Bad Dreams

If you war, war only evil. If you love, love only good. If you mourn, mourn only the righteous.

The First Word

       Harrowed 5:19

 

 

Blowing snow blocked out the sun. The wind whistled through the roaring melee. Hundreds of men clashed over a frozen river. Arrows filled the sky while blood turned the snow red. Umbra struggled under his fur cloak. He knew the place well.

Slushing through the icy water, Umbra moved past the endless fighting. On the edge of the battle stood a beautiful woman whom Umbra felt he ought to know. Tears of blood were flowing down her cheeks.

Umbra awoke to Stephen shaking him in his bed. “The orc has escaped,” Stephen said hiding his fear of Umbra’s displeasure. Umbra sprung to his feet leaving his strange dream behind.

“What?”

“The orc has escaped, my lord,” Stephen repeated.

“I heard you the first time.” Umbra said, throwing on a tunic. “How did this happen?”

“We believe it was the orc messenger. He killed his escorts then released the hostage.”

“He has to be brought back,” Umbra ordered finding his belt and tightening it around his waist. “Am I clear? Without him this campaign could turn against us.”

“I understand, my lord.”

Umbra walked out of his tent. Riders and men were darting everywhere panicked.  Umbra turned to Stephen and asked, “How many men did you send after him?”

“Erik took fifty of his knights, my lord.”

“Send another hundred cavalry. And wake the Guild King and organize the Broken Lances to march. The king will want to hit the Wazog soon now. Tell the men to bring nothing they cannot carry, and bring me my horse.”

“Yes, my lord,” Stephen bowed low before leaving. Umbra returned to his tent and sat at his writing desk. He rubbed his temples with two rough fingers, hoping his headache would retreat. He walked over to a basin of water and splashed his face. The cool drops of water ran down his chin and fell to the ground.

The woman he saw in his dream stood out in his mind. He struggled to recognize her. The image of her tears refused to leave even as he pulled his armor from its stand.

He started to slide into his under-padding when he realized he had no aides to assist him with the ties on the back and sides. He dropped the pad to the ground and poured himself a cup of wine instead. He was lifting the glass to his lips when Raven bursted into the tent with a face red with anger.

“Did you issue the order for me to be left behind when the army moves?” she demanded. Umbra calmly sat down his cup and tapped a finger on his desk in thought.

After a moment, he pointed at Raven. “You can help me with my armor,” Umbra said picking his pad back up.

“Answer my question!”

“I don’t know how it is with Mesmers,” Umbra stated, “but in Galsag, people tend to speak to lords more politely.” Raven’s face turned from red with anger to red with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry; I can be brash at times.”

“I noticed.”

“My lord, please " answer my question. I wish to know.”

“I will, if you help me with my armor.” Raven sighed and approached Umbra. He lifted his arms as Raven tied the straps on the padded undershirt. Raven looked at all the parts of the armor and swore under her breath.

“How do you wear all this?” she asked.

“Years of practice.”

“So, my lord Baron, did you ban me from traveling with the army?”

“You make it sound personal.”

“Isn’t it?” Raven yanked on two cords pushing the wind out of Umbra’s chest.

“No,” he coughed. “I banned all delegates and persons not directly needed on the field. A battle is not the theatre, little Mesmer.  The army will be traveling light and has no wagons to spare for your luggage.”

“I am not a simple delegate,” Raven insisted.

 Umbra laughed. “Oh " pray tell why not?”

“I am charged with the oversight of the cannon, how can I assist in their use if I am a hundred miles away?”

“The cannon are staying here,” Umbra stated.

“What? Why are you marching without your greatest asset?”

“Cannon are heavy. They take a lot of horses to move and slow down the whole march.”

 Raven finished with the pad straps and helped Umbra slide his legs into each of the greaves.

“How will you defeat the orcs with no cannon?” she asked.

“The same way we have defeated dozens of enemies before our deal with your mother; with blood and steel.” Umbra lifted his chest plate onto his shoulders with a grunt. Raven stood to her feet and began to tie the metal plates together.

“I know you hate Mesmers,” she said, “but that is no reason to endanger men needlessly.”

“You know that, do you?”

“Yes,” Raven insisted. “Stephen told me about your guild.” Umbra grew somber and instantly cold.

“He had no right to tell you about that,” he muttered.

“You know not all Mesmers are...”

“Are what?” Umbra interrupted harshly. “Death merchants? Impious ironmongers who would sell their hearts for gold and silver? Who spit on the Divines and the First Word with their contemptible lifestyles? The Great War could have ended at the Mesmer’s whim, but the profits were just too tempting.”

“What are you talking about? The Mesmers were neutral in the war.”

“Yes, a status they used to great benefit. Your so-called neutrality allowed your people to sell cannon to both sides, did it not? Galsag and Northrim had fought wars before, true, but the cannons allowed the Great War’s butchery to last thirty years.

“I was born to the sound of cannon and screaming men. I watched cities burn and castles crumble. I walked with the masses of serfs driven from their homes. I saw their faces drained of hope and filled with despair. You think Stephen’s tale is the reason I hate Mesmers? No, my lady, my hatred of your people is far deeper than one slight.”

 Raven was silent as she finished the final strap on Umbra’s armor.

“I’m going to be mayor after my mother,” Raven whispered still holding the tied cords in her hands. “Tradition would have my brother, but everyone knows he has no heart for rule. If I am going to run the last free city in the world, I need to see what it is to rule. You say you grew up witnessing my people’s works; well I have not. I need to see what the world really is, not what people tell me.” Umbra shifted in his armor. He adjusted the chest plate to his comfort. Stephen walked into the tent.

“Your horse is ready, my lord.”

“Thank you, Stephen.” Umbra walked away towards Stephen.

“My lord, please,” Raven cried chasing after him. Umbra mounted his horse. Stephen handed him his hammer. Raven grabbed onto Umbra’s saddle and looked up at him with desperate eyes. Umbra sighed.

“You cannot bring any aides or luggage,” he said as she leapt in joy. “I mean it, my lady. It was no jest about the wagons having little room.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Raven said bowing low.

“And you are to remain near the King’s guard at all times. The last thing I need on my conscience is a dead woman.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“I just hope you don’t get saddle sores easily,” Umbra chuckled. Stephen laughed as well. Raven glared at him. Stephen stopped laughing. Umbra laughed harder.

In the distance, a horn blew. Umbra and Stephen turned to listen. Stephen patted Umbra’s horse to comfort it.

“That is Erik’s horn,” Stephen commented. “He must have found the orc.”

“Must have,” Umbra agreed.

Across the open plains, Erik finished blowing his horn. His brother Thomas drew his sword. They rode at full gallop over the hill. Troops of knights paralleled them on the opposite hill. The two orcs fled into a prairie with swords they stole from their murdered guards. The swords were clumsy in their large hands.

Thomas darted towards Del’Caf. Del’Caf swung at Thomas’ head. Thomas leaned left, barely avoiding the sword’s edge, before quickly counting with the butt of his handle to the orc’s skull. Del’Caf fell with a thump.

The other orc turned to fight when Erik rammed him with his horse. The collision knocked both the orc and Erik’s horse to the ground. Thomas leapt from his mount and ran to his brother’s aid.

“Erik,” Thomas cried. “Are you alright?”

“I didn’t think that would happen,” Erik stated.

 Thomas laughs. The orc messenger staggered to his feet and began to run away when several knights dashed down and surrounded him. Two dismounted and forced him to his knees and bound his hands.

“If you cowards would leave your beasts,” the orc yelled, “and fight as true hunters, I would drench the ground in your blood.”

“And if you would stop fleeing like frightened deer, I would not need the horse to chase you, green skin!” Erik yelled back with a laugh. He grabbed Thomas’ hand and rose to his feet.

“Easy,” Thomas said concerned.

“Thomas, I’m fine. Tell me, green skin,” Erik said approaching the caught beast. “Is it customary in your land to betray the banner of truce? Your Warchief is without honor. He sends a messenger with the façade of dealings. When, in truth, he wishes to be a thief!”

The orc began to laugh at Erik. Erik glanced to his brother, puzzled. “Why are you laughing?” he asked. “Thomas, why is he laughing?”

“I am not here on the orders of the Warchief,” the orc chuckled.

“What are you talking about?”

“It is the duty of all Wazog to protect the Warchief’s life force, so the spirit of our tribe may live forever.”

“The Warchief did not send you?” Erik asked.

“We must inform the Guild King,” one knight exclaimed.

“We will do no such thing, Sir Martin,” Erik ordered.

“But, my lord, this means the Warchief may not know about his son. A settlement could still be made.”

“I have no doubt the Warchief already knows about his son,” Erik replied. “His lack of response is proof no settlement can be reached. We will speak no word of this.”

“But, my lord, it has barely been a day. Perhaps a true messenger from the Warchief is yet to arrive.”

“I said no word, Sir Martin, on pain of death. This is a sign from the Divines. They want no settlement, and I will not see us cursed over it. Now take the runt orc back to camp.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sir Martin obeyed, leaving with Del’Caf lying unconscious across a horse. Thomas waited for them to leave before speaking.

“I have never thought you a religious man.”

“I’m not,” Erik stated grabbing the orc messenger by the neck and lowering himself to the orc’s face. “I am going to let you go, and you are going to sound the war drums among the tribes and tell the Warchief we are coming for him. You will not tell him his son is our hostage. If you do, there will be no war between our people. And no one wants that. But, if he believes his life force is safe, then the Warchief will give us a battle for the ages. Then we will see whose blood covers the grass.”

“Untie me and I will show you,” the orc hissed.

“Uh huh.” Erik knocked the orc over the head with his sword handle. The orc tumbled over. Erik cut the ropes from the orc’s hands and mounted his horse. Thomas followed.

“Umbra will gut you and hang your body from a tree if he finds out. You wouldn’t be the first lord he has strung up,” Thomas informed.

“Umbra is old, so is the Guild King. New leaders must rise to replace the dying, and one cannot prove his merit in the practice circle. This will be the last great campaign of our age: the last chance of glory and title. We would be fools to pass it up. I will not let Umbra steal the moment I have been training for my whole life just because he grew a conscience.”