Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

The village was small, a cluster of homes and shops arranged along two narrow streets and some connecting alleys. It was a homey enough scene, and a place that Bronwyn had enjoyed the time or two she had passed through. Most of the houses were low and small, cozily thatched with straw. A stork dozed in a nest built on an unused chimney. The large, outdoor clay oven that baked all the village bread still gave off a pleasant heat and a warm, yeasty aroma. The toy shop was closed, the doors and shutters barred, and the whole guarded by a large and rather hungry-looking dog.

“Might be this should wait until morning,” Ebenezer suggested as he eyed the softly growling guardian.

Bronwyn awoke in the grip of a nightmare, thrashing at her covers and struggling to get away from the demons that howled and roared through her dream.

“Hush, now!” admonished a stern dwarf voice. Strong hands seized her arms and shook her awake. “You’re to stay here and watch over the girl.”

As she emerged from sleep, Bronwyn realized that the nightmare had roots in reality as well as memory. Beyond the window was a hellish cacophony of shrieks, thundering hooves, and the clash of steel on steel. Above it all roared and hissed the hungry voice of fire. Bright tongues of it leaped up to lick at the night sky.

Bronwyn kicked off her covers and tugged on her boots. Her mind shoved old fears into the background and nimbly assessed the situation. Their rented room was large, a single open chamber that took up the entire second floor of the cottage. There was but one door, and the windows had shutters. She could keep invaders out for quite some time, and if need be, Cara could always use her gems to escape.

She shot a glance over at the little girl. Cara’s face was set, but calm. She walked over to the window and stared at the orc who had pinned two half-elven villagers against the clay oven. Suddenly a fire leaped up from the ground, licking up high between the creature’s splayed legs. The orc yodeled in pain and surprise and stumbled back.

“I can help,” Cara said adamantly, turning to face Bronwyn. Her brown-eyed gaze dared Bronwyn to try to send her away.

“You’ll go if necessary,” Bronwyn felt compelled to say.

“And not until.”

She nodded in agreement, and they settled down to wait.

In the streets below, Ebenezer had to chuckle when the bit of wizard fire roasted the orc. He wondered, briefly, if Cara could do that again.

Not that they needed any more fire. Four cottages at the east side of the village were ablaze, utterly beyond saving. The orcs didn’t seem interested in putting the torch to anything else, though. They were here to loot, and fairly desperate about it.

It seemed to Ebenezer, though, that there was a bit of vendetta thrown in. There was a craziness to the attack, a wild, bloodlusting lack of know-how and think-it-through that made the critters harder to fight. Like bee-stung mules, they were. No way to tell which way they’d be going or why.

One of the orcs caught sight of him and came at a run, a farmer’s pitchfork held like a lance under one arm. For just a moment, Ebenezer puzzled over how to best meet this attack. Then he remembered where he stood—directly in front of one of the thick plaster walls of the rooming house.

The dwarf took out his hammer to make the fool orc think he planned to stand and fight, and let him come on. At the last moment, he dropped and rolled to the side. The orc kept coming, and the pitchfork’s tongs dug deep into the wall.

Ebenezer was up before the ore’s startled grunt died away. He swung his hammer hard, crunching into the base of the orc’s spine. Down went the orc, sped on his way by another crushing hammer blow to the back of his head.

The dwarf looked around for something else to do. Not far away, an elf woman with a tumble of pale yellow curls and a nightdress of a matching hue stared with dismay at the broken sword in her hand. Two dead orcs lay nearby, but it seemed like she wasn’t quite through.

That, Ebenezer could respect. If he’d had a chance to defend his clan and home, he wouldn’t care to stop until the job was done.

“Hoy, Goldie!” bellowed the dwarf. He pulled his axe from his belt and brandished it. “Need a blade?”

Doubt flickered across the elf’s face, then disappeared in resolve. She darted over to the dwarf and took the axe. “Like chopping kindling?” she asked as she hefted the blade.

“Pretty much.” He nodded with satisfaction as she took after an orc who was creeping off with an armload of loot. She held the borrowed axe poised high overhead and brought it forward with a respectable downward chop. “Lacks for nothing but a beard,” he mumbled as his blade cleaved thick orcish skull.

He saw an uneven fight over by the well. A hulking orc had pinned down a scrawny elf lad, who had no weapon at all that Ebenezer could see. He barreled over to see what might be done and pulled up to a stop just as the orc slammed down hard with a short sword. The elf dodged, but not by much. Wood chips flew as the blade slammed against the well’s cover.

A second boom followed quickly as Ebenezer brought the hammer down on the ore’s hand. The elf lad, no fool, snatched up the dropped sword and did what he had to do.

The dwarf noted the lad’s stricken eyes and remembered back a century and more to when he stood in the same boots. “Hang onto that sword,” he advised kindly. “It don’t never get much easier, but it generally won’t be any worse.”

And then he was off, looking for someone else in need of a chance to fight.

Algorind was awakened from a deep sleep by the sounds of battle and the flicker of fire against the sky. He shook Corwin awake and they quickly mounted and set off at a gallop to give aid.

They had not far to go. Even though the paladins from Summit Hall did not patrol this area, Algorind knew of the village from a map in the monastery library. The villagers were mostly elves and half-elves, but peaceable folk.

The reason for the disturbance became clear as they drew closer. Mingled with the crackle and hiss of the fire and the screams of the wounded was the guttural, roaring battle cries of an orc band. Algorind’s jaw firmed with resolve.

But Corwin hung back, naked horror on his face. “This is our doing! The orcs tracked us. We led them here.”

“This is a village, and they are orc raiders,” Algorind argued. “Come!”

But Corwin caught his arm. “Don’t you see? We killed their children when we truly did not have to. This is vengeance, but these people were in our path and are paying the price.”

“If that is so, justice belongs to Tyr,” said Algorind. “Stay or come, as you will. This is no time for words.”

He reined Icewind toward the village and leaned low over the horse’s neck as they sped toward battle. Behind him he heard the sound of the black horse’s hoof beats and was glad that Corwin had found his way back to duty.

Some of the orcs were escaping. The paladins beat them back, cutting them down when they could or pressing them back toward the blades of the grimly determined villagers.

The work was Tyr’s, and Algorind served with all his strength and conviction. Yet even as he fought, his eyes scanned the hellish melee for some glimpse of a small, brown-haired woman and the child she had unrightfully claimed.

Upstairs in the cottage, Bronwyn waited by the door, a wooden chair held high overhead. She counted the steps as heavy feet thundered up the stairs.

“Do you have your gem ready?” she asked Cara.

The girl nodded, but her words were swallowed in the shattering crash. The door buckled and splintered, but held. It gave way entirely with the second assault, and a large, gray-skinned orc came stumbling into the room.