by Vox Day
“Merely a helpful reminder that you ought to look where you’re going, lad.”
His young companion led them through the woods until Lodi too was able to hear the drums pounding. It was tough going, as the terrain was steep, and they found themselves alternatively pulling themselves up the wooded hills by the occasional exposed tree root and using tree trunks as a brake when sliding down the other side.
Before long, both of them were scratched and bleeding from branches that had caught them in the face as they were going downhill. But Lodi didn’t mind, and Thorald didn’t complain. It was hot, exhausting, and mildly painful work, but even so, it was a damned sight better than risking another heart-stopping and potentially fatal encounter with another group of orcs on the trail. All the while, the drums continued to grow louder.
At last they reached a point which Lodi surmised was approaching the edge of the forest. The light ahead was much brighter, and so they proceeded cautiously, determined to stay well inside the shadow safety of the trees. But as they came closer to the edge, Lodi realized that the open space ahead wasn’t a meadow: It was a cliff! And at its base was a wide open space that appeared to be serving as a gathering place for more orcs than Lodi had ever seen, not even in Guldur Goblinsbane’s mighty army.
They stretched out in a vast array, in large, irregular groups that must have consisted of tens of thousands of orcs in each one. The banners of their chieftains and kings waved over the great circular tents that they used when on the march, although there were three giant flags mounted on huge poles that stood atop a large hill that appeared to be the center of the gathering. Upon it were set up three of the queer stools that the orcs customarily used in the place of chairs. Both the leather and the bones used to make them customarily came from goblins, although Lodi had seen them made from the hide and bones of both men and dwarves, as well.
“Ugh, what is that?” Thorald pointed to an uneven pyramid behind the hill.
Lodi recognized it immediately even though he had seen something like it only once before. But it was the sort of horror a dwarf didn’t forget easily.
“It’s an offering. I don’t know what it’s called, but this is a convocation of sorts, almost a religious thing. It’s called a golshoggru, and it’s a big ritual they do when they’re trying to summon one of their demon gods, usually Gor Gor.”
“Gor Gor?” Thorald looked skeptical. “That’s supposed to be their god’s name?”
“I wouldn’t laugh, lad. Their shamans call upon a number of hell bastards, but he’s the worst of a bad lot. He ain’t the most powerful they call up—the alchemists say Khemash is—but Gor Gor is the one the warriors worship. He’s the one they call upon when they’s gearing up for war.”
“How do you know about orc magic?”
Lodi looked at the young dwarf and shook his head. “You think you’re gonna forget what it felt like when you split that orc’s head open like it was nothing but rotten fruit?”
Thorald shivered and made a face. “No, never.”
“Then you should understand why I know all about filthy orc magic. Next to elven witchery, it’s the worst there is.” He pointed to the golshoggru. “The last time I saw a mound of heads that size, they was piled up in front of Iron Mountain. After about six months, when they saw we wasn’t going down easy, they started chopping heads and stacking them, trying to get their bloody demon-god to do the dirty work they couldn’t.”
Even as he spoke, two large mountain orcs dragged a furiously struggling smaller orc behind the hill. The nearer bands began stomping their feet in time with the drums and chanting the same short phrase over and over again, although Lodi couldn’t quite make it out.
As the mountain orcs forced the smaller one to its knees, one of the biggest orcs Lodi had ever seen came strutting out of one of the round tents, followed by two more mountain orcs, both bearing massive axes that made Lodi’s battleaxe look like a toy. The big orc was wearing a black ornamental device on its head that looked as if it might be a mad artisan’s notion of a crown. But of rather more concern to Lodi was the fact that it was also wearing the robes of a shaman.
One of the few advantages they’d had during the siege was that the warleaders among the tribes didn’t trust the shamen, and the shamen had refused to obey the warleaders. So, for all the dark spellpower available to the invaders, it was seldom utilized effectively and had been easily be countered by the alchemists and Deep Ones of Iron Mountain. But if the warleader was a shaman himself….
The drums crescendoed, then stopped suddenly before starting up again with a slow, ominous rhythm. Lodi didn’t have to look down to see what was happening, he knew another head had been harvested for the grotesque pyramid. He remembered watching similar scenes long ago. Sometimes the orcs being sacrificed went to their deaths gladly. At other times they kicked and screamed right up until the moment the blade descended. It seemed Gor Gor didn’t care about the attitude of the sacrifice as long as he got his head.
“How can they worship monsters like that?” Thorald was visibly distressed.
“Talk about monsters! Did you see that one! Looks like his dada was a troll and his mama weren’t willing.” But the nightmarish vision was nothing Lodi hadn’t seen before. And disgusting as it was, as appalling as it was, it made its own sort of twisted sense. After all, what was easier: to raise up, train, and pay for a well-disciplined army, or to breed like rabbits, cut off a few heads every now and then for the benefit of your war god, then roast the remains for dinner over a roaring fire?
The most recent sacrifice had already been forcefully spitted by its executioners and was now being carried off in triumph by four orcs who looked as if they might have belonged to its tribe. Well, it might make sense, but even so, Lodi’s stomach roiled in protest at the sight. As much as he despised the Amorrans who had enslaved him and forced him to fight for their entertainment, they probably had the right of it. Good magicians, bad magicians, it was only a matter of time before they turned to the dark side in search of more power. Better to be safe and kill them all.
“We seen enough,” he declared. “Once they got Gor Gor raised, they’ll be on the march. We’ll head for the easternmost watch tunnels. They’ll be able to get word to the king and maybe send some proper scouts out to see where these orcs are headed.”
“Wait!” Thorald said. “Something’s up!”
The big shaman was standing in front of the vast pile of heads with its arms stretched out high above its own head, still safely attached to its neck. In one hand it held some sort of rod, in the other a large black goblet. It looked as if it was chanting, although it was impossible to hear anything at such a distance, especially over the constant booming of the drums. When it stopped, it took a large drink from the goblet, then flung the rest of the contents over the golshoggru. The mass of orcs, at least those who were watching, cheered in response.
“Blood, most likely,” Lodi mused. “The damned buggers never can get enough blood.”
“Orcs? Or demons?”
“All the same in the end.” Lodi frowned.
The big shaman turned a little and now appeared to be almost facing the cliff upon which they were standing. The drums stopped. Then it raised an arm and pointed upwards. It was impossible, and yet it seemed as if the giant orc was pointing directly at them.
“Can you hear what that big one’s shouting?” he asked Thorald.
“Yeah, a little, but I don’t speak no orc, Lodi.”
“I know, just tell me what it’s saying! The words!”
The young dwarf leaned forward and put his hand over his ear. “I’m not sure. He’s said the same thing a few times, though. Something about ‘ghorag’ or maybe ‘ghorakh.’ And then he said ‘nanakh’ a couple times.”
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” Lodi swore, grabbing Thorald’s arm and backing away from the edge of the cliff. “We got to run and run now, lad!”
“Why?” Thorald was confused, but he willingly followed Lodi’s l
ead. “They can’t possibly have known we were up here!”
“I don’t speak orc neither, but I know what nanakh means. It means ‘dwarf.’ And I don’t think the big one saw us. I think that damned demon they’re calling up probably told him!”
“So where do we go? North, into the mountains?”
“No, those mountain orcs will move a lot faster though the mountains than we can. First we go back to the stream. They can’t track us through the water. Then we find a place we can hole up for the night. We got a long way to go, lad, and we aren’t going to outrun them. They won’t all come after us, but the ones that do will know these parts a sight better than we do. But we can bloody well outsmart them, right?”
Thorald nodded, but his eyes showed his fear when the drums abruptly stopped and deep, evil-sounding horns began to sound.
Lodi smiled at the young dwarf and clapped him on the shoulder as they jogged, side-by-side, through the dark, sun-dappled depths of the forest. “Don’t be afraid, lad. Remember, I spent seven years crawling through tunnels and killing the bastards. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. They didn’t get old Lodi then, and they ain’t going to get him now. So just stick close, do what you’re told, and you’ll be all right.”
They didn’t see any evidence to confirm they were being hunted until late in the afternoon two days later. After wading along the stream for about an hour the previous day, they came across a half-uprooted tree with heavy branches extending out over the water. First Thorald pulled himself up and out of the stream, then Lodi did the same, a little more awkwardly. Wading through the stream had been slow going, but Lodi calculated that breaking their scent trail was more than worth the ground they’d given up to their pursuers. They’d spent the remainder of the night sleeping in some shallow scrapes quickly dug out from under a large and rotting fallen oak tree, then rose with the first red rays of the pre-dawn and began moving again.
It seemed, however, that at least one party of orcs must have passed them during the night, as the sun was well past its peak when they came across the unmistakable indications of an orc encampment.
Thorald grabbed Lodi’s arm to stop him.
“I smell something. I think it’s orc stink, but it’s not real strong.”
Lodi nodded, unslung his axe and then slipped both his pack and the shield off his back. “Stay here. I’m going to circle around and see if anyone’s there. You hear me whistle three times, it’s safe. If anything happens, if you hear a scuffle, don’t come helping me. Take the shield and my pack, then hide and wait until they go on. Remember, we got to get word back to Iron Mountain!”
Thorald nodded, looking scared.
Lodi took a deep breath, gripped his axe tightly, then started in a direction that would keep him north of the suspected orc party. When he thought he’d gone far enough, he angled to his left. The scent that Thorald had mentioned was there, but it wasn’t as strong as it should be, not when he could see there was a small clearing barely twenty paces in front of him. He crouched and edged closer, moving from tree to tree, until he was nearly to the edge of the clearing. Then he grinned, stood up, and whistled three times.
Thorald came crashing through the brush with all the stealth of a wounded troll. He couldn’t fault the younger dwarf too severely, however, as Thorald was weighed down with the shield as well as Lodi’s pack in addition to the warhammer and his own pack.
“They’re gone?” the young dwarf asked, looking around the abandoned campsite.
“They’re gone, but not too long ago,” Lodi confirmed. Judging by the size of the fire, the number of indentations on the ground and piles of fly-festooned leavings scattered toward the perimeter of the clearing, about twenty orcs had passed the previous night here. The embers of their fire were still faintly warm below the well-charred bones of their evening meal. “I’d say they left here a little before midday.”
“Ugh, what’s that?” Thorald pointed to a half-burned skull that was lying on the ground not far from the fire. It still had hair and flesh attached to it.
“Looks like they had kobold for dinner.” Lodi prodded at the head with the spiked tip of his axe, rolling it over to expose the small, sharp teeth that distinguished that vicious breed from the goblins who also sometimes served as meals for their larger, carnivorous cousins. “I didn’t see none at that gathering with the golshoggurath, so they must have caught one along the way. Too bad. We’ll know they’re running out of steam when they start eating the smaller ones in their party.”
“They eat their own?” Thorald suddenly turned nearly as green as a goblin.
“They eat anything. You get hungry enough, you’ll eat anything too, lad. Suppose it come down to eating rocks, metal, or another dwarf? Then a roasted leg of orc suddenly don’t look so bad, does it?”
“You never ate an orc!”
“Well, of course I did! When your belly’s been empty for days and all the rats and the bugs’ve been ate, then you just do whatever you have to do. Hell’s embers, lad, but if your mother didn’t, and if your father didn’t, you wouldn’t be here!”
Thorald was silent for a moment. Lodi took the opportunity to retrieve the shield and his pack. “Why do you think they do it?” Thorald finally asked. “When they don’t have to.”
“That’ll be the line between savage and uncivil,” Lodi grunted as the weight of his pack pulled at his shoulders. He began walking west, following the trail of broken branches left by the orcs. “Orcs, kobolds, goblins—they’re all savages, meaning they always take the easy way and don’t never think about tomorrow. Orcs especially. The way they breed, they’d all be starving if they weren’t cannibals. What’s easier: growing plants, baking bread, and keeping your pizzle in your pants, or futtering every damn thing that moves and eating anything that’s smaller and comes close enough for you to grab? It’s a cycle, lad, and they can’t stop eating each other any more than the Deep Ones can go live atop the mountains.”
“It’s just as well we’re civil, then. Even if we run out of stonebiscuit, you’re probably about as edible as quartz. If we end up in their pots, at least we know you’ll break their teeth.”
“Now you’re learning, lad!” Lodi nodded approvingly at the young dwarf. “The gods are hard, but the dwarves are harder. When it all turns to shit and sorrow, you just remind yourself of that.”
FJOTRA
True to his word, the Red Prince reached the safety of Raknarborg’s walls with both his and the Skullbreaker’s forces intact well before nightfall. Her father was much impressed that the Savoner prince had troubled to bring back the bodies of the Dalarn fallen as well as his own, and he admitted to Fjotra that if it was necessary for their people to accept a king, they might do considerably worse than Prince Karl.
It had been an anxious few hours for Fjotra, as she and the mages had reached the fortress long before either the exhausted Dalarn or the exuberant Savonders did.
Rather than take her father’s advice and order a tub warmed for herself, Fjotra had climbed to the summit of the North Tower in order to keep watch for the returning warriors.
She could see the cause for his concern: There was a large mass of what looked to be four or five thousand aalvarg that were potentially in position to interfere with the prince’s line of retreat. But they didn’t appear to be moving toward the fortress, and she relaxed considerably when she saw several hundred Savonder footmen, accompanied by a few dozen riders and led by a blue-cloaked man at the fore, being slowly disgorged from the great black gate below her to her left.
Her stomach was beginning to remind her that she had eaten little today when she first caught sight of the bright scarlet pennon born by the prince’s stoic flag-bearer, followed by a squadron of knights escorting the uneven column of Dalarn warriors. She gave a short prayer of thanks to the All-Father and to the Giantslayer for their safe return, but she waited until she was able to lay eyes upon a red-armored man on a big black horse bringing up the rear of the march before descending from the tow
er.
After taking a lukewarm bath and spending a frantic few minutes searching through the dresses that she’d already packed for her return, she brushed her hair and presented herself to her father in the hopes that Prince Karl might soon be doing the same.
As darkness fell and the oiled rushlights were lit, the mood in the Skullbreaker’s hall was cheerful, if not entirely celebratory. Their victory had been complete, but there wasn’t a man or woman in the hall who didn’t realize that they would have to fend off their besiegers at least once before the last man, most likely the Skullbreaker, would board ship and abandon the isles to the bestial mercies of the aalvarg.
Fjotra worried too about the discovery that the aalvarg possessed magic of their own. The last known troldmand had been killed before she was born, and the few wizened troldkvinde who survived had been sent on the first ships along with the other women in order to watch over the pregnant ones as well as the sick children.
But surely wolf urine could not bring down the mighty walls of Raknarborg, no matter how magical it was! She decided she would ask Blais about it when she saw him. If anyone on this side of the sea might know, it would be him. She wished Lord Theuderic and his Lady Everbright were there, both of them seemed to possess significantly more knowledge of the runic arts than either of the two young battlemages.
The Skullbreaker had ordered a victory feast in the great hall. She was disappointed to find herself seated on the other side of her father from the prince, who had taken his place at the Skullbreaker’s right hand with the royal admiral on the other side. She was further disappointed to find herself between Steinthor Strongbow on her right and Patrice on her left. Steinthor made for poor company, as he was heavily involved in the conversation about the day’s battle with her father and the prince, but the young sorcerer was more than happy to take advantage of the Dalarn warrior’s disinterest in talking to her.
