Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“She’ll beg me for mercy,” the Black-Gazer continued.

He closed his hand around the head and squeezed until he felt the kender ‘s skull crack. “I will show her none, though-not even that of a quick end. First, I think, I’ll cut out her tongue.” He tore the shattered head from his belt and tossed it away into the bushes like a piece of rotten fruit.

“Why do we wait, then?” Tragor asked hungrily. His black eyes flashed as he looked toward the city. “Why not attack now, as you say, instead of waiting here, watching them watch us?”

“Because,” Kurthak replied evenly, “the time is not yet right. Malys wants us to let them be while she works her magic.”

At the mention of the dragon, Tragor shuddered. “Relying on magic,” he said, his voice thick with disgust. He glanced around him, scowling furiously. “Skulking in the forest. Such things might be proper for elves, but not our people.”

“What would you do, champion?” Kurthak sneered. “Throw yourself at the walls? Charge across that meadow this instant and impulsively batter down the gates?”

“Better than wait here.”

The Black-Gazer laughed roughly. “And the kender within? What would you do with them, when they faced you without fear?”

Tragor’s scowl deepened, and his eyes vanished into the shadows of his massive, lowering brows. “Kill them,” he snapped. “Cut them down, one and all.”

“And probably get cut down yourself, too. You were there at Weavewillow, champion. You saw how they fought to hold us off while many of their fellows escaped. Kender are many things, but cautious isn’t one of them.”

Tragor shook his head darkly. Kurthak was right. At Weavewillow, and at every village before, the kender had fought like badgers. Many ogres had fallen to their slingstones and arrows, hoopaks and chapaks. The kender had refused to relent. It was all part of their nature, their maddening refusal to fear their foes. Now the badgers were in their den-thousands of them-and completely surrounded by the camps of the Black-Gazer’s horde. They would fight even harder, for they had nowhere else to run.

A slow smile lit Kurthak’s face as he regarded his champion. “We have the upper hand, Tragor,” he said. “If we ended this now, it would be too soon. Our advantage over them can only grow. They’re trapped, and that city holds more kender than it can support. In time their supply of rood will run low. The dragon’s magic will cause their wells to run dry. They will grow weak, while we remain strong. How much of a fight will they be able to put up if they’re too feeble from hunger to lift their weapons and draw their bows?

“Besides, if we attacked now, we’d have no choice but to kill them all, as you said,” he continued. “What good would that do us? You forget, we aren’t here to slaughter them-not only, anyway. We began this conquest because we desire slaves. We’ll capture more of them when they’re weak-and they’ll kill fewer of our people as well. That is why we wait.”

“Patience,” Tragor said, and grimaced. “It isn’t an easy thing. My blood runs hot for war.” He pulled his sword out of the ground and began to jab the earth repeatedly with its blade. As he did so, he fixed his eyes on the distant walls.

“But why are there humans among them now?”

Kurthak’s head snapped up. He squinted across the meadow. “Humans? Where?”

“There. Above the gates,” Tragor replied, pointing.

For a moment, Kurthak didn’t see anything. Then his good eye widened with surprise. There were humans-three of them, two men and a woman. There was little more either ogre could tell from so far away.

“Blood of my ancestors,” the Black-Gazer swore in astonishment. “Baloth! Come here!”

The hairless ogre loped to Kurthak’s side, carrying a massive war axe. He was clad in leather armor covered with metal studs, and about his neck he wore an elaborate necklace of bone, claws, and teeth. The necklace was an unmistakable sign of his new place the horde. Since killing Lord Ruog, Baloth had risen to the rank of warlord, answering only to Kurthak himself.

“My lord?” he rasped. “What is your wish? Should we signal the attack?”

“No,” Kurthak said. “Send a scouting party. There are humans on the city wall. I want them described to me.”

Baloth’s expression grew doubtful. “They’ll have to get within range of the archers. Are you sure, my lord?”

“Yes! I’m sure!” Kurthak snapped. His face was dark with anger. “Go.”

Bowing, the hairless ogre sprinted away. Before long, a party of six ogres split off from the camp and started toward Kendermore. Kurthak and Tragor watched as they crossed the meadow. Shouts rang out from the town’s walls, and the kender scrambled into position behind the merlons, readying their weapons. The camps at the edges of the forest stirred, too, as the ogres watched the scouts cross the meadow.

Soon, the thrum of bowstrings carried across the field. Arrows soared high, arcing across the clear, blue sky, then dove at the scouts like angry wasps. One of the ogres fell immediately, his body pierced by the deadly shafts, but the rest raised great wooden shields, deflecting the shots as they pressed closer. The kender loosed a second flight, then a third. Another scout caught an arrow in his shoulder, spun with the force of the blow, and swiftly died, another shaft lodged in the back of his skull.

The remaining four scouts stopped barely a hundred yards from the wall. Arrows and stones fell upon them like hail, but they did not falter. They peered out from behind their shields, up at the top of the wall.

Two of the humans-the men-stood at the battlements, firing longbows along with the kender. The woman had disappeared from view. The scouts stared at the two men for a few heartbeats, then turned and started to run, back toward the woods.

One died, his back riddled with arrows, before he could take two steps. Another fell before he took ten. A victorious whoop rose from the walls. A third nearly made it to safety, then caught an arrow in his leg and collapsed. He tried to crawl and was pierced six more times before he finally lay still. The last scout won clear, however, and continued to run, even when he was out of bowshot. His eyes flared with wild desperation, as if the legions of Chaos pursued him.

Baloth loped from the tree line to meet the scout and had to catch his arm and drag him to a halt. The scout rested a moment, catching his breath, then, made his way to Kurthak. Baloth walked behind, axe in hand.

“What news?” the Black-Gazer demanded as they approached.

“My lord,” the scout said, and bowed. “They are two men, dressed in leather and furs. One wears a feathered headdress.”

Tragor spat. “Barbarians,” he sneered. He looked at Kurthak. “From the Dairlies.”

The Black-Gazer pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve never seen a Dairly barbarian in a feathered headdress.” He glowered at the scout. “What else can you say about them?” he demanded. “Their faces! Their hair!”

“They looked… like humans,” the scout said lamely, quivering before the hetman’s wrath. “The feathered one was old… white hair. Many wrinkles. He wore a fur vest, and his arms were bare except for bracers. And-he was very tall… for a human. The younger one spoke to him.”

“Yes?” Kurthak thundered, his eyes widening. “Did you hear what he said?”

The scout hesitated, his eyes flicking about as if he sought to flee the Black-Gazer’s sight. Baloth raised his axe, but Kurthak stayed his hand with a glare.

“What did he say?” Kurthak boomed again. “Tell me!”

“I-didn’t hear all of it, my lord,” the scout said hesitantly. “We couldn’t get dose enough. But he called the older one his chief, and spoke his name.”