Chapter 81 — Smoke Over Bone

Chapter 81: Chapter 81 — Smoke Over Bone

Chapter 81 — Smoke Over Bone

The shaman chose a hollow where the wind could not steal his smoke.

Two Uraks waited above him on the ridge, saying nothing while he worked. The larger carried a human sword across his back and an Orc axe in hand; the second wore iron plates over fur, each plate taken from a different suit of armor.

Below the ridge, the raiding party rested among the black pines, Gruks crouched around covered fires while four Throks stood apart, checking weapons and watching the southern trail.

The three travellers who had seen the human patrol knelt beside the hollow. One was wounded, his right leg stiffened from the journey and dried blood darkening the hide wrapped around his calf; the smallest carried the wooden warning marks gathered from the western paths.

"Stone walls," the wounded Orc said. "Mounted humans came from the east. One carried a hammer."

The larger Urak faced south. "How many?"

"Four."

"Only four?"

"On the trail."

The Urak struck the wounded Orc across the mouth and knocked him onto one hand.

"I asked how many live behind the walls."

The traveller lowered his head. "We did not go close enough."

The shaman placed a shallow stone bowl in the center of the hollow and added ash from an old human house, three chips of bone, dried blood, and a strip cut from the warning marker.

The larger Urak watched him. "Can you see them?"

"I can see strength that answers strength."

"How many?"

"If you stop speaking, I may learn."

The Urak did not strike him, for a shaman could say things that would cost another Orc his teeth.

The shaman cut his thumb with a stone blade, let the blood fall into the bowl, and spoke in the old clan language as he fed Mana into the mixture.

The blood hissed.

Smoke rose despite the cold, refusing to drift with the air; instead it gathered above the bowl and stretched south in a narrow line.

The shaman closed his eyes.

For several breaths he felt nothing but stone, snow, and distant living warmth—then the spell touched the old fortress.

Five lights answered.

One burned brighter than the others, and four stood below it, unequal but clearly awakened; the spell found walls around them: layers of old stone, and something deeper that refused its touch.

The shaman pushed harder.

Pain entered his forehead as the smoke shook and the five lights blurred.

Something beneath the fortress remained closed.

He released the spell before it could draw more blood than he intended, and the smoke collapsed into the bowl.

The second Urak leaned forward. "Well?"

"Five awakened warriors. One is strong. Four are weaker."

"Gold?" the larger Urak asked.

The shaman wiped his thumb across the snow. "The spell does not name human ranks."

"Could the strongest be Gold?"

"Possible."

The answer displeased both Uraks.

The shaman added, "The light did not feel like Gold."

The larger Urak smiled.

The wounded traveller wiped blood from his mouth. "The riders moved like soldiers. They found our trail before noon."

"Four riders found you," the Urak said. "You returned with three."

"We were ordered to watch the western paths. We watched them."

The second Urak stepped closer, but the shaman raised his staff between them.

"He brought the warning marks and the count," the shaman said. "Break his other leg after the raid if that still angers you."

The wounded Orc lowered his eyes, and the larger Urak allowed him to crawl away from the hollow.

The shaman studied the smoke clinging to the stone bowl. The strongest human light had remained steady when the spell touched it, and the four weaker lights had held their shape as well. These were trained warriors, not frightened farmers carrying inherited weapons.

He considered the thin camp below, where the raiders had crossed the wastes on short rations, their meat sacks nearly empty. Two pack animals had died during the last cold night, and the surviving beasts showed ribs beneath their hides; turning back would bring the clan home hungry.

The Uraks knew that as well as he did.

"You want the fortress stores," the shaman said.

"I want the road," the larger Urak replied. "Humans repair one fortress, then another. If we leave this one standing, their patrols will reach the winter trails."

The answer held more sense than the shaman expected: the raid promised food and metal, but it also tested how quickly the southern kingdoms were returning to the frontier.

Two Uraks against one strong human, four Throks against the weaker defenders, and more than sixty Gruks waiting below. The fortress had walls, but the travellers had seen repairs still under way, and southern nobles had filled the north with settlements before they were ready.

"We go south," the Urak said.

The shaman covered the bowl. "The old fortress may hold more than the spell showed."

"You found five."

"I found five that answered. Stone can hide strength. Magic can hide more."

The second Urak gave a low laugh. "Humans hide behind stone because they are weak."

The shaman noted the scar running from the Urak’s jaw to his collar, left long ago by some human weapon.

He said nothing.

The larger Urak ordered the Gruks to rise. Fires were buried beneath snow and packs tightened while the wounded traveller remained with the rear group and the other two took the western path again.

The raiders would approach from two directions: most would use the northern road and draw the defenders toward the gate, while a smaller group crossed the broken western ground. Once the wall crews divided, the Uraks would leap onto the battlements and kill the awakened humans.

The four Throks gathered around the Uraks while the Gruks prepared to march: one carried a cleaver made from the blade of a human polearm, another had lost an ear during the war, and the remaining two—brothers who fought with heavy spears—answered each other with short hand signs.

The larger Urak drew a rough line through the snow.

"The road reaches the gate. The western group waits until the humans turn their bows north."

The one-eared Throk pointed at the fortress mark. "Ladders?"

"No ladders. We do not need them."

The Urak struck the ground on both sides of the mark. The meaning was clear enough: the two Uraks would cross the walls themselves while the Throks kept the defenders occupied below, and the Gruks reached the gate and battlements through any opening their leaders created.

The shaman listened without offering advice, for the Uraks trusted their strength and the fear their arrival would create.

Dragonwatch’s walls were stone.

"The walls are old," the larger Urak said when the shaman looked south. "Old stone breaks."

"Old stone also remains after men die."

The Urak smiled without humor. "Then the stone will watch us kill them."

The Gruks carried no siege engines, only rope, hooks, and bundles of brush for the ditch. Several had human bows taken during the war, and most carried axes, spears, or broad hide shields, since they expected to return with more than they brought.

The shaman checked his own supplies: three blood bundles remained. One could call smoke, one could push fear away from the Gruks and toward whatever stood before them, and the last could disturb human senses for a short time. None of them would stop a Silver Knight if the Uraks failed.

He told the larger Urak that.

"They will not fail," the Throk with the cleaver said.

The shaman tied the bundles to his staff. "Then you have nothing to fear."

The main force spent time preparing before the march began. The Gruks ate what remained of the morning ration while the Throks inspected shields, spearheads, and the bundles meant for the ditch, and the Uraks allowed no large fires—smoke from the camp could warn the fortress before the attack began.

The shaman walked among the warriors. Several carried wounds from the war that had never healed properly: one Gruk favored a shoulder whenever he lifted his shield, another had wrapped two fingers together after losing the third. They were still strong enough to raid farmers and poorly defended settlements.

Dragonwatch was neither.

The one-eared Throk caught the shaman studying the old wounds.

"You see weakness?"

"I see warriors who have travelled for days on little food."

"They will eat inside the walls tomorrow."

"If the walls open."

The Throk moved closer. "You speak like a frightened human."

The shaman touched one of the blood bundles tied to his staff. "A frightened shaman prepares the spell that keeps you alive. A foolish one tells you there is no danger."

The Throk left without answering.

Before sunset, the western group departed under one of the spear-bearing Throks, nineteen Gruks following him into the lower hills; they would travel without horns and wait beyond the broken ground until the main attack began.

The wounded traveller remained behind with six Gruks and the weakest animals, watching the raiders leave without asking to join them.

The remaining force continued along the old northern road, scouts moving ahead in pairs. One returned after dark with news that the fortress gate was closed and figures were gathering on the walls.

The larger Urak appeared pleased.

"They saw us."

"They had scouts north of the fortress," the shaman said. "They were always going to see us."

"Then they know death is coming."

His spell had shown one strong light and four weaker ones; where the Uraks saw a simple count, he saw a fortress whose people had placed scouts far enough north to return before the raid.

The Uraks ordered the clan south, and the shaman checked the blood bundles once more before following.

Near midnight, the road rose above the last line of black pines, and Dragonwatch stood against the clouded sky, its walls running farther east and west than the travellers had claimed. Repairs showed as pale scars across the older stone, and a thread of smoke climbed from behind the inner wall.

The raiders stopped beyond bow range. Gruks crouched in the frozen grass while the Throks moved along the front, checking every shield strap again.

The larger Urak stood beside the shaman. "Five lights."

"Five that answered the spell."

"You keep repeating that."

"Because you keep treating it as a full count."

The Urak studied the fortress. "Tomorrow we count them ourselves."

The shaman pressed the base of his staff into the ground as faint movement crossed the battlements: the humans were awake and waiting.

He could strengthen the Gruks against fear, and he could blur the sight of archers for a short time, but he could hide neither column from scouts already watching the road.

"Wake the warriors before dawn," he told the one-eared Throk. "Feed them before I use the blood smoke. The spell will keep their legs moving, but it will not fill an empty body."

The Throk frowned at the order, then passed it down the line.

The shaman sat beneath the ridge and set his three blood bundles across his knees. Beyond the old walls, a bell rang once, and another answered farther west.

He remembered human forts from the war: weak commanders crowded everyone at the gate, while experienced ones kept reserves out of sight and waited for attackers to commit. Dragonwatch’s western bell told him the defenders were watching both approaches.

He called the larger Urak back.

"The western group may meet prepared soldiers."

"Then they will keep those soldiers away from the gate."

"If the western group breaks, the defenders will return before you open it."

The Urak bared his teeth. "Then I open it quickly."

The shaman accepted the answer, for the attack had already begun in the Urak’s mind; he could shape fear, smoke, and confusion, but he could not shape patience inside another warrior.

Across the road, the Gruks settled beneath hides and cloaks. Some whispered about grain, iron, and human captives; others sharpened weapons worn thin by the last war. Hunger had carried them south, and by sunrise, pride would carry them the final distance.

Dragonwatch had seen them.