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Orcs in Garaghoul

Updated: Oct 11, 2021

Orcs in Garaghoul

Writing Prompt: Your character finds a strange stone.

Deep in the Felhind woods, a meeting is taking place amongst the kalinbind orcs. It is morning, but that does not wash away the aura of darkness they carry with them. The clan centers around a single, large figure, covered in silver blades.

“Kalinbind warriors,” He addresses gruffly, as is his only manner. “We are tired of hiding from this boy!” At this they all shout in orcish, which sounds like what donkeys would sound like, if donkeys were louder and also part pig. “No more! In seven days time, we kill the pest!” Again, there is more cheering.

“What h-are your orders, myh Lord?” One orc, asks, spinning his spin on top of his hips, writhing and hopping with the others.

“Fisgar reports seeing him head south and east. In three days time he will arrive at the Citadel of Peringath.”

At this the group groans and moans, as if they were children with massive belly aches.

“Quiet!” Grifkar demands. “We will destroy the boy and the city. Fisgar also reported seeing a man travelling on all fours in this forest last night.” Head tilts and aggressive shoulder rolls follow. “A necromancer,” Grifkar explains. “With a shadow ring. We are going to persuade him to give it to us.”

Orc Laughter and shrieks send birds flying from their nests, abandoning their food. The monsters shift their colors to match the trees, as only the kalinbind can, and begin their hunt for the warlock.

They pass through the deep trenches and wander into the lower caves of the Wellik Mountain pass, searching the shadows for their prey. These orcs could be eulogized for their strength, their vigor, and their boldness. They cannot, however, be honored for their cunning.

They should have known not to descend into the lower pits of the mountain. They have heard before what is waiting there. Still, they go deeper, greedily seeking the necromancer, tearing down the homes of bats, rabbits, and wolves.

Eventually, they arrive at the door of Garaghoul. It’s frame is built of boulders, Its path is lined with the bare roots of ancient trees. The face of a dwarf Warrior is chiseled over its entrance with the letters of the Ordine beneath. It reads,

“Here lie the slain of Glinderseek’s bane.” Of course, none of the orcs can read it. Even if they could, there’s little chance they would. They abandon almost all caution being here, hunting a necromancer.

With little slowing, they slide one by one into the mountainous mausoleum, encouraged by the dead bodies, for surely this is where a necromancer would be. What fools. One cannot almost help but feel sorry for them. They are so married to their desires that they cannot see past them, and hence, they cannot change them either. They walk into the hall of ancient dwarven slain, with a great chance that they will soon be among their numbers.

The darkness is deep. The orcs turn their skin to match it. They press their hands to the wall and scuffle along. They stop at tombs and smell.

“This one’s been dead for years, my Lord.” They move on. This exercise repeats itself twenty, maybe thirty times. Then, a voice is heard in the shadows.

“Who dares enter my realm?” it whispers, echoing through the tomb.

“Show yourself, witch!” Grifkar demands. He and his pack draw their blades and form rank.

“Oh, you want a witch? Let me see what I can do.”

For a moment there is silence. It is replaced by the clicking of bones and a faint green aura coming from down a hall. A skeleton wearing a dress, faded and torn apart slinks towards them. It stares without eyes at the orc leader, reaches its fingers forward, and opens its mouth as if to speak. Grifkar slices it down. The world turns black again.

“You will not deprive me of my prize!” The orc lord shouts into the darkness.

“And what prize would that be?” A slither echoes back.

“A boy, Keatoph. He and the citadel of Peringath will be destroyed.”

There is a soft “s” that proceeds from the echo and lingers, as if gas were seeping into the cave. Before Grifkar can smell him, the necromancer of Asgafal is standing before him. On his legs, he is nearly as tall as Grifkar, which is quite a feat.

“Perhaps, our interests are aligned then,” he whispers to him. No echo follows. “What do you need from me?”

Read chapter one here.

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