The Sleeping King (10 page)

One corner of Will's father's stern mouth twitched in amusement. Sensing an opening, Will pressed his point. “Adrick's the finest woodsman in these parts. If I am not safe with him, then there is no safety to be had in the Wylding. It is just for one night. And he promised to show me—” Will broke off. He'd almost slipped and mentioned their secret weapons lessons. “—woodcraft skills,” he finished lamely.

Serica and Ty shared a long look.

“Every other boy in the Ring my age has been standing watch for years,” Will pleaded. He added with more heat, “You have to let me grow up
sometime
.”

Serica spoke in her gentle, modulated voice. “He has a point, my dear. Perhaps he could stay a few hours.…”

Will held his breath in agony as his father considered the idea.

Finally, Ty laid down needle and sinew and stood slowly, stretching the kinks out of his back. “A few hours, only,” Ty said heavily. “I shall place a lamp in the window. Come home when I put it out.”

Will whooped and swept his mother up in a hug, twirling her around in his joy. She protested in her gentle way and he set her down, laughing.

“You will need a blade, Son.” Ty moved over to the big iron-banded trunk in the corner. The lid creaked open and he fished around within it. He emerged carrying a tangle of leather. He held out what Will saw was a belt and long sheath. The leather-wrapped handle of one of Ty's longer weapon-daggers stuck out of the sheath.

Will threw himself at Ty and wrapped him, belt and all, in a quick, hard hug. “Thank you, Father!”

His father rummaged in the chest again, and this time emerged with a leather coat with metal rings sewn onto it. Will recognized his father's armor and shrugged into it with a certain reverence. It was a little big on him, but would keep him warm and dry and stop a wolf bite.

As he put the armor on, his father pulled a staff out from under the bed. Will was more comfortable with that weapon than with edged weapons. He took it and tested the balance. Like all of Ty's weapons, it was superb.

“Off with you, then,” Ty said gruffly. “No sleeping on the job, eh?”

“No, sir!” And Will was out the door into the gathering dark with another whoop of joy. His mother's soft laughter carried on the firelight spilling out behind him.

Full dark was upon the vale, and a sliver of moon was just rising behind him as Will charged up the path to the Knot. The cry of a big cat split the night, startling Will. Cougars were not known to be native to this area. He burst into the clearing in hopes of seeing Adrick still seated with his stew pot, but the woodsman was standing, an odd expression on his face.
Blast it.
Adrick had won, yet again.

Will screeched to a halt. “I told you I'd talk them into letting me—” Why was Adrick looking down at his own belly like that? “Is aught amiss—” Will started. But then he spied the dark, wet … something … sticking out of Adrick's chest.

The woodsman looked up at him in blank surprise. Adrick's legs crumpled, and Will dropped his staff to leap forward and catch the woodsman as he collapsed like a puppet whose strings were let go all at once.

Behind Will's friend stood a huge monster with undershot tusks, crude leather armor over bumpy green skin, and massive muscles. A bloody spear dripped in the orc's left fist. A giant jagged-edged axe rested in his right hand.

Orc!

As that realization exploded across Will's mind, the beast leaped with shocking speed across the small clearing, putting himself between Will and the vale below. It took no great woodcraft to know the monster had just cut him off from the village and help.

The orc grunted something unintelligible and took an aggressive step forward, axe held high. Will took a stumbling step back and bumped into the giant hickory at his back. He fumbled for his father's long dagger clumsily and brandished it awkwardly. The short weapon was sure death against an opponent with much longer weapons, though.

The orc grunted and scooped up Ty's spear, then stunned Will by tossing it to him. He dropped the dagger and caught in midair the lighter, faster weapon with its metal-sheathed tip.

The orc settled into a fighting stance. Will seated the spear under his arm as well. The orc grunted approvingly and advanced, circling to Will's left. It was a fight the beast wanted, then. The orc stowed his own spear as Will stared.
Was he actually trying to even the odds?

The orc used his now-free hand to thump his chest and grunt, “Du'shaak.”

What on Urth does that mean?
Not that Will had any time to ponder it, as the beast took a swipe at him with that gigantic axe. A weapon that large and heavy was, perforce, slow. Will jumped back out of its arc, and the fight was on.

Not that it was much of a fight. This creature was clearly an experienced warrior. And he was a boy from the hollow, untrained in the ways of war thanks to his stubborn father. He stabbed awkwardly at the orc with the spear as Adrick had shown him to do. Spears were thrusting weapons, after all.

Using one giant fist, the orc grabbed the spear just behind its metal head and lifted it up into the air, with Will clinging in panic to its hilt. His feet cleared the ground entirely and the orc swung the spear, slamming Will into the giant hickory, shoulder first. Dazed and in pain, he stubbornly refused to release the spear. The orc yanked it again, sending Will hard into the tree trunk and to his knees this time.

“Du'shaak!” the orc snarled as Will scrambled frantically to his feet. Adrick had told Will time and time again, never go down. To do so in a fight was to die. Desperation coursed through him, as the bigger, stronger, obviously trained, obviously angry beast shook the spear, jerking him around like a rag doll.

The orc swung his axe in a short, sharp arc, splintering the metal head entirely off the tough hickory spear. The beast tossed the spearhead away in disgust.

Realization broke over Will that he was going to die. The orc would pound him to death against the tree soon if the monster didn't cleave him in half with that cursed axe. Already he felt beaten to a pulp and was losing strength.

Without real thought, Will's desperation changed forms. Shifted from fear to thought, thought to intent, intent to action. Golden light crackled down the remaining length of the broken weapon, exploding off the jagged tip like chain lightning in a burst of force magic.

The spear nearly flew out of his hands as the magic discharged violently. His opponent was thrown backward even more violently, flying across the small clearing and slamming hard against a tree. The orc roared, his ugly face contorted in rage, and charged, seriously intent on killing Will now.

What
was that
?

It was one thing to dabble with his secret talent for magic alone in the woods. To push flexible limbs away from him and create tiny glowing points of light. But that massive bolt of damaging energy? Where did that come from? If anyone found out he could do something like that—

—the thought did not bear finishing. If someone from the village had spotted that distinctive flash of magic and reported him to the authorities, orcs would be the least of his problems. If he was lucky, he would be reported to the Mage's Guild as an unlicensed magic user. He could end up forcibly drafted into the guild to serve it. If he was unlucky, he would be reported to Governor Anton's men. Then Will could expect to be arrested and sold into slavery to wield magic for his master until death.

The orc scrambled to his feet with a roar of rage and Will concentrated with all his power upon maintaining his grip on the broken spear. It was the only thing separating him from death at the hands of the enraged beast.

Hastily he called more magic to himself, blasting it down the length of the mangled weapon. The bolt of force damage wasn't nearly as powerful as the last one, and the orc was prepared for it this time. The beast absorbed the magic with a painful grunt and only staggered back momentarily.

Will stumbled back as well, doubtful that he could throw magic at his foe a third time. The spear was now effectively a wooden staff. This was a weapon with which he was much more familiar. He'd threshed more wheat than he cared to think about with just such a stave over the years. Ty had shown him a dozen different ways to swing a threshing pole to prevent muscle fatigue, too. He waited for the orc grimly as the beast gathered himself one more time in the scant moonlight.

The orc charged with a wordless shout, axe high over his head. Will ducked and dived left, sweeping the staff with all his strength into the orc's shins. It wasn't an elegant move by any means, but effective. The beast tripped awkwardly. Staggered. Fell. Almost as if something or someone pushed him. And the momentum of his fall threw him headfirst into the stacked rock wall.

Will stared as the orc lifted his head in a daze. A strange, reddish, mark in the shape of a barbed seed was on the beast's forehead. Adrick had spoken of orcs marked by irregular red scars.
Boki
. The Lords of the Boar. The fabled orcs of the Forest of Thorns who nearly laid Dupree to waste when Will was but a babe. What was one doing here so far from his home?

It dawned on Will belatedly that this was his chance to leap forward and drive the broken end of the spear through the beast's neck. But the idea of having to look that creature in the eye and kill him in cold blood froze Will in place. He was no murderer. Some might argue that yon orc was no better than a boar or a stag, but Will could not deny the orc was intelligent and had demonstrated a rough honor in giving him the spear to defend himself. He owed the orc no less respect. He would not cut the defenseless creature down in cold blood.

A faint smell, as of rotting meat, caught Will's attention. He lifted his head sharply, scanning the valley below. All was quiet. Too quiet. The entire wood around the hollow had gone dead silent. And creatures of the forest never lied. Furthermore, it made no sense for an orc to travel alone. This one must be a scout of some kind. Which meant—

Will fell to his knees beside Adrick's corpse and tore open the woodsman's belt pouch. He fished around frantically, fumbling through the bits and baubles jumbled within. His fingertips encountered a smooth, curving surface, and he grasped it firmly. In a single swift movement he pulled the ox horn forth and stared in dismay. Its entire small end, the blowing end, was smashed.
Useless
.

Swearing, he scrambled to find Adrick's whistling arrows and bows. The scream of one of them would warn at least some of the villagers. But the arrows, too, were broken into worthless matchsticks. The orc scout had done his work well.

Hoarse shouts—dozens of them—erupted behind Will, an unintelligible gibberish of harsh grunts and growls.
Great stars above
. That was no simple raiding party. It sounded like a small army erupting from the forest behind him. Tree branches splintered and leaves flew every which way as orcs, goblins, and even ogres burst out of the woods almost on top of him.

Great Lady, grant me speed,
he whispered in his mind as he turned and ran as if the Lord of the North Wind himself blew Will forward. A roar went up behind him as the creatures spotted him and gave chase. He could only pray to reach the village and rouse its inhabitants before everyone was slaughtered in their beds.

He headed straight down the hill, leaping over fallen logs, dodging low-hanging boughs, and tearing recklessly through brambles that snatched at his clothes. He hoped his knowledge of the slope would lend him speed while the rough terrain slowed his pursuers.

His heart lodged in his throat and flailed there like a dying sparrow. His thighs pumped up and down, heavy with panic. Sweat popped out on his forehead. A stitch stabbed at his side. His lungs caught on fire. And still he ran as if a reaper from the Void were after him. Which wasn't so very far from the truth. An arrow schwinged past his ear.

As he burst into the valley from the north, he spotted a second wave of orcs and goblins charging the village from the west in a coordinated flanking attack.

He drew within shouting distance of the cluster of huts. “Orcs! Ogres! Goblins!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “To arms! The hollow is under attack!”

*   *   *

Charlotte of Tyrel was as nervous as a maiden as she waited impatiently for her guests to freshen up, Pacing in agitation, she flung her hands up in disgust as it dawned on her she was wringing them
. Bah.
This would not do. She was the Lady of Tyrel, now. Not that sixteen-year-old girl from long ago.

She glanced at the paper-wrapped package sitting on her desk and wondered yet again at its contents. It had arrived the previous week with a note saying that it was for the elder of her two guests. What was Kadir up to, the sly old dog?

A knock on her office door had her whirling toward it. She forced herself to take a steadying breath, then called out imperiously, “Enter!”

She nodded formally at the older of her two guests. “Kadir. Welcome.” Awareness of him shivered through her like the magic of his caresses all those seasons past.

“Lady
Charlotte,” he murmured, emphasizing her title with faint irony. He remembered, too, did he? “How do you fare?”

“Very well, thank you. And you? I trust your journey was pleasant.”

Kadir grunted, “It was long. The roads between Jena and here are dismal.” Jena, largest city in the Midlands, was at the exact opposite corner of the region from Tyrel.

They traded a few pleasantries before he brought up the reason he was here and the one subject she most dreaded discussing with him. Kadir asked soberly, “Does she know yet?”

Charlotte was taken aback at his directness. He had to know full well this was a subject she much preferred to talk circles around. She had hoped their old liaison would count for something, that he might find a gentler way of breaking the news to her daughter than he ultimately had to her all those years ago. But apparently not. Her back stiffened and she moved behind her desk to sit. If his desire was for this conversation to be purely business, so be it.