The senior guard at the north gate yawned and stretched his paws out, massaging his claws into the wooden rail. It was nearly dawn and he was looking forward to curling up and falling asleep to the melodic roar of the forges. Opening his bleary, watery eyes, he thought he spotted the shadowy silhouette of a giant cat, sprinting down the western bank. He snapped to attention but the shape vanished into a dark grove. He waited until something re-emerged—but instead of one shape, there were three. He recognized them as the Imperials that Vyrkad sent to the Mount Blade mine and leaned back, shaking his head. He must be more tired than he thought.
But the Imperials were anything but relaxed. The beanpole elf was running at them, frantically waving his scrawny arms. He was shouting but his squeaky voice was lost in the metallic din of the smithies firing up their production. The natiuhan yelled over him, her words a dire warning: “Ironfang! From the south!”
The guard’s ears pricked up and he exchanged an alarmed glance with his junior. “You heard the dame,” he snarled. The junior nearly tripped over his own tail scrambling to the horn. He took a deep breath and a haunting baritone blared through the fortress, awakening every ferix to the sound of war.
*
*
The machinations of Forgeheart were quick to spool up. Cartloads of scrap metal and spoil rock from the mines fanned out to the cardinal gateways, where they’d be thrown from the ramparts to block the roads. A constant rotation of the keenest-eyed scouts kept their optexes trained on the approaching army, reporting all movement to their superiors, who then sent runners to deliver the information to Vyrkad and his team of generals.
Despite the chaos, Jo, Sakrattars, and Kaja were somehow able to find Leif and Amale in the noisy, bustling crowd.
“We need to leave,” Jo said urgently, before any greetings could take place.
Sakrattars nodded. “If we go north, we can disappear into the mountains before they get here. Jo and Kaja are familiar with the terrain so—”
“Now hold on,” Leif interrupted, “we can’t just leave the ferix here to die.”
“We’ve already gone above and beyond the scope of our assignment,” Sakrattars said. “It isn’t our fight.”
Leif opened his mouth to respond but Kaja’s quiet voice cut him off. “Tordom’s my friend,” she said with a sombreness that momentarily silenced all discussion. Before it could start again, a runner loped up to their group.
“Vyrkad is in the training yard with the other Imperials,” she said gruffly. “He wants you there, too.” The companions shared a round of tense glares before agreeing to go, each thinking that Dimitri would surely reinforce their opinion on the matter.
The training yard was a flurry of activity, crammed with soldiers and equipment and soldiers inspecting equipment. A dozen cannons were being polished and prepared. Cohorts stood in ordered ranks as sergeants examined their fitness. And Vyrkad was at the center of it all, directing troops and issuing orders. By his side were Dimitri, Tullius, and Leo.
“Ah, there’s the rest of our Imperials,” Vyrkad said humorlessly as the companions approached. No one bothered to mention that less than half of their number were actually from the Empire. “Dimitri here has your shift assignments. You will be pulling watch duty on the walls, in four-hour intervals. Your cub will join the rest of our young ones as a powder runner.”
Jo stiffened. “Our ‘cub’?” she said icily. “You better not mean Kaja.”
Kaja perked up. “What’s a powder runner?” she asked.
“You deliver charges, shot, and supplies to the artillery crews,” Vyrkad replied. “Helps you cubs learn how to fight.”
“So Tordom will powder run too?”
Jo bristled at being left out of the conversation. “She’s not running your damned powder! You may risk your children in war, Cuilun save them, but that’s not our way.” She finished off with a string of natiuhan curses. Vyrkad couldn’t understand the words but he absolutely understood their intent.
“She might not look it, but Kaja is a capable fighter,” Dimitri interjected smoothly, hoping to see the tense wrinkle in Vyrkad’s brow subside. “Why not let her stay by Jo’s side on the wall?”
Jo’s eyes flashed dangerously. “We’re not gonna be on the damned—”
“Fine,” Vyrkad grunted, waving a paw. It wasn’t that he was convinced, but rather that he was unwilling to dedicate any more time to arguing. “You have your orders then. Dismissed.”
As the group went their separate ways, Jo grabbed Kaja’s arm. “We need to leave, Kaja,” she said firmly. “I’m serious.”
Kaja hesitated a moment, then set her jaw. “No,” she said. “Let me go.”
“Kaja. . .” Jo sighed, her anger punctuated by a growing desperation. “War isn’t like in the stories Leif tells you. It’s not even like the fights we’ve been in so far.” Her eyes grew dark, her tone deadly serious. “It’s death and blood, it’s screaming and rotting bodies. It’s the moans of the dying, and becoming something evil and monstrous so you don’t join them.” Kaja’s arm relaxed in her hand and Jo allowed herself to hope that she had gotten through. But Kaja stiffened and yanked her arm away.
“I won’t go,” she said stubbornly.
Jo growled. She had half a mind to pick Kaja up like a sack of wheat and march her out the north gate, but she knew that Kaja wouldn’t peacefully leave Leif and Tordom and everyone else she had come to consider a friend. If Jo forced her, Kaja would hate her for it.
In the end, all Jo could do was watch Kaja’s back as she left the yard.
*
*
Amale paced outside the medical tent, wringing his paws, his mind a swirling storm. Ironfang’s army was getting closer to the south gate with every sun movement, the warhorns growing louder and more grating. Seeing the steppeland, which reminded him so acutely of home in Acathia, filled with soldiers and instruments of destruction affected him deeply. It didn’t help that the vision of his village burning was still fresh in his mind. To add to his worries, the rift between his companions sat like a physical wound in his chest. He didn’t know how to reconcile their differences, but neither could he tolerate the grim helplessness of idly waiting. Eventually, he had to excuse himself, searching for something—anything—he could do.
Amale stopped his pacing with a soft whine. Finally, he could no longer stand his own inaction and swept into the tent.
The ferix inside looked up at him, surprised. Most were from the Red Paw clan—recognizable by the red ochre ritualistically painted onto their paws—but there were others as well. They were preparing cots, washing linens, counting potions, and doing everything a medical unit could possibly do before a battle.
“What do you want, dog?” one asked wearily.
“Can. . . can I help? I’m a healer.”
The ferix looked at one another before sharing a derisive laugh, some shaking their heads in disbelief. One particularly large Red Paw walked up to him. “If you’re too much of a coward to fight, you should have run off already,” she said, looking down at him with contempt. “It’s way too late now.”
“No, it’s not that,” Amale said earnestly. “I just. . .” The words came easily to him in his native language, but there just wasn’t a good translation for what he was feeling in Imperial common. “People are going to be hurt soon, so I want to help. Is there anything I can do?”
The big Red Paw glanced over her shoulder at the rest, their mood shifting from mocking to confused. “We’re all experienced healers,” she said, facing Amale once again. “We can handle it.”
Amale nodded. “Okay.” He pulled a small satchel from his belt. It was well-worn and threadbare, the intricately dyed leather faded from years of sun exposure. “Then, here, take my healer’s kit,” he said, pressing it into the Red Paw’s palm. “It’s not much, but please use it.”
The Red Paw opened the pouch as Amale turned to leave. She expected to find primitive Imperial remedies like incense or religious totems, maybe even leeches. Instead, she lifted out a tightly-packed roll of clean gauze and a brown glass bottle of medicine wrapped in cloth to protect it from spoiling in the light. There was a parcel of herbs, each variety carefully cut, dried, and labeled and, most surprisingly of all, a small pair of copper snips. Such finely-smithed devices were rare, even for a ferix. It had to have cost at least half a year’s wages.
“Hang on, now,” the Red Paw said, putting everything back in the kit. Amale stopped just before the tent flap. “We could actually use some help washing the linens. Not glorious, but it’s necessary” Amale immediately perked up, his ears lifting. “And I’ll give this back to you.” The Red Paw handed him the satchel. “Report here after the battle, with your kit.”
Amale nodded resolutely, his tail wagging unchecked behind him.
*
*
“By all the gods, when will they stop that racket?” Leif snarled as he climbed the stairs to report for his first watch. By his side were Kaja and Amale, both with their hands pinned firmly over their ears. Even behind the walls, the warhorns were deafening. They had already seen ferix stuffing their ears with wads of cloth and candle wax, and were beginning to wonder if such a solution would be right for them. But any irritation immediately dispelled when they reached the ramparts. Mouths dropped open, hands fell to their sides, and all feeling swept away, leaving only a gaping pit in their hearts.
Ironfang’s army spread like an endless meadow of rusted metal, leather tents, and bustling bodies, extending from the line of craters beyond the wall to halfway to the southern horizon. Soldiers were working in the fading light on great siege machines constructed from scrap metal and rhinoceros hide. The sound of hammers striking metal echoed through the steppe.
“By. . . all the gods. . .” Leif gasped.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Dimitri said. His shift, alongside Jo and Leo, had begun an hour before. “Nearly all the orcs of the Steppe are out there. . . I’m almost impressed,” he laughed, an unconvincing show of nonchalance.
Kaja rose on her tiptoes but still couldn’t reach above the crenellations. “Can I see?” she asked. Everyone turned breathlessly towards Jo.
Jo briefly considered not helping her, but if Kaja was truly set on staying for the coming battle, she would bear witness to things far worse than what lay beyond the wall now. She lifted Kaja up and they both looked over the sight in silence.
“. . .oh,” Kaja said, her voice soft and wavering.
Vyrkad approached them, his expression worn but his features alert. He received a few curt nods and words of acknowledgement from the ferix around him, then stopped near the group, looking out at the army with his arms crossed. “Anything to report?”
“Aside from the fact my ears are bleeding?” Jo grumbled, placing Kaja back down.
Vyrkad sneered. “Heh, be glad you’re not one of us. We’d be liable to go deaf if not for the—” He swallowed back his words.
The horns had stopped.
But rather than relief, it filled everyone with a sudden dread. All eyes turned toward a single figure poised atop a rocky outcrop.
*
*
“Are you sure about this plan, Lord Ironfang?” the commander asked. “Many will die.” Ironfang surveyed the fortress from the rocky outcrop, then turned to the army arrayed behind him. Even after losing a half-dozen clans, Irkallu support, and even his own daughters, the number of warriors he retained terrified even him. Had Calthia ever beheld a conqueror as magnificent as he?
“They die for a glorious cause,” Ironfang said with a wicked grin. “Orcs of the Steppe!” he raised his voice to an answering cheer. “Norsivex gave me a powerful vision. Any who fall in my service will spend eternity at his side. In glory!” He suppressed a smirk at the awe his words inspired in the fantical. Not everyone was convinced, but Ironfang disregarded them. Whether they were here due to old orcish traditions, the new Irkallu religion, or a healthy dose of fear mattered not—so long as they were willing to give their lives to him.
“Bring up the trumpet!” he ordered fiercely. “Let us begin.”
*
*
“Can’t you just shoot him?” Leif asked incredulously. “He’s right there! Give him a cannon-ing!”
“He’s beyond cannon range,” Vyrkad growled. “We’d be wasting shells.”
“Then use a rifle!”
Vyrkad sighed, not bothering to explain that rifles had less than half the range of a cannon. “The walls of Forgeheart have held strong for centuries,” he said instead. “They will not crumble today.”
They watched with bated breath as an orc, likely a senior in Ironfang’s command, lifted an elaborate instrument to his lips. Carved from the hollowed horn of a steppeland rhinoceros, the sound was eerie and melancholy. It flowed through the steppe and reverberated off the walls of Forgeheart, then faded into silence. Then came the beating of war-drums. First one, then five, then a hundred united in a deep, pounding staccato. The soldiers beat weapon against shield, and chanted in time.
“This is it!” Vyrkad shouted. “Load and prepare to fire!”
Jo felt like ice water was being pumped through her veins. Her gaze shifted from the orcs, to the ferix, to little Kaja, who had a grave but determined expression etched onto her face. It wasn’t too late. If they fled now, she could still get Kaja to safety. She waited for Kaja’s nerves to fail, for her to look up and beg to get out. But the moment never came.
Ironfang raised his axe. With a colossal cry, the army barreled forward. Orange sunlight glinted off their armor as they surged across the steppeland like a wave of flame.
“Open fire!”
The cannons of Forgeheart roared to life. With each report, a corresponding bloom of fire and smoke tore through the army. There were screams of agony and fear as soldiers were blasted to pieces, missing arms, missing legs, missing heads. Some simply vanished—vaporized instantly into nothing more than a smattering of blood and gore. Yet the orcs never slowed their charge.
Jo’s stomach churned in revulsion. Amale’s ears were down, his tail tucked. Even Leif had lost all enthusiasm, his eyes filled with horror at what he was witnessing. Dimitri watched, doubts about his mission evident on his pallid face. In that moment, they all shared the same, terrifying thought:
The Empire wants these weapons. . .
The charge didn’t falter until the army was within range of the rifles. A rippling crackle cascaded along the walls, smoke obscuring the battlefield as the first salvo was fired. So many orcs fell that it looked like a wave crashed upon a shoreline. The ferix reloaded while the next line clambered over the bodies of their fallen. By the time they had freed themselves, another salvo tore through them.
The orcs did not wait for a third. They ran, rifle fire and cannon shells chasing them back to their camp. Only when the army had melted back into the tents and pickets did a series of calls go out along the walls. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
Ironfang, who had been observing the battle from his vantage point, waited until his orcs had fully retreated. Then he jumped down and walked calmly back into his camp.
“So that’s it?” Leif stammered. “They just gave up?”
“They’re scouting our defenses,” Vyrkad said. “They’ll be back.” He paused, looking over the tangled mass of bodies shredded in the teeth of Forgeheart’s guns. Some writhed, not quite dead, suffering under the breezy curtain of powder smoke. “Admirable, that kind of bravery. A shame they waste it in service of that bastard.”
Jo looked down at Kaja, who was staring hard at the solid merlon in front of her.
She didn’t ask if she could see.
*
*
Sakrattars walked the outskirts of the parade ground, as the Red Paws lay out cots in preparation for the siege that everyone knew was coming. The exchange that evening had just been a taste, a promise, of battle and now that the field was blooded, their work took on additional gravity. Sakrattars hadn’t been there to see what happened, but the fact that no one who had been was willing to tell him about it spoke for itself.
He was almost glad to see Leif, sitting on a sack of rifle wadding and painting his shield with coal grease. Perhaps he could be distracted from the miserable thoughts he was working so hard to avoid. “What are you doing?” he asked, trying to sound pleasant.
Leif looked up at him and grunted. “Not going into battle with a blank shield,” he said. “People’d think I’m not fighting for anything.”
Sakrattars looked over the partially finished design. It was a ram’s head, the twisted horns curving down into well-defined points. The position of the ears, the unpainted eyes, and even the stylized way the wool curled around the head all came together into a sigil that Sakrattars instantly recognized. “That’s the family crest of House Bjodhrutr, isn’t it? The rulers of Stielheim?” Leif looked up at him and frowned, but Sakrattars continued, “I remember seeing it on the sails of a few ships that visited my family’s docks. They brought herring and timber, and traded for tools and fruit.”
Leif laughed. “So the fancy elf knows his heraldry,” he said mockingly. “Stick your nose somewhere else. Why not bother that Volgarian?” Sakrattars sighed, frustrated by the rejection when he thought he was being rather amiable, and Leif went back to his painting.
With further conversation being a fruitless endeavor, Sakrattars made his way back to their quarters. Since distraction didn’t work, maybe shutting out the world, and the terrible wail of the warhorns, would help his nerves. He closed all the doors and shuttered all the windows, but could still hear the activity outside. He lay on the bed, hands covering his face.
Why was he here?
Every logical bone in his body was telling him he should flee in the dead of night and never look back. But then what? If Kaja stayed—if she was killed—he would lose his only connection to the zmaj people and academic redemption. He’d have to return to his blanket in Barsicum’s market, telling false fortunes to gullible peasants. If that was his alternative, perhaps some part of him didn’t mind if his journey ended in Forgeheart.
He sighed and turned over, his eyes trailing to his pack, where the tower wizard’s diary poked out enticingly. If he wasn’t fated to die in the siege, he’d be two hundred and fifty four years old in 1491 A.I.—comfortably middle-aged. Was his future truly so bleak, no matter what happened to him?
Sakattars tried to put it out of his mind, but the diary seemed to taunt him from across the room. Finally, he rose out of bed, knelt on the floor, and grabbed the diary. He reached into one of his pouches and recoiled in disgust at the unexpected moist squish. Upending the pouch, Bartholomew tumbled out, followed by several wet crystals.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop peeing in there?” Sakrattars said irritably, sweeping Bartholomew aside. The toad flailed clumsily, righted himself, then stared as Sakrattars laid out the diary and several clear quartz rods.
Every person, object, and place was touched by the ethereal realm, leaving behind indelible fingerprints that divination magic could reveal. Whether the diary was from a different time or just the product of a disturbed individual, Sakrattars should be able to tell. He had hoped to do this later, perhaps after finding Kaja’s village, but now he wasn’t certain he’d have any other chances. This was something he could do, could control, could glean one last lick of knowledge from.
Sakrattars took a grounding breath, bringing to memory the proper words and arcane symbology. He placed his hands on the diary, closed his eyes, and whispered the incantation. The familiar surge of magic spiraled down his arms and pooled in his palms and fingertips.
Instantly, a backlash of energy swallowed him up, locking his wrists in an ice cold grip.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
He opened his eyes to a dark forest, the image hazy and dream-like. He looked down at his hands, but they weren’t his hands at all—they were pale and hairy, the nails chewed down to the skin. There was a tiny black drake, huddled at his side and baring its teeth at some foe. Then he felt it: the primal terror he had felt only once before, in Castrum Ustarius. Perched menacingly on the walls of a ruined city was a great dragon of roiling shadows, much larger than the shade of her that Sakrattars saw in the diamond mine.
Vhel. . . I hate her, I hate her, I hate her. . .
The tower wizard’s visceral anger, Vhel’s suffocating dragonfear, and the burning horror of the eclipsed sun made Sakrattars heave.
It was real.
Desperately, Sakrattars tried to end the spell but the magic only tightened its grip. On the edge of panic, he pulled back so hard that he felt a snap and the sensation of falling backwards. He expected to hit the ground but he kept going, and going, and going. Visions rushed around him so fast he couldn’t process them. He closed his eyes, he opened them, he tried to shake himself awake, he tried to grab onto something—anything—but nothing worked. He could only watch.
A dragon, blue scales glistening in the golden sun, roared atop a magnificent tower. Lightning struck the building, shattering it and setting the ruins ablaze.
Legionnaires marched across a snowy field, their gait staggered and halting. One turned, revealing a grinning skull beneath the helm.
Rivers of molten metal poured down the ramparts of Forgeheart, cannons shelling the very city they were built to protect. Ironfang stood victorious, holding his axe high. “Tonight, Forgeheart falls! Next, we crush Aurea!”
Sakrattars slammed back into reality, and withdrew his hands from the diary like it was a venomous viper. The chill in the apartment made the beads of sweat on the back of his neck feel like little icicles tickling his skin. Bartholomew watched him sedately, giving no indication that he understood anything of what his master was experiencing. After a humiliating amount of hesitation, Sakrattars picked up the unassuming diary and threw it into the bottom of his pack.
He had his answer but, in a twist entirely new, he wished he hadn’t even asked the question.
*
*
Leo ran his thumb over the braided grass rope, staring down into the seductive shadows below the wall.
“You tryna leave too?”
He jumped at the unexpected voice, whirling around to see Jo standing behind him. “No,” he said quickly, embarrassed that she discovered him in such a weak moment. “I just—my wife—”
Jo joined him, gazing loftily at the torches wavering in the darkness of the southern steppe. “If I had my way, we’d be gone too,” she said.
Leo relaxed a little at the admission but still felt the shame upon his cheeks. “It’s weird,” he said. “Somehow me and the Captain are the only ones left, and now it seems like our luck has finally run out.”
A gust of wind ruffled their clothes and nipped their skin, carrying with it the smell of smoke, weapon’s oil, and unwashed bodies. “When they come, stay by me,” Jo said. She wouldn’t patronize him by saying she would defend him in battle, but Leo frowned, ashamed of his fear in the face of a veteran warrior who seemed so calm. Jo continued, “I’ve fought at the side of Imperials before. Enemies always target the natiuhans first.” She flashed a wry grin and Leo tried to smile back. They both knew that, no matter who the enemy went for first, neither of them would survive the fight.
“You said that you follow the Spirit of Death,” Leo said. “Do you think she’ll come for us?”
Jo’s smile waned and her eyes hardened. “Melcuni comes for everyone, but only she knows when.” She paused. “But if she does, she’ll take care of us. Those who die in war or the birthing bed are given a hero’s welcome.”
“I guess we’ll have that to look forward to,” Leo said with a nervous smile.
“Yeah. . .” Jo replied automatically, her focus locking onto something else entirely.
Leo traced her line of sight to the seven great mounds of bodies piled just beyond rifle range. Shortly after the exchange, the orcs had negotiated a truce to collect their dead, agreeing to do so under the watchful eyes of Barzom and his scouting team. Leo looked up at the tower, where the scouts still had their optexes dutifully trained on the working orcs. “What? What’s wrong?” he asked.
Jo didn’t have a chance to answer before the scouts sent up the alarm, shouting and waving in a confusing mix of signals. Everyone rushed to the wall to see for themselves what was happening.
Barzom leaned over, his claws digging into the railing. “Starfire!” he roared.
A blinding shock of flame assaulted the defenders’ eyes as each pile of bodies ignited into a blazing pillar. Jo whipped her head away, eyes watering, and tried in vain to blink back her vision. Ferix stumbled and groped for their weapons as Vyrkad shouted orders that they could barely carry out. Sakrattars and Kaja, who had been sitting together under the watchtower, rushed to Jo’s side in the chaos.
“What’s happening?” Sakrattars asked frantically.
“Take cover!”
A huge fireball arced through the sky, smashing into the ramparts with such force that the whole structure shook. Jo grabbed Kaja and Sakrattars in a bear hug, pushing them to the ground and shielding them with her own body. Kaja squirmed in fear as fire rained down and the air burned uncomfortably hot.
More flaming rocks slammed against the walls, some even sailing clean over and crashing into the yard. Firepots shattered along the defenses, showering the ground with burning pitch. Undressed ferix, who had been sleeping below the guard towers moments before, rushed out to fight the raging fires. Jo helped her companions to their feet, her mind racing. A disorientating cacophony of ferish and Imperial common came from all directions, but one word got through, loud and clear:
“Towers!”
Out of the rancid smoke emerged siege towers, pulled forward by teams of hitched rhinoceroses. The creatures snorted and shied but warg riders with ember whips and snarling mounts kept them in line. Below the towers, dome-shaped testudos crawled along the ground, fire-retardant hides protecting the orcs from their own fiery assault. Several gunners regained enough wherewithal to shoot at the testudos, only to be shocked when their bullets sparked and deflected. Lashed to the top of the orcs’ shields were the skeletal, armored bodies of ferix soldiers. The gunners halted their fire, confused, enraged, and unwilling to further desecrate the bodies of their comrades.
Cannon shells exploded around the field, killing soldiers, forcing apart testudos, and disrupting the paths of the rhinoceroses. Only one shell managed to graze a siege tower, blasting a hole in the left side and sending the whole structure crumbling to the ground.
“What are you doing? Aim for the towers!” Leo cried at the nearest cannoneer. He received a harsh string of ferish obscenities in answer, then a sharp shove out of the way as a cub dashed in bearing an oiled cloth packed with more black powder.
The towers rolled ever closer, coming within range of the grenadiers. Starfire charges shattered against the steel plates, the white-hot chemicals eating through the metal like acid. When they reached the wall, the testudos unveiled themselves, teams pushing out long, extending ladders even as ferix gunfire cut them down.
Jo tightened the straps of her cestuses. “Kaja! Fall back!”
“No!”
A massive shadow split the gray smoke and a great drawbridge slammed down onto the wall with enough force to dent the ferix steel. Riding atop the bridge as it fell was Gorzog Ironfang himself.
“Sakrattars! Get her out of here!” Jo shouted, bracing for the deluge of soldiers she knew was coming.
“No!” Kaja snapped, a swirling vortex of snowy wind erupting around her. Her draconic magic crackled in the air.
With a victorious roar, Ironfang leapt into combat, swinging his great-axe in wide arcs. Sparks and blood flew as it bit into the ferix soldiers. Close behind him, the black-armored troops of his personal guard charged into battle. More towers dropped their ramps, disgorging hordes, and strings of orcs climbed over on the ladders.
Jo scruffed Kaja’s hood just as she sent a flurry of icicles into an orc’s flank, tossing him from atop one of the ladders. Kaja lurched away, yanking her cloak free, her hood nearly coming off and revealing her horns. An orc grabbed onto Jo from the side, but she spun and broke his jaw with a single punch. Clutching his face, he fell back into the chaos, forgotten.
She couldn’t see Ironfang anymore. She could barely see Kaja and Sakrattars, and that was only from the bursts of light put out by their spells. She couldn’t find Leif, or Dimitri, or Amale. She stumbled and fell, her foot catching on a body underneath her. An orc seized the opportunity and lifted her axe high above the stricken natiuhan. Jo instinctually raised a hand to deflect the blow, but before the orc could strike an Imperial gladius cut through her flesh and emerged out her belly, the dark, warm blood splattering against Jo’s skin. The orc collapsed as Leo reclaimed his sword and Tullius’ strong hand closed around Jo’s arm.
The tide was turning quickly on the ferix. Orcs were leaping onto the walls faster than the ferix reinforcements could meet them. Many of the defenders were backed into tight pockets, surrounded on all sides.
“Fall back! Fall back!” The order rippled down the wall, each sergeant echoing it as loud as they could muster. The able-bodied clustered into tight shield walls, covering the retreat of the wounded and the powder-running cubs.
With the ferix on the move, Jo was able to regain sight of Kaja, who was being swept away by the force of the much-larger bodies swarming around her. Jo pushed her way through and scooped Kaja up in one arm. Tullius, Leo, and Sakrattars rallied around her and joined the rush down the stairs.
*
*
Ironfang suddenly found himself without any living foes within axe range. His orcs surged across the walls, and more were ascending the ladders and siege towers all the time. A deafening blast sounded from a nearby cannon, as the ferix gunners sent another shell screaming into the midst of his army. Ironfang snarled in frustration, pulling his massive bulk onto the parapet with a single leap.
There were six ferix on three guns, with a cub running powder canisters between them. All eyes were on Ironfang in an instant. With a shout, the cub dove off the tower as the six adults drew shields and axes, charging Ironfang as one. Ironfang flexed his arm, sweeping his axe in a powerful arc that sent the ferix flying, either into the fires of the inner courtyard or the waiting mass of frenzied orcs. By the time his personal guards arrived, he stood in the cannon tower alone.
“Get on the guns,” he ordered sharply. The Irkallu may have abandoned him, but they had already taught him all he needed to know. Soon, the cannons were firing again—but this time pointed toward Forgeheart proper. Shells exploded against the forge spires and crowded apartments. Families with young cubs fled from the burning buildings in a panic, only to be confronted with avalanches of rock cascading into the valley.
“Yes! Keep firing!” Ironfang walked to the edge of the tower and raised his axe high. “Tonight, Forgeheart falls!” he shouted victoriously. “Next, we crush Aurea!”
The resulting cheer drowned out the cannonfire.
*
*
Tordom and the other cubs caught the powder runner as she sailed down from the battlements, narrowly avoiding a swing from an enemy axe. “Ironfang’s up there!” the terrified cub cried. “In the cannon tower!” Tordom lifted his gaze and his eyes went wide, his ears lowered. One of the cannons fired but the shot was in the wrong direction.
They were shelling Forgeheart!
“We have to help!” Tordom yelled, turning to the others. After the walls were overrun, the group of cubs tried to retreat and had become trapped between the orcish onslaught and the ferix legion. Burning firepots rained down around them, the explosions frightening the cubs into crates or under carts.
“How?” another cub shouted back.
“I don’t know!” Tordom looked this way and that, then spotted an overturned armory rack. But before he could formulate a plan, a familiar voice called his name.
“Tordom!” Barzom staggered their way, fending off attack after attack. “Get out of here!” he roared, straining under the weight of his greatsword as he cleared a path for the cubs through the melee. His striped white fur was stained dark with blood.
“Dad! You’re hurt!”
“Go now!” It was a tone that Tordom was unused to hearing from his father’s mouth. Fear paralyzed his muscles and tears burned in his eyes. The other cubs looked at Barzom, then at him, as if silently asking him what they should do. Barzom cut another orc down, panting heavily as he hunched over in pain.
Still Tordom watched, immobilized by terror.
*
*
Atop the tower, Ironfang caught sight of a ferix soldier breaking away from the phalanx and heading behind the lines. He squinted, then snarled.
It was the white ferix from the arena!
“That rotten rat,” Ironfang growled. He had only made room for Vyrkad’s pelt in his war-tent but he was willing to squeeze in one more as some redemption for the humiliation he had suffered. Ironfang leapt from the turret, leaving behind his bewildered guard, and tore a rifle from the paws of a dead ferix. He brought the gun level with his eye, sighting along the barrel as he had been shown. . .
*
*
Jo stayed in line with the retreating ferix, keeping her own body in between Kaja and the orcs pressing ever forward. Sakrattars, whether through exhaustion or prudence in the tight quarters, was no longer casting spells and was instead huddled close to Jo’s back. Tullius and Leo were shoulder to shoulder, their large, convex shields blocking the surge of attackers, allowing the much taller ferix behind them to strike killing blows without compromising safety. Above the din, Jo heard a familiar voice.
“Get out of here! Go now!” Then a sharp crack of a rifle, followed by a shrill scream.
Jo turned to the noise to see Barzom slumping to the ground, clutching his chest. At that moment, the ferix shield wall started to disintegrate. With a savage yell, orcs squeezed through the gaps into the courtyard, cutting down anyone they could catch. A trio of them rushed towards Barzom and the group of cubs cowering around him.
“Follow me!” Jo ordered Kaja. She didn’t wait for an answer. She sprinted at the orcs, bullrushing one of them with her shoulder and sending him sprawling. “Run!” she yelled to the cubs, shifting her stance to bring a punch square into another orc’s chest.
“Son. . .” Barzom gasped. “Go. . .”
Tordom knelt down, cradling his father’s head in his lap, tears wetting the fur on his cheeks. The other cubs were hiding under whatever shelter they could find, frozen in place, as Jo fought to defend them. A huge explosion rocked the battlefield as the captured cannons ripped open a breach in the inner wall. Molten metal poured down the ruined rock, glowing ominously in the night.
*
*
Barzom looked into Tordom’s dark eyes, the searing light of the melting walls blinding him. It looked so much like the vision he’d been shown, but Tordom was alive.
Tordom was alive.
Barzom wished the gods were real so he’d have someone to thank.
*
*
“Go!” Barzom growled with as much authority and menace as he could muster. But Tordom’s expression just hardened.
“Cohort!” Tordom cried, standing back up. “Shield wall!”
The cubs responded to the familiar order and rallied to the strong voice of their leader. They pulled shields from the upended armory rack and locked together into a barrier around Tordom and his father. The attackers raked their weapons across the wall, sparks flying. The cubs buckled and strained but held firm, backing slowly as Tordom dragged his father towards an inner gate.
Jo swept the feet out from under an orc, punching him away from the cubs as he fell. “Kaja! Go with Tordom!” she cried.
No response.
“Kaja!” Jo whirled around, panic setting in as she realized that Kaja wasn’t there at all. Unable to wait, the cubs dropped their shields, one of them using her full body to slam the gate shut. Orcs hammered and hacked at it impotently as the cubs, carrying Barzom, vanished into the labyrinth of Forgeheart.
By that time, most of the ferix had retreated to the inner wall, leaving the courtyard a chaotic mass of orc bodies, both living and dead. Jo jumped when she felt a hand on her arm, but it was only Leo.
“Get inside!” he shouted.
“Where’s Kaja?”
“I lost sight of her—”
Jo didn’t wait for Leo to finish his thought before she was tearing back into the courtyard, her whole world still and silent. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she pushed through the battleline and flung herself into the horde. She punched, kicked, bit, and tore, fighting in a rage-fueled frenzy to get back to where she knew Kaja had to be trapped. Leo was still beside her, desperately fighting both the orcs and for her attention. He was yelling something but his words were lost. An orc sword cut down into his shoulder, his expression contorting into a nauseating mix of fear and shock. Seeing this, Jo took a step back as an orc swung at her with his greataxe, overwhelmed by everything all at once.
Then she heard Kaja scream.
Her head whipped around, her heart pounding over what she might find. She never expected to see Kaja, unhurt behind ferix lines, staring straight at her in horror. Next to Kaja was Sakrattars, his eyes wide.
Jo’s breath caught in her throat. She noticed a sea of dark red spilling down her thigh. Not yet comprehending what had happened, she instinctively brought her hand to her side and watched as warm blood gushed around her cestus. Her first thought was how much of a pain it was going to be to clean later; her second was the surreal realization that this was all her blood. Her sight failed as she staggered, and she met the gaze of her opponent. In a display of impressive dexterity and strength, he had halted his swing, shifted his weight, and reversed the course of his greataxe—straight into Jo’s flank.
She had allowed herself to get distracted and had taken her eyes off of her enemy.
It was a foolish mistake.
She collapsed to her knees, the ground and sky spinning around her in a confusing blur clouded by the smoke of the cannons. She was vaguely aware of Kaja breaking free from the ferix line, and of the orc raising his greataxe to deliver another blow. Jo stared at him impassively. She was dying a warrior’s death, a death she could be proud of when Melcuni came to take her soul into the next world. It was a better death than she deserved.
So why, then, did she feel like such a failure?
As she struggled to maintain consciousness, a familiar tattered cloak leapt into the darkened edges of her vision. Kaja cried out in draconic, her clothes billowing as snowflakes whirled around her. The orc adjusted his stance so that he could strike the young girl instead. Jo tried to move, tried to speak, tried to get the orc’s attention back on her, but her body gave out and she crashed helplessly to the ground.
Kaja stared down the orc, positioning herself between him and Jo, dragon magic surging dangerously across her skin. Dodging the axe blow, Kaja lunged forward with a feral snarl and slammed into the orc, icy claws piercing his chest and tearing at his flesh, leaving behind deep frostbitten gashes.
As more enemies closed in around them, Jo saw Kaja crouch over her protectively, a vicious growl that seemed too deep and horrible rumbling in her throat.
Then Jo saw nothing but darkness.
*
*
Ironfang looked down upon the battle in the inner courtyard. The ferix were putting up a terrific struggle, and for a moment, he felt a pang of fear. What if they failed? He had lost hundreds, perhaps thousands of warriors already. It would be a generation or more before he could even think of amassing such a force again.
Then a flash of cold, white light drew his attention. A girl stood crouched over a fallen natiuhan, swiping viciously at anyone who came too close. He recognized her—she was the girl the Irkallu wanted. Gorza never told him why, but it didn’t matter. If he delivered that girl to them, they’d be in his debt forever. Magic, weapons, the power of their so-called god—he’d have it all, and Calthia would fall trembling at his feet.
He called his personal guard and three steel-masked faces turned attentively toward him.
“Bring her to me.”
*
*
White dragons, though the smallest among dragonkind, are commonly considered the most ferocious. Other dragons may be reasoned with, but the white will often ignore rationality in favor of its most bestial instincts.
An excerpt from a book he had read long ago came to Sakrattars’ mind as he raced back through the inner walls of Forgeheart. He knew it was absurd, to be thinking of a book passage as blood spilled and people died, as the acrid black smoke from gunpowder caught in his lungs and a carpet of bodies threatened to trip him—a fall he may never rise from. Jo was down, likely dead, and he had lost all track of anyone else he recognized.
Then there was Kaja.
An oppressive wave crashed into him from behind, crushing him under the unique terror of dragonfear. And he wasn’t the only one who felt it. Orcs and ferix alike reeled in anxious confusion, eyes scanning the sky, as cries of “dragon! They have a dragon!” rang out across the battlefield. Though it was impossible, many claimed to have seen the creature and with the smoke as thick and visibility as poor as it was, everyone else began to believe it. Panic spread faster than the fires, fueled by the discovery of bodies with jagged, frostbitten wounds, their eyes stuck in wide-open fear of the one who brought about their demise.
Sakrattars’ thoughts went back to the book passage, a lump forming in the pit of his stomach.
Even among their brethren, white dragons are truly monsters.
Just then, he spotted Leif and Amale providing cover for the ferix as they fell back behind the inner wall. Amale fired arrows over Leif’s shoulder, who braced against return fire with his ram’s head shield. Sakrattars had never been so glad to see anyone in his entire life.
“Where’s Jo and Kaja?” Leif asked, voice booming over the combat. A cannon fired again, making Sakrattars’ ears ring and his thoughts scramble.
“Kaja’s back there,” he panted, gesturing weakly. “Jo is, Jo is—” he frowned, the words catching in his throat. But Leif and Amale understood.
“And you left Kaja alone?” Leif exclaimed reproachfully. “You two cover the retreat. I’ll get Kaja.”
Sakrattars swallowed back the tinge of guilt he felt at the rebuke. “Leif, she’s—”
But Leif wasn’t listening. “I’ll handle it!” he called over his shoulder.
Amale reached out and held Sakrattars’ arm. “I’m going too,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “I can help her.” Sakrattars wanted to scream. He felt like he was going to unravel, ludicrous ideas of running into the mountains and taking his chances in the wilderness racing through his mind. How could Amale be so calm?
Then he felt a tremble in the paw gripping his arm. Amale’s dark eyes were wide, his tail tucked. He wasn’t calm at all, he just knew what needed to be done. That’s all they had left. Sakrattars took a deep breath and nodded. “Let’s go,” he said.
*
*
There were only a few times in Ironfang’s life where he was unable to believe what he was seeing.
This was one of those times.
Of the three guards he had sent after the girl, two were already dead. One had taken a blast of icy magic to the face, his throat freezing solid. The girl hadn’t even paused her attack when she leapt upon the second guard, sinking her teeth into his flesh and tearing out his windpipe. The third nearly lost his hand on a blade of razor-sharp ice and had fled from the girl, orders be damned.
Ironfang tightened his grip on his axe and jumped off the battlements, landing hard in the bloody mud below. Soldiers parted before him, unwilling to face their leader in such a wrathful mood. “Useless cowards!” he snarled. “Out of the way, I’ll take care of her myself.”
*
*
Leif felt Kaja’s presence before he saw her. His chest constricted and breathing quickened. It was a sensation he had felt twice before: once with Bhorovane and once long ago, on the isle of Stielheim in the northern sea. He imagined it was how the snow hare must feel when the wolf is nearly upon it. The crowd scattered, the smoke curled away in the wind, and there she was.
She was crouched low, on all fours like an animal, her long limbs and lithe form eerily suited to the unnatural posture. The hood of her cloak was down around her neck, revealing her horns, and long, white hair splattered with blood. Her tail, normally hidden beneath her dress skirts, lashed through the air, the spiny fins flared menacingly. She lunged at a nearby orc and struck him with her hand, the resulting gouges in his armor and flesh much too large to have come from such a small girl.
Leif understood why so many had claimed to have seen a dragon. When the firelight reflected off the smoke just right, Leif swore he could see the ghostly form of a dragon towering over Kaja, mirroring her savage movements.
Long buried memories of huddling in a pantry with his brother and sisters came to the surface for the first time in many years. He remembered it in great detail: the searing chill colder than the worst Stjornugaardian winter, his mother’s cry, the dragon’s roar, the screams of the huscarls as they died by frost, claw, and tooth. As long as he lived, Leif would never forget the moment he met the ancient white dragon’s gaze and felt the full force of her icy malevolence.
He willed himself to act but didn’t know what he should do. How would he even begin handling Kaja in the state she was in? Desperate for a sign, a cue, anything, Leif rapidly scanned the area, his attention settling on the disturbingly still form of Jo. She was face down, covered in dirt and blood, a sickening dark pool spreading into the ground beneath her. Leif couldn’t fathom a way she was alive, but still he found his legs moving forward. This was something he could do, something that didn’t involve pulling Kaja off of the unfortunate orcs in her path.
Kneeling down next to Jo, Leif caught a glimpse of her injuries up close and nearly gagged. But just when he was about to accept that she was dead, he thought he saw her finger twitch. He knew that sometimes the dead moved but he needed to know for sure. He held the dull end of Oxhiminn up to Jo’s lips and a weak breath misted the metal surface.
She was alive!
Leif rose to his feet. If he could show Kaja, then maybe she’d calm down, maybe she could help him move Jo to safety. “Kaja!” he called out, his voice hoarse. “Kaja!”
But Kaja had already seen him and, when their eyes met, Leif knew there would be no reasoning with her. He stood in paralyzed terror as Kaja bounded towards him, lunging into the air with a guttural snarl. It was difficult to believe that this was the same shy girl who hid behind Jo’s leg, who peeked over Sakrattars’ shoulder when he was trying to read, who helped Amale make wild daisy tea every morning. Leif thought of how she liked to watch quietly as he cleaned Oxhiminn, thrumming and kicking her feet idly as he showed her the proper way to oil the metal.
She barreled into him, knocking the wind out of his chest and throwing them both down into the blood-stained grass. He stared into her eyes: the pupils narrowed into feral slits, the deep blue glittering dangerously in the flashes of cannonfire.
He knew those eyes—they were the eyes of a dragon.
They were the eyes of a monster.