The Bone Orcs

by Jonathan Moeller

  “Oh, two of us against fifty bone orcs?” said Peter. “I’m a blacksmith and you’re a renegade with a stick. What can we do?”

  It was Ridmark’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know. We will have to see. Besides, a big stick is more useful in battle than you might think.” He jerked his head at the slain orcs. “Ask them.”

  Peter snorted. “Cocky bastard, aren’t you?”

  Ridmark said nothing.

  “All right,” said Peter. “God knows I can think of nothing else. What do you suggest we do first?”

  “Find some supplies,” said Ridmark. “Then we’ll follow the Qazaluuskan orcs and see what we can do.”

  ###

  An hour later they left the smoldering ruins of Toricus, heading east into the vast green mass of the Qazaluuskan Forest. The orcs had thoroughly looted the town, but they had overlooked many things, and both Ridmark and Peter had been able to fill their packs with supplies.

  Following the orcs proved easy. There had been fifty or sixty warriors, and they had taken nearly two hundred captives into the forest. That many people left a trail that a blind man could follow, and Ridmark followed it into the gloom of the Qazaluuskan Forest.

  He took a moment to look around.

  It was green and dim, the huge trees towering overhead, the air carrying a faint smell of rot and decay. Ferns grew upon the ground between the tangled roots, and clusters of gray mushrooms squatted at the base of each tree, some of them as large as Ridmark’s head. The light in the forest seemed…different, somehow, dimmer, and not just because of the leafy canopy. Ridmark wondered if there was a spell over the entire forest.

  A strange, hushed silence seemed to wrap the Forest like a cloak.

  “Never liked it in here,” muttered Peter, a hunting bow in hand. “Too quiet for a forest.”

  Ridmark nodded. The trail continued to the east, and they moved on, watching for any sign of the Qazaluuskan orcs.

  Or their undead servants.

  Peter seemed more and more nervous, watching every shadow and swinging his hunting bow back and forth. Ridmark grew increasingly concerned that Peter might do something foolish and reckless. Best to take his mind off it before he snapped.

  “Your children,” said Ridmark. “What are their names?”

  Peter looked at him, scowling.

  “You do remember, I hope,” said Ridmark.

  “John and Mary,” said Peter at last.

  “And?” said Ridmark.

  “And what?” said Peter.

  “What else about them?” said Ridmark, circling around a massive, lichen-spotted tree.

  “John’s twelve, and Mary is nine,” said Peter. “Thought I would leave the forge to John, but he’s not suited for it. Better as a carpenter, so I apprenticed him to the village’s carpenter. Assuming the man’s still alive.” He shook his head. “Mary’s a natural, though. It would be better to teach her to keep a house, but the girl has a gift. I reckon I need to find her a good husband, and they can keep the forge when I’m dead.”

  “No wife, then?” said Ridmark.

  Peter grunted. “She died a couple years ago. Bleeding sickness. The lord’s Magistrius tried, but…well, their spells don’t always work.”

  “No,” said Ridmark.

  Peter was silent for a few moments. “So, I figured we’d start over somewhere else, make our fortunes. We came to Toricus and started a forge, and business was good.” He sighed. “We probably should have stayed in Westhold.”

  “Everything is always clearer in hindsight,” said Ridmark.

  “Aye,” said Peter. “What about you, renegade? What brings you to Toricus?”

  “Supplies,” said Ridmark.

  Peter considered that. “You’re some kind of adventurer, aren’t you?”

  “You could say that,” said Ridmark.

  “We get men like you from time to time,” said Peter. “Heading off into the Wilderland to loot dark elven ruins, or into the Forest to rob the old barrows of the bone orcs.” He paused. “They never come back alive. Well, hardly ever.”

  “Good to know,” said Ridmark.

  “Which one are you?” said Peter.

  There was no reason not to tell him. “I’m going into the Qazaluuskan Forest to speak with one of the Elder Shamans.”

  “Why?” said Peter, his disgust plain. “The regular bone orcs are bad, but the Elder Shamans are worse. Why would you want to talk with one of them?”

  “I need to ask a question,” said Ridmark.

  They walked in silence for some moments.

  “Are you a cultist?” said Peter. “There are some in Andomhaim who pray to the blood gods or the urdmordar instead of the Dominus Christus. Are you such a man?”

  “No,” said Ridmark.

  “Then why do you want to talk to an Elder Shaman?” said Peter.

  “They know things,” said Ridmark. “Things that the men of Andomhaim have forgotten. Or things that we never knew in the first place. They might have the knowledge that I need.”

  “What knowledge could that possibly be?” said Peter.

  “How the Frostborn will return,” said Ridmark.

  “The Frostborn?” said Peter. “But there are no more Frostborn. The Swordbearers and the High King wiped them out long ago.”

  “I know,” said Ridmark. “But nonetheless, they will return. And soon. Unless I find a way to stop it.”

  “Then you really are Ridmark Arban,” said Peter. “The Swordbearer who commanded the host of the realm against the Mhalekites last year.”

  “Aye,” said Ridmark.

  “How did you get that brand?” said Peter. “That’s a coward’s brand, but you won the battle. Mhalek’s dead, and there aren’t any Mhalekites left.”

  “Mhalek escaped the battle,” said Ridmark, the dark memory seething in his thoughts. “I followed him and killed him, but not before he killed my wife.”

  “Oh,” said Peter.

  Ridmark gestured at the brand of a broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw. “You can guess what happened after that.”

  “I see,” said Peter. “I’m sorry.”

  Ridmark shrugged. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  It had been Ridmark’s fault, and his fault alone. He had failed to save Aelia. Tarrabus Carhaine and Imaria had been right to condemn him for it.

  “Did you have any children?” said Peter. “If you did, you should go back to them. Aye, I know what it is to blame yourself, but…”

  “Stop talking,” said Ridmark.

  Peter scowled. “Fine, you don’t wish to discuss it. I…”

  “No,” hissed Ridmark. “Be quiet. Someone is approaching.”

  Peter blinked, then nodded and raised his bow. Ridmark remained motionless, listening to the silence of the Forest around him.

  A silence broken by the heavy, plodding footsteps of someone approaching.

  A moment later the undead creature limped into sight.

  It had been an orcish man, but a very long time ago. 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 Ridmark saw a row of stitches running down its chest and back. From time to time fingers of blue fire seemed to glow beneath its withered skin, likely from the dark magic that animated the creature.

  Ridmark stared at the creature, wondering how to fight it. During his time as a Swordbearer, he had faced and fought several undead creatures. Yet in all those confrontations he had still carried a soulblade, a weapon proof against all forms of dark magic. His staff lacked the same power. For that matter, he had never seen an undead quite like this before.

  “The head,” said Peter in a soft voice, as if he had guessed Ridmark’s thoughts. “The head’s the vulnerable part. Take off the head.”

  Ridmark nodded and dropped his staff, reaching over his shoulder. He had found a decent battle axe in Toricus, likely left behind when the Qazaluuskan orcs had departed. It was nothing spectacular, but the haft
was solid and the blade was sharp.

  The undead froze, and then surged forward, moving with greater speed than Ridmark would have expected from those withered legs. Its arms came up, reaching for him, and he ducked under their reach, swinging the axe with all his strength.

  “The head!” said Peter, circling around to the side. “Aim for the head!”

  Ridmark had, in fact, aimed for the right knee. The axe crunched deep into the withered flesh and yellowed bone, and the undead orc stumbled. A vile black slime dribbled over the axe’s blade, and the hideous stench of it filled Ridmark’s nostrils. He wrenched the axe free, stepping around the creature’s clumsy reach, and started swinging.

  On the third blow he got the head off in a spurt of more vile-smelling black slime. The head rolled away, bouncing through the ferns, and came to a stop at the base of a tree. The corpse collapsed in a limp heap to the ground.

  Ridmark let out a long breath, trying to ignore the stench flooding his nostrils.

  “The knee,” said Peter, shaking his head. “That’s clever. Didn’t think of that myself. But I’m a blacksmith, not a soldier.”

  “Someone has to make the swords,” said Ridmark, frowning at the corpse. “That explains why we haven’t seen any animals. That smell would scare them all off.”

  “The bone orcs use these things as sentries,” said Peter. His mouth twisted. “They’ve got all kinds of undead. Some they use as laborers, others as guards.”

  “If this one is a guard,” said Ridmark, “then it must be guarding something.” He picked up his staff and looked at Peter. “The captives must be near.”

  Peter nodded, and they headed deeper into the Forest.

  ###

  A short time later, Ridmark and Peter found the barrow.

  This section of the Forest was hillier, though the trees remained as enormous as ever. Ridmark crouched behind a boulder atop a hill and looked into a small hollow below them, Peter crouching next to him.

  The barrow rose within the hollow, a mound of piled boulders standing about twenty yards high. The centuries had deposited earth upon the barrow, along with a coat of grass and small trees, but it was still unmistakably a tomb. The barrow must have housed a burial chamber, because Ridmark saw a massive stone door set into a stone arch at the base of the barrow, its front scrawled with a variety of odd symbols.

  The survivors of Toricus had been herded into the valley between the barrow and the hill, over two hundred of them. The orcs had done a thorough job of binding their captives, securing them with iron collars around their necks, the collars linked by chains. Many of the women and children wept, and already Ridmark smelled the odor of excrement rising from the captives. If the orcs did not tend to their captives soon, they would start dying of disease and thirst in short order.

  Ridmark suspected the Qazaluuskan orcs did not intend to leave their captives alive long enough for that to pose a problem.

  There were nearly seventy of the Qazaluuskan orcs standing guard, clubs and axes in hand, all of them wearing the same kind of war paint Ridmark had seen earlier. Some of them carried grisly totems – mummified hands, the skulls of foes reworked into helmets, shrunken heads hanging from their belts, or necklaces of ears. The bone orcs stood in a loose ring around their prisoners, weapons in hand.

  Ridmark did not see an obvious way to get the captives past the orcs.

  “What are we going to do?” hissed Peter.

  Ridmark understood his urgency – Peter’s children were down there somewhere. Yet rash action now would be disastrous. At best, they would alert the orcs that someone was watching. At worst, it would get them killed. Ridmark raised a hand for silence, and Peter scowled, but subsided again.

  A tall Qazaluuskan orc strode past the others. Despite his height, he was gaunt, almost withered-looking, and was one of the oldest orcs that Ridmark had ever seen. Unlike most of the bone orcs, he had a beard, a ragged white thing that hung to his chest, and it made his head look like a skull draped in icicles. A staff waited in his right hand, and three human skulls hung from its head, rattling and tapping against each other as he walked.

  The shaman stopped before the stone door to the barrow, and a hush fell over the orcs, a silence that spread to their captives. Ridmark suspected the barrow was a sacred place to the orcs of a Qazaluuskan Forest, like a priest approaching the altar in the churches of Andomhaim. The shaman stepped before the door and turned to face the captives and the orcish warriors.

  “Behold!” said the shaman. His voice was surprisingly deep and resonant when coming from such a gaunt, wasted form. “Behold, my brothers! The omens have favored us, and the auguries are bright. The Lord of Bones, great Qazalask, gathers all to his kingdom in time, and bestows his gift of undeath. But I, Hhrolazur, have seen a great omen!”

  The orcs leaned closer. Evidently visions were an event of great importance among the orcs of the Qazaluuskan Forest.

  “In my vision I walked among a field freshly plowed,” said Hhrolazur, “and I carried a jar of blood in my right hand. With my left I reached into the jar and drew forth seeds, and I scattered them in the furrows, watering them with blood as the Moon of Blood and the Moon of Souls rose overhead. From my seeds rose blossoms the color of blood, and when they opened within I saw the pale white skull of the Lord of Bones grinning at me.”

  A murmur of appreciation went up from the orcs.

  “The interpretation is plain,” said Hhrolazur. “Tonight Saginus and Shardus, the Moon of Blood and the Moon of Souls, shall rise to their apex, and the Moon of Gates and the Moon of Spells shall be in the lesser position. The omens are clear, and the meaning of the vision is plain. The portents are good to awaken an Old One and seek his blessing!”

  The orcs cheered.

  An Old One? Ridmark knew the Qazaluuskan orcs had Elder Shamans, learned elders deep in the dark lore of Qazalask’s necromantic secrets. Did the bone orcs themselves call their Elder Shamans the Old Ones?

  Or was an Old One something else entirely?

  Hhrolazur turned to face the stone door and began casting a spell, ghostly blue fire dancing up and down his arms. Blue flames burned in the eyes of the skulls bouncing from the end of his staff. The shaman threw back his arms and screamed the final words of his spell, and a pulse of blue fire washed out from him and sank into the stone door, making the carved symbols glow.

  The door swung open with a rasping growl, and the Qazaluuskan orcs threw themselves to the ground, bowing in the direction of the barrow. Ridmark wondered if this presented an opportunity. Yet the captives were too well secured, and none of them could break free. Ridmark was also certain the bone orcs would respond to any interruption of their ceremony with murderous fury.

  Something moved in the darkness within the stone door.

  A towering figure stepped out, a withered orcish corpse in corroded black plate armor. A crowned helm of black metal rested upon the dead orc’s skull, and in its right hand it carried a metal staff topped with three orcish skulls. Blue fire burned in the undead orc’s eyes, and symbols of blue fire flickered upon its armor.

  This withered creature had to be the Old One.

  The Qazaluuskan orcs practiced necromancy, and perhaps when one of the Elder Shamans died, the Elder Shaman rose in undeath as an Old One, lurking forever in his own tomb. The orcs sworn to the Warden of Urd Morlemoch, the Devout, did something similar, taking their dead to the silent halls of Urd Morlemoch to rise as the Warden’s undead servants.

  The helmed head of the Old One turned back and forth, considering both the bone orcs and the captive humans. Some of the children started to wail as the cold blue gaze turned over them, while a few men began feverishly reciting the Lord’s Prayer. At last the Old One’s gaze turned to Hhrolazur, and the shaman went to his knees.

  “You have dared to summon me?” said the Old One. Its lips had rotted away long ago, and its jaws remained motionless, but its hideous, deep voice boomed forth anyway. Ridmark was not sure if he heard the voice
with his ears or with his mind.

  “I am Hhrolazur, a servant of the Lord of Bones, Old One,” said the kneeling shaman.

  “All serve Qazalask,” said the Old One. “All pass into his silent kingdom in the end. Explain why you have summoned me, or else you shall return with me to Qazalask’s kingdom this very moment.”

  “Old One, hear me,” said Hhrolazur. “The omens are propitious, and the Lord of Bones looks upon us with favor. Saginus and Shardus shall rise in apex this very night, and I have seen a vision of the dead rising from the earth. Grant me your wisdom and knowledge that I might proceed.” He gestured at the captives behind him. “I have brought tribute. All this blood might be spilled to grow your power, and their shells can be raised to serve you forevermore in your dark halls.”

  The Old One said nothing, and a horrible silence stretched over the crowd.

  “You have spoken with wisdom, Hhrolazur servant of the Lord of Bones,” said the Old One. “Your words have pleased me, and your vision shows that Qazalask grants you his favor. I shall teach you the highest secrets of Qazalask’s power, but first you must perform a rite of power. Gather from your captives seven virgins, and when the Moon of Blood and the Moon of Souls reach their apex, slay them all in a circle of power and harvest their lives. This offering shall please me, and I shall grant you the knowledge you seek.”

  “It will be done, Old One,” said Hhrolazur, bowing his head. “All shall be done as you command.”

  “Do not fail,” said the Old One. “Do not fail in the slightest detail. Failure to observe the rite exactly shall offend Qazalask…and then I shall exact a terrible price upon you.”

  The undead creature turned and glided back into the darkness of the barrow, though the stone door did not close.

  Hhrolazur rose to his feet and began giving commands, and the warriors pushed the captives back from the barrow. Likely they were clearing a space for the ritual Hhrolazur intended to perform.

  Ridmark beckoned to Peter. The blacksmith gave one more hard look to the gathering below, but nodded and then followed Ridmark down the slope.