Henchmen

Copyright © William King 2012

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Henchmen

“Goran thinks this was not the best idea the Master ever had,” Goran said. The huge, undead Northlander eyed the surrounding trees warily. A frown passed over his brutish features. His dull, bloodshot eyes narrowed. He reached for the hilt of the six-foot long great sword that hung over his left shoulder. His hand lingered there for a few moments and then withdrew.

“Your keen instincts warning you of danger, are they?” Malik asked. He was shorter than his companion and much skinnier but there was a lean strength to his appearance that suggested he would make a formidable foe. Like Goran he was dressed in studded leather armour. Two short swords were scabbarded at his waist. His hair was jet black. Long sideburns and a thick drooping moustache gave him a feral, somewhat wolfish, appearance. The pinkness of his flesh and the sweat on his brow hinted at the fact that he, unlike his huge companion, could still be numbered among the living.

“Maybe,” said Goran. His broad fingers stroked the old scar that ran across his shaved skull. He scratched at the patchwork of stitches that criss-crossed his greyish skin as if they itched. Maybe it was because of the flies that swarmed around him. Goran’s odour of embalming fluid and alchemicals always seemed to attract them. “Or maybe Goran is worried because that tree over there has a fanged mouth and those strangling vines look twitchy. The large number of Orc tracks may point to danger as well.”

Malik followed his companion's pointing finger. The sight of the tracks made him shiver. He was a city boy, born and bred in the maze of slums beneath the cloud-tall towers of Takresh. He had never cared for the great outdoors and this sorcery-blasted wilderness was getting on his nerves. They had already spent nearly a week in the Wyrmwood pursuing the Master’s latest folly, and the last two of those days deep in shadowblight. He wondered if they would live long enough to find the lost city of Komoria, let alone return its ancient treasure to their overlord.

“Orcs. I hate those green-skinned bastards,” said Malik. He cursed the day he had given his oath of service to the Master. Since swearing to obey the dark sorcerer he had had nothing but trouble. Not that he had much choice in the matter. The Master had caught Malik burgling his tower. It had been accept the geas or be blasted with wild magic. There were times, like now, when the latter option actually looked quite attractive.

Malik flinched half-expecting the skull-splitting pain of the geas to strike him but nothing happened. It seemed that this time, so long as he did not deviate from the Master’s instructions physically, he was safe.

“You hate everybody and everything, friend Malik, so that comes as no surprise,” said Goran.

“I particularly hate Orcs.”

“Just be glad you never had to go up against one in the Arena. Toughest fight Goran ever had was against an Orc.”

“How many do you reckon?”

“Just the one. He was hard enough.”

“I meant how many Orcs here?”

“There are a lot of tracks. Could be a whole tribe if these are hunting paths.”

“The Master never said anything about Orcs.” Probably another oversight on his part, Malik thought sourly. Like those fishy guardians, all scales and fangs and elder world rune-weapons, that the old ratbag had neglected to mention guarded the Tomb of the Azure Sorceress down in Samhara Greatport.

Or like the basilisks that had protected the Vault of the Liche Alaemba Khan in the Desert of Ruby and Gold he had not provided them with any protection against.

Or the huge spider-demon that lurked in the Crypt of the Elder Devourer that had somehow escaped his attention.

If Malik had not known better, he could almost have suspected the Master was trying to get them killed. Or him killed. Goran was already dead.

“I suppose we’d better get on with it then. It would be best if we find these bloody crystals the Master wants before dark.”

“Goran agrees. Soonest done, soonest Goran can have beer.”

Malik was tempted to let his huge companion know exactly what he thought of his beer-drinking plans but the Master’s constant sorcerous experiments on his animated corpse had made Goran the deadliest fighter Malik had ever met, even if they had left him a little short-changed in the intelligence department.

“Can you even get drunk in your condition?” Malik asked.

Goran nodded. “It’s not as bad as you think, friend Malik. Maybe you should ask the Master to do it to you. It has lots of benefits…”

“He may give me no choice one of these days.”

“It’s not so bad,” Goran repeated, rather wistfully Malik thought.

“Keep your eyes peeled for Sonjara’s servants. The Master said we might encounter some of those thieving bastards, and you know how he feels about the Old Witch. It would be best if we get the Spheres before they do.”

Sonjara was the Master’s bitterest rival. Her agents had stolen the map of the labyrinth beneath Komoria from the Master’s courier and left him dead in a back alley near the tower. The Master was very angry about that. He always seemed to be angry where Sonjara was concerned. Rumour had it that they had once been lovers back when they were apprenticed to the Dark Lord Khaern. Whatever affection had existed between them had soured to hatred centuries ago. That always seemed to be the way with the great sorcerers, the not so great as well, come to think of it.

“Will do. Although Goran would enjoy a good fight.”

“The Orcs will give you one if you ask.”

“Maybe they will dispose of Sonjara’s agents for us.”

“We’re never that lucky,” said Malik.

They pushed on deeper into the haunted forest, carefully skirting the grove of hungry trees. Malik felt more and more uneasy. Even to one with his limited training in sorcery the taint of dark magic in the air was oppressive, and it was getting stronger. The presence of these carnivorous plants showed they were almost at the heart of the shadowblight. It seemed to be getting worse the closer they got to Komoria.

They looked down in wonder at the tumbled ruins. In the centre of the city stood the huge temple palace with its massive grey dome. It radiated menace and a potent magical energy.

Goran knelt and then pointed.

“More Orc tracks,” he said. “They go down into those ruins.”

Malik drew his swords and glared about him. He could see nothing.

“We could always turn back,” said Goran. He had not drawn his own blade. It would have been a bit pointless anyway. There was not much room to swing such a huge sword among all these trees. Malik considered the Northlander’s words. It would not be much fun meeting a horde of greenskins in the ruins of this abandoned city. And the Gods alone knew what else was down there.

“Do you want to explain why to the Master?”

Goran shook his head. “Goran does not want to spend more time in the Cages. He doesn’t want his geas giving him a splitting head either.”

“Then I think we should push on. We may as well investigate the ruins now that we are here. It’ll take more than a few Orcs to scare me away,” Malik said.

“You’re out of luck then,” said Goran. “There are more than a few down there.”

Eerie quiet hung over the devastated city. It was a place of tumbled walls, collapsed roofs, and overgrown gardens. Moss grew through the paving stones. Creepers slithered over the stonework.

“Why was this place abandoned again?” Goran asked, talking to hide his nervousness.

“It was the curse of the Gods. They were punishing the Prince Umaroth of Komoria for his wickedness.”

“From what Goran has seen of your southlands, if the gods did that to every wicked prince you would all be living in very small villages.”

“If you believe the historians old Umaroth was setting new records for depravity - debauching the temple virgins, desecrating the altars of offerings, spending the tax money on dark sorcerers who promised immortality. Some stories hint that he trafficked with the worst of the Elder Races. That Grey Dome there was not built by human hands, nor were the crypts beneath it. According to the Chronicles of Makalili, Umaroth made an unholy deal with the Black Stalkers of Ulhaavon for immortality and then betrayed them. Makalili devotes a whole chapter to it, with appendices and footnotes. ”

“Goran can see why the priests might claim the gods cursed him. Still Goran wonders why no thieves have ever managed to claim these Spheres the Master seeks or why none of your people has ever reclaimed the city."

“Maybe we will soon find out.”