Chapter 797: Findir’s Mission (9)
With a grace and speed that only one as skilled as he could possess, Findir began weaving through the camp. His footsteps were silent, aided by the wind that cushioned each step. The stench of the camp—the smoke, the sweat, the filth—swirled around him as he darted past towering orcs, their brutish faces none the wiser to the shadow moving amongst them.
He passed by the workshops, where slaves hammered away at metal with dull, dead eyes. He slipped between the kitchens and supply tents, where the heat of fires and the clatter of tools covered the faint rustling of the wind that marked his passage. As he moved deeper into the heart of the camp, the tension in the air thickened, and the orcs grew more vigilant. Elite guards with jagged weapons patrolled the area, their eyes scanning the surroundings, but Findir was already beyond their gaze, an invisible force moving past their defenses.
Soon, the central structure came into view. It was a massive stone building, built from heavy slabs that loomed like a fortress over the rest of the camp. This was the seat of the Orc King, the place from which he ruled with an iron fist. The tent had been replaced by a grim stone hall, reinforced by the rocky terrain that encircled the camp. Flickering torches lit the entrance, casting an eerie glow over the guards stationed around it.
Findir stopped for a brief moment, assessing the building with sharp eyes. He could feel the power radiating from it, the presence of the Orc King somewhere within, ruling over the thousands of orcs that toiled under his command. Findir’s heart quickened slightly, but his face remained impassive. He had a plan.
With another burst of wind magic, his form blurred again as he approached the entrance, slipping past the guards as they remained blissfully unaware of his presence. He hugged the shadows, a part of the wind itself, as he silently made his way into the heart of the building where the Orc King waited, completely unseen.
As Findir finally slipped past the last guard, he reached the entrance of the Orc King’s main chamber. The heavy stone door was slightly ajar, allowing him to peer inside. The sight that greeted him was unlike anything he had imagined.
The room stretched out before him, vast and dimly lit by flickering torches mounted along the walls. The light cast deep shadows that danced across the stone surfaces, creating an eerie atmosphere. The air was thick and heavy, almost suffocating, and there was a faint metallic tang of blood in the air mixed with the pungent smell of orcish musk.
Gold. Piles upon piles of it lay scattered across the floor like discarded trash, yet it gleamed in the low light with an unmistakable allure. Mounds of jewelry—necklaces, rings, bracelets, crowns—were strewn about carelessly, some spilling out of chests and others crushed beneath the weight of coins. It was as though Findir had stumbled into a dragon’s hoard, yet no dragon could be found there. Instead, atop this throne of treasure, sat the Orc King.
He was colossal. Even from a distance, the Orc King’s size was overwhelming, his presence more monstrous than any other creature Findir had encountered. His skin was a sickly green-gray, thick and leathery like armor, with scars crisscrossing his grotesque body. His piggish face was twisted into a permanent sneer, with massive tusks jutting out from his lower jaw. The thick, brutish arms that rested on the sides of his throne could have crushed boulders with ease. His entire body was draped in crude but thick armor, adorned with bone and stone rather than refined metals. Yet even in this barbaric display of power, gold chains, rings, and gemstones clung to his body, as if mocking the grandeur of the treasure beneath him.
The Orc King’s throne itself was a grotesque amalgamation of stone, wood, and gold. It loomed high, carved crudely from rock, and embedded with precious gems and metals, trophies from his conquests. Skulls of past enemies were mounted on the sides, while the legs of the throne seemed to be carved from the bones of something once living—perhaps even troll bones, considering their massive size.
The low dim lighting only added to the sinister feel of the chamber. The torches, which barely illuminated the vast room, cast long, wavering shadows across the floor. The gold and jewels glinted in the flickering light, creating a kaleidoscope of reflections that danced ominously along the stone walls. Here and there, the light caught on a sharp-edged weapon or a glint of bloodstained armor.
At the far end of the room, near the Orc King’s feet, there were scattered pieces of furniture—crude wooden tables and benches that seemed like mere toys in comparison to the behemoth who ruled over them. Among these lay more riches, including elaborate tapestries torn and shredded, as if the Orc King had no use for such finery. It was a space designed for a ruler who valued power and destruction over beauty and grace.
Findir, despite his steely composure, felt a moment of awe. The sheer size of the Orc King, coupled with the opulence surrounding him, made it clear—this was no mere ruler. This was a force of nature, something beyond the simple violence of the trolls or the cunning of the elves. This was a monster who had conquered not just through brute strength, but through greed and domination.
The soft clinking of gold echoed as Findir shifted, his eyes narrowing as he focused. He knew why he was here. The Orc King was his target, and despite the awe-inspiring sight before him, he would not be distracted from his mission.
Despite being inside the Orc King’s chamber and having already examined most of the room, Findir had remained undetected. The Orc King, preoccupied with his own thoughts, hadn’t noticed the silent intruder. Knowing he had to put his plan into motion, Findir swiftly moved toward the exit, casting a final glance at the treasure-laden room. Once outside, he undid his silencing skill, allowing the usual noise of the orc camp to fill his ears once more.
Findir immediately caused a ruckus, feigning a stumble and letting out exaggerated breaths of exhaustion. The orc guards surrounding the chamber snapped to attention, their weapons drawn as they quickly surrounded him. But Findir’s agility proved superior, his feet light as air, slipping through their ranks. He purposely worked up a sweat on command, his body glistening with exertion as he hobbled toward the Orc King’s throne, clutching his side in mock agony. His tattered clothes, still stained from the battles in the forest, and his injuries—now healing, but still visible—helped sell the desperate image he was portraying.
The Orc King, who had seemed indifferent at first, now swept his monstrous gaze over Findir. There was a flicker of surprise in the king’s piggish eyes. Something about this situation displeased him—Findir could sense the Orc King’s suspicion radiating from his towering form. But Findir’s act was flawless. He staggered forward, his voice hoarse as he shouted, "The troll army... they’re preparing...!"
The Orc King’s eyes narrowed, then swept over to the corner of the room, where Findir noticed a figure he hadn’t detected earlier—a mage, cloaked in dark, tattered robes. The mage met Findir’s gaze, his expression unreadable as he assessed the disheveled elf. Findir, remembering the tactics Orion often used in these situations, forced his erratic heartbeat to calm, though not entirely—just enough to still show his feigned exhaustion. He needed to be convincing, not suspicious.
The mage’s cold eyes flicked back to the Orc King, and with a slight nod, he confirmed Findir’s words. "The troll army is coming," the mage whispered, his voice barely audible, but enough to make the Orc King’s anger flare.
A guttural roar erupted from the Orc King’s throat, shaking the very foundations of the chamber. The pile of gold and jewels at his feet rattled as the walls trembled. Findir flinched, not from fear, but from the sheer volume that reverberated through the room. The Orc King rose to his feet, his massive frame dwarfing the chamber as he stood, his voice booming again. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice dripping with fury.
Findir, his body still hunched in fake exhaustion, quickly answered, "I’m... I’m part of a mercenary band. We were scouting the troll territory, and we discovered their plans..." His words were laced with just enough panic to be believable. The Orc King’s bloodshot eyes bore into him, but there was a flicker of understanding in those monstrous orbs.
The king rumbled, his displeasure momentarily quieted. He strode forward, his giant hands dipping into one of the many piles of gold beside him. With a careless toss, he flung a heap of gold coins at Findir’s feet. "For your information. But why..." the Orc King leaned closer, his nostrils flaring, "can I smell trolls on you?"
Findir swallowed the rising panic and replied with a rehearsed coolness, "The trolls... they captured us. My group, my comrades... we were taken as slaves. They wanted to expand their territory, taking prisoners and slaughtering villages. I barely escaped to warn you before they come for this camp."
Before the Orc King could speak again, the mage interjected, his eyes sharp as he studied Findir’s sweating, exhausted form. "Do you really only want gold?" he asked, his tone calm yet filled with suspicion.
Findir’s fake exhaustion morphed into rage, and he let out a roar so convincing that even the gods themselves might have been moved. "Gold?! You think I care about gold?" He slammed his fist into his chest, his face twisted in raw fury. "I want revenge! The Troll King and his army destroyed my entire village! My family! My friends! My... my everything!"
The Orc King’s eyes gleamed with approval. He leaned back, a vicious grin tugging at his monstrous lips. "You want revenge... Then you shall have it!" His next shout echoed so loudly through the chamber that it nearly shattered Findir’s eardrums. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath the force of his roar, the entire camp shaking as his voice traveled throughout the orcish stronghold. "PREPARE FOR WAR!"
In an instant, orc warriors flooded the camp, preparing for battle. Findir, his act complete, was escorted out of the chamber, his breathing calm but his heart pounding with the thrill of success. As he was led to a nearby training ground, where several orcs were locked in brutal sparring matches, Findir couldn’t help but let a wide grin stretch across his face. He raised a hand to cover his smile, chuckling under his breath.
"I see why Orion has so much fun doing this," he muttered to himself, the thrill of deception still coursing through his veins.
