A Dance With Demons

PROLOGUE

He stretched his arms, flexing his muscles as he looked around and wondered where he was. As he racked his brain, he couldn’t remember where he’d been, nor how he’d gotten here. It was, he concluded, a most disturbing feeling. He vowed to do something about it quickly.

Looking around, he surveyed his surroundings. This is not home! He could see…

trees? No, wait. That was…. Grass. Yes, that was it. Grass!

Grass? But how could that be? No one of his kind had seen grass for many thousands of years. None of his kind had been anywhere near anything even resembling grass in all that time. He continued to look around, drinking in his surroundings.

If there’s grass, there is also… life! He sighed ponderously. He didn’t even remember how long it had been since he had been around so much life. He inhaled deeply, and he could smell the scent of so much life all around him. It was, he admitted, quite…. intoxicating.

How did I get here? How did I leave my home and come to this place? How have I left the embrace of Lord Grummish? His vision was blurry, and seemed to be taking forever to clear. He relaxed, and let the fragrances of this place bring him a feeling of bliss that he had not felt since…..

A voice cut through the haze. Do you know where you are, Great One?

His eyes snapped open. Mortal! But where? He looked around. Somewhere where I can end your pitiful existence, puny one. He looked about and saw the one who spoke to him. So small! He started to march over toward the mortal, ready to grab it and eat it, the first chance to satisfy his bloodlust after so many centuries. He could already taste it – such tender, succulent mortal flesh. He was dizzy with anticipation as his claws extended with a schnik.

He was then stopped by a force, magical in nature – and powerful. He slammed against the invisible wall, bellowing first in frustration that sharpened quickly into pain, bursting into red hot rage as the small mortal started to laugh at him. You can not get past my barrier, Great One. Not without my help, at least. I assure you, it is foolish to try. I have spent many moons practicing this spell, and Lord Grummish himself has granted me the boon which I have used to complete it.

Frustrated, he stood back, considering his options. They were, he realized after much thought, rather limited. Were this shaman not here, this barrier not present, even one so seemingly skilled in the arcane arts would not pose a challenge to him. But now, as it was….

He was a killer. He knew that, and it was obvious the puny mortal who had summoned him did so as well, or it would not have taken such great precautions to prevent his escape. But he was so close! A growl rumbled up from deep in his belly as he bared his fangs, barely able to suppress a roar of frustration. The mortal’s laughter only made the situation more intolerable.

Gradually, he allowed his claws to retract, and sat down. He realized that he could wait. Unlike the mortal who had called and trapped him, he had no need of rest or sleep, and could wait weeks between meals. He told the tiny little thing as much.

Oh, I’m sure you’re right, it said, a sneer on its face. But I have kin. They can relieve me. And before long, the smells of this plain will drive you mad with anticipation, and then you will be mine to command.

He laughed at that. Such…. effrontery amused him. I doubt that, fleshy one. I seriously doubt one of your kind could ever outlast me.

Perhaps, Nosfilium-Amnorach. Perhaps.

It knows my name! How could this be! He tried to control his surprise. This mortal had too much control over him if it knew his name. He must be cautious. He spread his arms wide. Perhaps, little mortal, I spoke too soon. It is obvious your power is great, or you could not have called me here. Why have you done so?

A half smile crossed the mortal’s face. To serve me.

Serve you? I serve no one but the Lord Grummish! I am his to command!

Perhaps, perhaps. But service to me has rewards as well, Great One. The mortal paused. When it started to speak again, he could tell it was being less than truthful with him. Then again, it did appear to have the upper hand, so he would have to play along – at least for now.

Tell me, the mortal continued. When was the last time you walked this land?

Many, many turnings of the moon ago. Longer than even I can remember.

Hmmm. It seems as if your Lord Grummish has not rewarded you well for your service, has he? Tell me, when was the last time you tasted the flesh of a mortal?

Too long ago. And so, soon enough, I will taste yours.

Nosfilium-Amnorach was not known for his patience, and what little that he had was almost gone. What do you want, mortal?

As I said, service. Service you will enjoy, and for which I will reward you. Reward you well.

What kind of service?

Doing that which you do best. Spreading havoc, killing those too weak to live. Furthering the goals of our Lord Grummish on this plane.

Why should I do this instead of simply eating you and departing when you tire of maintaining this shield?

You forget, Great One. I know your name. You are mine to command, Nosfilium-Amnorach.

He shuddered at the use of his true name. I see your point, mortal. Even so, what will you grant me for this service?

Freedom.

Freedom?

Yes, Great One. Perform for me this boon – lay waste to the unfaithful of The People, slaughtering those who do not truly follow Lord Grummish, and I will grant you your freedom. I shan’t return you to that from which you came, but will allow you to remain on this plain. Destroy my enemies, and this I will grant you.

For how long?

The mortal smiled at him again. As long as it takes you to complete the task.

He sat back, his small warrior’s brain feverishly considering his options. He had, he quickly concluded again, very few. And besides, this task sounded enjoyable. And he could deal with the one who brought him here soon enough, gaining freedom on his terms, not its.

He looked up at the mortal from where he sat. I find your terms agreeable, mortal. Now, who would you have me kill first? He sat down as the little mortal shaman stood there and explained its wishes to him. This, he concluded, will be a lot of fun…

CHAPTER 1 - AT THE HAPPY ORC TAVERN

Tarn Nohmahl slipped deeper into his chair, pulling his cloak tighter to protect himself from the draft blowing in through the poorly caulked window to his rear. His eyes scanned the room, observing the half-drunken priest arm wrestling at the bar and the five men dicing in the corner, as well as the attractive young woman watching the men dice. She’s one to keep an eye on, he thought, noticing that she had the distinctive pouches of a magic user attached to her belt, as well the twin daggers at her hips.

The Happy Orc wasn’t the finest inn in Traazon Keep, but it wasn’t the worst, either. Not that were that many to choose from, Tarn mused, in a border town like this one, and especially since the wars – both the dynastic struggles back in the heartland and the orc raids from across the Ishkar River. Those facts had driven large numbers of peasants to seek the protection offered by the garrison of the keep, and swelled the dusty little military town’s population, filling the inns of the town nearly to bursting.

Actually, as he considered his situation, he realized he was lucky to get a room at all. He mulled over the situation as he picked at the half-eaten stew in his bowl. Six months ago, Galfrith, the King of the vast land known as Averim, had died suddenly after being gored during a hunting expedition. As he had been only twenty-one, and not yet married, he left no heirs. At least no legitimate ones, Tarn thought.

As a result, the various barons and earls had fallen over themselves trying to put forth the best claim for the throne. At first, it had seemed as if Earl Tannismore, the dead King’s sole surviving uncle, would claim the throne. An assassin’s poisoned arrow had ended that claim rather quickly. However, no one had yet claimed responsibility – nor had the assassin been caught. The dead King’s two closest cousins then spent the next three months arguing about which of them had the best claim – and denying that they’d murdered their uncle. Neither of them had the political acumen to run a hostelry, let alone a kingdom, so none of the other nobles would follow them. The four March Lords had even tried to set up a sort of government by committee, but none of the four trusted any of the others any farther than they could throw them.

All of which had brought about the current situation. Earl Windmore, Lord of the Northern Marches and Lord Protector of the capital of Averim City, the single most powerful of the four March Lords, had called in his banners and started to march on the city of Klhangore, the capital of the Southern Marches. His southern opposite, Lady Amorella, had called up her own banners to make her own claim for the throne. Three weeks ago the two armies had met at the river Maajal, a hundred leagues south of the city of Averim. In a three-day battle, ten thousand men had been killed.

The fools. All they’d done was kill a lot of soldiers for no gain. Both armies had retreated, licking their wounds, each noble calling on the other two Earls to join them. So far, neither of the them had joined up with either side – Earl Proudmore of the west claiming that he couldn’t decide who had the better claim, but in reality waiting to back the certain victor; and Earl Stoutheart of the east claiming to be preoccupied with protecting the realm from the orcs.

Not that he seemed to be doing much about it. Ever since the Battle of the Maajal, Earl Stoutheart had been pulling his troops back from their patrols along the river Ishkar and sending them to his borders with the heartland March Lords. Sensing an opportunity, the orcs, who constantly tested the human lands for signs of weakness, started raiding into the kingdom in numbers not seen in a hundred years, thinning the already small population of the border provinces. Now, with orc clans running rampant, half of the people who remained seemed to be living here under the protection of the Keep’s garrison.

Tarn chewed a piece of beef as he watched the pretty red-haired girl. He tried to guess her age, but couldn’t decide if she was as young as he thought or if he was just getting old. She seemed to be attempting to join the dice game, but she spent more time fending off the drunken cattlemen gathered around the table. One of them leered at her, and she smiled half-heartedly at him until he said something Tarn couldn’t make out. More swiftly than he thought possible, she drew one of the daggers from her belt, placing it at the man’s throat. Her clear soprano voice rang out across the common room. I suggest you rethink that statement, Lars.

The cattleman called Lars froze, but his friends didn’t. All four of them immediately stood up, the largest of them flexing his meaty hands as he reached for a large cudgel. A long scar on his cheek twitched as the burly man muttered, You don’t want to do that, girl.

She turned to him, flashing him an ever-so-innocent smile. Do what? Slice this oaf’s useless head from his even more useless body? Why wouldn’t I want to do that? She drew the blade tighter to Lars’s neck, leaving a razor-thin line of blood behind.

The huge man behind the bar grabbed his own cudgel from a rack behind him. Nyla, let him be. Lars was just kidding, weren’t you, Lars?

By the hells! Lars yelled. This little trollop is talking her fancy talk again, but still won’t walk the walk. This is the last time I put up with her–! Tarn watched as the man squirmed. His four friends stepped closer, making ready to attack the girl. Out of the corner of his eye, Tarn saw the sodden priest stand up from his spot by the bar and begin to move over towards the brewing fight.

The barkeep smacked his club against his hand. Nyla, let him go. I don’t need any blood spilled here, and while I’m sure Lars said something he shouldn’t have, I’m just as sure you started it.

The girl flinched for just a second, glancing over her shoulder. Bear….! That was all the time Lars needed. In an instant, he slipped free from her blade, and before she could react, he leapt up and wrapped one hand around her throat, with the other grasping her blade hand.

Yer comin’ with me this time, Nyla girl, aren’t yah? the big man grunted. No more games. She gasped as he squeezed her wrist, and the blade dropped to the floor. His grin flashed wide, showing the stumps of a badly rotten set of teeth, and he began to back slowly toward the door.

The barkeep’s voice called across the room. Let her go Lars. You know you can’t do that.

Do what? Get what I got coming? He kept talking as he backed up, his four companions assuming flanking positions around him and causing other patrons and who might have stepped in to reconsider their actions. The five men kept their eyes on the customers and the barman as they backed toward the door.

Tarn, however, noticed that none of their eyes were where they should be – on the girl. He saw her left hand dip surreptitiously into the pouch on her belt and grab a pinch of something. She dropped that pinch on the floor, and muttered a few words in the old language, "Cogniath varnatu nosfidum!" One of the cattlemen heard her and yelled a warning, but it was too late. Lars grunted as if hit in the gut and crumpled to the floor, fast asleep.

The largest of the four grabbed his cudgel and swung at her, yelling, Hadar take her! She’s a spell slinger! Get her!

The girl ducked underneath his swing and jumped back, pulling the other dagger from her belt. Her eyes swung from left to right, judging which of the four men moving in to surround her was the biggest threat. They sneered at her, but Tarn saw that she was holding her fear in check. She’s liable to get herself killed though, mage or not. He sighed deeply and stood up, wondering which of the drunken louts to take on first.

Before he could decide, the priest moved across the room toward the man with the scar on his cheek, moving with a wrestler’s quiet grace. He slammed into the man, bowling him over, and then the fight was on. The burly priest grabbed a second cowboy and shouted a slurred Leave the girl alone! as he wrapped both arms around his chest, holding him in a wrestler’s move. The cattleman used his immense weight to struggle free, even managing to throw a punch that momentarily stunned the priest.

The cattleman and the priest continued to grapple, both men looking for leverage to pin the other, but not succeeding; the priest’s lithe agility matched against the size and brute strength of the larger man. Tarn guessed that the priest would have quickly manhandled the cattleman, though – had he been sober.

The cattleman’s companions, meanwhile, flung themselves at the girl, who moved with the agility of a dancer, dodging one attack after another. As the first one rushed at her, she stuck out her leg at the last second, tripping him and sending him smashing into a nearby table. Then she pirouetted away and unleashed a savage kick to the second one’s groin, leaving him doubled over in pain, clutching at himself and moaning. The third cattleman, smaller than his friends, learned from his companions’ mistakes: he stepped back, pulling at his full beard and taunting the girl, forcing her to come to him.

Tarn noticed that the first of the three had regained his composure – and his footing. He began to move slowly toward the girl, all the while keeping himself out of her line of sight. Now that’s not very sporting of him, Tarn thought. He moved from his table by the door, edging closer to the fight, deciding whether to intervene – and on whose side, he admitted to himself. The barman – Bear, he remembered – came out from behind the bar, brandishing his cudgel like a battle mace, bellowing Break it up! That’s enough! So help me, if I have to split some heads…. He never finished. Scar-on-his-face, still wrestling with the priest, grabbed the big cleric by the shoulders. Picking him up with a mighty heave, he flung him into the barkeeper; the two of them landed with a bone-crunching thud. With that, he turned to the girl, who now had three of the cattlemen circling her.

Well, that settles it, Tarn thought as he watched the last of the other patrons scurry out the door. He moved to the closest of the cattlemen and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around with a slurred Wuuh? just as Tarn’s right hook connected solidly with his nose, and he collapsed as blood spurted.

Yowf bowke my nowf! The man tried to swing at Tarn, but he dodged easily and sent a kick to the hip that sent the cattleman flying into a table, where he collapsed with a thud.

Meanwhile, Nyla used the distraction that Tarn had provided for her. She jumped up and quickly delivered a flying kick to one man’s head. She then spun in mid-air, facing Scar-on-his-face as she landed. She threw a sharp kick into his chest and, as he collapsed backwards, then slammed her elbow into the neck of the short one, who slumped down, gasping for breath. The bearded one stood back up and rushed into her blind side, toppling her over at Tarn’s feet. The cattleman raised his fist to knock her out, but Tarn grabbed his hand in mid air and squeezed. Let her go if you know what’s good for you, Tarn told him in a matter-of-fact voice.

And who ‘n Hadar’s name are you? He winced as Tarn squeezed harder.

Someone who doesn’t like having his dinner disturbed. Now, I said, Let. Her. Go. He put the authority of all his years as a knight in the royal army into his voice. The man looked up at him, and Tarn saw fear in his eyes for the first time.

It’s over, Gunter, Bear said, straightening his apron as he came over. Lars is still out, and your buddy there won’t be talking straight for a while. And Ander there won’t be eating for a while, neither. Tarn noticed that scar-on-his-face – Ander, he presumed – was spitting out a couple of teeth. Gunter made as if he was going to try to resist, but all the fight went out of him as a pair of the City Watch entered the inn.

One of the burly guardsmen grunted, Having a little trouble again, Bear?

Bear scowled indignantly. Whaddya mean, again? I don’t tolerate fights and you know it, Sergeant!

The Sergeant smiled slyly. I know, Bear. I’m just sick of breaking up fights. With all these refugees in the city, we’re running outta room in lockup. He sighed. Which ones do you want me to bring down? I’m not promising that the magistrate will do more ‘n warn ‘em good, but he’s trying, by the gods.

Well, you’ll have to ask Nyla here. She was making conversation with Lars there… Bear indicated the still-sleeping man on the floor. Apparently she said something he didn’t like, so he attacked her. Said something about ‘getting what was his.’ Then she cast a spell on him, and that’s when the fight started.

The guardsman gave the girl a re-appraising look as she put her dagger back in its scabbard. That true, Miss? She nodded. You wanna come with us and make a statement to the magistrate? If Bear here says that’s what happened, I believe him, but the Magistrate will want to here it from you.

She hopped down off of the table with a smile. Don’t worry about it, Sarge. I’m sure you have better things to do than to take care of a bunch of two-bit thugs like these.

Unconvinced, the sergeant grabbed Gunter by the scruff of his neck and pulled him to his feet. You sure? I’ve had run-ins with these louts before. They’re naught but trouble, if you know what I mean.

Her smile deepened as she flipped her long red hair away from her face, and Tarn decided that she was really quite beautiful when she wasn’t trying to slit someone’s throat. I’m sure, Sergeant. And if they try anything else, well…. She pulled a bit of something out of her pouch. I’ll just put him to sleep again and come find you. She kicked at the still-sleeping Lars. Just get ‘em outta here, and see that they give Bear a few crowns for his broken table.

The Sergeant turned toward Bear, an amused grin on his face. Right considerate of her to look after you like that, ain’t she? Bear scowled and mumbled something under his breath, and the sergeant laughed quietly. All right then, get your lazy arse up! Gunter, give the man half a dozen crowns and get your sorry butts outta here. Gunter howled indignantly, yelling about his nose, but reluctantly dug the money out of his coin pouch when the second guardsman raised his fist in warning. They pulled the other cowboys up and walked out the door while the men cursed about how unfair it was, loudly yelling She started it! Tarn couldn’t help but laugh as the guardsman cuffed him upside the back of his head and told him to move on.

Bear scowled as the other men left the inn, glaring at the girl. Nyla Ferrek, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, girl. If you weren’t kin, I’d throw you out of here so fast….. This is the third fight you’ve started this week!

Tarn glanced back and forth between the old man and the girl. She looked downward, hiding her face from her uncle.

I’m sorry Uncle Ben. I try to stay outta trouble, but….. She looked up, flashing her smile. Tarn’s estimate of her age went down by several years.

Bear’s scowl deepened, but Tarn noticed the glint in his eye, indicating he wasn’t as mad as he appeared. His voice was as gruff as ever as he spoke. Between feeding you, paying for your schooling with that mad old mage down at the guild, and replacing all the furniture you break during these bar fights... Well, bygones at this point. I promised your mother I’d supply your lodgings, and so I will. But I WILL add the cost of three more broken tables on the tab you owe me once you’re done schooling! She started to protest, but Bear cut her off. You’re eighteen now, Nyla. Most girls your age would be married with a brood of young ‘uns under their skirts. But you carry on with this idea of being a mage... I can’t deny that you’ve got some of the gift. The way you put that stinking fool Lars to sleep proves that. But you will learn to take responsibility for your actions, or I’ll see you sent back to your Mother so quick….! The volume of her gasp let Tarn know he had struck a nerve.

Bear laughed. Help me clean up now, girl. While you’re at it, why don’t you introduce yourself to the two men who helped bail you out of trouble this time?

She looked up and smiled, her green eyes flashing brightly. I must apologize for my Uncle, she said as she helped pull the priest up. I know he means well, but… Tarn watched a flicker of amusement in the priest’s eye. I’m Nyla Ferrek, and I’m sure you heard my uncle tell my life story. And you are...?

The priest looked at her, and smiled as he bowed deeply. I have the pleasure to be Shield Brother Logan Trask, priest of Voluge, at your service.

Tarn glanced at the priest, surprised. Voluge was the dwarven god of war. Very few non-dwarves followed that religion. Priests of Voluge tended to follow their deity in composure – quiet, taciturn – downright sour, in fact. However, they also tended to make stalwart friends and implacable foes. He took measure of the man – Brother Logan must have been at least six foot five inches and as wide as he was tall, dark hair and dark brown, almost black eyes; strongly built, he looked as if he could fight all day and drink all night. He also looked young. Not so young as the girl, but younger than Tarn’s own thirty years. Tarn guessed that the man was somewhere in his mid twenties.

The girl turned to Tarn and gave him a quick once-over, obviously taking stock of how he was dressed and armed. And you, good sir Knight? she said with a flourish.

He scowled. I’m not a knight, girl. Not anymore. That was a long time ago. I used to serve old King Tanric with pride, but not since his bastard of a son came to the throne….. Tarn glanced around the room, and then spat on the floor. Hadar’s welcome to that corrupt little bugger’s soul, may the hells take him. A few eyes looked up at him from around the room. A dead King’s soul, even one as unloved as Galfrith had been, was something not spoken of so lightly. Tarn paused. Sorry, lass. I shouldn’t lay my problems on you. I am Tarn Nohmahl, man-at-arms, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.

She raised an eyebrow at him and flicked her long red hair to one side. She’s an elf! he thought, seeing the points on her ears. Or at least, part elf. No wonder her family wouldn’t claim her. You’re a mercenary? Tarn started to object, but Nyla cut him off. S’okay. I’m fine with that. You look like a good person to have at one’s back in a fight, so the fact that you’re a sell-sword doesn’t bother me. She glanced back and forth between the two men, and swallowed once. Thanks. It’s kinda hard for me to admit that I needed help, but I guess I did. I owe you both one. She turned back to her uncle to help him clean up.

Tarn glanced at the priest, who now seemed much less drunk than Tarn had first supposed. Well, Shield Brother Logan. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Let me buy you another ale. After that, I know I could use one. Tarn turned to Bear and flagged him down. The big man brought over two mugs, and when Tarn started to grab a silver coin out of his pouch, Bear waved him off.

It’s the least I can do t’ thank you for saving my niece – and my bar. Sometimes I’m not sure which I value more. He shook his head as he walked away.

Tarn sat down on a stool. So, shield brother. How does a human end up becoming a priest of Voluge?

Logan grunted. It’s a long story short in the telling, I’m afraid. My father was a caravan guard for a dwarven merchant on the run between Guernas and Citadel Carnoth. Being headstrong, young, and stupid – and without a mother to care for me – I joined him when I was fifteen. We were attacked by troll raiders as we headed up into the mountains, and my father and his employer were both killed. Uncle Grim, as I call him now, was a high ranking priest in Voluge’s order, and the brother of Da’s old employer. After Da died, Grim took me in and saw to my education. I learned a lot from him, and found that I liked the crusading nature of their priesthood. After taking clerical rites, I came back south on several caravan runs, and eventually east, working as guard and cleric on runs up the King’s Way. I got here about a week ago, but my employer is afraid to leave with all the orc war bands running around.

Tarn grunted an acknowledgement. Logan looked at him and said So now what’s your story? You seem none too fond of yon King Galfrith.

Tarn took a long swallow of his ale. Aye, your right. I served for three years in King Tanric’s horse guards as a squire to Sir Alec, and as a full Knight myself for seven more years. Then, three years ago, Galfrith ordered us across the river to ‘end the orc raids.’ Tarn wiped the ale from his beard before he continued. The only problem was that for Galfrith, ending the raids meant ‘slaughter all we met.’ He ordered us to put to the sword any orc we found – male, female, old, young – it didn’t matter. He paused for a moment before continuing. "Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no love for the orcs or their dark god. But I can’t accept an order that says a whole race is good only to be slaughtered.

"I went out that first time, and after I saw the faces of those younglings… I refused to go out again. I begged Sir Alec to let me stay at the keep; guard merchant caravans – slop out the horse stalls… anything. But Alec insisted that, much as I might find the order distasteful, I was bound by my oath to my King.

And so, for my convictions, I was discharged from the King’s service, never to serve my country again. To be honest, I wasn’t all that broken up about it. Any King who gave an order to slaughter like that isn’t worth my service anyway.

Tarn looked away as Logan put his hand on his shoulder. If it’s anything to you, I think you made the right decision. The gods know I have no reason to love the orcs, but indiscriminate slaughter is never the answer.

Both men looked up at the same time as the door swung open. A voice called across the common room. Well, Tarn. I should have known I’d find you here. Still swallowing your pride – along with all that ale – after three years? Tarn looked up and stared daggers into the eyes of his old commander – Sir Alec Nuvall, Master of the King’s Horse Guards at Traazon Keep.

CHAPTER 2 - TRACKING ORCS

Tarn took a few seconds to gather himself before saying anything. Evening, Alec. Bar fights don’t normally bring you this far from the castle, so I can only assume you’re here to annoy me some more.

The Knight snorted contemptuously. Don’t flatter yourself, Nohmahl. You may have fooled me into thinking you were a good man once, but now you’re nothing but gutter trash. You’re lucky that the court-martial let you off with a simple dishonorable discharge. Tarn did have to admit that was true. A hand-picked docket of those most loyal to King Galfrith had made sure that his trial would be a mockery. Only the personal intervention of Baron Mournfell had saved him from the headsman. Alec continued, Sorry to deflate your ego, Nohmahl, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. You may have noticed we have more than a few refugees in town right now, and that most of them are talking about orcs?

I’m not stupid, Alec. Much as you’d like to think so.

Alec grunted. "Right. Well, with the garrison stretched so thin patrolling the river and trying to keep order here in the city, we’re looking for trackers. Apparently an orc war band is operating from a camp a few days north of the Keep, and has attacked Redwatch and some of the other outlying villages. Baron Mournfell instructed me to scour the city for anyone who can track them to their lair and bring the location back to us. Once you find them, my men will do the rest.

More like slaughter them in their sleep, Tarn thought. I wish you well, Alec. But as you can see, there isn’t anyone here who can help you.

Alec scowled at him. I should have known you were still a coward, Nohmahl. His hand traced an arc through the air. Take a look around you. Don’t you see how many people are in this city? You know as well as I do that we can’t support them all. As it is the Baron is having to dip into the royal treasury to feed all these people, and food is going fast even at the prices that the grain merchants are now charging. Tarn looked down at the empty stew bowl on the counter and realized he couldn’t disagree with that, at least. But I suppose what they say about you is right. I had my doubts before, but you really are a coward.

Who’s a coward? Nyla bounced down the steps into the common room, a pail of wash water in one hand.

Logan looked up from his ale and turned toward Nyla. Sir Alec here was just telling us that Tarn is a coward for not following unlawful orders two years ago. Alec scowled at the priest, but said nothing. Nyla, however, turned to the Knight.

Tarn is no coward, Sir Knight. He helped me put a band of thugs in their place right here not twenty minutes ago. Alec’s response was to simply raise an eye. So if you’re done with your false insinuations, what business do you have here?

With that, Alec’s raised eyebrow turned into an amused smile. And just who might you be, girl, to address a representative of the crown so flippantly?

Nyla harrumphed. I am Nyla Ferrek, and my uncle owns this inn. And, last time I checked, we could still say what we wanted to ungrateful men in this country. Logan reached up and put a hand on her shoulder, and motioned to her to be quiet, but she shrugged him off. Now, I repeat, why are you here?

Tarn was worried that Alec would do something rash, but instead he just laughed. Girl, you have all the sense of a griffon whelp, and less brains. Were my day not going so poorly, I might object to your tone. But, as it is, I will say this. He raised his voice, announcing to the room, I am Sir Alec Neuvall, Lord Commander of the King’s garrison at the Keep, and I seek anyone who has enough skill to track down an orc war band. You need not confront them; simply track them back to their lair and let us at the Keep do the rest. His call was greeted by silence.

Alec scowled, muttering to himself. He turned to Tarn, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Not even you, Nohmahl?

Tarn clenched his fist slowly, endeavoring to keep control of his emotions. He cleared his throat and was about to respond when Nyla spoke up.

I can do it. I’ll track your orcs for you.

The sound of Sir Alec’s laughter filled the room. You, girl? What can a comely young wench like you possibly know about tracking orcs?

More than enough to follow a simple war band, Sir Knight. Of that I assure you. All it requires is a simple bit of knowledge and some common sense, and following the footprints of a few dozen orcs isn’t that hard. Now Tarn knew why Sir Alec couldn’t do it himself – it was obvious that he possessed neither knowledge nor common sense.

Sir Alec waved his hand in acknowledgement. Yes, girl. Talk is cheap. What proof do you have that you won’t simply get yourself killed? A wench is more liable to end up in some orc slave caravan than finding their lair, as far as I am concerned. That was also very true, Tarn thought. She may have fought off some drunken cattlemen, but an orc war band? It’s been nice knowing her.

Shield Brother Logan interjected before she could respond, I’ll vouch for her safety, my Lord. I am in need of honest work, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t end up as an orc’s harem girl.

Alec rolled his eyes. So now I am to trust this mission to a tavern girl and a drunken priest? What is the safety of the kingdom coming to? He paused. As much as I’d like to say yes, girl, I cannot. Quite honestly, I don’t think you two would last thirty seconds against an orc war band, let alone long enough to get back with the information I need. I suppose I’ll simply have to do it myself.

Tarn looked at his former commander. He recognized the look in Alec’s eyes – recognized and feared it. He knew if Alec went after those orcs, he would kill them before he could find out anything about why they were raiding in such numbers, and more importantly, their whole clan would die. Alec would slaughter them all – every man, woman and child – simply because they were orcs. Tarn couldn’t allow that. He grasped his now empty ale stein, and said softly, I’ll vouch for them, Alec. I will guarantee their safety.

Alec scoffed. You? An orc lover? Why should I let you help them? You’ll probably let the orcs go on their merry way!

Tarn shoved his chair back and stood up in a flash, his hand on the dagger at his side. No! I simply won’t slaughter them all for no reason! Any orc engaged in combat, yes, I’ll put down and not feel guilty about it. But I won’t kill them for being orcs! What happened to you, Alec? You used to be a Knight with honor, who followed the code. Now you simply murder the King’s ‘enemies’!

For a second, Alec hesitated as Tarn’s accusation seemed to cut him. "It isn’t that simple, Nohmahl. I swore an oath to the King, same as you. We may not always agree with him on what that oath entails, but it binds us to his orders. You broke that oath, and for that, I can never forgive you.

Normally, I would take the challenge you just gave me and fight you right here. But the fact is that I am desperate. I have two hundred men-at-arms at the keep to patrol over a hundred miles of river. More orcs cross the river each day, and no one seems to know what is driving them to do so. Every man I have is busy patrolling and watching his own neck, or I wouldn’t be in this position."

Just for a second, Alec’s guard had come down, and Tarn remembered the man he had served for over five years. That second soon passed, the scowl quickly returning to his face. "Be at the main gate at dawn. The Castellian will provide you with horses and