Jillian cried as she had all night. For the second time in her life a bonded sister had been brutally killed. Unlike the first time when she had been spared the death of separation by the love of her younger sister, this time it was the abomination growing insider her that would not let her die.
She had felt it the moment Kathrin perished as if she had suffered the assault herself. Her screams had been so loud that guards burst into the tent weapons drawn expecting a fight but instead found only her writhing on the ground in agony. A healer had been summoned but by the time he had arrived the physical pain was over. All that remained now was a complete emptiness indescribable to those that had never experienced the bond of telepathy.
There was only one thing left for her now, revenge. Invincible until the child is born if what Merca said was true. So be it, if she has to suffer so would others. Mareth, and Merca to start, then on to anybody else she deemed fit to visit with her blades.
Patience is what is required by her now. Soon enough this army will breach the fortress, it was an inevitability. At the height of the chaos she would do as Merca suggested, seek out Mareth when he forces confrontation with the man he had battled at Galnath, then she would slay the sorcerer with the very dagger given to her by him.
. . . . .
“What do you have to offer, Shaman?”
Mistress Briana stepped closer to the Lord General and bowed deeply. She had been ordered to appear in the General’s pavilion at first light, and to have options to present. After some discussion with her colleagues they could think of but one possibility. “The enemy cannot attack what they cannot see, there are enough shaman in camp to summon a thick fog, one that could limit their vision to maybe fifty paces, while leaving us able to see clearly on this side up to the second trench line. Close enough for trebuchet close enough for magic.
“How long can the effect be maintained?” Mareth asked. “We will need time to fill paths through the trenches and clear barricades before we can start the assault.”
“Weeks if necessary, Milord. It will take us all to generate the initial effects, but only one at a time is needed to maintain. There is a tradeoff however. We may be too weak to help with the assault itself.”
“I am willing to risk that,” the Lord General replied. “Return when you are ready to proceed.”
Briana bowed again then backed out the way she came. Once clear she made haste to her companions. If they proved their worth here after Merca had failed so grandly then perhaps it would be the shaman, not the sorcerer who held the Lord General’s ear. That would elevate her position at very least when the new kingdom was established.
Another thought crept into her mind. The coven was the source of Merca’s unusually strong powers. Much could happen over the next few days in the confusion to come, much indeed.
. . . . .
Dredrik made his way into the infirmary his mission two fold. First check on the wounded, second check on Eitreen. She had left the battlements angrily after he had given the order to fire on the slaves attempting to circumvent their defenses. It was probably the most heart wrenching decision he had ever made. He even went so far as to order only militia and army to take the shots in order to spare the refugees the pain of having to kill their own.
Sixteen wounded men laid on pallets, many of them missing limbs, all of them with grievous wounds dressed in blood soaked rags. The clash had been brief and small in the overall scheme of things but extremely brutal. Of the wounded retrieved only six had been theirs which explained the guards stationed inside. Healers would quickly become a precious commodity, and all three of theirs worked now in one place. If any gained enough strength and will they could quickly remove any chance the wounded had of living through the upcoming battle.
There had been some attempt at interrogation but language was a problem. A mind reader would have been handy, but while Eertu could jump into minds and see through the eyes of targets and even implant thoughts he could not directly read minds. Anja can get a general read of a person, but unable to delve into great details. What little information she had recovered was useless.
He found Eitreen washing up near the back of the room still wearing her now blood covered leather armor, her crossbow and sword leaning in a corner. From her eyes he could see weariness had long overpowered anger.
“Milord,” she said as he approached.
Dredrik grimaced at her choice of greeting. “Eitreen that was not an order I had wanted to give. If there had been any other way I would have used it.”
“You had a choice, kill them or let them continue,” she said plopping down tiredly upon a nearby wooden stool. “They did not.”
Dredrik started to form a reply but Eitreen cut him off.
“You made the only choice you could. I am not angry at you just the situation. It hits a bit close to home.”
Dredrik grabbed a second stool set it down in front of Eitreen and took a seat. “This is not what I had planned when we left Galnath. In fact I figured we’d be well on our way to Calington by now, then after a short pit stop off to Delentray.”
“Delentray, you said that name when we talked in your room. Isn’t that the home of the self-proclaimed bandit king?”
Dredrik smiled, “Yes, Julius Sahreen. He loves the Lost Tribes. We do odd jobs for him, and bring in wears from all over Eebrook, and to be honest he uses us to deliver goods brought in by privateers and the like. The place runs off black market money, but located very near Dwarven territory far away from any lands a sensible lord or lady would want to claim dominion over. King Argile eventually granted him title over those lands but royal court does not recognize his lordship, the city is simply left alone.”
“I have a feeling if we get out of this alive life might remain just as interesting as it is now.
“You and your people should be well entertained for a while.”
“The Galnathians are as much your people as the Lost, Dredrik. They are the ones you sacrificed yourself to save all those years ago and now here you are trying to again.”
“Saving them from one situation then dropping them into a possibly worse one is not exactly the actions of a hero.”
“A hero,” Eitreen shrugged, “maybe not, but a leader trying to do what’s right, yes. Speaking of which, why is it you are leading your little group of friends and not Wikkid?”
“Not sure exactly, he just told me one day it was my job now. I’ve tried asking about it a few times over the years but a dwarf can be very evasive when he wants to.”
“Evasive, Wikkid, I don’t see him skirting an issue.”
Dredrik laughed. “By evasive I of course mean grunt and sharpen his axe menacingly.”
Now it was Eitreen’s turn to laugh. “That sounds more appropriate.”
Both turned to the sound of hurried footsteps to find Hadrenn approaching. “Dredrik, there are happenings outside you might wish to see.”