Silvaniel slept for two whole days, undisturbed. For a brief moment, we all considered availing the services of a necromancer to raise him. Eventually, Razzia, tired of her waiting, having almost exhausted all options that the small High-Crag Hold could offer, dragged the begrudging elf back to Sarenthill.
Tharkas followed a week later, citing the absence of Urganza and the demands of his presence as her Seneschal to ensure the stability of the orcs through the turbulent times. His successor, a lanky orc with rune tattoos covered forearms, ensured the planned constructions and fortifications proceeded, till the first signs of trouble presented themselves. The construction work slowed to a standstill.
An issue with supply lines was all the overseer could provide. Delayed communications from Tharkas only highlighted the difficulty in quarrying as well as identifying a stable supply route. With more and more isolated settlements of Orcish villages moving closer to form bigger communities or assimilating themselves into the safety of other Orc clans with well-established warriors, proved to be a logistic nightmare for the newly appointed Seneschal.
With the threat of undead drawing closer, more orcs were conscripted to war efforts, leaving a bare skeleton crew for craftsmanship or mining. Despite his uncertainly worded promise to uphold the promise that the Overlord made, it was evident that nothing short of a miracle would lift the orcs from the precipice of extinction.
A few weeks slipped by when a messenger from T’orrac arrived bearing two different letters. Letters penned by two different hands. Same message but varied in the formulation. T’orrac, being a diplomat, despite proclaiming not to be one, claimed remarkable success in the initial attempts to culture the contagion, and ended the letter with the promise of a reliable pestilence but with an added delay in concocting the potency of the plague.
Zaehran’s message was more neutral to the factors involved. The monk, on multiple occasions, had openly spoken against my decision to unleash the contagion. Resting with the Druids of the Order of Chimera, a bit longer for the injured Rodo to recuperate, the psionic monk apologized for their delay by justifying that it is vital for Rodo to be in prime health. Considering the fact that Rodo was mangled and thrashed with silver chains, even under the best of care, which T’orrac would undoubtedly provide, I cannot expect their presence for the next two to three months.
Neither the lack of supplies nor the absence of my two best warriors was as perturbing as the last issue -- Arlene. Her current location was unknown. Her arrival; uncertain.
In the ruthless barren terrain, filled with jagged cliffs and frozen slippery trails, where a single misstep would spell the difference between life and death, her consummate ranger skills would prove crucial, even deterministic in the outcome of the siege.
The wood-elves would keep their territories, assuredly, free of high-elven meddling, though the biggest threat to Arlene is Arlene herself. Her caustic nature and her penchant for releasing arrows before questioning would, in all probability, win friends as well foes; more so of the latter, in fact.
Lacking any precise knowledge about her current locations or her return to High-Crag Hold, hindered any further precise strategic decision on my part. One fact stood out among the rest, leading any company of soldiers; veteran or wet behind the ears, without the skilled path-finding abilities of half-elf, would result in losing more to the treacherous terrain than to the One-Horned Warlord’s forces.
That night, as I languidly broke the dry piece of bread, dipping it into the cold gruel, Lyria nudged closer. Her closeness slowly embraced my whole being, filling me with a pleasant fragrance. I winced in delight as she slowly pried the bread from my hands, breaking a piece almost too small for her working hands, she dipped it in the broth. My body lurched reflexively forward. My willing mouth openly took the offered piece of bread. My lips closed around her thumbs and forefinger and lingered there for a moment longer than necessary.
Lyria noticed my obvious intentions as a mischievous smile, all-knowing and coy, played on her cheeks.
“Rils,” her voice flowed like dark and vicious honey, “I see the same intense look on your face. You are thinking deep and hard.”
“The first wave of refugees arrived this afternoon,” I replied, “We were wrong in our estimate. The Cambion Warlord’s initial vanguard is already here. Perhaps in a week's time, they would be crossing Narris Ford.”
Even up close, her expression was unreadable, except for the slight tightening at the corners of her lips forming hooks. Her bright eyes still sparkled, and her breathing, still calm, like a wind whispering over a moonlit pool. I let her grab my hands, our fingers weaved as she leaned forward placing a slow deliberate kiss; a kiss that my betraying lips so willingly craved.
“An advanced scouting party?” she suggested.
Even after centuries, I was surprised that Lyria knew the routine -- Of what it would take to reorient my thoughts from a tunnel perception.
“Too large,” I denied, “Reports place the numbers between ten thousand to fifteen thousand led by one of his top generals, Zarod the bloody barber.”
There was no need to explain, how this Zarod got his name. Pledging allegiance to someone like the one-horned warlord meant a proclivity to depraved violence. Zarod probably liked to collect hairs of his foes -- along with their scalp.
“Zarod is not just leading mercenaries, barbarians and a few of the renegade orc tribes. He has demons under his command,” I revealed further.
“What sort?’ Despite the low tone of her voice, there was a hue of alarm mixed in the steel of her tone.
“Fleeing villagers rarely pay attention to the type of demons threatening their lands.”
The silence, that hung between us spoke volumes of our thoughts. For a cambion to force a lowly demon into submission is not an articulate feat. But to command them from a distance meant two things; an indomitable will and the blessing of some infernal demon monarch or a circle prince.
“Lyllanthras is no fool. He knows the strategic importance of the pass and has sent his top general to secure it,” said Lyria.
“Rils,” she continued slowly rubbing my forearms with tender small circles of reassurance, slowly raising my temperature. I struggled as my lungs heaved for air, delighting in her scent.
“You are needed here, I will stop them before they reach the ford,” she suggested.
Lyria might be a formidable opponent in a battle, a peerless warrior who could extract fear from a prime demon, but unpredictability is the nature of war. Out on the battlefield, with thousands of raised spears guarded behind a phalanx, any unfortunate stray arrow could spell the end for her. Many pristinely armoured knight have met their early end to a hapless arrow sticking out from the slots of their armet.
“Lyria,” I replied with a trembling voice as I leaned forwards and cupped her smooth cheeks in my palms, drawing her closer, to feel her warm fiery breath, to bask in her comfort; till it lasts, “this is not a gladiatorial fight. This is war and it is rotten.”
“Rils, I have traversed the pass a few times to know my way. Trust me on this. I will be back in your arms before Lyllanthras knows about his loss,” she consoled pleading puppy dog eyes.
Despite her obvious efforts and the extremely distracting effect she had on me, a tendril of doubt slithered ever so slightly under the surface. Something intangible that eluded my understanding. Like a fine sand, something that I could feel but easily slips the grasp.
Lyllanthras! The One-Horned Warlord. The Cambion Warlord. It is not uncommon for people to accumulate monikers. I have a few of my own. But something about the whole Warlord’s horde disturbed my inner peace. Or rather, it was Lyria and her way of addressing the Warlord.
“What happened between you and the warlord? It is personal, isn’t it?” I asked an uncertain Lyria.
Her hands, which held me tightly, filling me with the tender delicate warmth of her touch, suddenly fell lifeless. She glared at me sharply with those burning eyes of hers. Her strong steely muscled arms crossed in front of her, her muscles undulated beneath her skin, every ripple fuelled by her anger.
“If you want to know, here is what I am willing to reveal and I will not entertain any further questions, not even from you, Rils. Please respect my wishes,” said Lyria in a composed but resolute tone.
“I am the reason for his title, the One-Horned Warlord,” she replied with all the calm and serenity of an ocean.
