Chapter 6 The March had begun

Darion awoke to darkness. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, damp earth, and rot. A dull ache throbbed in his limbs as he shifted, the cold bite of metal against his wrists reminding him of the shackles that bound him. His surroundings began to take shape as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of a single, flickering lantern hanging from a post. The light barely penetrated the gloom of the underground chamber.

The place reeked of despair. Walls of cracked stone lined with rusted iron bars enclosed what could only be described as a dungeon. The floor was packed dirt, littered with straw and refuse. Darion's stomach churned as he spotted rats scurrying between the shadows and the feet of the captives. Chains clinked faintly as the prisoners shifted, their hollow eyes reflecting years of suffering.

He struggled to sit up, his muscles screaming in protest. Around him, other captives lay or sat against the walls, their faces pale and drawn. To his right, a slender elf with silver hair and sharp, angular features glared at the nearest guard, his violet eyes burning with defiance. Next to him sat another elf, her frame frail but her emerald eyes piercing. She clutched her knees to her chest, her lips moving as if whispering a prayer.

A stout figure on Darion's left shifted, muttering curses under his breath. The dwarf's braided beard was caked with dirt, his stocky arms bruised and scratched. Further along the wall, several demihumans with animal-like features huddled together for warmth and comfort. Their furred ears and tails twitched nervously at every sound.

Most of the captives were humans, their faces etched with a mix of fear and resignation. A child no older than ten clung to an older woman, who stroked his hair absently as tears streamed down her face. Darion's heart sank at the sight.

"So you're awake," a gruff voice said.

Darion's head snapped toward the sound. A man in tattered clothing crouched nearby, his weathered face illuminated by the lantern's light. His sunken eyes scanned Darion with a mix of curiosity and pity.

"Where am I?" Darion croaked, his throat dry and voice barely audible.

"A pit of hell," the man replied grimly. "You're in the hands of slavers now. If you're lucky, they'll sell you off quickly. If not well, you've seen the ones who didn't make it." He gestured to a corner where a motionless figure lay covered with a thin sheet, flies buzzing around it.

Darion's stomach churned. His mind raced as the memories of his capture came flooding back. The ambush, the fight, Xenric's cries urging him to escape, and the overwhelming sense of failure as he was dragged into darkness.

"How long have I been here?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Does it matter?" the man said, shrugging. "Time's a blur down here. Could be a day, could be three. They don't tell us anything."

Darion clenched his fists, the weight of his situation pressing down on him. He glanced at the guards standing near the entrance, their faces obscured by helmets. Each one carried a whip or a cudgel, and their eyes scanned the room with cold indifference.

"Who are they?" Darion asked, nodding toward the guards.

"Bastards," the man replied. "Tho the real bastard is the one running this operation. He's up there somewhere, counting his coins while we rot down here." He spat on the ground, his disgust palpable.

Darion's gaze drifted to the elves. The silver-haired one met his eyes, his expression hard and unreadable. "You won't last long here if you keep gawking," the elf said sharply. "Stay quiet, stay out of their way, and maybe you'll survive."

"And if I don't?" Darion challenged, his anger flaring despite his predicament.

The elf's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Then you'll end up like him." He nodded toward the sheet-covered figure in the corner.

Darion's jaw tightened. He refused to let despair take hold. Xenric was still out there. He would find a way to escape, to reunite with his friend, and to destroy whoever was responsible for this nightmare. For now, though, he needed to stay alive.

As the guards began to bark orders, dragging some of the captives to their feet and hauling them toward an unseen destination, Darion silently vowed to fight back. No matter how long it took, he would not let them break him.

The air was heavy with the acrid scent of smoke and iron as Warlord Kargrosh stood atop a rugged hill, overlooking the vast expanse of his encampment. Hundreds of orc soldiers, clad in blackened armor and bearing the sigil of the Blackmoor Kingdom. A raven with blood-red eyes moved with calculated precision. Fires crackled in the distance, their light casting jagged shadows across the barren terrain.

Kargrosh tightened his grip on the hilt of his massive axe, the weapon's cruel edges still stained from his last conquest. His piercing gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the faint glow of the kingdom of Aeronberg beckoned like a tantalizing prize. He exuded an aura of unrelenting dominance, his towering figure draped in a dark fur cloak that swayed with the cold winds.

Behind him, a figure approached. It was Vekrin, his trusted advisor and a cunning tactician. The wiry man bowed deeply before speaking, his voice low and cautious.

"My lord, the scouts have confirmed the main trade routes to Aeronberg are lightly guarded. The merchant caravans are ripe for the taking."

Kargrosh let out a low, gravelly chuckle, his lips curling into a wolfish grin. "Let the traders believe the roads are safe. Their illusion of peace will make our strike all the more devastating."

Vekrin hesitated for a moment. "If I may, my lord, Aeronberg is not without its defenses. The Royal Citadel is said to be impenetrable. Even with our forces."

Kargrosh silenced him with a glare. "The strength of stone walls means nothing when the will of the people crumbles. Aeronberg's wealth has made them complacent. Its people fat on luxury, its nobles blind to the cracks in their kingdom."

Vekrin nodded, though his expression remained cautious. "And what of the king? He's known for his shrewdness."

Kargrosh's grin widened. "Kings can be dethroned, just as empires can fall. When the time comes, Aeronberg will know the weight of Blackmoor's wrath."

The warlord turned back to the encampment, his expression hardening. Around him, his warriors sharpened their blades and prepared siege equipment. Massive war beasts, chained and restless, roared into the night, their cries echoing like a harbinger of doom.

He walked toward the command tent, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. Inside, a large map of the region was spread across a table, illuminated by flickering lantern light. Markings indicated key points of interest around Aeronberg trade routes, villages, and strategic choke points. Kargrosh's massive hand hovered over the map, his finger tracing the path toward the kingdom.

"We'll bleed them slowly," he muttered to himself, his voice cold and deliberate. "Strike where they least expect it. Break their spirit before their swords are drawn."

Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the sound of drums beating in rhythm. The soldiers of Blackmoor rallied around their fires, their chants growing louder with each passing moment. Their anticipation was palpable, their hunger for conquest insatiable.

As Kargrosh stepped back out into the frigid night, he cast one last glance toward the faint glow on the horizon.

"Aeronberg," he murmured, a dark gleam in his eyes. "You will not see the storm until it is upon you."

He raised his axe high into the air, the blade catching the firelight, and let out a roar that sent shivers through his army. The chant of his soldiers rose to a deafening crescendo, echoing into the night like the drums of war.

The march had begun.