Tarlon watched in despair as the flames licked around his cottage, the thatched roof blazing suddenly in a flash of yellow fire. Thick gray smoke belched from the shattered windows and poured out through the open doorway, gathering into a plume that soared up to the clear blue sky. There, high above the reek, a lone raven hovered like a black rag, its keen eyes scanning the land below for carrion.
Thirty yards to the east of the burning house three corpses lay side by side, their eyes closed as if sleeping. Tarlon looked towards the bodies and whispered a mourning prayer as he recalled their names: Matty the shepherd, Borland the potter and Matty’s wife, Nerita. With a sad smile, Tarlon remembered the trio as good folk who bore no malice to anyone and whose generosity belied the poverty of their lives. And now they lay dead in the meadow where once their goats had grazed peacefully in the sunshine. Matty had perished beneath a torrent of slashing swords as he struggled bravely to defend his dying wife, whose throat was pierced by a black-feathered arrow. Old Borland had been slain when the raiders dragged him from his house, his murderers stamping on his body as they stabbed him with spears.
Standing beside the shattered remains of a haycart, Tarlon sighed wearily and looked down at the rough ropes that bound his wrists. Blood from a gash on his left hand dripped down to the grass, the sight bringing a grim smile to his face as he recalled his courageous fight to protect his little home, slaying two raiders with his pitchfork and wounding another. But, and more importantly, his valor had bought enough time for his wife to escape into the forest. Poor, lovely Lusinda! She had begged to die at his side, of course, but Tarlon had sternly ordered her to flee, for he was determined that she must not suffer a terrible fate at the hands of the raiders. But why, he wondered, had the attackers chosen to preserve his life? His friends and neighbors lay slain all around, yet he alone remained alive and unharmed, much to his bewilderment. In his heart he feared the worst, believing that he had been selected for some hideous ritual.
Three of his captors now approached, shambling towards him with the clumsy gait so typical of their breed. Their black leather tunics and filthy breeches were tattered and patched, their shaven heads scarred with old wounds, their claw-like hands adorned with black tattoos. Sharpened teeth bared menacingly in the trio's sneering mouths and a cruel gleam flickered in their yellow wolvish eyes. Tarlon recoiled in revulsion at their ugliness, but quickly mastered his fear and prepared himself for the fatal knife-thrust that he expected.
But no blade assailed him, for the repulsive threesome halted a yard away and began to laugh, their mirth making a horrible gargling noise in their throats. None of the them stood as tall as Tarlon, their height being only a little over five feet, but their broad shoulders and large hands suggested a strength greater than his own. Suddenly in his memory he heard again the words spoken by Matty, less than a month before, when the first rumor of raiders came to the village. Don't worry! Orcs won’t venture so far south, the shepherd had asserted confidently, trying to calm his wife's fears. We’ll be safe here, my dear Nerita.
One of the black-clad trio spat at Tarlon’s feet and growled like an animal. “I say we cut off his head and make a whisky-pot of his skull,” he snarled.
“Nah!” grunted another, a hideous creature with an empty socket where his right eye had once nestled. “Gromzag wants us to keep any fighters alive. He’ll sell this knucklehead to the slave-masters.”
“Give him the good news,” said the third orc, fingering the hilt of his dagger.
The other two cackled like crows, stamping their boots in glee, and the one-eyed one said: “Hey there, knucklehead! Did you know we just caught your pretty wife?”
Tarlon’s heart turned to stone and an icy shiver scuttled down his spine. His head spun so wildly that he almost toppled over but, even as he steadied his feet, a terrible sense of dread crept through his veins. His worst fears had yielded a deadly fruit, for the orcs had captured Lusinda. What would they do with her?
“Is she still alive?” he inquired.
Again the three raiders chortled merrily, enjoying the horror in their prisoner’s eyes.
“Alive, yes!” said the one-eyed orc. “But she sits weeping in terror and whispers your name, for she knows that we hold you in bondage. And what a fine slender lady she is! Our boys are already drooling at her beauty, but it is Gromzag our chief who will decide her fate.” Then, hearing a volley of yells from the nearby woods, he paused for a moment and listened. “Ah! Here comes the old scavenger,” he added.
Tarlon turned towards the trees and saw a dozen orc warriors aproaching through the mists of grey smoke. The group was led by a big, stooping fellow who wore a black iron helm on his large head. Behind him strode a smaller orc holding aloft a tall wooden pole to which short cross-pieces had been crudely nailed. Strange objects like colored rags were pinned to the pole or dangled from the crossbars. At first, Tarlon had no idea what the adornments signified but, as the troop drew closer, he saw to his dismay that the rags were items of female underwear. The big orc halted a few paces from Tarlon and growled an order in the guttural language of his people. In response, the creature holding the pole stepped forward and thrust the shaft deep into the soft earth.
“My name is Gromzag,” the leader announced. “I command this rabble and they serve me with unflinching obedience. You, knucklehead, will do the same, or I’ll have you gutted over a slow fire.”
Tarlon felt a dryness in his throat and knew that his hands were trembling, but he returned Gromzag’s glare defiantly.
“Bring the woman!” rasped the chieftain.
“Which woman?” one of his henchmen asked. “The wife or the corpse?”
“Bring both,” Gromzag snarled. “And be quick about it. We need to get away from this place before nightfall.”
Two orcs scurried away from the group and ran across the meadow to where Tarlon’s neighbors lay dead. To his horror the orcs lifted Nerita off the ground and began carrying her lifeless body back to Gromzag. The latter grinned and pointed to the strange pole.
“I am Gromzag the Great Warrior,” he proclaimed proudly. “And this is my battle-flag. Does it impress you, knucklehead?”
Tarlon shook his head. “It reeks of tragedy and savage deeds. An aura of sadness adorns your banner, Gromzag, for doubtless the trophies that hang from it once belonged to innocent women who fell victim to your plundering.”
“You guess correctly,” Gromzag replied, sighing almost wistfully as he looked up at the dangling rags. “The women of your race wear these pretty little garments under their skirts, so it seems fitting that I should take them as trophies. Some of my kin adorn their banners with the scalps or skulls of their foes, whereas I taunt my enemies by displaying underwear stripped from their womenfolk. Those men who survive my raids know that I hold captive the intimate secrets of their wives and daughters, many of whom provide an evening's entertainment for my warriors before the long knives cure their feeble whining. It amuses me that you and your kind are forced to endure such humiliation.”
“We who toil in these valleys are a proud people,” Tarlon answered. “We are tougher than you think, Gromzag, and upon you we will take our revenge one day.”
“One day!” the big orc mocked, spitting on the banner. “No doubt about that, knucklehead. But that day is not yet arrived, and in the meantime I taunt the farmers with these pretty reminders of the fate that befell their womenfolk.” He paused to pull an item of underwear from one of the crossbars, stretching the white fabric between his tattooed thumbs and pulling it taut. “Do you know what this is?” he added.
Tarlon shrugged. “A woman’s undergarment. A silk thong, no less. So, you old savage, what of it?”
Gromzag grinned, flexing his broad shoulders beneath the black leather tunic that protected his body. “You have heard, perhaps, that last week I plundered the big farm beside the river? Then you no doubt knew the occupants well: a thin farmer and his pale-skinned, blonde-haired wife.”
Tarlon stiffened, gritting his teeth at the memory. “Galtho was my good friend. His slaying was senseless and needless. You took his wife as a captive, to sell as a slave in the northern lands.”
Several orcs laughed and jeered, but Gromzag shook his head. “A slave? Not that cute blonde bitch. No indeed, she was too tempting for these lusty fellows of mine. Such a pity, too, because her golden hair would have fetched a high price in the market. But I gave her to my lads, and they had a long night of fun with her. How she screamed! And in the morning my loyal warriors presented me with this pretty thong, ripped from her body as they ravished her juicy cunt. The silky sheen looks so bright on my banner!”
“You foul-tongued beast!” Tarlon hissed, heedless now of his own fate.
“Silence!” snarled Gromzag, raising his hand. “Here comes your dark-haired wife, and the dead slut too.”
The two orcs carrying Nerita flung her corpse face downward at Gromzag’s feet. Three others came with Lusinda, who struggled fiercely as they brought her before the chieftain. Her blue eyes blazed in fury and her raven hair was a tousled mane. Tarlon felt relieved that her long brown dress had not been removed, but he expected that she would soon be brutally stripped. Her wrists were bound at the front with rough cords, and she had a livid bruise below her left eye.
“Leave my friend in peace!” she cried angrily. “This is Nerita, a kind-hearted woman who deserves dignity in death.”
Gromzag smiled and signalled to one of his warriors, who knelt beside the slain woman and flipped her over. Tarlon looked down at the gaunt pale face and felt an overwhelming sense of loss, but he was glad that the eyes remained closed. Nerita’s long brown hair partly concealed the terrible throat wound that had so cruelly ended her life. Like Lusinda, she was barefoot and wore a long dress of brown wool, the sleeves patched and worn after years of hard toil in the fields.
“Strip the corpse,” said Gromzag, grinning when he saw the grief and disgust in Lusinda’s staring eyes.
With three swift movements, the kneeling orc tore away Nerita’s dress, leaving her body naked except for a brief undergarment of white cotton. Several warriors crowded round to leer at the sight, but Gromzag pushed them back and with his boot flipped Nerita onto her belly. The rear of her undergarment formed a narrow band of cloth that disappeared between the pale cheeks of her bottom.
“Nice ass!” Gromzag hissed. “Pity about the thong, though. Plain white cotton looks so dull on my battle-flag.”
Lusinda tried to launch herself at him, her bound fists raised towards his head, but her captors quickly grabbed her again and immediately started to rip her dress. Teardrops sprang in Tarlon’s eyes as he watched the stripping of his beloved wife, the swift uncovering of her body bringing howls of glee from the orcs.
“What a beauty!” said Gromzag. “Are those tits as firm as they look?”
A flurry of claw-like hands groped and squeezed Lusinda’s pale breasts, making her cry out in pain and distress. Her black hair thrashed around her shoulders as she writhed helplessly in the harsh grip of five strong orcs.
“Blue eyes!” Gromzag hissed, licking his scarred lips as he leered at the struggling woman. “And a blue silk thong to match!” He turned to Tarlon and laughed. “Your spouse has fine taste in underwear, knucklehead. I reckon she chose it just to please me and my boys!”
“Tarlon took a deep breath and tried to hold back his tears. “You twisted brute!” he whispered.
Gromzag clicked his fingers, and at once a bevy of eager fingers pulled Lusinda’s underwear down her trembling legs. The white thong was simultaneously stripped from Nerita’s corpse and both garments were presented to Gromzag, who inspected them closely before holding each one to his flaring nostrils.
Tarlon lowered his head in disgust, wondering if there was any limit to the depravity of these creatures. But Lusinda became hysterical when she saw the big orc sniffing her underwear and screamed a tirade of obscenities. Through his own tears, Tarlon gazed at his wife with pride, taking comfort from her unbroken spirit as her naked body was pawed and groped by numerous hands. Despite her humiliation she remained defiant and continued to yell insults at Gromzag, who smiled as he stretched her blue thong on the topmost crossbar of his banner.
“A bright bauble indeed!” he said, gazing admiringly at his newest trophy. “The undergarment of this brave woman will be a worthy crown for my battle-flag. But her shrieking is far less attractive.”
To the great amusement of his warriors, who voiced their approval with a cacophony of hooting and clapping, Gromzag walked over to Lusinda and shoved Nerita’s thong into her mouth. The gag muffled her shouts and stifled her defiance, much to Gromzag’s relief. But Tarlon watched in pity as he saw his wife’s spirit finally crumble into grief and horror, the oral insertion of her slain friend’s underwear sealing and symbolizing her own degradation.
Gromzag pulled the banner out of the ground and handed it back to its bearer, who raised the grim standard high above the mob. Swords and knives were drawn and held aloft, and a loud chant arose from the orcs as they clustered around their chieftain.
“Gromzag! Gromzag!” they yelled in unison.
Tarlon saw his wife being trussed with ropes before her slender body was lifted above the heads of the throng and carried away, naked and writhing, to where other groups of warriors now gathered at the edge of the forest. The entire raiding force began to assemble in the shadow of the trees, waiting for their leader and his banner. Tarlon reckoned their number to be no less than a hundred, but his main concern was the fate of his wife. What were they intending to do with her? At that moment a dark hood was flung over his head and his vision was gone. Rough hands clasped his bound arms and pushed him forward, forcing his stumbling feet to follow the noise of chanting.
THE END
Copyright by D. Boudewijn � 2005