Spirit Blade: Book III of the Dragon Mage Trilogy by Carey Scheppner Page A
Authors: Carey Scheppner
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resounded around them again. “Meeting adjourned!” yelled Gresham above the din.
* * * * *
The warlock surveyed his army as he stood in front of his tent. Black, brown and drab coloured tents and shelters dotted the valley below him, interspersed with smoke and flames from cooking fires. A kind of mood emanated from the valley, a mix of anticipation, anger, revenge, and bloodlust. The assemblage consisted primarily of orcs and goblins, disgruntled human mercenaries, and lizardmen. More of their kind joined them daily, desiring the spoils of war and other benefits associated with the battle. A size of this gathering was more expensive for the human enemies they faced than for the warlock. It was fortunate that the orcs and goblins relished the taste of human flesh, and if there was not enough to go around, they would eat the corpses of their own kind who had fallen in battle. The warlock made sure to allow them the spoils of war to keep up morale. Besides, he was not interested in those things. What was important to him were power and success. The failure of the past few days irked him, but he was patient. The further west his forces were pushed, the further the humans were from their home bases. This stretched their supply lines to their limits. He could only hope that the ogres to the north would strike those supply lines soon, thereby cutting off the advancing forces of humans.
He clenched his teeth angrily. Why did the ogres have to operate independently? Why couldn’t they join forces with him? But he knew they weren’t intelligent enough to see that if he could coordinate their forces to move in unison with his own, he would be able to secure a victory that would benefit everyone. Even the smallest ogre was five times as powerful as a human, and one ogre armed with a club or mace could easily compensate for a well-armed human wearing a ring of strength. They were nearly twice the size of a human and built far more solidly. The warlord chuckled. So were their skulls. There wasn’t much room for a brain. So far, his calls to meet with the ogre chieftain had gone unanswered. Still, he would continue to try. Eventually he had to get through the chieftain’s nut of a skull.
Roving bands of trolls to the south were causing havoc with the humans as well, but those isolated raids were minor compared to what they were truly capable of. If only he could find their leader, if indeed there was one. He could turn them into a force to be reckoned with.
Another force the warlock was trying to rally to his side was the minotaurs. They had long had tensions with the dwarves, and were always looking for an excuse to go to battle. They loved to fight, perhaps more than any other race the warlock knew. They were just as big as the ogres, and fought with ten times more ferocity. They were also more intelligent. Their society was more structured than the rabble he now controlled. To have them join him would be a boon to his entire army. But they were east of the entire human colony. They were so far east, in fact, that they were on the other side of some impenetrable terrain. Separating them from the humans was a low jagged mountain range with gaseous vents that were unbreatheable to any who ventured too near, and a vast swampland that was virtually impassable. Any who ventured into this area rarely returned, and stories of what survivors had encountered bordered on the absurd and ridiculous, with stories of strange creatures to hallucinations and visions. To get to the humans, the minotaurs would either have to send a fleet of ships south into the Bay of Barlin, where elven and human patrols abounded, or circle north through a pass in the mountains patrolled by giants similar to humans. Then they would have to travel over a cave-riddled mountain range inhabited by the dwarves, right into the dense forested section just south of the mountains where the ogres were encamped. This meant the warlock
* * * * *
The warlock surveyed his army as he stood in front of his tent. Black, brown and drab coloured tents and shelters dotted the valley below him, interspersed with smoke and flames from cooking fires. A kind of mood emanated from the valley, a mix of anticipation, anger, revenge, and bloodlust. The assemblage consisted primarily of orcs and goblins, disgruntled human mercenaries, and lizardmen. More of their kind joined them daily, desiring the spoils of war and other benefits associated with the battle. A size of this gathering was more expensive for the human enemies they faced than for the warlock. It was fortunate that the orcs and goblins relished the taste of human flesh, and if there was not enough to go around, they would eat the corpses of their own kind who had fallen in battle. The warlock made sure to allow them the spoils of war to keep up morale. Besides, he was not interested in those things. What was important to him were power and success. The failure of the past few days irked him, but he was patient. The further west his forces were pushed, the further the humans were from their home bases. This stretched their supply lines to their limits. He could only hope that the ogres to the north would strike those supply lines soon, thereby cutting off the advancing forces of humans.
He clenched his teeth angrily. Why did the ogres have to operate independently? Why couldn’t they join forces with him? But he knew they weren’t intelligent enough to see that if he could coordinate their forces to move in unison with his own, he would be able to secure a victory that would benefit everyone. Even the smallest ogre was five times as powerful as a human, and one ogre armed with a club or mace could easily compensate for a well-armed human wearing a ring of strength. They were nearly twice the size of a human and built far more solidly. The warlord chuckled. So were their skulls. There wasn’t much room for a brain. So far, his calls to meet with the ogre chieftain had gone unanswered. Still, he would continue to try. Eventually he had to get through the chieftain’s nut of a skull.
Roving bands of trolls to the south were causing havoc with the humans as well, but those isolated raids were minor compared to what they were truly capable of. If only he could find their leader, if indeed there was one. He could turn them into a force to be reckoned with.
Another force the warlock was trying to rally to his side was the minotaurs. They had long had tensions with the dwarves, and were always looking for an excuse to go to battle. They loved to fight, perhaps more than any other race the warlock knew. They were just as big as the ogres, and fought with ten times more ferocity. They were also more intelligent. Their society was more structured than the rabble he now controlled. To have them join him would be a boon to his entire army. But they were east of the entire human colony. They were so far east, in fact, that they were on the other side of some impenetrable terrain. Separating them from the humans was a low jagged mountain range with gaseous vents that were unbreatheable to any who ventured too near, and a vast swampland that was virtually impassable. Any who ventured into this area rarely returned, and stories of what survivors had encountered bordered on the absurd and ridiculous, with stories of strange creatures to hallucinations and visions. To get to the humans, the minotaurs would either have to send a fleet of ships south into the Bay of Barlin, where elven and human patrols abounded, or circle north through a pass in the mountains patrolled by giants similar to humans. Then they would have to travel over a cave-riddled mountain range inhabited by the dwarves, right into the dense forested section just south of the mountains where the ogres were encamped. This meant the warlock
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