy. On top of that, he hadn’t slept well—his underrobe did little to keep him warm and, while he was more used to sleeping on the ground than he ever thought possible, bedding down on the bare wood floor of their prison was far worse than sleeping in the dirt.
“Eat,” the guard instructed in orcish, a cruel smile parting his lips. “Eat!” He clubbed the bars again.
“I can’t understand you,” Sakrattars pleaded in Imperial common.
That wasn’t entirely true. Sakrattars had asked Dimitri to help him brush up on some basic orcish on their way to Datharia. He had hoped he wouldn’t need to use it, but he was right to trust his careful nature. He wanted to learn some ferish too, but Dimitri informed him that, regrettably, humans and elves didn’t have the vocal cords to make the proper sounds.
The guard quickly grew bored with Sakrattars and stalked off to harass the other prisoners. As long as Ironfang’s horde didn’t know that he could understand them, Sakrattars held a small advantage. And in their sorry state, he’d take any foothold he could get.
“You expect us to eat this?” Sakrattars immediately recognized Leif’s loud voice and peered over into the adjacent cell. He guessed that they must have received a meal of similar caliber. A ferix prisoner, white with a dark stripy pattern, nudged Leif out of the way and plucked up a worm-eaten roll. He popped it into his mouth.
“Imperials and your sensitive tummies,” he said between bites. “Never turn down free grub in the Steppes.”
“Emphasis on the ‘grub’,” another ferix laughed.
“‘Sensitive tummies’ or no,” Dimitri said, “I notice that you’re the only one eating.”
The striped ferix swallowed his mouthful then grinned, exposing long, sharp fangs. “You got me there,” he said with a shrug. “What’s a bunch of Imperials doing this far north anyway?”
Dimitri sighed. “We were on our way to Forgeheart when we ran into a. . . complication.”
“Forgeheart?” Every pair of furry ears in the vicinity shot up.
“Yes, for a diplomatic meeting.”
“From the oh-so mighty Aurean Empire, huh?” The striped ferix scratched a patch of fur on his chest and leaned back lazily. “Well too bad. I woulda offered to make some introductions but here we are.” He pointed up at the ceiling of their prison cell.
“Do you come from Forgeheart?”
“Not originally. The name’s Barzom by the way.”
“Dimitri Vasiliyev.”
“These all your men?”
Dimitri looked down solemnly. “What’s left of us, yes.”
“Not ‘your man’,” Leif grumbled, but was ignored.
Barzom scanned all the faces in view. “Tough luck. Even hiring natiuhans wasn’t enough.” He gestured to where Jo stood slumped against the post. “Ironfang isn’t messing around.”
“He certainly isn’t,” Dimitri agreed quietly.
Conversation dimmed when the guard came back around the corner, this time accompanied by several armed warriors. Barzom glanced at them as they fiddled with the lock on their cell, then sighed as if the whole thing was just one big bother. “Ah, we’re off to the arena looks like,” he said as casually as if he were commenting on a change in weather. He stretched, long sickle-claws emerging briefly from his massive paws.
“The arena?” Leif echoed.
“You know. . .”—Barzom mimed swinging a sword—“arena.”
“I know what a damned arena is! Why?”
Barzom shrugged. “To die, I think.”
Before more words could be exchanged, the warriors flooded in, cornering each of them by spearpoint and clapping rusty manacles over their wrists. One by one, Leif, Dimitri, and Barzom were herded out of the cell, then linked together so no one would get any wild ideas. From another cell, several of the refugees were rounded out and bound in a similar way.
“What about here?” a warrior asked, gesturing to Sakrattars’ cell.
The leader squinted. He pointed out Tullius, a couple of the Imperial soldiers, and the larger of the pair of ferix. “Them. Leave the rest,” he said.
“The dog?”
The leader eyed Amale up and down. “Too skinny. We want it to be fun.”
Sakrattars curled up, clasping his knees to his chest and keeping his eyes down. He didn’t think they’d target him if they rejected Amale, but it couldn’t hurt to look as pathetic as he was feeling.
Tullius and the others were manacled and led from the cell without event, but the chosen ferix groaned after a few steps. She pulled a paw away from her side, revealing sandy-colored fur stained with blood. “Looks like your boys roughed me up a little too much,” she said. “But we can all agree that Khez here is more than enough to handle you bloodfly maggots.” She nodded towards her partner, whose black and orange coat was tipped in gray and whose muzzle was going white with age. The warriors snorted, turning to their leader for advice.
“Too old!” He declared spitefully. “Leave them!”
Their choices plucked from the cells, they approached Jo with spears at the ready. She stayed motionless, defeated, her half-lidded eyes trained on the wet ground. She barely moved as they cautiously clasped a collar on her neck and manacles on her wrists, but when they released her from the pole, she yanked herself free and bull-rushed the first orc she saw. Catching him off guard, she knocked him down flat and, with her hands still tied together, brought a foot down onto his chest.
“Where is she?” Jo demanded, a lethal anger seeping from her husky voice as she pressed the orc into the mud. She stared down at him from under a shock of dark red curls, sticky and matted from where a club had split open her forehead. “Where is she!” she shouted again, putting more weight on her foot. The orc, beating her calf with his fists, struggled to breathe, let alone talk. Fortunately for him, three of his fellows grabbed the chains and tugged Jo off.
“Do again and we kill,” one growled in fragmented Imperial common, gesturing to the cell with Sakrattars and the others. Jo stood to her full height and glared down at her captors with contempt, but allowed herself to be led away without further incident.
Sakrattars slumped, his mind plagued with endless worries. His companions were running out of time and he was running out of ideas.
*
*
Kaja lay still, her face pressed against the cold metal of the small cage the guards had thrown her into after the orc sisters left. Her body was stiff and achy after a full day in the cramped confines, but it didn’t compare to her anxiety. Gorza’s spell had worn off quickly so she had the opportunity to listen in on their conversations. She wished she was like Sakrattars or Dimitri and could fully understand what they were saying, but there was one word that she had recognized—a name that sent an unpleasant chill down her spine.
Bhorovane.
Her brief encounter with the red dragon in the sky above Castrum Ustarius still filled her with a primal dread rivaled only by the Fallen. Kaja had spent more than one sleepless night haunted by the intensity of his hate-filled gaze and the gleam of flames on sharp teeth. She wondered if Bhorovane was coming for her, like he had come for Lucretia.
She jostled her wrists then her ankles. To her disappointment, the braided-grass rope was firm and well-tied. A part of her had hoped that Jo would heroically burst through the tent flaps, take out the guards, and rescue her, but after a day and a night passed uneventfully, that childish fantasy waned. She was on her own.
Kaja’s eyes strayed to the guards. They were different from the other orc warriors, with tooled leather armor and black cloaks collared with gray fur. Kaja didn’t know what it meant, if anything, but it felt significant. They were eating their morning meal, and conversing in a hushed but casual tone. Kaja knew the moment she acted, she would have to commit to whatever end awaited her. She tensed, steeling her nerves for her big move, when a whisper wafted up from the locket around her neck.
Kaja held her breath and listened as a soft scratching scraped at the outer fabric of the tent. The two guards stopped talking and looked at the flaps, then at each other. The scratching continued, louder this time, and one of the guards stood, calling out tentatively. When the scratching rotated to the side, both guards headed outside for a look.
Seizing her chance, Kaja channeled all of her arcane power to her hands, freezing the rope solid, then launched herself backwards to shatter it. Her hands free, she fumbled with partially numb fingers to remove the gag. The confused guards were coming back towards the flap; she could hear their boots clopping through the dead grass and mud. Quickly destroying the rope around her ankles, Kaja eagerly reached for the cage door. . . but her hands rattled uselessly against the bars.
It was locked.
There was a yell as the guards came back inside and saw that was happening. They drew their weapons and rushed towards her. Kaja’s heart was beating out of her chest. It was now or never.
She folded her hands and cried out a command in draconic. Icicles erupted around her, sending sharp pieces of frost-rimed metal shooting through the tent like knives. The guards froze in amazed terror, their panting breaths turning to dense puffs of chilly vapor.
“Gorza!” one wheezed and ran out of the tent.
Kaja didn’t wait. She jumped out of the ruins of the cage, looking this way and that for the best escape route.
“Don’t move or I’ll have to run you through,” the remaining guard warned, holding his spear at the ready. The tip quivered slightly, whether due to the change in temperature or to fear slipping through.
Kaja flicked her wrist and a plume of frost blossomed beneath the guard’s palms, causing him to drop the spear with a yelp. Before he could scramble for it, Kaja wiggled through the dirt under the canvas and took off through the encampment. She clasped one hand over the rusty locket as she ran.
“Thank you, friend,” she said quietly. “Now we’ve got to find the others.”
*
*
Dimitri, hanging limply between orcs, stared at the furrows his boots left in the muddy soil. It wasn’t dignified, but he figured if he was going to die anyway it was better to make the gutter-rats drag him there. Most of the prisoners were silent but Leif had been shouting insults and challenges the entire way, all of which went ignored. Jo marched beside them, her eyes looking straight ahead. Unlike Leif, she did not do their captors the honor of acknowledging their presence.
At some point, the group split, with the shackled orc refugees being led in another direction. What their fate would be, Dimitri could not say. As for their own, he could hear the murmuring rumble of a distant crowd growing closer and closer. He lifted his head and saw the looming shadow of the fortified citadel. Constructed of shapeless stones hewn from the wind-carved cliffs of the steppes and mortared together with peat and animal dung, the structure looked every bit as hastily built as the rest of the settlement. The guards shoved their captives into a tiny gatehouse, then closed the door behind them.
Dimitri’s Ordo training kicked in—to always be aware and leave nothing unknown. First, his surroundings. There were no windows and only a single flickering torch for light. A second door, made of heavy wood planks, blocked the way forward. Though muffled, the noise from the crowd was booming.
Next, his companions. Leif was nearby, struggling to his feet despite his bound wrists. A wounded soldier lay motionless with a second soldier knelt beside him, staring at the ground. Barzom, the only ferix chosen, had a paw in his mouth, gnawing fruitlessly at the manacles. Dimitri locked eyes with Tullius and they exchanged a knowing nod.
Jo stood at the back, her gaze unmoved from a fixed point ahead of her. It was as if she was looking at something else entirely. Dimitri had seen it before on the faces of Volgarian conscripts returning from battle, or Ordo agents who had watched their strike teams die in Irkallu ambushes. Jo hadn’t been the same since Kaja was taken. Dimitri hoped that they’d see each other again.
His thoughts were interrupted when a wooden hatch opened in the ceiling and a large bundle fell through. It clattered in the dirt and the hatch slammed shut again. Fumbling with the cloth, Leif managed to unwrap it. Metal glittered from inside, and soon the gatehouse was filled with cool blue light.
“Oxhiminn!” Leif exclaimed, lifting the war axe clumsily. Everyone was crowding around now, each finding the weapons that had been taken from them when they entered the camp. They chatted excitedly, eager to be armed again. Notably, the shields Tullius, his men, and Leif had carried were nowhere to be seen. Tullius retrieved an object hidden at the bottom of the bundle. It was a set of keys.
The party exchanged confused glances, but Barzom just extended his wrists expectantly. “Come now, you’ve got keys in the Aurean Empire, don’t ya?” he said. With a quick turn of the keys, Barzom’s manacles clunked to the ground. Another minute later and all of the captives were free.
“Thought I’d never see you again, old girl.” Leif planted a kiss on Oxhiminn’s blade.
“Quiet,” Tullius said, rubbing his chafed wrists.
The whole gatehouse shook as the muffled crowd burst into raucous cheering and hundreds of boots stomped above them. With a whine of rusted chains, the heavy wooden gate wrenched upwards. Squinting against the shock of daylight, Dimitri watched Barzom’s large outline walk calmly out into the sun.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The cheers became frenzied screams as the prisoners emerged. As Barzom predicted, they were in a great arena, similar to the ones that hosted chariot races and sparring contests in the Empire. Rows of benches made from scrap metal and repurposed wood lined the sides, though the hundreds who had turned out to see the events were all on their feet—shouting threats and curses in both orcish and Imperial common. The prisoners clustered together in a defensive circle as the crowd started throwing rocks and rotten food and other worse things that Dimitri didn’t want to think about.
Then, as soon as it began, the commotion ended. Every single head in the arena turned the same direction. Dimitri followed their gaze and, for the first time, laid eyes on Gorzog Ironfang, supreme warmaster of the Snowskull Steppes. A bolt of adrenaline rushed through Dimitri’s body. Unbidden, a single thought raced through his mind before he could suppress it.
I should have stayed in Aurea.
Ironfang stood and lifted a single hand to silence the horde. As he looked out over the masses, he seemed to connect with each and every one of his followers. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill raider. Ironfang had charisma, leadership skills. There was a reason nearly all the orc clans of the Steppes had flocked to his banner. Dimitri noted the two orc women by the warlord’s side. Wives? No, the shared resemblance was too strong. They had to be daughters. One was clad in leathers, sitting sullenly with her arms crossed. The other wore the robes of a cleric, her Aurelian-style clothing standing in sharp contrast to the rest of the crowd.
Irkallu. So this was the connection they had suspected all along. Dimitri’s resolve hardened—Ironfang had to be stopped.
Ironfang’s gaze terminated on the prisoners and Dimitri waited for the inevitable speech. The Imperials were weak and ready to fall, but also a looming threat; Ironfang was the only one who could stand against them; the prisoners’ deaths would send a clear message to both the Empire and the Free Ferix Legions. Dimitri heard the same rhetoric countless times from a shifting cast of Volgarian despots in his childhood, and he expected this despot to be no different.
“Wanna see a fight?” Ironfang bellowed. The crowd erupted with chanting and stomping. Then Ironfang sat down again and that was that. Dimitri smiled wryly. He wasn’t used to being wrong about people, yet Ironfang had surprised him twice already.
On cue, three other gates in the arena cracked open and the prisoners braced themselves for what would emerge from them.
First out was a tan-colored bear. Its handlers goaded it with spears, backing it out into the pit. In the sunlight, Dimitri saw a shimmer of iridescence on its coat and realized that the animal was covered in feathers, not fur. Screeching fiercely, it took a defensive swipe at the spears but the gate slammed shut behind it, parrying its blow. With nowhere else to go, it whirled around to face the prisoners, its hooked beak clacking in the center of its round white face. Owlbear! Ironfang must have imported one from the Grayspurs in the north.
The second creature didn’t need as much coaxing to leave its cage. It was an insect the size of a horse, with rows of jointed, skittering legs lining the length of its body. It stared down the prisoners with bulging compound eyes, its razor-sharp mandibles dripping with green, poisonous slime. Dimitri remembered reading about ankhegs but had never seen one in person before. The giant insects were common in the Steppes and many a wayward traveler had been suddenly grabbed and dragged into a hidden den, never to see the light of day again.
From the third gate emerged a large, gray beast, its body covered in hard, flat scutes. It crept along the wall like a lizard and, though it lacked eyes, it twitched and reacted to some manner of stimulus. Sniffing the air, its lips curled back to reveal long, needle-like fangs. This armored beast was different—it had a kind of intelligence. The way it circled, as if waiting for something, made Dimitri’s blood run cold.
Barzom adjusted his grip on his greatsword. “Nice knowing ya,” he said. “Sorry you got involved, but that’s life on the steppes for ya.”
One of the legionnaires turned to Tullius nervously, hoping for guidance. “Captain?”
Tullius set his jaw. “Keep tight, watch each other’s backs, and no one be a hero.” He looked sternly at Leif.
“Yeah yeah, got it,” Leif said, his eyes locked on the ankheg. He glanced up at Jo and said, “kinda reminds me of that cavefisher we faced, doesn’t it?” Jo just stared silently ahead and Leif took a grim breath. “Well, let’s handle it like we always do, eh?”
Hungry for a meal after being starved for weeks, the ankheg wasted no time. It lunged aggressively and spit a gobbet of foul-smelling liquid. One of the soldiers screamed in surprise as the mucus-like substance started to hiss and smoke on his breastplate. Both he and Tullius frantically set to work unbuckling it before the acid ate through to the flesh beneath.
The moment their formation was disrupted, the armored beast sensed its opening. There was no sound, no roar, no challenge. Just suddenly it was moving towards them faster than a galloping horse.
“Repel charge!” Leif bellowed. It was a reflex, a subconscious holdover from his training in the auxilia. Everyone was surprised to hear the call from him, Leif most of all, but the soldiers responded immediately. They split in two and the armored beast sailed through the gap, suddenly surrounded on all sides. The ranks closed again and the soldiers slashed and stabbed, opening up bleeding black wounds on the beast’s hide. It whipped in a circle, lashing out with its long tail and sent several of them flying. With more freedom to move, the beast dove underground, vanishing in a splash of cold mud and rapidly excavated dirt.
They hardly had time to recover from the shock when the enraged owlbear barreled into them. One of the legionnaires fell to the ground with a cry, clutching his leg where the animal’s talons had opened up a long, bleeding gash. Two others dragged him out of harm’s way just as the owlbear slammed down with both paws. Dimitri could see patches of missing feathers along the owlbear’s body where Ironfang’s orcs had whipped and beaten it, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for the creature even as he struck against it. He hit a glancing blow, the owlbear’s thick coat easily deflecting his rapier. Overcompensating for the missed strike, he nearly toppled over into the dirt.
Working together with a natural ease, Barzom pinned his sword under the owlbear’s throat before it could retaliate against Dimitri, while Jo clamped her arms around its neck. As she pulled it back with all her strength, its back feet windmilled, scratching deep gouges into her lower legs. She grit her teeth and tried to hang on, but soon the beast tore free and sent her flying onto her back.
As the others focused on the owlbear, Leif turned his attention to the ankheg. He picked up the discarded, acid-damaged breastplate, and lunged in, slashing with Oxihiminn then bringing the breastplate down onto the ankheg’s face. The stunned insect reared up on its hind legs, hissing furiously, and spit another gob of acid. Leif threw himself to the ground, rolling through the mud just in time to avoid the blow.
In the chaos, the ground exploded underneath the feet of a soldier who had become separated in the frenzied attack. The armored beast burst forth like a breaching whale and cut off the soldier’s scream with a savage bite to the throat. The crowd went berserk.
Dimitri felt sick to his stomach, a combination of terror, shock, and rage building inside of him. He expected the beast to vanish underground again, maybe dragging its victim with it, but it dropped the soldier’s body like a discarded toy, and charged again. Dimitri sidestepped, agile as a dancer, and felt the wind of the beast’s talons sailing dangerously close to his face. The audience started stamping and chanting, cheering on the armored beast to strike the fatal blow. But the creature backed off, swinging its head side to side and picking up its feet in a disorientated stumble. Dimitri’s brow furrowed but he didn’t have the time to analyze the strange development.
The ankheg scuttled to the side, quick as a river crab, and struck out with both front legs to knock Leif off his feet. Dimitri sprinted toward the massive insect and launched himself onto its back. Straddling the shrieking beast like he was riding a horse, he pulled aside its mandibles. The acid ate through his glove and burned his skin, but he held on tight as the creature bucked and scuttled. Mustering a last bit of strength, Dimitri stabbed his rapier directly into its mouth. With a sickening tearing sound and a gush of blood, the shell around the ankheg’s face cracked, exposing vivid green flesh beneath.
Panicking, the ankheg rolled, driving Dimitri into the mud. He opened his mouth to cry out but a sharp pain sucked the air from his lungs as a rib snapped under the pressure. With one hand suffering acid burn, and his chest searing with every breath, Dimitri lay helplessly on the ground. Righting itself, with Dimitri’s sword still lodged in its mouth, the ankheg scuttled back to him, drooling poison as it anticipated its meal.
Dimitri blinked as Oxhiminn sailed over his face. Its glowing blue head sank deep into the exposed flesh in the ankheg’s mouth. He watched in a shocked mix of surprise and relief as the creature collapsed, its legs twitching and scraping as it died. The crowd exploded in applause. Some beat on their shields or armor. They didn’t care who lived and who didn’t. It was all just part of the game.
“What’s the matter, huh? They not squish bugs in Volgaria?” Leif asked with a cocky grin. Out of instinct, he offered Dimitri a hand up and only realized it after it had been accepted. Too exhausted for banter, Dimitri staggered to the ankheg’s body and ripped his rapier from its mouth. He hoped it hadn’t been too damaged by the insect’s acid—two threats still remained.
Jo, Barzom, and Tullius formed a protective ring around the injured soldier, fending off the owlbear’s intermittent attacks. At the same time, the armored beast was pacing on their periphery, growing more and more agitated and unable to concentrate on the hunt. Dimitri watched it closely. A spectator in the stands beat loudly on a rusty metal fence. Immediately, the armored beast whirled towards the jarring, tinny noise and bared its teeth.
A dim hope dawned on Dimitri. He sheathed his sword, placed his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. The loud, sharp sound pierced through the din of the arena, catching the momentary attention of everyone—friend and foe alike.
Except one.
The armored beast was still turned away in its search for the offensive metallic rattling.
“Everyone, stomp your feet!” Dimitri cried. Though the owlbear had backed off temporarily, Jo and Barzom were loath to turn their attention away from it and Tullius was knelt on the ground trying in vain to staunch the injured soldier’s bleeding leg.
“Do it!” Dimitri said again. He started stomping his own feet, making a series of heavy thumps in the thick mud. After a bewildered moment, Leif followed suit. Then Tullius. By the time Jo and Barzom joined in, even the owlbear was retreating, distrustful of the strange new development. The armored beast snarled, picking up its feet and shaking its head as the confusing stimuli overwhelmed its senses. Finally, it could take no more. It charged, sprinting at such a speed it seemed unreal.
“Hold!” Dimitri yelled. His broken rib made it feel like his belly was full of knives, but he kept stomping.
The armored beast’s powerful haunches coiled.
“Hold!”
With an explosive movement, it launched itself into the air.
“Repel charge!”
Instantly, the group separated and the beast sailed through them—barreling head-first into the owlbear. Shocked by this sudden attack, the owlbear fought to defend itself. The two creatures tumbled into the dirt, hopelessly entangled in a bloody struggle. The entire arena, both spectator and participant, watched in awed silence as the beasts grappled, slashed, bit, and tore.
Finally, the armored beast pinned the owlbear, ending the poor animal’s life with a bite to the throat. It held its head high and bellowed in triumph from blood-flecked lips—only to have that head cleaved from its neck by a swing of Barzom’s greatsword. As the beast’s head rolled into the dust, the crowd burst into wild cheers. Dimitri lifted his eyes and smirked.
The only audience member not smiling was Ironfang.
*
*
The prison guard looked up from his bone whittling project as distant hooting and hollering echoed through the camp. He grumbled something in unintelligible orcish and took his blade to bone more forcefully. Becoming more and more disgruntled with each uproarious cheer, he finally let out a frustrated sigh, threw down his tools, and sneaked off.
After a tense moment, Leo whispered, “is he coming back?”
Amale pulled out a tiny switchblade from under the cloth wrapping on his left ankle. “Not waiting to find out,” he said.
“Just how many knives do you have?” Leo asked incredulously. He remembered the lengthy disarming process the captors had submitted them to and thought it impossible that anyone could carry as many weapons as had been removed from Amale’s person.
“Enough,” Amale said, bending his paws around the bars at an uncomfortable angle to jimmy the lock. It quickly became apparent, though, that getting the knife in the right position would not be manageable from inside the cage.
Sakrattars looked where his robes had been tossed in a pile with all the other loot stolen from their party. Somewhere, in the folds of the fine embroidered fabric, was Bartholomew—and as long as the toad was free, there was still a chance. A small chance, admittedly, but the only one Sakrattars had left. “Bartholomew!” he called. “Bartholomew, come here!” A few moments passed and the robes lay still. “Bartholomew!”
“Cut it out!” the old ferix soldier, Khez, hissed. “You’ll get the guard to come back before the dog is done.” Amale rumbled in displeasure, but kept his focus on the lock.
“But if I can get my familiar—”
“Shut it!”
As if on cue, the fabric folds rustled and Bartholomew poked his head out, blinking one eye then the other.
“Bartholomew!” Sakrattars tried not to sound too surprised in front of his detractors. “Bring me the gold spice,” he ordered. The toad stared at him, showing no sign that he understood anything his master was saying. “You know the gold spice. In that velvet pouch,” Sakrattars added helpfully.
“What in the Abyss are you—” Khez grabbed Sakrattars by the shoulders and shook him. “Tell it to get the key! The key!”
“He doesn’t know what the key is!” Sakrattars snapped irritably. “But he knows what gold spice is, and if I have gold spice I can open the lock.”
“How’s that?”
“Um, with magic?”
Khez groaned in exasperation and fell back, a furry arm draped across her face. Sakrattars pursed his lips, thinking more and more that Jo had more in common with the ferix than just their size and feline nature.
Ignoring the lack of faith, he turned back to his familiar. “Did you get it?” he asked. Bartholomew tumbled to the ground with a squish and a splat then, scrambling on tiny legs, managed to turn himself over. He proudly showed off the pouch in his mouth and Sakrattars face fell. “Not that one! I told you to get the gold spice!”
But Bartholomew would not be dissuaded. He ambled through the prison yard, then got distracted by a cozy footprint about half way across. He nestled down into the cool mud and closed his eyes contentedly. Sakrattars heaved a great sigh.
“So he’s not coming over here?” Leo asked timidly.
Sakrattars shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter anyway. That’s the pouch where I keep his mealworms.”
“Sakrattars! Amale!”
The sudden cry startled Amale into dropping his switchblade. Kaja rounded the corner, cloak fluttering in the cold wind behind her. Without stopping, she scooped Bartholomew up in one arm.
“Kaja?” Sakrattars exclaimed. “Where—how did you escape?” In response, Kaja grabbed the cage lock and hoarfrost shattered the metal into pieces. Amale pushed the door open on rusted hinges.
“That’s how,” Khez said, shaking her injured partner awake. “Let’s go!”
Kaja dashed to the next cage, then the next, then the next, and so on, leaving broken locks and freed prisoners in her wake. She looped back around to the guard tent, where Sakrattars and Amale were equipping their stolen gear. “Jo?” she asked breathlessly.
“They were taken to the arena,” Sakrattars said, adjusting his wizard’s robes around his frame. He took Bartholomew back from Kaja and stowed the toad in his hood.
“What is the arena?”
Cheers sounded in the distance, accompanied by a deep rumble.
“That.” Sakrattars gestured vaguely. Kaja, more confused than ever, nodded gravely. Whatever that was, it didn’t sound good.
Khez loped past them, grabbing an odd tube of metal embedded in wood that had been left propped up outside. “This better not have rusted!” she growled, inspecting it. “Damned orcs have no appreciation for the craft.” A few of the orc prisoners shot irritated glances her way and she continued grumbling to herself in ferish. Her partner, shouldering a crossbow and a bulky short sword, tossed Khez an oiled bag. “My powder!” Khez exclaimed, opening the pouch and grinning. “And it’s even dry. Might be able to get some vengeance on the way out after all.”
Sakrattars lifted an eyebrow. “What is that?” he asked.
Khez smiled wide, her yellowed teeth glinting. She looked at Amale restringing his bow, and chuckled. “You Imperials. So primitive. This is the future.” She patted the object lovingly. Sakrattars rolled his eyes and shrugged. He didn't have time to argue for answers.
Rearmed and re-equipped, the prisoners rallied in the center of the yard. Khez crawled on top of a stack of supply crates and raised her metal object into the air. “Let’s give Ironfang a gift to remember us by!” she cried. Ferix, orc, and Imperial all cheered as one, then charged through the fortress, stealing what they could and trashing what they couldn’t.
As the unlikely allies moved out, Kaja spotted a discarded roll from breakfast. She picked it up, dusted it off, and took an enthusiastic bite.
*
*
Tullius’ grip softened on the shoulder of the wounded legionnaire. He raised a bloodied hand, gently sliding his fingers over the soldier’s face to close his eyes for the last time. He glanced up at Dimitri. Two of their number were now dead, claimed by Ironfang’s savage menagerie, and there was no doubt that more were on the way. Dimitri glared down at the body then took a few bold steps forward.
“Ironfang! Let us end this farce of fighting beasts!” he cried in near perfect orcish, leveling the tip of his blade at the warlord. “Face me yourself! I challenge you to veika—single combat!”
Gasps, jeers, and hollers rippled through the arena. The fact that an Imperial not only knew what veika was, but challenged Gorzog Ironfang himself to one was more exciting than any of them could have expected. Ironfang narrowed his eyes and stood. One of his daughters, the priestess, moved to stop him but he shoved her away. The heckling crowd only grew louder.
“What did you do?” Leif asked, unnerved by the sudden raucousness.
“I challenged Ironfang to a ritual duel.”
Leif’s mouth dropped open. “You what?”
Ironfang raised a hand and the crowd immediately quieted. “I accept,” he said, to uproarious cheers. Dimitri took a deep breath, adjusting his grip on his sword as Ironfang pushed his way down to the pit. He knew that the warlord’s pride would not allow him to refuse, lest he look weak in front of his army and lose their respect or, more importantly, their fear.
Tullius rushed to Dimitri’s side. “Sir, please allow me to be your champion,” he urged. “We can’t afford to lose you.”
Dimitri flashed a smile and hoped it looked more calm and confident than he was feeling. “Have you so little faith in me, my friend?” he asked. Then his face grew serious. He held Tullius’ shoulder and squeezed. “I need you to coordinate the others in the event of my. . . failure. The instant you see an opportunity, run.”
Tullius swallowed and nodded. “Sir.”
Subordinates scurried up to Ironfang, offering him a selection of weapons. He dismissed them angrily. “Keep your sword,” he said to Dimitri while cracking his knuckles and flexing his fingers, “but I will fight you with my bare hands.” The thundering rhythm of stomping feet shook the ground as Ironfang and Dimitri circled.
“I’m stopping this,” Jo said, stepping forward. Tullius blocked her with an arm.
“We need to be ready,” he said.
She scoffed. “For what? His death?”
Tullius didn’t reply.
Barzom ran a paw through his fur. “Let no one say that the Imperial lacks moxie,” he said candidly.
Dimitri lifted his rapier, holding it upright in front of his face. It was a traditional duelist’s challenge, but it had the added benefit of hiding his prayer to Aegis. He lowered the sword, pointing it directly at Ironfang. His other hand went to his side. Applying pressure to the broken rib dulled the pain from a searing agony to an excruciating ache. It would have to do.
Ironfang ignored Dimitri’s threatening stance. He glanced up at the stands with a smug grin and his audience laughed. Dimitri couldn’t help but smile too. Ironfang had them wrapped around his finger—that would make this all the sweeter.
Dimitri lunged, thrusting forward. Ironfang parried the blade with the back of his hand, swatting it away like an insect. This drew derisive laughter from the stands. Dimitri regained his footing. He panted, gasping for breath, his vision swimming. The pain was extreme and the exhaustion from the previous fight was beginning to overwhelm him. The hand at his side clenched into a tight ball.
“Hey,” Ironfang said to one of his guards, “come help the human stand up, neh? Maybe hold his little sword for him.”
Dimitri dismissed the taunt and summoned the strength to keep up the offensive. Ironfang backed up, either smacking the sword away or turning to the side so the blows whiffed harmlessly past him. Every few strikes, he’d take a potshot at Dimitri—slapping him across the face, boxing his ears, or striking him in the gut. Dimitri knew he was being toyed with and the audience adored it. The chanting and stomping resumed; rocks and garbage rained down into the arena. Through it all, Dimitri kept swinging and Ironfang kept moving. Soon, much sooner than he would have liked, Dimitri slowed. The frenzied crowd could smell blood. It took every bit of Tullius’ willpower to not ask Jo to help him intervene.
Then, with a wet squish, Ironfang’s boot sank into a slick puddle. The sole started to hiss and steam and searing pain shot up his leg. Trying to get away, he slipped in the ankheg’s fluid and toppled to his back with a snarl. Dimitri moved like lightning. He sprinted forward and aimed his rapier, but Ironfang was far faster than anticipated. The warlord was on his knees in a moment, clapping both hands together, stopping the sword mere inches from his eyeball.
With acid eating at his shins and blood running down his arms, Ironfang forced the blade away from his face. Dimitri knew he could never match Ironfang in a test of strength. He swiftly yanked his sword back, cutting deeper into Ironfang’s palms. In the same motion, he slashed into the warlord’s thigh, then used the follow-through to cut a gash across his unprotected face. Ironfang roared in fury. The crowd was silent, shocked by the unbelievable sight of their lord bleeding and on his knees before a wounded Imperial half his size.
Seeing another opening, Dimitri stabbed once more. Ironfang twisted away and grabbed Dimitri’s wrist. In one motion, Ironfang wrenched himself to his feet and slammed Dimitri’s arm down onto his thigh. The rapier clattered uselessly to the ground. Fury burning on his blood-streaked face, Ironfang closed his fingers around Dimitri’s throat. “Nice try, but you lose,” he growled.
“Is this the best the Aurean Empire has?” he declared to the stands, lifting and shaking Dimitri like a doll. There were some jeers from the crowd, but not nearly as many as before. Dimitri grasped Ironfang’s forearm with both hands, his feet struggling for purchase. A warm electricity blossomed under his skin, his swarthy complexion turning darker and redder by the second. The pain and lack of air dulled his senses, his vision began to fade—
Then came the sharp twang of bowstrings. Several of Ironfang’s warriors keeled over where they stood, clutching arrow shafts protruding from their bodies. Immediately, the crowd began to scramble as commanders called for order. An explosion of fire and ice erupted at the arena entrance and the freed prisoners came flooding in through the fog with a cry.
Caught unarmed and unaware, many of the spectators tried to flee to the weapons racks but were cut down on the way. Ironfang growled and threw Dimitri to the ground, demanding that his axe be brought to him. His guards circled around him protectively, shoving both friend and foe out of his way.
“What’s happening?” Leif shouted over the commotion. Before anyone could answer, a loud crack echoed through the air and two of Ironfang’s personal guards fell, their flesh shredded and bleeding. “Is that one of the fancy elf’s spells?” Leif asked, looking to Jo for answers.
“That’s no wizard’s spell,” Barzom said proudly. “That’s our gunner.”
Leif stared blankly. “Gunner?”
One of the freed ferix loped up to Barzom, delivering a message in ferish. Barzom turned back to Leif and Jo and grinned. “You gonna keep acting like day-old cubs or are you coming with us?”
“We can’t leave Dimitri!” Tullius cried.
“I’ll get him,” Jo replied quickly. “You get out of here and find Kaja.”
“Kaja found us,” Leif said, pointing to where she and Sakrattars were standing back to back, casting spells of ice and fire against the horde.
“Well get them out of here!” Jo yelled. She ran to Dimitri’s side and unceremoniously threw him over her shoulder like a sack of barley. He coughed and sputtered, blood dripping from the sides of his mouth.
“I can still. . . I have to finish this,” he said weakly.
“What are you gonna do, bleed on him?” Jo snorted. “You’ll do more good alive than dead.” Dimitri didn’t say anything after that.
There was another loud crack and a thin cloud of gray, acrid smoke plumed up from a vantage point above the stands. Ironfang grabbed his battle axe and ordered his daughters to find and recapture as many of the escaped prisoners as they could. Gorza glared at Aroga before heading out to do her part.
Aroga watched the unfolding chaos dispassionately, then turned and walked calmly away. She stopped briefly and looked over at the white-haired girl. Through the havoc of metal and magic and moving bodies, their eyes met for an instant. The girl paused and watched to see what Aroga would do.
Then, with a nod, Aroga left.
If words and reason weren’t enough to convince Gorza to leave the Irkallu, then that left only one option in Aroga’s mind.
The Irkallu had to be destroyed.