Free A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) by J.T. Hartke

silver and pewter dishes. A chest-sized saltcellar sat open upon a table, heaped with shiny white, gray, and pink crystals.
    “I also brought this.” Sharrog pulled a small leather bag from his pack. A pungent scent leaped into Slar’s nose. “A pouch of uncle Grimbrad’s herbs, from the patch near his lodge.”
    Radgred eyed the meats. “I will stoke the brazier in the central room.”
    The three lingered over the meal for the rest of the evening. Dark red wine washed the meat into Slar’s belly, while the tasty salts danced on his tongue. He and Sharrog shared the oversized liver without cooking it.
    Purple blood ran over Slar’s chin. He wiped it on the side of his hand then licked his finger clean. “So you did find at least one mammoth.”
    Sharrog nodded. He took another tear off the rich, slimy organ. “One alone, and he was young at that.”
    “I wonder if their orc cousins will be as scarce when the time comes.” Radgred held a piece of the tenderloin on an iron rod over the fire. “I do not have Ortax’s faith in Chief Sargash.”
    Slar opened his mouth to speak until he felt the old knot in his gut tighten. He knew the pain had nothing to do with the flood of meat. The knot had been absent throughout the winter, while he and his sons, with Radgred’s help, gathered the Boar, Ram, and eventually the Wolf Clans together. Only thrice had he felt the pain – when Galdreth appeared to the other clan chieftains with Slar in his presence. But that dreadful burning flared now.
    The dark shadow swirled together in an instant. Galdreth’s strength always radiated at its most powerful when it first appeared. The silver eyes glittered from the shadows within the parlor. They shined down upon Slar, who wiped the liver blood from his lips. Radgred and Sharrog dropped to their knees, meats cast aside. Radgred went directly to a prostrate position, while Sharrog eyed the spirit before he followed the older orc.
    “My master,” Slar whispered, bowing low.
    The voice grated like old rust. Your alliance grows, but not with the alacrity I require. I shall go unto the remaining clans alone. I cannot wait for your feeble bodies to travel there.
    Slar offered another bow. “Yes, my master.” His stomach pains lessened. Let the dark spirit go alone. He kept his eyes averted. “We will be at Dragonsclaw within two weeks. Over fifty thousand Boar, Ram, and Wolf warriors will gather at your call.”
    That is not enough!
    The knot sharpened, like a knife twisting in Slar’s gut.
    You must begin the training of new reserves that will join us. The Bear and Snake will have to provide the rest of our strength.
    “We will begin gathering new forces at once, master.” Slar swallowed against the bile that threatened to rise in his throat with the words.
    What of my vessel? I have given you the tracing stones. Have they found him yet?
    The longer Slar listened to the voice, the more his agony grew. It grated upon his mind and spirit, as well as his ears. “The first team is preparing to strike, my master. Their orders are clear and specific. More teams move into place.”
    Very good, Warchief Slar. You will bring the vessel to Dragonsclaw immediately upon his capture.
    “I shall, master Galdreth.”
    The shadowy spirit spiraled in upon itself, disappearing with an audible concussion.
    Slar stood erect, shifting his swordbelt to its proper position. Sharrog rose with more ease than Radgred, who huffed and straightened his knees.
    “I despise that being,” Sharrog spat at the emptiness left behind.
    “You should watch your tongue.” Radgred pointed at the young warrior. “You are too untried to know what is best for your people.”
    Slar sighed. I do not wish to agree with my son, but I do. He scratched his knuckles on his day-old beard. “Our people have fought among each other for centuries, ever since the humans returned. Trapped in the Northlands, without an outlet for our growth, we waste our lives and resources