"I would rip open your belly," said the urvuul, "and feast upon your entrails. Slowly, that I might savor your agony as you died."
"And if I do not?" said Kharlacht.
"Then nothing," said the urvuul, moving its head. It had a golden chain around its neck, holding a small vial of what looked like blood. "I have nothing but hatred for orcish vermin, and would slay you all if I had the power. But I can only enter the mortal world by the summons and binding of a sorcerer. So I am bound to this chamber, and must wait for fools like you to venture within so I can rend you."
"Fools?" said Kharlacht. "Many come here?"
"Yes," said the urvuul, its voice a sensuous hiss. "Sent by that fool of a shaman. Those clever enough to escape the corridor of spikes come here...and rush right to the treasure. The fools never think to look up." Sullen resentment entered the voice. "You were the first to do so. And certainly the first to attempt conversation."
"Perhaps you should be grateful for the company," said Kharlacht.
Derisive laughter rang over the hall. "It makes me desire to sup upon your heart all the more."
Kharlacht looked at the urvuul, at the heaped treasure, and then back at the urvuul. Bound to this chamber, the creature had said. And if the urvuul interpreted its instructions literally, did that mean it could not leave the chamber? If Kharlacht could get the sword and escape, would the urvuul follow?
He looked again at the urvuul. He had no doubt it could outrun him.
So he had to distract it somehow.
He looked at the nearest sarcophagus, and a plan came to him. It was bold, almost foolhardy. But he needed to find a way out of the Tower with a blade of the dark elves in his hand, whatever the risk.
So he strode to the sarcophagus, heaved against it with all his strength, and sent the stone lid crashing to the floor. Within lay a copper coffin carved with strange runes and sigils, runes that flickered with a hellish green light. The sorcerer-lords of old had indeed laid a curse upon it.
"Foolish mortal," said the urvuul. "What are you about?"
A hooded wraith of smoke and crimson fire appeared above the sarcophagus, burning eyes staring at Kharlacht. The curse had conjured up a vengeful spirit, and Kharlacht felt his blood turn to ice as the specter reached for him with translucent hands.
The urvuul laughed. "Delightful! I have not had such entertainment for many centuries!"
Kharlacht dodged the wraith's grasp and raced for the treasure pile. The wraith flowed after him, frost forming on the ground in the wake of its passage. Kharlacht seized the greatsword upon the lowest step and spun, the blade extended before him. Even through his terror, he felt the weapon's magnificent balance and heft.
The urvuul gave a shriek of glee and flung itself from the ceiling.
It landed right atop the hooded wraith.
The specter raked at the urvuul, its ghostly claws sinking into the urvuul's armored hide. The urvuul spun, crimson fire erupting along its forelimbs, and plunged its pincers into the specter. The wraith shuddered, wailed, and dissolved into smoke. The urvuul surged forward, talon-tipped legs clicking against the marble floor.
But Kharlacht had already sprinted for the stairs the moment the urvuul had fallen like black lightning from the ceiling. He was fast, but the urvuul was far faster. Kharlacht had almost reached the archway, but the urvuul covered the distance in a heartbeat, burning pincers yawning wide.
He whirled and slashed out with the sword. Normal steel could not harm an urvuul. But the spell-forged blade of the dark elves sliced through the urvuul's outstretched pincer, and it fell to the floor with a clatter. The urvuul bellowed and reared back, and Kharlacht had his last chance. He flung himself through the archway, and fell against the ascending stairs, sword held out before him. For a horrible moment he thought he had been wrong, that the urvuul would follow him up the stairs and rip him to shreds...
But the urvuul stopped in the archway.
Kharlacht took a deep breath and got to his feet.
"So," he said. "You are bound to that chamber."
"Yes," said the urvuul, its beautiful voice filled with hatred. "So very clever of you, orc. You may depart with your prize. Until we meet again." The creature sounded amused. "For we shall."
The urvuul climbed up the wall and vanished.
Kharlacht paused long enough to light another torch from his pack, and then hurried up the stairs. He made his way through the corridor of spikes and stumbled back into the open air. The sun filled his eyes, and the cold mountain air moaned and whistled through the ruins.
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
He had done it. He had escaped from Narrakhan's trap, outwitted the urvuul, and returned with a blade of the dark elves. He had trapped the wretched old shaman with his own words. Now Kharlacht could take his place in the assembly of warriors and raise his voice against Narrakhan.
Now he could take Lujena as his wife. Their son would inherit the blade he had taken from the Tower.
That thought made him smile.
He returned to the village and saw a crowd gathered before the altar, murmuring to each other. Had they returned to greet him? True, no one had ever returned from the Tower of Bones before, but who would have seen him? One of the elders stood nearby, an elder who held Narrakhan in little regard, and Kharlacht approached him.
"Elder," said Kharlacht. "What has happened?"
The elder looked at him, eyes growing wide. "Kharlacht! By the blood gods, you've returned! No one has ever come back from the Tower!" He snorted. "Perhaps it was the shock that made the old wretch's heart give out."
"His heart?" said Kharlacht. "What do you mean?"
"Narrakhan," said the elder. "He died at midday."
###
Night had fallen by the time Kharlacht reached Narrakhan's cottage atop its high hill outside the village. Skulls stood in niches over the door and windows, the walls painted with symbols in sheep's blood. Kharlacht hesitated, and opened the door without knocking.
It was Lujena's cottage now, anyway.
A dozen candles filled the cottage with flickering light. Shelves held bones and skulls and jars of powder, all the props Narrakhan had used for his sorcery. The old shaman himself lay on the table, eyes closed, chest motionless. Lujena stood over him, head bowed.
She was smiling.
"Lujena?" said Kharlacht.
Her head snapped up, her smile vanishing.
"You're alive?" she whispered. "And you have one of the swords? How?"
He took her hands. "I outwitted the urvuul and escaped."
She wrenched her hands free from his grasp and stepped back.
"What is it?" said Kharlacht. "What's wrong?"
"You useless, stupid fool," said Lujena. "Get out. Now."
He stopped, shocked.
"What is it?" said Kharlacht. "Is it your father? You dreamed of the day when he would die, when we could finally wed. I have the sword, I survived his spirit quest, and I can take my place as a warrior of Vhaluusk."
"Wed you?" said Lujena, and she laughed, long and derisive. "I would sooner wed an ox than a reeking, useless fool such as yourself." She smirked, resembling her father for a moment. "Why I let such a stinking thing as you into my bed, I shall never know."
Kharlacht blinked, trying to control his pain and anger. "What is this? What happened to you?"
"The blood gods have spoken to me," said Lujena, her smirk widening. "They even entered into me, you might say. After my father's death, they chose me to be the new shaman of our tribe. And I shall be! I shall demonstrate my powers to the foolish tribesmen, and they shall accept me as shaman." She leaned forward, the candle flames reflecting in her eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And perhaps I shall learn that the blood gods have rejected your quest. You will have to go on another...and you will not be so fortunate the next time." She turned, making a disdainful motion at the corpse. "Dispose of this carrion, and trouble me no more."
Kharlacht stared at he
r back.
The blood gods had entered into her...
He remembered the sarcophagi below the Tower, his fears that the shades of the sorcerer-lords could enter the living.
And Lujena's insistence that her father was no charlatan, that he did indeed have power.
"Narrakhan!" he roared.
Lujena whirled, eyes narrowed.
She saw him staring, and the expression drained out of her face.
"So," said Kharlacht. "You were a cheat and a scoundrel all your life, and now you try to cheat death itself."
"I see there is no point in denying it," said Lujena. Or Narrakhan, rather, his corrupted spirit wearing Lujena's stolen body. "You were always too clever. Much like your mother, really. I sent her to her death as well, you know."
"Release Lujena," said Kharlacht. "Or I..."
Narrakhan laughed. "Or what? You'll strike me down." He spread Lujena's arms wide. "Strike down your beloved, my own dear daughter? You will not. You have not have the strength."
"Then I will tell the others of your crimes," said Kharlacht. "I survived your blood quest, and I am now a warrior of the tribe. I will denounce you in assembly."
"They will not believe you," said Narrakhan. It was horrid to see Lujena's face contort with the old shaman's familiar sneer.
"Will they?" said Kharlacht. "Will they not find it suspicious that you proclaimed yourself shaman the very day that Narrakhan died? Even though Lujena hated her father and never used magic? And when I tell them of the trap you set in the Tower of Bones, how you lured the others there to die because they threatened you...I think they will believe me."
For a moment no one said anything.
Narrakhan sighed. "Too clever, indeed. I suppose I will just have to kill you."
Kharlacht lifted his sword. "Try."
Narrakhan grinned. "Certainly."
He made a throwing, pushing motion with Lujena's hand. A cold wind blew through the cottage, setting the candles to dancing.
And invisible force crashed into Kharlacht, throwing him backwards. The door smashed into kindling beneath him, and he fell hard to the ground outside the cottage, barely keeping his grip on the sword.
He saw Narrakhan stoop over the body on the table, snatch something from its chest.
"You know," said Narrakhan, Lujena's black hair blowing in the cold wind as he stepped outside. "I have a confession to make. That urvuul in the Tower of Bones? The sorcerers of the dark elves didn't summon it. I did. I bound it to that chamber, and used to dispose of young fools bold enough to challenge me."
He lifted the thing he had taken from the corpse. A golden chain, a vial of blood dangling from its length.
Identical to the one Kharlacht had seen around the urvuul's neck. He struggled to his feet with a growl of rage.
Narrakhan gestured, invisible force again driving Kharlacht to the ground.
"The urvuul will be upset that you escaped," said Narrakhan, "and I would hate to disappoint such a useful servant." He lifted the vial, his voice rising to a shout. "Slave! I, Narrakhan, your master, call to you! Come to my side and rend my enemies! Come and slay!"
A terrible cry rang from the mountains. Kharlacht clawed his way to his knees as he saw a dark shape speeding out of the hills. The urvuul dropped out of the sky, its great leathery wings folding, and landed next to Narrakhan.
"Clever little mortal," purred the urvuul, its burning eyes fixed upon Kharlacht. "I told you that we would meet again."
"Silence!" said Narrakhan, pointing. "Kill him!"
Again the urvuul loosed its horrible cry, and sprang forward with blurring speed. Kharlacht leapt to meet the urvuul, sword clanging against the creature's talons. Again the blade sheared through the serrated claws, and again the urvuul reared back in pain. Kharlacht saw his opening and surged forward, both hands around his sword's hilt, and stabbed. The blade crunched into one of the urvuul's eyes, driving into its skull. But the urvuul wrenched free, shaking its head, and Kharlacht saw the shattered claw growing anew, saw the eye repairing itself.
His greatsword had the power to wound the urvuul, but not to kill it.
"Kill him!" bellowed Narrakhan, brandishing the vial on its chain. "Kill him now!"
The urvuul glared at Narrakhan, but its head rotated back to face Kharlacht. Clearly it had no more liking for Narrakhan than for any other mortal, but Narrakhan had the power to control it.
The vial.
Kharlacht had to get that vial of blood away from Narrakhan.
Again the urvuul drove at him, and Kharlacht backed away, swinging his blade in high parries. The urvuul might be immortal, but Kharlacht suspected it had no desire to feel his blade. Kharlacht let it drive him towards the cottage, then he sprang to the right, darted beneath a swinging claw, and threw himself at Narrakhan.
The old shaman shouted, and Kharlacht knocked Lujena's body to the ground. He tore the vial free from its chain. The urvuul surged at him, and Kharlacht threw the vial against the cottage wall.
It shattered, the blood within bursting into flame. The vial against the urvuul's neck likewise shattered, the crimson flames licking against the black armor of the urvuul's hide.
The creature went motionless.
"Fool!" shrieked Narrakhan, getting off the ground.
"Release Lujena’s body," said Kharlacht, "now, or..."
He never had time to finish the threat.
The urvuul sprang forward with a howl of glee, shoving past Kharlacht, and plunged its pincers into Lujena's belly.
Kharlacht heard himself scream.
The urvuul leapt back, and Kharlacht saw a spirit caught in its pincers. Narrakhan's ghost, eyes wide, mouth open in silent screams, struggled against the urvuul's grip, but to no avail.
"Come, Narrakhan," said the urvuul, its lovely voice smooth with pleasure. "Let us discuss how you shall repay my servitude!"
The urvuul leapt into the sky and vanished, its laughter ringing out, Narrakhan's screaming spirit imprisoned in its grasp.
Kharlacht ran to Lujena's side and knelt by her. The urvuul's pincers had ripped her open from stomach to throat, her blood pooling into the dirt. Her eyes, cloudy and full of pain, met his, and her shaking hand curled about his own.
She was Lujena again.
"I always knew," she whispered.
"Knew what?" said Kharlacht, squeezing her hand.
"That you would save me from him," she said, her eyes dimming. "And you did. You saved me from him."
Her grip slackened, and she slumped against the ground.
Kharlacht bent over her, weeping.
###
The next day Kharlacht watched the smoke rise from Lujena's roaring pyre.
He could not return to the village. They would think he had murdered Lujena, and he had no proof otherwise. And he could not leave Lujena's body to lie in the dirt, to be buried besides her murderous, treacherous father.
So he stood in the woods five miles from the village and watched his beloved's pyre.
Narrakhan had taken her from him, just as he had taken his mother, and now his home.
He could not go back again.
###
Later that day, Kharlacht returned to the vault below the Tower of Bones.
He did not take much from the treasure hoard. Only a cuirass of blue dark elven steel, and some coins and jewels to pay his way. Kharlacht donned the armor, strapped the sword to his back, and left the Tower, making his way into the mountains.
Towards the lands beyond.
His home was lost to him, but with a good sword, he could find his fortune elsewhere.
THE END
Thank you for reading THE ORC'S TALE. If you liked the story, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter, or watch for news on my Facebook page. Turn the page for a bonus chapter from the first book in the FROSTBORN series, Frostborn: The Gray Knight.
Bonus Chapter from FROSTBORN: TH
E GRAY KNIGHT
A letter to the surviving kings, counts, and knights of Britain:
I am Malahan Pendragon, the bastard son of Mordred, himself the bastard son of Arthur Pendragon, the High King of all Britain.
You know the grievous disasters that have befallen our fair isle. My father betrayed my grandfather, and perished upon the bloody field of Camlann, alongside many of the mightiest knights and kings of Britain. Before that came the war of Sir Lancelot’s treachery and the High Queen’s adultery, a war that slew many noble and valiant knights.
Now there is no High King in Britain, Camelot lies waste, and the pagan Saxons ravage our shores. Every day the Saxons advance further and further, laying waste to our fields and flocks, butchering our fighting men, making slaves of our womenfolk, and desecrating holy churches and monasteries. Soon all of Britain shall lie under their tyranny, just as the barbarians overthrew the Emperor of Rome.
My lords, I write not to claim the High Kingship of Britain – for Britain is lost to the Saxons – but to offer hope. My grandfather the High King is slain, and his true heir Galahad fell seeking the grail, so therefore this burden has fallen to me, for there is no one else to bear it.
Britain is lost, but we may yet escape with our lives.
For I have spoken with the last Keepers of Avalon, and by their secret arts they have fashioned a gate wrought of magic leading to a far distant realm beyond the circles of this world, certainly beyond the reach of the heathen Saxons. Here we may settle anew, and build homes and lives free from the specter of war.
I urge you to gather all your people, and join me at the stronghold of Caerleon. We shall celebrate the feast of Easter one final time, and then march to the plain of Salisbury, to the standing stones raised by the wizard Merlin.
The gate awaits, and from there we shall march to a new home.
Sealed in the name of Malahan Pendragon, in the Year of Our Lord 538.
###
The day it all began, the day in the Year of Our Lord 1478 when the blue fire filled the sky from horizon to horizon, Ridmark Arban returned to the town of Dun Licinia.
The Orc's Tale Page 2
