Chapter 3 - The Wounds of a Dead Man

Tarn rolled over and saw the first light of dawn filter
through the window in his room. Morning already. He sat
up and stretched, shaking the cobwebs out of his foggy
head with a flourish. Time to set out on this foolish quest.

He pulled on his clothes —leather riding pants and a

fine cloth shirt, as well as the stout military issue boots
he still preferred —and gathered his gear into his pack as
he headed downstairs. The inn was bustling even at this
early morning hour. Several people were scattered about
the common room eating breakfast, and the conversation
was already quite loud. The room was small, however, and
before long Tarn spotted Logan sitting at a table in the
corner attacking a plate of eggs and bacon with gusto. Tarn
crossed the room and sat down across from him.

Logan looked up, and between mouthfuls said, “It really

is a crime what they charge for a good meal around here
these days. Back west what I paid for this would have fed
me for a week. I figure that where we’re going, though,
I won’t be eating good for a while, so I’ll splurge.” Logan
picked up a stein full of something noxious smelling,
drinking deeply before Tarn realized it was only coffee.
Nasty stuff, he thought. Tastes like year old water from an
unwashed canteen. He shrugged. To each his own.

He ordered his breakfast from the serving girl and sat,

watching the cleric put away his breakfast with gusto. Well,
he eats like a dwarf, Tarn thought, smiling softly. The pair
didn’t say much —Logan was simply too busy eating. Then,
right about the time his own food came, he spotted Nyla
coming down the stairs.

He gave her a quick appraisal as she came down. He

noticed her pale white complexion, on display as she had
pulled her long red hair that fell into a braid down her
back. She was dressed sensibly, much as one of the cow
hands that they had fought the night before had been —
riding breeches, woolen shirt, and a small pack strapped to
her back, as well as the spell pouches and the two wicked
looking daggers at her hip. Tarn was almost convinced she
knew what she was doing. She came over to the table and
sat down, a bowl of porridge in her hand. Expecting her to
talk, he was surprised when she simply started devouring
her breakfast with focused intensity. He watched her, a
bemused expression slowly crossing his face.

Logan spoke up first. “What makes you think you can

track these orcs, Nyla?”

She paused between bites. “It’s not hard. A couple

dozen orc raiders should leave enough footprints that a
blind gnome could follow them. I wonder why our friend the
knight can’t do it himself.” So do I, Tarn thought. “Besides
that, I have had some training. Master Ulric down at the
guild insists that I train in something besides mage craft,
and as my worthless father was something of a woodsman”
—she indicated the points of her elfin ears —“I come to
tracking rather naturally. Besides, if nothing else, it is
useful in helping one find spell components.” She went
back to eating.

Logan pushed away his now empty plate. “You’ve done

similar work before, I assume?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Logan paused. “Are you even sure you can do this?”

 “Yes.”

Tarn couldn’t help but chuckle. Her confidence was

impressive, but he couldn’t help but think Logan was right
to ask the question. He turned to the priest, feigning more
confidence that he felt. “Don’t worry, Logan. She’ll be fine.
And if not, I have enough skill that we won’t end up lost
in the plains forever.” He laughed as Nyla stared daggers
at him. “Just don’t end up getting us lost, girl. I haven’t
tracked anything since before I left the King’s service, so my
skills are a little rusty.”

The three of them finished their breakfast in

companionable silence. After saying their farewells to Bear,
they set out for the Keep, a good mile away as the griffon
flew.

***

As the three companions walked along the dusty side

street that the Happy Orc was located on, Tarn recalled
all he had learned about the city —village, actually — of
Traazon Keep. His years in the army had required him to
learn the history of the empire, and he shared some of this
information with his companions, neither of whom had
heard all the stories Tarn had

“Why here?” Logan asked. “What makes Traazon Keep

the spot where the Empire built the easternmost of its great
castles?”

“The location of this little city is dictated by two things.”

Tarn replied. “First and foremost is the Ishkar River. Even
this far north, it’s over a mile wide. The Ishkar follows its
course all the way to the far south, and across the river
to the east are the clan holds of the orcs. Here, though, at
the end of the King’s Way, men built the last of their great
border great redoubts.
 “The second reason is Watch Hill.” Tarn pointed toward
a hill that rose several hundred feet above the surrounding
prairie. “The locals, in fact, call it a mountain.” Logan, who
had grown up among the mountain citadels of the dwarves,
knew better, and only half-stifled a chuckle when Tarn said
that.

Tarn smiled as he replied. “I know it’s not that high, but

it is true that the hill is the highest piece of land in leagues.
That fact, when you consider the relatively shallow depth
of the river here, made this place a natural spot to build
both a ferry across the river and that fortress up on the hill;
which, even now, four hundred years after it’s construction,
is still called: Traazon Keep, named after the first Baron
who watched the orc clans across the river.”

There were other forts and villages along the river —and
even a few homesteads on the other side, Tarn mused. Men,
being what they were, would and could live pretty much
anywhere they put their mind to, and so a few people did
live across the river in spite of the constant danger from the
orcs.

Logan pursed his lips. “There are other castles, though,

right? I mean, I can’t believe that this is the only spot along
the whole of the river that men have fortified, right?”

“Oh, yes.” Tarn chuckled. “Villages dot the border with

the orc lands from the mountains up north to the hill
country of the elven forests down south. Traazon Keep,
however, is the largest of the Empire’s garrison castles.
When trouble comes, as it has now,” he gestured to the
people thronging the busy street they had just turned onto,
“people flock here for protection.”

“What about before the wars?” Nyla asked. “My master

told me that once, back before the great wars, humans had
tried to conquer the land across the river.”

“He’s right,” Tarn nodded. “Before the great wars, men

tried to take more land from the orcs in the same way that
they took the Empire of Averim we know today. I’m sure
your master taught you that in ancient times, the orcs
controlled all the plains between the oceans from east to
west. Then, inexplicably, fifteen hundred years ago, the
humans came from across the ocean.”

In human minds, this time lived on only in legend. Men

had suddenly come from across the great sea in a fleet of
ships from a land no one remembered, to this land —a
land that had never seen their kind before. They brought
no records, no tales of their homeland, no technology that
made them seem special in any way. The people themselves
only said that they had fled a great evil in their homelands,
and that they had built the fleet upon the gods’ direction,
and then sailed for months.

Nyla nodded in agreement. “My master told me that

even scholars today debate how they could do it; that even
the most accomplished mages and scribes have never been
able to determine where men came from, and no ship of
man or elf can stay at sea as long as those ancient humans
purportedly had. He told me,” she deepened her voice,
trying to sound older and masculine, “ ‘As mysteries go, it’s
right up there with why dragons deigned to deal with men
at all, instead of simply killing all they could.’ ”

Tarn smiled as he continued his tale. “The elves,

however, have a small number tales that survive from those
chaotic days. Those tales tell of a treaty between man,
elf, and dwarf that promised the newcomers all the lands
between the elves’ forests and the dwarves’ mountains. All
they had to do was chase out the orcs. Both of the older
races, while curious about the newcomers, were sure the
orc hordes would simply slaughter the new refugee tribe
and move on.

“Men, however, proved to be more than a match for

the orcs. Over the course of several centuries, mankind
conquered all the land between the ocean and the great
river Ishkar, and seemed bent on taking the rest of the
Plains of Grummish for themselves as well.”

Logan interjected a comment here. “Yes, we learned of

this in my education before I took my clerical rites.” He
grew caught up in the story, and continued the tale. “We
learned that when the orcs seemed doomed, their dark god
made a pact with the human king of the city-state of Averim
to save his children. Norazon the First spent thirty years
unifying the human city-states into the modern Empire
of Averim. It was hailed at first by elves and dwarves as
a great achievement, but the older races didn’t know
about the pact that lay behind those conquests. The war
he started, originally as one of unification, became one of
conquest as Norazon set out to conquer first the dwarves,
then the elves.”

“I’ve never heard this before,” Nyla murmured.

Tarn raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Your master never

taught you this?” She shook her head, and Tarn shrugged.

“Well, the ‘hundred year’s war’ as it is now called, served

the orcs well. Their god saw to it that they were saved by
the wars men fought with the older races. By the time those
wars were finally over, the border between men and orcs
was fixed on the great river, and men, for our part, were
sick of war and had no desire to conquer more lands. And
the orcs,” he paused, snorting softly as it to show what he
thought, “The orcs, by their own right, had learned from
men the skill of diplomacy, and agreed to the border. They
may have never accepted it, but they never again tried to
reclaim their old lands.”

At least, not until now. Tarn had fought too many orcs
to think that the fire of reconquest burned in their souls no
longer.

***

When the three companions reached the castle, Sir Alec

was waiting. “Well, Nohmahl. I’m surprised you’re sober
enough to make it here this morning.” Tarn merely nodded,
refusing to be baited. Alec called for horses to be saddled
and brought to the main gate. He looked straight at Nyla
and said, “Since you volunteered for this mission, I expect
you to take good care of these horses, girl. I’ve lost too
many good mounts to orc raids already this season.
“Now, as to your mission.” He drew his sword from its
scabbard and used the point to draw in the dirt. “This is
Traazon Keep. Here,” he indicated a point northwest of
the city, “is the village of Redwatch, about two days’ hard
ride from here. From what the refugees have told us, we’ve
been able to determine that the orcs must have a base
somewhere on this side of the river —probably somewhere
in here.” Alec drew a circle to the west of Redwatch.
“Beyond that, I can’t tell you much. This band can’t be very
big — I haven’t heard of them hitting anything larger than
single farms, but it is getting to be a problem. I can’t spare
the men to hunt them down, but if you find them, I can
sendmen to rid ourselves of them.”

Logan mused over the map. “Any Wargs?” he asked.

Tarn shuddered quietly as he remembered orc warriors

charging at him, riding on massive wolf-like creatures that
were like wolves in the way that a wolf is like a lap dog.
Orcs were difficult enough foes by themselves. Adding
wargs to the equation increased the danger five fold.

Alec’s words ripped his attention back to the present. “A

few. No more, thank the gods.”

“Anything else we should know?” Tarn asked.

Alec paused. “I’m not sure.” Tarn raised an eyebrow at

him. “Oh, not that I wouldn’t tell you, Nohmahl. It’s that
I don’t know what to make of it.” He paused, obviously
collecting his thoughts.

“Go on.”

Alec looked at him first, then the other two. “Well, the
reports we’ve got back from some of the villagers say that
the wounds the dead have taken aren’t….. right.”

Logan goggled at him. “Aren’t right? What exactly is that

supposed to mean?”

“You tell me and we’ll both know, Shield Brother. All I

know is that they say the wounds didn’t seem like axe or
blade wounds. That even though the victims were dead, the
wounds weren’t.” He paused. “I don’t know what it means
anymore than you do. Just keep your eyes open.” He turned
toward Nyla. “You have need of weapons, equipment? I
can provide them to you out of your pay if you need them.”
Generous bugger, Tarn thought.

Logan turned back to the Knight from where he had

been watching the men train across the way. Tarn noticed
an almost wistful grin on his face. “No, Sir Knight. I think
we are set.” He touched the wicked looking battle axe
strapped to his hip. “At least I am.” The other two nodded
that they were as well.

Just then, two pages came up, leading a pack horse.

Alec patted the chestnut mare’s shoulder. The horse
whickered in response, and, as if from thin air, Alec pulled
an apple out of his tunic, giving it to the horse. He always
was good with his horses, Tarn remembered.

“If you find any bodies, bring them back —that is

what Sandy here is for. She carries feed for the others as
well, should you need it.” He patted the horse once more,
and looked at Nyla. “Just be careful. Nothing heroic, ok?
Information only. Now, if you have no more questions, I
have loads of work to do.” No one said anything. “Well, gods
willing, I’ll see you in a week.” Alec strode off, leaving the
three of them alone.

Tarn laughed as he mounted his horse. “Well, let’s get

going,” he called out.

Nyla looked up at him curiously. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” Tarn replied almost flippantly. “It’s just

that, for a second, I almost thought Alec gave a damn
whether we lived or died.” He touched his heels to his
horse’s side, and headed for the gate.