The Missing Dragon Ch. 05

It wasn't until Talina entered the fight that the tide turned in spectacular fashion.

If seeing veteran orcs fight in real-time was impressive, watching Talina was downright awe-inspiring. She had followed them inside the Great Hall at Valise's side, but kept to the shadows and out of the action as a mere bystander to the spectacles occurring in the centre of the hall. Upon seeing Wren's transformation, she had discarded her cloak and leapt up to use the tables like stepping stones to navigate her way through the crowd toward the great beast. After positioning herself behind it, she took a few moments to watch the way the creature moved whilst unleashing two long blades. Gregory remembered those weapons, still attached by thin chains to the metal bracers in which they had been sheathed on her forearms.

He saw the flash of the blades spiralling outward on the chains as she leapt up above the fray, far higher than he'd thought humanly possible. The beast did not see her, being far too occupied with the orcs. She descended from above to land on its back and immediately ensnared the chains around its neck. The chains tightened, causing a gush of black blood to spurt from its neck and its deafening scream to fade into a mere gurgle.

The attack made the creature's entire body convulse in shock, and that provided the opening the orcs had been looking for. Wren's right wing was soon crippled, and the left pinned down against the ground by several orcs and the assistance of Urgin's tangling vines. The tail was severed entirely, and an orc moved in to ram a burning torch against the bleeding stump to cauterize the wound in case it began to spurt with that acidic poison.

Wren had been forced down onto one knee, and one of Grolfir's pack who wielded a giant warhammer stepped forth to deliver a crushing blow to the side of the creature's head. It took the last of the fight from the beast, though as it came to collapse on the ruined stone beneath its feet, it still struggled vainly for breath. Talina kept her stranglehold tight, and it was only when she saw Gregory raise his arm to call for a halt to her attack that she ceased choking the life from the beast.

"Elder Wren," Grolfir called out over the bustle of advancing warriors. "As war-chief of the southern tribes, I name you a traitor! Your accuser is granted the right of execution."

With those words, quite a few heads turned to Gregory. A pathway was made to allow him to approach the fallen shaman. He made his way toward it with considered steps, holding his borrowed sword tightly in his hand. Laid before him was the fallen orc who had sowed so much torment in his life since he'd arrived in Arolius. It seemed fitting that he should feel some sense of victory and purpose in his enemy's defeat, but all he could muster was grief. So many dead lay at the feet of a misguided fool who had given himself over to darkness out of fear and hatred of what he didn't understand.

Gregory dropped the sword to his side and looked down at the peering eye of Wren. Even then there was nothing but loathing in the green orb that contained a steadily dying fire within its gaze.

"My friends died because of him," he said loud enough for the hall to hear. His words rang with a strange hollowness, absent of feeling. "I know that many of you also lost friends and family, and have a greater claim to his head than me. But I also know the first of us that tried to stop the infiltration of this camp. He was a blacksmith who raised his work hammer to try and protect my home from the invaders. His name was Torren, and this was his mate."

Gregory raised his arm to gesture toward Talina, and watched a single tear spill down the girl's cheek.

"Kill him, Talina."

The movement was so quick that Gregory's eyes didn't quite catch it. The grotesque head of the beast Wren had become snapped wildly to the side, and a gush of black blood spilled out across the floor. All signs of life vanished within the monster in seconds, and the last of the green flame in its eyes faded to emptiness.

"The traitor is dead," Grolfir announced; turning from the corpse to walk up to the high table and address the room. "The plot of the enemy has been uncovered and we must all take a lesson from his designs. I know that past wars have left open wounds in our relationship with humankind. I know that many of you experienced losses you still feel to this day. I do not make light of them. Knowing all of that, we must remember one thing: The enemy fears the alliance of humans and orcs. Though I know many of you kindle your anger toward humanity even still, I also know that the hatred for this vile scum burns far hotter in your hearts." He pointed toward the fallen corpse of Wren, and his words got a murmur of assent throughout the hall. "The enemy wants our alliance broken, so that we will pull our forces from the great war and leave the humans to stand alone. They think us cowards to be so easily coaxed into retreat!"

The use of the c-word was the gravest insult an orc could receive. At the mere suggestion, the murmuring raised up into a war-cry for the blood of the enemy.

"Because of their treachery, I feel that we should give the scum a reckoning. My blood is hot, and I crave battle. I shall personally lead a thousand war packs to the north to reinforce our alliance with the humans. In the years to come, after we cast them back to the pits they came from, they will never forget what this day cost them!"

- - - - -

The speech Grolfir gave was met with almost unanimous approval by the elder council. By the end of the day, an agreement had been made to send somewhere in the region of 7000 veteran orcs to the northern war. This number included every single member of Wren's former supporters, and most of the influential orcs bearing anti-human sentiment. They had been deceived by the enemy, after all. A campaign to take the fight to the foe would cleanse their honour, and Grolfir made sure he had enough of his own support to keep them in check if things turned ugly.

Gregory quietly returned to his camp after the meeting was over, and felt oddly restored by the experience. After a brief examination, Valise agreed that his spiritual recovery seemed to have been enhanced since she'd looked over him that morning. Under better circumstances, he might have taken her to her tent and explored other avenues of feeling better with her. Unfortunately, he wasn't in the mood for such distractions. Though he might have taken a leap on the road to full recovery, Janette was still laid on their bed and had been unable to properly get up since the attack. He had also asked them to wait for the funerals of Torren and Lydia until he could stand upright. Valise had been able to preserve the bodies, and he had stopped in the tent that had been raised to keep them before making his way to the great hall that day.

Even after weeks, they only looked as if they were sleeping side by side upon two separate tables. Their bodies had been draped with a thin, white veil and garbed in matching white clothing. He'd asked to be alone with them for a few moments, and had walked to the centre of the tent to stand between them. A strange anxiety built within him, as he felt he was supposed to do something but didn't quite know what. Did he want to say goodbye? No. That would just feel silly. There was nothing left to say goodbye to.

Whilst wearing the ring he had seen the bodies, and their spirits had long since departed back into the great streams of energy that flowed beneath the world. All that was left were empty shells.

He didn't know what to do.

Then he looked over to Torren and saw the big man's face settled into a serene expression of endless sleep. The absence of life made Gregory's brain attempt to fix it, and flushed him with memories of the blacksmith. He remembered the way he'd almost knocked himself out with a buckler the first time they had spoken. The way he had looked at Talina in a way that was deeply reminiscent of how Gregory had long felt for Janette. How he had often presented his immaculately crafted weapons to their new owners with unnecessary nerves. Everything that Gregory remembered him as, and everything he could have been.

Grief hit him hard in the gut, and he made the mistake of looking away only for his gaze to fall directly upon Lydia. Seeing her features so still just felt wrong. She always looked at him with such an expressive face, and he always felt better for looking at her. She'd always had a knowing smile teasing the corners of her mouth, and the promise of some naughty mischief glowing in her eyes. That spark of life had taken an attractive woman and made her beautiful. Now it was gone, and she was still.

He didn't want to look at them anymore, so he'd buried his face in his hands and fell to his knees where he'd wept quietly for a time. Then the wave of sadness had dulled into a continuous, distant thud in his chest, and he wiped his eyes before he rose to his feet and departed the tent.

Frun's body had already been burned alongside the funeral pyres of the other orcs who had fallen in battle. Gregory had not regained consciousness in time to attend.

The Dragons had been dismissed for the night, but they all followed him home regardless. Algra was naturally at his side, but the others also wished to offer their respects to the fallen humans. They had all fought with Torren's weapons, and respected his role in finally helping them get out of the proving grounds. Lydia had become friends with Frelki and Ulla in the time they had spent hanging around Gregory's camp. It had been difficult to know Lydia for more than a few minutes and not enjoy her company.

"Master?" The word snapped Gregory from his grim thoughts as he approached the entrance to his encampment.

Ishka and another of the former Berserkers stood guard on either side of the pathway. Gregory recognised her comrade as the one who had wielded a broken table leg in a desperate effort to protect what remained of Gregory's camp. He'd asked for the names of both orcs who had helped Ishka and Fiona that night. It was the least he could do to remember who they were after what they had risked for the people he cared about.

"Ishka, and..." It had taken him more than a few moments to recall the names, as he hadn't been perfectly lucid when he'd asked them. "Gratox."

The orc stood up straighter as he heard his master speak his name, both of them offered an orcish salute and yelled: "Sir!"

"I'm sorry I haven't spoken with you yet. I wanted to thank you for what you did."

"It was our duty, sir," Ishka replied.

"It was above and beyond the call of duty, Ishka. And you'll accept my thanks, or else." He turned and nodded for The Dragons to go about their business, and they passed into the camp whilst he continued to speak with the former Berserkers.

"Yes, sir." She nodded compliantly.

"How's Murgur doing?" The last of the trio had been put to bed on Valise's orders since the attack whilst she dealt with the business of cleansing him of the poison he'd been infected with.

"He is well, master. Valise knows her business. May we ask what happened?" Clearly, there was something else on her mind, but Ishka couldn't contain her curiosity concerning his audience with the elders.

"Wren is dead. No one else died today. It went better than expected." Even then, Gregory couldn't bring himself to sound pleased at the result.

"What of the ring?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah. After we exposed what Wren had been doing, it wasn't mentioned again. I guess I've finally earned enough goodwill around here to keep it."

"That is good then?" Ishka wasn't sure what to make of his grim mood.

"Yes," he forced a slight smile for them. "It's good. I'm sorry, Ishka, was there something you wanted? You've earned my ear and my respect, but I have a lot to get through today."

"Yes, master." Ishka bowed her head quickly in thanks for his words, and then got to the point. "I speak for myself, Gratox, and Murgur. Our pack is shamed. Our alpha was a traitor. Only we three remained true orcs when he asked us to join him and his wretched father in damnation. The rest took him up on his offer, and he sent them to attack our forces in front of the Great Hall."

"I'd heard." He nodded. "And you know you guys weren't the only ones those two fooled, right? I just came from a meeting where nearly half the orcs in the place were ardent Wren supporters before he showed his true colours."

"That is true, but it does not excuse our foolishness or theirs. I think it their responsibility to repair the damage done by Wren, but it is ours to make up for the actions of Rolk. We have heard tell around camp that you might venture out from Embervine in the future. It is our hope that if that time comes; you will take us with you to serve. We are unproven, but we will help you in whatever way we can until you no longer have need of us."

"Are you sure about that? I am planning a journey at some point in the future, but I don't know how long it'll take and I'm not sure if I'll return here. You'd be waiting a hell of a long time before you get your proving if you come with me."

"Rolk left much to make amends for, and in the time we have known you, you have shown yourself to be an honourable man. So we shall restore our honour in service until we die, or until we feel that we are redeemed."

"If that's the way you feel, then I'll be glad to have you. Keep up your duties in guarding the camp, and I'm giving the Dragons the rest of the day and tomorrow to themselves. After that we're resuming training and I'm reopening the glade. I expect you both there at dawn, along with Murgur as soon as Valise clears him."

"Master, we will do as you ask, but the other packs-"

"The other packs will probably be ready to throw some serious hostility your way, but that's something you'll have to deal with. If you're going to guard my home as well as you've been doing so far, then you can't just be standing around all day getting fat and lazy."

"Yes, sir!" Both Ishka and Gratox stood up straighter at the implication that they might not live up to their promise.

"Good. Now if that's all then I need to be going. Oh, and if you like, all three of you can wear my colours. Welcome to the family."

With that, he strode past them and into his camp. The Dragons had already relayed the news of Wren's demise, and a few of the slaves and several orcs who had moved to show their support all offered him gestures of congratulations upon his return. There was still too much grief in the camp for it to be considered a celebration, but it was nice to spend some time with his friends before his next appointment.

After excusing himself of the last conversation, he moved toward the blacksmith's tent and dipped his head under the entrance to find Talina sat on Torren's bed of furs. She looked very small, and hadn't yet cleaned herself after her battle with Wren. The blades were still blackened with his blood, as were the chains binding them to the bracers on her wrists. Even then, all she was garbed in was her usual minimal clothing. She was staring at her lover's tools vacantly.

"Hello, Talina," he said.

"Hello, master." She spoke without hesitation, and with a firmness that contrasted her jaded demeanour.

It might have been un-nerving for someone to be sharing a tent with such a talented killer who was clearly having emotional problems. The vacant look in Talina's eyes was indeed concerning, but not for those reasons. Rather than keep his distance, he walked to sit beside her on the bed and followed her line of sight to the selection of tools resting up against a wooden rack.

"I didn't know him very long, but I did know him long enough to see that it's a miracle he didn't manage to burn down this tent. All those times I saw him drop things, and he keeps the anvil he uses for working hot metal under a flammable canopy? Remember that time I came to ask him if he could make me a couple of shields for some new trainees and he got nervous?"

Talina's eyes shifted from the tools to look over at the large hunk of shaped metal near the entrance to the tent. A small trace of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

"That was my fault. You always made him nervous. He wanted you to like him, but he was never sure of anything when he wasn't working metal. I had told him to try taking a seat when you come to see him, so he would be more relaxed."

"And when I asked him about the shields he took your advice by quenching an iron poker in his water barrel and then casually sitting on the scorching hot anvil he'd just been working on."

The smile on her lips deepened, and finally reached her eyes. "Then he tried to quench his ass in the barrel he'd just dumped the poker into."

"I clenched my jaw so hard trying not to laugh that it still aches when I grin. Then you showed up to see what the hell was going on and immediately collapsed on the floor in hysterics."

A fresh and genuine laugh escaped her throat at the memory of seeing Torren practically lodged in his water barrel with his legs in the air whilst her master looked on in alarm. Then there was a pain in her chest, her eyes glistened, and her laughter died abruptly.

"We should not laugh at him now," she said.

"Of course we should, because the guy was a goofball and that's part of why we loved him. I don't think I'll ever be able to watch a smith quench a blade again without picturing the sight of Torren getting stuck in that barrel with a wet backside and a shocked look on his face. It'll make me smile, and I'll remember him. I'll also remember him showing up a few days later with the shields I'd asked for, and the orcs I'd offered them to finding out just how unbreakable they were. And I don't think anyone's going to be able to give me a new weapon without making me think: I wonder how much better this thing would be if Torren had made it?"

"This i-isn't s'pos-supposed to h-happen!" The words grew louder as she struggled to get them out. She looked like she might go and try to throw the anvil through the tool rack, and then the sorrow caught up with her and she began to cry instead.

Gregory thought about reaching out to put his arm around her shoulders, but decided the gesture could have been mistaken for something else given that they were both barely clothed. Instead, he moved to take her hands in his and she absently shifted to face him on the furs.

"Talina, it's become clear over the past few days that I don't know the half of who the hell you are. So I'm not going to try to tell you that it'll all be ok. Here's what I do know: Torren loved you. It's ok to feel sad that he's gone, but don't let that grief hollow you out inside because I damn well know that he wouldn't want that for you. I also happen to know how he felt before you two got together. He'd wanted to be with you for a long time, you know? I think he probably wanted you to love him more than anything else. In the end, he got you, and you got him. I know it seems cruel that he was taken before his time, but for a little while you made him very, very happy. Don't let his murderers take that happiness away, or make it meaningless."

"How? Gregory, all I can feel is pain and... and hate. It just sits right here," she took one of her hands from him and held it to her chest. "It sits here and it burns. It burns hot until I feel empty inside, and then it freezes and I just feel numb. How can I feel any kind of contentment amidst that?"

"Fight for it."

"What?"

"Fight for it," he insisted. "Stop walking around the camp like a lost spectre. Stop sitting in here alone. Fiona's worried about you, and she wants to talk with her friend, and drink, and remember Lydia. Emmet can't stop looking toward this place during meal times and furrowing his brow. You know what a brow furrower he is. Everyone's worried about you. After the way you fought the other night, Grolfir asked how you were, and even Ulag was concerned. Fucking Ulag for crying out loud.