David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“Take his strength,” Velixar said. “I will take his mind, but use a light touch. Our puppet must believe he won.”

Qurrah thought over his spells, then settled on one he had used on his brother. He cast the curse. Invisible weights latched onto Lummug’s arms and legs, making it seem his sword weighed thrice its normal weight and his shield was made of stone.

“You grow tired!” Trummug shouted, seeing his opponent’s movements slow and his breathing quicken. “You’re not able to face my strength!”

Velixar’s spell was more subtle but far more dangerous to Lummug. His curse spread a thin veil of shadow over the orc’s eyes. Lummug could still see, but what he saw was far from truth. When he saw Trummug swing his axe from below his waist, he positioned his shield to block. The blow never came, not from that direction. Trummug had lifted his axe high and swung straight down. No shield stopped it. The axe cleaved through Lummug’s helmet, split his skull, and then buried itself in a mess of ribs, lungs, and heart.

With a scream of victory, Trummug tore free his axe and lifted the giant weapon above his head with one hand

“Lummug dead!” he shouted to the fortress. “Trummug Hordemaster now!”

Their leader dead, it was politics as normal for the rest of the orcs.

“Trummug!” they shouted. “Trummug the Hordemaster!”

The entire fortress erupted in cheers of loyalty. As Trummug basked in his glory, Velixar walked beside him.

“Do not forget what Karak has given you,” he said. “Reward his faith in you by your faith in him.”

“For Karak!” Trummug suddenly shouted. “For Karak, for Karak!”

The orcs outside the fortress took up a similar chant. For Karak! For Karak! The orcs within, confused though they were, joined in. They found the words pleasant to their tongues and the shout comforting to their minds.

For Karak! For Karak!

With the Mug tribe united in his name, it was only a matter of time before the other tribes fell in line. The army, numbering two thousand strong, marched east, a new standard for their banners. It was the skull of a lion.

Part Two

I t had been a long night for the half-orc Harruq Tun.

“Try not to scream too much,” his tormenter said as he pressed a glowing piece of coal against his neck with a pair of tongs.

A very long night.

“No screaming,” Harruq said through grit teeth. “No screaming.” He felt the searing pain against his flesh. He heard sizzling, his blood hissing and drying. He would have given anything to throttle the man, but the heavy chains around his body denied him his desire as he hung naked against the wall.

“I’m sure your friends are looking for you by now,” the tormenter said. He pulled back the coal and admired his work. An ugly black burn covered the entirety of Harruq’s neck. “Looking, but not finding.”

The half-orc flung his head to one side so his long brown hair didn’t cover his face, and doing his best to ignore the horrible pain it caused his neck. His breathing was heavy from the pain, but still he laughed.

“You have no idea,” he said between labored breaths. “No idea how badly you just erred.”

“Oh really?” the man said. He wore black robes with a feline skull hanging from a chain around his neck. His upper lip protruded a full inch farther than his lower jaw, so when he smiled he looked like a strange combination of horse and man. “What mistake was that?”

“Because I’m not the scary one,” Harruq said. They were deep in the bowels of an old mansion, one with an owner rumored to be eccentric and lonely. Looking around at the various torture devices hanging from the stone walls of the cell, Harruq had to agree about the eccentric part. He did not, however, think the man was alone too often. Not in that cell, judging by the blood staining the floor.

“You’re not the scary one?” the tormenter asked, humoring him.

“I’m the big one,” Harruq continued. He was stalling, and by Ashhur the man didn’t seem to have a clue. “Haern, he’s the creepy one. Sneaky. Kill you before you know you’re dead. But no, that isn’t too scary, dying without knowing it. Aurry, however…” The half-orc laughed, then stopped to cough up and spit out a blob of blood.

“You mean your weak little elf woman?” the man asked him. He dug his fingers into the burn on Harruq’s neck. Harruq sucked in air, denying the man the scream he wanted.

“She sees what you’ve done to me and she’ll be hotter than a dragon napping in a wildfire. Haern’s got some sort of honor. Aurry…”

The man in the black robes slapped him, then kissed the skull that hung from his neck.

“Karak protects me,” the man said. “His power protects me from scrying. No one knows you’re here. No one will hear you. No one will know you’ve died until I dump your body at the Eschaton’s doorstep. Too late, then, too late for you.”

Again Harruq laughed. And coughed. And laughed.

“What was your name again?” he asked.

“Karak has given me the name of Tormentus,” the man said, glowing with pride. “His right hand in driving out blasphemy from this world.”

Harruq lost himself in laughter so loud and chaotic he appeared delusional. Tormentus drove a dagger through the palm of the half-orc’s hand, and even that did little to stop his laughter.

“Tormentus,” Harruq said when he regained control. “You give yourself that name?” His laughter resumed, huge shuddering laughs that shook him against the chains that held him to the wall. “Run, children, Tormentus is coming, crazy man for a crazy god!”

The man slashed him across the face and neck with a knife, furious and humiliated. He had given himself the name thinking it would inspire fear in those he worked upon. On most it had, but this strange half-orc, who seemed impervious to any pain he caused, only found it hysterical. Suddenly he was ashamed of the name, felt almost childlike in its creation.

“You may know me as Gregor, if you would prefer,” he said, wiping the blood off his dagger. “The name I held before Karak blessed me with his power.”

“Sure thing,” Harruq said. “So what is your last name? Cutall? Hurtme? Imakebooboos?”

“Enough!”

Gregor marched over to his rack of torture devices full of prongs, pliers, wrenches, strange shaped blades, and rollers full of spikes and rusty edges. The half-orc had dared trespass onto his property. His servants had subdued him with sleep scrolls they all carried. It took three to drag Harruq’s body downstairs to his torture room and chain him to the wall. The half-orc had tested the chain’s strength when he first awoke, then settled in and endured his punishment.

“What were you looking for,” Gregor asked as he grabbed a device with a wooden handle and a small curved blade. “Eschaton do not steal or rob. What was it you sought in my mansion?”

“Just the usual,” Harruq said. The man turned and approached with a sick grin on his face. “Thieves. Killers. Crazy people. You seem like all three. What you going to do with that, anyway?”

“Oh, this?” Gregor asked, smiling at his tool. “You keep laughing and mocking me. You ignore any pain I cause. So I’m going to cause you pain you can’t ignore. And when you laugh, at least it will be at a higher pitch.”

The room fell silent as Harruq realized what it was Gregor was saying.

“Now that’s just too far,” the half-orc shouted, straining against his chains. “You can hurt and kill me, but really, you can’t be that sick.”

Shouts echoed through the closed wooden door and into the room. Gregor glanced up the stairs, frowning at the intrusion.

“What is going on up there?” he shouted.