by Sam Ferguson
The orc’s mind returned to the present as he tucked the map away for safe keeping and decided to give in to the call of sleep.
Chapter 8
True to his word, Torgath led the trio out of town just as the first warm rays of light broke over the tall spires that marred the eastern horizon. As he looked to those jagged peaks his very soul trembled. He had gotten little sleep during the night, but he was used to that. Shadows from his past and the ghosts he had yet to face haunted any dreams his mind tried to give him. He never woke screaming or anything that might let his two companions know his torment, but the cumulative effects left him tired and dreading the nights.
Tui and Kiuwa, on the other hand, seemed haunted by nothing at all, which Torgath thought odd knowing their past as he did. Each of them had done things that even an orc would balk at. Torgath sniffed and grinned a bit, realizing that was probably why Kiuwa was so adamant about not causing any new trouble. Likely the pair had been through here once before, just long enough for the years to wipe away recognition of their faces, but not so long that their efforts would be entirely forgotten if they were brought in by a competent interrogator. Torgath made a mental note to try and accommodate his hirelings if possible. Not that he had had much choice the previous night.
The group got onto the main road and made their way for Brinsmouth, the next city along their route worth stopping at. After that, there would be one or two outposts, and then perhaps a watchtower before the secret pass. Torgath’s hand absently floated down to pat his right side, where he kept the king’s travel papers. He recalled the strange circumstances under which he had met King Graebner, and marveled still at the fact that a human king would hold an audience with an orc, despite the fact that Torgath had dispatched a lesser demon near the capitol. Most humans would have assumed the orc worked in tandem with such creatures, but Graebner was different.
If only all men were as wise.
He let his mind drift as it often did, settling on no thought in particular as they traveled along the road. He watched others they passed, a farmer on his way to pastures beyond the fields, a wagon of pots and iron contraptions driven by an old and haggard merchant who barely waved, and a group of monks reciting poetry on their way into town from the monastery some five miles outside the walls.
Tui, being the irreverent Kuscan that he was, barked like a dog at the monks just to see them jump, and then followed that outburst by explaining he thought it would make their poems sound better.
Torgath shook his head and watched as Kiuwa tried to chide his brother, but Tui shrugged it off and continued as if nothing could have been more natural.
When they were about two miles beyond the small dirt road that led to the monastery, an overturned wagon greeted them as they rounded a hill. A small tree had fallen across the road, apparently tipping the wagon and its contents. The driver was prone, seemingly unconscious on the ground, but none of the three rushed to help.
Instead, the seasoned warriors started scanning the tree line to the left of the road while Tui charged his mount up the hill to gain a better vantage point. Kiuwa stood up in his stirrups, an effort that obviously strained the poor beast carrying him.
Torgath halted his horse and looked around, drawing his sword.
Tui let out two short whistles, signaling that he saw no danger from his viewpoint.
Kiuwa responded by trotting his horse up to the wagon and calling out to it.
Torgath also approached, but at a slight distance and off to the side to allow for a quick flanking maneuver if necessary. If this was a ruse by highwaymen, they would regret their poor choice of targets.
Kiuwa inspected the inside of the wagon and then circled it once before dismounting and going to the fallen wagoneer. The large man put a couple of fingers to the fallen man’s neck and then looked up.
“Dead.” Kiuwa moved the corpse’s head and then stood up. “Broke his neck in the fall, I imagine.”
“Very well,” Torgath replied. “We should move along then.”
Kiuwa frowned. “What happened to the noble Torgath that rushed off to defend the young boy last night, risking his entire quest in the process?”
Torgath shrugged. “I can’t avenge the driver. Shall I attack the dead tree that toppled his wagon, or should I kick his dead head for being dumb enough to take a blind corner too quickly to allow for such an occasion?”
Kiuwa’s frown deepened. “I can see the man’s purse strings have been cut.”
Torgath shook his head. “Scavenged from his dead body likely. Not entirely honorable, but not severe enough an insult to warrant a search of the woods that would likely fail to yield any viable suspects.”
“And what if a group of bandits were chasing him?” Tui put in as he led his horse back down the hill. “Then his honor would have been insulted, yes?”
Torgath inspected the body and then looked into the wagon. “This isn’t a boy that I sent on an errand and was outmatched by four. This is a single man, out on his own, fully aware of what dangers might lie out here.”
“So if a group attacks a man, that’s all right by your code?” Tui prodded.
“If the man had as much honor as the boy, he would have fought back instead of running. Since he obviously didn’t, his loss is not worth the time it is taking to discuss the difference between the two cases.” Torgath gently kicked his horse, urging it forward.
“Shouldn’t we at least bury the man?”
Torgath called out over his shoulder. “Neither Nagé nor Khefir care if the bodies are buried before they collect the spirits of the dead. We’ll move on.” As the orc passed by them, he didn’t fail to notice the shrug the two Kuscans gave each other.
“I don’t think I will ever understand orcs and their code of honor,” Tui said. He must have thought Torgath was too far away to hear him, for he had never said something like that in Torgath’s presence before. The orc let the comment slide though, and let his mind begin to drift again as they continued along the road. After a while he caught sight of the peaks in the distance once more as the trio came out around the forest and into a clearing.
The orc then let his mind turn to thoughts of home, reliving the last few weeks before he had departed from his village.
Seven years earlier, in the village of Veermunt.
Torgath pushed the wooden door inward and lowered his head as he entered his uncle’s home. His left hand, bloodied and cut from battle, held a severed dwarf’s head by the hair, the eyes still open, frozen with life’s final moment and mouth twisted in a snarl.
Inside the home stood a council of elders, three orcish males and four females, each of them donning their armor, though none of them were young enough to fight anymore. They turned to Torgath and then caught sight of the bloody prize he clutched in his hand.
Torgath strode forward confidently and tossed the head onto the table. Blood droplets splattered across the deer hide map the council had been studying.
“King Thorengaar is dead, slain by my hand,” Torgath said. “Glory to the council, and honor to the tribe.”
“Honor to the tribe, and glory to the warriors,” the council answered, all except for Torgath’s uncle. He stood stoic and silent, his jaw set with his eyes fixed upon the dead dwarf’s head.
“And the rest of Thorengaar’s army?” Shiumat, a heavily scarred female councilor with many conquests to her name called out.
“The dwarves have been slain, down to the last of their clan. A few of the womenfolk escaped through back tunnels, but the males are entirely dead.”
“How can one tell?” jested Hregt, a surly, white haired council member known as much for his drinking as his fighting. “They are all so ugly, no one can discern males from females, why, some of their womenfolk even grow beards!”
A couple of councilors laughed, but Torgath’s uncle did not. His eyes had moved from the severed head to Torgath’s own eyes.
“You delivered the killing blow?” Torgath’s uncle asked.
Torgath nodded. “In the council’s name, I slew our foe. The Black Hills now belong to us, and the riches of their mines are being carried here as we speak.”
“Your nephew has carried the day, and indeed the campaign, Chief Lorek,” another councilor said. “Your family has grown in honor, and the First Father will smile upon us all.”
Chief Lorek gave a single nod, but his eyes narrowed on Torgath. “I should like a word with my nephew, in private.”
The councilors each offered their respects and then exited the home, leaving Torgath with his uncle.
Chief Lorek waited a few moments after the councilors had closed the door and then looked to Torgath. “Torgath, I have given a lot of thought to something that has weighed heavily upon my mind.”
Torgath nodded and listened eagerly.
“As you know, my own son fell in battle two weeks ago. You are the closest relative.”
Torgath stiffened. He could not rejoice at the circumstances, but still he couldn’t quell his excitement. He had known this day would come.
“I am in need of an heir. I cannot think of anyone better suited for the position than you.”
“I will make you proud, uncle,” Torgath said as he bowed his head.
Chief Lorek held up a hand and gestured for Torgath to be quiet. “By law, I can adopt you into my family as my son. No one would object to this, but to become my heir, you must complete a quest to prove your honor.”
Torgath glanced to the severed dwarf king’s head.
Lorek, likely knowing what Torgath wanted to say, reached forward and shoved the head from the table, smearing blood across the map and then the floor.
“In order for a quest to count officially, I have to nominate you before the council, and then give you a challenge before them. Only then will your conquest count for the purpose at hand. Though you have gained much honor in slaying King Thorengaar, this will not be enough.”
Torgath’s brow knitted and he clenched his teeth.
Lorek shrugged. “Even if I had given this as the challenge, we were already at war with King Thorengaar. I could not issue a challenge that was bound to come about in the natural course of events.”
“Then what more can I do?” Torgath asked. “We ran the human armies from our lands three summers ago, and with King Thorengaar’s death there are no foes left in our country.”
Lorek sighed. “There is another, but I almost dare not speak of it, for to do so is sure to summon ill fortune.”
Torgath stepped forward. “I will accept any challenge you issue, you know I will.”
Lorek nodded. Then tomorrow, at dawn, meet me in the sacred circle. There, before the council, I will inform you of the challenge. But know this, it will not be easy, and you will long for the campaigns against the dwarves and humans by comparison.”
“I am ready for anything,” Torgath replied eagerly.
He had spent that night in restless sleep, hardly able to close his eyes for longer than ten or twenty minutes in a stretch before they would open again. When the sun finally rose above the eastern plains of his homeland, he hurried to dress and then sprinted from the village to find his uncle and the other councilors in the sacred circle, nine stone pillars stood in a circle, one for each of the councilors, another with the names of chiefs past at the head of the circle, and the last with the symbol of the bear, their tribal patron. Torgath took his position at the ninth stone and knelt upon the ground, setting his sword and axe before him.
His uncle stood at the stone to the right of the chief stone, as tradition held that the spirits of chiefs past would stand in front of their stone.
“The council, recognizing the need for a new heir, is gathered in the sacred circle to judge the proposed heir,” Chief Lorek said.
Each councilor used a small ceremonial dagger to pierce a small hole in their left palms, then they turned to their sacred stones and smeared their blood across the surfaces. Lorek smeared his blood last, and then walked toward the center of the circle.
“Before our ancestors, and in the name of the First Father, does any member of this council know of a reason why this orc cannot be named chief?”
The councilors turned their attention to Torgath, but none of them spoke.
“Having no objections, then I call to our First Father, through his son Hatmul, the Prince of Hammenfein.” Lorek raised his arms and threw his head back. He shouted a call to Hatmul, uttering his words in the old orcish tongue, the one taught by the First Father before the first War of Aggression. All others watched until Chief Lorek finished, and then they threw their daggers into the center of the circle at Lorek’s feet.
“The First Father will accept you as our next chief, assuming two things are true,” Lorek said. “The first is you must be an honorable orc.”
Torgath nodded. “I am an honorable orc, a warrior eager to prove himself to the First Father.”
Lorek smiled. “The second condition is you must complete the task this council shall set before you.”
Torgath nodded once more. “I shall complete the quest set before me.”
“Then swear with your blood, and we shall tell you the object of your quest.”
Torgath cut his left palm and smeared the blood upon his axe, a favorite weapon of his that had belonged to his own father. Torgath walked reverently to the center of the circle and placed his weapon atop the daggers. “By my blood, I swear that I shall not return to this circle until the quest set before me is completed, and only then shall I take up my axe, and should I fail then my axe shall lie here forever, a token of my disgrace.”
“Sealed by blood, an offering of war,” the counselors said in chorus.
Lorek placed his hand upon Torgath’s forehead. “Listen well and hear your task, for it shall not be repeated.”
Torgath’s breathing was slow and quiet, but his heart was starting to pound in his chest.
“To the north, in the gray mountains, there lies a cave. Inside this cave there is a weapon of renown, lost to our tribe when our first chief was slain by the dragon Glimwyrm. Slay the dragon, if he still lives, and retrieve the weapon so that our first chief may smile upon us from his resting place in the halls of our First Father.”
Torgath’s heart felt as though it had beat its last, and his blood seemed to stop within his veins.
Kill Glimwyrm?
Present time, Brinsmouth
“I assume we are to expect similar treatment here?” Tui said as he dismounted from his horse and approached Torgath for the papers.
Torgath held up a hand. “I’ve heard a rumor about this city that if you give Ruben fifty silver pieces he’ll let you in without marking your name on the charter. Try that first.” The orc retrieved a small coin purse and handed it to Tui, who promptly glanced at Kiuwa. The other Kuscan sighed and shrugged, but kept his mouth shut.
Tui sauntered off to the guard at the gatehouse and asked for Ruben. Even from a distance Torgath could see the guard’s smile as he expectantly held out a hand. Three checkmarks went onto the charter, but no written names. No questions asked, no information given. Which was good, because Torgath’s charter did not get them into Brinsmouth, or into any additional place they wanted to go through for that matter. According to the charter, they were supposed to stick to the main eastern road, and travel to a large city called Atashir, which marked the end of King Graebner’s current kingdom and the beginning of that of the elves. From there they were to go to Inghali and then east through known roads where their disappearance from the known lands would be chronicled, but Torgath had no intention of sticking to that route.
As it turned out, the Kuscan brothers knew of a pass farther to the north, one nearly forgotten by all but those dumb enough to confuse foolishness with bravery and risk their lives and souls for a glimmer of the rumored treasures hiding beyond the Nahktun Mountains. Sir Hawking’s map would go beyond that point and give Torgath as much knowledge as could be had about the cursed lands. Given that the Kuscans coul
dn’t read, they had accepted Torgath’s word that the king’s charter would get them into any city they wished without question. Up until their most recent stop, it had worked too, but that would no longer be the case.
Tui returned with a big grin. “I like corrupt guards,” he said in hushed tones. “Perhaps we can have a bit of fun here,” he put in.
Kiuwa shook his head. “You had enough fun the last time we came through Scale Valley,” Kiuwa said.
Torgath grinned. So the two brothers had met with trouble the last time they were in these parts. Torgath urged his horse onward to the stables outside the wooden palisade surrounding the town. They hitched their horses and then walked through the outer gate. Brinsmouth was a dirty little city of four thousand people, give or take a few hundred depending on the fort’s garrison levels, of course. The roads were dirt, the alleys were dirt, and many of the houses themselves were made of mud brick as well. The inner wall loomed over these structures, tall and thick with gray stone, lined with archers atop the battlements. Inside that was Brinsmouth Fort, an outpost constructed after the conquest of Scale Valley by King Graebner’s father some sixty years prior. There were still a few of the lizard-men to be seen, though most of them were slaves and wore heavy shackles about their ankles. The few free tribes lived far to the north, in the parts of the desert that were too hot for men to follow the reptiles.
Still, for as little as Torgath thought of most humans, he had to give honor where it was due, for the lizard-men - or Krattii as they called themselves - were formidable warriors, and had inflicted great casualties upon the humans during their hundred-year long war for territory.
A beautiful green and yellow striped Krattii walked by, holding a basket in one hand and a doll in the other, quietly following a young girl and her mother through the market place as merchants called out to them with spices and jewelry on offer.