THE FIRST BARGAIN

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

The haunted depths of the Qazaluuskan Forest hold death for the unwary.

Niara is one of the First Magistri, the most powerful wizards in the realm of Andomahim. Pursuing one of the dreaded spider-devils, she has traveled far into the heart of the Qazaluuskan Forest.

The orcs of the forest are almost as dangerous as the urdmordar.

But one of them is willing to offer Niara a bargain.

She has everything to gain...but the price might be her life...

***

The First Bargain

Copyright 2022 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Cover design by Jonathan Moeller.

Ebook edition published October 2022.

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.

***

A brief author's note

This short story takes place roughly five hundred years before the events of DRAGONSKULL: SWORD OF THE SQUIRE.

A map of the realm of Andomhaim is available on the author’s website at this link (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=4487).

***

The First Bargain

My name is Niara of Andomhaim, and I have seen wonders and horrors that you can’t imagine.

My father was slain in front of me by the arachar soldiers of the urdmordar Xothalaxiar. I saw the dark power and majesty of the urdmordar themselves, their mastery of dark magic beyond human comprehension. I traveled with the Keeper to the towers of Cathair Solas and learned magic from the archmage Ardrhythain himself. I fought in the great war that drove the urdmordar back from the walls of Tarlion and broke their power, sending them skittering into the shadows for fear of the soulblades and the fire of the Well.

It wouldn’t be enough.

Not until I stopped Xothalaxiar.

Not until I killed her.

All those wonders and terrors, and right now, I was looking at something far more prosaic.

Specifically, a river.

A river I couldn’t figure out how to cross.

“Goddamn it,” I muttered, staring at the placid waters.

I stood somewhere in the heart of the vast Qazaluuskan Forest. It was the middle of summer, but it was cool beneath the tangled canopy of the massive trees. This place set my teeth on edge. The Qazaluuskan orcs had dwelled here for millennia, practicing their ancestral necromancy, and a taint of dark magic had settled upon the land like a film of grease over an ill-kept kitchen. I could sense it without trying, like walking through a constant haze.

Of course, it was nothing compared to the aura of dark power that surrounded the urdmordar.

Xothalaxiar had come here, following the rumor of the Dragonskull. As far as I could tell, she had left the bone orcs alone, intent on her prize. The bone orcs, for their part, had been wise enough not to trouble her.

They hadn’t been quite wise enough to leave me alone, though.

A few sharp lessons had taught them the foolishness of that.

But I couldn’t figure out how to get across this damned river.

It was two hundred yards across, but swimming it wouldn’t have been a problem. The two pack horses I led could both swim. I could remove my armor and swim across the river, carrying one pack at a time, and then lead the animals across. It would be a cumbersome and time-consuming process, and I would have to be on my guard, but I could do it. I had done river crossings in worse conditions during the great war against the urdmordar.

Crossing the river wasn’t the problem.

The things living in the water provided the difficulty.

I wasn’t quite sure if they were eels, serpents, or some combination of both. Or perhaps they were creatures fashioned by the magic of the dark elves. The pale serpents darted with ease through the water, and if anything entered the river, the creatures swarmed over it.

A mile to the west, when I had first come across the river, I had seen a deer drinking from the water. One of the pale serpents had leaped from the river, sinking its fangs into the animal’s neck. The stricken deer had tried to run, but four more serpents had latched onto it. The deer had collapsed, the serpents dragging it into the water.

After that, swimming the river had not been an option.

I had headed east, following the line of the riverbank. It flowed to the west, probably emptying into the Lake of Mourning north of Caerdracon. Eventually, it had to narrow or grow shallower, and perhaps I could cross there.

The delay grated at me. Every minute I delayed, Xothalaxiar moved further north, drawing closer to the Dragonskull.

And if she found it, if she pulled it from the wreckage of those who had created it…

The great war against the urdmordar would have been for nothing.

And my father would remain unavenged.

I had no way of knowing how far the river went. No man or woman of Andomhaim had ever traveled this far into the realm of the bone orcs, at least as far as I knew. It could be leagues until I found a place to cross. Perhaps I could build a raft. I had an axe in my supplies and some rope, but that would take days of labor.

Of course, it might take even longer than that to find a place to cross.

I was still considering the problem when both the smell and the aura of necromantic magic came to my senses.

One of the undead thralls of the Qazaluuskan orcs was approaching.

My pack horses stopped, neighing a little in fear at the smell, and I soothed them. The orcs of the forest worshipped Qazalask, the ancient orcish blood god of necromancy, and they all wielded that dark power to some degree. For the most part, they put it to practical uses, raising their dead and the dead of their foes as undead thralls, mummifying the corpses and preserving them with vile-smelling alchemical elixirs. They put the thralls to work as laborers, pulling stones from the fields and hauling heavy loads, and every household of bone orcs had at least one undead thrall serving as a laborer.

I could admire the pragmatism of it, even as I loathed the dark magic.

Necromantic spells were vulnerable to the magic of the Well of Tarlion. But as it turns out, the elixirs the bone orcs used to mummify their thralls were quite flammable, and I had a strong talent with the magic of elemental flame. Setting the undead ablaze was easy, and after I had burned a few dozen of their thralls, the bone orcs had decided to leave me alone.

Though perhaps the tribes that lived near the serpent-infested river hadn’t yet learned their lesson.

I planted my feet and took my staff in both hands. I had forged it myself at Cathair Tarlias as Ardrhythain taught those of us who would become the First Magistri, and the length of metal focused and augmented my spells. That meant I needed only a very little magical power to burn an undead creature until the necromantic spells collapsed and it became inert.

A few moments later, the undead emerged from the trees.

To my surprise, there was just one of the creatures. It had been an orcish man in life. Now it was a withered, desiccated thing, the green of its skin faded to a mottled yellowish-green, its eyes and mouth stitched shut. Despite its gaunt appearance, the creature would have unnatural strength, and if it got close enough, it could crush my skull with a single blow of its fist.

Which was why I wouldn’t let it get close enough to strike.

Except the undead thrall was carrying something in its left hand.

Not a weapon. It was a wooden shaft about three feet long, and a white cloth dangled from its end.

A parley banner. Among all the nations, tribes, and kindreds I had encountered in my travels, a white banner was the universal invitation for a parley.

The undead thrall made a jerking, spastic motion with its right hand, almost like it was trying to throw something. I stared at the creature for a few seconds, and then I realized it was attempting to beckon me.

“You want me to follow you?” I said in Latin. That was pointless, so I switched to orcish. “You want me to follow you?”

Which, I realized, was even more pointless. The undead thrall couldn’t think for itself. The creature would follow the commands of its master, heedless of death or injury since it was already dead and couldn’t feel pain. It would stand there and beckon until I destroyed it or I followed.

Why would one of the bone orcs want to parley with me?

The Qazaluuskan orcs were the enemies of Andomhaim, but not always. Their shamans followed a complicated code of interpreting omens, believing that was the way to discern the will of Qazalask. If the omens decreed that they should attack me, they would.

Then again, I suspected the more pragmatic shamans were a bit flexible about how they interpreted the omens.

Maybe the bone orcs knew a way to get across this damned serpent-infested river.

Or perhaps they were luring me into a trap.

Well, if they wanted to trap me, they were going to be in for a nasty surprise.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll follow you.”

As expected, the undead thrall ignored me.

I sighed, gathered the reins of my lead pack horse, and took a few steps towards the thrall, leading the animals behind me.

The undead creature turned and lumbered off into the trees. It paused every so often when the distance between us became too great, waiting until I caught up.

We walked about three miles to the east. I watched for more bone orcs, living or dead, and soon found them. After about two and a half miles, we passed a line of five undead thralls standing in the trees. A sentry line, I assumed. I could smell the sharp odor of the preservation elixirs on their flesh.

The scent of woodsmoke came to my nose as well.

A few moments after that, the thrall turned to the south. A clearing opened in the trees, perhaps forty yards across. After the relative gloom of the forest, the sunlight was almost startling.

An encampment of the bone orcs filled most of the clearing.

About twenty round tents stood in a ring around a large firepit. Thirty Qazaluuskan orcs moved through the camp, wearing chain mail and leather. Their faces had been painted with stylized patterns of black and white that looked like a skull, the sign of their god Qazalask. Their dark eyes turned towards me as I approached, some of them hostile, some of them curious.

It was possible I was the first human, let alone the first human woman, that many of them had ever seen.

The raft held my attention.

A dock had been built on the river’s southern bank, and a large, sturdy-looking raft floated next to it. A similar dock was on the river’s northern bank.

This wasn’t a camp, it was a ferry station. Likely it belonged to the local orcish chieftain or warlord. If I could negotiate with him, perhaps I could get across the river this very day.

The thrall I had followed stopped at the edge of the camp, and I followed suit. Four orcish warriors walked towards me, scowling behind their war paint. Their hands rested on their sword hilts, but they had not yet drawn their weapons.

An orcish shaman walked in their midst.

He wore a black robe, heavy and voluminous and bound about the waist with a broad leather belt. Like many of the bone orcs, he had donned black and white war paint, giving his face the appearance of a grinning skull. The paint was flaking off, giving his lined, gaunt features a leprous, diseased look. He wore amulets made from bone and stones and others that appeared to be mummified body parts. A withered hand hung around his neck, bouncing a little with the draw of his breath. He leaned upon a staff as he walked, its top adorned with a grinning orcish skull.

I felt the aura of necromantic magic around him, and it made my skin crawl with revulsion. The shamans of the bone orcs might have lacked the skill and finesse of the dark elves, but they could nonetheless wield powerful necromancy. Some of them became undead wielders of dark magic when they died. The Qazaluuskan orcs called them the Old Ones, and the creatures lurked in their barrows, brooding on the mysteries of necromantic power. When the bone orcs were threatened, they called upon the Old Ones, and their terrible power had kept the urdmordar out of the forest.

The shaman stopped a half-dozen paces from me, and we stared at one another. The warriors were all young men, but the shaman was old, nearly ancient, perhaps the single oldest orcish male I had ever seen. Given that orcs enjoyed and used violence far more readily than humans, elderly orcish men were much less common than elderly human men.

“Do you speak our tongue?” said the shaman in orcish. His voice was deep and hollow and somehow watery, like he was speaking out of the bottom of a drain.

“I do,” I said in the same language. “It seems you have invited me here, so perhaps you should begin the introductions.”

“Very well,” said the old orc. “I am Mhralask, a shaman of Qazalask, the Lord of Bones.”

He wasn’t lying about that. I could feel the aura of necromantic magic around him. He was powerful – disturbingly so. Orcish shamans had the same love of battle as orcish warriors without magical talent, so like all orcish men, they tended not to live as long. If Mhralask was as old as he had appeared and had not accidentally aged himself with a necromantic spell went awry, then he was either a coward who shied away from battle – or very powerful, very smart, and very skilled.

I suspected it was the latter.

“I am Niara of Andomhaim,” I said, tapping my metal staff against the ground. “Sister of the Order of the Magistri of Tarlion.”

“Ah, I see,” said Mhralask. He held something cupped in his left hand, and he rolled the objects and looked at them. Bone dice, their faces carved with sigils. It was one of the ways the shamans of Qazalask checked the omens.

I tensed, calling magical power to myself. If Mhralask decided that the omens decreed my death, he would send his warriors after me, and I would have no choice but to fight them.

“You are one of the new order of wizards who have arisen among the humans,” said Mhralask. “The ones wielding the accursed magic of the high elves.”

“That’s correct,” I said, wary. It seemed the omens had not decided on my death. The words were hostile, but the tone was not. If anything, the shaman sounded curious. “You are very well-informed.”

Mhralask shrugged. “I frequently travel from one side of the Qazaluuskan Forest to the other, Magistria. I have many friends among the chieftains of the faithful of Qazalask. The western and southern tribes have much news of your Andomhaim. I did not expect your realm to survive the onslaught of the urdmordar.”

“Are you disappointed?” I said.

He gave a shrug. “Fate unfolds without regard for my disappointment. The faithful of Qazalask and the humans are enemies, and doubtless we shall always be foes. But the urdmordar are foes of all who live upon this world, are they not?”

“And what of us, shaman?” I said. “Shall we be foes?”

Mhralask said nothing, his black eyes upon me. A few of his warriors edged forward.

I grinned at them, showing my teeth, and struck the end of my staff against the ground. It burst into flames at my mental command, elemental fire that I could direct at will. The warriors came to a halt, gazing at the fire blazing along the staff.

“An impressive trick,” said Mhralask.

“A simple trick,” I said. “I have better ones. We are a long way from Andomhaim, shaman, and I am one lone woman. Do you think I came all this way by chance? Do you think that the chieftains let me pass unchallenged? I ask again, shall we be foes?”

Mhralask gestured, and his warriors stepped back.

“That would depend,” said Mhralask, “on the reason for your visit to the lands of the faithful of Qazalask.”

“I am not here to fight you, though I shall defend myself if I must,” I said. “My enemy has fled into your land, and I pursue her.”

Mhralask nodded. “You seek the urdmordar called Xothalaxiar.”

“You have news of her passing?” I said. Belatedly, it occurred to me that Xothalaxiar might have suborned Mhralask and his followers and sent them to stop me.

“We sensed her coming some days ago,” said Mhralask. “If you have faced an urdmordar…”

Oh, I had. Again and again. He had no idea.

“If you have faced an urdmordar,” continued Mhralask, “then you know that they are fonts of dark magic. Not even the dark elves at the height of their power could have matched an urdmordar’s might. Several of the Old Ones awoke and prepared for battle, for they remembered Xothalaxiar of old. Yet she traveled through our land without slowing, and the Old Ones and the shamans decided to let her pass without hindrance. For the omens revealed that she sought something far to the north, something left by a fallen kingdom from long ago.”

“Do you know where she is now?” I said.

“She crossed the river not four days past.”

My hand tightened against my staff, my heart speeding up.

Four days.

I was just four days behind her.

I had been a terrified child when I had last seen Xothalaxiar. But now I was a Magistria, wielder of the power of the Well of Tarlion and the magic of elemental flame. I had hunted for her on the battlefields during the great war, and she had always eluded me.

No longer.

A little while longer, and my father would be avenged at last.

“Do you know who owns this ferry?” I said.

“As it happens, I do,” said Mhralask.

“A shaman of Qazalask owns a ferry?”

Mhralask shrugged again. “Even a shaman must support himself. Qazalask gives his faithful blessings of power…but those do not always translate into coin and food and shelter.” He smiled behind his yellowed tusks. “I own this ferry and often travel through the Qazaluuskan Forest, trading with the tribes.”

“So you’re a shaman of Qazalask…and you’re also a merchant,” I said.

I did not like merchants very much. My father had been a smith. A man ought to farm the land, master a craft, or take up arms and fight. Traveling about selling goods that you did not make to people who did not work for them seemed shifty, barely one step up from thievery.

“A man must support himself as best he can,” said Mhralask.

“Very well,” I said. “I need to reach the northern bank. What do you charge for passage?”

Mhralask thought for a moment, tapping his fingers against his staff.

“A favor,” he said at last.

“A favor?” I repeated. “I’m not washing your bloody laundry.”

The orcish warriors rumbled out a laugh. I don’t have much of a sense of humor, but apparently they had found that funny.

“That would be a waste of your talents,” said Mhralask.

“I can pay you with gold,” I said.

Mhralask shook his head. “Favors can be more valuable than gold.”

“Fine,” I said. “I will be on my way and will find another path across the river. Unless you think to stop me?”

“Certainly not,” said Mhralask. “I have not reached my advanced age through folly. But I should warn you, Magistria. Do you know the name of the river?”

“No.”

“The River of Coils,” said Mhralask. “Because of the serpents, you see. They are not natural creatures. A very long time ago, a dark elven prince called the Jeweler ruled over what is now the Qazaluuskan Forest. He wearied of his slaves escaping his realm, so he bred the serpents and stocked the river with them. One bite causes paralysis, and…”

“I saw. A deer came too close to the river.”

“A waste of good venison,” muttered one of the warriors.

“I’m not about to take a swim,” I said. “I will travel until I find a ford or another ferryman.”

“You will not find a ford, I fear,” said Mhralask. “You are at the midpoint of the river, more or less. It flows southwest until it comes to the great lake that borders on the kingdom of Mhorluusk. The river is swift and deep without a ford. If you head northeast, eventually you will come to the river’s headwaters in the mountains. You may be able to find a ford there, but the land is dangerous and frequently raided by kobolds, dvargir, and muridachs.”

“So I see,” I said. “Then I will find a different ferryman who is wise enough to accept gold.”

“Or,” said Mhralask, “you could hear what manner of favor I wish to ask. I am not so foolish to ask you to do something against your nature. Indeed, were we in Andomhaim, I suspect you would be eager to help me. Whatever oaths your order requires would demand it of you.”

“Then what kind of favor do you ask?” I said.

“Are you familiar with a creature called an ursaar?” said Mhralask.

“Yes.” More familiar than I would like. I had seen good men lose their lives to the fury of an ursaar’s talons. The dark elves had bred many war beasts in ancient days, creatures infused with their black sorcery. The urvaalgs were the most common, things that looked like ghastly hybrids of wolf and ape.

The ursaars were more dangerous by far.

The urdmordar disdained the war beasts of the dark elves and ignored them for the most part, and the creatures were too terrified to approach the dark majesty of the urdmordar. But sometimes urvaalgs and ursaars and other such horrors were drawn in the wake of an urdmordar, like scavengers following a mighty predator.

Many fighting men of Andomhaim had fallen to creatures following the urdmordar.

“There is an ursaar a short distance south of here,” said Mhralask, “near a sacred site to the faithful of Qazalask. Many pilgrims travel there, and merchant traffic frequently moves along that route to reach Qhazurhosk and the other towns of the south. Having an ursaar lurking in a sacred place of Qazalask is intolerable.”

“Why don’t you kill it yourself?” I said. “I can sense your power from here. I know you shamans know how to brew an oil that will wound an ursaar.”

“But you, Magistria, wield the magic commanded by the high elves in the days of old,” said Mhralask. “The creatures of the dark elves are vulnerable to such power. Rid me of this troublesome ursaar, and I shall ferry you across the river. Indeed, I shall provide you with additional supplies. If you intend to travel north beyond the boundaries of the forest, you shall enter a trackless and savage land, a place haunted by the ruins of lost kingdoms.”

I mulled it over. The shaman did have a point – in Andomhaim, I would have been duty-bound to battle the ursaar. Indeed, I would have welcomed such a fight.

Often fighting was the only time I ever really felt at peace.

“How far is the ursaar from here?” I said.

“Three miles south,” said Mhralask.

“Then we have an agreement,” I said. “Command your warriors to guard my animals, and you will conduct me to this sacred place. If this is a trap, or if you betray me, I will kill you with my own hands.”

“As it should be,” said Mhralask. “Come, Magistria. I shall show you the way.”

###

I kept a close eye on Mhralask as we headed south, expecting him to attack at any moment.

But he kept his word. He held his magic ready but did not direct his power toward me. Under other circumstances, that might have been suspicious. But the Qazaluuskan Forest was a dangerous place. Best to be ready for anything.

Besides, I held my own power ready as well.

“You are a long way from home,” said Mhralask.

I wanted to ask if he had just worked that out, but I held my tongue. Best not to aggravate him more than necessary. When I got annoyed, my mouth sometimes ran away with itself.

Maybe if I had been a little more persuasive, a little less angry, I might have been able to persuade the Magistri and the Swordbearers of the danger…

No. They didn’t understand. Not the way I did.

“Yes,” I said at last.

“A single word that speaks volumes,” said Mhralask. “Do you know you are the first human female I have spoken with?”

“Lucky you.”

“Is it common for human females to travel so far by themselves?” said Mhralask.

“No,” I said. “It’s not unheard of, but not common. But I am a Magistria. Matters are different when you can wield magic.” I thought occurred to me. “As you probably know already. I doubt all the chieftains would be happy to have you buying and selling in their lands if they were not afraid to lift their hands against a shaman of Qazalask.”

Mhralask let out a rumbling chuckle. “Indeed. Still, it has advantages for everyone. As I travel through the lands of the faithful of Qazalask, I hear much news, news which I share with the chieftains. I was one of the first of our people to see a human – two and a half centuries ago, I believe it was.”

“Two and a half centuries?” I said. “You’re not that old.”

But I doubted it even as I said it. The bone orcs wielded necromancy, and there were ways to extend one’s life through such dark powers.

Ways that made me want to send a blast of fire at Mhralask’s back.

God knows that he probably would have deserved it.

But he had not lifted his hand against me, and I still needed to get across the River of Coils.

“A kind thing to say,” said Mhralask. “Suffice it to say that I am older than I appear.”

Then he had to be ancient because he looked very old.

“Clean living, I’m sure,” I said.

“Indeed. I am curious…”

“No doubt.”

He continued as if I had not spoken. “I am curious why you have come all this way alone. You wield powerful magic, but an urdmordar is a dangerous foe.”

“Perhaps I shall be equal to her,” I said.

“Perhaps.” He gazed at the trees for a moment. “Are you exiled, I wonder? Or is this a mission of vengeance?”

He wanted to know what I was doing here and why I had done something as damned foolish as coming into the Qazaluuskan Forest alone. All at once, I was tired of the game, of the verbal fencing.

“Your people are enemies of the urdmordar?” I said.

“Since long before humans came to this land,” said Mhralask.

“Fine. If you want to know why I am here, listen. After we drove back the urdmordar from Caerdracon, I destroyed a temple ruled by spiderling priestesses. The spiderlings were the spawn of Xothalaxiar. Among their books and scrolls, I found what Xothalaxiar had been studying.”

“Studying?” said Mhralask. “The urdmordar do not use tools.”

“Xothalaxiar was different,” I said, remembering the city her priestesses had ruled. “She sought an ancient relic called the Dragonskull. It was created by lizardmen who ruled an empire far to the north of both Andomhaim and the Qazaluuskan Forest. Their empire fell, but the Dragonskull remains. Xothalaxiar went to find the damned thing. If she gets it, she’ll return and conquer Andomhaim with its power. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

We walked in silence for a minute or so.

The sense of dark magic around me grew stronger, but it wasn’t coming from Mhralask.

“I know something of what you speak,” said Mhralask at last. “The dark elves brought many different kindreds here during their wars against the high elves. The lizardmen you describe called themselves the xortami.”

“Xortami,” I said. I hadn’t yet heard their proper name.

“They destroyed themselves in the creation of a great artifact intended to grant them dominion over all their foes,” said Mhralask. “Now their empire is nothing more than a dangerous ruin. Their ambition exceeded their ability to grasp what they had taken. An instructive lesson, is it not?”

“If you decide to seek the Dragonskull yourself,” I said, “I will kill you.”

Mhralask let out a sound that might have been exasperation or perhaps amusement. “As I said, the ambition of the xortami exceeded their ability. I am not so foolish as to make the same mistake. Such a relic in the claws of an urdmordar would be a frightening thing indeed. So why have the lords of Andomhaim sent only one Magistria to hunt down Xothalaxiar?”

“Because they didn’t send me,” I said, the anger and regret pulsing through me. “They want peace. The war is over, the remaining urdmordar driven into hiding. The lords of Andomhaim thought Xothalaxiar a threat, aye, but one distant and far-removed.”

“Why didn’t they believe you?” said Mhralask.

“Because Xothalaxiar’s soldiers killed my father,” I said. I remembered weeping next to his body until Xothalaxiar’s arachar had dragged me away. “I spent the great war looking for her. She fled long before the other urdmordar did, probably because she was looking for the Dragonskull.”

“Your peers did not believe you,” said Mhralask. “They believed your mind was clouded by grief and rage and the desire for vengeance.”

I glared at him, but he was right. That was exactly what had happened. “Yes.”

“A pity. The urdmordar are never to be underestimated.” He pointed with his staff, the tusked skull swaying. “We are here.”

Ahead the trees thinned into a large clearing. A rocky hill dominated most of the space. It was a little too perfectly dome-shaped to be natural, and through the grass that covered the hill, I saw the rough boulders jutting from the soil. Someone had piled the boulders, and then dirt and grass had covered the hill in subsequent centuries. Built into the hill’s base was a rectangular stone arch built from massive, rough-hewn stones. A door filled the space, its surface carved with jagged glyphs.

Glyphs that glowed with the faint blue fire of dark magic.

I worked the spell to sense magical forces.

Necromantic magic radiated from the hill like heat from a blacksmith’s fire.

“This is the barrow of an Old One, isn’t it?” I said.

“It is,” said Mhralask. “Often pilgrims come here and offer sacrifices for the Old One’s wisdom. The ursaar has made its lair nearby. Naturally, it has begun preying upon those making the pilgrimage here.”

“Clever of it,” I said. The ursaar would have been drawn by the dark power around the barrow. Once it realized that bone orcs came here on a regular basis, the creature would lurk here and eat its fill. “If you didn’t worship necromantically animated corpses as heralds of your god, you wouldn’t have these kinds of problems.”

I wanted to see if Mhralask would take offense at that, but he only shrugged. “Qazalask gives his faithful many gifts. We must use those gifts to make our way in the world.”

“Which is why you have recruited a Magistria to kill the ursaar for you.”

He smiled his tusks. “I have a sturdy barge, and the Magistria wishes to cross the river. Is not commerce a more elegant solution to our dilemma than battle?”

I rolled my eyes. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one going into battle.

“Do you know where the ursaar has made its lair?” I said.

“It prefers to remain on the top of the hill,” said Mhralask. “Good fortune, Magistria.”

I sighed, gripped my staff, and started forward.

Soon I reached the base of the barrow, and I began to climb. The hill’s sides were both steep and curved, but I had no trouble keeping my balance, even with my staff. As I climbed, I cast a spell around myself, a ward of protection to augment my armor. Ursaars couldn’t use magic the way some of the other beasts of the dark elves could, so that wouldn’t be a threat.

Not that it needed magic to kill me. An ursaar weighed around eight hundred pounds, and I had heard tales of ones that had been nearly a thousand, though I had never seen ones quite that large. Despite the ursaar’s bulk, it would be quick, deadly quick, far faster than its size should otherwise allow.

If it caught me off guard, the creature would rip me to shreds before I could bring my magic to bear.

I reached the top of the barrow and looked around.

Despite the hill’s domed shape, the top of the barrow was mostly flat, and I had no trouble keeping my footing. A few scraggly bushes grew here, clinging to life in the thin soil covering the boulders. Bad luck for them, I suppose, to have their seeds land in a place like this.

Much like it had been bad luck for me to be born within reach of Xothalaxiar’s soldiers.

I felt the necromantic magic radiating from the soil beneath me, the malignant dark power of the Old One. Probably it was hibernating. I wondered if using the magic of the Well of Tarlion near the barrow would wake it up. I really didn’t want to fight an Old One – that might end my quest to stop Xothalaxiar long before I drew anywhere near her.

Other than me, the hilltop was absolutely deserted.

But I knew that was an illusion. I had been in many battles, and I could feel hostile eyes on me. It wasn’t a sensation you ever forgot. I eased a step forward. I could see why the ursaar would choose to make its lair atop the barrow. From here, it had a commanding view of the clearing and could see anyone who approached the barrow. Undoubtedly it had watched me approach, had seen me climb to the top of the hill.

Ursaars, like urvaalgs and most of the other creatures of the dark elves, were ambush hunters. They preferred to take their prey swiftly and unawares. But the ground behind me sloped and would be tricky footing for something even as agile as an ursaar.

I eased forward, gripping my staff and holding my magic, my heart thumping against my ribs. Despite that, I felt icy calm. Ever since my magic had first manifested and I had burned the arachar orcs who had come to drag me back to Xothalaxiar’s city, the only time I had ever really felt calm had been in a fight.

Well. And with a lover, if I’m honest. But there hadn’t been all that many of those.

I stopped in the center of the hill, closed my eyes, and listened.

The faint breeze whispering over the barrow.

The rustling of the grass and the low bushes.

And the rasp of a talon scraping against stone…

I whirled, throwing my full power into the attack, fusing the magic of the Well of Tarlion with elemental flame. A shaft of blazing yellow-white fire leaped from the end of my staff and stabbed across the hilltop.

Or it would have had it not struck something unseen that had been circling behind me.

Ursaars, like urvaalgs, can make themselves nearly invisible.

There was a flash and a growl of pain, and the ursaar’s stealth power collapsed beneath my magical attack. The creature became visible, and it looked as nightmarish as all the other ursaars I had fought since my magic had awakened and the Keeper had found me.

Imagine a bear with all its fur shaved. Then imagine that its hide isn’t pink but a slimy, greasy gray threaded through with black veins. Serrated black talons like daggers and fangs that could punch through steel plate armor. Its eyes burned like dying coals, and they glared at me over its fang-filled muzzle. As far as we knew, ursaars weren’t sapient the way that humans and orcs and halflings were, but they were devilishly clever hunters, cunning in a way that normal animals were not.

My magic had cut a line of charred, smoking flesh across the ursaar’s right shoulder and onto its back.

A normal animal, hurt that badly, would have fled.

The ursaar came right at me as I summoned magic for another spell. It knew that it was bigger than me, and if it bore me to the ground, it could rip me apart.

But I had already cast my spell, and I thrust my staff like a spear as the ursaar bounded towards me. The spell shaped a blade of elemental fire and the Well’s power from the end of my staff, and I plunged it into the ursaar’s opened jaws. There was a flash, a sizzling noise, the hideous smell of charred ursaar flesh, and the creature reared back, blood and smoke coming from its jaws.

The ursaar shook off its pain and lunged at me,

But I had seen the move coming, and I danced aside, using my staff as a pivot to help keep my balance. The ursaar moved with the kind of liquid agility that was terrifying to see in something so large, and it dove at me again.

My next spell was a sphere of elemental flame infused with the magic of the Well, and I aimed it for the creature’s right forelimb. I hit the joint, and the fire burned deep into it, ripping apart the corrupted flesh.

The ursaar lurched towards me, and I thrust my staff again, my magic transforming the end of the weapon into a blade of flame and power.

As the ursaar’s limb collapsed, it landed on its belly, and before it could rise again, the blade plunged through the armored bone of its skull and found its brain.

Ursaars were tough, but stabbing anything through the skull is a good way to kill it, and this creature was no different. It shuddered, its limbs going into a weird twitching dance as my magic burned away its brain and then went limp.

I wrenched my staff free, dismissing the spell, and I felt…

Disappointed.

I had hoped for a harder fight.

My hand tightened against my staff.

A harder fight awaited me when I finally found Xothalaxiar.

###

Two hours later, Mhralask and his men finished ferrying me across the River of Coils.

I led my pack horses onto the northern bank, checking the animals over. They had been twitchy during the crossing, but they hadn’t panicked. Mhralask had been as good as his word, and had provided me with food and wineskins to top off my supplies.

“Thank you, shaman,” I said, turning to face the black-robed orc. “Try to avoid any more ursaars. I won’t be around to kill them for you next time.”

“A moment, Magistria,” said Mhralask, stepping off the ferry to join me.

I tensed. If Mhralask wanted to betray me, now was an excellent time to do it.

“Yes?” I said, gathering my magic to strike.

“I would offer you one piece of counsel from a very old man,” said the shaman. “Perhaps you should consider turning back.”

I laughed. “So you can claim the Dragonskull for yourself, is that it?”

“I am not so foolish,” said Mhralask. “But you do not know the lands beyond the Qazaluuskan Forest. I do. The ruins of the xortami are deadly places, and even with all your power and skill, you may not return.”

“I must take that chance,” I said.

“Xothalaxiar will likely not survive,” said Mhralask. “Almost certainly she shall be killed in her quest for the Dragonskull.”

“I cannot risk it,” I said. “I must stop her.”

“You must stop her,” said Mhralask, “or you must avenge your father?”

“Does it matter which?” I said.

“You should go home,” said Mhralask. “Find a worthy husband and bear children. That will do more to bring you peace than this quest of vengeance.”

“Why do you care?” I said. “You’ve never seen me before today, and you’ll never see me again.”

“Because I am a very old man,” said Mhralask, “and I have seen that vengeance is a meal that does not ease hunger, nor is it a wine that can quench thirst. If you continue this path, death lies at the end of it.”

“Death lies at the end of all paths,” I said. “I know it all too well.”

“Then good fortune to you, Magistria,” said Mhralask.

I nodded to him and led my horses into the trees.

Xothalaxiar was not far ahead of me.

And when I found her, I would at last avenge my father.

Or she would kill me. Or maybe we would kill each other.

Either way, I would finally have peace.

THE END

Thank you for reading THE FIRST BARGAIN. The quest for the Dragonskull begins in DRAGONSKULL: SWORD OF THE SQUIRE (https://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=13944).

If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review at your ebook site of choice. To receive immediate notification of new releases, sign up for my newsletter (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854).

***

About the Author

USA Today bestselling author Jonathan Moeller has written over 130 novels, including the bestselling FROSTBORN, SEVENFOLD SWORD, DRAGONTIARNA and THE GHOSTS fantasy series, and the SILENT ORDER science fiction series. His books have sold over a million and a half copies worldwide.

Visit his website at:

http://www.jonathanmoeller.com

Email him at jmcontact@jonathanmoeller.com

You can sign up for his email newsletter here (http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/writer/?page_id=1854), or watch for news on his Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Jonathan-Moeller/328773987230189) or Twitter feed (https://twitter.com/moellerjonathan).

***