Ravenwild: Book 01 - Ravenwild (63 page)

Saviar returned his smile.

“Have you word of the whereabouts of Mandel Ott and Ettan Cooke?” asked Seth.

“I have. They’re in a similar place far to the north of the city, near Soledad. It was too risky to try and get them here. The Trolls are as thick as fleas on a dog, and the plan has changed. They’ll move tonight to the worksite, and we’ll meet them there.”

“And Turman Pandieth?”

“He’s in the far north, somewhere up by Queen’s Port. He’s quietly trying to convince the locals that a revolution is in order.”

“And how goes the project?” asked Seth, taking a huge gulp from the bottle, which he passed to Saviar.

“You won’t believe this,” said Saviar. “We’re very close to being ready to launch.”

“That’s good news,” said Seth, plopping a large piece of cheese into his mouth. “Now, how do we expect to accomplish this with all of these Trolls about? We’ll never be able to do it right under their noses. How far south of the city did you say the construction site is?”

“Only two miles,” said Saviar. “But to date, we’re certain they remain completely unaware of it. Praise to the ones concealing the trails leading to it. And,” he added with a smile, “to our local barkeeps for supplying the beasts with generous quantities of spirits at night.”

Seth grunted.

“Now,” said Saviar, “What of the Prince?”

Seth wiped his mouth and placed the remainder of their meager food supplies back into the sack.

“He is alive and well. When I left him not a fortnight ago he had just received some unlikely visitors.”

“Oh?”

“Rolan Fairman, the King himself, and a small squad.”

Saviar’s mouth dropped open. This was a stunning development.

“And the purpose of this visit was?”

“He is asking for an alliance with us.”

“Praise the Old One,” said Saviar. “Can we trust him?”

“I believe we can. Yes. Not that we have much of a choice. The Humans, Dwarves, and Elves are teetering on the brink of extermination. They’re scattered to the four winds and living off the land, being hunted down and slaughtered by the Trolls every day. And we’re not much better off. I estimate that fully a third of our Gnomes are doing the same thing. Look at this very farm.” He gestured to the outside, shaking his head. “The owners fled years ago.

“What Ravenwild brings to the table is an army that is intact. Our spies tell me that they number upwards of forty thousand. Perhaps fifty. And their commanders have all managed to survive to date. They’re a force to be reckoned with, and the Trolls have not bothered to take them on. They’ve been too busy trying to get
our
country organized and back into production to supply them with our raw materials. Had I a vote, I would say that it’s our best option, but that, of course, is a decision for the Emperor.”

“And you don’t know how he has decided?”

“I do not.”

Saviar stroked his chin, deep in thought. “I must go to Round Lake,” he said. “Now.”

“Risky,” said Seth, “what with all the Trolls about.”

“No doubt,” said Saviar, “But doable if we travel with only a small squad and stay off the main trails. It looks like they haven’t discovered the Old Road. If they have, they don’t patrol it.”

“What about the launch?” asked Seth. “Isn’t that the reason I’m here?”

“It is,” said Saviar. “But we agree that we’ll never be able to carry it off with the Trolls so many and so close. If we could convince Rolan to stage a major offensive to the north of the city to create a diversion, the launch might work. We leave tonight. We’ll go straight to Soledad and pick up Mandel Ott and Ettan Cooke. We’ll send runners after Turman. We need to meet with the Emperor and, hopefully, the King of our new ally.”

He clasped Seth by the arm. “I’ll be back at sundown. Stay put. Eat the rest of the food. I’ll bring more.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Seth.

“No,” said Saviar. “Not during daylight, too dangerous. You wait here.”

He opened the door and peered all around, then slid out, closing it softly behind him.

“Waiting,” said Seth. “I hate waiting.”

Chapter 23

“That’s
enough
,” screamed the sergeant, “You’re killing him. Not that I care, but it means one less of you little fellows to do the women’s work. Have at him with a pail of water, now. What’s his name?”

“Gall, Sir,” replied Bramwith.

He rubbed his whipping arm. It was sore from having delivered whippings to at least nine Gnomes already, and it was only around 11:00 in the morning. But he never complained. Sometimes, when he got tired of it, he thought of how Andar and Isandora had had him clapped in irons to be hauled away. That always made him angry enough to really have at the poor soul that was with him on the wrong end of the whip.

Like he had been some sort of murderer, when all he had done was have a little fun with, what was her name again? Oh yes, Jubra. Well, now little Jubra would have to live the orphan’s life they had planned for him, wouldn’t she?

As a result of his twisted view of things, the whippings he gave Ubri were always his favorites of the day. He loved every lash, every cry of pain. And he especially loved it when the blood showed through Ubri’s shirt once he had put it back on. That made his day.

“Gall,” the Troll called out, as he jabbed Ubri roughly in the side with his enormous foot. “Get up. You are due in the kitchen. Do we need to encourage you again?” He smiled a wicked smile.

Bram’s eyes lit up as he heard mention of yet another chance to whip Ubri. His whipping arm ached something fierce from the lashings he had already handed out this morning, but he would gladly have at it yet again on the back of Ubri. No amount of pain would keep him from that. Stupid Jubra. Stupid, stupid Jubra. He wished she had drowned that day with the water.

Ubri removed his thumb from his mouth and attempted to kneel, groaning loudly with the effort. From there he attempted to stand, but was racked with waves of pain and collapsed back onto his face. His thumb found its way back into his mouth and, again, he lay quietly whimpering.

Bram approached his cell and said softly, “He won’t say it again, Ubri. Come on now, get up.”

Ubri got to his knees and somehow managed to stand, leaning on the bars of the cell for support, then walked out, struggling to stay upright with every step. The sergeant slammed the door behind him and gave him a hard kick in the thigh, hollering, “Move it!”

Ubri walked ahead to his kitchen chores in the same trance in which he had lived since witnessing his mother’s brutal murder. He wallowed clumsily about, mired in the snare of an endless depression. In a way, he would welcome the embrace of death. It mostly seemed the only thing that would take away the pain with which he slogged along every waking second of his life. At least in the kitchen he could function.

A captain presented himself to the commander’s tent that day. He declined an escort and went straight to the cells. An entire life spent in the military had taught him that the type of Gnomes he was looking for, he would find there. Gnomes in cells oftentimes landed themselves there because of fighting, and that was what he sought. Fighting Gnomes. He also needed a tracker, a stalker, a marksman, a discipline officer, and a cook.

“Sergeant,” he said softly to his subordinate, “a word.”

They went outside, and he told him of his needs. They returned to the cells. Discussions were held, a list was drawn up, and the following day the newly formed squad was headed north towards Emperor’s Glenn with full packs and weaponry for battle. Gall had heard that they were going to the northern reaches of Ravenwild on a scouting mission to locate significant population densities of Humans, Elves, and Dwarves, which they then would report via runners to the Command for elimination. He had the luxury of being in charge of the only wagon, which carried the stove and kitchen gear. So by midday he relieved his pained back, which had suffered well over a hundred lashes in the last several weeks, by removing his pack and securing it to the wagon. Nobody noticed. He was alone, the rest all far away from him on strict military maneuvers. They were training hard for this very challenging assignment. His only company was the rattle and clatter of the pots and pans. For days they trudged along. Days turned into weeks. The countryside turned mountainous, and Ubri and the oxen labored furiously at times with the heavy wagon. At one particularly difficult impasse he impressed the captain by having the wherewithal to completely unload it before getting it over the obstruction, preventing the breakage of an axle or the unseating of a wheel.

His back finally healed up, aided mostly by being spared carrying the huge pack, but his soul languished.

He was a dead Gnome walking.

By now they were camped in the northeastern mountains of Ravenwild to the southwest of Mos Summit where, thanks to their diligent reporting, a large gathering of their enemies would soon fall to the Troll main forces. They had spotted several pockets of Human/Dwarf/Elf populations and were awaiting two things: further orders and the coming of winter. At some point along the trek, Ubri had wondered at the wisdom of setting out when they had, in late summer, knowing that no sooner would they get to where they were going than they would have to turn around and return to the warmer climate of Vultura, or freeze to death in the mountains of Ravenwild. But he had reasoned that this was always meant to be a one-way trip. Gnomes were, after all, entirely expendable.

Anyway, he didn’t care a bit.

“Have you heard?” Bramwith called into Ubri’s tent.

“Heard?” Ubri returned. “Gall hears nothing. Gall cooks. Nothing else. Don’t talk to Gall. Leave Gall alone.” He started to whimper so Bram left him be, returning to his tent. He set his whip on the peg and patted it, fiddling with it until it was positioned just so. As discipline officer, he wanted everyone to see his mark on display.

He went inside and lay down. He had not given a whipping for weeks now and was itching for the order. Sometimes the anger he felt rose up in him like a giant wave, and he found himself beating the ground in a fury. “Stupid, stupid girl,” he would snarl. “Maybe the captain will want me to whip the Humans,” he thought. His lips curled into a nasty smile. He could hardly wait.

“Gall,” called the captain. “The fellows are bringing in a nice buck. Give them a hand with the butchering, would you? That’s it boy. Look lively, then.”

Gall rousted himself from his tent, stretching in the mid-morning sunshine. He went back inside and came out with his butchering knives and the bone saw. While he waited, he muttered to himself. “Gall will do a good job for the captain. Good Captain Pilrick. Captain Pilrick is nice to Gall.”

Forrester Ragamund was underneath one of the outbuildings on Cirrhus’s property. He was studying the tell-all. His normally unreadable face now wore a look of exasperation. No matter what he did, he could not get it to work. This was odd because he had already gotten it to work once, but it was like it had gone dead on him.

Like a coin, he flipped it front to back. He thought about when he had found it, when he and Orie had arrived to find that Cirrhus had already slipped into a coma from which she never awoke. He had already known of it and had actually seen her use it several times. But they had never gotten around to educating him in its use, and by the time he and Orie had gotten there, her unconscious state had prevented any discussion of how to tap the enormous power that he knew was contained in this tiny talisman.