He counted four horses and four figures atop them as they began to descend the hill. It did not take long for one to seem to notice him, and when they did, he could see the shape of them pointing, leaning closer to their companions—and after a beat of silence, drawing their own weapons. They recognized him.
With a frustrated growl, he dug his heels into Graksh’t’s sides, and the stallion broke into a gallop, charging the group. He could not risk using his magic, not yet, so he would have to rely on his swordplay. But the group did not look like warriors as they seemed to nervously spread out, weapons drawn but hesitating, waiting for him to approach or for someone else to make the first move. That would work in his favor.
The first strike was almost comical. He did not slow down as he approached, and he could see the startled fear in their eyes as he barreled for the one that had pulled ahead of the other three. The orc lifted a heavy wooden shield in one hand as if waiting to parry Zorvut’s strike, but he swung his sword high and caught him right under his chin, opening his throat cleanly. Zorvut circled the group as the first orc fell, his now-riderless horse shrieking and bucking as the body slumped down and slid off, spraying the beast with blood as it sank. Though their animals appeared to be warhorses, none were quite as large as Graksh’t, and none as calm at the sight of blood pooling at their hooves. That would work in his favor, too.
Two of the orcs glared at him with hatred in their eyes, both adults, a male and a female. The other was staring at the fallen orc sprawled in the dirt with wide, fearful eyes—a youth, probably no more than twelve—he would leave that one, he decided.
“Cowards,” he goaded, locking eyes with the male. The other orc snarled, taking the bait, and kicked his horse into action. Zorvut met him easily, their swords crashing into each other and sliding away as he galloped past before turning around in a tight circle and charging him again. The orc didn’t turn his horse as quickly and was only half-facing Zorvut when he pierced him through the ribs, eliciting a howl of pain.
“Bastard,” the wounded orc spat, clutching helplessly at his wound as he struggled to steer his horse with the hand that still weakly held his sword. The word stung more than Zorvut would have expected, but he only smirked in response, still circling the group at a cantering trot, waiting. The boy was now looking wildly between all three of them, holding a shortsword up but with trembling hands.
Now the female roared out a battle-cry and charged, pushing past the wounded male and slashing at him wildly. His shorter stature meant he could easily dodge her attacks as he parried and ducked, and with a hard slash Zorvut cut the sword from her grip. She screeched, blood pouring from her forearm, as the sword clattered to the ground.
“You have no honor!” she wailed as she fumbled with her saddlebag with her one good hand, procuring a dagger that she threw at him. It soared uselessly over his head, and he heard it clatter against a rock on the ground far behind him. “You’ll always be a bastard! You’ll always be a race-traitor!”
“At least I’ll be alive,” he snarled, and charged at her again, this time driving his sword forward—it pierced her just under her arm, and her cry of pain was cut short to an empty gurgle as he shoved the embedded sword with all his might and it carved through to her collarbone, not quite clearing to the other side but opening a wide wound all the same. Her horse screamed and galloped away, pulling her off the sword before she fell limp to the ground, dead.
The wounded male shouted as he, too, tried to charge Zorvut, but it was futile. He parried the weak stab easily, driving the blade away from him to circle back with his own and slash him across the belly. The orc groaned and lifted his sword, but he was bleeding out quickly—the strength seemed to drain out of him all at once as the sword slipped from his grasp and he collapsed over his saddle, his consciousness fading.
Zorvut turned to face the boy, who was watching him with his mouth pressed into a hard line over his small tusks but with visible fear in his eyes. He stepped closer to him slowly, holding out his sword covered in blood, but made no move to strike him even as he drew close enough to touch him with the point of his sword.
“What’s your name?” he asked. The boy frowned, taking in a few quick, nervous breaths as he seemed to consider the question.
“Vurak,” he answered, visibly trying to keep his eyes on Zorvut’s gaze and not at the sword pointed at him, but failing.
“Vurak,” Zorvut repeated, pulling Graksh’t into a slow, measured circle around the boy and his horse. “I don’t want to hurt you, Vurak. You don’t look like a fighter.” The boy flinched as he said it. “You’re with a group of, what, scouts? None of you were fighters. But you look like you’re fast, and quiet. Is that why they brought you along?”
“Yes,” the boy replied hoarsely, just above a whisper. “My sister… She brought me. Our clan was ordered to scout.” He gestured to one of the fallen orcs, the only female.
“Then I have a job for you, Vurak,” he continued, keeping his voice low and as nonchalant as he could manage, though the pain and fear in the boy’s response sent a pang of guilt shooting through his chest. There was no pleasure in cutting down orcs that were not warriors, as these evidently were not. “I want you to go straight to Drol Kuggradh, and I want you to tell the warlord I’m coming. And I hope you’re fast, because if I catch up with you, I probably won’t be feeling as merciful as I am right now.”
For a long moment the boy did not answer, just stared at his sword with wide eyes and his chest heaving with rapid breaths. Then, finally, he glanced up to meet Zorvut’s gaze, and gave a single, tense nod.
“Good,” Zorvut said. “Now go.” He prodded the boy’s horse with the tip of his sword—not hard, just enough to frighten the beast into bolting. The horse screeched and broke into a gallop, and the boy struggled with the reins for a few paces before regaining control of the horse, pulling it back onto the road and galloping back up the hill the way they had come. Zorvut watched him go until he disappeared over the hill; the boy never turned back to look at him.
With a sigh, he dismounted Graksh’t and inspected the bodies strewn across the trail. None had weapons worth taking, so he left them for the elves to scavenge. Only one horse had remained, standing nervously at the edge of the road as if waiting for a command, while the other two had dashed away in fear. Zorvut approached the horse slowly, and was able to pilfer its saddlebags. But there was nothing of note; a few days’ worth of rations and a small amount of coin in a pouch, both of which he pocketed, but nothing else that might be useful to him. So he smacked the horse’s haunch and sent it running off into the distance as well with a startled cry.
There would be no point trying to hide the bodies, but he pulled them off the road and laid them neatly along its edge, putting their weapons in a pile next to them. It was unfortunate that they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he had a message to send—and most importantly, no one could be left to warn the warlord of the elves following behind him. Much as it pained him, he knew the group of orcs would not have hesitated to cut him down if he had given them the chance.
He thought of Taegan, the terror in his eyes when Kelvhan had grabbed him and magicked him away, and it steeled his resolve. He would kill every orc from here to Drol Kuggradh if that was what it took.
But even as he had the thought, doubt crept into the back of his mind. Scouts and spies he could take on easily, and probably even most soldiers if he weren’t too terribly outnumbered. But he thought of the warlord, and his terrible prowess in battle, the crushing battle axe he wielded… Even with his magic, even as the warlord had slowed in his age, would he be able to kill Hrul Bonebreaker, even if he wanted to? He could not say with any certaintyifhe wanted to. Maybe there would be another way. Maybe he could convince the warlord to drop his mindless war games, to accept the peace treaty he had been so keen on accepting once before, what felt like forever ago.
The thought did nothing to quell the doubt crawling up his spine, but it was a nice thought.
Behind him, Graksh’t snorted and stamped, startling him back to attention. One of the loose horses had started to approach again with some measure of curiosity, but Graksh’t’s noise spooked it away once more and it galloped off with a nervous whinny.
Sighing, he pulled himself back up onto the saddle, and set Graksh’t along the trail once more, trotting at a leisurely pace that felt completely out of sync with his own inner turmoil.
It was a nice thought, but a foolish one. Hrul had always been fickle. The warlord would be no more amenable to his words now than when Zorvut had tried to convince him to marry off one of his other siblings instead. Of course, that time it had ultimately worked out in his favor. This time, he suspected, he would not be so lucky.
4
Taegan
Though the figure in the cell opposite his own never responded to his own calls, Taegan was becoming increasingly sure that it was, in fact, Zorvut’s mother Naydi.
The next time food was brought down to them, the guard spoke to the other prisoner again, and the voice that answered sounded very much female to Taegan now that he was listening for it. And the time after that, a different guard was carrying down the food; he must have had poor vision, because he was the one that always carried a torch with him and squinted the whole time. In the flickering torchlight, Taegan got a better look at the orc in the opposite cell, and while he did not quite recognize her, it did look fairly close to how he remembered Naydi, at least in the few glimpses he had caught of her in the short time she had been in Aefraya. Surely she must have seen him in the torchlight, too—he was not exactly subtle, pressing his face against the bars of the cell to look as closely as possible now that there was more light in the hallway—but still she said nothing, and that made him uncertain.
