Stormlands ( Book 2 of the Torrent Skies Saga)

Chapter Sixteen: No Rest For the Wanting

The hills around Aughk'tor were a strange sight. The grass blowing in the wind had an odd, tranquil appearance. One that was destroyed by the nervous, milling soldiers standing in rigid ranks across the hilltops.

Graiden stood at the front of his men, heavy mantle in place over his polished armor. It did not shine in the light of the sun, however, because there was no sun to be seen today.

Rain fell in a soft mist across the ground leaving mist to snake around the boots of every soldier. Apparently the orcs did not care about fighting in the wet weather. From the looks of it, they would not have cared if there was lava following them as they scarred the land under their feet.

Behind Graiden stood two thousand Sahn-Raidar soldiers, every able dwarf, and a good portion of the fighters from both Ky'lei'mei, and Uhm'trimbyha. It was still difficult to think of the Sahn-Raidar soldiers as his men. Sure he had ordered them about plenty before, but he knew the outcome of this battle and the ones to follow would rest heavily on his shoulders.

These two thousand lives were his to command and protect, and that was not a weight he would wish on his greatest enemy.

Graiden's thumb absently brushed against the heavy symbol he wore around his neck. Justice and balance. Two things hard to find in war. He said a silent prayer as the shapes on the horizon solidified into the tall and rotund forms of giants, and the orcs heavily armored around them.

Everything was silent save for the pattering of the rain. It was as if the ground itself was taking a breath, and preparing to be torn asunder from the feet of greed and murder.

A ripple went through the orcish side, and the echoes of some garbled order rang out in Graiden's ears. He did not need to understand the words to know what was coming. He straightened his shoulders and ground the end of his polearm into the dirt.

The orcish side charged, and the footsteps of the giants reverberated across the ground making it tremble beneath all of the men readying to defend.

They disappeared behind the crest of one hill, and Graiden hefted his weapon into the air. "Hold the charge!" he yelled, and with the aid of Typhon's magic his voice boomed out effortlessly to the ears of every man behind him. He drove the butt of his weapon into the dirt once again, the soft jingle of the three rings through its haft a comforting reminder of his faith, and his past.

He heard the rustle of blades coming free of scabbards, heard men shouting in defiance to their own fate.

As if in mockery of their defiance the skies opened further. Lightening cracked across the sky, and the rain began falling in sheets. The gods of rain and thunder seemed to be at odds with his own, today.

"Archers! Draw!" he called, and he knew that hundreds of bows were pulled taut, their wielders nervously glancing to the rain. "Third mark!" he called, and every bow angled up in the sky. Graiden waited patiently, he knew this volley had to hurt his enemy, he would only get one more, with the weather and the speed of the incoming charge. "Loose!" he yelled, and the twang of strings was a symphony behind him.

The arrows and bolts arced through the air, and many wavered and fell early due to the gusting wind and the rain. They bounced off of armor and shield, but many more found targets and struck true.

"First company, ready shields!" he called, his voice already straining at the volume required, even with the aid of magic. Rain splashed his face and soaked through his cloak, making it heavy and cumbersome.

Men stepped up around him in one fluid movement, shields rising to the ready, rain tinkling off them in torrents to leave muddy lines in the soggy grass beneath their feet.