The Immortal Mystic (Book 5)

by Sam Ferguson

  “Supper is hot,” the porter said. “We have venison chops and a bit of soup. Bread is in the basket, and butter is in the dish.” The porter turned sideways through the door and placed the tray on the table before bowing and backing out of the room. He was so quick that Lepkin barely managed to thank him before the door closed again.

  The two rose and moved to the table. Lepkin pulled the lid from the plates and set them off to the side. They ate their meal quietly. Lepkin thought about what Marlin had said, and what that would mean for him. He was already in his late forties, having a child now would put him well into his sixties before the child would be old enough to venture out on his own. Then again, who was to say it would be a he? Could be a daughter. Lepkin swirled his spoon around in the soup and let that thought sink in for a bit. How would he raise a daughter? He didn’t really know the first thing about girls.

  “Something wrong?” Dimwater’s voice pulled him out from the spiraling labyrinth in his mind. Lepkin hastily took a spoonful of soup. He chewed the chunks of carrot and swallowed.

  “No,” he said. “Just thinking.”

  Dimwater raised a goblet of wine to her lips and drank, eyeing Lepkin all the while. When she set the goblet down, she arched a brow. “I have known you long enough to see when something is on your mind. What is it?”

  Lepkin sighed. “I was…” the words trailed off. He looked at her, locking in with her eyes and he smiled. “I was thinking about our future,” he said. “What it might hold for us, and whether we might create a family one day.”

  “You mean children?” Dimwater said with a snigger. She shook her head and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I don’t think that would be a wise idea,” she said with a wide smile. “What kind of offspring would we create? You half dragon, and me half demon, that doesn’t sound like a smart mix.”

  Lepkin offered a sheepish smile and looked down to his soup. He took another spoonful of soup and then moved on to cut a piece of venison.

  “I have offended you, haven’t I?” Dimwater asked. Lepkin shook his head, but kept focusing on the food he was slicing. “That was not my intent. It is only that we are both a bit beyond our prime, in terms of appropriate ages for starting a family. I will agree that I thought of it many times, but I don’t know that that is in the cards for us now.”

  “What if it was?” Lepkin asked, pressing the issue.

  Dimwater shrugged. “It will be hard enough to fight the battles we have as it is. I see no wisdom in fighting while pregnant.”

  Lepkin took a bite. As he chewed, he thought perhaps he should tell her what Marlin said. After all, not telling her didn’t change the fact, and should she ever find out that he knew before her and held it from her, perhaps that would be worse than not letting her discover it on her own. He swallowed the bite, hardly tasting it, and was about to explain everything Marlin had said when the door flew open. Lepkin instinctively gripped his knife in a way that would allow him to throw it at the intruder. Dimwater similarly prepared to weave a spell, but there was no need.

  A man stood in the doorway, sweat across his brow and panting for breath. “Millwort is dead,” he said between gasps. “Mercer has requested you meet him in the courtyard.”

  Lepkin nodded and the man turned to run on down the hall.

  “Kranson Millwort was the commander of the scouts right?” Dimwater asked.

  Lepkin sighed. “He is also the one who identified Eddin Finorel’s handwriting and seal upon treasonous missives directed to the enemy,” Lepkin replied.

  Lepkin dropped the knife and made for the door with Dimwater only half a step behind. They jogged through the halls, down the many stairs, and out into the courtyard. A host of men stood gathered together so that Lepkin couldn’t see. He pushed his way through and found a horrid scene in the center of the crowd.

  Millwort’s head, along with the heads of seven of his scouts, dangled from a rope tied around a horse’s neck. Each head was fastened to the rope with its own hair. Pinned to the saddle was a letter, written upon a bit of stretched human skin.

  “The orcs have sent us a warning,” Mercer growled.

  Lepkin nodded and stepped forward to inspect the letter. “It’s written in common tongue,” he said. “Usually they use only symbols.”

  “Obviously the sender wants us to understand he is intelligent.”

  Lepkin arched a brow. “Most orcs are,” he said. “But that does not explain how or why this particular orc would learn Common Tongue. I did meet one on the battlefield who also spoke in Common Tongue. That would suggest there is something more to it than just one or two orcs that chose to dabble in languages. They have their own language, books, and laws. To learn Common Tongue suggests that they had been preparing this for quite some time.”

  “Or, at the very least, that they have studied our culture,” Mercer added. “Over the years I have found references to orc battle commanders and officers who are all taught Common Tongue.”

  “Where would he get such documents to learn from?” Lepkin asked.

  Mercer lifted his right index finger and motioned for Lepkin to follow him. “The rest of you get a pit dug and bury the heads along with the horse.”

  “The horse too?” Dimwater asked.

  Mercer nodded. “An orc would never offer a horse to the enemy, unless they had first given it poison.” He pointed to it and continued, “They believe the gift of a horse is a gift of honor. Therefore, when they send messages upon a horse, they choose one that is either sickly, or they make it sick, thereby turning it into a gift that dishonors the receiver.”

  The men quickly took the horse’s lead and went off toward the rear gate. A few of them broke off, presumably to get shovels.

  Mercer limped along, slowly leading Lepkin and Dimwater back into the main keep. He took them through the main audience chamber and into the commander’s quarters. It was a simple enough room, with a long table in the center holding a map of the area and a mockup of Ten Forts built out of wood. A desk was situated along the west wall of the room, and a shelf in the back of the room held various books and tomes. Mercer pointed to the third shelf. “When I was in command, there were books there. They were manuals that I studied. Some were on wars past, others on formation and battlefield strategy. Some of them were handed down to me from the previous commander, others were manuals that I personally sought and collected.”

  “Where are they now?” Lepkin asked.

  “I suspect that our dear Eddin Finorel has given them to the enemy, for none of them were here when I took possession of the room. I asked some of the other officers about it, but none had any idea that the texts were missing.” Mercer limped to the desk and sat down. “I was ordering my desk last night. I couldn’t sleep with the constant bombardment from the trebuchets, and I had several missives to write.” Mercer ran his hand along the underside of the desk and then suddenly stopped. “I found this.” He jerked his wrist and a wooden drawer shot out from under the table. Mercer pushed back with his feet, scooting the chair along the stone and motioning for Lepkin to look inside the drawer.

  Lepkin quickly moved in and pulled a handful of letters from the drawer. He opened the first. “Send all of them,” he read aloud. He flipped the note over, but there were no other words upon it. He dropped the note to the top of the desk and looked at Dimwater, then back to Mercer.

  “Go on, read the others,” Mercer prodded.

  Lepkin opened the next. This one was written by a different hand. The penmanship was unrefined, with crooked letters and heavily marked periods and commas. “Now we have sufficient information, please report to Gilifan that we are ready. If he commands it, we could march within the month.” Lepkin flipped the note over, inspecting the parchment. “This looks to be fairly old,” he said. “The paper is stiff with age.”

  Mercer nodded. “There are plenty of notes in there. Many of them are old as the one you currently hold in your hand.” Mercer took the note from Lepkin and held it up for
Dimwater. “I believe this one was written by an orc. I have captured orc missives before, and the pattern of writing seems to fit their style. Each of the strokes are heaviest on the downward lines and the punctuations, which is something that is common among orcish writing.”

  Lepkin nodded. “They always start each symbol with a downward stroke. Only then do they make the remaining motions for each letter or symbol.”

  Mercer held up a finger. “And the punctuations are always marked heavily. You can see the exact same patterns on the message they sent to us today.”

  “This isn’t the same handwriting as what is on the note outside,” Lepkin commented.

  Mercer shook his head. “No, but I believe they are related.” He pointed to the stack and shook a finger. “A couple of the notes make a reference to Elshu’appa,” he said. “Even if there wasn’t the handwriting style, a reference to Elshu’appa is enough for me.”

  “The first orc high king,” Dimwater said breathlessly. “It would seem that these are written by an orc then. So Eddin Finorel had been working with them a long time to prepare the orcs to take over Ten Forts, then.”

  “That is my guess,” Mercer said.

  “Where is young Eddin Finorel? Have you sent him north for trial yet?” Lepkin asked.

  “Finorel is dead,” he said. “Someone gave him a length of rope. He hung himself. Had to work at it too, seeing as how he used the bars on his cell door to do it.”

  Lepkin tossed the notes onto the desk. “Well, I doubt his father, Lord Finorel will be pleased to hear that.”

  “Indeed,” Mercer said with a shrug. “However, I suppose he already knows, or will know shortly.”

  Lepkin folded his arms. “You suspect that someone found out he was caught and made sure to silence him then?”

  Mercer nodded. “Looks that way. I don’t know anyone with a strong enough will to hang themselves like that. Hanging from a cell door is awkward at best, and even if he had the angle right, it would be a very violent death. He would have had to pull his feet off the ground, and even then his knees likely would have supported him. Unless he was actively pushing against the door with his feet to put pressure on the noose, my guess is someone strangled him, then tied the rope to the cell door and fled.”

  “Where is the guard?” Lepkin pressed.

  Mercer snorted. “Nowhere to be seen. He simply vanished.”

  “So we have another spy to deal with.”

  Mercer nodded. “How is Marlin at finding spies?”

  Lepkin nodded. “It would take some doing. There are a lot of men in the forts, but if the rat is still here, Marlin can find him.”

  Mercer nodded and sighed. “Hop to it then. The both of you go with Marlin. Inspect each and every man here. Any who are false are to be hung from the ramparts for the orcs to see. They have given us a visual warning. Let’s return the gesture.”

  Lepkin turned to move, but Dimwater paused, staring at the note she held.

  “What is it?” Lepkin asked.

  Dimwater shrugged. “Gilifan, I think I have come across that name before.”

  “A wizard?” Mercer asked.

  Dimwater sighed. “I am not sure. It could be nothing, but if I remember then I will let you know.”

  “Come,” Lepkin said. “Let’s go and find Marlin.

  *****

  Maernok pulled the drinking horn up to his lips and let the amber liquid tumble over his gums and down his throat. He didn’t bother to savor the taste, he was not in the mood. When the horn was drained of the warm brew he tossed the empty vessel onto the small table before him.

  “More light,” he growled. The system of caves in the hills was perfect for housing the orc army. It was strong, hard to find, and only had two entrances, both of which were heavily guarded. Still, Maernok much preferred the open air and sunlight to the stale, damp atmosphere within the caves.

  An orc disappeared from the chamber only to return a moment later with two additional lanterns. He placed them at the edges of the table and then backed away.

  Maernok ran his fingers along the map before him. “Today was a shameful defeat,” he said.

  An old, but hardened orc by the name of Gerarn stepped out from the shadows. A scar creased his cheek and reached up into his left brow. The eye was white and dead. An old wound from a battle long ago. One of his tusks was broken, leaving a ragged stump. The orc was balding. What little hair he had left ringed his cranium with thin wisps of white. For all that, his muscles were large and thick. His arms appeared as though someone had shoved rocks into his skin. Veins snaked along the middle of the biceps, zig-zagging down to the elbows.

  “My clan did what they could,” he said unapologetically. “None of my warriors wavered. The fire did not stop them, and none ran from the dragon.” He then puffed up his chest a bit. “Beyond that, we have brought all of our goargs to aid in the battle. Most of them will arrive tonight, and you can put them and their keepers here in the hills until they are needed.”

  Maernok nodded. “The goargs will be a good addition to our numbers.” He cast a glance out around the room. He then moved his eyes back to Gerarn. “So, have you heard the casualty report? Are all of your warriors dead then?”

  “Only the warriors you ordered for me to hold in reserve remain. All others died on the field today. Yet, if you command it, I will lead the remnant of my clan to battle even now.”

  Maernok held up a hand. “That isn’t necessary.” He looked across the table to Serndar.

  The orc stepped forward. “My captains held the field, but their warriors fled.” He stood rigid, eyes looking beyond Maernok, rather than at him, chin out and chest puffed up. “After the goargs were defeated, and the trebuchets destroyed, their faith broke. The dragon was too much for them.”

  “I cannot abide cowards,” Maernok said solemnly. “Hammenfein does not reward the weak.”

  Serndar nodded. He pulled a curved dagger from his belt and laid it upon the table. “If it pleases you, allow me to remove my shame.”

  “Your warriors should have remained on the field until they heard the sound for retreat. Instead, they broke rank and ran like dogs!” Maernok slammed his fist on the table. One of the lamps teetered over the edge and shattered on the stone floor of the cave. The candle rolled onto the stone and the flame died.

  “To retreat without permission is to shame us all,” Gulgarin put in as he stepped up to the table. He crossed his arms, proudly displaying his wrist bracers with the engraved image of a horse trampling a snake. “I say he is shamed before this council.”

  Gerarn bristled at Gulgarin’s words. His eyes fixed on the bracers and he spat upon the ground. “I say there is no shame. Serndar did not lead those warriors. He was here, with us. His captains held firm until they died honorably, with sword in hand. The only shame lies with the cowards who fled. I say let Hammenfein deal with them when the time comes.

  Serndar removed his tunic and grabbed the dagger. He placed the tip into the side of his belly, a few inches above his hip. “Maernok, the vote is tied. There are four orc clans here. As I am the one with the shame, I cannot vote. The decision rests with you.”

  Maernok looked to the dagger and let the heat of his anger burn within his mind. Under normal circumstances, perhaps he would side with Gulgarin. However, this was not a simple battle. This was his key to get at the necromancer. Defeating Ten Forts would release him from his debt, and he could finally slip his blade through that worm’s neck and spill his sickly, twisted blood upon the rocks.

  As if on cue, Gilifan strode into the chamber. “I heard there was a dragon,” he said flatly. “Pity you couldn’t destroy it.”

  Maernok snarled and his lip curled back over his upper teeth. He pushed off from the table and looked to Serndar. “Serndar, you are an honorable warrior. The fault lies not with you. Put the dagger away.”

  “Sorry, was I interrupting something?” Gilifan asked with feigned concern. The necromancer’s eyes fell with heightened in
terest upon the dagger.

  “Had Gulgarin told me of the necromancer’s involvement, we would not have come,” Gerarn said.

  Gulgarin spat on the ground. “I knew only of the conquest,” he lied. Of course he had known of Gilifan’s involvement. He and the necromancer had been planning this very assault on Ten Forts for some time. Gulgarin had even been communicating with young Eddin Finorel. The deal was simple. Gilifan wanted to weaken the Middle Kingdom and, as far as Gulgarin knew, rule over Drakei Glazei. In return, Gulgarin was to get access to the lost orcish lands, which would then enable him to position himself as a new high king, a true conqueror the likes of which had not been seen among the orcish tribes since they were pushed south of Ten Forts. Still, if any knew of his involvement with a wizard, no orcs would follow him into battle. There was only one orc that could request such a thing, and that was Maernok. Maernok was well known throughout all the tribes, and his offer to split the honor of conquering Ten Forts was enough to entice all of the clans.

  As the orcs continued to stare in disgust at the necromancer, Gilifan shrugged and moved to the table. “Oh, I suspect that Gerarn, chief of the Viper Clan, would have come even still. This battle is one that shall earn you a high place in Hammenfein. Not many orcs have dared the like.”

  “The council has work to do,” Maernok said sternly. “Have you come to assist, or do you simply enjoy wasting our time?”

  Gilifan smiled wryly and turned his head to regard Maernok for a moment. “Both, my dear Maernok.” He held his hands out wide to the side and addressed all of them. “They have a dragon, but he cannot remain in that form for long. Every moment he spends as a dragon shall warp his soul. Eventually he will be forced to fight as a human, or he will be overpowered by Nagar’s ancient magic and be under my control.”

  “So you would have us throw ourselves at the walls and draw the beast out?” Gerarn asked.