Swordmage by Richard Baker Read Free Book Online

wise to have one of the battle-sorcerers or priests of Gruumsh test the spells that ensured his guards’ loyalty. If, of course, he could find a spellcaster other than Sutha that he trusted.
    No matter, he told himself. The game was to remain chief as long as he could, father a son strong enough to succeed him, and try not to kill the whelp—or let the whelp kill him—before he was ready. But that day was still many long years off.
    The warchief marched into the keep’s great hall, a long, low-ceilinged room with thick pillars holding up a simple masonry vault. Four heavy braziers full of red-glowing coals illuminated the room. The walls were bedecked with the trophies the tribe had taken over the years—the crudely preserved skulls of hundreds of enemies, steeped in a crimson dye so that they always looked as if they were fresh and gory. Dwarves, humans, goblins, ores, ogres, gnolls, even a handful of giants, all were represented among the dangling bones. The tribe’s priests knew the story of each one. Some were mighty enemies the Bloody Skulls had bested. Some were enemies known to have fallen beneath the axe or spear of a legendary Bloodskull chief or champion. But most expressed contempt, not respect. The skulls of women and children taken near places such as Glister or Hulburg or Thentia cluttered the walls, mocking enemies too weak to defend their families and homesteads from Bloodskull raids. Scores of ore warriors and their women slept in this room, and they were just beginning to stir when Mhurren and his guards made their appearance. “Kai! The warchief! The warchief!” shouted the Skull Guards as they kicked and prodded careless ores out of the way.
    Mhurren threw himself into the thronelike seat on its dais at the end of the hall, one hand resting on a short sword at his side. More than once he’d been attacked in that very seat, and he’d learned to keep steel close at hand. He surveyed the warriors in the hall for a moment and spotted one that
    would do. “Huwurth, take five spears and bring the Vaasan,” he commanded. “Tell him that I summon him, and that I am ready to hear him out. Give him time to make himself ready, and let him bring two hands of bodyguards if he wants. If he wants more than that, tell him no. Come back if he refuses.”
    Huwurth, a young warleader, nodded. “I go, warchief,” he said. Despite his youth he was quite clever and patient, a rare combination. He gathered five warriors from his band and led them from the hall. Huwurth was smart enough to ignore almost any offense the humans might give, as long as he was doing Mhurren’s bidding. Others among the Bloodskull warleaders and berserkers simply couldn’t have walked into that camp without finding some mortal quarrel with a human who met the eye too long, or looked away too quickly, or turned his back, or found some new way to invite a battle.
    Mhurren composed himself to wait, brooding with his chin on his fist as he studied the warriors watching him. There was a small commotion off to his right, and the warpriest Tangar appeared with his group of acolytes. To become a priest of Gruumsh, He Who Watches, a priest had to pluck out an eye, so Tangar and his followers each wore a thick leather patch stitched to cheek and brow. Evidently the warpriest had hurried from his chambers, for his acolytes were still busy fitting his armor plate to him as he strode into the room. Doubtless Tangar could not abide the idea of Mhurren holding court without him present. “You send for the Vaasan?” the cleric demanded.
    The warchief frowned. “I will hear him out, priest,” he answered. He didn’t like the idea of Gruumsh’s priest hovering over his shoulder, but there was little he could do about it. He decided to occupy himself by tending to a chief’s duties and looked to the nearest Skull Guard. “I will hold judgment,” he said. “Does any warrior here have a quarrel to lay before me?”
    A hale, scar-faced warrior came