Chapter 16 Blorjorn
SIXTEEN
BLORJORN
The plan is insane. Which means it might actually work.
We’ve spent two days watching Hadrin’s camp from the ridge—mapping patrol patterns, timing guard changes, learning the rhythms of fifteen thousand soldiers packed around a ruined cathedral.
The army moves like a living thing, chaotic on the surface but predictable underneath.
Supply wagons roll in from the east at dawn.
Cavalry patrols circle the perimeter every two hours.
The inner ring, where Hadrin’s command tent sits, changes guard at sunset and midnight.
We haven’t found a way around. The siege lines stretch too far, covering every approach to the cathedral. Going through guns blazing is suicide—even if we fought our way past the outer patrols, we’d never reach the sanctuary before reinforcements overwhelmed us.
But going through during the chaos of a shift change, disguised as human soldiers bringing in a captured orc for interrogation—that might work.
“This is a terrible idea.” Kielyne’s voice is flat, but her hand finds mine in the darkness where we crouch behind a supply wagon. Her fingers thread between my own, squeezing. “You know that, right?”
“Terrible ideas are the only ones we have left.” I squeeze back, then release her. We have roles to play now. “Remember—”
“I know the plan, Blorjorn.”
“I know you know.” I catch her chin, tilt her face toward mine. In the faint light bleeding from the camp, I can see the fear she’s trying to hide. The determination beneath it. “I just need you to be careful.”
“Careful.” A ghost of her usual sharpness surfaces. “Says the orc about to walk into an enemy camp wearing chains.”
The chains are real—salvaged from the Waypoint massacre, heavy iron links that clank with every movement. My hands are bound in front of me, loose enough to slip free in an emergency but tight enough to look convincing. The key is hidden in Kielyne’s boot.
I glance around at those still in the band. “Be ready when we get back. We’ll need to ride hard.”
Grothak gives a nod for the group.
I lean down and kiss the little healer. Quick, fierce, tasting the fear and courage on her lips.
“For luck,” I murmur against her mouth.
“Since when do you believe in luck?”
“Since I met you.”
The shift change horn sounds across the camp. Time to move.
The outer perimeter is controlled bedlam.
Soldiers pour between tents, heading to or from their posts. Supply wagons rumble through the traffic. Sergeants bellow orders that no one seems to follow. The air smells of cooking fires, horse dung, and unwashed men—the particular stench of an army that’s been camped too long in one place.
Kielyne walks beside me with the chain wrapped around her fist, her posture rigid with authority.
She’s transformed herself—not just the uniform, but the way she carries it.
Shoulders back. Chin up. The expression of someone who belongs here, who has every right to be dragging an orc prisoner through the middle of an enemy camp.
I keep my head down. Shuffle my feet. Play the role of a beaten prisoner, cowed by capture.
It goes against every instinct I have, but the disguise is essential.
An orc walking freely through a human camp would draw immediate attention.
An orc in chains, led by a soldier, is furniture. Something to glance at and dismiss.
The first checkpoint comes faster than I expected.
“Halt.” A bored-looking guard steps into our path, one hand on his sword hilt. “Papers.”
Kielyne doesn’t hesitate. “General’s orders. Prisoner for interrogation—captured in the Waypoint raid. He has information about the healer Hadrin’s been hunting.”
The guard’s gaze sharpens at that. Everyone in this camp knows about the bounty on Kielyne—the traitor medic who heals orcs, who escaped with their captain, who’s worth ten gold marks dead or alive.
“The healer?” He leans closer, examining me with new interest. “What does this one know?”
“That’s above your pay, soldier.” Kielyne’s voice drips with contempt—the casual arrogance of an officer dealing with a subordinate. “The general asked for him personally. Are you going to explain why you delayed the delivery?”
A flicker of fear crosses the guard’s face. Whatever else Hadrin is, he’s not known for patience with underlings who disappoint him.
“No, sir.” He steps aside, waving us through. “Straight on, third tent row. Command section’s marked with the silver standards.”
We move past him without looking back.
“Nicely done.” I keep my voice barely above a breath.
“Shut up, prisoner.” But her fingers brush against mine where the chain connects us—a fleeting touch, there and gone. I’ve got you.
The deeper we go, the more dangerous it gets.
The outer ring of the camp is mostly infantry—tired men in worn armor, more interested in their evening meal than in a passing prisoner.
But the middle ring holds the specialists.
Siege engineers with their massive war machines.
Cavalry officers tending prized warhorses.
Blight soldiers, their flesh mottled with the telltale signs of magical enhancement, their gazes too flat and focused.
And everywhere, soldiers who might recognize Kielyne.
She worked these battlefields for years. Stitched wounds, set bones, held hands while men died. Some of them might remember her face, even beneath the borrowed helmet. Some of them might wonder why a field medic is walking through camp instead of working in the surgery tents.
I feel her tension in the rigid line of her shoulders, the white-knuckle grip on the chain. She’s holding together, but barely.
“Easy.” The word is barely a breath.
Her grip loosens fractionally. She doesn’t look at me, but her pace steadies.
We round a tent corner and nearly walk into a patrol.
Four soldiers, fully armed, their formation tight and professional. The lead man—a sergeant, by his insignia—holds up a fist to halt us.
“Prisoner transfer?” His gaze sweeps over me, cataloging. “Where’s your escort?”
“Reassigned.” Kielyne doesn’t miss a beat. “The Waypoint cleanup needed more hands. I can handle one half-dead orc.”
The sergeant frowns. “Protocol says two guards minimum for any prisoner entering the command section—”
“Protocol says I deliver this one to the general before the midnight bell.” Kielyne steps forward, getting in his face, her voice dropping to something cold and hard. “You want to be the one who tells Hadrin his information source was delayed because some sergeant wanted to quote regulations?”
A muscle twitches in the sergeant’s jaw. The standoff stretches—one heartbeat, two, three—
“Fine.” He steps aside, jerking his head at his men to follow. “But if anything goes wrong, it’s on your head.”
“Noted.” Kielyne yanks my chain hard and we move on, leaving the patrol behind.
My heart pounds against my ribs. That was too close. Much too close.
“Left at the next row.” Her voice is steady, but I can see the pulse hammering at her throat. “The cathedral’s ahead. We just need to—”
She stops.
I follow her gaze and feel my stomach drop.
The prisoner cages.