Chapter 2

Barthog had been here once before. The sign above the door read "Hogar Sworde and Sorcerye for Hyre OR Frubettle Mercenarye Agency". Barthog couldn't read, of course, but he recognized it immediately. The recruitment chancery was exhaustingly difficult to locate. The way here was through a hidden opening at the South-Western corner of the Frubettle Market. After going through the opening, you came to an apparent dead end. Going further would unravel a disguised hole in the ground that would drop you at the end of a tunnel long tunnel. Assuming he hadn't broken a leg, the jobseeker would then find the chancery at the other end of the tunnel. The door rippled like the surface of a pond. A magic door. They had some of these in Lord Melor's Dungeon, and they always made Barthog nervous.

Barthog reached out, but the door swung open before he could touch it. He walked into a dimly lit chancery. It seemed less busy than the last time he was here. Out of the three tables at the far wall, only the middle was occupied. Two orcs stood guard either side of the door on the inside. Barthog recognized his tall and purple cousins. They were the same ones he had seen the last time. He didn't recognize the recruiter sitting on the table. Though as usual, the recruiter had the purple robes and two inch long goatee of a warlock.

'Well?' Snapped the recruiter as Barthog approached. Barthog shifted uncomfortably as the warlock's sharp eyes scanned him up and down. He'd never be given a job if he showed his injury. Hooknella had take out the arrow and disguised the wound well. His upper arm was covered with a leathery bandage that was the same murky green of goblin hide. On top of that she had put copper bracelets that made him feel like a prat. It hadn't cost him too much. Since he had stupidly left his sword buried in the neck of a knight, a portion of his meagre coin went into buying a copper one. The recruiter's eyes observed all this with characteristic contempt.

'Looking for work, master.' Said Barthog.

'Experience?' Said the recruiter.

'I just came out of Lord Melor's Dungeon. I was hired from here.'

'Ah, his fate was most regrettable.'

'It was, master.' Said Barthog. It couldn't have been more than a few hours since Barthog had escaped the Dungeon. However, it did not surprise him at all that Melor's fall was already known to the recruiters. It wouldn't surprise him if they knew it before it actually happened.

'And with such as expert sword-for-hire by his side, how was he defeated?' continued the warlock.

'I was also in Lady Krota's Dungeon, master,' said Barthog, ignoring the jibe. 'And also with Lord Maurod in his overground campaign.'

'Perhaps your presence blessed a dark lord who isn't dead?' Sneered the recruiter.

'Lady Krota was alive while I was in her service.' Said Barthog.

'How comforting.' The recruiter sneered again.

A piece of blank parchment fell out of the warlock's sleeve. He picked up a quill and jotted down a series of complicated symbols with great speed. Barthog knew what the symbols were for. Most Portals transported you to the nearest other Portal. But the magical symbols would guide him to a specific one that was otherwise inaccessible. The symbols changed daily to minimize the possibility of intruders coming in.

'Don't lose that when you step into the Portal,' said the recruiter while handing the parchment over to Barthog. 'Unless you fancy the notion of spending eternity in the Void. I hope Keeper Morg can make better use of you than those other unfortunates you've served. Now get out of my sight!'

Barthog saw a door on the wall behind the warlock he knew wasn't there before. A surge of pain in his shoulder stifled his urge to turn back. Sighing, he walked forward.

Barthog walked out of the Portal room into another vacant one. A door-shaped opening ahead lead the way to a long corridor. The walls of the Dungeon had the crooked look of something hastily built, and magically influenced. Hellish red lights danced on them from time to time. Something muttered, and then there was a faint echo of a shriek. Smell of blood and steel was thick in the claustrophobic air.

He was back.

'You will follow me!' Squeaked a voice.

Barthog looked to his left and saw a red skinned creature that barely came up to his waist.

'You will follow.' Said the creature again with its high-pitched voice. It was pointing at the opening ahead.

'I'll find me own way, rockrat!' Said Barthog.

Something growled to his right. It was a numbing, fear-inducing sound. Barthog turned to be confronted by two sets of red, gleaming on two long heads attached to a hairy body. The hellhound regarded him hungrily. Barthog didn't think it would give him a second chance, not with the opportunity to taste goblin flesh.

'Lead the way, rockrat.' Said Barthog reluctantly.

They went through the opening and down the tunnel, the imp scurrying and hopping ahead. The tunnel came to an end and went in two different directions. One path had reinforced walls of crooked brick, like the tunnel they had down in. The other was bare; an earthy tunnel supported by wooden beams. Barthog could hear faint sounds of pickaxe against earth and rock. Two more imps came scurrying out of the earthen tunnel carrying buckets on earth on their back. They ran towards the reinforced tunnel. Barthog and his escort followed them. They came to a door at the end of this tunnel. A magical one, Barthog knew immediately. Its surface rippled like the recruiter's door. As soon as it opened, Barthog heard the familiar, dreaded sound of a great Heartbeat.

He was in a large, high-ceilinged chamber. In the middle of it, a great crystal rested on a high, stone altar surrounded by four pillars.

The Heart.

'Touch the...' the imp began, but Barthog snapped at him.

'Shut it, rat. I've done it before.'

He went towards the Heart reluctantly. With each beat, a strange glow pulsated inside the crystal. Fiery red lights streaked across the walls of the room each time the Heart beat. A great flame licked and spat atop each of the four pillars. A strange sensation took hold of Barthog as he went up the steps to the altar. If he had hair on his body, they would have stood on end. The crystal loomed over him, filling him with the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Barthog reached out apprehensively and touched the crystal. His shrieks echoed in the chamber as agony took him. Something seemed to whisper into his ear – a cold threat of vengeance should he betray his new lord. Then the pain passed as if it were never there. Trembling, Barthog fell on his knees.

'Mi'lord Keeper.' He said, almost sobbing. He felt the presence of Lord Morg so sharply it was as if he was right beside him. This feeling would stay with him – he knew - anywhere within Morg's dreaded domain. The deal of service was made without speaking; life and limb for death, glory and riches. The dark lord and his minion understood each other.

Barthog followed the imp down more tunnels, until they came to a large, rectangular chamber. He took this to be his living quarters, judging from the scattered beddings and the steady stench of urine and bile demon. Barthog was gratified. In his last Dungeon he had to sleep in the corridor for two weeks before they made room for him in one of the Lairs. He had almost quit that time. The imp pointed at a group of goblins standing in one corner, and scurried away.

'I'll want beddings, rockrat!' Barthog growled after it.

When he looked again at the crowd of goblins, he suddenly stopped dead. If he had eyebrows, they would have shot up. One goblin seemed to be surrounded by all the others. His head stood above all of them at least by a foot. The others clearly yielded to him. It wasn't this that nonplussed Barthog. It was the fact that instead of the one-horned helmet that goblins traditionally wore, the tall goblin had two horns in his. Barthog walked towards the group, doing nothing to conceal his bewilderment. The tall goblin had seen him too; no doubt he had heard Barthog yelling at the imp. But why did his face register the same amount of surprise that Barthog felt? The tall goblin broke through the crowd and walked towards Barthog. His face now held an amused sneer.

'We've got a newcomer, lads.' He said to crowd behind him. 'All prettied up and lookin' for a boyfriend!'

All of a sudden Barthog became aware of the bracelets on his upper arm concealing his wound. The Lair rang with laughter now. Barthog kept his face impassive, despite the fact that it was becoming a darker shade of green.

'And who're you?' He said. He regretted saying that at once. It hardly passed as an insult. The laughter continued as the tall goblin ignored Barthog's question.

'Oi, Fughorn!' He bellowed at someone behind Barthog. 'Get over 'ere!'

Another goblin seemed to materialize out of nowhere. He too was a peculiar sight. Goblins didn't have noses. Whichever god created them seemed to skip straight to the nostrils embedded on their toad-like faces. Yet this one had a great lump on his face that could have passed for one. His nostrils were like two miniature trumpets. He looked warily at the tall goblin.

'Wot.'

'Take a gander at them.' Tall-One pointed at Barthog's upper arm. 'What do you say to that, eh?'

Big-Nose blinked at Barthog. He had rather heavier eyelids than most goblins, giving him a sleepy look. A stupid grin began to spread slowly on his face.

'Why, he looks like a right backthrotter, he does!'

'Yeah,' leered Tall-One as laughter increased in volume. Then without warning he shoved Big-Nose hard towards Barthog, making him plant his face to the floor. 'Now you got your boyfriend!' He crowed.

The goblins followed the tall one out of the Lair, laughing heartily. At Barthog's feet, Fughorn got on his hands and legs, moaning. He looked up at Barthog's glaring eyes. If it weren't for the backthrotter remark, Barthog might have pities this ridiculous-looking goblin. He didn't look as tough as the others. Barthog had been in three major campaigns. Experience told him that this one probably had never seen battle. The first one he saw might very well be his last. Fughorn gave Barthog the same wary look he had given the tall goblin. This mollified Barthog a little. He grabbed the big-nosed goblin by the throat and yanked him to his feet.

'Just having a bit o' jest!' Yelped Fughorn as Barthog's face came level with his. 'Meant no harm by it, honest!'

'Shut it!' Snapped Barthog, but he released Fughorn. 'Where's the Healer's chamber?'

Fughorn started to tell him, but Barthog cut him short. 'Take me there, bagpipe-face! Don't know me way 'round here.'

Fughorn was easy to bully. He complied at once. They went past a bile demon sleeping on him slime filled tray as they exited the Lair. The huge, red skinned creature was undisturbed by all the commotion. His legless body stayed upright, while his great, horned head nodded with each snore. As Barthog entered the corridor, he said to his new escort, 'That inbred one. How come he's got an Orkhan's helmet?'

Fughorn gave him a rueful look. 'That's me brother, Fugwar. Our Dad's the Orkhan of our village.' After a pause, he added, 'We're not inbred!'

'Your Dad's the Orkhan, but your brother ain't.' Stated Barthog. 'So going back to the kokthrottin' question, how come he's wearin' the helmet?'

There was no reason to think that this Fugwar was an Orkhan. Not here, in an overlord's service. Goblin ranks meant very little in a place like this, no matter how many horns they put on their helmet. Fughorn stated the obvious, 'He fancies himself as an Orkhan. Says he's going to start a tribe right here.'

As Barthog roared with laughter, Fughorn added, 'Not everyone likes it o'course. Some others think he's great, being so tall an' all.'

'We'll see.' said Barthog. Fughorn gave way to a leather-and-steel clad dark mistress who was coming the other way. Barthog did the same, assuming she had a high rank in the Dungeon. He thought of Fugwar's sneering face. A smug, pampered, chieftain's brat. The fact that those other goblins put up with this kokrot put a bad taste in his mouth. Come to think of it, he wasn't a whole head taller than Barthog either.