Collin felt he ought to have been wearing a different skin, because his presence had so thoroughly transformed in light of seeing what he could do. It didn’t feel right that monsters as powerful as him could wear the body of a man. Even King Galukar seemed rather intimidated.
Even his bloody father, and that was a first if anything was.
“Finished destroying my bloody city?” The Governor asked, glaring at Shaiagrazni, masking the fear well enough that it would probably have taken his own son to peer through it. If the caster was bothered, or even noticed the anger, he gave no hint.
“If I wanted to destroy your city, I assure you, there are far easier ways for me to go about doing so. I have finished destroying your enemies, and have made a start on preparing yet more grotesqueries- that is to say, monsters, to aid in further violence. I have five now, all fully repaired and patrolling around the military districts. I thought it wise to give your men some exposure to them before combat began, given the inevitable novelty of fighting alongside such things.”
Collin’s father considered that. If there was one thing, and one thing only, that could always be entrusted to smooth away his foul temper, it was being presented a good idea.
“That is wise.” He said after a pause. “But we have other issues to concern ourselves with than morale. Venka is coming, my scouts claim he’s been delayed, something about a prisoner escape- details are scarce, but that won’t last him long.
We have a day, at best. And if we have more than that it’ll be because he’s decided to take a few detours and link up with even more of the local forces. His army will already be with him by now, which means we’re staring down somewhere north of one hundred thousand orcs, undead and casters. This city’s walls were never built to hold that number back.”
“They can be rebuilt.” Shaiagrazni noted. “It would mean cutting down on the number of grotesqueries available, but I could accomplish several things with the saved biomass. Defensive weapons, reinforcements to the walls, among other things.”
“More useful than your monsters?” Collin asked. Shaiagrazni eyed him in the way a man might a child who had just urinated upon his boots.
“Situationally, yes. I would not suggest them otherwise.”
Collin’s face flushed, and he let the room’s attention move to King Galukar as he spoke.
“If there is to be no dissuading you from using these abominations,” He grunted, “Then…We may as well do so well. I imagine that even now General Venka could be delayed on the roads, given our resources. We have the advantage of Heroes, and near-Heroes, and a great knowledge of the land to boot. A small group consisting of our strongest could cause a great inconvenience for his marching armies, then disappear far faster than a mass of men the size of Venka’s can follow.”
Guerilla warfare, he was describing. More or less. It was essentially the modus operandi of Kaltan’s armed forces, and had been since before Collin was old enough to even consider joining them. One did not fight the Dark Lord directly.
“Could you send undead to aid this?” The Governor asked, thoughtful now. Silenos Shaiagrazni’s face twitched with irritation.
“I can send my apprentice.” He replied, making the younger man twitch uneasily. “And I can perhaps make a few undead more specialised in mobility and subtler attacks.”
Collin’s father thought it through.
“You’d be volunteering to help, Galukar?”
“Of course.” The King replied, not remarking upon the lack of mention for his title.
“Then it could work, with a few Rangers to make sure you can all find your feet in the terrain.” The Governor nodded, settled in the matter. “Alright, we’ll see how much time we can buy.”
“We.” Silenos Shaiagrazni echoed, sounding neither amused, not derisive. A silence followed his words, which Collin hastily filled.
“I want to help.” He blurted out, glancing across the wider room, but mostly keeping his gaze on the Governor. “Let me go with them father, you know I’m good for it. You-”
“No.” Finlay Baird replied, speaking as if he’d just given the order to see a man court-martialed. “Out of the question.”
Collin’s temper frayed.
“You know full fucking well I’m the hardest bastard you have.” He growled, feeling his accent slip, feeling his long lessons on hiding it fade. “And I can scout rings around any of your Rangers, what reason could you possibly have not to-”
“Because you’re my fucking son.” His father interrupted. His father, not his commander. Glaring at him not with the icy cold of command, but the molten heat of family. Collin would rather have had the former. Easier to resist by far. “You’re my son.” His father continued, strained. “And I’ve only just gotten you back.”
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
There was no arguing with that, not in any way that wouldn’t make him a complete bastard.
It was fortunate, then, that Shaiagrazni was present.
“That is an utterly inane excuse.” The caster noted, seeming oblivious to the maelstrom of fury spasming its way across the Governor’s face. “If we do not succeed in defending this city your son’s lifespan will be measured in days regardless. You are being laughably irrational.”
All at once the room went quiet. Collin had only ever seen such a thing happen once. It had been a few years ago, spanning a scarce few moments between his father hearing some derisive remark about his mother and breaking a champagne bottle across the offending party’s face. There were no bottles within reach now, though. Only edged steel.
“And what benefit do I gain by risking those last few days of his life?” Collin’s father asked. He had not headbutted the caster, which was a good sign, but there was still an air of hungry violence around them. Silenos Shaiagrazni marched through it as if it were a pleasant misting of rain.
“For one thing, a trusted leader to bolster cohesion between your men and my undead.” He explained. “The battle today was not a disaster, but it might have been. Your soldiers spent more time scrambling away from my creations than aiding them.”
Collin rather thought he’d barely been better, but decided to hold his tongue about the fact.
“And you think this will make a difference?” His father asked, wavering. Shaiagrazni met his eye.
“Do I need to tell you why having your men make proper use of the kinds of creatures I can make would grant them an advantage? Treat my undead as an equivalent to siege towers or trebuchets if it will put things into perspective. Such things tend to have an effect on men”
Clearly, this Shaiagrazni had never seen just how orcs differed from normal soldiers in their response to danger. The decision was still not long in being made after he spoke however. Collin’s father nodded.
“Fine.” He hissed, sounding about as happy about his own decision as Collin had been about his last one. “But you keep my son alive, alright? You keep my fucking son alive, or we’re done.”
Collin felt a flush of shame as Shaiagrazni nodded, and the caster was leaving soon. Their meeting didn’t take long to break up after that. He didn’t say his goodbyes to the Governor, finding himself in no mood. All Collin wanted was to prepare himself.
He headed to his quarters, packing food, donning armour. Testing the steel-threaded string of his steel-limbed bow. It was tense enough that a normal man might have taken his fingers off in the effort of drawing it, and that pierced Collin’s foul mood with a smile.
Soon enough, that string would be putting bolts through skulls. He’d need to take a few hours for practice before leaving. Wouldn’t want to waste the iron.
----------------------------------------
Swick really wasn’t sure what had possessed him to throw the rock, he’d just sort of done it. An instinct, a reflex. A deeply ingrained, mindless urge to leave himself some means of escape. His blood would serve as a marker for a good few hours, depending on weather, and the few drops he’d sprinkled along the stone had been more than enough. His throw had even been excessive for the distance.
A quarter mile was Swick’s limit, on a good day. It hadn’t been a good day and he’d gotten maybe three quarters that distance, even at the expense of dropping to his knees in a sweating heap. A thousand foot head start was nothing to scoff at, however. Nor was a camp full of rabid orcs led by the angriest man this side of the continent. He’d gotten running.
His hands were still bound, and still bound thickly. A warrior might have broken free. King Galukar, he had no doubt, would be past holding with such restraints, but Swick would have to get clever. And first he’d have to get far from the damned orcs.
Ensharia wasn’t, he knew. His first thought had been to free her, but Swick had chosen not to. Doing so would only have made her a threat, quite possibly made her a dead woman. That wasn’t why he’d made his decision however.
The sword was heavy in his hands, threatening his balance with every stride, and reminding him of his failure. Swick could surely have carved her free of her bonds with it, if he’d chosen. He hadn’t.
Better to leave her bound and imprisoned than himself a mere two hundred yards from danger instead of four hundred. He felt his headache re-emerge.
Swick slipped on something, shifting ground. He cursed. The land here was only half-transformed by the Dark Lord’s touch, not held and frequented by enough undead that it had fully degraded into ashen deserts. There was enough vegetation to leave the terrain uncertain beneath him, and he found his feet an unreliable pair of allies.
He scaled a dune, reached the top and tripped, falling, rolling, landing in a heap at the bottom. It didn’t hurt, half-caster or not very few falls could hurt a Hero, but it scraped his pride well enough.
Of course, Ensharia might well be killed anyway. Her death had been ordered, he knew, and the General Venka was certainly not a man to hesitate before ending a person. Swick wasn’t sure though. His escape had made him an active enemy, and one who the General couldn’t be sure hadn’t conspired with the Paladin. With a bit of luck, he’d want to keep her around and alive for questioning.
With a bit of luck. Luck was in such short supply these days. Unless one happened to be Swick the Swift, of course.
He scampered along a lengthy patch of land, then pounced behind the shadow of one taller mound as he heard scraping footsteps behind him. Swick cursed his haste, climbing to a grunting stand and continuing. Orcs moved in many ways, but scraping was not among them. If he heard lumbering or crushing movement, he knew he’d be in real trouble.
In real trouble. That wouldn’t be a first, precious things were for Swick. He’d been in real trouble at Grimsquoi, at real trouble in the Snarling Forest. He’d been in real trouble when that curmudgeonly old fuck Walriq had almost snatched his ship clean out of the skies after he stole his staff. And, of course, Swick had been in real trouble when he’d flown that same ship into the side of the Flying Fortress.
Real trouble, it seemed, was something that followed Swick, but killed only those around him. He supposed that was to be expected of a man who habitually threw them into its path.
Lumbering movement, sharp in his ears, ferocious in pursuit. Swick knew that if the orcs were close enough for him to hear, he was close enough for them to smell. With luck he’d be faster.
Was it his fault his men were dead, Ensharia still bound? Perhaps. Did he regret it?
There was the real question. Did he regret it?
No, he didn’t. Swick risked a glance over his shoulder, and found a pair of towering orcs glaring down at him from on high. They were perched atop a dune, peering at him from some two hundred yards back. Gained, or gaining? He had no easy way of finding out.
Swick turned back and hastened his flight.