Shaped like a pyramid the disturbing alter was actually many layers thick, pyramids within pyramids. At the center were the smaller animal skulls Creed used to regain his strength after making his way through the unforgiving Ikpycgen desert and the Demon wastes. Orcs, tree devils, and then later, human skulls replaced the animal heads as he grew stronger and was able to seduce and snare bigger smarter prey. Some of them still retained scraps of dry flesh and strands of hair.
Clapping his hands sharply twice Creed shouted: “Krog,” summoning his faithful orc servant. Entering the chamber from behind two thick tapestries, opposite the alter, the bull orc stood at attention squinty eyes averted to the floor waiting to do his master’s bidding.
At seven feet tall Krog was an imposing figure. Clad in spiked bronze plate, the reddish armor stood out against the orc’s black hide. Not the rich ebony color of the warrior humans of Kothopia, Krog’s skin was more the purplish black of rotting meat. A thick mane of black hair shaved from the sides of his huge, tusked, porcine head flowed back between pointed, bone adorned ears. Massively muscled arms sprang from broad shoulders; his gauntleted forearms ended in huge, four fingered clawed hands. Thick brown horse hide pants were tucked into iron shod spiked boots. Strapped to his back was a heavy scimitar cruelly serrated near the human bone hilt.
Folding his hands within the wide sleeves of his robes, Primus Creed turned to face his patiently waiting slave. “Get rid of that,” the mage said indicating the dried up corpse on the floor “and remember Krog, return the head to me undamaged.”
“Yes, Master” the orc replied sounding more like, yef Maffer, as the beast’s savage mouth struggled to form words in a language not meant to be spoken by his kind.
Careful not to touch or enter the rune ring Krog, with one clawed hand, lifted the body straight up like a rag doll and strode from the chamber parting the tapestries and closing the large arched door as quietly as possible.
Creed chuckled as he remembered enslaving the hulking brute some six years earlier. Stumbling upon the orc tribe in the Twisted forest, it only took a couple of minor spells and a few charred orc warriors to convince the tribe’s shaman and chief that the warlock needed a champion to escort him through the treacherous wood.
Jarring him rudely from his reverie the wizard’s eyes snapped open; an alarm sounded, a magical alarm; intruders had entered the sewers. Like a fisherman with many lines in the water, Creed had many magical lines out snaking their way through the subterranean labyrinth under Isegoth and the outlying areas. In his mind’s eye he located the still quivering tendril of magical energy and then followed it to its source. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he recited the words of the spell that would allow his mind to travel through the magical conduit.
“Kriazcht naga sembeka zool,” recited the mage in the language of hell. He felt his mind leave his body and race through the sewers with stomach churning speed noting each life force as he passed until he reached his destination. In a forgotten area of the sewers outside the city walls beneath the ancient grave yard, Creed sensed four separate, unique life forces. Two were masked to him, likely elves; their inherent magic inadvertently blunting Creed’s own but still unusual in their uniqueness. One was unmistakably dwarf; the fierce life force rolling off him in waves. The third was human and familiar. Like a tracker picking up an old familiar footprint, Primus Creed recognized this rage filled human.
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