Rorzan turned and pointed dramatically in the direction they were walking. “We keep heading north, into the mountains. There's someone there we need to find.”
Before Vann could ask who the someone was, he heard something faintly on the edge of his hearing. He stopped walking and looked around. “You hear that?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Rorzan turned in midair, his pale eyes flicking back and forth.
Vann walked forward slowly, keeping his footsteps light. The noises were sharp, the clang of metal striking metal. He thought he heard voices, shouting. Then he jumped as a loud bang sounded from up ahead. “Someone's fighting!”
“Let's go see who!” Rorzan said, flying ahead parallel to the ground. Vann hurried after him.
A little ways down the trail there was a small clearing off the main path. The two of them slowed down as they drew close, and Vann kept himself in the lee of a tree at the edge. He peeked around. In the clearing were a half dozen individuals. Five of them were human, scrawny and hard muscled, wearing patchy clothing and face paint, marking them as bandits. They all had weapons and were circling the sixth figure, who was decidedly not human, but Vann had read enough books to know what she was.
The she-orc stood a full head above every human present, her black hair flowing down past her shoulders, some of it done up in braided tresses, the rest of it flowing free. She had rich orange skin, like a ripe peach, and her body was muscled and scarred. She stood in the center of the circle calmly, despite the fact that she was bleeding from a handful of scratches along her powerful, strong arms. The clothes she wore were light, made for traveling, but they were tight enough that Vann could make out the swell of her ample bosom and the very feminine curve of her hip. Her head turned back and forth, keeping as many of her attackers in her sight as she could, and Vann saw her eyes were a striking golden yellow.
But it was what she held in one hand that really drew his eye. It was a guitar, yet not a guitar. The body was more angular and wide, the neck longer. It had four strings rather than six, and even at a distance Vann could see that the strings were thicker than the ones on the guitar strapped to his back. “Rorzan, what is that?” he whispered.
“That, Vann, is a bass guitar,” Rorzan said, his voice tinged with awe. “And one I know very well. We need to help her!”
“Wait, what if she's attacking them?” Vann asked.
As if to punctuate the question the circle of bandits collapsed in on the she-orc with a cry. She hefted the bass like a club, dropping into a fighting crouch. Those gold eyes, so calm and collected a moment ago, now glittered with the light of battle. “You were saying, Vann?” Rorzan asked dryly. “Get in there!”
The orc sidestepped two stabs aimed at her midsection, swinging her bass in a wide arc. One bandit had the foresight to duck, but the other was belted across the face with the flat part of the guitar. He spun like a top, his eyes rolling back in his head before he flopped limply to the ground. “I think she's got it covered,” Vann said.
“Vann, behind you!”
Rorzan's warning came just as Vann heard a boot crunch on fallen leaves. He whirled around to find himself face to face with an older man, with a scraggly wildman beard and a shaved head. A moment passed where the two of them simply stared at one another, then the bandit man charged, yelling something in a language Vann didn't know and brandishing a cudgel. Vann scrambled backwards, finding his feet and struggling to get the guitar off his back.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the she-orc flatten another bandit with a swing of her guitar. As she turned to face another one of her attackers, she stopped as she saw him, a curious look passing her face. Then the bandit slashed her arm with his knife, and her eyes suffused with rage and she turned on him with a battle cry.
“Incoming!” Rorzan warned. “You can stare at her tits later, Vann!”
“Not what I was doing!” Vann protested, setting the guitar against his front. The bandit grew wary, recognition flickering in his eyes as he realized what Vann could do. He and Vann circled each other warily.
“Ideas?” Vann murmured out of the corner of his mouth to Rorzan.
“Vann, you hold the most powerful instrument in the world in your hands,” Rorzan said. “Use it!”
“But I don't want to mess up and get her hurt!” Vann said, his eyes flicking to the she-orc, who was fending off the three remaining bandits with broad sweeps of her bass.
“Point,” Rorzan said. “Here, play this.” He fingered a series of four chords in rapid succession. “Quick, quick!”
The moment Vann set his fingers on the frets, the bandit rushed him, swinging his cudgel at Vann's hand in an attempt to smash his fingers and stop him. Vann scampered backwards, managing to get the chords played. He felt a vibration run down the guitar, pooling at the edge. There was a sound like a sword being drawn free of its scabbard. Vann looked – the bottom edge of the guitar was now razor-sharp like an axe. Then he threw himself to the side to avoid another swing from the bandit.
“There you go!” Rorzan said. “Now start swinging!”
Vann looked up at the bandit, who was still trying to hit him with the cudgel. Any reservations he felt at using the newly bladed guitar went up in smoke as he saw the desire to kill in the bandit's eyes. This was a man who would kill someone for pocket change, and Vann was no exception. “Like chopping firewood,” he muttered, switching his grip on the guitar so he held it by the neck. “Yeah... just like chopping firewood.”
The bandit swung at him again, and Vann lifted the guitar and blocked the blow. There was a squeal at the metal weapon skittered along the guitar strings, and Vann winced at the noise. He shoved the bandit back, sending the man staggering. Behind the bandit, he saw the orc drill a bandit in the stomach with a clenched fist, then bring her bass smashing down on his back. She whirled around, dropped her bass, and caught the two remaining bandits by the hand. She twisted hard, and they dropped their knives and yelled in pain. She then grabbed them by the head and smashed them together, the sound making Vann wince.
“Vann, eyes up!”
Rorzan's warning came a second too late. The older bandit's cudgel smashed into Vann's thigh, pain shooting up his leg. He dropped down to one knee, gritting his teeth against the pain. The bandit raised the cudgel to hit him again, this time in the face.
Rorzan darted in front of the bandit. His body brightened and he threw up his arms. “Boo!”
The bandit froze, his eyes bugging out. “D-d-Diavala!” he yelled. “Diavala!”
“It's Diavolo, you numbskull!” Rorzan yelled. “Vann, now!”
Not wanting to get hit again, Vann clamped down on the pain and got back to his feet. He swung the guitar around, drilling the bandit in the midriff with the blunt end. Desperation lended strength to the blow, and he heard something crack. The bandit wheezed and staggered backwards. Vann brandished the guitar. “Leave now,” he said. “Or else I use the sharp end.”
The bandit spun around and fled, screaming something that Vann couldn't understand. He heard the word “Diavala” sprinkled in there quite a few times.
“Damn wildlings could never get my name right,” Rorzan snorted. “You okay?”
Vann started to nod, then took a step forward and his leg buckled underneath him. He howled in pain as he fell to the ground, landing heavily on top of the guitar. The side of the neck dug into his side. “My leg!” he yelled. “My leg's on fire!”
Rorzan cursed and darted over to the dropped club, then flitted back over to Vann. “Hold still, let me see where he... fuck.”
The pain was unbearable. Vann's entire body was drenched in sweat and moments, and he heard his heart thundering in his ears. His vision blurred, and his hands scrabbled at the dirt road. “What's...happening?”
“The bastard had something poisonous slathered on the cudgel,” Rorzan said. “Hang on, Vann!” He flew out of Vann's field of vision, and started yelling something in a harsh, guttural language. Through the haze, Vann heard a re
ply, the voice strong and female. It sounded surprised.
He rolled over on his back, staring up at the trees above him as the world felt more and more like a dream. Colors blurred, his heart slowed. Something large and orange moved into his vision, then reached down to him. Strong arms wrapped around his body, and he lost consciousness.
Chapter Four – The Shamaness
There was a woman leaning over him. Her face was hidden in shadows, her hair cascading down her shoulders like waves of wheat. But she was kind, singing something to him softly. Lights flickered behind her. Someone called his name. “Vann. Vann. Vann!”
Vann's eyes opened.
He was lying on his back, not in a forest, but in some kind of room. The walls and ceiling were wood, and there was an earthy smell hanging heavy in the air, slightly damp yet rich. He couldn't see where the light in the room was coming from. He was shirtless, his lower body covered by a traveling cloak.
Rorzan's ghostly face popped into view. “Oh, good. You're awake.”
Vann closed his eyes and groaned. His leg felt like dead weight, but at least it wasn't on fire any more, merely aching like someone had belted him in the thigh a few dozen times with a mallet. “Where are we?” he asked.
“An old underground smuggler's hideaway,” Rorzan said. “Good thing the Thieves’ Guild is still around and that their hidey hole symbols haven't changed in three hundred years. This place seems like it hasn't been used in a while, but it's dry and warm.”
Vann craned his head back and saw there was a wall behind him. He lifted the sheet and saw that the only piece of clothing he had on were his underthings. There was a wad of bandages stuck to his thigh where the spiked club had struck, the area around them still irritated and inflamed. His face flushed a little. He slowly scooted backwards against the wall, until he was in a sitting position.
He wasn't alone in the small room. The she-orc was there as well. And she was half naked.
She sat against the wall opposite him, her yellow eyes watching him. Her pack and bass guitar rested at her side, along with a crystal lantern that was the source of illumination in the room. From her waist down she was clothed in her cloth and leather skirt, but she wore nothing from the waist up. Her breasts were bare before him, each the size of a plump melon, like the kind that came from the southern territories. Her nipples were a darker orange than the rest of her skin. He stared, more out of shock than anything. It occurred to him then that the blanket that was covering him was her traveling cloak.
The orc noticed his gaze. She smiled slightly, the corner of her mouth turning up. Her fangs glinted in the light from the crystal lantern. Vann coughed and averted his eyes. “She brought me here?”
Rorzan looked bemused. “Yeah. Picked you up and carried you on her shoulders like it was nothing with me giving her directions.”
“Ashnaz gris nak hizvig,” the she orc said. Her voice was surprisingly light and melodic.
“Evik shurtag barzam sha grath,” Rorzan replied. She chuckled.
“You speak orc?” Vann asked.
“Hey hey hey, have a little respect,” Rorzan said, wagging a finger at Vann. “Orcish was a dead language when I was still running around. We're speaking urgaal, totally different dialect with a rich history.” He put his hands on his hips. “Don't they teach you kids anything in school these days?”
Vann gave him a flat look. “No.”
Rorzan scoffed. “No respect for other languages these days.” He looked to the orc. “Hivdag mercaal kishna fyngrot zuug unduraal.”
The orc laughed. The sound brought a strange feeling of warmth to Vann. “Evera epi hinzdigal!” she said. Her laugh trailed off, and she gestured to Vann, and he pretended not to notice how the motion made her breasts bounce a little. “Ak az gerval viz sile noz.”
“She wants to know how you're doing,” Rorzan translated.
Vann ran his hands over himself, making sure all of his bits and pieces were still there. He prodded at the dressing on his leg gingerly, and realized that he was achingly hard from the sight of her tits. He set his jaw and tried to ignore it. Hopefully it would go away. “I feel fine,” he said. “What did she do to me?”
“Afig zim za grath-” Rorzan started to say, then made a frustrated noise and turned back to Vann. “Okay, it's already getting annoying playing translator, hang on.” He turned to the orc and spoke in a rapid-fire series of sentences in orcish – urgaal, Vann corrected himself - ending with what sounded like a question. The orc nodded, then got up on her knees and reached for her bass guitar by her back. Her posture caused her breasts to hang below her body, and Vann was transfixed by the soft, supple flesh. So much for his hard-on going away.
The orc grabbed her instrument and sat back against the wall. Rorzan floated over to her, and the two of them chattered in urgaal for a moment, her fingers feeling out positions on the neck of the bass as Rorzan showed her.
Then she began to play. The tones from her guitar were much different than the sounds that came from Rorzan's. They were deeper, richer sounds that wormed their way into his stomach and settled there like a hearty meal. Green magic swirled around her fingers as she played, and a wisp of magic floated out to coil around him like smoke. “What's she doing, Rorzan?” Vann asked, a tad nervously.
“Hang on, hang on,” Rorzan said. “She's almost done.”
Vann reached out and touched the wisp of magic with a finger. It felt green, pulsing with a steady, strong, benevolent energy. It flowed into him, and he felt reinvigorated, some strength flowing back into his body. Then she stopped, holding the last note, and Vann's eardrums popped.
Rorzan nodded approval. “Very good. You're a natural.”
The she-orc chuckled. “I'm a natural at a great many things.”
Vann blinked. “I can understand you.”
“Duh, that's the whole point,” Rorzan said, floating back over to him. “Orcs are natural adepts at the bass because their magic is older and more tied to the world around us. She was able to purge the poison from your body by just plucking the lowest string over and over again. What she just did allows the two of you to understand each other. I mean, you have to redo the spell every month or so, but it's an easy tune to play.”
Vann looked back to the orc, who was regarding him again. Her chest was incredibly hard not to look at. “What's your name?”
She reached up and brushed a lock of her ebony hair behind her ear. “I am Janaza. Might I ask yours?” Her eyes slid over to Rorzan. “Your ghost has been rather coy about that information out of deference to your privacy.”
“It's Vann,” he said, almost tripping over the words.
“Hey, I am not his ghost,” Rorzan protested.
Janaza laughed again. “Well then, Vann... how did you come to be in the woods in the company of a ghost?”
“I...” Vann began. Then he put his head in his hands and covered his eyes. “Look, I'm sorry, but is there any way you could cover yourself? It's rather distracting.”
“What... oh.” Her voice grew husky. “Very well.” Vann kept his face in his hand as there was a rustle of cloth. “Done.”
He peeked through his fingers. Janaza had her vest-like garment back on, her eyes staring at him with what almost looked like suspicion. It still didn't entirely conceal her femininity from his, large swathes of her breasts still visible. But it was still better than staring at her bare chest and feeling the surge of his cock in his pants. He quickly began to tell the story, starting with his discovery of the guitar in the hidden chamber in the library. Janaza's expression softened as he told the story, up until the bandit fight.
“And then I passed out and, well, you know the rest,” he finished.
Janaza nodded. “That is quite the story.”
“What about you?”
She smiled. “I'm on a pilgrimage. To the mountains north of here to the Altar of the Howling Elf. Those who pursue my path are supposed to make the journey there to find enlightenment.”
“
What a coincidence,” Rorzan said. “That's where we're headed, too.”
“We are?” Vann said, his head snapping towards the ghost. “When were you going to tell me this?”
“I was getting to it,” Rorzan said. “Then we got interrupted by coming across Janaza!”
Vann folded his arms. “Why are we headed there?”
“Because there's someone at the altar we need.”
Janaza looked puzzled. “There are no caretakers at the altar, I thought. Isn't it just a statue?”
“Wrong!” Rorzan said triumphantly. “It is way more than just a statue, my young friends. It's probably one of the single best dirty secrets in the entire world.” He spread his hands, as if he were a village elder telling a legend around the campfire. “Three hundred years ago, when the Canto of Lords broke the back of the Metal Rebellion and sent us scattering, there was one person, one single person, who escaped the fate that met the rest of the ringleaders. See, the elves don't believe in capital punishment, and there was one elf who was essential to the rebellion.” He held up a single finger. “Arielle Gamron.”
Vann felt his heart leap. “What are you saying?”
“The elves didn't execute Arielle like the human Lords did to me. Nah, what they did instead was entomb her in crystal and sequester her away in a cave for the next few centuries. From what she told me about the method of punishment, someone goes to check on her every hundred years or so to see if she's recanted. If she hasn't, they pop her back in the crystal for another century. The elves have ridiculous lifespans, they can get away with it.” Rorzan looked back and forth between the two of the. “Don't you see? We can set her free.”
“And then?” Janaza asked.
“Well, I haven't gotten that far yet,” Rorzan said, deflating a little. “But I've always been a master of making up plans as I go. If anything afterwards we just hop on a ship to the Eastern Continent and hope that Branna doesn't give chase.”
Vann sighed and leaned back against the wall. “How soon will I be able to walk again?” he asked Janaza.
Echoes Page 6
