I
For over two centuries he had lived quietly, tending to the western stretches of the Argent Forest where it bordered the towering Khairathi Mountains. Here, well beyond the knowledge of the coastal human kingdoms and rather isolated both from the goblins of Trzebin in the north and the barbaric orcs and humans of the southern Khairathi peaks, he had nurtured the earth, using the powers of the Mother to bring a vibrance of life to his pine and oak forests that brought the full power of the Earth Mother to the fore. Pines grew straight and tall to undreamed of heights, while the oaks spread wide along creeks and brooks. Deer fed in verdant pastures, while the wolves and bears of the forest ate their fill. Life and death were a part of the Mother's balance, a balance that he had worked so hard to maintain and encourage throughout his long life.
It seemed to be over now.
Caradoc of the Pines could barely open his eyes as they dumped him on a rough stone floor. Guttering torches offered illumination beyond his swollen, bloodied face, while the disgusting, guttural tongue of the orcs assaulted his ears past the roar of his blood pounding through his veins. They had caught him unaware, but still he had sent over a dozen of them to their vicious one eyed god. In the end they had been too much for his power, and they had overwhelmed his animal protectors. Too long he had neglected the arts of combat; the orcs had made him pay for that mistake.
One of the orcs spoke, a commanding, even voice despite the rude inflections of his native language. Two of Caradoc's captors grasped him roughly by his shoulders, aggravating broken bones and painful bruises as they forced him to stand on his feet. The druid bit back a cry of agony as they shoved him forward a step, refusing to show weakness in the presence of the brutish raiders around him.
The rough stone floor was the base of a crude temple, lit not only by torches but also large braziers of glowing coals. Ahead of him, a towering statue of an orc, reaching almost to the high ceiling, bore a spear and only one glittering crimson eye. At the feet of the powerful icon, an orc with a disturbing resemblance to the statue moved forward, wielding a long, heavy spear in one hand. While many of the orcs wore a dirty, patchwork array of armor, this one's chain shirt glittered faintly beneath the wolf fur cape he wore, while his two cold, amber eyes regarded the priest with open disdain.
"You… are druid. Yes?"
Caradoc's mouth dropped open involuntarily. The orcish chieftain before him actually spoke the Argent language?
"I am," Caradoc finally replied. He would not deny his faith in the face of even this orc.
"You are not lord, from… Oak Bow?" the orcish chieftain asked. He was cautious with the words, unfamiliar and incapable of properly speaking the elven tongue.
"I am not," the druid replied defiantly. "Lord Caradoc of Oakenbough remains safe."
A second orc moved up behind the speaker, this one an ancient specimen of his race, wearing blood red robes and carrying a spear of his own. Like the statue, this one had put out his eye; obviously a priest of their vulgar religion. For a moment the two spoke in their own language, before the chieftain turned back to his captive.
"You are slave," the chieftain explained. "You grow food."
Caradoc hesitated for a moment. Orcs, growing food?
"I will not," the druid finally countered, regaining his composure. The chieftain did not burst into a rage filled tantrum, as the druid would have expected.
"You help grow food, or you die," the chieftain explained calmly. "You bleed into ground."
"I would rather curse the crops you grow than show you how to farm," Caradoc retorted coldly. Once again the ancient priest said something to the chieftain. The chieftain nodded slowly.
"You crucify," the orc stated simply.