In the Hordelands between Greyholm and Anchorrome there is a clutch of mountains called the Broken Teeth of the Render. It is the smallest mountain range in the Hordelands, far east of the Nobel Path, where the flat top Peaks of Duel lead the way to the Castle of Spines.
The peaks of the Broken Teeth invoke their name. They are shattered, cracked, annihilated by some ancient force. The Orcs of the land believe it is the remnants of the Render, the tallest beast to ever exist, who’s mouth could swallow clouds, and claws could carve fissures. The Render offended the divine Muchalinda, who slew it to protect the Orcs below. The Render broke their proud fangs on the scales of Muchalinda and its skull was broken after five strikes, one from each of Muchalinda's heads. Only the teeth remain from this conflict. Calcified in to brittle stone.
This is what the Orcs believe.
It is what the Speaker Böö believes. He himself an orc at eighty years of age.
It is what his ward Zaluu believes. He himself an orc of eleven years.
The two orcs walk single file through the Broken Teeth of the Render. Zaluu behind Böö, and Böö not looking back. Böö knows the path. He has walked it sixty-nine times. For Zaluu, this is his first time, he must learn the path.
The sky is gray, a slightly darker shade than the mountains. Occasionally, it rains on them. Either a brief shower or an endless deluge. They do not mind, as the skin of pure orcs is waterproof.
They may mind the cold, as both are dressed in wool small clothes meant to shelter their genitals. Beyond this, each has a floor length cloak made of dead, yellow grass. Böö has a circular mask that, when lifted, acts as a hat.
Zaluu shivers and Böö pretends to ignore it. The young one must learn the path, and how to bear the cold. Bearing the cold is especially important.
Böö does not speak to Zaluu for the first five days of this journey. Not until they reach an orc-made cave on the side of one of the sheerer cliffs.
“Here.” He grunts, gesturing with his ash crutch.
The cave is dry and shows signs of past lives. Near the entrance is a stone fire pit, which Böö ignites with a miracle. He directs Zaluu to sit and notes how he relishes the warmth of the fire. A bad sign.
Böö heads to the back of the cave, far from Zaluu’s sight. In the dark is a stone chest, etched with one of the three forgotten languages of the orcs. From this chest he retrieves two wood bowls and a clay jar.
One bowl is passed to Zaluu, who takes it with shaking hands. Böö reaches in to the jar and retrieves fistfuls of dried worms. They are faint pink in color and they’re as brittle as the stone around them. The supply has been here as long as Böö has walked this path. The jar is always replenished while he is away.
At last, Böö sits. His joints click like stones when they bend and the sound he makes when he touches the ground is one of pain. He will not dwell on it.
“Eat.” Böö commands. “The trial is not finished. It has not even begun. You will need the strength.”
“They taste bitter…” Zaluu remarks, after biting one in half.
“So would you.” Böö retorts.
The rain starts again. Thunder rolls like an avalanche. Böö watches the rain with unblinking eyes. It always rains at this moment. Zaluu inches closer to the fire.
“This is a place of rest.” Böö notes. “It is a place to pass knowledge. A place to test knowledge.”
His green fingers clutch into a fist. The fire dies to embers. Zaluu nearly reaches into the pit to recapture the robbed warmth.
“Can you name the eleven cohorts of our master?” Böö demands.
Zaluu swallows. He knows not to make eye contact when speaking of their master.
“I can name four. You never told me there were more.”
“Which can you name?”
“Vespoidea, Koba, Makkapitew, and Gargarensis.”
“Three of those are cohorts. Equals. The three-eyed devil is the master of all the Hells. Even our Infernal bows to him.”
Zaluu looks down in shame. Böö suppresses judgement and pulls down his mask. It is painted with a circular maw of infinite teeth and no eyes. He chants in the language of the infernals and weaves spells that make the ashes of the fire pit come to life. They dance and form sinew-like strands that knit into the shapes he describes.
“The three you named are the most relevant to our kind. Vespoidea: the Buzzing Rage, Queen of Burning Stingers, Punisher of the Faintest Slights. Koba: Kinslayer, Coveter, Dissatisfied Welp, He Who Wears a Crown of Broken Wood. Makkapitew: Endless hunger, The Taste of Ash in Your Mouth, Singer of the Song of Flesh.”
The ash-puppets form the bodies of twisted wasps, scar-covered apes, and malformed giants. Zaluu scampers away from the sight in the same manner he pulled closer to the fire. Böö crushes the constructs in his hand.
“Do you know what it takes for someone to be sent to the realm of the infernals?”
“Because you commit an action in their name. You invoke the behavior they champion.” Zaluu answers, returning to the pit’s edge.
“Correct. When the Two-Tailed divides your soul, it is not the action he cares for, but the reason. I am old, my mind is held together with the thinnest string. Imagine that string snaps and I become a feral beast. Imagine I attack you. Imagine, in desperation, you killed me.”
Briefly, Böö lifts the mask so that Zaluu may see it clearly. Both their expressions are grave.
“Do you think you would deserve punishment for that act?”
“You’re my teacher…I shouldn’t do that…” Zaluu answers.
Böö shakes his head and returns the mask to covering his expression.
“--And that is why Scorpiannus would not send your soul to the domain of the Thirteen. You killed for self-defense. You killed passionately. But what if you killed me because you coveted my position? That would be the influence of Koba on you, and so you would go to him in death. If you killed me because of a long-nursed anger took you, then that is the influence of Vespoidea. Is this made clear?”
Zaluu nods. He attempts to eat the grubs again, but spits out more than he swallows.
“Our infernal…Speak his name.” Böö demands.
“Olgoi-Khorkhoi.” Zaluu answers with perfect pronunciation.
With a snap, the ashes form a burning worm with a blood-red body, and a night-black face. It is the same face that Böö’s mask depicts.
“Speak the titles of this Infernal.”
Zaluu swallows. He does as commanded, and with each name the body of the ash-worm pulses with fire and hate.
“Great Devourer. Greed Worm. Want Worm. Goldblood. The Red Lightning. The Whisper of Wealth. Predator of the Needful. Listener of the Heart. Hand Rotter. Ever-Chewer. Death in Red and Black. Infernal of the Burning Sands. Master of the Molten Coins.”
Zaluu’s voice trails off. The ash-worm has tripled in size. It seems too real. Too capable of becoming Olgoi-Khorkhoi itself. He blanks on any more names the worm may have.
Böö banishes the worm. The cave is dark once more. The two sit in silence, judging the presence of the other. Zaluu asks, perhaps a bit shamefully for not knowing:
“Why do they have so many names?”
Böö lifts the mask. His face is darkened by the expanding shadows of night.
“Names are the most important of things. A miracle can only be called by invoking the name of those we partition our power from. Some names and titles cross boundaries. The orcs of the Pre-Saknussemm don’t know the name Olgoi-Khorkoi, but they know the name Want Worm and Hand Rotter. At least, in their own tongues they do. Names are the easiest piece of language to learn, and both Infernal and Divine know this.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Böö relaxes more. He has grown tired of scaring the boy. Outside, the rain is tapering its flow.
“A name is power and Infernals crave power above all else. They grow more powerful from each name spoken. That is power they can bring to corrupt the actions of others.”
Böö scoffs. He brings the fire back to life, but only as soft embers.
“You sound like…you hate our master. But aren’t you his Speaker?”
Böö doesn’t answer. His eyes are on the red cracks in the charcoal. He sighs after a pained memory leaves him.
“There is another reason to give so many names to an Infernal. One day, you may stumble upon its true name, and then you will have power over it before it does you. It is one of two ways to wrest infernal influence from yourself. The other way…it is no easier.”
“What is the other way?” Zaluu whispers. He has never seen his tutor with this expression.
Böö doesn’t answer. He is old, and the boy is young, and Böö is only old because he figured out the other way when he was young. It would be so easy to exhale and speak the truth, but instead he only spares enough breath to grunt:.
“The torrent is ended. We’ll move on from this place.”
Böö doesn’t answer any more questions. He doesn’t look back at Zaluu. He doesn’t speak more of what must be done. He has walked this path sixty-nine times, and this time shall be no different.
They follow a helix path upwards. There is a hole in the clouds large enough for the light of both moons to shine and give the still rain-slick stone the appearance of glass. Zaluu can see his reflection in this glass. His body is thin. He shivers from cold, from hunger, from fear.
Five years ago Böö came to his home and asked if there were any amongst his mother's children who desired the role of Speaker to Olgoi-Khorkoi.
Back then, Zaluu was the youngest. He had no bed and had to fight for his share of meals. Böö offered a bed. He offered meals that filled the belly. He offered a chance to ascend to something beyond common.
Zaluu remembers the old orc’s expression when he pulled on the trail of his grass cloak and asked if he could go with him. Böö’s eyes were as thin as his mouth. He wasn’t grateful, or annoyed, but he accepted with a nod and a pat on Zaluu’s back..
Zaluu’s mother did not object. Nor did any of the other mothers in the Rearing House. In fact, they were silent as grave markers. Thinking back now, that silence unnerves him. He’d seen his relations twice since then, and never again since his mother was killed.
In a strange action, Böö slides his mask around his head so that it faces behind him. Each time Zaluu looks up from watching his footing he sees the maw of Olgoi-Khorkoi looking back. He can’t take his eyes off the black void that is the infernal’s throat. Or maybe he can’t take his eyes off the mask because that is Böö’s mantle. The means to channel his magic. The mask will be Zaluu’s someday, when he proves himself a successor as Speaker.
After two hours they summit to their destination. Zaluu’s legs ache in five places and he can’t stop his arms from shivering. Despite what Böö said, the grubs from earlier have not made him feel any fuller or stronger. He looks back at the path they have followed and sees the whole of the Broken Teeth lay before him. He feels as if he is on top of the world.
Then he turns to what they have come to. The mountain they stand on has a crater for a peak. The crater is wide enough that Zaluu would certainly run out of breath before reaching the other side. Jagged walls of half blasted-apart stone encircle the edges of the peak, resembling their own mountain range of teeth. The crater itself is filled to the brim with ash-colored sand that has an unidentified smell that makes Zaluu crinkle his nose..
“You have passed the trial.” The Speaker states quite plainly.
Zaluu turns to Böö.
“What?”
“You have passed the trial.” Böö repeats in the same cadence as before.
Böö is nearly out of breath himself. The climb to this sacred place seems to get more draining each time. He removes his mask and uses it to gesture to the wide field of sand.
“Look closely at this hidden peak.”
Zaluu does, and what he sees takes his breath away. In the light of the moons he sees the glint of shining metal. Mixed with the ashen sand are baubles of gold and silver and fine iron. He sees a goblet made by western elves, a headdress befitting a chieftain, and a human-made katana still in its sheath. All of it half buried in the unshifting sands.
“You may take one possession from the pit.” Böö says in a stern voice.
He does not want to say more. Now he must observe, as he has sixty-nine times before.
Zaluu checks his teacher’s expression several times, but he as stalwart and silent as his mother the day he left.
With a trembling foot he steps on the sands. With a shock he discovers the sand is warm. It soothes the chill in his toes and chases the ache from his joints. He drops to his knees and submerges his hands in the sand. He did not imagine he would find such immediate relief at the end of his trial.
Böö watches carefully. Here is the crucial part.
Zaluu smiles. He even laughs slightly. His eyes are wide as he observes the expanse of treasures before him.
What shall he claim as his one reward? The sword could be a companion for life, he could be a warrior as well as Speaker, never having to rely on another for protection. There is a painted yak skull complete with fearsome horns and onyx gems set in the eyes. No craftsman in town could match that for decoration. It would be a symbol of his new status.
Or…he could claim that then sell it. Böö has stated before that the Speaker earns no wealth from their position.This could actually be the chance to set himself with an investment to live comfortably. Böö sleeps on a bed of straw. Zaluu wants a proper bed when he’s Speaker, the kind a Chieftain sleeps on.
He walks farther to the center of the circle. He has not noticed that Böö has shifted to a cross-legged position at the craters edge. Nor does he hear the Speaker sigh.
Soon Zaluu’s hands are cold again and he drops into the warm sand once again. He crawls on all fours as he searches for the right piece of wealth. The clouds overhead do not move. The moons are twin pupils focused on this young orc boy.
Crawling on his hands, Zaluu feels something shift in the sand beneath him. He jumps and is prepared to scream in surprise when he realizes what he felt is smooth and cold.
He digs down a few handfuls of sand and uncovers a sphere of gold polished to the degree that he can see his thin face looking back at himself with perfect clarity.
Zaluu’s hands tremble. Not from the cold, but from excitement. He pushes away more sand to find the limits of the sphere, then ecstatically runs his hands over its smooth surface as he realizes that its as big as his own head.
“This!” He shouts, unable to control his voice. “I claim this!”
Böö does not answer. Böö is still sitting at the edge of the crater. He is wearing his mask.
Zaluu swallows. His heart beats faster but he cannot say why. Fast as he can he digs out the gold sphere. He has made his own orc-sized divot in the sand. The heat of the sand comes from all around. He has completely forgotten how cold it was on the walk up. He can’t look away from his golden reflection as he feverishly dwells on all he can possess with the sale of this single ball.
Böö watches.
Zaluu hefts the ball out of the hole. It is very heavy and has no easy way of gripping. Outside the hole Zaluu feels the night air growing colder. He must roll the ball if he is to get it to where Böö sits.
He makes it three rotations of the ball before reappraises his surroundings. The treasures he had seen before are vanishing. The human katana lingers in his view for a moment before being sucked below the surface of the sand.
“W-what…” Zaluu looks back to Böö for an explanation, but sees only the painted maw on his mask. Böö will not speak to him.
Zaluu’s heart hammers as he pushes the gold ball harder. Despite his earlier excitement his body has remembered the exertion it took to get here and does not want to go further. Zaluu doesn’t care how long it takes he must have this prize. He must be someone of wealth. It’s not enough to be Speaker.
A sound comes from the sands that makes him freeze.
It is a hiss.
Looking back let’s him catch the sight of something black sift just beneath the surface. Zaluu pivots in all directions. Each spot he looks to he can see the tail of something long and serpentine swimming through the shadows of night. The sands become warmer, hotter, and it’s this heat that snaps Zaluu back to where he is currently standing.
He understands that he must run, but can he run with the gold ball?
He reaches down to see if he can bear its weight and from the adjacent sands a black-faced worm emerges. It is thinner than he is, but twice as long and it screams in a too-mortal voice.
Zaluu rears his hand back, but the worm is fast, fast as lightning, faster than him.
In a flash Zaluu’s hand is gone. Sheared clean off by the triangle teeth of the worm. Blood sprays on the now steaming sands.
Zaluu screams, and Böö is silent.
Zaluu runs, abandoning the ball. He follows the path of least resistance back to his teacher’s side. He can hear the hissing all around. The sands burn his feet, which seem to sink deeper with each desperate step.
A second worm emerges, and takes a chunk of flesh at his knee. Zaluu falls face first to the sand. He can do nothing but scream from the pain, the burning, and the terror in his heart.
Böö does not react. He hasn’t reacted any of the sixty-nine previous times and he will not react now.
Zaluu paws at the sand. He clears his vision and can see more worms surrounding him. They don’t bother to hide now that he is crippled. They close in like red fingers into a fist.
Böö watches them rip Zaluu apart. He listens to the young boy scream. He sees the gold ball sink below the sands.
It is not always the gold ball that the young ones go for. Sometimes it is the sword, or the coins, or the dusty skeins of silk at the farthest edge. It all ends the same. They are taken by the brood of Olgoi-Khorkoi.
When the sands are finally still and the world silent, Böö removes his mask. For the first time he shows sorrow for what has transpired. He is getting far too old to make this journey. He must find a new Speaker, one who understands what Böö understood the first time he made this journey.
“You may take one treasure from the crater” said the Speaker.
And so Böö took a single-handful of sand, as he does now, and he let it fall loose from his fingers back into the crater, as he does now.
In the morning he will return to the villages at the feet of the Teeth of the Render and ask for another youth who wants the role of Speaker, and he will begin the year long process of training them for this moment.
And he will pray that the next journey up this path is his last.