The Last Witchking by Day Vox

Author:Day, Vox [Day, Vox]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
ISBN: 9789527065044
Publisher: Castalia House
Published: 2014-01-28T05:00:00+00:00

The walls of Wiccam Fensboro were not the most daunting defensive structure in Ummat-Mor. Though made of piled stone, they were only three fores high and were intended to delineate the town’s limits rather than to defend them. An orc could leap them without breaking a sweat. Nevertheless, the gates were opened wide for the approaching warband, who could be heard grumbling and swearing about their long march through the Rancid Fens of Wiccam.

As the first orcs entered, the mayor raised his hand and a fanfare sounded, although unfortunately, two of the trumpeters appeared to be unaware of the key selected by the other four. The visitors were huge, almost twice Bextor’s height, and many of them bore wounds and other marks of recent battle.

The Red Claws entered in two columns that expertly flanked the town’s little welcoming party, then drew their swords, which they clashed three times on their shields as their massive, black-armored warleader strode arrogantly through the gates. He was accompanied by a pair of powerful orcs bearing banners. The noise of the salute was terrible, echoing like thunder off the low stone walls, and Bextor, being one of the four wolfriders serving as the honor guard, was forced to steady Upo as the wolf growled low in his throat. One banner was red with an inverted V sewn in white, the other was black and adorned with a red clawed hand. Zoth Ommog and the Red Claw Slayers.

Mayor Spitswiggle stepped forward to greet the dread warleader.

“Welcome to Wiccam Fensboro, Grun-Kor Skullsplitter. I am Jereel Spitswiggle, the mayor of this town. Your deeds and fame precede you, and we are honored to be granted the privilege of hosting you and your orcs. We shall certainly do our best to supply all of your needs.”

“Yar, me guess you will, gobbo.”

The huge orc captain grinned humorlessly, exposing three broken teeth across his upper jaw. His face was green, leathered and was marked by several runic tattoos inked in dark red. His yellow eyes were hooded but ominously intelligent, and he was clad in uniform black except for a pair of high leather boots that had a strange blue cast to them. His armor was battered, and his left arm was bound to his body by a worn and bloody bandage, but his apparent indifference to the wound only made him seem all the more frightening.

“Where de galdrun?” the orc demanded of the mayor. His harsh accent was atrocious, even barbaric, but was mostly intelligible.

“He’s, ah, indisposed, I’m afraid.”

“Me hear he be a sot,” the grun-kor nodded. “Me see him later. Me told you got a militia. Don’t see it about.”

The giant warleader surveyed the surrounded goblins with an air of menace, and Bextor swallowed hard as Mayor Spitswiggle caught his eye. He suddenly felt very naked.

“Er, ah, that’s me, sir.” It came out in a higher pitch than he intended. Bextor cleared his throat. “That is, I’m the commander. Lieutenant Commander Fenwick, sir. My goblins are at drill, sir.”

Upo

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