The Great Horror: Discovery. Patrick Mew
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too many! I can't keep up with the injuries!” the wizard cried, moving from wagon to wagon for cover as she fought to draw forth the mana that she needed. The orcs fell much more quickly but now and then one of the human merchants would fall to wounds from a lucky strike or from being overrun with numbers. It took a few minutes for the combat to turn decisively as soldiers from the Silver Flyer slowly began to push their foes back. A lack of mages on the side of the orcs meant that their numbers dwindled too fast and the dust began to settle from the air as fewer were still fighting.
Kunya, her reserves dry and energy totally drained, fell back atop the forward wagon and did naught but breathe heavily and sweat profusely as she tried to recover. Xron and Rusga, having been picking the orcs off from range, were equally tired and Kida was hiding under one of the wagons in an attempt to evade notice in case a spare orc found its way from the center of the battlefield. Riun and Algan, on the other hand, were still fighting where the other humans had worn themselves out. About a half dozen of the bestial humanoids remained, circled around the pair.
“It's just like back in that goblin lair, isn't it?” Algan grinned, his spear daring any of them to close in. Though heavy with sweat and blood, and short of breath, he was no less able or alert than at the start of the combat.
“Oh yes. Only these are a little bit tougher than those sorry things, wouldn't you say?” The tribesman's blade rose high above, ready to dispatch his enemies as the six orcs closed in at once. Each human cut one down before it got close enough to strike and dispatched another from normal attack range. Two left, one on each, and each of the two bore their great axes against the humans. It was almost elegant since both orcs connected and drew forth a stream of crimson, grinning momentarily before being slain. In their dying moments they continued to smile widely as if content to die in battle.
“The only thing that bothers me about orcs,” Kida said, looking the bodies over, “Is the way they look when they die. They always seem so ...happy to be killed. It's disturbing to me.”
“That's the way their culture is, Kida,” Kunya answered, turning a few over to check for valuables. “They revel in battle and enjoy combat, even if they die. To them, that just means that their opponent was worthy of fighting. Just like we enjoy protecting those we care about, they enjoy war and conflict.”
“It's still weird to me.”
“Worry less about what's weird and more about what we can salvage,” Algan piped up, rattling several of the crudely made blades together and carrying them to the wagon that the food and drink had been kept in. “We need to move again before any of their tribes come looking for these guys. I don't imagine a pack like this was more than a day's travel away, since they had little food on-hand. There's no way you can feed those sorts of numbers on hunting alone, either.”
“You're absolutely correct, young warrior,” Mr. Farstride commented, surveying the battlefield from nearby. His gray eyes looked troubled as they scanned the hills to the northeast. “I'd imagine they are gathering their forces together and trying to take whatever they can find to fuel their growing numbers. We must move swiftly. Gather up what is worth taking and let's go!”
Proper disposal of the bodies wasn't an option here; the party and merchants stripped any metal or usable leather from the orcs and piled their corpses some distance away from the road. The carrion birds would find them well enough, and altogether the six pocketed some fifty gold coins' worth of money. The caravan would keep the materials so that the adventurers needn't carry it. In exchange, any money raised from that would be split between the two groups.
Those with good vision kept their eyes open toward the northeast as they continued the march toward town through the day but nothing came about. Night swept over them as a bright, near-full moon lit the plains well enough for them to see anything substantial that might approach their camp.
“What should we do while we're there?” Kida asked, curious about the town. Despite her extensive traveling experience she'd never ventured northward to Deswern, and the hunk of hard bread she held steadily shrunk to the bowl of hot soup in her lap.
“Hmm... if I recall correctly there's a festival soon. The elves throw quite a party for themselves and their tourists, provided you're invited to stay for it.” Mr. Farstride's eyes, normally cold and gray, were lit by the fire. It was only here that the party could see the age and the weariness in his face and the ache in his bones.
“Really? Do you think they'll like us there?”
“Perhaps,” said one elf from across the flames. His hair, silvery-yellow and almost glittering under the starlight, was pulled back to show his angular face and bright emerald eyes. “This is the first caravan to make the entire trip from Taft in some time. Depending on what's here you might have a case to convince the council to allow you to participate.”
“Then a case I shall present! I want to party with them, dang it!” Kida seemed determined, though whether it was truly to enjoy company with the elves or to simply indulge in the revelry was unknown. The gleam in her eyes suggested that she didn't care much who was partying as long as she was invited.
“I think you just want to get drunk again,” Rusga shot in, chuckling softly. “You know you can't handle yourself like that so I don't know why you do it.”
“It's way fun, that's why!” She sounded angry now and the catfolk backed off from teasing her rather than actually risk making her mad. It wasn't clear whether Kida had a temper and Rusga knew it or whether he was erring on the side of caution but the stars and bright moon drew their attention back to the night. Meteors streaked into the chill blackness above as they fell into sleep, one by one. Only the night's guard would truly appreciate it though, for they had the longest view of all.
The next morning was frosty and crisp with a sweeping wind gently fluttering the canvas tents and coats of the caravan. While not a full breeze, the air was yet cold enough to slush a light ale if left unattended over the night and those that were up for the late watch were bundled up tightly. A light dusting of snow, probably from fog, covered the dirt and brown grass of the grasslands to the east and the frost on the road crunched underfoot as camp was broken. The aroma of food, mostly meat fried on iron skillets, drew drool from mouths as a steady stream of gulping circled the area.
“Alright, let's get moving. Breakfast should be done shortly so eat on the way. We don't want to lose any more time being here waiting for the orcs' reinforcements.” Mr. Farstride barked. His face took its familiar resolve again this morning as he circled the encampment and looked for things to help put away or organize. Progress in packing seemed to meet his standards and he sat down again after a few minutes. The horses, though chilled from the cold breeze, were up and lively for the trip and their breath hung in the air like so many small clouds. A few minutes more and the travelers were on their way, the elven town of Deswern slowly coming into view before them amidst the snow-capped firs and pines of the northern forest.
Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Though small, the town was beautiful. Graceful curves and waves adorned the white stone walls and golden-brown vines of all sorts colored the otherwise blank edifice. The gates were a dark stained cedar, decorated with fine inlays of silver-white metal that depicted life and beauty – abstract female forms, flowers and plants, wildlife, and the earth itself. The curved forms common to their race extended to the rooftops of the numerous buildings as spires, domes, and arches dotted the town. Among the structures were many trees – some evergreen and some not – that merged the wilderness and civilization into a unified whole much more naturally than any human attempt that came to memory.
“This is Deswern, the elven gateway between the humans lands of Darminia, the elven nation of Llorethwyn, and their foremost connections with the dwarven strongholds of the Broken Tooth Ridge,” Mr. Farstride said matter-of-factly. A hint of condescension hung in the air before being waved away by Kida.
“Oooh, look at all the decorations!” she said, pointing toward what appeared to be the homes of the village. All through the town blue and white wooden lanterns hung along strings and wires over