The swordmage pulled his gaze away from his cousin’s back. He had a feeling that he would see more of Sergen soon enough, whether he wanted to or not. Instead, he summoned a wry smile for his uncle. “I’m no marvel, but I suppose I have seen some marvelous things in my travels,” he said. “I’ll try not to disappoint them.”
THREE
12 Ches, the Year of the Ageless One
Two hours before sunset, the orc-hold began to stir. Warriors rose from their pallets, stretching and yawning, heavy canines gleaming yellow in the dim light. Females stoked the cookfires, fed the livestock, and began their long round of drudgery and toil. The young scurried about underfoot, fetching water and firewood, emptying chamberpots, and tending to the scraggly goats, sheep, and fowl penned within the crudely built fortress. Orcs disliked the brightest hours of the day, and therefore the hold took its rest from shortly after sunrise to the late afternoon. Only the scouts, the sentries, and those young given the job of minding the herds in the fields nearby stayed awake through the bright hours of morning and midday.
The warchief Mhurren roused himself from his sleeping-furs and his women and pulled a short hauberk of heavy steel rings over his thick, well-muscled torso. He usually rose before most of his warriors, since he had a strong streak of human blood in him, and he found the daylight less bothersome than most of his tribe did. Among the Bloody Skulls, a warrior was judged by his strength, his fierceness, and his wits. Human ancestry was no blemish against a warrior—provided he was every bit as strong, enduring, and bloodthirsty as his full-blooded kin. Half-orcs who were weaker than their orc comrades didn’t last long among the Bloody Skulls or any other orc tribe for that matter. But it was often true that a bit of human blood gave a warrior just the right mix of cunning, ambition, and self-discipline to go far indeed, as Mhurren had. He was master of a tribe that could muster two thousand spears, and the strongest chief in Thar.
Yevelda sat up when he threw off the furs. She was his favorite wife, a tigress with more human than orc in her, much like himself. Slender as a switch of willow by the standards of most of the tribe’s women, she made up for her small size and clean features with catlike reflexes and pure, fierce intensity. With a knife in her hand, she was more deadly than many male warriors twice her weight. Even when he took her to the sleeping-furs, Mhurren never really let his guard down around her. She cuffed his two lesser wives, Sutha and Kansif, awake.
“Rise, you two,” Yevelda said. “See to the kitchens and make sure our guests are looked after. They judge our husband by the table you set. Do not disappoint me.”
The junior wives scrambled quickly out of the furs. Yevelda had shown more than once that she was quick to beat one, the other, or both if she had to repeat herself. Kansif was a young, full-blooded girl who was thoroughly cowed by the half-orc woman and desperate to please her. Sutha, on the other hand … Sutha was an older and far more cunning woman, the first of the three to have shared Mhurren’s furs and a strong-willed priestess in her own right. She was a strong, fit mixed-blood who was not at all happy about having been supplanted by Yevelda as Mhurren’s favorite. The chieftain guessed that Sutha was well along in several plots against Yevelda, but it wouldn’t do to intervene. If the favorite couldn’t keep the lesser wives in their place, then she wasn’t fit to be the favorite, was she? As she left, Sutha brushed by him with a sly smile and let her hand trail over the thick mail of his broad chest, moving just quickly enough to deprive Yevelda of a reason to chastise her.
Mhurren grinned in appreciation as he watched his lesser wives dress themselves and hurry from his chambers. Then he moved over to the slitlike window and brushed the heavy curtain out of the way. The day was bright, and faint hints of green growth speckled the gray hills and moorlands surrounding Bloodskull Hold. Thar was a hard land, barely suitable for a few scrawny herds of livestock, but with the coming of spring the passes would soon open, and he’d be able to send hunting parties to the mountain vales and the open steppeland beyond. It would be good for his warriors to have something to do. Too many of his orcs were growing bored and restless after the long winter, and that usually spelled trouble.
He glanced to his left and scowled. The camp of the Vaasans was still there, perched in the shelter of a rocky tor a quarter-mile from the hold’s walls. In the center of the humans’ tents stood a small tower of iron, summoned up out of nothing at all by the Vaasan lord’s magic. The humans had shown his tribe every respect, sending fine gifts ahead of their emissaries, and his scouts had counted an escort of almost two hundred spears for the lord they sent to speak to him—a sign of the man’s importance. But the fact remained that if negotiations were to take an ugly turn, he was not sure that he could drive the Vaasan company away from his keep, not with the sort of magic the black-clad humans evidently commanded.
“What do they want with me?” he growled.
Yevelda stretched out atop the furs, deliberately not covering herself to remind him why she was his favorite. She answered him, even though he had not meant the question for her. “You will find out soon enough,” she said in her throaty purr. “But if you must guess, then ask yourself this: What does the Vaasan lack?”
Mhurren grimaced in annoyance. Along with her straight, smooth limbs and dusky beauty, Yevelda’s human blood blessed her with the same sort of fiery ambition and quick curiosity he himself possessed. She had a mind every bit as sharp as his own and seemed to feel that entitled her to help him rule over the Bloody Skulls. In truth, Yevelda might just be clever, strong, and ruthless enough to govern the tribe without him, but it was rare indeed for any woman, no matter how exceptional, to rule as queen over orc warriors. “He’s here to bribe me to attack the Skullsmashers,” he guessed. “The stupid ogres don’t have enough sense to leave the Vaasans alone, so they send this man Terov to find my price for an alliance against King Guld and his band of dimwits.”
“What price would you demand for your aid?”
“Gold, furs, wine, good steel … and some assurance that the Vaasans will actually fight. I’ll be damned if I let my warriors get mashed to bloody pulp by the ogres while the Vaasans sit back and watch us kill each other.”
Yevelda rolled over onto her belly and looked up at him. “It depends which warriors, doesn’t it? I can think of a couple I wouldn’t be sorry to lose.”
Mhurren barked a short, harsh laugh. “True enough. The warriors grow restless, and it would be good to find someone to fight. My berserkers are ready to turn on each other. But I can’t let the tribe think the Vaasans played me for a fool. That would look weak.” He reached out and slapped her shapely flank. “I go to see what he thinks my price is.”
He buckled on his weapon harness and padded out of his den. Six fierce warriors with the elaborate facial scarring of the Skull Guard waited for him. They grounded the butts of their spears against the stone and shouted, “Kai! Kai!” when Mhurren appeared.
Without another word they fell in around him and escorted him through the keep’s tortuous passageways and cramped guardchambers, brutally striking and shouldering aside any who got in their way. Mhurren was as sure of their loyalty as he could be. He made sure that his personal guards freely plundered the rest of the tribe. Should anything ever happen to him, the warriors of the Skull Guard would not long survive his demise. And, just to be sure, years ago he’d had Sutha lay fearsome curses and compulsions on each Skull Guard with her priestess magic. But Sutha was likely not very pleased with him at the moment, not as long as Yevelda was first among his wives … he would be wise to have one of the battle-sorcerers or priests of Gruumsh test the spells that ensured his guards’ loyalty. If, of course, he could find a spellcaster other than Sutha that he trusted.
No matter, he told himself. The game was to remain chief as long as he could, father a son strong enough to succeed him, and try not to kill the whelp—or let the whelp kill him—before he was ready. But that day was still many long years off.
The warchief marched into the
keep’s great hall, a long, low-ceilinged room with thick pillars holding up a simple masonry vault. Four heavy braziers full of red-glowing coals illuminated the room. The walls were bedecked with the trophies the tribe had taken over the years—the crudely preserved skulls of hundreds of enemies, steeped in a crimson dye so that they always looked as if they were fresh and gory. Dwarves, humans, goblins, orcs, ogres, gnolls, even a handful of giants, all were represented among the dangling bones. The tribe’s priests knew the story of each one. Some were mighty enemies the Bloody Skulls had bested. Some were enemies known to have fallen beneath the axe or spear of a legendary Bloodskull chief or champion. But most expressed contempt, not respect. The skulls of women and children taken near places such as Glister or Hulburg or Thentia cluttered the walls, mocking enemies too weak to defend their families and homesteads from Bloodskull raids. Scores of orc warriors and their women slept in this room, and they were just beginning to stir when Mhurren and his guards made their appearance. “Kai! The warchief! The warchief!” shouted the Skull Guards as they kicked and prodded careless orcs out of the way.
Mhurren threw himself into the thronelike seat on its dais at the end of the hall, one hand resting on a short sword at his side. More than once he’d been attacked in that very seat, and he’d learned to keep steel close at hand. He surveyed the warriors in the hall for a moment and spotted one that would do. “Huwurth, take five spears and bring the Vaasan,” he commanded. “Tell him that I summon him, and that I am ready to hear him out. Give him time to make himself ready, and let him bring two hands of bodyguards if he wants. If he wants more than that, tell him no. Come back if he refuses.”
Huwurth, a young warleader, nodded. “I go, warchief,” he said. Despite his youth he was quite clever and patient, a rare combination. He gathered five warriors from his band and led them from the hall. Huwurth was smart enough to ignore almost any offense the humans might give, as long as he was doing Mhurren’s bidding. Others among the Bloodskull warleaders and berserkers simply couldn’t have walked into that camp without finding some mortal quarrel with a human who met the eye too long, or looked away too quickly, or turned his back, or found some new way to invite a battle.
Mhurren composed himself to wait, brooding with his chin on his fist as he studied the warriors watching him. There was a small commotion off to his right, and the warpriest Tangar appeared with his group of acolytes. To become a priest of Gruumsh, He Who Watches, a priest had to pluck out an eye, so Tangar and his followers each wore a thick leather patch stitched to cheek and brow. Evidently the warpriest had hurried from his chambers, for his acolytes were still busy fitting his armor plate to him as he strode into the room. Doubtless Tangar could not abide the idea of Mhurren holding court without him present. “You send for the Vaasan?” the cleric demanded.
The warchief frowned. “I will hear him out, priest,” he answered. He didn’t like the idea of Gruumsh’s priest hovering over his shoulder, but there was little he could do about it. He decided to occupy himself by tending to a chief’s duties and looked to the nearest Skull Guard. “I will hold judgment,” he said. “Does any warrior here have a quarrel to lay before me?”
A hale, scar-faced warrior came forward and dropped his spear on the floor. “I will speak,” he growled. “I am Buurthar.”
“I see you, Buurthar,” Mhurren replied. “You have set down your spear. Speak.”
Buurthar nodded and spoke briefly, explaining how another warrior’s young sons had shirked their shepherding duties, resulting in the loss of two of his own sheep. “I say that Gaalsh must give me two of his sheep since his lazy sons were careless of mine. Gaalsh says that the missing sheep were likely taken by a red tiger, and so he owes me nothing. What is your judgment, Chief?”
Mhurren had to judge over quarrels just like this every day. If a strong chief didn’t, one of the orcs in the quarrel would just kill the other, and the brothers or sons of the dead warrior would kill in return, and before long the hold would run red with the blood of the feuding orcs. Gaalsh, the other warrior, wasn’t at Bloodskull Keep, so Mhurren decided against him. “Hear my word, all of you! Until someone finds some sign of this tiger, Gaalsh must give two of his sheep to Buurthar. Now, pick up your spear and go.”
The veteran retrieved his spear, grinning in vindication. Mhurren doubted that any tiger had made off with the missing sheep, but he did not want to accuse a warrior who was not in front of him of stealing the other’s livestock. He heard two more quarrels between his warriors. Then Huwurth and his followers returned to the great hall.
Before them strode a tall human in armor of ebon plate, his face hidden beneath a black helm that was fitted with gilded ram’s horns curling from the sides. A single servant in a tunic and cloak of dark gray followed, a human woman who wore her reddish hair cut short in a warrior’s manner. She had a light mask of black across her eyes, but her face was otherwise bare. Six Vaasan knights in fine black mail guarded them.
Mhurren motioned with his hand, and the orcs before his throne shuffled out of the way, making space for the humans to approach him. The Vaasan lord was confident enough; he strode through the ranks of orc warriors filling the room as if he couldn’t care less that he’d just put fifty spears at his back should Mhurren decide to have him killed. The black knight halted a few feet before the throne and reached up to remove his helm. Beneath his helmet the man had pale skin, hair of iron gray, and a clean-shaven face. His eyes were a deep, bloody crimson.
“You are Warchief Mhurren?” the man asked in passable Orcish.
“I am Mhurren. Who are you, Vaasan, and what do you want with the Bloody Skulls?”
“I am Kardhel Terov, an fellthane of the Warlock Knights. And I am here to offer you power, Warchief—the power to make yourself the king of all Thar. Every tribe in this land will call you master and do as you bid them.”
“We are already the strongest tribe in Thar!” Tangar the priest shouted angrily. “Who dares to make war against us? No one, human!”
Fanaticism was occasionally useful, Mhurren reflected. The cleric saved him the trouble of raising his own voice. He held up his hand to restrain the priest from speaking further, since he did not really want to provoke a fight with the Vaasans without at least finding out why they were here.
“Power? What power?” Mhurren sneered.
“I can deliver to you the Burning Daggers, the Skullsmashers, and the Red Claws,” Terov said. “They will call you lord, pay you tribute, and march as you command. I can arm your warriors with a thousand hauberks of good steel mail. I can give you ten Warlock Knights to wield their battle magic in your service. And I have control over a number of strong monsters from the high mountains—manticores, giants, chimeras, even a young dragon or two. They will be yours to command. Tell me, Warchief Mhurren, what would you do with an army such as that?”
Mhurren laughed harshly. “Raze Glister, smash Hulburg and Phlan, lay Thentia and Melvaunt under tribute … and if you give us warships too, I suppose we might cross the Moonsea and burn Myth Drannor while we’re at it! Why not?”
The Warlock Knight’s mouth twisted in a cold smile. “I don’t think we’ll have to burn the elves out of their forest—yet. But as for the rest, so be it. The cities you named I will give to you to sack or enslave as you wish.”
“They are not yours to give away, human.”
“No, but they are yours to take, Chief of the Bloody Skulls. Glister you might manage without my help, perhaps Hulburg too, but the others are beyond your strength. I can change that. Are you interested? Or shall I go to Guld of the Skullsmashers or Kraashk of the Red Claws and make one of them king in your place?”
The warchief’s laughter died in his throat. Mhurren leaned forward in his throne and scowled at the Vaasan. “You mock me, Vaasan,” he said slowly. “Assuming you can do all that you say, why would you? What price do you demand?”
Kardhel Terov glanced at the crowded audience chamber and switched to the human tongue. “I
am told you understand Vaasan, but few of your warriors do,” he said in that language. “My price is an oath of fealty to the High Circle of Fellthanes, sworn on my iron ring.”
“You come into my keep and expect me to bend my knee to you?” Mhurren hissed in the human’s language. He surged up from his seat and seized a spear from the nearest of his Skull Guards. With a fierce cry he hurled the weapon with all the strength of his rage right at the Vaasan’s heart.
The heavy iron-shod spear flashed through the air, striking Terov in the center of his chest—and rebounded, shattered into kindling. The Warlock Knight staggered back a step and grunted from the sheer mass of the spear, but he was otherwise unhurt. Mhurren’s sudden fury abandoned him. He knew his own strength. Thrown at ten paces, the spear should have transfixed the human and carried two feet or more through his back. But instead the weapon had snapped like a dry twig.
The surrounding orcs roared in anger and astonishment at the sorcery revealed in their midst. Some recoiled in fear, while others rushed forward to drown the Vaasans in a black tide of stabbing blades before any more magic could be used. But the black-veiled woman behind the Warlock Knight quickly slashed her hand across her body and hissed a few words in some sibilant language. A racing windblast of ebon flames appeared around the Vaasan party, howling and swirling as it walled the Bloody Skull warriors away from the humans. A warrior in the back of the room threw another spear, but it was caught by the sorceress’s black flames and burned to ash in midair.
“Hold your warriors, Mhurren!” Terov shouted. “We are protected by powerful magic, and any who approach will be killed!”
Mhurren was sorely tempted to put the Vaasan’s threat to the test, but somehow he found the last vestige of his patience. He could always order his warriors to fall on the humans later, but clearly Terov wanted to talk, and he’d been respectful enough of Mhurren’s strength to protect himself with magic before entering the audience chamber.
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