Thralls of Dread Lord (1.6T)
Welcome to my weekly serial. This is a rough draft that I am working on, for your reading pleasure.
It is a fairly grim tale, so be warned.
Here is the first post from this series.
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Trying to lose his pursuers, Retaak took to the winding tunnels of the Twilight Warrens, where the most prosperous of the spawn, below the lords and their close allies, made their homes. Life under the yoke of the Dread Lord was harsh, and those who lived in The Twilight Warrens earned their place through skill, cunning, brutality, or sheer numbers. The Warbands this close to the pinnacle were large and well-organized, and some even carried banners that dated back to the very first Dread Lord, the creator of the Fell Spawn.
As an ogre, Retaak stood head and shoulders above most of the spawn that he passed. He could not lose himself in any of the crowds, even if he found one that would not challenge the presence of a stranger. Wildborn were not welcome in these halls.
Retaak, sensing that he was still being followed but not able to see by whom, decided to take a swift corner.
“Who comes?” challenged a broad shouldered Orc with a grey top-knot and the white face paint of the Hand of Death, the largest Warband in the warrens. The old orc was backed by a dozen of his fellows, bristling with weapons and clad in metal armour.
“Retaak, serving Ushochhushi on the seneschal’s business,” said Retaak, holding up his empty hands.
“Truth, Wildborn? Have you a writ?”
“These seneschal gave me no writ,” said Retaak, shaking his head. “Allow me to pass and I will speak well of you to him.”
The old orc’s eyes narrowed, calculating. His companions growled and a few of them cursed Retaak under their breath but he paid them no mind; now was not the time to fight.
“Hands, give us the Wildborn,” came a growl from behind them.
The Orcs bristled, turning to face the newcomers. Retaak’s hands flew to his weapons when he saw a pair of bulls, Ogres even larger than himself with enormous tusks. Behind them stood six orcs and a pair of goblins with bows. The bore the sign of the Bloody Axe, an infamous Warband that served anyone who paid.
The old veteran’s eyes blazed. “That sounded like a command, scum.”
The largest of the ogres, a massive brute who carried a hammer on his shoulder than looked like it might outweigh the orc veteran, snorted. “Those who have the strength, give the orders, grey-hair. Is that not the way of things?”
“The Bloody Axe would risk war with the Hand of Death over this one?” snarled the orc veteran.
It took all of Retaak’s restraint to keep his mouth shut. The Hand were prideful, and they could not afford to back down and show weakness so close to their territory. The Bloody Axe saw only the power of the bulls that led them and were far too cocky.
“Would you risk death to keep him from us, grey-hair?”
Retaak almost smiled.
“You will regret threatening us, Bloody Axe,” said the Orc veteran. “The Wildborn stays with us. Come get him if you dare.”
The bull laughed. The Orcs formed up behind their commander, locking shields.
Retaak drew his weapons. It felt good to hold well-made steel, even if his purpose was crude. “My blades will sing for the Hand of Death today.”
“Then you will die together!”
The Bloody Axe charged, two massive bulls thundering toward them. Retaak roared and stepped out to meet them.
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