Malcomb mumbled a mantra in the hope it might help him sell one of his maps. Business had been miserable. If he didn't sell something soon, he couldn't afford to pay his booth rental. His family had paid a burdensome price to have him tutored by the most talented dwarven cartographers. He shuddered to imagine what it would do to his family if he failed them. Although he didn't mind being a common miner like his ancestors, he loved maps. There was something about inking a fresh parchment that connected him with history and the future. It was like passing along something of himself.
Maybe the arrival of the thousands of gnomes for the festival would stimulate sales. The gnomish tourists were notorious scavengers, searching out abandoned tunnels for living space and any discarded articles they could scrounge. Some races accused them of taking things before the previous owner threw discarded them. Everything had value to the gnomes, from traces of low-grade ore to castaway tools and tunnels. Malcomb suspected his maps would be worth the few coins that he charged, especially if they helped the gnomes locate recently abandoned tunnels.
Malcomb's attention fixed on a blonde toddler playing in the barrel-shaped entry of the distant residence. An instant later he spotted a shadowy figure loping down the street toward the boy. At first Malcomb couldn't believe his eyes, but the greenish-yellow tone of the dark shape's skin was unmistakable. It was an orc and it rushed straight toward the child. He first wondered how a bloodthirsty orc had managed to slip past the patrols of shadow warriors, but reality came crushing down on him. The street stood deserted except the three of them. It was up to him to save the lad. Malcomb strained to extend his stride under the ax's heavy load before abandoning his armload of maps.
He didn't relish the idea of facing an armed orc barehanded. He could hardly lift the ax with both hands. He glanced around for a makeshift weapon as he ran. Nothing!
The orc's mouth foamed between its beak-like lips as it grunted, what sounded like, orc curses. It carried an arm-length, yellowed jawbone and brandished it at the child. Malcomb couldn't see the beast's squinting eyes, but he knew they must be as yellow as its teeth. It wore the hollowed skull of a cave bear for a helmet, which hid most of its features. Long dagger-like golden fangs, jutting from the helmet's upper jaw, gave the orc's snarling mouth added ferocity.
The orc was nearly on the boy. The tot's eyes widened, and he screamed when he noticed the creature racing toward him. The beast was easily twice Malcomb's stature.
Malcomb wrestled the giant's ax free of the leather straps. It was so heavy he wasn't sure he could swing it, but it was all he had. The dwarf skidded to a halt into the narrow entry a breath ahead of the orc.
It roared, seeing Malcomb blocking its way.
To Malcomb's surprise he hoisted the ax above his head. Somehow it didn't feel so brutally heavy. It must be the strength of my fear. The dwarf swung the ax in a downward arc.
The orc sidestepped the sluggish blow and attempted to slip past Malcomb's right to grab the infant. Fortunately, the child had crawled back toward the doorway. He rammed the ax's metal handle into the orc's belly, pinned its muscular body against the red marble entry, and hammered the orc with his fists. The creature squealed, jerked free, and retreated two steps.
It stood there for a moment snarling. Malcomb used the seconds to throw the ax back over his head. This time he'd put more muscle in the swing, but the orc had other ideas. It feigned a rush to the left and swerved to the right again. Malcomb already had the ax coming down when he saw it was a diversion. If he didn't do something quickly, the orc would grab the boy.
He released the ax, threw out an arm, and grabbed the orc's throat. The ax crashed to the ground, sending chips of paving stones splintering across the street. The orc's weight hammered Malcomb backwards. With his free hand Malcomb grabbed the child and shoved him out of reach. Warm orc slobber dribbled down Malcomb's face as the beast strained to reach the child.
The orc roared, his breath blasting Malcomb with the stench of onions. That didn't make sense. Malcomb struggled to restrain the beast and rammed one of the child's stone blocks into its mouth. Onions, even fresh ones, made orcs nauseous, to say nothing of the stomach pains and gas.
He felt something rip at his left arm, but he didn't dare look. He jerked his legs up, planted them firmly in the orc's chest, and sent the beast hurtling backward onto the street's pavement.
The tunnel echoed with shouts. The frantic bawling of the child could barely be heard over the war cries and curses of the orc. Malcomb didn't realize it, but his own shouts nearly matched those of the orc. Why hadn't at least one of the neighbors hadn't come to investigate. Had everyone left for the market?
Malcomb heard the door behind him creak open. A feminine arm darted out and grabbed the baby. The door slammed shut, and he heard the granite locking dowel thud into the recessed passage threshold. He stood alone, face to face with the disoriented orc. At least the child was safe, if only temporarily.
Malcomb grabbed his ax as the orc growled and scrambled to its feet. Tossing the ax over his shoulder, he spotted another yellowish shape racing down the street toward him. Dozens of smaller figures rounded the corner, trailing the second orc. He suspected the rest were, too. He had one chance: to kill the first orc before the others reached him and beg the woman to let him inside.
The first orc lunged forward, faking an attack from the right and darting to the left. This time the dwarf was ready. The lead orc staggered under Malcomb's shattering blow. It's bone helmet split in two, and the orc fell into a sprawling heap in the street, dead.
The second orc didn't hesitate. It lunged over the first's body. Malcomb windmilled the stone ax and slapped the orc's ribs with the flat of the black stone blade. The beast squealed, staggered backward, tripped over its dead companion, and stumbled to the ground.
Malcomb glanced up the street toward the mass of onrushing silhouettes. By now, he could make out the faces of several dozen dwarfs charging down the street. They shouted anxiously, waving their empty hands.
Are they out of their minds? Malcomb checked their empty hands in disbelief. Without weapons this orc would slaughter them all.
The second orc staggered to its feet, glanced back at the approaching dwarfs, and then toward Malcomb. To Malcomb's amazement it didn't take the beast more than a second to decide. It grunted an odd squeal and raced down the street away from the crowd.
Malcomb pursued. Being the only armed man in the group, he had to make sure it didn't change its mind and turn on his neighbors.
He was about to finish off the second orc when he heard someone shout. "Stop! In the name of your ancestors, what are you doing?"
Malcomb lowered the ax and stumbled to a halt. Suddenly the weapon felt unbearably heavy. He watched as the panicked orc disappeared into the darkness.
"What's got into you, Malcomb Malacek? Have you lost your mind?" The older dwarf's face appeared flushed with anger. Malcomb recognized Master Bitweller, a well-respected leader of the local mining guild.
"You saw him," another shouted. "If we hadn't stopped him, he would have butchered them both."
Malcomb couldn't believe his ears. "Death is the only thing that will stop them once they get the scent of a defenseless victim." He took a step toward them, and several of his neighbors retreated. "Of all these citizens, you should know that, Master Bitweller."
A chubby man carrying a crooked staff pushed his way through the crowd. "What are you yammering about?"
Malcomb suddenly remembered that his neighbors hadn't seen the first orc attack the infant. "They were after the toddler. If I hadn't been here, they would have torn the child limb from limb. Go back and ask the woman. She'll verify my story."
"I saw no child. If that's true, couldn't you have shooed them away?" the man carrying the herdsman's staff demanded.
Malcomb shook his head in disgust. "What is the matter with you? Have you lost your senses? Everyone knows you can't turn a pack of bloodthirsty orcs by waving your arms in the air. If I hadn't chased the second one off, it might have turned on you. You wouldn't have held it back with that flimsy staff. It would have murdered the lot of you."
"Orcs! Were there orcs? Where?" one of the dwarfs asked.
Several of the men glanced nervously around the narrow tunnel. "None of our sentries reported seeing orcs in our lower tunnels! Which way did they go?"
"It's more of his ridiculous excuses." The red-faced herdsman pointed an accusing finger at Malcomb. "He's lying again."
The crowd gasped. Calling a dwarf a liar was the ultimate insult. Clan wars had started over lesser slanders.
"There isn't a single orc closer than Wrath," the herdsman growled. "We haven't seen their kind near Marble Hollow in a century."
Malcomb stomped toward the herdsman. "No one smears the Malaceks' name without a fight."
"Look out, Pygidium," one of the dwarfs warned, twirling a finger around his ear. "He's not all there. He's liable to butcher you with no more concern than he showed for the poor defenseless creatures."
"Defenseless? " Malcomb's eyes narrowed but his glare never left the herdsman.
"I don't care if he thinks he's a cave swallow." Pygidium leveled his staff toward Malcomb's chest. "This runt has got a rude awakening coming if he thinks I'll stand around and watch him slaughter my breeding stock. What does he expect, for me to pay him a butcher's fee?"
Bitweller grabbed Malcomb's shoulders and pushed him back. Another did the same with the herdsman.
Bitweller tried to defuse the building tension. "I'm sure Pygidium didn't mean it like it sounded. He's angry and overheated by our chase. Give young Malacek a chance. I'm sure the boy can explain. His ancestors are an honorable clan."
"I would have caught it if you hadn't stopped me." Malcomb pointed down the tunnel toward where he'd seen the fleeing shape vanish up the tunnel.
"Are you going to tell us that the orcs were here before my swine?" The herdsman grinned at his neighbors. "You don't seriously believe we'll swallow such a wild tale."
Malcomb glared at the herdsman a second before what he'd said sank in. "I didn't see any pigs. Surely, even you must have seen that second orc. If we hurry, we still might catch it. I may have broken a few of its ribs."
"I told you he's insane!" A dwarf poked Malcomb in the chest, all the while backing away. "He couldn't miss your pigs."
The herdsman stepped forward and raised his arm to strike Malcomb, but one of Malcomb's neighbors grabbed his wrist. "Don't lose your temper, Pygidium. If he has wronged you, the council of elders will make him pay, in gold. Don't throw that away for a single moment of revenge."
"He's right," another added. "If you strike him in anger, the Elders could consider that his punishment and payment in full for his crime."
"This one of the cursed Malacek clan," still another added. "Didn't you see the stone ax he carries? By law, the curse of his forefathers will fall on your shoulders if you dare harm him."
"That's terrific," Pygidium snapped. "Are you going to release him just because his family is cursed? That isn't dwarven justice. I demand satisfaction."
"I didn't do anything!" Malcomb searched the crowd for a single sympathetic face.
"Do you deny slaughtering my swine?"
Malcomb nodded.
"If so, what in the name of your ancestors is that?" The herdsman jerked his arm free of his neighbor's grip and pointed toward the doorway of the toddler's home.
"In the name of the holy stones, how did that get there?" Malcomb stared back at the crumpled body lying on the cobbled street. Suddenly speechless, he tried to figure out what had happened. The sight of the mangled corpse of the boar resting in the entry to the home where the dead orc had lain only minutes earlier wrenched his stomach. Pig blood trickled down the gutter toward them.
"Go ahead," Pygidium demanded. "You can't explain that away with more lies about orcs. That's my prized boar, or were my neighbors and I seeing an illusion when they witnessed you split its skull?"
"Right, explain that!" someone at the rear of the crowd taunted.
"I suppose you're going to tell me that you mistook my prizewinning hog for a club-wielding orc." Pygidium's angry grin sent a chill down Malcomb's back as muffled chuckles drifted from his neighbors.
Malcomb's response was almost inaudible. "It's a pig?"
"Does that look like an orc to you, or are you blind as well as being a liar?" Pygidium accused.
Malcomb grabbed at Pygidium, but Bitweller jerked him back. "Control your tongue, citizen, or you'll have to fight me and the boy. Anger is no excuse for not keeping a civil tongue. The next time you insult the boy's character, I'm letting him have you. Is that clear?"
"Wait!" someone from the back of the crowd said. "Pygidium has a point. The boy deserves to be flogged, maybe even exiled from the hollow. Does he really think we're going to believe that crazy talk about orcs trying to kill a child? I never saw a baby."
Malcomb's chin dropped to his chest.
"Neither did I," another chimed.
"Let Pygidium teach the little criminal a lesson!" a dwarf shouted. "No one will testify for him."
"I will," Bitweller warned.
"I swear: There was a child." Malcomb's voice trailed off into silence. If there was no orc, could he also mistaken about the toddler?
"He may deserve a beating and more," the gray-bearded Bitweller announced to the assembly. "Nevertheless, let the Council determine his punishment. Otherwise, you may be doomed to suffer his blisters on your feet."
"Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen." A woman, carrying the blonde baby, approached the mob. "It's not my place to tell you what to do, but I saw the whole thing. It would be wrong to punish this boy. I was upstairs cleaning the windows when I saw this man's pigs come squealing down the street toward my son. There was no way I could reach my baby before the pigs. If it hadn't been for this young man, they might have killed my only child. From what I saw, he's a hero, not a criminal."
"He nearly wiped out my breeding stock," the herdsman yelled. "He didn't have to butcher them. I'll be lucky to catch the sow if he didn't break all her ribs. If he's so innocent, why did he lie to us about seeing an orc raiding party?"
"I saw no orcs, but those pigs headed straight toward my son," stated the mother. "I've never seen pigs so crazed with anger."
Pygidium turned to his neighbors for support. "See, she didn't see any orcs either, and she was here all along."
"There must have been orcs," Malcomb mumbled and glanced around for proof. There was none; no discarded weapons, no armor, no skull helmets, nothing. "I saw them, but I never saw your pigs. I wish I could, but I'm at a loss to explain this."
"The lad is daft," one of the elder dwarfs whispered to his neighbor.
"His goats are loose in his attic," another said and nodded.
The woman leveled her finger at the herdsman's chest. "This boy saved my baby from your pigs! What were they doing running loose in the streets in the first place?"
A miner nodded. "You do have an obligation to keep an eye on your livestock."
"How did they manage to get out of the market if you were doing your job?" Bitweller asked.
Pygidium wiped the sweat from his brow. It had apparently been a long, hard run from the square. "Don't try to turn this around to place the blame on me. I wasn't the one who smashed its skull. They broke out of their pen in Market Square. There was a hole under the fence. I'd just fed them a shovel of spoiled onions, when I stopped to barter with a potential customer. When I turned back, they'd squeezed under the wall."
Bitweller hoisted a brow. "So, you were partly to blame?"
Pygidium glanced around. "It wasn't my fault. It's the hollow's responsibility to maintain the market perimeter and the livestock pens."
"Bitweller is right about one thing," agreed one of the miners. "We should let the council settle this, and sort out the facts. It must be a misunderstanding. No Malacek would act so callously toward another dwarf's property, even if it was going after a child."
A merchant patted Pygidium's shoulder. "We'll help you find the sow, Pygidium. Maybe its injuries aren't too severe."
"Do you think the Council will force the brat's family to pay for my livestock?" Malcomb heard Pygidium ask as the heavyset pig herdsman wobbled away.
"If they find him guilty, they'll force him to pay double their market value. They'll probably compensate you for lost breeding for the sow as well." Malcomb's neighbor's voice faded into the distance.
Most of the crowd followed the herdsman while others drifted up the street back toward the market.
Malcomb felt Bitweller's hand on his shoulder. "Despite what this young woman says, you'll have to explain your actions to the Council. I'm sorry, but that's the law."
"I wish I could explain, but I'm beginning to wonder myself. I would have sworn they were orcs. They wore skull helmets and carried jawbones. You have to believe me. I'd never intentionally dishonor my family's name."
The man shook his head and studied the dead pig. "I'm sorry, son. I didn't see anything except you hacking away at his swine. If there were orcs, they were invisible to these old eyes. I thought you'd gone insane. This young woman's testimony is your only logical defense."
Malcomb shook his head and mopped his forehead. Despite the cool morning breeze, he too felt the tension.
"Would you let me offer a little advice, son?"
"I could use more than a little, Master Bitweller. I've never stood before the elders."
Bitweller scratched his receding hairline. "If I were in your boots, I'd avoid mentioning the orcs to the Elders. Even if I believed I'd seen them. Unless they question you directly, I'd tell them that the pigs were attacking the child."
Malcomb shook his head at the suggestion. "Wouldn't that be dishonest?"
"We're all bound by honor to speak only the truth, but there's no need to incriminate yourself. No one is going to believe your story about orcs. An orc's shadow hasn't darkened the ground of Marble Hollow in four centuries."
Malcomb nodded. "I appreciate your concern, but I really did see them."
"Don't say anything more that would incriminate yourself, even to me," Bitweller replied. "If Pygidium calls me for his witness, the elders would make me repeat everything."
Malcomb glanced at Bitweller, then back toward the dead hog. Now he understood why the herdsman was so bitter. A breeding boar like this could have sired hundreds of piglets. How he could have mistaken the black and white Hampshire for a green-skinned orc? It didn't even walk on its hind legs, yet it lay dead exactly where he'd killed the first orc. Am I going mad?
"The elders will have no choice but to banish you from Marble Hollow if you keep talking crazy," Bitweller warned. "I know your father and grandfather. If you're as bright as the rest of your family, you won't mention the orcs again."
"I'll keep that in mind." Malcomb watched Bitweller turn and follow Pygidium down the tunnel.
"Oh my, look at your arm!" The woman, who'd been gathering Malcomb's discarded maps and scrolls, grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward her house. "You're bleeding. Come into our home, and let me dress your wounds. It looks like one of his hogs tried to take a chunk out of your arm. You'll need it cleaned before it becomes infected."
"There's no need. Your neighbors are liable to talk, taking a stranger into your home with your husband away."
"Nonsense, don't be as pigheaded as Pygidium," the woman scolded.