Mud and Horn, Sword and Sparrow (Runehammer Books Book 1) Page 2

  “Something is wrong, Norian,” the midwife holding her hand said. That was her name back then: Norian. This was before she took the name Horn. That new name, her red name, she acquired through blood and terror.

  “The child is…”

  “Speak! I know it is dead already!” Horn barked, “what know you more?”

  “It is beyond that, my princess,” her speech dwindled to stunned silence, and it was time.

  The pain heightened, but she held her focus. A push, another, the midwives prattled and coached. A last mighty push and she felt the release. It was hot and burning and abrasive, and the room took an odor of brimstone and ash. The midwives fell silent. The room hummed with doom.

  They backed away from her and she sat upright. There on the swaddling table lay a thing beyond words: a burnt, glowing, ember-covered coal. It smoked and cracked with heat, and blackened fingers could be seen in the dim.

  “Abomination,” one woman whispered. Two others broke and fled.

  “What have you done, my lady? Why?” she dropped her hand and stepped back, curdling with supernatural terror.

  “So it’s true what they say of Orcs and Elves,” Horn spoke. Her voice was weak and hoarse. “Our hatred has doomed us all, shamed our kin; and here lies the proof.”

  “Heresy…” the remaining midwives uttered, barely finishing the word. In moments they, too, had fled. No doubt they would bleat and scream to the guard, and death would fall on Horn in moments. She gathered her courage, and her garments, and her gear. Limping and leaning on walls and door frames she left that chamber, and with her went the child, wrapped in burnt sheets and still smoldering.

  “Horn!” Eras’ voice split the memory like thunder, and her tears were swept away on the autumn wind. “To your feet, daydreamer! They are upon us”

  Eras stood above her, half-crouched and arrow knocked. But as he finished his command, and his head spun to his left, a black-hafted arrow sprouted from his throat, and he gasped. He was far from defeated, though, even as red spray covered his ivory bow. He spun, loosed three shots in a split second, and a distant gurgling scream was heard.

  Horn did not tend him, nor coddle him. She sprung to her feet and drew her blade, a long, brass-hued scimitar etched with layered scales. The weapon was as long as she was tall, and she all but dragged it as she leapt into battle.

  The arrows were everywhere: Orcish shafts arcing from the darkness. She traced the whistling arrows with her instincts and in seconds she was in striking distance. The bodies of her comrades were already stiffening in the dry grass. The red rage came over her; the Orc in her awoke.

  The first stroke, an upward two handed swing, clove two Orc archers from hip to shoulder. They gurgled and splintered in great black spatters of gore. The weight of the immense sword carried her upward, over a botched arrow shot, and back down with a thunderclap as the burnished steel met the earth, but not without splitting the tusked skull of a shield-carrying scout. If every one of their number had not been attacking her before, the loud clang drew them in now. They pressed in with spears and hook-swords like an angry mob.

  Horn set her feet, and twirled from her crouch with irresistible force. The weapon shattered spears and bent iron blades. Twice she spun, killing two more and stunning as many. The spin ended, they pressed in, and she let the blade fly. Like a spinning guillotine it beheaded four or more of them. With her empty hands she caught the brittle ground and cast some spell of hate she had never been taught. The soil exploded, and the inner ring of Orc attackers was made into reddish mist.

  As the shockwave waned, and the next wave of them lurched forward, she lifted a spearhead. With that broken shard of iron she darted from body to body, spinning and parrying and slicing throats and eyes and bellies like a tornado. So it went, and they had no defense against such wild rage, and they all met their end.

  Killing Orcs was a mercy in her mind. Her turn would come. In time, all Elves and Orcs would be together in death, for fate is far more cruel than even the cold hearts of the dead Gods who set this hideous world in motion.

  She sat there among the piled corpses, and took bread. She did not need a warming fire, for her hate and regret and shame kept her stomach tight as an anchor rope. So she passed the night.

  At first light she stacked and burned the enemy, took their chief’s howling head, and buried her kin beneath a leaning oak. She said the old words, but did not believe them, and went on her way. Ahead was Westburg, and a steed to make her way home. Secretly, Horn could not wait to see the Queen’s rage when she was told of Eras’ death. It was always a good thing to see Elves suffer.

  4

  “Tie this to your bonds, beast.” Vald tossed a length of rope to Mud, who did as told. He was still blank; still hollow by the nothingness of the pools.

  They had woke in early light, and were at the road with haste. Westburg’s chimney smokes could be seen over a few more dales, and Vald lengthened his stride. The Westlands were beautiful this time of year. Leafy clouds of gold and red and orange in rolling glades. The air was warm, but crisp, and the farmsteads smoked with welcoming puffs on the hilltops. But these two travelers smiled not, nor scanned the beatific scene with bright hearts. One was a haggard war hero, returning from a doomed campaign. The other a mad slave and prisoner, one of a race cursed and hated as far as the Wall of Bones.

  “I’ll be glad to be rid of you,” Vald stabbed, “I’ve no love of your kind, even though your quarrel be with the Elf kin. Know that this village is a place of trade, and home to Elves and Men. You will find no friends here, creature.”

  “Such certainty,” Mud began, but a whipping blow from Vald’s scabbard stung his back, and he held his tongue. He was numb to being treated like a slave. The nothingness still deadened him beyond any wound or word Vald could inflict.

  They only had a half day’s walk t o reach Westburg, but at the hollow near the old Harrowstead, just where the road meets the shipstones, a murder was underway.

  They rounded the hen as two rag-wrapped brigands manhandled a few travelers. The highway thieves brandished nail-pierced clubs and a youth already lay dead or knocked senseless in the gutter. The struggle had apparently been going for several moments, for all parties were beaded with sweat and blood and a score of scratches and shallow cuts.

  Vald stopped, and Mud followed suit. They were yet unnoticed, but neither cared either way. Just another meaningless crime in an empty world.

  “What mischief now,” Vald spat. He held out one open hand to Mud, implying he wait, and then strode forth.

  “Hail, ruffians! Stay your hands and be gone!” They peered up from their battle for a split second. The distraction left one traveler defenseless and the thief took his chance, shiving him in the ribs with a ripping thud. The traveler fell limp, grasping the ragged wound. The other victim took flight, running down the road and leaving his comrades to their fate.

  “Not your quarrel, nobleman!” one thief gruffed, “we are far from King Akram’s lands! Be gone yourself!” But Vald approached unslowed. As he gained ground, he noticed the fallen youth frothing at the mouth with some greenish horror. He had little time to consider it, though, for the two brigands were bearing down on him with a clumsy charge.

  The first club swing Vald ducked and feinted, pivoted his rear foot, and met the man with a steel-knuckled punch to the sternum. The thief gasped, his lungs empty, and stumbled back heaving. His cohort, face covered in a black sackcloth and eyes all red with lotus root, followed with a swing from above. This attack Vald dodged too, stepping left and bringing the same fist down in a hammer-like chop. The thief yelped and fell to one knee.

  “You’re out of your depth, whelps,” Vald barked, “Now-” but he could not finish his command, for at that second a green-fletched arrow sprouted from his side with a thwack. The Northman did not wince or buckle, but spun to spy the archer. It was a third highway hound concealed in the stones half a bowshot away.

  “You were saying,” the kneeling
rogue hissed, and used the moment to attack again. He feigned a club swing and punched the arrow shaft, breaking half of it and plunging it deeper. Vald showed his teeth in the shadow of his helmet. At this moment Mud noticed the action, and a sting of anger for these senseless scoundrels ran down his back.

  The first thief rose from his stupor and closed in, the other spun to smite the gleaming helmet. Vald parried both onslaughts, but stumbled. Some hot acid or poison ran through his chest. He spat a foamy green smatter of it, and stumbled again. His vision darkened.

  Either by a war chief’s instinct or keen eyes Mud grasped that Vald was staring at defeat. A poison arrow is no small peril, even for a Northman captain. He sighed a long, cynical sigh and set his toes to the ground. Manacles still on, he thrust into the fray just as Vald lost his balance and pitched over.

  As the greenish dark enclosed Vald’s sight, the last thing he saw was the Orc smashing skulls and sending teeth flying, spinning to dodge arrows and kicking like a mule.

  Then, the Captain of King Akram lost consciousness, and fell into a fever of poisonous sleep.

  An endless age passed in that near-death. Vald was plagued by visions: a dead horse, a hand-shaped hole in a pane of ice, four burning arrows snuffing out.

  At last his swollen lids began to open. He was in Westburg. The gabled ceiling bore their characteristic carvings, and the smell of burning leaves and warm ale was thick in the autumn air. His throat and lungs burnt with an awful, acrid sting. Dim shapes moved about the room. Memory eluded him.

  “Captain?” a muffled voice echoed. They had drugged him, most likely to cut a leeching wound. “He wakes, child. Run and fetch your father,” the voices were warped and he winced. That was no common poison arrow; no wretched thief or road-troll could concoct a venom so potent. Greater forces were at work…

  A tall man entered the dim room and sat down. Vald rolled his head to that side, noticing his armor piled neatly at the wall. He suddenly felt embarrassed. What a fool! To be waylaid by some fools at the road’s edge!

  “Captain Vald, the Silver Storm. By my beard, I never thought I’d see you laid up like a gutter-drunk! They must’ve put the spit of a dozen cobras on that arrowhead.” Vald attempted a retort, but could not speak, or barely move. The man continued, but Vald could not yet place his face. “Ory and I have been minding your fever for three days, you old hound. She’s a wizard with herbs and roots. But great cats, man, toting an Orc around on a rope? We could do no more than allow him to sleep in the shed. An Orc! The nerve of the Northmen!” he was dour and fell silent, scowling and grinding his front teeth.

  A long moment passed, and Vald’s embarrassment reached new heights. Had he brought an Orc into a friend’s home? The scowl continued for ages.

  “Ha ha!” the man, blur clearing, broke his false scowl and leaned back, “ah, I wish you could see your face, old friend! This will be a story for the ages!” He drank deep from a wooden tankard and adjusted the bed clothes with a warm smile. The fever rose again, and Vald slipped back into sleep.

  “Ory, mind his heat and force down some soup when he wakes next. It’s time to quiz this Orc friend of his before he gets us all killed.”

  5

  Mud shifted in the hay. Three days he’d been lying here. He was healthy as an ox, but still weary. He’d washed the swamps away, and with the muck half the madness. What had he seen in the pools? Those green eyes, his wife’s eyes...or were they? He meditated, and did Orcish pullups on the rafters, concerned for the human whose life he had saved on the road.

  There was much to be done. A war to end, wrath to quench, peace to build, and an exodus to lead. For now, he waited in the shed, for to do any more would be rude and only bolster their prejudice.

  The shed door, which was little more than planks bound by flat iron straps, swung open slowly. It was the fourth morning, and the sun was warm and yellow. Mud had his hair pulled back into a tidy bun, he had removed his nose ring, and he pursed his bottom lip to make less of his teeth.

  Through that sunlit portal walked his host. The man was human, but stout as a warship and wide as the doorway. He had a thick, red beard braided in three great woven strands. He held a blacksmith’s hammer in his right hand, and his bald head gleamed in the morning light. Beneath those red eyebrows, untrusting eyes narrowed.

  “Good morn, Orc.” “I have a name sir,” to hear an Orc speak in common made the bearded man wince, but he held fast.

  “You speak our tongue,” he said, “I didn’t know your kind cared for our speech.”

  “There are many things you don’t know of my people, friend.”

  “So you have a name, my apologies,” he took one step inward.

  “Aye, we are not savages.”

  “Then give me your name, and I’ll give you mine,”

  “Mud.”

  “No savage indeed,” there was an awkward pause, but they both smiled. “I’m Tomm of Weldershire, master of this house, and your host.”

  “And a gracious host you’ve been sir, considering,” Mud stayed sitting, and did not extend his hand. This may have been the first time Orcs and men had ever spoken directly. He decided to pace himself. Besides, this Tomm was muscled from tip to toe, and could likely brain him in a flash with his blocky, dented hammer.

  “Your Common is excellent. We are taught the Orcs only speak in grunts and spit.” Tomm entered, closed the door, and sat on a milking stool. He set the hammer head-down next to him, and revealed a small pipe. He began smoking, but felt suddenly rude. From a second pocket he pulled his older, backup pipe. It was little more than carved dry root. In silence he packed it, puffed, and handed to the Orc; to Mud.

  “Thank you,” Mud replied, flatly impressed.

  “Now that we’re best friends,” he said with a smile, “what say we have a story from you. How came you by my old friend Vald, and near death no less? My gut says you are a pawn in the tale, but let’s hear it.”

  “Pawn indeed,” Mud said, “and a fool. I have little more to tell you than I was found by the Captain of Akram on the road beyond the shipstones. He bound me, and bid me come here to be made a worker in the Westburg mines. Such is the fate of many Orcs...and unjustly so.” He puffed the pipe for a moment. “As for his wound, a suspicious band of roadmen got the drop on us, and that poison arrow found its mark. I beat them back, and brought him to the first farm I saw.” Mud was a bit stiff. He shifted and let out a small grunt. It was a deep and throaty rumble, but he thought nothing of it.

  The sound made Tomm flinch. He reached for the hammer, but eased.

  “Quite a thing,” Tomm said at last.

  “That a mere roadman should have such an arrow?” Mud asked.

  “No, that a man and an Orc are sitting here in the morning bright, sharing tales. Strange times, Mud.”

  “Aye, but enough hugs. What do you intend to do?” Mud’s face grew grim, and he leaned forward. His bulk was palpable in the cramped shed.

  “I intend nothing, my well-spoken friend,” Tomm finished his bowl and dumped it, “save to answer the call of my friend. I’ll grant you, things are afoot in times when Vald the Silver Storm can be felled on a road. There is more to this than meets the eye.”

  “Welcome to the situation,” Mud answered sarcastically. “This is tyranny unbridled that has come home to roost. Elves are not what they seem, and my people have paid a dozen generations in slavery and torment for their lies. Men must choose sides, for a war is coming.”

  “What war?”

  “When my red work is done, the Orc will finally know freedom.”

  On these words Tomm dwelt, and ruminated, and took his leave. Mud agreed to wait, and within Vald was more than awake… He was ready for answers.

  6

  It began as so many tales do: a runtish girl was tonguekissing a horse.

  It wasn’t really a kiss so much as a horse to hide her face in. The big soft nose tickled her, but she just went on kissing. The move was intended as some kind of bizarre cov
er, and it worked. The guards muddled past her, and beyond the stables. They figured her for a stable boy, or some deranged slave. She suppressed the giggles, scratched the steed’s ear, and pulled her black cloak over her head. It was almost dawn, and she had to make her move.

  To understand her predicament that morning, it is important to know the history of Castle Westburg. In elder days it was called West Erathil, or Western Star. It was an Elvish tower surrounded by a township of craftfolk and tradesmen, all working in the rule of Queen Lydea. The outer wall was a garrison style, with gabled guard towers every bowshot, and at the burg’s center was a fountain of rare beauty. In those days trade thrived, and the Queen was often seen about the town enjoying herself.

  The main tower, then called HathOrdur or “Sword of Wolves” was an impregnable fortress. Building up rather than out, the Elves of that time used a method of spiralascending loopholes and bladed crenelations. The structure was two bowshots from foundation to roof, and from its spire the whole countryside could be seen.

  Townsfolk were invited to ascend the tower at leisure and survey the grand view, providing the Queen did not have guests. When under attack by Orc raiders or rival armies, the whole burg would gather in the lower floors and make iron the city.

  But all that was a score generations ago. Since then, the tower has been repaired, restored, added to, and attacked again. Lydea no longer visits the square, and no one but guards and Elvish envoys are allowed in the Sword of Wolves. Even King Akram has proclaimed it an accursed place, and asked that Lydea remove herself from its aging walls to gentler surroundings.

  At the base of the tower, amidst supply crates and scaffolds, there are makeshift stables. Once-proud steeds and warhorses are now replaced with old nags and burros. The stables rest just so, beneath a high window at the tower’s rear. In these stables hid Silvi, a slight girl no older than 13, clad in black robe and leather harness. At her belt were thieves’ tools and a leather box-pouch. The guards shuffled away, and she looked up. The hole in the ceiling was barely noticeable.