Heart of Flame

XXIV. The Goth of Goths

Few things were as harsh or unforgiving as war. Sorne had fought in skirmishes, even small battles, before. She had considered herself aware of what was entailed in strife. However, those experiences had left her woefully unprepared for a true offensive. She felt like a awestruck child walking on ground wet with blood, choking on air thick with reeking smoke, stumbling over bodies hated and loved alike. Relentless training had paid dividends. The battles themselves were thrilling, that electric mix of fear and exultation that seemed intoxicating. She was alive on the field in a way that was beyond any comparison from any other realm of life. It wasn't the killing that brought her joy. It was the protecting, the surviving, the trial by fire.

It was as if she had been dreaming her whole life and was started awake. In some strange way, war felt like home.

Crows cawed and took wing as Sorne moved among the carnage. Her side's soldiers were claiming bodies from the field now. A last, resounding defeat for the orcish chieftains aligning themselves against Murdak. Their forces had been pushed into retreating as fast as they were able, shattered and trembling from the assault, and many of their commanders had been captured. Sorne didn't consider herself necessarily a good commander, but she did well enough to handle forces attempting to break a siege while Murdak kept hammering away at the defenses. She was nothing if not relentless, and the giants could go toe to toe with orcish berserkers without flinching.

It was breathtaking, the amount of skill and cunning needed to succeed against foes so seasoned. More than once, Sorne had been fought to a draw. There were times when she had been forced to yield the field, to retreat and reconsider, but they were always moving inexorably forward. Every day, every leg of the campaign, there was progress. When Murdak called for victory, the bodies of the foe fell like cut wheat at harvest time. There were more of them, but Murdak's forces had fire.

Eight years of sleeping on hard ground, eight years of trekking through freezing mountains and along winding rivers, eight years of bleeding and praying and fighting...now here they were, on the precipice of victory. It would be easy to just relax and enjoy the moment, but Sorne knew better than to take any victory for granted at this point.

The best she could do was take a deep breath, recollect herself, and then immediately focus on what needed to be done next.

She heard the sound of running feet and whirled around. Her shield was slung across her back, but she still had her spear in hand. Áshildr's lessons on the sword were firmly burned into her mind and body now, but she found that her affinity for the spear had not faded. Her carolingian sword hung from her belt right now. Giants were more fond of the weapons than orcs were. The orcs preferred axes and spears, which were much easier to make. A blacksmith could hammer out axes and spearheads by the bundle, creating excellent weapons without needing the complicated workmanship and specialized knowledge that went into a sword. Giants also tended to name their swords, though not from the start. A sword had to earn its name.

Dálkr's sword was called War-Wolf, Tóla's carried the name Sorrow-Song, and Áshildr's was named Valley-Lily, though the last of the names was more fully appreciated after a botany lesson. All of the blades had long and storied histories, as each warrior had been given theirs when they reached adulthood. Giants carried their swords until they died, when their bodies were burned and the swords broken so that the spirit of the blade would leave with the spirit of the warrior. Yours will earn its own name in time, Áshildr had promised when she gave the blade to Sorne.

All of that was far from Sorne's mind as her eyes fixed on the messenger who had approached. "Sorry for bothering you, Goth," the lanky young orc said. The lack of poetic greeting or her name told her that it was one of Murdak's orcs rather than one of the giants in disguise. Her own force of giants and scattered misfits was far smaller than the rapidly growing orcish horde. She still spent some time with her tribe when she could, but they were separated far more often than not. "Banaak of the Stone wants to know if you captured Ice-Fang."