Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts by David Dalglish Read Free Book Online Page B

the next, taking time while they had the height to search for any possible sign of bandits, smoke from a fire, or movement on the road. So far, none, but their eyes were open, their ears alert.
    “Perhaps we should leave the road,” Haern suggested after half an hour.
    “Extra care here is probably justified,” Thren said. “I have no intention of being some sick bastard’s meal.”
    Their speed dropped immensely doing so, but Haern felt better. Despite fighting against the brush and constantly ducking at the grasshoppers and beetles that zipped about as if angry at their trespassing, he preferred knowing no one would easily spot their approach. Haern led the way as Thren followed, head down, arms crossed. They kept the road to their right, always ensuring it was just within sight.
    After the fourth hill, the land evened out, and the trees grew farther and farther apart, the thick shade from the canopy above growing spotty, the sun peeking through with ever increasing regularity. Less than half a mile from the forest’s edge, Haern heard the first unnatural sound of the entire day. It came from the direction of the road, and he froze, lifting a hand to order Thren to do the same.
    “You certain?” Thren whispered, and Haern nodded. Slowly, each stepped toward the nearest tree, leaning against the thin, pale trunks so they could better hide. Peering around, Haern watched the road, listening for what he’d heard before: laughter.
    A minute crawled by. Worried he’d been imagining things, Haern kept his head low and crouch-walked to the next tree, shrinking the distance between him and the road. The grass rustled beneath him as his weight settled atop it, and not for the first time, he wished he could have had training in dealing with the natural world. But Thren had only wanted him to rule a criminal empire in the city; why would travel in the wildlands ever matter?
    He was just about to stand and declare he’d only been tired and hearing ghosts when a loud, guttural roar sounded throughout the forest.
    “Fuck it, Gremm; we’re going back.”
    Haern pressed closer against the tree, and from his vantage point, he watched as over thirty men emerged from hiding amid the forest on the opposite side of the road. A spark of panic flickered in Haern’s chest as he realized how unaware he’d been of their existence, how different their luck might have been if they’d been traveling on the other side.
    As the men stepped out, all brandishing crude weapons specked with rust, Haern frowned at their strange appearance. Something about them was wrong, and while he couldn’t place it immediately, it nearly screamed at him from his gut. From behind him, Thren ducked low and made his way near, crouching and looking around the other side of the tree so together they could watch the bandits gather into a crowd in the center of the road.
    “Get back here, you pig cunt,” one of the bigger men shouted as a group of seven began heading the way Thren and Haern had come from.
    “I don’t believe it,” Thren whispered as the seven sent back rude gestures without hardly missing a step. “We were wrong. Not men. Orcs.”
    Orcs? Haern leaned out closer, closely scanning the faces of the men. Their skin was sickly looking, nearly gray in color. Their hair was long, unkempt, and clearly uncared-for. Many had tattoos and ritual scars cut into their skin, and their ears were long like those of an elf, except instead of curling upward like Graeven’s had, they drooped downward. All of the orcs were tall, their chests broad and their arms and legs thick with muscle.
    “No one’s coming for miles!” one of the seven orcs shouted as they marched along the road. “I ain’t sitting here doing shit. We go back, wait for more to come. Deeper in the forest we stay, the better.”
    “What are they doing out here?” Haern asked as several more of the larger pack followed after the rest, clearly in agreement with the sentiment.