Chapter 1
The rain seemed like it would never end, Wulfstan thought. He stroked at his beard, short and brown, with flecks of grey that he tried to disguise. As he stared over the walls of the wooden fort that had been thrown up here only a few months ago, and scanned the lands he had once called his own, he wondered what he should do. This place in which he stood had been swallowed by enemy forces a month ago, and now
the space between these four walls was probably all that remained of the land he had once ruled. How much longer would they last? It could not belong until the enemy tired of their assaults to the North and turned back to mend their fences, to finish what they had begun.
He turned to look across the yard below him as his hand brushed the sabre at his side in its green leather scabbard, somehow making him feel a little more secure, a little more steady. Here and there, leather clad men bustled among the low huts and buildings of the fort, tending their horses, standing watch at the towers, or doing some other menial task. For the most part the men lounged against the walls or sat
around inside the small mess hall out of the rain. There was little to do out here except wait, and worry, and wait. The idea of sending out patrols had seemed like a good one, a way to break the boredam, until...he pushed this thought to the back of his mind. There was no way of knowing yet, they still may be safe.
He brushed his thick mustache, now turning a browny grey. He leaned backwards against the fence, and let the rain run down his face. He hated it in here, he had decided that a long time ago. A man like him needed to be out in the open country, where he could go anywhere he wanted, not cooped up inside what was technically an enemy prison. That was what it might as well be - they had no way of leaving, for fear an Orlock patrol might come across their fort, and burn it. Then they would have nothing, no food, no water and nowhere to go. It would only be a matter of time then. At least here they had a way to protect themselves. He snorted. Some protection it would be if an entire brigade decided their presence had become tiresome.
His head snapped up as he heard the shout, then looked to one of the guard towers, then followed the man?s pointing finger out across the grassland. There was a figure out there, riding hard for the gates. He watched him for a second, his heart sinking. One man out of the twenty which had left the fort. This did not look good. At least he could hope it was...no, it wasn?t him. His heart sank further as the rider galloped nearer. A few seconds later, as they appeared out of the morning gloom, Wulfstan saw the reason for his haste.
Five huge creatures strode behind him, trying as hard as they could to catch him. All of them were at least the height of the fort gates, carrying sharp bladed cleavers drawn and ready. Their bodies were covered all over with fur, and pairs of horns pointed upwards from their muzzled skulls. They wore chain shirts which could have clad three men, and an armoured shoulderpad that each of them wore depicted a red wheel on a black background as they drew nearer. Their leader, black furred and with a long pole cleaver singing through the air in his hands, bellowed some sort of threat to the rider in his own language. The rider either didn?t understand or ignored him,
for his pace never slowed, and in fact it seemed to quicken. Wulfstan smiled grimly. Maybe he had understood after all. A few strides more and the creatures slowed to a halt. Their leader bellowed something at the walls, probably an insult, and then the Orlocks turned around and marched back across the field and out of sight.
'Open the gates.' Wulfstan ordered one of his lieutenants.
The rider was breathless as the guards brought him up to the pallisade where Wulfstan still stared over the landscape. He was clad in black leather, as all of them were, a tunic and trousers. His sabre was thrust through his belt, and his blond, braided hair stretched to his shoulders. Wulfstan ran a hand through his thinning locks, cut short so he didn?t appear so old. As the rider brushed back his blonde locks,
Wulfstan realised he was little more than a boy, only sixteen or seventeen.
'What is your name, boy?' Wulfstan asked in a quiet yet friendly voice.
'Strom Boarshead, your majesty.' The lad managed to breathe as he rested his hands on his knees.
'Do you bring news from the others?' Wulfstan's last hopes rode on his answer. The boy managed to look up between his gasping.
'In a way, your majesty,' He drew in a deep breath, steadied his panting, and continued. 'It was all Garth?s idea, your majesty, I told them it was a...'
'That doesn?t matter. What news is there?' Strom looked afraid to tell him, but with a quiet sigh of resignation, he pressed on.
'We were out beyond Highmount, past Warlock's fen...' Wulfstan interupted him.
'Warlock?s Fen? But that?s deep in Orlock territory, how did you get past the patrols?'
'There didn?t seem to be that many around, your majesty,' Strom looked at him, to see how he was taking these revelations, and then continued. 'Anyway, we rode around the base of Eversmere, and it was then the Orlocks attacked. There were at least twenty of them. We fought as best we could, but we were outnumbered,' The king turned from him and stared across the fields. So what he had feared was true. 'I saw them knock Garth out of the saddle, but they dragged him away, along with Jorg
Herdsfar. The rest scattered, and I headed back here as fast as I could.' Wulfstan turned back to him.
'Your sure they didn?t...'
'No your majesty, I saw them drag him away with my own eyes.' Wulfstan nodded.
'Thank you, Strom. It?s alright, you can go.' Strom bowed quickly and hurried away before Wulfstan changed his mind. As Wulfstan turned back to the fields, one of his lieutenants hurried up.
'It might not be as bad as it sounds.' He said. Wulfstan turned to look at him.
'They know who they?ve got, Ranalf. Why hold on until they were that close to jump them?'
'We know where he is,' Ranalf shrugged. 'There?s only one place to take him, isn?t there.'
'You know, that isn?t very comforting. Korshank?s an Orlock stronghold, I doubt he?ll be treated well.' Ranalf looked at him.
'What do we do?' He asked. Wulfstan turned to him.
'I don?t know,' He admitted. 'what would you do?'
'Hang on there, Wulfstan,' Ranalf held up his hand. 'I?m his uncle, not his father. It?s for you to decide.'
'Alright, as his uncle, what would you do?' Ranalf looked at him, then sighed.
'Not the easiest question, brother,' He looked over the fields, following Wulfstan's gaze. 'It depends which way you want to look at it. As King, I?d hold on and hope he
managed to escape. There?s no point in risking all of them,' He waved his hand back
over those behind him. 'For one. As his uncle, there's no question,' He looked
Wulfstan direct in the eyes. 'I'd risk all this just to get him back.' Wulfstan snorted.
'Thanks for telling me everything I already know.' He said. Ranalf shrugged again.
'Now you know someone agrees. I'll go to the mess hall. I'll see you there later.?
Ranalf turned and headed down the steps to the ground. Wulfstan watched him go, then turned back to the horizon. Sometimes he really hated being king.
The steady drip drip of water should have got on his nerves, Gordorf thought, but after two years down here in Korshank?s dungeons he?d gotten used to it. Not that there was anything else to do, down here in the lantern lit darkness, with only a few other Thorgs for company. He looked at himself in the mirror on the black stone wall in front of him. A sloping, bald forehead led down to a pair of shaded, violet eyes. Beneath this a small nose perched over a jutting jaw. He scratched at the black uniform, picked at one of the brass buttons with boredom, sighed and sat down at the bench behind him. He stared at the guardhouse wall for about the fifth time that morning, tugging his keys from his belt and letting them skitter across the tabletop. As he stretched and waited for his breakfast, Orsef, one of the other jailers, opened the door from the corridor.
'Best look lively, chief,' He addressed the Thorg sitting at the table. 'They're bringing a prisoner down.?
?Oho,? Gordorf said with semi - interest. ?What was it this time, brawling in the barracks? Spitting at a senior officer?? He was looking forward to the intelligent conversation angry Orlocks usually came out with.
?Not an Orlock this time, it?s one of them Norvaks.? A look of shock crossed the jailer?s bored face, and he sat up from his half slouch.
?Human, eh? This could be interesting. I thought we didn?t take prisoners.?
?Looks like that changed. Seems like the Orta asked for him personal like.?
?So it?s the Orta?s prisoner. Why isn?t he in the Orlock?s jail then??
?They?ve already got one over there.?
?Well I hope this one feels lucky. I?ve got a feeling the other one won?t live to see his audience.? Orsef nodded, then looked down the corridor.
?Hang on, they?re here.? Gordorf made a quick grab for the keys on the table, and they jumped out of his grasp and landed on the floor. Cursing, he knelt, picked them up off the floor, made for the mirror to make sure his uniform was straight, then followed Orsef into the corridor.
?Next time,? The Orlock sergeant waiting out there said. ?Don?t keep me waiting.? His fur was black, and the cleaver he wore at his belt was recently sharpened. He wore grey trousers down to his hooves, and across his muscled chest was an orange sash, showing his rank. His red eyes bored into the jailer, but Gordorf was used to his sort.
?Sorry sir, wanted to get everything ready,? The Orlock grunted. ?Out of curiosity sir, where is the prisoner??
?They?re just bringing him now,? The Orlock turned so his horns pointed down the corridor. ?He?s proving difficult. Will you need time to sort one of the cells out??
?No, sir. The last one we had down here was Azgar Gor Fordran, and that was a couple of weeks ago. They?re clean enough.? The Oversergeant nodded, then turned.
?Here he comes now, barbarian scum.? Four Orlock hurried down the steps, hauling between them a leather clad figure. The figure was slightly taller than Gordorf, so about 6?1, with no hair except a single black horse tail of it that sprouted from the top of his head and reached to his shoulders. He didn?t seem that old, either. What the
Orta would want with someone so young baffled Gordorf, but orders were orders. As the Orlocks came closer, the Thorg chief jailer hauled one of the barred doors open. The Orlocks threw the Norvak bodily inside, and Gordorf shut the massive door with a slam. As he rammed the bolts shut, the man inside began to butt his shoulder against the door.
?Don?t worry,? He told the Orlock who looked at the door with a concerned look on his face. ?That thing held Captain Vilkoth Gor Borvas when the Orta fell out with him, and you know how strong he is.? The Oversergeant nodded, then moved to the door of the cell.
?Do that again, Norvak and I?ll have you flogged.? The noise of shoulder against door abruptly stopped. The Oversergeant gave another, satisfied nod and then turned back to the chief jailer. ?Orta Uruf said you?ll be holding him for a week while he waits for orders from Annaskrakke. Until then keep him fed and try not to kill him.? The
Oversergeant stalked away. Gordorf stared at his back as he left. He must be new to the army, he thought. The sneering looks his subordinates were now giving him as they turned to follow their leader were more traditional. He turned his attention to the cell. Pulling back the peephole, he saw the man had gone to sit on the floor in the
corner. He?d been disarmed and checked thoroughly, he assumed, so he let the peephole slide shut again and returned to the guardhouse.
Garth heard the peephole shut and rested his head against the wall. He had got himself into a fine mess this time. He was lucky the captain had recognised him, he thought, otherwise he?d be dead out there now. Although this wasn?t much better. He looked around the room at the black stone walls, ceiling and floor but it was useless. There was no way out of here, except through the door and only then with a fight he
couldn?t hope to win. He sighed, and rested his head back against the wall. If he survived this one his father was really going to kill him.
Wulfstan stood on the wall once more and listened to his lieutenants and the Herdsmen, the leaders of the major families, talk.
?That?s outrageous!? Thurkill Bordersman told Ranalf at his suggestion they try to rescue Wulfstan?s son. ?It?s insane to risk us all for one man!?
?For a start, Thurkill, he?s not even a man yet,? Ranalf reminded him. ?And for another thing you forget whose son he is.?
?So if this was my son we wouldn?t bother?? Swein Watchwell, Wulfstan?s cousin, demanded.
?Of course not. If it was any of our kin we?d expect the rest of us to go after him.? Ardus Boarshead answered him.
?He got himself into this mess,? Thurkill persisted. ?It?s up to him to get himself out of it!?
?Your own nephew is with him, Thurkill,? Ranalf reminded him. ?Your sister?s son,?
He gestured to Eadmer Herdsfar who sat sullenly next to his brother - in - law. ?You?d leave him to the Orlocks, would you??
?They should never have gone.? Eadmer repeated again for the tenth time that night.
?Yes, Eadmer,? Ardus said to him gently. ?We know that, but it?s too late now. We have to decide what we?re going to do about it.?
?Aren?t you going to tell us what you think, Wulfstan?? Thurkill shouted up to the wall. ?I?m starting to think you?re being ignorant.?
?I can hear you screaming up here, Thurkill,? Wulfstan said, not looking round. ?As can probably every Orlock patrol for six miles.? He kept staring out over the land. Even he couldn?t decide, and it was his son.He shouldn?t ask them to go, he thought. It wasn?t right for him to ask them to risk their lives for his son. He cursed himself. He couldn?t leave him out there, rotting in some Orlock prison, waiting for the executioner?s axe. Even the thought of it was like a knife in his heart. He was struck once more by the fact that if Garth died he?d have nothing left. He looked down at his boots. He could still remember the day his son was born...
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