Manix
|
UPDATED A Sundered Tongue, the Tale of Manix Eugine Ebonfire Prologue
“His madness must be stopped!” yelled a tall, azure robed, white haired and bearded man. “We cannot allow him study of the dark arts!” The man bashed his hands into a nearby wooden table, forcing glasses to spill fine wine and break upon the upper platform, dripping down to the tower’s base some hundred feet below. His many servants, short as a child but as cunning as an elf, ducked in fear of the shattering glass.
“M’lord, erm… Archmage, erm… Theocritus,” one finally managed in a squeaky voice. “Who is to say he is even alive? Morganth, that is. You know, considering the recent uprising of the orcs around that part.”
Anger filled the white bearded man. A sudden stiffening force attacked the miniscule servant, disabling his ability to move. “You will not test my judgment, Gnome!” yelled Theocritus, pointing his long wooden staff toward the very soul of his undersized laborer. “I would turn you into a goat if I had more skin to stretch!”
The gnome cowered in fear, trying to seek refuge behind the others of his kin, only to find his kind’s unwillingness to share his fate by their quick fleeing into different directions. “My sincerest apologies, M’lord,” he said covering his head with his portly arms. “Please… please spare me.”
Theocritus laughed. “And why should I spare you, Boluff?” He stepped forward, angling his staff down upon Boluff’s chest, trapping the gnome between his master’s mercy and a lengthy fall off the platform. “Why don’t I just let you face your fate with the hard stone floor two hundred feet below?!?” And with a sudden crack in all time and space, an arcane energy released from the Archmage’s staff, forcing the gnome to a certain death.
Boluff closed his eyes and curled himself into a ball as if somehow that would soften his landing. He imagined the many staircases of the Tower of Azora passing by him. His entire short-lived life flashed before his eyes; his mother’s cheerful smile, his father’s words of wisdom. Surly both of them would be sorely disappointed in their failure of a son now. No! He would not die in vein! He will face his fate like a man. He opened his eyes ready to hit the stone floor beneath him, expecting to be mere inches from… Wait. The floor! Where was it?!? Had he already passed on to become one with the light? He found himself floating in the tower. I have gone to Hell!, he thought to himself.
“…Because I have use of you,” said Theocritus, snapping Boluff back to reality. “I have use of all of you.” The magus eyed the other scattered gnomes about the platform, slowly bringing Boluff back to solid ground. Boluff wondered what for, but had learned to keep his mouth shut this time.
The wizard walked over to the table he had previously unleashed his wrath upon. The sweet smell of wine was still present on a crimson stained, white cloth covering two mysterious bulges that protruded up from the table. In one quick motion Theocritus stripped the cloth from the table exposing two pure white orbs, perfectly spherical in shape, as if the Titans themselves could not do a finer job forging them.
“These are the Eyes of Azora,” the magus explained without being asked. “What one sees, so may the other. A very dangerous tool in the hands of the enemy.” Theocritus watched as the gnomes gathered closer to quench their curiosity. “Widget, Nurma, and Boluff. You three will take one of these orbs to the highest tower of Stonewatch Keep and plant the orb facing East… facing the Tower of Ilgalar… facing Morganth.”
A unison gasp came from the now grouped gnomes, Boluff in the far back, still hiding in shame. The tallest of the group stepped forward. She had naturally pink hair bound in pigtails, and a short pointy nose. “Sir, Stonewatch Keep? Hasn’t that been taken by the Blackrock orcs?”
“Aye it has, Nurma, but it is the only option we have. Any closer to the Tower of Ilgalar and Morganth will become suspicious. And trust me; it is better to be captured by the most brutal of orcs, than a mage of the dark arts.” He looked down to the gnomes with a grin. “Plus,” he continued. “You are all very small. You could walk right under the orcs, completely undetected.” Theocritus walked over to a bookshelf which was resting on the outer most wall of the tower and retrieved a green book with ancient ruins upon its cover. “You have your orders. Back to work. Chop chop! Widget, Nurma, Boluff; you three leave tonight.”
►◙◄
Let me out of here!!! The young pink-skin thought, no… demanded, as he had done many times before, yet without way of utterance, was once again left scarred and disappointed with his futile attempt. He looked beyond the cold, thick, binding bars at the two mountainous green figures standing before him, scorning his efforts with sardonic grins. Regardless, he continued shaking the cage violently in determination, his arms barely thicker than the steel bars that imprison him.
Annoyed with his efforts, the obvious younger of the two guards kicked his cage, sending it rolling back into another. The earsplitting clamor of the two cages echoed throughout the stone chamber, enough to wake a dragon from slumber… and that it did.
A burning sensation rushed across his skin as the child cursed his stupidity. He shifted hastily to the back of his cage in an attempt to evade the flame, glaring at the cranky black whelpling that has burnt him many times before. There was no use in screaming, for it would do no good… at least not here. It did not take much to anger his draconic companions, almost as if their loathing for this child grew deeper than even that of his green-skinned captures. The closest whelp, Singe, let out a barking laugh before laying its head back down to slumber.
“The boy will never learn,” grunted one of the guards in low, guttural voice, cackling lightly at the tear-stained, dirty child.
“I will never understand what Gath’llzogg wants with this useless infant,” said the second, the younger and stronger of the two. “We could be out battling the Alliance right now and yet our leader binds us to this task unworthy of glory?!?” He snorted in fury, unlatching his long, sharp, double sided war axe from his belt, eyeing the child in spite. “I will end this now!”
The elder, wiser guardian placed his thick-skinned hand upon the arm of the younger in an effort to lower his blade. “So long as the human lives, Gath’llzogg wishes us to watch him.”
“Yes… so long as the human lives,” countered the other, sadistically grinning in his genius. He took one step out of his post toward the boy, and knew no more.
The caged child screamed piercingly in horror at the scene as another monster, wiser than the one guard and stronger than the other (now just a corpse upon the floor) lifted his blood-stained axe out of the later. “I could sense his foolish lack of loyalty for some time now,” said the murderer, now eying the elder guardian. “However I am rather impressed with your restraint, Hanharr.”
“Thank you, Warlord,” spoke Hanharr, bowing humbly to his superior.
“Has it spoken yet?” asked the well armored, green giant, as he wiped the blood from his blade with a spare rag.
“Not yet, Gath’llzogg,” replied Hanharr, noticing the concern upon his commander’s expression.
Gath’llzogg peered at the child, trying to read it. Had it been a mute which they had found amongst the black dragons a few weeks back? Had it no knowledge of language? The human was rather young and the Warlord had limited knowledge as to when these pink-skins developed their vocal abilities.
The child eyed the whelp that had, as implied by its name, singed him, making sure that that the future dragon was now deep asleep. Satisfied, he laid himself carefully on the chilling steel floor and began to drift off, ignoring the green monsters as best he could, knowing that at least that night, the Warlord was sober. The child feared the days Gath’llzogg had taint upon his breath. On those days his eyes glowed red with demonic rage and, in his temper, would often beat the child near death with little to no reason.
Gath’llzogg looked back to Hanharr. “You shall bring honor to the Blackrock Clan by assisting Blackhand on the front lines near the human kingdom of Stormwind. You leave in the morning. Prepare yourself after the night guards come to replace your watch.”
“Th-thank you, Warlord,” Hanharr barely managed in his surprise. It was not often that the Warlord would promote anyone, let alone be sober enough to even remember who he was promoting. With a strong exchange of salutes, Gath’llzogg turned and left.
►◙◄
It would be many days before the child would lay eyes upon the Warlord again, but to the human it seemed like a century. Often nights, he would lay awake, listening to the hissing, plotting voices of the enslaved black whelps. Though he did not know for sure what they spoke to one another, Draconic was a very simple, very clear language, a language that the child seemed to understand more than any other. They seemed to be bickering amongst each other that night, as they did most nights. They seemed to be planning something, something sinister, but what?
“It is Neltharion’s will. I for one will not become like he has chosen,” Singe had whispered to the other dragons, motioning over to the child… wait… What?!? Did the child actually understand him… it? No, he must have been dreaming. He must have. Dream or not, the curious child silently crawled up to see if he could hear anymore of the dragon’s conversation.
“What must we do now then?” another hissed. “We cannot destroy these useless orcs so long as we are behind bars!”
“No we cannot, Snarlflare.” Singe replied. “We must succumb to them. We must join them. Show them only weakness. Make them think they control us. We will corrupt them to the Great One’s will. It is what Neltharion would want… what Deathwing would want.”
Deathwing, the name chilled the child to the bone. Who was this beast, God, that the whelps had spoken of in this strangest of dreams? Was it a dream? He pinched himself and winced. He was certainly awake. Many questions flooded the human;s thoughts. Why now had the whelps begun to converse? The human had noticed the lack of the monstrous green guards that he now knows as orcs. Before they would stand guard every hour of every day, now they would only step in for a brief moment once or twice a day, feeding the child and the dragons, then leaving. In fact, it was about time for a feeding this day. The child noticed the whelps hush themselves as the heavy footsteps became louder. The cold stone floor shook in pulsating thunder. This was no mere guard coming to visit them this day.
He slammed the door open, storming into the cellar with one of his guards. Gath’llzogg’s glazed red eyes fixated immediately on the child. “You!” he demanded, pointing to the child and wondering if addressing it at all was futile. The child took one look at the orc’s blazing red eyes and cowered quickly to the back of his cage. “Little whelp, tell me the Alliance’s plan! Too many of my clan have fallen!” Gath’llzogg grunted, stomping over to the child’s cage. The Warlord unlocked and opened the child’s cell swiftly, and with a sudden drunken rage, tore the human from his cell, tossing him against the stone wall.
The human fell and curled up into a fetal position, his arms curved over his head and his knees bending his legs up to protect his ribs. Gath’llzogg motioned over to the guard that had come with him. The guard proceeded over to the child, raising him to his feet, and with a strong arm secured him in place facing the inebriated Warlord.
“Answer me!!!” Gath’llzogg demanded, hitting the child across the face with his thick skinned, green palm. A waterfall of tears mixed with blood dripped from the human’s now bruised and beaten face, yet he remained silent. “Very well,” grunted the Warlord, calming down ever so slightly. “We will start easy. What is your name, child?”
The child remained silent as he wiped his watered down blood from his jaw, smearing it into the already dirty rags he had been forced to live in. He looked up into the Warlord’s demanding gaze, yet still had no notion as to what it was the orc wanted.
Gath’llzogg thought to himself, could this boy be denying him even the simplest, most insignificant pieces of information? Surely the child had to have a name. “Gath’llzogg,” the warlord said pointing to himself. “Corekthul,” he continued, moving his finger to the direction of the guard that accompanied him. He then pointed to the child with a curious expression.
The young child caught on quickly, now understanding that the Warlord wished to learn his name. “Mmmumuuuhm,” the child began, then suddenly halted into silence. Did he even know his own name?
This infuriated the drunken Warlord. Gath’llzogg grabbed the child by the throat and lifted him an easy four feet into the air. The incarcerated whelps fluttered and cackled in amusement. “You are of no better use to us than these pathetic whelps!” The Warlord roared, catching the gaze of the black whelp Singe. “You refuse your name, man-whelp?” he continued, still staring at the ebony winged serpent. “Then I shall name you after the pitiful creatures you were found with. Man-whelp.” Gath’llzogg’s eyes fixed upon Singe’s all-knowing gaze as if they were somehow communicating telepathically. He pointed to the child, making the intentions for his next word crystal clear. “Mantharion.”
►◙◄
...to be continued...
|
