Free The Bone Orcs by Jonathan Moeller Page B

all of them now
burned, flames billowing from their interiors. Ridmark saw no sign
of any corpses, but that did not surprise him. Vhaluuskan orcs or
dvargir warriors would have left the corpses to rot where they had
fallen.
    The orcs of the Forest would
have taken the dead back as offerings to Qazalask.
    Ridmark crossed the little
wooden bridge into the village, the scent of smoke filling his
nostrils, and made his way to the village square. A stone church
stood on the other end of the square, likely the first building
ever raised in Toricus, flames billowing from its roof. He thought
the fires had been set no more than two or three hours ago.
Certainly it could not have been very long, not if the orc he had
killed outside the walls had been any indication. Likely the
Qazaluuskan orcs had attacked the village and carried its people
into captivity, and the orc that Ridmark had killed had been
waiting to catch any stragglers…
    “You!”
    Ridmark whirled.
    A man staggered from one of
the smoldering buildings. He was about forty, with rough features
and the thick arms and callused palms of a blacksmith. He wore a
leather apron over his tunic, a graying beard shading his jaw and
chin.
    The man carried a massive
iron hammer.
    “It was you, wasn’t it?” said
the blacksmith, pointing the hammer. “You brought the orcs
here!”
    Ridmark shook his head. “I
haven’t visited Toricus for years.” The last time he had been a
Swordbearer, riding a splendid horse and wearing fine armor, the
soulblade Heartwarden at his belt. He supposed that he looked
different now.
    “I see the brand,” said the
blacksmith. There was dried blood on his left temple. Ridmark
suspected the man had taken a blow to the head and fallen
unconscious, only to wake up to see his village in flames. “That’s
the brand of a coward and an exile. I’ll wager you allied with the
bone orcs to betray us!”
    “No,” said Ridmark, raising
his staff. “I just arrived. I will help you, if you wish, but I did
not…”
    “Die, traitor!” roared the
blacksmith, raising his hammer over his head and rushing
forward.
    Ridmark tensed, preparing to
dodge the blow. He would try to get the blacksmith off his feet,
try to make him see reason. He didn’t want to kill the man…
    The blacksmith went rigid,
his eyes bulging, a strange flicker of ghostly blue flame snarling
around him. For a moment Ridmark thought the blacksmith had caught
fire, but the pale blue flame gave off no heat, and for that matter
the blacksmith didn’t appear to be burning. Instead he seemed
paralyzed, his muscles clenched, his teeth gritted, his eyes
darting back and forth.
    A pair of Qazaluuskan orcs
appeared from between two burning houses. One looked a great deal
like the orc Ridmark had killed outside of the village, adorned
with the same war paint of white and black and carrying an axe. The
second orc looked older, and wore more amulets. In his right hand
he held a mummified human forearm, the fingers hooked into withered
claws. Pale blue fire danced around the dead fingers.
    The older Qazaluuskan orc was
a wizard or a shaman, and the dead hand was a talisman of some
kind. The stunned blacksmith had blocked their view of Ridmark, but
that would only last another few seconds.
    “Bind him,” said the older
orc.
    “He must have been hiding,”
snarled the younger orc. “There may be others. We should…”
    “Bind him,” snapped the older
orc. “His blood and heart shall fuel our prayers to the Lord of
Bones, and his body shall make a vessel for the god’s power…”
    Ridmark stepped around the
blacksmith, his staff in his right hand as he drew his dagger with
his left hand.
    Both Qazaluuskan orcs saw
him.
    “Take him!” roared the older
orc, swinging his talisman towards Ridmark.
    Ridmark sprinted forward and
threw his dagger. He had never been a good shot with missile
weapons, and his dagger missed the older orc entirely. Yet the orc
ducked to avoid the dagger, and that kept