Happy Reading
-EW-
Chapter 1
20
years prior to Blackfur’s defeat at Stoneheart
A
savage wind howled, terrorizing the band of sturdy fur-wrapped travelers with
its icy breath as they made their way through the well-worn pass that served as
the single trade route through the Blackstone Mountains. Although the sun and the meager warmth it had
provided had been swallowed by the towering walls of Merchant’s Pass hours ago,
the stalwart travelers pressed on with typical dwarven stubbornness, knowing
that King Bulhok Bluntpick’s welcoming stronghold was only a few leagues away.
“I’ll
be glad when we get High Merchant Solira and her wares safely back to the
Mountain,” Bowvin Slagfist rumbled through his graying beard. The dwarven
warrior stroked the bulky head of his two-handed maul absently as eyes the
color of chipped flint tried to pierce the blowing snow and growing darkness in
a vain attempt to spy hidden enemies.
“You’re
just missing the comforts of your hearth, greybeard.” Quipped the burly dwarf
marching next to Bowvin.
Doegon
Deepbellow had replaced Bowvin as First Shield of the Merchant Guard three
seasons ago, but the younger dwarf had maintained his friendship with his
mentor. The reigning First Shield had been surprised though when Bowvin had
shown up the morning the caravan had set out from the Mountain. That was until High
Merchant Solira Bluntpick had been revealed as the expedition’s leader. Solira
was King Bluntpick’s youngest niece and this was to be her first trading
expedition to the port city of Saelin, and the king hoped that the veteran
guardsman would insure that his niece would return safe and sound.
“Who
you calling greybeard, pup?” Bowvin feigned hurt at his friend’s jest. “Can’t a
dwarf want to enjoy the comforts of the Mountain? Especially after spending
several decades defending it?”
Of
course, my friend,” Doegan replied with a good-natured pat to Bowvin’s heavily
armored shoulder. “I’ll even buy the first round at Rubie’s Kiss when we get
back. It’s much better of a tavern than that hole you…”
The
First Shield never finished his sentence. A black shafted arrow pierced his
right eye until its jagged point’s progress was impeded by the nape of Doegon’s
steel helm. With a last look of shock directed at his friend, Doegon fell
lifeless to the snow blanketed trail. Even in the darkness of night the crimson
stain stood out in bright relief on the virgin snow as it spilled from the
First Shield’s corpse.
Momentarily
stunned by the sight of his friend’s cooling body, Bowvin stared blankly at his
friend. A second arrow streaked by close enough to ricochet harmlessly off his
sturdy shoulder pads. Years of training enhanced by well-honed combat skills
kicked in and Bowvin squared his sturdy feet and began bellowing commands to
the remaining Merchant Guard.
“Square
formation around the High Merchant! Do not let the raiders through, boys!”
Flexing his fingers inside their fur-lined gloves, the former First Shield
spared a glance at the High Merchant and the gruff dwarf’s heart missed a beat
at the fear he saw in those wide brown eyes.
“Don’t
worry, Solira. I’m sure it’s just a pack of trolltaurs. Nothing twenty heavily
armed dwarven warriors can’t handle.” Bowvin stated in hopes of reassuring the
young woman.
At
that moment a haunting wail echoed off the high walls of the pass, as it died
down it was echoed all around the dwarven formation. Ice began to coat Bowvin’s
bowels as he recognized the dread sound, the most feared sound a Merchant Guard
could hear. Worse even than the fearsome crag wurms- the war cry of the most
deadly raiders in the Blackstone Mountains.
“By
the Scales no,” Bowvin whispered. “It can’t be. Not gray orcs.”
A
powerful built creature charged from the snow storm screaming a challenge at
Bowvin as it leveled a long-bladed spear at the dwarf’s chest. Easily side-stepping
the gray orc’s wild rush, Bowvin brought the hammer side of his maul down on
the orc’s block-shaped head.
“Stand
firm Merchant Guards! Gray orcs are attacking! Keep you shields up and watch
out for magic users! Above all else keep High Merchant Solira within the
square!” Bowvin snapped his thick wrists and flung the remnants of the orc’s
dung-plaited hair and gore from the maul.
Tense
moments passed as the only sound was the quickened breathing of anxious
dwarves, creaking armor straps, the bray of a nervous pack mule that was
quickly silenced, and the stillness of falling snowflakes.
“Come
on you gray skinned bastards,” Bowvin growled. “What are you waiting for?”
“From
the rear! They are attacking from the rear!” A coarse voiced dwarf warned as
sounds of battle drifted to the front of the formation.
Bowvin
had little time to worry about the orcs coming from behind their group as the
snow briefly subsided and the former First Shield saw a score of the demon
spawn charge down the path towards him.
“Keep
the square, my dwarves! We’ll grind these grayskins between hammer and shield!”
Bowvin reassured the Merchant’s Guard.
Shouts
of victory mingled with cries of pain as the gray orc wave slammed into the
staunch dwarven wall with the fury of a summer thunderstorm. The stoic dwarves
weathered the storm of grunting orcs and flashing blades and the few remaining
raiders were forced to retreat, but instead of behaving as the defeated mob
they were; they made cat calls and jeered and the victorious dwarves.
“Well
done, rockeaters. Well done.” Hissed an oily voice.
From
the shadows stepped a creature strait from the belly of the abyss. Flanking him
on each side were two of the gangly gray orc mages. The demon strolled
arrogantly towards Bowvin and his square of dwarf warriors glaring over the
edge of their steel shields at the loathsome creature. Reptilian eyes watched
in amusement from a scaled feline face as the former First Shield wrung his
hands in frustration around the haft of his weapon.
Bowvin
watched in helpless horror as the demon approached with the mages trailing
behind like faithful hounds. Amusement slid from the demon’s eyes which
glittered hungrily when he spotted the shapely fur and leather clad High
Merchant encased in the heart of the living shield. A smile of desire slid
across the demon’s face that implied no mirth as he changed his direction and
began to stalk towards the terrified woman.
A
tear slid down the gruff dwarf’s face as he realized the fate destined for
Solira. Gray orcs were formed from the mating of a demon and an unfortunate
mortal. He had failed his king, his friend, and most importantly he was going
to fail Solira.
“Kill
the males, but bring the woman to me,” the demon ordered. “Take care not to
harm her or I’ll flay the flesh from your miserable bones.”
An
angry fire ignited the furnace in Bowvin’s chest. “The abyss be damned,” He
muttered in defiance. Thoughts of what would happen to Solira at the hands of
these monsters brought renewed strength to the old dwarf’s weary limbs. With a
cry he rallied the remaining dwarves to fight on.
“Come
on boys! Let’s show these half-bred bastards what it means to anger a dwarf!”
Bowvin raised his massive maul high above his shoulder and with a battle cry to
the ancient home of the dwarves and their god, he charged into the encroaching
tide of grey skin monsters.
“For
the Mountain! For Ozra!” The shout echoed off of the canyon as the remaining
Merchant Guards followed Bowvin’s lead and rushed forward to meet the orc
raiders. Even Solira drew a slim deadly dagger and with a feral scream of
defiance and fear, pounced upon a gray orc that had slipped past her
bodyguards.
The
fury of the former First Shield combined with crushing swings of his maul
caused most of the raiders to give the enraged dwarf a wide berth. Those that
were foolish enough to stand their ground found themselves smashed into an
unrecognizable pulp as Bowvin slowly but steadfastly carved his way to the
waiting demon.
Bowvin
had nearly reached the sneering demon, who had watched the dwarf’s approach
with his scaled arms folded arrogantly across his lean chest, when one of the
lanky bodyguards stepped into the warrior’s path. The gray orc called upon the
elven half of his blood and began to mutter an arcane whisper while his thin
fingers executed an intricate dance. A
black orb began to form between the mage’s nimble fingers; orange lightening
arced out from the fel orb as the orc finished his spell and thrust his hands
towards Bowvin.
With
a grunt, Bowvin threw himself out of the deadly missile’s path, but the orb
passed close enough to cause the former First Shield’s beard to stick out wildly
as lightening tendrils snaked out to graze the dwarf’s bushy cheeks. Using the
momentum of his impromptu roll, Bowvin came to his feet next to the surprised
spell-caster and brought maul up over his head to deliver a two-handed chop.
The gray orc raised its arms in a pitiful attempt to ward off the blow, but
bone and muscle were a poor defense against dwarven forged weapons. The maul
blasted through both arms to connect solidly with the raider’s sloped forehead.
The force of the heavy blow snapped the orc’s head back at an unnatural angle.
His
battle instincts screamed in warning that raised the goose-bumps on the dwarf’s
neck, and Bowvin knew after many decades of fighting for his King and people
that his instincts were rarely wrong. Letting go of his weapon with one hand,
the clever warrior grabbed the slumping mage and twisted violently to his
right. The dead orc’s body served as an improvised shield as the remaining mage
had joined the fight and was slinging a volley of lava colored darts towards
Bowvin.
Dropping
his improvised shield, Bowvin bound over the still smoldering corpse and with a
roar the dwarf warrior charged the orc. The mage hurriedly chanted the acidic
words to a new spell while his fingers twisted out arcane symbols in the hope
of releasing a spell at the enraged dwarf barreling towards him. Sickly green
flames tinted black at the tips began to form around the spellcaster’s hands,
but he was a second too late.
Bowvin
swung his maul in a wide, sweeping arc that caught the mage in the chest and
tore through leather armor into the soft flesh beneath it. The massive hammer
struck the broken mage with enough force to collapse the poor orc around the
head of the maul and tear him from his feet. The powerful dwarf flexed the
thick, corded muscles of his wide forearms and changed the angle of his swing
to smash both the head of the maul and the gray orc into the gravel of the
mountain pass.
Billowing
clouds of frozen breath swirled around Bowvin’s plaited, grey and silver beard
as his thick chest heaved from exertion and adrenaline. With an indifferent
kick of his steel capped boots into the head of the downed orc to insure it was
out of the fight, Bowvin scanned the battlefield for his nemesis. Spotting the
demon a short distance away with his arms folded confidently across his chest,
refueled the fire in the dwarf’s proud heart and with a battle cry upon his lips, Bowvin charged the demon-lord.
“Ozra
aid me!” he cried as his maul’s solid head trailed behind him calling forth
sparks as it bounced off the rocky path as he rushed forward. Reaching his foe,
Bowvin used his momentum to launch his weapon in a fierce uppercut intending to
wipe the demon’s smug look off his face.
The
demon smiled tauntingly at the enraged dwarf as he casually side-stepped the
warrior’s powerful swing. Growling in frustration, Bowvin used the momentum
granted by his heavy weapon to set his stout body spinning and creating a
whirlwind assault of steel. Wiry and with the speed and grace of a cat, the
demon dodged and ducked under the deadly swings before slipping within the
dwarf’s pumping arms. With a strength beyond his slender body, the demon’s
right had snapped around Bowvin’s thick neck and lifted the former First Shield
several inches off the ground while the talons on his left set poised inches
from the dwarf’s stout gut. In desperation Bowvin dropped his weapon and pried
in vain with both hands in a fruitless attempt to break the demon’s vise-like
grasp.
“I
just want you to know before you die, that I will take good care of your female
companion.” The demon purred as he moved his feral face inches from Bowvin’s furious
one. “After all, it just wouldn’t do to have something bad happen to the mother
of my future offspring. A malicious
glint shone in the demon’s cold eyes and a wicked smile curled up around
cruelly pointed teeth as he pressed the points of his talons against Bowvin’s
stomach.
Bowvin
felt a lance of sorrow pierce his heart a split second before the demon’s razor
sharp claws tore through his chainmail hauberk into his guts as easily as if it
was made from silk and not finely forged dwarven steel. The tough old dwarf
only gave a small grunt when the demon ripped his hand free, tearing a large
opening and spilling Bowvin’s crimson and mauve innards across the rough
ground. A second grunt escaped when the demon released his hold and the dwarf
warrior slumped weakly to the floor of the gravelly pass, and as his vision
began to fade, Bowvin saw the sight he had dreaded most. A shocked and
frightened Solira being paraded between the gray orcs as two of the hulking
marauders dragged her before the waiting demon.
“I
am sorry, Solira,” Bowvin gasped through the pain and blood-flecked lips. With
a final shudder, the mighty First Shield’s shaggy head sagged and his defeated
soul fled his dying, broken body.
If
the High Merchant heard her bodyguard’s whispered apology, she gave no outward
sign as the victorious orcs presented their master with their trophy. At the
sight of the leering creature gloating over her, comprehension of her upcoming
fate pierced the fog of shock and Solira began to fight her against her
captors. She kicked, clawed, twisted and bit the orcs holding her but only succeeded
in encouraging the gathered monsters into catcalling and laughing at her feeble
endeavors.
Well,
well, what do we have here?” the demon asked while he traced the soft curves of
Solira’s trembling body with a bloody fingertip. “You know, I have always found
it amusing that for a race whose males have to be the hairiest and ugliest
bastards I have ever seen: the females are incredible works of beauty. The
flawless ivory skin combined with voluptuous curves that would make even the
staunchest Nabukian eunuch regret his choice of careers, and I think that is
why I believe I enjoy the company of dwarven woman over all the other mortal
races.”
The
demon sighed in guiltless pleasure as he sniffed the air longingly around the
wide-eyed High Merchant. “Consider yourself blessed, dwarf,” he said while
puffing out his bare chest and standing at his full height of seven feet,
towering over the terrified Solira. “I, Zarrix Light’s Bane, claim you as my
consort. You will bear me many gray orc sons before I release your body, but
know that I will always keep you soul.”
Zarrix
smiled evilly as his black serpentine tongue arced out and obscenely traced the
lines of Solira’s quivering neck till he reached her earlobe. “I’m going to
enjoy this,” he hissed into her ear. “In time you might too.”
With
a low lust-filled growl escaping his throat, Zarrix tore Solira’s layers of
clothing from her as easily as if they were made from paper and mercilessly forced
himself upon the horrified woman. It was close the night’s zenith when the
demon’s roars of pleasure mixed with Solira’s cries of terror finally stopped
echoing off the canyon walls.
Feeling
refreshingly spent in some ways and invigorated in others, Zarrix slid off the
prone woman and stretched his long muscles and breathed deeply of the sharp
mountain air. The early snowstorm had abated and now Allura’s night sky filled
the canyon with a surreal light. The Demon Lord viewed the star filled canopy
with a mixture of awe and loathing. Zarrix, along with a handful of his
brothers, had managed to escape from the Infernal Realms with its pressing
darkness and the vastness of Allura’s night sky accented with the multitudes of
celestial points of light always stirred mixed motions in the demon.
With
a dismissive grunt Zarrix turned his gaze from the stars above him back to the
woman before him; the dwarven merchant had curled into a fetal position with
her arms pulled up around her knees and held tightly against her bruised chest
in a poor attempt to cover her nakedness and shame. Granite colored eyes stared
off vacantly to nowhere as if to avoid the desecration going on around her as
the gray orcs finished ransacking the wagons and bodies of her companions
before tossing them off the trail’s edge into the oblivion below.
While
casting a lecherous gaze upon the prone woman before him, Zarrix noticed a blue
tint creeping into Solira’s pale skin as the harsh winter winds clawed hungrily
at her nakedness. The demon lord scoured the area for one of his warriors till
he spotted two of the gray orcs arguing over the heavy maul of the dwarf he had
killed.
“You
two, find my new consort something to cover up with. I’d hate to lose my trophy
before I can fully enjoy her.” Zarrix smiled wickedly while the orcs snickered
at their master’s lewd joke, each casting a covetous glance at the naked dwarf.
“Remember
one thing, Corr, Slava,” Zarrix stared at one of the orcs and then the other
and jabbing a pointed talon into their thick chests to make sure he had their
undivided attention. “The female is mine and if anyone touches or harms her;
they will find a painful death at my hands.”
The
two orcs bowed hastily before rushing off to scavenge the wreckage for some
sort of clothes or blankets for the dwarven woman. Zarrix watched the
scampering orcs while absently scratching at a itch in his groin, before
replacing his loincloth made of leathered human flesh and studded with
splintered bones. Despite the frigid temperatures of the high mountains the
demon, like all his kind, was unaffected by the physical conditions of Allura
and only wore the loincloth as it made dealing with the creatures of this realm
more convienent.
A
strangled cry of surprise pulled the demon’s attention away from the shivering
Solira as he tried to pierce the darkness and locate the source of the
disruption. Although his gray orcs were considered some of Allura’s fiercest
warriors, they still suffered the same handicap as all mortals in the blackness
of night and scowled fiercely as they fruitlessly scanned the darkness for
their enemies. A second and third scream split the night and caused the orcs to
feel the tightening grasp of panic and the warriors bunched up in a defensive
knot, weapons held at the ready as much to frighten their attackers as to fight
off the unease gripping them as they sought their hidden foes.
Born
of utter darkness, Zarrix could see perfectly whether it was day or night and
he finally spotted what he was looking for. A slender figure bundled in furs and
wielding a bow slipped from behind a boulder and released the bowstring. With frightening speed an arm’s length shaft sped
with unerring accuracy into Slava’s sloped forehead, killing the orc instantly.
The demon lord called out a warning as the dwelvinkin knocked a second arrow
and took aim, but had to dodge nimbly aside as the mountain elf adjusted his
aim and let fly at Zarrix. He managed to move from the arrow’s path, but not
completely and the razor sharp sliced a small line across his shoulder.
“Damn
it!” Zarrix cursed as a third arrow whistled tauntingly past his ear. “Cracked
Skull warriors to me! Dwelvinkin are in the rocks with bows!”
The
call of a mountain lion rent the night air and was quickly answered by a second
and third cry alerting the orcs that the elves had them surrounded. Several
soft snaps signaling the release of drawn bows was the only warning the orcs
had before the mountain elves launched their assault. With half of the demon’s
raiders lying dead or dying, their slate colored bodies riddled with arrows;
the dwelvinkin dropped their bows and pulled fang-bladed axes from leather
frogs at their hips. With a wordless challenging roar the elves rushed the
stunned orcs.
Superior
numbers and cold ruthlessness that matched even the savage orcs gave the elves
the edge as they tore through the remaining orcs. Those that didn’t fall to the
crescent edged axes of the dwelvinkin fled back into the darkness of the
mountains. Soon Zarrix found himself and his prize surrounded by grim faced
elven warriors, each having a steel arrowhead or gleaming axe pointed at the
lanky demon. Green eyes that ranged from the hue of new spring grass to the
deep green of fresh pine needles glared out from lean faces framed in sparse
beards colored in the red and orange of a dying sunset as the elven warriors
cautiously tightened their steel-edged ring.
“Solira
Bluntpick, can you hear me?” The leader of the rescue party asked as he edged
closer to Solira’s still form, jade eyes danced warily between the dwarven
woman’s naked body to the demon crouched protectively behind her. “High
Merchant, are you okay? Can you answer me?” A soft whimper was Solira’s only
response.
Zarrix
did not like the odds before him, not one bit. Although a demon lord with no
small amount of powers available to him, the large number of elves Zarrix now
faced were beyond his ability to handle on his own. With a growl of frustration
Zarrix spared his concubine a last longing look before standing his full height
to tower over the shorter dwelvinkin. The demon lord stared balefully with
half-closed reptilian eyes at the circle of elves surrounding him.
“What
brings you pointy-ears out on a night like this to ruin my fun?” While he
talked, Zarrix focused inwardly on gathering his power. “Shouldn’t you be off
hugging a tree or eating mushrooms?”
“I’m
not that kind of elf,” snapped a dwelvinkin near the leader’s side, a wide strip
of rawhide pulled the speaker’s hair back to reveal a series of scars that
crisscrossed the elf’s weathered face. “You have something we want and I prefer
to have to go through you to get it.” The dour elf made a menacing step towards
the now grinning demon.
“Enough,
Olkin.” The leader placed a hand on the elf’s chest. “Give us Solira, demon, and
we will grant you a swift death, I swear it.”
“How
noble of you, mountain elf.” Zarrix sneered. “You can have the woman, she’s
already provided me with what I needed.” The demon ran his forked tongue over
his lips tauntingly right before he kicked Solira heavily in the side with a
clawed foot. With a broken cry she was lifted off the ground and sent hurtling
into the dwelvinkin. Those closest to the mewling dwarf went to Solira’s aid
while the others made to rush Zarrix.
“Kill
the demon! Kill him for the High Merchant’s honor!” The dwelvinkin leader
ordered, leading the charge with his own axes held high.
Zarrix
glared balefully through slitted eyes at the oncoming elves; slowly the demon
raised his hands till they were parallel to the frozen ground. Scaled palms
opened to reveal glowing orbs of purple and green flames in each palm, rapidly
rising into the air and growing into devilish balls the size of small boulders.
“I’d
love to stay and chat, pointy-ears, but I have pressing engagements elsewhere,”
Zarrix quipped with a wicked grin and with a deft twist and snap of his wrists,
the demon threw the flaming orbs towards his feet. The flaming orbs exploded
and spread into a wall of twisting flames that surrounded Zarrix, providing a
protective barrier between him and the dwelvinkin.
“Get
him!” the green-eyed leader yelled, an arm held in front of his face to shield
against the fiery blaze. “Don’t let him escape!”
Mocking
laughter assaulted the mountain elves as they tried without success to
penetrate the circle of flames. The dwelvinkin stalked around the barrier
searching for an opening, answering the demon’s laughter with the whistle of thrown
spears and the twang of bowstrings, but the missiles would burst into flames as
they passed through the dancing flames.
Growing
bored with harassing the elves and know that the flames would soon dissipate,
Zarrix spread his jagged, leathery wings. With a last gloating laugh, launched
himself high into the sheltering blackness of the night sky.
“Jester’s
luck!” The leader cursed as he slammed his axes back into their loops on his
belt, thick leather loops creaking loudly in protest. Emerald eyes glittered in
anger as he watched the demon soar safely away.
“Pack
Master Narik, the high merchant seems to be physically unharmed and we have
covered her as best we could.” Olkin, Narik’s second in command informed his
leader. “Slakik and Tralin found some furs to wrap Solira in and have
volunteered to carry her back to Peddler’s Palace.” The dour elf seemed
indifferent to the deep gash made by an orcish blade that now had the elf’s
scarlet hair wetted a deep crimson with his blood as it hung heavily against
his angular face.
With
a last regretful look in the direction the demon fled, Narik turned his
attention back to his second and the reason he and his pack had braved the
snowy mountain trails during the treacherous storm and moonless night. High
Merchant Solira Bluntpick was safe, if not necessarily sound, and it was the
responsibility of his warriors to get the dwarven woman back to the Mountain
and the aid of her own people.
“Very
good, Olkin. We need to get…by Trealyn’s tits you look terrible!” Narik
exclaimed once he was able to get a good look at his second. He began to reach
in his pouch for a bandage but quickly came to the decision that this was
beyond his abilities to tend to.
“Bezzik! Bezzik, to me
and bring your kit!” The pack master bellowed into the night, calling for his
pack’s newly assigned shaman and more importantly his healing arts.
“It is nothing, pack master,”
Olkin tried to dissuade Narik’s concern with a wave of his hand. “I slipped on
a patch of ice and the damned grayskin managed to score a minor hit before my
axes removed his head.”
“Be that as it may,
you’ve lost a lot of blood and your color is bad so I want Bezzik to check you
over before we start the run back to the Mountain.” Narik’s slender face
swiveled as he surveyed the area looking for the shaman while the dour-faced
Olkin tried to steady himself in a world that was beginning to spin.
“Where’s that blasted
shaman at,” the Pack Master growled. “Bezzik! Get your scrawny arse over here
now!”
A few tense moments
passed until a lanky dwelvinkin emerged from the darkness, the heavy leather
robes of his profession billowing wildly around him as he raced to the Pack
Master’s call. Narik watched in detached amusement as Bezzik’s vast assortment
of pouches arced wildly around him as the young shaman staggered to breathless
halt.
As Narik waited for
Bezzik to catch his breath, the hardened warrior stroked the crimson bristles
of his thick beard while he studied the young shaman with a shrewd eye. Bezzik
was young for a pack shaman, but after Narik’s old healer had been slain by a
crag wurm the youth had been the only shaman available to join Narik’s pack. Barely
past his sixteenth winter, Bezzik had been blessed by Trealyn and had shown an
affinity for the nature goddess’s healing magic that had allowed him early
training as one of the dwelvinkins’ shamans.
Initially Narik and his
pack had voiced their displeasure at having such a wet-behind-the-ears youth
assigned to their pack, but after seeing the shaman in action had changed their
opinion. After being ambushed by a pack of trolltaurs, Bezzik had braved a hail
of poisoned arrows to rescue five of his fallen pack mates and in return had
earned the acceptance of his brothers.
“Wha..what’s the…” the
shaman tried to ask as he gulped in air.
“Olkin and a grayskin
had a disagreement on which one was uglier. The orc was a sore loser and tried
to add a new scar to our friend’s vast collection. See what you can do to fix
the wound though I fear it will take more than Trealyn’s blessing to fix
Olkin’s looks.” Narik explained with a grin towards his scowling second. “Tell
me how the pack faired while you work.”
“Hold still, Olkin.
You’re ugly enough without adding this mess to it.” Bezzik snapped when the
second jerked away from his probing fingers. “Two of our brothers have returned
to Trealyn’s embrace and another sits on Ozra’s scales awaiting judgment, but
the grayskins will count their dead at a full score. All in all a successful
hunt.” The shaman watched in distaste as when Olkin spat at the mention of the
dead orcs.
“Would’ve been better
if we would have gutted that damn demon,” Olkin growled then clenched his fists
fiercely as Bezzik tied off his last stich. “Would’ve been a great hunt if we
had brought the bastard’s head back to the den as a trophy.”
“It’s in the past now,
Olkin. The Balancer’s Scales may have tipped against us in the matter of the
demon-lord, but our hunt was to find the High Merchant and bring her home, not
to slay a demon and his pets. In this, Ozra has blessed us and allowed to wet
our blades and find Solira.” Narik gave the scowling Olkin a reassuring squeeze
on the shoulder before placing a curled ram’s horn to his lips and blew a long,
haunting blast.
The pack quickly
responded to the horn’s call and the pack leader was soon surrounded by his
grim-faced warriors. Narik scanned the gathering trying to locate the High
Merchant and was relieved to see her cocooned tightly in a web of furs with
only her pug nose and wide eyes showing. Solira seemed to be asleep nestled
between the two deadly dwelvinkin while Tralin and Slakik managed to somehow to
keep a watchful eye on their charge, pack master, and the darkness around them,
their free hand close to a fang-bladed axe.
“We have the High
Merchant and the gray orcs have fled back into the mountains, but now time is
our foe.” Narik said as he made sure to make eye contact with his pack. “She
has taken grievous wounds from her ordeal and exposure to weather and whether
or not she will survive depend on us returning her to Peddler’s Palace. Make
ready to leave at the count of one hundred. Any questions?”
With no challenges
forthcoming, Narik turned to his young shaman. “Start the count, Bezzik.”
“Yes, pack master,”
Bezzik bowed his head in acknowledgment and began to silently till each mark of
ten which he loudly called out.
Satisfied with the
speed the pack was forming up, Narik stalked over to the bundled High Merchant.
“Don’t worry, Solira. You are among friends now. Your uncle sent us to find
you, and I promise we will soon have you safely before a roaring hearth with a
warm flagon of mead ready to wash the horrors of the night from your mind.” The pack master wondered if Solira was even
aware of what was happening around her as she trembled slightly within her
furs.
“One hundred!” Bezzik’s
youthful voice echoed through the pass.
Cupping his hands
tightly around his mouth, Narik howled a challenge to the night daring it to
stop the run of his deadly pack. “Time to run, brothers!”
Without a backwards
glance, the pack master began a loping run towards the west where safety and
Peddler’s Palace awaited them. Silently as the wolves they revered, the pack
flowed behind Narik, steel teeth flashing in the moon light.
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