III

To the humans of Tourant or the goblins of Trzebin, Bijelo Polje would hardly be considered a city of note. The semipermanent home of the Orcs of the Bloody Fist housed barely over fourteen hundred inhabitants, and that came only during the harsh winter months when the army of the Bloody Fist could do no raiding. The wooden and stone palisade surrounding the encampment was only a pale shadow of the monstrous walls and defenses of mighty Trzebin itself, or even the Tourant frontier city of Montcalm. Many of the homes inside those walls were little more than nomadic tents or thatched huts divided by rutted, muddy roads that the heavy thaws and rains had turned into muddy rivers. Only the imposing, granite and oak temple to the One Eye, Gruumsh, gave the feeling that the home of the Bloody Fist was not a temporary encampment.

With winter only a week behind them, the Bloody Fist still dominated the low ridges that made up the encampment of Bijelo Polje, waiting impatiently for better weather and new raiding prospects. Despite the fact that it was still fairly early in the raiding season, however, Libor Bloody Fist was anything but cheery as he approached the rough stone and wood temple to Gruumsh. Several of his scouts had already returned from the east and south, reporting what the orcish warlord had already feared. The humans of Tourant had made few new settlements along the border of their kingdom, while what few villages remained were far too low on food and provisions to be worth raiding. Likewise, the human and orcish tribes of the mountains were beginning to suffer from starvation and plague, leaving the Bloody Fist nowhere to turn to replenish their own dwindling food supplies. Recent experiments in storing food and using slaves as farm labor had given Libor's tribe a surplus that had carried them through the winter, but his own people's hunger was not what worried the orcish chieftain. Libor knew all too well that once the relative prosperity of his tribe became known to the others of the mountains, it would only be a matter of time before the starving tribes would turn to Bijelo Polje into their prime target.

Libor pushed the doors to the temple open and strode into the dark recesses, crossing the black flagstones toward the burning braziers surrounding the idol of Gruumsh. The statue of the One Eye towered to the very ceiling of the temple dome, standing almost sixteen feet in height. The statue itself, representative of a tall, powerfully built spear wielding orc with one eye made of obsidian, never ceased to amaze Libor, both from the intricate workmanship and the ultimate ideal of the orc that Gruumsh presented. The fiery braziers provided the only light to the temple; what few windows or vents that existed in the structure did little to allow the failing light of the late, rainy afternoon into the bare, circular chamber. Libor came to a stop only a few feet in front of the intimidating statue, and slowly dropped to his knees. The orcish chieftain prostrated himself before the icon for a long moment, placing his own ornately engraved spear on the ground before him.

"Your reverence is why the One Eye raises you up," a raspy, ancient voice said from the far side of the icon. Libor kissed the stone floor at Gruumsh's feet, then slowly stood again to face the withered, white haired orcish priest that appeared from the shadows. Like the statue, the priest had only one eye, cut out upon his ordination so many years ago in devotion to the orcish god. "You are exalted in his grand vision."

"Predrag," Libor said, bowing to the old priest. "I am troubled, and seek the One Eye's counsel."

"As I suspected," Predrag said, turning and walking back behind the icon. Libor followed a respectable step behind the old priest, until the two came to a large obsidian brazier. Inside the bowl of the brazier, a bed of embers gave off a sullen, bloody glow that illuminated Predrag's scarred, wrinkled face in an almost sinister light. "It is the late winter that troubles you, or rather, what it has wrought."

"If we leave Bijelo Polje, other tribes will take our holdings," Libor said. Predrag nodded slowly, already aware of the situation. "Is this what the One Eye wishes?"

"In the fall, you heeded the One Eye's vision," Predrag said, gazing into the embers. "The One Eye foretold the harsh winter, and the troubling spring to come. Your use of the human and elven slaves saved your tribe from starvation. You are also right to fear the other tribes. I see a blade poised to strike you down, a serrated edge wielded by a tainted hand."

"Oleksandr!" Libor snapped. "The bastard half breed would dare attack me?"

"He wields a power far greater than you would admit," Predrag observed, turning to the chieftain. "The One Eye has favored the Cruel Blades in the past. Starvation drives them north."

"Then we cannot abandon Bijelo Polje," Libor concluded. "I will not give my city to the bastard son of a human whore. Do they march on us already?"

"They will come soon enough," Predrag said. "But do not simply wait for them. Oleksandr is cunning, and will find a way to break your defenses if given time. Strike now, before he discovers our knowledge of his coming."

"It is better to face his army with our defenses," Libor argued.

"Bijelo Polje will not survive a siege," Predrag countered. "You must strike before the half breed comes to our home. Our own food runs low, and siege will only draw other tribes to Oleksandr's banner. Strike now. March south, and make the River Ondava run red with the blood of the Cruel Blades. Hiding inside these walls will only turn the One Eye's favor from you." Then, the One Eye's will be done," Libor said, bowing slightly to the old priest. Without another word the chieftain turned and left the temple, his mind already turning to the inevitable and bloody battle to come.

______________________________________________________

"Radomir and his men have been killed."

Ruslan nodded silently as he walked along the shoreline of the River Ondava. The rain, steady all day, was beginning to strengthen, but that had still not washed all the blood from the stony river bank where Radomir and his small scouting party had met their end. Mislav, the young orcish soldier that had first discovered the slaughtered scouting party, hurried to keep up with the orcish leader as Ruslan picked his way across the rocks.

"The blood was still warm when we found them," Mislav said as Ruslan stopped over Radomir. The scout leader had been decapitated, his head likely washed away with the raging current of the river. Two more brutal slashes marred the orc's body, evidence of a heavy blade of some sort. Without a word Ruslan pushed his way past Mislav to the second body, this one punctured neatly by a pair of holes through his leather tunic. The last two orcs had been killed in close combat in the same fashion as Radomir, but what was more curious to the orcish leader was a fifth patch of blood and several drag marks in the rocky bank a few yards ahead. "Sir?" Mislav asked, coming up behind him.

"What?" Ruslan asked, finally giving the soldier some of his attention.

"Were they ambushed by the Bloody Fist?" Mislav inquired.

"The Bloody Fist would not retrieve their arrows," Ruslan said. "These drag marks were made by a small human or an elf."

"But we have seen no signs of settlement," Mislav said, confused. Once again Ruslan ignored the soldier as he made his way to the tree line. Several faint footprints marred the black soil of the slope, too large for an elf. Humans had ambushed Radomir and his patrol. A few tracks started up through the underbrush, but the rain was already washing the evidence away.

"Not every human waits for us to come to them," Ruslan said, kneeling for a moment beneath a thick clump of laurel and briar. The tracker carefully pushed the vegetation aside with the head of his double axe, studying the ground for a moment, then stood up.

"Do we go after them?" Mislav asked expectantly.

"No," Ruslan decided. Although he was certain that he could track the humans given enough time, the rain would only make such a chore more difficult, and losing time to find a minor nuisance was unacceptable. "We continue north. Scouting parties are to be doubled in size."

"But, these humans killed Radomir and his men!" Mislav exclaimed, gesturing to the bodies on the ground. Ruslan turned a cold glare on the younger orc.

"The humans will wait," the tracker snarled, raising Mislav's chin with the tip of his double axe. "Now go."

Mislav nodded wordlessly, and turned to rush back to the others. Ruslan hesitated for a long moment near the orc that had been slain by arrows, his cold, dark eyes scanning the long slopes that headed up from the Ondava. For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving through the rain soaked forest, but as soon as it had appeared it was gone. Finally, convinced that the humans would be of no further distraction, the orcish ranger started back to the Cruel Blades himself.

______________________________________________________

"Neuville?"

"Make a little more noise, why don't you?" Neuville whispered harshly, pushing back a dense screen of vegetation as Thierry rushed to his small camp. The younger ranger dropped quickly beneath the makeshift shelter that Neuville had build beneath the limbs of a young, thick spruce, a clear expression of anxiety on his face. "What's wrong with you?"

"They've got a tracker," Thierry said, glancing back over his shoulder. "Pelor's sunny ass, he almost spotted me!"

"You sound surprised," Neuville said, though his tone hardly conveyed the statement as a joke. "Did he start up after you?"

"No," Thierry said, trying to dry himself slightly as he wormed his way up to the spruce's trunk and pulled off his dripping cloak. "But I swear to Pelor, he must have looked right at me."

"Then they don't think we're worth the time," Neuville decided. The older ranger hesitated for a moment, then continued. "Just to be safe, though, no fire tonight."

"Great," Thierry grumbled. "It's cold, pouring rain, and now we can't have a fire. How's the kid?"

"Seems all right," Neuville answered, gesturing behind him as he stared out into the forest. Thierry glanced to the other side of the tree, and found the girl wrapped in Neuville's heavy woolen blanket and half covered with dead branches and old needles.

"Hi," Thierry said, smiling slightly at the girl as he switched back to her language. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm cold," the girl replied, her deep brown eyes still anxiously tracking the ranger's every move.

"I'm sorry, but we can't build a fire right now," Thierry said with an apologetic smile. "The orcs might come up and find us. Is your side all right?"

"It hurts," the girl said simply. Thierry smiled slightly.

"I have a little more brandy here, to take the edge off the pain," the younger ranger said with a smile, pulling his flask out of his cloak. "You want a little?"

The girl hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Neuville glanced back at the pair as she tipped the flask back, then handed it back to Thierry.

"You better not be getting her drunk," the older ranger warned. "We have enough problems already."

"Relax, Neuville," Thierry said. Then he turned back to the girl. "What's your name?"

"Irina," the girl answered after a moment's hesitation. Thierry smiled.

"Well, I'm Thierry, and the mean one over there is Neuville," the younger ranger said, a touch of humor to his voice. Neuville rolled his eyes in disgust. "What were you doing out here, Irina?"

"Nothing," the girl answered simply.

"Nothing?" Thierry repeated, smiling slightly. His voice took on a jovial tone as he continued. "You had to be doing something. Were you out here hunting?"

"No," the girl replied.

"Fishing?"

"No."

"Guarding something?"

The girl hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to answer Thierry's inquiry.

"We're on your side, Irina," Neuville said, not even looking over his shoulder. " You don't have to lie to us. We're Tourant rangers. We're not going to attack your home."

"Tourant?" the girl repeated. Although she still seemed uncertain of the name, she turned to Thierry with a hint of renewed anxiety. "You will take our land?"

"No," Thierry answered, a bit surprised by the assumption.

"They don't like loggers, either," Neuville observed. Thierry glanced up to his partner. "They think we're here to steal their homes from them."

"We're here to help you," the younger ranger explained. "We don't like the orcs any more than you do. Do you live near here? Were you guarding your home?"

Again the girl hesitated, still wary of trusting the two humans. As the last of what little light had filtered through the clouds during the day disappeared and the rain picked up even more, Neuville turned back to the girl impatiently.

"We can let you go, and you can try crawling back to wherever you came from before the Cruel Blades hunt you down and kill you," the ranger said, a stern tone to his voice. "Or you can tell us where you live and we can get you back there alive. Now I don't know how many more times Thierry can tell you we're friends, but pretty soon I'm just going to abandon you and move on."

"Neuville, what in the Nine Hells is wrong with you?" Thierry demanded, pushing the older ranger back as he switched to Tourant. "She's a kid, and you're about as frightening as Oleksandr himself!"

"We don't have time for this!" Neuville shot back. "Every minute she delays, the Cruel Blades come further upstream! And if her village or family or whatever is in the way, they're going to get cut down!"

"Fiume," the girl said timidly, glancing from Neuville to Thierry. Both rangers turned back to her.

"What's Fiume?" Thierry asked, trying to be as quiet and gentle as possible. "Is it your town?"

"Yes," the girl answered. "It… is to the north. Chessa told me not to tell anyone where it was."

"A woman's name," Neuville said, losing his angry edge once the girl began to cooperate. "Is Chessa your mother?"

"No, she… she is our leader," the girl answered. Thierry and Neuville glanced to each other for a moment.

"That's a new one," Thierry said, shrugging. Almost all of the mountain tribes, both human and orc, treated women as little more than possessions. It was exceedingly rare to find a woman with any sort of status west of Tourant's borders.

"When we find this Chessa, I'm going to have a long talk with her about sending children out alone on patrols," Neuville said to his partner.

"Irina, we can get you back to Fiume," Thierry said, kneeling next to the girl and putting a hand on her shoulder. "But you have to guide us there. We also need to talk to Chessa. An entire clan of orcs, the Cruel Blades, are coming up the river. Do you think you can guide us back to your home?"

"I'm not supposed to," Irina said quietly. Neuville closed his eyes for a long moment.

"We know you're not supposed to, but this is important," Thierry said, cutting in before Neuville could lose his cool. "If we don't get there first, the orcs might. They're coming north, upriver, and we're trying to stay ahead of them."

"You wonder why I hate kids," Neuville grumbled in Tourant as Irina delayed for a long moment.

"She's terrified, Neuville," Thierry countered. "And with you around, I can't say I blame her."

"It's north," Irina finally answered, interrupting the pair.

"You can show us the way? In the dark?" Neuville asked. Irina gave a hesitant nod. "Okay. Then let's get moving, before the orcs put some effort into looking for us."