The Merchant Adventurer (13 page)

Hissglarg smelled human. And orders were very clear about humans. They were to be eaten. Not the crunchy face-parts, no, no. Those were to be saved for identification, of course. But all the rest was fair game. Like all Orcs, Hissglarg loved human meat. Of course, he had been bred to.

It was a silly trait, one that evolution would never have put up with. All Orcs really needed to survive was a constant diet of the deep minerals they had been grown from. But when Alston Dimsbury set out to do a job of
Evil
Wizarding, he didn’t leave it half done. No matter what they needed to live, Alston had decided that his Orcs would have a proper lust for the flesh of mankind. What did he care for the delicate processes that formed the natural world?

This was all well and good (especially for Dimsbury’s vanity) but human meat played hell on an Orc’s digestion. In fact, nothing about an Orc’s digestion was very good. A single Orc, left to its own devices, could eat rock and soil all day yet fail to extract enough nutrition to survive. And so this odd, created species dug and quarried and filtered and smelted and refined. They excavated vast underground complexes, not for pretty jewels or shiny metals, but for dinner.

Hissglarg held the barely sputtering torch close the ceiling and sniffed the air. Yes, this time to the left. He sucked the air and scuttled forward. Strictly speaking, Hissglarg didn’t need light. Born and raised underground, the feeling of the rock under his claws and the scents of minerals, warren-mates, and intruders were all he needed to navigate his way through the most tortuous of underground passages. He could never get lost. He would just follow his own smell back the way he had come.

Orcs carried the torches because of something the-one-who-spoke-the-human-tongue had told them. Hissglarg couldn’t remember the exact words right now, especially with the intoxicating smell of meat so close. It was something about humans liking light, that if they were lost in the dark they would come right toward it. (It was close enough, what Samga had told his fellow Orcs was, “Keep the light in their eyes. They are easier to catch that way.”)

As he stepped out into the junction, he thought he saw something move to his left. But he when he turned to look at it, brilliant light flooded the passageway. It was so brilliant he thought it was that most abhorred of things, the sun. But what would the sun be doing underground? Hissglarg covered his eyes and cried out in pain. Then he threw his sputtering torch at the source of light. The light faded. In the returning darkness, he saw a fat sack of human meat scrambling along the ground after a lantern. Ah, dinner! thought Hissglarg.

The entree on the ground turned and looked behind Hissglarg. Its eyes went wide and it shouted something in the meat-tongue. Hissglarg did not understand what it said, but he looked behind him anyway. And there, to his surprise, was more meat. This one held a sword in its shaking hand. It was younger and thinner than the one on the ground. In fact, it looked kind of stringy. But Hissglarg would eat the sword too. Metal was tasty and good for you. The Orc grabbed the shaking metal blade in one of his taloned hands. Tears streamed down the boy’s face, but he did not run.

Then there was a thud-clink and blackness closed in from around the edges of Hissglarg’s vision. The Orc collapsed to the floor unconscious.

Relan blinked the tears back from his eyes and saw Boltac standing over the collapsed Orc with a heavy coin purse in his right hand.

“Why didn’t you stab him?” Boltac demanded.

“What did you hit him with?” Relan asked, still shaking and trying to change the subject.

“Money. About 150 gold pieces. Mightier than the sword,” Boltac said with a wink.

After she was shackled, Asarah crawled under the table and lay down. She did not cry. She did not give up. But, when the rage and the adrenaline shivered out of her, she grew tired.

She struggled to stay awake, to observe her surroundings and her captor carefully, to find a weak link in her chain, a soft spot in the wood of the table, or any flicker of distraction that she could use against the Wizard. But there was none. After Samga had left, Dimsbury had turned his back on her and devoted his full attention to the out-of-focus flame on the other side of the chamber.

She had watched him for about 15 minutes before the chanting started. It was low and guttural, and sounded like the Wizard was speaking with more than one voice. The sound of it seemed to come from behind her. But when she whirled around, there was only the curving stone wall of the spherical chamber, catching the echoes and playing tricks on her.

The effect of the strange humming/singing noise coming from the Wizard’s throat, the stench of a smoldering brazier in the corner, and the hypnotic flickering of the in-focus/out-of-focus flame/non-flame trapped under a cylinder of blown glass all conspired to put her to sleep.

When Asarah awoke, she could not have said if minutes had passed, or days. She heard voices. When she opened her eyes, she saw that the strange flame under glass was brighter now, and in better focus. The fingers of eerie light it cast throughout the room were more substantial, carved deeper shadows. On the far side of the room, two of the shadows were talking.

Dimsbury towered over a cowled figure standing in the deepest shadows. The two of them spoke in whispers. She couldn’t make out any of what they said, until the Wizard stood up straight and exclaimed, “What? Come to rescue… the
cook
? You must be joking.”

The smaller figure shook his head and murmured more intently. When he paused, the Wizard said, “Ho, ho, ho, no. Really? That is rich. Yes, yes. No, wait: bring them here. Making an example of them will be a pleasant diversion.”

“Yes,” continued the Wizard, after another pause, “of course there will be a reward. I presume someone like you does nothing out of the goodness of your heart.”

The shadow turned and left the room. Try as she might, Asarah could not see the cloaked figure’s face, but his walk was familiar. Strangely familiar. Her curiosity and her natural impudence overcame her self-preservation.

“Who was that?”

“What, oh? I forgot you were there. I find your question tiresome, so you should sleep,” said the Wizard. With a wave of his hand, he rendered Asarah unconscious again.

Relan looked at the unconscious Orc and said, “I am a failure as a Hero.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” said Boltac. “But don’t feel bad. Most Heroes are. Now what do we do about this?” he said, gesturing at the Orc.

“Kill him?”

“Me or you, Mr. Hero?”

Relan flinched a little at this. Boltac’s expression softened and he scratched the side of his round face. “Well, figure they already know we’re here. And one more Orc won’t make much of a difference.”

“But, you must kill him, Boltac, you must!” said Relan with great sincerity.

“En-henh. Well, if it’s so important to you, why don’t you take my sword off your hip and cut him down.” Boltac looked down at the Orc. As it slept, its terrible features somehow took on an innocence. When Relan did not speak, Boltac said, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Tie him tight, we’ll leave him.”

“But how are we going to get out? It’s a maze Boltac. A maze!” whined Relan.

Boltac slapped Relan across the face. “Now, you listen to me. I didn’t ask you to come. In fact, I told you not to come. I told you you’d probably get killed, right?”

Relan nodded, rubbing the red mark on his face.

“And are you killed yet?”

Relan stood there, still breathing.

“Then cheer up, ‘cause things could be a whole lot worse. And likely will be before we’re done. You wanted an Adventure, ya big dumb ox, and you got one. So now what are you gonna do?”

Relan didn’t say anything, but knelt down and began binding the Orc with strips of leather that he cut from its jerkin.

Boltac stuck his belly out and stretched a good long stretch. “Okay,” he said to himself. “Now that we’re good and screwed, how do we renegotiate this deal?”

“May I suggest stealth?” whispered Rattick’s voice from the shadows.

“You sneaky bastard,” exclaimed Boltac, “you’re alive!”

“Yes, I am rather less dead than my enemies would like. This is the truth of it.”

“How did you survive?” Relan asked.

“The Gods love a thief,” said Rattick.

“You know, Rattick,” said Boltac, looking directly into the shadow where he thought Rattick was, “as your employer, I have to tell you, I have some serious questions to ask you. Not the least of which is, why didn’t you tell me there were so many of these things?” he asked, gesturing towards the Orc.

Rattick stepped out of the shadow behind Boltac and said, “To be honest, I did not think you would survive this long.”

To Boltac’s credit, he didn’t jump… much. “En-henh, so now what?”

“For all the gold you have, I can return you and the boy to the surface where you will be safe.”

“I didn’t come this far to return home empty-handed.”

“You wish to go on?” Rattick asked, his thick eyebrows expressing surprise.

“En-henh.”

“You, perhaps,” said Rattick, “but I don’t think the youngling is still so keen.”

“My courage is as good as yours, sir.”

Rattick unwrapped his cape of faded black. He stood toe-to-toe with Relan and looked up into his eyes. “I am no sir,”–he looked the lad up and down in a way that made his next word a curse–“sir. And what does that make of your courage?”

“Test me and you will find me ready, sir,” said Relan, trying to make an insult of his own. But the quaver in his voice was less than convincing.

“Very well,” said Rattick, giving Boltac a mocking bow, “I lead where my Master commands.”

“What’sa plan, Rattick?”

Rattick bent down and lifted the Orc’s tunic. He plunged his dagger into the soft part of the Orc’s thigh and held the creature’s garment away from the spurt of greenish-black blood. The Orc let out a soft, sinking moan, as if it was deflating into death. The blood pulsed slower and slower until finally Rattick said, “There, now you can untie it. Bring me its clothes.”

Relan was wide-eyed and pale. He looked to Boltac. Boltac just observed everything with a look of professional disgust. As if the whole thing were going to cost him money no matter what he did. Relan bent to the task.

“I know these passages far better than I have let on, stout Merchant.” Rattick said, as he wiped his dagger clean with a black rag.

“No shit, Rattick? You’ve been keeping secrets from me?” Boltac asked with absolutely no air of surprise.

“You have no idea.”

“En-henh. So, once again, what’sa plan?”

“By keeping to the shadows and whispering with their ancient tongue, I have found the woman. She is being kept by the Wizard in a room at the very bottom of this dungeon.”

“You found her, and you didn’t bring her back with you?”

“Gods, no!” hissed Rattick. “She is clumsy and loud like you. And how I am I to know that she would not do something stupid, like this one?” He pointed at Relan. “For money, I risk my skin, but for nothing do I risk my life.”

“A wise policy, Rattick, and one I support. But can you get us to her?”

“I can, but you will have to do what I say, when I say it,” he pointed at Relan, “Especially you. If you do not, I will slit your throat myself.”

“I’d like to see you try,” said Relan.

“That’s the point,” Rattick said, his eyes floating glassily in the feeble light of the winding darkness, “you wouldn’t see me try. You wouldn’t see me at all.”

“All right, all right, Mr. Death-Waits-in-the-Friggin-Darkness, you’re very scary–do you have a plan or not?”

“I do,” said Rattick, “but you won’t like it.” Then he stripped the crude clothing from the Orc. When he was done, he said, “Now we must skin him.”

“Skin him!” said Relan.

“I told you you weren’t going to like it.”

It hadn’t taken that long to skin the Orc, Relan thought, not really. It just felt like forever because he had wanted to throw up. Relan had skinned things before, sure. Deer, squirrel, pig. But never a person. Orcs weren’t people. They were monsters, but they had faces that were just too human.

Boltac shook his head and turned away while Rattick worked with his sharp knife and little tugs and jerks. “You really think
this
is going to work?” asked Boltac. “What’s your plan, scare them to death?”

“Scare, no,” said Rattick, “distract and confuse.”

“With a pinch of disgust thrown in for good measure, no doubt,” added Boltac.

“Ah, there it is.” Rattick held up the skin and scalp of the dead Orc, complete with ears. He had fitted the creature’s faceleather to his hand and held up the dismal beast’s countenance, as if it were a puppet. “Looks like you,” Rattick said to Relan. Then he darted his hand towards Relan’s face and made him jump. The ragged cackle that followed was the first time Relan had heard the evil little man laugh.

“I don’t trust him,” Relan said to Boltac.

“I don’t trust him either. I
employ
him,” said Boltac.

Rattick donned the Orcs crude harness and then slipped the creatures face and ears over his own.

“Wait a minute? Where did Rattick go? He was here just a minute ago,” said Boltac. “Seriously, that’s a disguise?”

“This is a distraction.”

“Where are our disguises?” asked Relan.

“They’re never going to see you.”

“I’m not much on sneaking around like a coward,” said Relan.

“Oh, you won’t be
sneaking
. You don’t have the talent. They’ll just be looking elsewhere.”

“What?”

“C’mon kid, I think I know what he means. Rattick, get us out of this maze before the Orc starts to rot.”

Rattick bowed low, “Your humble employee lives to be of service.”

They retraced their steps to the main tunnel. If anything, there were more Orcs than before.

“Horrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, horrrrrrrrr,” the Orcs wheezed as their powerful legs pushed against the crudely paved surface of the tunnel. Slowly, slowly the wagons climbed from the depths.

“Merchant,” asked Rattick, “do you have any oil in that remarkable sack of yours?”

“En-henh, just a minute.” Boltac rummaged through his bottomless sack.

“There are so many of them,” said Relan.

“So many shadows in the darkness, and what will three more be?”

“Is that from a saga? It sounds like it’s from one of the sagas,” asked Relan.

“No lad,” said Rattick from the darkness, “it’s not from a song of Heroes, but from a song of the other kind.”

“There we go,” said Boltac as he pulled a large flagon of oil from the depths of his Magic sack.

Rattick took the flagon and said to Relan, “Heroes aren’t the only ones who perform deeds worth singing about, youngling. Watch and learn.”

Rattick wrapped himself in the Orc’s skin and donned his cloak of darkness, seeming to disappear before their very eyes. A shadow moving through shadows, he stepped into the flow of traffic. He was a blackness with pointed ears, nothing more. For a moment, he was in step with the wagons going up, and then he stepped into the lee of one of the great pillars that kept the ceiling from collapsing.

If Relan hadn’t known better, he would have thought this was just another Orc resting on the long climb to the surface. And if he hadn’t known better he would have thought that this ordinary Orc was relieving himself on the pillar? Rattick held the oil flagon at his crotch and poured it out onto the passage floor.

“Uh, is he..?”

“Clever, I’ll give him that.”

“In front of everybody?” asked Relan.

“Hidden in plain sight. Our friend is very, very sneaky. No wonder he’s stayed alive so long.”

“He’s not my friend,” said Relan.

As wagon neared the pillar, Orc-Rattick appeared to finish his business, looking like just another Orc in the darkness.

The next wagon was pulled by six Orcs, yoked together in teams of two. As the pair closest to the wagon drew abreast of the pillar, something happened to one of the Orcs. It barked out in pain and dropped in its traces. The other Orcs immediately bellowed in rage, as the “driver,” lashed out with the whip indiscriminately. The cavern was filled with such a roaring and commotion, Relan couldn’t hear himself think. Even though Relan was looking for Rattick, he almost missed the sneak-thief’s next move.

A ripple of darker darkness came across the floor, underneath the reins of the wagon. It was Rattick, rolling with noiseless precision. There was a small, silver flash in the murk and another Orc collapsed, clutching a wounded leg. The roars of protest turned to howls of fear as the wagon slipped backwards. The driver whipped and whipped, but it was a disaster in slow-motion, the oil making it impossible for the remaining Orcs to keep their footing.

The driver was on to Rattick. He saw a figure that was not quite Orc, crouching motionless on the floor. Relan tensed to flee. But as the driver cried, “HOARRRRRRRK!” and raised his whip, Rattick uncoiled from the floor. He grabbed a torch from the holder on the front of the wagon and shoved it in the driver’s face. As the Orc screamed in agony, Rattick continued the motion, lofting the torch into the river of oil he had poured onto the floor. As it erupted in flame, Relan could see Rattick rolling towards them across the floor.

Flames engulfed the wagon team. The overloaded wagon slid backwards, crushed the Orcs behind it, and slammed into the next wagon. A terrible cry went up as the entire train of carts broke loose and crashed into the depths, one after another.

The flames died down quickly leaving Relan barely able to see in the darkness. He was only aware of the sounds of agony and the smell of burning flesh. “It’s horrible,” Relan said.

“That guy is worth every penny,” said Boltac.

“NOW!” Rattick hissed, appearing between them as if from nowhere. He thrust both of them across the passage and into the mass of confused Orcs. Some were trying to flee the flames. Others were rushing to help their fallen comrades. They were everywhere, pressing on all sides of them.

“Keep moving,” Rattick hissed.

Relan was nearly overpowered by their oppressive, musky scent. He wondered if this was what a lathered horse must smell like in hell. If any one of the Orcs in the passage had looked closer they would have recognized them for human interlopers they were. But, in the confusion, the Orcs did not see them. The three were across the passage and safely away into the darkness. Relan felt like laughing. They had gotten away with it!