Return of the Dragon (The Dragon's Champion Book 6) Page 2

  “What do you want?” one of them said.

  Salarion slowly snuck a peek around the doorway. Maernok was standing with his back to her right next to the bed. The other orc was moving to sit up and grumbling to himself.

  “I know you want to take command,” Maernok said.

  The other orc stopped. He looked up to Maernok and then glanced over to the foot of his bed where a sword was propped between the wall and the bed. Maernok held up a hand.

  “I haven’t come to fight you for it,” he said.

  “Then out with it,” the other orc barked.

  “It’s yours,” Maernok said. “I am leaving tonight. I have unfinished business.”

  “Gilifan?” the other orc asked.

  Maernok laughed. “I guess we can each see the other’s true motivations, can’t we? Yes, I go to settle an old score.”

  “What of your tribe?” the other orc asked. “No chief can abandon his tribe.”

  “If I return, then I resume command of my tribe,” Maernok said. “If I fail to return, then you assume control of them, along with the others.”

  “You would trade the glory of conquest for the life of a human wizard?”

  Maernok turned, obviously finished with the conversation. “It was never my dream to unite the clans and lead a campaign into the Middle Kingdom.”

  “Khullan smile upon you,” the other orc offered.

  Maernok set a rolled parchment on a round table and slid his ring off a thick finger and placed it next to the paper. “This will show the others that I leave command to you. Fight well.”

  Salarion slipped back into the shadows a moment before Maernok marched by her. She carefully circled around the chamber and out through a window on the opposite side of the hall. Once in the courtyard she saw only a handful of sentries, all sitting near a smaller fire with a pot of potent coffee hanging over it. Knowing they would be unable to see her as their eyes would be blinded by the fire and unable to penetrate the surrounding darkness, she walked openly and approached Maernok. The gate to the south was open, and she exited only a few yards behind Maernok.

  She followed him as he took the road to the south. Salarion stepped silently, stalking the large orc until they reached the burnt trunks that had been a lush forest before the siege of Ten Forts.

  “Maernok,” she called out.

  The orc wheeled around with a dagger in hand. His eyes searched for her, but could not find her. Salarion had moved to meld with the shadows between the burned trees and ash-covered ground. It was the perfect camouflage to hide her in the darkness.

  “Who’s there?” Maernok growled. “If you are sent to kill me, you will find it is not an easy task.”

  Salarion circled around him and stood five yards behind him. “If I wanted to kill you, you would already be dead.”

  Maernok spun around again and his eyes narrowed on her. “Dark elf,” he spat. “For what have you come?”

  Salarion smiled wryly. “I hunt the same man you do,” she answered. “You and I have a common enemy.”

  “Then why don’t you go and slay him?” Maernok pressed.

  Salarion’s smile faded. “As much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think I can succeed on my own.”

  Maernok huffed and slid his dagger away. “Then leave the fight to me and be off,” he snarled.

  “You need my help,” she pressed.

  The orc shook his head. “I don’t want your help.”

  “Do not succumb to the same mule-headed traditions that plague the rest of your men-folk. Even you have to know that you cannot defeat a necromancer with a sword.”

  “Orc courage will defeat the meddler’s crafts.”

  “Your pigheadedness is going to get you killed.”

  Maernok stepped up to her and exhaled his hot, musky breath onto her face. “I don’t want your help.”

  “Gilifan is protected inside an old fortress buried within a mountain. He has mercenary guards and a host of soldiers at hand. Furthermore, he has a dragon egg and is working feverishly to hatch it. You will not come within a hundred yards of him, and your family will never be avenged.” Maernok cocked his head at her and emitted a deep, throaty growl. Salarion figured the orc was deciding between joining with her, and killing her. She pulled the onyx box out to show Maernok. Its humming, violet light danced in waves around the cube.

  “Magic,” Maernok hissed.

  “I have here a powerful shield that can get you close enough to kill Gilifan.”

  “Then why don’t you use it?” Maernok asked.

  Salarion nodded. “I intend to do just that, but I need your help. In an instant she flicked her left hand up to Maernok’s throat. She was so fast that the oaf couldn’t even flinch before she rested the edge of her curved dagger against the taught skin covering his neck. “If I wanted to kill you, I could very easily have done so.” She jumped away from Maernok in a flash and disappeared into the burned trees again to make her point. The orc’s shoulders jerked back reflexively and his hand went for his blade.

  “What trickery is this?” Maernok snarled. “None have ever lived after threatening me in such a manner.”

  “None except Gilifan,” Salarion pointed out. Maernok turned in the direction of her voice but she had already circled around him again. “He managed to slay your entire family and you have yet to do anything about it.”

  “I was bound by the oath,” Maernok said. “Until his debt had been repaid there was nothing I could do.”

  “I wonder how Gilifan will use you,” Salarion said as she moved to yet another place. Maernok was now turning frequently, scanning the darkness to find her.

  Salarion emerged from the trees and stood directly before him again. She placed the box on the ground as well as her dagger. “I offer you help. The magic I have can help us infiltrate the fortress. More importantly, it will even the field of battle.”

  “There is more glory to be won if the battle is tipped in an opponent’s favor,” Maernok said.

  “Yes, I have heard the orcish proverb before. It is oft recited before some orcish commander leads his warriors to an ill-fated and unnecessary death.”

  Maernok folded his arms. “I am done talking. Either get out of my way or pick up your weapon.”

  “Very well,” Salarion said. “If you won’t accept my magic, then at least allow me to tell you where he is.”

  “He is in Demaverung,” Maernok asserted.

  Salarion laughed aloud. “I take it you missed the fiery eruption then? What about the clouds of ash, did you not notice them?”

  “He survived it,” Maernok explained simply.

  “He caused it,” Salarion replied evenly. “He does not hide there anymore. Now, are you interested in what I have to say?”

  Maernok exhaled and began walking. “Fine. Tell me where he is, and accompany me if you must, but keep your magic to yourself. I will have no part of it.”

  Salarion smiled devilishly and picked up her items. “Come, we have a long road ahead of us. Gilifan lies in a mountain fortress near Pinkt’Hu.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Who did you say informed the king about this place again?” Captain Benbo asked.

  Faengoril looked up from what he was doing and smiled. “A trapper. His name was Fariche, or Ferris, or something like that. King Sit’marihu said that they crossed paths as he was heading east with Gorin, Peren, and Lady Arkyn and the trapper was headed west.”

  “And he said water had flooded the village that had been out here, right?”

  Faengoril nodded. “Our job is to make sure Tarthuns don’t come through it. King Sit’marihu and King Mathias already discussed the plan and we are just following orders.”

  “Did the trapper mention Tarthuns before?”

  Faengoril nodded impatiently. “Yes, after the floods came there was a battle and they wiped out the trading post that was nearby. It was just a scouting party, but it was enough to destroy everyone but the trapper. That’s why we are here, to mak
e sure no one else comes through it.”

  Captain Benbo moved next to the large rock that Faengoril was using as a table and looked down. A few other officers gathered in close as well.

  Faengoril observed the schematics drawn on the parchment before him. The others watched him as he traced his fingers over the drawing. As ordered, his dwarves had scouted every inch of this new pass, and mapped it out with the accuracy only a dwarf could manage in such an underground cavern. He studied the map several times before he finally looked up from the large, flat stone in front of him.

  “What of the scouts?” Faengoril asked.

  “They report an army of Tarthuns moving toward us. The Tarthuns number several thousand. They should reach the cave within three days.”

  Faengoril nodded. “Will we be ready by then?”

  One of the officers stepped forward and pointed to the several circles drawn into the map. “I have positioned some of our strongest dwarves at these locations. They will dig in shifts so that the process is continuous. We will be ready in two days, well ahead of the Tarthuns’ arrival. We will be able to bring the entire cavern down and block them off.”

  Faengoril shook his head. “No, I want to draw them in.”

  “Sir, there is no need to expose ourselves to unnecessary risk. If we seal off the pass, we can avoid a costly battle.”

  Faengoril grinned wide and his fiery eyes sparkled under the torch’s flame. “And leave the Tarthuns with the option of traveling to the north where Grand Master Penthal is already engaged in battle? No. We draw them in, all the way into the cave. We station volunteers at each of the trigger points we have identified, and then we bring the cavern down on top of them. We number five hundred strong. If we work in shifts to dig at the trigger points, then we should only need fifty to volunteer for the final shift.”

  “That is madness,” Captain Benbo chimed in. “The cave is three and a quarter miles long, so in theory it could hold the entire Tarthun army, but there are choke points along the way, not to mention the half-mile long lake at the opposite end where they will be entering from. They would almost surely have some of their soldiers exiting the cave before the entire army made it inside.”

  “So we divide our forces,” Faengoril said. “We have two hundred dwarves prepare defenses out here. Then, when the Tarthuns exit they will be forced back into the cave. If a few stragglers have not yet entered the cave, it won’t matter. The bulk of the enemy force will be trapped inside.”

  “That would work,” another officer spoke up. “We are already building escape tunnels for each dwarf that has to activate the cave in. We would just have to hope that none of them are discovered before they can trigger their area.”

  “We can wall them in the day before,” Faengoril said. “We could also create a few traps inside to slow them down. Let’s not make anything so overt that they might understand the cave has been manipulated, but let’s dig a few pits and slicks that the stream inside the cave can hide and that way their attention will be on the ground, and not the walls. Even if they did have the time to gaze at the cavern, I doubt they would perceive our handiwork anyway.” Faengoril pointed to a trio of spots on the map and drew larger circles with a red pencil. “We could dig a few larger holes here, at these points. The water from the stream will make them into death traps.”

  The officers all saluted and broke out from the group. Faengoril remained with the map, rehashing the strategy in his mind several more times. He knew it was risky, but if they prepared well and managed to camouflage their work, then they would be able to execute the plan without suffering any casualties. After all, the Tarthuns were nomadic horse-men that relied on their skill as archers. They would be completely out of their element inside a cave.

  Over the next two days Faengoril oversaw the preparations personally, picking up a pickaxe himself on several occasions. He kept his engineers close, making sure that each trigger point was being adequately prepared, and ensuring that each escape tunnel would be sufficient to enable the brave volunteer to escape without being crushed in the cave-in. The commander alternated between each of the trigger points and then moved on to inspect each trap. He was more than pleased by the depth and span of each hole and jagged trench cut in the stone. Water from the overflowing stream pooled into each crevice, hiding the true depth and creating the perfect obstacle for blundering horsemen who would almost certainly be relying on torches for light.

  “I have to admit, this might work,” Captain Benbo said as they surveyed the last of the pits.

  Faengoril nodded as he watched the dozen dwarves who had dammed off a portion of the stream in order to finish digging their pit without getting caught in the water themselves. It was pitiless work, but the commander was certain it would be worth it in the end. “Of course it will work,” Faengoril said. “Come, I want to inspect the entrance now.”

  The commander smiled wide as they made the long trek through the winding, gently sloping cave. Faengoril led the other officers around the northern bank of the half-mile long lake in the cavern. A great hole in the east let in daylight from above. It was a beautiful sight, albeit extremely dangerous. Even after days in the cave and working around it, there was no way for any of the engineers to estimate the lake’s depth. The banks dropped off sharply into what appeared to be a liquid abyss. “It must have taken some time,” Faengoril said as he pointed to the lake. The officers with him surveyed the dark water as Faengoril swept his hand out toward the west. “The water comes in from the east. Our scouts say that there is a stream out there, most likely from runoff. It bored its way through the soft limestone on that side of the mountain and then began flowing into this chasm. No way of knowing how many years it took to fill this pool. I would guess at least centuries, though.” Faengoril stopped and held both arms out wide to the side. “Don’t even ask me how long the overflow has been flowing downhill toward the west. That process must have also taken many, many years. In the end, the water destroyed the mountain and created this tunnel. It meant the end for the trading post nearby, and provided an alternate route for the Tarthuns in the east.”

  “Why would horsemen come through here?” one of the officer asked. “I mean, they can’t bring their horses down that entrance slope, the animals would never make it.”

  “They have a large army heading north. There have already been skirmishes with Grand Master Penthal and the knights of the Lievonian Order. The Tarthuns would use this underground passage to sneak around and catch the Lievonian Order on both sides. Once they have a foothold in the Middle Kingdom, they would be able to launch an assault on Drakei Glazei directly. With our forces split across the kingdom, we can’t afford to let the Tarthuns accomplish that.”

  Faengoril motioned for the officers to follow him the rest of the way around the lake. They came to the entrance and a few of them starting laughing and pointing at the new waterfall.

  The commander smiled and bowed proudly. “After the other fortifications had been ordered, I led a group of twenty dwarves to this slope under the entrance. We tunneled behind the water that entered the cave from above in the east, creating a waterfall in place of the slope. The drop is twelve feet tall, and the slop above it is steep enough that a simple slip could spell death for the unwary coming through. This will slow them down of course, but better than that, it will make it nearly impossible for them to retreat even if they should discover our trigger points farther in the cave.”

  “You aren’t afraid that it will scare them off?” Captain Benbo asked.

  “Always the pessimist,” Faengoril grumbled. He shook his head and folded his thick arms across his barrel-like chest. “No. The only other way for them is to go north through the normal pass, but that is blocked by Grand Master Penthal. They would do better to risk losing a few men here than to travel northward.”

  “The Tarthuns will be here sometime tomorrow,” Captain Benbo said. “We should finish making ready.”

  Faengoril nodded. “I have two scouts up at
the entrance. They will alert us when the army draws near. The last estimate put them at the mouth of the cave by tomorrow afternoon. Let’s go back.”

  The others cheered and a couple of dwarves made falling noises and mimed breaking their backsides. Then they retreated back around the large lake and into the more narrow part of the cave.

  All of the dwarves ate well on that second night. They posted the watchmen and then they slept.

  The scouts woke Faengoril just after dawn. The bleary-eyed commander yawned and slipped his feet over the boulder he had been dozing upon. “Are they here?” he asked.

  “The Tarthuns have made camp at the base of the mountain on the eastern slope,” Midger said.

  “What are they doing with their horses?” Faengoril asked. That very question had been keeping him up most of the night. Knowing that the Tarthuns needed their horses, he wondered if they might have found an alternate path over which to take the animals, thereby bypassing the cave altogether.

  Midger shrugged. “Most of them have been corralled in a large area the Tarthuns partitioned off with pine trees they felled last night. It looks as though this group is preparing to finish the journey on foot. They have spears and bows, and have put large packs on many of the warriors.”

  Faengoril scratched his head. “If we could scatter or kill their horses, the Tarthuns would be even more helpless.”

  Midger nodded knowingly. “We counted seven thousand Tarthuns in all. However, it looks like several hundred of them are actually going to stay behind with the horses.”

  Faengoril tugged at his beard. “I would wager they either go north, to augment the forces embattling Grand Master Penthal, or perhaps they will take the horses south and come through Hamath Valley.”

  Midger shuddered. “If they come through the south, they will be destroyed by the curse.”

  Faengoril turned a fierce eye on the scout. “Only if the ghost stories are true, Midger, otherwise they have a clean opening to the southern area.”