The Ghost Halfling
Page 1
THE GHOST HALFLING
Jonathan Moeller
Table of Contents
Description
The Ghost Halfling
Other books by the author
About the Author
Description
RIDMARK ARBAN was once an honored Swordbearer. Now he is a disgraced exile, outcast and alone.
To redeem himself, he seeks the secret of the return of the Frostborn, a secret guarded by the mysterious Elder Shamans of Qazaluuskan Forest.
On the outer edges of the Qazaluuskan Forest, Ridmark finds himself caught in a battle between two dangerous foes.
And both foes might mean his death...
The Ghost Halfling
Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Moeller.
Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.
Cover image copyright © Boykung | Dreamstime.com - Emerald Photo & Konstik | Dreamstime.com
Ebook edition published January 2017.
All Rights Reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
The Ghost Halfling
The Lion Mountains drew ever closer, their gray, white-crowned mass filling the skies to the east, but Ridmark Arban did not allow himself to relax.
He had left too many enemies behind him on his journey here.
The kobolds of the Dagger Jaws would love to take his head, to say nothing of the orcs ruled by the shaman Vhorlaskur. For that matter, he was still in the Qazaluuskan Forest, and the bone orcs who followed the blood god Qazalask were dangerous foes. They might let him pass if he encountered them, but if their cryptic omens indicated a different course of action, they would not hesitate to kill him and raise his corpse as one of their undead servants.
Best to avoid them entirely.
For that matter, he was entering unknown lands. Few men of Andomhaim had ever traveled to the Lion Mountains. The High King had warred against the tribes of the bone orcs in the past, but Ridmark doubted that any knight or lord of Andomhaim had ever come this far northeast in the trackless bounds of the Qazaluuskan Forest. Men of Andomhaim sometimes traveled through the pass of the Lion Mountains to trade with the manetaurs of the Range to the east, but save for that, they rarely went into the rocky expanse of the Lion Mountains.
It was possible, Ridmark supposed, that he was the first human to ever come here.
It was also possible that any humans who had visited the Forest had been killed before they could return to speak of what they had seen.
So Ridmark did not relax his vigilance. His staff was slung across his back, secured by a leather strap, and an iron war axe that he had taken from a slain Qazaluuskan orc hung at his belt. His bow waited in his hand, an arrow ready against the string, and he could raise it and shoot at an instant’s notice. He was not the best archer, but the necessity of fending for his own food after his exile had improved his aim.
Hunger was the best teacher of all.
Ridmark walked along the bank of a broad river that grew steadily narrower as he moved northeast. The shaman Agataph had told him to follow the River of Fangs until he reached the gates of the ruined dwarven city of Khald Meraxur. From there a flight of stairs would ascend the side of the mountain, and those would lead Ridmark to Urd Drysaar and the Elder Shamans of the bone orcs.
If Agataph had told him the truth. But Ridmark didn’t think that the kobold shaman had lied. Agataph seemed the sort who would enjoy keeping his word while exploiting every possible loophole in his exact words. Given that he had planned to kill and eat Ridmark, perhaps he would have enjoyed taunting Ridmark with the truth.
He kept moving along the bank of the fast-moving river. White foam splashed against rocks jutting from the water, and to judge from the river’s speed, Ridmark suspected he was drawing near to the foothills of the Lion Mountains proper. It could not be much farther to the gates of Khald Meraxur, and from there he would find the Elder Shamans and learn the secret of the return of the Frostborn…
Ridmark shook his head. In a place this dangerous, letting his mind wander could be suicidal. He had come farther on his quest than he had expected, and Ridmark did not want to fail as he drew near its end. His death would mean little, but if he could find the secret of the Frostborn and warn the realm of Andomhaim before they returned, that could save countless lives.
He glanced at the sky, at least what he could see of it through the branches. It was almost noon, and he would walk until dark, which would probably take him another nine or ten miles. If he saw a rabbit or a deer, he would stop to shoot it and cook it. His food supplies were starting to run low, and he would not object to some fresh meat…
A strange smell came to his nose.
Ridmark had not smelled anything like that before. It was a wet, musky smell, sharp and pungent, and he suspected that if it were any stronger, it would make his eyes water. It smelled like wet fur, but he had never smelled that particular odor before.
He looked around for the source of the smell and paused for a moment to consider the ground.
There were a great many tracks on the ground, and it looked as if a fight had taken place recently. Some of the footprints were made by booted feet, small prints, maybe belonging to a woman or a child. Yet many of prints were a kind that Ridmark had never seen before. They looked like paw marks, but not those of a wolf or a bear. Truth be told, they looked like the tracks of a mouse or of a rat, but much, much larger than any mouse or rat that Ridmark had ever encountered. According to legend, the mice that haunted the walls of Castra Arban were large enough to carry off entire loaves of bread. Ridmark had never seen a mouse of that size, but whatever creatures had left these tracks would have put those mice to shame.
He spotted two arrows buried in the side of a tree ahead. To judge from their length, they had been fired from a short hunting bow. Several discarded darts lay on the ground, and he saw the dark smear of poison on their tips. In places, he saw dried blood, too dark to be human, and several clumps of greasy black fur that gave off the strong musky smell he had detected earlier.
There had indeed been a battle here, but between who, Ridmark did not know.
It was none of his affair. The tribes of bone orcs warred against both each other and any other kindreds that attempted to encroach upon the Qazaluuskan Forest. Ridmark decided to keep following the course of the River of Fangs. If he could find a safe place to cross, he would head to the other side of the river, and hopefully, he could avoid any fights.
If the Qazaluuskan orcs wanted to fight amongst themselves, Ridmark would not stand in their way.
He had gone another third of a mile before Ridmark became certain that he was being followed.
Step by step he slowed, listening to the forest. The trees here were ancient, some of them taller than the highest towers of Castra Arban or Castra Marcaine, and moss clung to their thick trunks. The undergrowth was thick and heavy, with lots of places for a clever man to conceal himself by creeping along the ground. The birds had gone silent, and he heard nothing but the splash of the water in the river and the rustling of leaves.
He stopped and turned in a slow circle, and then blinked in puzzlement and alarm as he saw the two creatures creeping through the undergrowth towards him.
“You might as well come out,” called Ridmark in orcish, taking two long steps to the left. “I know you’re there.”
One of the creat
ures straightened up and moved forward in silence.
Ridmark had never seen anything like it.
The creature stood about five feet tall and looked for all the world like a gaunt black rat walking on its hind legs. Its black, beady eyes regarded Ridmark, and its front teeth looked like massive yellow chisels. Whiskers twitched next to its nose, and it had two ragged ears adorned with bronze and copper earrings. Its hands looked like a cross between a rat’s paws and human hands, the fingers topped with long claws. The creature wore leather armor strengthened with steel rivets, and it had a sword and a dagger belt around its waist. A pink tail twitched back and forth behind it, as long and thick as Ridmark’s arm.
The rat-thing took another step, and Ridmark leveled the bow.
“I suggest,” said Ridmark, “that you remain where you are.”
The rat-thing froze, and it let out a chittering, high-pitched laugh.
“I mean no harm!” said the creature in the orcish tongue. Despite its squeaking laugh, the creature’s voice was deep, and Ridmark decided that it was probably male. Not that he wanted to examine it closely to find out. “No harm! I was just curious, yes, just curious. You are no orc, yes, no orc.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “Neither are you.”
He dared not look away from the rat-thing, but his ears strained for the sound of the second one. It was probably creeping up behind him.
Again came the chittering laugh. “I am not. Have you seen my like? Do you know what I am? You give off the smell of confusion.”
“Do educate me,” said Ridmark.
“We are called the muridach,” said the rat-thing. “The bone orcs rule the forest, and the manetaurs rule the plains on the other side of the mountains, and the wild halflings in the jungles below the fire mountains, but we rule in the Deeps below the mountains. The Lord of Carrion has given all these lands into our hands.”
“The Lord of Carrion?” said Ridmark.
“Our god,” said the muridach. “He is mightier than the rotting god of the bone orcs and the shadowy god of the dvargir.”
“How pleasant that must be for you,” said Ridmark. “I have an urgent journey to make, so I wish you good fortune in your travels, master muridach.”
The rat-thing laughed again. “Stay! Stay! I have not often seen your like. Your kindred is rare in this part of the world. You are called…human, yes? Your kingdom lies far to the west.”
“Yes,” said Ridmark. “You have seen humans before?”
“Sometimes,” said the muridach. “Sometimes the dvargir slavers sell them to us. We like humans. Their skins are soft and thin, and their flesh is delicious, either raw or cooked over a fire.”
“I see,” said Ridmark. The Qazaluuskan orcs had wanted to kill him and raise him as an undead, while the kobolds had wanted to eat him. It seemed these muridach creatures agreed with the kobolds. Not for the first time he reflected on the mad risk of coming alone to this place. Not even the High King with all his armies had ever penetrated more than a few dozen miles into the depths of the Qazaluuskan Forest, just far enough to drive off any orcish raiders. “Alas, my urgent journey compels me to be on my way.”
“Your journey!” said the muridach. “What is this journey that compels you so? Humans do not come to the Qazaluuskan Forest. Where can you be going?”
“I am going,” said Ridmark, “to ask a question of the Elder Shamans.”
That got a reaction out of the creature. The muridach flinched, his tail lashing, his fur rising to stand in greasy black spikes.
“The Elder Shamans!” said the muridach. “You are mad, mad! You think to go to Urd Drysaar? That was the seat of the Jeweler, and all the kindreds of the Qazaluuskan Forest once bowed to him. He is slain, but his dark magic lingers still in the ruins, and he hungers for souls! Why do such a mad thing? Quicker to fall upon your own sword!”
“I have my duty,” said Ridmark.
“Bah!” said the muridach. “If you go to Urd Drysaar, it will be a waste of good meat. Better for you, human, that we will kill you here.” The rat-thing gave off another chittering laugh. “We shall feast…and you shall die in much less pain than the jeweled ones would inflict upon you.”
The muridach charged, but Ridmark was already moving.
He spun, his bow coming up, and his guess had been right. A second muridach had been creeping up behind him, a weighted net in his clawed hands. Ridmark released the arrow, and his hurried aim was true. The shaft slammed into the muridach’s throat, and the rat-creature stumbled with a gurgling scream, dark blood pumping from the wound.
Ridmark whirled as the first muridach closed with him, sword and dagger in his hands. There was no time to draw another arrow from his quiver, so Ridmark threw the bow at the muridach. The weapon hit the rat-creature in the face, and he flinched back, sword and dagger coming up in guard. That gave Ridmark the time he needed to snatch his staff from his back, and he struck with the heavy weapon. The wooden staff had a core of iron, and its length slipped under the muridach’s guard and hit the creature’s left knee with a heavy crack. The muridach shrieked in agony and stumbled, and Ridmark hit him in the head.
The blow sent the muridach to his knees, and Ridmark hit him in the head four more times.
On the fourth blow, the muridach stopped moving, blood leaking from his nose and mouth.
Ridmark stepped back, retrieved the arrow from the dead muridach, cleaned it, and returned it to his quiver. Both dead creatures stank of the musk he had smelled earlier, and Ridmark wanted to be gone from here. He knew nothing of these muridachs and their Lord of Carrion, but if they were anything like normal rats, they would have a keen sense of smell…and they would travel in much larger numbers than just two.
Which meant Ridmark wanted to be gone by the time the rest of the pack realized that these two were dead.
He did wonder what the muridachs had been doing here. They hadn’t been expecting to see him, that much was plain. Had they been a scouting party? Perhaps the muridach were fighting against a tribe of Qazaluuskan orcs. Yet they hadn’t been wary enough for that, and the weighted net that the second muridach had been carrying suggested that they had been hunting someone.
Ridmark’s mouth twisted as he left the dead rat-things behind. Perhaps the muridach were hunting for some luckless captive who had escaped from their larder. Had Ridmark still been a Swordbearer, he might have tracked and tried to help such an unfortunate captive.
But he was not a Swordbearer any longer. He was an exile from the realm of Andomhaim, alone in hostile territory with only his weapons, his wits, and some dwindling supplies. Ridmark did not care if he lived or died, but he would not throw his life away.
Not unless it meant he could find the secret of the Frostborn.
He pressed on, looking for a place where he could cross the river.
###
An hour later, he heard the sounds of battle coming from the trees north of the River of Fangs.
Ridmark dropped to the ground and crawled through the undergrowth, using the ferns and bushes to conceal his passage. He reached the base of a large tree just as he saw a flare of fire and heard a muridach’s chittering scream.
He peered over a mossy root and saw a fight underway.
Five muridachs lay dead upon the ground. Three of them had been killed by short arrows of the kind he had seen earlier, but two of them had been burned alive, their fur and flesh charred and their bodies twisted into blackened husks. The two muridachs looked as if they had been roasted over a fire for hours, but Ridmark saw no ashes beneath them and no signs of any fires.
There were three muridachs still on their feet, and they prowled around a short, slender figure in a patchwork cloak of mottled gray and green. The figure held a short sword of steel in one hand, and something that gave off a red glow in the other.
One of the muridachs lunged, snapping his jaws, and the figure slashed the sword, the cloak going wide.
Ridmark’s eyes widened in surprise.
He was entirely certain that this woman was not a servant.
She wore peculiar armor of close-fitting leather, and a dozen amulets made of bone and feathers and stones that swung as she moved. A strange design had been painted upon her face, a swirling blue pattern that centered around her blue eyes, making it look as if she wore a mask.
If she had killed all five of those muridachs, she was doing well. But she was obviously exhausted, and the three remaining muridachs had encircled her. Sooner or later they would wear her down, and then they would have her.
Ridmark could have slipped past the fight unseen, but his conscience would not let him.
He raised his bow, drew an arrow, took aim, and released. The shaft hissed over the tree root and slammed into the back of a muridach’s leg. The rat-creature hopped forward with a shriek of pain. The other two muridachs jumped back, looking back and forth for the new foe, and Ridmark straightened up and loosed another arrow. He missed this time, and one of the muridachs charged towards him, while the second attacked the halfling woman, sword flying as she retreated.
Ridmark dropped his bow and charged, yanking his staff from over his shoulder in time to deflect a chop from the muridach’s sword. The creature let out a shriek of rage, stepping back as the injured muridach regained its feet and ran at Ridmark. He retreated, using the longer reach of his staff to keep the two rat-creatures at bay. The wounded one attacked, and Ridmark blocked, twisted to the side, and swung his staff with both hands. The length of heavy wood connected against the muridach’s wounded leg and the creature stumbled with a cry of pain. Ridmark’s staff came up and hammered against the muridach’s skull, and it fell with a snap of bone.