CHAPTER 2
Rays of sun light broke through the branches that hung over the worn path and bathed the ground in patches of gold. A steady crunching could be heard as a lone Orc walked along carrying a large sack over his shoulder. He walked with his face stern and eyes set in front of him, but he wasn’t really seeing anything particular. To be honest he was having difficulty sorting out the wide range of emotions that he was experiencing. Sadness; at the realization that he would not be allowed to see the only people and home that he had ever known. Excitement; the exile gave him the promise of adventure and exploration that his heart had always pined for. Anger; at the unfairness of his young life. And dismay; because he had no idea what to do now. His only goal, besides surviving, was getting Lash the sword that Gharol had made for her. It seemed simple enough, but no one had heard from Lash since she had left Dushnikh Yal four years ago. Lash could be absolutely anywhere, four years in a land the size of skyrim was bad enough, but what if she’d crossed the border into Hammerfell? Cyrodiil? Morrowind? The small task that at first gave him a sense of pride and direction now only made him feel overwhelmed. With Markarth being the nearest city, located just north of Dushnikh Yal, Grogon decided that was as good a place as any to start his search.
“Ughhh.” The audible sigh was released as Grogon plopped down on a log beside the road.
He’d been walking since early morning and the hunger pains, along with the weight of the heavy armor that he carried, was beginning to wear him down. Reaching into the bag, Grogon pulled out a hunk of salted horker and a small loaf of bread. Chewing through the toughened meat, he began to pull out pieces of the armor that Gharol had made for him. Orsimer armor was different to other armors commonly seen in skyrim. Where as most common armors used iron or steel, orcish armor was crafted using Orichalcum, a heavy metal that had a greenish hue. The armor that Gharol had made was no different, where most human armors were smooth and crafted for beauty as much as for protection, orcish armor went solely for protection. Grogon could see the small indentations where powerful, yet precise hammer blows had landed. One Orichalclum plate overlapped another, provideing more proteciton while also providing the most flexibility possible. The shoulder pieces upturned to points which provided an additional weapon when lowering one’s shoulder into someone, as well as being menacing in battle. Orcs knew how to fight, and using their menacing looks had often won fights before they ever started. It was the most beautiful set he’d ever seen. With an almost revered awe, he began to strap on the first set of armor he’d ever worn. Reaching into the bag one last time, Grogon pulled out the sword that he’d sworn to take to Lash. Pulling the sword out of its sheath, he was awarded with a sharp sting as his finger got too close it’s razor sharp edge. He nodded approvingly. Finally he strapped the once again sheathed sword to his belt.
Hefting the much lighter sack over his shoulder, Grogon took a few lengthy strides in his new armor and was surprised to find out how flexible and comfortable the whole thing felt. No pinches, no scraping, no bunching… Gharol was an expert. The armor not only gave Grogon protection, but it gave him a new sense of pride. Standing up a little straighter, he continued purposefully down the road.
Grogon passed various people on the road, an elderly nord couple riding a wagon full of vegetables, a Khajiit merchant party walking along in hushed voices. Everyone gave a wide berth to the tall, intimidating orc walking along in armor. I could get used to this. He thought to himself with a smile.
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It was afternoon and the sun was on its descent through the sky when he heard the distant roar that sounded like a downpour of rain. However a quick glance at the sky proved evidence enough that it was something else. Grogon rounded a bend in the road before him and came to a complete stop. His mouth opened slightly in awe. The rocky mountain before him stood so tall that it seemed like clouds clung to the ledges above. It was split, however, by a large glittering waterfall that was the source of the roar. But it was past the waterfall that garnered most of his attention. Markarth. He’d never seen anything like it. The fading sun cast an orange hue on the city that looked like it had been carved into the mountain itself. Golden roofs and accents glittered like jewelry in the afternoon sun.
With a new excitement growing inside, Grogon quickened his pace toward the city before him. Long, powerful strides carried him across a small bridge in front of him. A small farm stood to his right where a couple of nords were bent over hoeing, what looked like, potatoes. The walls that surrounded the city seemed to grow taller out of the ground as he got closer. Up the hill a little further and a small village whose houses matched the stone architecture of the city sat around what looked like the entrance of a mine. Even further up the hill a large stable stood right outside the huge walls that protected the city. Two large golden gates, at least twice as tall as he was, stood open to welcome anyone into the city proper. It was only when he began to climb the steps to the gates that he realized his mouth was still open.
“MEAT! FRESH MEAT!”
“TRINKETS! ODDS AND ENDS!”
“JEWELRY OVER HERE!”
The yells and voices of the market just inside the gates knocked Grogon out of his stupor. He’d never seen so many people in one place before. People were trying to sell things out of small wooden trade stalls. One woman walked by with her arms piled high with what looked like laundry. A man in rags sat in the shade of the walls begging for gold. Guards in full metal armor with emerald green cloaks embossed with what looked like ram horns walked among the rabble, looking this way and that. His senses were quickly becoming overwhelmed.
“Not looking for trouble I hope.”
Snapping back to reality, Grogon looked over to see one of the guards staring expectantly back at him.
“Well?” The guard continued.
“Uh… no, I just got here.” Grogon stammered out.
“Right…” The guard drawled with a skeptical look. “Well remember, disrespect the law and you disrespect me.” He muttered over his shoulder as he walked away.
Dismissing the guard quickly, Grogon stepped into the crowd and was immediately swallowed up. He moved with the crowd without really having a direction or purpose, like a leaf caught in swirling waters. After what seemed like only seconds, he was deposited in front of a small stall with a merchant looking expectantly at him.
“Need Something?” The stern looking older woman asked.
“Uh, what do you have?” Grogon asked more out of surprise than interest.
“I sell jewelry.” She replied curtly. “Necklaces, rings, circlets, things that someone like you probably don’t have any interest in anyway.”
The remark had made him bristle, and he’d intended to let the woman know how he felt. But as soon as he opened his mouth, a ball of fur bumped hard into his side. Already angry, Grogon looked down nastily at the intrusion to see the brown and black fur of a Khajiit looking back up at him.
The Khajiit started to back quickly away from him. “This one is sorry for the interruption friend. Many apologies.” He stammered quickly. The humanoid feline began to bow repeatedly as he backed away.
Grogon hadn’t responded to the exchange, he had only ever heard of the feline race once before years ago when a trader had come to Dushnikh Yal and had regaled Grogon, Umurn, and Lash with tales of the beast-like race and their desert homeland. The trio had spent a week trying to decide if there was any truth to the tales. The mere fact that he had just met one, made the anger melt away in an instant.
A small stupid smile was still on his face when he turned back to the merchant woman. She stood with her hands on her hips and a disapproving scowl on her face.
“You realize that cat just stole your coin, right?” She deadpanned.
“Wha…!?” Grogon reacted as if he’d been slapped in the face. He quickly looked down and patted his belt where his coin pouch had been fastened. Sure enough, the leather strap holding the pouch had been neatly sliced.
Not taking the time to respond, Grogon tore off in the direction that the Khajiit had taken.
“LOOK OUT!”
“HEY WATCH IT!” People shouted as the huge Orc in armor came barreling through the crowd.
Grogon finally broke free of the crowd at the edge of the marketplace and looked around wildly. The city wall was in front of him, with the entrance somewhere off to his left. A path led away to his right and around the building that stood there. With no real lead, Grogon sprinted down the path.
After a few minutes of running and more than one angry citizen shouting at almost being run over, Grogon stopped to survey his surroundings. The city was more confusing than any forest he had ever been in before. The stone buildings all seemed to resemble one another, the stone pathways seemed to dart this way and that, and outside of the marketplace, you couldn’t seem to go a few feet before coming to a new set of stairs. Breathing heavily, he put his hands on his hips and stood up straight to try to get fresh air into his lungs. He’d always been physically fit, but he’d never had to run in almost 100 pounds of armor either. Well Grogon, you haven’t even been here more than hour and you’ve already lost all your money. I’m sure the chief would be rolling with laughter if he knew. The thought of Burguk put a sour taste in his mouth, and he set his jaw with determination. I will not be defeated by this city. With no other option but to stay where he was, Grogon slowly started down one of the alleyways.
Reaching the end of the alley, the buildings seemed to finally break away and he stood overlooking the wide stream that he assumed fed the waterfall out front. Bridges criss-crossed the deep blue water. People walked around the beauty before them as if oblivious to its existence. On the other side of the stream people milled around workshops as the worked raw ore into silver ingots.
A commotion to his right, brought him back to reality once more. A crowd of people going up a steep staircase began to shout and jump out of the way of something. After a small Nord man dove out of the way, Grogon could see a small glowing orb, no bigger than an apple, come bouncing down the stairs. Each time the red hot sphere connected with a step, a shower of sparks would be released. Several steps behind the spectacle, a Nord wearing a blacksmiths apron and holding tongs in front of him with both hands as if trying to catch the ball came comically stumbling down the steps, hastily uttering apologies along the way.
Grogon couldn’t help but laugh at the scene in front of him, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of dark hair and gray skin at the top of the stairs. With his excitement growing he ran over to the crowd and urged them up the stairs as fast as possible. Could it be her? Probably not, there are bound to be hundreds of Orcs in Skyrim. His mind began to race with the possibilities. Even though he knew it was unlikely, he couldn’t help but hope that this would be his long lost sister. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was beating so fast that he thought it might break through his chest. Looking wildly around, he spotted a small blacksmiths forge with a lone Orc woman hammering away on an anvil with her back to him. He half walked and half jogged quickly to the forge. Her hair was different, and her skin was grayer than he remembered, but he held onto a sliver of hope that he would find a friendly face.
“Hello?” He announced awkwardly, not really sure how to proceed.
“If you’re here to complain about Tacitus, I’ve heard plenty already.” She responded without even turning around.
Grogon’s shoulders slumped a little, that wasn’t the voice of Lash.
“Actually I was here to talk to you.” He replied, disheartened.
Setting the hammer on the anvil in front of her, the Orc in front of him finally turned to face him. She was older than himself and Lash, though he wasn’t sure by how much. Dressed in clothes very similar to what Gharol always wore, she was bald except for a single, short, dark, ponytail that sprang from the top of her head.
Her eyes widened slightly in surprise at the sight of him. “I’m Ghorza gra-Bagol, I haven’t seen you here before. What do you need?”
“Grogon.” He stated. “I, uh, actually thought you might be someone else.” The disappointment was evident in his voice.
“There aren’t many Orc women in Markarth. Who are you looking for?” She asked curiously.
“Her name is Lash. I haven’t actually seen her since she left my stronghold about four years ago.”
Her eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before. Why are you looking for her?”
For the first time in 24 hours, someone actually seemed eager to help. Grogon brightened a little. Reaching his right hand to the sword on his belt, he slowly unsheathed Gharol’s sword.
“My mother made this for her.” He announced proudly. “It’s my job to take it to her.”
The woman looked appreciatively at the sword. “May I?”
Grogon gave a short pause of hesitation, and then handed over the sword. “Sure.”
Grogon watched transfixed as Ghorza laid the blade in one hand and the grip in the other, hefting it slightly to feel the weight.
“...mmmhmm.” She mumbled.
Next she ran the palm of her hand over the flat of the swords eyeing it expertly.
“...very nice.” She whispered.
Finally she put one finger in front of the crossguard and balanced the sword there without so much as a wobble.
“...perfect.” He heard her mutter to herself.
Quickly and adeptly she flipped the sword around and presented the sword, grip first, back to Grogon.
“Your mother is an expert.” She announced with a smile. “What stronghold is she a part of?”
Grogon winced a little, “Well... she’s not actually my true mother.” He replied. “She’s in Dushnikh Yal.”
Ghorza gave a small frown. “Chief Burguk’s clan?”
“You’ve heard of it?” Grogon asked in surprise.
“We have traders and travellers in here often. I listen closely to what they have to say about Orcs.” She answered. “Not many good things when it comes to Chief Burguk.”
“Well…”
Without even meaning to, Grogon sat down on a nearby bench and told Ghorza everything. His upbringing, how he was treated differently because of his looks, the events with that led him to getting kicked out of Dushnikh Yal, and ending with getting his gold stolen in the marketplace. Through it all, Ghorza listened patiently as she leaned with her arms crossed at her chest on a nearby workbench.
Grogon finished, and Ghorza sat silently for a moment.
“We Orcs all have hard lives. I’m sure you know that. My brother and I joined the Legion when we left Bagol. We fought for 10 years before settling here. But we at least had our clan for support.” She remarked, looking off into the fading sun. “I wish I could help you, but there isn’t much I can do.”
Grogon stood, “I wasn’t trying to get pity. I just needed to vent. I’m sorry I took so much of your time” Trying to look prouder than he felt, he turned to leave.
“Wait.” Ghorza called. “There is something that you could do for me. I can’t pay much, but it’s work.”
Grogon turned back around trying not to look too excited. “Yeah?”
“As you’ve no doubt seen, my apprentice, Tacitus, is incompetent.” She remarked with dry humor. “He can’t seem to grasp even the simplest of lessons. But I have too much pride to give up on him. There’s a book, The Last Scabbard of Akrash, maybe it can get through to him since practical lessons seem to be pointless. It’s a rare book, but I remember reading a copy in Fort Sungard years ago. The fort was deserted by the legion shortly after I left, but if you can find it and bring it back, I’ll pay you for it.”
Grogon squared his jaw and nodded. “Give me directions to the fort, and I’ll be on my way.”
By the time Ghorza had marked Fort Sungard on a map and recalled what she could remember of the fort’s layout, the sun was beginning to set on the horizon. Without money or a place to stay, Grogon decided to head outside the walls and camp near the stables that he’d passed on the way in. Unfurling his bedroll next to a rock wall within sight of the stables, Grogon sat down with a heavy THUD. The loud rumble in his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since noon, and he pulled piece of dried horker from his pack. With a mouthful of the meat, he spread the small map out in front of him to familiarize himself with his route. The journey would be backtracking along the road that he’d travelled earlier in the day. He paused mid chew when he realized he’d be passing right by his old home. He knew that even the chief wouldn’t bother him as long as he didn’t attempt to re-enter the stronghold, but the thought of walking by the walls under the scrutinizing gaze of the sentries merely a day removed made him lose his appetite. Swallowing the huge mouthful of meat, he made a mental note to travel through the woods when passing Dushnikh Yal. Putting the map away and plopping back onto his back, Grogon looked up into the same stars that he had stared at every night for as long as he could remember. Tomorrow will be another adventure.
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The weather was once again pleasant. Waking just before sunrise, a habit he had picked up early in life, Grogon had set off from Markarth with a renewed vigor. His first day on his own hadn’t gone perfectly by any means, but the excitement and splendor of Markarth almost outweighed the loss of his coin. The promise of exploring an old deserted fort had also given a significant boost to his morale. He’d made good time that morning and had passed by Dushnikh Yal shortly after noon with no incidents. It helped that he’d given the stronghold a very wide berth. By late afternoon Grogon was pleased to discover that he should be able to make the fort by nightfall. It’d be hard to explore the fort in the dark, but he could always make camp inside one of the buildings and start early the next morning. I wonder what I’ll find? Will there be old war relics? Rusted armor? Will the book have survived?
The slow clop of hooves brought Grogon out of his thoughts and onto the road ahead. A pair of older nords rode a single donkey toward him. The man in front had a far away stare and a long bloody gash on his forehead. A woman was busy trying to reach around the uncooperative man and clean the cut with an old rag. The man, woman, and even the donkey, seemed oblivious to Grogon’s existence as they plodded along.
“Woah!” Grogon announced his presence loudly while he grabbed the donkey’s reigns.
The old man turned to look at Grogon but never seemed to actually see him. He never said a word.
“You’re too late! The group at the fort already took everything of value we had.” The woman shouted, with a defiant glare.
Grogon stood with a confused look on his face. The fort? Fort Sungard? She must be talking about Fort Sungard. Of Course it wouldn’t just be empty. Grogon you idiot. “What happened?”
The dumbfounded look on Grogon’s face seemed to relax the woman a little, though she still wore a distrustful scowl.
“Bandits.” She stated sharply. “We were passing that old war fort and a group of bandits jumped out at us. Took our wagon with all the food we were going to sell at Markarth. Hit Ereld over the head just for asking what they wanted.”
Hearing his name, the old man seemed to notice Grogon for the first time and look of panic came over his face. “We do- do- don’t want any more trouble!” He stammered.
Grogon raised his hands to calm the man. “I’m not here for trouble, I’m just trying to find out what happened. How many bandits were there? How were they armed?”
The man seemed to calm down a little, but still had a wild look in his eyes. “I… I don’t know. Five? Six? Ten?!”
The woman cast Ereld an annoyed glance. “There was six of them. I can’t tell you more than that, I had more on my mind than what they were wearing.” She finished by turning the annoyed glance on Grogon.
“Come on Ereld, it’s getting late and I don’t want to stay out here tonight.” She said, turning back to the man.
The donkey let out a loud HEE-HAW, as the man gave it a kick. Grogon stood and watched the couple ride down the road the way he’d came and out of sight. Looking back down the road toward his destination, Grogon frowned. Six to one. They have a fort. I have no idea what I’m doing. The doubts ran unbidden through his mind and he couldn’t help but feel helpless. The despair was beginning to grow when all of a sudden the image of Gharol was standing before him and he was nine years old again. His younger self was all smiles as he stood over the first elk he’d ever killed.
“I shot him right through the heart at 50 yards.” Grogon wore a huge smile that showed off small tusks that had just started to protrude.
Gharol couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Of course you did, you’re an Orc after all. And one that I raised.” She looked down at him with a look of pride.
The image was gone as quick as it had appeared and Grogon’s heart gave a lurch at the memory. The despair was gone now and new sense of determination filled his chest. I will kill the bandits and I will claim my prize. I am an Orc.
It seemed like no time before the dark silhouette of the fort appeared on the hill before him off to the left of the road. The setting sun cast long shadows from the forts towers stretching down the hill like huge gravestones. Grogon left the road and entered the trees at the base of the hill. Grogon dropped his pack and pulled out his bow and quiver of arrows. Lash’s sword was still sheathed at his belt as he nocked an arrow and began to silently stalk up the hill.
The small thuds of his feet and clinks of his armor might as well have been a thunderstorm to Grogon’s ears. He was used to hunting in leather breeches and a linen shirt, and no matter how well the armor fit, it wasn’t as quiet as what he was used to.
The old stone fort grew steadily before him as he slowly made his way up the hill. The few buildings that made up the fort were still standing strong, the walls, however, had collapsed in several places. The archway where a gate or door was once attached stood about 25 yards in front of him, but a collapsed portion of the wall was about 15 yards away and he should be able to climb over there and avoid traipsing through the front door. As he approached, he heard the steady sound of footprints coming closer. Grogon silently slid behind the nearest tree just as an armored Nord strolled casually out of the fort entrance and headed in Grogon’s direction.
“Of course I get guard duty first.” The Nord grumbled. “They all sit around drinking ale and I’m left standing out here with my thumb up my ass.” The nord stopped, facing Grogon’s direction, lowered his pants and began to relieve himself.
Grogon let out a barely audible growl as he shifted his weight around the tree and raised his bow. He’d never aimed at anything other than a training target or hunting game. The sensation was a little unnerving, he was about to take the life of a human for the first time ever. Taking a deep breath, Grogon slowly exhaled, letting the air flow gently between his lips. His eyes settled on the center of the man’s chest and with the slightest of movements, he let the bowstring slide off his fingertips. The effect was instantaneous.
“Hnghh.” The small gasp escaped the man’s mouth as the arrow punched through his leather armor and protruded out of his back.
The Nord stood for another second looking down in shock at the arrow that had pierced his chest, then fell first to his knees, and then face first into the ground.
Grogon stood in shock at the display before him. He knew what he had to do and he had done it. But actually seeing the man die in front of him, by his hand, was not something he would soon forget. Settling his nerves, Grogon continued to stalk forward. Passing the body without a glance, he came to broken section of wall that he wanted to cross. Pausing to listen, he couldn’t hear anything but the shrill sound of a distant tree frog.
The wall proved to be a thick one. Several feet thick as to provide protection from projectiles, as well as allowing sentries to walk the perimeter without leaving the fort itself. Grogon stepped up onto some rubble and gripped his bow tightly in one hand. Springing upward, he grabbed the outer ledge and pulled himself up. Sliding onto his stomach, he chanced a looked over the wall into the courtyard.
A quick glance into the small courtyard showed a small stable off to the left that had a single horse in it, next to the stable was the stolen wagon. There were no fires or torches, however, the main building that stood on the opposite side of the small courtyard had a soft flickering light that was shooting between the boards of its old door. After waiting a few more moments, Grogon gently eased himself down on the other side of the wall. As soon as his feet hit the ground, the door floor open and another Nord stumbled outside.
“Hey Kjorn!” He shouted, looking toward the archway. “Quit pouting! I brought you an ale!”
Grogon froze. The man hadn’t seen him yet. Standing slightly uneasy on his feet for a second the man continued to stumble forward.
“Kjorn! Hellloooo!? I’m talkin to ya!”
The man stopped short of the archway and waited for his companion to appear. Seizing the moment, Grogon quickly pulled another arrow tight and since he faced the man’s side, aimed at his ear. There was no pause this time, the arrow flew true and a wet thud was heard, followed by the sound of the man crumbling to the ground. Grogon quickly nocked another arrow and swung around to face the door. After a few silent seconds he stalked forward and peered into the open doorway.
A very small entrance room was beyond the door, complete with a small fire in the fireplace and a cooking spit. The room stood empty, but voices could be heard coming for the stairwell on the opposite side of the room.
“Where did Borri get off to?” Came a deep booming voice.
“Probably stumbled outside to yak, or passed out somewhere. Man never could hold his ale.” Responded a another.
Grogon approached the stairwell and slowly began to descend.
“Why do we keep him around anyway? All he does is drink most of the ale.” The second voice continued.
“Cuz he’s my sister’s husband, now drop it.” The deep voice boomed.
Grogon had his hands on his bow and his eyes scanning the stairs ahead. That’s when his armored boot, being larger than what he was used to, slipped off the step in front of him. His hand shot to the wall for support, but it was too late. All six foot, 4 inches of Orc, in full battle dress tumbled end over end down the stairs. Grunts and curses that escaped his lips were immediately drowned out by the pandemonium of sounds coming from metal on stone as it picked up speed down the stairs.
“Umpfff.” Was the final sound that Grogon made as he landed sprawled on his back at the bottom of the stairs.
Grogon pushed himself into a sitting position and quickly took stock of his body. Nothing seemed to injured. After a brief second to gather himself, he looked up to see the remaining four Nord bandits sitting around a small fire all staring directly at him.
“HAHAHAHA!!!” All four bandits erupted into laughter. Everyone stayed seated except for the smallest of the Nords, which actually fell out of his chair in fits of laughter.
Grogon quickly stood. His bow was lost along the staircase somewhere, but Lash’s sword was miraculously still sheathed at his side. Pulling the sword free, he twisted his head to the side and was rewarded with a satisfying crack.
The effect was instantaneous, the four bandits stopped laughing as quickly as they had started and scrambled frantically to get to weapons that lay haphazardly around them. Quickly assessing the situation, Grogon charged at the bandit that had fallen out of his chair. He was still on the ground and crawling as fast as he could toward a sword. Grogon brought his sword overhead with both hands and chopped ferociously down at the man’s neck, cleaving his head off cleanly. A few feet away a panicked bandit was trying in vain to unsheath a sword that had become entangled in a blanket. Grogon closed the distance in two quick strides and rammed his sword into the man’s stomach, burying it to the hilt.
A wild sensation coursed through Grogon. His blood seemed to boil, the pounding in his ears from his own heartbeat seemed to drown out the other noises in the room. His vision became sharper, but he was barely able to concentrate on any one thing. What in Oblivion is going on!
Wrenching the sword free, he looked around wildly just as one of the remaining bandits ran screaming at him with a battleaxe raised. Time seemed to slow down, Grogon side-stepped deftly as he watched in wide-eyed awe as the axe head began it’s arc downward and after what seemed like an eternity, finally clanged off of the stone floor, eliciting several sparks. The bandit hadn’t recovered from his miss and Grogon pounced on the opportunity. Seizing the man’s greasy, braided hair, with his left hand, he ran the bandits face into the nearby wall. A sickening CRUNCH seemed to echo in his ears. He couldn't explain why, but he pulled the man’s face back and ran it into the wall again, and again. The experience seemed to satisfy this weird sensation that had overcome him.
“GRRRAHH!!” The shouted growl was followed by an enormous blow to Grogon’s chest. The force of the blow propelled him backward several steps, but he was somehow able to stay on his feet.
Grogon wheezed as each breath seared his chest with pain. The sensation that controlled him now quelled the pain quickly and he looked to see the biggest of the bandits, readying his warhammer for another blow. With a quickness uncommon to most Orcs, Grogon closed the distance between the two and grabbed the bandit by the neck with his left hand. His momentum carried him forward as he half drug, half carried the man straight into the rough stone wall. The man dropped his now useless warhammer and tried in vain to release the vice-like grip that Grogon maintained on his neck. With a look of hatred, Grogon raised his sword and drove it into the man’s mouth. Stopping only when the blade was embedded an inch or two into the mortar of the wall.
Grogon took a step back and raggedly panted as he looked at the devastation around the room. His first victim lay beheaded on the floor. The second was in a bloody, crumpled pile. The third victim was unidentifiable with the catastrophic damage done to his face and head. Finally, the last bandit looked to still be standing, when he was actually pinned to the wall by Lash’s sword. Silence enveloped the room for what seemed like ages, until the weight of the bandit, finally pulled Lash’s sword free from the wall and the body slid to the floor.
Slowly the pounding in his ears began to ebb, and his eyes began to focus. The forgotten pain that was in his chest began to make itself heard again. The utter hatred that he had felt began to subside and for the first time, Grogon seemed to notice the destruction he had caused. One more scraggy breath, and he doubled over and threw up on the floor.
Table of Contents | Chapter One | Chapter Three
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And even untrained Orcs pack a punch