Miracles and Monsters

The private stables of Eumer’s estate

“Osric!?”

Allowin could scarcely believe it. It had to be a trick of the mind—yet he dared to hope. When he saw the red eyes, he muttered a silent thanks to the gods and ancestors.

“Allowin! What are you doing in there?”

“Get me out,” he pleaded. “I’ll explain everything later.”

He had been cramped in the oubliette for two days, his body screaming in protest. He had eaten nothing, and the only water he’d managed to drink came from the rainfall the day before. Fortunately, when Baldomar had him sealed in, the masonry had been compromised, leaving narrow cracks through which air could still pass.

“Cover yourself,” Osric instructed. “Brithun—get him out.”

Allowin heard—and felt—Brithun stomping at the bricks. They gave way far more easily than expected. Dust filled the air, and Allowin choked and gagged until he felt himself hauled free. Unable to walk after being folded into the pit for so long, he collapsed onto the ground, only to be lifted again moments later.

“Someone was bound to have heard that,” Brithun cautioned. “Let’s get out of here.”

Brithun hoisted Allowin over his shoulder as Osric took a running start and climbed the fence. After an awkward effort to get Allowin over as well, they carried him away, passing orcs who cast curious glances their way.

They arrived at Allowin’s home, Saedra rushing to meet them, Odotho close behind, eyes wide.

Saedra embraced her husband. “What happened to you?”

“It’s a long story,” Allowin sighed. “Let us go inside.”

***

A few hours later, at Allowin’s home

Odotho was brimming with rage. The moment Allowin revealed that Eumer had given Caerth the nod to attack Karga, the full scope of the plot became clear—and it enraged him.

Saedra stared at her husband in disbelief. She knew well how he trafficked in whispers and shadows, but this level of skulduggery visibly shook her. Odotho shared her look of shock.

“I won’t lie to you,” Allowin said at last. “Nor pretend I stood to gain nothing from this. I believed Eumer the more stable choice. I was wrong.”

Osric was unsparing. “You killed his son. As much as I think Eumer a bastard, his reaction to you was appropriate.”

“The alternative was open war within the clan!” Allowin snapped. “One life for hundreds—thousands. Rodolf’s death kept suspicion off Eumer and preserved the peace. A small price to prevent defilement and a war that would have bled us dry, leaving us open to invasion by our neighbors.”

“How did Eumer know you killed his son?” Odotho asked sharply.

“He doesn’t,” Allowin replied. “One of his men saw Caerth’s true ring still on his finger when the body was thrown into the dung pits. That’s when Eumer realized someone other than Caerth had killed Rodolf. I watched Vaelor’s body thrown into a grave before I was sealed in that hole. After that, there was no one left in the inner circle.”

“So Vaelor being out hunting is a lie?” Osric asked.

“It is. When he doesn’t return, he’ll be presumed dead in the wilderness.”

“Why not throw your lot in with Lothar after Eumer backed Caerth?” Brithun asked.

“Because Lothar is already a liability for this clan—and a death knell should he become chieftain,” Allowin said heavily. “Gods, if he’d just been born an orc, none of this would have happened.”

“He is an orc,” Odotho growled. “My sister nursed him. She and her husband raised him as one of us. He’s lived among us, fought for us, bled for us.”

“And none of our neighbors will care,” Allowin countered. “If they see 'Boarheart' as our chieftain, they will swarm us.”

“Then we fight them,” Brithun said, thumping his chest.

“All of them?” Allowin asked. “And what of Kardia? If the Emperor learns that one of his own rules here, he’ll dangle a princess and a title before Lothar. In a blink, we’d be another province under the heel of their wolf banners.”

He pointed weakly at Osric. “And even if Lothar remains loyal, Kardia may attack regardless—seeing him as a sign of weakness.”

“Lothar would find a way,” Odotho insisted.

Allowin scoffed. “Leave miracles to the gods.”

Silence followed. Then Allowin spoke again, voice low.

“Nevertheless, I’ve created a monster in Eumer. I have no choice now but to support Lothar—”

His eyes went wide.

“Oh no.”

“What?” Odotho hissed.

“Eumer sent assassins after him. I learned of it before I was captured.”

“Can we stop them?” Osric demanded, gripping Allowin by the shoulders.

Allowin shook his head. “They’ll already be in position by now. All we can do is pray.”

***

Meanwhile, at a campsite on the border between the Drathmoor Lowlands and the Taroan Highlands

Their orders were simple: kill Lothar—and anyone who stood in the way.

There were a dozen of them, moving through the shadows of nightfall as they took their positions around the camp. Lothar sat by the fire, on watch while the others slept. He was alert, but likely mistook the faint sounds of their movement for animals stirring in brush and trees.

Just as they prepared to strike, an arrow hissed through the air and struck the log beside Lothar.

He was on his feet in an instant, shouting for the camp to stand-to.

The leader of the assassins cursed, wondering which idiot underling had loosed the shot—and missed.

***

Cragath had been squatting in the woods beside a broad oak when he spotted cloaked figures slipping through the dark, utterly unaware of him. Understanding their intent, he nocked an arrow and loosed it—still squatting—sending it close enough to alert Lothar.

It worked. The camp roused, and the assassins were forced to commit without surprise. Cragath loosed two more arrows before they realized he was behind them and returned a volley in kind. He hobbled to cover behind the tree, taking great care not to slip in his own dung.

Peering out, he saw the night flare as Rascha cast sorcery that burst into brilliant light, revealing the attackers’ positions. One assassin took Mira’s spear full in the face—the point bursting from the back of his skull as his body collapsed awkwardly.

Lothar and Amaric followed suit, their spears biting deep as they advanced. With half their number slain in moments, the fight evened, and the melee was joined.

Amaric punched his shield into the downward swing of a cloaked foe, disrupting the strike before driving his sword into the man’s ribs, twisting, then ripping it free.

Mira traded blows with another—this one skilled—but found an opening and ran him through.

Lothar overwhelmed the leader, parrying a strike before slicing off his fingers. He followed through with a single swing that took the man’s head clean off, the severed skull tumbling away from the body.

Atalla incinerated another with a burst of flame, flesh sloughing from bone until only a charred husk remained.

Kaethe, moving to support. Shot arrows struck one in the neck, killing him.

The survivors fled—but one loosed an arrow as he ran.

It struck Lothar square in the chest.

His eyes went wide—then dim—as he collapsed.

Mira screamed.

“LOTHAR!”