that.” Chidwick waved a languid arm towards Morden. “Take him and any personal effects you find. Burn the rest.”
Morden’s hand went instinctively to the pendant that hung round his throat. The orc’s grin widened, mistaking the gesture. Morden felt panic rise, tightening his chest. The massive orc spread his arms and advanced on him like he was a rooster about to bolt. But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped.
“I don’t suppose we could come to some kind of understanding, could we?” he managed.
Chidwick turned. His eyes narrowed and he stepped back to Morden. His hand went to Morden’s pendant. “Let it go,” ordered Chidwick and Morden let the chain hang. Chidwick raised the pendant and examined it. Was that a glint of recognition that Morden saw in Chidwick’s eyes? Chidwick let it drop and spun around. “Burn it all. Quickly.”
Chidwick’s men produced oil cans and sloshed the liquid around liberally. Some surreptitiously pocketed various knick knacks before they became doused. The air became thick with fumes and Morden found it increasingly hard to breathe, made harder when the orc wrapped his knotted arms around him and lifted him clean off his feet. The orc slung him over his shoulder to carry him out of the room. There seemed little point in struggling. Morden watched the soldiers efficiently strip and douse his empire.
“Anyone got a light?” asked one soldier.
“Didn’t you bring one, Gunther?”
“Not me. I quit two weeks ago. The missus made me.”
“I’ve got one. Just a sec.”
The last thing Morden saw of his throne room was a lick of flame that quickly spread and engulfed his throne. It looked like a plaything now, burning fiercely. The soldiers beat a hasty retreat as the flames caught and they were all soon outside. Morden could see Chidwick talking to Brother Limpole, who was shaking his head somewhat dispiritedly. Brother Limpole had been one of Morden’s closest friends among the Brothers; a borderline alcoholic, he had always been happy to take back-handers and look the other way. Morden would miss him.
While Chidwick settled whatever business he had with the Brothers – Morden’s sharp eye caught sight of a purse, and what he suspected was a bottle of Krinth spirit, pass from Chidwick to Limpole – the soldiers loaded a cart with swag. Then Morden was rather unceremoniously thrown on top. He landed badly, his knee banging against a barrel of yeast. A yelp of pain escaped his lips. They hadn’t bound him – he guessed there was little point as there was nowhere to run – so he pushed and tugged the pile of bits and bobs in attempt to make a comfortable seat.
“Sorry.”
Morden looked up to see the orc standing watching him. The soldiers had formed up behind the cart and were paying him little interest; the scrabble of the town’s fire militia and the burning brewery were far more interesting.
“Sorry?” enquired Morden of the orc. “Are you talking to me?”
“I’m sorry if I hurt you when I threw you on the cart,” said the orc, “but I’ve got a job to do.”
For an orc built like a terrace of houses it was an odd comment. “You’re an orc, aren’t you?” said Morden.
This seemed to startle the orc. He looked back over his shoulder and then leaned forward somewhat conspiratorially.
“Shhh,” hissed the orc. “Don’t say anything or you might blow my cover.”
It was Morden’s turn to be startled. An undercover orc?
“You are kidding?” Morden hadn’t heard something so ridiculous since – well, since he had found out he was a Dark Lord in being.
“Keep it down,” whispered the orc, bringing a fat finger to his over large mouth.
“But…”
“But what?”
“Well, look at you.”
“What about me?”
“How many men have tree trunk legs and look like they’ve been hit square in the face with a plank?”
“I tell them I’m a big boned giant.”
“What about the green skin? You think they believe you?”
“I
Morden’s hand went instinctively to the pendant that hung round his throat. The orc’s grin widened, mistaking the gesture. Morden felt panic rise, tightening his chest. The massive orc spread his arms and advanced on him like he was a rooster about to bolt. But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped.
“I don’t suppose we could come to some kind of understanding, could we?” he managed.
Chidwick turned. His eyes narrowed and he stepped back to Morden. His hand went to Morden’s pendant. “Let it go,” ordered Chidwick and Morden let the chain hang. Chidwick raised the pendant and examined it. Was that a glint of recognition that Morden saw in Chidwick’s eyes? Chidwick let it drop and spun around. “Burn it all. Quickly.”
Chidwick’s men produced oil cans and sloshed the liquid around liberally. Some surreptitiously pocketed various knick knacks before they became doused. The air became thick with fumes and Morden found it increasingly hard to breathe, made harder when the orc wrapped his knotted arms around him and lifted him clean off his feet. The orc slung him over his shoulder to carry him out of the room. There seemed little point in struggling. Morden watched the soldiers efficiently strip and douse his empire.
“Anyone got a light?” asked one soldier.
“Didn’t you bring one, Gunther?”
“Not me. I quit two weeks ago. The missus made me.”
“I’ve got one. Just a sec.”
The last thing Morden saw of his throne room was a lick of flame that quickly spread and engulfed his throne. It looked like a plaything now, burning fiercely. The soldiers beat a hasty retreat as the flames caught and they were all soon outside. Morden could see Chidwick talking to Brother Limpole, who was shaking his head somewhat dispiritedly. Brother Limpole had been one of Morden’s closest friends among the Brothers; a borderline alcoholic, he had always been happy to take back-handers and look the other way. Morden would miss him.
While Chidwick settled whatever business he had with the Brothers – Morden’s sharp eye caught sight of a purse, and what he suspected was a bottle of Krinth spirit, pass from Chidwick to Limpole – the soldiers loaded a cart with swag. Then Morden was rather unceremoniously thrown on top. He landed badly, his knee banging against a barrel of yeast. A yelp of pain escaped his lips. They hadn’t bound him – he guessed there was little point as there was nowhere to run – so he pushed and tugged the pile of bits and bobs in attempt to make a comfortable seat.
“Sorry.”
Morden looked up to see the orc standing watching him. The soldiers had formed up behind the cart and were paying him little interest; the scrabble of the town’s fire militia and the burning brewery were far more interesting.
“Sorry?” enquired Morden of the orc. “Are you talking to me?”
“I’m sorry if I hurt you when I threw you on the cart,” said the orc, “but I’ve got a job to do.”
For an orc built like a terrace of houses it was an odd comment. “You’re an orc, aren’t you?” said Morden.
This seemed to startle the orc. He looked back over his shoulder and then leaned forward somewhat conspiratorially.
“Shhh,” hissed the orc. “Don’t say anything or you might blow my cover.”
It was Morden’s turn to be startled. An undercover orc?
“You are kidding?” Morden hadn’t heard something so ridiculous since – well, since he had found out he was a Dark Lord in being.
“Keep it down,” whispered the orc, bringing a fat finger to his over large mouth.
“But…”
“But what?”
“Well, look at you.”
“What about me?”
“How many men have tree trunk legs and look like they’ve been hit square in the face with a plank?”
“I tell them I’m a big boned giant.”
“What about the green skin? You think they believe you?”
“I
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