David Dalglish: A Dance of Ghosts

Haern took a step closer to the large fire pit, and he pulled his cloak over his face, unable to stand the stench. Leaning over, he saw a crude spit and, within the fire, a collection of bones. Hoping he was wrong, but deep down knowing he was not, he reached inside and pulled out what could only be the bones of a man or woman’s arm.

“Poor taste?” he said, tossing them back down and looking to Thren. “They massacred them all and then ate one for dinner. Poor taste doesn’t begin to describe what happened here.”

Thren crossed his arms.

“The more savage outlaws are known to have cruel tastes. It may still be bandits.”

“If they are, I hope they decide to move against us next,” Haern said, breaking the spit with his heel. “I’d love the chance to remove their scum from this world.”

Thren laughed.

“Ever the hero,” he said. “But you may just have your chance. Whatever group did this made no attempt to hide their movements. Their footsteps lead on ahead of us, and if they had such fun with their last ambush, I suspect they’ll do it again. Let us see just what kind of men we are dealing with.”

They continued on down the hill toward the next, taking time while they had the height to search for any possible sign of bandits, smoke from a fire, or movement on the road. So far, none, but their eyes were open, their ears alert.

“Perhaps we should leave the road,” Haern suggested after half an hour.

“Extra care here is probably justified,” Thren said. “I have no intention of being some sick bastard’s meal.”

Their speed dropped immensely doing so, but Haern felt better. Despite fighting against the brush and constantly ducking at the grasshoppers and beetles that zipped about as if angry at their trespassing, he preferred knowing no one would easily spot their approach. Haern led the way as Thren followed, head down, arms crossed. They kept the road to their right, always ensuring it was just within sight.

After the fourth hill, the land evened out, and the trees grew farther and farther apart, the thick shade from the canopy above growing spotty, the sun peeking through with ever increasing regularity. Less than half a mile from the forest’s edge, Haern heard the first unnatural sound of the entire day. It came from the direction of the road, and he froze, lifting a hand to order Thren to do the same.

“You certain?” Thren whispered, and Haern nodded. Slowly, each stepped toward the nearest tree, leaning against the thin, pale trunks so they could better hide. Peering around, Haern watched the road, listening for what he’d heard before: laughter.

A minute crawled by. Worried he’d been imagining things, Haern kept his head low and crouch-walked to the next tree, shrinking the distance between him and the road. The grass rustled beneath him as his weight settled atop it, and not for the first time, he wished he could have had training in dealing with the natural world. But Thren had only wanted him to rule a criminal empire in the city; why would travel in the wildlands ever matter?

He was just about to stand and declare he’d only been tired and hearing ghosts when a loud, guttural roar sounded throughout the forest.

“Fuck it, Gremm; we’re going back.”

Haern pressed closer against the tree, and from his vantage point, he watched as over thirty men emerged from hiding amid the forest on the opposite side of the road. A spark of panic flickered in Haern’s chest as he realized how unaware he’d been of their existence, how different their luck might have been if they’d been traveling on the other side.

As the men stepped out, all brandishing crude weapons specked with rust, Haern frowned at their strange appearance. Something about them was wrong, and while he couldn’t place it immediately, it nearly screamed at him from his gut. From behind him, Thren ducked low and made his way near, crouching and looking around the other side of the tree so together they could watch the bandits gather into a crowd in the center of the road.

“Get back here, you pig cunt,” one of the bigger men shouted as a group of seven began heading the way Thren and Haern had come from.

“I don’t believe it,” Thren whispered as the seven sent back rude gestures without hardly missing a step. “We were wrong. Not men. Orcs.”

Orcs? Haern leaned out closer, closely scanning the faces of the men. Their skin was sickly looking, nearly gray in color. Their hair was long, unkempt, and clearly uncared-for. Many had tattoos and ritual scars cut into their skin, and their ears were long like those of an elf, except instead of curling upward like Graeven’s had, they drooped downward. All of the orcs were tall, their chests broad and their arms and legs thick with muscle.

“No one’s coming for miles!” one of the seven orcs shouted as they marched along the road. “I ain’t sitting here doing shit. We go back, wait for more to come. Deeper in the forest we stay, the better.”

“What are they doing out here?” Haern asked as several more of the larger pack followed after the rest, clearly in agreement with the sentiment. “Shouldn’t they be trapped in the Vile Wedge?”

“They must have crossed one of the rivers,” Thren whispered. “The paladins of the Citadel used to patrol the lower reaches of the Rigon and the Gihon, but with its fall, I doubt anyone has taken up the responsibility.”

“Come on, Gremm,” one of the lingering orcs said to a particularly large orc bedecked in brown leather armor and carrying a massive ax over one shoulder. “No harm in checking back. These roads go both ways, after all.”

“Stubborn jackasses,” Gremm growled. “Go on, then, but next time you all ignore me like that, my ax starts swinging.”

Haern and Thren watched as the last of them trudged down the road, calling out insults and shouting for the orcs farther ahead to wait up. As Gremm left, Haern caught sight of a sack slung over his shoulder, the bottom of it stained red, a limp hand hanging over its side.

“We have to stop them,” Haern said, rising to his feet.

“There’s thirty of them,” Thren said, frowning at him. “And I fail to see any reason why we have to do anything.”

“We nearly stumbled upon them ourselves. Whoever follows after us will do the same. We can’t let another group of travelers suffer the fate of the Sun guildmembers.”

“We can,” Thren said. “And we will. It isn’t your job to protect the world, Haern, nor play the savior for every damn stupid person who walks the land. We have a task at hand, and that is what matters right now. If someone travels this road unaware of the dangers, that is their own fault, not ours. We avoided their ambush, so let whoever follows us do the same.”

“You’ll disregard their suffering so easily?” Haern asked.

Thren stepped closer, and he spread his arms wide and gestured to the wilderness filled only with flittering beetles and grasshoppers.

“Whose suffering?” he asked. “You’d have me weep for men and women who may not even exist? The next party those orcs attack may be well-armed men transporting goods for the Gemcrofts, and they’ll butcher every single one of the gray-skinned brutes. You don’t know, do you? What you do know is that you’ve seen someone bad, and now you want to stop them. Gods, you’re like a child.”

“These aren’t even bandits,” Haern insisted. “You saw what they did. The mutilation. The cook fire.”

A beetle landed on Haern’s cloak, and when he tried to brush it away, its spindly black legs remained hooked on the cloth. Frustrated, Haern swatted at it again, hard enough that it struck a tree beside him and crushed its glittering green shell. Thren saw it and smirked.

“Will you kill all the beetles in the world, too?” he asked. “We’ll never even make it out of this forest.”