The third barrow held better fare. It apparently belonged to a tailor, and dozens of mutedly coloured cloth bales littered the stall, either hanging from horizontally arranged dowels or freestanding. Half a dozen garment samples hung at the back of his stand. Marrok smiled at the dark green-skinned tailor who eyed him suspiciously.
‘Greetings, tailor, I require clothing,’ said Marrok.
‘For what purpose do you need Madorine clothing? What you wear is suitable attire for a human.’
‘My purpose for your wares is my own business. Suffice it to say I do not wish to travel these cursed lands in this finery when your more humble cloth will do.’
The Madorine raised his lip and coughed, spitting the contents of a lung onto the ground. ‘Very well, your business is your own. I trust you wish to barter?’
‘No, I want to buy with gold,’ Marrok replied. He reached into his clothing and withdrew a handful of coins.
The Madorine’s eyes glinted with greed as he wrung his hands in anticipation. Marrok had no doubt treacherous thoughts were running through this creature’s mind. He had better seal the deal before he found dozens of Madorine relieving him of his gold and quite possibly his life.
‘I require twelve of your finest cloaks, breeches, boots and tunics,’ said Marrok, and fingered the cloth of the nearest bale.
The tailor looked puzzled. ‘Twelve? There is but one of you. Why do you need twelve of each item?’
Marrok thought quickly, his eyes searching for an answer. ‘I have eleven soldiers, not including myself, over the brow of that hill waiting to wear your fine clothes so that we may enter Madorine unhindered and raid the City of Mador,’ he bluffed, his heart in his throat.
The tailor’s eyes narrowed and then creased as he guffawed heartily. ‘Eleven soldiers indeed. You are funny. You could never raid the city with that many soldiers. It would mean certain death.’
Marrok’s heart dropped back into place, his bluff had worked. ‘It’s true it would.’
‘What size, human?’ the Madorine asked in the common tongue and with surprising articulation.
‘To my height and build if you please.’
The tailor looked him up and down. ‘I’ve not made clothing in your size before. You are small to Madorine.’
Marrok nodded, there was no denying that. ‘When will the garments be ready?’
The Madorine scratched his head. ‘Maybe morning. Wife and young work through night. Get them ready.’
Marrok cursed his luck; he was not looking forward to another night on the hillside. He wanted to push forward and seek the sword.
‘Then I shall return early. Be sure that everything is ready. What is the price for your work?’
‘Two gold coins for each. Twenty-four, my count.’
‘Very well, till tomorrow then.’ Marrok nodded and turned to leave.
The tailor coughed and held out his hand. ‘Payment?’
Marrok nodded and deposited twelve gold coins in the hand of the Madorine; a feeling of revulsion rushed through him as he did so.
The orc looked confused.
‘I will pay half now and a half on receipt of the goods,’ said Marrok.
The Madorine growled threateningly.
‘Take it or leave it. That is the price of our deal,’ said Marrok, holding out his hand for repayment of the gold coins.
The tailor hastily hid the coins in his robe and grimaced, which Marrok took to be a smile. ‘Till tomorrow.’
Marrok smiled smugly. ‘I thought you’d see it that way.’
❖
Dressed as Madorine, the raiding party skirted the trading camp and headed further into the valley. Their next stop was a beer tent if they could find one, where they would hopefully find a drunkard who would divulge the location of Mador.
‘Are you sure these were the best clothes you could find? Aside from the boots pinching and the cloak being too small, I do believe this shirt is literally removing my skin scratch by scratch,’ Torith complained.
‘Oh, please pipe down, Torith, you’re worse than a cadet,’ said Jonjo.
Torith looked lost in thought for a moment. ‘You know, I do believe you are correct,’ he chuckled. ‘Old man Quendar, he used to be the tailor before his son Quandar took over. He would purchase the worst and most itchiest material he could find. Thank the heavens his son saw sense and bought finer cloth than did his father. I swear after training I’d come back with the worst of blisters in places a man shouldn’t get blisters.’
Marrok looked behind him at the procession of soldiers following them, and could not help but smirk at the constant attempts to rearrange their new clothing or try to scratch an itch that could not be scratched.
‘It’s like having a bunch of gorillas following us,’ Marrok remarked at the bodily contortions attempted by the men to scratch hard-to-reach places.
‘Before or after the new clothing?’ Jonjo laughed.
They trudged on, mile after mile until they came to a rough road that was more or less straight. It had been cut through the rock by hand and was made from closely packed pebbles. A lot of work had gone into its construction.
Marrok looked at the others. ‘I thought these people were nomadic? The very idea of a road is unknown to them. Why would they need a road?’
‘It is a puzzle for sure. This road must lead somewhere important, and perhaps a place where we can glean the information we seek,’ said Torith brightly.
It was certainly easier on the feet to travel the road than traversing the volcanic rock valleys. They complained less about the clothing they’d acquired and after a dozen more miles of watching the boiling sun move slowly across the sky, they came to a bend in the road; however, upon rounding it, they received a shock.
A permanent structure had been built off the road that looked enticing indeed. A swinging sign with a crudely drawn image of a cow being slaughtered and the words: ‘The Dead Cow’ identified this to anyone who lived in a village or town that this was a tavern, a place to drink, sleep, and more importantly entertain their lust for women. It was unusually tall for a typical city tavern and must have had rooms above for sleeping and entertainment. The building was timber-framed, evidenced by the thick crossbeams running diagonally across it, and a brick chimney running on the outside of the construction belched black smoke. The whole edifice was a welcome sight indeed in this barren place. To its left, a stable had been constructed and was unoccupied.
They approached the three-storey wooden structure cautiously. They were humans in a hostile land, after all, and an inadvertently antagonistic action on their part might cause offence. They could find themselves in the middle of a dispute or worse, a fight, which would ultimately endanger the mission.
Familiar sounds came from the tavern, that of any regular drinking hole. Laughter and music filtered through an open window, intermingled with clouds of tobacco smoke.
The group stopped outside of the entrance and huddled together to discuss the next step.
‘I believe we need to send in two people to assess the situation and the friendliness of this place,’ said Jonjo.
‘I volunteer,’ a keen young soldier offered with a raised hand.
‘The draw of ale is strong in this one,’ Jonjo winked. ‘Very well, that’s one volunteer, do we have another?’
‘I’ll go,’ Marrok proposed.
Torith pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure if that is such a good idea.’
‘Why not? I’m no more valuable than this man.’
A murmur went through the junior ranks, one of approval and respect for their new general that he would risk his life so readily alongside a lower-ranking soldier.
‘I must object.’
‘Object all you wish, but I’m going.’
‘Very well, it’s your decision,’ Torith acquiesced unhappily. ‘It is settled, General Wulf and Private Scroggins will assess the tavern and report back in five minutes. If you haven’t returned by that time, we will come knocking.�
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Marrok nodded and shook hands with Torith and Jonjo. ‘See you in five minutes, and you do realise of course I will have drunk three ales by then,’ he laughed.
Eleven men laughed with him. Even if it was a nervous laugh, it felt good to relieve the tension.
Marrok took a second look at the building and marvelled at how manmade it appeared. The slope of the roof tiles, the cut of the glass bay windows and even the whitewashed walls all reminded him of the tavern in the village close to Draken’s home. He gripped the door handle and pulled. It opened with a creak, and he stepped inside, closely followed by Scroggins.
The decoration was almost exactly the same as the tavern back home in Relton; the bar was in the same position, and the beamed ceiling, far too low, was no different. It reeked of ale and beer, and the stench of sweat permeated the air.
The patrons in the bar hardly batted an eyelid as they ventured into the room. A few colourful characters in the more shadowy parts of the bar watched them quietly, and yet most customers continued to drink or play table games animatedly, happy to laugh at one joke or another. Marrok was satisfied with that, and also pleased to see the room was filled with peoples of all races. Unlike the Madorine that he had been taught about as a child, these people seemed tolerant, and that meant he was free to come and go in relative safety.
He approached the long wooden bar and leant against it. He saw a human behind it with his back to him, bald and wearing a leather tunic.
‘Barman, I’ll have your finest ale, and the same for my friend.’
The barman turned, scratched his oversized stomach, and greeted Marrok with a toothy grin. Then his eyes opened wide in recognition. ‘Well, if it isn’t Draken Wulf’s nephew Marrow. No, wait, Marrok. How are you doing boy?’
Marrok was aware that every head in the room had turned to look at him. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Do I know you?’
‘Know me? Of course, you should know me, I’m Jensen, Draken used to bring you to that fleapit of a tavern in Relton I used to run. That was before I moved here of course. Got myself quite a little earner here, so I have, thanks to the new road I built. I hope to start a whole new village here.’
‘Ah, yes of course. I’m pleased for you and good luck with that,’ said Marrok. Although he did not sound pleased in the slightest.
Jensen leant closer to Marrok. ‘You shouldn’t be here. Many folks here don’t think highly of your uncle, and I can’t say what they’d do to his nephew. If you get my meaning?’
‘They wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t opened your mouth.’
‘Sorry about that, I was just so surprised to see you here of all places. It’s a dangerous place to be for a boy.’
‘So I’m told,’ said Marrok, and did not appreciate the reference to his being a boy. ‘What has my uncle done to upset these people?’
‘The way I hear it, he was part of a plot to overthrow The Brotherhood, years back now. A lot of the folks here were duped into following him and that other guy, what was his name now? Lordich, yes, that’s the name. Well, their plan went belly-up, and Draken and a lot of other people were cast out of The Brotherhood and banished to Madorine. He got lucky and was allowed to stay in Rosthagaar, he being the brother of your father you see. It is not a good idea you being here. These former brethren aren’t too happy with old Draken.’
Marrok now understood why Menin despised Draken, and his hatred for the old man increased. He would need to report his findings to Coinin as soon as possible. There was more to their uncle it seemed. ‘I see your point. Before I go, there is one small favour I might ask. I need some information.’
The barman wiggled pudgy fingers at him. ‘I don’t trade in favours, boy, it’ll cost you.’
Marrok sighed and reached for the single gold coin that remained from the handful given to him, and dropped it into the barman’s hand.
Jensen snatched it and then bit it before secreting it in his pocket with a satisfied grunt. He then indicated that he and Marrok should move out of earshot with a nod of his head.
Marrok obeyed and moved further down the bar to a relatively quiet corner and leant conspiratorially over it. ‘Can you tell me where the City of Mador is headed, or indeed where it is now?’
Jensen’s face contorted and he rubbed his chin. ‘Now why would you be wanting to go there? It’s not a safe place for a boy, let alone a man, and a human at that.’
Marrok glared at the barman. ‘I have private business there, but I’m having trouble finding the city. Can you help or not?’
‘Oh, I can help, the way is easy. Follow the road as far as it goes, and then turn right and follow the trail east until you reach a high outcrop on the side of Mount Dibor, a dual volcano. From the vantage point there you will see below you a vast tract of land. If the city is there, you won’t miss it,’ Jensen finished.
Marrok nodded solemnly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Be careful, boy, there are great dangers out there. Now go before this rabble get any ideas about harming you,’ Jensen urged, eyeing the bar dwellers nervously.
Marrok turned and felt an overwhelming tension in the room and noticed for the first time that the musicians no longer played and every eye in the place glared at him.
‘Private?’ he said to Scroggins. ‘Let’s leave now.’
The pair quickly made for the exit and squeezed past beer- and ale-intoxicated individuals who stared fiercely at them. They hurried from the tavern and continued walking without looking back. Torith and Jonjo, patiently waiting outside, looked at each other with quizzical faces and then jogged after them.
‘General Wulf, is there a problem?’ Jonjo asked.
‘Not really, unless you take into account that everyone in that tavern is out for my blood, thanks to my uncle. We need to finish this mission quickly and get out of Madorine fast,’ Marrok replied.
‘I could not agree more.’ Torith nodded and whistled a signal to the rest of the men to join them. He looked back at the tavern and wished he had not. Two dozen patrons had left the bar and now stalked them murderously, and a dozen or more carried weapons.
The raiding party quickened the pace, and so did the tavern customers, much to the annoyance of Marrok.
‘I suggest we make a run for it and then when it is safe, I shall return to the temple. This mission is at risk due to my presence,’ Marrok announced.
‘Nonsense, we are in this together. We are a small unit and vastly outnumbered, but we will finish this together,’ Jonjo began. ‘There is, however, one thing we agree on. We should make a break for it.’
Torith and the other men nodded in agreement.
‘Fine then, the plan is simple, outrun them. They look to be unfit drunkards, most of them, which is in our favour, though we cannot afford to be injured or slow down, so run and keep running until you reach the end of this road. We will regroup there,’ Marrok said.
‘Well, you heard the man, get moving,’ Torith ordered.
As the unit filed past, man-by-man, Marrok took one last look at the tavern customers in pursuit and cursed Draken for involving him in his lies and deceptions.
He turned tail and ran as fast as he could along the road, glancing over his shoulder now and then. Several of the followers kept pace with him, and he was thankful his armour had been left behind. It was now just a matter of outrunning them. He was fit and did not spend his days inside a tavern, so he figured he had a fighting chance of outstripping them.
After thirty minutes of continuous running and his leg muscles screaming at him to stop, one by one the stalkers fell back exhausted. He eased off slightly, just enough to calm the stabbing pain creeping up his leg to that of a throb, yet he kept on running. He had done it; he had lost his would-be assailants, and now he slowed to a jog. Up ahead he could see the rest of the unit gathered at the road’s end, gasping for air, and exercising tired muscles.
He quickly rejoined them and did his best to stop a cramp setting in. He reached into his pack and withdrew a leath
er canteen and took a long swig of water. It tasted bitter and warm, but he was glad of it.
‘We’ve lost them,’ said Marrok breathlessly.
‘For now at least,’ Torith replied. ‘I think it prudent we keep moving and move quickly. Where to, General?’
Marrok looked to his right. ‘That way.’ He pointed. ‘We should keep moving east until we come to a twin volcano. The barman said we should see the city below us.’
Torith turned to the assembled unit. ‘Right, men, we are heading right at double time. Gather your equipment, we’re moving out.’
Each of the soldiers checked their packs, ensuring that swords and arrows were secure alongside their rations and water. Torith and Jonjo did the same and then headed out after Marrok, who had set off at double speed.
The going was harsh yet nowhere near as rough as the volcanic valleys. The ground was at least flat dry mud with a sprinkling of hardy grasses. The unit continued for more than an hour and then stopped for five minutes.
‘This is hard going,’ said Jonjo. ‘I’m getting a little long in the tooth for this. I think when we get back I’ll ask Curator Wulf for a more sedate position.’
‘Training cadets? There is not a chance that would satisfy you.’ Torith shook his head disbelievingly.
‘You’d really give up on all this fun?’ Marrok asked.
‘When you’ve done this as long as I have, and your joints ache as does your back, then yes, even you would happily surrender active duty for a more instructive task,’ Jonjo confirmed.
‘I don’t think that would ever happen,’ Marrok shrugged.
‘You’re young, you’ll see what I mean in twenty to thirty years’ time.’ Jonjo rose stiffly. ‘Move out,’ he ordered.
❖
It grew darker with every minute that passed as the unit knelt on a flat rocky outcrop under the shadow of Mount Dibor. It overlooked a vast region of land as far as the eye could see. Oddly, the land was unlike any other they had seen in Madorine. It was lush and green with plenty of vegetation and forest. Marrok now knew why King Curlicca would pitch his tented city here; it provided cover and food for any livestock, and wood for burning and building.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 33