The Battle for Jordborg Read online

  This book is dedicated to:

  Iris, for starting this journey with me and deciding to stay forever as my wife.

  Amy, for all your help making this story shine.

  Josh, for letting me borrow Amy’s talent for this project.

  Books in this series:

  Thrallborn

  Ghosts of Alfhaven

  The Battle for Jordborg

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  Hammerhold Tales:

  The Battle for Jordborg

  By Logan Petty

  Illustrated by Iris Petty

  Copyright ©2018

  ©Sirieht Studio 2018

  Prologue

  Frost settled on the grassy lowlands of the Jordborg border. It was still autumn, but even the southern Fells suffered the bitterness of the frigid northern winds that cut across all of Hammerhold. Grukken shuddered from his post as he sat on a rickety stool perched on the quickly constructed guard's tower.

  It’s going to be a long winter. I wonder if it was wise to leave Nishra and the little ones in Grymhook. What choice did I have, though? Ever since Chief Grymhook bowed knee to that giant, nothing has been the same.

  Grukken's eyes drooped as he watched the shadows of the massive forest stretch toward the main camp. He took a deep breath and picked a piece of gristle out of his fangs with a grimy, orcish fingernail. He couldn't remember what his new boss called the forest, but he knew it was scary in there. He was told it was very dark and full of elves.

  He did not care much for elves. He did not hate them, like he hated the dwarves, but he did not like them, either. He had only ever met a few elves, and half of them tried to kill him on sight when he was out on a hunting trip in the lower Frostwylde. The other half tried to swindle him out of his gold when they mistook his broken common as a sign of simplicity. He sighed as he reflected on the disciplinary lessons he dealt out to such miscreants. They were often quite bloody and none of his pupils left without a limp, if they left at all.

  Ah, those were good times. Simpler days, before I had a brood of my own. I never imagined an orc my age would ever have to wield bow and spear again, unless on a hunt. My warring days were supposed to be over.

  His brow furrowed and heat rose in his chilled cheeks. The very thought of Chief Grymhook’s betrayal of ancient custom made Grukken’s innards churn. He did not like being here; he did not deserve to be in this strange clime. When the chief called his eldest daughter to the ranks, he could not have been more proud. He did not believe this global conquest was of any concern to the Grymhook clan, especially with their ongoing blood feud with the Dwarves of Caer Teallagh boiling up again, but he was proud that his family could still fight for honor. He was shocked when the call rang out for his youngest son the next week. The boy was a mere ten years of age, barely able to heft a spear, and puny by orc standards. When he approached the chieftain to protest this outrage, he soon found himself back in the lists before he realized the situation.

  At least Krivik is in the same legion as his sister. She will take care of him, I’m sure. As for me, I suppose it wouldn’t be too bad if I died in war. Beats dying of frostbite at home. I just wish . . . .

  Grukken squinted as he peered into the morning skyline. The horizon shone with golden, fiery brilliance that stung his eyes mercilessly. He was accustomed to the nearly eternal darkness of the far north. He grumbled as he tried to shield his vision with a cupped hand from the painful rays that seemingly shot from the forest.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I volunteered for one of the raider teams. Going into the forest would be better than staying out in the sun. It may be dark, but I like the dark. Dirty elves are likely to shoot me in the back, though. Finrik from night shift says they like to fight dirty like that. No honor there. Then again, if I died in there, that would make it less likely for me to become one of the Grey King’s converts.

  Grukken shuddered at the thought. Undeath was not a destiny he desired. He believed that a warrior should be allowed to rest when he or she laid bow or axe down for the last time. The idea of the Necromancer’s immortality was unsettling to him, even unnatural. He was already wary of serving this Grey King. Though he was practically a slave to this giant in life, he still had his own will. If he died in the Grey King’s service, he knew that he would not get to rest, and that his will, his final true possession, would be taken from him. The thought troubled him deeply and he shivered from a despair far more chilling than the morning wind.

  He sighed as he squinted at the shimmering border. The painful rising sun looked like it set the horizon ablaze. It was hard for his orcish eyes to make out anything amid the sunrise and the bonfires that dotted the lumber camp beyond the fortress walls. He rose to his feet as several screams punctuated the air from the forest.

  He picked up his longbow and propped it on the ledge of the tower. He pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back and notched it. He was not sure if one of the taskmasters just went feral on the living slaves or if a threat emerged from the forest, but he would rather be safe than sorry.

  He cursed and grumbled under his breath while he drew back slightly on the bowstring. He could not make out anything from his perch, no matter how much he squinted. More screams reached his ears. They grew closer in proximity. He pulled back harder on the bow and aimed in the direction of the screams. He did not like to rely on his hearing to pinpoint targets, but it was a skill he learned from hunting in the blizzards of the far north.

  He loosed his arrow. It shot out of sight. He heard an agonized yelp and smiled. He grabbed for another arrow and shouted in his best common.

  “We under attack! We under attack!”

  He notched the next arrow and drew the string taut. He listened hard in the direction of the commotion. He heard the clash of metal blades and aimed in that direction. Several high-pitched whistles threw his concentration. Three arrows buried themselves in his chest and right thigh. He winced and loosed the arrow. He snarled when no screams lined up with his shot. He grabbed at another arrow and gritted his teeth as pain wracked his body. He hated pain. It was a distraction he rarely stopped to acknowledge. The arrow in his leg hurt more than the ones in his chest. He was still able to fight, so he assumed they missed his heart and lungs.

  Must have hit bone. That’s good.

  He tried to ignore the anguish in his leg as he notched his next arrow. He had it halfway drawn when he heard more whistling. He let go of his arrow and ducked. The arrows sailed over his head. He smiled and stood back up. His smile faded when he realized that he spilled his arrows out of his quiver during that last maneuver. It did not slow him down. He took a deep breath and pulled the barbed arrow from his leg. It hurt a lot, but not as much as it did while it was in his thigh bone. He gave it a quick glance. These arrows belonged to one of his clan mates. He snarled.

  Those dishonorable elves must have ambushed my brothers and sisters! I will avenge them!

  He notched it and pulled back hard and fast. Someone or something came into his vision. It was a humanoid that rode on the back of a giant lizard. He could barely see either of them. Something about the lizard's scales made it hard to see, even as it darted into the shadows of the rocks and buildings to which his eyes were accustomed. The rider swung a massive black and silver sword that cut down two of the guard zombies that charged him. Grukken aimed at the rider's chest. He heard the whistles again, but he was not about to let his target out of his sight.

  He let his final bolt fly as the next volley of arrows penetrated his heart and stomach. His arrow struck the rider in the che
st and knocked him off his mount. He smiled as darkness fell over his eyes. He dropped his bow and staggered backwards. He accidentally stumbled and fell off the tower.

  He smiled as wind rushed around him. His body hit the ground hard and broke several bones. He comforted himself in knowing that he was at least able to bring down the one who killed his brothers and sisters. The veil of death covered his eyes. He thought of his wife, Nishra. He prayed to whichever god would hear him that he would see her again on the other side of the veil. Someone stepped up to the side of his head. All he could make out were two eyes that burned like embers and a skeletal grin.

  “Done so soon? I think not. The Grey King can still use you, my friend.”

  Grukken drew in a ragged final breath, “No . . . let me die . . . let me rest . . . .”

  The last thing he heard was a rattling laugh that was dry as dust. The figure placed a featureless bone mask over its skeletal visage. Grukken felt a chill colder than that of death wash over him.

  “No, my child. There is no time to rest when our glory is within reach.”

  Chapter 1

  The setting sun cast the long shadows of Alfhaven over the encroaching lumber camp. The Ghosts crouched in anticipation as they watched their adversaries from the shaded safety of the tree line. They had been sitting in the same spot, spread out among the foliage for hours now. They were waiting for this moment, when the light was on their side. Naralei and Jatharr had just returned from scouting the area. They wove an intricate tapestry of hand signs as they described the composition of the enemy army and where the units were stationed. Nara’s hands moved furiously, with deadly intention.

 

  Jatharr noted a slave barrack close to the mill house that was full of thralls. He particularly noted the stronger thralls, such as a cage full of centaur. These fettered souls would be welcomed allies in the fight to overthrow their dark masters.

  The sun was just above the forest now. Its intense light on their backs meant that same light would be in their opponents’ eyes. Sawain calculated that this would give them an important advantage. He spent the quiet hours scouting and devising attack patterns. He split his team into three groups. Mari, Timbrel, and Banthan were to cut to the left and destroy the mill house on the far hill. Along the way, they were instructed to kill any guards and free the slaves, to bolster their forces. Naralei and Jatharr were to take the right valley, where they spotted a barrack. They were to burn it to the ground quickly, before the guards inside had time to react. Sawain would cut straight down the middle and hit the gate at the far end of the complex. There was a small fortress beyond that gate that they needed to get into. He planned on picking up reinforcements from the unconverted slaves as he went.

  His team knew their parts to play in this raid. He was confident in their skills. The conditions were right. He held up a hand and signaled to Jatharr and Naralei.

 

  They gave acknowledgment and silently crept toward their target. Sawain waited a few minutes. He heard no sounds of battle. He signaled to the other team and received their sign back. They slid away with their drakes at their heels, toward the hilltop mill house. He waited another minute. He heard gurgled, muffled screams from his right and saw a pair of torches light near the barrack. Soon, the roof of the guard house was ablaze and cries of panic and pain rang out across the battlefield. This was Sawain's signal. He drew his great sword and whispered to his drake.

  “Let's go, Eldingbál.”

  A group of armored corpses shambled blindly toward the forest to escape the ensuing inferno behind them when the foliage before them exploded and a black serpentine creature pounced through their formation. The warrior astride the beast brandished his gleaming great blade as he prayed in a thundering voice.

  “Turin, pour your cleansing fire into my blade, that I may cut down these abominations.”

  Sawain felt his sword grow warmer. He noticed an otherworldly gleam to it as well, from the corner of his eye. The undead soldiers turned and noticed him too late as Eldingbál dashed past them. Sawain swung his great blade. It cut through two of them effortlessly. They fell to the ground in smoldering pieces. Sawain turned on them again and crashed into their ranks. He hacked and slashed like a fiend. The victims of his assault barely had time to draw their weapons, but they were not fast enough. Sawain's massive blade sliced through their rusty swords as well as their flesh and bone. Within seconds, the dozen zombies he faced were nothing more than piles of smoking bones.

  He quickly moved forward. The sounds of battle crashed around him. The smell of smoke stung his nose and eyes. He soon came across a platoon of about twenty soldiers who looked to be alive. The armor they wore was familiar to him. They flung javelins at him. He was relieved to see his plan pay off as most of the javelins soared harmlessly past him, far from his body. A few did glance him, but Sibilach's armor proved true, since he did not suffer a scratch. Eldingbál took in a deep breath and let out a stream of blue fire as he plunged into the oncoming army. The blue flames clung to their armored foes and burned their flesh. The ones that caught on fire dropped their weapons and scattered in panic. Sawain was impressed. He did not know the drakes could actually breathe fire. He swiped in wide arcs to the left and right as he and Eldingbál charged through the middle of the platoon. Screams of anguish erupted all around him as he cut down the men and orcs in the crimson and silver armor of Jordborg. Swords and spears glanced off of his armor, and nothing could get to Eldingbál either, as he slithered and weaved among the wildly stabbing soldiers.

  A volley of arrows rained down from the earthen walls of the fortress. They all missed Sawain and sank into the dirt or bit into the archers' allies. Sawain grinned maliciously as he ran a spearman through and slung him into the mob. He took a second to examine his target.

  The walls of the fortress were built about eight feet high and were made mostly out of mud and stone. The gate was a large wooden double door set in a large wooden frame. Two rickety towers rose a few feet above the walls and hosted a pair of archers. Eight more archers lined the front wall, four on each side. Wooden pikes jutted out of the base of the walls at sharp angles. The safest way in was certainly through the gate.

  He hacked his way out of the mass of soldiers and rushed for the gate. The army he just broke through sounded more distant, as if they were engaged with a new enemy now. He was sure the other teams were in flanking position. He hoped that they were successful in raising a makeshift army.

  The gate was close now. He rode hard and cut down a charging orc with finesse. More arrows sped past him. A small unit of armored orcs came from his right. He raised his sword as he prepared for the moment they would meet in battle. A volley of arrows from behind him soared over his head and peppered the wall of archers, slaying a few of them and injuring many.

  He met the first wave of orcs. Eldingbál swept one off of its feet with his long tail and Sawain brought his massive sword down on the shoulder of another. He tore it out and prepared to swing at the next target when an arrow caught him square in the chest. The force of the bolt was enough to wind him and knock him off of his drake.

  He hit the ground hard on his back. He was too stunned to move for a moment. Eldingbál fought fang and claw beside him to keep the orcs away. When he came to his senses, they were surrounded. There was a pain in his chest.

  The arrow.

  He yanked it out of his cracked armor. Fortunately, it was not a deep wound. He tossed the arrow aside and climbed to his feet. Their situation looked bad. Two orcs rushed him with drawn swords. He drew a pair of daggers and put each one in the assailants’ throats. They fell on their backs and did not move. He was proud of those throws. He mentally thanked Loraleth for all of those lessons.

  He heard the clanking sound of more attackers coming from his left. He drew another knife and grasped it for melee use. He pivoted in t
ime to parry the first orc's blade. He did not have time to avoid the second orc. The orc’s raised cutlass swiped Sawain across the face hard with its point. He growled as blood trickled into his right eye. He staggered back and waited for the next wave of attacks, but they did not come. Another volley of arrows took his attackers by surprise. They dropped to the ground, howling in pain.

  Sawain quickly stooped down and slit their throats. Jatharr and Naralei rode up to him, covered in enemy blood. Sawain smiled as he wiped his own blood out of his eye.

  “You two look like you've been having fun. Is the barrack taken care of?”

  Naralei nodded, “Yes, burnt to a crisp, along with the soldiers inside it. They won't be giving us any troubles. We also picked up a few thralls who wanted some revenge.”

  Sawain looked behind his friends. Half a dozen thralls of various races grabbed the swords of the fallen and rushed the surviving enemy soldiers. He smiled at their courage.

  Mari, Timbrel, and Banthan rode up from the other side, followed by three times as many armed thralls. Mari grinned triumphantly.

  “So, we found the Thrall quarters beside the Mill house. We set them free and gave them weapons. You could say they were en-THRALL-ed by our daring heroics! Ha!”

  Banthan sighed as he parried an oncoming orc's spear then ran her through in the same movement. “Mari, this isn't the time.”

  Mari chortled, “There's always time for a good laugh, Banth!”

  She swept the legs of an oncoming soldier with a pilfered spear, then shoved it through his face. “Ooh, I think he got the point! Ha ha ha! See? This is the perfect time!”

  Banthan groaned and looked pleadingly at Sawain. “Why can't I be on Nara's team?”

  Sawain picked up his great sword and swung it in a wide arc, shattering the sword of a nearby attacking foe. His enemy stumbled backwards, which gave him time to prepare a thrust, which ran his blade completely though the unfortunate creature. He ripped it out and let the enemy fall to the ground.