A/N: I didn't expect so many people to review it! So, I'm giving in to
popular demand, and continuing the story. If you lose interest, let me
know... but if it's still likeable, I might just keep going.
G'nrac stood in the entryway of his black tent, staring at the beautiful Aielman tied to the rack in the middle of the tent. Yes, the man could channel, but not at will. These fools fled everything once they learned what they could do, rather than learn all they could about it. G'nrac had even heard they thought they were destined to slay the Great Lord. The myrddraal thought he would play with this one's mind before moving on to his other pleasures.
His voice like crumbling snakeskin, he asked a quiet question. "How do you plan to kill the Great Lord of the Dark when you cannot evade a small fist of trollocs?" Had a second fist not arrived at the opportune moment, he would have slaughtered the first. This Aielman had the Great Lord's luck. The red haired man tried to gather enough spit to hurl at G'nrac, but his mouth was too dry.
"I can do what men should not do. I have the Power shadowman. When I free myself from this contraption, I will enjoy staking your corpse to the ground." The determination in his eyes made this all the sweeter for G'nrac. The myrddraal let his mouth widen into a parody of a smile.
"That's so sad. I doubt you will have the energy to do much of anything after I'm done with you... Have you heard that myrddraal have the same desires as their parent stock? We were bred from trollocs, which were made from humans mixed with animals. Most myrddraal like to grant their pleasures on human women, but I feel it is better to bless you males. How would you like to see if you could please me?" The Aielman's eyes widened, and he gasped, but his determination grew again, filling his eyes with purpose. G'nrac laughed, well aware that it sounded like bones being crushed.
The myrddraal stood in front of the rack, and with a few quick twists, tore the remaining clothing off the man. A sharp intake of breath was the only sign that the man felt the cool air, but as G'nrac stared at him, his nipples grew hard, and tried to stand up. G'nrac laughed again, delighted at how the man shivered. In a few quick movements, he divested himself of his night-black clothing and armor, exposing his pale flesh to the same cool air. His lack of clothing seemed to enhance the grace with which he moved, and as he approached, the man began to sing.
As the dawn crept under the edge of the tent, G'nrac awoke to the strained voice, still singing. The naked myrddraal looked down at the man, curled against his side. Throughout the night, the man had continued his song. Something about washing spears... The myrddraal laughed to himself, and thought I I need to wash my spear. /I Then G'nrac walked to the washstand against the tent wall, and used the sponge to wash the evidence from the previous night off his body. As he put on his clothing, his gaze fell on the beautiful green-eyed man, and he smiled. The man was lost. His mind knew it must keep singing, but that was all it knew. Not who it had been, or why it was here. He was nothing more than trolloc food now.
G'nrac exited the tent, and with some effort, sent a wave of fear cascading over the camp. The camp erupted into motion, as trollocs leapt from their blankets, and howled in fear. The myrddraal lifted his voice, and spoke loud enough for all to hear him.
"My trollocs, I have news for you. We will be returning to N'hak'Shi'Glawg. There we will re-supply, and then begin a journey into the Southlands. The Trolloc that brings me the first bowl of stew will receive a special treat." He turned and went into his tent. The trollocs would enjoy this tidbit, and since his mind and soul had fled the body, he was no good to the armories of Thankendar. It only took a heartbeat before he heard a grunt outside his tent. G'nrac kicked aside the tent flap to reveal an eagle beaked trolloc, who even had a crest of feathers, holding a large bowl of thick stew. The stew had only three ingredients: flesh, ground bones, and some water, carried in barrels. It was delicious.
"Graal has brought this for the high one. May Graal know what the treat is to be?" One could not expect trollocs to be master linguists. With a casual flick of the hand, G'nrac pointed at the Aielman.
"He's all yours Graal. Just be ready to run in one hour." The foolish trolloc would most likely go gorge on the man's body, and then run himself until he puked. But that would not bother G'nrac. Puking trollocs were often killed by other trollocs, because puking generally meant weakness or illness. Either was a death sentence. The greedy trolloc grabbed the man, scraping his wrists and ankles as he tore him off the rack. G'nrac laughed as Graal loped into the camp, already fighting with his comrades for the man's body. The myrddraal ran from his tent, and leapt to his horse. His cloak still hung, still as if from a peg, but his voice lashed out at the trollocs under his command.
"I ride now, but if I turn back and do not see this whole camp inside half an hour... I can purchase more supplies than just foodstuffs. I can buy another fist of trollocs. Now, run!" Wheeling his horse, he sped off into the West. Their first stop was one of the few trolloc cities, where myrddraal met to trade, and the trollocs maintained their limited form of government. It almost made G'nrac laugh to think of their different clan leaders trying to act like a senate. But foolish children must ape their parents, and like it or not, trollocs are the children of humanity.
The whole camp was behind him when he turned to look for them, and he smiled. None would need to die tonight. They ran until the sun set and only then dropped to the ground to rest. At the next dawn, they leapt into another fierce day of running with only one break to water the trollocs. After three days of forced traveling, the weakest began to die. In two more, the stronger began to flag, and by the seventh day, they walked into the city walls.
The pile of ragged walls, tents, and sticks barely deserved to be called a city, but it held what any roving myrddraal needed to outfit his band of trollocs. The city had several trolloc forges, feed markets, where humans were bought and sold, and a message center for quick communication between the Myrddraal High Command and their field officers. The first stop for G'nrac was that message center.
A fadeling, barely 14, but still old enough to cause a few trollocs to fear, manned the front desk. When G'nrac approached, the younger fade sneered at him, demanding why he was here. With no warning, G'nrac grabbed the myrddraal by the scruff of the neck, and smashed his face against the desk.
"I came to see if I had received any orders. Be glad I do not take you to find a long walk off a short cliff. My name is G'nrac. Do I have any messages?" He punctuated each sentence by slamming the young fool's face into the hard wood desk. Finally, the bloody fade looked up and managed to whisper.
"No, great master. There was another fade looking for you. He came in two days past..." His voice trailed off as he dropped into unconsciousness. If he was killed while in that condition, it was the will of the Great Lord. If he lived, he learned a lesson. G'nrac cursed, and rushed to his camp, where he selected the five largest of his trollocs.
The six of them all but ran to the markets, where G'nrac paid for 40 new weapons for the band, 35 slaves, and six bags of bone meal. The slaves could be rationed out, and once they were gone, they could hunt for more, but the bone meal should last them four months. They hurried back to the camp, and packed everything they could. If it was not packed in five minutes, they left it. Before the sun set, the band of trollocs was well on their way into Saldaea.
A/N: OK... so what did you think? Yes, it's short... but that's how I write... sometimes. ;)
G'nrac stood in the entryway of his black tent, staring at the beautiful Aielman tied to the rack in the middle of the tent. Yes, the man could channel, but not at will. These fools fled everything once they learned what they could do, rather than learn all they could about it. G'nrac had even heard they thought they were destined to slay the Great Lord. The myrddraal thought he would play with this one's mind before moving on to his other pleasures.
His voice like crumbling snakeskin, he asked a quiet question. "How do you plan to kill the Great Lord of the Dark when you cannot evade a small fist of trollocs?" Had a second fist not arrived at the opportune moment, he would have slaughtered the first. This Aielman had the Great Lord's luck. The red haired man tried to gather enough spit to hurl at G'nrac, but his mouth was too dry.
"I can do what men should not do. I have the Power shadowman. When I free myself from this contraption, I will enjoy staking your corpse to the ground." The determination in his eyes made this all the sweeter for G'nrac. The myrddraal let his mouth widen into a parody of a smile.
"That's so sad. I doubt you will have the energy to do much of anything after I'm done with you... Have you heard that myrddraal have the same desires as their parent stock? We were bred from trollocs, which were made from humans mixed with animals. Most myrddraal like to grant their pleasures on human women, but I feel it is better to bless you males. How would you like to see if you could please me?" The Aielman's eyes widened, and he gasped, but his determination grew again, filling his eyes with purpose. G'nrac laughed, well aware that it sounded like bones being crushed.
The myrddraal stood in front of the rack, and with a few quick twists, tore the remaining clothing off the man. A sharp intake of breath was the only sign that the man felt the cool air, but as G'nrac stared at him, his nipples grew hard, and tried to stand up. G'nrac laughed again, delighted at how the man shivered. In a few quick movements, he divested himself of his night-black clothing and armor, exposing his pale flesh to the same cool air. His lack of clothing seemed to enhance the grace with which he moved, and as he approached, the man began to sing.
As the dawn crept under the edge of the tent, G'nrac awoke to the strained voice, still singing. The naked myrddraal looked down at the man, curled against his side. Throughout the night, the man had continued his song. Something about washing spears... The myrddraal laughed to himself, and thought I I need to wash my spear. /I Then G'nrac walked to the washstand against the tent wall, and used the sponge to wash the evidence from the previous night off his body. As he put on his clothing, his gaze fell on the beautiful green-eyed man, and he smiled. The man was lost. His mind knew it must keep singing, but that was all it knew. Not who it had been, or why it was here. He was nothing more than trolloc food now.
G'nrac exited the tent, and with some effort, sent a wave of fear cascading over the camp. The camp erupted into motion, as trollocs leapt from their blankets, and howled in fear. The myrddraal lifted his voice, and spoke loud enough for all to hear him.
"My trollocs, I have news for you. We will be returning to N'hak'Shi'Glawg. There we will re-supply, and then begin a journey into the Southlands. The Trolloc that brings me the first bowl of stew will receive a special treat." He turned and went into his tent. The trollocs would enjoy this tidbit, and since his mind and soul had fled the body, he was no good to the armories of Thankendar. It only took a heartbeat before he heard a grunt outside his tent. G'nrac kicked aside the tent flap to reveal an eagle beaked trolloc, who even had a crest of feathers, holding a large bowl of thick stew. The stew had only three ingredients: flesh, ground bones, and some water, carried in barrels. It was delicious.
"Graal has brought this for the high one. May Graal know what the treat is to be?" One could not expect trollocs to be master linguists. With a casual flick of the hand, G'nrac pointed at the Aielman.
"He's all yours Graal. Just be ready to run in one hour." The foolish trolloc would most likely go gorge on the man's body, and then run himself until he puked. But that would not bother G'nrac. Puking trollocs were often killed by other trollocs, because puking generally meant weakness or illness. Either was a death sentence. The greedy trolloc grabbed the man, scraping his wrists and ankles as he tore him off the rack. G'nrac laughed as Graal loped into the camp, already fighting with his comrades for the man's body. The myrddraal ran from his tent, and leapt to his horse. His cloak still hung, still as if from a peg, but his voice lashed out at the trollocs under his command.
"I ride now, but if I turn back and do not see this whole camp inside half an hour... I can purchase more supplies than just foodstuffs. I can buy another fist of trollocs. Now, run!" Wheeling his horse, he sped off into the West. Their first stop was one of the few trolloc cities, where myrddraal met to trade, and the trollocs maintained their limited form of government. It almost made G'nrac laugh to think of their different clan leaders trying to act like a senate. But foolish children must ape their parents, and like it or not, trollocs are the children of humanity.
The whole camp was behind him when he turned to look for them, and he smiled. None would need to die tonight. They ran until the sun set and only then dropped to the ground to rest. At the next dawn, they leapt into another fierce day of running with only one break to water the trollocs. After three days of forced traveling, the weakest began to die. In two more, the stronger began to flag, and by the seventh day, they walked into the city walls.
The pile of ragged walls, tents, and sticks barely deserved to be called a city, but it held what any roving myrddraal needed to outfit his band of trollocs. The city had several trolloc forges, feed markets, where humans were bought and sold, and a message center for quick communication between the Myrddraal High Command and their field officers. The first stop for G'nrac was that message center.
A fadeling, barely 14, but still old enough to cause a few trollocs to fear, manned the front desk. When G'nrac approached, the younger fade sneered at him, demanding why he was here. With no warning, G'nrac grabbed the myrddraal by the scruff of the neck, and smashed his face against the desk.
"I came to see if I had received any orders. Be glad I do not take you to find a long walk off a short cliff. My name is G'nrac. Do I have any messages?" He punctuated each sentence by slamming the young fool's face into the hard wood desk. Finally, the bloody fade looked up and managed to whisper.
"No, great master. There was another fade looking for you. He came in two days past..." His voice trailed off as he dropped into unconsciousness. If he was killed while in that condition, it was the will of the Great Lord. If he lived, he learned a lesson. G'nrac cursed, and rushed to his camp, where he selected the five largest of his trollocs.
The six of them all but ran to the markets, where G'nrac paid for 40 new weapons for the band, 35 slaves, and six bags of bone meal. The slaves could be rationed out, and once they were gone, they could hunt for more, but the bone meal should last them four months. They hurried back to the camp, and packed everything they could. If it was not packed in five minutes, they left it. Before the sun set, the band of trollocs was well on their way into Saldaea.
A/N: OK... so what did you think? Yes, it's short... but that's how I write... sometimes. ;)