DORULL SAGA - SWAMP OF DEATH
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Wide, and quite long street stretching through the exact center of Khoill, suddenly disappeared. Smooth,
almost completely vertical cliff cut the town in half. Narrow passageway
continued to the left, towards a small, round square, paved in black, squared
stones. It looked like a dead end, until Moorg realized there were several
openings at the side of the mountain. From the cave closest to him flickered a
barely noticeable light. Unaware of the immediate danger, the goblin took a
step into the tunnel.
Cave was no more than thirty feet
deep. Some kind of a storage room. Couple of barrels and piles of various,
somewhat weathered tools were thrown all around. Moorg turned around, in the
moment when two large orcs cut off his way. Flailing their rusty axes, orcs
were nearing him fast. But, there was something awfully wrong with them. Their
gruesomely mutilated bodies, looked as if they were subjected to repetitive
torture. Completely covered in scars and burn marks, they looked hideous.
Someone must've been doing this to them for a very long time. Goblin was even
more appalled, by seeing their mouths sewn shut. Who would do such a thing?
Moorg had no time to think of it, orcs were upon him.
Surprisingly synchronized maneuver,
left Moorg in almost hopeless position. Goblin had no time to move, or deflect
the attack. Both of the axes were about to strike his body. But the amulet was
there once again to save its bearer. In the blink of an eye, Moorg was in the
middle of the small square, outside of the cave. And he was almost equally
confused as the orcs, who were still standing inside of the tunnel.
“Attack now.” a calm voice from the
medallion whispered in the goblin's ear “Now, when you have the advantage.”
Sinister smile appeared in the
corner of Moorg’s mouth. His eyes narrowed. He began chanting some strange,
incomprehensible words. Barely visible, wavering light came from the goblin's
palms. Despite still being heavily dependent on the amulet’s assistance, Moorg
was more and more confident in using magic. And he loved it. He enjoyed it.
Moorg knew, there’s still plenty to learn. But the power it gave him was too
intoxicating.
One of the orcs came out of the
cave, at the exact moment when Moorg finished with his incantation. Ray of
light shot out of his outstretched hands. Violent jerk surprised him quite a
bit, as he fought hard to stay on his feet. It seemed as if ray went right
through the orcs. Moorg did not know what to expect out of it. So far, he was
somewhat lucky in using the magic, but knew very well, mistakes are bound to
happen. In his ignorance, goblin couldn’t tell much about these powers. Spell
would suddenly appear in his head, moments before the casting. And so was this
one.
But, it was the first time Moorg
began feeling discomfort and physical strain, while channeling this magic. It
wasn’t as easy to control the flow, as before. This spell was different from
the others he used. The pain in his arms grew, until it was nothing but a
constant, unbearable stinging sensation. Goblin knew his strength was fading.
He had to withdraw. Even though the orcs still stood there, motionless, in
front of the cave entrance, seemingly unharmed. It became apparent the ray
wouldn’t stop by itself.
Moorg lowered his hands, barely
managing to clench his hurt and tired fists. This immediately broke the
channeling. At the moment when the magical beam disappeared, two of the orcs
fell lifeless to the ground. Goblin approached them carefully. Distrust and
caution were distinctive traits of his entire race. That’s what kept them
alive. Physically inferior than others, goblins would rather choose to hide or
run, than risk an open confrontation.
Moorg could not see any wounds or
injuries on orcs. But still, the ray somehow drained the life out of them. The
prolonged exposure even left a mark on the goblin. He felt tired. But there was
no time to rest. He had to go on. One of the passages seemed to disappear much
deeper into the mountain, than the rest of them. It didn’t take long before
Moorg decided to venture that way.
Long tunnel turned slightly to the
right. It was alight with a couple of torches, but just enough, so Moorg could
see and even recognize some of the strange symbols scrawled on the rough,
rugged walls of the cave. Goblin could have sworn he saw them before, in his
dreams and visions. This meant only one, he was on the right track. He was in
the right place,
Sudden, strong gust of wind stopped
Moorg in his tracks. The whizz became ever so louder, turning into a loud
whistling sound, which made him cover his ears. He looked around, just noticing
carved, and somewhere hollow walls of the tunnel. They must’ve carried the
sound of even the slightest of gusts, enhancing it, and turning into an
unbearable, piercing noise. Moorg had to leave the cave, and fast. Sensitive
goblin hearing could register even the lowest of whispers, as far as hundreds
of yards away. Loud sounds, like this one, were hurting them. Fortunately, the
exit was near.
Strong light glared against some
smooth, reflective surface, temporarily blinding Moorg. Before he even had a
chance to move, his hands were bound and tied behind his back, with a thick,
rough rope. His eyesight was slowly returning, just in time, as the huge orc
pushed him from behind. Moorg stumbled, but remained on his feet. Loud,
uniformed roars made him look around. To his surprise and dismay, he realized
that the several thousand orcs were staring at him, still and motionless. They
sat in silence, filling almost the entire stands carved in massive, vertical
cliffs. Lack of any other reaction from them confused Moorg.
Orc pushed him again, even harder
this time. For a moment, it seemed he was trying to say something. Despite
opening his mouth, the orc could not find the words. Visibly disappointed, he
gave up from any further trying. Instead, he waved his hand in the direction
behind the goblin's back. Only then, Moorg noticed a rather tall, scrawny looking
orc, standing over black, stone altar. He was gaunt and dry, and covered in
wrinkles. With the constant grin on his face and wide opened eyes, the goblin
immediately knew this orc was completely insane.
Orc was wearing some sort of cape,
made out of swamp lizard’s skin, and old, torn, boar hide trousers. He was
elbow deep in the blood of his victim, a young, female orc. She was stretched
tied to the altar, with her abdomen cut open. She was groaning silently, weak
to do anything else. Life was leaving from her tortured body. Orc waved Moorg
to approach, when all of the sudden he turned around towards the female. In one
violent jerk, he managed to rip out her still beating heart. He looked again at
the goblin, with an apparent feeling of joy and pleasure.
“Remove this thing.” orc pointed
towards the altar, with his bony finger, issuing an order to some of his
servants.
Lifeless, mangled body seemed to
bother him. Moorg was perplexed by the orc’s sudden change of mood. Just a
seconds ago, he was ecstatic, and enjoying in torture. But now, the orc looked
disgusted, at the sight of the corpse. He was definitely deranged. Two half
naked orcs came running fast, immediately beginning to clean the altar from
blood and remains. They were placing even the smallest of body parts on a
rather large, stretched out piece of fabric, before wrapping it into a tight
bundle.
“Oh cursed spirits from the darkest
depths, receive this small gift from your loyal servant, Phall!” with his hands
raised high up, scrawny orc yelled looking at a bundle.
Two of the orcs picked it up,
ceremoniously walking away from the altar, for about twenty yards, where they
stopped.
“Now!” A sudden shriek was a signal
for orcs to drop the bundle.
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