Book III
Chapter Eighteen
The SWORD and the SHIELD
The next six moons passed in a blur.
Brun suddenly found himself the leader of a rebellion he did not yet fully understand.
Ul’druk followed him, as he always had, but more and more of his time was spent with Nal’kuth’ra.
Tha’seng was seen little, but it was clear to Brun that the tailor was the orchestrator of the revolt. His orders went down to the Shallowshore Dockmaster, and his drunken tinker, Thaek’rj.
Ner’u also waited on Tha’seng’s orders, though the Chandler’s Court had its fingers in every aspect of the rebellion.
Weapons came to Ner’u. Clothes. One night, Brun was surprised to find that every cloak shop was working (openly) on a series of tabards, bearing the symbol of the sword and the shield.
Brun’s symbol.
He had not chosen it, but it was his.
He often wrestled with how he would free Ba’ku’ra, and give him all the power and control and fame and glory… It was not a life Brun wanted.
Brun wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it wasn’t that.
It wasn’t this.
He thought of Na’la. Thought of her often.
“I’ll get you back,” he’d promise her, before he drifted off to sleep each dawn. He’d clench his eyes, and promise her again. “I will. Hang in there. I will get you back.”
As the rebellion built, and built, and tensions in the city gathered until they were taught as a tired rope…
* * * * / * * * *
Pa’ka read. He did little else.
He spent every waking minute either eating, or reading.
About four moons in, he finished the last scroll in the room. The next two moons were spent in a bleary state of inspiration, as he took apart and reorganized the Prophet’s Room.
At first, he was worried that he didn’t have permission to do such a thing. But when Keeper said nothing (he didn’t see much of Keeper anymore), Pa’ka decided he would continue the project.
Because no scroll had an author to speak of, it was difficult to find a way to organize the stories. Eventually, after re-reading a particularly thick scroll about how to date a story by its “phrase forms” (its verse), Pa’ka decided to try and organize the tales by date.
It was ultimately an impossible task, he decided, but it was excellent practice for him. Each tale he picked up, Pa’ka found himself getting better and better at placing the poems in time. The project consumed him, distracted him from obsessing over Rowan’s capture. And for that, he was grateful.
Only when he laid down to sleep did Pa’ka let his mind go to her. How she was doing. Whether she was okay. Whether she was dead. Or tortured. Or worse. Or better. Perhaps they worshipped her in the pyramid. He had no way to know.
The Lich had not come out since the Burning of Shambleport.
* * * * / * * * *
The rebellion finally came to a head when Ul’druk was captured.
He’d gotten too comfortable with taking off his cowl in the streets. It turned out that the cowls were actually enchanted : humans saw any who wore one as humans. It was a silly spell, really, but extremely necessary in a city where it was illegal to be an orc.
One midnight, Nal’kuth’ra watched him cross the alley toward the Chandler’s Court. Too late, she saw six cloaked figures pull clubs from their cloaks, and attack.
Nal’kuth’ra screamed, as did some of the goblins and elves that saw.
The men with clubs dragged Ul’druk into a cart, and disappeared. The glint of their armour barely showed from beneath their disguises.
After that, it was clear to Nal’kuth’ra, and to Brun…
It was time to move.
* * * * / * * * *
The plan was simple : destroy Corpse Island.
Every corpse cart in Ne’jum eventually went to the Corpse Island Ferry. Just off the southeast corner of the city’s coastline, a huge heaping landmass was covered with the bodies of dead orcs, humans, goblins, and elves.
Many hundred years ago, perhaps halfway through the Lich’s reign, he had set a spell on the island. The spell was simple : keep the air cold enough that the bodies there would freeze, kept from their state of decay. No one knew how the Lich had done this magic, for it had been done once, and never again. But the why of it was clear…
Should the Lich ever need an army, he would have a near limitless supply of soldiers to raise.
Since the spell was a fixed thing, Tha’seng’s plan was to ship hundreds and hundreds of crates of gunpowder to the heap. Then, with arrows wrapped in oil, then cloth, then resin, then oil, they would set the crates ablaze, and obliterate the Lich’s army before he had a chance to raise it.
The problem had always been that the ferry was well supplied with some of the Lich’s most violent soldiers. He knew well the value of Corpse Island, and guarded it like a child. And those that ran that ferry were fiercely loyal to the Lich.
But the Death Knight had not come out, and morale was low. The pay was the thing that kept the ferrymen loyal. The pay, and the fear, and the longer the Death Knight was away, the weaker their fears became.
It was Rung’j’u that came to bribe the ferrymen one night.
The crowd at the east docks was thick. Busy. Hungry mouths, bartering voices, drunk sailors milling about, asking strangers for work. Human guards loaded corpses onto the Lich’s ferry.
About half the Lich’s ferrymen accepted Rung’s bribe.
When the other half turned to summon the human guards, Nal’kuth’ra and Brun burst out of the crowd, along with thirteen goblin rogues.
“MOVE!” shouted Brun. “NOW! GO! GO!”
The crowd turned out to be a false crowd. Three hundred fighters, archers, and potioners doffed their disguises, and rushed into motion.
First, the crowd rolled carts full of gunpowder up next to the galley.
The Sword and the Shield had a guard of their own, to keep any onlookers from leaving, or fighting.
Brun found a spot to get high up, and began shouting orders, coordinating each group, each unit, each pair of hands. Tha’seng’s plan was falling exactly into place, exactly as he’d said it would.
Perhaps he is a seer after all, thought Brun.
The carts went atop all the corpses that had been loaded onto the galley. The dockmaster, Feth’faj’j, was given a crew. They loaded up some of his smaller boats, along with their bows and fire arrows, to execute the most critical part of the mission.
Brun watched it all unfold from a high point on the royal galley. He did not feel like a king, but everyone was looking at him like one.
Then, the island exploded.
Exactly as planned.
According to Feth’faj’j, any bodies that weren’t completely destroyed became fuzed together in a heap of fleshy goop.
The people cheered. Brun’s rebellion had announced itself, and now the Lich’s forces were very much aware that Goblintown had fallen to the goblins, and the lone orc that they followed.
* * * * / * * * *
That night, the people celebrated.
They flooded taverns and potion shops, as guards waited outside, ready for any sign of an attack from West Ne’jum.
Brun’s crew celebrated deep in the Chandler’s Court, at a bar called The Salt and the Tears.
As everyone joked and cheered and drank around him, Brun sulked, staring at his glass.
He did not drink much that night. Nor did he enjoy what he drank.
He merely thought of Na’la. Dwelled on her.
Six moons, he thought. It’s been nearly six moons tonight.
He wondered how full the moon was. It had been half a year since he’d seen her glow.
Brun itched his beard, which had grown bushy and thick. His hair had grown, too, wilder and wilder. He was more used to the rain. Or rather, he noticed it less and less every night.
He twisted his glass, slowly, trying not to make the honey liquor ripple.
He was about to take another drink, when…
A silence entered the Salt and the Tear.
He looked up.
There was a goblin messenger, dressed in the tabard of the Lich. He looked both afraid, and rather sick.
“Message,” croaked the messenger. He held out a bottle, with a scroll inside. He didn’t know who to look at. “F-for… ahem! For… B-br-br-Brun, the…”
Brun stood, and walked to the messenger.
Rung’j’u rose as well, and drew his sword. The goblin flinched.
“Easy,” said Brun, gesturing. “Can’t you see he’s afraid?”
The look Brun gave the tailor’s apprentice was one of disappointment. Even though Brun was six years younger than Rung’j’u, the fact was difficult to remember when they were side by side. The goblin clearly looked up to the orc, and he lowered his gaze as he sheathed his sword.
Brun took the bottle, said, “Thank you. My response will be—”
“N-n-no response,” said the messenger. “H-he was… There’s no… That will be all ; thank you.”
With that, the messenger rushed out of the tavern, trembling for his life.
Brun uncorked the bottle, and pulled the scroll.
As he unfurled it, Brun’s stomach churned. On the scroll were two drawings : one of Ba’ku’ra, and one of Na’la, both drawn with gaunt cheeks. Their eyes had been violently crossed out. It read…
HANGING DAY
TOMORROW
DAWN
* * * * / * * * *
Link to Orcish-English Dictionary
Wanna hear the music of NALA SAGA?
* * * * / * * * *
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