DORULL SAGA - SWAMP OF DEATH
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Last glimmer of light faded over
the horizon, as the sun set behind Laorn. For a moment, there was nothing but
darkness, when all of the sudden, an intense flicker of flames began to hover
over the treetops of a lush, wild forest. Shadowy figure stepped from the
brushwood, as he was careful not to attract any attention. In a couple of
swift, yet strong strides, he came upon a steep shore of deep, slow
river, that was cutting through the valley. Something was awfully wrong with
this place. It felt so familiar, like he was here before. But that would be
highly unlikely, because these were orcish lands.
“Thorin, come this way.“ a barely
audible whisper came from the other side of the river.
“Who,... who is there?“
“Hurry soldier, the attack has
already begun.“
Cold breeze blew from the north,
rekindling the wildfire. Thousands of sparks flew high above the treetops,
decorating the night sky in a couple shades of vibrant, red color. He could now
smell the stench of burning. Mysterious voice led him straight to the edge of
the forest, right on the path of the fire engulfed village.
Sudden, ghoulish scream made him
stop in his stride. Just to the left, not more than twenty feet away, a hunched
female figure stumbled onto the dirty road, leading from the village. She
looked around, before spotting him. Before deciding to run straight towards
him. She was engulfed in flames. And she was not alone. She was dragging a
tiny, motionless body, out of the desperate attempt to reach the nearby river.
She and her apparent child were beyond salvation, Thorin was sure of that. And
yet, despite these horrible injuries, she still had the tenacity to try. He
took a step towards the unfortunate woman, while drawing his sword. It was all
over in a second. Sharp blade slid between her ribs, and straight into the
heart. Barely audible sigh of relief left her charred lips, as she fell dead.
A couple of isolated huts were
already burned to the ground. Their conical roofs, made of animal hides and
straw, caught flames almost instantly. Fire was now spreading towards the
center of the village, where soldiers began to round up all of the remaining
survivors. Thorin kept walking around the edge of the village, as far away from
other combatants as he possibly could. He refused to participate in this
slaughter. Their reconnaissance spoke of heavy military presence in the area,
but so far he only saw defenseless women and children.
Small, shadowy figure caught
Thorin's attention, as it suddenly run across the road, just to the left of
him. Shadow was of a boy. He was desperate to try and hide in the still intact
hut. Unfortunately for him, one soldier was right behind. With one strong, well
placed kick, the soldier managed to break the door. Muffled, surprised scream,
followed by an apparent sound of hectic fight, came from the inside. It lasted
just for a couple of seconds, before it all went dead silent. Thorin carefully
approached the door. Almost a full minute had passed, since that soldier went
inside the hut.
The room was dark, he could barely
recognize the outline of the table, just a couple of feet away. Strong smell of
blood made him instantly regret the decision to enter the hut. For it probably
meant that the soldier was dead, and the killer is now stalking him. Against
all his instincts, Thorin made a step back, as something moved across the
floor. With disgust, he immediately perceived the soldier's head rolling
towards him.
All of the sudden, someone struck
him in the chin. Despite being dazed, Thorin managed to grab the sword in the
expectation of the next attack. But he was too slow, as the series of precise
hits fell upon him. His whole left side of the face was swollen. He knew he
could not withstand any more of those attacks. Thorin was losing the fight, and
with that any viable options. In despair, he pointed his blade straight in
front, in an expectation of imminent second wave. Not a second late, because he
felt another hit. But this time, something was different. This time, it lacked
the intensity and the power of previous ones.
Barely audible sigh just in front
of him, surprised Thorin, as his blade felt significantly heavier. It took him
a couple of seconds to realize that his opponent fell on his sword, thus
mortally injuring itself. One spark, in the far end corner of the room, gave
light to a small, crude oil lamp. Frightened face of the boy looked eerie,
behind that flickering flame. With the tears in his eyes, he stared blankly at
Thorin, as his lower lip begin to shiver uncontrollably.
“Mom, mom no...“ the boy whispered,
as he gathered all of his strength to look down at his mother's body.
“No!“ Thorin could not smother the
scream, for it startled him from his sleep.
Nightmares seemed to haunt his
dreams, for just over a month now. And they were starting to leave their mark.
Always that same unfortunate event from his past, that he could not shake off.
Except for the part that this past wasn’t the one that he remembered. The
details of it were completely different. But still they felt as if they were.
These false memories were hurting him. Perhaps even more, because of the true
ones.
With the palm of his right hand,
Thorin wiped his sweat beaded forehead. His long, gray hair was a bit tousled,
from all of the turning. Nightmares were leaving its mark, in more ways than
one. It was still dark, but he knew he could not go back to sleep again. And
with him being the captain of Thirel post, he certainly had plenty of tasks to
deal with anyhow. Arrival of the
spring, meant the start of trading season, in which his obligations almost
always seemed to double.
At least today, he'd have time to
tend to them. But first things first, he remembered he had to write that
dreaded letter to Vallsynk council. His soldiers were in a dire need of better
equipment, and almighty, powerful, trading guild was the sole obstacle in them
receiving that upgrade. Without their blessing, Thorin could not even recruit
much needed reinforcements.
The written requests, which he sent
through the courier service, were often brought back untouched, sometimes just
as a reminder, to show who’s in charge. A pissing contest in which Thorin had
no intention to participate. Instead, he was willing to swallow his pride, and
even beg in hope of receiving a positive answer.
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