Swamp of Death

CHAPTER 40

Tender rays of late morning sun peeked timidly through the narrow opening of the lair, in which Moorg and his wolf crawled in the night before. Dark and dry hole made goblin feel safe, as he overslept quite a bit. And he certainly needed the rest. Wolf yawned loudly, jumping to his feet. He licked his master's face, happy to see him waking up. He was hungry, and he could smell more meat from the goblin's sack.

They ate fast, and in no time they were back on the road. He let the wolf lead him towards the Zhinnaeg, reclining in his saddle. A dream he had last night was all he could think about. It was a hint of the things to come, once these visions turn to reality. As an absolute conqueror of Tanmar, Moorg was ruling from his castle, built in gold. Large numbers of human, orcish, elven and many other slaves, served only him. Goblin was rich beyond his wildest dreams. He was leading a huge army, soon strong enough to overrun the entire Dorull.

In his daydream, the goblin completely missed to see, they've changed the course. Still following the river, the wolf veered towards east, and straight into the village of Gaaran. This was an isolated place of a militant, berserker orc tribe, estranged even from their own kind. With their weird practices and obscure beliefs, they were certainly unique. As other tribes avoided them, Gaaran orcs lost the trust in anyone outside their small society.

They reached the edge of the village, when the wolf suddenly stopped, smelling the danger. Low growl startled Moorg, but it was a bit too late to react. Three half naked, scrawny looking orcs, covered in warpaint, surrounded them in an instant. Tips of their sharp, long spears, were aimed towards the goblin, ridiculing his odd arrival. Ridiculing his incompetence. Although angry, he wasn't blaming the wolf for the situation they were in. His dreaming was what got them captured. They walked straight into the orc's hands because of him. He should've known better. He allowed himself to be captured.

Orcs pulled him from the wolf, tying his limbs onto one of the spears. They then proceed to carry him towards the center of the village, while loudly yelling. What a strange turn of events, not so long ago, he was the one having the two orcs in a similar position. Villagers approached the goblin, smiling and cheering, while pinching his cheeks, arms and legs. And then leaving promptly, yelling loudly in approval and excitement. Moorg found it to be quite strange behavior, but once he saw a large cauldron in the middle of the village, he understood the meaning of it. On the ground, around the cauldron were heaps of various, different bones and skulls. Mostly humanoid in kind.

Fearing for his life, Moorg was starting to panic, looking for a way out. And once he saw the orcs were preparing the fires around the pot, he realized he was out of time. Loud songs spread out, as everyone gathered around cheered for this sudden gift. Tall, lean orc stuck his nose in the goblin's face, sniffing and licking him. He then turned around, gesticulating a tasty meal, to everyone's approval. Moorg shuddered, horrified by the thought of such an ending.

Orc was wearing a long cape, made out of some strange, thin, greyish leather. Around his neck were several crude necklaces of intertwined teeth, jaws, bird and rodent skulls and a variety of small bones. On his head was a mountain ram's skull, with patches of fur still attached to it. Lifting his head high towards the sky, the apparent tribal chieftain began reciting the chant, which meant the beginning of the ritual. At the same time, the pounding of a large drum spread, echoing in all directions, across and over the mountaintops.