by Sam Ferguson
A heavy fog crept in from the sea, despite the bright sun’s attempts to banish it from above. Golden rays mingled with the silvery mist and cast rainbows all around them. Och’Duun seemed to emerge from the fog, as if it slid closer to them along the coast. The stark, black bricks of the wall shone slick from the rain. The heavy, iron gate was open, revealing a thick portcullis guarded by a trio of large orcs holding pikes. Towers rose above the wall within the city, looking down upon the foggy land around Och’Duun like massive sentries of stone and wood. The architecture was not so different from that of humans, and yet it was entirely its own. Each tower was capped with rounded cupolas while the actual tower itself was made with five even sides with precise angles. The orcs’ inclination to use pentagons as the basic shape of buildings was a testament to how they lived their lives.
Five sides allows for one more field of vision, one more sentry to sound the warning bells, and one more balcony from which to let loose the arrows of death, or so the old orcish adage says. At the very least, it did make for fewer blind spots, and easier defense whilst besieged.
“Come with me, wizard of death,” Maernok said harshly. The others stopped and pulled off to the side before the portcullis. Gilifan followed the large warrior through as the portcullis was raised from inside the walls. The guards all watched Gilifan warily, studying his every move until he passed through the gate and into the city proper.
Then, instead of three sets of eyes staring at him, there were scores.
The orcs walking to and fro upon the wet, slick cobblestone street seemed to freeze in time. Maernok pressed on as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but no one else moved as Gilifan walked behind the orc warrior. Occasionally a small orc child would whisper to its mother, but even then the mother would barely respond.
“Haven’t had any visitors since I left eh?” Gilifan remarked.
“It isn’t that,” Maernok replied. “They are wondering how it is that you are still alive.”
Gilifan chuckled softly to himself. “Magic has its advantages,” he said.
Maernok stopped and dropped down to the road. The orcs around stiffened even more.
The necromancer looked to the warrior questioningly. “Something else I should know?” he asked.
Maernok drew a curved dagger from his belt and held it up against his armor, indicating to his heart. “I took an oath to slay you, meddler.” Maernok slid the back of the blade across his chest, mimicking a slice. “The others are watching you, waiting for me to fulfill my blood oath.”
“That was a foolish thing to do,” Gilifan said. “I hold a token of debt, and you knew that before you met me.”
Maernok stepped in close and placed the tip of his dagger onto Gilifan’s chest. “You, meddler, shall die by my hand. I have sworn it before Khullan himself. You will pay for your treachery.”
“It is not my fault your father was too weak to rule,” Gilifan said. The tip of the dagger pressed into his skin, poking through his cloak. The necromancer looked down and smiled, undaunted. “Go on, Maernok,” Gilifan taunted. “Push it in and collect your reward.”
Maernok glared down at his dagger, obviously weighing the decision out in his mind. “No,” he said at last as he pulled the dagger back. “One day you will no longer carry the token of debt. Then, I will be free to fulfill my blood oath and end your meddling ways.”
“Your father squealed like a stuck pig,” Gilifan said. “Your mother put up a better fight, but she also begged for mercy at the end.”
Maernok spat on the ground and turned away.
“Your younger brother is the one I pity, though,” Gilifan called out. “Do you know I brought him back from the dead and made him my slave?”
Maernok’s shoulders slumped and the warrior’s fists clenched.
“He was the only orc I ever killed twice,” Gilifan continued. “You should have heard him cry out your name, it was awful.”
Maernok turned back to Gilifan. “Enough of your games,” he hissed. “When the time comes, I will make you eat your words, by the blood of my father I will make you pay.”
The necromancer laughed out loud and walked on. “You can stay here,” he told Maernok. “I know the way to the longhouse.”
“You will die by my hand,” Maernok swore under his breath, just loud enough for Gilifan to hear as he strolled by.
The necromancer held the token of debt up in front of his face and pretended to polish it. “Think carefully about what you promise,” he warned. Then he walked on through the streets, leaving Maernok standing alone in the street.
Gilifan continued on to the longhouse, the traditional seat of power in any orc settlement. The roof was smooth and rounded, almost as if a giant had flipped a massive ship’s hull upside down atop the structure. The walls were made of white and gray stone, which had undoubtedly taken more time to find amidst the black and brown soils and rocks of this area, than it would have to build three or four such longhouses made of black stone. But that was the point. The longhouse was the central structure, and as such it demanded a particular kind of stone.
The necromancer stopped in front of the oaken door and looked down to the old, bearded orc sitting nearby chewing on dried meat. “I am here to see the chief,” Gilifan said.
The old orc looked up from under his bushy, white brows and spat on the ground as he flipped a mass of half chewed meat over his bottom teeth to rest in his lip like a dip of tobacco. “Go on inside, then,” the orc said roughly. “I ain’t about to get up and be your personal doorman.”
Gilifan gave a half-smile despite himself. There was something refreshing about the strength of the orcs. A pride unmatched by even the haughtiest of the elves, and wisdom too, for those patient enough to look beyond the tusks and swords. He grabbed hold of the iron ring sticking out from the black skull of a small gorlung, a most menacing beast in life, and one of the symbols of the orcs. He pulled the door open and stepped through as he slightly lowered his head so as not to hit the crossbeam. The savory, tempting smell of roast venison filled his nostrils, reminding him that it had been many days without a proper meal at sea.
“I had heard the rumors,” a low voice in the left corner of the building said. “I see now that they are true.”
Gilifan looked to the source of the words and saw a large orc sitting in a wooden chair and holding a clay bowl in front of him. The orc reached out with his thick right hand and plucked a cherry from a larger clay bowl and plopped it into his mouth. A moment later he spit the cherry pit into the smaller bowl he held in his left hand.
“What was it you heard?” Gilifan asked as he walked up to take a dark red cherry for himself.
“One of our scouts reported seeing a ship heading in to dock. He came back here earlier today to tell us, and to get Maernok.”
“Yes,” Gilifan started. “I was surprised to see him leading a patrol.”
“It is wise to keep your enemies close, is it not?” the chief replied as he took another cherry.
“Sometimes, I suppose,” Gilifan answered. “Perhaps I would have found another use for him, if I were chief.”
The orc set the clay bowl on the table and went to the fire pit in the center of the longhouse and ladled broth over the roasting venison. “I had expected him to come with the report of what he found,” he said. “However, seeing that you are here, I can understand why Maernok decided otherwise.” The chief set the ladle back into a black kettle, careful to set the handle just right so it didn’t fall into the broth. “Did you come alone?”
Gilifan sneered wickedly. “No,” he said. “I brought a great assassin to slay you, Gariche.”
The chief huffed and looked at Gilifan for a moment before chuckling to himself. “Well, since we both know that isn’t true, I will assume you are alone.”
“You think me a liar?” Gilifan pressed, folding his arms across his chest. “You forget how you became chief.”
Gariche waved a meaty hand in the air and went back to his cherr
y bowl. “I have forgotten nothing of the sort,” he countered. “As my memory recalls, you came in with an army of zombies. Even then, you needed me and the support of my warriors to finish deposing the previous chief.”
“Which is one of the reasons I am surprised you would allow Maernok to lead a patrol,” Gilifan said. “You have to know that he has sworn a blood oath to exact his vengeance.”
“I do,” Gariche said with a nod. “That is exactly why I keep him so close. We may have erred in allowing my predecessor’s eldest son to live, but he has proven useful to me since then.”
“Ludicrous,” Gilifan said. The necromancer leaned in and stared into Gariche’s green eyes. “You haven’t let him on the council have you?” he questioned.
“Times have changed,” Gariche said.
Gilifan shook his head and threw his arms into the air. “The last time I was here, we slaughtered his family so you could have the throne, and now you tell me that you have put your enemy’s son on the council, and given him a legitimate right to challenge your rule?”
“He will not challenge me,” Gariche said. “He has no need.”
“You have grown blind in my absence,” Gilifan said.
“In the decades that have past, I have grown wiser.” Gariche slid his cherry bowl away from Gilifan and gestured for the necromancer to sit. “You helped me rise in power, for that I am forever grateful, but Maernok has been a great asset to this city. If I were to expel him or kill him, the others would not accept my rule.”
“Are you telling me that your orcs have no stomach for blood?” Gilifan prodded.
Gariche rolled his tongue behind his lips and spat a cherry pit out with enough force that it bounced off Gilifan’s head. “Do not insult my people,” he warned. “We are friends, or at least we were, once, but I will not stomach another comment like that.”
Gilifan wiped the warm spittle and cherry juice from his skin and turned an arched brow at Gariche. “The rule of the tribe is not the only thing I gave you,” Gilifan reminded him.
Gariche nodded. “I remember my debts,” he said. “Even if you did not possess the token, I would never forget how you brought my daughter back from Hammenfein.”
“Then, if you remember that, why would you allow Maernok to sit on the council?”
Gariche sighed heavily. “She died, seventeen winters ago,” he said. “A disease rolled through our land like nothing we had ever seen before. It was a plague that manifested with purple boils and red rashes. We turned to Khullan for help, but no help came. We tried as many remedies as we could think of. Our shamans danced and made sacrifices, but nothing worked. Once an orc was marred by the first purple boil, they had only three days left to live.”
The orc picked up a cherry by the stem and twirled it betwixt his forefinger and thumb. “The orcs in the city began to leave, trying to escape the plague. None of them ever made it more than a day away from the city before they fell victim to its grasp. Those that remained soon blamed me, saying that Khullan was displeased with how I stole the throne, and that the curse was a punishment for me making a deal with you to take my daughter back from Hammenfein.”
“And you believed them?” Gilifan asked.
Gariche dropped the cherry back in the bowl and folded his massive arms across his chest as he leaned back and stared at the dirt floor. “Not at first,” he replied. “But then my wife took ill. She languished for the three days while I sat by her bed helpless. A week later my daughter shrieked when she found a purple boil on her left hand.” The orc’s eyes began to water and the focus grew distant. “I will never forget that sound. It still gives me the chills when I think of it.” He sat for a moment in silence before continuing. “It was then that a shaman from Oct’Meruus arrived. He said that I should sacrifice my daughter in the longhouse to appease Khullan.”
Gilifan frowned. “And did you?” he asked.
Gariche shook his head. “I had the shaman drawn and quartered,” he replied evenly. “The next day another shaman arrived and said that if I did not make the sacrifice, all of Och’Duun would be destroyed.”
“You had him killed as well?” Gilifan asked.
“I struck him down myself,” Gariche said. “The morning after my daughter died from the plague, another shaman came. He said that Och’Duun would be spared if I appointed Maernok to the council, and pledged with a blood oath not to kill or exile him.”
Gilifan whistled through his teeth.
The orc chief nodded. “To add insult to the injury, I was to take Maernok and adopt him as my own son, thus ensuring that upon my death, the rule of the tribe would revert back to a proper orc bloodline.”
“After you agreed, did the plague stop?” Gilifan asked.
“The instant I drew my dagger across my chest and spoke the words, all who were yet dying of the plague were healed and the plague itself vanished.” Gariche shook his head. “So, while I may be in your debt for what you restored to me, I am hardly the same orc that I once was. I know that when I die and walk into the gates of Hammenfein, I will find no glory waiting for me there. So, I have tempered my ambitions in this life, and turned to seek what comforts I could while I still walk among the living.”
Gilifan nodded. “I can understand that,” he said. “That also makes a bit more sense why the town reacted the way they did to my presence.”
“They likely fear that I will make another pact with you,” Gariche confirmed. “I imagine they will be gathering outside the longhouse within the hour to inquire about it. I can’t blame them though, every family lost at least one member to that cursed plague.”
“I do have a favor to ask of you,” Gilifan said.
“If I can, I will,” Gariche responded seriously.
“I want you to march your army against Ten Forts,” Gilifan said.
Gariche reached out and took a couple of cherries in hand while he mulled it over. “To what end?” he asked.
“Tu’luh has returned,” Gilifan said. “Join us, and you will see your family yet again in this life.”
Gariche shook his head firmly. “And risk another plague, not a chance.”
“There will be no plague,” Gilifan said. “Don’t you see? With Nagar’s Secret and Tu’luh in command, we will have the power to shut the gates of Hammenfein forever. The gods of the underworld will have no power here. Your rule can be forever.”
“No,” Gariche said. “No one would agree to this.”
Gilifan slid his token on the table. “Are you going to make me use this?”
Gariche looked down at the hematite stone and shrugged. “It will make no difference. I won’t do this.”
“You would risk breaking the oath?” Gilifan asked.
“My soul is already damned,” Gariche admitted. “Nothing I do now will make it any worse than it will already be.”
Gilifan sighed and nodded. “Then, in that case, I will not use the token,” he said. The necromancer slid the token back into his pocket. “A friend does not take advantage of another friend at such a time.”
Gariche offered a smile. “Your gesture is very much appreciated,” the chief said. “It appears that both of us have become more moderate.” Gariche rose to his feet. “Come, the venison is nearly done.”
“First I will retire to my room. May I use the guest quarters?” Gilifan asked.
“No,” Gariche said. “Orc hospitality is not dead. You will take my room, I will sleep in the guest chamber.”
Gilifan nodded and went to the far end of the longhouse. He opened the door to a grand bedroom adorned with prized antlers and weapon racks that each held not only bows and swords, but also a golden plaque with the legend behind each of the revered items. The necromancer walked to the end of the room, unimpressed by the items, and slipped a red scarf into the window.
“Come, my friend,” Gariche yelled from the other room. “The food is ready.”
Gilifan stroked the red scarf and sighed. “One last meal, my friend, and then I shall bid you far
ewell.”
*****
Nerekar hugged the cold, unyielding brick wall, clinging to the shadows. He peered across the street through the heavy rain and saw the red scarf in the window. He knew what he had to do. A grumpy pair of orcs came around the corner of the building next to him then, cursing the weather and shuffling quickly through the rain.
They didn’t see the Blacktongue.
The assassin waited until they passed on and then he skulked across the street to the longhouse. He glanced around and then went up the wall like a spider. Once on the roof he slowly crawled to wait next to the chimney. Thinning smoke still emerged from the hole, carrying with it the remaining smells of the meal inside. Above the pittering rain drops Nerekar could hear laughter from within the building.
He waited for hours on the roof, ignoring the rain and the night’s wind. From his vantage point he watched whenever someone entered or exited the building. Those who left filed away into the night like ants streaming along the ground. As the night wore on, the rain let up, but there were still heavy, dark clouds blocking the moon.
Something stirred below and Nerekar heard the sound of a wooden log smacking against the brick below. A puff of smoke rose up through the chimney all at once, carrying a few small embers with it. He knew they had thrown more wood on the fire. Soon those inside the longhouse would be turning in for the night.
The door below creaked open and a pair of solid looking orcs came out to stand in front of the door. Immediately thereafter the final groups of guests departed from the longhouse. Gilifan was among them.
“You shouldn’t go out in the night,” one of the orcs said.
“I want to see this contraption you spoke of,” Gilifan replied with a hearty slap to the man’s back. “If the battering ram is as strong as you claim, then I will have to order one from you!”
The door closed and the sentries moved into position.
“We’ll let you back in when you return,” one of them said. Gilifan nodded and waved to them as he went with the group.
