Skye is the Limit by Phenomenal Pen (detective books to read TXT) 📗

True enough, the blind Orcs moved around in the dark by listening to ambient sounds like water regularly dripping from stalactites and of course the Orc Mother’s non-stop ultrasonic broadcast. The second was like a sonic pulse that swept every nook and cranny of the caverns. The slaves were mostly hauling rocks in baskets slung on their backs and then emptying them into steam-driven carts that ran on rail tracks. The warriors constantly prodded them with whips and clubs.

Unlike Dwarves, Orcs didn’t care much about gemstones or precious metals and lumped them together with the debris. They were so plentiful down there anyway. What they prized were those metals that reacted to magnet because they were highly durable. The slaves hunted for them using magnet-bearing detectors.  

The Ice Throne was far to the Dreamwalkers’ left. The Orc Mother and a pair of handmaidens were supposed to occupy it but due to the effect of either the dream or the game engine, thus far it remained unrevealed to the raiding party, shrouded in what felt like a barrier of consciousness like what Mage had earlier described.  

 In their Nidhoggr disguise, the Dreamwalkers proceeded to go around and plant the hacking devices. Mage was at the lead, right behind the head of the Niddhogr skin and peeking through the empty sockets of its eyes. He was followed by the Count, then Nethril, then Man-At-Arms. Bear Tooth was bringing up the oddly tall rear. 

Their crude disguise felt like a short skirt (especially for the males) because it left their legs exposed. They kept worrying they were going to get found out as it so often happened in dreams. But based on how the Orcs went about their tasks and passed by them at close range without so much as a glance, the plan seemed to be working.

Most of the Nidhoggrs were kept in dug cells. The Dreamwalkers could hear and glimpse them through grilles on the floor, wearing metal muzzles that would deflect their fire breaths right back at them if they so dared. Ice Nidhoggrs, on the other hand, were rarer and thus treated with much more respect. The Dreamwalkers counted five of them roaming the Hollow Halls unmounted. 

In the center of the Halls was an abysmal pit at least one hundred fifty feet in diameter. The Dreamwalkers had planned to install the four hack devices in the four corners of the pit’s perimeter. As they did, they couldn’t help but look down the acrophobia-inducing plunge. What they saw widened their eyes.

The pit’s mouth was undercut around its entire circumference. Inside, grand rock walls looked like ant hills crawling with pick-bearing ants. Or like a gigantic cheese that had been hollowed out and riddled with holes. It had hundreds of levels and was compounded by ladders and scaffolding. Crude ropeway conveyors and rickety hanging bridges crisscrossed the vast gap while the bottom appeared to stretch down endlessly.

Despite their terror, the Dreamwalkers marveled at the military industry of the Orc colony.

Nethril felt something cold rub against her calf. She covered her mouth to keep from screaming.  

“Oh look,” she said as she looked down. “It’s a baby Nidhoggr.”

“That is called a cougher,” Mage said without looking back. He was planting the last hack device. After it, Man-At-Arms would remotely trigger all of them using his Anima bracelet.

“A cougher?” Nethril echoed.

“Yes. It is a Nidhoggr that is just learning how to breathe either fire or ice.”

“Aww, look at that. It likes me.”

“Since our Nidhoggr skin has the markings of a female Nidhoggr,” Mage said, “I would hypothesize that this particular Nidhoggr was in fact the fledgling’s mother.” 

“What?!” Nethril hissed. “That’s so messed up. Oh, you poor thing!”

Nethril picked the creature up and, because they were still wearing their Nidhoggr disguise, to a bystander it would’ve looked as though the baby Nidhoggr had been gobbled up by an adult Nidhoggr’s underbelly. The baby Nidhoggr twitched and flicked its long tail and licked Nethril’s face with its blue forked tongue.

Nethril giggled. “Can I keep him?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the Count said sternly. Then, seeing that Mage had finished the installation, he asked: “Ready?”

“They are all set.”

The Count looked over his shoulder at Man-At-Arms and said: “Take it away, Man-At-Arms.”

Man-At-Arms tinkered with his Anima bracelet and activated the hacks.

“Is that it?” Bear Tooth asked nervously.

“Looks like it,” Man-At-Arms replied, looking mystified at all the Orcs dropping whatever they were doing and standing completely still.

Every Orc looked like the hypnotized volunteer of a stage magician. The fact that the Dreamwalkers couldn’t hear or sense anything at all from the hack devices enhanced the impression of mass hypnosis.

The clockwork industry of the Orcs had reminded the Count of a lithograph by a certain Dutch artist whose name eluded him. On flights of Penrose stairs, the artist had drawn people who appeared to be members of a secret sect in their hooded tunics. But now the Orcs appeared even more bizarre as they stood frozen from their endless procession.