As the night grew darker, the wind cooled down but Warchief barely noticed. Running over the dust-covered earth, his inner fire blazed in exhilaration as he tracked down his prey.
Eyes flickering over the ground, he found hints of footprints, trampled grass, and snapped branches that marked the path straight to them.
Another would have struggled to do so. The shifting sands and lack of light, making the tracks almost invisible. However, ever since his awakening as a Prince of Elves, day and night had become one and the same. His eyes adapting easily and brightening the landscape as needed.
As the footprints became more defined, his feet picked up the pace unconsciously. Knowing he was drawing closer.
Keeping his eyes on the far-off distance, he finally spotted several flickering lights. Campfires.
There you are.
Coming to a full stop, he patted himself down to ensure his two hidden daggers were in place and unsheathed his swords from their scabbards which he left hanging on his back. That done, he crept closer using the shadows to his advantage.
Ulakian voices drifted in the air. Shouting and laughing, as they enjoyed supper after a long day of marching through the unbearable heat. None seemed concerned about a possible attack, and Warchief didn't blame them.
There were few foolish enough to attack a slave caravan of their size. Especially this deep into Durgh'ras.
He halted when he was less than three hundred feet away. Close enough to study the encampment, while staying unnoticed.
Five campfires were arranged in a circle, surrounding the small tents that would harbor the orcs during the night. A wooden post towered over them. Its presence marking the place where they had chained up the slaves.
Looking back at the fires, he counted ten Ulak at each but for one which seated eleven. Presumably, each was shared by one tábrod. The smallest unit within the orcish forces.
Seeing them up close, he realized this slaver's party must be a particularly successful one.
Their attires consisted of the typical loose trousers, adorned with a wide fitted belt that covered most of their waists, and a baltrum. A long piece of cloth, often worn over one shoulder but which could be draped over both as some sort of cape.
But rather than being made of leather, as with most slavers, their clothes seemed to consist of a more prized material like cotton, colored in bright hues of yellow and burned orange.
At the fire seating eleven Ulak, one orc even wore a striking bright red, which contrasted fiercely with the broad golden necklace he wore around his neck. There was no mistaking who the foreman of the group was.
Even while sitting, he represented an intimidating figure. Plenty of scars littered his bare upper body, showing off his experience, and a giant club leaned up beside him. One Warchief would never be able to lift, never mind use as a weapon.
One man against fifty-one well-trained orcs. Lidea would have called it a suicidal endeavor, and Crystal would have started to drag him back by the ears. But Warchief had won against worse odds, and he wasn't willing to leave those slaves to their fates.
Nervous energy flitted throughout him, and he rolled his shoulders in preparation for what he was about to do. His grin grew wider in excitement.
Extending his hands forward, he focused on the campfire that was the farthest away. The energy within him, raced towards his fingertips when his intentions grew clear. As the fire sparked along his skin, he was quick to divert the energy away. Sending it across the settlement to feed the flames.
YOU ARE READING
Tipping the Scale
FantasyIn a country, where magic and knowledge is limited to the elite. The underclass have finally had enough. A revolution has tipped the scale of power, and the powerless have become in charge. All that was a symbol of magic has been destroyed, its hist...
