Chapter 13 - Baron Mournfell

Tarn looked at the man who for ten years had been
his superior, and even sometimes his friend. Time hasn’t
changed him much. He looked much the same as he had —
thinning black hair, average height, average build. In short,
there was nothing distinguishing about the man — save
his eyes. His piercing blue eyes were a window to the man’s
intelligence, the one thing about him that was not average
in any way.

He dropped to one knee before the Baron. “Greetings,

my Lord. I hope this spring day finds you well?”

“Well enough, old friend. Well enough. Rise, and tell

me, what brings you here on a matter so urgent that Alec
overcame his hatred of you and sent you back to see me?”

Tarn stood stiffly. “Milord, Alec doesn’t know I’m here.

It is his hatred of the orcs that has brought him to his
ruin, and possibly that of us all. Five days past, as you
may know, Alec broke the siege of the village of Greywall.
I arrived two days later on…. other business, and found
that the village Elderman had taken custody of four orc
prisoners, one of which we interrogated.

“Your Excellency, let me be blunt. Alec has ridden into

a trap. A chieftain named Grom Ten-Kill has conquered a
group of orc clans and offered up a thousand warriors just
to bait a trap for Alec.” The Baron visibly stiffened and the
mention of Ten-Kill’s name. “The orc told us that many
warriors wait across the river. The orc couldn’t count, but
he said there were ‘As many as sands on river bank.’ Their
goal is to wipe out Alec’s command.” Tarn hesitated briefly.
“ Milord Baron, I fear Alec might already be dead.”

The Baron nodded almost imperceptibly. “If what you

say is true, he very well could be. I always said his hatred
of the greenbacks was most irrational. But then, you of
all people already know that. How sure are you of this
information? Have you done any scouting yourself?”

“No, milord. I haven’t, for the ‘other business’ I

mentioned may be even more serious than an orc invasion,
if that is possible. It appears that some one, or something,
has been summoning…. demons.”

“Demons?” His voice was incredulous. “What proof

have you of this? No one has practiced such black arts in
centuries!”

“I myself have no proof, milord. However, according

to an orc Shaman we met, that it isn’t orcs doing the
raiding. Rather, it is some sort of ancient demon called a
soul stealer. At least, that is what the Shaman said, and
the cleric, who is familiar with the clans and their ways,
believes him.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. I never would

have thought that the orcs could do something so clever,
either. But a demon? By the hells, I don’t know. But yes, I
am inclined to believe that there is something strange going
on.”

“So what would you have me do, Tarn? Tonath tells

me he has already made provision to double the watch. I
don’t have the men to go chasing after whims and fancies!
This gods-cursed war back west will be the death of us,
Nohmahl, but how can I refuse a direct summons from Earl
Stoutheart? He says he needs the men! Who am I to argue
with him?”

“Milord, you know the conditions here better than his

Grace does. Surely you could send someone to protest these
troop withdrawals...”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried! By all that is holy, man,

I’ve tried! But always the replies are the same. ‘You have
enough men to face the orcs,’ he says. ‘All will be made up
to you in the future.’ Bosh! It’s all he ever says!”

“I…. I don’t know what to say, milord.”

“Say nothing, old friend, for there is nothing left to say.

Simply pray that the warning you have brought me has
arrived in time to do some good. Now, what is this beast
you speak of?”

Tarn did his best to fill the Baron in on everything

they had already learned. With every word, the noble’s
expression became grimmer until finally, when he
concluded, the Baron looked at him and said “What do you
and your companions hope to do now?”

His answering chuckle held no mirth. “I was hoping,

milord, that you could help us out there. If we can even find
the thing, the old mage insists we need an army to go after
it —and that doesn’t mention the magi and clerics we would
need to bind it and banish it.”

The Baron splayed his hands apart as he slouched

into his seat, thinking. “I suppose I could send one more
message to Earl Stoutheart. For that matter, I could even
petition him again to have one of his magi open a portal, so
that I might consult with him in person. But beyond that,
all we can do, I guess, is be vigilant. Tell me, does your
friend believe Ulric Icethorne could defeat the demon? Or
mayhaps that old dwarven priest down at their temple?”

Tarn could only shrug once more. “I actually don’t have

much knowledge at all. I only came to see you because we
were, at one time, friends.”

Consternation flashed across the Baron’s face. “We

haven’t spoken much since you left the service of the crown.
Tarn….. I had no choice.”
Tarn felt his cheeks flush with anger. He fought down
what he wanted to say and turned away from the Baron
before saying anything at all. “I know,” he softly murmured.
“You had no choice in the matter.”

The baron’s expression showed more than he cared to

say. “Tarn, you refused an order from the crown. I can’t
ignore that fact! After all the battles and campaigns you
fought to serve the crown – to serve me! – how can you
doubt that I do anything besides serve the best interests of
the kingdom!? I didn’t agree with the King’s decision. You
know that! But I am as subject to his orders as you are! I
can’t violate my oath anymore than you can!”

“‘Violate my oath?’” Tarn’s anger got the better of him

as he continued. “‘Violate my Oath!’ I never asked you or
anyone else to violate their oaths. I simply asked to be
excused from a mission! The order was wrong, Aahron. And
you know it!”

“Wrong? By the gods, Tarn. They are orcs! Would you

sell out your life to follow them on some foolish crusade
to make sure that the greenbacks, who you know have
slaughtered thousands of our people, don’t meet justice?”

“Justice! You call that justice!”

“Yes! By the gods, man! They are greenbacks!”

Tarn quieted himself before he answered. “Milord,” he

replied, his voice taut, “You have a daughter, do you not?”

“Yes, you know I do. Alyson is nine summers old now.”

 “Is she guilty simply because she is human?”

“Guilty of what?

“Of being human, and a woman. According to the orcs,

that makes her fit only to be a breed cow, never educated,
never clothed, kept around only for her ability to bear
children some day.”

“I know that,” the baron retorted. “We know a woman’s

worth. That’s what makes us better than the orcs.”

“Does it? You and your “noble” king would condemn

their entire race to death simply because they have green
skin. Don’t you see? We judge people based on their
actions. That’s what makes us a free people. Show me a
marauding orc, and I’ll fight to defend my people. But I
won’t cut him down simply because he has green skin.”

The baron drew back from Tarn’s tirade. “I suppose that

I…. never thought about it that way. But that draws us
back to where we were: Do you think the clans will attack?”

Calming his breathing, Tarn considered what the Baron

had said. “I think it inevitable. Wouldn’t you take advantage
of our situation here if you were them? I think you must
prepare as best you can, milord. Send out scouts and
observers across the river. Keep your watch up on the walls
at all times. Tell your militia commanders to be ready to call
their levied troops to the castle at any time. Beg the Earl for
more…..”

The pounding feet of a squire running into the audience

chamber cut him off. Breathlessly, he collapsed at the
Baron’s feet, panting. “What is it, son?” the Baron asked.

“Milord….It’s the outer…. outpost…. just north of the….

city,” he panted. “Something… attacked it. Something
not…. human.”
 “Orcs?”

“No, milord.” The boy must have run all the way here.
His skin was white as snow, and Tarn saw that the boy was
not only exhausted, but terrified. “Something….. something
not…. human. Some sort of….. demon.” With that, he fell
silent.

The Baron reached down, tried to cause the boy to stir.

But it was too late. The young squire lay dead, a rictus of
terror spread across his young face.