The Bone Orcs (2 page)

Ridmark stepped around the
blacksmith, his staff in his right hand as he drew his dagger with
his left hand.

Both Qazaluuskan orcs saw
him.

“Take him!” roared the older
orc, swinging his talisman towards Ridmark.

Ridmark sprinted forward and
threw his dagger. He had never been a good shot with missile
weapons, and his dagger missed the older orc entirely. Yet the orc
ducked to avoid the dagger, and that kept the talisman’s power from
reaching Ridmark. As the older orc straightened up, Ridmark swung
his staff, all his strength and speed behind the blow. The staff
hit the older orc in the face, his head snapping back with the
sound of cracking bone, and Ridmark pivoted, whirling the staff to
deflect the younger orc’s furious attack. The remaining orc went on
the attack, axe pumping, and Ridmark retreated, jerking his staff
back and forth to deflect the strikes. The orc had the momentum,
and Ridmark had no choice but to retreat towards the burning
church.

A bellow of fury filled his
ears, and then the back of the Qazaluuskan orc’s head exploded in a
spray of gore. The orc staggered, jerked to the right, and
collapsed to the dusty ground.

The blacksmith stood over the
corpse, breathing hard.

“Thanks,” said Ridmark,
lowering his staff, though he kept his eyes on the massive
hammer.

“Guess I was wrong about
you,” said the blacksmith. “Suppose you weren’t working with the
bone orcs after all.”

“Bone orcs?” said
Ridmark.

“This lot.” He tapped the
dead orc with his boot. “We always called them the bone orcs. Less
of a mouthful than ‘Qazaluuskan’, or the Children of the Lord of
Bones, which is what they call themselves. Plus, they like bones.
Use them for their dark magic.”

“That one must have been a
shaman or a wizard,” said Ridmark.

The blacksmith shook his
head. “He wasn’t. Most of them know a little magic. The shamans are
powerful, true, but they don’t hoard their spells the way the
Mhorites do.” He offered a tight, mirthless grin behind his beard.
“It’s what their Lord of Bones teaches. All come to his kingdom of
death in the end, so they all may as well know magic.”

“Splendid,” said Ridmark.
“Who are you?”

“Name’s Peter,” said the
blacksmith. “I’m the village smith.” He looked at the burning
ruins. “Suppose I was, anyway. Who are you?”

“Ridmark Arban,” said
Ridmark. There was every chance that Peter would recognize the
name. If he had been with the militia that had marched against the
Mhalekites at Dun Licinia, he would almost certainly recognize
Ridmark.

But if he did, he gave no
sign of it.

“Suppose I ought to thank you
for coming along when you did,” said Peter. “Else they would have
marched me off to their barrow with everyone else.”

“What happened here?” said
Ridmark.

Peter snorted. “What do you
think? The bone orcs came. We’ve always known the bone orcs were in
the Forest, but we kept out of their way. Then hundreds of them
marched out of the Forest, saying the omens were correct…”

“Omens?” said Ridmark.

“They’re superstitious beyond
belief,” said Peter. “Every single one of them checks the auguries
before making any decision. They all these dice carved from bone,
with all sorts of symbols on them. I guess their omens must have
said it was time to attack Toricus. They killed anyone who fought
back, rounded up the villagers, and herded them into the Forest.”
He rubbed his wounded temple. “I put up a fight, told my son and
daughter to hide in the cellar. Took a blow to the head.” His face
tightened into a grimace. “When I woke up, they were all gone. The
bone orcs had taken them.”

“As slaves,” said
Ridmark.

“Worse,” said Peter. A
terrible despair set into his face. “As sacrifices. The bone orcs
need blood and hearts and other organs for their necromancy. They
will take the prisoners to the nearest barrow and kill them
there.”

“I see,” said Ridmark. “What
are you going to do now?”

Peter gave a weary shrug. “I
will go to Castra Marcaine and ask Dux Gareth for help. Maybe he’ll
send out Swordbearers and men-at-arms to teach the Qazaluuskan orcs
a lesson. Maybe if I hasten, they can come in time to save my
children.”

That was unlikely. It would
take a week, maybe longer, for Peter to reach Castra Marcaine and
return.

“How many Qazaluuskan orcs
were there?” said Ridmark.

Peter shrugged. “At least
fifty. Maybe more. They had a shaman with them, too. The bone orcs
all know a little magic, but you can always tell the shamans. They
carry these staffs topped with three skulls, and always smell of
rotting flesh.” He shook his head. “I thank you for your aid,
Ridmark Arban, but I must go. The sooner I get to Castra Marcaine,
the sooner I can return.”

“Or,” said Ridmark, “we go
after the captives right now.”

Peter snorted. “I’m one man
with a hammer. That won’t do much good.”

“You won’t go alone,” said
Ridmark. “I’ll help you.”

“You?” said Peter. “Why would
you help me?”

“I have no wish to see anyone
enslaved and slain by the Qazaluuskan orcs,” said Ridmark. In
truth, he was not entirely sure why he was going to help Peter.
Ridmark was no longer a knight of the realm or a Swordbearer, and
so had no obligation to help anyone in Toricus. Yet he knew he
could not turn away. It might well get him killed, but that would
be no less than he deserved.

“Oh, two of us against fifty
bone orcs?” said Peter. “I’m a blacksmith and you’re a renegade
with a stick. What can we do?”

It was Ridmark’s turn to
shrug. “I don’t know. We will have to see. Besides, a big stick is
more useful in battle than you might think.” He jerked his head at
the slain orcs. “Ask them.”

Peter snorted. “Cocky
bastard, aren’t you?”

Ridmark said nothing.

“All right,” said Peter. “God
knows I can think of nothing else. What do you suggest we do
first?”

“Find some supplies,” said
Ridmark. “Then we’ll follow the Qazaluuskan orcs and see what we
can do.”

###

An hour later they left the
smoldering ruins of Toricus, heading east into the vast green mass
of the Qazaluuskan Forest. The orcs had thoroughly looted the town,
but they had overlooked many things, and both Ridmark and Peter had
been able to fill their packs with supplies.

Following the orcs proved
easy. There had been fifty or sixty warriors, and they had taken
nearly two hundred captives into the forest. That many people left
a trail that a blind man could follow, and Ridmark followed it into
the gloom of the Qazaluuskan Forest.

He took a moment to look
around.

It was green and dim, the
huge trees towering overhead, the air carrying a faint smell of rot
and decay. Ferns grew upon the ground between the tangled roots,
and clusters of gray mushrooms squatted at the base of each tree,
some of them as large as Ridmark’s head. The light in the forest
seemed…different, somehow, dimmer, and not just because of the
leafy canopy. Ridmark wondered if there was a spell over the entire
forest.

A strange, hushed silence
seemed to wrap the Forest like a cloak.

“Never liked it in here,”
muttered Peter, a hunting bow in hand. “Too quiet for a
forest.”

Ridmark nodded. The trail
continued to the east, and they moved on, watching for any sign of
the Qazaluuskan orcs.

Or their undead servants.

Peter seemed more and more
nervous, watching every shadow and swinging his hunting bow back
and forth. Ridmark grew increasingly concerned that Peter might do
something foolish and reckless. Best to take his mind off it before
he snapped.

“Your children,” said
Ridmark. “What are their names?”

Peter looked at him,
scowling.

“You do remember, I hope,”
said Ridmark.

“John and Mary,” said Peter
at last.

“And?” said Ridmark.

“And what?” said Peter.

“What else about them?” said
Ridmark, circling around a massive, lichen-spotted tree.

“John’s twelve, and Mary is
nine,” said Peter. “Thought I would leave the forge to John, but
he’s not suited for it. Better as a carpenter, so I apprenticed him
to the village’s carpenter. Assuming the man’s still alive.” He
shook his head. “Mary’s a natural, though. It would be better to
teach her to keep a house, but the girl has a gift. I reckon I need
to find her a good husband, and they can keep the forge when I’m
dead.”

“No wife, then?” said
Ridmark.

Peter grunted. “She died a
couple years ago. Bleeding sickness. The lord’s Magistrius tried,
but…well, their spells don’t always work.”

“No,” said Ridmark.

Peter was silent for a few
moments. “So, I figured we’d start over somewhere else, make our
fortunes. We came to Toricus and started a forge, and business was
good.” He sighed. “We probably should have stayed in Westhold.”

“Everything is always clearer
in hindsight,” said Ridmark.

“Aye,” said Peter. “What
about you, renegade? What brings you to Toricus?”

“Supplies,” said Ridmark.

Peter considered that.
“You’re some kind of adventurer, aren’t you?”

“You could say that,” said
Ridmark.

“We get men like you from
time to time,” said Peter. “Heading off into the Wilderland to loot
dark elven ruins, or into the Forest to rob the old barrows of the
bone orcs.” He paused. “They never come back alive. Well, hardly
ever.”

“Good to know,” said
Ridmark.

“Which one are you?” said
Peter.

There was no reason not to
tell him. “I’m going into the Qazaluuskan Forest to speak with one
of the Elder Shamans.”

“Why?” said Peter, his
disgust plain. “The regular bone orcs are bad, but the Elder
Shamans are worse. Why would you want to talk with one of
them?”

“I need to ask a question,”
said Ridmark.

They walked in silence for
some moments.

“Are you a cultist?” said
Peter. “There are some in Andomhaim who pray to the blood gods or
the urdmordar instead of the Dominus Christus. Are you such a
man?”

“No,” said Ridmark.

“Then why do you want to talk
to an Elder Shaman?” said Peter.

“They know things,” said
Ridmark. “Things that the men of Andomhaim have forgotten. Or
things that we never knew in the first place. They might have the
knowledge that I need.”

“What knowledge could that
possibly be?” said Peter.

“How the Frostborn will
return,” said Ridmark.

“The Frostborn?” said Peter.
“But there are no more Frostborn. The Swordbearers and the High
King wiped them out long ago.”

“I know,” said Ridmark. “But
nonetheless, they will return. And soon. Unless I find a way to
stop it.”

“Then you really are Ridmark
Arban,” said Peter. “The Swordbearer who commanded the host of the
realm against the Mhalekites last year.”

“Aye,” said Ridmark.

“How did you get that brand?”
said Peter. “That’s a coward’s brand, but you won the battle.
Mhalek’s dead, and there aren’t any Mhalekites left.”

“Mhalek escaped the battle,”
said Ridmark, the dark memory seething in his thoughts. “I followed
him and killed him, but not before he killed my wife.”

“Oh,” said Peter.

Ridmark gestured at the brand
of a broken sword upon his left cheek and jaw. “You can guess what
happened after that.”

“I see,” said Peter. “I’m
sorry.”

Ridmark shrugged. “It wasn’t
your fault.”

It had been Ridmark’s fault,
and his fault alone. He had failed to save Aelia. Tarrabus Carhaine
and Imaria had been right to condemn him for it.

“Did you have any children?”
said Peter. “If you did, you should go back to them. Aye, I know
what it is to blame yourself, but…”

“Stop talking,” said
Ridmark.

Peter scowled. “Fine, you
don’t wish to discuss it. I…”

“No,” hissed Ridmark. “Be
quiet. Someone is approaching.”

Peter blinked, then nodded
and raised his bow. Ridmark remained motionless, listening to the
silence of the Forest around him.

A silence broken by the
heavy, plodding footsteps of someone approaching.

A moment later the undead
creature limped into sight.

It had been an orcish man,
but a very long time ago. Now it was a withered, mummified corpse,
the green of its skin faded to a splotchy yellow. Its eyes and
mouth had been stitched shut, and Ridmark saw a row of stitches
running down its chest and back. From time to time fingers of blue
fire seemed to glow beneath its withered skin, likely from the dark
magic that animated the creature.

Ridmark stared at the
creature, wondering how to fight it. During his time as a
Swordbearer, he had faced and fought several undead creatures. Yet
in all those confrontations he had still carried a soulblade, a
weapon proof against all forms of dark magic. His staff lacked the
same power. For that matter, he had never seen an undead quite like
this before.

“The head,” said Peter in a
soft voice, as if he had guessed Ridmark’s thoughts. “The head’s
the vulnerable part. Take off the head.”

Ridmark nodded and dropped
his staff, reaching over his shoulder. He had found a decent battle
axe in Toricus, likely left behind when the Qazaluuskan orcs had
departed. It was nothing spectacular, but the haft was solid and
the blade was sharp.

The undead froze, and then
surged forward, moving with greater speed than Ridmark would have
expected from those withered legs. Its arms came up, reaching for
him, and he ducked under their reach, swinging the axe with all his
strength.

“The head!” said Peter,
circling around to the side. “Aim for the head!”

Ridmark had, in fact, aimed
for the right knee. The axe crunched deep into the withered flesh
and yellowed bone, and the undead orc stumbled. A vile black slime
dribbled over the axe’s blade, and the hideous stench of it filled
Ridmark’s nostrils. He wrenched the axe free, stepping around the
creature’s clumsy reach, and started swinging.