Return of the Dragon (The Dragon's Champion Book 6) (2 page)

Watching those piles burn almost made her question her
mission.

The orcs had spilled oil over the piles and set
torches to them as if it were nothing more than lighting a camp fire. There was
no ceremony for the dead, just the cold dismissal brought on by war.

It was smart, she knew, to deal with that amount of
bodies in such a way. It would keep the living army safe from disease and
filth. It still felt wrong. Even for a dark elf, there were codes of ethics.

She snaked through the corridor until she reached the
central keep. She paused near a window to inspect the courtyard. She expected
more of the same foolishness she had seen before, but was surprised to see a
somber gathering of orcs instead. They were dressed in their armor, standing
neatly in perfectly formed columns and rows. Beyond them was a raised platform
of wood, with a ladder leading to the top. On the platform was a bed of
kindling and branches, with a white shroud over the form of a body. An orc
climbed to the top of the ladder and turned to address the others.

“This man was the commander of this fort,” the orc
began. “He sacrificed himself so that his men could survive.” The orc held his
arm out and a large torch was tossed up to him. “He fought with the honor and
courage of an orc, and so he will be honored in death.” He held the torch up
into the air. “He was lame, and had only one good leg, still he fought against
us. He managed to slay seven before losing his own life.” The orc turned and
set the torch to the bed of kindling. Sparks popped and crackled as the flame
took hold. “Honor the honorable,” he shouted.

The gathered orcs in chorus shouted, “Honor the
honorable.”

“Maernok,” Salarion whispered under her breath. He was
one of the few that she found tolerable. She could only hope he would be
reasonable tonight. Rather than watch the rest of the ceremony, she took
advantage of the distraction. She crept out into the night, skirting the
outside of the courtyard and slipping into a window in the main keep. The dark
elf quickly identified the commander’s chambers and moved toward it, assuming
that Maernok would have claimed them for himself.

She was wrong.

Inside
lay
another orc upon
the bed. Books were strewn about the floor. Chests and drawers had been flung
open and left in disarray. She didn’t bother entering the room. This orc had
nothing to offer her. She moved back out into the main hall and melded into the
shadows at the back of the chamber.

Fifteen or twenty minutes passed. Several smaller
groups of orcs came in and disappeared down the hallway at the other end of the
hall. Another ten minutes came and went before Maernok entered the hall.

The orc rubbed a weary hand over his face and sighed.
He moved over to a long table situated against the far wall. He retrieved his
sword from upon it and then made a direct line for the room where Salarion had
just seen the other orc sleeping.

No sooner had Maernok vanished into the bed chamber
than Salarion stole her way across the main hall to listen at the doorway.

“What do you want?” one of them said.

Salarion slowly snuck a peek around the doorway.
Maernok was standing with his back to her right next to the bed. The other orc
was moving to sit up and grumbling to
himself
.

“I know you want to take command,” Maernok said.

The other orc stopped. He looked up to Maernok and
then glanced over to the foot of his bed where a sword was propped between the
wall and the bed. Maernok held up a hand.

“I haven’t come to fight you for it,” he said.

“Then out with it,” the other orc barked.

“It’s yours,” Maernok said. “I am leaving tonight. I
have unfinished business.”

“Gilifan?” the other orc asked.

Maernok laughed. “I guess we can each see the other’s
true motivations, can’t we? Yes, I go to settle an old score.”

“What of your tribe?” the other orc asked. “No chief
can abandon his tribe.”

“If I return, then I resume command of my tribe,”
Maernok said. “If I fail to return, then you assume control of them, along with
the others.”

“You would trade the glory of conquest for the life of
a human wizard?”

Maernok turned, obviously finished with the
conversation. “It was never my dream to unite the clans and lead a campaign
into the Middle Kingdom.”

“Khullan smile upon you,” the other orc offered.

Maernok set a rolled parchment on a round table and
slid his ring off a thick finger and placed it next to the paper. “This will
show the others that I leave command to you. Fight well.”

Salarion slipped back into the shadows a moment before
Maernok marched by her. She carefully circled around the chamber and out
through a window on the opposite side of the hall. Once in the courtyard she
saw only a handful of sentries, all sitting near a smaller fire with a pot of
potent coffee hanging over it. Knowing they would be unable to see her as their
eyes would be blinded by the fire and unable to penetrate the surrounding
darkness, she walked openly and approached Maernok. The gate to the south was
open, and she exited only a few yards behind Maernok.

She followed him as he took the road to the south.
Salarion stepped silently, stalking the large orc until they reached the burnt
trunks that had been a lush forest before the siege of Ten Forts.

“Maernok,” she called out.

The orc wheeled around with a dagger in hand. His eyes
searched for her, but could not find her. Salarion had moved to meld with the
shadows between the burned trees and ash-covered ground. It was the perfect
camouflage to hide her in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” Maernok growled. “If you are sent to
kill me, you will find it is not an easy task.”

Salarion circled around him and stood five yards
behind him. “If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead.”

Maernok spun around again and his eyes narrowed on
her. “Dark elf,” he spat. “For what have you come?”

Salarion smiled wryly. “I hunt the same man you do,”
she answered. “You and I have a common enemy.”

“Then why don’t you go and slay him?” Maernok pressed.

Salarion’s smile faded. “As much as it pains me to say
it, I don’t think I can succeed on my own.”

Maernok huffed and slid his dagger away. “Then leave
the fight to me and be off,” he snarled.

“You need my help,” she pressed.

The orc shook his head. “I don’t want your help.”

“Do not succumb to the same mule-headed traditions
that plague the rest of your men-folk. Even you have to know that you cannot
defeat a necromancer with a sword.”

“Orc courage will defeat the meddler’s crafts.”

“Your pigheadedness is going to get you killed.”

Maernok stepped up to her and exhaled his hot, musky
breath onto her face. “I don’t want your help.”

“Gilifan is protected inside an old fortress buried
within a mountain. He has mercenary guards and a host of soldiers at hand.
Furthermore, he has a dragon egg and is working feverishly to hatch it. You
will not come within a hundred yards of him, and your family will never be
avenged.” Maernok cocked his head at her and emitted a deep, throaty growl.
Salarion figured the orc was deciding between joining with her, and killing
her. She pulled the onyx box out to show Maernok. Its humming, violet light
danced in waves around the cube.

“Magic,” Maernok hissed.

“I have here a powerful shield that can get you close
enough to kill Gilifan.”

“Then why don’t you use it?” Maernok asked.

Salarion nodded. “I intend to do just that, but I need
your help. In an instant she flicked her left hand up to Maernok’s throat. She
was so fast that the oaf couldn’t even flinch before she rested the edge of her
curved dagger against the taught skin covering his neck. “If I wanted to kill
you, I could very easily have done so.” She jumped away from Maernok in a flash
and disappeared into the burned trees again to make her point. The orc’s
shoulders jerked back reflexively and his hand went for his blade.

“What trickery is this?” Maernok snarled. “None have
ever lived after threatening me in such a manner.”

“None except Gilifan,” Salarion pointed out. Maernok
turned in the direction of her voice but she had already circled around him again.
“He managed to slay your entire family and you have yet to do anything about
it.”

“I was bound by the oath,” Maernok said. “Until his
debt had been repaid there was nothing I could do.”

“I wonder how Gilifan will use you,” Salarion said as
she moved to yet another place. Maernok was now turning frequently, scanning
the darkness to find her.

Salarion emerged from the trees and stood directly
before him again. She placed the box on the ground as well as her dagger. “I
offer you help. The magic I have can help us infiltrate the fortress. More
importantly, it
will
even the field of battle.”

“There is more glory to be won if the battle is tipped
in an opponent’s favor,” Maernok said.

“Yes, I have heard the orcish proverb before. It is
oft recited before some orcish commander leads his warriors to an ill-fated and
unnecessary death.”

Maernok folded his arms. “I am done talking. Either
get out of my way or pick up your weapon.”

“Very well,” Salarion said. “If you won’t accept my
magic, then at least allow me to tell you where he is.”

“He is in Demaverung,” Maernok asserted.

Salarion laughed aloud. “I take it you missed the
fiery eruption then? What about the clouds of ash, did you not notice them?”

“He survived it,” Maernok explained simply.

“He caused it,” Salarion replied evenly. “He does not
hide there anymore. Now, are you interested in what I have to say?”

Maernok exhaled and began walking.
“Fine.
Tell me where he is, and accompany me if you must, but keep your magic to
yourself. I will have no part of it.”

Salarion smiled devilishly and picked up her items.
“Come, we have a long road ahead of us. Gilifan lies in a mountain fortress
near Pinkt’Hu.”

“Who did you say informed the king about this place
again?” Captain Benbo asked.

Faengoril looked up from what he was doing and smiled.
“A trapper.
His name was Fariche, or Ferris, or
something like that. King Sit’marihu said that they crossed paths as he was
heading east with Gorin, Peren, and Lady Arkyn and the trapper was headed west.”

“And he said water had flooded the village that had
been out here, right?”

Faengoril nodded. “Our job is to make sure Tarthuns
don’t come through it. King Sit’marihu and King Mathias already discussed the
plan and we are just following orders.”

“Did the trapper mention Tarthuns before?”

Faengoril nodded impatiently. “Yes, after the floods
came there was a battle and they wiped out the trading post that was nearby. It
was just a scouting party, but it was enough to destroy everyone but the
trapper. That’s why we are
here,
to make sure no one
else comes through it.”

Captain Benbo moved next to the large rock that
Faengoril was using as a table and looked down. A few other officers gathered
in close as well.

Faengoril observed the schematics drawn on the parchment
before him. The others watched him as he traced his fingers over the drawing.
As ordered, his dwarves had scouted every inch of this new pass, and mapped it
out with the accuracy only a dwarf could manage in such an underground cavern.
He studied the map several times before he finally looked up from the large,
flat stone in front of him.

“What of the scouts?” Faengoril asked.

“They report an army of Tarthuns moving toward us. The
Tarthuns number several thousand. They should reach the cave within three days.”

Faengoril nodded. “Will we be ready by then?”

One of the officers stepped forward and pointed to the
several circles drawn into the map. “I have positioned some of our strongest
dwarves at these locations. They will dig in shifts so that the process is
continuous. We will be ready in two days, well ahead of the Tarthuns’ arrival.
We will be able to bring the entire cavern down and block them off.”

Faengoril shook his head. “No, I want to draw them in.”

“Sir, there is no need to expose ourselves to
unnecessary risk. If we seal off the pass, we can avoid a costly battle.”

Faengoril grinned wide and his fiery eyes sparkled
under the torch’s flame. “And leave the Tarthuns with the option of traveling
to the north where Grand Master Penthal is already engaged in battle? No. We
draw them in, all the way into the cave. We station volunteers at each of the
trigger points we have identified, and then we bring the cavern down on top of
them. We number five hundred strong. If we work in shifts to dig at the trigger
points, then we should only need fifty to volunteer for the final shift.”

“That is madness,” Captain Benbo chimed in. “The cave
is three and a quarter miles long, so in theory it could hold the entire
Tarthun army, but there are choke points along the way, not to mention the
half-mile long lake at the opposite end where they will be entering from. They
would almost surely have some of their soldiers exiting the cave before the
entire army made it inside.”

“So we divide our forces,” Faengoril said. “We have
two hundred dwarves prepare defenses out here. Then, when the Tarthuns exit
they will be forced back into the cave. If a few stragglers have not yet
entered the cave, it won’t matter. The bulk of the enemy force will be trapped
inside.”

“That would work,” another officer spoke up. “We are
already building escape tunnels for each dwarf that has to activate the cave
in. We would just have to hope that none of them are discovered before they can
trigger their area.”

“We can wall them in the day before,” Faengoril said.
“We could also create a few traps inside to slow them down. Let’s not make
anything so overt that they might understand the cave has been manipulated, but
let’s dig a few pits and slicks that the stream inside the cave can hide and
that way their attention will be on the ground, and not the walls. Even if they
did have the time to gaze at the cavern, I doubt they would perceive our
handiwork anyway.” Faengoril pointed to a trio of spots on the map and drew
larger circles with a red pencil. “We could dig a few larger holes here, at
these points. The water from the stream will make them into death traps.”

The officers all saluted and broke out from the group.
Faengoril remained with the map, rehashing the strategy in his mind several
more times. He knew it was risky, but if they prepared well and managed to
camouflage their work, then they would be able to execute the plan without
suffering any casualties. After all, the Tarthuns were nomadic horse-men that
relied on their skill as archers. They would be completely out of their element
inside a cave.

Over the next two days Faengoril oversaw the
preparations personally, picking up a pickaxe himself on several occasions. He
kept his engineers close, making sure that each trigger point was being adequately
prepared, and ensuring that each escape tunnel would be sufficient to enable
the brave volunteer to escape without being crushed in the cave-in. The
commander alternated between each of the trigger points and then moved on to
inspect each trap. He was more than pleased by the depth and span of each hole
and jagged trench cut in the stone. Water from the overflowing stream pooled
into each crevice, hiding the true depth and creating the perfect obstacle for
blundering horsemen who would almost certainly be relying on torches for light.

“I have to admit, this might work,” Captain Benbo said
as they surveyed the last of the pits.

Faengoril nodded as he watched the dozen dwarves who
had dammed off a portion of the stream in order to finish digging their pit
without getting caught in the water themselves. It was pitiless work, but the
commander was certain it would be worth it in the end. “Of course it will
work,” Faengoril said. “Come, I want to inspect the entrance now.”

The commander smiled wide as they made the long trek
through the winding, gently sloping cave. Faengoril led the other officers
around the northern bank of the half-mile long lake in the cavern. A great hole
in the east let in daylight from above. It was a beautiful sight, albeit extremely
dangerous. Even after days in the cave and working around it, there was no way
for any of the engineers to estimate the lake’s depth. The banks dropped off
sharply into what appeared to be a liquid abyss. “It must have taken some
time,” Faengoril said as he pointed to the lake. The officers with him surveyed
the dark water as Faengoril swept his hand out toward the west. “The water
comes in from the east. Our scouts say that there is a stream out there, most
likely from runoff. It bored its way through the soft limestone on that side of
the mountain and then began flowing into this chasm. No way of knowing how many
years it took to fill this pool. I would guess at least centuries, though.”
Faengoril stopped and held both arms out wide to the side. “Don’t even ask me
how long the overflow has been flowing downhill toward the west. That process
must have also taken many, many years. In the end, the water destroyed the
mountain and created this tunnel. It meant the end for the trading post nearby,
and provided an alternate route for the Tarthuns in the east.”

“Why would horsemen come through here?” one of the
officer asked. “I mean, they can’t bring their horses down that entrance slope,
the animals would never make it.”

“They have a large army heading north. There have
already been skirmishes with Grand Master Penthal and the knights of the
Lievonian Order. The Tarthuns would use this underground passage to sneak
around and catch the Lievonian Order on both sides. Once they have a foothold
in the Middle Kingdom, they would be able to launch an assault on Drakei Glazei
directly. With our forces split across the kingdom, we can’t afford to let the
Tarthuns accomplish that.”

Faengoril motioned for the officers to follow him the
rest of the way around the lake. They came to the entrance and a few of them
starting laughing and pointing at the new waterfall.

The commander smiled and bowed proudly. “After the
other fortifications had been ordered, I led a group of twenty dwarves to this
slope under the entrance. We tunneled behind the water that entered the cave
from above in the east, creating a waterfall in place of the slope. The drop is
twelve feet tall, and the slop above it is steep enough that a simple slip
could spell death for the unwary coming through. This will slow them down of
course, but better than that, it will make it nearly impossible for them to
retreat even if they should discover our trigger points farther in the cave.”

“You aren’t afraid that it will scare them off?”
Captain Benbo asked.

“Always the pessimist,” Faengoril grumbled. He shook
his head and folded his thick arms across his barrel-like chest. “No. The only
other way for them is to go north through the normal pass, but that is blocked
by Grand Master Penthal. They would do better to risk losing a few men here
than to travel northward.”

“The Tarthuns will be here sometime tomorrow,” Captain
Benbo said. “We should finish making ready.”

Faengoril nodded. “I have two scouts up at the
entrance. They will alert us when the army draws near. The last estimate put
them at the mouth of the cave by tomorrow afternoon. Let’s go back.”

The others cheered and a couple of dwarves made
falling noises and mimed breaking their backsides. Then they retreated back
around the large lake and into the more narrow part of the cave.

All of the dwarves ate well on that second night. They
posted the watchmen and then they slept.

The scouts woke Faengoril just after dawn. The
bleary-eyed commander yawned and slipped his feet over the boulder he had been
dozing upon. “Are they here?” he asked.

“The Tarthuns have made camp at the base of the
mountain on the eastern slope,” Midger said.

“What are they doing with their horses?” Faengoril
asked. That very question had been keeping him up most of the night. Knowing that
the Tarthuns needed their horses, he wondered if they might have found an
alternate path over which to take the animals, thereby bypassing the cave
altogether.

Midger shrugged. “Most of them have been corralled in
a large area the Tarthuns partitioned off with pine trees they felled last
night. It looks as though this group is preparing to finish the journey on
foot. They have spears and bows, and have put large packs on many of the
warriors.”

Faengoril scratched his head. “If we could scatter or
kill their horses, the Tarthuns would be even more helpless.”

Midger nodded knowingly. “We counted seven thousand
Tarthuns in all. However, it looks like several hundred of them are actually
going to stay behind with the horses.”

Faengoril tugged at his beard. “I would wager they
either go north, to augment the forces embattling Grand Master Penthal, or
perhaps they will take the horses south and come through Hamath Valley.”

Midger shuddered. “If they come through the south,
they will be destroyed by the curse.”

Faengoril turned a fierce eye on the scout. “Only if
the ghost stories are true, Midger, otherwise they have a clean opening to the
southern area.”

Midger smiled condescendingly and turned to the other
scout. “Well of course they are true, sir,” he said. “Everyone knows of the
vanishings in Hamath Valley.”

“Bah,” Faengoril snarled. “I never believed it. It’s
just a story they tell to keep people away.” The scouts looked to each other,
but they let the point drop. Faengoril reached down and fastened his belt. He
had undone it during the night in an effort to get comfortable. He never could
sleep with the buckle digging into the bit of stomach that overlapped the belt.
He then stretched and jerked his head to the side, cracking his neck.
“How long till they enter the cave?”

“They haven’t begun the hike up the slope yet. We did
see some that looked like they were preparing to scout the cave, though, just
before we made our return. Given the size of the group and the items they are
carrying, I would say we should expect the first of them just after noon.
Otherwise, I would say that the Tarthuns are going to make camp at least for
another night.”

Faengoril frowned. “Why make camp at the base of the
hill?” he wondered aloud. “I don’t like it.”

“Sir?”

“If they are making camp, then perhaps they are not
fully decided on going through the cave. Maybe they are considering riding
around to the south through Hamath Valley.” The commander reached up and
stroked his beard. He knew that if they rode quickly, it would only take a few
days longer to go around to the south. It was time they could easily make up
once they were inside the Middle Kingdom compared to walking on foot from here
to the north to fight Penthal’s forces. Not only that, but they would be
deadlier with their horses. “We need to make sure they want to come through the
tunnel.”

“Sir, they wouldn’t survive in Hamath Valley,” Midger
said.

Faengoril shook the notion away. “I do believe in
dragons and magic, but I don’t believe in a ghost army that can destroy seven
thousand Tarthuns,” he said. “I would rather see to that myself.”