Runshak nodded and charged down the slope, barking orders at the pack leaders, who relayed them in similarly boorish fashion. With a clunking of armor and jangling of chain mail the mighty army of five thousand orcs rearranged itself into smaller units. The archers made their way to the back; those bearing spears and lances stood shoulder to shoulder at the front.
The orcish chieftain followed the preparations approvingly, his thick black lips curling back to reveal his magnificent tusks. He was well pleased with what he saw. A growly laugh sounded from his throat.
He took a deep breath and let out an almighty roar. The shuffling and stomping came to a halt. Nobody said a word.
“Nôd’onn broke faith with us and abandoned us to our fate. The fleshlings think we’re going south, but our route will take us north—to found a new kingdom,” he proclaimed, confident that the prospect of a new homeland would make them forget their tiredness and spur them into battle. He drew his notched sword and pointed at the enemy below. “Nôd’onn’s northern lapdogs are in our way. We had to flee our homes because of those cretins. Destroy them, and the Gray Range will be ours. We’ll be in our new kingdom before the fleshling soldiers are in sight of the peaks.” He laughed malevolently. “I hope they send their cavalry after us—we could do with some meat.”
His troopers grunted and snarled excitedly, pounding the hafts of their spears on the ground and banging swords against shields.
He raised his arm and the noise stopped abruptly. The silence was broken by a question. “Couldn’t we march past the northerners instead?”
Ushnotz, who had excellent hearing, knew at once which of the five thousand troopers had spoken the treasonous words. Kashbugg was a troublemaker who took after his father, Raggshor.
Raggshor had met his death shortly before the battle of the Blacksaddle in circumstances not dissimilar to these, after questioning the wisdom of laying siege to a mountain. Ushnotz had thought him an excellent tactician, but criticism—especially when voiced in public—was not to be tolerated. Besides, Ushnotz made the decisions and he always knew best. He had killed Raggshor on the spot, and he was contemplating a similar fate for Kashbugg.
“Silence!” he bellowed, throwing back his head in an intimidating roar.
The display made little impression on the offending orc, who stepped forward, sword in hand, shield raised defensively. “Why not march past them and get there first? We can occupy the halls while they dash out their brains on the gates.” He stood with his legs apart, bracing himself for the blow that was bound to follow. “It’s time we did things differently, Ushnotz. After what happened at the Blacksaddle, we’re not as strong as we were. Maybe if you’d listened to my father, we’d be back in our kingdom by now.”
Several orcs grunted approvingly.
For Ushnotz, the interruption was unwelcome: The sweet smell of victory had soured, replaced by the reek of rebellion. He drew himself up to his full height, bared his tusks and tensed his muscles. Then he took off, bounding down the slope, and thundering to a stop in front of Kashbugg.
“I’ve got a better plan,” he snarled, squaring his shoulders. There was a nasty glint in his yellow eyes. He made a feint with his sword; then, ducking beneath Kashbugg’s raised shield, he whipped out his dagger, rammed it into the trooper’s armpit and pierced his heart. Green blood gushed from the wound and the insolent trooper thudded to the ground. “My plan is this: Kashbugg dies first, just like his know-it-all father at the Blacksaddle.” He glared at the others, challenging them to object. “Anyone else want to talk tactics?”
He wasn’t surprised when no one stepped forward. The real shock came a moment later when the dead orc stood up. Kashbugg reached to his armpit and touched the wound with his claws; it healed straightaway.
Ushnotz got over his confusion faster than Kashbugg, who was clearly amazed to be alive. He rammed his sword horizontally into the injured orc’s torso. The trooper sat down heavily and stared at the blood. He still showed no signs of dying.
“I’m sick of your troublemaking!” shrieked Ushnotz, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him to his feet. “How dare you defy orders? I told you to die!” The notched sword cut into the trooper’s torso, but the damage was far from fatal. Kashbugg opened his mouth, dribbling blood and saliva; then he laughed.
Straightening up, he gave the chieftain a shove. “Tion has made his choice. Why else would he make me immortal? My father’s death must be avenged!” He raised his shield and sword. “Tion wants me to lead the orcs to victory; the northern kingdom will be mine!”
“Why would Tion favor a boneheaded simpleton like you?” growled Ushnotz, preparing to fight. None of his troopers dared to take sides: Orcs were always arguing, but this was different. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”
“He drank dark water from the ditch!” called one of the troopers.
“It was hallowed water; I knew as soon as I saw it!” said Kashbugg, thumping the leather container on his belt. “I filled my pouch with it.” He struck out at the chieftain, who blocked the blow and smashed the hilt of his sword into his face. Kashbugg stumbled backward, groaning.
“Dark water?” barked Ushnotz. He had noticed it as welclass="underline" murky puddles on either side of the track. Nothing would have induced him to drink it.
“It’s the blood of the Perished Land,” said his challenger. “And I, Kashbugg, was elected to find it!” He sprang forward, swinging his sword.
Ushnotz flung himself to the ground and drove both boots into the trooper’s knees, smashing the joints. Kashbugg screeched. The noise ended suddenly as Ushnotz dealt a long sweeping blow to his neck. The trooper’s head fell one way, his body the other. This time Kashbugg was dead.
Ushnotz bent over the corpse, unhooked the water pouch and signaled to one of his underlings. “Here, drink this,” he said. The trooper took the pouch.
Screwing up his face in disgust, he took a sip. Black water dribbled from his mouth, and he coughed. “It tastes like the smell of troll’s piss, only wor—”
Ushnotz stabbed him, ramming the dagger into his heart. He watched impassively as the trooper fell to the ground. The blade was still embedded in his flesh. After a while, his eyelids fluttered and he raised his head. The blood stopped pouring from his chest.
“Well?” asked Ushnotz suspiciously.
“I’m… I’m alive,” said the orc, his voice a mixture of horror and pain. Then he realized his newfound power. Roaring with triumph, he bared his tusks and brandished the pouch. “I’m alive! The dark water made me—”
Ushnotz took hold of his dagger, pulled it out of the screaming orc’s chest, and lopped off his head. He caught the pouch quickly and raised it to his lips, draining its contents. Then he hurled it to the ground. He didn’t feel any different, but he was certain of the effect. As a former prince of Toboribor, he deserved to be immortal. A leader like me needs an indestructible army. He decided to obtain more of the water for his troops.
Leaving the troopers without a word, he lumbered up the slope to survey the enemy camp and wait for an opportunity to attack.
The northern orcs were gorging themselves on human flesh. Ushnotz, his stomach rumbling, breathed in the smell of roasting meat. He and his troopers had been nourishing themselves on whatever crossed their path—animals, snails, and beetles. Fleshlings were a rare delicacy because the northerners seldom left anything in their wake. The inhabitants of three villages, a small town, and a hamlet had been slaughtered and eaten by the marauding troops.