from THE UNDERGOD
FARCHRIST
TALES - BOOK THREE
Speculative Fiction
Approximately 69,000 words
Copyright © Eric Lanke, 1991. All rights reserved.
Approximately 69,000 words
Copyright © Eric Lanke, 1991. All rights reserved.
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The day my mother died was the saddest
day of my life and, at the time, I couldn’t believe there would be any sadder
for as long as I lived. In this, as in so many other things I believed when I
was young, time would eventually prove me wrong. I remember so many things
about that day. I remember how sickly and pained she looked right before she
died and how healthy and peaceful she looked right after. I remember Otis
placing a death shroud over her body, careful not to let any of his tears fall
onto it and stain the fabric. I remember the crude dinner Otis heated up for us
that night and I remember thinking that even in the midst of death, we were
still alive and we still needed to eat. I remember the prayer Otis and I
offered up for her soul and I remember almost believing it was being heard by
an understanding god, for if ever there was a prayer that deserved to be heard,
it was that one. But I guess what I remember the most was looking up to see she
had died while my head had been turned and feeling an almost overwhelming sense
of relief. Relief that her pain had finally ended followed by dreadful sorrow
because mine was just beginning.
+ + +
When
Brisbane turned down the short side passage leading to his chamber he found
Smurch lying in the small cubbyhole beneath the lit torch. The half-ork quickly
scrambled to his feet as his master approached.
“Grum
Brisbane,” Smurch said, standing at attention. “May I congratulate you on your
victory in the pug-trolang?”
He
was in no mood for Smurch’s formality. “Listen, Jack,” he said. “If you want to
congratulate me, go right ahead. But make sure you call me Gil when you do it.
The next time you call me Grum Brisbane when we’re alone, I’m going to punch
you right in the nose.”
He
did not wait for Smurch to react. He went into his chamber and let the curtain
fall over the portal. He flung himself down on the mattress that was to be his
bed and closed his eyes.
“Congratulations,
Gil,” he heard Smurch say from beyond the curtain.
Brisbane
smiled. “Thank you, Jack.”
He
heard Smurch crawl back into his cubbyhole and he buried himself under some of
the blankets and pelts, eager to get some sleep and forget about everything he
had been through that day. But, as usual, when sleep was the most desired, it
proved the slowest in coming. Brisbane’s mind swirled with thoughts about what
he had seen and done that day, and no matter how hard he tried to sweep them
aside, they flowed back to the center of his thoughts and kept him from
drifting off to sleep.
For
the first time in a while he thought about the other prisoners, the other
humans, that the orks kept in the circus wagons on the surface. Brisbane had
been kept alive because they had thought he might be a Grumak, but why did the
orks keep their other prisoners alive? He remembered Shortwhiskers saying orks
ate humans, but the meat they had at dinner had obviously been beef. Maybe they
only ate people on special occasions, or when their food supply ran short.
Everything the orks had they seemed to steal from others. Brisbane was not sure
if they produced anything on their own or what it was they did with the other
prisoners, but as a new member of the klatru, he had the feeling he would soon
find out.
He
thought about the way he had momentarily escaped from his cage the night
before. This still puzzled him greatly. Supposedly, Ternosh had cast a spell of
anti-magic over the wagon and yet, Brisbane had worked his cantrip to magically
turn the tumblers in the padlock. He did not know what to make of this. There
were too many possibilities and he did not have enough information. Ternosh
could have not really been able to cast such a spell and he merely told
Brisbane he could to trick him into not trying to escape. But why would they
bother with the subterfuge? If they wanted to keep him from casting spells,
they could have kept him bound and gagged like Vrak had on the journey to the
ork settlement. Ternosh may actually have that kind of power, but for some
reason, the spell didn’t work right. But what could cause such a failure?
Brisbane had no idea. In the few examples he had seen, Brisbane could tell
orkish magic was far different from any kind of magic Roystnof had taught him.
He couldn’t even tell how it worked, how could he tell what went wrong with it?
Or maybe Ternosh’s spell had worked as promised, but it did not include things
outside his cage. Brisbane decided this was a silly line of thought. What kind
of sense did it make to cast an anti-magic spell on an area if a wizard inside
could magically affect things outside that area? If Roystnof had been out in
the cage, he could have sat calmly in the anti-magic shell and magically set
every ork in the camp on fire. All Brisbane could really be sure of was that
Ternosh had appeared to have cast a spell and, for whatever reason, it did not
keep him in his cage.
He
thought about the Demosk, the eyeless apparition that Ternosh had twice
conjured up in Brisbane’s presence. The first time, when Ternosh had fed it
some of his blood to see if it contained the bane of Gruumsh One-Eye, Brisbane
might have believed it was a hallucinogenic effect of the incense smoke on his
brain, but after seeing it again in the pug-trolang, he felt he could be sure
it was some kind of magical manifestation. There hadn’t been as much smoke in
the pit, most of it had stayed up in the gallery, and his head had remained
reasonably clear. Unless the drug in the smoke was incredibly potent, which he
didn’t think it was, the second appearance of the Demosk could not have been a
hallucination. So what was it? Brisbane hated to admit it, but it sure seemed
like some kind of spirit from the afterlife that Ternosh consulted with on
important decisions. He would much rather believe it was a creation of the
Grumak’s magic, for with this explanation, he could retain his belief that
there was no such thing as an afterlife. Roystnof had taught him that dead
meant dead, but it would seem the orks, like most others in the world, didn’t
choose to believe that. It was much like the demon Brisbane had encountered
with his friends in the basement of the shrine. Most people believed it was a
creature summoned from one of the nine hells by some evil wizard in service to
his high lord Damaleous. Roystnof had told him such a monster was a creation of
the wizard’s magic, something that did not exist anywhere before the invocation
of the spell. As with Ternosh’s anti-magic spell, Brisbane thought he would
have to learn much more about orkish magic before he would be able to discern
the truth about the Demosk.
He
thought about the orkish notion of an afterlife. Smurch had told him much about
orkish life and religion, but he had said little about what they believed
happened to the soul after death. He remembered Wister saying something about
the army of Gruumsh One-Eye before Brisbane plunged his sword into the ork’s
heart. Was this their vision of the heavens, service in an army of the dead led
by their god? Given the violent and combat-minded structure of their creation
and their society, Brisbane would not be surprised to find this to be the
truth. But if, after death, each orkish soul was enlisted in an army, he
wondered just who that army would be fighting. And how could an army of the
dead possibly be defeated?
He
thought about Wister and the hatred the ork had felt for Brisbane just because
he was human. I will not share my
position with a human, he had said with a conviction that he took to his
death. What kind of madness was this? Brisbane wondered how many other orks
would have done the same thing in Wister’s shoes. He was still convinced he had
done the right thing in not shying away from the challenge and he hoped his
defeat of Wister would keep some of the others off his back, but there was
still something about the situation that bothered him. Ternosh had said his
Demosk—and implied that Gruumsh One-Eye himself—had said Brisbane was to be
treated like any other member of the clan, and even though Tornestor had
allowed the masokom to take place on the basis of that argument, Wister had not
treated him like any other ork. If Brisbane had been an ork, born with red eyes
and raised to be a Grumak, Wister would not have put up a fuss. It wasn’t that
he didn’t want to share his position as Grum, it was that he didn’t want to
share his position as Grum with a human. This distinction may have eluded
Tornestor’s logic, but Brisbane didn’t think so. He believed Tornestor, and
everyone at that banquet table, had known Wister’s masokom violated the orders
of Ternosh’s Demosk, and they had allowed it to carry through anyway. If they
hated humans so much they would ignore the will of their god as handed down by
their high priest, Brisbane could expect nothing but trouble ahead for him.
He
thought about the orkish customs of the masokom and the pug-trolang. If this
was the way they resolved all arguments in the klatru, trial by combat in a
circular pit, Brisbane could see why the Clan of the Red Eye never materialized
as a serious threat against the power of the Farchrist Empire. It was a wonder
they could pull off as many raids against merchant wagons as they did with
their upper class constantly fighting amongst themselves. Still, Brisbane could
not deny there was something honorable about the way they treated their
customs. Here was a society where the ultimate measure of a man was his skill
in combat. The finest warrior was clan chief and he reigned until someone came
along who could beat him. It was a system where each knew where he stood in
relation to his comrades and the only political maneuverings and disagreements
came with the issuing of a challenge and the clanging of steel. It was a system
Brisbane was going to have to respect and be wary of if he ever expected to
leave with Angelika and his life.
Finally,
before he fell asleep, he thought about his sword, Angelika. His attitude
toward her had shifted slightly in his battle with Wister, but he could not
deny he still wanted her back. He wasn’t sure what had changed, but Angelika’s
voice seemed to have a lesser effect on him than it had when he had first
received her. For one wild moment, he thought perhaps this was because she was
getting ready to leave him for another, but he quickly pushed such a horrible
thought aside. Hadn’t she said there was no one here who was his equal in
combat? Who then would she be leaving him for? No, that couldn’t be the answer.
It was just that, for a moment there, Angelika had seemed so…seemed so…wrong?
Could that be it? She was wrong? She had told him that standing before him in
the pug-trolang was an evil creature that had to be vanquished, but when
Brisbane looked closely, all he saw was Wister. He did not see a demon from the
nine hells. He saw a man whose pride had been hurt and who was fighting back in
the only way he knew how. But Angelika had always sounded so right before, and
Brisbane knew when he fought with her in his hands, these things made so much
more sense. Maybe he was just upset because she was so close to him and he
couldn’t use her. Yes, that must have been it. The kill didn’t feel right
because instead of Angelika, he had to use that clumsy sword with the dull
blade. That was not the weapon of a warrior.
All
these thoughts danced in and out of Brisbane’s head as he drifted off towards
sleep. They surely did not come in the neat order they have been presented
here. He was really much too tired for such logical thought processes. Instead,
they developed from bits and pieces of memory and cogitation, slowly lulling
him off to sleep and affecting his dreams.
The
longest dream he had that night took place in the banquet chamber of the orks,
with the entire klatru gathered around for the nightly draknel. But Brisbane
was not at his normal spot beside Ternosh. He was surprised to find himself
entering the chamber from the portal Tornestor had used, and when he did, he
had two orks with red stripes on their sleeves walking behind him. He looked
down at himself and he saw a red sash cutting across his black uniform like an
open wound.
The
orks at the table all got to their feet. “All hail, Sumak Brisbaner!” they
chanted in unison.
He
had become clan chief in this dream. He did not know how it had happened, but
it was true nonetheless. And he was surprised to find out it felt good to be
the Sumak. He watched his dream-self stride to the table and take his seat. He
was the only one who had a chair to sit in and he was the only one who had a
three-syllable name. Brisbaner. He liked the sound of that.
The
orks around the table sat respectfully after Brisbane had taken his seat. He
clapped his hands twice to bring the servants carrying their food into the
chamber. In response, a single servant entered the room and meekly came over to
Brisbane with empty arms. It was Smurch.
“Where
is the food for our draknel?” Brisbane bellowed at the half-ork, his voice sounding
a lot like Tornestor’s.
Smurch
quickly prostrated himself on the floor. “The kitchens are empty, Sumak
Brisbaner. There’s no food to be found. I swear it.”
Brisbane
rose to his feet and he kicked Smurch. “I told you never to let supplies run
this low without telling me. We could have planned another raid. Now we’ll have
to eat one of the prisoners.”
Brisbane
was surprised to hear these words coming out of his mouth, but in the context
of the dream, they flowed naturally. He was the Sumak and he had the power to
do as he wished. If he wanted to dine on human flesh, then by Gruumsh, human
flesh it would be.
“Which
one will it be, Sumak Brisbaner?” Smurch asked him. “Shall I pick the fattest
one?”
“No!”
Brisbane exploded. “You couldn’t pick the worm out of an apple. I will do it
myself.”
“Yes,
Sumak Brisbaner.”
With
that, Brisbane quickly turned and left the chamber. Smurch scrambled to his
feet and dutifully followed him. Brisbane made his way through the endless
series of tunnels and passageways with a determination that shocked his
sleeping self. Of course, this was a dream and as Sumak, he would know his way
around the underground maze. He thought for a moment to try and keep track of
where the dream Brisbane was going in case, against odds and logic, it turned
out to be the true route out of the caves. Dreams were subconscious processes
after all, and maybe his subconscious remembered all the twists and turns when
his conscious mind couldn’t. It was worth a try, but there were too many
changes which Brisbane couldn’t keep track of in his slumbering state. Besides,
this part of the dream seemed long and drawn out, as if he was walking grimly
through the corridors for hours, always sure of where he was going but never
quite getting there. Brisbane gave up paying attention to the route his dream
self was taking and settled back to see what would happen next.
And,
as if that was what the dream had been waiting for, Brisbane suddenly found
himself emerging from the cave mouth out into the sunshine of the ork
settlement. A group of lower class orks sat around a dead campfire on his
right, quickly rising to their feet when they saw their clan chief, and on his
left was the line of circus wagons. Brisbane stepped up to the cages with
Smurch behind his left shoulder.
“A
very fine selection, Sumak Brisbaner,” Smurch said. “Any one of them would make
a fine feast.”
Brisbane
looked at the prisoners and instead of seeing the thin faces he had glimpsed
when Vrak had first brought him into the camp, he saw the faces of his friends,
the ones he had left on the mountain top overlooking the forgotten temple of
Grecolus. Shortwhiskers, Stargazer, Roystnof, and even Dantrius, they were all
there in separate cages, looking at him with accusing eyes.
“Yes,”
he heard himself say. “They do make one hell of a smorgasbord. This is going to
be a difficult decision.”
He
began to walk down the line, examining his friends on the basis of their
edibility. Again, he was shocked a little at the turn the dream had taken, but
it was just a dream after all, and everything he did seemed somehow right and
proper. The first person he examined was Shortwhiskers.
“Gil,”
the dwarf said. “What are you doing? Let me out of this cage.”
Brisbane
turned dispassionately to his servant. “Smurch, didn’t we have dwarf last
week?”
“Yes,
Sumak Brisbaner.”
Brisbane
moved onto the next cage. This one contained Illzeezad Dantrius.
“Brisbane!”
the mage spat. “Let me out of this cage, you bastard. I’ll tear your heart
out!”
He
smiled cruelly at Dantrius. “As much as I would like to see you roasted,
Weasel, I’m afraid you are too skinny to provide much of a meal for my men.
Smurch?”
The
half-ork stepped up. “Yes, Sumak Brisbaner?”
“Make
sure this prisoner gets double rations from now on. Maybe he’ll be fat enough
for next week.”
“Yes,
Sumak Brisbaner.” Smurch stepped back.
Brisbane’s
stomach began to roll as he watched the dream progress. For the first time he
began to wonder just what kind of dream this was supposed to be. The person in
the next cage was Stargazer.
“Gil!”
she cried. “What kind of madness is this? Stop it! Please, dear Grecolus, let
it stop.”
Brisbane
looked her over carefully. Her face had been beaten and there were bruises on
her arms and legs. Her clothes were in tatters and she did the best she could
to cover her nudity.
Brisbane
called for his servant’s attention again. “Has anyone been at this woman?” he
asked.
“I
think so, Sumak Brisbaner.”
“They
raped me, Gil,” Stargazer said, “Three of them. Three of those monsters raped
me.” Her voice was hollow and echoed with shame.
Brisbane
ignored her. “The fools have damaged her pretty face,” he said to the half-ork.
“Tell them to leave her alone. When her wounds have healed, I might want her
for myself.”
He
began to grow very uncomfortable with the turn this dream was taking. Why
didn’t he recognize his friends? What kind of monster had he become? In his
bed, he began to toss about and quietly moan out. The last cage he came to held
Roystnof prisoner.
“Gil,”
the wizard said calmly. “Don't you recognize any of us? Let us out of here.
It’s Roy, Gil.”
Brisbane
looked blankly at Roystnof. “I guess this one will have to do, Smurch. Get some
help.”
The
half-ork went over to the burned out campfire and recruited three other orks to
help him.
“Gil,
stop it,” Roystnof said, his voice rising. “It’s Roy. What’s the matter with
you?”
The
dream Brisbane stepped back and let the orks come forward and open Roystnof’s cage.
They began to wrestle the wizard down to the floor of the wagon and then they
produced a rope and began to tie his feet together and his hands behind his
back.
“Gil!”
Roystnof was shouting. “Have you gone mad? Let me go!”
Brisbane
watched in horror as the orks strung Roystnof up by the feet from one of the
top crossbars of his cage. He listened in horror as he heard Roystnof and the
others cry out for him to help, but was amazed to find his dream self standing
aloof and ignoring their pleas. He did not like this dream at all and he began
to fight his way back to consciousness. But he seemed trapped in it, and it was
not until one of the orks pulled out a gleaming knife and slit Roystnof’s
throat, cutting deep into the tendons and cartilage and spurting vividly red
blood all over his face and the ground beneath him, that Brisbane was able to
jerk himself awake.
He
must have cried out, for moments later the curtain to his chamber was pulled
back and the figure of Smurch could be seen in the portal.
“Grum
Brisbane, are you all right?”
Brisbane
was so worked up he didn’t notice the formal address. “I’m fine,” he said,
panting. “It was just a bad dream.” Already the details were fleeing from his
mind.
“Can
I get you anything?”
He
shook his head, trying to swallow some of the dryness out of his mouth. “No,
thank you. I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
The
curtain dropped shut again and Brisbane laid back on his makeshift bed. He
tried to recall what had horrified him so, but most of the dream was gone from
his memory. All he could really remember was the blood. A lot of blood.
In
the morning, he would not even remember that.
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