The Dagger Jaws

  THE DAGGER JAWS

  Jonathan Moeller

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  The Dagger Jaws

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  Description

  RIDMARK ARBAN was once an honored Swordbearer. Now he is a disgraced exile, outcast and alone.

  To redeem himself, he seeks the secret of the return of the Frostborn, guarded by the mysterious Elder Shamans of Qazaluuskan Forest.

  But only the kobolds of the Dagger Jaws tribe know where to find the Elder Shamans. To learn their secrets, Ridmark must complete a task for the vicious kobolds.

  And kobolds never keep their promises to humans...

  The Dagger Jaws

  Copyright 2016 by Jonathan Moeller.

  Published by Azure Flame Media, LLC.

  Cover image copyright Konstik | Dreamstime.com & © Anthro | Dreamstime.com - Intricate Dagger With Path Photo

  Ebook edition published November 2016.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The Dagger Jaws

  In the Year of Our Lord 1474, Ridmark Arban moved deeper into the unmapped depths of the Qazaluuskan Forest.

  The ground had grown steeper since he had crossed the serpent-infested river, and now he found himself climbing uphill. Here and there a rocky hill rose from the earth, its sides coated with moss. From time to time he saw large barrows of heaped boulders, their entrances sealed with slabs of sigil-scrawled stone, and he stayed well away from those barrows. Ridmark knew firsthand that the Old Ones, undead shamans of the Qazaluuskan orcs, lurked within some of those barrows, feasting upon the sacrifices brought by the superstitious followers of Qazalask.

  He avoided the barrows, but the incongruity of his actions struck him. He was seeking out the Elder Shamans, the most powerful and dangerous of the shamans of the bone orcs, and their power made the Old Ones look like children. He had heard differing accounts of the Elder Shamans, but all the tales agreed that anyone who sought out the Elder Shamans never returned alive.

  Nevertheless, both Gothalinzur and the Warden of Urd Morlemoch had told him that the Frostborn would return. The Elder Shamans knew secrets that had been forgotten by other kindreds, secrets that had been forgotten even before Malahan Pendragon had led the survivors of Arthur Pendragon’s realm of Britannia to this new world. If Ridmark learned the secret, perhaps he could warn the High King’s realm and prepare them for the coming of the Frostborn.

  And if he failed …his death would be little loss to anyone. He had failed, as profoundly as any man could fail, and he had more than earned death for it.

  That said, he would not go out of his way to get killed, and he was beginning to think he would need to find a different route to the east and the Lion Mountains because this path might get him killed.

  He saw too many cave entrances dotting the hillsides.

  Some of them were little more than holes, barely large enough for his arm. Others were big enough that a team of horses could have walked inside with room to spare. Ridmark’s experiences as a Swordbearer had made him suspicious of caves, because he was sure at least one of those entrances, maybe more, led to the Deeps, the vast maze of caverns that spread beneath the surface of Andomhaim. Many dangerous creatures made their homes in the Deeps, dvargir and kobolds and trolls and deep orcs and basilisks and worse things, and they sometimes came to the surface in search of captives and loot and prey. The bone orcs ruled the Qazaluuskan Forest, but Ridmark had no doubt that the creatures of the Deeps challenged them.

  Best to be careful.

  No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he saw the dead orc.

  It had been an orcish man about Ridmark’s own age, though taller and more muscular than most humans. His head and chest and arms had been painted bone-white, with patches of darker color on his face, making his head look like a grinning skull. The war paint marked him as one of the bone orcs, the followers of the blood god Qazalask.

  A half-dozen arrows jutted from his chest, blood trickling down his skin. The arrows looked crude, and they could not have been fired from far away. Ridmark looked around for a moment, then stooped and touched the dead orc’s forehead.

  He was still warm, and his blood was still wet. The orc had not been dead for more than a few moments. The Qazaluuskan orcs usually embalmed their dead and then raised them as undead, which meant that whoever had killed the bone orc had won the battle.

  Or, for that matter, that the battle was still going on.

  Ridmark made up his mind. It was past time to choose a new route.

  He turned, intending to circle down the hillside and back to the west, and then the battle erupted around him.

  There was a whooshing noise, and smoke erupted from behind a boulder, rising in a broad gray curtain. It had come from a smoke bomb, and the raiders of several different kindreds liked to use smoke bombs in battle.

  Three bone orcs burst from the nearby trees, hunting bows in hand, and came to a startled stop when they saw Ridmark, their amulets of bone and mummified animal parts bouncing against their chests. Five smaller creatures emerged from another clump of trees. These creatures were far shorter than the bone orcs, about the size of a human child, their limbs spindly. Gray scales as tough as leather covered their bodies, and they had long, whip-like tails. They had the elongated heads and yellow eyes of lizards, and each creature had a brilliant crest of crimson scales rising from the back of its head and neck. Every one of the creatures also had the crude tattoo of a dagger on the right side of its jaw.

  They were kobolds, and tribes of them swarmed through the tunnels of the Deeps. Some of the tribes were slaves of the dvargir and the dark elves. Some of them were independent and raided the surface for slaves, or for humans to eat. They commonly used smoke bombs in their raids, and Ridmark saw clay flasks tucked into their belts. A few of the kobold tribes were friendly with humans and traded with them.

  Ridmark was reasonably sure that these kobolds were not friendly with humans.

  Both the bone orcs and the kobolds were so intent upon each other that for a moment they did not realize that Ridmark was there.

  Then they stared at him in amazement.

  “A human!” snarled one of the bone orcs in the orcish tongue.

  “There are no humans in this forest,” said one of the kobolds in the same language.

  Another kobold, larger than the first one, cuffed the creature that had spoken. “Obviously, you are incorrect.” The kobold had elaborate tattoos of blue ink down its neck and spindly chest, and in its clawed right hand, it carried a short staff adorned with chains and pebbles and rough gemstones.

  “What is your business, human?” snarled one of the bone orcs. “Are you an ally of the kobolds?”

  “No,” said Ridmark. “I was just passing through. I will leave you to your battle…”

  “He is an ally of the kobolds!” roared the bone orc. “Take him!”

  The three bone orcs charged towards him, raising their swords.

  Ridmark rushed to meet them.

  Ever since his disgrace and the loss of his soulblade, he had not carried a sword. Instead, he carried a wooden staff with an iron core, the weapon heavy and smooth in his hand. Most of the lords and knights of Andomhaim looked down upon the simple quarterstaff, believing it the
weapon of commoners, unequal to the dignity of the sword.

  Ridmark knew better.

  And to judge from the sloppy way the three bone orcs rushed him, they shared the attitude of the lords and knights.

  Ridmark waited until the last minute and moved, whipping his staff around in a tight circle. The staff deflected the thrust of an orcish blade, and Ridmark sidestepped, snapping the staff around. The end caught the nearest bone orc in the temple with a loud crack, and the warrior’s head snapped to the side. He collapsed to the ground in a limp heap, either unconscious or dead. The remaining two bone orcs moved to his left and to his right, slashing with their swords, but it was obvious they had no idea how to fight a man skilled with a staff. Ridmark parried a slash of a sword, ducked under another blow, and drove the end of his staff into the stomach of a bone orc. The warrior doubled over with a grunt of pain, and Ridmark dodged again, bringing his staff down onto the back of the warrior’s head as he did.

  The warrior joined the first bone orc upon the ground, and the final orcish warrior screamed and hurled himself at Ridmark, arms pumping as he swung his sword. He fought with savagery and strength, but little skill and Ridmark avoided his blows with ease. At last, the orc overextended himself, and Ridmark drove his staff into the back of the orc’s knees. The bone orc fell with a snarl, and Ridmark finished him off with a blow to the head.

  The last of the orcs collapsed dead to the ground, and Ridmark looked at the kobolds.

  They had watched the fight without interfering. Four of the kobolds now held bows pointed in Ridmark’s direction, arrows ready against the strings. The biggest kobold tapped the end of his staff, and pale blue light flickered up and down its length.

  He was a shaman, a wielder of dark magic.

  “Great skill in battle for a human,” said the shaman in its raspy voice. It was probably a male. The male kobolds were usually bigger than the females, and only the males became shamans. “Three men again one. The three should triumph, but the lone man was victorious.”

  “I have no quarrel with you,” said Ridmark, gauging the distance to the kobolds. He thought he could reach them and strike down one or two of the archers, but the other two would shoot him, and the shaman would work his spells. He could strike down the shaman, but that would give the archers ample opportunity to shoot him.

  “No quarrel with us?” croaked the shaman. “No quarrel with us? Do you know who we are?”

  “I confess I have not had the opportunity to learn,” said Ridmark.

  “We are the Dagger Jaws!” said the shaman, thumping his chest with the staff. Ridmark supposed that explained the tattoos upon their jaws. “For our bites are like the blows of daggers, and none escape our wrath.”

  “I see,” said Ridmark. Come to think of it, their fangs did look bigger than those of the kobolds he had fought in the Deeps below the Northerland. “I have not heard rumor of the Dagger Jaws before today, but I am only passing through this land.”

  One of the kobold warriors hissed. “I still think he is a spy for the bone orcs.”

  The shaman clicked his fangs with derision. “The bone orcs do not recruit spies from humans. They kill humans and raise their corpses as undead slaves. That is the only use they have for humans. It is wasteful, wasteful. Humans make for toothsome meals, but the necromantic elixirs of the bone orcs spoil the taste of the meat.”

  As one the kobold warriors let out sounds of disapproval. Evidently, this was a common complaint. It also explained why the Dagger Jaws had not attacked him yet.

  They were thinking about eating him. He would have to persuade them to seek an easier meal elsewhere.

  “I see,” said Ridmark, pointing his staff at the bone orcs he had just killed. “I have no use for the dead. What you do with them is your own affair.”

  The shaman clicked his fangs again. “Who are you, human? Why have you come to the Qazaluuskan Forest? This is not a welcoming place for your kindred.”

  “My name is Ridmark,” he said, watching the shaman for any signs of treachery. He caught glimpses of gray in the trees around him. More kobold warriors were arriving. “I am traveling through the Qazaluuskan Forest in an errand of my own.”

  “And what errand is that?” said the shaman.

  “I wish to speak with an Elder Shaman of the bone orcs,” said Ridmark.

  The warriors flinched and began speaking with each other in the hissing language of the kobolds. The shaman said nothing, claws tapping against the length of his staff. The facial expressions of the kobolds were alien, but Ridmark had the impression that the shaman was disturbed.

  “If you wish to die so badly, human Ridmark,” said the shaman, “then let us kill you and devour your flesh. It shall be less wasteful by far. For all who seek the Elder Shamans of the bone orcs find only death.”

  “Nevertheless, I must speak with them,” said Ridmark.

  “Why?” said the shaman, baffled. “What drives you to such madness?”

  “The Frostborn are returning to this world,” said Ridmark. “Both the Warden of Urd Morlemoch and an urdmordar told me this.” The kobold warriors shifted at the dark names of legend. “I seek to find the means of their return so I might stop it, or warn my people of the dangers that threaten them. It is said the Elder Shamans know many secrets now forgotten…”

  “They do,” said the shaman.

  “So perhaps they will know the secret,” said Ridmark.

  The shaman said nothing, his yellow eyes unblinking, his claws tapping against the staff.

  “Perhaps,” said the shaman at last. “We can help each other. I am Agataph, shaman of the Dagger Jaws, and the priest of…” He said the unpronounceable name of one of the kobold gods. “You seek the Elder Shamans? Do you know where to find them?”

  “In the Lion Mountains to the east,” said Ridmark.

  The kobolds answered him with hissing laughter, and the trees rustled. Ridmark turned as seven more kobolds armed with bows and spears emerged to his left, prowling towards him.

  “The Lion Mountains are vast,” said Agataph. “Hundreds upon hundreds of miles of peaks and valleys and passes. Do you know where exactly to find the Elder Shamans, human Ridmark? Or do you intend to wander the peaks until you perish of hunger and your bones lie bleached in the sun?”

  “I intend to find the Elder Shamans,” said Ridmark.

  “The Dagger Jaws know where to find the citadel of the Elder Shamans,” said Agataph. “We can tell you exactly where to go and where to find it.”

  Ah.

  The reason the Dagger Jaws hadn’t attacked him or eaten him was that they wanted something from him. They wanted to make a deal. Except Ridmark didn’t have anything valuable.

  Which meant the kobolds wanted him to do something for them.

  “A very generous offer, noble shaman,” said Ridmark. He took several steps back, watching both groups of kobolds at once. The newcomers ignored him and moved to the dead orcs, producing poles and ropes, and he realized the kobolds intended to carry the corpses back to their stronghold for the evening meal. “Though I assume you wish to receive something in return for this valuable information?”

  “Of course,” said Agataph. “But it is crude to discuss matters of business in the open air, human Ridmark. I invite you to return with us to our village to discuss the matter further.”

  “Again,” said Ridmark, “a very generous offer. But if I refuse?”

  The shaman’s expressions were alien, but Ridmark nonetheless recognized the hungry grin.

  “We shall feast on orc flesh tonight,” said Agataph, “but a second course of human meat would not go amiss. That would be regrettable when we have the opportunity for mutual gain.”

  Ridmark might be able to fight his way clear of the kobolds and escape. It was just as likely they would shoot him dead, and he didn’t know the extent of Agataph’s magical abilities. For that matter, there was the possibility of useful information. If Agataph knew where the Elder Shamans had made their l
air in the Lion Mountains, it might save Ridmark months of searching.

  “Very well,” said Ridmark. “Lead on.”

  ###

  The kobolds lashed the dead orcs to the poles, hanging them from ropes, teams of four kobold warriors carrying each dead orc.

  Then they set out in the forest, climbing the rocky hills, and soon came to a large cavern entrance, a yawning black gash in the gray rock. The kobolds marched into the darkness, and Ridmark had no choice but to follow. At first, he feared he would have to find his way in total darkness, but the ghost mushrooms that clung in patches to the floor and walls lit his way. The mushrooms gave off glows of pale red or blue light, throwing eerie shadows over the floor. Occasionally pools of stagnant water lay at the base of the rock walls, giving off an odd green light, and Ridmark decided to drink nothing the kobolds offered him.

  After a mile, the tunnel widened and opened into a large cavern. The kobold village filled most of the cavern, fortified behind a wall of fieldstone topped with wooden spikes. The kobolds’ houses and workshops had been built from rough stone, or crudely hewn into the walls of the cavern. Fires crackled here and there, staining the ceiling black and filling the air with the odor of smoke. A single gate traversed the wall, and over it hung the massive skull of a wyvern. Daggers had been driven through its jaws, making it look as if it had teeth of rusting steel, and no doubt the kobolds regarded it as a totem.

  Ridmark followed Agataph into the village, and the feast began.

  In some kobold tribes, a war chief ruled, and in others, the shamans ruled. Among the Dagger Jaws, it was clear that Agataph held supreme power. The kobold hissed a steady stream of orders, and kobold females raised wooden tables in the center of the village, while the dead orcs were hastened to the kitchens. Ridmark had killed them, but he was grateful he would not have to watch them butchered and cooked.

  In short order, the feast began. Ridmark wasn’t sure if he was Agataph’s prisoner or guest of honor, but he was seated at the shaman’s table, and the kobold females brought out stone pitchers of foul-smelling wine brewed from fermented mushrooms.