THE SKULL TREES
Jonathan Moeller
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The Skull Trees
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About the Author
Description
RIDMARK ARBAN was once an honored Swordbearer. Now he is a disgraced exile, outcast and alone.
To redeem himself, he seeks the secret of the return of the Frostborn, guarded by the mysterious Elder Shamans of Qazaluuskan Forest.
But the Shamans hold their secrets tightly, and their guardians might kill Ridmark before he draws near...
The Skull Trees
Copyright 2016 by Jonathan Moeller.
Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.
Cover image copyright Konstik | Dreamstime.com | Dreamstime.com - Ancient Engraved Battle Axe Photo.
Ebook edition published July 2016.
All Rights Reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
The Skull Trees
Ridmark Arban had spent two days trying to find a way to cross the river, and so far he had failed.
Granted, he hadn’t expected to find a river here.
The Qazaluuskan Forest was vast, as large as a third of the realm of Andomhaim itself, and its interior had never been mapped. The tribes of Qazaluuskan orcs often killed intruders and raised their corpses as undead creatures in service to Qazalask, the orcish blood god of death. Across Andomhaim, the Qazaluuskan Forest was a place of dread and fear, and only the mad or the bold dared to cross its borders.
Ridmark wasn’t sure which one he was. Mad, probably. But also desperate. He knew that the Frostborn were returning, though he did not know how they would return. No one in Andomhaim knew, and no one in the High King’s realm believed him.
But the Elder Shamans of the Qazaluuskan Forest knew secrets forgotten by all others, lore that had otherwise been buried in the dust of history. From them, Ridmark might learn the truth. He had heard rumors that the Elder Shamans lived on the far side of the Qazaluuskan Forest, in the foothills of the Lion Mountains, and so Ridmark had set off to find them. He had expected to fight Qazaluuskan orcs and undead creatures and worse things.
He had not expected to find his path stymied by a river.
The river was at least two hundred yards across, and swimming to the far bank was not an option. Pale serpents of a sort that Ridmark had never seen before lived in the water, and the first time he had stripped down, wrapped his clothes and equipment in his gray high elven cloak, and tried to swim across, the serpents had swarmed towards him. He had barely gotten out of the water before they caught him, and to judge from the length of their gleaming fangs, he suspected the pale serpents carried deadly venom.
So he had traveled north, following the line of the river and looking for a way across as he wove through the silent trees of the Qazaluuskan Forest. His efforts had been unsuccessful. He would prefer to avoid the river entirely. Rivers meant water, and water meant villages – sooner or later, he would encounter more of the Qazaluuskan orcs, and he would prefer to avoid them as well. Perhaps he could try building a raft, but he didn’t have the proper tools for that kind of task, and if a crude raft disintegrated halfway across the river, the serpents would have him.
And, to make matters worse, he was being followed.
For the last few minutes, he had heard someone crashing through the brush, always following his course as he paralleled the river’s path. Ridmark’s first thought was that it had been a bear, but it didn’t sound large enough. A predator like a wolf, or a creature of dark magic like an urvaalg, would be far stealthier. That meant something man-sized was following Ridmark, most likely a Qazaluuskan orc, but that didn’t make any sense either. The bone orcs could move like shadows went they felt like it.
Ridmark wondered if this was some kind of elaborate trap. Well, if it was a trap, springing it here would be to his advantage. The river’s bank was mostly clear, and there would not be room for any ambushers to conceal themselves.
He gripped his staff in both hands and waited, watching the shadowy trees.
A moment later his pursuer limped into sight, wobbling a bit.
A long, long time ago, it had been an orcish man. Now it was a withered, mummified corpse, the green of its skin faded to a splotchy yellow. Its eyes and mouth had been stitched shut, and rows of stitches ran down its chest and back. From time to time fingers of blue fire glowed beneath its withered skin, likely from the dark magic that animated the creature. It gave off a foul stench, a ghastly mixture of rotting meat and the strange elixirs the Qazaluuskan shamans used to empower their necromantic spells.
The bone orcs were skilled at necromancy. The kindreds of other lands buried their dead or burned them. Almost all the Qazaluuskan orcs knew at least a little magic, and when they died, their bodies were raised as undead creatures in the name of Qazalask. The bone orcs used their undead in as laborers and beasts of burden and guardians and as warriors. The undead were clumsy, but they were swift and struck with inhuman strength. Ridmark braced himself, raising his heavy staff, and prepared to fight.
The undead thing just stood there.
It had no eyes, so it couldn’t stare at him, but Ridmark suspected he had the creature’s full attention. He took three quick steps to the side, closer to the river, and the creature jerked as it turned to follow him.
It made a spiraling, flailing motion with its right arm. At first, Ridmark thought it had tried to throw something at him, and then the creature repeated the gesture twice.
“You…want me to follow you?” said Ridmark in the orcish tongue, wondering if the thing could even hear him.
The disfigured head bobbed up and down. It was a reasonable facsimile of a nod.
“Very well,” said Ridmark. He wondered why the creature hadn’t attacked him, but realized that was a mistake. The undead thing was a puppet, and whoever was controlling it wanted to speak with Ridmark.
That couldn’t be good. On the other hand, it was better than fighting his way through a horde of undead orcs.
The undead creature made the spiraling motion again, and then turned and started shambling north. Ridmark followed the creature in silence, watching for any sign of treachery. None came, but more of the undead emerged from the trees until a half-dozen of the creatures followed him in a loose ring. Ridmark wasn’t quite surrounded. He could take down one of the undead and escape before the others closed around him, but he suspected the master of the undead wished to avoid trouble.
After about five miles, they stopped walking, and Ridmark saw the barge.
It had been beached on the river bank. It was a large flat craft of solid planks, its deck scarred and weathered from much use. A dozen undead orcs stood upon the barge, holding oars like spearmen awaiting the call to battle. A dozen more undead waited upon the bank, silent and twitching.
A shaman of the Qazaluuskan orcs stood near them, leaning upon a twisted staff adorned with a skull. The shaman wore only a pair of ragged trousers, his bare feet half-sunk in the mud of the river bank. Like most of the bone orcs, he had donned black and white war paint, giving his face the appearance of a grinning skull. The paint was flaking off, giving his flesh a leprous, diseased look. He wore amulets made from bone and stones and others that appeared to be mummified body parts. A withered hand hung from around his neck, bouncing a little with
the draw of his breath. The shaman squinted at Ridmark, then nodded to himself, tucked his staff into the crook of his elbow, and drew out something from a pouch at his belt.
It was a site of three dice carved from bone, their facets adorned with peculiar red symbols.
“I see the omens guided me truly,” said the shaman, rattling the bone dice in his fingers. His voice was deep and watery, almost as if he was speaking from the bottom of a drain, and even from a distance, his breath smelled vile. “You have come before me, just as the omens and portents have foretold. The Lord of Bones guides my path this day.”
Ridmark said nothing. The Qazaluuskan orcs were superstitious to the point of madness and interpreted a bewildering array of signs, portents, and omens. If the shaman decided the omens favored killing Ridmark, he would attack without mercy.
But the shaman had not. He had instead summoned Ridmark here.
“We must start with introductions, yes,” said the shaman. “I am Mhralask, a shaman of Qazalask, the Lord of Bones.”
“What do you want to ask me?” said Ridmark.
“I see I must introduce you to myself,” said Mhralask. “You are the one who killed Hhrolazur at the barrow.”
“I didn’t kill Hhrolazur,” said Ridmark. “The Old One killed him.”
“Mmm,” said Mhralask. “A fair point. A fair point! But you disrupted his spell, which was as good as killing him. If you tied a man’s hands and feet together and then threw him into the river, you could claim the water or the serpents killed him, but you would nonetheless be the author of his death.”
“Have you come to avenge him, then?” said Ridmark, noting the positions of the undead. Fighting one of the undead would be bad enough. Trying to escape from a score of them while Mhralask brought his magic to bear was not something he wanted to attempt.
“Certainly not,” said Mhralask. He shook his head, the skull atop his staff seeming to grin behind its tusks. “If Hhrolazur wanted to parley with an Old One of the barrows, he should have been more careful. The Old Ones do not tolerate fools. Besides, I never liked him. The pompous fool never shut up.”
“If you don’t want to avenge Hhrolazur,” said Ridmark, “then why have you invited me here?”
“To discuss business, of course,” said Mhralask.
“Business,” said Ridmark.
“I am of a more…mercantile disposition than many of my brethren,” said Mhralask. “All are gathered in the darkness of Qazalask’s kingdom in the end, of course, but there is no reason why one may not turn a profit on the way. The opportunities for profit are endless if one but looks for them.”
“You’re a ferryman,” said Ridmark. “You take people across the river for a price.”
“Yes,” said Mhralask. “You have seen the pale serpents, I trust? Did you know they are creatures of dark magic?”
“Are they?” said Ridmark. They were certainly larger and more aggressive than any other serpent he had ever encountered.
“Long ago, a dark elven prince ruled this portion of the Qazaluuskan Forest,” said Mhralask. “He wished to keep his slaves from escaping his realm, so he created the pale serpents and stocked the river with them. Their venom is most exquisitely unique. If the victim is submerged in the river, it causes paralysis, allowing the serpents to feast. But if the victim is not submerged, it causes overwhelming and overpowering thirst. The victim will rush into the water to drink, even knowing that certain death awaits him.”
“That sounds like the dark elves,” said Ridmark, glad that none of the serpents had bitten him.
“Mmm. Yes. We are well rid of them. Though the urdmordar were worse. But then your ancestors arrived and killed all the urdmordar, and the orcs of the Qazaluuskan Forest were left alone,” said Mhralask. “But we wander afield from the subject at hand.”
“You’re a ferryman,” said Ridmark. “How much to get across the river?”
“Gold is useful,” said Mhralask, “but in the Qazaluuskan Forest, skill is more useful. Hhrolazur was a fool, but a powerful fool, and you overcame him, which means that you must have some skill.”
“You want me to do something for you,” said Ridmark.
“You likewise are a man of business, I see,” said Mhralask. “Splendid.” He tossed the dice to himself again, scrutinizing their symbols, and then nodded. “A few miles northwest of here is a section of the forest called the Skull Trees.”
“It sounds like the kind of place the followers of the Lord of Bones would appreciate,” said Ridmark.
“You would think so, but no,” said Mhralask. “It is ruled by a sorceress who calls herself the Red Maiden, and she kills any who enter the Skull Trees.”
“She’s not a bone orc?” said Ridmark.
“We are uncertain what she actually is, save that she wields potent magic, and kills anyone who enters the Skull Trees,” said Mhralask. “She then affixes the skulls to the branches, hence the name.”
“You want me to kill her,” said Ridmark.
“If you like,” said Mhralask. “What I would like you to do is to rescue my nephew Vhalqask, or at least learn of his fate. Yesterday the fool wandered into the Skull Trees to slay the sorceress who dwells within to make a name for himself. As you might expect, he has not returned since.”
“And if I learn of his fate,” said Ridmark, “what will you give me in exchange?”
“My lads and I,” said Mhralask, “will ferry you across the river to safety.” He clapped one of the undead on the shoulder, which made a disturbing squishing sound.
“No,” said Ridmark. “The risk is too high, and for all that I know this Red Maiden is a dark elven noblewoman. I don’t carry any weapons that could harm a dark elf. I will simply go around the river.”
“The omens say you will not,” said Mhralask. “The omens say you are on a quest of importance.”
“Do they?” said Ridmark. “What else do your omens say about me?”
“Nothing, but the rest is a simple deduction,” said Mhralask. “You are a human from Andomhaim, and judging from the brand of a broken sword upon your left cheek, you are a knight who was banished in disgrace. Consequently, you are on a quest to restore your honor. You are traveling east, which means you are heading to the Lion Mountains to speak with the Elder Shamans.”
“You know of the Elder Shamans?” said Ridmark.
“All of the children of the Lord of Bones know of the Elder Shamans,” said Mhralask. “Sometimes fools from other kindreds visit the Forest, seeking the secrets of the Elder Shamans. They never return.”
“Never?” said Ridmark.
Mhralask grunted. “Not in living memory, and not to my knowledge. But if you wish to live long enough for the Elder Shamans to kill you, you shall take my deal.”
Ridmark said nothing.
“It is ten days’ journey to pass the river to the north,” said Mhralask, “and I doubt you will live that long. I have no wish to take vengeance for Hhrolazur. Hhrolazur’s relatives will feel differently, and they are hunting you even now.”
“How do you know that?” said Ridmark.
“The omens told me so,” said Mhralask. “Also, Hhrolazur had numerous wives, brothers, sons, and nephews, and all of them are hunting you to take your head for his death. Blood loyalty is important to the orcs of the Forest.” The old shaman smiled behind his tusks, some flakes of dried white paint falling from his face. “But if you cross the river, you shall easily be able to disappear before they catch up to you.”
Ridmark sighed. Mhralask did indeed know how to drive a hard bargain.
“Fine,” said Ridmark. “Which way to the Skull Trees?”
###
A few hours later, the smell of the forest changed as Ridmark strode northwest.
The Qazaluuskan Forest always smelled of decay and rot, with vast clusters of mushrooms squatting upon the forest floor, lichens and other fungi clinging to the trunks of the trees. The shamans likely had to use such strong-smelling elixirs on their undead to
keep mushrooms from growing upon the corrupted flesh. As Ridmark walked northwest, weaving his way around the massive trunks of the ancient trees, the air became stale, dusty, like a cellar that had not been opened for years. It was an unpleasant odor, and he had smelled it before, years ago.
The memory filled him with alarm.
The ground grew roughter, and at the base of a rocky hill, Ridmark saw the first of the Skull Trees.
It was a dead oak tree. The branches had no leaves but were dotted with skulls, dozens of skulls. The stark white of the bone against the dark wood looked almost like pustules rising from corrupted flesh. As Ridmark drew closer, he saw that the skulls had been affixed to the branches with layers of pale, sticky webbing.
He had seen webbing like that before, and the sight filled him with alarm.
The urdmordar used that kind of webbing, as did their minions, the half-human, half-urdmordar spiderlings. Once the urdmordar had ruled most of what was now Andomhaim, and they had nearly destroyed the High King’s realm. Only when the high elven archmage Ardrhythain had founded the Two Orders, the Magistri and the Swordbearers, had the realm been able to throw back the urdmordar. Ridmark himself had killed the urdmordar Gothalinzur in the village of Victrix.
Back then, he had been a Swordbearer, and he had still carried the soulblade Heartwarden.
Now, he had no weapon that could harm an urdmordar, and if this Red Maiden of Mhralask’s was really an urdmordar, Ridmark had no way of overcoming the creature.
He hesitated, contemplating another course of action. Perhaps it would be better to take his chances with Hhrolazur’s murderous relatives than to risk the Skull Trees. He could fight and kill bone orcs. He could not face down an urdmordar. For that matter, he had only Mhralask’s word that Hhrolazur’s kin were after him. If Ridmark still carried a soulblade, he would have faced down a spiderling or even an urdmordar without hesitation.
But without a soulblade…
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