MORTLOK (A BLACK HAMMER NOVEL) by Jack Carr and Randy Rasmussn

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Chapter 1 – Malcontent



Ordris Mortlok shifted in the hard wooden seat, his hand caressing his handsome clean-shaven face. His features were noble and refined, and yet there glimmered an untamable quality in his steely grey gaze. A scar over his right eye, the old wound starting above the up-slanted eyebrow and running straight down, ending just beneath the socket, offered an easily perceptible warning to the wary. Long auburn shoulder-length hair swayed about his countenance, a pleasant compliment to his fair skin. A strong suit of plate armor, the metal slightly tarnished and battle-damaged, protected his tall muscular frame, and from his broad shoulders a black hooded cloak flowed like liquid midnight. Leaning against the right arm of the chair rested a metal scabbard covered in silver scales that held a great sword with an odd grip. The pommel of the weapon sported a claw, the size of which suggested that it had come from a formidable creature, and a dark mottled skin wrapped the length of the hilt. His father, Tharian, a reclusive religious zealot, had given him the blade before his untimely death and bid him to care for it. This task Mortlok had relished and over time, he had become intimately familiar with the nuances of the finely balanced steel. The premature passing of his sire had robbed him of the opportunity to inquire about the sword's unusual properties. He had often wondered why the blade sweated a dark cold mist when drawn from its sheath and from what creature the ominous talon had come from. Soon after the weapon's bestowal, his father had disappeared without any explanation, and was presumed dead, abduction and murder not being uncommon in their native Grimstadt, ensuring that the gift's chronicle remained untold.



Mortlok had fallen from the world's grace since his father's passing and he now found himself sitting upon a worthless throne, a seat that had been vacated under duress by a previous tyrant, a long-dead Vordagian liege lord. A lifetime ago, a Dalkorian assault force had fought its way up the mountain pass, braving arrow and ambush at every hidden cleft, to unseat the Vordagian conqueror. But those times had passed into history. After the dust of that old conflict had settled, Vordag found itself busy defending its own borders against barbarian incursions from the northern wastes, while Dalkoria strengthened its fleet to repel a growing darkness off its southern shores. Mortlok and his small band of opportunists had stumbled upon the long abandoned fortress, and finding it unoccupied, moved in unnoticed by either of its prior possessors.



From his seat of self-appointed prominence, Mortlok looked down the stone steps, watching the hardened brigands below gorge themselves on the meal prepared from the keep's dwindling supplies. He realized that another foray into the countryside would soon be required to replenish the empty cupboards and fill the empty pockets of his men. Their last outing had been less than satisfactory, and the fortress seethed with a sense of unease.