Orcs of the Red Blade

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His nostrils flared, irritated. The air was stifling, suffocating even. The coarse grains of sand and dust on the wind weathered his old hide while the sun’s rays scorched him mercilessly, Orcs of Frostwolf blood never liked the heat, never. He couldn’t even begin to guess the discomfort of his allies.

The Barrens, north and south, are the way they are for a good reason it seems.

He mused wearily, the heat had been an unwelcome companion to the Blademaster and the Siam’quashi party for three days now, the sun’s relentless attack would only be halted come sunset. And that, spirits be thanked, was not far off. Gripping the reigns of his worg he spurred the black furred beast into an ample stride to catch up to the leading troll of the trio, dust rising behind him as the paws met earth.

“The trail continues east then, Jol’tor?” Krogon asked as his wolf came alongside the armoured black raptor in the lead. The Siam’quashi turned his head to peer down at the Orc. His skin was blue, his face scarred and painted... in many shades of black and ebon.

“It be clear dey’ come dis way Blademastah’, We can be stoppin at da border to Dustwallow as da sun sets to make a camp” spoke Jol’tor, firmly as if it was matter of fact and not up for debate, or need not be anyway. His brows rose almost questioningly.

He worries that I intend to try to over-rule him, the Darkspear truly are weary of Orcs now, even those considered close friends it seems...

Krogon grunted, bowing his head respectfully to the senior Troll in acceptance, his gaze turning east as the horizon shivered between hues of orange , red and thinning blue. The sun of course was descending into the western mountains behind them, so his eyes were spared the glare, even if his bare back got no reprieve from the heat.

Krogon turned his head to eye the other two members of the group, and sure enough, they rode behind at a short distance either side of Jol’tor, riding atop their armoured  raptors. Neither looked ahead, that was for Jol’tor their tracker to do. Their task was that of lookouts, their eyes fixed on their flanks and rear for any sign of trouble.

Dutiful and vigilant, these Siam’quashi know their business and how to go about it well.

Nal’aka, the female rode on the north side of the road behind Krogon. She was neither beautiful, nor ugly Krogon guessed... Though she did forever wear that cowl adorned with bones and tusks, so he had no idea what she looked like to begin with. What he did know was that her twin-bladed war-blade looked potent, and worthy of felling a Gronn with one slice. She kept the weapon atop her back, shifting her body calmly with an aura of composure and control.

Tet’shalak, on the other hand fidgeted. On the south side of the road next to Nal’aka he was forever twitching this way and that as if the slightest sound was a warning of impending attack. Also unlike Nal’aka he wore nothing over his face, his bald head, small tusks and unpainted face were nothing unusual, so far as to say Krogon could discern no remarkable or noteworthy features. He did have a rather ornate looking crossbow though, adorned with bones and fine feathers... a bolt already loaded and ready to launch.

I am in good company for this errand I think.

Krogon turned his gaze ahead once more with a grunt, now facing the east and the approaching border to Dustwallow.

Though I get the feeling it has become a Wild plainstrider chase.

When the tribe had set out for the eastern kingdoms on the chieftains latest campaign, Krogon had been left behind with tasks and errands to prepare for their return. One of which included assisting the Darkspear as best he could with combating the renegade Dark shaman and Kor’kron on Kalimdor. Thus, he was here, ranging far and wide over the southern barrens in search of their elusive and dangerous foe.

The old Blademaster grumbled, running his right hand over the hilt of the sword at his left hip, reminding himself out of habit and ritual that it was still and always present.

I will be glad when the tribe returns and I may resume my proper duty’s.

It wasn’t that he was beginning to miss the absence of the tribe, being separated from its Orcs, It was also the frustration of this hunt. The dark shaman had raided a human caravan south east of Desolation hold and left Horde banners in an attempt to implicate Vol’jins horde. Such cowardly audacity could not be tolerated with the truce so tentative in Kalimdor. Unfortunately it also couldn’t  be dealt with, as the scum wouldn’t sit still and had reduced the party of four to scouring after them in circles, following whatever barely readable tracks and trails they left.

”Da border approach” Jol’tor spoke firmly, nodding ahead at the area drawing closer ahead. Krogon stirred from his thoughts and ran his eyes over the area, his gaze moving downwards as his wolf came to a halt at the top of what was a hill, and below... the marsh of Dustwallow. He could smell its stagnant water from up here.

”We can set camp up here and descend into the marsh to continue the chase” Krogon spoke, nodding firmly. It was the smart thing to do for now. Jol’tor nodded in agreement as he turned his raptor to face the other two trolls who had come to a stop close behind them. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, Krogon watched the last glimmers of the sun dip beyond the horizon to the west, the sky turning from blood red to gold and shades of deep blue as it rolled back over-head and to the east.

There it goes at last, some relief...

Then silence.

Silence is never something to be associated with inactivity, slumber or the absence of sound. That is a fool’s concept, for silence is the deep breath before action, the paused moment before danger and the plunge into chaos. Thus Krogon’s ears twitched as all sound fell away, the wind, the sound of crickets in the bushes...

...then the sound of bows and the whistle of arrows began.

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The first strike stirred him, barely registering as his mind whirled into action to try and register what happened in the waking world. The second stung with re-doubled effort that was backed by impatient force, the pain on his cheek stinging him to consciousness. He’d been back-handed, with large knuckles, twice now.

Whoever did that will be losing that hand.

Eyes opened, but found only the murk and irritation of cloth barring their view, A bag was over his head,  the air around his face hot and moist from his ragged breath.

He grunted, sourly, part to ensure that whoever his assailant was knew he was awake, and part in irritation at his discomfort. He knew several things initially. First, his hands were bound in tight rope behind his back, second that he was kneeling on hard stone and lastly that the side of his head throbbed with a bruise.

The memory was fuzzy, but the ambush had ended with him being dismounted, putting up a fight, getting pinned down by sheer numbers then knocked out. He also knew Jol’tor was dead; the first arrows had hit him square in the chest and neck. The proud Darkspear had hit the ground with no more than a pained gargle and a last surprised breath.

His senses began shifting back into focus, first his sense of smell. This bag smelled like onions, probably just what they had at hand. Second, he felt different, lighter. They’d taken his sword, prayer beads and other belongings. Lastly, his hearing focussed. There were figures around him, talking in Orcish, rumbling deep voices of disdain judging by the tone. The eager sounding one to his right, likely the one with the arm on his shoulder spoke...

”We ambushed them at the border to the barrens! Killed the traitors group leader and brought these three as gifts to you!

Kor’kron...

”you have done well Vorg! We will have fresh entertainment from these as we ply information from them, then enact Hellscreams justice... Came a reply. This voice was ahead of him, gravelly with a hint of menace. ”Remove the bags from their heads, let me gaze upon these fools! He commanded followed by a feint echo, now making clear he was in charge.

A rough hand grabbed at the top of Krogon’s head,  grasping the bag then pulling it away with force. The light made his eyes reel so it took agonizing moments to adjust before could he could take in what was around him. He grunted in annoyance, his surroundings were mostly made up of Kor’kron grinning  like wolves who had found a lost lamb.

On his right was a Kor’kron guard, ‘Vorg’, young but muscled and sporting thin stubble. To his right was the Siam’quashi Nal’aka, she was being held down on her knee’s too... gagged and snarling, despite the arrow stuck deep in her right shoulder she obviously had plenty of energy for anger.

She still spoils for their blood.

On his left, Tet’shalak was face down on the ground. Bound, but beaten out cold. The bruises on his face and neck testament to the fierce struggle he put up before being subdued. A female Orc, in dark chain armour had her foot placed on his back, smirking with triumph as if the troll was a trophy from a hunt.

Shameless fool.

Finally he turned his gaze forward, his eyes at last accustomed to the dim light of what was a cave chamber, lit by scattered braziers. Ahead of the three captured members of the party stood an Orc of dark skin, with a jet black beard and wicked red eyes. He was a Blackrock Orc, and judging by  his rune inscribed mail raiment as well as the twisted, chain wrapped monstrosity of a totem in his right hand... a dark shaman. To his right was a shadow, no... more than a shadow, an Orc pup of some twelve years and similar hide as the Dark shaman. The boy was clad in no more than simple leathers with a light sneer on his lip, a hatchet ready in hand.

Father and son?

”An ugly pair of trolls and a weak traitorous Orc who backed them, pitiful!" The dark shaman sneered, utter contempt in his voice. Nal’aka came to a simmering growl at these words, as best a rebuke as she could muster while gagged. Krogon however opted for silence, for now.

”Varanak, my son...” The dark shaman spoke, placing his hand on the pups’ tense shoulder. ”Tell me, how will we deal with dogs such as these, who would dare hunt Hellscreams loyal, hm? He turned to look at the boy with a wry smirk, trying to prompt a response.

Using us as a lesson to educate his boy in dishonour...

The boys’ mouth opened and shut, his half grown tusks flashing for a moment as he was clearly unsure, perhaps seeing the ‘hated’ enemy for the first time.

“Well, what do ‘we’ do?” The father pushed, impatient.

“We do to them as they wished to do to us, Father” The boy forced from his throat, a hesitant voice showing he was not yet a full Orc.

”Precisely.

No!

An unfriendly green hand clamped around Krogon’s mouth to stifle any attempt at protest, the Blademaster strained to look to his right as a knife wielding hand was dragged across the throat of Nal’aka, her gag muffled any noise as blood spurted into the air and the troll slumped over. He did not see it happen, but he shut his eyes in anger as he heard the ‘thump’ of a heavy axe landing in the unconscious neck of Tet’shalak.

Fury and barely bridled rage burned in his chest. Executing them like swine at the spring culling without so much as an honest honourable accusation, a cowards ‘justice’ and nothing more.

You will pay for that, Scum.

“But this one, my son...” The dark shaman added as the blood of the two trolls pooled around their lifeless body’s on the cave floor. ”this one deserves something far, far worse than death. Isn’t that right, -Devilstep?-” He snarled, his eyes placed on Krogon, filled with venomous disdain. The sweaty hand of the Kor’kron Vorg un-clamped for his mouth, allowing him to speak.

And so the plot thickens.

”The only one who deserves to suffer here is you, -dog-. Your failed Warchief is beaten and toppled from his throne, whatever punishment you waste on me won’t elevate you from hiding in caves and scavenging the wastes for trouble...” Krogon snarled flashing his fangs, instantly without hesitation. It was true as far as he was concerned, every word of it. Hellscream would never be called Warchief again.

”Ha! Still your tongue Red blade Mutt. You turned your back on your Warchief, plotted against and even waged war on him... you are a lowly snake and I will show you the fate of those who spit on Hellscream! The dark shaman retorted with a scornful snarl before he continued, ”While you rot, I will do everything I can to ruin that pack of dogs you value so much more than your own honour! It’s the ‘abyss’ for you! He laughed, carried away with his own triumph.

The tribe...

”move the stone! Ready him for the descent!” The vindictive shaman laughed, proud and victorious.

Vorg and the female Kor’kron seized Krogon harshly by his arms and dragged him to the other side of the chamber, both laughing as if whatever was to come was a joke the Blademaster would not be privy too. When they at last stopped, a third and fourth Kor’kron were dragging a massive flat boulder from the middle of the ground... as it was displaced, it revealed a hole, and a limitless dark space beneath.

He was stopped, being half dangled in with knee’s placed on the edge of the gap in the earth. Below was nothing but shadow, he couldn’t see the bottom and only felt stagnant lifeless air rising from within. The fire in the heart of the Blademaster fell to a simmer, turning his gaze to the laughing dark shaman he spoke, and chose his words wisely...

“What is your name, Dark shaman?" He growled.

”Why would you want to know, Blademaster? It is of little help to you now!"

Krogon smiled, coldly.

”So when the time comes, I know who I killed.”

The laughing rose, to a hearty chuckle on all sides, though Krogon kept steely faced and maintained his glaring gaze.

”Good one! It is Mala’kal, though you and I shall never meet again, cast the traitor in!"

With that, ‘Vorg’ cut the bonds around his hand, and kicked him forward. Thus he descended into the dark, knowing the name of whom he would kill.

...Mala’kal.

((Great story thus far! You write action scenes pretty damned well. I understand that there's more to come, so keep it coming!))

A fantastic read, looking forward tot he next chapter.

An interesting story, and rather similiar to the Dark Knight the more I think of it, should have this playing as it's theme https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIfk5-8oy_o

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It shrank. With each time lost moment, the blinding shape, that circle of light that grew smaller as the descent hastened. Walls of slick, moist rock shot up around him on all sides, reaching up from the darkness as they grasped at nothing. Humid air rushed through his open hands, his ears alive with its howl. Ancestors only knew when he would hit the ground.


He tried to call upon the spirits of air, to plead with them to slow his fall, begging that they spare him from a deadly impact, but he heard and felt nothing. His prayer beads would often help him call on their aid in times of sudden dire need, but in this place it felt as if his plea fell upon deaf ears and a muted voice.

Mala’kal...

Laughter, a choir of chortled laughter echoed from above, piercing his ears like knives in his back. The walls vibrated with the sound of their mockery and contempt, growing fainter and fainter as he plummeted and the shadows around him grew.

Spirits give me strength!

And then it struck, though it was not solid. The landing had no trauma but all the pain of a thousand blades as he was swallowed . A mass wrapped around him, and in that moment he thought he had been thrown to some dread beast, until sense hit him hard with realisation. He had landed in water, icy cold and piercing his hide with its torturous fingers. Flailing he gasped then choked on fetid freezing water, searching for the surface while bubbles and muck filled water entered his nose, mouth and eyes.

As his body rose and his head exploded above the surface for that sweet, desperate breath, he ceased his flailing and paddled for the edge of the water twenty feet away.

Curse them! Curse their dammed cowardly hides!

Growling and snarling, with the rage of the Trolls murder still simmering in his chest, he scrambled with slick hands onto the water side. With haste he quickly surveyed the area revealed by the distant light above. He could see the area around him for brief, fleeting moments. He was at the bottom of a cavern, with the entrance nearly a hundred feet above, and down here a wide space surrounded by many smaller cave mouths curving off in various directions, all leading outwards or down.

He took a moment, gasping haggardly. The fall and landing had surprised as well as taken the wind out of him. Then a noise followed, echoes of commands from high above. Mala’kal was giving out orders, but what?

Likely adding insult to injury.

Krogon bared his fangs, his eyes narrowed. Then he saw it. At first a shadow over the entrance, then a shape, then a second shape. Both grew, both span, swaying this way and that as they fell.

Splash!

Splash!

Water erupted from the pool as both struck, waves ascending as the objects sank, rose and bobbed, dark swirls of crimson fanning out into the dark brown water. They had thrown the dead trolls in after him.

Have they no honour!?

He clenched his hands, the rage intensifying as his bare muscled fists formed and compressed.  The body of Nal’aka rolled, her face still contorted with rage while her features were smeared crimson. They would be avenged, and he would see it so.

With a wince and cough he rose to stand, icy tendrils of water dripping off of his blood and mud soaked body. He would first have to figure out a way out before he could pay give them any proper burial rites--

...Snort, Snort...

Krogon’s body stiffened, his eyes darting to the source. In the mouth of one of the small caves he could see the shadow of someone, or something watching him. It snorted, like a pig, it shuffled on hooves as its eyes glared at him. A Quilboar?

Then more, the sound of smacking lips and subtle hissing. He turned his head to look behind himself, another shape dangling from the opposing tunnel mouth. A troll, male, tilting its head this way and that, from Krogon to the dead in the pool. To the side of newcomer, atop an out-thrust ledge high above, popped two shadow masked heads, snarling, their eyes gleaming as they looked the Blademaster up and down hungrily.

I’m not alone down here then...

He cracked his knuckles. These fellow ‘inmates’ may not be so hospitable to newcomers. His ears twitched as words escaped the lips of the prowling troll...

“Looks like we be eatin’ â€"meat- tonight, boys...” It purred, lapping saliva from around its mouth.

Krogon tensed, his jade eyes narrowed ready for a fight. However, all that was pre-empted by the spine chilling sound of scraping stone, and the dimming of distant light. High above, the Kor’kron had begun to push the boulder back over the entrance. Very quickly, and with the clank of completion at their task, the laughter of Mala’kal and his minions ceased.


Thus all fell to Darkness.

(((http://i.imgur.com/811EsNo.gif)

The thought plickens!))

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His fist shuddered with the impact, shockwaves running up to his shoulder for all the force he had used. Though he could not see what he’d hit, he could defiantly feel the tusk and pig snout reeling away from his hand. The sound of staggered hoof steps and the clatter of a fall quickly followed.

The swine only saw an old Orc, easy pickings for hungry hands. He didn’t take note of the Scars, they never do.

He settled his stance, drawing an arm back ready to strike again should the Quilboar jump up. But he didn’t, instead it settled into pained snorts and groans... Narrowing his eyes, that happened to be near useless, he strained his hearing to catch glimpse of anything else incomeâ€"

“HRaaa--!”

Chomp!

It bit down, hard, having leapt at him from the right side. His right shoulder roared in pain, the feeling of gushing blood bursting forth under the onslaught of mean, desperate fangs filled his mind. It was on his back, clawing for a firm grip on his chest with its feet purchased around his hips. It was desperate for a meal.

The old Blademaster through his fist up to meet its nose, but found only dark empty space, its head had swung back before burying itself back into his shoulder for a second sitting. Then the other one struck.

Small, claw like hands wrapped around his ankle while teeth sunk into his left calf muscle, tearing, pulling, rending desperately for the smallest morsel. Thoughts ran through his head, brief and useless, ways to escape, to throw them off. But with the complete dark, no answer from the spirits and none of his weapons it was as if all his skills had been thrown out the window. He thrust his right hand for the face of the ankle biter and the left around to gouge the one on his backs eyes, they may be blind down here but it would still hurt all the same.

Too slow! You’re moving too slow!

”Off of me you dammed animals! Off!! He roared, his hands squeezing, twisting and digging into the soft flesh of their faces, nails finding eyes and digits finding lean tender muscle to compress with desperate, savage force.

The smaller one yielded first, releasing its grip from his leg, squirming as it clawed at his arm, pleading for it to release its face. The larger one on his back however only seemed to grow more ferocious as he tightened his grip of the junior’s skull.

Splash!

Now what!?

The assailant leapt off him, scampering toward the sound of shifting water by the central pool, so in turn he released the other attacker with a forceful push in the same direction. With staggered steps back, ensuring his footing and waving hands around wide to check for space, he listened and listened well.

Snarling, splashing, growling, snorting and the unmistakable sound of skin being dragged across stone. What where they doing? What could be in the water that was more important to cannibals than fresh meat-

Ancestors no...

As his back came up against the cold surface of the cavern wall, realisation washed over him. Why fight for fresh meat when you can just take dead meat? His stomach churned at the thought, that somewhere ahead of him in the deep dark beyond sight, they were fighting over the bodies of the two murdered trolls.

“Mine! This one is mine! Snort, snort, Mine!” The Quilboar wailed, seeming to have darted straight for the easy pickings once his snout had been cracked. The scuffling continued, the sounds of frenzied pulling, biting and rabid tearing of feasting. Krogon stared into the blackness, he could see nothing! A miracle such as it was.

”Get ya own one piggy! Off!” Came a trolls voice, with the sound of kicking and snarling. He and the Quilboar must of been fighting over one body, while the other two fought over the second. His heart raced, thinking, always thinking desperately of a way out...

Can they see me plain as day down here? Am I sitting a duck!?

Waving a hand in front of his eyes he found nothing. Only the pitch black of this abyss. He’d have to rely on other senses...

Bones cracked, the frenzy of the feast increased. His stomach turned at the thought of their gore desperate barbarism, and his rage peaked...

”You animals will pay for that! Pay!” He roared defiantly into the darkness, though all he got in return was the muffled noise of laughter and the slurp of flesh being consumed.

”Making friends then new one?” came a bemused, grizzled voice from close above. He froze, looking up. He could see nobody, only the dark suffocating his vision, but he knew they could see him.

He was prey.

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His heart skipped a beat.

“well don’t wait around, climb on up.” The voice continued, resonating from a perch above him. Krogon tightened his grip on the rock at either side, his back against its cold surface as he gazed up into nothing. The voice had been firm, but not threatening, holding no hint of malice or deceit. Only simple, matter of fact advice.

Don’t trust it, don’t trust it. Down here there can be no mistakes.

He breathed out, having only just realized he’d been holding in air, boiling inside him until it was ragged and hot. Licking his lips, he turned and placed his body so his chest compressed against the moist, cold stone.

What are you doing? You know you shouldn’t!

But he did. Raising his left arm, then his right, he searched and found purchase, lifting himself as his bare feet found simple footing to move upward. Moving inch by inch with every cautious grasp and pull, ensuring what he held onto was secure, he eventually placed both his hands on the lip of a sharp rocky ledge. He dangled there, spirits only know how high up in this dark. He paused, breathing in, tense as he decided if to continue or not.

This is a bad idea.

Below, behind and faintly all around he could hear the muffled sound of the ‘monsters’ as their feast continued, worse still laws the stench. The whole place stank of excrement, aged and inter mingled with fetid hints of urine and degrading meat. His stomach turned but gave him resolve enough to act. He was not safe down there, not right now anyway.

But what other choice Do I have?

With a sharp inward breath he pulled on his arms and scrambled onto the flat rocky ledge. He could not guess how far it spanned left or right, or how far it reached out ahead of him. All he knew was, someone was there with him.

He’s watching. Or Listening.

He swallowed unsubtly, his throat dry as he spoke simply, “I am here.”

”Took your time. Be a spot ahead of you four arm lengths off, to sit and be comfortable. They won’t come up here for you, so you can calm yourself stranger. He stated, simply. It was a fact, or at least to him. The haggard voice came from his right, close, but out of arms reach.

Slowly, go slowly.

Krogon narrowed his eyes and without thought or characteristic suspicion moved forward. Sure as anything he found the back of a small ‘mouth’ in the cave wall, and placed his back against it to look out into nothingness. His mind raced with questions while his sense took in the sounds and nuances of this place, where to begin, If at all?

Cautious what you reveal of yourself to him, let him do all the talking.

”No pussy footing around, shrimp. It’s dangerous down here, far safer to work in pairs for mutual protection. I don’t have to like you...

That’s blunt.

”...and I don’t need you to like me. Welcome to hell.” It finished. His voice had come from some short distance to his left now. Judging by his tones and accent, he gathered him for an Orc, definitely. Orc’s picked up on how their own fangs and tusks altered their speech better than other races. This one’s were large, and caused him to speak with his throat more than his jaw. Judging by the distance, and how he sounded marred, he was probably facing away, looking out or even listening over the ledge.

Hell, Apt if nothing else

Doubt rolled through the mind of the Blademaster. Perhaps this one had been down here too long; desperation can do strange things to an Orc. While he continued to take in the details of his surroundings, feeling the rock at his back and sides with his hands for certainty, he also considered his questions...

His name? Where is this place? Is there a way out? So many things...

”What Do I call you?” He felt himself ask, without forcing the thought to cause it.

”Vrex, Stranger. Call me Vrex. Rest for now, we will talk when you have adjusted better.” And with that he fell silent.

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The sweet, bloody taste was overwhelming. Each mouthful was a moment anticipated, savoured and then quickly forgotten as the next bite approached. The boar was succulent, melting on the tongue while her fangs tore it piece by piece from the leg bone.

At least Vorg can do something right.

Teshka grinned, thinking to herself. Vorg had hunted the boar well, and now it sat skewered over the fire, dripping its sweet, fatty juices. It was positioned to the side of the cave chamber, with the group sat all around, all but Mala’kal... he sat aloof to everyone else atop his self made throne, his runt pup at his side. While the father gorged himself on pork, the Orc-child picked apart his own meal hesitantly.

Vorg and the Dark-shaman adept Brusk however exchanged whispered jokes, likely at the boys’ expense. All the others were faces with names not worth the effort to learn, some dozen in total. Curling her fangs in disdain at these shoddy surroundings, she turned her attention back to her meal... sinking her teeth back into that prized meat.

“Garbage run! Haha!” Brusk yelled triumphantly, he stood and walked to the great stone that led to the dark chamber below. With the help of Vorg the pair quickly moved it aside to the cheering chants of the others. Her eyes followed the scene, the Kor’kron grunts throwing stripped bones and other waste food or garbage down into that abyss where the prisoners lived, and hopefully died.

Scraps, they don’t even deserve that.

Mala’kal chuckled, coldly, he threw a bare bone aside and clapped as the grunts pushed the great stone back into place with the grinding of stone and a shifting click of completion. The boy Varanak just looked afraid, as usual.

Weakling, Mala’kal should have throttled him at birth, and his bitch mother for spawning him too.

Teshka smiled wide, flashing her fangs at the sheepish pup, this caught his eye and he quickly turned pale with worry.

Perhaps one night while he sleeps, I’ll slip into his furs, make him blush... then strangle him myself...

She mused, as Mala’kal waved his hands, calling all the Orcs to resume sitting so he may speak. Quickly as they had risen, they all sat around the fire facing his primitive throne once more.

“Kor’kron! Hellscreams loyal!” He spoke, booming to ensure their attention. ”Tonight we feast and celebrate! Tonight one of our most hated enemies’s, The Blademaster Devilstep, languishes and suffers in the abyss of our pit!” He raises his arms, the crowd cheered. Teshka gave a half hearted cheer of her own, for appearances and all.

Not like it was difficult, the Blademaster hardly lived up to his Reputation, Dog.

”Soon, we will leave this place and strike down those who would chase us like animals! And return Hellscream to his rightful place! Hellscream lives! Hellscream is free! Hellscream will be victorious!” He roared, the cave erupted into similar roars. News of Hellscreams escape had come in the early hours, quickly followed by wild boasts and claims my Mala’kal.

”you shall all drink deep of the cup of victory, and feel its rewards! Riches! Spoils! Blood and glory! Power will once again be ours! For the true Horde!"

”For the true Horde!” they all echoed his victory cry, and Teshka followed suit.

Whatever gets us out of this cave...

With that, as the others chanted, raised mugs and sang of victory and blood, Mala’kal walked over to Teshka, grinning from pointed ear to ear.

Teshka stood, licking the remainder of her meal from her lips and fangs, wiping the grease from her face.

Come to wrangle his way into my furs again...

He stopped in front of her, a mass of muscle and chain mail. At his hip sat a Totem wrapped in chains... a symbol of how the elements obeyed him to the point of slavery.

”You have served me well, and best of all those here Teshka, I have a special reward for you..." He smiled, his square chin straining with glee.

She bowed her head and smiled playfully, knowing full well the games a female had to play with male superiors in this horde or any other. The wiles of a female had many benefits if used right.

”And what be this boon you would grant me above all others, hmm?” she purred in response, smiling that smile only a she wolf could use.

Mala’kal placed a hand behind his back, and brought it back about. Thrusting an object into her hands.

An actual gift and not some lusty innuendo? Well it’s a first. But he’s not earned some rutting yet...

She ran her slender, claw like hands along that smooth, red surface. Gronn bone, an expensive material and worth it too. She tightened her grip, it was a sword, sat in its scabbard. Curved and lengthy enough to be wielded with one hand or two. With a snapping motion she unsheathed it to a song like note, the air splitting... unleashing a tongue of shining metal, razor sharp and shimmering in the light of the fire.

...Or perhaps you have.

She grinned, her eyes running up and down the blade, it was dark blue to the eyes, and showed signs of expert craftsmanship, folded thousands of times with pain staking effort. Who ever had made it, had made it well she judged, eyeing the emblem of a demonic Orcs face, complete with horns and menacing visage at the base of the blade.

Courtesy of our new inmate, Ha!

She snapped it back into the sheathe with a smooth even motion ending in a final click. It was priceless, and hers if she was willing to pay what the seller asked. She finally lifted her dark red eyes to the dark shaman, forcing a blush and a wry smile.

”such a fine gift, How could I ever repay such generosity?” She spoke softly, standing close to him now. Only a hair distance was between them as his hot, lustful breath fell on her face. She knew what he wanted, and he knew she did.

His hand rose, caressing her chin. And that was when she knew...

...She owned him.

((Woof, is it getting hot in here? Great story! I want to know how Krogon gets out of this one!))

bae caught me giftin

---

---

It shuddered, with anger, anger so loud as to make his efforts at hiding in this place entirely futile. The movement of unused acids in his gut had lasted nearly a day now, unanswered in their calls for nourishment, growing in noisy discontent with each hour. At least, what he considered to be an hour, time was quickly losing its meaning down here. The feasting cannibals had long since finished their meal, skulking off with the lapping of blooded maws back to their own corners to digest and wait...

This place will be fraught with problems...

He considered this, as he sat cross legged atop the ledge looking out into the pitch black of main cave chamber beyond. His eyes found nothing, not a scrap of light. Already he’d begun to become accustomed to using his other senses. Touch, smell and sound would be allies here, his only allies, save for Vrex perhaps.

And I can’t even be sure if he won’t simply kill me in my sleep.

The thought gnawed at him, worse than the pangs of hunger in his belly. Vrex had not moved all this time, while Krogon sat on the far right of the ledge, Vrex remained perched on the far left. Not a word had been passed between the pair, all the while the Blademaster could only think, endlessly.

Focus, consider your options, what do you know?

Well, he knew what they had taken from him upon capture. First they took his swords, then they searched him and removed his daggers, knives and other weapons. His armoured gauntlets too, and even the sandals that bore no other use  were not safe.

No weapons then...

Next they took his waist-wrap, along with his tools and climbing gear concealed within. Smoke bombs, rope, climbing claws and other gizmo’s he had handpicked for just such a tight spot.

They would have been useful now.

That all paled though, in comparison to the true robbery. He didn’t know when or what was done with it, but his iconic wolf mask had been snatched for some unknown fate. He’d rarely ever be seen without it hiding his features, like many Red Blades. Though worse still, they had taken his prayer beads.

The spirits are silent here, they would have been a great boon.

His right hand rubbed over the top of his chest where those sacred orbs had one rested. That those had been removed showed incredible foresight by the dark shaman, as well as intimate knowledge of how a Blademaster gained and tapped into his spiritual powers. It all pointed to one thing...

This was no chance skirmish. They planned it well, and I was the target.

He snorted, realising with disdain with how easily he had been caught.

”You seem agitated, stranger. What has you so riled? Hrm?” Vrex whispered in his cool, coarse tone.

Perhaps now is the time to start asking.

Krogon ran his hand over the moist, cold surface of the rock he sat upon as numerous questions ran through his mind, all competing for priority.

”Why are the spirits so quiet down here?” He asked, at last. Probably after too many silent moments, but the question needed an answered. The spirits were mute, and the earth felt tender.

Vrex snorted, not with disdain but with amusement. ”this whole chamber is one giant wound to them, is why.”

Krogon turned to look toward him, finding on the black veil of the dark and the sound of disgruntled breathing.

”Mala’kal scoured every tunnel, chamber and surface down here with runes of enslavement and agony. The earth itself is a ward, beaten into submission to allow no other spirit a voice or presence...” He finished, spitting for good measure.

Krogon ran his hand over the ground again, his brows furrowing in anger. All Dark Shaman had much to answer for, but Mala’kal was quickly becoming the most intolerable. When his lip had curled enough he pressed on with his questions.

”What of the other prisoners?” He pressed. It was a good question, he’d only seen four, there could be many more in those tunnels leading from this central chamber.

”Them? There be plenty. You already met the pig, the troll I call Drooler. Don’t forget Sela and her son Tirek too, Orcs them. The ogre too... but he mostly just sleeps down his tunnel.”

that was a female and her pup gnawing on me? Pfah, worst still an ogre of all things...

Krogon grumbled, he had a variety of individuals to worry about in a maze he didn’t know and had to discover without his eyes. On top of that he was without his tools and spirits allies.

Patience...

Stone grinded on stone, far above...

Within moments as the groan of rock continued, a bolt of blinding light penetrated down from high above and illuminated the chamber and the rank pool of water at its centre. Krogon squeezed the lip of the ledge tightly under his hands while his eyes re-focused, then his ears became aware that Vrex had moved.

Where is he going?

The other Orc who he now saw for the first time had leapt from the ledge and begun darting toward the water edge, his back turned to Krogon as his muscled body bounded forward with purpose. His hair was long, dark and messy, much alike to his beard. The only clothing he could make out was that of a ripped pair of leather pants more alike to a long loin-cloth.

Splash... and he was in the water, diving head first. Krogon watched eagerly now, trying to fathom the purpose of this sudden burst of energy, there was also the other thing...

Why aren’t the others moving?

Not a single head emerged from one of the dozen tunnels surrounding the chambers walls, nor did a face rise above the numerous rocks or low ledges. Then the answer descended along the beam of light, down from the hole so high above.

Garbage.

A dozen bones, spoiled vegetables and other undesirable food stuffs hit the water sporadically as laughter echoed down from above, chanting and jeering. The cannibals didn’t eat this crap, they had good succulent meat to fuel them and no reason to shun it, no morale or principle remained that held them back.

But Vrex, Vrex clings to his...

The other Orc bobbed, dived, splashed, grabbed and clung hard as he scooped up the discarded meals. As soon as he had entered the water, he had dragged himself back out, wet and panting... dashing back toward the ledge with as much haste as he could muster while the beam of light above shrank once more with the grinding of stone.

As slick wet hands finished grappling their way back onto the ledge and the sound of dripping water pattered onto the stone, Vrex dropped the food at his side and rolled with a clatter something meaty smelling his way.

”Next time, it be your turn. That is how we eat.”

---

---

Each foot-step was preceded by nervous, frantic grasping. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t see what was ahead, he had to feel for it constantly. Pawing over each rough stony surface he countered while his feet drudged through icy water with hesitant steps. He could just as easily step into a bottomless pool and drown as well as smash his skull on an unseen wall of stone.

Miles, This thing goes on for miles...

The air wasn’t much better. It thinned sometimes, radiating strange chemical smells while it felt as if it would suffocate him with pressure in other parts of the passage.

Vrex had best save me my meal if they throw anything down today.

He grumbled. The meals had been few and far between, every day or two as best he could judge. And each time, more and more hungry faces peeked out from the shadows around the main chamber, growing steadily more ravenous. Fresh, bloody meat had not been theirs for nearly a week now. Those hungry eyes had worried him on both his dashes to the pool, but he could not let doubt hold him back. He was adapting.

Next time they pounce on me they will get a shock.

He snorted, probing a low hanging rock with his hands before he ducked under to continue. Gentle, calm shuffles all the way. Vrex had mocked him, told him several times before each of these little trips. “the tunnels lead only down and to nowhere, do not waste your time”, over and over.

Find a way. Search. You can’t sit idle no matter what he says or others before you have done.

It was true, as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t climb up to the entrance of the main chamber with his bare hands and no tools, so there was only one other option.

Explore.

And explore he did. This was the third tunnel he had ventured down after his turn waiting for the garbage drop. The first had led to a cold, still pool of water that acted without intention as the inmate’s water source. The second however spiralled down a short distance to a honeycombed maze of criss-crossing paths that led ultimately nowhere, it had taken him a whole day to memorize its corridors and find his way out.

Two down, many more to go. There has to be one that goes somewhere...

This tunnel was mostly straight. Granted, it had dipped somewhat while it ran its course, water rising to his ankles, but it was straight. Only the occasional minor obstacle lay in his path as he moved forward through what his eyes perceived as only the colour black, and nothing else. Until he came to an incline, and crawled his way up with agonizing care.

The air began to thin, and surge ahead, sucked forward...

Is this perhaps the end of it?

He placed his right foot forward after a cautionary grasp with his hand, only to find air, and the void below. His body plummeted, both arms spinning to grasp, clutch and grab something, anything!

”Spirits!” his voice burst forth in a startled gasp, the sound carried out up the tunnel the way he had come, and then thundering into nothing and worse in the vast nothing below.

His hand grasped, scraped and caught, with only half a fingers width of dry rock to spare. His strained, the sinews stretching to tearing point in wrist, digits and thumb while his body rocked and reeled, dangling in that black open space. His voice echoed all around, deep and menacing... a lost, hopeless ghost.

compose yourself.

He took a sharp breath, summoning the reserves of strength he had to hold so precious, thrusting his other arm upward to search and grasp. He found sharp rock, but it was enough to give grip while his feet found the rocky wall he had stepped over.

With worn, strained hands and the push of his legs he clambered back onto the lip of the ledge from which he had tumbled. Air dragged into his lungs like molten steel. Vrex would mock him for his stubbornness, how many other inmates had nearly fallen here, or indeed plummeted to their death?

Do not give up, do not ever give up.

---

---

His stomach tightened, twisted. It had been a fair few days since the last scraps of sustenance had plummeted from above. The last dash had been made by Vrex while Krogon had been searching the final side tunnel. To his dismay, after climbing down a steep wall that had once carried a waterfall, he found only a flat empty bottom that led nowhere, blocked.

Where else is there to go?

His stomach shuddered again. The angry shudder vibrated through his body, and no doubt anyone else in the cavern could hear it, in turn he could hear the rumble of other hungry bodies too.

Their starving us on purpose, pushing us to barbarity.

He sat forward, opening his eyes to be greeted by his old friend the darkness. The main chamber was quiet, aside from the occasional meek grunt or rumble of starvation. Perched here on the ledge he was ready at a moment’s notice to make his run of the gauntlet.

Vrex timed his turn to rest very well.

The other Orc slept quietly to his left, curled up into a muddled, sleeping ball at the other end of the ledge. Hunger promoted lethargy as the body conserved its strength; after all, being awake was a lot of effort.

Click...

His ears twitched, straining to the source. It came from above, high up as an echo. It was time. His body shifted into a leaping pose, ready to lunge downward and sprint toward whatever scraps were thrown down.

Don’t take any risks, if you can’t win, don’t fight...

The scraping of stone rose, light burst forth from the hole far above in an eye blinding explosion of colour. He didn’t have time to let his vision adjust like the others, he needed to move now and get there before they could hone in on him...

Now!

He leapt, his heart racing as he landed on unsteady, thinning legs below the ledge. The noise of his landing prompted other sounds around the cavern, rustling, growling, snorting and drooled hisses. They were getting ready as he threw his already tired legs forward in a dash. The lights dazzling rays had finished blinding him, his eyes had adjusted, and the pool was within leaping distance, the rushing air above heralded the fall of something followed by cruel laughter and jeering.

Jeering? Why would they jeer foodâ€"

Splash!

Water exploded upwards in a plume of spray. Whatever had hit the water was bigger than a few scraps, on top of that it was thrashing and wailing too.
“Augh! Ack!” It splashed wildly, dragging itself to the edge of the water, hauling itself onto the rocky lip near the bare feet of the Blademaster. A human, male, clad only in a torn shirt and trousers. Scraps finally followed into the water, but those would play second place to what was to come...

No, no, no... not now, not now...

The human raised his eyes to meet his, instantly widening in terror he scrambled to crawl away. A slick wet worm on the rocks, scurrying from what he thought to be another terrible Orc. Sense soon gripped Krogon’s throat while his heart drummed in his ears.

”Run you fool! Head for higher ground!” He spluttered, only for his body to be smashed aside with terrible force from his right. He flew, to his own left as a massive shadow thudded past him. Striking the ground he did not slide but hit with force, his shoulder popping with dislocation as he landed.

Move, get to safety before they make a move on you too!

His exhausted, mal-nourished body protested as hot spiked of pain shot up his left shoulder. The ligaments and muscles shuddered with agony as he propped himself up.

”No, no! Mercy! Please! Please!” His eyes shot to the pleading, the human was backed into a corner, the massive body of the ogre that had displaced him looming over its mark. All around other shadows stalked about, on ledges above and awaiting in the wings of the dark.

”Flesh... warm... flesh... mhrghmm...” The ogre that had been elusive up until now frothed over the prospect of fresh meat, opening his hands as he lunged forward to grab his prey. However, the human had energy in him yet and barrelled sideways out of any grasp, only to find himself in the loving embrace of the troll, Drooler.

”Aught--!! He wasted no time, sinking his saliva dripped fangs into that soft pink shoulder, tearing away a bloody chunk to the sound of pain spurred squealing. The pig ran in, grabbing an arm with stunted hands to then sink in his own mangled teeth.

Animals, bastards, do something Devilstep, do something!

His head whirled, pushing himself along with his right hand while his left sagged at his side. His body did what his head would not, acted on survival instincts and moved for safety.

“Grah! Mine!” The ogre roared, having rounded and throwing the other two off his meal. Grasping the startled human with both hands now, throwing his teeth at the wailing body as it was pushed flat to the ground.

“Gnâ€"no-no please!” He was cut short, those ogre jaws sinking into that soft flesh flank. The troll and Quilboar stalked around, moving in to try and grab a bite, bloodied arms flailing to try and push them off with little desperate success.

Kill them, do something, act!

His mind protested but his body continued dragging him away, toward a tunnel he knew to be safe, its maze of winding corridors known only to him. He watched, unblinking as the female Orc and her starved child leapt in now too, all of them tearing, biting and scrabbling. All the while the screams filled the cavern and echoed upward with the reply of mocking laughter falling back down. Vrex sat on his perch, watching with hungry eyes.

He wouldn’t, would he?

Each movement of his right arm made his left feel as if the bone was ripping his flesh apart, the pain surging to the forefront of his thoughts while his eyes remained locked on the scene before him. The screaming had stopped, the frenzied noise of eating had begun.
When he at last reached the mouth of the tunnel he could still see the human as the light began to fade, the stone high above being pushed back into place. Those lifeless, terror filled eyes looking back at him as he lay flat on his back. The last glimmers of light vanished, while that body was pulled apart for every morsel. The cracking of bone, the tearing of flesh, the squabbling of the feast...

The thundering beat of an angry heart...

---

---

He laid his head back against the cold smooth surface of the rock; it embraced him in this little den like a cradling embrace. Though he had managed to pop his left shoulder back into its socket, the pain continued, each heartbeat sending a surge of bewildering pain beyond his elbow all the way to the wrist.

You should have done something...

He let a short, pained breath escape his lungs. He was safe here, among the maze of tunnels and small den like holes he had memorized, it had been the second tunnel he had searched and he’d learned its paths well. With the horror of the main chamber drifting from his mind and exhaustion taking his body, he drifted toward sleep as thoughts echoed through his mind.

What could you have done... what could be done at all...

His eyes shut, fading from one black to another while his mind’s eye settled and began to wander inward. Colours he had not seen in what felt like weeks raced by, greens, blues and yellows. Their sweet aura caressed his vision, vibrant with a life of their own despite their diminished hue of grey. Even his dreams were succumbing to the dark...

Sounds rushed by his head, the whirling of the wind and rustle of long grass in its breeze. Gentle aromas overran his senses with the scent of the trees mixed with humid rain drenched earth. It was overwhelming, yet also felt as if it was barely in his grasp for every moment. it was all held on to desperately, easily lost at any moment.

Nagrand...

Home, before the first war, before any woe, before the rise of the horde. He walked through the moon and star lit meadows of a place he clung to in his dreams, at a time held dear in his memory. His body felt strong, nimble with the vigour of youth and an eagerness of an unburdened heart. He had not felt this alive in decades, not a care in the world or a weight on his heart to blemish the moment.

Then he heard it, at first it felt like a clean musical chime. It hummed through his bones and pulled on his feet, turning him toward a small pond surrounded by over-arching trees. He followed obediently, summoned by rhythmic notes akin to a harp.

So calm, serene... peaceful.

His dreaming eyes moved around the water-side, his ears strained to focus on the source of the heart stealing song. Each note was like a whisper from the spirits, calling him to come closer and fall in love with the sound. Using his young brown hands to move aside a low hanging branch of leaves, he at last saw her.

Borla...

His heart skipped, leapt for a forgotten joy. Her back was turned as she knelt before the water’s edge, her long purple hair wound down her bare back as a braid. She wove circles in the flat crystal water with a hand, crafting shapes as perfect notes of song escaped her lungs. Kalimag, it felt like, but he did not know the words, or he could not recall them in the depths of his memory.

How he longed to place his hands on her shoulders, to run his fingers down her neck, to place his lips against hers. But his feet remained rooted, unmoving. What had begun as enchantment was becoming torture as the moon arced over the horizon, its yellow surface causing a pang of horror to rise in his chest.

I know that moon...

He had not seen that moon since he and his mentor had parted ways after exchanging blows, he had of course come away the loser and mortally wounded. A throb of painful memory ran through his left shoulder, his body shifting in his sleep on the injury but also remembering the old wound.

Was it tonight? Please not now, please do not ruin this moment...

He ran his eyes over her, pleading with silence to see her face one last time. But nothing, she remains with her back turned as her voice lowered to a sorrowful whisper.

”You cling too harshly to this memory, student.” came a cold, emotionless tone from behind.

A cold chill ran up his spine, turning to face those piercing purple eyes and that gaze that missed nothing, searching and always knowing. They looked upon him with annoyance, and he felt as a boy once again.

”Master...”

---

---

He growled deeply. Inconvenient was not the word, irritating barely covered it, infuriating just about did the deed. The Orc was long over-due, late by far and picked the worst time for wanting an audience.

He picks now to show up? Bah!

Mala’kal lumbered down the tunnel he himself had carved into this mountain, the clank of his mail chiming with each foot-step. The spirits, agonized by the runes he had burned into the bones of this peak and by the presence of his chained totem on his hip, fled before him as he turned down every corridor. Their terrified whispers pleased him, proving his power and supremacy over them.

Fear and obedience, as it should be.

As he turned right and descended down a final corridor he considered the warm furs he had to leave behind, complete with Teshka left bathed in their combined sweat upon them. She had fallen for the boon he had gifted her like a bitch in heat, providing much needed satisfaction and a loyal lieutenant, and spirits subdued... soon another son too.

She will yield great use.

Reaching the end of the flame torch lit corridor he came to a large wooden door, and slammed it open with his powerful, muscled hands. Within was a dark gloom that sat nervously about the place, the spirits kept their distance long before he arrived, giving clue to the presence of another.

Where are you...?

With a waft of his hands, like a slap to an unwitting child, the brazier at the side of the room ignited through the intimidation of the fire spirit. With the illumination came clarity, the large chamber had been filled with crates, a dozen of them while a figure clad and hooded in red robes stood by the brazier.

Been waiting for me eh?

The figure, its face shrouded in shadows under that crimson hood, gestured to the crates with a gloved hand.

“Oh? A gift for me? How ‘kind’ of you to keep up your end of the bargain...” Rebuked the dark shaman, with a pinch of sincerity and glee. He had been waiting a long time to get his hands on this.

At last, the tools I need to make them all pay!

He strode over to the nearest crate, half as tall as an Orc and twice as wide, grabbing the loose wooden lid with his massive bare hands. With a forceful push and pull, it was soon removed. What lay within made him hunger, not for sustenance, but for its use.

”you have done well by us indeed.” Mala’kal mused while the robed figure remained eerie silent. He placed a hand into the crate and raised part of its contents, turning it in his hand, examining it closely.

Dynamite. We will make their bastions crumble, and the traitors cower in fear!

He dropped the wrapped group of explosive sticks back into the box without a second thought, fixing his gaze on the robed Orc who stalked around the edge of the dark room inspecting the boxes.

He will be pleased to know our end of the bargain is fulfilled. Such a small deed, in exchange for so much!

”I have kept my word, the Blademaster is dealt with.” Mala’kal smiled as he spoke, the figure tilted its hooded head then nodded, satisfied.

”He will suffer in our little prison before he gets torn apart or rips himself apart in madness!” He boasted, it felt good. A Triumph over the traitor who betrayed Hellscream.

Slam!

The strange Orc slammed a fist on the edge of a crate, his dissatisfaction clear at the prospect of the Blademaster still being alive, sharp and to the point.

Blah, fel dammed nit-picker wanted him dead out-right, too good for that ‘Orc’.

”He will die down there. Do not worry. None escape from that place, it is impossible. He will suffer, horribly, then die in despair...” He cracked a wicked smile, at the triumph.

The robed Orc tapped a finger on the crate, then raised the hand and lowered his hood. It always struck Mala’kal how frightening those eyes were, how they seemed lifeless yet full of narrowed, beaded malice. The blank menacing expression, turning to that dumbfounded grin...

”Oof, as lung as snoopy Orc taken cure of, Luk nut care an’ will moof un Rud bladez. Deal iz deal.”

Luk is back! How ever did he escape from his asparagus polymorph?

Lovely stories.
And as for how? I'm guessing... pure luk!

Read through all of this on my lunch break and enjoyed it very much. :)

---

---

Rage burned in his chest, his heart hammered a drum beat of fury. The nerve of it, the insult, intolerable!

”You have some nerve, some arrogance to come here, of all places! How dare you make me relive this again!” he snarled, clenching his sleeping fists, the crack of knuckles sounded both in his slumber and in the waking world.

The spiritual visage of his long dead master shimmered, its eyes glaring in defiance. Ashlan was old here, as he had been when Krogon knew him. His scarred body, long silver beard and braided hair were as he had always known them. Those purple eyes had their usual steely gaze, narrowed and full of knowing, looking through him like glass. The choice to lack his left arm, as had in life, was a curious one though.

Why would he choose to be maimed as a spirit?

”Why do you think student?” came the echo of a voice long forgotten, the maimed masters calm, coarse voice probing for an answer. Krogon should have expected he’d only need to think to ask a question in this dreamscape, this vision.

”Because it is who you are. It is the essence of what defined you, shaped you into the famed one armed sword master.” He replied. He knew the answer, his sub-conscious needed no time here.

”Good. As for your first question, I am here because this memory is relevant to your current ‘predicament’, so now I will ask you a question. Why are you young in your dreams?”

Krogon felt himself snort before he even decided he wanted to. His former master had come to him in his dreams, to grant him some clarity from the spirits? So be it, if they had no other way to reach him in this prison he would follow the path they threw in front of him.

He grumbled, straining to keep his eyes from the shape of his long dead mate. Her beauty and the sound of her singing were memories he wished he could hold close, but time had simply eroded the visage and the chorus from his mind. If love ever had a meaning, it was to be distraught that you could no longer recall that which you had adored so dearly.

”I am young here, because deep inside I have not fully embraced who I truly am. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He answered, the scene shifting as rain began to cascade around and upon the memory of a long gone Nagrand.

Ashlan tilted his head, then shook it with a ghostly sigh. It was now that Krogon noticed a strange symbol etched into the tanned brown flesh of the dead master. Its single rune, seemed familiar yet unknown. The marking was also defiantly becoming more prominent as moments wore on.

”It is not what I want to hear that matters, Devilstep.” Came the reply, and he shuddered hearing it. Ashlan had never known the name Devilstep, it had always been ‘Krogon’, or ‘student’.

”Do not feel disdain at hearing me use that title. You have earned it well. The ‘devil Orc’ eh? Respected by your allies, feared by your enemies. Yet down here respect and fear do you no good.” He spoke, very simply put. He was right of course, fear was his favoured tool and he had been more subject to it than master.

”The dreaded Devilstep, master of the shadows.” The spirit groaned, then pressed on. ”He who can walk through walls, confound and route entire armies single handed, out-wit an ancient...” Krogon growled, where was he going with this?

”and yet, you can’t climb out of a Gul’dammed hole!” the spirit sneered, his expression showing clear and pained disappointment.

Krogon sighed, a weight lifting off his shoulders, his master was revealing the sense of things to him.

”Then what would you have me do, master? I have no weapons, no tools, no resources...”

The ghost shivered, the growing rune on its chest now glowed faintly red as if burning. It was familiar, so very familiar...

”The spirits did not proclaim this to be your demise, remember that, and hold that thought close... my student. Shed fear, wield terror and ascend. Remember the vision of Kosh’harg.” He continued, his lip turning in pain to a grimace. The mark on his body burned now, eroding.

Krogon’s memory flew, to the last Kosh’harg and the visions that Steelheart had brought. The words flew from his spirit mouth like a river running...

”When that dreaded bow is strung, at last your immortal song shall be sung...”

”Exactly, now is not the place, or the time. Dig deep within yourself, and do what you have too to survive. The constraints you had in the past, will not save you here... Haâ€"aagh!” He ended, wailing in agony. The rune was now on fire, then an inferno ripping that spirit to embers then nothing...

He jolted, his vision reeled as the dream melted away like mist and became only dark, the pitch black of the depths. Pain surged up his left shoulder to his neck and back down to his wrist. He was awake, back where he had begun.

Running a sore, calloused hand over the stony surface of the ground he lay on, he considered what he had been granted in a vision. Ashlan had come, but the runes etched into this prison by the dark shaman had eventually driven him off. He also realised that Vrex had forgotten to tell him why he knew this place so well, though he had a feeling.

A murmured prayer of thanks to the spirits escaped his lips. They had gone to great lengths to give him something to spur him forward.

Thank you, Ashlan. Forgive me...

Rolling onto his knee’s to return to the main chamber, he knew one thing that Mala’kal did not.

The dark shamans me given me the rope to hang them with...

---

---

The fire was burning in him now. He knew what he had to do, and how low it would take him, but it was the only way. The spirits would forgive him though, and that was all that mattered right now.

When that dreaded bow is strung...

He told himself, over and over, affirming what he knew to be true and irrefutable. He felt it in his bones, he believed what the spirit of Ashlan had suffered to tell him. He would not die here.

...At last your immortal song will be sung.

His right hand pulled him up onto the ledge, his left helped but still panged with pain as he scrambled onto the flat surface. He knew Vrex would be here, there others would be sleeping off their meal.

His senses narrowed, honed. He could hear Vrex breathing. Not the usual steady slow breath of waking or speech, but of fitful sleep.

My climb up was far more subtle than I expected...

“Wake up...” He felt himself growl. There would be no restraint here, only answers. Vrex gripped the earth at his side with a grasping hand, the contact of skin on blood slick stone had a distinct noise. He’d eaten. He stirred quickly, tensing his muscles, licking dry lips...

I can feel his worry in the air, hear how nervous he feels...

”You are alive! Good, yes, good... I saved you some scraps...” He spoke, fast. A little too fast for someone who should feel comfortable. His foot caught the ground, the tell tale sound indicating that he had sat up and was crouching.

No mercy.

”Scraps? Of what?” Krogon asked, blank and without emotion. He stood directly in front of the other Orc, by the ledge facing inward to the hollow. Though he could not see him in the dark, he knew Vrex was facing out toward him, and taking a great deal of time to answer his question.

He hesitates.

”Garbage, what else?” he answered, exhaling sharply. Knuckles cracked, a waking habit or a sub-conscious warning from a cornered Orc.

Liar

”The human you drooled over earlier, what else?” He answered, following up quickly before an answer could come, ”Kor’kron.”.

Vrex growled lowly. His knee’s creaked as he stood to his full height. He was angry, not at the accusation but at being found out.
”How did you know?” He asked. His tone indicated hostility, the light crack of his neck hinted at possible violence.

So it is true.

”You knew this place ‘well’. Your words. I think you helped Mala’kal build this place, and for your troubles, he threw you down here first, to test if someone who knew it inside out, could get out. The ultimate test.” He probed, not gently, but with a spear head of an accusation.

Vrex snarled. Now it was plain anger, nothing hidden about it. Perhaps he did not even realize himself the reason for his fate, or simply had not accepted that his loyalty had been rewarded with this hell.

”You are a smart one, aren’t you. And I was hoping to keep you alive as a walking larder, but you have out-lived your usefulness, I can’t let the others know who I am.”[/]

They would not much tolerate discarded Kor’kron down here.

”Don’t worry. I’ll be killing them too.” Krogon answered, flatly. Vrex laughed, deeply, the sound echoed through the main chamber and doubtlessly drew the attention of the others. Their digestion would keep them inactive but they would be listening.

”Not so smart after all!” Vrex roared, and bolted forward. Those large Orcish hands whistled through the air as he swiped to grab the Blademaster, finding only empty air as his target ducked, side-stepped and chopped down with his right hand. The blow made contact with the back of his neck, stunning him and forcing him down.

One.

Vrex hit the ground, his head dangling over the lip of the rock ledge startled and coughing. Raising his bare foot, Krogon forced it down square on the back of the closet cannibals’ neck.

Crunch!

Breaking necks always made such subdued noises, this one was no different. The edge of the ledge helped too by crushing the wind-pipe. Krogon turned and spat on the freshly made corpse. It had begun.

When that dreaded bow is strung...

---

---

He eased his breathing, focused his mind on something other than the agony in his muscles, legs, arms and back crying for respite. Usually he would enter this sort of mental trance to meditate and order his thoughts, now he did so to keep himself still.

Breathe in, slowly...

Air dragged into his lungs with a hollow rasp, near silent but a tell tale sign to those who would be straining to hear. The ordeal of this place had not been kind on his body, his lungs felt rough and his body drained. But he persevered, flexing and tightening his hands around the small boulder he held tight to his chest.

Breathe out, gently, not too fast...

Vrex had died without any real struggle, more caught by surprise than overwhelmed. His body now sat tucked away in the depths of Krogon’s personal maze, well away from any of the others. They may even still think him alive, so he had resolved to move swiftly to ensure panic was not raised among them.

frightened sheep bite back.

Each step of the plan from here needed to be done in succession, dispatching the others in a particular order as to minimize the danger and maximize the chances of success. First among them, the ogre.

It can’t be fought head on, surprise is the only option.

A full grown ogre was not a foe to be tackled in hand to hand combat. Beyond this place he would slit the throat or cleaved a limb clean off, but this time he had to settle for a blunt instrument and the aid of downward force.

Spirits this thing is heavy...

His hands strained, adjusting his grip on the boulder he peered down into the dark, listening. He had perched himself above the inside of the water-pool cave, where everyone came to drink. With each foot at one side of the entrance he was perched perfectly above any would be thirsty visitor as they entered or left. However, despite the Quilboar and Troll already visiting for small sips of sustenance and padding cautiously back out again, he’d not seen or heard anything of the ogre.

...and it will only get heavier.

Shuffle... shuffle...

His body tensed at the sound, the shuffling of large bare feet. Quickly followed by the huff of large lungs. It was him, he was peering into the chamber from the outside, checking it. This one was cautious, unusual for an ogre, though this place makes odd beasts of all of us.

A little closer...

The growl of uncertainty echoed into the chamber, bouncing over the water surface beyond. Krogon held his breath, straining and squeezing to keep his grip until that perfect moment. With each shuffle, grunt and waft of a groping hand from the ogre it inched further in.

”Ghmmm...” it paused, its slow witted brain considering. The sound was below him only feet away...

Now!

He lifted and thrust downward, the coarse surface sliding past his finger-tips as the boulder was propelled downward into the dark. He couldn’t see where it headed, how close his aim was or even if he had held it at all.

THUD!

”HHrrgâ€"kgghh--... The all-mighty thud was followed by gargled, strained attempts to take in breath. The force of the rock had achieved its purpose, striking the top of  its skull, forcing it to compress down on the spine. It would be struggling to breath, suffocating on its own blood.

Crash!

Two.

---

---

When that dreaded bow is Strung... and only then...

He repeated the phrase in his head, even now using it so harden his resolve. It had become his mantra, a source of strength. His prey had been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of that newfound belief, both that swine Quilboar and dribbling troll had been dispatched in the dark tunnels of this place. Both had to be subdued with various methods.

Three and four.

The swine had been a simple matter of drowning. When he’d come to drink, a swift boot into the hind quarters sent him into the drinking pool. He’d assumed correctly, Quilboar don’t know how to swim, and a lax of air did the rest.

The troll was a messier ordeal, he’d taken a hand full of the pigs’ quills and made a primitive shank out of them. Creeping down into his side cave he, like Vrex, had been sleeping off his meal. However, unlike the Kor’kron, he had an instinct for when danger was immediately near and had leapt to his feet sensing an attacker.

Much good it did him.

With deft grappling, and a degree of rabid punching he eventually managed to thrust the quill-shank deep into the side of that skinny throat, using the trolls own tusk to hold him down while he bled out. But he didn’t leave the body there, no, he’d make use of this one.

He was heavier than he looked...

With some tired effort he had dragged the body as quietly as an exhausted Orc could, to the centre of the main chamber. And there it lay at the water’s edge, ready in full view when the light next poured down from above to illuminate it.

An easy meal, hard for anyone to ignore, least of all a mother and hungry child.

This was perhaps the most calculated move so far. She and the pup had become feral, but they still had sense, they wouldn’t leave easy pickings to rot. No, she’d come and grab the body and drag it away for later. She’d also need the pups help to move it quickly, they’d both be there as soon as everything descended back pitch black, sitting ducks.

...At last your immortal song shall be sung.

He sat now, running the phrase through his mind, crouched at Vrex’s old ledge. They would not see him here, but he would be able to hear them. Laying there on that flat, cold surface he considered what he had to do.

No mercy, or quarter. Not for them, not for me. Either they die, or we all die down here.

The thought of this place being his tomb angered him, this pit of savage beasts. But equally too the idea of killing a youngling, but there was no other way, no other way.

Click!

The grinding of stone began, an explosion of light was thrust down, banishing the dark to the shadowy corners and tunnels. It was maddening, but he did not need to look so he shut his eyes and waited. The splash of discarded garbage hitting the water sounded that his meal had arrived for later.

I will need every morsel.

He gripped his make-shift weapon tight, the rags he had torn from Vrex bound the pointed swine needles together. They would be watching, he hoped, taking note of the gift he had left. They would consider how the troll came to be there, and take the risk. His heart began to race, soon he would commit the ultimate misdeed, just to survive...

Scraping commenced, the Kor’kron above had begun shutting the entrance while the light shrank and faded to nothing and less. When pitch black had returned he strained to hear, listening for even a whisper or a noise.

He heard it, a shuffle of bare feet on stone, a scrape of a hand on rock, the grasp of skin on skin, and the clear sound of a body being dragged. His hands and feet worked in response, clambering down from the ledge silently, every footing and grip memorised as he reached the bottom, turned then circled toward the noise...

Make it fast, make it painless...

As he drew near, each footstep without a noise, he could hear them whispering. One spoke of assurance and requesting assistance, the other of fear and questioning their luck.

You are wiser than you know child. Your mother should have listened to you.

---

---

The smell was intolerable, nearly. Tanning was a slow, tedious process that was made all the harder by having no way of seeing what your hands were achieving.

When that... dreaded bow, is strung...

He felt sickness rise in his chest but suppressed it. The feeling had forced it, not the smell. Though urine in such volumes, especially after so long, could overwhelm the senses if not well minded.

Persevere.

A little known and over-looked fact when turning hide to leather, was tanning it in Urine. And so he did, this batch in the natural stone basin had been soaking for a whole day as its surface tightened and hardened. The main chamber had become his workshop, sat at its side while he used its natural rocky shapes for his craft. His hands nimbly wove the previous batch he had cut and shaped into lengthy strips for his purpose.

Turn, twist, pull...

Turning strands of leather into lengths of rope without the use of his eyes had at first been problematic. However, as time wore on, he’d become deft if occasionally frustrated with it. Though patience was still required, and often tested.

...At last your, your...

His mind whirled, placing the strands of hide down. Nausea nearly overwhelmed him before he slammed his fist on the ground. A snarl escaped him as he tightened his grip around a climbing pin he had fashioned.

Concentrate.

He turned his attention, placing the top of the femur on the ground to begin grinding the tip of the bone into a flat wedge. He had to shape each of the pile into a particular shape, a unique way, for a specific purpose. The largest, two massive thigh bones would take time, one in particular would make a fine weapon.

Each has to be done perfectly, none can be wasted.

He grumbled, considering the plan in his head. Firstly the Kor’kron threw unlucky victims into this place to either be eaten by previous inmates or to go mad from starvation. Second, they had marked every tunnel and surface with wicked runes to keep spirits and magic at bay. Finally, they would be stripped of everything, only the barest of rags would follow them down giving them no way to pool resources for a climb.

it can be climbed, they knew it could, that is why they stripped us.

All cliffs and rocks could be climbed, it was merely a matter of patience, agility and ingenuity. As well as proper tools of course, and now he at least had some, macabre as they may be, he had to tolerate the morbid nature of his choices.

The spirits will be done. The spirits will it, you obey it. The spirits will be done...

He felt the sickness stir in his gut once more. It was a swirling  bile of liquids rising and surging within. It demanded to be let loose but he didn’t have time for it now, time was too precious to be wasted on being disgusted with this, all of it. But telling himself was not enough, as a sensation he had not felt since the internment camps came to him.

what is this...

It began upon his face, from his left eye. It then wound down his cheek toward his chin. Moist and cool, a stutter of air escaped his lips. He had to stifle the emotion that was surfacing, pushing it back down before it overwhelmed him.

No more. Press on, now.

He spat, snorted, and resumed his work.

There is no other option. None.

Krogon approves of the murdering of all children *thumbsup*

---

---

The pain was numbing. It did not strike, nor did it surge up his shoulder any more. It simply was, present and persistent. He decided in the end, that something was broken, or more likely fractured there. He could move his left arm, but each time it held his weight and that of his load, the pain got slightly worse.

Rely on your right, save your strength, focus on the goal.

The climb was a complex business, memorising each possible route literally from the ground up. Three angles of ascent had ended in dead ends half way up, but the fourth and final one had kept going far beyond the others. It had taken days with a meticulous process of elimination to discover every hand-hold, grip, ledge and obstacle. There had been two garbage drops since he started, at his guess that meant four days had passed. The short glimpses of light no matter how much they blinded him, also gave short glimpses of what was above, revealing opportunities.

Right now, he was latched to the side of a flat, vertical rock-face. He could guess how far he had yet to go, or how far he could fall, but it was easier to simply assume it was a long way in both directions. Bound around him he bore a wound length of leather rope, intertwined with smaller loops and various ‘tools’ he had made. As he had ascended, the tools were gradually used up. Some broke, some remained in hand holds just in case, some occasionally could be re-used.

Slow, and steady. Don’t put your weight on what you don’t trust
His left hand was searching the space above him, groping the cold stone surface. There was a grip to his upper left, but it felt too far and an over-extension was dangerous.

Switch arms.

His placed his left on the curve of stone he had grappled himself too, then lent out to his right to search and hope. The pain in his left arm was subdued, for now, his feet held his weight atop the lip of rock he stood upon.

The rock-face curved there, on the right.  From knee-height upwards he ran his hand over the surface until his fingers found purchase in a small hollow. It was head sized, but grew larger inside. It would make Ideal footing as well as a suitable grip, allowing him to continue the upward advance.

The small one, as a wedge.

He slipped his right hand back, easy not to place too much weight on his left for fear for falling. With gentle, searching hands he ran his fingers atop the selection of bones looped through the ropes wound around his torso. Each was a different size and shape, fit for various purposes. He at last came to the one he sought, a femur, Smaller than the others, but the largest of that body.

When that dreaded bow is strung...

He swallowed with his parched, dry throat. It was a chore to eat, and drink. Raising his right arm back up he searched for the hole once more, then neatly slid the bone in. Turning it from vertical to horizontal it became something to hold on to, aided by gravity and wedged in by force.

Test it, trust its reliability before you trust it.

Tensing his grip around the bone, he pulled on it one, twice and a third time. It did not budge, shake or bend. Solid and reliable, it would take his weight. He would place his weight onto it, and would trust in its strength to hold him.

Breathe in...

He stood on the tips of his sore, bare toes, raised his left hand and let his body swing right. He stopped dead centre below it, dangling with nothing beneath and safe only by the grip of one hand.

Next one, and hope it goes up this time.

He raised his left hand tentatively. The pain was numbing but tolerable, and thus he  began to search...

---

---

She stifled a yawn, waving a dismissive hand at Brusk. The Dark Shaman adept was the only student of Mala’kal, and insufferably jealous. Ever since she had begun warming their leaders bed the other males had been whispering, snarling in their corners at how lying on her back had allowed such sudden advancement and gifts.

Bitter fools.

They entered the main chamber of the cave complex, turning into its massive space from the main corridor, its three braziers sat around the fringes burning low. It was time to feed the animals, so she brought  Brusk and the grunt Vorg to do the heavy lifting.

That’s the only use they have, ha!

”Go on, put those strong arms to use for once.” She barked, waving a hand at the pair to get a move on.

The two males snarled and muttered as they took their places by the large, flat boulder that covered the entrance to their very unique prison. As they strained with their muscled arms to push that rocky mass aside, veins rose on their necks and teeth were gritted. After an initial click, and the groan of scraping stone, the first glimpse of the dark below came into view.

What shall we gift them today, hm?

She turned, striding over to the short table nearby, planting a wicker bag of discarded chicken legs, stripped bones and half rotten vegetables. Drawing the sword she kept ever at her hip, she prodded the scraps with the deadly tip.

Today, let us separate the good stuff from the bad, and give them only the rot and bones...

She grinned widely, amused at her own devious malice. Starvation was good for them, it taught them what happened to those who stood in defiance. They would be throw down, and left to wither, rot and fight among themselves. No more than savage dogs, Ghosts of Orcs.

This be far more fun than it should be.

She turned the gleaming, pristine sword in her hand, shifting aside all the ‘good’ bits of food, and using her hand to place all the true rubbish back in the basket. Behind her the grinding of the great stone continued, accompanied by the snarl and growl of the males.

I wonder how much this would fetch for on a market...

Teshka held the sword up again, the low glow of the braziers danced on its shimmering blue surface. A thousand folds, each like a wave of ice cold water. It was mesmerizing, eye catching, alluring. What she did not understand however was the emblem, and its demonic connotation. The face of a twisted, snarling Orc baring huge fangs sat at the base of the blade, Its head was mounted by a pair of twisted horns atop its head.

Why would a Blademaster pick such a symbol?

She resolved not to worry about it, but the question kept bugging her. What did it mean?

Brusk and Vorg groaned as the stone finally ceased, the grinding of rock due to its motion ended and silence descended on the chamber. Without turning her back, Teshka wafted a hand, signal for the pair to be at ease. They grunted and panted in return.

Then she felt it, a chill ran up her spine as wind rustled in her ears. A growl, a low, menacing growl... then the hellish echo of a word, rolling like thunder from some deep place. It built up like the rumbling of a storm, then struck...

”MALA’KAL!!” it roared.

Teshka shuddered, her blood froze.

---

---

It had been two days since he had last ate, and the make-shift water skin he had made had run dry hours ago. Hanging here between two jutting spikes of rock, he had no easy choices.

Breathe slowly, conserve your strength.

Both hands, and legs wrapped around this shard of stone, gripping on for dear life. If he fell here he would plummet into the unknown, and likely be not so fortunate as to hit water.

A day now, he’d been here. After reaching the top of the cavern he had dragged himself half way around the roof until he found suitable holds and rocks to clamber inward, to the centre of the ceiling. From here, if he remembered right, he could leap upward. From here, he could make a last push for freedom.

It will be the last.

One of the rock formations that he had clambered and dangled across had fallen into the abyss as he moved on and removed his weight. If he was to repeat the climb, he would have no way to get back to this point. This would be the first, last and only attempt he would ever make. The significance had not been lost on him.

When that dreaded bow is strung, at last your immortal song shall be sung...

He murmured to himself, over and over. Reassuring him, affirming what he knew. It was all that gave him focus, strength to his tired limbs. Though he had to consider it, what if he lost his grip? He would plummet, and likely die. If he did not, he would die of injuries. And failing that, he would go down into the depths and throw himself into another abyss.

You will not let go. You will rise, you will succeed.

His fingers burned, the callous skin worked raw on his palms. He had little to soothe the itching, no way to gain respite for his exhausted body.

It will end...

Above him, through what he hoped was a thin layer of rock, was freedom. He could feel vibrations, occasionally, of movement. And better still, he felt the whisper of the spirits, like an echo of a voice at the end of a tunnel. They were close, but agonizingly out of reach. They were afraid, wounded, but simmered with anger below their subjugation.

They are in pain. I will avenge them.

Click!

The sound he had longed for had come at last. First the shunt and grinding of displaced stone, then a blinding burst of light shot downwards on his left... a pillar of colour, illuminating the whole chamber around and below.

It is time.

His eyes narrowed, strained, pained as they adjusted. He would be fighting blind for a few moments, but it was better than nothing. Above he could hear the rumble of laboured breathing and exerted bodies. He stole a glance above, he could see feet pushing aside the great stone. This would be it.

Make them pay.

He dug deep on whatever strength he had left, propping his feet on the rock ready to propel himself upward. Balling that those weeks of hate and anguish into a single, burning ember of fury, he thrust his legs outward and leapt upward while his throat let loose a rumbling roar of that name...

Mala’kal...

”MALA’KAL!!”

---

---

Her heart skipped, one beat, two beats, three. It felt as it would never start beating again when at last a surge of blood left that organ, coming to a thundering chorus. The air shivered, something had burst out of the abyss.

Turn!

She rounded, pivoting her whole body in one motion, her feet leapt as all her weight was thrown into it. Landing on both she clenched her hand around the sword hilt as she took in what she saw.

Brusk was on his knees, an object protruding from his blood spurting throat as he grasped and gargled. It was a bone, sharpened and used like an axe. Vorg however was still standing, throwing a hand down to the axe at his hip and the knife at the other side only for the impossible to happen as his hands met hilts.

A shadow, a mass of black, grey flesh struck him. It could have been a limb, maybe an elbow, dug into Vorg’s throat with a sickening crunch. He choked, and staggered only for a second limb, a foot, to place itself on his abdomen.  He reeled until his feet found empty space and plummeted. He’d fallen into the dark of the hole.

What... what is...

Its skin was slick grey, a beard of matted filth and hair of oiled madness sprouted from its head. Its body was adorned with bones and body parts, skin and hide of pig, troll and Orc. In one hand it held the leg bone of some great beast, sharpened to an edge. And the smell, by all the ancestors the smell near forced her to gag, like death had spat upon a body and let it fester.

The creature turned, looking upon her with malefic emerald eyes. They burned through her, piercing like arrows. It was angry, and aiming that malice her way, tightening that grip around the weapon it held.

Raise the alarm... raise the alarm!

She tried to open her mouth, to speak, but so panic struck was she that only shocked gasps escaped her lips. Its mouth curled, revealing stained yellow teeth in a vicious growl. Tightening her grip on the sword in her hand, she looked left and right for ways to run but found the way blocked by this monster both ways. As Brusk took his final desperate gasp of blood drowned air, she realized this thing was looking at the sword. Not just noting its presence, not admiring its quality, but gazing at it as if its eyes alone could pull it away.

”Thank you..” It whispered, a voice hoarse and full of disdain, those emerald eyes lifting to stare back into hers.

She hesitated, blinking in surprise.

It speaks?

”wh-what for!?” she blurted out, hoping a response would keep it at bay.

”...For bringing me my sword.”

---

---

Mala’kal didn’t walk. Nor did he jog. He ran down the corridor, two of his own grunts right behind him. The pace was swift despite having to duck under various parts of the ceiling, they had to make haste.

Echoes bounced down the length of the tunnel, a scream, a wail, and a crunch. The alarm had been raised and even now he could hear the ring of steel and the clash of battle.

How could someone have infiltrated this place? Impossible!

He and Brusk closed and opened the rock face entrance with their throttle hold over the spirits. Nobody could see the way in, let alone break in. It was inconceivable that anyone could force entry. Impossible.

We shall cut them down all the same!

His feet hammered the hard floor until they came to the tunnels end, rounding the final corner and stormed into the chamber, he with his chained totem in hand and the grunts with axes drawn. What he saw before him made his heart race.

impossible...

Two of the three braziers were unlit, rendering the whole room dark to the eyes. The prison entrance was open, the boulder strewn aside and the dark below revealed. Around the room were five bodies, Brusk, Vorg, two other grunts he did not recall that lacked arms and Teshka, her head some distance from her lifeless body. The blood surged in his chest, molten and hot with rage as his eyes landed on the one that had done this, the thing that had escaped.

It stepped out of a shadow on one side of the chamber, all dark and shrouded in its shape. The smell of death was in the air as it set its eyes on him, green and full of intent. In its hand it held a sword, a familiar sword.

that sword...

He growled, as realisation hit him like a thunderbolt to the mind. The Blademaster had escaped, and reclaimed what was his. But it would not avail him, oh no.

”Burn!” He roared, whirling one hand before directing the other in the direction of the Blademaster. The spirits screamed as he took a grasp on them, bending them to his will, forcing fire to form and throw itself from the totem as a bolt of molten magma. It propelled itself through the air, its intended target in its sights... only for that shadow to melt into its surroundings followed by an explosion of flame and rock on the far wall.

”Get him!” Mala’kal commanded, the two Kor’kron charged, their axes in hand ready to strike.

Just keep him still long enough...

The dark shaman changed his focus. His minds eyes moved it gaze, releasing the aspect of fire and taking air by the scruff of the neck. Lightning, yes. The two grunts confronted a shadow at the far side of the cave, swinging their axes, blows being parried to the ring of steel as they danced with a shadow.

Expendable.

He focused, rotated the totem in his hand and thrust out the other. To the crack of thunder a silver beam of lightning burst forth and lashed toward the trio, the air hummed and vibrated with static as all was illuminated in blinding light.

It struck! Lashing the grunt on the left, he curled his hand to whip it right and catch the other two. Like an explosion of light it blasted the second grunt as the first hit the ground smoulder, dead.

”b-bu...” The last grunt fell over, the smell of burnt flesh was heavy in the air. But the third body was nowhere to be seen. He had not struck his intended target.

Coward!

Marching to the centre of the room he bent all his will to the suppression of the elements, tightening his grip under their squirming, screaming protest. When he was satisfied they were in his control he raised both hands and commanded without mercy...

”Burn him! Strike him down until nothing but ash is left!” Lightning struck outward from his hands, bolts of flame and frost burst forth in all directions. The earth shuddered in anger and fear. The chamber became a light show of power as explosions and juts of earth rose then fell.

”Mala’kal...” Echoed a voice around him, shadows running and spinning across the walls. He was everywhere, anywhere at once. One moment he spotted his shape, the next it was gone no sooner than he could deliver a strike of elemental fury.

”...Mala’kal” it taunted again. Close this time, so he rounded and fired off beams of lightning at the far wall.

”Stay still dam you! Coward! I will kill you! just like I did those trolls!” he roared, his temper long lost as he ruthlessly pummelled the elements into doing his bidding, each blow harder than the last.

The taunting was infuriating, each time he thought he had him he disappeared in a dance of shadows, the air filled with static and heat. His brow soaked with sweat, turning and twisting this way and that, hoping to strike a blow. He listened between bolts, between thunder and explosions.

Is he there, is he there... there!

”Fath-...”

He rounded, lightning leaving his shaking fingers before he could even register what his target was. Shards and veins of lightning surged and danced, striking flesh and bowling the victim to the hard stone wall, back first. As the lightning ended, and the body slumped, sliding down, he realised...

Varanak.

The young Orc had been struck in the side, it was not a killing blow, but certainly mortal. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as smoke rose from his charred body, blood seeped from the wound as he lay gasping for air.

”S-son...?”

---

---

He tip toed to the edge of the tunnel, the sounds of thunder and the roar of his father’s anger echoed out from the chamber beyond. He had felt the shake of the earth, heard the sound of the storm within. There was a battle, and he had to see.

Father will win. He always wins. He has to win. Whoever it is.

It was only his thirteenth year but he knew two things for certain. Dark shamans are powerful, and as long as he was with his father he would be safe.

Leaning forward he held his breath and peaked around the corner, the vivid dance of light and shadows was everywhere, especially so within.  And there he stood, his father, in all his glory. His heart swelled with pride seeing him unleash his full might.

He can never lose!

Lighting leapt from his fingers, fire spat from his palms. The earth at the edges of the chamber jutted and spiked as it tried to skewer a shadow that danced and ran across them, elusive and swift. He could not even begin to guess what it was, but it was certainly the focus of his wrath.

Get closer, maybe you can call to father, tell him where it is.

He crept forward, ducking behind a boulder near the entrance. Peeking over it he narrowed his eyes, trying to focus upon that shadowy devil. He could not see it, fathers lightning was keeping it at bay, running and moving. It would not sit still long enough for him to deliver a blow.

Shadows whirled, as light made them dance and whirl. A wave of frost wailed over his head, another moment a bolt of lightning. He was safe behind the rock, but father didn’t know he was there.

Then he heard it, the skitter and patter of bare feet running on stone. The whirl of air as a body ran past him, behind the boulder. It had given him no heed and ran on, past...

Tell him!

He leapt up, pointing in the direction from whence it came, a shadow the size of an Orc with its back turned was strafing away with a sword in hand.

”Fath-“ Then it struck him, like an earthquake. He flew backwards as his eyes were blinded with dazzling light, and his body overwhelmed with agony. His back propelled backwards his back struck the wall, but the pain of impact paled to that in his side, it burned as if a fire was within him, his muscles convulsing with energy.

Father?

”S-son...? came a whispered voice. His body limply slipped down the wall until it came to a halt, his body paralyzed. He could feel only agony, smell the burning of his own flesh and even see the smoke it created. His gaze shifted, he could see his father, totem in hand looking horror struck, overwhelmed by his misplaced attack.

”my son, m-my son... I-...” He stuttered, taking a step forward to come his aid but was cut short. A shadow came up to his back, and a limb struck down hard upon his neck. With a bewildered cough he stumbled while his totem fell from his limp hand, then fell forward on his chest, unconscious.

N-no... he can’t...

Pain jolted up his side, down his leg. The burns burned, the pain was intolerable, his lungs felt as if they flooded with blood. He began to cough crimson, averting his eyes from his father defeat.

Tears weld in his eyes. He didn’t have the warrior resolve of the others, he was just a child at heart still. He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to see his father die. Ragged gasps of pain and sadness escaped him...

”what is your name, youngling?” whispered a voice. It was hoarse, as if dry, slow with exhaustion. But also sad with regret.

Varanak turned his gaze again, the pain almost forbidding him . Above him hovered that shadow, shrouded and grey. All but the eyes, they were green, narrowed but not in wrath.

please... please...

”Mercy... please... mercy...” he uttered, pleading.

The shadow tilted its head, looking him up and down, sniffing the air and its flesh charred scent. It nodded.

”Mercy.” it answered.

Before he could react or even consider, it whipped around his right hand and plunged a pointed edge downward. He gasped, all the air in his lungs froze as bone crunched around it. The shadow had slipped his sword clean through his chest. His heart pressed against the flat cold surface, its beats slowing to that final point...

Mercy...

---

---

He dragged his left foot. It was twisted, only adrenaline had kept him running when he had fought, only sheer willpower. The tunnel had been long, winding for what felt like miles before it came to a mouth, and already the glow of light was hurting him. His eyes burned, throbbed with agony as they adjusted to the brightness of the braziers within, but this was a more deep seated pain.

Tolerate it, you are nearly there.

The smells and scents of still water, of tree’s and life wafted up the tunnel to his nostrils.  When at last he came to the end, his heart stopped. The way was blocked.

No...!

The end of the tunnel was wide, but a sheet of solid earth barred his way, all but for the small of holes, Likely for air. He staggered up, raised a hand and hammered upon it, pleading with it in silence, his teeth clenching in anger.

All this way for nothing...

The earth shuck, the grinding of sound heralded movement, the air whispered and the stone lowered. The elements had granted him this one gift as thanks, and he would not forget it.

”Thank you, spirits... He uttered, talking to nobody, himself and everything around. As the wall of stone finally ceased and the door was opened he was met with a cold rush of air, chilling him to the bone. What lay beyond felt to his eyes as daylight, but he knew it to be night.

Freedom.

Beyond was the croak and hum of a swamp, one he felt to be Dustwallow. To his back were the southern mountains that led to thousand needles.

So, they didn’t drag me far at all.

He grunted, taking tender steps forward to seat himself on a fallen log. His left ankle pained him, deeply. The surges of fiery hot agony bolted up his leg each time he placed his weight upon it.  The eventual journey to Mudsprocket would be fraught with problems. Taking a firm grip of his sword, now returned to his scabbard he made himself comfortable, running a hand around its hilt.

It had not hit him just how much he had missed it since it had all begun. He had become too reliant on a piece of metal to do his work for him, it had become everything. It was too much of a roll in his life for an inanimate object.

Ashlan would laugh at that. A Blademaster’s weakness being his sword...

Lifting his gaze to the east he narrowed his eyes. The colour of the horizon was changing, its hues shifting from black to a haze of deep then royal blue. Clouds revealed themselves, escaping from nights shadow. He knew what was coming, and how it was hurt him.

Dawn.

Despite his trepidation, he sat there unmoving. He would weather it come what may. The distance shimmered and changed, blue became light yellows as his eyes struggled to keep pace with the escalating assault upon them. The sky above was red as it retreated, fleeing from what was about to arrive.

The sun.

The first ray was agony, hitting his eyes like a bolt of fire to the mind. Then the tip of that circle peaked over the distant horizon, causing him to raise a weary arm to shield his view. Pain shot up his left shoulder as he struggled to keep balance upon his uneasy seat.

Though it intensified as that orbs light bounced from every surface, reflected upon the water and the glare increased, he withstood it. The heat on his skin was a burning caress that he let wash over him, embracing the pain. He had missed it, oh spirits how he had missed it.

Too long have I walked in the dark. Too long.

As the sun began its inevitable rise, now free of the tip of the world, he returned his gaze to the cave mouth he had emerged from, where it all had happened. He narrows those eyes, considering.

Wrongs must be righted...

And so he rose, limping back to the tunnel...

---

---

The heat was suffocating, stifling. His body beaded with sweat while he writhed in his iron bonds. The shackles chafed and ate at his ankles at his wrists. All he could do was suffer, and wail in maddening torment. The bag, this thick cloth sack he had been thrown into bounced and thrashed wildly. He had guessed his captor had thrown him over some mount. They were travelling, and somewhere hot.

”Let me-... let me out of here! Let me out!” Mala’kal roared, his voice hoarse from his continual ranting and commanding. But his words were always met with silence.

I will rip his heart from his chest! Flay the hide from his back

Though it would have to be only that. He no longer had his totem, the spirits he had once ensnared where silent to him, beyond his power. Brute force would have to suffice.

Despite his anger ruling his mind, he felt the bouncing stop, then heard the satisfied grunt of an Orc. A saddle shifted, someone dismounting, probably him.

We are here, at last...

He was grabbed in his sack firmly, dragged and dropped with unkind hands, though the earth was not solid, it felt loose and mouldable.

Just you wait you bast-...

A sword edge plunged through the sack, sliding past his eyes... then dragged its way down, opening the sack and allowing light to burst in, dazing him with its intense strength and heat. He thrashed, shaking himself loose to sit on his knees, perched upon sand. He was in the desert.

What is this dog up to!?

His threw his gaze around, to find the one who had subdued him, the one who had escaped. He was stood by a great blue raptor mount, sword in one hand, a skin of water in the other. Though the arm holding the skin was in a sling, he had no doubt that his enemy only needed one working arm to end him.

All around was sand, from one horizon to the next. No landmarks in sight, only sand and blue sky. He snarled...

”why have you brought me here dog... Why!?”

The Orc tilted its head. Where once there was a short trimmed beard and s shaved head, was long a dirty crazed bush of hairs from neck to scalp, drenched in gore and filth. Clad only in simple rags he narrowed his eyes, those had not changed. Emerald, piercing, full of defiance.

”you are here, to answer one last question...”

Mala’kal sneered, flashing his fangs. The Blademaster had already beaten him for information, demanding to know of other Kor’kron, other dark shaman, what the explosives were for...

”I already told you everything, everything you wanted to know!” He barked, spitting at the other Orcs bare feet. What more could he possibly want!?

”The one who gave you the Dynamite. The one who told you to imprison me. What was his name?” The Blademaster asked, almost politely but Mala’kal could feel the ice cold venom in the words.

Vileclaw will destroy him...

”In return, before I abandon you here, I will give you a small mercy.” he continued, holding up the skin and shaking it. The sound of liquids washing about caught his ears.

Water...

“Vileclaw. His name is Vileclaw.” he answered, with no little degree of bile in his throat, contempt clear in his tone. But water was water, and here if he had any hope of surviving he’d need it.

The Blademaster scoffed, and threw the skin to his knees, sliding across the sand. Manically he grabbed it with both hands, grasping desperately to un-cork it with a pop. Throwing back his head he poured the contents into his mouth.

Sweet reliefâ€"what is this!?

He quickly found his tongue curling in revulsion, his cheeks burning with disgust and then he cough, spat and choked the liquid back out. Setting his eyes on the sand, his spittle was black, jet black, oil.

”Blah! What are you doing Orc, what kind of Mercy is this!?” He coughed, spitting the vile, wretch worthy substance out then dropping the skin so its black contents could seep into the sand.

The Blademaster snorted. Raising a hand to point behind Mala’kal. He turned, fixing his eyes on the distant horizon, to see a wall. Not a wall of stone, or iron, warriors or water, but of sand. From ground to vast heights it rose, a shivering, swirling wall from vast miles to the right to the great beyond on his left. A sand storm was building, but sitting still in place.

”Mercy from them. Dark shaman.” at last came the reply, Mala’kal let the air escape his mouth, but he could not speak, trying to take in the enormity of what was before him. A raging whirlwind spawned of earth and air. He shuddered.

”you see, in your lust for power you made enemies far more powerful than I. And without your totem, you are nothing to them. And they want revenge.” he continued, calmly but with a degree of satisfaction. Mala’kal sagged, horror struck that this thing was coming for him.

”When I leave, they will wash over you. The sand will rip the skin from your bone, blind your eyes and fill your lungs. You will die here, shredded by the elements that you once enslaved against their will.”.

No... no, no no...

The Blademaster turned, and remounted the raptor, pulling on the reigns so it circled around with a chirp and reptilian hiss.

”The oil, was for if you chose the coward’s way out and wanted to take your own life.”

“you can’t do this... you can’t! What about honour!? You’re a Blademaster! You have to show honour!” he begged, whirling on his knees as he dragged himself toward his foe on his hands on knees.

”Do not dare speak to me of honour, Mala’kal. I vowed I would kill you for what you did. But your judgement is not up to me. I sentence you to nothing, nothing but what you brought upon yourself. Reap what you have sewn dark shaman...” He whipped the reigns and spurred the raptor, its two powerful legs breaking into a rapid run so it darted across the sand and along the dunes.

Bastard, coward! Bastard! Please!

”you can’t! You Can’t do this to me! You can’t!” he roared, screaming until his voice was hoarse and throat sore, the Blademaster disappearing in the distance as his silhouette turned from a shape, to a dot, then nothing.

Mala’kal turned, his eyes running up and down the length of the vast wall of hate that was arrayed before him. With a gust of wind, it surged. It began to roll forward with frightening pace, an ear deafening rumble drowned out his thoughts. He could not out-run it, he could not hide from it. Fear washed over him until the only thing he felt was terror, binding him to the spot.

No...

Then his eyes moved, without him willing them to, settling upon that skin of oil that had half drowned the sand...

An extremely satisfying ending to the best story I've ever read on this site.

Sooo... woke up this morning, started to read from the start and I am now finished.

Only thing I can say is: Awesometesticulardelicious.

Enjoyed the read immensely. Especially the last parts, which where a lot faster paced, made for a great read.

Simply awestruck. Amazing story in scope and execution.

That's alot of story written, I love it.
So now Krogon gets exiled for killing cubs?

Absolutely quality writing, enjoyed every chapter immensely.

I may or may not have spent the entire night with this story. I will not apologise for anything done while I've read it.

Also, -damned- good read Krogs.

aww, thank you all. Glad everyone has enjoyed it :)

There was a chapter here, the epilogue. But it felt at odds with the rest of the story.

So I removed it, killed it, forgot it.

What ya gonna do?

*Eyes is glued to the screen.* Great story.. *licks lips..* Want moooore!

Although this story is a few months old now, I thought I'd drag it up one last time and thank everyone for the nice comments and feedback!

1700 reads is no small achievement and I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed frantically kicking out two dozen chapters...

...never again!

Anyway, new story's on the horizon! keep filling this forum Orcs!