[Tevildo]

There was a brief discussion and, within a few moments, everyone had agreed it might be wise for the group to split up. No one wanted to spend more time in this wretched place than was absolutely necessary.

Before the party split up, Dorran looked over his shoulder at Brand and, lowering his voice, hastily explained. "Maybe Incana's right. Maybe we should go in twos. But right now I need to go off on my own. I'm sorry. But I wouldn't be very good company for anyone, and I couldn't even promise to be a good protector. There are things I need to do and see by myself. I'll be back in a little while."

The sight and smell of so many Orcs had awakened hard memories in Dorran and not even the prospect of being with Incana could stand up against the old shadows. He had the strangest feeling that someone or something was waiting for him within the tangled ruins of this village, and he must go out to meet that memory. Struggling to push back the panic that was threatening to paralyze him, Dorran decided to take immediate action. Anything was better than standing and doing nothing. Perhaps he could find them some extra horses. Without even waiting for an answer from Brand, he quickly walked off on his own. He hoped Incana would understand or that he'd at least have the chance to explain and make amends for what looked like very rude behavior.

Dorran sprinted off towards the remains of what appeared to be the largest building in town: a small Inn and an adjoining stable. He had hoped to find a horse or two still hanging about the stables. Yet everywhere he looked, he saw only signs of death. Half the structure was charred and smoking. The roof was caved in and tangled piles of Orc and human bodies littered the ground. He could not take his eyes off those bodies. He stood silent and immobile, unable to pull away.

Forcing himself to move, he came around to the stableyard and, seeing no living horses here, began to feel very foolish for having run off on his own. He pushed through the rubble at the far end of the yard and was rewarded with the sight of an even larger group of dead Orcs. On the ground, he saw the mutilated corpse of a young boy, no older than himself, a broken pitchfork still clenched in his fist; he'd apparently died trying to push open the door to let the horses escape. The lad had been killed by an Orc who had met his own bloody fate at the hands of another townsman, perhaps the father or older brother of the dead stable boy. Dorran turned aside, gripping his sides tightly, and began to retch, awkwardly falling to his knees.

As he did so his eyes caught sight of something so horrible and unexpected that it rocked him to the bottom of his heart. Lord Aldwulf had told them that the Orcs were attacking from the north. All those he'd seen had worn the ragged livery and insignia of the common Orc soldier. This one , however, and several beside him were very different. He reached over, grabbed the shield, and cradled it near his body. Then, in utter disbelief, he saw something gleam about the neck of the Orc that he'd never thought to see again. He ripped off the cord, discarded the rest of the attachments, and stuffed just one thing into his pocket. As he stared intently at the dead figure, the ugly face leered back at Dorran, and, with a shock of recognition, the lad remembered something he would have preferred to forget.

"Brand, Brand," Dorran yelled and raced back to where he'd left the rest of the group. "I must speak with you now. It is important." He grabbed Brand by the arm and yanked him to the side. "Lord Aldwulf was wrong. Or at least he knew only half the story. These are not common pillaging Orcs. Or at least some of them aren't. Look at this. It is far worse than we had imagined." Dorran thrust the shield into Brand's hand. "I tell you. This is the insignia of those Orcs who directly serve the Dark Lord. They dwell in the land of shadows and run the large plantations. They are cruel taskmasters chosen for their ability to inflict pain. These are no mere marauders, I tell you. They have been sent out by someone, perhaps the Dark Lord himself or one of those who directly serve him."

Dorran's voice dropped even lower, "The one who bore this shield went by the name of Hulgruth. He was in charge of the slaves on the plantation to the west of the great mountain. I know this for a fact"

Visibly shaken and upset, Dorran shuddered, his fingers drifting down to feel the outline of the small medallion he'd hidden within his pocket.