Orkish Endeavours (Chapter 1 & 2)

A grimdark fantasy

Here’s a story I wrote in 1991-ish. So, if it feel’s kinda rough, that’s why. There’s 6 chapters in total. Enjoy!

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1: The Escape

Throwing a last, hurried look at the ominous castle, Rudd began his uphill climb over the mountains.

The wet hill slowed him considerably, and he cursed sourly as his foot got stuck in the muddy ooze of soil and dirt. The small orc pulled and yanked his leg, but that only seemed to make it worse.

“Damned marshes,” he cried, gazing down the hill again. The castle stood erect, and his heart lightened a little upon seeing that no lights were lit. The pitch-dark night worked to his advantage. His crimson eyes adjusted naturally to the dark; daylight would have burned and weakened them.

It had stopped raining an hour or so earlier, but with the wet fog covering the little valley, it would take a long time before the ground would begin to dry. With an effort, he yanked his leg again, and with a plop, it came free. Rudd toppled backward and rolled a few feet down the hill, cursing all the way.

“Aargh,” he roared in his low-pitched voice. “’Tis just my luck!” he cried, feeling his feet soaking. He watched with dismay as his left boot rapidly disappeared into the hole he had made in the mud.

The four-foot-high orc looked at his left foot; it was stained with mud and wet to the bone. He was wearing a leather tunic and hose made of sheep hide. It didn’t look fancy, he admitted, but it kept him warm. His boots were also made of leather, and it stung him to think of losing one of them. He pulled his plain leather cloak tighter around him and shuddered.

“And now this,” he said with a sigh, as he felt mud ooze through a hole in his other boot. He curled his stubby hand into a fist and shook it agitatedly in the air, bellowing: “Are ye satisfied, demon? Will yer not stop ‘till I’ve broken my neck?”

He felt a drop of water on his nose; a couple of minutes later, the rain was pouring down again.

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2: The Awakening

A young man sat hunched over a plain wooden table in a darkened room, lit only by a petite sconce on the wall. The neophyte wizard gazed into a glass crystal ball on the table, frowning.

“I can’t see anything!” he said sulkily.

He curled his fists and rubbed his eyes, then concentrated on the spell again with bloodshot eyes, his brow dripping with sweat:

“Eye of newt, thorn of truth;
Shudder and shake, true sight make!”

He felt tension build, and for a second, he thought an image began to form in the ball—but at the end of the chant, the vision fogged and vanished.

“No...” he wailed. He felt his eyes ache; they felt like open gashes in his face. His head throbbed dully, and he thought he had begun to see faint auras around the objects in his quarters. Distraught, he noticed the rain beginning to trickle down again.

He had been practicing that spell for hours on end. He was sure—he knew—that the spell was correct. The tingling sensation in his gut was proof enough, yet the effect eluded him. It was paramount to his passing that he mastered the spell of scrying. After all, the test was tomorrow.

“I’ll never do it,” he cried, looking contemptuously at the glass ball. “Never, never, never!”

A hollow voice resonated through the room, startling the wizard: “You will pay for your lack of vision.”

“What?” the neophyte exclaimed, jumping up from his stool and looking wildly around him. Voices, he thought. Am I going mad? Then it dawned on him. “VISIONS!” he shouted, then hushed himself—hoping he hadn’t awakened the adepts. “Of course,” he babbled giddily as he slumped down on the stool again. With renewed effort, he started the chant anew:

“Eye of newt, thistle of truth;
Shudder and shake, true visions make!”

And the image in the ball became crystal clear.

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Thanks for reading!