Oron

Chapter 4-1

They lay everywhere, the dead and dying men, littering the landscape, groaning in the blood-soaked mud, howling as vultures hopped toward them to tear at them, helpless as they were. Flies and gnats gathered in swarms above raw wounds beneath broken armor of bronze and leather and fine steel chased with silver. Men caked with cruor, men stained with vomit and blood, prayed as they died, surrendering at last. From the low clouds, rain fell to choke fighters open to the sky. Rain ran in rivulets down stilled swords thrust into the earth. Rain washed the blood into widening lakes.

This was a lull in the battle, and Oron the Nevgan walked among the fallen, stabbing the dying through their hearts or slitting their throats. The familiar stench of s*******r and the howls of these men rose about him. He was perhaps of thirty summers, and his mien that of a slayer. His face was lined and scarred; his full beard was matted and coarse. The knotted hands gripping his steel were stained and calloused; his eyes under somber brows were shadowed with memories of a hundred crimson conflicts but still burned with an unshackled spirit and a wild vitality. His armor—Salasan armor, now—was worn and stained.

Oron heard the wails of Count Dugur’s men from beyond the small rise to the west of the field. He snorted and grinned. He had killed twenty of those men himself this morning, men whose names he would never know, men now meat of no memory. Oron reflected on Dugur’s madness—for madness it surely was for this nothing of a nobleman to dare revolt against King Numir of Salasal. So Dugur had sought to make a warlord of himself? Only fools bartered so much for so little. Amrik’s army was cutting Dugur’s troops into pieces.

To hell with that nobleman. So long as he could wield his blade and fill his purse with gold for wine and women, Oron told himself that he would be content. Still, he had lived through much for a man so young, and there were memories. He had led armies of his own before now and killed magicians and monsters, known wealth and women as well as great loss and emptiness, fought alongside Ormosans and Salasans, Khomis and Setomis. He recalled times in the Nevgan hills when he fought not for gold or women but only because he was Oron, the Wolf, a tracker and warrior. Now he was civilized; he fought for gold under a citied commander—Amrik, the Mad Bull.

He caught sight of General Amrik not far away, belly and muscles pushing against his black scale mail. He was walking among the soldiers, berating them or bellowing his pride, his great trailing beard fluttering in the wind. Oron knew this Mad Bull: a city soldier he might be, but always was Amrik ready to kill a man and laugh at the cruelty of it.

Soldiers of Oron’s company hailed him from a distance, and the Wolf waved to them. He stepped over a corpse clustered with flies and gnats, then turned about as he heard a deep groan. He saw an old man in splashed armor lying in the wet mud, shivering and dying.

“Padukos!” Oron came near and knelt alongside him.

“Who is that, hey? Is this—?”

“Oron, good Padukos. What dog of Dugur’s army speared you through the belly?”

“Ha! Ah, Oron, I’ll never know, though I’ll wager you’ve cut his throat already.”

“I hope I have, Padukos. You’re—badly wounded.”

“Wounded?” Padukos shivered, creaked his neck, and aligned his eyes. He had torn away his bossed leather corselet to show the wet tunic beneath. “I’m dying, lad. And without a chance to kill the bastard that tore my guts out.” His numbed fingers clutched his red tunic. “At least I’m dying on the field, Oron, though this is a slow, rotten sort of death. I’d rather have died on my feet, with a thousand men around me—” He coughed and gasped.

“You can die, good Padukos,” Oron said, “knowing that Dugur’s host is being slaughtered like cattle in the pens.”

“I’m glad for it, lad.” Padukos closed his eyes, sighed, cracked them open to squint at the slow drizzle. He coughed and shook further, and a gusher of black blood poured from between his lips and soaked through his beard. “I’ve fought many fights,” the old warrior whispered. “I’m ashamed my last one has been under this pig Amrik.”

Oron said nothing.

“He is more ambitious than he deserves, Oron. Kill him,” Padukos said. “You’re better than his sword.”

hi“I know it.”

“He’s no king. I fought under Prince Tor when he took back Ormos from his brother. Tor was a king. So are you.”

“Padukos, my ambitions are in the past. I am content to kill when I need to and go where I wish as I can.”

“You’re cheating yourself, son. The men love you. You win them with your battle tales at the fire.”

“I kill well, but I was in my youth then, Padukos. I’ve lived more life than I know how to manage.”

“You were born for greatness. I know it when I see it. I saw it in Tor. Did you truly kill your father?”

“I did.”

“Then you are a new kind of man. The gods know it.”

“All I wish to do now is fight. It empties my heart of things I carry with me.”

“Content your heart by killing Amrik. Kill him. His men will follow you onto every field on the earth. Don’t run from yourself. You have a gift.”

Kill hi“So I have been told.”

“The rest of us…we have no destiny, Oron. I am no one. All of these dead…food for dogs. I am no one. You…you are someone.”

“Perhaps.”

“Be a king. Don’t waste yourself with Amrik and his killers. Rise.”

“Sleep well, Padukos.”

“I will watch you from the shadows, Oron. I will trouble your dreams until you do what you were born to do.”

Oron asked him, “Who is your god, Padukos?”

“Thes. He’ll show me his face and accept me. I have been honest with him. Do it now, son.”

Oron lifted his blade with both hands, lowered it, and placed its point on Padukos’ laboring chest.

Padukos worked up a breath and panted, “Drive it in, Oron. A warrior dies—with steel—in his heart. You’ll die—too—a warrior’s—death—”

Oron tightened and shoved the sword down hard. The straight steel slid in. Padukos, the tough old wolf, shuddered, relaxed, and stared unseeing at the gloomy skies, his new home.

Oron closed the killer’s eyes, rose, and walked toward his company. There the men were eating and drinking and detailing their exploits. Oron sat on a fallen log and pulled out his food-skin; he unrolled some dried beef and bread and began chewing.

“Who was the old fellow?” a young soldier asked him.

“Padukos. You knew him, Tion.”

“Aye.” Tion nodded, bowed his head, and made a sign to his god.

Others in the company nodded in assent; all had loved the old fighter and learned from him. Now one big, bearish man pointed toward the plain and growled, “The birds don’t think so highly of him.”

Oron turned to see a great black vulture descend on wide wings and begin picking at Padukos’ corpse.

“Heros, give me that,” Oron directed.

The big man passed Oron his bow and quiver. Oron notched a shaft and pulled back, measured, and let loose. The arrow struck the vulture full in its back. Mad squawks and a fluttering of wings brought roars of approving laughter from all the ranks.

“Even Amrik’s laughing,” nodded Tion.

Oron handed back the bow and quiver, silently finished his food, and washed it down with wine from the skin being passed around.

Tion sat rubbing his beard, then leaned forward and asked all around, “What do you think? Will Dugur give it up?”

“Hell, no,” Heros offered. “We’ve got him now. Better for him to die a soldier’s death here than be taken in chains by Amrik back to King Numir. He won’t give it up.”

A sudden strident horn blast blared over the encampment. They heard General Amrik shouting commands and an answering horn from within their own company. Soldiers and fighters rose and hurriedly jostled one another for their weapons and horses. Oron went to his horse and swung astride it, took up his bow from his quiver. He strung it, stretched it and tightened it, then cantered into line and winked at Tion beside him.

Horns sounded again, and Amrik galloped his horse along the front lines, waving his sword and calling out to his fighters. More horns blasted, and drums thundered. Swords hammered on shields. Company commanders raised their blades, lowered them, and the front lines lurched ahead.

From beyond the rise, other horns sounded, harsh and vibrant. Thunder crackled in the skies, and the clouds swept away to show a dull sun behind the rain. Dugur’s horde crested the rise in a spilling wave and dipped down into the crowded field in a howling chorus.

Archers and slingers of both armies poised at the forefront and let loose; bolts and shafts and rocks flew freely to spread panic among the lines. Then those men on foot drew their swords and spears and fell against each other.

The charioteers swung out from the wings and hit into Dugur’s flanks. The chariots rumbled awkwardly over fallen corpses, and Dugur’s men shrieked and scrambled as the mad horses broke into them. Quickly it was confusion for everyone. Riders scattered and circled, loosing arrows and casting spears. Yet the iron chariots sent bodies flying broken, and any men near them were cut and trampled into waste.

Oron’s company split and attacked in loose formation. Oron himself rode toward Dugur’s right flank, loosing arrows with deadly effect. Everywhere shrieks pierced the air, and blood and limbs jumped above the heads of the working warriors. Here was the s*******r of battle. Men collapsed, grabbing the thick intestines freed from their bellies. Open-mouthed heads, eyes full of surprise, fell sideways, the necks letting loose their blood. And through it all, Oron galloped fiercely, feathering men with sudden death.

And when his quiver was emptied and his bow useless, Oron reined his steed about, found a space, and took his time to judge the chaos of the field. Amrik’s chariots had decimated the wings and rear, and Dugur’s reserves were desperate. Slowly and painfully, the rearward soldiers were being pressed back into the western slopes; but before any man of them might reach those hills, Oron knew they’d all be killed.

Suddenly he was aware of hooves racing toward him. He stared around, kicked forward, and cursed himself; he had no time to grapple with his sword, had but an empty bow in his hands. Dugur’s horseman hastened to him. Oron tightly pulled on his horse and leaned to one side, swinging out with his bow. The rider’s sword cut air; Oron’s bow struck him in the head, and the horseman screamed as he fell.

The Wolf rode on. Behind him, the rider dropped to the field, his head torn open to the air.

Sword drawn, Oron was now galloping toward the rear of Dugur’s ranks, where the rebel nobleman was wholly surrounded by Amrik’s riders. Oron laughed as he saw the c*****e, eager as he was to keep on with the fighting, his blood up, and swung his sword and plunged headlong into it.