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Vincent lay in a light slumber when suddenly a loud cry woke him with a start. Instinct brought him to his feet faster than thought, with long sword in hand, as the small tent crashed in shambles about him. The horse was also putting up all sorts of fuss, kicking, rearing, neighing, and stomping the ground. After a quick look around to make sure there was no immediate danger, he spoke softly to calm the bay.
“Easy boy, calm down, it’s all right,” he said. “An’ if somethin’s out there we can hardly hear it with you makin’ all that racket, now can we.”
The horse calmed quickly after hearing Vincent’s voice. He heard a soft crys coming from the same vicinity as the sound that had awoken him and it oddly sounded like a baby.
“That’s strange. Maybe the trees are playing tricks with the sound... it must be a young child, but what would a child be doing out here at this time of the night? Maybe it got lost. I’ve gotta find it if that’s the case, as dangerous as it is out here, though it has gotten better,” he told the horse as he listened closely for the direction it was coming from.
“North, and a little west,” Vincent said to himself as he hopped on Brownie’s bare back, not wanting to waste time with a saddle, despite the annoyed look the horse gave him.
The crying quieted to a whimper, but Vincent had already located the small dark bundle from which the sound emerged and as he glanced around he noticed in the distance six large shadowy humanoid shapes. Three of the shapes moved about as if searching for something; the others were standing a little distance away. Low gasping breathing to the right caught his attention next.
Glancing down, not wanting to take his eyes off the strange sight that could become a danger, he saw laying on the ground a female figure, with five arrows protruding from her. At least a fourth of her bloodline had to be Margoylion, considering the bat-like wings that connected to her back, and some Ramorion blood had to be in her lineage also with the curled horns on her head. At first he thought that it was Natasha, his third wife, that was lying there in a pool of blood until, with a look of surprise she turned her beautiful green eyes that were missing Natasha’s cat like slits to him.
Her arm moved, reaching desperately toward the small bundle just out of reach. She whispered something so soft and labored that he barely knew she had spoke. As he dismounted and moved quietly towards her, the face came completely into view, and he recognized her. It was Tamara, a woman he had once met by mistaking her for Natasha not long after he had met her, and later his brother had introduced him to her, for she had joined his little wandering band.
Just as he started to say something she spoke. “My son, please, sir,” and stopped as a look of wonder and disbelief came across her face.
“Tragar, is it really you? I saw you fall!” she asked.
“No, it’s Vincent. It is you, Tamara, is it not?”
“Yes, it is Vincent. Sorry it’s just that you two look so much alike and I hoped you were him.”
“What in the nine hells is going on here? And who is Tragar?” he whispered.
“We don’t have time for that,” indicating with her eyes the shapes still searching the ground about forty yards away. “Tragar, my husband, and Dareames your brother, are dead,” she said as a look of sorrow came to her eyes. “And I’m dying. I don’t know how or why you’re here, but please, my son, at least you can save him. Take him and raise him as yours, please. We were on are way to you and my cousin Natasha’s, when they attacked us.
“So I ran hoping to make it to safety, but now you must take care of him. And I could not have hoped for this great a gift, for if I had known this would happen and I was given a choice of who would take him, I would choose your family.”
Vincent forced his brother’s fate aside for the moment, for if Dareames was truly dead there was nothing that could be done about it, and he had a friend that needed his strength now.
“Your son? When did...”That was all he could get out before she cut him off.
“Yes, my son, there,” she said looking at the bundle just beyond her reach.
“What about you? I can’t just leave you.”
“Yes, you can!” cough!, cough!! “And you will, just take Draven and go now! Before they find us,” she demanded.
“Do you know what they are? Maybe I can take care of them,” Vincent suggested.
“Orog I think, but some look a little different and I’ve never seen one fight with such skill. They took down Tragar and Dareames with the loss of but six. They were good fighters, even you can’t be-beat six ah ah of th-them by ah ah yourself ahhh AHHHahhh!” she moaned as he watched the last of her life slowly drain from those beautiful green eyes.
With a small prayer to Tandor, the god of death, the keeper of souls, to watch over her, her unmet husband’s, and possibly his brother’s souls. He told her goodbye, by kissing his fingertips and gently closing her eyelids. Then he looked at the three orog now only a little over thirty yards away as he reached for the dark bundle that she had called Draven.
There was a loud squawk as he lifted the babe, and the black raven flew to the trees. The Orog’s attention snapped to them at the noise, looking up from their frantic search to see him picking up the babe. As the three rushed forward at full speed through the trees, a deep low growl slowly rose from their throats to a snarling howl of rage. He sat the child back on the ground and reached for his bow, which he realized was back at camp when he did not find it.
“Bones and ashes,” he cursed himself for leaving the bow. “No choice now.” He would have to face at least these three up close and hope he could manage to get it over before the others caught up to them. There was no time to flee the one in the lead, its yellow eyes glowing fiercely as it raced toward him from only five yards away. The next one was about half that behind the first, and the last that again behind the second.
Vincent’s mind raced for a plan that would get him out of this mess, knowing he had to do something, but what. His thoughts spun, fog-like clouds ran through his mind with flashing scenes of possibilities and outcomes. As he saw the first crash into the small clearing he emptied his mind, set all thought aside, and become one within himself transforming into pure instinct, action to reaction. He let loose of all things, felt no fear, no anger as he committed himself to death.
With a huge battle-ax crashing down to split his skull, Vincent sprang into motion, his long sword a flash behind. With a loud crack the sword hit wood and ax head went flying. Vincent then sidestepped to his left reversing his swing and sliced deep into the orog’s right side. He then stepped forward into a right spin to place himself behind the orog, as he quickly flicked his wrist, and twirled the sword into a reverse grip and thrust back. He heard the groan of death as he loosed the blade from the creature’s back and dove. He hit the ground and rolled, and as he did he felt the cold biting pain of steel slice lightly across his right thigh, also hearing the sound of flesh cleaving and bones breaking. Already back on his feet, his taut muscles constricted to strike, he saw the other orog struggling to get its ax free from the one he had left dead. Not losing a second, he bound through the air, bringing sword down in a deadly arc straight for the base of its neck. Blood sprayed as the head rolled out of his vision.
The last of the three crashed through the trees as Vincent turned, stopping dead in its tracks with a bewildered look. Vincent knew the large bulky orog had not expected to see the other two in a bloody heap, not that it cared that they had died. But Vincent knew that it gave pause to weigh its opponent, something he had never in all his life seen an orog do, and he had seen plenty.
As he stood there waiting for the action that would bring his reaction, he remembered the war with wave after wave of orog crashing down on his forces, some so far into battle lust they chopped down their own to get to the next enemy, each of his men dropping ten to fifteen apiece before they fell and still they came tromping over their own wounded. It seemed that for every ten that fell twenty would replace them. He had called for retreat, as the men already fell back, some running. Then the worst; as he turned to flee an arrow took him from his horse, and he spent the next seven years as a slave to those monsters. He was lucky to have made it out of that uneaten.
Sudden movement from the orog brought him out of his thoughts. As he watched the orog step forward studying him, he knew that this was not normal behavior for an orog. Just when he thought he might make it, and then something new. At least the other three found this amusing and hadn’t started that way. The orog slowly started to circle him and he turned with it. Moments later he heard the very familiar tongue of the Orog from one of the other three. The voice sounded extremely commanding as it gave the order.
“Don’t be a fool. Put his back to us and we’ll fill him with arrows,” it said.
He had his escape, the others couldn’t get to him. He’d play their game. They didn’t expect him to know their tongue. Vincent let the burly orog circle him ‘til his back was to the others, as he watched the wide yellow-eyes of the beast in front of him, with all concentration focused behind. His ears strained, listening for the sound that was his escape. Then twang, swoosh; arrows flew inches above his head as he rolled across the ground. They hit the large orog squarely in the chest as his sword penetrated deep into its abdomen. With only a gasp of air it fell to the ground with a loud thud. Already back on the horse and moving he heard their angry growls and arrows flew, thudding into trees behind him. He looked down and saw the bundle that was Draven in his arms, not even remembering that he had picked him up.
