it?” Thren asked, and then he too saw the trail of smoke rising above the forest. “That fire may only be the orcs setting up camp.”
Haern stared at it. It was a campfire, all right, and several miles behind them on the path.
“What if it’s not?” he asked.
Thren shrugged.
“Then we’re too late. They’ll have to fend for themselves.”
“No,” Haern said, and this time Thren’s answer would not suffice. “No, they won’t.”
Boots thudding upon the packed dirt, he raced along the road. After a moment, his sprint settled into a jog, and he focused on keeping his breathing steady. He kept his eyes straight ahead, staring at the smoke, trying a hundred times to decide its meaning. Was it just a campfire? A message? Was it only the orcs and he was acting like a fool?
He looked back only once, and when he did, he saw his father following.
Thren caught up to him after the first mile. Both of them were winded, but Haern pushed on, knowing if the camp was not yet under attack, it would be soon. The sun continued to set, and in his gut he knew that if the orcs were to attack, they’d do so after nightfall, perhaps several hours after to ensure all were asleep. Assuming whoever built the campfire wasn’t alone and easy prey.
Damn it,
thought Haern.
Too much I don’t know. We should have taken them out when we had the chance!
“You’re going to get yourself killed trying to save everyone,” Thren said as they climbed their way up one of the hills.
“Thought weakness was what would kill me?”
Thren let out a laugh.
“They’re the same thing, you fool. Now run harder, or must an old man show up a youngster?”
And then he was ahead of Haern, pushing himself on, and to Haern’s shock, there was a smile on his face. Sucking in breaths, cloaks billowing behind them, they both chased the smoke in the distance as the sun settled down behind the trees, and out came the stars. As they neared, Haern realized the smoke came from the same hill as the first ambush, and for a moment, he felt relief. Perhaps it was only the orcs, camping where they had before, and no one was in danger. He mentioned the idea to Thren, who chuckled.
“We’ll still kill them,” he said. “I didn’t run all this way
not
to get blood on my blades.”
Haern slowed to a walk, and Thren did the same. They were at the base of the hill, and as they climbed, they both needed to recover their breath. His sides were cramping, his legs sore, but Haern knew he could push himself harder if he needed to. There was no limit to his body he’d not been trained to break.
Halfway up the hill, they heard the first shouts over the din of the cicadas. It was the orcs, there was no doubt to that, and they sounded in a jovial mood. Haern drew his sabers, his father his short swords, and together they veered into the trees to ensure no one spotted their approach. Amidst all the hooting and hollering, Haern knew their stomping through the brush would go unnoticed, and he quickened his lead, until at last they reached the crest.
He’d expected the orcs to be feasting, perhaps wrestling and fighting or doing whatever it was they did, but instead he saw two wagons and a fire burning between them. The orcs had formed a circle surrounding the camp, their weapons held up into the air as they mocked those inside. Haern crept closer, baffled.
“Why don’t they attack?” he asked, slipping even closer.
“They have,” Thren said, crouched beside him as together they moved through the trees. He pushed aside a low branch, then pointed. “Look there, by the left wagon.”
Sure enough, he saw two orc bodies crumpled at the entrance. It was odd, for they were clearly dead, yet there were no marks on their skin, no blood pooled beneath them. Haern tried to see if he could spot any survivors, but they were no doubt cowering hidden behind the thick white canvas that covered the wagons.
“Something’s spooked the orcs,” Thren said. “Looks like
Haern stared at it. It was a campfire, all right, and several miles behind them on the path.
“What if it’s not?” he asked.
Thren shrugged.
“Then we’re too late. They’ll have to fend for themselves.”
“No,” Haern said, and this time Thren’s answer would not suffice. “No, they won’t.”
Boots thudding upon the packed dirt, he raced along the road. After a moment, his sprint settled into a jog, and he focused on keeping his breathing steady. He kept his eyes straight ahead, staring at the smoke, trying a hundred times to decide its meaning. Was it just a campfire? A message? Was it only the orcs and he was acting like a fool?
He looked back only once, and when he did, he saw his father following.
Thren caught up to him after the first mile. Both of them were winded, but Haern pushed on, knowing if the camp was not yet under attack, it would be soon. The sun continued to set, and in his gut he knew that if the orcs were to attack, they’d do so after nightfall, perhaps several hours after to ensure all were asleep. Assuming whoever built the campfire wasn’t alone and easy prey.
Damn it,
thought Haern.
Too much I don’t know. We should have taken them out when we had the chance!
“You’re going to get yourself killed trying to save everyone,” Thren said as they climbed their way up one of the hills.
“Thought weakness was what would kill me?”
Thren let out a laugh.
“They’re the same thing, you fool. Now run harder, or must an old man show up a youngster?”
And then he was ahead of Haern, pushing himself on, and to Haern’s shock, there was a smile on his face. Sucking in breaths, cloaks billowing behind them, they both chased the smoke in the distance as the sun settled down behind the trees, and out came the stars. As they neared, Haern realized the smoke came from the same hill as the first ambush, and for a moment, he felt relief. Perhaps it was only the orcs, camping where they had before, and no one was in danger. He mentioned the idea to Thren, who chuckled.
“We’ll still kill them,” he said. “I didn’t run all this way
not
to get blood on my blades.”
Haern slowed to a walk, and Thren did the same. They were at the base of the hill, and as they climbed, they both needed to recover their breath. His sides were cramping, his legs sore, but Haern knew he could push himself harder if he needed to. There was no limit to his body he’d not been trained to break.
Halfway up the hill, they heard the first shouts over the din of the cicadas. It was the orcs, there was no doubt to that, and they sounded in a jovial mood. Haern drew his sabers, his father his short swords, and together they veered into the trees to ensure no one spotted their approach. Amidst all the hooting and hollering, Haern knew their stomping through the brush would go unnoticed, and he quickened his lead, until at last they reached the crest.
He’d expected the orcs to be feasting, perhaps wrestling and fighting or doing whatever it was they did, but instead he saw two wagons and a fire burning between them. The orcs had formed a circle surrounding the camp, their weapons held up into the air as they mocked those inside. Haern crept closer, baffled.
“Why don’t they attack?” he asked, slipping even closer.
“They have,” Thren said, crouched beside him as together they moved through the trees. He pushed aside a low branch, then pointed. “Look there, by the left wagon.”
Sure enough, he saw two orc bodies crumpled at the entrance. It was odd, for they were clearly dead, yet there were no marks on their skin, no blood pooled beneath them. Haern tried to see if he could spot any survivors, but they were no doubt cowering hidden behind the thick white canvas that covered the wagons.
“Something’s spooked the orcs,” Thren said. “Looks like
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