by Markus Heitz
Tungdil opened his eyes and was surprised to discover that it was light. What… ?
At the foot of the tree, a dozen fires were burning in a ring. Guttural laughter, low grunts, snarls, and angry curses sounded from below.
His blood ran cold. He was trapped: The bands of orcs so eagerly awaited by Goodwater’s mercenaries had set up camp around his tree. No wonder he had dreamed of the fifthlings’ battle against the hordes. His ears had heard the brutes, his nostrils had smelled them, and his sleeping mind had conjured the images to fit.
The dwarf pressed himself against the trunk, stiff as a statue, willing himself to become part of the tree. What if they notice me?
One thing was certain: A mob of this size would make short work of the handful of mercenaries in Goodwater.
Red flames blazed up from the fires, towering as high as several lances and alerting nighttime wanderers to the danger. For the dwarf amid the boughs, the warning came too late.
Tungdil totted up the heads in sight and came to the conclusion that over a hundred beasts were camped below — sturdy, powerful orcs for whom a wooden palisade would be no deterrent if there was prey on the other side.
He took another look and was seized with the urge to vomit. The meat being roasted over the fires and consumed with gusto was unmistakably human in form. Two human torsos were turning on specially constructed racks like chickens on a spit.
Tungdil had to fight back his nausea. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the beasts’ suspicions would be aroused by a porridge-spewing tree.
Judging by the color of the bandages, he deduced that the ragged strips of cloth covering the wounds of the handful of injured orcs had been torn from the uniforms of King Tilogorn’s men. So much for Goodwater’s eagerly awaited reinforcements. It seemed Idoslane’s soldiers had underestimated the strength of the enemy and paid a high price, having been killed and eaten into the bargain.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, thought Tungdil, remembering the previous night’s brush with the älfar. What have I done to deserve this?
The poor villagers of Goodwater had no idea that the green-hided peril was heading their way. He was the only one who could warn them, but that was impossible with the beasts camped round his tree. His only hope was to bide his time, then climb down and creep past them while they slept.
Suddenly it occurred to him that he could use the situation to his advantage by sneaking a little closer to the fires. If he could eavesdrop on the orcs’ conversation, he might learn something of their plans. He was familiar with their language in its written form, at least. It paid to have been raised by a magus with a very large library: Studying was his favorite occupation after working in the forge.
Unlikely as it might sound, there was a logic to the grunts, snarls, and shouts that passed for orcish communication. Scholars had studied the speech of orcs in captivity and discovered a language with an unusual emphasis on curses and threats.
His heart raced at the prospect of stealing closer to the stinking beasts. He would be finished if they caught him, but a dwarf was obliged to do everything in his power to protect the races of Girdlegard from Tion’s ugly hordes. The Smith’s commandments applied to every single one of his children, and that meant Tungdil too.
His mind was made up. He eyed the trunk, looking for the best way of reaching the ground without making any noise. Even as he was lashing his bags to the tree, a commotion sounded below. One by one the orcs rose to their feet amid a tumult of shouted exclamations. Guests were approaching.
The ring of orcs closed around the tree. The dwarf edged away from the trunk, crawling as far along the tapering branch as he dared. At last he was close enough to hear what they were saying, provided he strained his ears. Thankfully the chieftains were forced to raise their voices above the din, which made things a little easier.
He reached out gingerly and pushed the leaves aside. The beasts were gathered in a large circle around three chieftains whose fearsome tusks had been sharpened and tattooed. At once the noise died down, the cheering fading into silence.
Tungdil heard the clatter of horseshoes. Two riders made their way through the ranks of waiting orcs, the hooves of their black steeds striking the ground in a shower of blue and white sparks. The crimson-eyed horses moved with feline fluidity and had nothing of the typical equestrian gait.
The tall, slender riders directed their steeds to the center of the circle and dismounted. Tungdil’s instincts told him they were älfar.
The creatures were clad in finely tailored leather armor and from their shoulders hung long cloaks. Their black leather breeches were tucked into dark brown boots that reached above their knees and their hands were sheathed in burgundy gloves.
The first of the pair, an älf with long fair hair, held a spear tipped with a head as fine as an icicle. A sword dangled from his belt.
His companion’s hair was pulled away from his face, his dark plait disappearing into the mantle of his cape. He carried a longbow in his hand and a quiver of arrows on his back. A pair of daggers was lashed to his thighs with leather straps.
Tungdil recognized the älf at once: It was the face he had seen at the window of the tavern. Please, Vraccas, he begged silently, may Friedegard and Vrabor be alive.
The fair-haired älf took charge of the proceedings, speaking in the common tongue. It was clearly below his race’s dignity to communicate in the primitive grunts of the orcs.
“I am Sinthoras of Dsôn Balsur, here at the command of my master, Nôd’onn the Doublefold, commander of the Perished Land, to present the three princes of Toboribor with an offer of an alliance.” His voice was cold, barely courteous. He was there to present a deal and his tone told them they could take it or leave it. “Prince Bashkugg, Prince Kragnarr, Prince Ushnotz, you have been chosen by Nôd’onn to conduct a campaign of subjugation and destruction the like of which has never been seen. You, the strong arm of the south, shall lead the orcs to victory and sunder the skull of mankind.”
“And who shall be the commander?” demanded Kragnarr, who stood as tall as the älf but with twice his girth. The other princes were of smaller stature.
Bashkugg gave him an angry shove. “You think you’re better than us, do you?” he shouted belligerently.
Kragnarr responded to the insult by lumbering round to face his challenger. He leaned across until their broad foreheads were touching. Neither moved as they stared at each other, clawed fingers clutching the pommels of their massive swords. Ushnotz proved altogether wilier and took a step backward, waiting to see how the squabble would unfold.
“My master intends to make you equal in rank,” announced Sinthoras, straining to make himself heard above the snarling.
“No,” growled Kragnarr quickly, promptly followed by Bashkugg.
The älf cast them a disgusted glance. Even from a distance Tungdil could tell that he would rather kill the princes than negotiate with them, but Nôd’onn had given his orders. It was the first time that Tungdil had heard mention of any name at the source of the evil.
“In that case, my master will grant the office of commander to whosoever conquers the most land.” The älf held his spear loosely, but his taut stance betrayed his distrust of the beasts. His dark-haired companion seemed equally wary.
“Land?” grunted Ushnotz scornfully. “It should be corpses, not land! Whoever gets the most bodies will be commander!” He stroked his belly and the other two princes hastened to agree.
“No,” the älf said firmly. “This is about territory, not corpses.”
“Why?” thundered Bashkugg. “Why not corpses? My soldiers have to eat!”
“Content yourselves with killing the armies that are raised against you,” the älf advised him coldly. “You know my master’s will.”
“Exactly,” Ushnotz said slyly. “Your master. We’ve no obligation to obey him. He doesn’t rule the south; we do!”
Sinthoras directed a pitying smile at him. “Not for much longer
. My master is advancing from the north with an army of orcs who will seize the south faster than you can fashion cudgels from the trees.” He looked each of the princes in the eye. “Give him your allegiance now and he will reward you with land of your own. Toboribor is nothing compared with what will follow. Each one of you will have your own kingdom with humans for slaves. But defy him, and you will cross swords with others of your race.”
The threat of a green-hided army from the north with designs on their territory achieved its intended effect. A hush descended as the three princes digested the information, all memory of their quarrel forgotten.
From his post among the branches Tungdil listened and watched in disbelief. Nôd’onn, if that was the name of the Perished Land’s lord, was forging all kinds of unholy alliances in order to subjugate the southern lands. The coming cycles would bring untold suffering for men and elves.
“Fine,” Ushnotz said finally, although clearly unhappy with the solution. “I shall do as your master proposes — and he shall make me commander in chief.”
Kragnarr glowered at him murderously. “Count me in as well,” he snarled. “The tribe of the Kragnarr-Shorrs will conquer more land than the two of you put together.” He jabbed a clawed finger derisively at the others. “I’ll be commander, you’ll see!”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Bashkugg retorted angrily. “My troopers will overrun the fleshlings’ cities before you’ve even started!”
“You’ll all have a chance to prove yourselves,” said Sinthoras, reaching into his belt pouch and producing three plain amulets of blue crystal. He tossed them to the princes. “Leave here and go your separate ways. These are gifts from my master; they offer protection against the magic of our foes. You are to carry them always.”
The meeting had almost reached its conclusion when a foolhardy orc sidled up to the älfar’s steeds and sniffed the air hungrily.
Without warning, one of the horses whipped round, jaws opening as it pounced. Sharp teeth closed around the orc’s shoulders and ripped out a sizable clump of flesh.
Green blood spurted from the wound as the orc retreated, shrieking. A second orcish trooper drew his sword and made to fell the rabid horse.
Before he could strike, the steed’s hind leg lifted and sped into the orc’s broad chest. There was a flash of blinding light and the orc was thrown backward, traveling several paces before crashing to the ground.
The trooper had no time to right himself before the second horse was upon him. Its forelegs stove in his chest, hollowing his breastplate. His stomach burst with a sickening bang. In an instant the creature’s black jaws were at the orc’s unprotected throat. There was a sound of crunching bone and the orc’s anguished screaming broke off abruptly.
Tungdil watched in stunned horror as the steed swallowed the mouthful of flesh. The second creature let out a whinny of savage enjoyment.
The fair-haired älf issued an order in an unintelligible language and the steeds, horses in nothing save appearance, settled down at once, trotting obediently to their masters. The älfar swung themselves gracefully onto their backs.
“You know what my master expects of you. Make haste and keep to the terms of our agreement,” Sinthoras said grimly, turning his steed to leave.
A wide corridor opened before him as the crowd parted hastily, drawing back from the animals’ lethal jaws. At length the silence was broken.
The orc with the wounded shoulder shoved his way to the front. “Look what they did to me!” he shouted furiously, waving his gore-encrusted claws in Bashkugg’s face. “The pointy-ears killed Rugnarr; the pointy-ears deserve to die!”
The powerfully built chieftain wiped the trooper’s blood from his eyes. “Hold your tongue, you cretin!” he thundered, adding a string of foul-mouthed epithets. “They’re with us.”
“In us, I reckon! We’ll eat ’em like we’ll eat the fleshlings!” The threat brought grunts of approval from three of his tribe. Emboldened by their support, he nocked an arrow to his bow and took aim at the vanishing riders. “Mmm, what’s tastier — älfar or horse?”
Tungdil knew better than to mistake the mounts for horses. He had read about shadow mares in Lot-Ionan’s books. They were creatures of the night, unicorns who had been possessed by evil and stripped of their purity, their white coats, and their horns. They ate flesh and were ferocious hunters, driven by an all-consuming hatred of goodness in any form.
Bashkugg was tired of the trooper’s posturing. Drawing his clumsily forged sword, he struck at the wounded orc’s throat. The blade sliced halfway through the neck, withdrawing with a vicious jerk. The prince grabbed the second orc and hewed his head from its shoulders, holding it aloft for the others to see. With a terrible warning cry, he bared his fangs and dropped the dripping skull, grinding it into the ground until dark gray brains oozed through splintered bone. The other two orcs who had joined in the rebellion were put to the sword as well. The matter had been resolved in the traditional orcish way.
Cowed by the display of might, the troopers skulked back to their campfires, grunting and snarling, to resume their victory celebrations. The five bloodied corpses of their comrades, one trampled by the shadow mare and four slaughtered by the prince, were abandoned where they lay.
“What now?” Ushnotz wanted to know.
“I’ll go south,” decided Kragnarr. “You,” he said, pointing to Bashkugg, “head west, while Ushnotz takes care of the east.” The others nodded their assent. “What do we do about the fleshling settlement?”
“I say we attack together,” Ushnotz said greedily. “It’s not far and we can get a quick feed before we go our separate ways.”
Bashkugg scratched his chin doubtfully. “Didn’t the älf tell us not to —”
“The southern lands are our business, not theirs. Besides, this wasn’t part of the deal. The älf told us to conquer new territory; this is ours already.” He smiled slyly.
“The fleshlings skewered my troopers’ skulls on their palisades; I want revenge!” roared Kragnarr, his breastplate jangling as he thumped his brawny chest. “No älf can stop me from punishing them.”
“At dawn, then?” proposed Bashkugg to a chorus of approving grunts.
Tungdil let the twigs spring back and retreated slowly along the branch. He had heard enough to know that Girdlegard was in serious danger, but before he could warn Lot-Ionan about Nôd’onn’s designs he had to sound the alarm in Goodwater and deliver the bag to Gorén. The magus would know what to do about the threat; he would probably call a meeting of the council or, better still, summon the rulers of the human kingdoms as well.
It seemed to Tungdil that it was time for the magi and the human sovereigns to join forces against the Perished Land. They could even ask the dwarves to help them: A combined army, bolstered by his kinsfolk, would surely be victorious.
Tungdil waited until all but a handful of orcs were asleep, but even then there was no guarantee that his escape would be successful: Three dozen orcs had been posted around the camp’s perimeter to keep watch for intruders.
The dwarf took a deep breath and decided on his route, picking a particularly bored and sleepy-looking sentry who had propped himself on his rusty spear and was fighting to stay awake.
After a good deal of deliberation he resolved to take his packs with him. In view of his recent bad luck, it seemed too risky to leave them in the tree. The orcs would only discover them, and the last thing he needed was to lose the precious artifacts and admit his failure to Lot-Ionan and Gorén.
An eternity seemed to pass as Tungdil abandoned his hiding place as quietly as possible. Even the rustling of a branch would seal his fate.
He kept hold of the firm bark with both hands, sliding down gradually and taking care to avoid the light of the fire. Every now and then a twig would snag on his chain mail, but he succeeded in prizing himself free without a telltale snapping of wood.
At last he was back on solid ground, pressing his face into the grass and filling his n
ostrils with its fresh dewy scent. It was a welcome antidote to the pungent stench of orc.
Stealth had never been his strong point, so it seemed best to proceed on his belly like a caterpillar, pushing the bags in front of him while endeavoring to keep his posterior out of sight.
It turned out to be much harder than he’d hoped. The haft of his ax was forever jamming between his legs, his chain mail jangled with the slightest movement, and his boots struggled to find purchase on the slippery grass. His nerves were in tatters.
I knew I was a terrible climber, but trying to be quiet is worse, he thought, stopping to mop the sweat from his brow. Vraccas had intended the dwarves to fight in open combat. They took deliberate strides to get wherever they were going and built staircases when the gradient dictated. There was none of this sneaking around.
Barely ten paces separated the dozing sentry from Tungdil as he slithered past. Every feature of the trooper’s hideous countenance was visible in the moonlight. Its face was crisscrossed with war paint and ceremonial scars and milky saliva dribbled out of its mouth and down its protruding tusks, dripping onto its fat-slavered armor. The nostrils in its flat nose flared from time to time.
The dwarf was tempted to bury his ax in the beast’s oafish head, but he doubted his proficiency and in any case, one dead orc would scarcely save Goodwater from attack.
Relieved to be out of the camp, he crawled through the grass until he reached an irrigation channel at the edge of the field and slipped inside, disappearing from view.
The ditch allowed him to reach the fringes of a wood without being seen and at last it was safe to stand up. Now, that was an adventure by anyone’s standards. His clothes were coated in mud, but he had other, more pressing concerns. As far as he could recall, the wood was fairly small and the best course was to cut straight through it. He hoped to goodness that he wouldn’t lose his way.