A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  “What sort o’ yellow ghash is you, Snaggletooth?” Lugbol wrinkled his lip contemptuously. “You put yez stupid pal here up to challenge me, and now yez gonna let him die because yez too damn yellow-bellied to fight an orc with one arm?”

  “I ain’t too yellow nothing! You swear to Gor-Gor and the Great Orc hisself that yez’ll fight me fair, one-on-one, and it ain’t no challenge.”

  “It ain’t no challenge,” Lugbol agreed. “You beat me down, you still ain’t grun-kor and you sure as hell ain’t hadvezer.”

  It was a moot point, he knew. Snaghak had no intention of leaving him alive, and even if he did somehow survive a beat-down, the kors would never follow him after so many of them saw it happen.

  “Swear it!”

  “I swear it by Gor Gor and the Great Orc Azzakhar,” he vowed. “And by Kral Nekheru,” he added, just in case word got back to the Hagahornu leader. If he lived, it couldn’t hurt to kiss the kral’s green arse. “That enough for you?”

  Snaghak still looked suspicious, but he nodded slowly. Lugbol glanced at the orc with the crossbow and made a gesture with his hand. The orc slipped the string and removed the bolt, prompting a cruel laugh from the crowd as Unbak began to shake and shiver with the afterfear.

  “Who’s the punk-arse now, you faszhek fraud?” someone shouted at him, and the big orc cringed. Lugbol almost felt sorry for him; the poor brute was too stupid to know how Snaghak had been using him. For that alone, Snaghak deserved to get his head stove in.

  “So, how you wanna go, Lugbollocks?” Snaghak seemed to be recovering from the unexpected shock of Lugbol’s promotion and was returning to his usual brazen self. “Clubs, claws, or blades?”

  “I was thinking I’d just beat you to death with my big ol’ cobber,” Lugbol said, grabbing himself. “Seeing that yez too damn tight-arsed to squag and yez teeth are too damn snaggled to risk my vank.”

  The Black Fists roared their lusty approval of his open contempt. Snaghak flushed dark green with fury, which was exactly what Lugbol wanted. The shugaba might be a sneak and a backstabber, but he’d earned a reputation as a good fighter, and he’d made for a fairly even match even when Lugbol had been healthy.

  “I’ll kill you for that,” Snaghak hissed. “Think I’m a faszhek gobbo? I’ll rape your corpse and fry your vank for my dinner tonight!”

  “Better invite some friends then, Snaggie. This big ol’ vank’ll feed at least five.” His kors fairly screamed with laughter, but Lugbol resisted the urge to throw more wood on the fire as Snaghak looked more than ready to leap at his throat. “Jaws and claws, Snaghak. Just jaws and claws. Now throw the faszh down or run like the bitch yez be!”

  Snaghak snarled and leaped at him, leading with his left shoulder in an attempt to knock Lugbol down. Anticipating this, Lugbol dodged right, but slashed to the left with his right hand, raking his outstretched claws across Snaghak’s ugly face. He raised his hand, and the watching orcs shouted at the sight of Snaghak’s blood dripping down his forearm.

  Snaghak growled, but the pain of the three deep scratches carved in parallel across his left cheek seemed to calm him rather than enrage him. Lugbol reminded himself that the other orc didn’t get to be shugaba of the Long Marchers by being stupid and prone to spiraling out of control. They circled each other slowly, each looking for an opening to exploit. Lugbol lashed out with his left foot, but it was a half-hearted feint and Snaghak simply ignored it. His angry yellow eyes never left Lugbol’s face.

  “Just kill the bastard already,” he heard Korpaghu shout, and he hurled himself forward, slashing and clawing at Snaghak’s face. But the other orc ducked his windmilling swings and smashed his shoulder into Lugbol’s bad arm, then threw two punches at it in rapid succession. He didn’t even try to hit Lugbol’s face, and he didn’t have to, as the pain that erupted in Lugbol’s arm nearly took his breath away as it spread up to his shoulder. He somehow managed to kick Snaghak off him with his left foot, but sensing an advantage, Snaghak closed in again, avoided a jab, grabbed Lugbol’s shoulder with both hands, and snapped at Lugbol’s arm with his tusks.

  But before Snaghak’s jaws could close on the injured limb, Lugbol head-butted his enemy. Green blood spattered all over his forehead, blinding him momentarily. Snaghak shrieked and stumbled back, both hands covering his face. Lugbol was staggered himself by the force of the blow, but he wiped at his face and threw himself at his bloody opponent with a snarl that was echoed by the watchers. His own blood up, Lugbol barely felt the burning pain in his arm as he smashed his left fist into Snaghak’s jaw, then threw a right to his cheek, and another left that harmlessly clipped the other orc’s ear before finally buckling Snaghak’s knees with a powerful right uppercut.

  As the dazed orc started to crumple, Lugbol reared back and hit Snaghak as hard as he could on the side of the head. Snaghak went down heavily, as if he’d been struck with a club, and Lugbol was on him in a flash, straddling his limp body and pinning down his arms with his knees before smashing fist after fist after fist into the now-unconscious orc’s bloody face. Then there was a loud crack, and a sharp new pain flowered in his hand.

  “Gordammit!” he swore viciously, before awkwardly pushing himself off of Snaghak, cradling his left forearm in his right hand. He’d either broken his hand or his wrist and it hurt like an anyafaszhek. “Son of a whore can’t even take a beat-down without being a pain in the arse!”

  He rose unsteadily to cheers and an incipient chant that quickly grew louder. “Black Fist, Black Fist, Black Fist!” Lugbol nodded, and turned in a circle to acknowledge the chanting kors, and not without effort, raised his broken, bloody hand above his head.

  Korpaghu stepped forward. “You’re not going to let the bastard live, are you?” He fingered the Man dagger he wore at his belt meaningfully.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Lugbol said wearily. “Be a piss-poor grun-kor if I dasn’t do it meself.”

  He walked over to Snaghak, lying prone and helpless in his own blood. He almost felt sorry for the arrogant shugaba, who had never known when to shut his trap or leave well enough alone. Then he looked up at Korpaghu and shrugged, wincing as the movement caused his shoulder to twinge.

  “Don’t bring it if you don’t got it.”

  And with that, he stomped down hard on Snaghak’s exposed throat, crushing the defenseless orc’s airpipe under a horny, callused heel with an audible crunch.

  Bereth

  It was a perfect day for sky riding, thought Bereth, as she yawned and stretched under the warming rays of the springtime sun. The wind was gentle and from the west, the few clouds that wandered by high overhead were white and harmless, and the sky was a bright shade of azure that practically invited one to leap joyfully into it. The brilliance of the blue reminded her of the cloaks worn by the Kingsguard in a painting by Saeliras that she particularly admired. Then it occurred to her that the painting was entitled “The Last Stand” or to give it its full name, “The Last Stand of the Kingsguard Before the Gates of the Crystal City”.

  It was only hours after the event so nobly depicted that Glaislael fell to the Witchkings. And with the royal city, both High King Lasgolir and his noble Kingsguard had fallen. She sighed and put the thought aside. It was a rather morbid one in light of the present circumstances. Even so, she found herself looking forward to the thought of leaping aloft and immersing herself in the rich, shimmering blue.

  She spread her arms and addressed her singular audience, the sun.

  Shall this cobalt sea

  Be swallowed up by horror,

  That many-legged beast?

  I rise into cloudless skies,

  My hatred my companion

  Astride fearless wings.

  She was not discontent. It made little in the way of sense, which was a pity, but it was true to her sense of the morning. There was a practical advantage to the cloudless day as well. The prospect of good visibility was pleasing; a pair of Silverbows that were charged with keeping a watchful eye on the van
guard of the orc army passing too close for liking to the unmarked borders of Merithaim had not been seen in three days. Her orders, direct from Lord Oakenheart, were to spend the morning searching for them, although he was not sanguine about their prospects.

  Bereth was aware that she possessed the sharpest eyes in the ranger wing, and so she concluded that if she couldn’t find them, either the Silverbows did not want to be found or they were already dead. It was hard to imagine that a pair of veteran scouts could be taken without so much as a hint of a distress signal, but then, the orc army was so massive that trying to hide from it on the ground was very like standing on a beach trying to hide from the sea. Except, unlike the sea, this vast army was neither advancing nor retreating. It simply sat there, day after day, doing nothing but slowly dwindle as it fed on itself.

  Perhaps a different approach would better suit her heart. After all, what did the sky fear from those poor wingless worms who crawled miserably across the surface of the earth? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  Cancer on the land

  Engorged, and still it starves.

  O many-legged beast!

  Will you spare a limb for me,

  Or devour yourself entire?

  She smiled. That was more properly expressive of her contempt for the foe. The vast army of orcs, goblins, and various and sundry other monstrosities stretched out for leagues along what would have been called its line of march were it still moving. But what had once been a slow-moving river, albeit a stinking, greenish-brown river more than half-choked with filth and sediment, was now a fetid swamp, coated from one end to the other with slimy green algae. Why, she did not know. The wizards did not know. Lord Oakenheart himself did not know.

  All they knew was that the invading army halted its march two weeks ago. The demonic drums still echoed, the shrieking shamans still enacted their foul rituals, and screaming goblins were still spitted and roasted over open flames when they were not simply torn limb from limb and hurled into the large pig-iron pots to boil. But, with the exception of a few exploratory tendrils that were extruded out to west and south, the savage grotesquerie that she thought of as a gargantuan many-legged beast squatted fitfully in its own squalor. It was an army that fought no battles, an army whose only casualties were self-inflicted as it devoured itself.

  Unfortunately, every few days, ragged new columns of goblins would march in, and those that did not bring sufficient supplies with them soon found themselves fed to the ravenous hunger of the great beast.

  The reason the vast army did nothing was much discussed throughout the elven camps. One popular theory was that a new troll king had come to power in Uskilukh and the army was awaiting the arrival of its liege. The orc septs were nominally subservient to their trollish masters, and since it was not long since they had last marched south at the behest of the Goblinsbane, the notion was not incredible. It was, however, somewhat undermined by the fact that no one, neither scout nor sky raider, had laid eyes upon a single troll, with or without a crown.

  Another theory was that the orcish warleaders feared the high mages of the Collegium Occludum and were attempting some dark ritual, perhaps seeking to raise mighty devils from the pits of the deepest hells, in order to remove the mages from the field before launching their invasion. That made somewhat more sense to her. The archmages of the esoteric college fully merited being feared by any rational being, but then, if the orcs had a means of neutralizing the elven magistrae, would they not have done so before gathering their massive army?

  Bereth’s take on the sprawling migration was rather more straightforward. Orcs were stupid, short-sighted, and their ability to connect consequences to actions did not considerably exceed that of the average rock. One could no more reasonably expect to understand their motivations for doing anything that didn’t involve killing, eating, or raping than one would expect to understand the actions of a tree, a stone, or a river. Such an invasion was best seen as a sort of natural disaster, averted if possible and mitigated if not.

  She whistled, a seven-note succession that ended in a long, high trill. For a long moment, there was no response. She was not alarmed, however, as it was always possible that her great bird was too far away to hear her. But then she heard his answering cry, a distant shriek from the west that brought a smile to her lips. A small speck appeared in the sky to the west, high over her head, and it rapidly grew larger as Merlian obediently sped towards her. Seeing that he was on his way, she glanced about her campsite to ensure that she had forgotten nothing.

  Her tent and her blankets were rolled up and tied tightly under her leather pack, which was secured with a pair of iron buckles. She had enough food for three more days and water for four; she couldn’t count on being able to find anything edible within leagues of the starving orcs and any water in the area was bound to be thoroughly fouled by them as well.

  The giant hawk arced gracefully towards the ground, his massive wings fully extended. She reached into a pouch on her belt and retrieved a dessicated mouse, which she offered to him after he landed and took three delicate steps in her direction. He accepted the offering with his customary delicacy, taking it from her palm with a powerful beak that could easily have severed her forearm.

  After swallowing the morsel, Merlian shook his head and ruffled his neck feathers. That was her cue; she obediently reached up and between the long quills to scratch the sensitive skin underneath them. He gave out a satisfied caw, then shook his head again. They were well familiar with each other; the great hawks were long-lived and he had borne Bereth safely through the skies for more than three decades now.

  His scent was pungent, but comforting to her, as reassuring as the creak of the aged leather of the saddle and the shift of the powerful body in between her legs. She didn’t even bother with the reins, but left them loosely tied around the pommel of the saddle, as she’d left them last night.

  She did, however, slip under the thick leather straps that would keep her on Merlian’s back should he shift directions too suddenly or tilt overmuch and pulled them tight before securing the bronze buckles. The orcs had no fliers themselves, but they did have archers and mages, and abrupt changes in course could be fatal to the unprepared. And more than one sky raider had fallen to a well-aimed spear thrown by a troll, although she doubted she would have to worry about any such fate today.

  Bereth clucked and Merlian leaped into the sky. Her body rocked back and forth in the usual rhythm as the warhawk’s wings beat against the air, pulling her skyward. Soon he leveled out, facing east, and she gave him his head for a little while, allowing him to fly towards the sun and the distant sea. It was so peaceful up high that she found the thought of simply flying away and spending a quiet day or two fishing and meditating to be seductive, but her sense of duty quickly reasserted itself. The Silverbows were almost surely dead already, but until their fate was known, they must not be abandoned.

  She reached down and patted the left side of his neck. Ever alert, the great hawk banked his wings and turned north. It was an easterly wind today, and cool, coming as it did from the direction of the sea.

  Why was the thought of flying away so tempting? She was a little surprised at herself. It wasn’t the first time Ilriathas had proposed marriage to her. It wasn’t the tenth time, for that matter. The heir to Mons Kelethan was a handsome elf, tall, brave, and of impeccable bloodlines. He was barely a century old, twenty years older than her own eighty-five, but possessed of a calm wisdom of an elf two centuries his senior. She liked him, in fact, had she been able she would have taken him as a lover four decades ago.

  But the price he asked of her was too high. It wasn’t that she was overly enamored of her magic. While there were those elfesses who made a fetish of sorcery and devoted their lives to it at the Collegium Occludum, she was not one of them. To her, it was a tool, nothing more. Still, without magic, one could not utilize the spell required to control hawks like Merlian, and she was loathe to even think about giving up this, the freedom to s
oar high over the lands of Selenoth like some sort of wind goddess.

  She cursed whatever perverse god or devil had tied an elfess’s ability to procreate to the sacrifice of her magic. She had friends who had cast aside their virginity without a moment’s thought for what they were giving up, and she envied their blithe uninterest in all things magical. And perhaps she might have felt the same, had her father not so often taken her up on Gaern, his ancient warhawk, and learned what it was like to feel the sky winds on her face.

  For as long as she could remember, she’d dreamed about one day having her own bird, her own sky companion. She’d learned the spells of binding when she’d barely reached half her present height and chanted them to herself as she fell asleep at night. And she had never known such happiness as the morning of her thirty-fifth birthday, when her father had taken her up on Gaern and flown her to the Royal Aerie high above Elebrion, and there shown her the great speckled egg from which Merlian had been hatched. She spent most of the day there, caressing it, singing to it, and telling it of the adventures they would have together.

  When the time of the hatching came closer, she would beg rides from every skyrider she encountered; she passed more than one night asleep in the Aerie. On the day Merlian hatched, she’d been initially disappointed to discover that he was a male bird, but the disappointment soon passed as she eagerly awaited the day when he would first take to the skies. And every night, she recited the spells that she would use to let them ride the winds together.

  Waiting for him to grow to a size sufficient to carry her was the longest three years of her life. Fortunately, he was large and she was small, and so she was finally granted permission to cast the spell that was now engraved upon her memory and take to the skies.

  Bereth glanced down at the trees slowly flowing by beneath her, like a vast bright green river. She would need to pay closer attention soon; it would not be long before she would be approaching the first outposts of the enemy army. She stroked the back of Merlian’s neck and smiled. In truth, she could live without magic. But this? Never. Let Ilriathas breed his handsome sons and beautiful daughters on some other maiden, let some other noble-born elfess who did not know the joys of the sky dwell in Mons Kelethan and be called Lady Kelethan and sit near the royal table on feast-days. Let her lay claim to the lovely mountain castle and its famous views, none would ever compare to those she had seen from on high.