Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 (14 page)

D
iran was already seated at their table when Ghaji returned to the common room of the King Prawn. Tresslar and Hinto sat with him, watching Yvka perform a juggling routine for the crowd. The half-orc warrior was still brooding over his less-than-tender reunion with Chagai, but the sight of the elf-woman tossing small wooden balls through the air with almost preternatural grace caused him to smile. It had been far too long since he had seen her perform, and he was glad that he hadn’t missed it. He moved through the crowd, took the empty seat next to Diran, and waved for a mug of ale. While he waited for his drink to arrive, he concentrated on Yvka.

She was performing a routine that he’d seen before but which he still found fascinating. She appeared to be juggling—he did a quick count—fourteen balls, but as she threw them, they began to disappear one by one, until only two remained. Then the reverse happened: balls began to reappear one by one until once again all fourteen were circling through the air. On more than one occasion, Ghaji had asked her how she did it, but
Ykva would only grin and say, “Magic.” Ghaji supposed that was always a possibility, but he had the feeling she was teasing him. He watched her closely now, determined to figure out how she performed the illusion through concentrated observation. Of course, the fact that she was incredibly beautiful might have had more than a little to do with his intense scrutiny as well.

A serving girl brought his ale, he took a deep draught, then he fixed his attention on one specific ball. If he could just keep his gaze on that one and follow it the entire time, he might able to finally figure this trick out.

Despite his best efforts, and without his even realizing it was happening, his thoughts began to drift back across the years, to a small farm in the Eldeen Reaches …

Four orcs crouched in the grass at the edge of the valley. Well, three orcs and one half-orc. The orcs kept their distance from their half-brother whenever possible, keeping a minimum of two feet from him at all times, as if they believed he were tainted and unclean and his foulness might contaminate them if they got too close. Ghaji acted as if their aversion to his physical proximity didn’t bother him, as if he accepted it as only right and proper, but inside he hated it—hated it like poison.

The moons were out tonight and the sky was nearly cloudless. To orc eyes that meant the valley was lit almost as bright as if it were a sunny day. Nestled within the small valley was a humble cottage of stone, wood, and thatch. The cottage was dark, save for the warm glow of lamplight filtering through the shutters of a single window. The land around the cottage had been cleared, and a well-worn trail wound from the cottage’s front door, up and out of the valley. The trail was on the opposite side of the valley from where the orcs crouched. They were proud
warriors and strong, but they weren’t foolish enough to remain in plain sight while they were hunting. There was no trail here, but there were plenty of trees—oak and elm, mostly—and more than enough brush to provide cover. Despite the lateness of the hour, birds sang, and Ghaji found their mindless joy distracting and irritating. He chuffed air through his lips to frighten the foolish creatures into silence, but as soon as the sound came out of his mouth, he saw a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye and fiery pain erupted on the side of his head.

He turned to see Chagai glaring at him, teeth bared in fury. Ghaji’s face stung from where Chagai’s claws had raked the flesh, and he could feel blood trickling from the wounds. Though the scratches were deep and hurt like blazes, Ghaji was determined not to display any signs of discomfort. A
real
orc would scarcely feel the pain, let alone react to it.

The other two orcs—a female named Eggera and a male named Murtt, the latter of whom Ghaji had known since childhood—snuffled silent laughter. Ghaji was an adult by orc standards, if only barely, and he knew better than to make noise during a hunt. He really did, but he had allowed his excitement to get the better of him, and he’d forgotten himself. No doubt the others were thinking that the stupid half-blood had fouled up again, and were once more questioning why they allowed him to hunt with them—Chagai especially. While the four of them were currently in the employ of the bandit lord Medard the Strong, Chagai was the leader of their group, and Ghaji was permitted to fight with them only as long as Chagai allowed it. If he made too many mistakes Chagai would banish him without a second thought, and while Ghaji could always find work fighting alongside human mercenaries, he’d worked long and hard to get the chance to serve with full-blooded orcs. He was determined to stay with them no matter what it took, until they finally accepted him as one of their own.

Ghaji remembered something Chagai had said on another occasion when he’d made a mistake.

Too bad your father didn’t have the good sense not to rape an orc—or at least know enough to use a charm to keep from getting the stupid sow pregnant!

Ghaji was grateful that all Chagai had done was strike him this time. Orc claws hurt far less than orc words.

Ghaji cast his gaze to the ground and nodded to Chagai in apology and obeisance. He kept his gaze lowered and waited to see if Chagai were going to hit him again, for the orc commander was well within his rights to do so, but Chagai let out a snort that was scarcely quieter than Ghaji’s earlier chuff and then turned away. The message was clear: Ghaji wasn’t worth dirtying Chagai’s claws any further. Ghaji waited a few moments more, just to be sure, before raising his head.

The orcs were waiting for the lamplight in the cottage to be extinguished and the occupants to settle in for the night. Such stealth wasn’t strictly necessary, of course. There were four of them, after all, and the man they had come to kill was only a simple wood-wright and not a warrior. Still, he was a shifter, and orcs respected the strength his kind were capable of summoning when need be, so they would try to gain every advantage they could before approaching the cottage. The wood-wright and his family would eventually go to sleep, then the orcs could take them by surprise. It wouldn’t be as much fun—or gain them as much honor—as a direct assault, but then Medard was paying them for results, not for them to increase their honor.

The lamplight went out.

They waited an hour longer, telling time by the movements of the stars and moons, and then Chagai signaled for them to stand and follow him. Together, the three orcs and one half-blood drew their weapons and silently loped down into the valley toward the wood-wright’s cottage. Ghaji wore a simple leather
armor vest for protection and carried a hand axe, both of which he’d retrieved from the first soldier he’d ever killed, back before joining Chagai’s group. Murtt and Eggera wore mail armor and helmets and carried broadswords which, with their strength, they could wield one-handed. Ghaji was stronger than a human, but not strong enough to wield a broadsword one-handed for very long. Chagai, as their leader, possessed the best equipment. His broadsword was of higher quality than the others, forged of finer steel and made with more skilled craftsmanship. His polished helm was adorned with two metal horns that jutted forward and which the orc commander could use as stabbing weapons if he wished. Best of all was the new breastplate he wore. Its shiny surface was smooth and unscratched, and Medard had given it to Chagai as a bonus for the numerous raids they’d conducted on supply caravans last month. Ghaji thought the breastplate looked magnificent, and he wondered what it would feel like to wear such a fine thing.

As they ran across the grass-covered ground, muscles moving in fluid harmony and hearts pounding in excitement, Ghaji felt as if he inhabited a timeless moment of perfection. The cool night air rushing past him, the moons and stars above, fellow orcs running by his side … well, running several steps ahead of him, as was only proper, but still, running
together
, at least … he didn’t think anything could be better. If he were to die this night, he would die happy.

The odds of any of them dying tonight seemed slim indeed, though. Ruelo was a wood-wright, one known, among other things, for his ability to mystically craft arrows whose shafts were nigh unbreakable, and which flew faster and farther than ordinary arrows could. Medard had once purchased vast quantities of arrows from Ruelo, but the wood-wright claimed to have grown sick of the seemingly endless War, sick of using his skills to create instruments of death, and had sworn to
never make another weapon of any sort ever again. Medard, however, believed that Ruelo was simply making an excuse, that the shifter had gotten a better deal with another of the bandit lords that harried the Eldeen Reaches. As far as Medard was concerned, if he couldn’t have Ruelo’s arrows, then no one could.

As the orcs drew near the cottage, Chagai motioned to Murtt and Eggera to head around the back. They veered away. When Ghaji had been younger, he would’ve thought it a mark of honor that their leader wished him to remain by his side. Now he knew it was because Chagai felt Ghaji needed watching. When they reached the cottage, Chagai—barely slowing—slammed his shoulder into the door, causing it to burst open in a shower of splintered wood. Chagai rushed inside and Ghaji followed, the thunder of his pulse sounding a bloodsong in his ears. The hunt was finished, and it was time for the killing to begin.

The one-room cottage was empty, save for simple wooden furniture—dining table and chairs, a long bench and several stools arranged in front of a cold hearth. A wooden ladder led to a sleeping loft just below the thatched ceiling. Atop the dining table was an everbright lantern that only a short time ago had been warming the cottage with its glow, along with a scattering of materials used in the wood-wright’s art: narrow wooden shafts, feathers for fletching, metal arrowheads. Ghaji grinned. It appeared that Medard’s suspicions about the shifter were correct after all.

Chagai rushed toward the ladder, and Ghaji followed, eager to wet his axe-blade in shifter blood, but before they could take more than a few steps, a male shifter wearing only a breech cloth stood up behind the loft’s wooden railing. The shifter’s fur was tinged with gray, but his muscles were still lean and strong. His full bestial aspect was upon him—face hirsute, features animalistic, fangs bared. The shifter held a bow with an arrow nocked,
and his eyes blazed with fury as he lifted the weapon and aimed the shaft at Chagai’s heart.

Ghaji didn’t think. He hurled his axe at the shifter. The weapon flew upward, tumbling end over end, and the blade buried itself with a hollow thunk in the man’s forehead. The shifter’s eyes widened in surprise and he released his grip on the arrow. The shaft, regardless of any mystical properties it might have possessed, flew wild, missing Chagai entirely. Blood poured down the shifter’s face, spattered onto his chest, but the wood-wright remained standing long enough to fix Ghaji with an accusing stare before the man’s gaze dimmed and he pitched forward over the railing to fall with a dull thud on the dirt floor below.

Ghaji turned to Chagai, hoping to hear appreciation for the well-thrown strike that might very well have saved the orc leader’s life, but a crash came from the roof of the cottage then, immediately followed by screams of terror. Ghaji knew what had happened: Murtt and Eggera had climbed onto the roof, torn through the thatch, and forced their way into the loft. Now they had begun their slaughter of the wood-wright’s family.

Chagai leaped over the wood-wright’s body, and rushed to the ladder, eager to join in the killing above. Ghaji hesitated only a second before following after Chagai. The walls of the loft were drenched with blood, as were Eggera and Murtt. They were practically covered from head to toe, as if they’d been bathing in gore. Chagai stood over the body of a female shifter lying on the loft’s floor, her body nearly cut in two by his broadsword. Chagai’s chest heaved with excitement, and his eyes were wild, those of a predator intoxicated by the thrill of bringing down its prey. There were four pallets in the loft, two of them small. Murtt and Eggera each stood over one of the small pallets, their swords slick with blood. Lying below them on the crimson-soaked bedding were the hacked-up remains of what had once
been two shifter children, their bodies so mutilated that Ghaji couldn’t even begin to guess their gender.

The female shifter—the children’s mother, Ghaji supposed—lifted a trembling hand in the direction of her children, as if she still hoped to do something, anything to save them, or perhaps simply wanted to offer one last bit of motherly comfort to their departing souls. Chagai noted the movement and with a swift motion thrust his sword blade into the back of the woman’s head. She shuddered once and then fell still.

Chagai then turned to Ghaji and gave him a wide grin. “Good sport tonight, eh?”

Ghaji knew the camaraderie in the orc leader’s tone was meant as both a compliment and a thank-you for his slaying of the wood-wright. Chagai was, for the very first time, treating Ghaji as if he were an equal. It was what Ghaji had wanted so long and worked so hard for, so why didn’t it mean anything to him now?