After that came platters of cooked orc.
Ridmark declined all the dishes as politely as he could, explaining that God forbade him from consuming the flesh of defeated enemies at peril the gravest of penalties. That baffled the kobolds, but they accepted the religious explanation without argument. They already thought the church of the Dominus Christus a strange and outlandish religion. Ridmark was reasonably sure that no passage in the scriptures explicitly forbade eating the flesh of dead orcs, but he was entirely certain he had no wish to try it.
After the kobolds had descended into drunkenness, Agataph leaned closer to Ridmark.
“You must be wondering why you are here, human Ridmark,” said Agataph. “We kobolds do not usually treat with humans, save to use you as food or slaves.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Ridmark.
Agataph grinned, showing off his sharp teeth. “I am wiser than many of my kindred. Do not your own scriptures say that there is a time to kill and a time to heal, and a time to eat your foe and a time to talk with him?”
“Something like that,” said Ridmark.
“You see, some humans make better food than others,” said Agataph. “I saw you fight those bone orcs, yes? I thought they would cut you down and come for us. But you slew all three without a scratch upon your soft human hide! Remarkable. It would be a waste to eat you while you were still alive. Perhaps we can help each other, yes? Sometimes humans need things that kobolds have, and sometimes even kobolds need things that humans can do.”
Ridmark suspected they were approaching the point. “What did you have in mind?”
“You want to kill yourself by speaking with the Elder Shamans,” said Agataph. “I can tell you where to find them. It is a secret known to the shamans of the kobolds.” He leaned closer. Ridmark smelled rotting meat on his breath. “But if you are going to kill yourself anyway, why not do something for us first?”
“What do want me to do?” said Ridmark.
“The bone orcs and the Dagger Jaws and the other kobold tribes are old enemies, very old enemies,” said Agataph. “Once, long ago, a dark elven lord called the Jeweler ruled over the Qazaluuskan Forest, and both the bone orcs and the kobolds were his slaves. Then the great spider-devils slew the Jeweler, and we were free. The bone orcs praised their rotting god Qazalask for the victory, while we tried to drive them from the forest. Naturally, we have been at war ever since. We have been at war since before humans came to this world, and we will continue to be at war long after the last human has been eaten by the spider-devils.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Ridmark. Agataph, he suspected, liked to make speeches. “I am still unsure what you would like me to do in exchange for the location of the Elder Shamans of Qazalask.”
“Ah!” said Agataph. “To the point, then. There is a village of the Qazaluuskan orcs a short distance from here. We cannot overcome them, nor can they overcome us. Recently they captured over forty of our warriors.”
“Likely to kill them and raise them as undead,” said Ridmark.
“I thought that as well,” said Agataph. He gave a disdainful hiss. “It is a waste of good meat. But the bone orcs have not slain them yet, but instead, hold them captive. It seems that in two days, the configuration of the thirteen moons shall be right, and the shaman of the bone orcs, a scoundrel named Vhorlaskur, shall attempt to open the barrow of an Old One. He will then offer the captive warriors as a sacrifice to sate the Old One’s wrath and learn some of its magic.”
“I’ve seen that happen before,” said Ridmark.
“Have you, then?” said Agataph. “Where?”
“Southwest of here, closer to the Northerland,” said Ridmark. “A Qazaluuskan shaman named Hhrolazur. He tried to sacrifice captives from a human village to an Old One to gain its power. I interrupted the ceremony…and the Old One slew Hhrolazur before it returned to its barrow.”
Ridmark wondered how the villagers fared, how Peter the blacksmith and his children had done once they had escaped the grasp of the bone orcs. The villagers had invited him to remain behind, but Ridmark had declined, pressing deeper into the Qazaluuskan Forest. Maybe he should have stayed behind and helped them. Some of the village women had been grateful, and for an instant he saw himself starting a family with one of them…
He pushed aside the thought. He didn’t deserve such things, not after he had failed with Aelia and Mhalek.
And no matter what he thought of himself, the Frostborn were returning. The realm had to be warned.
“Interesting,” said Agataph. “If you even saw an Old One and survived, you must indeed be a fell warrior.”
“Whether I am a fell warrior or not,” said Ridmark, “I cannot fight an entire tribe of deep orcs by myself.”
“Certainly not,” said Agataph. “A Swordbearer could, perhaps,” he flicked a claw towards Ridmark’s left cheek, “but you are not a Swordbearer, clearly.”
Ridmark said nothing, an old flicker of regret and grief and pain going through him.
“Rather, we know of a secret entrance into the orcs’ village,” said Agataph. “If you use that tunnel and open the gate to their village, our warriors can escape, and we can resume our war against the bone orcs. If you do this, I shall tell you where you may find the Elder Shamans, and you may continue your journey.”
“That’s it?” said Ridmark.
“It will not be any easy task, human Ridmark,” said Agataph. “The bone orcs are vigilant, but perhaps you shall be cunning enough to sneak past them.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Ridmark. “You will tell me the location of the Elder Shamans? And you shall let me pass without interference?”
“I solemnly swear upon the name of,” Agataph snarled out the name of the kobold god, “that should you succeed in this task, I will tell you the location of the Elder Shamans, and I shall let you reach your final destination without interference.”
That sounded rather more ominous than Ridmark would have liked, and the ambiguity in the shaman’s words was clear. Yet Ridmark had little choice, and the potential advantage was too great to pass up. If Agataph could tell him where to find the Elder Shamans, he could save months of fruitless and potentially fatal wandering through the Qazaluuskan Forest and the Lion Mountains.
“Very well,” said Ridmark. “I agree. I assume we shall strike tonight?”
Agataph’s fangs clicked together, his crimson crest flaring. Ridmark wasn’t sure, but he thought that indicated amusement. “Do you know our ways so well, human Ridmark?”
“I fought kobolds in the Northerland before I left Andomhaim,” said Ridmark, meeting the yellow eyes. “I know how you like to fight.”
“Indeed,” said Agataph, gesturing at the kobold warriors. “First we feast. Then we kill!”
The kobold warriors raised their voices in croaking agreement.
###
Once the feast was over (or the kobolds had run out of orc meat), they armed themselves for battle, taking up spears and swords and donning armor of leather or bronze rings. Agataph commanded the war band, but he handed over most of the details to the war chief of the Dagger Jaws, a scowling, scarred kobold named Caulbrach. He was huge for a kobold, over five feet tall, and thick with muscle beneath his battle-scarred hide of gray scales. Unlike most of the kobolds, he carried a heavy war axe, an ugly piece of iron that he had taken from a dead bone orc.
“You will obey, human,” said Caulbrach, glaring at Ridmark, his head swaying back and forth upon his neck like a serpent preparing to strike. “You will obey the Dagger Jaws in battle, or I shall kill you myself.”
“I will not betray my word,” said Ridmark, gripping his staff, “but if you want to kill me, Caulbrach of the Dagger Jaws, you are welcome to try it and see what happens.”
“Enough,” hissed Agataph. “Caulbrach, you will contain yourself. The human may be useful. If he succeeds, he shall free our warriors at little cost to ourselves. If he fails…well, we have lost nothing.” Caul
brach hissed in agreement, but his venomous yellow eyes never stopped glaring at Ridmark.
They departed through the village’s back gate, taking a narrow tunnel that sloped towards the surface. This tunnel was drier, with fewer clusters of ghost mushrooms, though crystalline chips embedded in the walls reflected the glow. Ridmark followed the kobolds, staff in hand, the overwhelming dusty smells of their scales filling his nostrils, the hiss of their tongues and the rasp of their claws against the stone filling his ears. He remained on his guard. If Agataph planned treachery, this would be an ideal place.
But no attack came. So far Agataph had kept his word.
That, and he likely saw no need to kill Ridmark when the bone orcs would do it for him.
They emerged into the moonlit night, weaving through the hills and the trees. Six of the thirteen moons were out tonight, and Ridmark saw the Moon of Blood, the Moon of Souls, the Moon of Gates, and the Moon of Time shining overhead, mixing their light to create a pale silver-blue glow almost as bright as candlelight. He understood enough about magic to know that the position of the thirteen moons could alter the power and potency of properly timed magical spells, and he noted that the moons were almost in the same position as they had been on the night that Hhrolazur had summoned the Old One. If this Vhorlaskur sought to gain the aid of an Old One, it was just as well that Ridmark was working to disrupt his plan.
They walked for the better part of two hours, making their way from hill to hill and tree to tree. At last Ridmark, Agataph, and Caulbrach reached the top of a rocky hill, looking down into a cleared valley.
“Behold,” said Agataph. “Qazhosk, the village of Vhorlaskur.”
The village of Qazhosk looked unremarkable enough. Within a palisade of sharpened logs stood dozens of the round, domed houses favored by the orcs. In the center of the village rose a massive tower of rough stone, firelight gleaming within its windows. The tower looked ancient and had likely been there long before the orcs had built Qazhosk around its base. White patterns had been painted upon the tower’s stones, and even in the dim light, Ridmark made out the grinning, tusked skull sigil of the blood god Qazalask.
Within the palisade, Ridmark glimpsed a fenced pen guarded by orcish warriors. Within the pen were nearly forty kobolds, most of them slumped on the ground.
“So,” said Ridmark. “How am I supposed to get inside?”
“The tower is old,” said Agataph, “and not even old Vhorlaskur knows all of its secrets.” He pointed at the base of the hill. “There is a tunnel that leads into the tower’s cellar. From there you can creep into the village and free our warriors. Say my name and the name of Caulbrach, and they will know to obey you.”
“Smoke bombs,” said Ridmark, his mind racing.
“Eh?” said Agataph.
“I may need to create a distraction to escape with your warriors,” said Ridmark. “I’ve seen kobolds use smoke bombs before. So, give me some if you want your warriors to escape.”
“Foolish human,” snarled Caulbrach. “You are not worthy of the weapons of the kobolds. You…”
“Give him the bombs,” said Agataph.
Caulbrach snarled at Ridmark again, but clicked his claws together, the sound like a human snapping his fingers. One of the kobold warriors stepped forward and handed over a leather bandoleer with four clay flasks tucked into its loops.
“Thank you,” said Ridmark, taking the bandoleer and looping it over his chain mail. The clay flasks clinked against his armor. The leather of the bandoleer was stiff and pebbly, likely made from the hide of a murrag or one of the other breeds of giant lizards that wandered the Deeps. “Will you wait here?”
“We shall,” said Agataph. “We do not want a fight with the bone orcs within their own village. Vhorlaskur is a powerful shaman, and Qazalask himself heeds his call. We shall await your return or your death.”
The shaman’s tone suggested that either outcome would be acceptable.
“Very well,” said Ridmark.
Without another word, he turned and headed down the hill towards the tunnel entrance. Behind him, he heard the creak of the kobold bows as they took aim, no doubt preparing to shoot him if he broke faith and fled. Ridmark ignored them and stopped at the bottom of the hill, took a deep breath, and stepped into the tunnel.
A set of rough stone stairs circled into the depths of the earth. After the second revolution, it was too dark to see, so Ridmark reached into his pack, withdrew a torch, and spent a few moments fumbling with flint and his dagger to ignite it. The torch sputtered to life, and Ridmark slung his staff over his shoulder, drawing his axe from his belt. The tunnel ahead looked narrow, the walls rough and damp, and Ridmark’s staff would be useless in the confined space.
He walked forward, squinting into the gloom. The air stank of rot and mold. Agataph had claimed that Vhorlaskur and the other bone orcs didn’t know about the tunnel, but Ridmark wasn’t sure about that. Boot prints marked the wet sand of the floor, and some of them looked relatively recent. The Qazaluuskan orcs might have been ruled by their superstitions and omens, but they were not stupid, and Ridmark had no doubt that a shaman of Qazalask would use an escape tunnel if he knew it existed.
The torchlight brushed against a figure standing in the middle of the tunnel, and Ridmark froze.
The figure remained motionless, and Ridmark eased forward a few inches, trying to get a better look. The torch should have been visible for a long way off. Why hadn’t the figure raised the alarm?
The light fell upon an orcish man.
He had been dead for quite some time. His green skin had turned a mottled yellow-gray, and his eyes and mouth had been stitched shut. Thick rows of black stitches went down the orc’s chest and arms and legs, and the harsh chemical reek of the necromantic elixirs in the creature’s veins came to Ridmark’s nose. The orc was undead.
It seemed that Vhorlaskur had left a guardian to protect his tunnel.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, the undead thing jerked and shambled forward, reaching for Ridmark with its dead hands.
He backed away, raising his axe to strike. The undead raised by the Qazaluuskan shamans were neither fast nor agile, but they were hideously strong, and if the creature got its hands on Ridmark he would die. It limped towards him, and Ridmark shifted his stance and struck. The axe sheared through the creature’s left arm, sending its hand to the floor. Black slime dribbled from the stump of its arm, but the creature showed no sign of pain, nor even any indication that it had noticed the blow.
It lashed out with its damaged arm, and Ridmark ducked. His boot slipped on the wet floor, and he stumbled, falling against the wall, the torch dropping from his fingers. The undead thing lunged at him, and Ridmark shoved with his axe, forcing aside its intact arm. Its damaged arm slammed into him, pressing against his neck, and Ridmark suddenly could not breathe. Black spots flared before his eyes, and he tried to break free, but his boots could find no leverage against the wet ground. The dead arm felt like an iron bar against his neck, and he slammed his boot into the undead creature’s knee. The blow would have filled a living man with pain, but the undead thing did not notice.
Yet it swayed, and Ridmark heard a wet squelching noise. The undead might not feel any pain, but it was still made of flesh and blood, and that flesh was in poor condition. Ridmark kicked the creature in the right knee again and again, and on the fourth blow, he felt something snap. The undead staggered, its blind face bouncing off the wall next to Ridmark, and its arm shifted enough for him to break free. He whirled, wheezing and coughing, but still had enough strength to raise his axe and swing it three times in rapid succession. Each time it bit a little deeper into the undead thing’s neck, and on the third blow, it sheared through, shattering the crumbling bone of the spine. Head and body both collapsed to the floor, leaking black slime.
Panting, Ridmark stared at the creature, but it gave no further signs of motion. He looked up the tunnel, but nothing moved in the gloom. Evidently, this creature h
ad been the only guardian, and the sounds of struggle had not drawn alarm from the village above.
Ridmark coughed, retrieved the sputtering torch, and made his way down the rest of the tunnel. Nothing else moved, and he reached a spiral stairway that wound its way upward. Ridmark followed the stairs, axe ready, and the stairs ended at a slab of solid stone with an iron lever on the wall. He yanked on the lever, and the slab of stone slid aside with a rasp to reveal a round cellar, no doubt at the base of the ancient tower. Ridmark tensed, certain that the noise had drawn attention, but still no one had noticed. The cellar seemed disused, so perhaps the bone orcs rarely came down here.
He swept the torch back and forth and heard a hoarse voice.
Ridmark froze, fearing the shout had been a cry of alarm, but nothing moved in the dusty cellar. The shouting continued, and his mind sorted through the orcish words.
Someone was giving a sermon.
Ridmark extinguished the torch and let it drop to the floor. The hoarse shouting continued, and Ridmark crept up the stairs, returning his axe to his belt and drawing his staff. The cellar stairs ended in a thick wooden door, and Ridmark swung it open in silence, stepping into the night.
The village should have been dark, but flickering firelight illuminated Qazhosk. Ridmark crept around the curve of the tower’s base, keeping close to the wall, and saw the gathering.
Hundreds of bone orcs had assembled in the village’s square, facing a heaped dais of stone. A shaman of the bone orcs stood atop the dais, gaunt and withered, his body adorned with white and black paint. A staff topped with three orcish skulls rattled as he gestured. Ridmark supposed this was Vhorlaskur himself, preaching to his tribe. The shaman ranted how in two days he would offer up their captives as a sacrifice to the Old One in a nearby barrow. The Old One would give them power, and with that power, they would destroy the Dagger Jaws and raise the kobolds as undead servants for the glory of Qazalask.
The Dagger Jaws Page 2
