had bypassed the defenses and set fire to the other side of Fenan as well. The village’s inhabitants gathered in droves at the grand square, the monstrous beasts chasing them down and disemboweling anyone they could reach. The group of soldiers who’d left Fenan in previous days had tailed the monsters here. Arriving, they squared off against some of the orcs.
Meanwhile, Kaj helped some take shelter from both the orcs and the fires. The thick shroud of smoke had him coughing and his eyes burning. He took on some of the orcs, then glanced at Oloice, who was swinging his axe with fervor. He also saw Clarice a little further on; she had just made short work of a big and heavy one. While he was distracted, an orc rushed him, and Kaj managed by some miracle to fend off its sword, avoiding a lethal blow. He took advantage of the orc’s sluggishness to injure it on the leg and back. The enemy gave Kaj a scratch on the arm, and the man groaned in sudden pain, though he managed to pierce its throat clean through in retaliation.
Cilna ran to see him, weeping. “Kaj, they’re dead!” she cried out, devastated by the loss of her parents. “Help me! Please!”
Kaj’s heart turned heavy, but she couldn’t be with him, so he accompanied her to some others. “Stay with them, Cilna.”
He then went to the bridge and, together with Clarice and the militiamen, killed the last remaining orcs.
“Get the survivors out of here!” ordered the Commander of the group, after the clash ended.
“Thank the gods you’ve arrived!” exclaimed the elf.
“We should’ve predicted they’d come here,” admitted the militiaman bitterly.
The village lay in ruins; few were the houses that had not been affected by the flames, and the safest structure was the sanctuary. Some militiamen moved the seriously injured to the building, while the others were assembled to be taken to a camp for survivors that was under development in the Heathermoor. Oloice and Kaj made sure that the orcs were all dead and that no one was trapped under wreckage. Cilna refused to leave Kaj, and screamed his name. She tried to make her way over to the man. One of the warriors held her back, but she managed to free herself from his grip and run off. After just a few steps, a house collapsed in front of her, frightening her; the road was now blocked by a burning beam. The young woman screamed at Kaj, who spotted her and ran to meet her.
“Go with them, Cilna; they’ll take you to safety,” he urged.
“But I want to go with you, Kaj!” she protested, crying.
The man shook his head. “You can’t. My journey will be a dangerous one,” he said. “You’ll be kept safe, and I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise you.”
Clarice was behind him. “Don’t make promises,” she said harshly, holding out her things.
A militiaman grabbed Cilna, lifting her up and bringing her back with the group. Kaj felt distressed by what had happened, and shocked by that unexpected battle. Oloice joined him and Clarice, and handed his things to the elf. The two gripped each other’s wrists in greeting. Clarice raised her hand to her heart and bowed, while Oloice thumped his chest. Kaj thus gleaned how deep their friendship was.
Clarice and Kaj set off on their march. Dawn would break shortly, and the long and intricate paths through the thick of the Shadetrail were the only way forward.
Much further south, amidst the Shrouded Hills, tulvaren troops led by Zund arrived after two weeks of travel. Fording the Black River, they entered the territory of the Twin Liegedoms. The Shrouded Hills were part of Kelast County, administered by Jarl Hurley, the trusted bishop of King Osman IV, who had entrusted him with the task of protecting the Savorfruit Hillocks when the next invasion occurred. Hurley was an excellent leader, and had managed to defend the Kelast’s Bastion much longer than expected.
Behind the County, the Twin Liegedoms, headed by the nobles Pugh and Alston, had surrendered to the invaders after witnessing the defeat of Jarl Hurley at the hands of King Athal, pledging to deliver two thirds of their annual fruit harvest to the tulvars.
That day, a messenger from the outpost on the Black River was riding fast toward the High Liegedom. He left the horse at the entrance of the city and ran toward Pugh’s Palace. Exhausted, he collapsed in front of the nobleman’s desk, who (with some difficulty) rose from his armchair and stood before the messenger. His prominent belly, big arms and his impressive rump allowed him to inspire a not inconsiderable amount of awe, to say nothing of his face, marked as it was by his supreme passion for wine, sweets, and meats. Thick black eyebrows topped his beady brown eyes, and his outsize nose was pockmarked and glossy. Pugh wore clothes almost as old as he was, and he was well over sixty years old. The red woolen garment that reached his knees was discolored and stained. His belly’s girth was further highlighted by a creased brown leather belt. The light-colored linen under-tunic poked out from the sleeves of his garment, and their ends had been mended several times over. His high leather boots were also shabby and discolored. His head was always covered by a white cap and a blue woolen beret. The only thing that made him recognizable as the Lord of the city was his thick and heavy gold necklace, attached to an equally heavy, emerald-studded medallion with the emblem of the Pughs.
“Why the haste?” asked Pugh, sipping from his chalice.
“General Zund is currently traveling down the road to your palace,” he gasped.
Pugh’s eyes widened, his wine going down the wrong pipe. “Why didn’t you say that right away!?” he shouted, spitting up his drink. “I should have you thrown into the dungeons, and leave you at the mercy of the beast!” By now he had turned purple.
The man, prostrate at his feet, was about to be seized by the tunic by the nobleman’s fat hand when the blare of the rampart horn echoed through the city. Pugh stiffened, and treaded with heavy steps toward the window. Zund was at the gates; he had no time to spare for the messenger. And so he left him alone in the library as coldly as he’d welcomed him, frantically exiting the building to receive his guest.
“Pugh…” said Zund, disgust written all over his face.
“Great General Zund,” began a panting Pugh adoringly. “What an immense honor! What can I do for you, as your humble servant?”
Zund’s red eyes leered at him. He loathed the deal his father had struck, and despised that useless stooge human even more. “The King was disappointed in the quality of the tribute last month: withered, sour-tasting fruit.”
Pugh paled, and searched for the right words. “Grand General… we… I… have looked for the best fruits…” The tulvar’s silence seemed endless to the man; he felt his eyes on him, and did not dare to raise his head.
“I ought to punish you, but unfortunately I’m here for another reason,” said Zund.
The man gulped loudly, unable to say a solitary word. He guided the General towards his palace, where he himself served bloody meats and fermented keb-brew, made from the juice of kebs, pineapple-like fruits from Alceas that were so pungent that keb-brew was drinkable only by tulvars.
After the banquet, the nobleman really began to shake in his boots. It was never a good sign when Zund appeared. The man remained silent while the tulvar sipped the brew from his metal chalice.
“For some animals, you’d make for a great meal, with all the fat on you,” said Zund.
“Definitely, my General,” said Pugh, cowed.
Zund took the last sip and then, as if seized by a moment of madness, he rose
