Stormlands ( Book 2 of the Torrent Skies Saga)

Chapter Fourteen: Meanings, PT 1

Lugaria stalked from tree to tree. Staying hidden despite the fact that there were no eyes to see him. He would much rather be cautious than dead. It was quiet, and the birds only chirped when they deemed it fit. But this silence did not weigh heavy on him. In fact it was a familiar thing, almost comforting. He was skirting a path he had found earlier in the day and he followed it through the trees, west from the encampment.

He could move fast, on his own and he knew exactly where he could hide. Most would be nervous, or weary should they take his job. But his nerves were perfectly calm. He had nothing to be nervous about, yet. That would come when he found the main camp. There would be plenty of eyes in there.

He had only crossed paths with a few scouts. He had avoided them, or killed them. Poison was a useful thing when a death had to be quick, and quiet. But even the ones he simply avoided, would not find tracks of his passing.

The sun moved slowly today, as he loped through the forest. Eventually the forest fell away beneath his feet, and a clearing rested upon some small hills. Atop them was a congregation of old, pale buildings. Crumbled in places, but a wall stood tall and sturdy around them. Planks of wood and iron braced and reinforced areas where its structure had crumbled.

There were so many orcs. They milled about the place like ants. Heavy, grotesque hill giants were among them, lumbering around in shining plate armor that could barely contain their bulk. Fires sent wisps of smoke into the air. Forges sent the metallic scent of slag to him on the breeze.

We're going to need more men, he thought with a cold chill along his spine. He circled back into the forest, surveying the land. Situated on the hilltop as it was, and the thickness of its walls would leave them with no easy way to siege it. Their only approach as an army was towards the gates, across the grasses. They would be visible for at least a mile, and fighting for every inch of ground.

The forest behind and beside the walls had been cut away, the slender tree trunks cut and carved into sharp points, to hinder any groups travel. There were tall lookout towers along the walls, and six of them outside the walls themselves.

This place, whatever its original purpose, had been a very well planned fortress. How they had found it he would never guess. And they had been here for quite some time by the looks of the walls and gates, and the refuse dumped outside the back wall.

He gritted his teeth. He had to get inside. Get a better count on their number, a better look at their weaponry. The western side was the least trimmed, so he jogged around the place, more than a mile out, and when he was near the edge of the forest on his chosen side he grasped his cloak and felt the warm tingle of magic rush over his nerves. He knew better than to rely on it, but this was the only way he could get close enough to sneak in.

So with footsteps that made no noise, he crept toward the wall right under the noses of the guards in the watchtower. His mind spun with what he would do should they see him. Out here he could simply run like hell and hope he found the trees for cover, before an arrow found his throat. Inside however, he would need to rely on the walls to hide him. He might be able to hold his own just fine in a fight. But more than five at a time was just too many for comfort.

He climbed and ran the wall between two posted sets of guards, without anyone the wiser. He dropped to its other side, disturbing nothing and once again appreciating what his younger self had learned.

He resisted the urge to swallow back the bile in his throat. There was far more than five to one odds, here.

A number of buildings made of pale stone and circular in shape dotted the space inside the walls. Broken and haphazard pieces of the pale material lined the grass covered ground, as if it had been a grand roadway.