Rise of the Blood Masters (Book 5) (16 page)

Skera-Kina raised a glowing hand and cried out, “
Incêndio!”
  The fire twirled and spun, sucking up air into its inferno.  Her dark eyes watched the fire flicker and grow. The flames surged up toward the Elder Willow.

A burning limb broke off and fell to the ground near her feet. The willow became completely engulfed. The fire spread, and soon the entire grove was ablaze, hot sparks flying everywhere.

The fire licked toward Chua’s lifeless body and the flames consumed the body of the spellcaster. As his flesh burned, a black bird with a brilliant red crest landed in a tree nearby. It screeched, calling out to its mistress.

“Come to me!” Skera-Kina ordered, reaching out her arm. The huge raven flew from its perch and landed on her shoulder.

“
The eyes! The eyes!”
it cawed.

Skera-Kina shook her head. “Sorry, my dearest. Not this time. I couldn’t save the eyes for you. This poor wretch didn’t have any!” She laughed, and the bird seemed to laugh, too.

Pleased with her handiwork, the assassin turned and left.

Preparing for War

              King Hergung’s funeral procession was promptly canceled, and all the mourners filed back inside Mount Velik. Sela and Elias, the two visiting dragon riders from Parthos, followed the line of mourners through the iron gates and back into the caverns.

              Their dragons, Nydeired and Brinsop, stayed outside the mountain, taking to the sky to patrol the area. Twelve dwarf guardsmen were posted outside the gates, and more were added the following day.

              As soon as word spread that the orcs were coming, all the visitors started packing. Everyone knew that the orcs would have no qualms about slaughtering them all, even in the midst of their king’s funeral. A group of dwarves, all draped in heavy cloaks, took Hergung’s body off the ornate litter and carried it back up to his former chambers.

The council decided to bury Hergung without fanfare the following morning. All the visiting dignitaries were politely asked to leave--not that they needed any convincing. They left in fear, scrambling to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the orc horde.

Word spread throughout the mountain. Rumors grew. The clans were upset. After all the turmoil they had suffered the last few years, why should they have to go through this now?

Sela and Elias requested a meeting of the dwarf council, and the high families were summoned. This time, no one argued.

Now that King Hergung was dead, the highest ranking clan leader, Bolrakei, sat at the head of the table. Her face was drawn and had deep lines from lack of sleep. Skemtun sat to her right, with his ever-present bodyguard, Kathir, standing behind his chair. Bolrakei’s advisors gathered behind her.

The chairs on Bolrakei’s immediate left were for guests, the two dragon riders. Sela and Elias stepped forward and sat down. The remainder of the council, highborn dwarves from influential families, took their seats. The room was packed. One dwarf tapped the table, keeping an inconsistent beat. Another fidgeted with his garments. Everyone was nervous, and no one knew what to say.

Skemtun leaned back and crossed his fingers over his belly. He motioned and said, “Mistress Sela, please speak.”

Sela stood up and cleared her throat. “Thank you, Councilmember. Thank you for allowing me to address the council today and provide an update on the situation with the orcs. This is what we know for sure: the greenskins are on the march. They’re traveling on foot, but they also have mounted cavalry on drask. The horde is enormous; much larger than I anticipated. The fate of your race now rests in the balance.”

“How many orcs are there?” asked Skemtun.

“Their numbers have swelled in recent years. In fact, I’ve never seen an orc horde this large. There are many thousands, but we don’t have an accurate count yet.” An alarmed murmur rose around the table.

One of the other councilmembers raised his hand. His face was very young, with just a hint of whiskers poking through his chin. “Excuse me? What is a
drask?
Is that some sort of animal?”

Sela turned her head slightly, as if thinking about what to say. “Drask are a cross between a dragon and a common lizard. The orcs train them like horses and value them very highly. A drask’s bite is deadly. Their saliva is so toxic that the orcs dip their arrows in it. The orcs are a mortal race, and they have no mageborns among them, so no one knows for sure how the orcs were able to create and breed such a ghastly creature to begin with.”

Bolrakei shivered. She was afraid of orcs, but even more afraid of their
drask.
“How—how many drask are there?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“A least a thousand; but probably more. When we passed over the horde, I saw them moving in a solid block at the front.”

Bolrakei gulped. The orcs brought their drask to Mount Velik during the last Orc War, and Bolrakei remembered seeing the fearful lizards pounce on a dwarf soldier, covering him with bites. Even though the bite wounds were shallow, the soldier died an agonizing death. The toxin in the lizard’s bite was so poisonous that even the best healers weren’t able to save him. The poor man’s screams of pain had haunted her for years afterwards.

Skemtun said, “Since the elves hate the orcs so much, why haven’t they offered to help us? Don’t they know that the orcs are coming here to destroy us?”

Sela’s mouth twisted. “The elf queen is aware of what’s happening, that much is certain. But you cannot depend on the elves. They help us only when they feel like it, and there’s no reason to believe they’ll come to your rescue. Your clans are on their own.”

“What made the orcs decide to attack us now? Why, now, of all times? Why now?” an older woman with jet black hair asked, her hands tearing through her hair.

“If I was your enemy,” she said slowly but firmly, “I would certainly attack you now.  Your clans are fragmented and your king is dead. The orcs knew about the funeral, as well as your civil war with the Vardmiters.  You never made any attempt to keep it quiet. Your kingdom’s vulnerabilities were broadcast for everyone to know.”

The dark-haired woman started sobbing. "We should have kept Hergung’s death a secret. We should have drawn together, instead of making such a big fuss!"

Bolrakei gave the woman a hard stare. “Be quiet, Amara. Stop your blubbering. It's embarrassing.” Then she turned to Sela with a hopeful look. “What if the orcs decide to attack the Vardmiters first? That would give us extra time to prepare.”

“Given the military weakness of the Vardmiters, such an attack would be successful, but it’s unlikely,” Sela said. “The Highport Mountains are not an attractive target for the greenskins. Highport is a tangled maze of massive, unfinished caves. It’s too cold. It’s likely that Nar scouted the location before the Vardmiters occupied it and decided that it was unsuitable for his needs.”

“Are you sure?” asked Bolrakei, a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Yes. The orcs are moving steadily through the Trautt Plains in this direction. They’ve never shown any interest in the Highport caves. They want
this
mountain.”

“We were just beginning to recover from the ordeal with the Vardmiters,” said Bolrakei. “We aren’t in any shape to fight the orcs.”

The dwarves slouched in their chairs. They looked defeated.

Elias finally spoke. As a healer, he was dressed entirely in white robes, and his face was shaved clean. “You have no choice but to fight,” he said quietly. “I’ve watched the horde’s movement.  The countryside is in ruins. The orcs are destroying everything in their path. They are monsters. You cannot negotiate with them. If you wish to survive, then you must fight.”

Bolrakei wrung her hands. "But how can we possibly defend ourselves against such huge numbers? You say there are thousands of them. Thousands! How can we defeat them, especially with our own numbers so low? We don’t have enough men!”

“You must remain calm. You’ve beaten them before.” Sela’s expression was stern, a rock in the sea of desperate faces. “The last Orc War wasn’t so long ago. Many of you remember it.”

A grizzled old dwarf snorted from the corner of the room. He had a tiny claw hammer hanging from a chain around his neck. “Sure! I remember it! Last time the orcs attacked, we barely survived! We had an army, a healthy king, an’ the help of the elves. How can we hope to fight against ‘em now?”

More frightened muttering rippled through the group.

Sela waited until the dwarves quieted down before she continued. “Look, I suggest that you stop worrying and begin doing something useful. Every able-bodied man should be given a sword and sent to military practice. You have plenty of weapons in your armory, so that’s a mark in your favor. Your soldiers can make camp outside the mountain and begin training in earnest tomorrow morning. Your spellcasters should prepare healing potions. Elias is very skilled at this, so he will help you. The women should begin stockpiling food. It’s likely that there will be a long siege. Everyone must work together.”

“How much time do we have to prepare?” Bolrakei asked quietly. Her expression was oddly calm, as if the truth of their situation was finally sinking in.

              “A few weeks. Perhaps a month, but not more than that,” Sela said. “Orcs run fast and sleep little. They destroy the countryside as they move, so they never stay in one place for more than a single day. I was able to warn the villagers in time to evacuate, but most people didn’t have time to grab anything other than a few belongings. There’s a sea of devastation behind horde, as there always is.  They’ll just keep moving—they won’t stop until they get here. Based on their current progress, the greenskins will be here by the next full moon.”

Sela withdrew a scroll from a fold in her cloak and unrolled it on the tabletop. It was an intricate map of the surrounding area. She pointed at the top of the map. “Each square you see is fifty leagues. A drask can cover forty leagues in a single day. Once they cross the Orvasse, the drask will be here within two days, assuming they move ahead of the rest. The infantry will take another week to arrive.”

Skemtun pointed at the map. “They have to cross the river. Why don’t we destroy the bridge near Ironport? Will that stop them?”

“No. Destroying bridges has never stopped them before. Orcs are skilled raft builders. They’ll strip the surrounding forest and create huge rafts to carry their army across the river. Destroying the bridge will delay them for only a few days, and it will make it harder for any support troops to cross.”

              “Spread the word,” Skemtun ordered. “Notify all the clans. We must set aside funds and supplies. Preparations shall begin tonight.”

Everyone on the council nodded their agreement.

Skemtun stepped out of the meeting in time to watch messengers race out to all the highborn families. Their news was simple: prepare for war. This time, there were no complaints, no objections. The dwarves rushed to work.

King Hergung’s body was laid to rest the following morning. Mourners formed a line to view the body, scuttling past, throwing flowers or muttering a quick prayer. The eulogies were hurried and somewhat insincere.

Although tears were shed, there was no feast after the ceremony. After that, siege preparations began in earnest. All the incense pots were snuffed out, and oil-saving torches were placed along the corridors.

Soldiers dragged vats of oil up to the walls above the gate. Women collected firewood and built the fires that would keep the oil boiling hot. They stocked the lookout tower with provisions and manned it with guards.

Water was not a concern, at least. A deep spring flowed through the mountain, supplying the dwarves with all the water they needed. But food stores were limited, as they had been for years. Women went out into the surrounding forest, searching outside the mountain for tubers, acorns; anything that was edible and could be stored. Food that had been prepared for the king’s funeral was set aside and preserved. The magnificent funeral oxen were slaughtered, but instead of preparing the meat for a feast, the beef was sliced into strips, dried, and stored.

While the men trained to fight, the women worked to prepare everything else. They gathered food, cut firewood, and tended the goatherds. Children made bandages and worked in small groups to organize the supplies. They ran errands and helped any way they could.

Soldiers prepared trenches around the gates, and the men started training. Years of peace had made the dwarf troops complacent and lazy, but that changed quickly when the clans nominated a grizzled old captain named Baltas to take over the soldiers’ training.

Baltas was old, much older than Skemtun and Bolrakei put together. He was missing an ear and two fingers on his right hand. He walked with a pronounced limp that came from an axe wound suffered during battle. But even with his old age and injuries, he was the toughest fighter in the kingdom.

Skemtun went outside on the first day to see how things were going. Baltas walked around the makeshift camp, inspecting the men. Hundreds of young soldiers stood at attention. Baltas took one look at the bedraggled troops and grinned, rubbing his hands together with glee. “There’s not much time to whip these lads into shape,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “But ah’m sure going t’ try!”

Being charged with guarding Mount Velik from the orcs was a big responsibility, and Baltas took his job very seriously. Each day, he marched his tired, sweaty troops up the mountain and then down again. He forced them to practice drills until they were ready to collapse. The older dwarves weren’t spared; they were pushed just as hard as the young ones. Those with fighting experience were put in charge of smaller groups. All of them trained from sunup to sundown.

Inside the mountain, Elias worked closely with the dwarf spellcasters to craft and stockpile healing potions. Sela and her dragon patrolled the forest and the surrounding areas. The days turned into weeks, and all the while the dwarves continued their feverish preparations.