War-Bringer (Twinborn Trilogy Prequel)

A bellowing cry echoed through the forest, cut short by a sound like a butcher's cleaver biting into a carcass. The last of the ogre band lay still, porcupined with arrows and gashed with shallow wounds. It had taken one last heavy blow to the throat before the brute would lay silent. In its death grip, it still clutched a club that was little more than a log stripped of bark and carved with primitive icons; it was caked with human blood.

"I never thought we'd hear the end of that one," said Sir Palter Joram. The Kadrin knight put a booted foot to the ogre's head for leverage, and tore his sword free in a spray of warm blood. There was a chorus of good-natured chuckles—the sort born of relief rather than humor.

"Orrin won't, sir," one of the conscripts spoke up. "Neither will Garri, Loson, Sir Davran—"

"We all know, the brutes took a heavy cost from us," Sir Palter cut the man short. "No use mourning while there's still work left to be done. It's three days back to Weiselton and until then, any tree might harbor ogres."

"Sir, I only count six ogres dead," Sir Brannis Solaran called out from the edge of the battlefield. The youngest knight on the expedition jogged over to join the main group. "There were seven at the start."

"You certain, Solaran?" Sir Palter asked. There were mutters among the soldiers and knights, each man questioning his own assessment of the war party that had attacked them.

"You always wondered what they taught me at the Academy," Sir Brannis shot back. "I can count as well as any sorcerer." Despite the grim news, a few chuckled at the joke.

"Gut me," Sir Palter muttered, before raising his voice to bellow his order. "Bring the hounds! We've got an ogre to track down!"

Brannis rushed over and grabbed Sir Palter by the shoulder. "Sir, we should head back for Weiselton. That ogre has plenty of lead on us. We should—"

"Shut up, and be ready to make haste as soon as those hounds find a scent," Sir Palter ordered. Brannis glowered down at the senior knight, a full head shorter than him, but said nothing more.

Long-eared and floppy-jowled, the hounds were not built to fight, but were ferocious trackers. In minutes, they had found the scent of the missing ogre and played out all the slack in their long leads. Their handlers ran to keep pace.

The rest of the expedition was forced to run along as well. Already weary from one battle, men laden with chain and spear ambled along as best they could, grumbling to one another with any spare breath they could find. Knights in plate armor, bearing sword and shield, had a worse time of it, but bore the hardship with less outward complaint.

Brannis counted himself fortunate. The Solaran family was as wealthy as any in the Kadrin Empire, and his runed armor was evidence of that wealth put to good use. The steel plates of his suit were thinner and stronger than those of his fellows, and lighter as well. Being only two and twenty summers' age, he also carried fewer years than the other knights—years that can weigh as much as steel when enough of them gather in one man.

As he ran along with the rest of Sir Palter's command, Brannis wondered if any of them would survive. It seemed foolhardy to chase an ogre that had so large a head start, especially when they were so deep into the ogrelands already. The ogre was likely to find allies before the Kadrins found it. Sir Palter's plan seemed disastrous.

The day that Brannis had learned of his assignment, he began a study of the ogres. He read a dozen books: everything that Kadrin scholars had collected on ogre history, culture, and language. He spent three summers serving on the border of the ogrelands before Sir Palter had been sent to finish routing the brutes back into their forests.