The Death of Promises h-3

by David Dalglish

  “Aye, it be the smart thing,” Trummug said.

  “So let us get you your brother. The more orcs that live, the more that join your army. You do want a grander army than Lummug ever had, don’t you?”

  “I will smash everything he thinks he’s done!” Trummug shouted. “Get me to him. Once his head’s in my hands, all orcs will call me Hordemaster!”

  Velixar winked at Qurrah, who only threw up his hands in surrender.

  “That is how you do it,” the man in black said as he sat across from his disciple. “You just need to think simpler, less arguing, more coercing.”

  “You should fight his war,” Tessanna said, her voice muffled by her knees. “You could bring the dead back, so no loss would matter. Less to feed.”

  “True, my dear,” Velixar said. “But the orcs that live I can bring back. The dead, when slain, will stay dead. And raging orcs are far superior in combat to the mindless dead. And food will not be a problem. Fortress Mug has plenty of livestock for us to slaughter.”

  “So tomorrow we kill?” Trummug shouted, bored of the conversation. “Tomorrow me be Hordemaster?”

  “If Karak wills it, yes,” Velixar said, smiling at the orc. “But only if he wills it.”

  They left the tent to sleep. Come the morning, they would prepare their army. If all went according to plan, they would not need it, but all there in that tent knew that things rarely went according to plan.

  F ortress Mug was like all the other orc forts: surrounded by wooden palisades with sharpened tips, covered with banners, and possessing a single gate to enter. Fortress Mug, however, differed by how enormous it was, encircling giant fields full of pigs and goats. A tent five times the height of any orc loomed in the center, surrounded by hundreds of other tents, home to the orcs that swore allegiance directly to Lummug. Over three thousand lived there by Velixar’s estimate. A grand army, if united.

  “Have we been spotted?” Qurrah asked Velixar as they stood at the outskirts of their camp and looked upon the fortress.

  “I’m sure we have,” Velixar said. “The walls are bristling with orcs. The question is, will Lummug still be inside his tent?”

  “He won’t leave until the fighting begins,” Qurrah said. Velixar glanced at his disciple and raised an eyebrow.

  “Do you know that for sure?”

  The half-orc shrugged. “I wouldn’t bet my life on it. I’d bet yours though.”

  The man in black laughed.

  “Summon Trummug,” he said when his laughter died. “It is time the orcs worshipped Karak once more.”

  Qurrah went to fetch him, leaving Velixar to grin alone. He had been in a joyous mood for days. Everything was proceeding without a hitch, and the inevitable release of Karak seemed closer than ever.

  “Me ready to kill!” Trummug bellowed to signify his arrival. Velixar turned to him, his smile growing larger.

  “A fine sight you are,” he said, and he meant it. The orc’s armor was cleaned and polished. Massive amounts of gray muscle bulged underneath. On his head he wore a helmet made of iron. Surrounding it was six pairs of antlers, positioned so that tens of sharp points stretched out from his eyes and mouth toward his enemy. Two sharp spikes stretched out from his shoulders, an addition made by Velixar. His gauntlets, also made of iron, were stained red from blood.

  “Almost ready,” the man in black said, admiring the sight. “But now you must accept the rewards Karak offers to those who keep his faith.”

  He placed a hand on Trummug’s chest and closed his eyes. The orc fidgeted, unsure of what sorcery was about to take place. Then he felt the power flood into him. His muscles bulged. The armor, which had hung loose on him by Qurrah’s demand, suddenly latched tight and firm. He held his giant axe in one hand, though he had always needed two to lift it.

  “Karak made me strong!” he shouted, his voice carrying further than it ever had. Qurrah smiled, a sad smile. He remembered how Harruq had looked when infused in a similar manner. Even Trummug, with his armor and muscle, paled in comparison.

  “Always bless his name,” Velixar said, his voice captivating Trummug. “Let every kill honor your god. When you are Hordemaster, may every orc in Dezrel know the strength Karak offers.”

  Trummug held his axe high above his head and bellowed out a war cry.

  “Send me to fight!” he screamed. “I’ll go crazy if I don’t kill!”

  Velixar slammed his hands together and whispered words of magic. A black portal tore into the air, its destination unknown.

  “Enter,” he told the giant orc. “Slay your enemy, and take your place as ruler.”

  With a mindless roar, Trummug leapt inside, his axe high and ready. Qurrah followed with a silent Tessanna coming shortly after. Velixar entered last, but only after commanding Gumgog to prepare his army for battle. If the armies of the Mug Fortress poured forth, they needed to be prepared.

  “We be ready,” Gumgog said, saluting with his club arm. Velixar smiled.

  “Failure would be most unwise,” he said before vanishing within the swirling darkness.

  Q urrah was lucky enough to have ducked when he entered the portal, for otherwise a wild swing by Trummug would have taken off his head. The orc was storming about the giant tent in the center of Fortress Mug, screaming for challengers. Qurrah crouched lower and stepped back, cursing their luck. Lummug was not in his tent.

  “Get back, dullard,” he said, hooking his fingers and pushing them in the air. An invisible force pushed Trummug away from the portal so his axe did not harm Tessanna and Velixar when they appeared.

  “We must find him quickly,” Velixar said as he looked around and realized the problem. Trummug, nearly foaming at the mouth with rage, did not wait for council. He stormed out of the tent and shrieked at the top of his lungs.

  “WHERE LUMMUG?”

  Orc guards saw him and fled, wanting no part of the angry giant. Trummug raised his axe and chased, lopping off any heads within reach. Again he screamed for his brother, and throughout the entire fortress his voice thundered.

  “Keep him alive,” Velixar ordered as he held open the flap of the tent for Qurrah and Tessanna. “But make sure he strikes the killing blow against Lummug.”

  At first it didn’t appear to be that difficult a task. Orcs fled in all directions, wanting no part of the strangers that had magically appeared within their gates. The curious or the slow found their heads chopped or their chests shattered. Then a giant swarm of orcs approached from the north gate, shrieking with battlelust. Within the mass was Lummug, his shield and sword held high.

  “Take out his entourage,” Velixar said. Qurrah chuckled.

  “Is that what we should do? I might never have guessed.” He prepared his magic as Velixar glared.

  “Boys, boys,” Tessanna said as she prepared her own spells. “Behave before I spank you both.”

  Trummug charged the orcs head-on as if he were impervious to any wounds. Qurrah and Velixar accompanied his charge with twin blasts of bones torn from the nearby corpses. Guards crumpled to the ground, gagging from torn throats and clutching massacred eyes. Tessanna kissed the palm of her hand and blew. Red smoke swirled like a snake through the air past Trummug and into the lungs and noses of the orcs. Those that breathed it in dropped their weapons and gagged, their eyes immediately swelling red with blood. Two dropped without uttering a sound. A third vomited his intestines. The rest fell, their stomachs bursting open and pouring blood across the grass.

  “A magnificent spell,” Velixar said.

  “Thank you,” Tessanna said, her voice calm and emotionless. “But I have better.”

  With their leader near, the rest of the camp had the courage to attack the three frail forms that stood seemingly unprotected. The girl twirled, her arms dancing through the air. Orange light shone from her fingertips. The blood of the dead orcs ran across the grass and pooled at her feet. Like a spider it latched upon her legs and climbed, swirling and covering her exposed legs. When it reached her
dress it spread wide and covered it as well, so she appeared to have one long skirt of blood. With each of Tessanna’s heartbeats it pulsed with life.

  “Disturbing,” Qurrah said, “but what does it…”

  He stopped when Tessanna violently wrenched her body like some vicious dancer. The skirt spread wide, cracked, and then flew from her, the blood becoming snakes that flew with open mouths and dripping fangs. The snakes latched onto the gathering orcs, sinking their fangs into their necks and faces. Upon biting, the snakes dissolved back into normal blood, their poison spent. Orcs shrieked and scratched at their skin like it was on fire. They tore out their eyes so the pressure behind them would subside. They gnawed on their fingers, stabbed themselves with their swords, and writhed on the ground in unbearable agony.

  “By the abyss,” Qurrah muttered, watching the macabre display.

  “I stand corrected,” Velixar said. “ That is a magnificent spell.”

  “Your pet,” Tessanna said, still quiet and apathetic. She pointed to where Lummug and Trummug fought. “He’s in danger.”

  The two men turned, having forgotten their reason for being there. The orc brothers were deep in combat, and it appeared Lummug had the upper hand. Despite his magical strength, Trummug was a much worse fighter in terms of skill. He swung wild and crazy with his axe, trying to use sheer strength to win. Lummug, the size of an ox himself, used his shield to absorb the blows before retaliating with his sword. His cuts were not severe, but they were quickly adding up. Blood soaked both their armor.

  “Take his strength,” Velixar said. “I will take his mind, but use a light touch. Our puppet must believe he won.”

  Qurrah thought over his spells, then settled on one he had used on his brother. He cast the curse. Invisible weights latched onto Lummug’s arms and legs, making it seem his sword weighed thrice its normal weight and his shield was made of stone.

  “You grow tired!” Trummug shouted, seeing his opponent’s movements slow and his breathing quicken. “You’re not able to face my strength!”

  Velixar’s spell was more subtle but far more dangerous to Lummug. His curse spread a thin veil of shadow over the orc’s eyes. Lummug could still see, but what he saw was far from truth. When he saw Trummug swing his axe from below his waist, he positioned his shield to block. The blow never came, not from that direction. Trummug had lifted his axe high and swung straight down. No shield stopped it. The axe cleaved through Lummug’s helmet, split his skull, and then buried itself in a mess of ribs, lungs, and heart.

  With a scream of victory, Trummug tore free his axe and lifted the giant weapon above his head with one hand

  “Lummug dead!” he shouted to the fortress. “Trummug Hordemaster now!”

  Their leader dead, it was politics as normal for the rest of the orcs.

  “Trummug!” they shouted. “Trummug the Hordemaster!”

  The entire fortress erupted in cheers of loyalty. As Trummug basked in his glory, Velixar walked beside him.

  “Do not forget what Karak has given you,” he said. “Reward his faith in you by your faith in him.”

  “For Karak!” Trummug suddenly shouted. “For Karak, for Karak!”

  The orcs outside the fortress took up a similar chant. For Karak! For Karak! The orcs within, confused though they were, joined in. They found the words pleasant to their tongues and the shout comforting to their minds.

  For Karak! For Karak!

  With the Mug tribe united in his name, it was only a matter of time before the other tribes fell in line. The army, numbering two thousand strong, marched east, a new standard for their banners. It was the skull of a lion.

  Part Two

  11

  I t had been a long night for the half-orc Harruq Tun.

  “Try not to scream too much,” his tormenter said as he pressed a glowing piece of coal against his neck with a pair of tongs.

  A very long night.

  “No screaming,” Harruq said through grit teeth. “No screaming.” He felt the searing pain against his flesh. He heard sizzling, his blood hissing and drying. He would have given anything to throttle the man, but the heavy chains around his body denied him his desire as he hung naked against the wall.

  “I’m sure your friends are looking for you by now,” the tormenter said. He pulled back the coal and admired his work. An ugly black burn covered the entirety of Harruq’s neck. “Looking, but not finding.”

  The half-orc flung his head to one side so his long brown hair didn’t cover his face, and doing his best to ignore the horrible pain it caused his neck. His breathing was heavy from the pain, but still he laughed.

  “You have no idea,” he said between labored breaths. “No idea how badly you just erred.”

  “Oh really?” the man said. He wore black robes with a feline skull hanging from a chain around his neck. His upper lip protruded a full inch farther than his lower jaw, so when he smiled he looked like a strange combination of horse and man. “What mistake was that?”

  “Because I’m not the scary one,” Harruq said. They were deep in the bowels of an old mansion, one with an owner rumored to be eccentric and lonely. Looking around at the various torture devices hanging from the stone walls of the cell, Harruq had to agree about the eccentric part. He did not, however, think the man was alone too often. Not in that cell, judging by the blood staining the floor.

  “You’re not the scary one?” the tormenter asked, humoring him.

  “I’m the big one,” Harruq continued. He was stalling, and by Ashhur the man didn’t seem to have a clue. “Haern, he’s the creepy one. Sneaky. Kill you before you know you’re dead. But no, that isn’t too scary, dying without knowing it. Aurry, however…” The half-orc laughed, then stopped to cough up and spit out a blob of blood.

  “You mean your weak little elf woman?” the man asked him. He dug his fingers into the burn on Harruq’s neck. Harruq sucked in air, denying the man the scream he wanted.

  “She sees what you’ve done to me and she’ll be hotter than a dragon napping in a wildfire. Haern’s got some sort of honor. Aurry…”

  The man in the black robes slapped him, then kissed the skull that hung from his neck.

  “Karak protects me,” the man said. “His power protects me from scrying. No one knows you’re here. No one will hear you. No one will know you’ve died until I dump your body at the Eschaton’s doorstep. Too late, then, too late for you.”

  Again Harruq laughed. And coughed. And laughed.

  “What was your name again?” he asked.

  “Karak has given me the name of Tormentus,” the man said, glowing with pride. “His right hand in driving out blasphemy from this world.”

  Harruq lost himself in laughter so loud and chaotic he appeared delusional. Tormentus drove a dagger through the palm of the half-orc’s hand, and even that did little to stop his laughter.

  “Tormentus,” Harruq said when he regained control. “You give yourself that name?” His laughter resumed, huge shuddering laughs that shook him against the chains that held him to the wall. “Run, children, Tormentus is coming, crazy man for a crazy god!”

  The man slashed him across the face and neck with a knife, furious and humiliated. He had given himself the name thinking it would inspire fear in those he worked upon. On most it had, but this strange half-orc, who seemed impervious to any pain he caused, only found it hysterical. Suddenly he was ashamed of the name, felt almost childlike in its creation.

  “You may know me as Gregor, if you would prefer,” he said, wiping the blood off his dagger. “The name I held before Karak blessed me with his power.”

  “Sure thing,” Harruq said. “So what is your last name? Cutall? Hurtme? Imakebooboos?”

  “Enough!”

  Gregor marched over to his rack of torture devices full of prongs, pliers, wrenches, strange shaped blades, and rollers full of spikes and rusty edges. The half-orc had dared trespass onto his property. His servants had subdued him with sleep scrolls they all carri
ed. It took three to drag Harruq’s body downstairs to his torture room and chain him to the wall. The half-orc had tested the chain’s strength when he first awoke, then settled in and endured his punishment.

  “What were you looking for,” Gregor asked as he grabbed a device with a wooden handle and a small curved blade. “Eschaton do not steal or rob. What was it you sought in my mansion?”

  “Just the usual,” Harruq said. The man turned and approached with a sick grin on his face. “Thieves. Killers. Crazy people. You seem like all three. What you going to do with that, anyway?”

  “Oh, this?” Gregor asked, smiling at his tool. “You keep laughing and mocking me. You ignore any pain I cause. So I’m going to cause you pain you can’t ignore. And when you laugh, at least it will be at a higher pitch.”

  The room fell silent as Harruq realized what it was Gregor was saying.

  “Now that’s just too far,” the half-orc shouted, straining against his chains. “You can hurt and kill me, but really, you can’t be that sick.”

  Shouts echoed through the closed wooden door and into the room. Gregor glanced up the stairs, frowning at the intrusion.

  “What is going on up there?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know,” Harruq said. “You should go see, definitely, that is something you should…”

  He stopped when Gregor back-handed him and then pressed the curved blade against his groin. More shouts came from upstairs.

  “We can talk about this,” Harruq said, all trace of humor gone from his voice. “Talk about this like men.”

  “Like men?” Gregor asked, a wild fear in his eyes. More shouts filled the room. People had entered the mansion. It did not take much thought to guess who.

  “Like men,” Harruq repeated with an enthusiastic nod.

  “But you’re not a man,” Gregor said. “Not anymore.”

  The door exploded inward, and in stepped a furious Aurelia Tun. Fire danced on her fingertips. Gregor tensed the blade against Harruq while his other hand grabbed the half-orc by the throat.

  “Stay back,” the man ordered. “Stay back, or I cut him, and no priestess will undo the damage.”