The Soldier's Tale Read Online Free PDF Page B

crimson skulls behind their
tusks. The crimson skull was the sigil of Mhor, the old orcish
blood god of death and murder, and in his honor the Mhorites carved
his symbol into their flesh.
    “Looks like there was a sharp fight here,
sir,” I said, looking over the corpses.
    One of the veteran men-at-arms, a wiry old
man named Philip, dropped from his saddle and considered the
ground. “I would say about a hundred Mhorites, Sir Primus, maybe a
hundred and fifty. It looks as if they ambushed a group of fifty
dwarves. Struck from either side of the road.”
    “Cowardly, as befits the Mhorites,” said
Primus.
    “Seems the dwarves had the better of it,” I
said. God and the saints, but my head hurt. “I don’t see any
dwarven dead.”
    “Nor do I, sir,” said Philip. “I
think…wait!”
    He pointed at the hills rising over the
road. Pine trees cloaked the sides of the hills, and a short figure
staggered from the trees, weaving back and forth as if drunk. It
was a dwarven man, standing just about five feet tall, broad and
strong and tough. He wore armor of bronze-colored dwarven steel, a
battered shield upon his left arm and a bloody sword in his right
fist. His helmet was missing, revealing his gray, granite-colored
skin, his black hair and beard, and his eyes like orbs of green
marble. The dwarven man staggered to the edge of the road and fell
to one knee, blood dripping down his cuirass.
    “Magistrius,” said Primus. Mallister
dropped from his saddle, knelt next to the dwarven warrior, and
cast a spell, white fire flaring around his hands. The dwarf
flinched, and Mallister went rigid, his eyes widening, his teeth
clenched in a rictus. He had told me once that to heal wounds he
had to take the pain of the injury into himself, that he felt the
wound as if the sword had pierced his own flesh. It didn’t sound
like a pleasant experience, but I envied him that. Perhaps if I had
possessed that ability, I could have saved Judith and the baby,
maybe…
    I shook my head. My thoughts were
wandering, and that was dangerous in a crisis. Maybe I should have
asked for sick leave after all.
    The dwarf straightened up, his green eyes
wide. He looked tired and worn, but better than he had a moment
earlier. Mallister let out a long breath and straightened up,
wiping sweat from his forehead.
    “He should live, Sir Primus,” said
Mallister.
    The dwarven warrior said something in the
strange, jagged language of his kindred.
    Primus frowned. “Do you speak Latin?”
    “He does not, sir knight,” said Mallister,
“but I speak some dwarven.” He listened for a moment as the dwarven
warrior spoke, his bronze-colored gauntlets flashing in the sun as
he gestured. “They were attacked. Ah…Mhorite orcs, a large warband.
Hit from both sides. The taalvar…the taalvar’s name is Azandran. He
defeated the Mhorites in a battle in the Deeps, and they have come
for revenge. Some of the taalvar’s warriors were slain. The
remaining dwarves have formed a shield wall and fallen back, trying
to hold off the Mhorites.” Mallister listened to the warrior’s
narration for a moment, nodding here and there. “Sir Primus, the
fighting was recent, nor more than a few moments ago. If we hasten,
we might be able to attack the Mhorites while they focus upon the
dwarves…”
    “And then catch them between the hammer and
the anvil,” I said.
    Mallister nodded. “Precisely.”
    “Then let us hasten,” said Primus. “Optio,
make sure our guest gets a horse.”

    ###

    We found the battle about a mile further
into the hills.
    A score of dead Mhorites and a half a dozen
dead dwarves lay upon the road, the blood pooling beneath their
bodies. The battle had moved off the road, the dwarves falling back
towards the hills. They had formed an interlocking shield wall,
stabbing with spears and swords through the gaps in their
shields.
    Nearly a hundred Mhorite warriors faced
them. The Kothluuskan orcs threw themselves at the dwarven shields
in a frenzy,