Thralls of a Dread Lord (1.73T)
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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Retaak woke before dawn, savouring the early morning sounds of the foothills. He heard birdsong and crickets and the rustling of what he thought might be dear some distance away.
He stood and checked his bandages and was well satisfied that his injuries were not showing signs of infection. He removed the bandages from the smaller wounds; he would not be lying down again for three days and it was better to let them get air now.
He ate lightly, beetle larvae from an old stump and a half-fermented honeycomb that was left over from what looked like a forgaing bear. The old honey tasted good, and he silently thanked the bees who had made it, and likely died defending it from the marauding ursine. How could they even understand what they were fighting against, tiny stingers against a mountain of fur and fur.
The rest of the waybread he kept for later. He would need it in the llong days ahead. To catch up and pass Uyage, Retaak would have to climb over Rothgrim’s Point, named after the last king of the Dwarves. It was more of a vertical ascent than a trail really, but it would save him several days. If he could do it without sleep, he would be able to get to the Fellspawn Warrens before even Uyage could navigate the regular trail. It was a daunting undertaking, but at the end Albyursia awaited him. Retaak was not sure what he would do–
Pleasant thoughts of Albyursia were interrupted then by a stabbing pain in his head. Kaasukak, the obedience that all Fellspawn were subject to, ripped through him. Blinding pain. In this case it was his obligation to Ushochhushi who wanted Albyursia for his own designs that caused him such suffering.
Retaak took hold of himself, working to clear his mind of thoughts. Now was not the time to fight the compelling. Now was not the time to challenge the power of the Dread Lord, or even his seneschal. He forced all thoughts out of his mind, let the sounds of the early morning wash over him. The wind in the trees. The scent of earth and stone. The freshness of the air. The pain subsided.
He looked own at the blood between his leg where he knelt as he cleaned his nose, then up at the mountains as his anger rose.
It was time.
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Retaak trudged up the mountain as the sun rose, making his way toward Rothgrim’s Point, a jagged scar in the rock which served as a pass. By late afternoon he was climbing more than walking, his hands finding cracks in the stone and the worn handholds used by others who had passed this way.
He kept climbing into the night and when the chill of the night and the mountain numbed him, he stopped for a meal of waybread. The magic of the elves, the kind of power lost on most of the Spawn, filled him with warmth and energy after a few bites and he continued to climb well into the night.
The dark did not bother him. Ogres did not not have nightvision as keen as an elf or some Spawn like Trolls and Goblins, but he could see the rock in front of his face well enough. As for following the path, he let his sense of touch and the silhouette of the mountain guide him. The trail was still used often enough to follow.
Once he slipped and slid, almost tumbling off the mountain, but through luck or strength his fingers forced their way into a crevasse and he pulled himself back up, heard hammering. After that he stopped for a moment, looking up at the stars above and the darkness of the land spread out all around him.
He kept climbing, nursing fatigue, thinking back to his time as a footsoldier whipped into fighting in the shadow of Greyrock after a long forced march. He kept climbing, keeping to the safe handholds, desire for speed tempered by caution now.
A little after dawn he came to Rothgrim’s Point.
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