The River Ghasts of Lid and Other Stories

Ancient and Dangerous - 3

When he first woke, he had no idea what had happened.

Then he remembered, and wondered if he was dead.

I would feel better than this if I was, he thought. Fuck. I feel rough.

He was dizzy and nauseas, and lying face down on earth. He rolled on to his back, wincing from the pain of a hundred cuts and bruises, and tried to guess where he was.

There was a dim grey light. It looked like he was in – what, a cave? It smelt of wood and sap though, so maybe not. He lay there for a few minutes, breathing, enjoying simply resting his weary body.

Come on soldier, he thought. You've had worse hangovers than this. You may have men out there, and you need to get up. Get up!

He grunted, and pulled himself up to sit. The ceiling was low, low enough that he wouldn't be able to stand. He reached up, and ran his hand along it. Wood, indeed, but not carved, rough like a tree trunk. He looked around. He had nothing with him, except for a leather vambrace that must have fallen off. His breastplate was still on but in tatters, the other vambrace was missing, only a single greave remained. He thought about taking the breastplate off, but it hurt so much to adjust that he decided against it. He picked up the vambrace and tied it to his right forearm. At least it's all leather, he thought. Nice and quiet, no bits of metal sticking into me.

But, a glimmer of hope: his knife was still on his belt, undamaged. He pulled it out, held it in his right hand, felt the balance of it. He smiled: an angry, savage smile.

Ancient and dangerous. Come on then. Should have killed me when you had the chance.

He seemed to be in a sort of chamber or cell, with a single exit. He crawled towards it, knife ahead, and was surprised to find there was no barrier. He squeezed through, and found himself in a tunnel, more wood and earth. The light was coming from above: it was really a trench, boxed over with roots, and the early morning sun was filtering through them. He shivered. It was cold.

He heard a groan. It sounded familiar.

'Jonit?' he hissed.

'Sarge?'

'Can you move?'

'Yeah, I think so. Hang on.'

Seconds later, Jonit had crawled out of another chamber and was face to face with him, crouched down in the trench.

'Glad to see you, sarge.'

'Me too, Jonit.'

They touched fists.

'How's the shoulder?'

'I can manage. What's the plan?'

What indeed? Pigeon looked up. The roots didn't look that thick; but he didn't fancy being strangled again. Perhaps there was a way out along the trench, but that didn't seem very likely. This seemed to be designed as a prison. He reached up to test his knife against the ceiling.

'I wouldn't bother.'

The voice was tired but, despite it all, dripped with contempt.

He turned as quickly as he could. In front of him, bent nearly double, was an elf.

'And why not?'

'Because this place is laced with magic. You have no idea what you'd set off. And it doesn't seem to distinguish my kind from yours, despite how foul you are.'

The elf was obviously an officer, and his tattered clothes looked like they had once been expensive. He had a silver circlet around his wrist, and another around his calf.

'He's right, sarge,' whispered Jonit.

'There you are. Your filthy shaman has some wits, at least.'

Pigeon nodded, and returned his knife to his belt.

'You got a better idea, then?'

The elf laughed bitterly.

'Whatever it is, it will not involve you, orc.'

Pigeon had been on the run for nearly four days. He was tired, in pain, and he had watched friends die and sent others to their deaths. He actually couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal.

And this arrogant elf laughing at him expended the very last of his patience.

His huge hands shot out, grabbed the elf's throat and head, his green fingers wrapped around a white neck. He pulled his face close so that he could see the pale blue irises, the pupils tiny with fear, the blond hair disarrayed.

'We,' he spat, 'were on a diplomatic mission. My squad was protecting diplomats. We wanted peace. We knew you lot had genocided most of the other peoples between this forest and the White Sea, but we also knew you wouldn't come through here. We thought that perhaps you would see sense, start trading. You know what our Senate said? Hope for peace, but be ready for war. We shouldn't have bothered hoping.

'Because some elf prince came out, spoke a dozen words to our diplomats, and then rode away. And then seconds later, the arrows came flying. You had no interest in anything other than your own superiority. All you wanted was orc blood on the ground. All you wanted was deaths.

'And we fled, hoping that was it. But it wasn't enough for you. Not enough death. So you chased us, hunted us like vermin.

'But we are not the animals you think we are. We are smarter than you, and we are stronger than you, and I killed your entire squad because you were too arrogant to think an orc could fool an elf.

'So this is how it works. You can choose. Help us get out of here and maybe we will leave in peace. Or I will tear you apart, here and now, and I will use your intestines to make a harp; and every night I will play a song on my new gut harp about how much I hate elves.

'Which is it?'

The elf swallowed. Pigeon could feel the movement of his throat under his fingers. He squeezed a little more.

'I'll help.'

He released the elf, and threw him to the ground.

'Smart choice. Jonit, tell us what you can see.'

Jonit nodded, and started whispering a wind song. He looked at the elf, who was sitting on the ground, staring at them sullenly. He broke off suddenly to speak.

'You shouldn't have worried. He was lying. He can't play the harp. He would have just killed you.'

'Shut up.'

Jonit grinned, and got back on with his wind spell.