Dark Vengeance by Ed Greenwood Read Free Book Online Page A

into the cuff above one limp Nifl hand. “The Talon of Oondaunt.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Mrickon dared to ask.
    â€œA noble House of that city. A rich family.” The forge-giant took two steps toward the water-trough, to where the light of the hanging lanterns was strongest, and raised his voice to add, “I know where these raiders came from.”
    â€œAnd this consoles our Larane
how?
” one of the women—old beak-nosed Meljarra, wife to Osmur the carpenter—almost spat at him. “Her children are still taken!”
    Orivon Firefist took a step toward that angry goodwife, and the silence became an utter, hard-edged thing that seemed to sing with the tension of coming battle. (Even the weeping woman who’d lost her children fell silent, staring in frozen, white-faced stillness at the hulking man with the sword.)
    Who turned, took a step toward that bereft mother, and said to her gently, “Hear me, Larane. I will go after the nightskins, and try to get Brith and Reldaera back.”
    She stared at him, trembling, but found no words to say. As her mouth worked and fresh tears streamed down her face, the forge-giant looked around at the watching villagers, and raised his voice again.
    â€œMore than that: I will go after the Dark Ones and kill as many as I can, to humble them. To make them fear Orlkettle forevermore, so that they dare not come again.”
    The villagers stared at him in disbelief, or awe, and fear stirred in their faces. Orivon saw it and said swiftly, “You have seen how easily nightskins can die, this night. You can defend yourselves right well, friends. For behold, they have fled—though more than a score of them will never run anywhere, ever again.”
    There were a few yells of agreement that might have become afeeble cheer if the villagers hadn’t looked so lost. “Only a few of us died, and they snatched only two to be slaves. I have heard Mrickon and old Aunjae and Thurtha talk of raids that carried off dozens, almost every child in the village. Folk of Orlkettle, you have fought the proudest Niflghar
and won!
”
    That did raise a ragged cheer.
    It didn’t last long, but Orivon didn’t need it to. Raising his hands as it died away, he roared, “Hunters, to me! Gather at the forge!”
    He turned a little, and shouted, “Mrickon! Grammoth! I need you to get everyone who can swing a weapon into a ring all around Orlkettle! Standing in threes, each trio with two lit lanterns and some weapons! Stand where you can see the next group on either side.
Haste!
”
    Even back-country villages like Orlkettle had heard royal proclamations a time or two; Orl-folk understood the imperious roar of command. Suddenly everyone was moving, rushing about and chattering excitedly, afire with their own victory.
    The forge-giant reached out a long arm through the bustling chaos, took Larane by the shoulders, and pulled her along as he strode toward the forge, the women who’d shielded her clucking all around him like so many disapproving hens.
    Bryard was there waiting for him, and Harmund, too. The old smith and the weaver held Orivon’s armor ready in their hands, and the rest of the swords and daggers he’d brought from the Rift in Talonnorn were laid out like a bright swordsmith’s wares along the smithy counter.
    Orivon stopped at the sight of them, smiled, and then went forward again, walking slowly because he had to: the crowd of women were all tending to him, now, scrambling to help lace this on and heave that into place.
    â€œWe’re here,” came the deep voice of Harkon, the best hunter in Orlkettle, from the smithy door behind Orivon. “What’s your will?”
    The forge-giant turned to face the hunters. “You must patroland guard Orlkettle of nights, from now on. Don’t grow lax if days upon days pass with no nightskin raid—they’ll be watching you, and waiting for that.