Page 3 of Faeling
Although she had a long name, one that implied many branches of an ancient family tree, Ravenna Broch-Illyinia rode out to meet the orc camp and her fate alone. Her mother had hada large, jovial extended family, made up of her many cousins and great-great-grandnieces and -nephews, but that warmth always cooled whenever Aine’s fae husband and halfling child accompanied her to visit. Ravenna had few memories of the imperious Illyinia clan, although she’d spent her youngest years amongst them. She’d only a handful of memories of each family, a few impressions that weren’t enough to forge the bonds that made blood thick.
So she rode out alone, not to any of her remaining family. Her family was dead. She was a clan of one, an orphan, and—
Please,Oberon huffed,spare me the indulgent melancholy. You arenotalone.
Ravenna grinned despite herself. Leaning over his back, she reached to gently pet one of his velvety ears. It’d taken a long argument—and a few threats—to get the dread-mount to agree. She hadn’t meant for him to come along, nor his whole herd to follow behind, but he refused to let her wander off toward, as he put it,a murderous pack of axe-swinging idiotsby herself.
He’d promised her father. He’d promised her mother. And so he deigned to let her sling saddlebags full of supplies and a few cherished bits she couldn’t leave behind over his sides before mounting his broad back.
They left the bower behind, Callistix and her herd melting into the shadows of the trees to follow them. Ravenna didn’t know how she would hide or explain a whole herd of unicorns—they and orcs had a history of enmity, after all. But that was for later. For now, they would find the camp and the warlord there.
Patting his neck, Ravenna replied,That’s true. I have my old friend Oberon.
Indeed. But call me old again and you’ll be walking your way to these orcs.
1
Three Years Later
Vallek Far-Sight of the Broad-Back clan had earned his moniker in recent years for his vision of the future. Of a united orc kingdom, strong in the face of incursion and outside threat. Too long had the clans squabbled and skirmished amongst themselves, weakening what they could be strengthening.
While the other chieftains, of clans great and small, fought over scraps of territory, the growing Pyrrossi Empire encroached from the east, the dragons grew bolder in the south, and the tentacles of the faelands crept across the waters of Dyfan Bay. The orcs had sailed to their lands long ago, claimed the high peaks and steppes of the Griegen Mountains when none other had the courage. Yet, at this rate, they would be thrown back into the sea if something wasn’t done.
Vallek understood that. He saw what the others refused tosee.
Strong as they were, bigger and more intimidating than all the other races except perhaps dragons, with their towering mountain cities of stone and steel, the orcs were nevertheless weak: Should any of their neighbors ally together to strike a killing blow, there was little the orcs could do to stop it.
That was why, in his eighteen years as the chieftain of Balmirra, the strongest, most ancient of the orcish cities, he’d run across the territories hundreds of times, feet pounding across thousands of leagues. Most recently, it’d been to quell a border dispute with a growing Pyrrossi mining colony on the southern Shanago River.
With that headache taken care of, Vallek returned to his city with no small amount of relief, the familiar spires, towers, and peaks spearing the sky. The sight always made him proud—his city was the biggest, most impressive of the orcish cities, where the ancestors had first dug their roots into these mountains.
Dusty and sweaty from the run, Vallek slowed to an easy trot as the city crested along the horizon. His men behind him, an elite unit of warriors specially selected for their skills and loyalty, gave a great cheer to see home. Known as the berserkers, his men fought hard and deserved all the awe and privilege their rank afforded them.
Vallek turned to his left, but he needn’t have bothered. Mattias, captain of his berserkers, was already pulling his horn from his belt. Putting his lips to the horn, Mattias blew, announcing their return.
A moment later, an answering trumpeting thundered across the plain before the mighty walls of the city. The berserkers gave an answering roar, and their pace picked up again, closing the last distance to the city wall.
Their feet pounded across the drawbridge overhanging the wide moat, through the tunnel of stone into the four-tiered curtain walls. The five portcullises rose before them one after the other, metal teeth disappearing into the stone curve of the tunnel as they passed.
The cool of the tunnel quickly gave way to the burning afternoon sun, the column of berserkers pouring into the city streets. A crowd quickly gathered, applause following them as the column began to climb the mountain higher, to the citadel. Orc-kin called out warm welcomes, clapping and hooting as the impressive force ran by.
They didn’t slow until they finally met the walls of the citadel itself. The main limestone promenade of Balmirra switched back and forth, climbing to the citadel at the very top. A cluster of towers, spires, and great halls, the citadel had been the house of government and home to Balmirra’s chieftain since the very first ancestors. As sacred as it was ancient, Vallek felt the weight of his forebearers as he passed beneath the final portcullis, entering the wide, lush courtyard of the citadel.
Late apple blossoms sweetened the air, loose white petals releasing their perfume as they were crushed underfoot on the flagstones. Flowering rhododendrons and manicured junipers lined the white limestone walls, offering some shade from the summer sun. Vallek eased into a walk as he came to the steps leading up to the great double doors of Ninevar’s Basilica, the first building constructed on the citadel.
Mounting the first three steps, he turned to face his men. The last of the two-hundred elite warriors came jogging through the gate, leading the unit’s small herd of takin. The hearty goats were perfect for the rugged terrain of the territories, and their wool was spun into all manner of cloth throughout the cities.
Although tired from the days of running, their wide chestsheaving beneath their dusty breastplates, his men all looked to him.
Grinning, Vallek unhooked his double-bladed axe Hormhím and raised it high above his head. Every chieftain of Balmirra helped forge their own axe, a symbol of their reign that lasted as long as they kept their throne. From start until end, the axe was their emblem; it could be repaired but never replaced. Its strength and craftsmanship foretold the new chieftain’s resolve, and so Vallek had poured himself into the blades, and eighteen years later, he still hefted the weapon high with pride.
“Warriors!” he called through the courtyard. “I thank you for your company—and fast pace.” A rumble of laughter went through the ranks. “I know we’re all looking forward to our cups and a real bed. Be off with you, then!”
“Hear, hear,” the men cheered, knocking spears and hilts into their breastplates to create a deafening din.
The orderly lines of their ranks began to dissolve as the men disbanded. From the front, Mattias, Vallek’s second Ulrich, and the four guardsmen who followed him everywhere split from the group to head with him into the basilica.
The great cedar doors opened on a silentwhoosh, their metal plating glinting almost gold. The door bearers bowed their heads as Vallek crossed the threshold, and waiting just inside was his trusted steward—his elder sister Eydis.
