The Orc's Tale (2 page)

The Tower of Bones, indeed. 

But the stairs also spiraled down into the earth.

And the urvuul lurked below the Tower, the kobold had said. 

Kharlacht pulled a torch from his pack, lit it, and descended into the earth. The stairs ended in a corridor with floors and walls of white marble. Bones lay scattered across the floor, and the rotting corpse of an orc rested just beyond the stairs.

Even through the rot, Kharlacht recognized one of the young men who had gone to the Tower last year on his blood quest and never returned. Had the urvuul killed him? Or the kobolds? It looked as if he had been stabbed by dozens of spears, wounds that...

Kharlacht frowned.

Wounds exactly the same size as the dozens of small holes dotting the wall. 

Beneath the layer of bones, carved stone tiles covered the floor. Some bore the sigil of a dark elven warrior in armor, while others had the image of a globe. Kharlacht reached out with the butt of his spear, pressing against one of the tiles with the warrior sigil. 

Nothing happened. 

Then a loud click. 

Hundreds of razor-edged spikes exploded from the wall, filling the corridor. After a moment he heard another click, followed by a grinding noise, and the spikes retracted into the wall. 

The sorcerers of the dark elves had enjoyed their devilish, dvargir-built machines. 

Yet if the sorcerer-lords had hidden their treasures down here, they must have had some way of passing the trap. And they had been proud, those sorcerer-lords. They would not have stepped upon their own symbol. 

But they thought of themselves as lords of the earth...tyrants who had trampled the world underfoot. 

He pressed the butt of his spear against one of the tiles carved with the image of a globe.

Nothing happened. 

Kharlacht took a deep breath and stepped upon the globe tile.

Still nothing happened. 

He worked his way across the bone-strewn floor, pausing only long enough to pick up a ragged cloak and cover the dead orc’s face. Then he kept going, moving from globe tile to globe tile. At last the corridor ended, and Kharlacht saw another flight of stairs going down, deeper into the earth.

More bones littered the stairs. 

Down he went, torch in one hand, spear in the other. The air was cold and clammy and carried a curious stench. At first Kharlacht thought it rotting flesh, but it was...wrong. 

More rancid, somehow.

The stairs ended in a lofty hall, its vaulted ceiling supported by thick pillars. Sarcophagi rested in niches along the walls, their lids carved with stern stone images of dark elven sorcerer-lords. Kharlacht kept well away from them. Sometimes curses rested upon the sarcophagi of wizards, maledictions to summon up spirits to slay any intruders. And sorcerers had been known to cheat death, after all, their corrupted souls taking the bodies of the living for their own. 

A gleam of metal caught his eye, and atop the dais at the end of the hall he saw treasure.

Gold coins and goblets and gems lay heaped against the wall, reflecting the light of his torch. But the arms and armor drew Kharlacht's eye, the gleaming swords of blue steel, the polished cuirasses, the helms and shields and gauntlets. No smith of the orcs could match the metalwork of the dark elves, and the old swords were treasured heirlooms. 

Some said they could even wound creatures of sorcery. 

A greatsword lying upon one of the steps to the dais caught his eye. It was forged of fine blue steel, its edges shining with the keen light of a razor's edge. Kharlacht gazed at the weapon in wonder and drew closer, intending to put aside his spear and reach for it...

Wait.

The urvuul. 

Why hadn't it shown itself? Dusty bones surrounded the sarcophagi.

Something had killed the owners of those bones.

Kharlacht looked left, and then right, waving his torch back and forth. 

Then the realization came, and Kharlacht looked up.

He almost screamed. 

The urvuul hung from the ceiling, directly over the piled treasure. It looked almost like a great black insect the size of a horse. But most insects did not have black, leathery wings, or barbed tentacles that coiled and uncoiled restlessly. Or red eyes that watched Kharlacht with something like malicious amusement. 

He threw the torch to the ground, gripped his spear in both hands, and braced himself. 

The urvuul did not move. 

Kharlacht blinked and started towards the treasure pile. The urvuul's grotesque head rotated to follow him, but still the thing did not move. He remembered what the kobold had said, how the urvuul was bound to guard the treasure. Perhaps the sorcerer that had summoned the creature had commanded it to guard the gold...but had neglected to give it any other instructions. 

"What would you do," muttered Kharlacht, "if I took something from the pile?"

And to his surprise, the urvuul answered him in a melodious feminine voice. Strange to hear such a sound come from the misshapen horror.

"I would rip open your belly," said the urvuul, "and feast upon your entrails. Slowly, that I might savor your agony as you died." 

"And if I do not?" said Kharlacht.

"Then nothing," said the urvuul, moving its head. It had a golden chain around its neck, holding a small vial of what looked like blood. "I have nothing but hatred for orcish vermin, and would slay you all if I had the power. But I can only enter the mortal world by the summons and binding of a sorcerer. So I am bound to this chamber, and must wait for fools like you to venture within so I can rend you."

"Fools?" said Kharlacht. "Many come here?"

"Yes," said the urvuul, its voice a sensuous hiss. "Sent by that fool of a shaman. Those clever enough to escape the corridor of spikes come here...and rush right to the treasure. The fools never think to look up." Sullen resentment entered the voice. "You were the first to do so. And certainly the first to attempt conversation."

"Perhaps you should be grateful for the company," said Kharlacht.

Derisive laughter rang over the hall. "It makes me desire to sup upon your heart all the more."  

Kharlacht looked at the urvuul, at the heaped treasure, and then back at the urvuul. Bound to this chamber, the creature had said. And if the urvuul interpreted its instructions literally, did that mean it could not leave the chamber? If Kharlacht could get the sword and escape, would the urvuul follow?

He looked again at the urvuul. He had no doubt it could outrun him. 

So he had to distract it somehow. 

He looked at the nearest sarcophagus, and a plan came to him. It was bold, almost foolhardy. But he needed to find a way out of the Tower with a blade of the dark elves in his hand, whatever the risk. 

So he strode to the sarcophagus, heaved against it with all his strength, and sent the stone lid crashing to the floor. Within lay a copper coffin carved with strange runes and sigils, runes that flickered with a hellish green light. The sorcerer-lords of old had indeed laid a curse upon it. 

"Foolish mortal," said the urvuul. "What are you about?" 

A hooded wraith of smoke and crimson fire appeared above the sarcophagus, burning eyes staring at Kharlacht. The curse had conjured up a vengeful spirit, and Kharlacht felt his blood turn to ice as the specter reached for him with translucent hands. 

The urvuul laughed. "Delightful! I have not had such entertainment for many centuries!" 

Kharlacht dodged the wraith's grasp and raced for the treasure pile. The wraith flowed after him, frost forming on the ground in the wake of its passage. Kharlacht seized the greatsword upon the lowest step and spun, the blade extended before him. Even through his terror, he felt the weapon's magnificent balance and heft. 

The urvuul gave a shriek of glee and flung itself from the ceiling. 

It landed right atop the hooded wraith. 

The specter raked at the urvuul, its ghostly claws sinking into the urvuul's armored hide. The urvuul spun, crimson fire erupting along its forelimbs, and plunged its pincers into the specter. The wraith shuddered, wailed, and dissolved into smoke. The urvuul surged forward, talon-tipped legs clicking against the marble floor. 

But Kharlacht had already sprinted for the stairs the moment the urvuul had fallen like black lightning from the ceiling. He was fast, but the urvuul was far faster. Kharlacht had almost reached the archway, but the urvuul covered the distance in a heartbeat, burning pincers yawning wide.

He whirled and slashed out with the sword. Normal steel could not harm an urvuul. But the spell-forged blade of the dark elves sliced through the urvuul's outstretched pincer, and it fell to the floor with a clatter. The urvuul bellowed and reared back, and Kharlacht had his last chance. He flung himself through the archway, and fell against the ascending stairs, sword held out before him. For a horrible moment he thought he had been wrong, that the urvuul would follow him up the stairs and rip him to shreds...

But the urvuul stopped in the archway. 

Kharlacht took a deep breath and got to his feet.

"So," he said. "You are bound to that chamber."

"Yes," said the urvuul, its beautiful voice filled with hatred. "So very clever of you, orc. You may depart with your prize. Until we meet again." The creature sounded amused. "For we shall."

The urvuul climbed up the wall and vanished.

Kharlacht paused long enough to light another torch from his pack, and then hurried up the stairs. He made his way through the corridor of spikes and stumbled back into the open air. The sun filled his eyes, and the cold mountain air moaned and whistled through the ruins.

He had never seen anything so beautiful. 

He had done it. He had escaped from Narrakhan's trap, outwitted the urvuul, and returned with a blade of the dark elves. He had trapped the wretched old shaman with his own words. Now Kharlacht could take his place in the assembly of warriors and raise his voice against Narrakhan.

Now he could take Lujena as his wife. Their son would inherit the blade he had taken from the Tower. 

That thought made him smile. 

He returned to the village and saw a crowd gathered before the altar, murmuring to each other. Had they returned to greet him? True, no one had ever returned from the Tower of Bones before, but who would have seen him? One of the elders stood nearby, an elder who held Narrakhan in little regard, and Kharlacht approached him.

"Elder," said Kharlacht. "What has happened?"

The elder looked at him, eyes growing wide. "Kharlacht! By the blood gods, you've returned! No one has ever come back from the Tower!" He snorted. "Perhaps it was the shock that made the old wretch's heart give out."

"His heart?" said Kharlacht. "What do you mean?"

"Narrakhan," said the elder. "He died at midday."

###

Night had fallen by the time Kharlacht reached Narrakhan's cottage atop its high hill outside the village. Skulls stood in niches over the door and windows, the walls painted with symbols in sheep's blood. Kharlacht hesitated, and opened the door without knocking.

It was Lujena's cottage now, anyway. 

A dozen candles filled the cottage with flickering light. Shelves held bones and skulls and jars of powder, all the props Narrakhan had used for his sorcery. The old shaman himself lay on the table, eyes closed, chest motionless. Lujena stood over him, head bowed. 

She was smiling.

"Lujena?" said Kharlacht.

Her head snapped up, her smile vanishing.

"You're alive?" she whispered. "And you have one of the swords? How?"  

He took her hands. "I outwitted the urvuul and escaped."

She wrenched her hands free from his grasp and stepped back.

"What is it?" said Kharlacht. "What's wrong?" 

"You useless, stupid fool," said Lujena. "Get out. Now."

He stopped, shocked. 

"What is it?" said Kharlacht. "Is it your father? You dreamed of the day when he would die, when we could finally wed. I have the sword, I survived his spirit quest, and I can take my place as a warrior of Vhaluusk."

"Wed you?" said Lujena, and she laughed, long and derisive. "I would sooner wed an ox than a reeking, useless fool such as yourself." She smirked, resembling her father for a moment. "Why I let such a stinking thing as you into my bed, I shall never know." 

Kharlacht blinked, trying to control his pain and anger. "What is this? What happened to you?"

"The blood gods have spoken to me," said Lujena, her smirk widening. "They even entered into me, you might say. After my father's death, they chose me to be the new shaman of our tribe. And I shall be! I shall demonstrate my powers to the foolish tribesmen, and they shall accept me as shaman." She leaned forward, the candle flames reflecting in her eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And perhaps I shall learn that the blood gods have rejected your quest. You will have to go on another...and you will not be so fortunate the next time." She turned, making a disdainful motion at the corpse. "Dispose of this carrion, and trouble me no more."

Kharlacht stared at her back. 

The blood gods had entered into her...

He remembered the sarcophagi below the Tower, his fears that the shades of the sorcerer-lords could enter the living. 

And Lujena's insistence that her father was no charlatan, that he did indeed have power. 

"Narrakhan!" he roared. 

Lujena whirled, eyes narrowed. 

She saw him staring, and the expression drained out of her face. 

"So," said Kharlacht. "You were a cheat and a scoundrel all your life, and now you try to cheat death itself."

"I see there is no point in denying it," said Lujena. Or Narrakhan, rather, his corrupted spirit wearing Lujena's stolen body. "You were always too clever. Much like your mother, really. I sent her to her death as well, you know." 

"Release Lujena," said Kharlacht. "Or I..."

Narrakhan laughed. "Or what? You'll strike me down." He spread Lujena's arms wide. "Strike down your beloved, my own dear daughter? You will not. You have not have the strength."