The Bowl of Souls: Book 01.5 - Hilt's Pride (20 page)

“What’s the problem?” Willum looked
down,
trying to see what was bothering the man. The base of the wall was clear of enemies for a good two hundred yards on this side of the school as the army tried to keep out of shooting distance. But there was one group of goblinoids that were gathered in a bit closer than the others. They were the chanters. There were groups of them all around the wall. A mixed group of orcs, gorcs, and goblins sat cross-legged on the ground, slightly swaying back and forth, chanting loudly. They had been at it for days. Every once in a while one of them would pass out and be dragged away, but they were always replaced.

“I don’t like the sound of that grunting down there,” Swen said, his voice a low monotone.

“Yeah, it gives me the shivers.”

“What do you think they are doing?” Swen asked.

Willum had asked Coal the same question the night before. He had relayed his memory of the chant and had Coal pass it on to Bettie. Her answer had been unsettling.

“They’re chanting a prayer to the Dark Prophet,” Willum said. “They ask him to bring the wall down.”

“Oh.” Swen’s face paled. The big man lifted his massive bow and pulled a long arrow from his quiver. Swen’s bow was nearly as tall as Willum and as thick as his forearm. Swen had named it Windy. It had been reinforced with runes to keep it from weathering or cracking and most of the other students couldn’t even string it, much less shoot with it. Even Mad Jon, the archery teacher, had difficulty with firing it.

“Be careful,” Willum said. “You know the rules. We aren’t supposed to waste any arrows.
Only fire if they come in range.”

Swen looked at him in surprise. “Have you ever known me to miss?” He focused on the group chanting below. “I figure the one with the black feathers on his armor is the leader.”

Willum peered down and located the orc Swen spoke of. It wore some kind of headdress bristling with something like feathers and walked among the rows of chanting orcs waving its arms about as if to encourage them to chant louder. “He does look the most energetic.”

Swen pulled the arrow back to his ear, the muscles on his arms taught with the strain.

“It’ll just . . . make it.” Swen grunted. Willum heard the wood creak as he gave it an extra pull. Swen sucked in,
then
slowly released his breath as he fired.

Willum saw the arrow arc out, but lost track of it for most of the distance until he saw the black-feathered orc squirm and squeal. The arrow had it struck it in the belly. The chanting stopped and the goblinoids pointed urgently at the top of the wall. Swen waved. Several of them grabbed their dying leader and they retreated back another fifty yards.

“Great shot!”
Willum said.

“Hit it in the belly,” Swen said with a slight frown. “I was aiming for its neck.”

“Can you hit another one?” Willum asked. They were startled now. If another went down, they might not be able to chant so freely.

Swen shook his head.
“Just out of range.”

“Well I’m here now. You can go rest if you want,” Willum said. “Unless you want to move further along the wall and see if you can disperse some more chanters.”

The tall man smiled. “Good idea.” He pulled another arrow from his quiver and walked down the wall looking for more targets.

Willum took his place and looked down at the mass of beasts below. A cool breeze blew and the smell that wafted up was horrible. The air on this side of the academy used to smell of tilled earth and pine trees. Now it stank of beasts and filth and cook fires mixed with an underlying rot.

Willum shuddered. It was hard to believe that this was all the work of his uncle.