Eight: The Hand that's Dealt
The meeting took place in the center of the plains, at a place between the two gathered armies.
It wasn’t hard to see the toll that war had taken on both sides. The lines of human men were dust-covered and worn out from constant travel and battle. In comparison, the line of gathered orks had been thinned considerably in the events during and following Ceris.
Those that had chosen to remain with the Chief’s son looked to number only a few hundred – enough to match the force that the reinforcements had sent. It had been a long campaign, and we now had a chance to end it.
Magus Ferris chose several veteran soldiers as guards, and motioned for me to join him as he prepared to descend the hill. I had taken the time to see that Jorgen was cared for, and allow one of the healers to close the wounds on my face and arm. Though they no longer bled, the pink line of the scars were tender to the touch, and would no doubt take days to heal.
Removing the scabbard that no longer fit my weapon, I settled instead for sheathing the short sword in my belt before slinging my shield over my back on a leather cord. Iron Fang was strapped to my left him, within easy grabbing distance if things got ugly.
Knowing the nature of the orks, I wanted to be prepared for bloodshed. Peace talks or not, there wasn’t any telling what the outcome would be.
“Are these all the men you’re taking?” I asked, nodding to the four veteran soldiers that stood alongside Ferris. The Magus nodded.
“I was hoping you might bring a trusted man with you – one you know is handy in a fight and not liable to run.”
I arched a brow.