Erik And The Dragon ( Book 4)

by Sam Ferguson

  Nerekar waited for another hour. He wanted to make sure that his target had retired for the night, and give the fire enough time to burn low. The assassin watched the smoke to judge his timing and then, when he was satisfied, he prepared himself. He pulled thick gloves onto his hands and tied leather pads to his elbows. Lastly he put on a pair of goggles, made from the thick, translucent scales of the bortuga fish. Then he clambered over the top of the chimney, held his breath, and descended into the chute.

  It was a tight fit, but he was able to squeeze in. The goggles protected his eyes from the smoke so he could see where he was going and his special leather gloves and pads insulated his hands and elbows from being burned. The heat from the fire roiled over his body and within a couple of seconds he was sweating heavily and the oil on his face was burnt away, leaving a naked, hot sensation on his cheeks and forehead.

  Nerekar quickened his pace, spidering down the chute and mostly managing to avoid touching the wall with unprotected skin, except for once when he bumped his knee on a small piece of brick that jutted out into the chute. When he reached the hearth’s opening he stuck his head down to look about. A couple flames leapt up to lick his forehead, but he paid it no mind. This was not the first time he had used such an entrance.

  Noting that the room was dark, and void of anyone, he deftly reached out with one arm and maneuvered himself out of the fireplace without so much as singing his leg hairs. He straightened his back and shivered slightly as his skin tightened and adjusted back to a normal temperature. He quietly let out the breath he was holding and removed his goggles. Nerekar then moved to the far side of the main chamber and bent down to look through the space under the door. He pressed his cheek into the floor and his eyeball darted up and down the narrow field of vision. He spied only a pair of empty boots resting next to a bed.

  Next he went up to the keyhole and peered through. It offered him an even narrower vantage, but he spied his target’s feet poking up through a green blanket on the bed. He turned his ear to the keyhole and listened to the rhythmic, slow breathing inside.

  The orc chief was asleep.

  Nerekar opened the door and crept in quieter than a snake in the grass. He closed the door behind him and stepped into the room. He quickly scanned the area and then scaled the nearest wall and grabbed hold of the heavy, thick crossbeams in the ceiling. He monkeyed through them, positioning himself directly over Gariche.

  The large orc snorted and his mouth fell open, emitting low, rumbling breaths.

  The assassin pulled a small vial out from his belt and gently twisted the cork out. He then pulled a line of silk out of a small pouch on his belt and dipped the end into the vial. The green liquid clung to the silk line and Nerekar smiled wickedly. He rolled his hand around, unwinding the silk line in front of him and lowering the wet end down to Gariche’s mouth. No sooner did the silk line brush against Gariche’s lower tusk than the green liquid glued it to the tooth.

  Nerekar corked the vial and pulled a second glass vial out from his belt. He used his free thumb to gently slide the shellbug cap to its open position and then tipped the vial slowly to the line. The clear liquid inside rolled slowly at first, and then when it hit the silk line several drops raced down to the sleeping orc below.

  The drops rolled off the silk and dripped into Gariche’s mouth. The orc snorted and coughed, rolling over and detaching the silk line from his tooth. Nerekar quickly reeled the line in and waited. A few moments later Gariche jerked to the side and a hand clasped at his chest. The orc’s eyes shot open and he gasped for air. Then he twitched and fell back in his bed.

  The Blacktongue clambered down the wall and went to the side of Gariche’s bed. The thin assassin easily lifted the large orc up onto his shoulders and carried him to the door. He shuffled the weight onto one shoulder and then used his left hand to open the door. He walked out into the main room and set Gariche in a chair near the hearth. Quickly, he went and grabbed a half empty bottle of wine and placed it into Gariche’s left hand, careful to wrap the orc’s fingers around the handle. He then placed the fire poker in Gariche’s right hand. Speedily went back to the bedroom and pulled the green blanket from the bed and draped it over Gariche. He then grabbed a couple new logs and put them on the fire.

  Then the assassin put his goggles back on and clambered up the chimney before the flames caught onto the new logs.

  *****

  “Well, it is a fine design,” Gilifan said as he admired the plan for the battering ram. “I especially like the fact that it can spew fire from the front. That is ingenious.”

  Gersimon laughed proudly. “Every piece of the ram is made of iron, so it will not only throw fire, but it will be immune to it, that’s why I call it the dragon.”

  Gilifan nodded. “I appreciate you taking the time to show it to me, but it is late. I should probably be going back.”

  “There is one more thing I would like to show you.” Gersimon motioned with his arm and exited the large workshop. Gilifan ran a finger over the smooth side of the ram again and then followed after the orc. He walked through the small hallway and found Gersimon standing at the end. He put a finger over his lips and then reached into a brass pot. Something clicked and then the end of the hallway swung open, leading to a steep staircase. The orc gestured with his head for Gilifan to go first.

  The necromancer quick-stepped down the stairs, hunching over slightly to avoid ramming his head into the uneven brick ceiling. The smell of dirt and cobwebs assaulted his nose and he put a hand up over his face to keep the musty odor at bay as best he could.

  A single lamp burned down below, shadows dancing and flicking this way and that as the flame twitched and writhed. A large orc sat at the table wearing simple leather trousers, a sleeveless jerkin, a pair of thick, heavy wrist bracers engraved with the image of a horse trampling a serpent, and a pair of rugged black boots. The orc turned, smiling from behind his heavy tusks, and rose to his feet. The chair scraped across the stone floor as he rose. He was easily a head taller than Gilifan, and his shoulders were twice as wide.

  “Gulgarin,” Gilifan said respectfully. “It is an honor to finally meet you face to face.”

  “I will leave the two of you alone,” Gersimon said as he returned upstairs and shut the door.

  Gulgarin pointed his thick arm to the floor above. “My cousin, and blood-brother since we were only six years old. Both raised by our uncle when our parents were slain.”

  Gilifan nodded. “He is every bit as cunning as you said,” Gilifan commented. “I am surprised he was able to ingratiate himself here in Gariche’s clan so easily.”

  “Gersimon came here a few years ago, after the plague had been wiped out. The clan here was in need of an engineer, and my cousin is the best, so they welcomed him readily.”

  “Gariche never suspected that an engineer from another tribe might be his undoing?”

  Gulgarin growled and his upper lip curled back. “Gariche is a fool. If allowed to rule he would lead this entire clan away from our traditions.”

  “Fool though he may seem, I can sympathize with his motives for changing his ways. I was told there was a curse,” Gilifan said.

  Gulgarin waved his hand and shook his head. “The rulers of Hammenfein reward bravery, honor, and above all, fortitude and will. They may have cursed him once before, but he surrendered. He stopped fighting for what he wanted. If he was cursed before, then he is one hundred times worse off for it now.”

  “I see,” Gilifan said. He approached a few steps closer. “So, what is it you want to do?”

  “The same as I told you in our letters. Were you able to convince Gariche to fight with you?”

  Gilifan shook his head. “Gariche has chosen the peaceful exit.”

  Gulgarin pounded a strong left fist into his thick right palm. “Then he is one thousand times cursed!”

  “Let the gods punish him as they will,” Gilifan said. “But what about you? Do you still stand with me?”

  Gulg
arin puffed out his barrel of a chest. “If none of the orc tribes would fight, I would go alone with you to Ten Forts and break down the walls myself.”

  Gilifan smiled. “That is what I wanted to hear.”

  “What about you?” the orc asked. “How will you deliver your promise to me?”

  The necromancer held a palm up in the air and sneered wickedly. “Let’s just say that I think Gariche is going to have a bit of trouble with his heart tonight. In fact, he should be cold already.”

  “Magic,” Gulgarin grumbled. “Never liked it much.”

  “Maybe that is why the orcs have never been able to retake their homeland from the humans,” Gilifan countered.

  Gulgarin looked up to the necromancer menacingly and clenched his fists.

  “Easy, my friend. It was not an insult, merely an observation.”

  “Magic is for those who are not strong enough to fight for themselves,” Gulgarin countered.

  Gilifan bristled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I have taken my share of heads by the sword,” the necromancer said. “However, I didn’t use magic on Gariche.”

  Gulgarin raised a bushy black eyebrow and then skewed his face into a grotesque, disapproving frown. “Poison then?”

  Gilifan nodded.

  Gulgarin snorted. “That’s worse. Poison is the way of cowards.”

  “I recall a group of orcish assassins that rely primarily on poison,” Gilifan said.

  “Not in my tribe,” Gulgarin spat.

  “Brute strength is well and good, but this matter was delicate. I can’t very well walk into town and lop the chief’s head off.”

  “You have the token of debt,” Gulgarin pointed out. “The chief of this tribe has to honor it.”

  “Exactly,” Gilifan said. “And now the new chief will be bound by it.”

  A grin slowly appeared on Gulgarin’s face. “Oh, but you are an evil viper aren’t you?”

  Gilifan sniggered. “I will ask the new chief to honor our alliance. However, he has sworn a blood oath to kill me once the token has been spent.”

  Gulgarin nodded. “I can see to it that Maernok falls at Ten Forts.”

  “Well then,” Gilifan started with a shrug. “Seeing as how Maernok has no heir, I suppose you will also have to assume rule of this clan as well.”

  Gulgarin’s grin widened to reveal his top row of teeth. “It would be the only proper thing to do,” he said.

  The door upstairs opened and Gersimon ran down the steps. “The guards are on their way here. We need to go!”

  Gilifan nodded and went up the stairs while Gulgarin went out of the chamber through a large keg that opened into another secret tunnel. The necromancer and Gersimon had only just returned to the workshop and grabbed the set of battering ram plans when they heard shattering wood and a horde of heavy boots stomping through the house.

  “I’ll kill you now you measly dung eating worm!” Maernok shouted as he pulled a heavy mace from his belt. The guards at his side each drew weapons of their own.

  Gilifan pulled the token of debt out from his robes. “Have you forgotten what I hold?” he shouted. “Gariche still owes me a debt!”

  “Gariche is dead!” Maernok roared. “And you will soon join him.”

  “STOP!” Gersimon shouted. “If Gariche is dead, then you are chief. By our traditions you have to honor the token of debt.”

  “Don’t tell me what my traditions are, outsider!” Maernok spat.

  “Maernok,” one of the guards said. “Gersimon is right. It is our way. You have to honor the debt.”

  Maernok stormed up to Gilifan and stuck the mace in the man’s face. “Come on, wizard, show me your magic and I will end everything right here, right now.”

  Gilifan took a step to the side. “Gariche is dead?” he asked with feigned concern.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know,” Maernok bellowed. “You are the one who killed him!”

  Gilifan put the token back in his pocket. “I came to ask for my debt to be repaid, not to kill him,” he said. Then he looked to the guards. “Where is he, how did he die?”

  The guards looked to each other for a moment, shrugging and whispering among themselves.

  “How did he die?” Gilifan repeated.

  Maernok stepped in and slammed the top of his mace into Gilifan’s stomach. The wizard doubled over and fell to his knees. “I don’t know what you are up to, cur, but it ends now.” Maernok raised his mace high over his head.

  A crack of lightning flew out from Gilifan’s fingers and slammed into Maernok, sending him flying into the far wall and crashing through shelves with tools and bits of metal. “Enough,” Gilifan hissed. He snapped the fingers of his left hand and a cord of fire surrounded the guards. He looked to them. “Stay where you are, and you will be fine. Try to leave the ring of fire and you will be turned to ash.” Gilifan picked up a large iron strut and tossed it to the fire. The magical flames ate through it faster than if it had been paper, dropping only rancid ash on the floor.

  The guards stood still.

  Gilifan pointed to Maernok. “If I wanted to kill Gariche, I would have,” he said. “I would have walked up to him and plunged a magical bolt of lightning straight through his heart and been done with it.”

  Maernok rolled to his feet and picked up a large brass plate and moved to advance on Gilifan. The necromancer sent another bolt of lightning through the brass plate, knocking Maernok to the ground.

  “I came to ask him to repay his debt,” Gilifan said again. He pulled the token of debt from his robes again.

  “You are bound to honor it,” Gersimon told Maernok.

  Maernok looked up and wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Alright, then ask for your payment,” he said. “Then, when it is paid, our debt is clean and you are no longer welcome in orc lands.”

  “I am marching on Ten Forts,” Gilifan said. “Gather your armies and fight with me. When Ten Forts falls, then your debt is repaid.” Gilifan held the hematite token out in his hand.

  “When the debt is paid, I will fulfill my blood oath,” Maernok promised.

  “Very well,” Gilifan said. “When Ten Forts has fallen, you shall give me two days to depart from orc lands. After that, your debt is paid and you are free to pursue whatever you wish.”

  “One day,” Maernok countered.

  Gilifan shook his head. “Two days. That is my offer.”

  Maernok stood and placed his hand over the token of debt. “As chief of the Tiger Tribe, I swear that we will march with you and your men to Ten Forts. We will help you conquer it. From the moment the battle is won, you shall have two days to flee to wherever you wish. After that, I am free to hunt you down and slay you like the rabid dog you are.”

  “Agreed,” Gilifan said with a nod of his head.

  A loud ringing emitted from the token between their hands and a great, red and orange light shot out from between their fingers and filled the room.

  “The price is set,” Gilifan said. Maernok pulled his hand back and all looked down to see the token. It now glowed red and black, as though it were made of roiling lava. The Necromancer placed it back in his pocket, admiring the light as it glowed through the fabric. “Get your armies ready,” he said. “We leave soon.” He waved his left hand and the ring of magical fire dissipated into the air and the orcs breathed easy.

  “You will stay here with Gersimon tonight,” Maernok ordered. “You are no longer a guest in the longhouse.” Maernok and the other orcs left abruptly without another word.

  After they left Gilifan went back to the secret staircase.

  “Gulgarin has left through the tunnel,” Gersimon said. “You won’t see him again until the battle.”

  “It is not Gulgarin I wish to speak with. Leave me in peace for a while.”

  Gersimon nodded with a shrug and started to pick up the tools and parts that had been knocked to the floor.

  Once Gilifan was in the secret chamber he sat on the cold floor and
drew a circle in the dust before him. A small white and orange flame appeared on the floor in the center of the circle. Gilifan waved a hand over it and it grew a pair of leathery wings, skinny legs, and awkward arms and hands tipped with claws. The necromancer gently blew the flame away with his breath, leaving only the light brown skin of the creature before him.

  “Imp,” Gilifan began. “Carry a message to Tu’luh for me.”

  The creature nodded its bald head and a pair of pointy ears perked upright to listen.

  “Tell him that the orcs will soon march on Ten Forts. I will travel with the orc forces.” Gilifan then mimed a circle in the air nearby with his right hand and a small, crystalline tunnel bored through the air. The imp flew into the tunnel and vanished along with it.

  Gilifan waited patiently for several minutes. The anticipation of Tu’luh’s response made the time drag by agonizingly slow, as if each second were an hour. There were not many beings on this plane that Gilifan feared, but Tu’luh was definitely one of them. He only hoped that his new success would outweigh the dragon’s disappointment of past failures.

  A small sparkle rippled through the air, as if a fleck of silver dangled near Gilifan’s face. Then all at once the small tunnel of crystal expanded rapidly and the imp flew back into the room.

  “The master says he is pleased with this news,” the imp hissed.

  Gilifan let out a small sigh of relief.

  “He says he will provide misdirection for you. It should delay the boy and his comrades from getting to Ten Forts.”

  “So the boy lives then?” Gilifan clarified.

  “He does,” the imp confirmed. “The master says he will send a small surprise for them shortly though, and it should soften them up for you and your army.”

  “Very well,” Gilifan said.

  The imp grinned evilly, baring its wicked fangs. “Can I go hunt now?”

  “Not here,” Gilifan replied. The imp scowled and hissed. The necromancer waved his hand dismissively. “Back to the fires of Hammenfein for you, imp. Go and prey upon the souls of the lowly and damned.”