One of the orcs approached him, tapped his chest with his fist by way of greeting, and gestured to ask what he was doing among them again.
He shifted, pulled a few strands of blond hair from his face, and made sure his men were unloading the supplies before he replied to the question. "We've come looking for a dwarf who was said to have come to your island."
The orc narrowed his eyes, shook his head, and asked what that was.
"A…have you never seen a dwarf before?"
A shake of the head provided a simple answer.
"They look like humans but are shorter, uglier, and smell of smoke and bad cheese," Samor explained. "This one would be smaller than most, and he traveled with a human who is larger than most."
After a moment of thought, the orc nodded and spoke again in their silent sign language. The tribe had seen the large and the small human. They were brought ashore by the chieftain and headed off to kill the lizard creatures.
These beasts had plagued the area for a while, but if the chieftain had elected to escort a human and a dwarf, the chances were that enough would be killed to leave the roads clear for a few days at least. Not that he would trust that reasoning but he would work with it in mind.
"And you're sure that the dwa—the small human was with them?"
The orc nodded. It seemed the small human had no intention to leave the tall human's side.
"Perfect. We'll need a scout to show us where they were going."
It seemed the orc he spoke to was the one for the job and Samor smiled, walked to where their supplies were being unloaded, and divided them amongst those who would carry them. They knew better than to expect that he would share the burden. They couldn't bring horses to the island, not with the swamps that covered them, and he would carry his weapons and armor, nothing more.
If they didn't like it, they wouldn’t be paid. The chances were that they might not leave the island but besides that, they knew better than to question his abilities.
He selected a handful of beaver pelts they had brought for the purpose of payment and handed them to their waiting scout. Coins had little value among the orcs, be they copper, silver, or gold, but trading resources like pelts was a sure way to make them more compliant. Beavers were a favorite as they were warm and resisted the water that was a part of the lives of the orcs who lived and made their living there.
Their guide took the skins gleefully and motioned for them to follow him. The team had already assembled their supplies and despite the glares at their leader, none of them voiced any complaints about their workload. He repeated the motion to follow and before long, they had moved beyond the palisades to the black sand beach and up the road from there.
"It sounds like the DeathEater is as crazy as the stories make him out to be," Samor muttered.
The orc looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and signed to ask if he knew the man.
"No, but I've heard tell of him. As I said, he is crazy."
Before long, the group that had escorted Skharr approached from the other direction on the same route. A few quick grunts and growls in their orcish tongue were exchanged, and a few of the returning orcs gestured to Samor as they passed.
"Good luck with the…Reaper?" he asked.
The orcs had named the barbarian already. The moniker seemed fairly fitting, given what he knew of the man. He accepted that it would take work and effort for him to kill the fucker, and he was only glad the orcs didn't seem to show any sign of remorse over the matter. Perhaps they didn't care what humans did to each other.
They pushed forward into the marshlands and as he'd predicted, none of the lizardfolk attacked. At any other time, he would have expected the scaly swamp bastards to make an appearance in large numbers. If an attack had already taken place in the swamp, they would be a little more reluctant to face another.
Why the different clans didn't simply clear the area of the beasts in a coordinated effort was a question he had yet to find a reasonable answer for. Perhaps the dumb shits weren't civilized enough to combine their efforts to their mutual advantage. Of course, he wouldn't have charged into the swamp but orcs were used to that kind of dirty work.
Their scout paused, motioned them forward, and indicated that the dungeon was a short distance ahead.
"All right, you maggot-brained shits," Samor snapped. "Set the traps up. We want to kill the fucking barbarian but the filthy dwarf comes out alive. We'll be paid if the half-pint is dead but we'll be paid more if he's alive."
They nodded. He had already told them what he expected from them, and a series of traps were set up around the entrance of the cavern. A few of the braver souls even managed to position a few of the dart-casters inside. Tipped with a substance that would put anything from a barbarian to a godsbedammed bear to sleep in seconds, it would be enough to catch their dwarf.
And catch him alive, which was the preferred outcome.
"It simply doesn't make sense," Samor muttered.
The orc signaled that he needed an explanation.
"Barbarians are barbaric but at least they are human. But no, we need to take the fucking dwarf back alive. I can't find the logic in it. Why wouldn't they want the DeathEater alive?”
Their guide shrugged. All humans looked alike to him.
"Of course they do." Samor was a little too intelligent to mention the fact that all orcs, even the female ones, looked the same to him as well.
"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."
Brahgen hadn't intended to leave Skharr alone to deal with the lizards. He'd been poised and ready and fully determined to help when he saw the hags come out of a secret passage in the wall. There was no way to warn his companion without alerting them to his presence as well. And of course, the barbarian didn't bother to look for him either but had gone directly to deal with the new arrivals.
It hadn't worked out so well for him.
He was still alive, however, and tried to fight the crones off as they attempted to drag him closer to the fires. Two of them struggled with him while the third hauled a massive cast iron pot to the fire.
The warrior put up more of a fight than the pot, which spoke to the man's strength.
"Give him another dose," one of the hags snapped.
"That will ruin the meat. Put your backs into it."
The dwarf scrutinized the floor near the tunnel. He'd managed to snatch the packs and most of Skharr's items and drag them with him, and he wouldn’t rush in like his companion had. It hadn't worked for the barbarian, which meant he would have to find a better way that would hopefully be more effective.
A quick look through the barbarian’s belongings revealed something that could help. Skharr had tipped a handful of his arrows with blasting powder, the kind that a few of his kin liked to use to light their furnaces and to dig deeper into rock that was particularly resistant to their efforts.
It was possible that it would create a thick, acrid smoke that would allow him to hasten in undetected, kill the bitches, and get the warrior out. But how could he launch it?
If he'd had the damn crossbows the orcs were using, that would have solved his dilemma, but in this instance, all he had was a bow.
"Think, you useless pint-sized shit," Brahgen muttered and picked the bow up. It was still strung and seemed to mock him. If he were only a few feet taller, he would be able to at least draw the godsbedammed weapon.