A JOURNEY NORTH OF PRAZAEG @Copyright Maureen Lycaon, September 2003. Permission granted to archive this story in the official web archives of whatever mailing lists I post it on, and to keep one hard copy and two electronic copies for your personal use. All other rights are reserved under the Berne Convention. Please don't send a copy to your friends; instead, give them the URL to my archive (below) so they can see my other stories. WARNINGS: You know the drill -- all rights protected under the Berne Convention, all similarity to persons living or dead is solely coincidental and unintentional, not intended as a guide to real life, etc. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yep, another Raven the Dark Warrior story. No sex and no rape, but nudity, violence and unresolved sexual tension. Orcish glossary at the end if you want it. Shout-outs to Ron/Lionus and Tyellas, who beta'd quite ably. Also thanks to the NetSword.com forum, which gave me a better understanding of longsword fighting. A JOURNEY NORTH OF PRAZAEG By Maureen Lycaon "There is nothing more noble or beautiful than a warrior with no distractions; one could say he is the closest to perfection." -- Treize Kushrinada The little company traveled northward upon the remains of the West Road. To either side brooded the forested slopes, half-veiled by rain. The men wore hooded cloaks and rode on horses; the orcs, scorning to use cloaks or to ride, walked on foot as was their habit. Fourteen men, and as many orcs. The rain had fallen hard all day, turning the dirt and grass of the overgrown road into slippery mud. The men kept their horses to a slow walk. Devoragh, Duke of the cities of Tovaerg and Davim, held his cloak tightly around himself. Even so, the spring cold penetrated through the sodden wool and seemed to find every gap in the leather armor underneath it, seeping into his bones. Rain ran down his face into his eyes, forcing him to blink constantly. The chill made him feel every bit of his forty years. As his mare Dovu picked her way along the road, hooves squishing at every step, he watched the forest to either side and prayed to the Dark Kings she didn't slip and fall or throw a shoe. Those ancient pines had never known the rule of men. They crowded to the very edges of the road, huge and dark. Imagination could conjure almost anything lurking within their shadows. But the only sounds were the squelching footsteps of the horses, the much softer steps of the orcs walking beside them, and the steady patter of rain upon the muddy earth. Once, the West Road had been well maintained and often traveled. It had never been as busy as the East Road, but merchants using it could avoid the tolls at Aroll. After the big plague nineteen years ago, the decimated Two Cities had been forced to give up their guard over it, abandoning it to the Ah'kerr orcs who lived in the hills that it passed through. Devoragh turned in his saddle to glance back at the four Dark Mages riding just behind him, clustered in the center of the group. Last night, they had raised a fog to conceal the group from unfriendly eyes while they forded the Davar River, far from Prazaeg. The effort had drained them almost into unconsciousness. Only two -- Baevirr and their leader, Norisk -- were conscious enough to sit in their saddles unaided. They rode with shoulders slumped and head hanging, barely aware of their surroundings. The other two, Reslik and Paskoll, had had to be lashed into their saddles in order to travel. They lay limply across their horses' necks, unconscious or close to it. The mounted men at arms at the rear of the party kept an uneasy distance from the Mages. Devoragh didn't blame them. Though he'd known the adepts for three years, they made even him uncomfortable. For all their weakness, an almost visible aura of darkness and disquiet surrounded the four adepts. Ignoring the quiver of unease the Mages sparked in him, Devoragh turned back in his saddle and looked to the black- cloaked figure riding just ahead -- the Dark Warrior. Only a few, such as Devoragh, knew him by any other name. At the front of the group, the Dark Warrior showed no sign of weariness, holding himself erect in the saddle of his black gelding. Seen from behind, with his cloak thrown over his head, his mane of blond hair was concealed. Covered too beneath the cloak, but showing its long, thin shape through it, was his darksword, resting in the baldric's scabbard across his back. He turned his head neither to the left or the right, but looked straight ahead. They had sent messengers ahead of them to the Ah'kerr orcs, of course. Human messengers would have been slaughtered out of hand, so the Dark Warrior had sent orcish ones instead. They had returned with mixed tidings. The Ah'kerr's chieftain Ti'r'lungrin had refused to promise anything, even safe passage for the embassy; but at least he had not simply ordered them away from Ah'kerr lands. Doubtless by now, Ah'kerr lookouts had sighted the group and sent back word to their chieftain. Devoragh couldn't rid himself of nightmarish visions of burly archers crouching hidden in the trees, war bows drawn taut and about to fire. He forced such imaginings aside. He could hardly turn back now, and he could not afford such weakness. *He has gone too far, this time,* the thought came unbidden to Devoragh yet again. The rain never stopped that day. In mid-afternoon, when the company was far enough away from the Davar River to make any tracking and pursuit by Prazaeg scouts impossible, the men pitched their tents in a tiny clearing. They spoke little to one another, and that in low, hushed voices, as they hobbled the horses and went about setting up the camp. The orc scouts preserved their usual stony silence, speaking only when necessary, as they assumed their guard positions. Devoragh finished dislodging a stone from weary Dovu's hoof, and gave her a final pat before turning her over to the seneschal, Orellag, to be hobbled with the rest. He wiped his face in an ineffectual attempt to get water out of his eyes, and looked about. The Dark Warrior stood on the other side of the camp, atop a small hillock where he could watch everything, seemingly oblivious to the rain. The nobleman walked across the wet camp, and climbed the little slope to stand beside him. "Raven," he said, announcing his presence. He was one of the few who knew the Dark Warrior by that name. As always, merely looking at Raven brought a thickness to Devoragh's throat. He swallowed, forcing it away, feeling a curious urge to kneel before him in homage. Though they still maintained the pretense that Raven was simply an advisor, in truth it was Raven who led, and Devoragh who followed. *And why do I not resent that?* Devoragh wondered. For long moments, Raven did not even look at the nobleman. He simply nodded and continued to stand motionless, wrapped in his black cloak, arms folded beneath it. The hood still covered his hair, though a few long, rain-soaked locks straggled out to lie limply on his chest. His face was as expressionless as usual; if the rain bothered him, he showed no sign of it. Devoragh turned to look out across the camp with him. They watched together in silence as one of the Dark Mages, Baevirr, was untied and helped down from his horse by a man at arms. Though still conscious, Baevirr could barely stand. The soldier half-supported him, leading him to a tent that had already been set up. "That worries me," Devoragh finally remarked, breaking the silence. "How quickly will they recover?" "Within another three days," Raven said. "We won't need them before then." Devoragh turned his head and looked up at him. Again, he was reminded of how tall Raven really was -- fully half a head higher than the nobleman himself, who was not a short man. He thought of how that handsome, almost delicate face could have been one of the carvings in a Temple of Light . . . perhaps one of the angels. "Even if the Ah'kerr --" his tongue tripped briefly over the Orcish glottal stop -- "Even if the Ah'kerr should attack?" "They will not attack," Raven said. "Not until they hear what I have to say." "You know much of their ways." "Yes. I do," Raven said quietly. He said nothing more. Devoragh was not surprised; he had never been able to learn anything about the Dark Warrior's past. Nor had Raven ever offered to reveal it. They stood side by side, watching the men setting up the last of the tents. The orcs did not join them: they would sleep upon cured animal hides upon the muddy forest floor, as always, ignoring the rain. Devoragh felt a faint twinge of discomfort at the thought of that. Once, he would have thought nothing of it, seeing it only as more evidence that orcs were naught but uncivilized animals, happy to sleep on the dirt. Two years with them in his army had taught him otherwise, taught him how thoroughly they dedicated their lives to battle. He was no stranger to the rigors of campaigns, but their stoicism was such a contrast to his own preference for luxury. All the while, he was intensely aware of Raven's presence beside him. He could almost feel the heat of his flesh. Whatever rumors might claim, the Dark Warrior was no demon and no ghost, but mortal man. Raven's voice sounded again. "They have a powerful shaman, O'elargu. He will have read all the signs and portents he could gather, and spoken to the lesser demons that he can control. By now, he will have learned what he needs to know, and spoken on my behalf to their council." "You are sure of that." Devoragh was careful not to make it sound as if he questioned. "Yes." Raven turned to look into Devoragh's face. His gaze could be unsettling at times, and this was one such time. His eyes were a deep, cold black, and they seemed to swallow up the question and make Devoragh feel its impertinence. The nobleman fought his impulse to look away. As if he had sensed Devoragh's unease, a faint smile played about the corners of Raven's mouth for a few moments. Then he spoke again. "I know of your doubts, Duke Devoragh," he said, and his eyes softened ever so little. "But I will succeed. In two months' time, the riches of the Two Cities will be in your hands." Then he turned his head to look over the camp again, ignoring Devoragh. Though he spoke no word, the nobleman understood that the conversation was over and that he had been dismissed. He walked back down the small hill toward his tent. Later, in that tent, Devoragh pulled his cloak and the blankets more tightly around him, warmed barely at all by the small brazier. The cloak and his boots were soaked and muddied, and stained beyond redemption; he'd have to throw them out upon his return to Tovaerg. If he returned. He stared at the faint glow the brazier's coals threw upon the tent wall, reflected -- and worried. Three years ago, before the Dark Warrior had come into his life, Devoragh had wholly devoted himself to two pursuits: power and pleasure. Given enough power, he could buy most of his pleasures easily enough -- the paintings and sculptures that filled his keep, the slaves that waited upon his every need. To him, the Darkness had been little more than a tool to help him gain that power. Though its adherents were few and secret, some of them held positions of rank and influence in Tovaerg. One such was his own chief councillor, Ivezh, who had been his father's advisor before him. The Light had little concept of just how deeply its enemies had infiltrated into its ranks. By means of these hidden allies, his own efforts, and one or two selective assassinations, Lord Devoragh had risen from a mere baron to a duke, becoming the unquestioned chief lord of the council of lords of Tovaerg. That was a considerable victory in itself, but Devoragh wanted more. Far more. At first, when Raven had arrived in Tovaerg and entered Devoragh's life, the nobleman had resented the usurpation of his authority. He had known nothing of the Dark Warrior, save what other followers of the Darkness had told him. He had accepted Raven as his "advisor" only because those secret allies had made it the price of their continuing aid. Unwillingly at first, he came to admire the man for his unswerving dedication to his purpose, and for a ruthlessness exceeding his own. There seemed to be no weakness or qualms in Raven. None. By the time they had conquered Davim, the Dark Warrior had done more than banish Devoragh's doubts; he had given Devoragh's life a new meaning beyond his own lusts and ambitions. Raven had that effect upon people. He lifted them beyond their own petty concerns and inspired them with the secret beauty and glory of the Darkness. Though he seldom even spoke of it, he transformed others by his sheer purity of purpose, his utter lack of doubt. They could not help but believe that he was chosen by destiny, fated to lead the strong to victory and crush the weak under his heel. Thanks to Raven, after only three years Duke Devoragh held two cities instead of one. Already, word and fear of him were spreading to other cities. Few men knew that he owed it all to his "advisor". And if he had to share that power with the Dark Warrior, well, it was still more than he might have accomplished alone. Even so, Devoragh had hungered for more. Each day and each night of preparation for the coming campaign against the Two Cities, he had dreamed of the wealth of Aroll and Prazaeg, of the power that he would hold, of the luxuries that wealth could buy him. Sometimes he even let himself hope that one day he and Raven would even rule all of Irgollen, like the half-forgotten ancient kings. Then they had embarked on this journey deep into orc-held territory, seeking more allies against the Two Cities. Doubt had begun to assert itself in Devoragh's heart, and that doubt was as chilling as the rain falling outside. *Why did I not speak to dissuade him when he insisted upon our turning north and taking the Two Cities?* Devoragh thought. *We could have conquered Duemir to the south easily enough, and later Noreag. Perhaps then even Avelligon.* What had possessed him to approve of this risky plan? Several times over the course of the last eight hundred years, other powerful and ambitious lords had sought to take one or both of the Two Cities. All had failed disastrously. To the south, Prazaeg was well guarded by the swift, treacherous Davar River -- its forces held the only bridge for many leagues in either direction. Aroll, the hilltop city north of Prazeag, was virtually unassailable from the north. When attackers had besieged either city, it had easily held off the attackers until the other city's forces had circled around and fell upon their rear. Trapped between two attacking forces, the enemy armies had all been routed or destroyed. The Dark Warrior had an answer to that, but a shocking, even blasphemous one, which was why no one else had tried it. No commander in the cities of the Light would have thought of it. He would turn to the Ah'kerr orcs who dwelled in the forests and hills west of the Two Cities. He would persuade them to accept him as their commander, and would remain with them to train and lead them. Then, when his forces under Devoragh attacked Prazaeg, and the inevitable detachment from Aroll came south to relieve it, the Ah'kerr would ambush that force. Once the relief force had been destroyed, the Dark Warrior himself would lead the Ah'kerr in an attack upon the weakened Aroll -- *from the south*. The lords of the Two Cities would not have taken Raven's plan seriously, even had they known of it. Devoragh himself could scarcely believe that it would succeed. The plan was unbelievable because it was unthinkable. Orcs were the ancient enemies of the Light, worshipping the Darkness. Though they spoke and used weapons, they were soulless beast-men. They exulted in the torture and slaughter of men, and feasted upon their flesh. Never had men had peaceful dealings with orcs. No one had even considered such a thing, not even Devoragh . . . at least, no one before the Dark Warrior. In fact, the army that Raven and Devoragh had painstakingly assembled and now controlled included orcs from no less than four tribes. But not one of those tribes had ever approached the power and success of the Ah'kerr. Raven had told no one, even Devoragh, of how he planned to convince the Ah'kerr to accept his leadership. Now, as Devoragh lay in his tent, bundled into two blankets and his cloak to keep warm, the plan seemed less original than insane. This mission to the Ah'kerr could easily end with all of them getting skewered on orcish cooking spits - - Raven and Devoragh included. Even Raven, he suspected, could make an error of judgement. Perhaps he had. *He is too confident. Does he think words alone will persuade the Ah'kerr? Or does he intend to intimidate them with his Magecraft?* For a moment, just for a moment, Devoragh entertained the idea of trying to dissuade Raven -- or, if that failed, returning to Davim alone. He quickly dismissed both notions. Raven was not to be dissuaded, not when he was resolved upon a course of action. And Devoragh would never make the journey back by himself through the leagues of wilderness. Even if he did, he couldn't cross the Davar River. In either case, he would risk the Dark Warrior's displeasure. What form that would take, he had no idea. But he did not wish to have Raven for an enemy. *I must go on,* the nobleman told himself. *I have no choice, save to trust him.* Hopefully, Raven knew what he was doing. At least, he had never yet failed. Devoragh closed his eyes, seeking to console himself with thoughts of the mercenaries and weapons the wealth of the Two Cities' treasuries could buy for their growing army. Of the fear and respect that his name would command as the conqueror of four cities. Finally, as the rain drummed endlessly upon the tent roof over his head, he fell into a restless sleep, troubled by uneasy dreams. The rain ceased some time during the night. The clouds remained, dark and thick. The group broke camp and resumed their journey at dawn under a cheerless gray sky. At mid-morning, guided by the orc scouts, they left the West Road to follow a winding deer trail into the low, forested hills. The tall, brooding pines swallowed them up, leaving the gray sky only a rumor through the dense interlocking branches overhead. The trail switched endlessly back and forth across the slopes. Devoragh knew that if they were attacked now and had to flee, Dovu would almost certainly lose her footing on the uneven slope and break a leg, leaving him to fight on foot. Even if she did not, he would be lost in the forest. He would never find his way back to the narrow trail. The ground was a sodden mire of mud and rotting pine needles. In the worst places, the men had to dismount and lead their horses on foot, to avoid the risk of their stumbling or being bogged down. The company could not afford to lose a mount. At least there were few saplings and almost no grass to make the animals' footing even more uncertain. As the turnings passed and they climbed into the hills, Devoragh longed for an open patch of sky, a break in those endless trees, or even a stretch of level ground. The darkness of the gloomy forest and the mist rising from the wet ground kept him from seeing more than a few yards in any direction. The switchback trail wound higher and higher, the trees and the fog thinning out only a little as the hills rose. The group rode along the narrow path with a steep uphill slope on one side and an equally steep drop on the other. The valleys below were filled with mist. The orcs had long since given up their stations on either side. Now, half of them in front of the horses, scouting the trail ahead, while the other half walked behind, bringing up the rear and guarding it. Small wonder that even the combined forces of the Two Cities had never ousted the Ah'kerr from these hills. Here in this rugged wilderness stronghold, a whole army of orcs could hide forever, emerging only to strike at anyone foolish enough to wander too far into their forest. At least the night's rest had helped the Mages recover some of their strength, for all of them rode unaided this morning. Their gaze was either upon the Dark Warrior at the head of the column, or seemingly turned inward upon their own thoughts as they rode. Devoragh guessed that they were using magical means to scan the forest around them. The company saw nothing more threatening than a lone hare until after midday. Then the slopes leveled out into a great plateau, thick with pines, its dense canopy holding in a faint remnant of the mist. The trail broadened out a little; twice, it forked into more paths, and only the orc scouts could distinguish the right ones. The group spread out a little, the scouts shifting their positions once more, to prowl through the trees alongside the men. The horses were becoming increasingly anxious, snorting or whinnying, occasionally tossing their heads; even Raven's usually calm gelding snorted and shook his head now and again. Devoragh tightened the reins on Dovu, clucking his tongue now and then to comfort her. He found himself wishing for his battle stallion, even though a heavy charger would have been worse than useless in the muddy forest. One of the orc scouts suddenly emerged from the trees, making urgent hand gestures. Het'chgai, the leader of the scouts, stepped forward to meet him. They conferred for a few moments in low, growling Orcish before Het'chgai returned to Raven's side to tell him what he'd heard. Devoragh knew no Orcish, but he could guess what news the scout had brought. He watched as the Dark Warrior turned his gelding to stand broadside in front of the group. "The Ah'kerr are here," Raven announced calmly. "Stay close, and dismount when I do. Otherwise, do nothing unless I command it." Then he turned the black gelding away, urging it onward. Two orcs came forward to flank him as Devoragh guided his anxiously snorting Dovu to fall in just behind them. The other riders and the orcs followed, drawing into a tighter cluster around the officers and the Mages. They had gone only a little ways farther when Raven reined his mount to a halt, the two orc guards moving in almost perfect unison to stand before the gelding. With his usual feline grace, Raven dismounted, his black leather boots squelching softly in the mud as he stepped forward, in front of his bodyguards. Devoragh and the other riders dismounted as well. They knew that forest orcs would never deal with mounted men, except as enemies. Only Belgarr, the least experienced man at arms, remained mounted. He would stay behind with the horses. Devoragh reached up to pat Dovu's neck, trying to reassure her; she uttered a long, unsteady snort, but then turned and nuzzled his shoulder. Raven strode forward, following the scout, and his bodyguards fell into place a half-step behind him on either side. Reluctantly abandoning his nervous mare and the chance of a swift retreat, Devoragh followed, as the whole company set out on foot along the narrow trail through the forest. They had gone perhaps a quarter of a league when the scout halted. The Dark Warrior halted behind him, waiting. Something stirred in the misty shadows between the tree trunks. Then, several great dark forms silently emerged, coalescing out of the mist like ghosts: the Ah'kerr, moving with the uncanny stealth of orcs in their native forests. Four -- five -- more warriors -- a dozen, in dark leather armor, with sabers and spears raised and ready. Devoragh found he had forgotten to breathe; he forced himself to take a deep breath of cold, damp air. He knew that hidden among the trees and bushes on either side, unseen archers stood poised with raised war bows, ready to fire a volley of arrows on a single command. The scout orc had stepped back, leaving the Dark Warrior and his bodyguards to face the Ah'kerr. The Ah'kerr warriors stepped forward until they were only six paces away, then halted. Raven didn't reach for his darksword, nor did his bodyguards draw their sabers. Devoragh forced his hand to remain still, fighting down the urge to reach for the pommel of his broadsword, an urge that he knew every man in the party felt. The very air seemed frozen with waiting. The Dark Warrior took one slow pace toward the Ah'kerr. They didn't move. He spoke in Orcish, the guttural syllables sounding strange coming from the mouth of a human. An orcish warrior with a sword-scarred face stepped out from the group of Ah'kerr. He walked forward, moving with the silent confidence of a stalking tiger, until he was standing directly before the Dark Warrior. Raven remained motionless. The scar-faced orc spoke briefly to Raven, and Raven replied, just as briefly. Orcs' ugly, doglike faces were hard to read, but Devoragh thought this one looked tense and angry. Raven, now making a longer speech, seemed confident, even demanding; with his hands, he made a sweeping gesture back toward the party. Devoragh's heart missed a beat as Raven unexpectedly pointed at him -- then at Savorin, the commander at arms standing beside him. Raven finished, lowering his clenched right fist into the palm of his left hand. Then he lowered his hands to his hips and waited for the reply. It wasn't immediately forthcoming. Instead, the scar-faced orc stared at Raven for long moments. Devoragh could swear there was an incredulous look in those dark eyes. Then, astonishingly, the orc grinned, baring his fangs -- and shook his head slowly in a very human-like gesture of surprise and admiration. He spoke a few more words in Orcish, then turned his back on Raven and rejoined his fellows. As one, the Ah'kerr turned away and vanished back into the misty woods. Raven turned and walked back to the company, his bodyguards following. "Back to the horses," he ordered. They trudged back up the muddy trail to fetch their mounts, with Raven and the orcish bodyguards bringing up the rear for once. Devoragh wondered what had just happened, how Raven had persuaded the Ah'kerr warriors to let them pass. He would not allow himself to glance nervously to either side. He knew he would see nothing, regardless of how carefully he looked . . . and he knew that the Ah'kerr were still there nevertheless, not far away, moving with them, watching. When the horses, and a nervous Belgarr, finally appeared in the fog, the nobleman allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. It was a relief to abandon the besmirching mud and settle down again on Dovu's back. They began moving up the trail, and he nudged the mare's flanks to resume his position. As if reading his thoughts, Raven slowed his gelding to walk side by side with him. Devoragh risked speaking first. "What did he say?" Raven smiled, a startlingly warm expression in that coldly beautiful face. "That was T'karri, one of the Ah'kerrs' chief warriors," he explained. "We have permission to approach their main camp, but not to stray from our path on the way there." His smile turned grim. "He is amused by our nerve." The company journeyed across the great forested plateau for the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon. The horses calmed a little, though their flaring nostrils and frequent snorts showed their continuing unease, an unease their riders shared. The scout orcs remained stoically calm. Nothing moved or sounded in the trees -- no squirrels or hares or deer, no calls of birds. An eerie silence gripped the forest. All knew that the silence was because of the Ah'kerr, unseen, but following. At last, they reached a small grassy meadow -- the first open space Devoragh had seen on the plateau. The nobleman's heart lifted joyously at seeing actual open sky, even if it were gray instead of blue. Raven called another halt. After stopping and conferring once more with Het'chgai, he spoke again. "The Ah'kerrs' main village is a league away. From here, we go on foot. Show no fear, none of you." He dismounted and began walking, his two orc bodyguards and the embassy falling into place behind him. When two pole-arm-wielding guard orcs suddenly stepped out from the mists into their path, forcing the embassy to halt, Devoragh had to quell the reflex to seize the hilt of his broadsword. But after a few quiet words between them and the Dark Warrior, the Ah'kerr guards stepped aside, letting them pass, but watching them with cold-eyed suspicion. The main body of guards, at least two dozen of them, met them at the edge of the village -- a large force. These guards were more heavily armed than the band of warriors that had confronted them in the forest: they had not only axes and orc-forged sabers but also heavy shields that would have been impractical on a forest patrol. Some wore leather armor and simple helms without visors, but others had breastplates and assorted pieces of plate mail added on -- no doubt looted from past human victims. They glowered at the little group, some with upper lips lifted to reveal their yellowed fangs. Again, Devoragh fought down the urge to reach for his sword. Raven stepped forward, flanked by his orc bodyguards, and spoke to the Ah'kerr guards in Orcish. The one who must have been the leader growled a reply; the other guards parted to let the embassy through. The lead guard led them into the village, the other guards closing in around them as they passed. The Ah'kerr had not cut down the trees around or even in the village. Rather than being an interruption to the dense forest, their crude log longhouses were buried in it, concealed by it. That the longhouses were not also concealed with the usual piled-on brush and earth gave a measure of how secure they felt here. There was no sound of voices, no hammering of a forge, no sounds of activity at all. In the silence, the sounds of armor clinking and rustling seemed unnaturally loud. Looking between the guards, Devoragh glimpsed an orc pup being hastily dragged into a distant longhouse by a bare- breasted female. Male orcs stood silently here and there as the embassy passed, watching them, their eyes coldly expressionless. The doggy stink of the inhabitants hung heavily in the damp air, and he was glad now that the horses were nowhere near; they would have been uncontrollable. There were no fires to be seen; orcs ate their meat raw most of the time, using fire only to do smithing -- and perhaps to heat the tools with which they tortured their captives. A deep chill washed over Devoragh as he walked through the silent village. No doubt this was the first time men had ever entered this place as anything other than captives destined for torture and death. The thought made his stomach knot; he'd seen enough in the smaller orc villages he had destroyed to know exactly what those captives had suffered. He also knew they themselves might yet meet the same fate. The sheer number of longhouses was unsettling; the nobleman counted nearly two dozen as they walked, and he was sure there were many more. Not one of the orc villages he had raided and destroyed in the past had even come near to this size. A bigger longhouse with a higher roof than the others loomed out of the trees. As the guards led them past it, Devoragh saw two massive Ah'kerr warriors holding long sabers and small shields standing guard there, watching the party. The outer wall and the eaves of the longhouse around the near entrance were hung with bare, round skulls. As the group passed, Devoragh got a closer look at the skulls. They were human, all right. Some looked fresh, with reddish-brown stains still on them. Beyond the great longhouse lay another break in the trees. It proved to be a great empty clearing, its far end lost in the mist. The ground was bare of grass or even rocks, beaten down to bare earth. The guards surrounding the company led them into this clearing and halted, forcing them to stop as well. The clearing was large enough that the entire company and the village guards filled only a portion of it. The guards arranged themselves again along the back and flanks of the group, weapons held at the ready. Devoragh looked at the Dark Warrior. Raven showed no sign of being worried; he had turned around and was looking back into the village as if awaiting something. So were his orc bodyguards, and the Mages, still clustered behind him. Devoragh turned back to look as well. An orc had stepped out from the entrance of the big longhouse and was walking toward them. Even compared to the massive guards surrounding the embassy, he was an imposing figure -- taller, heavier and immensely muscular -- the largest orc Devoragh had ever seen. He wore a breastplate, steel knee guards and a helm, open-faced to accommodate his long muzzle -- all clearly orc-forged, not looted off a human corpse, for they were too large to fit a man. The two Ah'kerr guards at the door immediately fell into step behind the giant. The huge orc entered the clearing. As he approached, Devoragh saw the battle scars that marked his massive arms and legs; there were even one or two small ones on his face. The nobleman doubted that any of the enemies who had caused those scars still lived. Raven stepped forward again, to face the giant orc, who stood a full head higher than he. "*Malok'r feg gusa, Ti'r'lungrin?*" he demanded. "*Feg tikarr O'elargu?*" As Raven stared into Ti'r'lungrin's hard eyes, he tried to judge just how angered the Ah'kerr chieftain had been by the proposal his messengers had delivered -- and how far the chieftain could be pushed before he gave his warriors the command to fall upon the embassy. The chieftain was measuring him in similar fashion, no doubt trying to assess just what surprises he might have in store -- what made him unafraid to walk into an orc village with only a handful of warriors. "O'elargu advises me on many matters," Ti'r'lungrin answered. "But on war he does not. And neither does any human, no matter what O'elargu claims you to be." Orcs seldom openly displayed any emotion save hatred. But Raven had long since learned to read them as he did other men, just as he had learned the Orcish tongue. He heard the undercurrent of tension in the chieftain's voice when he spoke O'elargu's name. He could also see it in the way Ti'r'lungrin held himself. There had been disagreement between the chieftain and his shaman about his offer. That boded well. Had Ti'r'lungrin not shown any such tension, it would have meant that he was so secure in his power that he had simply overruled his shaman. Raven chose his next words carefully. "Indeed, a wise and strong chieftain follows his own counsel," he said. "Yet, it is also good for a chieftain to put his wisdom before his pride. Surely you have heard of my deeds from the Ko'ag-mai?" The orc chieftain snorted through his broad nostrils. "The Ko'ag-mai are weaklings. The words of weaklings are of little worth." "And yet, they now enjoy the spoils of Davim," Raven pointed out. "Before I came, and before they put themselves under my command, they were almost broken. Now they are mighty and feared." "*We* are mighty and feared already," Ti'r'lungrin said. "We have no need of your 'help', human. Already we hold the West Road. You passed only because I allowed it." "Yes, you hold the West Road," Raven replied. "You hold it until Aroll and Prazaeg unite again under a leader and gain the strength to take it from you." He had taken a chance with those last words. Now, as he listened, he heard the soft noises from the other Ah'kerr: bodies nearby shifting under leather and steel armor, a single grunt so soft he could barely hear it. To Raven, the sounds spoke of their outrage as loudly as angry snarls and shouts . . . but they also spoke of the unease beneath that anger. What he had voiced was no more than what they already knew. That he also knew this, and spoke so openly of it, made them even more uneasy. Ti'r'lungrin's voice was a bass growl. "You dare speak to me so, yellowhair?" Raven did not hesitate, but took a confident step forward. The Chieftain's bodyguards tensed, but he ignored them and smiled his coldest, most arrogant smile as he looked up at Ti'r'lungrin. "Yes, I dare speak to you so," and his voice was equally icy. He let the smile fade. "I speak the truth, and in your belly you know it well. So does every Ah'kerr warrior here. You are brave and strong, but you are not a fool. You would do well not to dismiss my offer, Chieftain, or the words of your shaman." Ti'r'lungrin actually blinked, once. This display of insane confidence was making him wonder what lay behind it -- and Raven's smell, devoid of fear or anxiety, must also make him wonder if the human were really only bluffing. They stared at each other in silence for some time. Finally, Ti'r'lungrin smiled, a smile as chill as Raven's, and more frightening as it bared his thick, sharp fangs. "Very well. I shall hear you out before killing you, mannish fool. I will call the *ka'eshi*." He turned his broad back on Raven and strode away, toward the village, his bodyguards falling into step behind him. Devoragh let out a carefully concealed sigh of relief as the orc chieftain and his bodyguards returned to the longhouse. Whatever had happened, the Dark Warrior had successfully carried it off . . . so far. Raven turned, and lifted his voice to carry to the entire group again. "We go back to the horses, and camp there." The Ah'kerr guards who had led them into the clearing and the village now escorted them out the same way, abandoning them at the village's edge. But Devoragh had no doubt that other Ah'kerr followed them, all the way back to the horses. Belgarr had watered the animals at a nearby stream while the embassy had been gone. The men began pitching their tents at once. There was even less talk than there had been last night, and Devoragh could feel the tension thick in the air. He wondered whether anyone would sleep tonight. Raven was standing on the edge of the camp again, his hands on his hips, talking quietly with Norisk, the Mages' leader. Even as Devoragh walked toward him, his conversation with the Mage ended, and Norisk walked away to rejoin the other Mages in the center of the camp. Raven nodded at Devoragh, acknowledging him. "What did the chieftain say?" Devoragh asked. Raven's face showed no emotion. "Ti'r'lungrin is calling together his council to discuss my proposal with them. That will take until the day after tomorrow, since they are spread out among three or four other villages." "What if they refuse?" The nobleman kept his voice as neutral as he could. Raven studied him, just long enough for Devoragh to feel the full weight of his gaze and feel the urge to look away. Then he answered the question. "If they refuse, we'll have to fight our way out. The wait will work in our favor, since the Mages will be even better-rested." Throughout that day of waiting, neither the Dark Mages nor the Dark Warrior emerged from their tents, save briefly. The men at arms and the orc scouts cleaned and polished their weapons and gear, cooked meals from their dwindling supplies, and cared for their horses. They knew that they were being watched. The watchers never allowed themselves to be seen for more than a quick glimpse, but the orcs could smell them always, and even the men could feel the unfriendly eyes upon them. The horses fretted in their hobbles, whinnying and flicking their tails restlessly. As he had expected, Devoragh found sleep still more difficult. When it came, his dreams were uneasy again, and he woke up several times during the night. Once, he remembered that he had dreamed about Raven, but no other memory remained. The morning of the meeting dawned cool instead of cold, with blessedly clear skies. A single Ah'kerr arrived and spoke to Raven, who gave the order to return to the village. No longer veiled by mist, the clearing proved to be a great circle, enough to hold the Dark Warrior's company and the orc guards who escorted them. Nine Ah'kerr warriors were already there, sitting cross-legged in single file along one side of the clearing. Each one, like Ti'r'lungrin, was dressed in orc-made armor. None of them bore weapons. Ti'r'lungrin himself sat at one end of their row. They stared without expression at the Dark Warrior's embassy as it entered the circle. At the far end of the arc of Ah'kerr sat an orc utterly unlike the others. He wore no armor at all, only a cloak woven from strips of fur and hide, decorated with black feathers and boars' tusks. Heavy scars graced his ugly head -- scars that curled and recurved upon themselves, clearly not from the strokes of swords. Other Ah'kerr stood assembled behind the seated council members, wearing their weapons and such armor as they had. Keeping watch. The Dark Warrior ordered his men and orcs to sit likewise on the other side of the circle, facing the Ah'kerr council. Then he walked to the center of the clearing and stood there, facing the seated councilers. Raven knew who the strangely dressed and scarred orc was: O'elargu, the Ah'kerrs' chief shaman. He also knew that O'elargu had consulted the lesser demons that he controlled, and received their answer; and he had no doubts of what that answer had been. Ti'r'lungrin stared at him, eyes cold. "Let us hear what you have to say, human." Raven looked slowly up and down the *ka'eshi*, taking care to look each one fully in the eyes before he spoke. "You know who I say I am," he told them, putting utter confidence into his voice. "I am the promised Dark Warrior. The one the ancient prophecies speak of. The one who will lead the Darkness to victory against the Light. Last year, I conquered Davim. I now prepare to march upon Prazaeg and Aroll." The faces of the *ka'eshi*, and of Ti'r'lungrin, showed no reaction. Nevertheless, Raven caught a few barely audible mutters from the lesser warriors behind and around them. "Know this: I *will* take Prazaeg and Aroll, with or without your help. But I know that the men of Light who dwell in Aroll are your blood enemies, whom you have long desired to take revenge upon. I also know the Ah'kerr to be the greatest of warriors, and that if you will join me, no city will be able to stand against us. "So I make you this offer: ally yourselves with my Dark Legions, and make war upon the city of Aroll. Make its streets run red with the blood of its men. Do this, and I offer you everything and everyone of Aroll, the men, the women, the children, as your plunder, to do with as you wish -- save only the temples and the Priests of the Light, whom you will deliver into my hand, for I have a debt of vengeance of my own to settle with them." "And if we reject your offer?" Ti'r'lungrin asked evenly. "Then I shall conquer both cities without your assistance. I will hand over the spoils of Aroll to another tribe. Perhaps it will be the Do'egla; they served me well in the conquest of Davim and they deserve a reward. "And when I have done so, the Ah'kerr will be remembered as the tribe that *feared* to join the prophesied Dark Warrior and share in the glory of laying waste to the cities of men, the accursed cities of the Light." Having finished, Raven waited, silent. None of the *ka'eshi* spoke. Instead, Ti'r'lungrin turned to the shaman. "What say you, O'elargu?" he asked. O'elargu looked at Raven carefully, his black eyes unreadable. Raven stared back, keeping his own face devoid of all expression, as he felt the shaman's Mage-sight prickle along the edges of his awareness. The sensation left him as O'elargu turned his gaze to his chieftain. "He is indeed the Dark Warrior of the prophecies. I have cast all the divinations. I have spoken with the *tok'garr*. I have even drunk the Potion of Visions and dreamed its dreams. All of these things have told me that he is the One awaited by us. Even now the *tok'garr* look upon him and whisper his name." Raven caught the faint tinge of defiance in the shaman's voice, and smiled inwardly as tension crackled in the air between shaman and chieftain. He heard more soft mutters from somewhere among the watching orcs, dying away after a moment. Ti'r'lungrin grunted, spoke to the row of *ka'eshi*: "What say you, my Honored Warriors?" The discussion began, with each orc speaking in turn. Ti'r'lungrin and O'elargu remained silent as the *ka'eshi* argued, taking no part in it. -- The other tribes who have joined this man have told us of him. If he is not the Prophesied One, still he lets those who join him keep to the old customs, to the rituals and the feasts after a battle. There would be much glory in allying with him. -- We need no man to lead us, Dark Warrior or no. We have done well for uncounted lifetimes by our own strength, by using the forests and the hills to our advantage. Now we hold the West Road. Soon, we might even hold the East Road as well, and then we will throttle Aroll like a newborn fawn for the feast. Why should we do otherwise? -- Because he is strong and arrogant and has the shaman persuaded does not mean he is the One. Even the *tok'garr* can be fooled. -- And if *he* takes Aroll, without our help, and puts it in the hands of our enemies? What then? -- What if this is a ruse? What if he is really in league with Aroll? We could be crushed between Aroll and Prazaeg like a bone in the jaws of a bear! Raven neither fidgeted nor showed any sign of impatience, but remained motionless with the discipline he had learned years ago, barely even shifting his weight. The warriors debated among themselves until it was nearly midday and the feeble spring sun had at last begun to warm the clearing. Finally, the discussion seemed stalemated, with both sides merely repeating their arguments. Ti'r'lungrin slowly rose to his feet. He raised one clawed hand, and the *ka'eshi* immediately fell silent. One by one, the chieftain called upon his advisors by name, telling them simply, "Speak." One by one, each counciler stood and gave his judgement, O'elargu the last of all. The shaman and four of the *ka'eshi* favored accepting Raven's offer. The other five opposed it. Ti'r'lungrin spoke. "It falls to me to make the final choice, and so I do." Raven knew what Ti'r'lungrin would say, even before the chieftain turned and faced him. He was careful not to allow any hint of fear or other emotion show upon his face. Ti'r'lungrin glared down into his eyes, one hand resting on the pommel of his saber. "I spit upon your offer, weakling man," he said, and his voice was a deep growl. "I bid you to take your warriors and leave now, piss-hair. If ever you come here again, you will not be so lucky." Raven took a carefully hidden deep breath and braced himself, though he had suspected this would be the outcome all along. Indeed, he had hoped so. To Devoragh, the orc council's debate had seemed little more than a series of growling voices and occasional sharp snarls. But when the Ah'kerr chieftain turned to Raven and growled more Orcish at him, Devoragh didn't need to know the meaning of the words to understand; the chieftain's cold glare and the angry contempt in his manner said all that was needed. The nobleman silently cursed and felt for his sword. He knew the chances -- less than thirty men and orcs against an entire orcish tribe of hundreds, even if some of those men were Dark Mages . . . Yet, Raven showed no fear at all. Instead, he stepped forward to stand nose to nose with the Ah'kerr chieftain. "*G'marr Ka-horri mo shach't'kerr, Gafai!*" his voice rang out. Later, Devoragh would think that Raven had never seemed so beautiful, so proud, so strong and utterly invincible as he did at that moment, standing before the orcish chieftain with no trace of fear, challenging him. But at that moment, his only thought was: *What is he doing?* There was one frozen moment of immobility from the assembled Ah'kerr, even from the council. Ti'r'lungrin stared, his black eyes wide. "*T'kai? T'Go'thru takishi marr!*" he finally said. Raven spat another stream of Orcish at him: "*T'chog kolsh gum'n?*" Ti'r'lungrin's eyes widened still further. He looked around at his council members, at his shaman, even back at the watching warriors. They stared back at him impassively; none spoke. They appeared to be waiting to see what their chieftain would do. The silence from the watching men and orcs of Raven's party was equally deep. Devoragh held his breath without knowing it. *What is happening?* Finally, Ti'r'lungrin turned back to Raven, his eyes narrowing. "*G'marr shach'kerr defi, gum'n. Pushkag fa-Tika geshorr,*" he snarled, his voice vibrating with fury. The chieftain turned his back on the Dark Warrior with all the contempt he could muster, to face the council members. Raven turned and walked back across the clearing, smiling like a gambler who appears to be risking all but who already knows how the throw of the dice will come out. "What did you say?" Devoragh whispered harshly. Raven's dark eyes looked into Devoragh's for just an instant. "Do not question me, Devoragh," he said, in a tone that brooked no debate, as he reached for the buckle of the baldric that held his darksword. He carefully unbuckled, then removed the baldric. From the cluster of Mages, Norisk stepped forward, as if he already knew what to do. Raven handed both sword and baldric to him. The Dark Mage accepted it, carefully holding the deadly blade only by its scabbard rather than the hilt. Raven turned back to Devoragh. "Help me take my armor off." Devoragh stared at him for a moment. Raven extended one arm in an impatient gesture. Whatever the Dark Warrior had in mind, this was clearly no time to argue with him. Fumbling a little, Devoragh forced his hands to the humble task and began unbuckling the thick straps from around Raven's vambraces. Even in the uncertainty and confusion of this moment, the nobleman was all too aware of the lithe, lean body being exposed to him as each of the leather vambraces, and then the greaves on Raven's legs, dropped to the ground. Raven pushed the pieces aside with the toe of his boot. After a moment of hesitation, feeling a sudden embarrassing heat rushing to his face, Devoragh started helping him remove his chest piece. Glancing across the clearing, Devoragh saw that Ti'r'lungrin was being similarly divested of his armor by one of the council members. The others had sat back down and were impassively watching. When the last of Raven's leather armor lay upon the ground, he pulled off his tunic and his shirt, stripping to the waist. Devoragh saw the muscular swells of his arms and shoulders, the pale scars here and there. The air was still slightly chill, and Raven's nipples stiffened as they were exposed. Devoragh blinked his eyes to regain control of feelings he refused to acknowledge even to himself. Raven bent down to deal with his boots. Clearly, he was intent upon stripping naked. "My Lord . . .?" Devoragh could remain silent no longer, as he watched Raven take off the boots. *Has he gone mad?* He glanced quickly around, to see the Dark Mages watching as emotionlessly as ever. Not until Raven had dealt with his boots and begun to unfasten his breeches did he glance up to answer Devoragh. "I have challenged him to *G'marr Ka-horri*," he said. "It is the ritual combat by which they decide some things. We must both fight naked, to ensure there is no trickery." He pulled down his breeches and stepped out of them, leaving his clothing and his leather armor in a pile on the bare earth. Devoragh averted his eyes from the patch of dark golden curls at Raven's groin, his pale manhood below. Then he had a brief, horrid flash of an image of the Dark Warrior lying dead, a bleeding corpse on the bare earth. He swallowed, couldn't help the weak question one more time, "My Lord . . ." Raven straightened up. He was completely nude, and yet his every movement spoke of utter confidence, even flaunted it. Devoragh wanted to turn his eyes away from him again, but that cold stare was upon him and he did not dare. "I know what I am doing, Duke Devoragh," the Dark Warrior said simply. "Stand aside. Norisk -- my sword." As the Mage held the scabbard, Raven took the hilt and pulled the darksword free. Devoragh and the rest of the party watched in silence as the Dark Warrior stalked toward the center of the clearing, stark naked. His every movement was pure, arrogant grace, a predator exuding confidence. Ti'r'lungrin was already there, waiting, a massive saber held loosely in his hands. The big orc's nudity only further revealed his ugliness. His hairless, mottled brown- and-black skin revealed purple highlights in the midday sun wherever it was not criss-crossed with paler scars. Great muscles bulged on his heavy frame. His sex was as crude and thick as the rest of him. As he stared down at his blond challenger, he drew his lips back from his fangs and growled something at him that sounded contemptuous. Standing before the chieftain, Raven was a study in masculine beauty: grace to Ti'r'lungrin's crude power, his bare flesh pale and flawless where the orc's was dark and blotchy. In the rich sunlight his long blond hair looked like pure gold as he stared up into Ti'r'lungrin's face, the black longsword held at the ready in both hands. A leopard challenging a great bear to single combat. Without even the protection of leather armor, he had no room for error, no defense against that deadly saber -- only thin human skin and his own skill. The duel began with Ti'r'lungrin advancing in three quick steps, an almost delicate charge. His saber swept in a sideways motion toward Raven's neck. Raven stepped back nimbly, the tip passing within a finger's width of his throat, but the move proved to be a ruse. The chieftain reversed the motion, chopping downward. Metal rang violently on metal as Raven parried with a slap of the darksword. He stepped in to turn the parry into a vicious thrust. Ti'r'lungrin countered, pushing it aside. It was easy for a man who had never fought orcs to underestimate their skill. Their ungainly looks and enormous muscles suggested a fighting style that relied upon overwhelming strength. In fact, they were deadly, quick and cunning in single combat, fully the equals of well-trained armsmen, almost born with sabers in hand. Like the bear he resumbled, Ti'r'lungrin was deceptively fast for his bulk, and a less nimble opponent than Raven would have been quickly cut down. Yet, in that space of time, it became clear that Raven knew what he was doing. He was forever just out of reach of that flashing saber, slipping smoothly away whenever it seemed destined to sweep down onto his head or shoulders, never quite there when the intended killing stroke was delivered. Swift as the chieftain was, he was always slightly faster, his parries studies in skill. He never attempted to meet Ti'r'lungrin strength for strength; he simply diverted the blow, each time. Ti'r'lungrin's eyes became even colder, more deadly, as he quickly realized what a superb swordsman he was facing. He abandoned the brutal, sweeping force of his first attacks and brought all his skill into play. Devoragh was mesmerized as he watched Raven's body in motion, the play of lean, long muscles, as the Dark Warrior parried and lunged and dodged. Raven was sweating in the day's warmth, as was Ti'r'lungrin; their bodies glistened with it. Raven's long hair flickered golden in the sunlight with his movements. Blades clashed repeatedly, almost drowning out the shuffling sounds of bare feet on earth, the combatants' harsh, measured breathing, a watcher's half-smothered cough. The fight was drawing out, much longer than a swordfight to the death usually lasted. Ti'r'lungrin didn't tire; Raven did not once make a mistake. Finally, the Dark Warrior withdrew from one parry just a trifle too slowly, leaving himself open. Ti'r'lungrin seized on the opportunity, stepping in -- and sunlight reflected off his saber, flashing across Raven's eyes, clearly calculated to blind him for a few crucial moments. Devoragh gasped. Raven had seen the trick coming a heartbeat before Ti'r'lungrin played it. He closed his eyes barely in time as the blinding light flashed in his face. He never stopped moving, meeting the stroke in a perfect parry as he sidestepped out of reach again. Even so, spots floated across his vision, half-blinding him. They would be gone within moments, but Ti'r'lungrin hungrily pressed his advantage, coming in for the kill. Ti'r'lungrin could not know that Raven had been taught to fight by teachers more skilled than the orc chieftain would ever be, with a blindfold cutting off his sight, using only his sense of hearing to know his enemy's movements. The sounds of Ti'r'lungrin's bare, clawed feet shuffling on the beaten earth told Raven where he was as clearly as sight could. The saber swept up at Raven's head in a stroke that was meant to be obvious, to get him to duck or raise his blade. He did a little of both, slipping under the sideways stroke while meeting it with a ringing parry. Ti'r'lungrin's saber slid along the darksword's length, blocked and redirected by the parry -- and then it suddenly wasn't there any more; Ti'r'lungrin had withdrawn it, and was coming in a sudden thrust with the tip right under Raven's temporary blind spot, under his darksword, toward his throat. Instead of trying to dodge, Raven stepped right into the thrust. He couldn't clearly see the blade -- the fading red spots in his vision prevented it -- but he knew where it was. He parried, then flicked his darksword up and twisted it at an angle perfectly calculated to catch Ti'r'lungrin across the wrist with the edge. He felt the shock as his blade bit into flesh, and heard a muffled grunt of surprise from Ti'r'lungrin. When the chieftain drew away, Raven could see that thick wrist oozing blood from the deep cut. He looked into Ti'r'lungrin's startled yellow eyes -- and smiled. Devoragh felt his heart freeze at the sight of that smile, even though it was not directed at him. Ti'r'lungrin stared back at Raven with a look of astonished rage. Then he renewed his attack, lunging forward, and the deadly dance resumed. The balance of the duel had subtly shifted, Devoragh saw; the two antagonists were no longer quite evenly matched. There was something cold and deadly and brilliant in Raven's beautiful face. It might almost have been mockery, save that his mouth no longer smiled as he took the offensive, his sword ringing against the chieftain's saber. And Ti'r'lungrin was no longer the cool, calculating butcher of men. He was losing his temper hair by hair, and beginning to pant with exertion. As he fought, the blood from his wrist spread across his arm and down into his hand, making his grip on his saber less sure. It dripped onto the earth under his moving feet, leaving dark moist patches in the dust. As they circled and slashed and parried, the chieftain seemed more and more impatient, his blows less thoroughly controlled. He aimed a sweeping cut at Raven's neck that had little chance of connecting; Raven dodged it easily. The chieftain's wide stroke left him open for Raven's return blow, and the darksword's tip cut a short, shallow slash in his right forearm. It was little more than a scratch, but Ti'r'lungrin's composure slid further. He barely managed to block Raven's upward thrust at his face a moment later. Raven smiled again, another smile of chilling mockery, and Ti'r'lungrin actually snarled. Soon, the chieftain earned another stinging cut across his arm, and then his right shoulder. Both his hands were bloodied, the hilt of his saber slippery in his grasp. Raven was smiling continuously now, not just in mockery but in joyful anticipation of the kill, which all the watchers could see was only moments away. At last, it happened. As the two fighters broke apart from another slash and parry, Ti'r'lungrin left his flank unguarded. Raven's darksword blurred into it, laying the chieftain's side wide open below the ribs. Ti'r'lungrin snarled hideously, but even as he aimed his return blow, Raven struck again. The darksword's tip lanced into the chieftain's chest on the right side. Raven backstepped, pulling out his blade as the Ah'kerr chieftain slowly fell to his knees, then crumbled to the ground. The scene was frozen in Devoragh's vision: the fallen chieftain lying upon the bare earth, clutching his opened side with his free hand, as his other hand still clutched his saber; Raven, naked and glistening with sweat, looking down upon his defeated opponent, darksword still held at the ready. Scarlet, frothy blood bubbled from Ti'r'lungrin's mouth and nostrils. His strained, gurgling breathing seemed the only sound, as his pierced lung collapsed further with every breath he struggled to take. His saber slipped from his grasp to lie on the darkened earth. More blood, dark and wetly gleaming, sluiced over his fingers where they clutched at his wounds. Raven's darksword lifted up, then slashed downward. Ti'r'lungrin's severed head rolled on the ground, spurting blood, leaving a broad scarlet trail in the dust. Raven lifted his head, feeling the sweat running down his body. He refused to allow himself to pant; he must show no weakness now. He looked at the *ka'eshi*, at the other orcs. The Ah'kerr were a study in shock: laid-back ears, eyes wide enough to show white rings around the darker irises. Only O'elargu looked back calmly at him, no doubt because he had known the outcome. The Dark Warrior had defeated their finest warrior, the one who had led them to victory after victory in combat against the men of Aroll. Putting all his command, all his certainty, all his confidence into his gaze, Raven stared back at them, one by one, letting his gaze travel over their assembled ranks. "I am the Dark Warrior!" he proclaimed in a loud voice. Even to his own ears, his words rang out in the silence. "Are there any more who would dispute me? Let them step forward." No one moved. No one spoke, for long moments. Then one of the *ka'eshi*, an orc with his lip split by a hideous scar, slowly stood up -- and lowered his head in submission. The orc spoke. "You are indeed the Dark Warrior," he said. "We submit to you." One by one, each of the other *ka'eshi* did the same, speaking their submission; they stood with heads lowered for long moments. Devoragh did not understand the words, but there was no mistaking what had happened. *He is the One.* Those were the only words the nobleman's overawed mind could think. *He truly is the Dark Warrior.* Raven, still naked, turned and walked slowly toward him. His every movement flaunted arrogant self-confidence; it was all that Devoragh could do to keep from lowering his own head or sinking to his knees in utter submission to him. Only when he felt himself shudder as Raven approached did he realize the extent to which he'd lost mastery of himself. Yet, he did not care, because it felt so supremely *right* -- he didn't finish his train of thought, because suddenly those dark eyes were upon him. Astonishingly, they warmed and softened, with the warmth he'd so seldom seen in Raven. Raven reached out and gripped his shoulder, briefly. There was a faint smile on those perfect lips, barely perceptible, but there all the same. "Duke Devoragh," he said, his voice soft. "I know you will command well on my behalf. Do so, and rest assured that when I return, you will be rewarded." Devoragh managed to nod. "I will, my Lord." Raven's smile broadened before vanishing. "I know that you will." He turned to the pile of clothing and armor that still lay upon the ground, and picked up his breeches. "Come, help me with my armor." And Duke Devoragh, master of two cities, willingly turned to the task. A turning later, the memory of that touch on Devoragh's shoulder still seemed to burn his skin as he walked back to the horses with the others. Raven did not accompany them; he would remain with the Ah'kerr for the next two months, preparing them for their part in the coming battle. Norrisk and Reslik of the Dark Mages would remain with him. Devoragh refused to admit, even to himself, that he felt strangely bereft. Yet -- and this he *did* admit -- he also felt as he had when he had first come to believe in Raven: as if a great weight he had unknowingly borne all his life had been lifted into the air to vanish. All the burdens of his troubling doubts, his worries, his resentments, had melted away like hoarfrost in a warm sun. He need only follow the Warrior of the Darkness, and victory was assured. He had seen awe and allegiance like unto his own echoed in the faces of the other men. Even in the grim visages of the orcs, both their own scouts and the Ah'kerr, he thought he glimpsed the same emotion. *We are all coming under his command. Men, orcs, all,* Devoragh thought, and felt a little chill as he realized what he had become part of. *The Final Times approach. I am seeing their beginning.* They reached the clearing at last, and the men at arms began their work of dismantling the camp. Devoragh stood beside his mare, absently patting her neck to reassure her. He looked back one more time, down the path that led to the Ah'kerr village. Doubtless, the Dark Warrior was already beginning his own work. *I know you will command well on my behalf.* Raven had said. *And I will, gladly,* Devoragh thought. *I will serve him always.* An Orcish glossary for the curious: *Malok'r t'feg gusa, Ti'r'lungrin? T'feg tikarr O'elargu?* -- What have you decided, Chieftain Ti'r? Have you consulted with Shaman O'el? (The "lungrin" suffix denotes a tribal chieftain; the "argu" a shaman.) *G'marr Ka-horri mo shach't'kerr, Gafai!* -- I challenge you to Ritual Combat, Chieftain! *T'kai? T'Go'thru takishi marr!* -- You dare? You are not even Orc! *T'chog kolsh gum'n?* -- Do you fear to fight a human? *G'marr shach'kerr defi, gum'n. Pushkag fa-Tika geshorr.* - - Then Ritual Challenge it is, human. Let the Ones (the Dark Kings, a euphemism) decide. Send comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com . The URL to my archive of stories is in the author's note up at the top.