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CHAPTER 12 - THE HEART OF THE MATTER

Tarn glanced at Nyla as they waited for Logan to finish


his business inside the house. “When he comes out, don’t
say anything. If he wants to talk, he will. If not... Let it go,
okay?” He saw Nyla nod as she visibly straightened herself
up, collecting herself and her thoughts.

Then the door opened, and the priest stepped


out, wiping his axe on a piece of cloth. “It’s done,” he
announced. “I will speak of it no more.” Both of his
companions nodded, and they moved away from the
building.

Tarn turned toward the farmers. “Your orcs are dead,


Master Folwythe; they will trouble you no more. Now, how
is the Elderman’s wife?”

“She’s taken quite a scare, but she’ll be all right. They


didn’t harm her body, at least.” Master Folwythe reached
out his hand and clasped Tarn’s. “We owe you a debt of
gratitude. Is there anything we can do to repay you?”

“Yes. Are any of your men skilled riders? We need to get


a message to Sir Alec.”

“You mean you don’t intend to follow them?” Logan


queried.

“No. He is at least a day ahead of us in crossing the


river. By the time we find them to warn them, I am almost
certain it will be too late. We have to get back to the Keep
and warn the Baron of what has happened; both about Alec
as well as the Soul Stealer.”

Logan looked at him, aghast. “But they’re riding into a


trap! By the gods, they’ll be slaughtered! We need to save
those men!”
Nyla grasped the cleric on the shoulder. “Logan…. If
what that orc said is true, they have already ridden into
an ambush, and we are but three people. What can we do
against the horde? We need to warn the Keep that a major
invasion is about to occur. And there is the Stealer….. The
Baron knows nothing of that; and only we can tell him.”

Logan kicked at the dirt at his feet, his emotions warring


within in him. “I don’t like the idea of leaving anyone to be
slaughtered by orcs, but I suppose…. I suppose you are
right, Nyla. We save more by returning to the keep.” He
turned to Tarn. “If he’s already doomed, why do we risk any
of these people getting a message to the Knight?”

“Why? Because I hope against hope that Alec isn’t as


stupid as I remember, Logan. That’s why I want one skilled
rider to try and find him; if he can’t, or if they are already
dead, the rider can still bring back word of just how many
orcs we face. The rest of these people need to see to their
own safety, but…”

Master Folwythe interrupted him as Tarn’s thought


trailed off. “Safety! We have nothin’ to fear here! Our strong
walls have proved that already! With the King’s army to
protect us, we have no worries at all!”

Nyla whirled around to face the big farmer. “Then you


are a fool, sir. The raid on your village was a trap for Alec’s
men. Gods only know how many orcs are waiting across the
river to slaughter his force. Have you any brains, you will
flee this place and head west as well.”

The cold fury in her voice startled the big farmer and
drove him back in surprise. “I meant no disrespect, Miss…
but…. But they’s just orcs!”

“Just orcs? Just orcs!” Logan exploded. “Why does


everyone in this gods forsaken kingdom assume that orcs
are stupid? By Elaysium! I seem to have met a great many
stupid people since I came into this province, but none of
them have been orcs! ” Throwing up his arms in disgust,
Logan started off to where their horses were tied up.
“Whatever we’re going to do, Tarn, let’s get going. I can’t
save these people from what should be obvious for all of
them to see!”

Tarn wanted to reply, but could think of nothing to say


as a silence filled the village square. Nyla grabbed his arm.
“Come on, Tarn. We’ve said our piece. I’m not sure I agree
with you, but I think you’re probably right. I’ll talk to the
townspeople. You go help Logan.”

Tarn thanked Nyla with a grateful nod and walked away.


Now what in the name of the twelve gods do we do?

***

The companions rode back north at a fast pace and


reined in their horses within sight of Traazon Keep,
agreeing to meet at the Happy Orc after Tarn had spoken to
the baron. Tarn had never been a very religious man, but as
he approached the castle, he whispered a silent prayer now
to whichever of the gods were listening. Please, let the Baron
still listen to me. I fear what will happen to our people here if
he doesn’t. He passed by the various shops and businesses
of the small city, marveling again at how people could carry
on normal lives when everything around them was about to
be thrown into chaos. But they don’t know that. Better that
they live their lives as normally as possible than succumb to
a panic that may never occur.
He swung down off of his horse. “I am Tarn Nohmahl,
formerly a knight in the service of the King, companion to
Sir Alec Neuvall, and I bring messages to the Baron from Sir
Alec. I must see His Excellency immediately.”

The young soldier eyed him suspiciously. “Former


knight? How come I don’t remember you?”

“I was discharged two years ago, soldier. I am sure your


officers would remember me. Now, who is in command in
Sir Alec’s absence?”

The soldier flashed a querying look at his companion.


“Uh, well, I guess that, uh, Sir Tonath is in command.”

Tarn’s expression brightened into a smile he didn’t


feel. Sir Tonath was not the kind of man to be in charge
in a budding crisis like this. “Well, then, go fetch him. I
remember him from the old days; I’m sure he’ll vouch for
me.”

The soldier shuffled his feet a bit. “I’m not sure I should,
sir. I mean, well….”

“You mean what? My news is important!”

“Well, sir, if you know Sir Tonath, well, you know that
he’s not…”

Tarn blustered his way forward. “Sober? What else is


new! Then get him some coffee and tell him his old friend
Tarn wants to see him!”

Tarn’s bluster must have had some effect, for soon a


small, dark skinned man staggered round the corner into
the guardpost. “Nohmahl, you sorry excuse for a piece of
filth, what are you doing at my castle?”

A smile crossed Tarn’s face. Tonath was one of those


people who was as wide as he was tall; by far the strongest
man in the garrison during Tarn’s time there, he was
barely over five feet, and had been mistaken for a dwarven
warrior many times. He spent far too much time with the
bottle, true, but when a battle started, few could match his
berserker-like strength. Before Tarn even had time to start
to think of an answer, the strong little man threw his arms
around him and delivered a crushing hug. “Tarn, you old
fool, how’ve you been?”

After Tonath released him, it took Tarn a moment to


catch his breath. He gasped in a lungful of air and wheezed,
“Good to…. see you again…. too, Tonath. Your… castle?”

The shorter man looked at him with a sheepish, lopsided


grin, rubbing his hand through hair now shot with gray.
“Well, I am the senior officer here what with Alec off
greenback hunting. Now, what’s this I hear about messages
for the Baron from Alec? I find it hard to believe that Alec
would trust you with dispatches of any sort.”

Tarn’s sigh spoke volumes. “That’s the problem, old


friend. Alec’s hatred of orcs may have doomed his force;
maybe doomed us all.” Tarn paused, surveying the outer
walls of the castle. “Tonath…. How many men do you
currently have here? Without Alec’s men-at-arms?”

Tarn waited as he could see Tonath mentally counting.


“Well, without the detachments we have farmed out…. I
think we have three hundred footsoldiers here, as well as
another fifty men-at-arms.”

Three hundred fifty men! “How many men are out on


detachments?”

“Well, Alec sent fifty men north on a sweep up the


river last week; they haven’t returned yet. Also, there
are probably another two hundred men on detachment
to various villages, as well as guarding a couple supply
caravans heading back west.”

His eyes goggling, Tarn couldn’t believe what he had just


heard. Six hundred men total! That’s less than half of the
garrison strength from when I was last here! And we were
understrength then! “Old friend, you know as well as I do
that that isn’t anywhere near enough men to hold a castle
this large! What happened to all the archers? Surely you
haven’t lost that many men to the orcs?”

“Orcs? Bah! Not the wretched greenbacks! It’s that


damned civil war back west! Earl Stoutheart keeps calling
more troops back west. By the gods, Tarn! Every other day,
it’s ‘We need another company to protect this village from
Earl Windmore,’ then next week it’s ‘Can’t you spare fifty
men to guard this caravan?’”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Who knows?” Tonath shrugged. “We’re out here at the


arse end of nowhere, you know? Last we heard was that
Lady Amorella’s army had retreated back south, and Earl
Windmore was recruiting every soldier and mercenary he
could find to rebuild his army and go after her. Hells, I even
heard some one say he had a group of Bith Naku trolls
working for him! Trolls! Imagine that!”

Tarn could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But


what about the orcs? Surely Earl Stoutheart has heard
about the increases in their raiding?”

“He’s heard, and can’t do anything. Or won’t, more


likely.” Tonath’s bluster began to return. “They’re only orcs,
my old friend! Greenback scum! They may take a few more
people in the raids, but we can handle ‘em, by the gods!
One of our men is worth ten greenbacks! Now, what’s this
about you seeing the Baron with dispatches from Alec?”
Tarn drew himself up. “That’s the problem, Tonath.
Alec’s walking into a trap, and from what I’ve learned, he’s
facing worse odds than ten to one.”

Tonath’s face blanched, all the color draining from


his dark and bloodshot face. An impressive sight. I’d be
laughing if the situation weren’t so serious. “Trap?” Tonath
queried, with a hint of worry. “What kind of trap?”

“The raid Alec went south to stop wasn’t a raid. It


was all an elaborate ruse. Some orc chieftain gave up a
thousand warriors to set the trap, and Alec fell for it, hook,
line, and sinker.”

Tarn filled in his friend on what had happened, and


what they had learned from the now dead orc. With each
moment, Tonath grew more worried, until he finally
relented. “Fine, Tarn. Fine. You’ve convinced me, for all
the good it will do. What do you think the greenbacks’ next
move will be?”

“I wish I knew. The grunt we questioned didn’t know


much. I’d suspect that this is all related to some sort of
power struggle within the clans, but you know as well as I
do that we can’t take that chance.”

Tonath grunted. “Well, you’re right at that. I’ll see about


getting you to see the Baron. Meanwhile….” His shout
echoed across the courtyard. “Grimwold! Double the watch
on the walls, and figure out some way to get more men in
the outposts surrounding the city. Be quick about it, but be
quiet!”

The younger man turned around with a crisp “Sir, Yes


Sir!” and was off.

“I hope that that will do something. Well, let’s go see


if we can find the Baron, then.” More quickly than Tarn
suspected his old friend could manage, he set off across the
courtyard. As always, the thought of action seemed to be
clearing Tonath’s head.

They passed through the outer courtyard and soon


came to the walls of the inner bailey. Soon enough, Tarn
could see the gate of the Keep proper. As always, he was
impressed by it. The inner wall was surrounded by a dry
moat almost ten feet wide, which could be filled from
water stored in cisterns in time of conflict. The walls of
the castle itself were stout, made from rock quarried in
the heartlands. The castle’s thick walls, deep cisterns,
and granaries were such that a force could hold out here
for many months —even years—against almost any force
imaginable out here on the plains.

Provided, of course, there were any men to hold the


Keep.

The two men walked into the castle, and Tarn glanced
at the various tapestries and paintings hanging on the
walls. The Barons of Traazon Keep had had many years to
accumulate their collection, and several of them had had
a talent for selecting fine objets d’art. Tarn had no eye for
such things at all; he knew what a painting was he saw it,
and he knew what he liked and what he didn’t like. He did,
for the most part, like these.

The Keep had been built for defense, and so the two men
walked through a near maze of defensive passageways and
trapped corridors before they got to the inhabited part of
the castle. During those minutes, Tarn passed by a truly
amazing selection of artwork and sculptures; not for the
first time Tarn realized how much art the Mournfell clan
had accumulated over the years
The defensive passageways opened up into a large
audience chamber, where liveried guardsmen stood at
attention as Tarn stood quietly, admiring the sheer size of
the room. The ceiling alone was twenty feet high, and the
pillars holding it up were each at least a foot and a half in
diameter. If he remembered correctly, it had taken twenty
years to haul enough block and stone out here to build the
castle. Always intended to be a fortress as well as residence,
the castle was imposing —even if it was small when
compared with the castles and citadels in the heartland
marches.

He was admiring the frescoes carved around the top of


the walls when a voice echoed in louder than the footsteps.
“Well, Tarn Nohmahl. I did not expect to see you inside
these walls again. What brings you here past Alec’s orders
to keep you out, my old companion?”

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