The Day of the Tempest

Chapter 2 Mirielle Abrena

The knight of Takhisis ran down the dusty path, his sheathed long sword slapping against his leg and threatening to tangle itself in his long black surcoat. He ran awkwardly, weaving around burning huts and the bodies of ogres who had foolishly dared to challenge his talon. They should have surrendered, he thought as he leaped over a decapitated corpse and through a cloud of insects drawn by the spreading pool of blood. The knights had offered them that opportunity. Why hadn’t they listened to reason? Other ogre clans were allied with the knights—they knew that to submit to the Order was the only prudent course.

The knight paused a moment to catch his breath and to stare at the tiny body of an ogre girl. Twisted and broken, fixed eyes bulging, she looked like a discarded toy. She was one of the many children who had been killed during the attack. Couldn’t be helped, he knew. The knights typically avoided fighting those who couldn’t defend themselves. It wasn’t honorable, but sometimes children got in the way.

He dashed toward a clearing at the far end of the village, where part of his unit was gathered. When he spied his commander, he slowed his pace to a walk, squaring his shoulders, taking long, measured steps—as if he were marching—just as he’d been taught since he joined the knighthood nearly three years ago. He brushed the dirt off his surcoat, and straightened his helmet. Coming to a halt in front of his commander, he sucked in his stomach, and snapped to attention. “Sir!” he said as he saluted. “The governor-general is coming, sir!”

“Here, Arvel?”

“Yes, sir! Knight-Officer Deron spotted the governor-general’s entourage heading through the gap, sir! He told me to inform you immediately, sir.”

“Very good, Arvel. Fall in!”

Arvel was quick to join the front-rank line. It would afford him the best chance to see the governor-general. Arvel was the smallest in the unit, gangly and all of thirteen years old, and he was also the youngest—though not by many months. The Knighthood of Takhisis inducted squires at an early age. It was practically unheard of to accept new recruits over the age of fifteen.

His heart beat in anticipation as his commander quickly, but painstakingly, inspected each man. The governor-general— here—in an ogre village on the border of Neraka and Blöde! He stood at attention, excitedly waiting and trying to stand perfectly straight. His black mail weighed as much as he did, and he prayed to the departed Dark Queen to give him the reserve not to slouch. A trickle of nervous sweat ran down his brow, and he successfully fought the temptation to wipe it away.

“Dress right!” the commander snapped.

The young squire swung his head until his chin was even with his shoulder. He saw her then, riding slowly down the path toward them—Governor-General Mirielle Abrena.

She was astride a massive black stallion that was as black as night and as black as the armor and tabard she wore. Her hair was blonde, though there were streaks of silver here and there on the curls that hung below her helmet and grazed her neck. She had sharp facial features and taut, unblemished, ruddy skin. Her dark blue eyes were narrow and perched above a small nose that looked slightly hawkish. Not an attractive woman, the young squire decided, though not at the same time unattractive. Powerful would best describe her, he thought, one whose bearing and manner drew and held stares.

She was the only officer who had been able to reforge the scattered Knights of Takhisis into a proud Order again. She subjugated the draconians, hobgoblins, and ogres of Neraka, becoming governor-general of the land and head of the entire knighthood. And she was here—only a few yards away! Arvel drew in a deep breath and continued to stare. She must be at least fifty, he guessed, though she looked at least a decade younger. She was muscular, rigid, and showed no sign of fatigue under armor much heavier than his own.

Behind her rode more than a dozen men, all on black horses. Most were Knights of the Lily like himself, the warriors of the Order. But Arvel spotted two men with embroidered crowns of thorns on their surcoats—proclaiming them to be members of the Order of the Thorns. Sorcerers.

Mirielle Abrena effortlessly dismounted a few paces away, and nodded a greeting to the commander.

“Governor-General Abrena!” he stated, saluting her and waving his hand to indicate his unit. “We are most honored by your unexpected visit.”

“You took the village quickly,” she said, as she eyed the rows of men.

“With only a few injuries to report, Governor-General. None of our knights were killed.”

She paced in front of the first rank. “The ogres, commander. Did you take any prisoners?”

She stopped only a few yards away from Arvel, and the squire’s heart pounded wildly. To be so close to her! This would be a day to remember for the rest of his life.

“Only three, Governor-General. They fought like mad dogs, all of them. And they wouldn’t quit even when they knew they were beaten.”

“Foolish” she said. “But admirable. Bring the three here.”

She stood directly in front of Arvel now, her cold eyes boring into his. “Was this your first battle?” she asked.

“No, Governor-General,” Arvel quickly replied. His throat was instantly dry, and his words cracked like dead twigs as they came out. “My third battle, Governor-General.”

She pivoted on the balls of her feet and strode to a point several feet in front of the knights. The two sorcerers flanked her, standing silently as the prisoners were brought to her. The three ogres were young, little more than children. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and lengths of rope around their ankles hobbled them. They glared defiantly at her, and the largest muttered curses in the ogre tongue as they were forced to their knees.

“You are undone,” she stated evenly. “We have your lands. Your fellows lie dead. You are all who remain of your clan.” Her voice was flat and emotionless. “This ground is pivotal to our planned expansion. From here, it will be easier to launch an assault into Sanction. It is crucial that we have access to the New Sea, and Sanction’s coast will allow us to expand our base of power.”

“Much ground between here and Sanction,” the largest growled. “You’ll not get your port.”

“No?” Her hand shot out, grabbing the young ogres throat. “Your village was merely the first step, and it fell easily.”

“Many other villages ” he rasped. “Much larger than this. We’ll be… undone.”

“Tell me, how many ogres are in these neighboring clans?”

His reply was to spit at her. Her retort was to snap his neck. The ogre dropped to the ground, and Mirielle swung toward the other two. “How many ogres in the neighboring villages?” she repeated.

The closest glowered and shook his head. “Tell you nothing.”

“Loyal to your fellows ” she said in the same even tone. “I respect that.” Mirielle flicked her wrist and one of the sorcerers behind her stepped forward. His hand glowed red for an instant, and the insolent young ogre screamed. His skin bubbled and popped, as if he were being doused with boiling oil. His chest bulged outward, and the sorcerer raised his fist, squeezing and chanting. The young ogre pitched forward into the dirt, where he squirmed for a moment more before dying.

She turned to the sole survivor, the youngest of the three. “Perhaps your tongue will be more accommodating?”

The young ogre talked haltingly at first, stumbling over the words of the common tongue and filling in the governor-general on the position—to the best of his knowledge—of the nearest villages and the number of ogres there. Then the words came easier to him as he betrayed the clans’ defenses, the names of those chiefs he could recall, the times when ogre fighters were usually away to hunt.

“Much better,” she said. The ogre looked at her hopefully, but she avoided his gaze, instead glancing at Arvel. She crooked her finger to motion him forward.

The young squire of Takhisis swelled with pride, took a deep breath and marched toward her. “Yes, Governor-General?”

“This one is of no more use to us,” she stated, gesturing at the ogre. “Kill him.”

Arvel glanced at the ogre, likely only several years older than the dead child he’d spotted earlier. There was hatred in the ogre’s eyes, and fear. The young squire of Takhisis drew his blade, pushed the ogre to his stomach, and in one strong blow cut through the back of the ogre’s neck. Arvel inwardly beamed. He’d been given a direct order by the governor-general. He, of all the gathered knights, had been asked to perform this task. He wiped the blade on the ogre’s tunic, sheathed it, and snapped to attention.

“See that the bodies are burned,” Mirielle said, continuing to address Arvel. “All of them. The huts, too—though not before they are searched. Turn all valuables over to these men, who will see to it that any choice treasures are taken to Neraka.” She indicated the sorcerers, then strode toward her horse. “Commander, a word with you.”

Arvel watched his commander hurry to keep up with the governor-general, and heard some mention of dragons. Then he fell to the task of dealing with the corpses. What tales he would have to tell of this day!

“Commander, station your compgroup nearby, within sight of this village. Keep watches in the event any ogre clans come to investigate. Slay them. I’ll send more wings here within the week to bolster your ranks. When you’ve gathered enough men, take the next several villages. Use runners to report on your progress. When we are at squadron strength here, I will return and we’ll march toward Sanction “

“Governor-General?”

Her steely eyes locked onto his. “Yes?”

“We are near the territory of Malystryx, the dragon overlord. Does the dragon know we’re taking this land for ourselves?”

A hint of a smile crept across Mirielle’s face. “Malystryx is well aware of my plans. She has no objections, and we have nothing to fear from her at this juncture. After all, commander, we work with her and for her, not at cross-purposes.”

He swallowed hard and risked another question. “Governor-General, you’ve assigned wings to the Blue, the Storm Over Krynn. Our units run Palanthas, Elkholm, Hinterlund, virtually all of the Northern Wastes for him. And the dragon financially rewards us. We gain nothing from the Red, yet you repeatedly send her knights. I see no reason why—”

“The Red is the most powerful of the overlords, commander” Mirielle said tersely as she settled into the saddle. She gently tugged on the reins, and the stallion wheeled about. “Malystryx gives us our lives. I’d say that’s worth some measure of allegiance.”