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We reach the town wall and Marvik turns to me. “I’ll head to the gate,” Marvik says. “You should stay in the woods. I’ll come back for you when I’ve convinced the magistrate that he needs to let the townsfolk and farmers into the castle and they need to implement siege tactics.”
I shake my head. “They might not believe your story, since you are going to be so suddenly back from the dead. And the orcs there won’t recognize you. They might not even let you through the gate. I’ll come with you.”
“You can’t!” argues Marvik. “If they put it together that you are a deserter . . .”
“I’m still coming with you,” I interrupt. “It’s not safe in the woods besides. What if the vampires have realized you are gone and give chase? I don’t relish the idea of fighting more than one assailant without my ax.”
That seems to bring Marvik up short. He looks behind me and I glance back too. No one, so far, but that could change.
“Fine,” acquiesces myAsh’ka, “but let me do the talking.”
That’s no hardship. He is better at talking than I am. I nod and follow him.
We circumnavigate the town wall. It’s tall, but only maybe ten feet high. But I’ve heard that vampires can fly and, though I don’t know necessarily if that’s true, they probably still could get into the town, regardless of the wall.
We finally come to the town gate, and it is still closed for the night. It’s a sturdy wooden double-door and is most likely held shut by a plank on the other side. Fine for keeping out bandits and werewolves, but, again, vampires are another story. The innocent townsfolk will not be safe until they are behind the walls of the castle.
Marvik bangs on the gate, the sound booming in the silence of early morning. No response. He bangs again. Finally, a small peephole in the door slides open, squinting eyes peering through. Before Marvik can say anything, the man behind the gate makes a startled yelp.
“Is that . . . it can’t be . . . it is! Sir Marvik! But that can’t be! You’re dead!”
Marvik replies, “My death is mere rumors, Karn. Now open the gate and let me in.”
The eyes narrow. “How do I know that you’re not one of the undead?”
“Because the undead cannot talk,” Marvik says, sounding amused. “Now open the gate. I have an urgent matter to addresswith the magistrate. Immediately.”
“I don’t know,” Karn says, “the orcs said to keep the gate closed until morning bell . . .”
“It’s me, Karn,” Marvik insists. “You know me. Let me in.”
“If you’re here because of your mother’s trial,” Karn says, “you’re in the wrong place. They’re doing that in High Citadel.”
“I didn’t know that hadn’t already happened. That’s not why I’m here. Please, just open the door. It’s urgent,” Marvik urges.
“All due respect, your lordship, but you’ve been gone a long time and your father’s gone too. You’re not in charge, the orcs are.”
Marvik looks as if he doesn’t know what to say. But we don’t have time to waste on a debate right now. If the stubborn old man needs to hear from an orc, he will. “Open the gate,” I order, in my firmest commander’s voice. “We need to speak to whoever is in charge. Grimblton is in danger.”
The eyes flick to me. “And who’s this, then?”
I draw myself up to my full height and say, “I am Dura ka Woreki, Keeper of the King and General of the Southern Horde and we donothave time for this. Open the gate or the lives of your people will be onyourhead.”
“Well, there’s no need to be so touchy about it,” grumbles Karn, sliding the little peephole shut. A moment later, there’s some scuffling and movement from the other side of the gate and, after a bit, one of the doors swings open. An older man stands in the doorframe, wearing breeches and a long white shirt, like he came here directly from sleep. Not much of a guard.
Marvik and I stride through the door. “Rouse the rest of the guards,” I instruct, still in my commander's voice, “And bring the magistrate, as Sir Marvik requested. This cannot wait.”
“Look,” says the old man, “I know you said that you are some important orcress with lots of fancy titles and I know the orcs are in charge now, but you can’t just . . .”
“NOW!” I bark, glaring at the argumentative codger.
Karn huffs and harrumphs, but stomps back to the guardhousethat is next to the gate, tucking his long shirt into his breeches as he goes. I hear some muffled voices from inside and, in a moment, an orc exits the guardhouse, looking wary. When he sees me, however, his eyes go wide.
“General!” He does a quick sign of respect, both his fists on his chest. “We were told that you perished in the Battle of Fort Attis! How . . . ?”
“That doesn’t matter now,” I interrupt. Better for him not to think too hard on things. It is good that he is not immediately accusing me as a deserter, as I feared, but if the orcs are given time to put things together, I have no doubt that they will and my word will lose all meaning. “What matters now is that this town is in great danger. A Barakrini war party is on their way here, meaning to take the populace as blood slaves. They are strong and fast, and you do not have enough soldiers to stop them from their designs.”
More orcs and another human come out of the guardhouse, listening intently to my words. The human, younger than Karn, speaks up. “How do you know this?”
