Curse those Defilers!

Earlier that night…

All around him, orcs howled in anger, swearing to exact vengeance. Shards of the broken statue of their god could be found in every corner of the room, and the sacred stones had been taken. The Defilers had been thorough. And they had escaped! Zulgar grunted in frustration. As far as he was concerned, worse than the unforgivable sacrilege was that they had robbed him of the pleasure of killing his brother. Zulgar had concocted a dozen fantasies about how he would kill Norgrug, each more elaborate than the last, only to find him gone. Most likely dead, the fool. His magic tricks hadn’t saved him from a real threat. Zulgar could have, of course, but the witless traitor had left him behind, thinking he no longer needed him. Had Norgrug’s ego inflated so much that he really believed that Zulgar wouldn’t seek bloody revenge on his traitorous brother? And yet Norgrug had evaded him, in the end… curse those Defilers!

A goblin rushed forward, babbling to him in his own foolish tongue. The news was interesting, at least… and useful! The wolves had found the scent of the Defilers, and had traced them into a cave. Five scents had entered… two had left, one of them a new scent. Zulgar smiled, for the first time that night. He may not have had Norgrug’s way with writing or speeches, but he was no fool. The instant the goblin finished, Zulgar started barking orders, mobilizing his troops. Perhaps the Defilers could yet be caught. Perhaps all of those revenge fantasies wouldn’t be completely wasted.


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