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Chapter 6: Magic and Mercy

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Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #7

Orc magic is distinctly shamanistic in nature and as such does not use the spells or artefacts that some other races use. This makes them incredibly versatile as well as they have no hard definitions for how they form their spells. An orc can cast a spell with just the slightest thought or wave of his hand. However, because of this, orcish magic tends to be far less regulated and a spell that may look like one enchantment may actually react differently. This is commonly known as ‘Wild Magic’.

There have been attempts to standardise orc spell casting but these have all failed as most orcs generally are of the opinion to simply ‘feel the flow of the spirits’ instead of following some rigid structure.

*******

The Spire of Sorcery was a common staple in many large Alliance-based cities. Towering over most of the other facilities, the Spire was a constant reminder that the Alliance employed powerful Wizards who practiced the arcane arts just as they had dedicated priests who trained in the holy magics of the Triad. Not truly a single tower, the Spire consisted of a collection of fortifications in a rough triangular fashion. Each of the three tallest structures was meant to represent each of the three members of the Holy Triad with each one focusing on one form of magic to the other.

Though magic as a whole was mostly within the dominion of Illirodur the Intelligent, the nature of the Holy Triad allowed for a sense of unity and balance amongst the Gods so the God of Shadows and Subterfuge shared his influence over magic with the other two Gods. Naturally, the Tower of Illirodur tended to boast the greatest library and font of magical knowledge within the Spire. The Tower of Malstraad tended to focus on the more offensive uses of magic while the Tower of Kordain was the opposite, focusing on the defensive uses.

It was within the Tower of Malstraad, commonly known as the Tower of War, that Ruven of Werrshreidt pored over a thick tome. Months after he had been torn from his friend by the War Wizard of Raonoak, Ruven was now an Acolyte of the Spire. Qurron had immediately taken him to the College of Mages in Raonoak, the ruling council for all things magical within the province, of which Qurron was a member. There, he was tested. Six of the most senior members dove into his mind, searching his memories and the very fibre of his being. What they found astounded them.

Apparently, he had great magical potential in him but since he had been left untrained for so long, it was dulled and unrealised. They immediately conscripted him into the Spire for training. They told him that he had the potential to become the greatest wizard in Raonoak if he just had patience and the proper training.

Now, Ruven flipped the old page, reading over the history of the ancient Convent.

“You have a knack for history.”

The young wizard jumped and immediately turned, lifting a hand. Bright blue runes coalesced around his palms while his eyes began to emit a soft, sky-blue glow. He calmed when he noticed that Orradin was standing by the door of his room, arms crossed. Ruven was unsure how to react to the hero’s presence and scrambled to get off his feet, straightening the white robe he wore as an initiate.

“Peace, young mage,” Orradin rumbled, holding up his hand. “I come seeking your master. Where is Qurron?”

Ruven bowed his head in respect. “Apologies, Lord Greenslayer. Master Qurron has ventured north with Paladin Luxaeus. He hopes to use his magic to discern the truth of a claim made by the guard captain of Whitepeak.”

Orradin snorted. “News travels fast, it seems.”

Ruven did not have the heart – or the courage – to tell the hero that Qurron just did not to have to deal with Orradin. “The entire Spire is awash with the news, milord. The War Wizards are preparing for battle. The Wizard Guards are consolidating their power and the Wizards of the Eye are already sending their scouts and scrying for more information.”

“And yet none can be found,” grunted the blonde-haired champion. “Apparently there is a mage amongst them. A man named Samuel. Reports have placed him all across the continent. Whether or not he can transport himself instantly across vast distances or ‘he’ is merely part of a collective of cultists who appear the same and wear the same armour is up for debate.”

The fledgling mage regarded the book he was poring over. “I doubt he can teleport himself across such vast distances, milord. Such a feat would require an immense amount of magic and there are watchtowers all over the continent to detect such disturbances. It is how people with magical abilities are found.”

Orradin gave him crooked smile. “Then how is it that you managed to go undetected for so long.”

Fully anticipating that question, Ruven said, “I never had need to use my abilities. These watchtowers detect magic when they are in use not the latent abilities within people. Further, they do not alert on small feats such as moving a book with one’s mind or lighting a candle. Otherwise, they would alert every time a Wizard or Priest performed the smallest of cantrips. Transporting one’s self from one location to the other would not cause such an alert if one were careful.”

The hero’s eyes narrowed. “Explain that to me.”

Ruven glanced warily at the corner where some of his books rested. “Well…” Turning back to the tome in his hands, he said, “most watchtowers detect any spell over 1000 illorins. A teleportation spell especially for just one’s self could take as little as 750 illorins.”

Orradin gave him a blank stare. “Translate in simpler terms, mage.”

Smiling ruefully, Ruven attempted to explain. “In the old times before the War of Apotheosis, we had no standard means to measuring the strength of a spell. When Illirodur came to power, he enforced a standard based on his own magical strength. A single illorin is how much it took for Illirodur to cast the smallest of cantrip.” He flicked a finger and a small spark of flame jumped from his fingertip. “That is a single illorin. Now imagine that 750 times stronger. That would be the amount needed to move a single person from one place to another at its barest minimum. It would be risky, however. You would be blindly flying into the location without checking what is there. One could have a variance in the destination of anywhere between one to ten miles. The safest teleportation one can achieve would be, at the least, 1250 illorin and that would send the watchtowers blaring.”

When no response came from Orradin, he turned to the hero. There was an intense stare from the man’s bright blue eyes that froze him in place.

“What would it take to move an entire army?”

Ruven pulled his head back in surprise. “I… I suppose it depends on the size of the army. If a single person takes 750 illorin to transport, then that multiplied by the number of people seems logical.”

“Is there any way to compress that and make it less than a thousand of your… units?”

The trainee mage shrugged. “I… I am unsure, milord. Perhaps you could siphon off energy from one to the other. Maybe base the illorin on size and weight. Instead of the standard amount, it could be less or more… if you did not take your clothes with you, it would take a little less as well…” He inclined his head to the side. “Why do you ask?”

Orradin seemed deeply disturbed. “We have had reports of various towns and rehabilitation camps suddenly becoming abandoned. They have either been burned to ash or simply uninhibited. Evidence of an army or at least a raiding party was present and we see their tracks leading off for a few miles away from the site before abruptly vanishing. At least a hundred men with mounts and the people they captured.”

Ruven’s eyes widened. “That would take thousands of illorin. Perhaps even millions. It would send the watchtowers and the mages into a frenzy.”

“My point exactly.” He nodded towards Ruven. “So tell me, Master Mage, if the watchtowers are designed to detect so efficiently, why were these spells not found?”

Feeling the scrutiny of the hero upon him, Ruven began to fidget. “It is… possible that the watchtowers have been sabotaged…” Seeing the spark in Orradin’s eyes, he guessed that was the answer the hero was looking for. “… or more likely, there is a mage amongst the army that disguises the tracks the raiding party left. It would not take that much power to simply cause the earth to hide all tracks, after all.”

There, Orradin deflated and he let out a soft growl. “A fair point.” Sighing he began to turn away. “I shall leave you to your studies, Master Mage. Once Qurron arrives, tell him I am curious of a place known as ‘Cald-Harun’. It sounds dwarven.”

“Of course, milord. I shall tell him the moment he arrives.”

With that, Orradin turned and left Ruven’s quarters.

After about five minutes, the air beside Ruven’s bookshelf began to shimmer. The illusion melted away like water and Qurron stepped away.

“Gods above, I thought he would never leave,” hissed the elder mage.

Ruven set his book down and sighed in relief. “If you do not mind me asking, master, but why…”

“Do I detest that ingrate so?” scowled Qurron. “Because he is a brute with no intelligence who has been coasting on his victories from over two decades ago. The fool does not even contribute to the betterment of the Alliance! He merely eats, sleeps and fornicates while stroking his old hatred of the orcs.”

“You do not despise the orcs, master?”

“Of course I do,” Qurron snapped. “They are wild, primitive, brutish creatures with no sense of culture made for war and battle alone. We would all be richer for their complete and utter extinction.” The War Wizard swept across the room, plucking a book from Ruven’s shelf. His fury calmed for a moment as he opened the book. “You must think he harsh. To condemn an entire species to death is not very becoming of the advisor to the Lord-Knight of Raonoak but I assure you, it does not cloud my judgement.”

Ruven remained quiet. He knew Qurron would eventually tell him more without further prompting. The War Wizard had taken to confiding in him for some reason. From what he heard around the school, Qurron’s duties as the advisor to the Lord-Knight rarely allowed him the time to take on a pupil. Now that he had, many were calling Ruven the ‘favoured child’ both to mock Qurron’s interest in him and the fact that he was much older than most of the initiates.

“I was alive during the War of Apotheosis,” Qurron said gently. His eyes were focused on the book before him but he appeared to be staring at the pages distantly. “There were four of us. Eranius, myself, Arben Reinhardt and Oriscia La’valette. Due the War of Apotheosis, we were fighters for Raonoak. Eranius was naturally the soldier. Arben our engineer. I was the battlemage and Oriscia was our priest. Eranius came from a noble family and the crown of Raonoak had yet to settle on his head. In fact, in the times before the war, Raonoak was not the capital of the north.” He turned towards Ruven, that familiar glint in his eyes. “Can you tell me what it was?”

The War Wizard loved to quiz him. Perhaps it was a means to test him or prove that he was superior but Ruven indulged him. It helped expand his own knowledge. “Was it not Hawkshollow?”

“Correct. During the War, Hawkshollow miles to our north was the capital and it was there that we were sent to serve. Under the prestigious King Hawk, we fought the orcs on what is commonly known back then as the ‘Green Barricade’.” He let out a soft, bitter chuckle as he settled on a seat opposite to Ruven. “I will give the orcs one thing, they were industrious and have the numbers to supplement their war machine. Were they only more intelligent perhaps they could have created far better technologies that would have crushed us beneath their stomping feat. Thankfully, they were more focused on advancement of their territory than ingenuity.”

Qurron leaned back in the big, cushiony seat. “As you know, Hawkhollow was eventually lost and we were pushed back here, to Raonoak. It was here that the Heroes of the North were being trained. Orradin amongst them. When the stalemate occurred and we were forced to defend ourselves instead of pushing the offensive, it was Eranius who killed Hawk for attempting to defy the Holy Triad. Hawk hoped to lure the orcs into Raonoak itself where he would trap them and then detonate dwarven charges in the city, destroying them all. He did not care for the citizenry. His vengeance took priority and he aimed to destroy the orcs no matter the cost.”

Ruven had heard of the ploy. King Caldamor Hawk was a proud man and supposedly driven mad by the loss of his capital city. Hawkshollow was now a ruin that people dared not touch due to the bad name that hung over the Hawk name and the city. Supposedly, Eranius fought Hawk on the bridge between the mountain the Castle Raonoak while fires burned around them and on a mountain of dead.

“While Eranius duelled Hawk, Arben disabled the charges,” Qurron continued. “I and Oriscia evacuated the people. We were hailed as heroes for the defeat of the mad King Hawk. The Holy Triad, then still very mortal, granted the lands of the north to Eranius, naming him Lord-Knight. Eranius dissolved the Hawk Kingdom and merged it with the Alliance as a province. I was elevated to his advisor. Arben naturally maintained his role as master engineer and continued to build machinery that would aid us in our fight against the green horde.”

“And Oriscia?” Ruven prompted.

“Why, she married Arben.” Qurron gave him a distant smile. “Ah, it was a fantastic ceremony. She gave birth to two sons, almost one after the other. However, the ravages of war and child birth were not kind to her and she died shortly after the birth of her second son, Thomas.” Qurron’s bony hands tightened, showing the whites of his knuckles. “An injury suffered from the orcs reopened when she first gave birth to Luxaeus. Though she survived, she was advised that she could not have another child or it would risk her health. But she always wanted two children. She believed that it was her duty to bear two lives into the world.”

Ruven frowned. “It is not a woman’s duty to bear children… A woman is free to do as she pleases.”

“That is something both Eranius and I told her,” laughed Qurron. “But it was a matter of belief. You see, she believed in the mathematics of it all.” He held up to fingers. “A man and woman, two lives, come together under the sanctity of marriage.” The War Wizard brought his two fingers together. “Then, the couple must produce at least two children. For you see, the couple will die together but should they not produce at least two children, then the population of the world would be in decline.”

The young mage inclined his head to the side in confusion. “So… she believed that because two people come together and birth only one child, we are effectively halving our population?”

“Quite so.”

“With all due respect, master, that seems foolish.”

Qurron laughed. “It was. But that was Oriscia. Forever bound by duty.” He closed the book in front of him. “The world is a bitter place. Were it not for the orcs, Oriscia would never have perished. I hold them responsible for her demise. Her and the countless others.” He shot Ruven a pierce stare. “I do not blame the orcs for what they are. I blame the orcs for what they have done.”

As quick as a flash, Qurron’s fury faded and he waved a hand towards Ruven. “Now, let us sort through your difficulty with casting anything beyond 100 illorin of magic. But do not be discouraged. It takes years to master magic, after all.” He smiled warmly at his apprentice. “After all, there is a reason why the greatest of mages have long, grey beards.”

******

The Frost Training Yard was located on one of the higher tiers of Bhotanmar castle. It was there that the Frost tribe trained as one. Human and orc alike practiced arts of war and discipline under Samuel who instructed them in the arts of ‘Koraktan’. Apparently, it was a martial art of sorts developed by the Crag Tribe of orcs before they were wiped out.

Off to the side, Arnmok watched the lines of men and women following patterns, waving their hands through the air, stepping from side to side and letting out loud cries in tandem with their strikes at an imaginary foe. Amthos was amongst them, not as the Avatar or leader of Bhotanmar, but just as another soldier.

In this respect, the Red Orc had to agree with Oringruud’s assessment. A leader should not be standing amongst his people. If the Avatar required combat training, he should have it in private sessions and not standing beside the common soldiers. Strength was a means to judge a man in Arnmok’s perspective and if Amthos could not stand stronger than others, then he was unfit to be a leader. Though he was not looking forward to betraying the Avatar, he could not see any other way of stirring the horde to saving Ruven.

But in another respect… he could actually admire what was made here. Arnmok had never seen a grander city and coming from a swamp town, this Bhotanmar was simply astounding. Having been here for less than a week, he had scarcely scratched the surface of the Blood Claw district. Yet was days went by, more and more were coming to the city. Not only orcs or Greenskin Sympathisers either. He saw other races coming in.

The Dracorians flew in on their majestic phoenixes. He saw a few Horanmuti sailing in on their enormous galleys and even some Rhakmirim, a race openly in cahoots with the Alliance, descended upon the city on their airships.

Tales of other Avatars rising up amongst the other races were quickly flooding in. Treaties were being forged and armies being mustered. Orcs were not only the ones raiding Alliance lands. The hoofed Rantori were being freed from their slave camps by their Avatar and his growing army. Fénrian Shadowalkers were striking at the elven cities deep within their forests. Even the Minotaurs, staunch allies of the dwarves, were striking out at their former neighbours and expanding the reach of their labyrinths to encroach upon the Alliance.

It seemed the world was starting to reshape itself and Arnmok found that he had the power to change its direction… or at least the direction of the orcs. As he looked towards Amthos, so calm, serene and controlled performing those motions alongside other orcs, he had to wonder what would happen if Oringruud was sitting on the throne instead. Orcs and their allies would likely not be in the training yard in an orderly like practicing some ancient form of combat. They would likely be wrestling in the mud, flexing their muscles at one another, boasting about their latest conquests and comparing cocks.

Thinking of cocks stirred up emotions that Arnmok had been trying for the past week to supress. However, it was something he quickly realised was unavoidable. His groin began to burn with desire and he grunted as he was forced to quickly adjust himself through the cloth trousers he wore. Supposedly, it was something all those turned by the Avatars suffered from, perhaps a lasting jest from Garodrash. They called it the ‘manlust’. Those so turned found themselves aroused at the simplest mention of sex with a man or dicks. Arnmok was no different and he found his golden eyes intently focused on the sweaty, muscled bodies of all those in front of him, following those practiced movements and with the light glistening off each arc on their muscles.

More, he found himself thinking of Oringruud, his dran’mok. He yearned to return to their home in the Blood Claw district, splay himself on their bed and have his ‘father’ ravage him madly. Never before had he such intense feelings for a man. The lust was simply insatiable. Perhaps boredom played a part in it as most of the time, he merely stood around Amthos, ‘protecting’ him from non-existent dangers. But how could he rightly protect a man that he did not know or trust.

“Ah, I know that look all too well.”

He jumped and turned in surprise.

It was Amthos’ left hand, the Hardshaft Chieftain, Ramdrud. If anyone embraced the idea of royalty, it was the slightly rounded yet still powerfully built orc. Dressed in a white, gilded toga with a purple sash wrapped over his shoulders, Ramdrud wore countless pieces of jewellery on his fingers and around his neck. A silver circlet was wrapped around his bald head as a sign of office. Many in Bhotanmar commended him for bringing order and ‘civility’ to the abandoned city. Others scorned him for his network of spies and shrewd, often brutal, diplomatic skills. Many considered him the Orc Spymaster. That he moved so silently despite his weight and all the gaudy jewellery only added to the title.

“Ah dun know what ya mean,” rumbled Arnmok.

“I do so love your accent,” giggled Ramdrud. He slipped in beside Arnmok, the back of his big, hairy hand brushing up against Arnmok’s thighs. The Red Orc went rigid as the chieftain gently brushed up against his erect dick. “Such a rough and tumble sort of fellow. Your accent brings to mind a man who lives off the land. A real man’s man who works from dawn ‘til dusk, sweats by the sun and eats nothing but meat.” Suddenly Ramdrud’s hand slipped around Arnmok’s waist, creeping around his rear. Arnmok’s cheeks began to burn and he found himself quivering. “But then again, every man is entitled to his secrets. A man of your stature would scarcely be suspected of preferring a thick, dropping cock within these firm mountains, eh?”

It took a moment for those words to register within Arnmok and the Red Orc immediately retreated a step away from Ramdrud. “Ah ain’t like that!”

Ramdrud laughed softly. “Ah but you are.” He crossed his mighty arms and Arnmok could not help but to hungrily take in those big, fleshy biceps and how they glistened in the sun. “You see, my friend, I was very much like you.”

“Ya ain’t nuffin like me.”

“Is that so?” countered the chieftain, lifting an eyebrow. “Then excuse me if this sounds familiar. You are a righteous man. Following the tenants of the Triad to the letter. A faithful man who believed himself destined to lie with a woman alone, produce children and live and die always loving the fairer sex.” He lifted a finger. “But then, you had one, marvellous experience with another man. A man who filled you in no way a woman ever could. Now you found yourself craving a man’s touch.” Ramdrud reached outward, gripping Arnmok’s forearm. The Red Orc’s throat went dry and he shook. “More. You crave man’s cock within you. I am willing to wager you even desire to taste another man’s cock.”

Arnmok immediately averted his gaze.

“Ah!” exclaimed Ramdrud, smiling broadly. “You have already had a taste.” He waggled his carefully crafted eyebrows. “How was it?”

He would not reply and just mumbled softly.

“As I suspected,” Ramdrud chuckled softly. “Now you find yourself distrusting your own body around other men. Watching Amthos and his Frost tribe practice so must be agonising. I wager those initiation rites and arena tournaments held at the Blood Claw District would do little for your desires.”

“‘Tis the manlust.”

“No,” Ramdrud said grimly. “It is not. The manlust drives those changed by the Avatars into a sexual craze immediately after their transformation. It does not last beyond that. The condition that drives men to bed with men is a simple desire for the company of another man in intimate ways. Those who struggle with these emotions rationalise it as a ‘condition’, an ‘ailment’ or a ‘curse’ the Avatars gave in exchange for such a form. It is not so.” Ramdrud lifted a hand into the air. “Think of it this way, my friend. Think back to that first time you ever had your first sweet. That tempting, sugary pastry, perhaps a decadent candy or that treat for a hard day’s reward.”

Arnmok allowed himself a thin smile. “Mah ma usedta make cherry pies every winter. Looked forward ta them all year.”

“Quite so. That desire is left dangling in front of you and it is a reward that you can only have at a certain period. You are deprived of it all year but the first time you have it, you instantly know you want more. But you cannot. Circumstances betray you.” Ramdrud gestured at the practicing Frost tribe. “But here, your sweet is all around you. You have been treated to a taste of man and it is new, it feels good and you want more. You have an abundance here and you are constantly tempted. Such is your condition.”

The chieftain turned to him, looking upon him gravely. “Take the advice of one who has had his fill of sweets and was caught with his hand in the jar; do not hide in shame. To hide your face from the rest of the world damns you to all their scorn. Wear your desires proudly and it will be the sturdiest armour you will ever find.”

Arnmok frowned at the advice and found himself a little… stunned at the insight from what he had heard was a rather promiscuous orc. Could it be that there was more to Ramdrud’s sexual escapades that just his insatiable lust?

Before he could ask more, someone came shouting from within the castle. The doors to the training yard burst open and Dalgmar, the Thunder Caller chieftain, came bursting in with two of his fellow shamans.

“Avatar! Avatar!” Dalgmar cried. “Amthos! We must speak!”

The entire group stopped and stared as the shamans, out of breath, came rushing forward. Arnmok grew concerned. He seized a pitcher of water and carried to the shamans. Dalgmar took it with thanks and drank, handing it to his colleagues when he was done.

“What is the hurry, Dalgmar?” Amthos asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “What is so urgent it could not wait until noon when our practice is over.”

“The spirits are restless, my Avatar,” breathed Dalgmar. “Something has them riled and scared. Something from the north!”

“The north?” Arnmok asked. “There is nothing to the north save the Freezing Sea.”

“Can you not feel it?” another shaman demanded. “The air grows colder. The winds sharper. Something is coming from the north!”

Amthos turned to his Frost Tribesmen and dismissed them. The group turned and left, leaving them alone with Samuel and the shamans. Arnmok noted that the mage-knight was looking to the north, his deep, blue eyes narrowed.

“What have your spirits told you?” Amthos asked once they were alone.

“Death approaches,” added the other shaman. “The spirits flee from it and little we can say or do will calm them or keep them within Bhotanmar. An icy death comes from the north. We know not what it is but it comes to bring death.”

“They whisper but one name,” Dalgmar said.

Then Samuel spoke. “Grauhl.”

******

Orradin came bursting into the room without much fanfare save for his thundering footsteps and the sound of the wooden doors being shoved open. The exhausted Ruven and exasperated Qurron turned to him as they stood beside one another in the big Chamber of Focus. Designed to give fledging mages some extra strength to even the simplest spells, the Chamber was infused with magical energies that acted like a crutch to those just learning magic. They could utter the simplest spells and it would be amplified many times over. Similarly, if they did not have the focus or energy to summon the energy for a spell, the Chamber would provide.

“There you are!” barked Orradin, storming forward angrily. The tiny little purple stars hovering around the Chamber flitted away from him as he crossed the vast mosaic depicting the Holy Triad’s emblem on the floor. “I have questions for you!”

Qurron scowled at the hero and turned back to the singed sack of sand a short distance away. “Another time, Orradin. I am very busy.” He rested a hand on Ruven’s shoulder. “Again, Ruven. This time, focus.”

Ignoring the mage’s reply, he said, “Who is Grauhl?”

There, Qurron froze and turned slowly back towards the hero. “Where did you hear that name?”

Drawing some victory over catching the War Wizard by surprise, Orradin said smugly, “From your libraries.” He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, spreading his legs to indicate he was not going to move until an answer was given. “Who is Grauhl?”

Qurron turned away with a scowl. “I have no time for myths.”

But Ruven had heard the legends. He had read the histories and the speculations. With the supposed disappearance of the orcs, the more learned began speculating that the great orc hero may have returned. “Grauhl was an orc hero.” His mentor tried to silence him and Ruven kept his eyes on Orradin. “But he’s only a legend. Supposedly, the Old Gods also empowered some of the other non-Alliance races with their divinity in an attempt to undermine but not completely eradicate the other species. They wanted a sort of peace between the Alliance and other races or perhaps they wanted to bring all under the Alliance. They had hoped a man on the inside, empowered by the charisma and power of one who is blessed with divinity might undermine the opposition and bring them to the Alliance’s embrace.”

“But he is naught but a legend,” added Qurron. “There is no orc hero. That is preposterous and blasphemous.”

“And yet there is a Cald-Harun,” countered Orradin with a scowl. “Grauhl was a divine child like I am. He was taken from his orc parents by a dwarven clan that took him under their wing. Realising what he was, they built their entire city of Cald-Harun to accommodate him. But he never arose, did he? He never fought in the War of Apotheosis and he never had his divinity sapped from him. Why?”

The War Wizard scowled and flicked a wrist in the hero’s direction. “I know not.”

“Speculate then.”

Realising that he would not be rid of Orradin, Qurron said, “There are legends. Some say that upon the revelation of who and what he was, Grauhl slaughtered his foster family and all the dwarves of Cald-Harun, disappearing into the mountains to die. There are others who believe that Grauhl refused to be part of the slaughter of his people and instead fled north into the Freezing Sea. The dwarves of Cald-Harun fled after him, all of them. Then there are those that believe that Grauhl’s divine manifested in the form of a bitterly cold blizzard of death and that he has become the ‘Bringer of Winter’. Each year when winter approaches, it is he who brings the cold from the north.”

“And what do you believe?”

The War Wizard rolled his eyes and gave Orradin an exasperated look. “That Grauhl is naught but a tale, a supposed ‘messiah’ that was concocted by the orcs in an attempt to offer hope to their race when there is none. He is a story. Something to comfort themselves in the cold, harsh nights that they brought upon themselves.”

“And no one in the Alliance has ever thought to find Cald-Harun?” demanded Orradin.

The War Wizard slammed his staff into the ground, demanding respect. “They found it. But it is a death trap. Any who go there never return save for one who was barely a man. Just a mess with a broken mind and barely able to formulate words. He spoke of a ‘Cold Death’ and a ‘Giant of Ice’ that came from across the Freezing Sea, turning everything he touched to ice and killing any that fell upon his club.” Again Qurron waved dismissively at Orradin. “But it is all rumours.”

“Rumours that the orcs of Whitepeak supposedly believed in enough to gather there and then make a grand exodus to the abandoned hold.” Orradin lifted a finger accusingly at the mage. “Is it not possible that this legendary orc may have called them? That he slew Noraduil or some other hapless hero in an attempt to prove himself to them?” He slammed a foot against the tiled mosaic. “This could very well be the greatest threat to the Alliance since the War!”

Qurron’s shoulder sagged. “Do you hear yourself, Orradin? You turning a tall tale into fact. You are mongering in fear and giving in to paranoia. Had Lord Eranius not stayed your hand, you would have charged through the mountains to Noraduil and accusing your once-brother-in-arms of harbouring the orcs. Now you pounce at the next slim possibility all in the hopes to bloody your own hands with orc blood!”

Before Orradin could counter, Qurron raised his voice. “What facts do you have that Grauhl even exists? Yes, Cald-Harun exists but do you know what the dwarves officially call it? It is Lak-Hosternuum. The ‘Lost Hold of the North’. They have detailed documents stating that it was one of their attempts to venture forth and make a northern outpost before the war. However, the land was harsh, there was no farmlands and fishing was very seasonal. They abandoned the hold simply because it could not sustain life. That is fact.”

Orradin fell completely silent.

“Now you are wasting my time,” Qurron scowled, waving a hand absently in Orradin’s direction. “Lord Eranius has taken Torlidain to Trispire. The Inquisitors there will discern the truth of the matter. Whether or not the orcs really did travel to Cald-Harun, we need but wait a year and they will all be dead once winter freezes the blood in their veins and turns their bones to ice.” He chuckled darkly. “Perhaps the tale of Grauhl served the Alliance in the end.”

The Greenslayer scowled at the War Wizard. “You are a fool to believe such, Qurron. You view orcs as brutish beasts but I spent my life studying and fighting them. They are far more cunning and clever than you would believe.”

“Not all your life, Orradin. As I recall, the past twenty years was spent in a brothel.”

Face red with rage, Orradin turned on his heel and marched angrily out of the Chamber, finally leaving them in peace. As a final sign of defiance, he left the doors wide open. Qurron sighed and with a wave of his hand, had the large oak doors slam shut.

“Is Grauhl truly a myth, master?” asked Ruven. “There are so many books on him…”

“As there are so many books on legends and stories of the past,” answered the War Wizard sagely. “Know to tell what is fiction and what is fact. Legends of Grauhl place him well before the War of Apotheosis and even before the dawn of the Alliance. No orc could live that long. Perhaps ‘Grauhl’ is merely a title given to significant heroes of the orc race or just a name they adopt in an attempt to rally their race.”

“You mean much like this ‘Samuel’ the ‘Star-Eyed Wolf’?”

Qurron smiled at the scepticism of his protégé. “Quite so. Just a number of men bearing the legend and leveraging off its power. Nothing more.” He nodded towards the training dummy. “Now, let us see you conjure flames once more. You know the words.”

Ruven did but he could never focus on them, never conjure enough power or strength to fully manifest the fireball. He uttered the words again and again, thrusting his hands forward, fingers outstretched but he could never conjure more than a few sparks from his fingertips. Qurron showed him again how it was done.

First, the War Wizard pulled his hand back, fist clenched by his side, elbow bent. Uttering the words, the War Wizard focused his power through his arm, flames quickly wreathing his fingers. He twisted his hand and then thrust the entire limb forward, hand outstretched. A ball of flame launched from his palms and struck the dummy.

The apprentice did exactly the same gesture.

And nothing.

Qurron sighed softly, the hints of disappointment in his voice. “Let us rest for the day. We will reconvene after noonday meal. Study the arts of fire and we shall see how you do come our next session.”

Ruven bowed respectfully towards Qurron. “Yes, master.”

The aged Wizard turned and left through the northern exit of the Chamber. Ruven turned for the eastern, heading for his own quarters. He did not get past the doors before a big hand seized his shoulder. The world blurred into a whirl of colours before the wall slammed hard against his back. Orradin’s red face was pressed up right against his.

“I know you believe Grauhl is real,” growled the Greenslayer. “I can see it in your eyes, your voice. So I will offer you a trade.”

Ruven, eyes wide in terror, could only nod faintly.

“You will research everything you know about Grauhl and Cald-Harun,” Orradin demanded. “Be it rumour or speculation, give it to me. I will decide what is worth my time and what is not. In exchange, name anything. If it is within my power, I will grant it.”

He knew exactly what he wanted. Mustering his courage, he said, “There is a rehabilitation camp to the northeast. Vramsteich. I have a friend there. His name is Mrakon. He came with me. Free him and bring him here. In turn I will do as you say.”

Orradin released Ruven. “You realise, of course, that he will not be allowed here unless he has magical talent. His identity will soon be discovered and he will be sent to the gallows or worse.”

“The servants are allowed to wander around freely. Were he to be my personal assistant, none would bat an eye.”

The hero gave him a sly smile. “You have thought of this much.”

“Since I left Vramsteich.”

Orradin held out his hand. “Very well. A bargain.”

Ruven took the hand without hesitation. “A bargain.”

******

“Grauhl is a First One.”

The Circle of Chieftains looked to Samuel with a degree of confusion. For the first time since the Circle had been formed, Samuel was standing in front of them instead of beside Amthos. It felt somewhat strange not to have the No One by his side and he just knew Oringruud would use this opportunity to attack the man who had given them so much.

“I had heard legends speak of Grauhl when we were in the mines and it was this tale that brought us to Cald-Harun?” Urthak rumbled. “Are there any truths to it?”

“A better quest is what is a ‘First One’?” demanded Oringruud, slamming his fist into the table. Amthos was glad that the tables here at the Circle Chamber were made of stone instead of the wood back in Greendawn. That meant the Blood Claw chieftain could not shatter the tables as he normally did.

“I will answer both,” Samuel said calmly. “At the beginning of time, when the Old Gods still ruled and they crafted Tirinead, they sought to fill it with life. They created the beasts and the plants that inhabit it first. Then came the people. Humans were the template. They were the first to be created. From there, the Gods experimented. The Old Gods made the humans stouter and hardier, giving them longer life and thus came the dwarves. They made them taller, leaner and faster and so the elves were born.

“However, they sought to continue their experiments. In their experimentation, they created the others races. Orcs were crafted in an attempt to make men who were stronger, more powerful and embodied masculinity. They are the favoured children of Garodrash. However, there had to be a first orc. That orc is Grauhl.”

“Grauhl was the first orc?” Knaatl asked. “Did the Old Gods not create the entire race at once?”

“No. They needed to have a test. Proof that this new species that they created, the orcs, would be able to live in the land that they had created. Grauhl was created first and was left alone much like the other First Ones. Only when Grauhl sufficiently proved himself to the Old Gods was he finally given companionship of other orcs. However, by then, he was accustomed to loneliness and the idea of coupling with this fairer orc called a female to produce offspring was alien to him. He rejected the Gods’ directive and left. The Old Gods cared not. They had their species and one that was functioning well so they let Grauhl have his freedom.”

“And he wandered north only to come back now?” asked Dalgmar. “Why is his return causing so much distress?”

Everyone felt Samuel smile but there was a bitter tinge to the smile. It was without humour. “Have you ever wondered why orcs are green or a variation of such?”

“Ah ain’t green,” rumbled Arnmok. Oringruud laughed at that point but he was the only one.

“Indeed. Think about how you were turned, Arnmok. What did you do that earned you that transformation?”

Suddenly, Oringruud’s humour died and he stared, terrified at his heir. Amthos watched the chieftain curiously before slowly turning towards his bodyguard. “Well?” he demanded. “What is your answer, Arnmok?”

The Red Orc seemed to pale. “Ah… Ah defied th’ customs o’ th’ Blood Claws… Ah fought in th’ ring an’ turned mah back ta ‘em…”

“Exactly,” Samuel said. “And that marked you in the shade of your skin. It was the same with Grauhl. Grauhl returned shortly after his departure, having gained insight on the Old Gods. He considered them foul and manipulative, naïve and child-like. If Gods had to experiment, they were not all-knowing. If Gods were dismissive of him, they were not loving. If Gods could not stop him, they were not all powerful.”

Amthos narrowed his gaze and wondered where Samuel was leading the story.

“Grauhl subsequently gathered his fledgling people,” said the No One. “He took them here. Here, they built Cald-Harun using the knowledge he had garnered from the dwarves, humans and elves. This is why Cald-Harun has such big doorways and dwarven architecture but mixed with a tinge of human ingenuity and elven grace.”

The Avatar had wondered about that. It seemed someone had predicted what his orcs would become and built Cald-Harun – now Bhotanmar – exactly for them. As the tale unfolded, he found his suspicion rising.

Samuel continued his story. “Grauhl built the Lookout not as a means to spy on the surrounding land but as defiance to the Old Gods. He built it as close to the sky as possible, boasting that he too could touch the heavens where the Old Gods ruled.”

“Arrogance that would likely have been punished…” rumbled Dalgmar.

“Indeed and it was. You see, in the past, orcs were not green. They were more akin to pigs.”

“What!?” Oringruud roared. “That is preposterous!”

“It is true,” Samuel countered calmly. “Think of it. The Dracorians are based on lizards. The Ursarai are akin to bears. The Rhakmirim and Marabhartien to tigers and lions respectively. All the other species had some template, a merger between animal and man that would describe their overall features. Orcs were originally based on the merger of man to boar.”

WHAM!

“We are not part-pig!” roared Oringruud.

“Some would argue otherwise,” muttered Ramdrud. Before Oringruud could rage at him, he nodded to Samuel. “I suspect, Samuel, that you are hinting at the fact that the other species have fur and distinct features but only the orcs have such a unique colouration.”

The No One nodded. “Correct. The original orcs were more porcine in their features. They had snouts and were covered in fur. Your tusks were bigger. You had cloven feet and more hunched features. However, when Grauhl showed open defiance to the Old Gods, the deities sought fit to punish him and the people who were so ungrateful for the life given to them. They stripped them of the fur that kept them warm in these northern climes. Tusks that had been natural weaponry were shortened, halving their effectiveness in battle. Snouts that provided such an excellent sense of smell were reduced to noses. Rocks would pierce soft flesh of feet as the orcs lost their hooves. As a final insult, the orcs were coloured green, the colour of jealousy, to forever brand the race as having once been jealous of the Old Gods.”

“And what happened to Grauhl,” Amthos asked quickly before others could intercede. He knew that Oringruud and Dalgmar would have questions but he did not want them to stray from topic. The First One was coming, apparently. They had to know more.

“The orcs became divided,” Samuel said. “There were those who remained faithful to Grauhl and his vision but there were other still who died in the following winter here in Cald-Harun. Remember, civilisation was very primitive then and we have none of the techniques that would warm us now nor the spirits of fire that would aid in keeping Bhotanmar alive when the blizzards come. They had no means to defend themselves without this form of natural defences. So, the vast majority of orcs turned and returned south to become your ancestors.” He gestured towards the natural-born orcs. “Grauhl, however, remained defiant. He sought lands outside of the Old Gods’ reaches. The harbour used now by Bhotanmar was used to build ships that would carry him and his band north to lands unknown.”

“And he is returning…” The Avatar leaned forward. “How? How could he live for so long? Why would he return now? How did the dwarves know of this hold in the first place if it was forged by orc hands?”

“Because the dwarves sent expeditions here and found it,” Samuel responded. “However, they did not last long. Grauhl perished north. He found his lands unknown, indeed. There is a mass of land far to the north but it is nothing but ice. The polar ice caps. There is a similar landmass to the south. It could not support life and certainly not his people. In desperation, the orcs there turned to cannibalism and they sought to kill Grauhl first. However, Grauhl was one of strong will and he killed those that came with him before they could slay him. He sustained himself on their flesh.”

Urthak rumbled his disgust. “A monster to be sure. This does not answer how he could live for so long.”

“Grauhl’s rage and hatred for the Old Gods sustained him. He was the leader of his people and he led them to their doom. This failure he blamed on the Old Gods. Refusing to take responsibility for his faults, he also refused to fall into Malgorin’s jaws. Every time the Dragon of Death would try to claim him, he would strike back and defy the Old God. His defiance grows so strong that he has become everything that the Old Gods reject, standing at the polar opposite of all creation. He defies the natural cycle of life and death. He defies the constraints of time and how it would affect his body. He is an anathema to Tirinead.”

Oringruud growled in frustration. “So you are telling me we have an unstoppable anti-god coming to us from across the Freezing Sea?”

“So it would seem.”

“Why now?” Knaatl asked. “Why just months after we arrived here and made a home for ourselves?”

Ramdrud let out a soft, thoughtful noise. “It is because we came here.” His eyes lifted to Samuel. “Is it not?”

The No One nodded grimly. “Cald-Harun is his trigger. He hates the Old Gods so much that whenever one of their creations settles within this city, he is instinctively called to it. He will bring death to everyone within its walls. A blinding white blizzard heralds his approach, one that will freeze bones the moment it touches them. An army of the orcs he cannibalised follow him, nothing but frozen bones that still bear the marks of where he bit into them and sucked out the marrow. Should any survive this initial onslaught, they will find Grauhl himself meeting them to bring an end to their life. He will feed on their flesh, reducing them to nothing more than bones to join his undead army, fuelled by his hatred and defiance of the Gods.”

Oringruud scowled. “So what are our options?”

It surprised Amthos that none at the table actually doubted or questioned Samuel’s tale. It just proved how much they trusted him. However, Amthos was still wary of the No One’s warning about defying him one day.

“We are not leaving Bhotanmar,” said the Avatar. “If we do, the Alliance is waiting for us. We are not ready for them.”

“Yes we are!” bellowed the Blood Claw chieftain. “We number in the thousands! Perhaps tens of thousands! All warriors or at least willing to fight. More will join our ranks in the initial onslaught as we slather our foes in our seed! We can take much of the north before the Alliance can muster their strength!”

WHAM!

Amthos slammed a palm against the table. “And then what, Oringruud? We repeat the mistakes of the past? We form another wall and hold our ground, waiting for the Triad to neuter us again?” He shook his head. “No. I refuse to condemn our people to such a fate.” He turned to Samuel. “How long until Grauhl arrives?”

“Three weeks. His blizzard will come in two.” Samuel turned his head towards a window. “I can deal with Grauhl. I cannot simply ask him to die. His will is too strong.” The No One patted the crystal sword by his side. “But even the rules one imposes upon oneself can be broken.”

“No,” Amthos said, shaking his head. “I am the Avatar. I stand for everything the Old Gods do and Grauhl is my enemy. I will stand against him.” He stood from his seat. “There is something else I wish for you to do.”

The No One turned to him, looking unsurprised but it was hard to tell beneath his helm.

“Ruven of Werrshreidt.”

He let his words settle in for a little while. Arnmok went completely rigid and even Oringruud’s eyes went wide in surprise.

Turning towards his bodyguard, he said, “He is your childhood friend, is he not? He was taken in by the mages? I have learned that he is training to become a Wizard at Raonoak. He is there now under Qurron’s guidance. I have also learned the Lord Eranius has left for Trispire, taking a large contingent of his garrison with him. With the Alliance army spread out across the north trying to find us, there has never been a more opportune time to rescue your friend.”

“You cannot be serious,” Knaatl scowled. “We cannot risk our life for one man.”

“A single man can do much.” He nodded towards Samuel. “As we have seen Grauhl achieve. Samuel, I wish for you to take Knaatl, Arnmok and a small team to rescue Ruven. Take Winterpaw with you in case you need the assistance of the Wargs.”

Knaatl instantly protested. “Me!? Why me?”

“Because you are an expert at infiltration and my best agent,” replied Amthos with an encouraging smile. “If anyone can sneak into the middle of Alliance-controlled lands, it will be you.”

The Nightusk chieftain grumbled his displeasure but did not offer any further protests, instead sinking into his seat while clearly displeased.

Arnmok placed a hand on Amthos’ shoulder, his golden eyes filled with confusion and a faint bit of thanks. “Ya’d do that fer me?”

“I know the value of friendship,” Amthos answered with a nod. “See to it that mine is not misplaced.” He then turned back to the rest of the Circle. “We must prepare for Grauhl’s coming. Oringruud, prepare your greatest warriors. Urthak, we must build some form of defence against them. A sea wall. Anything to bar them from approaching from the sea. Dalgmar, you must entreat the spirits. Find some way to keep us warm from the oncoming blizzard. Ramdrud, call upon our allies. Perhaps if Grauhl wields ice, we can call upon dragonfire to burn him or the might of the stars. Go!”

The entire congregation left their seats and began rushing to their duties… save for Arnmok who still stood dumbfounded at Amthos’ generosity.

“Ah – Ah dun…” began the Red Orc.

“Do not mistake my actions for benevolence,” Amthos said hotly. “I know of your plot to drive me to madness with your spear so that Oringruud may take charge. I am not foolish and Ramdrud has spies everywhere.” He glared at Arnmok. “Had Samuel not stayed my hand, I would see you slain for such treachery. However, he convinced me that you and Oringruud are merely doing what you believe is right and I cannot fault you for that.”

Arnmok looked crestfallen. “Yer not sendin’ me ta Raonoak jus’ ta save Ruven, are ya?”

“I am sending you there so you will not have the opportunity to betray me when Grauhl comes,” confirmed the Orc Avatar. “Bizarre as it may sound, I both wish you luck and hope you will get caught and executed.”

******

Samuel sat perched on his throne deep within the recesses of Bhotanmar within the Fragment of Naught’. Fate and destiny drew a tangled mess in front of him. The thread that was Grauhl had not been in the tapestry that made up Amthos’ tale until recently. It was still forcing its way into the greater scheme. Though what he had told the others had been true, there was one fact that he had omitted.

Grauhl had not been to Bhotanmar in a while because no one had occupied the city for so long. Further, with the development of the Holy Triad, the trinity of dark gods had actually barred Grauhl from returning. Now the Grauhl was returning, however, he started to grow suspicious.

He felt the presence of Garodrash and smiled to himself softly.

“It would have been nice to be informed of Grauhl and the First Ones before I embarked on this venture.”

The God of Fertility chuckled, the smugness in his voice barely veiled. “I thought you would have discovered them much sooner. It seems you are no more a god than the Avatar you seek to corrupt.”

“I never claimed to be a god. I claim there to be no such things as gods. Just mortals.”

“Blasphemy.” Though the deity accosted him, the god seemed too pleased with himself to sound angry. “I suspect you are now actively searching for the other First Ones?”

“They have such sad tales. Tales you could not be bothered to read or even care for. Your carelessness and flippant approach to their fates is disgusting.”

“They were the prototypes to the races that now inhabit this land. Once their purpose was served, they were useless to us.”

Samuel straightened in his seat, a bitter smile on his face. “And yet here they are, another thorn in your side, ready to cripple the Avatars or possibly kill them, ending your attempt to rise back to power.” Samuel smirked faintly. “It seems that the Triad are using your own creations against you.”

“It matters not. The collected faith of the species have empowered us once more. Now, we no longer need to live symbiotically with one another, sharing our power with each other. I can once again exist separate from my brothers. Even should these Avatars fall, we have enough power to create another. Perhaps we shall create a gift of sorts. The role of Avatar will pass to another orc the moment the previous one dies.”

“Yes. I noted that. Congratulations.”

The God of Fertility and Masculinity mulled his words for a moment. “What have you planned?”

“I am still formulating that.” Samuel let out a soft laugh. “I am rather amused that I find myself in such a situation. I whole heartedly disprove of how you have treated the First Ones and yet it seems that Illirodur has schemed to use them again you.” A smile crossed his muzzle, his teeth flashing through his dark fur. “Malstraad rallies his armies to war, inspiring his lords and ladies into conscripting fighters all across the continent while Kordain is hurriedly trying to erect defences all across his lands.

“No matter what happens, I will be aiding a spoiled child. The only difference is that one child looks down upon his former toys and the ones he has now, ready to throw them aside should they destroy one another with the view of simply obtaining more. The other is unwilling to compromise and is greedily hoarding and devouring everything around it without care for the future.”

“Are you considering allying yourself with the Triad?”

“I was never allied with you, Garodrash. I am here to assist Tirinead. Nothing else. If assisting the Triad regain their humanity is the best way to do that, then you can rest assured that I will not hesitate to do so.” Samuel looked up towards the essence of the God of Masculinity with a challenging smirk. “After all, you know it is well within my power to cast them from the Heavens and render them mortal once more.”

Garodrash suddenly raged, a soft clap of thunder beating in the air followed by the hot, sweaty musk of a furious man. “Then why have you not done so!?”

“Because that would not benefit Tirinead.”

“How would it not benefit the world? Those monsters are devouring the souls of the departed, corrupting the world, infusing their essence into all magic! How can casting them out of divinity not aid them?”

Samuel leaned back into his throne. “Because that would be cutting off the head of a great beast. The Alliance would be lost without them and then there would be chaos. More would die. Blame would fall upon the innocent. War would ravage the land. You may yet return to heaven but what you will rule is a broken and shattered world. That is not what I agreed to.”

“Then what will you do?”

“Naught but a swift return of Ruven.” The No One smiled and rose from his seat. “There are more ways to stem the tide of a blizzard, after all, and I need not leave until tomorrow. There is much I can do before then.”

As Samuel stepped off the dais of his throne, the air shimmered in front of him. A rip of blue-white energies crackled in front of him, appearing like a thin bolt of baby blue lightning a little taller than he was. The tear spread rapidly, shredding time and space. Within the limits of the tear, was dark room. He stepped quietly through, the world becoming a blur of colours for a brief instant as he crossed time and space to another location fairly close by. The moment he entered, the dark room, he was instantly assaulted by the same strong scent as Garodrash’s presence. Little wonder why orcs were the God of Masculinity’s favoured children even after their fall from grace.

A loud grunt erupted from somewhere in front of him.

He cleared his throat.

That grunt turned into a sound of confusion.

“Bor’shrat!” cursed Oringruud. “Have you no respect for privacy!?”

“Apologies, chieftain,” he answered as the big chieftain pulled out from his heir. If it was at all possible, Arnmok turned a brighter shade of red as he rapidly covered himself in the discarded sheets. “But this is a matter of urgency.”

Despite having his orgasm interrupted by the No One, Oringruud seemed pleased with himself. He stood, his cock rising past Samuel’s head. “Could it be that the great Star-Eyed Wolf is shaken at the coming of the first orc?”

“Only a fool would not be,” Samuel replied. He strode towards Arnmok who pulled the sheets over his bare, sweaty chest all the more. “But I am here more over the concern that a certain someone is going to be alienated.” He waved an armoured hand through the air. Wispy white light danced from Arnmok, curling through the air and coalescing around Samuel’s hands. The lights formed a small, black band with a buckle which he immediately offered to Oringruud.

“A collar?” scowled the chieftain, regarding the accessory with a scowl. “You would free my race only to enslave us once more?”

“You mistake my intentions, chieftain.” He held up the collar. “Whilst this trinket is worn, those who come into contact with the seed of the wearer will not only become an orc but also have their skin turn into a shade of red similar to your heir.”

Arnmok suddenly sat up again. “Ah ain’t gonna be th’ only Red Orc?”

“No.” He deposited the collar into Oringruud’s hands. “Perhaps this will be your opportunity to create your own ‘elite’ army similar to Amthos’ Nightusks or Frost soldiers. Perhaps still it will be a means to keep your heir from being isolated, a single fresh red apple in a sea of green.”

Another tear appeared in front of him. “I leave decision of its use and meaning to you two.”

He left through the portal without another word.

Once again, the world blurred around him. The colours resolidified a moment later to a vast lattice of wooden scaffolding and stone. The Earth Runners were hurriedly planning and erecting a wall just at the opening of the valley into the harbour. From the look of things, they were planning to make a twenty-foot thick wall made of raw stone harvested from unused buildings and the mountainside. With their hearty builds and immense strength, it was little effort to haul so much raw materials from their sources. Since the entire tribe was working together as one, construction was relatively quick.

But the air was filled with a sense of apprehension and worry. Urthak had given them a quick brief of what was coming and immediately ordered them to start building a wall. The tribesmen had little time to truly process what was coming. There was no time to fear. At least not yet.

Sadly, Urthak bore the burden of leadership and as he barked orders from where he stood over the designs, Samuel could sense the big orc already starting to consider what his tribe did best: running and hiding.

“Cald-Harun did not live to your expectations, I suspect,” the No One said.

Urthak grimaced softly. “Nothing was said in the told tales and documents of a curse from the First Orc.”

“To their credit, no one who had ever seen Grauhl lived. Not to mention Grauhl never left any evidence of those that he slew.”

“Small comfort.”

Samuel reached into his cloak and produced a rolled up scroll. “Then perhaps this will help.”

The chieftain did not question and merely took the scroll, unrolling it. Golden eyes perused the contents. “It is a map.”

“A map of Bhotanmar,” Samuel answered. “When Grauhl built this place, he made sure there were some exits and entrances that were not so obvious. He still retains this knowledge and could potentially attack from some of these caverns. Conversely, they could be used to escape the city should the worst comes.”

Urthak’s eyes widened as regarded the ancient scroll, running a large finger over the ink lines. “Why have we not discovered these before?”

“They are rather well hidden and magically protected. Those who look upon the entrances or even approach it will be compelled to ignore it and look away. It was the best way for Grauhl to avoid those who occupy the city to grow suspicious.” He gestured at the scroll. “Those who hold this scroll will shine a light through Grauhl’s deception and cripple his powers. Merely hold it open, point it at the entrance and say the words inscribed on the back.”

The chieftain turned over the scroll and regarded the runes written on the back. A small smile crossed his craggy features. “You are a miracle worker, Samuel.”

Another tear opened up behind the No One and he began to back away. “Miracles are not all that they seem, Urthak. The abrupt gifts and benefits may shine upon one party but there is no doubt that another will be found wanting as a result. True gods would not shower their people with miracles.”

The Earth Runner gave him a lifted eyebrow and a smirk. “What does that make you then?”

“A mortal. Just like everyone else.”

The No One stepped through the rift, once against enveloped in a swirl of light. This time, the smell of herbs, incense and tea filled his nostrils as he entered the well-lit chamber of the Thunder Caller chieftain. The dark basement of Dalgmar’s home was decorated with all sorts of shamanistic totems and emblems. A circle of five shamans were standing around a large bonfire at the centre of the chamber, all of them chanting and beseeching the spirits. From where he stood, the spirits were only answering in fleeting warnings, immediately dancing away in an attempt to get as far away from Grauhl as possible.

Dalgmar noticed him and with a wave of his hand, told the other shamans to stop their chanting. “Welcome, hel’Midar. Your presence is both a comforting sight and worrisome at the same time.”

“Comforting because you believe the spirits are flighty due to my presence?” asked the No One.

The chieftain gave him a thin smile. “The spirits know that you command all with but a simple request. They do not have the strength to resist should you demand something of them. The power you wield…” His eyes fell on Samuel’s crystal blade. “… concerns them greatly.”

“Then I shall not linger.” Samuel waved a hand over his shoulder and another tear opened. “I have someone you should meet, Dalgmar. Bring your inner circle. I am sure they would want to meet this particular individual.”

The Thunder Callers exchanged glances and regarded the portal. Being shamans, they were opposed to anything that did not call upon the spirits. Their belief stated that spirits were sentient beings and that any form of magic that did not align with shamanism forced spirits to do the bidding of the caster not necessarily with the spirit’s consent. It had taken a lot for them to believe that the Portal Spell Samuel had given them did not harm the spirits at all. Now that he was calling upon them again, that distrust rose once more.

Samuel glanced towards the shimmering portal. “You best call out to them. Especially if you desire to be free.”

There was a reluctant warm breeze that flooded out of the rift, one that washed over the shamans and instantly caused them to go rigid.

“Incarius,” Dalgmar breathed. “Tell me you have not imprisoned him.”

“Not I. But if you seek him freed, I suggest you come with me.”

The shamans immediately hurried to the portal, following Samuel through the shimmering rift without hesitation. The biting but bearabe cold of Bhotanmar was suddenly replaced by a freezing tundra. Ice and snow was everywhere save for the small places were frozen fur huts stood somehow unburied by the howling blizzard around them. Monuments of ice stood all around them, gigantic crystal monoliths with writing scribbled all over their glistening surfaces.

One of the shamans wandered over, his bare feet trudging through the freezing snow. He ran a hand over the surface, golden eyes scanning the letters.

“‘Tis of the orcish tongue!” he exclaimed. “They are names!”

“The names of all those that fell victim to Grauhl’s hunger for vengeance,” Samuel said. “Man, orc, dwarf or elf. Any who are devoured by the Great Glacial Orc have their names etched on these monoliths.”

He waved a hand through the air. The blinding blizzard suddenly veered away from them forming a bubble of still air about a hundred feet across. Dalgmar gasped. There were hundred, perhaps even thousands of the grim gravestones poking out of the snow around them. It was a frozen graveyard. The gravity of the situation soon dawned on him.

“Grauhl has existed since the beginning of time…” he whispered softly. “An orc lives to be eighty summers at most.” His eyes switched to Samuel. “If he has been raiding and striking out through the ages, then his army is vast. Vaster than any mortal army this world has ever seen.”

Samuel turned his back to Dalgmar, gazing out to the largest monolith. “There are armies out there that would make even Grauhl pause.”

He strode towards the titanic monument. It was unlike the others. Only a single name was etched into it in big, bold orcish letters. Much larger than the others, it also contained a being within that stood frozen in the ice. Dalgmar instantly fell to his knees at the sight of the creature.

“It make so much sense now,” exclaimed the shaman. “Why the spirits cower and flee from Grauhl. Ordinarily they would never care for the affairs of mortals even one as cursed as the Orc First One. Even when the Triad ascended to godhood, they did not care.” He lifted his hands towards the creature entombed in the ice. “It is because of this… this… travesty!”

Samuel closed his eyes, bowing his head gravely. “Contrary to popular belief, the Old Gods did not create this world or this universe. It was created by this world’s Creator. She named this world Tirinead. Her first children were the Old Gods and she gave them Tirinead to reside within. In that age, the Old gods walked amongst men but they strove for more. They wanted to stand beside their mother. Omtariel, the God King, used his vast power to create another realm overlapping this one, the Etherealm, where all magic comes from. But as he created the Etherealm, some of the raw magical energies bled into this world, infusing every aspect of it. Some of these magical energies gained a form of consciousness and became the spirits that you revere. Dauldrin, the God of Smiths, eventually forged the Blackiron Gates that bars the Etherealm from Tirinead and the physical plane but some of these energies still bleed through and give birth to spirits.”

He gestured at the figure within the icy tower. “In those times, when the world itself was alive and in flux, the spirits cannibalised one another as they sought their place in the universe. The stronger spirits consumed lesser spirits and became the entities you now know as the Spirit Kings. Effectively, they are demigods. But even demigods are vulnerable to the strongest mortals. Knowing the cold and bitterness that Grauhl brought, Incarius, the Spirit King of the Northern Shore, sought to end his terror once and for all.”

“But instead, he was trapped within Grauhl’s rage and hatred,” Dalgmar finished. He immediately rose to his feet and let out a tremendous roar. “This cannot stand! We must free the Spirit King!”

“Exactly why I brought you here,” said the No One, glancing over his shoulder. “I can ask the ice to free Incarius but the Spirit King has lost the will to live and only desires the blissful release of death. Trapped under Grauhl’s might for millennia and sapped of his strength, this Spirit King is broken.”

“Can you not ask him to return?” asked a shaman.

“No. I can ask but only those whose will is weak will obey unquestioningly. Otherwise, everyone else has the choice to submit or not. I have tried but Incarius will not heed my call. However, you shamans have the power to infuse within him the will to live once more. Call to him.” Samuel spread his arms wide, his starry cloak fluttering behind him. “Show him that this world is worth defending and as a Spirit King, it is his duty to see it renewed!”

Dalgmar slammed his staff into the snow. “Brothers! We call to the Spirit King! We are the Thunder Callers! Let us bring the might of storm, earth and fire to Incarius!”

As one, the shamans began chanting. The blizzard around them began to roil angrily. Grauhl had sensed their presence. But the shamans had begun their ritual. Spirits, fearful of the frozen north, heard their call even so far away from the mainland. The deep connection the shamans held with their spirits was strong and upon hearing of Incarius’ imprisonment, they rushed to help.

The earth shook beneath their feet. Dark clouds gathered above them and lightning crackled ominously through the blizzard. The snow split in great cracks. Fiery magma spilled upwards in great geysers. Tremendous bolts of lightning fell from the sky, slamming into the icy monoliths around them, shattering them completely. A deafening roar of an orc bellowed through the snow but its owner could not cross into the bubble Samuel had created.

As the spirits raged around them, all of them calling to Incarius to awaken, the Spirit King stirred. The enormous creature, more than forty feet tall, squirmed in the ice. Touched by the display of loyalty from his fellow spirits and the orcs that called to him, Incarius opened his eyes. At first, they were just a dull, pale blue but as his will to live was reignited, a brilliant blue light sprang from them.

“Free me!” bellowed the Spirit King_. “Free me and I swear to be the patron of the orcs! I shall be their guardian, their spear, their herald and their guide! We shall restore the Gods and oust the usurpers!”_

Samuel lowered his hands. He smiled and for the first time since they arrived in this frozen hell, a chill went down the spines of the shamans.

“Can you complain of this, Garodrash?”

He clicked his fingers.

The icy tomb shattered in a single deafening crash.

Incarius, Spirit King of the Northern Shore, broke free. His tremendous form appeared mostly human from the waist up. A lean, muscled frame with bright, bluish green skin covered in crags of ice that sprang from his flesh as naturally as an orc would grow hair. He had such crags springing from his elbows and had a crest across his broad chest. The long, flowing beard that he bore was an icy blue as well as was the long mane of hair that rolled down his back and spine. The lower half of his body, however, was distinctly that of an animal’s. Much like a centaur, Incarius’ lower half was quadrupedal while his upper half was bipedal. However, the front two legs bore the strong paws of a wolf or canine creature while the rear legs were hoofed like a deer’s. A tail of ethereal blue fire sprang from just behind his muscled rump.

“I am free!” bellowed the Spirit King, rearing back on his hind legs. “Woe unto those who would harm the orcs!”

As he slammed his paws back onto the ground, bright blue wisps of light danced out from his body, seeping into the chanting shamans. The shamans gasped as the Spirit King’s essence filled them, changing them. The tattoos all over their bodies began to emit a bright, blue glow and their golden eyes began to emit the same light; their white sclera shining with the divine light, a stark contrast against their yellow irises. Their flesh, already slightly blue, began to turn a deeper shade, appearing more aquamarine than green.

“Your tribe have done me a great service, chieftain. I offer you my power. Call and I shall come to your aid. You have the protection and guidance of Incarius.”

The mighty demigod reared back with a triumphant cry. His form erupted into a swirl of blue lights that streaked into the sky, vanishing from the grasp of Grauhl.

Samuel turned and swept a hand through the air. Another portal sprang up behind them and the shamans, exhausted from their ordeal, scrambled through. Samuel was a step behind them but before he passed through, he bent down and seized a crystal shard that had once been Incarius’ tomb.

Again, the world was a swirl of colours but instead of appearing back in Dalgmar’s home, he instead stepped into a lavished office filled with glistening, velvety banners, several bookshelves with dozens of tomes and far too many golden decorations to really fit the taste of a traditional orc.

It was Ramdrud’s office.

The Spymaster looked up and started upon his appearance.

“Has anyone ever told you that you would make for a fine assassin?”

“I have been such in more than one incarnation,” Samuel answered with a shrug. He looked to the document that Ramdrud had been poring over. “Writing to allies for aid?”

“News of Grauhl’s coming is somewhat disturbing,” answered the bald orc. “I fear our country would soon be buried under a wave of snow before it even sprouted its first seedling.”

“Do you have so little faith in your own people?”

Ramdrud set down his quill. “Faith is one thing.” He lifted the book. “Statistics and figures are another.” The book fell from his hands with a whump. “We have a large number of able fighters but were are trapped. Once Grauhl makes landfall, our only hope is to defend. We have nowhere else to run. I am already considering moving as many non-combatants to other nations but after what happened at Paristead, I doubt the orcs would be willing to evacuate.”

“They would not. They would rather die fighting than be prone and die helpless.”

The human-turned-orc sighed and ran a hand over his bald head. “I thought as much.” He chuckled softly. “Though it is somewhat a bitter irony. Now that I have this body, I share their enthusiasm to fight. I do not wish to see all that Bhotanmar has become in the few months we have been here reduced to rubble.” He leaned into his chair, rubbing his chin gently as he looked distantly out the open window. “There would have been a time that I would have cut my losses and run. But now…”

He gave Samuel a crooked smile. “Is there any chance you could cast some spell that would grant me the same fighting skills that Knaatl or perhaps Oringruud bear so that I may at least die with a sword in my hand instead of cowering in this office?”

“No.” Samuel then held up the shard of ice he held. “But perhaps I can offer you something better.”

The shard began to morph and twist. Slightly bigger than his hand, it stretched and lengthened, obtaining a rather beautifully crafted twisting, vine-like appearance. The ice transformed into solid crystal, warm to the touch instead of freezing and cold. A bird’s cry erupted from the window and Ramdrud turned in surprise as a brilliant, white bird swept in. It landed on the top of the sceptre where it immediately spread its wings. Flesh and feathers transformed into the same icy blue stone as the rest of the sceptre, its eyes glistening a bright red like rubies.

Samuel then placed the artefact on Ramdrud’s table.

“I give you Wingrace,” said the No One. “With it, you can send out the bird and spy on your enemies’ formations, their tactics and their conspiracies. You can send messages faster than the wind can blow. In dire times…” Samuel gripped the base of the sceptre and pulled at it, revealing a blue dagger. “… a blade can be drawn that will light your path even when your eyes fail you.”

He returned the dagger and pushed the sceptre towards Ramdrud. Another portal appeared behind him. “Fight to your strengths, Ramdrud. Do not fight like the orc that you appear to be. Fight like the man you are.”

The orc watched as the No One turned to leave, another rift appearing in the middle of his office.

“Sometimes I wonder what it is that you see, Samuel,” said the Spymaster. “What I would not give to have your vision; to know what my enemies are plotting, to see the inner most thoughts of friends and the paths that the future has for me.”

Samuel stopped just short of the rift. When he turned to glance over his shoulders, Ramdrud froze at the sight of his start-shaped pupils.

“These eyes are not meant for those with a story yet to tell.”

With those enigmatic words, the No One stepped through the tear in space and to his final destination.

Amthos was sitting quietly on a bench. Perched on a balcony overlooking all of Bhotanmar, the Avatar gently ran his hand over Winterpaw’s fur. The King of Wargs rested his head on the Avatar’s lap, just waiting, listening, watching and forever being the Amthos’ guardian. Winterpaw noticed Samuel first as he arrived and perched himself up, bowing his head in respect to the No One.

“Even the King of Wargs bows to you,” Amthos laughed softly. “Were that he could tell me exactly who or what you are.”

“Are you opposed to my presence?” Samuel asked.

“No. Just that I have come to be reliant on it.” Amthos shuffled along the bench and gestured at the seat beside him. Samuel took it, his armour silent despite being made of metal. “I suspect you have already made your rounds and started working to ensure Grauhl will fail?”

“I can only set the pieces into place and offer help that can be accepted or rejected. This is not my story but I can still have my say in how it is told.”

“So you say.” Amthos sighed softly and gently stroked Winterpaw’s fur. The Warg nuzzled his hand affectionately. “Were I to abdicate and hand this non-existent crown to you, would the orcs oppose?”

“No. Many consider either I or Ramdrud to be better rulers than you. Most of Frost most vocal amongst them.”

“I thought as much,” said the Avatar sullenly. “When the Old Gods bestowed this power upon me, I was so thrilled and enthusiastic. However, now that I am here, facing the dangers of the world, I feel the eyes of the Gods on me and with them, the eyes of legendary foes like Grauhl. I yearn for simpler times.”

“A good ruler often does.”

“Is that so?” Amthos asked, glancing towards Samuel. “Do you speak from experience?”

Samuel paused for a moment, considering his next words. “Amongst my kind, I am considered the leader.”

“There are more of you?”

“Thirteen. There are thirteen No Ones. Underneath each No One are our Advocates; people whom we have assisted but who refuse to take their stories into their own hands and wish instead to assist the rest of us in aiding others.”

“And what separates a No One from an Advocate?”

“Advocates can still take their own tales at any time they wish. Perhaps they venture that they simply need more experience before they can settle down and take full responsibility of everything they do. A No One has committed themselves to the service of others completely and utterly. Our stories have ended and now we have decided to live the rest of our tale past the last page of the book within the paragraphs of others’ tales. We are not a side character. We are not a minor protagonist, a major antagonist or a passing fancy. We are no one.”

Amthos gave him a sullen look. “That seems a miserable existence.”

Samuel let out a soft chuckle. “And yet it is for existence that we do this.”

The Avatar gave out a soft, confused noise. “What does that mean?”

“Perhaps one day I shall tell you. However…” He reached out and gently clasped Amthos’ hand. “… take it from a ‘leader’. True leaders are not chosen. True leaders are not born. A true leader shines when he is needed not because others thrust him into the position. They are forged and not born. One cannot expect to become a leader overnight. No matter how many eyes look to you to lead by example, you can only follow your own path. Whether that path requires you to lead people or manipulate them, to sacrifice or the save, to slaughter or to spare is up to you. Do what is good for you.

“If you wish to abdicate your crown and retreat to the countryside as a farmer or a hunter, do so. That will be the path you choose and you must live with the consequences. Just as staying here and remaining as the Avatar will require you to face great trials, harsh tribulations and painful loss. The choice will always be yours. No one else’s. Never believe for once that you are forced to do something. Even if you were cornered, you have the chance to fight. Even should a man threaten your family, you have the choice of taking his ultimatum or not.” The No One smiled and Amthos felt that chill run down his spine. “Even should a No One ask, it is always within your capacity to obey or defy.”

Amthos smiled thinly. “I just assumed my story would be far simpler than this.”

“Any tale worth telling is seldom so simple.” Samuel glanced towards Amthos. “Speaking of complexities, I will be meeting your brother, Luxaeus, on our trip to save Ruven. If I were to tell him something, anything, that would convince him you were alive, what would it be?”

The Avatar was suddenly very tense. “Luxaeus…” He frowned, brow furrowing in worry. “I… do not know…” Then a memory sparked in his mind. “No wait… I do know.”

Samuel nodded.

“Then tell me and pray that when we meet, he will choose to believe me.”

******

Clandestine meetings were not Ruven’s forte and he could not muster enough arcane energy to hide himself from sight or sound but his determination to know the fate of Mrakon was strong enough for him to risk getting caught. He swept through the dark halls with only faint, flickering torches as lights. Raonoak’s Northrock Golems lumbered through the halls, their thunderous footsteps shaking the tiled floors beneath his feet. Their eerie, purplish eyes were like spotlights that swept throughout the halls.

Bigger than any man at ten feet tall, the Golems were the renowned construction of Arben Reinhardt. Built during the War of Apotheosis, the Golems were initially powered by arcane magic that needed to be provided by mages. Now, they were infused by the Holy Triad’s divine will and were completely invulnerable to damage and harm. No magic or weapon could damage their black surfaces or chip the golden bands that wrapped around their forms with parchments of holy scripture bound to them complete with wax seals. They were Raonoak’s pride and joy and one of the reasons that the city served as the capital of the northern territory. Their only weakness was their lack of free will and that they were ponderous. Against a highly mobile army, the Golems could hold a wall but would never be able to catch their attackers.

Ruven had to sneak around them as he hurried to the meeting spot, a garden at the rear of the Tower of War. There, Orradin was hiding beneath a tree, shrouded in a black cloak. The fledgling mage hurried over to the hero, a tome in his hand.

“What did you learn?” asked the blonde man.

“Something grave,” answered Ruven. “Grauhl is either some sort of immortal orc an orc hero made during the War of Apotheosis.”

Orradin looked worried. “There are no orc heroes. All heroes are either human, elf or dwarf.”

“Perhaps.” Ruven opened the tome in his hand. “This is an account from Doctor Arthesim. He was the one that treated the man who returned from Cald-Harun. He delved deep into the patient’s mind and saw something terrible.” He looked to Orradin in fear. “He claimed that there was a mighty orc, bigger than any ever before, clad in icy armour and leading an army of the dead. They came on ancient longships, sweeping through the harbour of Cald-Harun. They sprang from everywhere and slaughtered everything and everyone in their path. Worse, those that fell had the flesh stripped from their bones and those very skeletons turned to ice. Then they rose again, picked up their weapons and joined the undead.”

“Preposterous…”

“Is it?” whispered Ruven. “Do you remember Qurron’s prophecy? Rumours of the Unholy Trinity continue to spread, milord. Qurron spoke of an army of the dead rising and a mechanical black horse attacking Trispire.”

“But a White Woman was the one that breathed life to the dead.”

“What if it is merely an analogy?” countered Ruven. He ran a finger over the texts in front of him. “The patient mentioned that before the dead came to strike at their stronghold, an unnatural blizzard arrived that froze their crops, doused all their flames and killed the sick and weak outright. What if the ‘White Woman’ is this blizzard?”

Orradin was silent for a long moment. Even though it was dark, Ruven could see the fear and worry on the hero’s face. This was a man who was built to fight the orcs not some sort of divine prophecy that was to come true. He was a simple man who had used his God-given gifts to fight for the Alliance, merely swinging his axe with little thought. It would have been the thinkers such as Noraduil and Qurron who told him who to swing at and how.

“What else?”

“Little else on Cald-Harun I’m afraid,” answered Ruven. “I know vaguely where it is. A valley on the northern shore of the continent that opens up to the sea. But the northern shore is not fully explored and stretches of hundreds of miles.”

“Could Grauhl be gathering the orcs…?” Orradin mused to himself. “Is that why the orcs are fleeing north?”

Though he did not want to truly interrupt the hero, Ruven cleared his throat, catching Orradin’s attention. “I have heard rumours of other ‘prophecies’ from the other regions as well. Several Wizards and Priests have had varying visions send by the Holy Triad. All involve the Unholy Trinity. Not all of them have the dead rising or an army being led against Trispire. However, they all end with the Star-Eyed Wolf devouring the Triad.”

The hero scoffed and waved a hand. “I care not for the delusional ramblings of prophets and sorcerers. What else?”

Ruven shook his head grimly. “That is all I have learned.” Then he looked steely at Orradin, trying to hide the impatience in his voice. “Now your end of the bargain. What happened to Vramscheit? What happened to Mrakon?”

The tall, blonde hero gave him a sympathetic look and his heart immediately fell. “I am sorry, mage. Vramscheit is no more. It has been sacked.”

The swap land clerk seized the rims of the hero’s cloak. “Sacked!? By whom!?”

“It was not said in the reports. Only that everything was burned. There were no bodies left behind. Everything of worth was taken.”

“But you did not see it yourself?”

Orradin swatted Ruven’s hands away. “Of course not. The moment I leave these walls, Qurron will be reporting to his master, Eranius, and likely have me dragged back and locked in my room like a petulant child.” He crossed his mighty arms with a sneer. “I would rather preserve what little dignity I have left before I am proved right and the orcs come to pillage and kill us all.”

Ruven thought quickly. “If I could find a way out of Raonoak without you being detected, will you take me to Vramscheit?”

Two blonde eyebrows rose in curiosity. “You have a way?”

“I might. Give me to tomorrow to discern the truth of the matter.” He locked gazes with the Greenslayer. “Will you take me?”

Orradin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, blue eyes darting back and forth in thought. “Very well. I shall. I would like to see these ruins myself. It is my opinion Eranius hushes all involvement of orcs from me in order to avoid causing panic.”

Ruven had to agree with Eranius’ tactics. Should Raonoak know of constant orc raids and that little was being done for it, the people would revolt. After the Lord-Knight had presided over a month of publically executing Greenskin Sympathisers, it would be seen a cowardly act. Many would even flock to the orcs believing that they were in the right for striking back at those that only felt pity for them.

But he did not care for politics.

He wanted to know the truth about Mrakon.

“Agreed.”

******

Taking the jumps through the portals crafted by the shamans was incredibly disorienting. Arnmok fought hard to keep his stomach still after so many jumps across the Fangs of the World and to select locations across the north. What would’ve taken weeks of travel was accomplished in mere hours and by the time the sun had set, they had passed Whitepeak and were now deep within the forests of the north, quietly stalking their way to Raonoak. They made a cold camp that night and drew nourishment from the food that Samuel produced from his pack and wineskin.

Arnmok regarded the No One cautiously as the mage-knight handed him a leg of ham. “Ya got a minute?” he grunted.

“Of course,” Samuel replied, sitting in the dirt beside the Red Orc. “What troubles your mind?”

They had taken a band of ten including himself, Samuel and Knaatl on this small expedition. Winterpaw made the eleventh member and Veronica, Samuel’s steed, the twelfth but they were still a very small band. That compelled them to stay close and huddle together. Even then, the Nightusks made an effort to keep a fair distance from Arnmok. Samuel, sitting a foot away from him, was the closest anyone had gotten the entire trip.

“Ah heard th’ mages can detect magic. Why ain’t we getting’ picked off by magical fire an’ such?”

It was not the question he had hoped to ask but it was a good way to bore the others around him and potentially have them turn away or sleep. However, none of the Nightusks were magic users and they were all genuinely curious how the portal spells managed to avoid detection from the College of Mages or the Priesthood.

“An excellent question,” Samuel responded. “The Alliance Mages have means to detect magic above a certain limit. The portal spells do not bridge that limit.”

“How? When ya rescued me, ya had a hundred orcs with ya an’ ya transported ‘em all inna instant. Ain’t that a lotta magic?”

“Actually, no. You see, the portal spell merely created a rift between two places. That is not very expensive. Teleporting one person to another place does take a lot but the portals do not. The costs and magical imprint is cut further in half by the fact that there are two magic users conducting the spell, one at the source and one at the destination. If the effort to open the portal was maintained only from one end, then the mages would know of us. But that is not so.”

“So ya divide th’ effort b’tween two mages?”

“Yes.”

The Nightusks were still looking upon him suspiciously so he had to lengthen the conversation a little more. “How’s th’ spell e’vn work? Ain’t shamans all ‘bout spirits an’ sumsuch? Th’ portals look arcane.”

Samuel seemed surprised. “How refreshing. You can tell the difference between spiritual energies and the arcane?”

Arnmok shrugged. “I dunno ‘bout that. Alls Ah know is shamans dun use th’ same kinda magic as th’ Wizard.”

“True. True. Well, to answer your question I must see what you know of the seven Spheres of Magic. Do you know of them?”

This was exactly the kind of boring magical technical jargon Arnmok was hoping for. Having endured Ruven’s lectures and speeches of some boring subject matter or the other back when he was just a human, he had developed a tolerance to verbose explanations.

Feigning enthusiasm, Arnmok said, “‘Fraid not. What are they?”

So Samuel proceeded to tell him of the Seven Spheres. While he was tempted to slip back into just tuning out the lecture, he kept himself aware just in case the No One asked him a question.

At the forefront of the Seven Spheres was Arcane Magic. Derived from the Etherealm, a parallel plane that infused magic into all things, Arcane dealt with the raw essences of magic and the world. Its use required practitioners to have an immense level of focus and knowledge of the spell that they were hoping to work or else they could unleash untold consequences.

“In aged gone by, the goal of every Arcane Wizard was to give themselves up to the Omnispell.”

That caught Arnmok’s attention. “Th’ what?”

He felt Samuel smile. That was when he noticed that the other Nightusks were also listening in intently at the explanation. It seemed that the No One had deduced his intentions.

“The spells that Wizards call upon do not simply come out of nothing, you know.” He lifted a finger. “Think of the first spell that comes to mind. Any spell.” He turned to the others. “Come on. What spell do you know pops into your head right now?”

“Fireball,” Knaatl grunted.

Arnmok jumped slightly. He had not noticed that the chieftain was standing right behind him, arm crossed.

“A good example. The fact is, the traditional fireball spell is actually called ‘Firamin’s Ball of Fire’. However, eons of use and refinement had crafted it into simpler terms, ‘fireball’. Firamin was the wizard who first learned how to manipulate the arcane energies of the Etherealm to forge flames into a ball of flame and send it in a trajectory with it keeping its shape along the path. When he achieved absolute knowledge of that technique, he cast the Omnispell.”

“What is the Omnispell?” asked one of the Nightusks.

“It varies from wizard to wizard,” Samuels said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Ultimately, the Omnispell will use the very essence and knowledge of the wizard and join them with the Etherealm. They become the spell that they worked so hard to forge and in doing so make the spell readily available to everyone else. To the magical community, it is a great boon to have such a spell and to the wizard, it is a form of immortality and divinity.”

“So wizard will try to achieve a sorta godhood?” Arnmok asked. “Ain’t that against th’ teachings?”

“A reason why the Holy Triad condemns such practices. There have been no new spells since the Age of the Alliance. Indeed, Wizards are being phased out in favour of the Priests who used Divine magic. As its name suggests, Divine magic comes in the form of prayers that the gods bestow upon their followers. Whereas Arcane magic required absolute knowledge in the field, Divine magic required unwavering faith in your chosen deity for even the slightest fragment of doubt will risk the ire of your God. A prayer for healing could instead be a curse of pestilence.”

“An’ the Triad gives all th’ priests their spells?” he asked.

“Yes. In the time of the Old Gods, every God had their own prayers and could grant their different boons. However, now the Triad simply deals will the arts of light, shadow and darkness. All three grant spells of those alignments equally though to different effects. Malstraad always possesses offensive spells, Kordain is defensive and naturally, Illirodur’s boons always deal with stealth and subterfuge.”

Arnmok found himself unwittingly drawn into the explanation and inched forward more, leaning towards the No One. He was not the only orc to do the same.

“What ‘bout th’ shamans. What kinda magic do they use?”

“You know well enough,” said Samuel. “They rely on the spirits, drops of raw magic that gained a semi-sentience when they bled here from the Etherealm and inhabited every aspect of the world. Like Divine magic, shamans ask the spirits to do their bidding. While they are always at the whim of the spirits’ moods and opinions, spirits seldom deny a shaman. However, a spirit can only do what is originally within their influence and nothing more. A spirit of the storm, for example, cannot cause the earth to shake or a spirit of fire cannot freeze a water. Shamans will never ask a spirit to do something they cannot.”

“Is there a magic Sphere that does?” Knaatl asked. “Or is that Arcane?”

“No. Arcane draws upon the raw magic of the Etherealm. For a mage to manipulate the spirits into doing something against their will, that is Druidism.”

“Druids?” The chieftain looked puzzled. “Are they not the same as our shamans?”

“Not so. Shamans asks spirits to do their bidding. A Druid forces. They use a mix of arcane energies and spirit to force spirits into doing something that they would normally not do. They can cause fire to turn blue and freeze instead of burn. They can breathe life into trees and have them walk as men. Storms can rain acid upon the land and ice can spring up from the harshest, driest desert upon their command. This is, of course, far more taxing than shamanism as they must draw upon their own reserves of strength much like Wizards to cast spells instead of a shaman who merely uses something akin to prayer to the spirits.”

“What of the other Spheres?” Knaatl asked, sitting down beside Arnmok. The presence of the chieftain made the Red Orc nervous. “I know there is the Celestial Magic of the tiger-men.”

“Ah…” There, Samuel’s voice grew grim. “Celestial Magic is very… difficult. You see, spirits exist all around us. In the trees, rocks, fire and the very air we breathe. As such, there are spirits of many great things… including the very stars themselves. These stars are incapable of sustaining life and look upon Tirinead with jealousy, hatred, disgust or maybe even curiosity. Few gaze upon this planet with benevolence such as the sun and moon. Celestial mages beseech the spirits of these stars to cast great and mighty spells. They have the potential to cast the most powerful of spells on the planet but are always at risk of corruption from the stars. Each spell cast runs the risk of being possessed by the star they are calling upon. In an instant, a Celestial mage could become the harbinger of a dying star, eager to devour life to prolong its own. Or perhaps they become the herald of a newborn star, curious of this world and not knowing how its very presence pollutes and destroys.”

Arnmok shuddered. “Ah remember one o’ those bastards, th’ Starchildren, came ta my home once. Bastard nearly burned ev’rythin’ down… Took a whole battalion from th’ Holy Inquisition ta kill it.”

“They are that dangerous,” agreed Samuel.

“An th’ final two Spheres?” Arnmok asked.

Samuel looked around. “I think it best we stop here. We have a long ride tomorrow. Perhaps another time.”

“Ah ain’t tired,” Arnmok said.

Knaatl’s big hand fell on his shoulder. “Then how about you come and take first watch with me? Put that energy to good use.”

Arnmok’s heart sank but he could see no way to reject the chieftain’s request. “Fine.”

While the rest of the small group settled in to rest, Arnmok stood and positioned himself beside Knaatl as the two of them gazed out into the darkness, keeping watch for any movement or hostiles. Neither of them spoke for a good long though occasionally, Arnmok could feel the gaze of the chieftain on him, making his skin crawl.

Eventually, he had enough of the baleful air.

“What’s yer problem with me?” he growled softly so only Knaatl could hear. “Yeah, Ah usedta rip out the teeth o’ sympathisers. From what Ah heard, ya wus a bandit. Ya ain’t any better.”

Knaatl snorted softly and turned his gaze away. “You are just like the weapon that you wield.”

“Wussat suppoed ta mean?” Arnmok demanded hotly.

“You are a spear.” Knaatl fixed him with a firm gaze. “You are just made to be thrown and to attack. Nothing more. You find the next thing to assault and think of nothing else. Back then, it was filling your life with hatred of the orcs. Now, it is saving your friend. You do not even think to consider the consequences of that act.” He turned away again, scowling softly. “It is pathetic.”

“Savin’ another man ain’t worthless.”

“I never said it was.” Knaatl gestured behind him, at the other slumbering Nightusks, Samuel and their mounts. “But is it worth the exchange of their lives? Think of it, Arnmok. Did you even once acknowledge or thank them for what is essentially your quest? Do you not think that they would be better served helping Bhotanmar build their defences against Grauhl.”

The Red Orc’s heart jumped to his throat. As Knaatl had said, he had not considered that. These men were risking their lives for him and Ruven yet not once had he even spoken to them. Their names remained unknown to him and he led blindly deep into Alliance lands in the hopes of finding his friend.

“I see you understand my point,” growled Knaatl. “It is exactly that point that I despise you for. You rush blindly at your task. You do not think of what path it will lead. You are an animal. It is the same with Oringruud’s offer. Make you his ‘heir’ and have you lead the Blood Claws for you are not bound by honour to assist Amthos.”

“Does ev’ryone know o’ that?” scowled Arnmok.

“Ramdrud has spies everywhere even amongst the Blood Claws. Further, you Blood Claws ride Wargs. Winterpaw is the King of Wargs and he constantly converses with Samuel. The testimony of Ramdrud and the No One is enough.”

“Then why dun ya jus’ kill me right now?”

Knaatl set his jaw and in the deep darkness, he could see the dark-haired orc looking a little furiously towards the north. “Believe me, I would but that spear of yours prevents that.”

Arnmok looked to Bloodspear and then back to Knaatl. “What’s Bloodspear got ta do with this?”

The Nightusk chieftain rolled his eyes. “You truly are dense.” He poked the side of Arnmok’s head with a finger. “You possess the spear. It was granted to you by right of combat. Anyone who tries to steal it from you would be branded dishonourable.” He turned away, crossing his arms with a huff. “And Amthos thinks that a spear that will do no physical harm but will make a man angry is a valuable tool in the oncoming war against the Alliance. That is the only reason you yet live.”

He glanced to his spear and then cast a brief look to where Samuel lay, flat on his back and looking nothing more than a suit of empty armour. Even if he had won the battle back at Bhotanmar and turned into an orc, without this spear someone might have slain him. Knaat’s entire tribe was built around subterfuge and stealth. Would it have been so impossible that he could have sent someone to kill him? The only thing keeping him from dying was his possession of Bloodspear.

Then he turned back to Knaatl. “Look, Ah ain’t perfect. Yer not either.”

“I never claimed to be.”

“That ain’t what Ah meant.” Arnmok shook his head. “Look, I get it. Yer in love with th’ Avatar. Ya want ta defend ‘im so he dun turn out like yer other lover, Findain.”

Knaatl instantly tensed and spun angrily towards the Red Orc. “Where did you hear of that?”

Unwilling to back down, Arnmok lifted his chin defiantly. “Ev’ryone knows, ‘bout Findain. Is why ya guard Amthos so much. Ya dun wanna lose ‘im like ya lost yer fuckbuddy.”

Arnmok suddenly found the Nightusk’s big hands on the collar of his leather armour.

“You do not get to speak of Findain like that!” snarled Knaatl. “He was not my fuckbuddy. He was…” Knaatl trailed off and pushed Arnmok away. “I’ll not dignify your insults with any more of a response.”

The break in the chieftain’s cool was oddly satisfying to the Blood Claw heir. “Ya tell me Ah’m nothin’ but an animal. But yer th’ one still lickin’ yer wounds afta all this time.”

Knaatl’s golden eyes narrowed at him. “You tread on dangerous waters, Blood Claw. Care not to stir the inhabitants.” He ran a finger over the curve of his bow. “I am sure if you know about Findain, you know about Duskvenom’s properties.”

He had heard. The bow was already legendary amongst the orcs even so soon after the founding of Bhotanmar. A single arrow had toppled a menacing icy construct built by a former hero of the Alliance. Its arrows could pierce any armour at night and its venom would kill anything it touched. Against Bloodspear, Arnmok knew that he stood little chance against a man who was used to combat and fighting for survival.

Common sense dictated that he not aggravate Knaatl further but his pride demanded otherwise.

“Ah ain’t afraid of ya. Cuz yer jus’ like me.”

Knaat’s eyes blazed and he immediately started to draw an arrow from his quiver. “I am nothing like you.”

“Yeah?” Though taller in stature, Arnmok felt that Knaatl was infinitely stronger but he still puffed out his chest and faced the chieftain defiantly. “Ya say I cling ta my ol’ hatreds an’ just keep movin’ forward, not thinkin’ ‘bout who Ah hurt or use. Yer the same ‘cept ya jus’ keep focusin’ on what ya lost an’ never getting’ over it. Ya found sumthin’ ya like an’ yer not gonna let go o’ it ‘til yer dead.”

He leaned down, eyes levelled with Knaatl. “So tell me, chieftain. Which o’ us is worse? Th’ bull that keeps movin’ forward an’ carvin’ up th’ roads, not carin’ who he runs over? Or th’ dog that won’t move on from the corpse he’s guardin’ an’ tears inta anyone that even gets close?”

They were practically nose to nose, growling at one another and with lightning sparking between their fiery stares. Arnmok held onto Bloodspear tightly, knowing that he would never be able to harm the Nightusk with it. At the very least, a swipe might cause the orc to leap away on impulse alone. Then he reconsidered. Was keeping Knaatl as far away as possible actually a wise thing to do? At a range and in this darkness, Knaatl would have the advantage.

Knaatl snorted at him, blowing a blast of hot air right into his face.

“You are not worth the effort,” snarled the chieftain, backing away. With another huff, Knaatl turned and stormed to where the rest of the Nightusks were huddled. Arnmok became aware that their eyes were all on him and their hands were on their weapons.

He growled at them and turned his back, gazing out into the darkness. If they were going to kill him, they were going to kill their only lookout. The ultimatum was frail, he knew, he could think of little else to give him comfort in the cold night.

He was alone in this world. Bitterly, he realised that Oringruud was only using him for his weapon and position. Did he really care for him or was that fatherly affection just a façade? The only person that truly cared for him was Ruven.

And as he lifted his big, red hand to eye level… he wondered if his childhood friend would even recognise him…

… or forgive him.

******

The tunnel was created during the War of Apotheosis to smuggle people away from Mad King Hawk’s reign. Few knew of it and even fewer used it. Little wonder as the old wooden supports holding up the dirt ceiling were well and truly rotten and the air was fetid and stale. Ruven grew dizzy just striding through the tunnels and prayed he did not pass out he guided Orradin through darkness, a small globe of light in his hands – one of the few spells he could muster though with great difficulty.

“What is this tunnel?” asked the hero gruffly.

“It was a smuggler’s tunnel used during the tumultuous three years known as the Reign of the Mad Kings,” Ruven answered softly. He feared that even a loud shout would cause the walls to come tumbling down upon them.

“The what?”

“It was before your time. Before the Alliance came to be, this continent was divided into ten sovereignties. Each had their own ‘king’ and the land was known as the Ten Kingdoms instead of the united Alliance lands we know today. Mad King Hawk once ruled these lands from Hawkshollow.”

“I heard tales of that,” answered Orradin as he ducked beneath a low, broken beam. “He was pushed back by the orcs here to the edges of his domain. It was said the loss of his castle drove him mad. Was his reign truly that terrible?”

“From all accounts. He wanted to lead all the orcs into Raonoak and then set the entire city alight with fire. He even purposefully strung up people on the sides of the roads trying to lead the orcs to the city. Innocent or guilty, it did not matter. His Hawksguard would abduct anyone from the streets to be used in the Mad King’s schemes.”

Though he was only a child during those times, Ruven had heard tales of terror from his parents and other villagers in Werrshreidt. Though at the time, the swamp town was part of another kingdom, Hawksguard often raided the outlying lands in an attempt to fuel their war machine. There were horror stories of King Hawk resorting to the darker sides of Necromancy and Alchemy to constantly keep his Hawksguard alive despite grievous injury and to grant them supernatural strength and endurance. Other tales suggested that the Hawksguard were those that were kidnapped and transformed into undyingly loyal soldiers for the Mad King. Rumours said no one had ever seen the face of a Hawksguard and the sight of their bird-shaped helms approaching could freeze a man in fear the moment they came in sight.

“How did you come by knowledge of these tunnels?” Orradin asked.

Ruven, cloak over his shoulders and a hood over his head, lifted the globe of light in his hands to further illuminate the tunnels. There was a fork in the path. The left led out of the city and the right led to the market district. “Books and rumours. A few initiates would chatter about them and the legends of these tunnels is a fascinating topic for the avid researcher. I know one particular history enthusiast who would go on for hours on this very topic.”

“You risk much. Those initiates or that research might speak to Qurron.”

“Master Qurron is busy with his own research,” Ruven murmured softly. “His eyes are firmly set on separating tales from fact the Unholy Trinity.”

Orradin’s strong, calloused hand fell on his shoulder and turned him slightly. “You realise that it is at least two weeks travel on foot to Vramscheit. You will be discovered to be long gone before then. The brand of traitor or worse, Greenskin Sympathiser, will fall upon your head.”

“I am aware.” The mage shrugged off Orradin’s hand and continued forward. “But Mrakon was my boyhood friend. He is a brash, uncompromising fool but one who always had my support as he supported me. I swore to him that I would save him. I always keep my word.”

“Did you not swear an oath to the Holy Triad to serve them and dedicate your wizarding arts to their cause?”

“I am but an initiate for a few months. Only those with true magical talent would have to make such an oath.” He then pointed to the left path. “Come. This way.”

The hero chuckled at him. “By that light you hold between your fingers, you possess more magical talent than I.”

Ruven offered a wry smile that went unseen in the darkness. “I thought all you heroes possessed some degree of magic in your veins.”

“Perhaps in the days of the Old Gods but not now. The magic that made us was bled from us by the Holy Triad and the New Gods do not answer our prayers for we are products of the old pantheon.” Orradin shrugged his broad shoulders. “But some things the Triad could not take form us. Our health and slow aging for one.”

“Would that everyone were so fortunate.”

Orradin let out a thoughtful noise as they headed through the tunnels. Both paused for a moment as dust descended from above them. They were so close to the surface that even the passage of people on the streets risked the collapse of the tunnel. Though the wood was rotten and covered in green moss, it somehow remained strong and held up the structure of the passageway. Ruven waved a hand forward but as he did so, the globe he held flickered and died.

“Of all the luck…” he cursed. “I apologise, milord. This may take a moment. I am not so skilled at the magical arts as others my age.”

“Age had nothing to do with magical skill,” Orradin rested a hand on Ruven’s shoulder encouragingly. “Magic is knowledge. You have the knowledge. Use it.”

Ruven let out a short laugh as he held both hands in front of him, about half a foot apart. “I have the knowledge, yes, but not the magical talent that Master Qurron believes. He continuously tells me to ‘trust my instincts’ but my instincts were developed over years of being a measly clerk in a swamp town. Magic to me is unnatural.” His brow furrowed as he muttered the incantation for the spell to create the light. Energy trickled towards a central point between his hand slowly in the form of tiny specks of light like fireflies gathering together.

“You sound like an orc shaman.”

The comparison shocked the mage and he lost his concentration and the light he was producing. “How do you mean?” he asked, regaining his composure and beginning again.

“Orcs practice shamanism,” explained Orradin. “They do not have the rigorous training or incantations that you would have as a mage. They have chants that are designed to appease the whimsical temperaments of their ‘spirits’ but little else. To them, the arcane arts that the Wizards employ is ‘unnatural’. Their ‘instincts’ drive them to rely solely on the humours of some non-existent ethereal beings.”

Ruven was unable to reply as he uttered the incantation for the third time in a row. Most initiates could summon the globe in a single invocation and master mages like Qurron had to think it and the light would appear. But Ruven had to recite the spell over and over again to get the magic to work.

“You wonder how I know so much about orcs,” Orradin mused. Ruven could only shrug. “I was trained by an orc.”

The revelation almost caused Ruven to lose concentration again but he powered through it, forcing himself to focus and keep the light going.

“His name was Jakmur. An old bastard. A slave and one captured by the Alliance forces. I was brought here after Hawk fell and I was already under the command of Eranius. I am sure our dear Lord-Knight wanted me to learn more about how the orcs fought and their tactics. To fight one’s enemy one must know one’s enemy, I suppose. So he traded the orc’s life for my training. As long as Jakmur had something to teach me, he would live.

“The filthy Greenskin was brutal. I was naught but a three-year-old child and he would throw me into cold pools of water, trying to drown me under the pretence of teaching me how to ‘swim’. He would tie rocks to my ankles and force me to keep my head over the surface. I would often wake being cared for a nurse after having my lungs pumped of water. When I was old enough to wield a sword, he would spar with me from sun up to well past sun down. I was not allowed a light in my room and I slept on little but a bale of hay until I was sixteen years of age.”

The spell finally came to fruition and Ruven let out a gasp as the globe sprang back to life. “Ah, there.” He held up the light and smiled to himself. “What happened then?” he asked Orradin, continuing their track. When he did not hear Orradin’s heavy footsteps behind him, he turned and found the hero lost in thought.

“I killed him,” Orradin snarled. “I still remember that day. We were sparring like any other day with true steel. My abilities and powers were developing and I was already stronger than him but every day until then, he had always managed to beat me. This one day was different, though. I was tired and merely wanted to rest but he kept throwing insults my way, calling me a worthless excuse for a hero, a shame to my family and a pathetic excuse for a human. My fury fuelled my arm and I swung at him. I shattered his sword and mine.”

Orradin gestured at the scar across his face, the one running horizontally across his features over his nose. “That is how I got this mark. But for him, the pieces of the blade sunk deep into his throat.” He grinned ruefully. “Perhaps it was divine providence or some mockery, but Jakmur fell that day. I still remember his bloodied grin when he told me that he had nothing else to teach me.” His grin faded into a scowl. “Then he told me he was proud of me.”

“You sound angered by that.”

“Of course I am!” Orradin shouted. “How dare he be proud of me? He would conceal his years of hatred for me and cruelty under a veil of some form of training?” The hero made a slicing gesture through the air. “No! He was just being cruel to a child! Nothing more! He was not some wise mentor or sagely trainer! Just a savage that was cornered and who took his frustrations on an innocent child!” Orradin crossed his arms, features twisted into a mask of hatred. “Little did he know that the child he crafted would be the bane of his entire race, the Greenslayer!”

Ruven kept his opinion to himself. But in his opinion, Jakmur had been done his job far too well. The orc had lived to his role perfectly. Eranius wanted Orradin to be a hero to bring down the orcs and Jakmur had not only instilled within the man combat training but a deep seated hatred for orcs. Though now he wondered what Orradin’s life would have been had he not been forged into a miserable, lonely man.

“Come. We are not far from the exit.”

“Wait.”

He stopped and turned back to the hero.

“I know that look,” said Orradin. “You think me a brute. Little better than the orcs that I slay.”

“No, milord. I –”

“Spare me your apologies and platitudes.” The Greenslayer waved a hand through the air. “I have endured that look my entire life and I have come to accept it.” His mighty shoulders sagged. “Qurron was right, however. I am a brute. I only search for the next battle. That is all I can do. I was forged for war. Crafted by the Old Gods to bring the Alliance across the continent. I know little else. I cannot change that.”

Orradin growled at himself and then hiked his chin at Ruven. “Pity me not. I am content with my lot in life. Now, we have somewhere to be. Lead the way, mage.”

Ruven bowed slightly to the hero.

“As you wish, milord.”

******

Knaatl stared angrily at where Arnmok sat, quietly eating the food provided to them by Samuel. The rest of his Nightusks were gathered around him and the Red Orc sat alone, away from the rest of them. His mind continued to replay the heated words they exchanged that night a few days ago. Over and over again, he denied that he and Arnmok were anything alike. His blood boiled at the thought that the cur would call him a ‘dog’ that pined over his dead master.

They were nothing alike.

“Do you hate him because of what he is or because who he reminds you of?”

Knaatl scowled as Samuel sat down beside him. “Not a good time, hel’Midar.”

The No One paused a moment. “Shamanism is divided into four subcategories,” he said at length. “Earth, Storm, Fire and Sea. While few shamans specialise in any one field, they nonetheless favour one category over the other. It is in one’s nature. For instance, one could argue that Urthak truly embodies the Earth for he is stoic, resolute in his ways and often slow to move. Undoubtedly, Oringruud would follow the ethos of Fire for he is hot tempered, brash but at the same time provides light and warmth.”

“Your point?” he growled.

“Though each shaman may favour one form of shamanism over the other, they are nonetheless capable of channelling and conversing with the other spirits of the other categories. This allows them to coexist with others who have differing favouritisms despite what may essentially be opposing personalities. Urthak and Oringruud were so close to forming an alliance against Amthos, after all.”

Knaatl set down his bow and turned to Samuel with an exasperated stare. “If you would lecture me, hel’Midar, do it swiftly. I have little patience as is.”

Oddly enough, Samuel was not looking at him but at the lone Arnmok. “If I were to hazard a guess, Arnmok embodies the traits of a shaman that would follow the course of Storm. As with the wind, he can only move forward and must be in constant motion. To stand still would be to die. A reason why when he was kept at Vramscheit, he nearly perished both physically and spiritually.”

“Were that we had left him there,” growled Knaatl. “Or better yet, he had died by a stray arrow.” He looked towards the Red Orc. “If I had stayed my hand against Oringruud…”

“He would be named another orc, become another Blood Claw warrior and never remember who he is. He would be as with the wind. Forever moving forward and never turning back.”

There, Knaatl frowned and turned back towards the No One. “You speak in contradictions, hel’Midar. If he is the wind then why did you restore his memories?”

He felt the No One smile. “Because there is only so many places in the world that the wind may blow and eventually, the same breeze will pass the same mountain, brush against the same tree or sweep over the same ocean. One can keep running for all eternity but the world is a finite space and he will eventually have to face his problems.”

“And you were helping him. How charitable of you.”

“Changing the topic,” Samuel said suddenly. “I like to think that you have the traits of one who follows the path of water. You are adaptive, you take things in stride and no matter the obstacle in your path, you will either find a way around it or through it.” Before Knaatl could take the compliment, Samuel held up a hand. “But, as with water, you always return to the same state in the end.”

He rolled his eyes and turned away. “I’ll not stand your lectures…”

“All waves recede and rise with the tides, Knaatl,” Samuel said. “All shamans may have their favouritisms but they can reach still converse with the other spirits. Perhaps you should be less like water and be a little more like wind.”

The chieftain rose and turned towards Samuel, striding backwards. “And I suppose the red-skinned bastard should be more like water and less like wind?” He applauded sarcastically. “A fine rhetoric, hel’Midar. But air cannot become water nor can water become air.”

“Clearly you have no grasp of principles of evaporation.”

Knaatl let out a short ‘bah’ and turned away. He stopped after a few steps are he realised he was just a few feet away from Arnmok. The Red Orc was looking straight at him, eyes half-closed and expecting him to say something.

Unwilling to show any signs of weakness, Knaatl said, “I suppose you heard all that.”

“Ya were ten feet from me. ‘course Ah heard it.”

Knaatl scowled. “I respect Samuel but he does not know everything. Ramdrud confided in me that…” He raised his voice so that the rest of his men and Samuel could hear. “… he did not plan on the attempted coup back at Greendawn by Oringruud or Urthak!”

“My dran’mok… tried to usurp Amthos’ throne?” Arnmok asked in surprise.

Surprised himself that Oringruud had not told his son how he came to support the Avatar, Knaatl could not help but grin a little. “Yes. Amthos and I went to slay the source of the Snow Elves, Noraduil. While we were gone, Oringruud tried to capitalise on his absence and tried to seize power. The No One…” He hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “… tossed Oringruud around like a doll and set a challenge for him. Should Amthos return in eight days, your dran’mok… will swear fealty to the Avatar. If not, Amthos will stand aside and let Oringruud be the warchief. Amthos returned in seven days.”

“An’ that is how he came ta bend a knee ta Amthos.”

Knaatl laughed, his trademark bellowing laugh. “And there you would be wrong. We all made the same assumption that because Amthos made it back to Greendawn earlier that Oringruud would be forced to stop his attempts at seizing power. Yet thanks to hel’Midar’s cunning, it was not so. The terms was that Amthos must return exactly at eight days. Since we returned in seven, technically Oringruud had won the challenge. But we had killed a hero and destroyed Snow Elves. If Oringruud took power on that, many would turn against him. Your dran’mok had no choice but to willingly swear fealty.”

Arnmok looked past Knaatl at Samuel and then back to the chieftain. “That’s…”

“Conniving?” Knaatl said with a grin. “I know. Only Ramdrud’s schemes are equally brutal.” His grin faded as he remembered he should be hating Arnmok. “But whilst the end result was beneficial to us, he did not plan it. He is not omniscient.” He flicked a finger between himself and the Red Orc. “He seems to believe that you should be more like me and I more like you. I think not.”

Arnmok scoffed and returned to polishing his spear. “Ah dun wanna be a stubborn dog like ya.”

“And I would rather die than be a short sighted drifter like you.” As much as Knaatl wanted to end the conversation there, he felt that the conversation had not fully ended. The ending was not satisfying to him. He sat down beside Arnmok and said, “So what next after we rescue your friend, Ruven?”

The Red Orc regarded his spear. “Ah dun know. Depend on if he believes me or not.”

“You could always fuck him and prove the point.”

He got a foul stare from Arnmok for that. “Ah dun like Ruven that way.”

“Ah, of course not. You would rather he buries his dick in you.”

Finally he got that spark of aggravation from Arnmok. “Ah ain’t no cocksucker.”

“No. We don’t call men who prefer dicks inside their asses cocksuckers.” He tapped his nose slyly. “You must really learn the terms if you are to be one of us.”

“Ah ain’t one o’ you!”

“Of course not.” He flicked Arnmok’s bicep. “Yer red.”

The Red Orc jumped to his feet angrily and turned away from him.

Now that was satisfying but Knaatl could not help but deliver one last, final blow.

“You best get used to being an orc, boy,” the chieftain shouted with a broad grin. “After all, if you are to be like the wind, there is no turning back and becoming human again!”

Arnmok stopped in his tracks. Slowly, the orc turned back towards Knaatl, his brow furrowed in thought and a look of realisation in his eyes.

“An’ there ain’t no bringin’ Findain back. ‘Cuz why wud a craven bastard who’d take his own life ‘cuz he dun wanna live a bandit go inta th’ arms o’ an orc?”

Something just snapped in Knaatl. The chieftain was instantly on his feet, letting out a tremendous roar. He tossed aside his bow and shrugged off his quiver. Arnmok did exactly the same with his spear and the two massive orcs collided in mid-air, grappling with one another and fists flying. Pain erupted from his cheeks and chest as Arnmok’s mighty fists pounded him and his knuckles bruised from the blows he dealt to the mighty Red Orc’s plate-like muscles all over his body.

They rolled in the dust, one orc gaining the advantage over the other as they tumbled across the cold camp. The other Nightusks jumped to their feet, cheering for their chieftain. No one cheered for Arnmok but the Red Orc still fought fiercely.

Knaatl lifted his leg, knee pressing up against the orc’s chest. With a grunt, he kicked the bigger orc off him. Fists bared, he roared and threw himself onto Arnmok. The Blood Claw heir suddenly leapt forward, head lowered. The air rushed out of Knaatl’s lungs as the orc’s head impacted with his diaphragm. Powerful arms seized his waist and carried him all the way to the nearest tree, his back slamming against the might trunk with a might crash. Fighting through the pain, Knaatl clasped his hands over his head and brought them crashing down against the base of Arnmok’s skull. The mighty Red Orc collapsed forward, dazed by the blow. Knaatl delivered a swift kick to his skull and brought his fists up ready to continue the fight.

Arnmok was on his feet a few moments later, growling and teeth bared. He grimaced as the tip of one of his tusks fell off leaving him with a somewhat blunted edge.

The Nightusk chieftain laughed mockingly. “A little more and you would be more human than before.”

For a moment, Arnmok regarded the shard of the tooth on the ground between his feet. Then he felt the edge of his tusk, wincing slightly at the wound.

Then the oddest thing happened.

He began to laugh.

Knaatl was puzzled at the sound but found it oddly… infectious. He too began to laugh. Arnmok fell back on his rump, howling in laughter. Tears began to form in Knaatl’s eyes and he collapsed onto his back, finding it incredibly hard to breathe. The rest of the Nightusks began to chuckle as well.

“Human!” howled Arnmok. “Ah… Ah cud be human!”

“Get over here and I’ll put out your tusks!” Knaatl laughed. “Then maybe you’d pass off as a human!”

“Ya’d haveta to somethin’ ‘bout my skin!”

“Maybe we can bring you back to your swamp and cover you in the shit of your home!”

“It was shithole! No one wud be there to tell if Ah wus human or orc!”

As the laughter began to die, the Nightusks helped the two orcs to their feet. Knaatl could not describe it. But he suddenly felt a kinship with Arnmok. He held out his hand and Arnmok seized it in a sign of brotherhood.

“We ain’t human no more,” grunted the Red Orc. “There ain’t no goin’ back.”

And that summed up the feeling Knaatl had felt. Wind or water, neither orc could go back to being human. They could only move forward.

He turned to Samuel even as he still held Arnmok’s hand. “You planned this, didn’t you?” His grin faded, however as Samuel was not regarding them, his eyes off to the distance. Everyone turned to him, the mirth fading.

“Actually,” said the No One dismissively. “I expected you both to join together in your mutual loathing of my manipulations and long-winded speeches. This is an acceptable outcome.”

Knaatl exchanged glances with Arnmok and they both approached Samuel.

“Something bothers you, hel’Midar.”

“Yes,” Samuel answered shortly, turning sharply with his starry cloak fluttering behind him. “We move. Now.”

“What?” asked Arnmok. “What’s happened?”

The mage-knight mounted Veronica in one, swift gesture. “Ruven has been tricked. Orradin Greenslayer has taken him to Vramscheit. If we do not get there fast, he will meet a fate worse than when you were imprisoned. Now ride!”

******

It was just as Orradin had claimed.

There was little of Vramscheit left. The mine still bore the ashes of when the buildings had been burned down. The mighty stone walls that had been designed to keep prisoners were shattered. Watchtowers that keep a keen eye on all the prisoners for rehabilitation were little more than blackened stakes in the ground. Tools and mining equipment were scattered all over the ground, snapped in two or broken beyond repair.

Ruven fell to his knees, gazing up at the ruins with tears in his eyes.

“No…”

Orradin rested a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, mage. But I told you that –”

He shrugged off the hero’s hand. “No. It is not over.” He rose to his feet and began to weave his hands through the air. “There is still something I can do.”

“If you aim to resurrect your friend –”

“Silence!” Ruven bellowed. “I need to concentrate.” He began to weave the magics, trusting his instincts and fuelling the spell with the emotions that whirled around in his chest. The fire of his heart burned brightly and reached into the very earth, seeped into the air and the light around them. Golden streams of light spilled out of his fingers, dancing along with his hands.

“Mage! There is nothing you can do for them!”

“Yes there is!” shouted Ruven. “I can discern the identity of the perpetrators!”

Orradin froze. “You can do that?”

“If I am allowed to concentrate!” Ruven snapped. He continued the spell. The lights from his hands spread, glowing brighter and brighter. The streams of light cuved through the air. They flooded together, forming shapes and outlines like the sketches of men.

Orradin’s eyes widened when the figures started to become clear.

“Orcs!” he declared. “I knew it!”

The siege of Vramscheit unveiled before them. Orcs astride Wargs leapt over the massive walls and opened the gates to let a larger force through. The guards were unable to stand against the immense force. The hero watched, eyes fixated on the huge orcs that dealt non-fatal blows to all the guards and freed the prisoners. They were larger than any orc he had ever faced before. Were these orcs from Grauhl?

There were so many of them as well.

His heart was pounding both in excitement and fear. The warrior in him yearned for a battle just like during the War of Apotheosis but another part of him realised he could not rely on his gifts from the gods anymore. Would he be able to stand toe to toe with these orcs?

A soft ruffling noise met his ears. Ruven had collapsed to his knees.

“Mage!”

Ruven was openly weeping. “Mrakon… I swore… I swore I would come back for you. But I am too late.” He grit his teeth angrily. “Were that I was a better mage I could have come sooner! Were I just…” He choked. “… had I just…”

Orradin’s hand tightened around his shoulder. “Dwell not on what could have been. Focus on the now.”

The hero suddenly tensed. Shadows and figures moved amongst the golden lights of the imagery. Suddenly, he was drawing his legendary great axe and pulling Ruven to his feet. Stunned at the sudden movement, the fledgling mage whimpered. Large, dark figures pushed through the glistening illusions and Ruven’s teary eye widened at the sight of the tremendous red-skinned orc that stepped forward ahead of a small band.

The Greenslayer snarled and pulled Ruven to his feet. “You must be the Avatar.”

The orc chuckled. “Ya’d be wrong there. Ah ain’t no Avatar.”

The cockeyed accent reminded Ruven of Mrakon. The memory of his friend and fevered dreams of orcs ravaging him filled his heart and mind with hatred. Fire crackled between his fingers even without uttering a spell. Even if it took every last ounce of energy in his body, he would see these orcs burned to ash.

But… there was something about the way the red orc was giving him a soft smile that… just…

“Mrakon?” he asked.

“Ah’m called ‘Arnmok’ now, Ruven,” answered the Red Orc. “Ah gots a lot ta tell ya.”

“What…? But… How?”

Arnmok let out a soft laugh and glanced over his shoulder at the green-skinned orcs. “Like Ah said. Long story. But ya got ta come with us now. Yer buddy there betrayed ya. He’s got yer master an’ a paladin jus’ waitin’ fer his call. He wus gonna turn ya in ta save ‘is own hide.”

Ruven jumped in surprise at the accusation and then turned to Orradin. “Milord…?”

The hero’s cold, blue stare was enough confirmation for him. “It was for the greater good, mage. I cannot be arrested or imprisoned now that I have learned that orcs are truly behind these raids upon our lands. I would have seen you treated well.”

Another voice joined the conversation. This one new to Ruven.

“Just as you treated Thomas Reinhardt well, Orradin Greenslayer?”

The orcs stepped aside to allow a man dressed in white and gold armour astride a jet-black horse ride forward. By his description alone, Ruven knew that this was the supposed master mage that had caused no end of frustration to Qurron – Samuel the supposed Star-Eyed Wolf.

Orradin just grinned broadly. “So not only am I lucky enough to drench my blade in orc blood once more but I have the honour of separating the head of the Star-Eyed Wolf from his shoulders!”

“You will have no such pleasure today, Orradin,” said Samuel calmly.

There was a roar like thunder from the distance. It quickly grew louder and Ruven glanced across the horizon. Men on horses were charging towards them from every corner. He lurched for Arnmok and the orcs but Orradin seized his cloak and pulled him back. The cold kiss of the hero’s axe pressed up against his neck.

“Ya bastard!” Arnmok snarled. “Let ‘im go!”

“I think not,” laughed Orradin, a vicious grin on his face. “You have a choice, orc. Either stay and be slaughtered by the two hundred men Luxaeus and Qurron brought with them or flee now and leave your friend to his fate! And I assure you, I will not be as kind to him as I was to Thomas.”

Arnmok bared his fangs but Samuel gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Calm, my friend,” said the Star-Eyed Wolf. “Let us await the approach of the army.”

“We will be surrounded!”

“But not dead.”

Ruven felt Orradin tense. No doubt the Star-Eyed Wolf had something in plan and he could feel the doubt creeping into the Greenslayer’s body as the army of Luxaeus and Qurron drew closer. As he predicted, two hundred Holy Army lancers and horsemen came charging over the ruins of Vramscheit, vaulting over burnt debris and quickly surrounding the ten orcs, the one large, white Warg and the Star-Eyed Wolf.

At their head was Paladin Luxaeus Reinhardt and Qurron, both of them on mighty steeds.

Ruven met his master’s gaze but Qurron just gave him a cursory glance before looking straight to Samuel.

“So this is the legendary Star-Eyed Wolf, eh?” said the War Wizard with a scowl. “You dress gaudily.”

“High praise from a man wearing a dress,” countered Samuel.

Qurron went rigid. “It is a robe!”

“Shall I draw a bath, then?”

The War Wizard sneered and immediately turned his ire towards Ruven. “You disappoint me. I had high hopes for you and yet here you are, defying law and order, sneaking out of Raonoak to seek some truth that you should have set behind you. Bah!” He looked at the faint golden glimmers that seeped through the area. “You at least proved you have some talent. A pity it will need to be extinguished.” He turned his mount around. “Luxaeus, see they are all put to the slaughter! Save for this supposed ‘Devourer of the Gods’. I would see him examined and interrogated.”

As Luxaeus drew his hammer, Samuel called out the War Wizard’s name.

“Qurron.”

The War Wizard turned… and instantly flinched. Everyone did.

Samuel had removed his helmet.

… and Ruven saw Mrakon’s face as a human with a voice to match.

“What… sorcery is this!?” Qurron demanded. “Oriscia?”

Mrakon’s face twisted into a cruel smile. “I pity you, Qurron. You still pine over the priestess that you could never have. It must have been so sickeningly satisfying to see the boy who killed Oriscia branded as a Greenskin Sympathiser and cast out by Eranius.”

The War Wizard’s face turned bright red. “You are not Orscia!”

Samuel waved a hand over his face. Suddenly, Mrakon’s face was gone… instead replaced with the head of a wolf with black fur and strange, golden blonde hair. “At my command, those that look upon my face will look up the visage of those that they strongly desire to speak with.” He pointed an accusing finger at Qurron. “I accuse you, Qurron of Raonoak. You had the vision cast by the Holy Triad of the Unholy Triad but you fabricated the events of Fallowday! You manipulated the weather, a simple spell that went undetected by the watchtowers, and scared the townspeople to believing you. It was by your hand that Eranius held that emergency meeting and Thomas Reinhardt defended his liege lord. Ultimately, it was your machinations that led to Orradin turning Thomas’ words upon him and leading him to being branded.”

Luxaeus whirled around to face Qurron, his eyes wide. “Is this true, Qurron.”

“Lies!” shouted the War Wizard. “All lies!”

“Is that so?” countered Samuel. “Do you still not love Orscia? Did you not blame Thomas for having come to the world at the cost of his mother’s life? Do you not look upon Luxaeus with disgust as he is the spawn of Arben, your friend and rival?”

“You know not of what you speak!”

Samuel closed his eyes briefly and then when he opened them again, his pupils cut into his irises as eight pointed stars.

The Star-Eyed Wolf.

“My eyes see all possibilities and all realities, Qurron. I can see into the distant past, the endless present and all possible futures. I know your heart broke when Orscia chose Arben. I know you feigned your pleasantries at their wedding and I know you did not lend a hand to Thomas’ branding because you secretly wanted him punished for merely being born. Think of it. All of you.” He cast his alien gaze upon the troops. “The Lord-Knight’s squire branded a Greenskin Sympathiser because of a play of words. All could have been avoided had a certain mage simply spoke up, perhaps vouched for the boy. Yet he did not.”

Luxaeus’ mailed fist tightened. “Qurron… If there is any truth to this matter…”

“Do not listen to this monster!” shouted the War Wizard. Sweat was dripping off his brow. “He will seek to corrupt you! He is an evil sorcerer!”

“Take comfort, Qurron,” Samuel said calmly, a smile on his lupine muzzle. “While I accuse you for these actions, I do not seek reparations. For you see…” There, the smile turned into a cruel grin. “Thomas is the Orc Avatar.”

Both Luxaeus and Qurron jerked around towards the Star-Eyed Wolf. Even Orradin was shocked at the announcement and his grip around Ruven slackened. Taking the opportunity, Ruven immediately pulled away from his captor and scrambled towards the orcs. Arnmok wrapped an arm around him comfortingly and pulled him behind his tall, red form.

“My brother…?” Luxaeus whispered.

“His name is Amthos Frost Hordemaker now,” Samuel said proudly. “He has united the orcs and even their sympathisers in the far north at Bhotanmar. There is no discrimination against non-orcs there. Human, elf, dwarf, any are welcome under his rule. And yes, there is truth that the seed of a new age orc will turn any Alliance race touched by it into a male orc but it is not forced. It is a choice made by those that who desire it.”

“Blasphemy!” shouted the War Wizard, lifting his staff into the air. “You would seek to corrupt our hearts and minds with false promises and cruel temptations! Say your prayers to whatever unholy demons you follow, orcs! You die today!”

“Hold,” exclaimed Luxaeus, holding up a hand. He stepped forward, ahead of Qurron and Orradin. “Wolf, I would have a word.”

“Listen to him not, Paladin! His tongue is forked and he spits venom!”

Ignoring him, Luxaeus locked gazes with the unmasked Samuel. “Tell me, why should I believe you about my brother. He is loyal to the Holy Triad. Yes, he was unjustly branded but he would never turn on us. Why would he become the Avatar of the Orcs?”

Samuel bowed sagely towards the older Reinhardt brother. “Only he would be able to tell you. However, there is something he told me would convince you of my honesty.”

“Then say it and I shall judge your ‘truth’ here and now.” Qurron protested but Luxaeus snapped him a piercing stare. “I am not done with you either, mage. You still have much to answer for.”

“I did not manipulate the weather at Fallowday!” Qurron screeched but it was clear from his panicked cries that he was lying.

“We shall let the Inquisition discern the truth of that.” Luxaeus turned back towards Samuel. “Now then, Wolf. Speak.”

Samuel cleared his throat. Then, in a musical tone, he began to sing.

_ _

“My little Raonoak, my little Raonoak.

How you stand firm on your mountain side,

Banners aloft and proud knights astride.

My little Raonoak, my little Raonoak,

I stand by thee in verdant or fire,

I fight for thee in earth or mire.

My little Raonoak, my little Raonoak.

I hold my sword and bear my shield.

My little Raonoak, We shall not yield.”

_ _

Orradin shook his head and snorted derisively. “That is it? That was the means by which you would convince our fair Paladin of your honesty? A children’s song?” He threw his head back and laughed. “Though I lived my life a warrior, even I knew that song was wrong. There was no verse about sword and shield or yielding! The last verse sang, ‘My heart to thee I give, My little Raonoak, I for thee I live.’”

Luxaeus’ knuckled crackled. “Yes. But as children, Thomas and I concocted that other verse because to us, Raonoak was not a country or a city. It was an ideal. An ideal…” He suddenly let out a bellowing cry and swung around, hammer extended. The might head slammed straight into Orradin’s chest. The hero was sent flying into the nearby soldiers. “… an idea that we would fight and die for!”

“Luxaeus!” Qurron roared. “Have you gone mad!?”

“My brother lives!” shouted the Paladin. “And you sent him on this path without remorse! You are the one with a forked tongue, Qurron!”

The War Wizard scowled. “Enough of this! Traitors everywhere! I would not have it! In the name of the Holy Triad, I smite you! All of you!”

Dazzling light sprang up from the Wizard’s staff.

“Razimari’s Beam of Fire!” shouted Ruven. “We must get clear!”

“Hold firm,” Samuel said calmly, holding up his hand. Suddenly, the light from Qurron’s staff faded and wisps of white energy poured from the weapon straight into Samuel’s hand. The War Wizard looked stunned as his spell was instantly cancelled. The white energies formed a tiny, white sphere in Samuel’s hand. “I deny you magic.”

He closed his hand around the orb, shattering it like glass. Qurron stumbled in his saddle, clutching his chest with his eyes wide in shock. The War Wizard fell from his saddle, dropping into the dirt.

“Mage!” snapped Orradin. “What has happened?”

Qurron looked at his frail, wrinkled hands, shaking. “My… my magic… I… I cannot feel…” He then looked to Samuel, eyes wide in terror. Pointing a bony finger, he shouted, “He took my magic!”

“Not just yours,” said the Star-Eyed Wolf ominously.

His jet-black mount suddenly reared. Ethereal blue wings sprang from the mare’s flanks, shocking all the riders around him. The steed leapt into the air as chains sprang from beneath the starry-cloak of the mage-knight, forming into a pair of wide, skeletal wings. The same wispy, white light poured out each person in the Alliance army, forming into an orb that Samuel held in his hand.

“None of you shall cast.”

He shattered the orb. All the Alliance soldiers stumbled. They all wore enchanted armour; hardened by magic and made to be as light as cloth. Without the magic, they all suddenly felt the weight of their arms and armour. Two hundred highly trained organised troops stumbled in their saddles, dropping enchanted swords and lances. Horses who bore armour thicker than most catapults toppled over with loud neighs and whinnies of protests. Two entire battalions sent crumbling in an instant.

“Now!” Samuel shouted. “Be like the wind!”

Ruven was suddenly swept up in Arnmok’s mighty arms and seated on the large, white Warg.

“Ruven, this is Winterpaw,” said the Red Orc hurriedly. “He is th’ King o’ th’ Wargs. Dun hold onta his fur too tightly.”

Before the fledgling mage could protest, Winterpaw was suddenly bolting forward, faster than any horse could every run. He screamed as the Warg vaulted over the toppled riders, dodging desperate attempts to catch him with an uncanny intelligence. The orcs let out a bellowing battle cry and charged after the Warg, Luxaeus amongst them.

“Do not let them escape fools!” Qurron shouted, using his staff to lift himself up. “Get up! Get up! All of you!”

But it was useless. These men, hardened though their bodies were, were not used to the enchanted armour that weighed them down. The only one of them unaffected by the Star-Eyed Wolf’s spell was Luxaeus but he ran with the orcs, vaulting past his own men. Still, some of the more determined ones quickly lifted up their lances in a makeshift barrier against the orcs.

A big, black figure descended from the sky upon them. The moment Veronica’s hooves hit the ground, a deafening boom struck the battallions. The men were launched high into the air, tossed like leaves in the wind while their screams carried across all of Vramsteich. A path was clear for the orcs to flee straight into the forest.

Qurron was left weakened and gasping as the orcs fled.

“Curse you!” he screamed as Samuel’s winged steed spread her wings again. “Curse you, Wolf!”

******

Only when the sun had fully set did the band finally stop and rest and only because they finally reached the shaman who was waiting for them. Ruven collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath as he finally got a moment to rest. Luxaeus was likewise winded though the orcs appeared to only have broken into a healthy sweat.

“We will rest once we are through the portal and at Bhotanmar,” Knaatl said. “Endure with us a little longer.” He nodded towards the shaman. “Do it.”

The shaman unrolled the scroll and began chanting. But the moment he began, Ruven felt the disruptions in the air

“It won’t work…” he whispered.

“What?” Arnmok asked. “Ya sure?”

“Yes…” Ruven struggled to his feet and stumbled towards the shaman. He gently touched the parchment and then turned towards the north. “I… I see… That is how you use the spell… You open portals and distribute the energies between the locations. It is how you have gone undetected all this time… But… something is blocking the spell…”

“Are you sure?” the shaman asked. “I have not yet cast it…”

“No,” Samuel interrupted. “Let him speak.” He nodded to Ruven. “What is it that you feel?”

Ruven shut his eyes and gently gripped the scroll. “Something… Something cold. Cold and… malicious. It… it has enveloped your destination. It blocks the spell…”

Samuel’s eyes widened briefly and he immediately turned towards the north. After a few tense moments, he let out a thoughtful hum. “Well… that is inconvenient.”

“What?” Knaatl asked. “What has happened? Is it Grauhl?”

“Yes. His blizzard has arrived.”

“But you said that would take a week still!”

Again, Samuel was quiet for a few moments. “In order to strengthen the Thunder Callers and Dalgmar against the coming blizzard, I led a raid against Grauhl in his icy north to free a Supreme Spirit trapped by the First One. It seems that in retaliation, Grauhl has accelerated his plans for invasion. What would have taken three weeks for him to arrive… will now pass in three days.”

“Three days!?” Arnmok shouted. “We ain’t gonna make it ta Bhotanmar on foot in three days!”

Samuel was thoughtful. “No. Perhaps not. We will have to go through a portal.”

“No portal can pierce that blizzard…” whispered Ruven, shivering. “It’s power… it is immense… So much… hatred. So much…”

“The rules of this world dictate that we cannot pass through Grauhl’s blizzard.” Samuel suddenly drew his blade, Realmbreaker, and drew a cut through the air. His blade seemed to slice the very fabric of the air itself and tear open into an endless white plane. “So we will have to work around them. Come.”

“Where are we going?” Luxaeus asked cautiously.

Samuel approached the tear in space.

“To my home. To Naught.”