Mortal Consequences: Forgotten Realms (Netheril Trilogy Book 3) by Clayton Emery

Author:Clayton Emery [Emery, Clayton]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786963935
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2012-09-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Toch swung his club backhanded and smashed Kab across the snout. Tumbling down the hillside, rolling in dust, the wounded ore sprawled to a halt, clutched a blood-spurting nose, and slobbered, “What that for?”

The larger ore wasn’t finished. Toch crabbed down the slope, raised his obsidian-studded club, and thumped Kab repeatedly.

“No noise, I says! Quiet, I says! But you, you burp at wrong time and chase off game!”

Toch vented his anger with more blows. Other ores squatted on their heels and picked at stones, or scratched lice, careful to avoid catching hell. Kab wailed and howled and screamed, thrashing limbs, as Toch beat and kicked every inch of the ore’s gray, warty skin.

Finally Toch’s arm tired, and he threw the club down in disgust. With filthy, cracked nails he scaled the slope again, plunked his tusked jaw atop the rise, and glared at the world. The goats had bounded up to higher slopes, out of reach. Toch was so hungry he could eat rocks. Perhaps he should beat Kab more, tenderize the meat, then eat it. It would teach the others to follow orders and maintain silence on the hunt. He hoped a female gave birth soon. Baby ores made excellent stew, and he could keep it all to himself. That was one good reason for dragging along females. They were always pregnant.

Stomach growling, Toch stood on the hummock under an overcast sky, and tried to guess which way to go next. Like many Icebeast Ores, he was tall, almost six feet, with long limbs and hands that could break bones. With the approach of winter, gray hair thickened on his hide like a mountain pony’s. His head was a rat’s nest of lank black hair, but he still wore a steel helmet and a tattered smock of stout gray wool that retained the faded sigil of the One King, a red hand with fingers splayed. The paint had mostly cracked off.

He remembered, vaguely, belonging to the One King’s army. How the chief ores had said they’d be well-fed, have huts and villages instead of wilderness and badlands, how they’d live among humans and share their wealth as long as they didn’t kill anyone. Details were fuzzy, but he remembered fine food: fresh-killed beef, apples from orchards, wriggling eels from stocked ponds, even real bread such as ores could never bake, and whole barrels of wine that made his head spin and his feet crazy. He licked gray lips at the memory. Life had been good under the One King. Lots of food, steel weapons, not much fighting, plenty of naps, fires under roofs at night.

Then it ended. They claimed the One King was dead, burned by a dragon, or overrun by enemies. Or that he’d gone to sleep in the catacombs. Or that he’d shunned the ores because they didn’t work and fight and kill enough to suit his bloodthirsty ways. Or that they were too quarrelsome for his ideas of peace. Memories were muddled in his dim brain, but the One King had been good.

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