Trail of the Serpent

[Reuben 7]

Trail of the Serpent

I.

Both earth and air were sodden with the morning’s rainwater. The downpour had washed away the red gore of battle three days before, into the Elrendar. The Horde had paused here, at its banks, so that the dark warlock Gul’dan might dismantle Silvermoon’s runestone defenses that dampened the magic of the Horde’s sorcerers.

Although drained of crimson blood, the quagmire left behind by the slaughter stank of muddy death and premature rot. The carcasses of elves were as saturated and brown as the cakes of soggy soil thrown up by footfalls. Their lifeless cheeks were bloated and bruised blue with the puddles’ cold and unclear liquid. Yet it mattered little to the party of six forest troll scavengers now picking their way through the carnage for shiny trinkets.

Zol was not perturbed by the sight of splayed pink flesh. Not a wince nor a cower was had as he turned over a stiff elf body to uncover the rent open chest cavity, housing families of eagerly wriggling maggots. In fact, he smiled. Nostalgic as he stared into the agape torso, through the deflating organs below; it reminded him of the savory taste of a bloodthirst for elves quenched. Yet he had a different desire today, a hunger for a new, more valuable delicacy. He would have to arrive at the table before the food went cold – or before someone stole his dinner.

So as not to arouse suspicion, Zol cracked off the elf’s long, manicured ring-finger and held it aloft to his fellow vultures. They keenly started for the elf, and would, as he thought they would, bicker about whose property the elf’s bodily possessions were. As he slinked away, darting from bog islands of mud to others, he wryly thought: The dull seek what is brightest, but the brightest have already found what’s valuable. He was away to claim the trophy from the prey he had snared three days ago.

As his fellow pillagers looked up to find him, his only trace was a discarded elven finger.

The start of the campaign…

Prior to the Amani-Horde campaign, Zol imagined he knew the capabilities of magic. He had witnessed the elves. He had looked up from afar at their pristine towers and found himself envious and intimidated. It was almost second nature to a troll to feel terror and panic at the behest of a Quel’dorei magister. Visions of mossy flesh burned away haunt troll dreams generation to generation. It was something they had grown accustomed to detesting, an instinctive fight or flight. Their own troll magic, in comparison, was weak and negligible. The runestones which Gul’dan is now disabling may be thanked for that.

However, the orcish magic was truly something to fear. Were it not warlocks wielding destruction, it was the mounted riders of pestilence and death which made Zol’s heart beat into his ribcage. The death knights rode into battle with an arsenal of terror and primal fear. Devastation, immolation and reanimation. Zol feared it. Zol hated it. If it was not enough that the proud Amani would have to accept help to destroy their ancestral enemies, they would have to accept it from these parodical human creations.

Their existence took Zol’s mind into the catacombs of the Amani tribes. Where his father, and his father’s father, had went. Places grand and hollow, containing similarly hollow bodies that would finally rest and decay. Yet here was a human, atop a steed as cold and pulseless as its rider, bending and mocking Zol’s sensibilities and idea of reality.

Zol was soon organized into a warband with one of these abominable creations, Kagughast. Zol observed this creature keenly with alert eyes and arrested ears. A week passed before any signs of weakness caught Zol’s interest: The death knight had become overconfident in his ability to massacre fleeing elves, and had swung his mace towards the shield of an elven spellbreaker and nearly dropped it. Kagughast and his warlock advisor, Argalagg, argued extensively about the risks of suh an act. Slowly, the naïve troll began to piece together what bound the death knights to their hollow shells.

At any chance, the impressionable troll looked upon the mysticism of the orb atop the death knight’s scepter with fascination. Little did Zol know that it was the soul of the orc puppeteer inside the orb. He understood it a little differently; as a source of the death knight’s erstwhile great power. Familiar feelings of magic envy began to arise within the troll. ‘If only the Amani had access to such power,’ mused Zol. Imagining the vast swathes of land reclaimed from the humans, his home in the Hinterlands being free of the Wildhammer menace… all without this foreign Horde.

He obsessed over claiming the gem atop the scepter. He took note of its detail, he planned on how to pry it from its clutch, and most importantly he devised a plan to relinquish it from its puppet holder.

The battle three days prior to the scavenger hunt…

“Futile,” groaned the human corpse hoarsely, all moisture of its life dried out. The cracking skin creased and crumbled endlessly and magically as the possessing orc forced the shell to speak. Ventriloquism of the most vile and macabre sort. Kagughast had spoken to the elf ranger attempting to crawl through the dewy grass in the direction of the river crossing to Inner Eversong. The death knight raised its mace aloft.

Zol and the grunts of the warband watched the spell hit the elf, but the elf continued to crawl away. She was a scout; the death knight could not let her get away to inform the village of the Horde’s diversion through them. Vexed and visibly embarrassed, the puppet tried once again, beholden to its master. The elf continued to crawl. Argalagg sighed with contempt, “It is the runestones, brother, they’re dampening our magic – do not make a fool of yourself.”

“Their magic should pale in comparison to the magic of Gul’dan!” exclaimed the mounted necrolyte, striking the elf with another spell. The elf turned pale and gaunt like a wilted flower, and her arms went limp – she was finally dead. Kagughast was satisfied, but it was clear the doubt or frustration in his recent lack of power had set in. However, outwardly the death knight continued croaking commands towards the rest of the warband: It was time to chase down the rest of the elves…

The elves did not anticipate the orcish Horde’s acquired knowledge of the lay of the forest. They had set an army of rangers to collide with the Horde to slow their progress on the road to Silvermoon. However, the trolls had given them access to a retreat nearer to the Lake of Elrendar through the Amani catacombs.

Kagughast’s warband was the rear party, who would clean up any stragglers who would have thought to outmaneuver the forward attack. It was there they waited impatiently, disguised in the thicket. The orcish grunts took no pleasure in the distant screams of pain and panic. They were over-eager and hungry for battle. The trolls were more cunning, and busied themselves with setting traps in the path of the escaping high elves.

It was not long before the screams became louder, but scarcer. The shrieks from the village had disturbed the wildlife from the boughs of the trees and from the under-growths, so that the intermittent silence between elven screams and sour orcish grunts was deadening. The anticipation and anxiety caused breaths to catch and choke in Zol’s throat. He gave suspiciously infrequent looks towards both Kagughast and Argalagg. He had the faintest inkling that the wiser and more astute warlock had unveiled his inner guilt and plan magically.

The first stragglers were smart enough to attempt to stay silent as they entered the copse. The adept trolls could hear the twigs snapping and the leaves crunching… and then snap, a scream blotted out all the detail of the forest floor. To more sensitive beasts, the repeated and desperate cries of the elf whose leg had been run through by a disguised wooden pike, were harrowing. The orcs and trolls felt their mutual bloodthirst arise within them.

More elves fell into traps, until the deft footed elves made their way through to the awaiting ambush. With glee, the orcs were the first to carve into the side of the retreating elves. Zol had seen their combination of warrior strength and agility many times now, but had never once been unsurprised by it. Sure enough, their death knight commander followed in behind.

The command to throw spread among the ranks, but troll axe-throwers do not need to be told. Cries of ‘TAZ’DINGO!’ echoed through the forest as axes cleaved through elf skulls, mowing down line after line of recently-made refugees. It was a miracle that Zol managed to slip away, but the trolls were lost to the trance and haze of elven death.

Enraged by the fact his spells were of no effect, Kagughast wished to reimagine himself as an orcish warrior; surrounded by blood which he had no part in drawing. He drove his steed hard in pursuit of elf, and circled round on the elves attempting escape. Running down one and clubbing another across the temple, he began to make short and violent work of his helpless victims.

It took a while for Zol to finally catch up with Kagughast. He had gone far in his pursuit. Passively, the troll watched a scene of brutality unfold before him. The death knight had cracked and caved the skulls and bones of the elves around him, and was now pulping his last victim with repeated strikes. The small glade they had happened upon was mostly quiet apart from the dull, fleshy thuds of lifeless meat being pounded. Zol observed his environment, he would have to be quick and unseen – he must return to his fellow trolls soon without arousing suspicion.

He pulled his last axe from his belt and felt the handle in his palm. As if his calloused and blistered hands had missed the weight of the axe, he gripped tight around the bottom of the hilt, and then raised it above and behind his head.

A glimmer of iron flew across the glade, and thumped against the tree. It had carried with it the severed wrist and palm of Kagughast, who swiftly fell to the floor. His scepter lay at his side, ready for Zol to take. For a moment, the bliss of those visions of trollish glory overcame him.

However, they were short-lived. His ears perked up and he could hear more elves streaming out from the forest. Even if the elves were running, he would not be able to survive them if the number of footsteps he could discern was accurate.

“I be comin’ back for ya.”

[fatchicken 22]

Love it! You did a good job of describing things quickly, but far from boring. I guess I'm biased since it's the type of book I tend to lean towards, but I admire the style. Keep it up!