The hero of my novels is a knight named Tarn Nohmahl, a man who is at least in part based on myself, in case you’re wondering. One of his major antagonists is his former commander, a man who has an unwavering hatred of orcs, and anything related to them.

When I decided to launch my writing career over the web, I realized that I needed more than just the books themselves on the site. So I sat back and thought “What background is there for these characters? What makes them tick?” Tarn and Alec don’t get along at all today, but in the past, Sir Alec was Tarn’s friend and mentor. So what happened to drive them apart?

Well, the book explains that, and it is one of the major themes of “A Dance with Demons.” Yet, the question remained: Why does Alec hate orcs so much?”

The events that occurred at Deadman’s Well are referenced about hald way throught ADWD; here is the story of what happened on a bleak day in eastern Aromathus almost five years ago

Tarn Nohmal bent down, clutching the soil between his fingers as he examined the tracks on the ground in front of him. He shook his head in disgust as he realized they were no closer to finding their elusive prey than they were when they set out from Traazon Keep four days ago.

He bit off a curse as he heard the leader of their patrol ride up behind him. “Anything?” a gruff voice asked him.

“No,” he murmured, not even looking up. “I’m sorry, milord. We still seem to be several days behind them.”

“By Hadar’s scythe, we should be getting closer. It’s not like greenback scum to move this fast, even if they are all mounted. Can you tell how many there are yet?”

Tarn shook his head as he stood up, letting the dirt slide through his fingers even as he stared directly into the eyes of Sir Alec Neuvall, commander of His Majesty’s garrison at Traazon Keep. “No, milord. I can’t be any more accurate than what I’ve already said. They seem to be hiding there numbers very well. Uncannily well for your typical warband after nothing more than plunder and blood letting.”

“Damn,” Alec muttered, almost under his breath. “Three score orcs - maybe more - moving as fast as light cavalry for a week now, and leaving all this destruction in their wake? It isn’t right!”

Tarn found he couldn’t disagree with him. Orcs rarely ranged across the river Ishkar in numbers this great. It was hard enough for them slip across the two mile wide river in numbers that large without mounts. With mounts? Most wargs couldn’t swim. And orcs? They hated water, having an almost pathological fear of drowning. This meant that they had to have found a crossing place of some sort; either a ferry, or built some boats of their own. Yet in the three days since they’d found the trail, every river man they’d talked to, every village they’d past through, every burnt out settlement – no one had seen any sign of the greenback’s crossing location.

One thing they had found – and found in abundance – was destruction. Three score orc warriors were enough to overwhelm any village between here and Traazon Keep. This was an area of small farms and occasional farming hamlets. Few of the little villages down here had any sort of militia to call on; certainly not in the numbers they would need to hold off sixty mounted orcs.

As a result, every village they had past through since leaving the Keep had been sacked and burned; the women used for sport, and the men and children slaughtered. Thankfully, a few survivors had somehow managed to get to the Keep, and so Lord Mournfall had ordered Sir Alec, his most senior knight, to lead fifty knights and men-at-arms south to hunt down the “greenback rabble” and secure the realm for men.

Only these orcs were far from the normal greenback rabble. They were just as greedy and rapacious as most orcs, but they had yet to make a single mistake. That, Tarn thought, was most un-orc like. Men had one primary advantage over the orc’s sheer numbers, and that was that orcs never fought with discipline. A typical orc saw an enemy and then “screamed and leaped.” In fact, in two years of tracking and fighting orcs as Sir Alec’s senior scout, Tarn had never seen a warband or raiding party operate as efficiently as these did. Couple that with the sheer numbers of dead humans the greenbacks had left in their wake, and Tarn was as close to terrified as he’d been since coming to Traazon Keep.

Sir Alec turned away from the ground, calling out for the young man-at-arms who was leading the packhorse with the maps to bring them over to him. As he did so, Alec glanced back at Tarn. “We’re about what, three or four leagues from Amori’s Well, right?”

Tarn paused, considering. “Yes, milord. That sounds about right.” Branford, the very young soldier leading Alec’s packhorse, handed the map case over to Alec after saluting crisply, mailed fist clenched to chest. He dismissed the man with a wave even as he pulled out the map, handing it to Tarn.

The two men peered at the map, unfurling it carefully so as to not damage the worn parchment. Alec pointed with one gauntleted finger. “That puts us right about… here?” Tarn nodded. “Then we’re about, what, thirty or forty leagues from the river, correct?” Tarn nodded again. “So what in the twelve gods do they want? There’s nothing here for them to be after. Nothing except a few scattered farms… Certainly nothing for an orc warband to be after. And there is nothing within ten leagues of here, either! This is some of the most barren, godsforsaken land in the province!”

Alec shook his head, a perplexed look on his face. “What do you think, Tarn? You’re my best tracker. You’ve been following this group as long as I have. What do you think they’re after? Even orcs don’t ride out into the badlands like this for no reason. There isn’t water or game to support them. Nine hells, we haven’t even crossed a creek in two days!”

Tarn met his commander’s hard stare with one of his own for a long moment before answering. In his years serving as Sir Neuvall’s senior scout, and for several more years before that as a very young knight who had been trained by Sir Alec, he had come to the conclusion that Alec was many things; one thing he was not, however, was a good judge of character. This was even more true for those who weren’t members of the human race. In fact, Alec had a hard time accepting anyone who wasn’t human at all. He barely tolerated the more “civilized” races of elves and dwarves, and he treated gnolls, centaurs – and especially orcs – with utter disgust, as if they were little more than animals. No. That isn’t quite true. He likes animals, for he treats his horse better than he does any sentient being that isn’t human.

To a degree, Tarn could understand that. Orcs were brutish, even feral at times. Yes, they were uncivilized by the standards of human, elf, or dwarf. But they had a culture extending back thousands of years - far longer than men had walked these plains. In all those years, they had survived – even prospered. To assume that all orcs are unthinking scum is foolish. At best.

Clearing his throat to hide his momentary look of frustration from his commander, Tarn replied, “I don’t know, milord. But they must be after something. As my uncle always used to say, ‘greenbacks may be dumb, but they aren’t stupid.’ “

Alec shook his head ruefully. “I think you give them far too much credit, my young friend.” Alec slapped him on the back unexpectedly. “But come. The only source of water around here in a two day ride is Amori’s Well. We have to go there to replenish our own water supplies if nothing else. Gods of light willing, hopefully will find some answers there.” With that, Alec pulled himself back into his saddle, calling out for his men to do so as well.

* * *

Mehlvin Snorth held the reins of his horse team loosely in one hand. He didn’t really need to guide the team at all, he knew, for the beasts knew where they were going. Yet it made the burly guard sitting on the wagon’s seat next to him feel better, so he held them tightly in his left hand. Typical guard. All brawn and no brains. But what was a man to do this far west? Banditry was getting to be an ever larger problem in the border provinces, so a wise merchant like himself never set forth without a few stout men to help keep his goods and wagons safe.

Banditry – and worse. He shuddered to himself. Before leaving Dry Gulch two days back, he'd heard some disturbing rumors about some orc war band up near Amori’s Well. While he normally didn’t put much stock into such rumors, Mort, the burly Eldahneian mercenary he’d hired to guard his caravan did. And when your six and half feet of experienced warrior with a great sword strapped to your back; well, your opinion on such things tends to matter. Pity that Amori’s Well was the only watering hole between Dry Gulch and Greywatch; caravans coming north from Malinar and Eldahne either stopped there, or they preyed their waterskins wouldn’t run dry in the meantime.

At least the big man sitting next to him was quiet enough. The last mercenary guard he’d hired had tried to talk his ear off for the entire run between Eldahne and Traazon Keep. By the time he’d pulled his wagons under the watchful eyes of Lord Mournfall’s soldiers, the only thing more tired than his horses were his ears.

He knew the quiet was good for them, for they were making excellent time. Only another hour or so to Amori’s Well. He sighed softly even as he flicked the reins slightly, urging just a little more speed of his team. A soft bed and a pint of ale at old Lisbet’s inn were sounding better and better. He didn’t know how or why anyone would choose to live out here at the back end of nowhere, but he supposed the motherly old women made a good enough living at it. After all, she’d run the small little inn by the springs at Amori’s Well for as long as Mehlvin could remember.

A smile crinkled his lips as he thought about the last time he has passed by here, carrying a load of fine Elvin – made pottery north toward Traazon Keep and the King’s Way. His third wagon had broken an axle, and he’d been laid up there for two days while Lisbet’s husband – the only man who passed for a smith in the little village – had tried to fix it. Funny thing, that, he recalled ruefully. Two spares already used for that wagon, and none of the others would match up with old Chestahr’s wagon. Sometimes that man was cursed. Yet, it had turned out all right in the end, though. He made enough money off that elvin pottery to make a profit for the year on that trip alone. Elves were funny people. They were such fierce warriors at times, yet so in tune with the lands. The porcelain pottery they made was simply… exquisite. Finer than anything the Narvic’s made, it could only be described as… delicate. Beautiful, yes. Yet also so fragile that it fetched a great deal of coin at markets anywhere outside Malinar, simply because of the transportation costs involved. Especially with the elves so reluctant to deal with “outlanders.”

Shrugging softly, he returned to the moment when Mort not-so-gently nudged him on the shoulder. “Hey, wha’ di’ ye’ make o’ tha?” Mehlvin stifled a grimace. He just couldn’t accept the fact that the mercenary refused to call him “milord,” or even “Master Snorth.” Bloody Eldahne highlanders and there “social equality.” Well, he does what he’s told, and he’s undeniably good with that sword…

Inclining his head off to the distance, he realized what the mercenary was watching. Watching like a man expecting trouble. The merchant squinted, trying to focus in on what he saw. “Curse these eyes! They don’t see so well as they used too!” But… yes. Smoke. And coming from Amori’s Well, or so it seemed.

“Aye, I see it. And you’re right. That can’t be good. We can’t be more than a league away from the Well.” Shaking his head worriedly, he continued, “You better get your boys ready, Mort.”

The mercenary snorted his reply. “Prolly some damn fool farmer lit his hay mow on fire tryin’ to warm his arse up last night. Even so...” The mercenary hopped down from the slow moving wagon (which was, after all, moving at only a walking pace) and started bellowing out instructions to the guards on the other three wagons of their tiny caravan.

Melhvin tried to look unworried, but he wasn’t afraid to admit to himself that the smoke did worry him. Secretly, he hoped Mort was right; that it was nothing more than a careless farmer. If he was wrong... Well, fire on the Plains of Grummish was something to be feared. It moved fast, burning down the prairie grass with lightning speed. He’d seen grass fires before; one minute you could be safe, the next, caught between to onrushing sheets of flame. Then you were fodder for Hadar’s scythe.

Clucking softly, he urged a little more speed out of the horses. Not enough so that Mort and his men would have a difficult time keeping up on foot, but faster than he liked with all that pottery in back. Squinting deeply, both at the bright sunlight and in an effort to bring the far off smoke into better focus, he tried to discern anything he could from what he saw. Sadly, it was just too far off. Even so, he couldn’t shake that sinking feeling that was descending deeper into his guts.

They travelled on for another half an hour or so, and Mehlvin was almost ready to write off the smoke, as it seemed to be slowly lessoning in intensity, even getting ready to tell Mort than he and his men could stand down. Then, suddenly, he heard a baying sound off in the distance. No, not just a sound, but a howl. Not the howl of man or beast, or even the wolf’s call that it sounded suspiciously like. No. Melhvin had heard this call only once before in his life, and he’d prayed to all twelve gods that he’d never hear it again if he lived a thousand years.

Wargs. Beasts of war ridden by orc warriors; canine monsters the size of a horse with the disposition of a rabid wolf; and they were coming this way.

Both men’s heads snapped toward the distant howling with whip-cracking quickness. Words were unnecessary; Mort knew what the sound meant just as much as Mehlvin. Mort began shouting for his men to climb aboard the trade wagons even as he hopped up onto the bench himself, grabbing for the shortbow he kept strung behind the seat for emergencies.

Emergencies. Well, this is what I’m paying them all those gold crowns for, he thought, even as he flicked the reins, urging the heavy draft horses forward, wishing that the beasts were built for speed and not power. He flicked a glance toward Mort. “How close?”

“Close. An’ gettin’ closer, by the sound o’ it.” He shook his head forlornly. “Them wargs ‘ill have their blood up. Me boys ‘ill do wha’ they can, but…“ The mercenary looked glum, worry etching his weather-beaten face. “Best hope we can get to the Well, because if they have any numbers ‘tall, we’ll ne’er outrun them pullin’ these wagons.”

The mercenary stood up, somehow balancing despite the bucking of the wagon as it bounced over the ground. Snerth urged the horses forward, yearning against hope to get a little more speed out of his prized draft horses, yet knowing it was futile all-the-while. The braying, yelping call of the wargs was getting louder, and louder, and closer…

The mercenaries bow loosed with a twang, and Mehlvin knew his shot had struck something, for the howl turned into a snarl seconds later. He dared not risk a look to see what had happened – not at these speeds, anyway – but risked a simple question, shouted over his shoulder. “How many?”

The mercenaries answer was deadly calm. “Too many.” The bow rang again, and again, but the snarling was coming closer with each shot, and was getting only louder and more intense. The mercenary continued shooting, each shot a fluid blur at the edge of Mehlvin’s vision, and a part of him was amazed at the man’s quiet confidence under what would be…

What was sure to result in his doom, and the deaths of all he held dear, he realized. Mort offered up a prayer to Voluge, god of war and justice, for a miracle to save his wife and child, “safe” in the last wagon. Even as he did so, he heard Mort’s shout, the bow clattering to the ground beside them, the ring of steel as the big man drew his great sword, his shouted battle cry of “Come an’ get me yah greenback bastahds!”

Pandemonium ensued after that, action merging with thought in a flurry of vicious battle. A warg nearly as large as one his draft horses slammed into the wagon, slewing it sideways and ripping it free of its traces. Mehlvin fell to the ground, landing with a sodden thud that nearly knocked him senseless. He caught a fleeting image of the wagon rolling over, the sounds of fine elvin porcelain crashing into a million pieces filling his ears for the briefest of moments.

Brief it was, for he was quickly overwhelmed with the sounds of battle. The screams of his horses as two wargs tore into them, tearing their throats open with a sickening quickness. Mort’s battle cries as he tried to fight off more orc warriors than Mehlvin could count from his prone position. The ululating battle calls of the orcs. The screams of his wife and daughter in the last wagon as the bastard greenbacks fell upon them.

He tried to roll over, desperate to reach his family, grabbing for the dagger at his hip, but the bulk of too many fine meals in too many fine taverns worked against him. Grunting with the effort, he pushed with his arm, feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder, knowing his arm or collarbone was broken, but pushing with adrenaline and fear crazed muscles all the same.

Exhausted by the effort, he slowly rolled over, only to be greeted by a set of snarling jaws, saliva dripping down on his face as the fetid stench of a warg’s hot breath filled his nostrils. He tried to scramble backwards in the few seconds it took for the beast to push him down, one clawed paw nearly crushing his chest. A badly-accented voice in the traders tongue called down to him from the beast’s back. “You guts be Slicer’s food, pink-skin scum!” The breath on his neck grew hotter, and he felt his bowels unclench in the seconds it took everything to go black.

* * *

Tarn reined in his bay gelding, named Boots for the black hair on its legs, edging gently up next to Sir Alec. The animal wanted to run, and Tarn didn’t blame him. Even from this distance, from what his trained eye estimated was a mile or more, the smoke ahead was thick, almost oppressively so. Had he any choice, he would have turned away from smoke that thick, but he couldn’t.

The smell was even worse.

Sir Alec led them forward, but he knew as well as Tarn did that they were too late. After all, a smell like that could only mean one thing: the orcs had gotten to Amori’s Well before they had, and had added the little trading post to their list sacked and burned villages.

Tarn pulled a cloth from his saddlebags, a square little thing made from something the trader who had sold it to him called cotton. He didn’t know what it was, but despite its light weight, he knew it would be thick enough to at least keep him from breathing in the acrid smoke.

If not the smell.

Breathing slowly and deeply to minimize the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh, he inclined his head toward Sir Alec, who’s big black stallion was almost as nervous as Tarn’s smaller gelding. Alec calmed his mount with a skill Tarn could only dream of; even so, it was obvious the older man was struggling to keep the animal under control.

Clearing his throat in a vain effort to minimize the effect of the slime that was already building up in his throat, he called out, “Excuse me, Milord, but what are your orders?”

Alec turned to him, fire flashing from his eyes. “We ride. Hard. Even though I suspect not, there may be survivors.” The knight turned about, motioning to a soldier behind them with a bugle across his saddle to call the men to arms. “Make ready for battle, young Tarn. Gods of light willing, we will make these greenback bastards and make them pay for what they’ve done here.”

Tarn nodded slowly, swallowing to calm the butterflies that were already turning his guts into their personal playground. He reached down and unlashed the heavy war lance that he had practiced with many times, but had never used before; well, at least he had never used it before in combat. He slipped the ten foot long oaken pole into its rest, mounted on the breastplate of his armor to prevent it from slipping, and gripped it firmly in his right hand. Satisfied with those preparations, he reached up with his left hand and closed the grilled visor on his helm. He hated wearing the heavy plate armor he and all of Alec’s men were wearing, but he had to admit, fifty mounted horseman in full plate were a force to be reckoned with. The weight of our charge should be more than enough to bowl the greenback scum away.

He nudged Boots forward, slotting it into the wedge formation that the mounted men were forming, and swung his head from side to side. His helm may prevent anything short of a lucky shot from a bow from doing unpleasant things to his head, but it played merry hell with his peripheral vision.

Well, at least everything seemed to be ready. No broken helmet visors, no lame horses… Tarn reached out one last time with his gauntleted fist, gently stoking his horse’s neck, hearing the gelding whicker in excitement. Excitement. Must be it knows something I don’t, he mused. Either that, or it’s just too stupid to know better.

Alec’s clear, crisp call of “ADVANCE!” rang out across the prairie, and as one fifty men began to move forward, all of them waiting for the first sight of the enemy. He knew they wouldn’t begin their charge until they spotted the enemy; even battle-trained warhorses such as these would quickly tire carrying two-to-three hundred pounds of man and armor.

Riding onward like that for half a mile or more, they waited for word from one of the outriders that the enemy was in sight. Tarn almost lost track of where he was after a while, lost in the pounding of many hooves, the smoke filling the air, and the hot sun on his back. The steady rhythm of the horses pounding hooves was lulling, and even at a time such as this, his mind began to wander, his head tilting forward in a futile effort to make wearing the heavy metal helm a little less uncomfortable.

He was jolted back to reality when a shout echoed across the flatlands ahead of them, “Enemy Ho!” His head snapped up, and his gaze swept across to take in an orc warrior siding astride a warg. Twelve gods, those things are big! Nearly as big as a warhorse, but much fiercer, its mouth full of wickedly sharp teeth, a warg in combat was a truly frightening thing to behold. I suppose that they do look like wolves, but by the gods of light, no wolf was ever that big!

The enemy warrior had spotted them as well, he realized, for he heard the ululating of an orc horn echo back toward them, its rhythmic unhhhhhh - unhhhhh - unhhhhh sound totally different from mankind’s bugles. Sir Alec shouted a war cry of his own, bellowing out “FOR AVERIM!” even as fifty voices echoed and rebounded the challenge. Tarn spurred his horse forward then, reveling in the feeling of power as the men’s mounts picked up speed, the power of their charge becoming almost palpable, and then he was nearly past conscious thought, swept up in the thundering power of the moment.

Cresting a small rise in the otherwise flat prairie, he quickly took in all that he saw. At least two score, probably more than three score greenback warriors, all mounted… Twelve gods, he was glad they had managed to surprise these greenbacks! Had those wargs been ready to fight and not lolling about, eating and resting, some of them thankfully chained to posts driven into the ground, this might have been a fair fight. As it was, it would be a slaughter.

Boots was running hard now, beginning to tire, but the gelding still had a lot left in him, and was easily matching stride for stride with the rest of Alec’s men. The distance closed quickly, and in a flash, they were into the enemy camp even as the greenbacks grabbed for weapons. Adrenaline filled his veins, and Tarn shouted exultantly as his warlance drove into a greenback attempting to clamber onto a warg, snapping in two even as it drove the orc warrior from his saddle, dead before it hit the ground.

Plunging forward, he drew his heavy cavalry saber, slashing at one arc after another. Boot’s hooves were weapons as deadly as his saber, a part of him realized, crushing to the ground whatever his sword laid low. Barely aware of it, a part of his mind realized that his companions were doing the same, the wedge of mounted men cutting into the orc camp in a fury of energy the greenbacks were totally unprepared for.

He dodged a spear thrust at him by an orc warrior, nudging Boots to the side with a twist of his knee, but the animal hardly needed the direction. Trained for war, it knew better what to do than he did.

Another orc stood in front of him, holding a giant battle axe in both hands, ready to swing at anything that came near. The orc slashed out at one of the men riding in front of Tarn, and the force of the blow knocked the armored man from his mount, unconscious if not dead.

Tarn took advantage of the orc’s momentary distraction, guiding Boots toward the greenback, again using only his knees, grateful for Alec’s insistence that all his men learn that “little” riding trick. At the speed they were moving, he and Boots closed the ground quickly, and his saber flashed out, cutting the orc down even as the greenback warrior stepped over Tarn’s fallen comrade to finish him off.

Whipping his head about, he cursed the limits his helm put on his vision even as he scanned the area for more enemies, gratefully realizing they were beyond the orc camp. He reined Boots in, wheeling the horse around even as he took in what he saw, and was aghast at the carnage before him. Dozens of orcs were down on the ground, dead or dying, as were many of the wargs, and most of the survivors were wounded. Yet a few were still alive and unhurt, and they were beginning to form sort of resistance, even though they knew that things were hopeless. Tarn watched contemptuously as some grabbed for bows, others for swords or an ax, knowing their effort was futile.

Alec’s voice rang out once again, this time in fragmented orcish. Tarn knew some of the language; enough to know that the knight was calling on the enemy to surrender. A guttural voice answered back, its accent in the human’s traders tongue as thick as Alec’s was in orcish. “We no surrender, Pink-skin scum! You defeat us, but Chief escape with plunder, including many your women. Make good slaves! Bring honor to Lord Grummish!” The thrusting action of the greenback’s hips left no doubt as to what the orc warrior meant.

Adding injury to insult, Tarn saw that the orc warrior had pulled what appeared to be a human head from a pack on its back. Even from this distance, Tarn could tell the head belonged to a girl of no more than ten or twelve summers. The orc thrust the head over its own in one hand, shouting out “This one very tasty!”

Alec turned his head away, unable to look at the horrifying site. “Gods damned bastards!” Tarn heard him murmur to himself. Then, louder, so all the human men could hear, “Finish them!” As one, all forty or so surviving human warriors drew their bows as they listened to the false bravado of the doomed orcs. Then, at Alec’s command, they released as one.

And the orc threat was no more.

* * *

Tarn bent down to the ground, heaving up what little was left of his breakfast. Damn it. I’m supposed to be a veteran. Supposed to be able to handle things like this. After all, he was a knight, if a very junior one. His “commission” as an officer in the Emperor’s Royal Guards was only probationary, but his heritage guaranteed him a knighthood for life. Just not the command of any troops, he thought to himself. Troops I will never command if the first sight of a real battle brings me to... this.

Straightening up, he pulled his waterskin from its spot in Boot’s saddlebags, rinsing his mouth several times before drinking deeply. He put his hand on Boot’s flank in an effort to steady himself; even so he felt himself swaying, unsteady on his feet at what he saw.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs from his brain, trying to focus on where he was, but it wasn’t easy. The battle had been hard enough. He’d been on patrols before, had killed greenback raiders and human bandits. Yet even those actions in no way prepared him for… this.

The battle hadn’t been the problem; no, he could have handled that. It was what they found on reaching Amori’s Well that caused him to sick up all over the plains. His helm slipped from the crook of his elbow, falling to the ground with a metallic thud as the enormity of what he saw hit home.

Amori’s Well was a small village, even by the standard’s of the eastern plains. Only a few buildings - Lisbet’s tavern, a general store, a hostelry, and a few houses - nothing more than that. Perhaps twenty or thirty souls all told dwelled in the little hamlet.

But no more.

Every one of them was dead.

Not dead in any typical fashion, either. Not dead even in the brutal manner of killing common to orc raiders and human bandits. Tarn could have handled that. No. The poor people of this town had been eaten. Alive.

Gathering his wits about him, Tarn searched for Sir Alec, and saw him kneeling on the ground over by one of the bodies. Tarn started walking toward him, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, each step an effort. He had to walk carefully, for their were bodies – and parts of bodies – everywhere in the small hamlet, and so each step was a struggle for that reason as well.

He tried to avert his eyes, tried not to look, but he couldn’t. He felt a squish, and looked down to see the severd arm of a woman below his boot, and he pulled the boot up in horror. I swore an oath to protect these people. We all did. And we… we failed.

Making himself look at the bodies – he couldn’t think of them as people anymore, or he felt as if he would sick up again – he made himself memorize every feature of their mangled forms. The bite marks, the claw marks. The mangled flesh; ripped and torn. Entrails and guts lay strewn across the landscape, torn, he could tell, from bodies that had been alive at the time of their murders. Their slaughter.

Tarn felt the bile rising again when he saw what Alec was looking at; the older knight was kneeling down next the body of a small boy of eight or nine summers. He held the boy’s dead hand in one his own, even as he swatted away the flies that were swarming over the spot where the child’s stomach should be, but wasn’t.

Alec’s head turned when he heard Tarn approaching. His voice was clear and sharp, hard as granite, yet quiet as a morning whisper. “I knew young Kehv, Sir Tarn. He was Lisbet’s grandson. Last time,” he paused to swallow. “When I was here last spring, he took care of Traveler for me. I gave him an extra few coppers to give him the good oats… I figured it was worth it; both he and the boy deserved it.” The knight paused, wiping a tear away from his face with his unarmored left hand. “Their animals, you know. Animals! Gods-damned greenback animals! The poor bastards never had a chance, and then they fed them to their wargs. Fed the poor souls to them alive!” Alec slammed his gauntleted fist into the dirt next to him. “This will not stand, my friend. I vow it. Here before you and all the gods of light, I will not rest until every last orc is hunted down and dead!”

Tarn knelt down next to his mentor, wanting to disagree, to argue, for he had been taught to judge all beings by their actions. But now? At this moment? He could find little to disagree with Alec. No sane race would condone this. No sane being would allow them to happen. Yet these creatures had not only allowed it to happen, they had done it themselves. Done it for no other reason than for the sheer pleasure of killing.

He turned toward Alec, met the older knight’s steely gaze with one of his own. “You’re right, milord. And I agree. I will not rest, either, until the perpetrators of this crime are brought to justice.”

Sir Alec shook his head sorrowfully. “Not just them, Sir Tarn. But all of them. Every last one of them. With Voluge as my witness, this I swear. I will not rest until all of them – every last stinking greenback on this earth – are dead.” With that, Alec stood up carefully, clutching the mangled body of young Kehv in his arms. “Now come, Sir Tarn. There is work to be done. We must lay these townspeople, and our own dead, to rest, and then be after that escaped chief these greenbacks spoke of - if we are to have any chance of catching them.”

On that much, at least, Tarn could agree, and joined with his commander in the task at hand.