from THE UNDERGOD
FARCHRIST TALES - BOOK THREE
Speculative Fiction
Approximately 69,000 words
Copyright © Eric Lanke, 1991. All rights reserved.
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It was still raining when my father, Gildegarde Brisbane II,
arrived at the edge of the cliff that held Farchrist Castle above the city
below, Raveltown. His career as a Farchrist Knight ended in disgrace, he felt
his life and purpose crashing down all around him. He loved Amanda, my mother,
and that might have been worth living for if he hadn’t loved his god more. He
looked out over the rainy expanse of the Sea of Darkmarine and offered a little
prayer up to Grecolus. He did not ask for forgiveness. He did not ask for
mercy. All he asked for was for it to end when his body crashed into the rocks
so far below. After a life lived in devotion to Grecolus, in his last moments,
he wanted no part of the afterlife the god offered him. His body was found the
next day by a pair of young boys who had come to dig for clams.
+
+ +
During the march forced upon him
for the rest of the day, Brisbane decided the rumors he had heard about orks
may not have mentioned their use of magic, but they had hit the nail on the
head when it came to their brutality and downright meanness.
It took them many hours to come to
the end of the dark tunnel that started in the ettins’ cave and bored down into
the earth, sometimes at unbelievable angles. Brisbane spent the whole time lost
in the pitch that surrounded him, his eyes never adjusting to the point where
he could see anything. At times, he wasn’t sure if his eyes were open or
closed.
His constant companion in the
blackness was the pain, the pain that seemed to have intensified with the
deprivation of his sight. His chest still labored for breath from the abuse his
lungs had sustained in his near-drowning in the Mystic River. The pain in his
stomach was dull and constant, and the left side of his face felt like it had
swelled up to epic proportions. He started to cough, his face and his abdomen
competing to see which could hurt him more when he did so, and he brought up
something behind his gag that could only be blood by the way it tasted. Unable
to spit it out, he was forced to choke the fluid back down.
He was a mess. One ork always had
his hand clamped on his wrists and every time he staggered or slowed his pace,
the ork would give him a shove that hurt his arms and caused him to trip over
his own feet. Three times, he actually fell to the ground and had to be hauled
back to his feet amidst the echoing sounds of what he could only assume were
orkish curses.
Besides these orations, the orks
were mostly silent as they made their way through the rock of the mountain. He
tried to carry on some sort of mental conversation with Angelika, who
Snaggletooth still carried in the darkness, but his mind was too preoccupied
with his pain and Angelika was too preoccupied with their inevitable vengeance.
She seemed unable to tell him anything else, nothing except warnings to be
strong and promises of revenge. She knew nothing specific about his fate or the
fate of his friends, and these were the two subjects he was most concerned
with.
First, he had no idea what was to
become of him. Shortwhiskers had said orks captured people to be slaves, for
food, or for both. He hated to think Snaggletooth was taking him back to his
village, or clan, or tribe, or whatever it was, to roast him over a slow fire
until his juicy meat fell right off his bones. He supposed that could be his
eventual fate, but he thought they would want something else from his first.
Snaggletooth had been ready to kill him when he had finally gotten him off
their ex-leader, but the ork’s sword arm had been stayed by the sight of his
medallion. Groo-mack, Snaggletooth
had said to his goons, and they had quickly tied him up and gagged him. They
gagged him. That was something they hadn’t done the first time he was captured.
They did it the second time, though, and very effectively. A balled-up rag had
been stuffed in his mouth and a second one tied around his face to keep the
first one in place. He could make no articulate sounds and his screams were
muffled into whimpers.
Why did they gag him? Who could he
call out to for help? There was no one here in the wilderness or in this tunnel
beneath the earth. They may just not want to hear him jabbering, but he had a
hunch it was something more than that. Something much more than that.
Groo-mack. It kept coming back to that. What
did it mean? If a pentacle meant the same thing to orks it meant to humans, groo-mack could mean any number of
things, all of them in the same vein. Magic and magic-using. Did Snaggletooth
think he was a wizard? That would explain the gag. If they thought he was a
hostile wizard, a gag would effectively prohibit him from speaking the proper
vocal tones to cast spells. And his hands being tied prevented him from making
the right hand gestures.
That had to be it. The truth of it
hit home for him. It made sense. They thought he was some kind of wizard so
they had tied and gagged him so he couldn’t cast any spells against them.
But he did not consider himself
anything but the most paltry kind of wizard. His talent was confined to a small
amount of cantrips, and his one offensive spell, shocking grasp. He certainly hoped the situation never came about
where he would have to prove his magical skill to the orks. He could only
imagine the orks would be disappointed with his performance.
But these thoughts were secondary
in his mind. Foremost was concern over his companions’ welfare since he had
left them on that platform atop the peak overlooking the mountain lake. His
heart still fluttered over what the absence of Roystnof’s light spell might
mean for him, but Roystnof was not the only one on his mind. He felt concern
for Shortwhiskers and especially Stargazer. Hopefully, they would, or had
already, survived the attack of that strange bird-monster. He was sure they
could, if things had gotten really nasty, have easily retreated back into the
endless corridor and escaped the monster.
They would come looking for him, he
was sure of that. If able, they would come looking for him. Dantrius might not
like it, but that had never stopped the party’s actions before. They would come
looking for him—but what would they find? Shortwhiskers might be able to find
the spot on the bank of the Mystic where his scuffle and capture had taken
place, but then what? A guess to look in the ettins’ cave and a lucky discovery
of the secret door they could not open without the magic orkish word? He had to
accept the fact that he could not count on a rescue by his friends. He was
going to have to orchestrate that himself. He had been effectively separated
from his friends and any reunion they were ever going to have would only result
if he stayed on his toes and took advantage of the first and smallest
opportunity to escape his captors.
Roystnof, Shortwhiskers, and
Stargazer—their faces flashed before his blind eyes and he tried not to moan
out in desperation. Other faces flashed before him, people who had passed out
of his life for reasons as different as their individualities. Roundtower, his
mother, even Otis seemed to hang in the air before him with the solidity of
regret. They all seemed so far away now, almost as if they had never really
been, and he wondered if he would live long enough to forget them entirely. He
wondered if he could live long enough
to forget them entirely.
Angelika, are you sure?
Strength and patience, young Brisbane. Vengeance shall be ours.
These are the thoughts that filled
Brisbane’s head when the pain of his injuries allowed him to think as he
marched down the steep grade of the dark tunnel. They were not unusual things
for a young man in his situation to be thinking, but an objective observer
privy to his thoughts might have found two thoughts missing from his concerns a
bit unusual.
The first was that even though he
was in a cramped, dark tunnel, lost impossibly far under the pressing weight of
tons and tons of mountain rock, he had no traces of the claustrophobia clouding
his thoughts like he had experienced in the meditation chamber. A sympathetic
voice might be able to explain this away by saying he had much more realistic
threats to his health to worry about than the thought-induced paralysis that
seemed to seize claustrophobics, and there aren’t many who would argue against
this being the case. But it was not so easy to explain his seeming unconcern
for his near-lunatic behavior when the ex-leader of the orks had taken Angelika
away from him. Granted, Angelika was no ordinary sword, but it might profit one
to speculate on what kind of hold she must have had on him to illicit such a
reaction.
The small group spent many hours
in the dark tunnel, slowly making their way down and through it. Brisbane began
to wonder—like he had done not long before in a different place and what
already seemed like a different life—if it would ever come to an end. Like all
things, however, the tunnel eventually did end and it surprised him as endings
often do. The orks suddenly brought him to a halt with a rough jolt. He still
had trouble seeing his surroundings, and for the past few hours he had begun to
rely on his other senses. His strangely sensitive ears heard Snaggletooth’s
voice mumble another ursh-low and suddenly
bright light stabbed into his eyes like knives. He tried to bring his hands up
to cover them but his hands were still tied behind his back and he could only
shut his eyelids and try to turn his head away from the light.
For a moment, he wondered if this
was how Roundtower felt when Roystnof had transformed him from stone back to
flesh.
He was pushed forward again and
with his eyes closed he tripped over his own feet and nearly fell to the ground
for the fourth time. He tried to open his eyes a crack and the light wasn’t as
bad so he opened them a little more. Another secret door had been opened before
him and through his half-masted eyelids he could see the door opened onto the
outside.
The sun was out, warming the late
afternoon sky as if it had never been raining. His eyes were quickly getting
used to the light as he stepped out into the sunshine behind Snaggletooth. He
could see they had exited the mountain at its base and now stood upon a sparse
and hilly plain. The Windcrest Hills,
he realized. They had cut through the heart of the Crimson Mountains and now
stood on the southern edge of the Windcrest Hills. He had traveled through the
mountains before, but that had been along the bank of the Mystic, and that
river must have been leagues to the west. The orks were going to take him into
the heart of the hills, to their home, their campsite, their village.
Before they moved on, Snaggletooth
came over to Brisbane and forced him down onto the earth. He was speaking to
his men as he did this, and when he got him down he took out a sharp-looking
knife and pressed it against Brisbane’s throat. It felt sharp, too.
Another ork, this one whose pig
ears didn’t seem to stand up like those of his comrades and whom Brisbane mentally
named Floppy, brought out a length of thick rope and began to tie each end of
it around one of Brisbane’s ankles. When Floppy was finished, his feet were
connected with a sturdy rope not much more than a foot in length.
He was hauled back up to his feet,
Snaggletooth putting his sharp knife away, and the day’s forced march
continued. The rope prevented him from taking a full step and he was forced to
hobble along on little stutter-steps. He dismally realized the rope snuffed out
his hope of running for it if the orks ever left him unguarded for so much as a
second. He had a hard enough time just trying to keep up with Snaggletooth’s
walking pace like this. He couldn’t beat a cripple in a foot race. And besides,
Floppy had retaken his place behind Brisbane, holding onto his bound arms.
These orks were determined not to let him escape, and he guessed Snaggletooth
had a lot more experience at preventing an escape than he had at effecting one.
The pain of his injuries continued
to plague him as he was pushed over and around the Windcrest Hills, but new
aches began to sneak up on him as well. His hands had gone numb in their
constraints and the aches developing in his contorted arms would have made an
arthritic wince. His legs were suffering too, the strange pace and cadence
forced upon him was taking its toll in muscle spasms and strains. He felt like
he could not go on for much longer.
But overshadowing all of this was
the growing pang of hunger that seemed to have taken over his abdomen, moving
in without permission and taking up more space than it deserved. Brisbane
realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, a cheery little meal he
had shared with his friends before the entrance of the forgotten temple. It had
been some simple warmed-over stew, what had been the staple of their diet since
they had left Queensburg, but now it seemed like it had been a gourmet feast. He
could only hope the orks would take off his gag long enough to feed him, but
guessing at how much they would mistrust him if he were indeed a powerful
wizard, he doubted he would receive much nourishment. He bit angrily at his gag
and wondered if he would ever eat again.
The late afternoon amidst the
hills was warm and still, and his unusual effort was beginning to make him
sweat heavily. He saw Snaggletooth had a canteen at his belt, surely filled
with clean water and surely acquired from some poor merchant the orks had
ransacked on the road between Queensburg and Scalt. The dirty rag stuffed in
his mouth had become saturated with his own saliva, and he could get some
meager relief by sucking on it, but it was nothing compared to what ten seconds
with Snaggletooth’s canteen would bring.
Being forced through that dark
tunnel had been a walk in the park compared to marching under the sun with his
feet tied together. He began to watch the sun, begging for it to move faster
across the sky. He was sure the orks would take a break at sundown, or maybe
even camp for the night, but this certainly came out of desperation and not any
visible evidence. The orks did not seem to tire and they looked as healthy now
as they had at the beginning. He tried not to let his mind entertain surely mad
notions that orks were indefatigable and never needed to sleep.
His body, in its pain and
discomfort, reached a point of separation from his mind and he began to lose
the image of his surroundings. They did not matter. He could be walking through
scrub land, in a forest, down the main street of a city, or even across the
surface of the Sea of Darkmarine. All that mattered was that he was walking,
walking, walking until Snaggletooth said it was okay to stop. He just hoped he
could understand the ork’s order when it came.
As it turned out, Brisbane had no
trouble understanding Snaggletooth when he finally called the procession to a
halt. The sun was dipping into the eastern horizon, and the party was following
the curve of a large hill, when Snaggletooth stopped. Floppy let go of his wrists
and Brisbane walked a few more steps until he almost collided with
Snaggletooth. He looked up and around, seeing they had stopped and he was no
longer being held onto, but instead of making a mad, hobbling dash for
it—something he might have tried two long hours ago—he dropped to his knees and
slowly put his forehead on the hard, compacted earth in front of him.
He heard Snaggletooth and his
goons laugh at him. At that moment he felt so beaten, helpless, and pathetic
that he would have sold his soul (assuming he had one to sell) to Damaleous
himself just to be free of his gag. Not so he could cast a spell on them but
just so he could stand up and spit in Snaggletooth’s face.
Go to the hells you pig-faced son of a bitch. Angelika says I’m
going to stomp around in your intestines and I’m going to enjoy it.
The orks went about setting up a
camp for the night, or what must pass for a camp in orkish circles. They had no
mules to carry their gear and, as a result, they had no items of luxury such as
tents, bedrolls, or cookware. An ork camp consisted mainly of a hastily made
campfire around which they huddled for warmth. Brisbane should have expected
this from the orkish campsite they had stumbled onto during their journey up
the Mystic, but he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly. The orks had left him where
he had collapsed and they built their campfire a little way off to his left.
When they had their fire going
well and the sky had darkened enough to be called night, Brisbane looked around
him and saw Floppy producing and handing out thin strips of preserved meat from
a pack he had been carrying. Brisbane’s stomach growled at him and, even though
he knew he had little hope of getting anything, he got to his knees and crawled
over to where the orks were reclining on the ground.
He was nearly on top of them
before anyone noticed him. They all turned to look at him and he stopped where
he was, putting his best look of vacuous hunger on his face. The orks turned to
look at their leader and Snaggletooth addressed them in curt tones.
They’re not going to feed me! The thought
flashed across Brisbane’s mind like a brushfire. They’re too scared of my magic to take off my gag. The only spell I
know requires the use of my hands, too. Please, please, I won’t try to do
anything.
One of the orks got up and started
coming over to him. This one, at close to six feet, was at least two inches
shorter than any of his companions. Half-Pint had a canteen of water in one
hand and two strips of the preserved meat in the other. He knelt down before
Brisbane and began to growl at him in his harsh-sounding tongue. He put the
canteen down on the ground and the strips of meat down on top of it. He took a
sharp knife out of his belt, one much like Snaggletooth’s, and pressed the tip
of the blade against Brisbane’s throat.
The ork put his finger across his
lips and said, “Shhh…”
Brisbane got the point. If he made
one sound, Half-Pint was going to stab the knife into his neck. No noise, Half-Pint, you can trust me, nothing
but chewing and swallowing. He slowly nodded his head.
Half-Pint reached behind
Brisbane’s head and untied the gag. He took the securing strap off and Brisbane
let the wadded-up rag fall out of his mouth. He stretched his jaws and they
popped painfully. Half-Pint picked up one of the strips of meat and stuffed it
into Brisbane’s mouth, the dagger still pressed against his throat. He began to
chew. He did not know what kind of meat it was, but it was delicious. Whatever
had been used to preserve it had dried it out a little, but he was in no
position to complain. It was soon gone and Half-Pint stuffed the second one in.
Half-Pint held the canteen while
he waited for Brisbane to swallow his second strip of meat. Brisbane quickly
did and opened his mouth to show he was finished. Half-Pint held the canteen up
to Brisbane’s lips and began to pour waves of crystal-clear water down his
throat. Brisbane gurgled noisily as he swallowed as much as he could before
Half-Pint took the canteen away and closed it up. When the ork did, Brisbane
felt like a puppy deprived of its favorite treat. He looked pleadingly into the
ork’s eyes, but Half-Pint only stuffed the rag back into his mouth and retied
the gag, tighter than it had been before.
The meal had lasted no more than a
minute and Brisbane had done just what he had been told. He wished he did know
some ultra-powerful spell so he could speak just one word and have Snaggletooth
and his goons burst into never-ending flames. He bet himself Roystnof would
know some kind of spell like that and he would have used it as soon as that
spit-soaked rag had fallen from his mouth.
Half-Pint pushed Brisbane around
and got him to lay face down on the ground. He offered up no resistance even
though he did not know what the ork was going to do. Half-Pint sat on his back
and began to undo the bonds that had held his hands behind his back all day. He
couldn’t see, but he knew Half-Pint had his sharp knife in his teeth, ready to
plunge it into his back if he even flinched the wrong way.
Soon his hands were free and they
dropped numb to his sides. Half-Pint began to massage them roughly and the
blood started to run back into them. It hurt, but he decided the pain was
better than no feeling at all. He still ached all over and the side of his face
felt swollen and tender. He tried to rest it against the ground, but it was too
painful and he had to lay his head down with his nose pointed the other way.
All too soon, Half-Pint began to
retie his hands together behind his back. He tried not to whimper as his bonds
were returned to him and the ork got off his back and went back to the
campfire, his duties completed. Brisbane rolled over onto his side and watched
the orks finish their meal, seeming to gorge themselves, and chat in their
strange language. He was still hungry, but at least he was no longer starving,
and he tried to keep his mind off his stomach.
For quite some time, Brisbane
tried to make some kind of sense out of what the orks were saying to each
other, but it was impossible and eventually he had to give it up. It was hard
for him to make out individual words, he was unfamiliar with the syntax of the
language and it was a chore just to figure out where one word ended and the
next one started. He heard the groo-mack
word several times, and he could only assume they were talking about him, but
what they were saying and what it meant for his future were as unknowable as
the secrets of creation.
Eventually, the orks began to get
ready for a night’s rest and Brisbane had a glimmer of hope that perhaps they
would sleep without guarding him and he could slip away into the night. But
this was not to be the case, as he saw Half-Pint preparing a spot where he
could sit up and watch him. He didn’t know how many watches the orks were going
to set, but he realized that with five of them, they could set enough so no one
would be in danger of falling asleep while on duty.
He stayed just where he was, lying
on his side, and let his head rest in the dirt. He watched Snaggletooth settle
down to sleep with Angelika laying length-wise by his side.
He cursed the ork. Four, they only have four available for
guard duty because Snaggletooth is the leader now and leaders don’t stand
watch. Leaders get to sleep the night through and wake bright-eyed and fresh in
the morning. Just ask the ork laying at the bottom of the Mystic River what
it’s like. He knows. He used to be a leader. Leaders are special people with
powers above the regular man, aren’t they, Snaggletooth? You’re the leader now
and you’ve got the power, but let me ask you something. Why can’t you pull that
sword out of her scabbard? Big strong leader like you should be able to do
that. Why can’t you pull Angelika out of her scabbard? I can.
He began to drift off to sleep
despite the hardness of the ground and his uncomfortable position. He had been
walked to exhaustion, and his body just shut down for a night of much needed
rest.
Sometime during the night Brisbane
had a dream. In it, he and Stargazer were in the clearing where they had met
Ellahannah. But they were not petting the unicorn, they were making love
underneath a soft shower of pink flower petals. Ellahannah was there, but she
was not alone. Dozens of unicorns were there, all running in a mad circle
around the lovers in the center of the clearing. Stargazer was on top of him
and as she quickened her pace, taking more and more of him inside her, the
unicorns began to run faster and faster in an ever-tightening circle. His head
reeled with sexual ecstasy, his hands cupped around Stargazer’s buttocks and
his eyes fixed on her full and swinging breasts, and just as his dream-body
thundered in climax, he jerked himself awake and found himself staring into the
eyes of his guard. The ork was smiling at him and Brisbane was sure he somehow
knew what he had been dreaming about. He rolled over onto his other side,
turning his back on the ork, and tried to go back to sleep.
Eventually, he did.