Dark Vengeance (6 page)

A cottage thatch was burning, and by its leaping flames the lad saw the glint of his dagger, lying where it had fallen in the street. Plucking it up, he looked down the row of houses and saw distant bobbing lanterns—and, nearer at hand, bodies sprawled in the street. There were a few huddled, motionless heaps of village homespun, but more than a few black, long-limbed, somehow
sleek
bodies, too.

Nightskins!

Amid a sudden jangling of chimes, something pitched abruptly out of the darkness between two porches, and Orl-folk on one of those porches raced to it and started hacking and stabbing with their forks at the nightskin who'd tripped and was struggling to rise.

The chime-strings!

They worked!

Orivon Firefist had found another pair of nightskins, and his sword was ringing and clanging as they tangled with him, blade to blade. Orl-folk were throwing stools, churns, and even hoes at the two dark elves from behind, seemingly without effect—and beyond it all, Grammoth saw a lantern crash and fall with the village man who was clutching it. The dark shadow who'd killed him stooped, snatched up the still-burning lantern, and hurled it up onto another roof.

Even as Grammoth shouted and pointed, the thatch smoked and then flared up, the nightskin darting away into the darkness.

Behind Grammoth, someone screamed loudly, and he spun around in time to see
four
nightskins gathering, hissing things at each other and pointing with their swords—at Grammoth, amid other things.

Another scream, right behind Grammoth, drove him to whirl frantically around again. He was in time to see a nightskin topple toward him, spewing a great froth of blood from its mouth, its head at an odd angle.

As it fell, Orivon Firefist's fearsome sword came free of its neck and was left waving bloodily in the air as the forge-giant stared past Grammoth at the four nightskins. He barked a bubbling string of words at them that sounded very much like orders, in that strange, flowing, wet-sounding language.

The tongue of the nightskins sounded . . .
exciting.

The nightskins were hesitating, peering around as if seeking another of their kind. Evidently they couldn't quite believe anyone of Orlkettle could speak their tongue.

Orivon Firefist didn't wait for them to think such matters over.

He sprang right over Grammoth and charged the four, blood-wet sword shining in the firelight. At least three houses were afire now, and all Orlkettle was awake and shouting, rushing about on every side. Grammoth saw the four nightskins draw back, shifting to all face outward with their swords at the ready, as a fifth dark elf darted out of the night to join them.

Which was when the forge-giant who'd been a nightskin slave reached them and gave a great bellow, his sword sweeping through the night air like the largest scythe in the world.

At their faces Orivon hewed, and when they reared back and brought their blades up against his, he ducked and brought his slicing steel down in the air to reap their ankles, spilling and tumbling them in all directions as his rush carried him on into the backs of the two facing away from him. Those he trampled down, and broke the neck of one with his hand as he turned and hacked open the face of the other. Then he was bounding among the three that were left like a child pouncing on prized fruit, hacking and slashing and kicking in a frenzy that made Grammoth shiver all over again, even though it was nightskins who were dying messily in front of his eyes. The hated dark elves moaned and thrashed in pain and sprayed blood from slit throats just like slaughtered boar . . . or humans.

And then a war-horn sounded, a horn that
hissed
more than any human horn—and suddenly the dark shadows of nightskins were racing away. All over Orlkettle, they streamed past the bright
blazes of the burning homes in swift, eerie silence, vanishing back into the night.

And Orivon Firefist was running with them, faster than Grammoth could have run, his sword reaching and reaping. Biting into this dark elf and that, sending them staggering and crying out, or arching in wild thrashings of agony.

Grammoth ran after him as far as he dared, to where the leaping light of the burning homes faded into deeper night-gloom, and stood staring. Something moved, and he drew back in fear . . . only to swallow, whisper “But the Firefist ran after them all,” and dare to go forward far enough to see that a blood-drenched nightskin was trying to feebly crawl away from Orlkettle. Grammoth swallowed again, raised his dagger in hands he knew were trembling—and then rushed forward, snarling in silent distaste, and plunged it into a nightskin neck, leaping away again wildly when the stricken dark elf jerked around to face him, blood bursting forth from its mouth in a horrible, helpless choking flood. Then it fell forward into its own spew, clawing the ground feebly, and died.

Grammoth backed away, suddenly cold and afraid, and found himself peering fearfully into the night with every swift step back toward the leaping flames.

“There's one!” old Mrickon snapped as Grammoth came up into the baker's garden. Men of Orlkettle trotted forward, hefting clubs and axes, and seemed almost disappointed when Grammoth blurted out his name and insisted loudly that he was no nightskin.

“More than that,” the deep voice of Orivon Firefist came out of the night behind him, seeming to hold a grim smile in its tones. “Grammoth Gheskryn is a slayer-of-nightskins. I saw him kill one, and he helped me down another. Fine knife-work.”

Grammoth flushed and stood taller as he saw Orl-folk peering at him, as they came hurrying with lanterns and torches in their hands.

He wasn't as tall as Firefist, though; the forge-giant strode past just then, a head above everyone else in Orlkettle. Orivon Firefist
was dark and sticky with blood that was not his own, but smiled fiercely as he came out into the full firelight—and the people of Orlkettle raised a ragged cheer.

“Good folk!” he called as he came. “How many of us died, this night?”

“One, at least,” someone called. “Harglin.”

“I saw Toskur the Elder,” someone else said. “He's lying in the street back there. There's not much left of his head.”

“Dorl, and his brother Thammon, too,” another man put in.

“And Kellurt Bane-of-Husbands!” Mrickon added gleefully, news that raised some chuckles.

“Two–three more are hurt bad,” a younger man offered.

“And how many children are taken?” Firefist asked.

Silence fell as if he'd slain all noise with his sword, and in its heart could be heard a faint, distant weeping.

“Larane the dyer's little ones,” old Bryard said grimly, waving his hand toward the sounds of grief. “Brith and his sister Reldaera. She was the prettiest we had.”

The forge-giant's smile went away as he strode toward the weeping.

In the village square, a little knot of women were hugging the sobbing Larane to themselves, their backs forming a wall around her to keep the world at bay.

In silence Orivon Firefist bore down on them. All Orlkettle seemed to be following him, or have gathered in the square already. They gazed in silence as the forge-giant stopped at the nearest dark elf corpse, and rolled it over with his foot.

“We never killed a nightskin before, though,” a man said triumphantly in the crowd. “And there's seven or more, just here!”

“And a lot more, where
he
went after them,” another man added, nodding at the forge-giant.

Who looked around at them all, gathering their attention to him, and then pointed down at a badge on the throat-armor of the dead dark elf.

“Towers rising from darkwings,” Orivon said. “Mark it well.”

Some of the men—and Grammoth, too—dared to come close enough to peer.

“These Niflghar came from the city of Talonnorn.”

Firefist's pointing finger moved to indicate a smaller symbol graven into the cuff above one limp Nifl hand. “The Talon of Oondaunt.”

“What's that?” Mrickon dared to ask.

“A noble House of that city. A rich family.” The forge-giant took two steps toward the water-trough, to where the light of the hanging lanterns was strongest, and raised his voice to add, “I know where these raiders came from.”

“And this consoles our Larane
how?
” one of the women—old beak-nosed Meljarra, wife to Osmur the carpenter—almost spat at him. “Her children are still taken!”

Orivon Firefist took a step toward that angry goodwife, and the silence became an utter, hard-edged thing that seemed to sing with the tension of coming battle. (Even the weeping woman who'd lost her children fell silent, staring in frozen, white-faced stillness at the hulking man with the sword.)

Who turned, took a step toward that bereft mother, and said to her gently, “Hear me, Larane. I will go after the nightskins, and try to get Brith and Reldaera back.”

She stared at him, trembling, but found no words to say. As her mouth worked and fresh tears streamed down her face, the forge-giant looked around at the watching villagers, and raised his voice again.

“More than that: I will go after the Dark Ones and kill as many as I can, to humble them. To make them fear Orlkettle forevermore, so that they dare not come again.”

The villagers stared at him in disbelief, or awe, and fear stirred in their faces. Orivon saw it and said swiftly, “You have seen how easily nightskins can die, this night. You can defend yourselves right well, friends. For behold, they have fled—though more than a score of them will never run anywhere, ever again.”

There were a few yells of agreement that might have become a
feeble cheer if the villagers hadn't looked so lost. “Only a few of us died, and they snatched only two to be slaves. I have heard Mrickon and old Aunjae and Thurtha talk of raids that carried off dozens, almost every child in the village. Folk of Orlkettle, you have fought the proudest Niflghar
and won!
”

That did raise a ragged cheer.

It didn't last long, but Orivon didn't need it to. Raising his hands as it died away, he roared, “Hunters, to me! Gather at the forge!”

He turned a little, and shouted, “Mrickon! Grammoth! I need you to get everyone who can swing a weapon into a ring all around Orlkettle! Standing in threes, each trio with two lit lanterns and some weapons! Stand where you can see the next group on either side.
Haste!
”

Even back-country villages like Orlkettle had heard royal proclamations a time or two; Orl-folk understood the imperious roar of command. Suddenly everyone was moving, rushing about and chattering excitedly, afire with their own victory.

The forge-giant reached out a long arm through the bustling chaos, took Larane by the shoulders, and pulled her along as he strode toward the forge, the women who'd shielded her clucking all around him like so many disapproving hens.

Bryard was there waiting for him, and Harmund, too. The old smith and the weaver held Orivon's armor ready in their hands, and the rest of the swords and daggers he'd brought from the Rift in Talonnorn were laid out like a bright swordsmith's wares along the smithy counter.

Orivon stopped at the sight of them, smiled, and then went forward again, walking slowly because he had to: the crowd of women were all tending to him, now, scrambling to help lace this on and heave that into place.

“We're here,” came the deep voice of Harkon, the best hunter in Orlkettle, from the smithy door behind Orivon. “What's your will?”

The forge-giant turned to face the hunters. “You must patrol
and guard Orlkettle of nights, from now on. Don't grow lax if days upon days pass with no nightskin raid—they'll be watching you, and waiting for that. Yet I need you to help me now, too: to track the Nifl who fled, back to whatever caves they came from.”

Orivon settled his two best swords in their scabbards, made sure his favorite daggers were sheathed where he wanted them, smilingly accepted a skin of water and a hastily proffered haunch of roast boar, rolled them into the blanket he used when sleeping beside the forge, and looked at the door.

Then he turned back to the softly weeping Larane, and gave her a firm handclasp and the words, “I will do my best to bring your lost ones home. This I swear.”

Before she could choke aside her grief to reply, he was striding away, back out into the night, the hunters closing in around him.

“I . . .I wish I was going with him,” Larane whispered at last, tremulously.

Old beak-nosed Meljarra looked at her sternly. “No, you don't. You'd not last ten breaths before fear froze your heart. Since when did you learn how to see in the dark, anyway? The nightskins have some sort of spell they put on their slaves, but the rest of us'd be fair blind. Even Harkon would come running back mewling, if you tried to take him down into the caves.”

She plucked at Larane's sleeve, got a good grip, and started towing the forlorn cloth-dyer across the smithy by main force, her beak of a nose parting the crowd of women as if by magic. “Now stop talking such foolishness and come and help me make soup. He'll have your little ones back as soon as he can, and it'll help them none if you've pined away for lack of them, and left them motherless!”

Harmund the weaver was careful to make sure Meljarra was a good few hurrying strides outside the smithy before he told its ceiling thoughtfully, “Now if you could
nag
nightskins to death, you'd want Meljarra Sharptongue at your side, to be sure. I can't see Orivon Firefist or anyone else managing to creep past anything with ears if they have Meljarra along.”

Bryard and a few of the older men chuckled at that—but only after they'd peered swiftly about to see if any women of the village were listening.

 

The hunters said little, which was just as Orivon wanted it.

If the Niflghar raiders were going to attack the human who'd just slain so many of their fellows, he wanted enough warning to get himself set, with sword and dagger ready.