by T. H. Lain
"They're like lice!" shouted Doubert. "Kill one and the rest keep biting!"
He proclaimed aloud the goodness of Pelor once again, but it seemed that no matter how many skeletons collapsed or stumbled away, more closed in from the gloom beyond Doubert's light. His long-handled hammer smashed them as they came on, until suddenly the brazen cleric found himself facing three onrushing skeletons at once. Yddith watched Doubert shatter I he weapon arm of the first to come within reach, but the second stepped up behind the cleric and sliced a rusty short sword through the armor guarding the cleric's shoulder.
The barmaid racked her memory for a useful trick to turn against the undead. Maces and hammers could hardly miss as shambling, fleshless things closed in four rings around the four clerics.
A fierce backhand brought Yddith into the battle. A swipe from one of the younger clerics knocked a skeletal arm from its shoulder and sent it spinning toward the statue of St. Cuthbert. The rusted, notched weapon that clattered into the dust with the rattling bones seemed like a gift from Pelor to Yddith. She scrambled forward on her knees and grabbed the hilt. Mouthing a quiet prayer, she retreated again into the shadows and waited till a zombie shambled by. As swiftly and smoothly as a trained assassin, Yddith plunged the sword into the zombie's back. All her weight pushed it downward, slicing through rotted ribs. The zombie crumbled into a heap at her feet.
"Not bad for an amateur," she mumbled to herself.
She looked up just in time to see one of the priests trying to dislodge his weapon from the shattered cranium of a brainless foe. As the priest struggled, an axe-wielding zombie stepped behind him. Even as Yddith plunged her sword into another zombie, its axe sliced sideways between the priest's ribs as neatly as an executioner's stroke with a freshly sharpened blade. The human tried to turn defensively, but stumbled and barely managed to stay on his knees. As he tottered, Yddith sliced off the zombie's axe arm, but she could plainly see that it was too late for the young priest of Pelor. Moments later he was torn apart by grasping, bony claws.
A second priest was smashing and cleaving against a ring of eight undead creatures, so the girl ran to relieve him. Again she buried her sword in the back of a zombie. The rotting flesh tore away as she used all of her strength to force the sword through the body. With difficult back-and-forth strokes she sawed the rusty blade sideways into corrupted organs. Trying to hold her breath against the stench, she worked the sword in the fetid corpse like a strong old woman churning butter.
By now, Yddith was beginning to feel despair. Doubert's hammer rarely missed, but his two remaining acolytes were sorely pressed. The young man near Yddith was holding up with her help, but the third was swamped beneath an onrushing wave of skeletons despite the celestial hounds fighting by his side. Doubert hollered for them to gather round him and as one, they fought their way through the press until their backs were against a stout wall.
They might still have saved themselves had not Doubert stepped forward into the arc of a zombie's sword. As he crumbled, the last priest leaped across the growing pile of bones to smash Doubert's attacker into oblivion. He twisted slightly, shifting the hammer in his hands just enough to follow through and obliterate an oncoming skeleton in one graceful motion. Then, seeing no foes close enough to reach immediately, he knelt to call healing forth upon Doubert.
There was no time to take his attention away from the enemy, but he did it in a desperate bid to save his spiritual leader. He did not see the zombie approaching from behind. Doubert's eyes were closed in pain. Only Yddith could see the danger and she had an idea. She tried her magic trick again, pointing her finger at a skull still spinning on the ground from Doubert's fierce blow. Yddith mimicked the incantation used by the traveling sorceress those many months before. The skull was considerably easier to lift than the log had been the night before. She raised the skull high above the oncoming zombie and dropped it on the thing's near-empty head.
She heard the crunch as the two skulls connected, but knew immediately that the improvised weapon was just too light to cause any damage. It bounced off the intended victim and fell harmlessly aside onto the kneeling priest's back.
Fortunately, though she failed to stop the zombie, she still saved the cleric's life. When the skull struck his back, his reaction was automatic. The cleric spun around with his hammer arcing in a deadly half-circle. The zombie burst and fell in two pieces.
New hope flooded into Yddith as the priest once again kneeled to apply healing to Doubert. But his solemn prayer to Pelor was echoed by breathy, indistinct syllables being uttered by the zombie thespian standing on the rude stage. The foul words were incomprehensible to Yddith, but she could feel their power sapping her will. She shook off their unnatural effect, but the young priest seemed to fall into torpor as the hideous rhyme droned on. His prayer turned to a mumble, then he slowly picked up the cadence and slurred tonality of the rhyme.
Yddith screamed at the priest as she watched the unthinkable happening. The same man who had risked his young life to reach Doubert's stricken form, who had paused in the midst of a life and death struggle of his own in order to save his superior, numbly raised his hammer and performed a coup de grace on his colleague, mentor, and friend. Bits of bone and flesh splattered the sacred armor of both priests. The gore-dripping hammer rose and fell a second time, and Yddith gagged at the monstrous sight. Wide-eyed with horror, she backed into an alley and out of sight as she tried to chase from her mind the awful memory of Doubert's ruined face, but the continuing sound of the hammer rising and falling nailed the nightmare vision before her with each repeated blow.
Careening down the alley, Yddith heard the young priest's scream as the skeletal bard released him from the spell. His tormented gaze fell on Doubert for only a moment, just long enough for him to realize what he had done before the surrounding skeletons fell on him with sword and nail. Yddith heard them chop and tear him into unrecognizable meat.
At the same time, she noticed, moving ahead of her in the alley, the bodies of townspeople who had tried to flee during the desperate battle with the undead. They were on their feet, bearing ghastly, mortal wounds, and moving toward her. Something touched her arm. Yddith smelled decay as she turned to face her abductor. She fainted into his fetid arms when she recognized Orthor, undead Orthor, picking her up and carrying her toward the stage.
Yddith awoke chained to a rock on the stage. She looked up into the eye of the zombie thespian. She saw him place a glowing emerald necklace around her neck. She dimly heard him spout lines from the play that identified him as Gruumsh incarnate. The couplets indicated that the necklace was an infernal wedding gift from this inhabitant of the underworld. She stiffened in abject terror as her vision focused on the bloodstained tip of a silver dagger mere inches from her left eye. Blessed unconsciousness carried her away from the horror and the pain and kept her from hearing the cries of her friends and neighbors as all fell victim to the same bizarre sacrifice.
6
The stalker moved silently. He was nearly invisible as he traveled parallel to the slavers. His gray skin blended into the rocks as effectively as a gargoyle hiding atop a castle tower. Krusk sniffed involuntarily as the familiar orc scent wafted its way unwelcome into his nostrils. The orc stench mixed with porcine spoor made Krusk glad that he was moving faster than the slave train. His memories and his hatred could not be so easily left behind.
Krusk considered himself human. Most humans considered him an animal, at best, a monster at worst. Orcs considered him a traitor. To them, he was a weak-willed, inferior traitor to a race that esteemed strength, power, and the sadistic use of both. Krusk was neither weak nor sadistic, neither human nor orc. He was a half-orc, tolerated by some but hated by most. A child of rape who adored his human mother, Krusk developed into a warrior of strength and confidence because he saw the price his mother paid to express her love for him.
Ostracized by family and alleged friends, Vanisa had never let Krusk doubt that he was loved. Though she
lived deep in the woods far from any social contact besides each other, Vanisa had managed to teach Krusk to read, to think, and to value the ideals of human culture even when the humans failed to live up to those ideals, as they so often did. As Krusk grew and showed more of the legendary strength of his father's race, he left his home in the woods, knowing that he could protect his mother only by separating himself from her. Eventually, bereft and wounded, Krusk was rescued by Captain Tahrain. The career soldier welcomed Krusk into his unit, nursed him back to health, and trained him in the use of weapons and the fine points of tactics. Since Tahrain's death, Krusk had honed those lessons in a thousand mercenary jobs and adventures.
Today, Krusk was no one's mercenary. This task was one of his own choosing. He'd crossed the trail of this group of orcs hours earlier, and they were leaving the unmistakable signs of an orc slave caravan. Following the trail, Krusk encountered many human corpses dumped at the sides of the road. Most of them were either very old or very young. They were the slow, the sick, the weak who could not keep up. Instead of simply killing them, the orcs crippled or maimed them, then left them to die alone of their wounds. If the orcs had known they were being pursued, their cruel knives would have cut with more precision to prolong the lives of the dying. Civilized pursuers, the weakest of the weak in the eyes of the orcs, would tend to the wounded and fall behind. Krusk was glad that everyone he'd found was dead already, sparing him the distasteful choice between leaving someone to linger in pain or ending his life with a merciful sweep of his blade. In either case, he would not slow down.
Still, he pondered the meaning of the missing eye from every victim. This was something new, even for orcs. Krusk guessed that it was not orc handiwork. Orcs might blind a captive to prevent his escape or simply to watch him stumble about in pain. This mutilation was systematic and deliberate. It hinted at something beyond orcs. It also resolved Krusk to see the captives set free.
Stalking the caravan, he moved silently ahead and watched the train move past. He crossed behind and cautiously moved up the other side, taking in every detail of guards and weapons, of which were leaders and which would crumble without leadership.
Krusk breathed deeply as he moved through the shadowed trees past the orc chief. The dire boars that the warriors rode explained the pig stench. The warriors themselves looked as though they lived in a swamp and never bathed. As soon as Krusk was certain he was ahead of the column, he picked up his pace. The caravan obviously considered itself to be in friendly territory, because no orcs scouted ahead of the train of unfortunates. Gray skin glistened as Krusk ran to get far enough ahead to gain the time he needed. He found what he hoped for where the road bent to follow the curve of the mountain. The slope shielded him from the sight of the leading warriors.
Better yet, it allowed Krusk to work in the center of the road without being seen. The barbarian pulled a fistful of small caltrops from his pouch and scattered them across the road. He threw handfuls of loose earth onto them until they were lightly buried, then sifted road dust through his fingers to conceal the darker dirt. Krusk chuckled harshly to himself, remembering the time he watched a line of mounted knights dissolve into a frenzy of rearing horses and frightened riders upon hitting a similar line of caltrops during the Battle of Iron Wood.
He quickly climbed the slope of the hill and plopped behind a convenient tree. Krusk strung his powerful longbow, a masterpiece of polished bone crafted especially for him as a gift from his great friend, Tahrain. Krusk ran his hand along the bone and remembered how Tahrain had shared a special secret about this bow. The bone came from a mighty one-eyed stag in the forests of the Phostwood, the largest such animal Tahrain ever saw. Tahrain insisted that the stag foretold Krusk's destiny. Krusk didn't understand then what Tahrain meant, but he wondered now. Until today, no animals, enemies, or monsters with only one eye had threatened the barbarian. Ultimately, Krusk cared little for prophecies and less for mysteries. The bow shot true and hard, and that was all that mattered.
Krusk breathed a small oath for the late Captain Tahrain. He nocked an arrow, its razor tip carefully blackened with soot to prevent telltale glints of light. He tentatively tested the pull of the string. The tension felt good against the taut muscles of fingers and arms. Krusk relaxed and rested against the bole of the sheltering tree until his well-trained ears again heard the snorts of the boars, the clanking of the slave chains, and the creaking wheels of the wagon loaded down with loot taken from the slaves themselves.
Krusk watched the caravan come around the curve. The slope of the mountain slowly revealed the riders in front. He quickly picked out the leader of the orcs by his size and prominence, as well as the valuable necklace swinging from his neck. The green stone glistened in the sunlight as though it had a life of its own. Krusk pulled back on the bowstring. He held the mighty bow in tension and waited for the leader to advance in front of the unwavering arrowhead. His muscles strained against the weapon's pull. Slowly the leader's dire boar plodded up the road until it stepped gracelessly upon the spike of a caltrop. The enraged monster reared in fury and panic. Finally, Krusk exhaled with a satisfied grunt and released the string. The feathered shaft winged toward the massive orc, even as the warlord struggled to control his angry, fighting beast. The arrow sailed past the sparkling necklace and sliced through the edge of the orc leader's leather armor, nicking bone and cutting enough muscle that Krusk could see the warrior's left shoulder sag immediately. Then, even as he nocked his second arrow, he smiled in grim satisfaction as the lieutenants on the leader's right and left fought to control their suddenly, simultaneously rearing mounts.
Another arrow flew. This time, the hidden archer was truly gratified by the result. The shaft passed completely through the chief slaver's neck. Even with blood spurting from the exit wound, the warlord bellowed orders and waved an axe one-handed. He might have survived had he not lost his balance and slipped from the boar's back to be trampled under the slashing hooves of his own mount and those to either side of him.
Krusk didn't have time to admire his handiwork or listen to the crunching of his victim's bones through the enraged squeals of the boars. One of the lieutenants managed to maneuver his mount out of the caltrops and regain control of it and now was sending men up the hillside toward Krusk's position. Krusk unleashed another arrow, but it missed its mark as the bellowing lieutenant thundered back down the line issuing commands to his underlings. Krusk was already striding toward the nearest pile of rocks, rapidly slinging his bow across his back in exchange for his greataxe.
He hurdled the rockpile easily, greataxe in hand, savoring the weapon's perfect heft once again. He waited against the sheltering camouflage of the rock. His body tensed like that of a large cat, lacking only the impatient tail, as he watched five orc guards rush up the hill toward the tree where he'd been. One guard ordered the others to fan out and sweep the area. Before they could respond to the order, Krusk struck. He bounded from his hiding place in the rocks and felt the satisfying crunch as his greataxe hewed effortlessly through the midsection of one of his foes.
Three of the guards were so unnerved that Krusk easily evaded their feeble javelin thrusts and axe strokes. The more experienced sergeant stepped behind Krusk and hacked so fiercely with his axe that Krusk's mail shirt cut into his back, but the hardened links held against the softer edge of the crude weapon.
A red mist clouded Krusk's eyes. It was neither pain nor daze. Trees and rocks faded into the background so that only the bodies of his enemies stood out. The idea of danger dissipated, too. He was aware only that he needed to kill and that targets were all around. Krusk spun rapidly upon the orc behind him. The greataxe sounded a macabre dirge for its victim as it whistled through the air to rip through the orc's ribcage and more vital areas.
Krusk wrenched the weapon from that victim and turned to face the others. One javelin nicked his hip and another whistled by his ear. The orc with a greataxe swung with all of his might, gouging Krusk's side.
Krusk bellowed but didn't stumble. The bellow was anger, not pain. His axe split the orc's skull. The two survivors had tentatively pulled their own axes from their belts, but seeing their friends hewed down by single blows, they turned and ran for less treacherous environs. As they routed back down the hill, Krusk snatched his longbow and fired a missile. Death claimed one j more of the fleeing guards, but the other was well into cover before Krusk could nock another arrow.
The red mist subsided and suddenly Krusk felt the searing pain in his side. Already light-headed from loss of blood, he knew that he, too, must leave the battle. Though he had reduced the guards around the caravan and brought down their leader, he would have to finish the job later.
Krusk watched the orcs break camp from the safety of a tree j near the road. He was amused to observe that another guard had snatched the necklace off his former commander's corpse and proudly wore it around his own neck as a symbol of power. The half-orc vowed that he would remove that necklace from the vain orc's corpse before the day was over. Krusk admitted to himself that he didn't know how much longer the slave train would follow the road, but he thought he'd have another day to continue harassing the caravan and thin down the ranks of the guards before they arrived at their destination. His side still plagued him, but he i knew he could move when he needed to.
It was a fresh day and the orcs moved with new confidence. They no longer risked having their mounts wounded by hidden caltrops. They drove some of the slaves up the road ahead of them to trigger any traps. The lieutenant who assumed leadership after his commander's death still rode on his dire war boar. The other lieutenant rode in the cart with a scowl on his face. He had been forced to put down his war boar when it hit the caltrop and went berserk. Riding in the cart, he felt humiliated. His only source of pleasure was determining a myriad of situations where he might eventually slit the throat of his ambusher as surely as he had ended the life of his berserk mount.
