Five

Davon felt the horse move under him, heard the thunder of hooves on the turf, saw the fires of the slaver camp draw closer by the moment. His left shoulder felt stiff. When the cavalry had stopped for a break, one of the ork riders had come over to him and examined the wound.

"Not bad work," he had said. "But this isn't the sort of thing you want to carry into battle. Wear with pride afterwards, perhaps." The ork had smeared some foul-smelling paste on the wound, which grew warm and began to itch madly. After a few minutes, the itching faded and Davon found that the pain was nearly gone.

"A gift from Garlen," the ork had said. "Magic."

As the troop of riders followed the trail left by the slave wagons, other orks came up to Davon. One offered a stiff leather jerkin, which Davon had pulled over his head and tightened as best he could. Another had brought a short sword, plain but serviceable. In general, the Falcons were friendly and open with Davon. Apparently, his insistence on joining them for their pursuit had impressed them, and they did the best they could to supply him with the equipment he would need in the coming battle.

Only the one called Hrogar was distant. Davon caught the ork glaring at him from time to time, rolling his eyes or snorting with derision when one of the other riders paid attention to him. Davon tried not to let it bother him -- he had embarrassed the burly ork, and no doubt the temperamental lieutenant held it against him.

The forward scouts found the slave camp just before nightfall. There were four wagons, and about thirty or forty armed guards. The commander of the Falcons, Errig, decided to let the slavers get comfortable and complacent, planning their strike for shortly after midnight.

Combat was a loud, bloody, chaotic, and terrifying mess. Errig had been right, though, Winter Cloud carried him well. Davon didn't guide the mare so much as cling to her back, wildly swinging his sword about and hoping he didn't die.

If he died, nobody would be left to take care of his sister.

A figure appeared out of the dark, silhouetted against one of the fires. Davon recognized the outline of the troll at once, and his fear was washed away in a rush of anger. He turned Winter Cloud toward the raider, and kicked her flanks, urging her into a gallop.

The mare's hooves tore up the ground as she sped toward the troll. Davon crouched low over her neck, and his grip on the short, broad bladed sword tightened. The troll filled his field of vision.
The troll's eyes met Davon's, and widened briefly in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed, and his upper lip curled in a sneer. He faced Davon squarely, sword at the ready, his back to the fire.

The sounds of battle faded into the distance of Davon's mind. Everything focused down to a few significant details: the blood pulsing in his ears, the feel of the sword's hilt in his palm, and the surge of Winter Cloud's muscles beneath him.

Something snapped inside Davon... or rather, something opened. Winter Cloud's movements became his movements. The two beings, for an instant, became one. Davon's hooves tore up the turf as horse and rider bore down on their target, two hearts beating with singular purpose.

The sense of unity passed as quickly as it had come, but Davon didn't have time to dwell on it. He found himself flying through the air, arms outstretched, and sword in hand. Winter Cloud adjusted her course slightly, skirting the edge of the fire and kicking at the other raiders who had taken up a defensive position around the flames.

Davon struck the troll full on, and his momentum tumbled the pair backwards into the fire. The smell of burning hair filled Davon's nose. Fortunately, the troll's bulk shielded Davon from the direct fury of the flames.

The troll roared, wrapped his massive arms around Davon, and tried to roll over. Davon found the close quarters made it difficult to bring his sword's blade to bear, and punched the troll twice in the face with the pommel.

The troll cried out, and his grip on Davon loosened. The boy took that opportunity to push himself upright, knees resting on the troll's hips. He reversed his grip on the sword, and drove it downward into the troll's chest, putting all of his weight behind it.

The blade pierced the leather armor, but met resistance just below the flesh. Davon shifted his weight, and the angle of the sword changed. The point of the blade slipped off the rib and sunk further downward into the troll's chest.

His lung pierced, the troll's roar became a gurgling hiss. His eyes widened in shock, and he began to paw at Davon's body, grasping for whatever handhold he could as he slipped into Death's Domain.

Davon struggled out of the troll's reach, drawing the sword free as he did so. The blood lust had faded somewhat, but the rush of battle still held him in its grip. The troll was no longer a concern, but there were other enemies to be dealt with.

He looked around, and saw that Winter Cloud had been fighting a battle of her own, kicking at the nearby raiders, taking the fight out of them and leaving many with broken arms or legs.
Davon spotted one of the slave wagons, and ran towards it, calling out his sister's name. Halfway there, a dwarf in a chain mail shirt and wielding a large hammer spotted him and closed to attack, swinging the hammer in a wide horizontal arc in front of his body.

Davon did his best to keep his sword pointed at the enemy, but the dwarf kept knocking it aside with the hammer. The onslaught made Davon retreat, moving away from the wagons, rather than towards them. Davon started to become desperate, and looked for some opportunity to gain an advantage over the dwarf.

Before he could find one, however, he tripped over the arm of a dead raider. Davon landed flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and the sword fell from his hand. The dwarf grinned, revealing a lone gold tooth in the midst of several dirty and broken ones.

Davon glanced over to see his sword lay just within reach. He extended his arm, and his fingers wrapped around the leather wrapped hilt. Before he could lift the weapon, however, the dwarf stepped forward and stomped on Davon's hand. Davon felt the bones crack, and cried out in pain.

The dwarf's grin widened, and he shifted his weight, putting more pressure on Davon's wounded hand. Writhing in pain, Davon tried to pull free, but his hand was trapped beneath the sole of the dwarf's boot.

The dwarf shifted his grip on the hammer, swung it back, and readied it for an overhand smash. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Davon stared Death in the face.

And once again, Death passed him by. Winter Cloud came galloping up and reared, striking at the dwarf with her front hooves. The dwarf, unprepared for the attack, was knocked off balance. He fell back, and Winter Cloud brought her full weight down on the raider's head. The dwarf twitched, then lay still.

Winter Cloud stomped on the dwarf a couple more times for good measure, and then looked back at Davon. The boy struggled to his feet, cradling his wounded hand against his chest. He walked over to the horse, scratched her chin with his good hand, and laid his cheek against the side of her muzzle.

"Thank you," he said. "You are indeed a noble beast."

Winter Cloud snorted in reply, and gently nudged him with her head.

The immediate danger past, Davon turned his attention back to the slave wagon. He picked his way across the battlefield, Winter Cloud walking alongside. The battle was nearly over -- a few raiders still fought, but the more disciplined ork cavalry was making quick work of them.

Davon didn't encounter any more obstacles on the way to the wagons, a mercy he thanked the universe for. His sword lay somewhere in the bloody chaos behind him, and even if he still had it, his wounded hand would have prevented him from using it.

Davon's eyes adjusted to the darkness at the edge of the raider camp, and the sight that met them made his heart sink.

The cages were empty.