The Tenth Hand

Chapter 6 - In the Mouth of Stonetooth

Darkness enveloped them. Drak, Golar, Soran and two other orcs gingerly felt their way down the wide passage, their fingertips brushing against the jagged stone walls.

"This is insane!" one of the orcs whispered hoarsely. "We can't see shit!" His lowered voice nonetheless echoed a ways down the corridor.

"It's suicide is what it is," the other orc said. He would have said more, but for the heavy blow he suddenly received to the side of his head, causing him to stumble to his knees. He wheeled about in anger only to see Soran's silhouette against the retreating mountain entrance, with his hand on the hilt of his sword. His arm muscles tightened and he narrowed his eyes.

The orc quickly lowered his gaze and turned back into the shadows.

As the light from the entrance finally left them in complete darkness, Drak halted them. Admitting to himself there was no other option, he ordered the orcs to light a torch each. They pulled out strips of cloth and oil pouches and begun to wrap them around a small branch they each carried.

"No way we will come undetected now," he said, his face flaring in the sudden sparks of four clicking flints. "Weapons out," he told them when he had lit his own torch, "be on your guard."

The sound of ringing steel filled the tunnel, bouncing off the walls and creating an ominous musical wail.

The tunnel itself, now lit with a bright orange glow, continued in a steady decline in front of them as far as they could see.

The orcs, emboldened by the light their flaming brands now gave off, walked quicker along the tunnel, now able to see for a few paces at least.

A short distance further, after which time the pinpoint of light from the entrance was no longer visible, the orcs came across a sudden junction. The way forward ceased at the solid grey-brown rock of the mountain's interior and instead now forked left and right.

Drak and the other orcs paused, looking in both directions, but only darkness greeted them.

Drak sighed, shaking his head. "Golar, Soran, take one of the boys each and scout the paths ahead. If you don't find anything in two hundred paces, turn back. If you find anything, anything at all other than more tunnel, turn back. I'll wait for you here."

He leant his torch against one wall of the junction and slumped to the floor, leaning against the other and listening to two pairs of footsteps becoming quieter and quieter.

"You can't be serious?" Malak demanded, jabbing a thick finger on Freyella's shoulder.

She looked down at his hand pointedly and, raising her eyes to meet his, said, "If that finger touches me again, Malak, I'm going to snap it. Understood?"

Malak narrows his eyes at her, but didn't remove his finger. "You aren't Drak," he said snidely, "you can't tell me what to do."

Calmly and without breaking eye contact, Freyella gently grasped his finger in her hand and applied a small amount of pressure. "When Drak is gone, I am in charge. You know that. Don't make me remind you."

Malak smiled, a condescending and altogether fake smile, and yanked his finger from Freyella's grip. He shrugged, turning his back on her and walked over to join some of the other orcs.

"As I was saying. You all heard Drak's last order. We wait until sundown. If they are still not back, it's up to us, meaning me," she threw a glowering look at Malak, "to decide our best course of action. So, if there are no further complaints, get some rest."

Waiting to make sure the gathered orcs dispersed slightly, Freyella sat with her back to a small, thin tree and let her mind wander.

If Drak really didn't return, she had no idea what they would do.