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Chapter 5: The Value of Teeth

*******

Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #6

After the nascent orc nation moved from Greendawn and made their way to Cald-Harun, Alliance troops led by Paladin Luxaeus found what had once been Whitepeak to be sacked and in ruins. The orcs had created a convincing illusion that the fort had been attacked and left no trace of where they had gone. Following this, news of other factions across Tirinead rising up began spreading across the Alliance. The Grand Chaplain of the Holy Alliance decided it was time to enforce global conscription. Young men and women were yanked from their homes and forced to train and work under either the countless numbers of the Holy Legion, the disciplined elite of the Holy Army or, if found to have magical talents, thrown into any mage educational institution for intense training. Needless to say, this was not well received by the general populace.

All the while, the orcs found their way to Cald-Harun and quickly began amassing their power, forging alliances with the other rising nations. They renamed Cald-Harun ‘Bhotanmar’ which means ‘Northern Haven’.

*******

Ka-Crack!

Poor Trandin howled in agony. Blood poured down the elf’s chest, flesh ripped asunder by the brutal barbed whip of the Legion sergeant. Desertion was a crime not looked up very leniently anywhere in the Alliance. Brutal punishments awaited those who dared to leave any part of the Alliance’s armed forces. The longer one remained at large, the more severe the punishment.

A simple few days equated to a simple reprimand and perhaps a public shaming. A week to a month meant a brand. For every month afterwards was ten lashes. A year and beyond meant death after being whipped.

Trandin had avoided the search parties for three months. Just after ten lashes, Mrakon could swear he could see the poor elf’s guts.

“Turn him over!” barked the sergeant.

Trandin, panting heavily, glared at the sergeant with hatred in his eyes. The elf spat at the man’s feet. “You are all puppets to the False Triad. The White Woman, in her grace and forgiveness will save your blackened soul.” He threw his head back, cackling madly. “The Star-Eyed Wolf will devour the Triad! Look for the Horse of the End! The White Woman saves!”

“Heresy!” the sergeant spat. “Execute him!”

The men standing by the punishment brutally stepped forward and took a dagger to the elf’s neck. In one swift movement, the elf’s neck was slit from ear to ear and his blood came pouring out like a crimson waterfall.

Mrakon looked on with a steely gaze while Ruven turned away in disgust. No one spoke until the light left Trandin’s eyes.

The sergeant turned to the gathered conscripts. “Let that be a lesson to all of you! Desertion will not be tolerated! Heresy is punishable by death! Now back to training!”

Mrakon turned away from the grisly sight and faced an even more depressing one. His home of Werrshreidt had been turned into a military encampment. Enemies of the Alliance were once against stirring and he the large man had heard tales of the Ursarai – the bear people of the swamps – using their foul magics to consume entire townships, dragging them into the swaps. There were rumours that the swamplands were actually expanding further into Alliance lands but living near the western edge of the swamps and relatively close to the Neverborn Desert meant he was unable confirm such rumours.

To prevent this, the Alliance’s troops had moved in to every available town and occupied it. A general conscription notice had been issued by the Grand Chaplain, the leader of the Holy Alliance and the only one said to be able to truly communicate with the Holy Triad. That had been over a month ago. Now, he and his best friend, Ruven, were forced to train with heavy, wooden swords, eat disgusting gruel and fall under the reprimands of their superior officers as they were armed for a war that neither of them truly understood.

As they strode back to the training grounds, Mrakon whispered softly to Ruven. “Ya told ‘im ta say that, dinna ya?”

Ruven closed his soft, brown eyes and nodded grimly. “It was the only way to spare him the humiliation of being forced back into the Legion and the rest of his lashes.”

It was a bitter truth. Whether out of desperation or principle, the Alliance armed forces would not let deserters just leave. Punishments were dealt out and apart from death, they were thrown back into the platoon or brigade that they were assigned to, forever branded as deserters to suffer the scrutiny and hatred of their superior offers and more patriotic comrades. Trandin would’ve had to suffer much worse than a quick death as a heretic.

“Did ya hav’ta tell ‘im to shout ‘bout th’ Unholy Trinity?”

Tales of the Unholy Trinity or otherwise known as the ‘Dark Triad’ were quickly spreading all over the continent. The Star-Eyed Wolf who was meant to devour the Holy Triad was heralded as a sign of death and destruction. The White Woman was the temptress, supposedly coaxing the faithful away from the light and consuming their souls. Lastly, there was the Dark Horse meant to lead the armies of the damned into ravaging the world.

Any who claimed fealty to the Unholy Trinity were instantly executed.

“I didn’t tell him to say anything of the like,” answered Ruven. “I just told him to denounce the Holy Triad.”

They headed into the mess hall. No one felt like eating. Tradin’s brutal punishment left the poor swamp-dwelling citizens of the Alliance sick to their stomach. While a few people were incredibly patriotic and willingly joined the armed forces, most of Werrshreidt were miserable under the military occupation. Unrest grew and grew as no attack from the Ursarai came and all they heard were rumours and speculation from military sources. Without concrete proof, everyone felt this was just a desperate attempt by the local lords to seize assets and secure power.

Mrakon, for one, was not one to believe that the Ursarai were the issue.

“Didja hear ‘bout som’ fort up north tha’ got sacked by them greenskins?” he asked, trying to kill the silence between him and his friend.

“Whitepeak, yes,” Ruven replied softly. “It looked like there was a siege. Fort was burned to the ground. No bodies. Likely burned to ash and scattered into the wind.” He turned slightly and gestured at the officer’s tables. Amongst the gritty armed forces was one particular man, a brown-haired soldier dressed in the gold armour of a Paladin and wearing the emblem of the Triad on a chain around his neck. “Paladin Luxaeus was apparently the one who found it.”

Mrakon grunted loudly. “If ya ask me, th’ orcs shud be our enemy not th’ bloody bears.”

“It’s been over four months since the attack,” Ruven said, hushing him. “No tales have come from the north about the orcs. People have disappeared, yes, but from all tales, they are Greenskin Sympathisers. The few orcs that remain are in custody.”

“Dun mean they’re not out there,” snarled the portly man. He slammed a fist into the table, his jowls jiggling at the impact. “If I could jus’ get m’ hands onna Greenskin Sympathiser, I bet I could get th’ truth outta them.”

“What truth? You’re going to start another witch hunt, Mrakon, and people die as a result.” He waved his friend to calm down. “Please, our focus should be to train and make ourselves better soldiers. Set aside your hatred for the orcs and follow orders.”

“An’ why shud I?” Mrakon sneered. “If imma gonna train ta fight someone, it might as well be th’ orcs.”

Suddenly, a heavy, armoured hand fell on the large man’s shoulders and he froze. Mrakon slowly turned and found himself staring into the hard brown eyes of their resident Paladin.

“You fancy yourself an orc slayer, eh?” Luxaeus said with a savage grin. “Well, this is good. I came here looking for recruits as I am mounting an expedition to the north. Those orcs must have gone somewhere, right?”

Like the bully that he was, Mrakon’s pride and boasting instantly left him and he could only stammer. “Y – Y – Yes, milord.”

“Good. Then you can come with me. I will be making a few stops into local mining towns first before I make my way to Whitepeak.”

“Whitepeak?” Ruven asked. “I thought that place was sacked?”

Luxaeus gave him a surprised look and a faint smile. “Ah, you know of Whitepeak even this far south. Impressive.” The Paladin sat down amongst them. He was carrying a loaf of bread and offered it to Mrakon. The large, heavyset man eagerly took it, happy to taste something apart from the disgusting, tasteless mush that the Legion forced upon them. “Yes, Whitepeak was devastated but we have taken it once more. No use in letting such a strategically important location go to waste. It will the base of our operations to root out the cause of the attack and possibly find the missing orcs.”

“So it is th’ orcs!” Mrakon exclaimed. He slammed a fist again into the table, a wild, almost manic grin on his face. “Milord, I’d be honoured if ya’d take me an’ Ruven with ya ta root out th’ Greenskins an’ rip out their tusks while they scream!”

Ruven started and lifted his hands in opposition. “Now, now, Mrakon. Your enthusiasm is to be commended but let us not bother the master Paladin with our meagre presence.” He turned to Luxaeus, pressing a hand apologetically against his chest. “Milord, we are mere villagers. Mrakon is a swamp farmer and I am merely work at the tavern. We are no soldiers.”

Luxaeus beamed at them both. “I need not soldiers. What I need are enthusiastic men to become the spear tip that will aid in destroying the orc threat once and for all.” He clapped both men on the shoulder. “Consider both of your fine selves recruited. Pack your belongings. On the morrow, we leave.”

With those words, the Paladin got up from his seat and roved the rest of the mess hall, no doubt recruiting more for his expedition.

Mrakon could not help but smile. Even when he saw Ruven’s disproving frown upon him, he just continued grinning. “Ya disprove, Ruven?”

“Of course I do,” snarled Ruven through bared teeth. “Here in Werrshreidt, we are safe. Yes, we are under military rule but we are not actively searching for battle. With the Paladin, we will be putting ourselves in danger! Is that what you wish?”

The big man sniffed and leaned forward, his grin turning challenging. “Now dun tell me yer craven, friend.”

“Craven, no. And let none accuse you of being one either, Mrakon. But you are stupidly bloodthirsty. This need to sate your desire to kill orcs is foolish!”

Mrakon rolled his eyes and pulled away. “Ya dun get it, Ruven.”

“No, I understand, Mrakon,” whispered the clerk softly. He leaned forward so that only they could hear his words. “I understand that your fiancé was raped by an orc when you were but a tender teen. The girl you were promised to was fucked by an orc and she died at childbirth the moment his orc seed took root.”

Bitter memories rose back up in his belly, conjuring bile at the back of his throat. “Still yer tongue, Ruven.”

“No. This has gone on long enough, Mrakon.” Ruven slammed his palms against the table but with skinny, almost bone-like hands, they barely made an impact. “I know you still feel filthy and betrayed by Nerinia’s -”

Mrakon suddenly lunged at his friend, seizing Ruven’s tunic and pressing their foreheads together so that his friend could see the dark snarl he was making. “I warned ya never ta mention that bitch’s name in mah presence ever again.”

“Then listen to me, Mrakon,” came the calm reply. “She betrayed you. She fell in love with an orc and insisted on bearing his child with the full expectation that it would be human. Human it was but it killed her, poisoned her blood. You’ve seen to it that the orc was killed for defiling your love. The bastard was burned at the stake at the centre of town and his corpse thrown to the swamp for the maggots and carrion to devour. Enough is enough. You need not continue to hunt every orc in Tirinead.”

The rounded farmer snarled and threw Ruven back into his seat. “I aint’ gonna stop ‘til ev’ry orc lies dead by mah feet.”

His friend sighed in defeat, slumping into his seat. “I pray for you, Mrakon. I truly do. I hope that in your desire for the orc’s destruction you do not become the very thing you hate.”

Shooting his ‘friend’ one last foul look, Mrakon seized his bowl of gruel and left the mess hall in a huff. Ruven sighed and flinched when he heard the door slam behind the farmer. Across the hall, he saw Luxaeus watching them. He could swear there was a bitter light in the Paladin’s eyes. In that instant, he knew that he would have to accompany Mrakon or his friend would surely die.

******

Being simple folk from a small town, neither Ruven nor Mrakon had ever learned how to ride. Only the nobles and travellers truly had the luxury and Mrakon didn’t raise horses. It was a dangerous practice as the large beasts could either sink in the swamp’s mud or get all matter of gunk stuck in their hooves and potentially get infected. However, they had to rapidly learn as Luxaeus set a punishing pace while they rode to the north, going from town to town and picking up more and more for what was becoming known as the ‘Green Death’.

They would camp at night beside the roads, practicing swordsmanship and continuing their training while riding during the day for only the occasional stops to rest and eat. During the entire trip, Luxaeus conversed with his recruits. By the time they approached the edge of the swamplands, the number of patriotic and bloodthirsty men equated to that of the soldiers under the Paladin. They number at least a hundred men, a formidable force to be sure.

Mrakon did not speak with Ruven despite his long-time friend remaining close at all times. It irked him how Ruven was quickly gaining Luxaeus’ favour. The skinny fellow was always far more academic than the simple farmer.

During one evening, Mrakon watched Ruven sparring with one of the soldiers. While the soldier uses a broadsword, Ruven was given a rapier which was lighter and faster. The farmer-turned-soldier sneered every time Ruven scored a hit and quietly cheered whenever the soldier managed to bruise or cut the clerk.

So enraptured by his hatred, Mrakon did not notice when Luxaeus sat beside him. “You bear your hatreds for a while, aye?”

Starting at the sudden voice, Mrakon stumbled to get up and salute. Luxaeus laughed brightly and waved him back down.

“N – No, milord. I simply…”

“Peace, my friend,” said the Paladin, gesturing that he go back to sitting. “I know your type. Something in your past has shaped you into the person that you are now. I cannot fathom what it may be but it is a defining moment in your life and you will not change it. Your entire existence centres around that one fact.”

Was the Paladin criticising him? Just like Ruven, was he going to tell him to let go of the heartbreaking betrayal that had torn him asunder? The bile began rising up in his gut once more and Mrakon found himself shaking in fury. It took all his willpower not to throw the Paladin into the fire.

“But that is what I admire about you,” said Luxaeus, throwing a wave of water against Mrakon’s raging heart. “You remain true to your convictions and will not be swayed by anything. Were that some men could emulate the same qualities, perhaps we would not have sympathisers of any kind and the Alliance would be stronger than ever.”

Mrakon gave a grunt of approval. “It sickens me that any would wanna show mercy ta an orc. They are soulless, bloodthirsty monsters that jus’ wanna rape, pillage an’ kill.”

“And what would you want to do once you have found them?”

The farmer’s features twisted into an ugly scowl. “I’d rip their tusks out an’ watch ‘em bleed ta death in front o’ me.”

Luxaeus clapped his shoulder. “You may get the chance, my friend. For all you know, you might become the great Tuskeeper!” He waved a hand through the air, gesturing at the stars. “A name of legend. The mortal man, strong as ten oxen, fast as a jungle cat and bane of all orcs! He would tear through the orc ranks, taking their tusks as trophies. All his armour is crafted from the tusks of fallen orcs. The mere sight of him will strike fear in any orc he sees, causing them to piss themselves upon seeing the visage of their death!”

Mrakon grinned broadly. “Ya really think I could be that?”

The Paladin suddenly got up and handed Mrakon a sword. “Not if you are merely sitting by the fire. Now come, let us spar.”

******

Mrakon quickly found himself building a new friendship with Luxaeus. The Paladin gave him tips and tricks as travelled further and further north. Every night, the two would spar for a good hour until Mrakon was sweaty and his arms felt like lead weights. Luxaeus would give him some advice on how to better himself the next day and then expect him to perform as such.

A month into their travels, they came across a river. They were camping for lunch and when Mrakon went to wash the grime of the road from his features, he was stunned when he saw his own reflection in the calm waters. The man staring back at him he barely recognised. The thick, black beard that clung to his features did nothing to hide the lean features. There was now a clear divide between his chin and neck. When he looked down, he noticed that he had lost a significant amount of weight. Certainly not enough to be rid of his gut but enough still he found his tunic much looser around his belly.

He grinned into the water.

Luxaeus was turning him into a warrior.

Soon, he would be the Tuskeeper.

That grin faded when he caught sight of movement behind him.

Ruven was there and like him, the man had undergone some changes as a soldier. Instead of bony, almost skeletal features, Ruven had put on some firm muscle. His shoulders certainly have become broader as did his chest. Long hours of riding had built up his legs as well. Mrakon never noticed before but Ruven had a rather strong, pointed jaw, a far flung contrast to his own emerging square jawline.

“Whaddya want?” he snarled.

“Mrakon, I am worried,” Ruven admitted. He cast a glance around, making sure no one else was watching them. “Has it occurred to you that we have several towns in our months here and yet Luxaeus has not bought us any clothes or armour to wear? We are still dressed in the rags we wore when we left Werrshreidt.”

The former farmer regarded the tattered, brown tunic he wore and the shabby trousers. After a month on the road with little rest and no washing, they felt thin and utterly filthy.

“We just ain’t got th’ time,” snarled Mrakon. “When we get ta Whitepeak, we’ll get real armour. Luxaeus will make us ‘is knights.”

“And that is where my worry rests,” Ruven said worriedly. “We are heading north, yes, but not towards Whitepeak.”

Scowling, Mrakon said, “What?”

“We are steadily heading north_east_.” The clerk pointed towards the sun. “The sun rises in the east. We are going northeast, Mrakon. Whitepeak was north_west_ of Werrshreidt. Why are we going there?”

Mrakon rolled his eyes and waved away Ruven’s suspicions. “Yer turned ‘round. We stopped at lotsa towns onna way ‘ere. We prolly went too far west an’ now are jus’ makin’ it up.”

The young man let out a snarl of frustration. “I do not know what promises Luxaeus has given you, Mrakon, but I beg you, open your eyes! You are not the apple of the Paladin’s eye. He spends an equal amount of time with each of the other men around the camp!”

With a grunt, the former swamp farmer turned his back to Ruven and headed back to camp. “I dun know what yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Just look around camp when you get back, Mrakon!” begged Ruven. “Where is Luxaeus? Who is he spending time with? After your own training tonight, look where he goes!”

Ruven had always been craven in some way, seeing conspiracy theories and throwing fears wherever there were none. Though as Mrakon returned to camp, he had to admit that such concerns were balanced by his own… eagerness for action. Usually, the mix of Ruven’s caution and his own brashness tended to find a suitable middle ground where the outcome was beneficial for them both.

Perhaps out of respect for what they once had, Mrakon returned to camp and took note of where Luxaeus was. The Paladin was with another potential recruit, both of them sparring. He didn’t give it much thought and went back to his routine of sharpening his blade, seeing to his horse and eating his afternoon meal until he noticed that Luxaeus was slowly moving from one recruit to the other, seeing to them and sparring with them in turn.

He had to admit that something did not sit right with him with these actions. Hearing Ruven’s words in the back of his mind once more, he took note of who Luxaeus was seeing that afternoon and proceeded with the rest of his day, pushing his former friend’s paranoia into the back of his mind.

It was the next day, however, that had Ruven’s words came back to the surface. The Paladin went to train with the very same people he had sparred with the same day. That very same evening, Luxaeus came to him at nearly the exact time and went to the very same man after they were done sparring. Part of him dismissed it as just the military’s penchant for rigour and structure. Luxaeus was simply on a schedule.

But Ruven’s words continued to push doubts into his mind.

It plagued him and Luxaeus noticed during their sparring the third day after he began observing.

“Does something bother you, Mrakon?”

The former farmer grunted, lowering his sword. The weapon no longer seemed so heavy in his arms anymore but being made of steel, it was still very heavy. “I’m sorry, milord. Jus’…” He straightened, arching his back to work the strained muscles that came from days of riding. “We’re headin’ northeast, yeah? Ain’t Whitepeak ta the northwest?”

Somewhere nearby, Ruven perked his hears but cleverly kept his head down.

“You noticed, eh?” laughed Luxaeus. “Well we are still going to make one more stop before we head to Whitepeak. There is the mining town of Vramsteich.” He nodded towards Mrakon. “Your rags are hardly befitting a soldier. I have placed an order for arms and armour befitting a knight at the town. We will have you fitted when we get there.” He winked at Mrakon. “Though considering how much weight you have lost, I wonder if we should stay on the road for a little longer until you truly fit the Tuskeeper’s physique! Armour is expensive, you know.”

Those words stoked Mrakon’s fiery bloodlust once more and he gave Ruven a pointed stare before turning back to Luxaeus. “Of course, sir. Sorry I doubted you.”

The paladin had caught the look and for a moment, regarded Ruven with some curiosity. “Did your friend point out our direction to you?”

“He is far from mah friend,” sneered the would-be-Tuskeeper. “But ya, th’ weasel did.”

“Interesting.” Luxaeus rubbed his short beard. “No one else has noticed our direction amongst the recruits. He has a sharp mind.” Those sharp, brown eyes turned back to Mrakon. “Well, any other doubts he may have raised?”

Mrakon snorted. “Th’ fool pointed out that ya train with th’ same guys every day. That’s just cuz ya got yer schedule, eh milord?”

“Quite so. Procedure and an organised mind are key to military success. Let us not descend into disorganised savagery like the orcs.”

Mrakon spat on the ground. “Damn orcs.”

“Indeed. Now come. Clear your head. We still have training to do.”

After their training session, Mrakon slumped down next to the fire, feeling satisfied and relieved. His elation was short-lived, however, as Ruven came to sit next to him immediately.

“Do not believe the words that come from his silvery tongue, Mrakon,” hissed his friend like a serpent. “He brings up the orcs constantly in an attempt to cloud your mind with your hatred!”

“What more proof do ya need, Ruven?” he sneered back. “Th’ Paladin’s intentions are true. He’s gonna make us knights!”

“Those are the fevered dreams of a child with dreams of glory!” Ruven seized his hands in desperation. “Please, Mrakon. Listen to me. The Paladin is leading us into a trap!”

Again, he thought back to his past with Ruven. They made quite the team together. Friends since childhood, Ruven’s cunning matched with Mrakon’s brute strength had made them quite a team in Werrshreidt. It was his friend’s keen ears that allowed them to pick off Greenskin Sympathisers in their little town and Mrakon could always yank out their teeth with ease. Those were good years.

But they were over.

He pulled his hand away with a scowl. “Be thankful fer our time as friends, Ruven. They’re th’ only thing keepin’ me from reportin’ ya to Luxaeus an’ getting ya whipped fer insubordination.”

Ruven looked utterly crestfallen. Lowering his head, the clerk of Werrshreidt gave Mrakon a slow nod before turning and slinking off back to the other side of the camp.

******

When Luxaeus told them that they were fast approaching Vramsteich, Mrakon was simply elated. To have his own armour, his own blade and perhaps his own horse as a knight would truly be an honour. His future as a fellow knight of the Paladin, charging into battle as they slew orc after orc had him riding near the front of the column right next to Luxaeus, eager to start his journey into legend.

But as they approached Vramsteich, he began to notice something was terribly wrong. It was a mining town, to be sure. He could hear the clink-clink-clink of pickaxes on stone in the open faced mine. There were forges and smithies were armour was forged but the sight of the tall, stone walls surrounding the entire encampment worried him. Watchtowers were erected all over the camp and there was even a moat filled with wooden spikes.

This was a camp prepared for war.

He dismissed this simply as being too close to Whitepeak and the town protecting itself.

The men at the camp bid them enter through a drawbridge and as they entered the camp, he dismounted alongside Luxaeus. His skin crawled, a sensation he recognised as the presence of a magic user. They had few people who truly used magic in his home town but he knew the feeling. He was surprised when he saw a richly dressed War Wizard coming to greet them.

“Well met, Luxaeus,” said the Wizard.

“Qurron,” grunted the Paladin in a stand-offish tone.

The Wizard’s eyes fell to Mrakon. “Is this the one?”

Mrakon’s heart leapt to his throat. Had Luxaeus chosen him over the others somehow? Did he possess some latent magical powers that would see him launched into the ranks of the College of Magi? Images of becoming some sort of mage-knight filled his mind. Perhaps he would even rise to challenge that foul knight that had kept him from ripping the teeth out of that one man all those months ago.

“No.” Luxaeus turned over his shoulder. “Ruven. Come here.”

His hopes dashed, Mrakon turned in surprise as Ruven worriedly shuffled forward through the ranks of his comrades. As he passed Mrakon, he stumbled. Out of instinct, Mrakon caught him.

Ruven locked gazes with him, eyes filled with worry.

“The soldiers,” whispered the clerk. “They surround us.” Then louder, he said, “Thank you.”

Releasing Mrakon, Ruven turned to the War Wizard and stepped forward. Qurron leaned down towards him. Just a moment later, the Wizard’s bushy, white eyebrows rose and he pulled back in surprise.

“This boy has incredible latent magical powers.” He turned to Luxaeus. “Why was he not sent to the College sooner? We have wasted precious years as a… a…” He turned to Ruven. “What were you before now, child?”

“A… a clerk, sir,” Ruven murmured.

“Can you read?”

“Yes.”

Qurron’s features relaxed. “Ah, good. So not all is wasted.”

Luxaeus shrugged absently. “He came from a rather beaten down town. Off near the border and hardly patrolled and in the middle of the swamp. Somehow I doubt your mages would have liked to travel that far to search for potential initiates. Either way, here he is now. I trust you will take good care of him.”

“A good find, Luxaeus,” said the War Wizard, resting a hand on Ruven’s shoulder. “Come my, child. We have a long journey ahead of us and your education as a Wizard begins now.”

Ruven cast one last glance over his shoulder at Mrakon who was stunned at his friend’s apparent magical skills. Mustering up the happy memories he had with his childhood friend, Mrakon managed to smile and wave a fond farewell to his friend. Perhaps they would meet again when he was a proud orc killer and Ruven was a powerful mage. Maybe one day they could rain fire and steel down on the orcs.

Then Luxaeus gave an order that shattered his dreams.

“Shackle them.”

Lightning fast, Mrakon suddenly found heavy manacles slapped onto his wrists by the very same soldiers that he had ridden with for the past one and a half months. He grunted as the heavy, iron balls weight him down and another manacle was placed around his neck.

“What…?” he croaked, looking to Luxaeus for an answer. “What is this?”

The Paladin’s eyes were suddenly cold and unfeeling. “Did you honestly think there was room amongst the Legion or the Alliance forces for bloodthirsty monsters such as yourselves?” He leaned down towards Mrakon. “You are no better than the very orcs that you hate.”

“No!” Mrakon pleaded. “I hate th’ orcs! Gimme a chance! Show me a Greenskin Sympathiser! I’ll tear their teeth right from their mouths!”

Luxaeus scowled in disgust and straightened. “And that is just the kind of attitude from you…” He looked to the rest of the suddenly chained group. “From all of you, that makes me sick. You are all guilty of the crime of bloodlust. The Holy Triad values valour in war and battle but needless hatred such as yours and the poisonous cruelty that you all harbour in your blackened hearts will only turn the Alliance into a corrupt and evil society that would make even the orcs green with envy.”

The Paladin smirked a little at his own joke and cast his judging gaze upon the stunned group. “I plucked you all from your homes because your evil was turning the great garrisons that would protect our lands into festering sores that would have sickened the Alliance. You are only alive because we value life above all else. You will turn you hatred against something of value.” He held out a hand and a soldier handed him a pickaxe. He tossed it at Mrakon’s feet. “Pray that you will release your anger and hatred before you die old and grey.”

Mrakon could scarcely believe it. His hopes, dreams, all broken in one brutal betrayal. He looked to Ruven. His friend was screaming, pleading to be let go but the War Wizard and his entourage quickly dragged him away. If only he had believed his one and only friend. Perhaps they could have slipped away in the night. At worst, they could denounce their faith in the Triad together and die instead of being tortured with manual labour.

That idea sprang to mind and when he locked gazes with Ruven, they said their final farewells. With his eyes alone, he pleaded for Ruven to continue living if only for the two of them. Tears slipped down the would-be mage’s cheeks as he mouthed his apology.

Mrakon squeezed his eyes shut and mustered his courage.

“Ya goddamn Alliance dog!” he roared. “The Star-Eyed Wolf take you!”

Luxaeus was unnerved by the declaration. “You do not fool me, Mrakon. You are faithful to the Holy Triad but just one hungry for blood like an animal. Animals need to be caged and tamed not put down. You still have your uses.”

And with that, his spirits were broken.

“Why?” he pleaded. “I would kill fer ya!”

The Paladin turned away in disgust. “And it such a declaration that makes you so like Orridan.”

“Th’ hero? Th’ Greenslayer?” He could not understand. If he was so much like the legendary hero of the War of Apotheosis, why was he be treated like a criminal.

“Do not hold Orridan on such a pedestal,” spat Luxaeus. “It was his thirst for orc blood and paranoia that got my brother branded as a Greenskin Sympathiser when he is naught by a loyal child of the Holy Triad! That fat, rabid dog would do anything to incite a war and he would throw innocent men into the fires of battle for that purpose!”

The Paladin turned his back to Mrakon and began striding away.

“Men like you make me sick.”

******

Deep in the castle of what had once been Cald-Harun, Samuel’s eyes sprang open. Pupils once more in their star-shaped formation, he saw through the infinite possibilities of reality. The strings of fate and the paths of destiny meshed before him, intertwining, dancing, forming a rich tapestry that he watched and observed from his perch in what he called the ‘Fragment of Naught’.

The vast chamber was touched by the No One’s presence, every inch of the hollow turning into a strange white material. Like steel, the stone seemed to absorb light instead of reflect it. No lamps or torches sat within the chamber but every inch of the room was completely illuminated like the material itself gave off its own kind of light. But it was no light like the light of the sun, it was almost cold, foreign and cast no shadows.

Within the circular chamber, thirteen seats sat in a circular fashion. At their very centre was a single, altar. Each throne had a peculiar design to it, an emblem or a mark that signified the unique No One that was perched there. For Samuel, it was the emblem of three interlocking chain links arranged in a triangle – a representation of his name and title, R3 the Writer of Reality and the chains of reality that binds the laws of space and time.

The No One smiled.

“You have made a home for yourself here,” boomed Garodrash. “I thought that you No Ones prefer not to be worshiped and to remain in the shadows.”

“Our involvement can no longer be hidden,” answered the No One. “But you need not worry. Notice there are no doors into this chamber. Only those that are invited may enter the Fragment.” He settled into his throne. “Besides, I needed somewhere to stage meetings with the rest of the No Ones active in this reality without being interrupted by anyone else. Not to mention to convene with you all should the need arise.”

“Very well. Though I must say, you play a dangerous game.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I see what you are planning. I see the ambition of Oringruud. I see the loyalty of Ramdrud. I see them both clashing tusks in a battle of politics and minds. I see you at the centre of it all, arming them with the weapons they need to deal significant damage to one another. I cannot, however, see which path you will take.”

“Welcome to my world. I can only control my own actions and it is by those actions that others react. I can simply see how others will react. However, the choices we make are always fall prey to the whimsy of desire. Logic may dictate we take one course of action. Probability may favour a certain opinion. However, we can only follow the path we desire and that path may spit in the face of chance and common sense. We can only deal with the consequences.”

“You have yet to decide your course of action, then.”

“No.” The No One rose from his throne. “My course of action has been decided for me. With Luxaeus condemning Mrakon and sending Ruven to the College with Qurron, I know exactly what path I must take.” He chuckled mildly. “Of course, it will not be long before the next crossroads comes to us and from then… well, we shall just have to see, won’t we?”

******

Ka-Crack!

The whip stung. It always stung. But after three months of the brutal work at Vramsteich, Number 641 found himself somewhat immune to the banded tips of the whip his supervisor cracked over and over. With the next snap of the whip, he brought his pickaxe down, biting into the stone wall of the open-pit mine. His large, sun-kissed arms lifted the tool once more over his head.

Ka-Crack!

And he brought it back down again.

A loud horn blew somewhere deep in the camp.

“Break time, maggots!” screamed the supervisor.

641 straightened, ignoring the stinging across his back and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He carried his thin, lean frame away from the wall he had been striking and followed the rest of the prisoners as they made their way up to ground level. They all shuffled on bare feet and all but the newest of the prisoners still had some degree of body fat on them. All were dirty, covered in bruises or cuts and had broken spirits.

The former farmer from the swamps was no different. His long, scraggly hair was allowed to fall around his face as well as the dense beard that almost reached down to his chest. Permanently slumped, 641 barely remembered how to speak anymore as he simply shuffled forward. With the weather growing colder and colder, he could only hug himself desperately since his tattered rags offered nothing by way of comfort or warmth.

By the time he reached the ground level, the hundreds of prisoners were crouching beside fires or huddled in small groups, eating bitter bread and soaking up a terrible gruel for their meals. 641 picked up one of the bowls and just carried it to where some of his fellow convicts were serving the meals. He offered only a simple grunt of thanks when he was handed his sparse meal and made his way to where the rest of his group were crouched. No names were exchanged. They were simply other members of the same group mining the rocks of Vramsteich for some mineral or another. The supervisors gave them all numbers as a designation and that was how they were known as.

641 vaguely remembered being called Mrakon at one time but he was no longer sure if that was the case. One name he was sure about, however, was Ruven. A mage, if he remembered correctly. But he had no idea who that mage was in relation to himself. It was just a name. And names meant nothing in Vramsteich.

Something bumped him from behind and he hissed in agony as cold, hard metal bit into the sore wounds across his back.

“What was that, cur?” scowled a soldier. “Did you just hiss at me?”

641’s black, sunken eyes went wide and he held up his hands in surrender. “Nuh, nuh!” he pleaded. “No hurt!”

The soldier grinned wickedly. “This one looks like he still has some spirit in him.” He pulled out a blackjack still caked with some blood from some earlier beating of another prisoners. Those around 641 were already shying away as several soldiers pinned down the poor man.

The first soldier lifted his blackjack over his head. “I’ll teach you to bump into me, scum!”

641 shook his head from side to side, pleading. “Nuh! No hurt! No hurt! Sorry! I sorry!”

TWHACK!

The soldier suddenly lost all glee in his face. His eyes went down to his chest… where an arrow was poking through his thin leather armour. A tremendous roar erupted from all around them. Before 641 could even see what was happening, enormous jaws seized one of the soldiers pinning him. A huge wolf-like creature pulled the screaming man away and threw him boldly over his shoulder. Astride the beast was a huge green-skinned creature.

An orc.

641 whimpered, holding up his free arm and covering his eyes.

“For the Avatar!” came a thundering roar. “For Amthos! Orcs forever!”

The howls of the wargs coupled with the roars of the orcs shattered the meagre defences of Vramsteich. Blood Claws streamed into the camp. Their Wargs, enhanced by the powers of the orcish divine seed, leapt easily over the stone walls. Once their orcs were within the walls, they split off into groups, the Wargs quickly cutting off reinforcements while the orcs themselves charged at the main gates of the mining facility.

Organised and well-disciplined from months of raiding, the orcs worked in like a well-oiled machine. As half of the raiding band opened the main gates, the others covered them with thick, metal shields, a technology never before seen amongst the orcs. The moment the gates were open, one orc strode forward and blew a horn.

The full might of the raiders suddenly came to life. They jumped out of the grassy plains, tossing aside the grass-covered sheets they used to hide themselves amongst the hills. The defenders saw the sheer numbers of the orcs and lost all morale. Weapons were dropped and they fled. But the raiders had no intention of letting a single man free.

Within moments, the men of the Alliance were being herded into the very same pits and pens where they kept their slaves. The prisoners were corralled in separate areas, knowing full well that the soldiers would be torn asunder by their vengeful convicts if they were put in the same place as one another.

And the horde needed every man available to them... at least Oringruud Blood Claw did.

The chieftain of the tribe strode proudly through his most recent conquest. “Give me a count,” he ordered gruffly.

One of his orcs was beside him instantly. “Two hundred prisoners, chieftain. At least half that in soldiers and staff.”

That was certainly a sizeable number. Their band only numbered sixty men but each orc could take on, at the very least, ten soldiers. Still, trafficking three hundred men all the way through the mountains to Bhotanmar, formerly known as Cald-Harun, would not be practical. Many would try to escape. This was the largest encampment he had hit thus far and if he could bring three hundred men to the horde, he would surely gain honour and favour amongst the orcs.

Certainly more than the diplomatic, peace-loving Hardshaft or the cowardly Earth Runners. Amthos still held the greatest favour, however, as the Avatar led his own raiding bands to the border forts and brought more and more people into the sanctuary of their fortress. But this… Well, it would certainly start to turn the tide of politics.

“Start converting them,” grunted Oringruud, licking his lips. He squeezed his rising dick through his leather armour. “When turned, they will less likely flee. They will have nowhere to run and will be killed outside of our care. Turn the prisoners first. The soldiers will likely try to resist.”

His Blood Claw orc grinned savagely. “Yes, chieftain.”

The chieftain moved to the armoury of the large mine. After years of just watching over prisoners and being located fairly far south, the guards had grown fat and complacent. None of them had expected an attack from the orcs so deep into Alliance lands. Then again, from what he heard from Samuel’s spies, the Alliance was still unsure of where the orcs where and how they were moving around so quickly.

He smiled from ear to ear as he plucked the weaponry from their racks. Too small for orc hands, they would serve only to be melted down to form better arms for the orcish horde. Though all those weapons would never compare to the like of Blood and Honour, they would still be better suited for the orcs. At least now they had forges and smithies to actually make the weapons instead of just raiding and pillaging what they could from villagers.

The loud roars of orcs reaching orgasm filled his ears. Battle always got his boys aroused without fail. That was how a real orc, a real man found pleasure. Not the ‘gentle love’ of the Earth Runners or the playful trickery of the Nightusks. Though he could do nothing but approve of the Hardshaft’s pleasures as he often partook in their mating sessions himself. They were just as hungry to increase their numbers as he though he suspected they were doing it out of some delusion of ‘unity’ instead of an accumulation of power.

“Weak bastards,” he muttered.

Though he had agreed to support Amthos with all his might, he never said anything about agreeing to every policy the Avatar made. Reaching out to the other races, forging alliances with the Dracorians or the Ursasai or even the Rhakmirim, it all disgusted Oringruud. Especially the Rhakmirim who had turned their magic of the stars against the orcs during the War. Though they were effectively sterilised as well and apparently had their own Avatar, he could not see how orc and the tiger-men could ever ally against a common enemy.

The fury that built inside of him conflicted with his elation of battle. He needed some sweet release. Storming out of the armoury, he strode through the mine to where the prisoners were being kept. He drew some sick pleasure over watching the looks of horror that the Alliance soldiers bore as their prisoners were fucked brutally and transformed into orcs.

There was no room for the love in war. His Blood Claws knew that. They had to fuck, change and get out before the Alliance sent reinforcements. Only within the arena of their new home could they afford the luxury of enjoying every moment of orgasm and the elation of changing another into an orc. But on the road, while raiding, that was not a pleasure they could indulge in.

As the new converts were changed and they spilled their seed as an orc for the first time, there was a certain lust that overtook them. It was a common thing amongst the ‘new age’ species from what he heard. Perhaps a curse and a gift from Garodrash. Oringruud had felt it as well when he first transformed. It was that overwhelming, almost primal need to fuck and spill his seed again. He watched as newly transformed elf lunged at his progenitor, desperate for his still aching green cock to be pleasured and for his balls to be emptied. But the trained Blood Claw shoved the new orc back into the dirt and shoved an axe into his large hands, quickly giving him a harsh reprimand and a summary of what his role was now.

Women were not spared such treatment either though from what he heard, their needs were far harder to curb. Growing a cock was apparently very pleasurable. Though some of them did break down at the realisation that they would never again have children. The shamans of the Thunder Callers tended to accept more women into their ranks. They gave some spiel about how the next orcs that they would usher into the world would be their children and instead of the pain of childbirth, they would experience to joy of orgasm.

Oringruud could never understand such sentimentality. If the orcs didn’t need the females of the other races to continue to birth offspring so that they may be converted into orcs, he would have just fucked them all, turned them into orc warriors and stormed the Alliance lands without mercy. Such a tactic was not entirely approved by the Circle of Chieftains but it came as a surprise when Samuel had supported it, saying that it was a necessary evil. He gave the reasoning that during a siege – whether be at their home or on Raonoak – they would not be able to capture everyone as prisoners. Conversion was inevitable and they needed to find a way to use their seed as weapons not simply as a means of transform. Surprisingly, Ramdrud was supportive of the notion as well though that was likely because he found the same pleasure Oringruud did in feeling someone ‘turn green’ around his cock.

The chieftain grunted and adjusted himself through his loose, leather armour. His need was great and he desired someone to change. Not caring who, he seized the closest prisoner and forced the shaggy man onto his knees.

“Be thankful, human bug,” he grunted with a wicked grin. “You are about to receive the seed of a chieftain.”

The man’s eyes went wide in horror and he desperately shook his head. “Nuh! Nuh! No hurt! No hurt!”

“This will not hurt at all.” Oringruud leaned down, grinning maliciously as their noses touched. “This will be the most pleasurable thing you have ever felt in your pathetic, snivelling life.”

“Oringruud!” came a bellowing roar.

The chieftain groaned and straightened. A scowl rose from his throat. Knaatl Nightusk came storming forward with that enchanted bow of his. The Nightusks were amongst the raiders. It had been their expert scouting and keen planning that had formulated the plot to take the mine. They had discerned where it would be best to leap over the walls with their Wargs, when the guards were changing for afternoon meals and when the mine would be at their least aware.

“Did you want this human, Knaatl?” Oringruud said, gesturing at the human. “I can always find another.”

The other orc sneered at him and slammed both hands against his bare chest, pushing him back. “That is not why I have stopped you, Oringruud.” Knaatl gestured at the debauchery around them. “What did I say about this camp? What!?”

“It is a mining camp?” answered the chieftain lazily.

“It is a rehabilitation camp!” Knaatl roared. Gesturing at the prisoner in between them, he said, “These poor souls have been broken down to mere animals! They do not know any better! They barely even have names!” Turning towards the prisoner, he said, “What is your name, son?”

The man whimpered. “641… 641…”

“See? They have no names. Just numbers!”

That only caused Oringruud’s blood to boil further against the Alliance. Even when he was raiding, prisoners of the Blood Claws were at least offered a clean death. That the Alliance would imprison their own and then reduce them to such a state disgusted him. There was no honour in it.

“Broken down,” he grunted. “But they can be rebuilt. They can be strong orcs.”

Knaatl shook his head. “Not here. Not now. Let us get them back to Bhotanmar. Heal their wounds and minds so that they may make the choice.” Oringruud turned to the prisoner before him, 641. Knaatl seized his arm. “You know I am right, Oringruud. These men are worthless to you as they are now even as orcs. They will be little more than cannon fodder.” He leaned towards his fellow chieftain. “And we value every orc life. If you turn them now only to have them send into battle like lambs to the slaughter, their blood will be on your hands. There is no honour in that.”

Oringruud snarled and yanked his arm away. “Have it your way, Knaatl.” He bellowed for his orcs the cease their celebrations. “It is time we moved! Now!”

Knaatl watched the bloodthirsty chieftain turn and repeat his order across the mines. The Nightusk sighed. A few days ago, he had wondered why Samuel would ask him to accompany Oringruud on this particular raid. The Blood Claws had been raiding Alliance lands over the past few months since they had found their new home in Bhotanmar, formerly the dwarven hold of Cald-Harun. At first, he simply thought it was to offer tactical advice to the Blood Claws. They were foolish enough to think they could simply use brute force to charge at the stone walls of the mine and break through. While he had no doubt that the hundred-strong orc raiding party would have ploughed through eventually, there would have been casualties. They needed a far more tactically sound approach. So the Nightusks offered their assistance.

Now he understood Samuel had asked him here as the foil to Oringruud’s brutal conversion frenzy. He worried that the Blood Claws were gaining far too many followers too quickly. They were the only group actively raiding and forcing conversions. Hardshaft and Frost troops guarded specific positions in the mountains, looking out for refugees and those would join any of the other tribes but the numbers were nothing compared to the flood from the Blood Claws. Though many of the newcomers favoured the Hardshaft predominantly because their Trial of the Tusks seemed the easiest – or at least most pleasurable – some still chose to join the towering Earth Runners or the peaceful Thunder Callers. Few joined the Frost Tribe, Amthos’ tribe, for the simple reason that Amthos had yet to truly decide on an appropriate Trial even months after the formation of his tribe.

Now with about three hundred men and women brought in by the Blood Claws, the numbers would be shifted again. He just wondered where it would shift.

Knaatl became aware that there were a pair of eyes looking at him intently. Prisoner 641 was still awaiting his fate. Smiling gently at the scraggly man, he held out a hand. “My name is Knaatl. What is yours?”

“641… I 641.”

He shook his head. “No. No it is not. You were someone before you came here. What is your name? Where are you from? Where is your family?”

“641…”

Shaking his head, Knaatl gripped the man’s shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. He grabbed the chains around the male’s wrists and with a single twist, snapped them off. “We have a long way to go, my friend. You will not be a mere number for long.”

******

They burned Vramsteich to the ground. Just like what they had done with Greendawn, they made it look like a real raid but left little indication that it was an orc raiding band that had struck. Orc sightings were much farther to the north and not so far south. Everything of worth was taken, carried on strong orc backs or carried by equally powerful Wargs. Every orc had a single soldier on a chain and two of the prisoners in tow. Prisoners that were transformed were quickly growing accustomed to their new bodies and indeed on what it meant to be an orc. Some even drew satisfaction from being the one to hold the chain instead of the men stripped of their armour.

But moving four hundred men across the countryside would not be easy and it was doubtful that it would go unnoticed.

The solution to that came about ten miles away from Vramsteich.

There, a single orc shaman was waiting for them, hiding away and awaiting their return.

“Any problems?” Knaatl asked.

“None chieftain,” answered the shaman with a grin. “How many are we transporting?”

“Four hundred. Four hundred and a half at most.”

Nodding, the shaman reached into his robes, pulling out a scroll crafted by Samuel and taught to each of the shamans. Marked with a powerful teleportation spell, the shaman read the incantation. Soft blue light washed over each of those in the raiding band. Knaatl closed his eyes and swallowed the queasiness he felt as the spell took hold. The first time he experienced the bizarre spell, he had lost his lunch as the world twisted around him like someone had turned his surroundings into pain and began swirling the mixture until it was just a confusing flurry of colours and dizzying spirals. He found that closing his eyes avoided that even though it did nothing for the odd feeling in his stomach like its contents were somehow suspended in the air.

When the sensation ended and he found solid ground beneath his feet again, he opened his eyes. The scroll in the shaman’s hands caught on fire and instantly dissolved into ash. Many wretched and spilled the contents of their stomachs on the side. Even some of the orcs did the same. Oringruud looked pale.

Now, they were at least a hundred miles north of Vramsteich. Knaatl gave the order to march and they made their way to the next shaman, another ten miles away. It was how they managed to make surgical strikes on Alliance outposts and towns deep into enemy territory without being seen. The network of shamans were placed there by the swift and stealthy Nightusks and when Oringruud and his Blood Claws were ready to make their raids, they would be teleported from one location to the other, skipping miles at a time. Trackers would be confused as their tracks would spontaneously vanish and the magic required as small enough that Wizards or Priests would find it difficult to trace. That they made small leaps and then travelled further also ensured their security.

It still took them an entire day to get through the network to reach the magnificent orc city of Bhotanmar, a total of six jumps.

They spontaneously appeared in an enormous chamber. Stone floors pressed up against their shoes and boots. The mild chill of the northern plains and forests were instantly replaced by the biting cold of the far north. High archways and flying buttresses covered their heads though wide, open windows allowed unfiltered sunlight to shine down upon the beautiful mosaic on the floor, an emblem of two tusks crossed against one another. The vast chamber was decorated with the banners of the orc nation and fully armoured and armed orc soldiers were also there waiting to welcome them.

Prisoner 641 gawked at the immense sight. “Where…?”

Knaatl smiled at the man’s curiosity and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. He guided the lean fellow towards one of the windows pointing north. The sills were just high enough for an orc but for a human, even on the tips of his toes, 641 could not see. So Knaatl had to hoist the guy like a babe to view the breathtaking sight before him.

“Welcome to Bhotanmar.”

Bhotanmar was like the orcish mirror image of Raonoak but on a far grander scale. Located in a valley on the northern coast of the continent, the city’s grandest structure – the castle – was built in the north-facing steep slopes of the valley. The city itself spread across the valley and opening out into a bustling bay which had been converted into a port. Defensible, practical and protected on three flanks by sheer cliffs and harsh mountains, the growing metropolis was so far from Alliance lands that only those who knew of it would ever be able to find it.

“Bhotanmar…” 641 repeated in awe.

“That’s right,” Knaatl chuckled softly. He gently set 641 back onto the ground. “This will be your home now. It is where you will be free.”

“Free…?”

His heart wept at just how… broken the poor man was. “That’s right. It is where you can be whoever or whatever you want. Be it human or orc, warrior or lover. Come, let me get you some fresh clothing…” He sniffed and winced a little. “And perhaps a bath…”

“Hold there, Knaatl.”

The Nightusk chieftain resisted the urge to growl and turned towards Oringruud.

“That man is mine to claim,” the Blood Claw said. “He is the spoils of my raid. Your tribe merely aided in our attack. We were the ones who struck at the mine.”

“If I recall our new customs, Oringruud, he is allowed to choose which tribe and Trial he participates in. Besides…” He wrapped an arm around 641’s shoulders though with how large he was, the scrawny human barely made it halfway across his bicep. “… I’m sure you would not be opposed to me bathing him before he were to choose. You would not want any human filth touching your sacred cock, would you?”

The opposing chieftain snarled. “Very well. But I expect him to choose by the end of the week.”

“He will choose when he is of sound mind and body. Not a day sooner.” He nodded towards the remaining prisoners. “Besides, you seem to have your hands full.”

Oringruud snorted at him and barked for his orcs to start taking the newcomers to the city. Knaatl did the same, nodding towards his men to make sure that the Blood Claws did not get too rowdy and start converting people wantonly. Their new converts had to choose which tribe they belonged to after all. It could not be forced on them just as being an orc could not be forced… even if there were exceptions.

Knaatl patted 641’s shoulders. “Come on, son. Let’s get you cleaned.”

Bhotanmar was truly a magnificent work of ‘dwarven’ architecture. The Lookout was a single spire that reached above the mountain range, offering a mostly unobstructed view of the lands to the south. It served as not only an early warning system but also an easy point for the transportation spells to target. To the unknowing observer however, it was just another peak in the mountain.

The city itself had an enormous river running through its structure from the icy glaciers of the mountains. This river burst out of the base of the Lookout as a waterfall, pouring into a large, crystal-clear lake on the highest level of the castle. A garden was erected here. From there, the lake cascaded down into other smaller rivers and lakes on each of the many levels of the castle, making the entire structure look a little like a tiered cake with water collecting at every tier. Each level was masterfully crafted but it always struck Knaatl as odd that this was a supposed ‘dwarven’ stronghold yet each of the archways and doorways were built to comfortably accommodate the new age orcs, even the Earth Runners. More than once he wondered if this was some manipulation by Samuel.

At the wide base of the castle, past the imposing walls were four separate districts. Each one was built by the same dwarves and in the same style of architecture; blocky, refined and often with runic engravings. These four districts were divided into four of the tribes. From east to west, they were the Thunder Callers, the Nightusks, the Earth Runners and lastly the Blood Claws. The Hardshaft and Frost occupied the castle district being the smallest of the tribes after several months and requiring the least amount of space.

Each district had its own function and their own styles. The Thunder Callers had magic practically sizzling through the air. Large stones were erected with runes etched into them, each one offering a warming glow that could illuminate the streets well into the night. Large tusk-like rock formations jutted from the ground with talismans hanging from their tips and the occasional bolt of lightning dancing between them. Lamps carrying ethereal blue fire hung from doorways. The air was always fresher amongst the Thunder Callers and the chant of ‘Earth, Storm and Fire’, the common greeting amongst the tribe just like how ‘Frost Forever’ was amongst the Frost Tribe.

Knaatl took 641 into his own district which distinctly more… Alliance-friendly. From the original dwarven designs, they had lines of clothing stretching across streets, carts and stalls in plazas and squares and generally a more welcoming entrepreneurial air to it. In the past few months, more and more merchants from neighbouring nations were filtering into his Nightusk district in favour of the others. Such an environment was likely something that 641 would be more comfortable in instead of the mostly subterranean Earth Runner district or the rough and noisy Blood Claw district. Arguably, he could live in the beautiful Hardshaft district or higher up the castle to where the Frost tribe stayed but Knaatl didn’t want to show favouritism towards this particular slave.

Though he had to admit he drew some degree of satisfaction from depriving Oringruud of 641. He knew how obsessive the Blood Claw chieftain could be and he would stop at nothing to have the former-prisoner under his wing. Knaatl was fairly sure Oringruud still wanted to rule the orc nation but was at least cunning enough not to make a play for power while the far more devious Ramdrud was in power and Amthos’ trump card in Samuel were still in play.

At least to that extent, he knew that Oringruud would not make a move against him.

Knaatl brought 641 into his house, a large two storey, blocky structure unassuming from the rest of the similarly designed houses around the district. Where the other chieftains deigned to pick bigger homes to assert their authority, he remained modest and just picked a place that met his needs, nothing more.

As soon as he stepped through the door, he was hit by the smell of sex. He blushed a little remembering that he and Amthos had quite a ‘farewell romp’ the night before. They hadn’t made it to the bedroom upstairs before they were already spilling their seed everywhere. Ramdrud had joined them halfway through the night, trying to sneak in through the window as a sort of ‘romantic’ gesture. Both Amthos and Knaatl stuffed their dicks into him, making the bearish orc squeal in delight.

Realising that mere contact with any of the cum stains could immediately transform 641 into an orc, Knaatl turned and hoisted the man in his arms unceremoniously. 641 gawked at his strength and gave him a puzzled look.

“A quick few lessons in the new age orcs,” Knaatl explained, bringing 641 up the stone steps. “Just touching our seed will trigger a transformation that will turn you into another orc. The more you touch, the faster you change.” Seeing 641’s even more confused look, he said, “Basically if you get an orc to cum in your ass or you take a load straight down your throat from an orc’s cock, you’ll change really quickly into an orc. Just get a drop on you, you might be an orc by the end of the day.”

He wasn’t entirely sure if 641 even understood him but he knew how those broken in rehabilitation camps could be. After all, he had spent some time in one before he had managed to escape and form his ragtag band of outlaws. Being a ‘deviant’ wasn’t punishable by death. Just severe rehabilitation. A pity Findain could not endure life outside the camp after they had fled.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he continued to talk to 641. Continuously talking to the poor victims humanised them, helped them remember who they were and made them see that they were not just scum or clay to be reshaped and refined into something else.

“Second lesson. Amthos Frost Hordemaker is our ruler. He is the Avatar of the Orcs. He was a human. The Old Gods turned him into an orc with incredible powers. One of which is to turn any human, elf or dwarf that comes in contact with his seed into an orc just like him.”

“Gods…” 641 whispered. “Orc.”

Progress at least. He brought the man an into the bathing room where he had a large stone tub over a bed of currently cold coals. It was a good thing that none of the three lovers had entered the bathing room to have sex – because Amthos felt that the tiled floor was far too cold for some reason. That left it as the only room not covered in their transformative seed. He set 641 down and began pumping water into the large tub at the centre of the room. Once it was sufficiently filled, he lit the coals beneath the stone with a simple spell.

641’s eyes widened. “Magic… You mage?”

He laughed softly. “No, my friend. I am no mage. However, despite what those pricks up at the College of Magi will have you believe, anyone can use magic. It’s really just a matter of knowing the words. That’s all.” A tongue of flame appeared on his palm and he played with it a little, letting the flickering light dance between his fingers. “Get good enough with one spell and you might end up making variations of it. I really only know the one spell but I’ve gotten fairly good at it.”

“You… no mage…?”

Knaatl shook his head. “No. I’m no mage. If you want to see mages, go see Dalgmar and the Thunder Callers. They’re shamans. I guess instead of incantations or magical tools, they focus more on the ‘spirits’ or whatever that means. If you really want to see something magical, go see Samuel. He does things that defy the laws of nature. The laws of magic even.”

“Magic… Mage…” 641 frowned.

Was this some poor mage who spoke out against the Alliance? Did they reduce him to a quivering, barely literate mess? Hard to imagine that the Alliance would do something to a potentially incredible asset. Then again, no matter the magical talent, if 641 didn’t agree with their policies, he was better of being brainwashed into believing he was someone else than fall to the influence of their enemies.

Once the water was sufficiently warm, Knaatl doused the coals to get a good steam through the room. He beckoned for 641 to enter the tub. The poor guy almost jumped in with his clothes on before Knaatl had to stop him and remove the foul-smelling rags from him. When 641 entered the tub, the waters almost instantly turned a murky grey.

“Poor bastard,” muttered the orc. Even after being on the road for days, he wasn’t that filthy.

He reached for a nearby wooden tray where he had purchased some exotic soaps and salts from a trader. Ramdrud had done an excellent job establishing contact with the other races. The Dracorians to the southwest were more than willing to open trade routes especially since their Avatar was a big proponent of opening themselves up to the rest of the world. Even the Ursarai of the swamps were using their strange magics to cross the land and trek into Bhotanmar with their goods; mostly herbs and spices that the Thunder Callers absolutely loved. To Knaatl they smelled far too sweet but Ramdrud simply adored them. Thinking of washing the big, hairy orc’s feet with the soap, caressing those meaty toes started blood pumping into Knaatl’s loins.

Shaking his head for the second time, the chieftain began applying some of the cinnamon-smelling soap gently onto 641’s sun-darkened skin. The young man shivered at the contact but didn’t offer any complaint. That was good. Some of the Nightusks who had been with him as a human couldn’t stand being touched a few months after they had left the rehabilitation camp. Even getting an inch close to them would trigger an episode that sent them huddling into a corner whimpering.

“You have a strong will,” he observed. “I guess you’ve been there about… I dunno… five, six months?”

641 lifted his hands. “I been there…” He began opening and closing his hands, extending his fingers. “… this many…”

It took a moment for Knaatl to understand what he was saying. “That many years?”

“Nuh…”

“Months?”

“Nuh-uh…”

“Days! You’ve been there that many days!” With 641’s vigorous nodding, Knaatl counted the days by fingers. Roughly about ninety days. “Three months…” The bitterness returned to his tone. “… counting the days as they went by to keep your sanity… Sorry bastard…” He began scrubbing across 641’s back. “Do you remember anything at all about who you were? Your name beyond the number forced upon you by the Alliance?”

641 shook his head miserably. “…641… 641…”

Knaatl sighed. “Had it been that easy, it would have been some cruel jest by the Gods.” He patted 641’s shoulder lightly. “Look, just rub this over yourself. Just like this.” He showed the broken down man how to scrub the soap over his body in slow, circular motions.

641 took the sweet-smelling bar and tentatively mirrored the motion… although he just kept scrubbing it over the same spot over and over again. It would have been humorous is Knaatl had not been on the verge of breaking down himself. Gently, he guided 641’s hand over his shoulders, showing the almost child-like man how to proceed. At the very least, the former prisoner was a quick study.

A soft chiming noise came from downstairs. Something the dwarves had put into the design of every house were these bells that they hung over each of their doors with a rope attached to them. If anyone wanted to catch the attention of the person inside the home, they simply rang the bell. Knaatl had never seen anything like it and could not understand why someone would not simply knock and waste time with the musical tones. Most of the orcs simply used it as a novelty for the first few weeks as it was somewhat of a juxtapose that such a dainty tone would herald a big hulking orc. But as it became less of a joke and more of a habit, the inhabitants of Bhotanmar began treating the ‘doorbells’ more and more as a common courtesy.

“Stay here,” Knaatl instructed 641. “Keep washing yourself. I will not be long.”

He left the bathroom and headed downstairs fully expecting for either Oringruud or Amthos to be on the other side of the door. It came as a surprise instead that Samuel was there waiting for him, fully armoured as he preferred to be when in public. He only ever revealed his true lupine self in private meetings with the circle of chieftains.

“Samuel,” Knaatl greeted. “Come to tell me that Amthos is displeased I did not come to see him immediately after I returned?”

“Quite the contrary,” answered the No One. “Oringruud barged in on him holding council with Ramdrud and Dalgmar. He lamented that you had impeded his raid and complained that you had deprived him of his right to the ‘spoils of war’. Amthos requests that you avoid the castle and the Blood Claw district as much as possible.”

“Oringruud…” he grumbled bitterly. “Tell my roh’Fedar that I am sorry to have caused him so much grief. I simply did what I thought was right.”

“That was never in doubt.”

There was a loud crash from above and Knaatl immediately turned, scowling. “Gods be damned…”

“Your ward giving you troubles?”

The orc began marching upstairs, his anger fading. “He is like a child. Most of my men in the Nightusks were similar when we escaped our rehabilitation camp. They knew only how to sleep, eat and chop wood.”

“Being forced to do the same thing over and over again, day in, day out can do wonders to blur the lines of time and break the spirit.”

“You seem to be an expert in that.”

“I have read many tales, Knaatl. More than a few have started in dire stituations.”

They entered the bathroom and Knaatl grimaced at the naked, soapy man lying on the tiles outside of the stone tub rubbing his legs with a bar of soap. “Ah… Any other time I would laugh…”

Samuel strode forward and cleared his throat. 641 looked up at the sound. Then his black eyes widened in recognition.

“Knight…”

Knaatl was stunned. “He recognised you.”

“I should think he would. Our meeting was hardly forgettable.”

“So you know who he is?”

“Yes. He is Mrakon Tarnerson from Werrshreidt.”

That name and indeed that town seemed familiar. “Werrshreidt… Werrshreidt…” he whispered softly to himself. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“It was the name of the town at the swamps where Amthos and I first met. Mrakon and his childhood friend, Ruven, actually noticed that Amthos was branded a Greenskin Sympathiser and attempted to assault him, hoping to yank out his teeth.”

Knaatl’s eyes widened. This was that Mrakon? That blood thirsty, ugly wretch that Amthos had described to him that had attacked him for no reason at all other than he was branded as a Sympathiser? His huge hands balled into fists as all the pity he felt for this skinny, foul being began to burn and bubble away.

“Tell me…” he growled softly. “Why did he end up in that rehabilitation camp?”

“You will not like the answer.”

“Just tell me!” he bellowed, shaking the room and causing 641 to freeze in shock.

Samuel paused a moment. He closed his eyes then only opened one. Through his help, Knaatl could have sword that the No One’s pupils had turned into eight-pointed stars. “Widespread conscription and recruitment has begun all over the Alliance lands. The Alliance came to Werrshreidt and Mrakon and Ruven were conscripted, being trained to be soldiers. Mrakon, however, was dissatisfied with the lack of action the Alliance was taking against the orcs. He heard about Whitepeak and the migrations of orcs and was desperate to kill his very own Greenskin.”

It took all of Knaatl’s will not to charge at the former-prisoner and hurl him right out the window. “And…?”

“Amthos’ brother was there.”

The Nightusk chieftain immediately lost all of his anger. “Luxaeus?”

“Luxaeus!” 641 exclaimed. “Luxaeus!”

“Quiet, cur!” Knaatl barked, causing 641 to cringe. He turned back towards Samuel. “What happened?”

The No One nodded and said, “Luxaeus overheard a rather loud proclamation from Mrakon on his intentions and desires against the orcs. Seeing much of Orradin in him and despising that quality for it the cause of his loss of a brother, Luxaeus tricked Mrakon into accompanying him. The Paladin was on a mission to root out such people from the ranks of the conscripts because Eranius believes that they will only stoke the fires of hatred and they need defenders of their homes not warriors eager for blood. Really, it is busywork to keep Luxaeus away from Orradin as the two do not get along very well together.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Knaatl growled, sarcasm dripping from his every word. “Then what? Did Mrakon do something stupid?”

“On the contrary, he wholeheartedly believed in Luxaeus’ lie that he was to become a great knight against the orcs, the Tuskeeper. When they arrived at the mining camp you liberated, Luxaeus revealed his true intentions and shackled them all, damning them to rehabilitation.”

Shaking in fury once more, Knaatl said, “He deserved much worse. Not only for assaulting Amthos but for the hatred he has in his heart. I have no doubt he has ripped the teeth out of many other innocent Greenskin Sympathisers.”

“You would be correct there. However, he has his reasons for hating the orcs. His fiancé -”

Knaatl shoved past Samuel, storming towards a cowering, naked and wet 641. “I care not for his reasons!” He seized the back of the prisoner’s head, seizing his hair and lifting him up into the air.

“Nuh! Nuh! No hurt!” screamed the frail little man.

Knaatl could snap the bastard’s spine there and then. “To think I wasted my sympathy on you…”

“Knaatl,” Samuel said, raising a hand towards him. “The purpose of those camps was to break down a person so that they could be rebuilt into a productive member of society. As much as it pains me to say it, Mrakon has become 641, a number, a barely literate husk of a man that can be shaped into someone I am sure you would be proud to stand by your side. Let him repent for what he has done by being the person he should be.”

The Nightusk chieftain’s scowl faded. “You are a strong believer in second chances, aren’t you?”

“And third and fourth and however long it takes until all options are exhausted. Only when the last straw is drawn, the last path taken, will I take the drastic option of eliminating someone.”

Fury immediately entered Knaatl’s eyes. “A pity I cannot be so forgiving.”

The No One remained still as Knaatl boldly spun around and hurled 641 right out the window, screaming. The lanky man crashed through the stained glass, screaming. There was a satisfying crack as the man’s body hit the brick streets. The screaming ended and Knaatl smiled.

“Knaatl,” Samuel said gently, “Mrakon’s fiancé, whom he loved dearly, fell in love with an orc. He impregnated her. She wanted to keep the child, adamant that it would be human. They lied and maintained that was his for months until the pregnancy eventually claimed her life and that of the child. Infuriated at the orc that had done this, he outed him and had him burned at the stake. He felt betrayed especially when his love’s last words were for the orc and not him.”

The orc scowled at him. “Am I to pity him now? Was that a parallel to how Findain took his own life because he could not live a life on the run with me?”

“No. It is not a manipulation. It is not an explanation. It is simply the end of a chapter in a man’s sad tale.”

The No One turned and left the Nightusk chieftain.

Samuel strode out into the street where 641 lay. Though there was a large population now in Bhotanmar, the streets were never crowded and no one occupied the stone path at this time of day. The poor man was curled up in agony, his arm broken severely and blood spilling out around him. Feeling Knaatl’s eyes upon him, he knelt beside 641 and gently rested a hand on the man’s bloodied forehead.

“Nuh… Nuh…” 641 whimpered. “No hurt…”

“I will not hurt you, Mrakon,” he said gently. “My name is…” The No One paused for a moment. “I am called R3 the Writer of Reality. I am a No One. A visitor to your world asked here by the Creator.”

“No… No One…”

“Right. I am going to give you a choice now, Mrakon. I can end your pain. Your suffering. Your story here will end. I can take you elsewhere. Give you a new start. Or, you can continue your tale here. It will be hard. You will experience loss and terrible pain but also true love and eventually happiness. Which do you choose?”

641 shut his black eyes. “Nuh… Nuh… No… die.”

Samuel smiled beneath his helmet. “Alright then.” Gently, he pulled the bleeding 641’s to his feet, draping one arm over his shoulder while tenderly holding the former-prisoner’s broken arm to keep it from causing more pain. “Come with me. We will get you healed.”

******

Dalgmar grunted as he gently tied the cleaned, warm bandage around 641’s arm. “I assume the reason you came to me instead of my other shamans is because this is the man that Knaatl, a chieftain, threw out a window in a rage.”

Samuel stood off to the side of Dalgmar’s personal quarters within his chapel. The shaman had taken to resurrecting the belief of Garodrash and as he commissioned Urthak’s Earth Runners to build him a temple, he held sermons and his healing practice at his chapel which also served as his home. “You are correct.”

“You move in very mysterious ways, Master Samuel,” Dalgmar said, clucking his tongue. He reached into a little bowl filled with a dark grey salve. Scooping up a bit of it on his fingers, he applied it to the wound on 641’s forehead. The prisoner whimpered and shied away. “Hold still, boy,” growled Dalgmar. “I assume his mental faculties are what frustrated our assassin leader so?”

“It might be what saved him, actually. Were he not impeded so, I believe Knaatl would have crushed his skull at that moment. Our resident chieftain of the scouts seems to despise those who attack Greenskin Sympathisers.”

As Dalgmar applied the salve, he said, “I can understand his stance. The Sympathisers are already considered outcasts amongst the Alliance much like he was. For others to prey on them would be akin to throwing rocks as a blind, lame and mute man. There is no challenge to it, no honour save for the sick pleasure of seeing another man suffer.”

“I have seen much worse.”

“Perhaps that is what makes you far more lenient. However, for those of us who live in this world, that is as worse as a man can become.”

Samuel smiled slightly. “Garodrash has been speaking to you about me then.”

“He whispers distrust of you. Claims you are corrupting the Avatar and the orcs away from his faith.”

“And you do not agree with him utterly.”

The wizened shaman gave him a crooked smile. “Let us remember that this is a ‘god’ that was dethroned and rendered nearly powerless. I have lived the past few decades without his guidance. I will accept his aid and will aid him in turn but he is not my god. He is a god.”

“Then who is your god?”

Dalgmar’s smile turned a little thin. “How would you react if I said you?”

The room suddenly became very chilly and Samuel’s eyes grew hard. “Very poorly.”

The shaman threw his head back and laughed, turning back to treat 641. “I suspected as much. Though you ought to be careful about your great deeds, Master Samuel. Your skills in the court and your uncanny knowledge of where Cald-Harun was have had many believing you to have the gift of foresight. Coupled with your incredible abilities, others have taken to thinking you are a god amongst men. In fact, the rumours of your true form coupled with the belief of this ‘Dark Trinity’ amongst the newcomers have painted you as some sort of deity.”

“I suppose that is my fault. However, I am no god. There are no gods. Just mortals.”

“I have come to believe and understand that, yes,” Dalgmar said with a shrug. “A reason why I merely serve Garodrash but not entirely have my full faith in him. He is merely a more powerful mortal.”

“A wise interpretation.” As Dalgmar finished with 641, Samuel stepped forward towards the injured man. He lifted a single hand and pressed his palm against 641’s forehead. “Tell me, what is your name.”

641’s eyelids fluttered and his mouth hung open. His lips moved rapidly, muttering gibberish beneath his breath as his body twitched and convulsed lightly. Before Dalgmar could interrupt, the man’s eyes sprang back open, full of life and an identity.

“Ah’m Mrakon…” he whispered. “Mrakon Tarnerson… o’ Werrshreidt…” He looked to Dalgmar and then back to Samuel who pulled his hand away. “An’… an’ yer…”

“Yes,” Samuel answered with a nod. “Do you know where you are?”

Mrakon nodded slowly. Though his eyes were once more bright with intelligence, they were filled with sorrow and regret. “Yeah… Ah’m in Bhotanmar… An orc city far ta th’ north. Away from th’ Alliance. Fuck…”

Dalgmar gave Samuel a querying look. “I do hope you did not return a man who is undyingly loyal to the Alliance to his senses.”

“Give him a moment,” Samuel responded.

Mrakon’s eyes suddenly widened. “Ruven… They took Ruven!” He locked gazed with Samuel and seized the starry cloak of the No One. “They found Ruven ta have magic powers! A War Wizard took ‘im! We gotta save ‘im!”

Glancing to Dalgmar, Samuel said, “Still believe him to be undyingly loyal to the Alliance?”

“I fuckin’ hate the Alliance,” sneered Mrakon. “What they put me through… Fine, I wus an ass.” Mrakon’s hand slipped away from Samuel. “Luxaeus wus right… I wus a’ animal… I jus’ wanted ta kill orcs fer no reason… But it ain’t right what they did ta me an’ th’ others like me. All the men at Vramsteich…!”

The orc shaman shuffled forward, large hands behind his back. He leaned towards Mrakon, bright yellow eyes scanning him. “I sense no deception in his eyes. The spirits tell me he is honest and true… for the most part.”

“Ah’m bein’ honest!” pleaded Mrakon. “Please! We gotta save Ruven!”

“And who is this Ruven to you?”

The man’s eyes fell. “He’s mah best friend. Since childhood. An’ he was right ‘bout Luxaeus… ‘bout me… If ah’d jus’ listened ta him…”

Dalgmar straightened. “Ah, driven by regret and shame, I see, to seek redemption. Understandable.” The grey-haired shaman turned to Samuel. “Well then, Master No One, what do you intend with our young friend here?”

The armoured knight gestured towards Mrakon. “I’m sure Amthos would very much like to hear about his brother’s dealings. Though I honestly do not know how he will react upon learning that the man Knaatl tossed out a window in a rage was the same man who almost tried to tear out his lower incisors.”

Mrakon protested. “I nevah attacked no orc!”

“Ah but the Orc Avatar was once human. The same human in fact that I saved that day you met me.”

The swamp farmer from Werrshreidt went pale and Dalgmar threw his head back with a laugh.

“This must be some divine jest!” bellowed the shaman. He eyed Samuel with a grin. “Or perhaps it is your machinations once again?”

“You will never know,” Samuel answered with a shrug. “Unto the present. Mrakon, you our aid in saving Ruven? Sadly, there will be many who will not trust you given your former leanings and I doubt Knaatl will vouch for you. So I propose this: to prove you have set aside your hatred for the orcs, you must become one.”

Mrakon’s eyes bulged and he shied away from the knight. “N – n – no! I – I can’t! I –” He began quivering. “Nuh… Nuh…”

“I see that his conditioning has not left him,” Dalgmar observed.

“I did not remove his memories of that time,” Samuel explained. “I merely helped him remember who he was. It is up to him to choose who he wishes to become be it Mrakon of Werrshreidt of prisoner 641.”

At the sound of his numerical identification, Mrakon shook his head in fury. “No… Ah ain’t gonna be that weaklin’ again. I ain’t gonna be no animal neither…”

“If you are implying that orcs are animals…” Dalgmar cautioned.

“Naw. Right now, men are more animals than orcs…” Mrakon lifted his head fiercely. “Fine. Ah’ll be an orc.”

A grunt left the shaman. “I am afraid it will not be that simple. To become an orc amongst us, you must apply to one of the tribes. Each look for specific candidates…”

“Then let me join yers.”

Dalgmar shook his head. “The Thunder Callers look for those with a talent in magic and have a close connection with the spirits. Our Trial of Tusks also involves long days of meditation and communion with the Spirits.”

Mrakon slammed a hand against the table he was perched on. “I ain’t got no time fer that! Ruven is in danger!”

“Peace, young one,” said the chieftain, holding up a hand. “There are other tribes. I doubt Knaatl will allow you into his tribe given your grievances with him and without his support, Amthos will likely reject your application to the Frost Tribe.”

“There are the Earth Runners,” Samuel suggested. “However they are labourers and builders, not so much warriors. Fierce when the need arises and they practice and train alongside every other orc but you will likely not stir them into action without some great crime having been committed against them.” He shrugged absently. “Then there is the Hardshaft Tribe but they are Bhotanmar’s peacekeepers and diplomats. Ramdrud is also a close ally of Amthos and Knaatl so you may find it difficult to convince him to allow you to join.”

“Which begs the question why I should be helping as well,” Dalgmar sighed. “I favour Amthos myself…”

Samuel chuckled softly. “Perhaps but you listen to the spirits. What do the spirits tell you now?”

The shaman did not even blink an eye. “That Mrakon should join the Blood Claws.”

The deeply tanned swamp farmer’s lips turned down into a frown. “Th’ Blood Claws…? Ya mean th’ orcs that raped an’ took over th’ mine?”

“The very same,” Dalgmar said with a sagely nod. “They are the most active of the orcs in the Alliance lands and are those who dare to travel outside of Bhotanmar to bring the offensive to our enemies and liberate settlements for the orcs just as they did with you. If you were to save your friend Ruven, joining them would be your best option.” He held up a finger. “However, joining a tribe is not something one should do just to meet a singular goal. It is a lifetime commitment. Once you are part of a tribe, your honour, your name will be bound to that tribe for the rest of your life. You must embody the tribe’s code of ethics and its practices. Anything you do reflects on the tribe and anything the tribe does reflects on you. Do you understand?”

Mrakon’s brow furrowed. “Ah’m… not sure…”

“Becoming part of a tribe means becoming part of a community,” Samuel explained. “Your name changes. You will become Mrakon Blood Claw. You cannot simply use the tribe to your ends. You must contribute to the tribe and be one with them. You will become a Blood Claw orc. You will become a Greenskin and there will be no returning. Can you live with that decision?”

A moment of doubt flashed in front of Mrakon’s eyes. The years of hatred for orcs, the sick satisfaction he felt upon ‘punishing’ Greenskin Sympathisers, the pride he felt when he showed others his collection of teeth… all of that were so deeply rooted into his heart and soul that he could not simply let go of it. But then he remembered Luxaeus’ words and how they badly stung. Suddenly, he felt sick at what he had been. Like looking at his former self through a cage, the ravenous, fat, hateful Mrakon railed at the bars, demanding to be let out; an animal baying for blood.

He turned away from that side of him.

“Ah can. If Ah can save Ruven, then Ah can.”

Samuel nodded. “Then allow me to contact Oringruud. I am sure he will be pleased at your decision.” He glanced to Dalgmar. “Would you like to accompany, Dalgmar?”

“Very well,” answered the shaman. The orc gestured to Mrakon. “Lie still. Rest. You will need your strength for the Trial.”

The two left the room, Dalgmar shutting the door behind him. They walked in silence until they were at the door leaving the chapel.

“You planned this,” Dalgmar accused. “You were the one that convinced Amthos to send Knaatl alongside Oringruud to attack that mining encampment. You fully expected Knaatl to save this one particular soul and now, you are returning him to Oringruud. Why?”

Samuel smiled, sending a chill down the orc’s spine. “You give me far too much credit, Dalgmar. I honestly expected Knaatl to forgive Mrakon the moment his identity was revealed. The future is uncertain and while there was a slim chance that Knaatl would throw Mrakon out the window, probability favoured forgiveness. Yet, despite the odds, Knaatl still did what he did. I merely laid out plans afterwards in either occasion.”

“To what end?”

“That… I will keep to myself.”

******

The Blood Claw Trial of Tusks was brutal as it was efficient. An orc and an applicant entered the arena. Weapons were granted only by the crowd who threw them onto the sands. That left the outer reaches of the ring close to the edge where the audience sat incredibly dangerous. Apparently, more than one applicant or orc had been injured by a stray weapon. The two would fight to submission. The winner dominated the loser and would determine their place amongst the Blood Claw. Right in front of the hundreds of gathered people, orc, human, dwarf, elf or even some of the other races who had started trickling in, the applicant would be turned into an orc.

Mrakon stood next in line, his arm still in a sling and dressed down to a mere fur loincloth. Oringruud had accepted his application and the swamp farmer suspected that Samuel had let it slip that he had been the one to attack Amthos all those months back. After all, there was a particularly resplendent orc sitting in the crowd surrounded by other orcs dressed in full, plate armour and bearing a red cloak that matched his flaming red hair. He saw Knaatl sitting beside the orc as well as Dalgmar and another, portlier orc that he did not recognise.

The crowd broke into a cheer as a monstrous roar ripped through the arena. Near the centre, a newly made orc threw his head back, long, brown hair pulled back by his progenitor while he was on his hands and knees, faintly glowing white cum spilling from his massive cock and onto the sands below. As the two enormous, magnificent specimens of orc stood up, seed spiling from the newcomer’s ass, his mentor slapped him on the back happily and lifted his powerful fist into the air.

“Gromdar!” he roared. “Gromdar!”

The cheer spread across the audience like wildfire. They were welcoming their new brother. Mrakon was amazed at how quickly the orcs could go from enemies to brothers in arms. Conscripts amongst the Alliance bore grudges throughout their entire tenure. Even soldiers seemed to despise one another despite fighting under the same faith and against the same enemy. Here, they became brothers under the one tribe.

“Next!” bellowed the announcer. “We have Lordrash versus Mrakon Tarnerson of Werrshreidt!”

The orcs did not jeer or boo his name. They cheered, welcoming him. The orc that would be his challenger, Lordrash, was a monster of a beast with wild, chestnut brown hair arranged in a single stripe down his head like a proud mane. Like him, Lordrash was dressed only in a loincloth, revealing the rippling, lean muscles all across his body. All the Blood Claws shared the same property; not a single shred of body fat across their titanic bodies. Each mountain of muscle was pressed up against their green skin, stretched taut and broken only by the rivers of veins that throbbed with their life blood.

Mrakon took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he knew would be a very difficult battle. He strode out into the arena… and the crowd instantly fell silent. They saw his sling. Now he expected the disproval.

Instead, Lordrash laughed. “You are brave, young one. Brave or overconfident. Fight me with one arm if you must but know I will not treat you differently to any other applicant.”

Mrakon swallowed hard. “Ah expected no mercy…” he answered.

The announcer shook himself away from his shock. “The rules, as always!” he shouted, voice carrying across the arena. “This is not to the death! Submission is heralded by a thumb and forefinger raised as a ring.” He demonstrated for the crowd and Mrakon’s convenience. In the briefing given to him by Dalgmar, that gesture was meant to symbolise an anus and the tradition was for the victor to push a finger through the ring to show that they accepted surrender. “Weapons are given by the grace of the audience,” the announcer continued. “Choose what you will and may the Old Gods guide your arm!” He lifted his own arms and brought them down abruptly. “Begin!”

Mrakon braced himself, ready to charge to the nearest weapon and so did Lordrash. He had watched a few of the matches before and knew that it was always wise to rush in the opposite direction of the orc to find a weapon. Anything else would mean instant defeat.

Then the unexpected happened.

Crimson lightning descended from the clear blue sky, striking the very centre of the arena. A wave of sand and force washed over the entire field, a clap of thunder leaving Mrakon’s ears ringing. He lifted his one good arm to keep the sand from his eyes. Through squinting eyes, he could see… something embedded in the ground in front of him. As the sand settled, the crowd gasped.

Embedded at the very centre of the arena was a beautiful spear. Its haft was made of a glossy black material akin of obsidian. The grips were made of a smooth, brown leather. The feathers of a fiery bird were attached to the base like tassels. They also sprouted from the base of the spear tip. From what he could see, the tip itself was made of a brilliant, rosy red metal, intricately crafted and large enough to easily pierce through a man’s chest. Bolts of crackling red energies danced along its immense length.

All eyes instantly went to Samuel who stood opposite to where Amthos and his retinue. There was rage in Knaatl’s eyes. Amthos’ features were hard to read but his eyes did narrow in curiosity.

“Who will claim Bloodspear, I wonder?” Samuel asked, his voice somehow carrying throughout the entire arena.

Suddenly, Mrakon spun and locked gazes with Lordrash. Both men instantly wanted the weapon and both charged. The crowd was instantly on edge, cheering, hollering and abandoning their own attempts to provide weapons.

Mrakon realised that with Lordrash being so much taller than him, the orc could reach the spear much faster. Even as he inched closer and closer, his mind raced. He needed that spear if he was to win. If the orc picked up the weapon, all chances of victory would be blown to the wind!

His mind raced.

Lordrash got closer and closer to the spear.

He let out a bellowing cry and suddenly dove forward, feet first. His heels dug into the sand, kicking up a blast of powder into the air. The small cloud blasted past the spear and right into Lordrash’s eyes. The orc roared and flailed, missing the magical spear entirely. Mrakon snatched the black haft and hurried away. Despite being over ten feet tall, the spear was surprisingly light. It was certainly not made for him but it was his now.

Onlookers cheered. Despite the odds, he had retrieved the Bloodspear.

Lordrash brushed the sand from his eyes and chuckled softly. “Smart, boy. Smart. You will make a good Blood Claw yet!” He straightened and rolled his shoulders, an ominous crackling rising from the gesture. “Now let us see if you can keep that spear!”

The mighty orc suddenly bolted to the right and seized two huge cleavers from the ground, each one nearly as tall as Mrakon was from waist to shoulder. Gritting his teeth in determination, Mrakon lifted his new spear… and realised he had no idea how to use a spear. The militia and Luxaeus had only ever taught him how to handle a sword and shield!

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end!” came a cry from the stands. He turned and found it was that hairy, bald, bearish orc standing beside Amthos. Knaatl threw the orc a fierce snarl and Amthos gave him a raised eyebrow.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Mrakon charged forward, letting out a bellowing cry. Lordrash echoed the cry, his naturally louder than the human’s. Though smaller in stature, Mrakon was swifter. He swept to the side as Lordrash swung his blades, leaving his flanks open. Seeing his opportunity, Mrakon thrust his spear forward…

… and sunk the spear tip to the hilt into Lordrash’s flank.

The crowd went silent.

Had the human dealt a fatal blow? Had this one-armed upstart actually slain an orc and broken the pact of the arena?

Lordrash seemed surprised for a moment… but then broke into a grin. Mrakon realised something was terribly wrong. The spear tip hadn’t broken the skin. It seemed to just pass right through the orc’s flesh!

With a roared, Lordrash swing his blade backwards, drawing a bloody gash across Mrakon’s face. The farmer let out a cry of pain as he was hurled back by the force of the blow. Still gripping Bloodspear, he crashed to the ground, blinking away tears and blood.

“Your weapon has no effect on orcs,” Lordrash bellowed. “Hel’Midar would never create a weapon that would harm an orc.”

Mrakon groaned and struggled to his feet. In his hurry to rise, he put pressure on his injured arm and instantly felt a stab of pain that sent him crumbling to the ground again. He felt Lordrash’s shadow over him.

“Now…” rumbled the orc. “Submit.”

Gritting his teeth tightly, Mrakon glanced at his hands. On was in a sling and bandaged. He could not form the sign of submission there. The other gripped Bloodspear doggedly. Either he let go of his only weapon and surrendered or kept fighting.

He knew his answer.

He stared defiantly at Lordrash. “Never.”

He swung Bloodspear at the orc. Though the weapon still passed harmlessly through Lordrash’s flesh, instincts drove the orc to pull back a moment. It was enough for Mrakon to leap to his feet and put a few paces between them. Lordrash snarled at the deception and let out another bellowing roar. The might orc charged forward, swinging his blades wildly and without any true rhythm. Luxaeus’ teachings played to Mrakon’s advantage as he saw an opening and dove through the weaving blades, sliding past the orc’s defences and behind the greenskin. He immediately spun and lashed out with his spear.

To his surprise, Lordrash just kept charging forward, blind with fury until he hit the far wall. Even the audience was confused at the odd behaviour. Lordrash spun, his eyes filled with fury and spied Mrakon again. The orc bellowed and charged head first. From such a distance, it was a foolish act and with the orc actually lowering his head, he had no idea where he was going.

Mrakon had a moment to tilt his head in confusion before he sidestepped the reckless blow and stuck out his leg. Lordrash tripped over the limb, tumbling to the ground and dropping both his weapons. The orc roared and flailed like a petulant child, clawing at the sand and beating his legs against the ground.

There was an opening.

Mrakon slipped Bloodspear between his injured arm and flank and bent down, seizing one of the massive cleavers. Just as Lordrash spun around, Mrakon fell upon him, pressing the blade of the cleaver against the orc’s neck.

The rage in Lordrash’s eyes faded.

“Submit!” Mrakon demanded.

Again, the crowd was silent. When Lordrash turned to Samuel for an explanation, so did everyone else.

“Bloodspear will do no physical harm to anyone,” said the No One. “But those touched by its blade will be consumed by a blinding rage. They will become akin to a raging beast.” The knight paused for a moment, his eyes meeting with Mrakon’s. “An animal.”

At that one particular word, Mrakon came to realise that he had an orc under his mercy. His eyes fell back or Lordrash. Even as the orc lifted his hand, forming the sign of submission, Mrakon found his old self rising once more. That monster, demanding the blood of a greenskin whispered infuriating and blood boiling corruption into his ears.

Never before had he killed an orc with his own two hands.

This was his chance!

Slit Lordrash’s throat!

Watch the life fade from his eyes!

Bathe in his blood!

Mrakon’s face twisted, his teeth bared and his hand shaking. Lordrash’s eyes widened as the realisation of death slowly dawned on him…

… then…

The swamp farmer stood and tossed aside his cleaver.

The crowd cheered and Lordrash let out a sigh of relief. The orc lay back, smiling at him with pride in his eyes. That look… it sent the beast in Mrakon flying into the darkness. No one had ever looked at him like that before.

“You earned your place amongst us well,” rumbled the orc. He groped his hardening cock through his loincloth. “Come. Take your reward.”

Mrakon swallowed. He seized Bloodspear, tossed it aside…

… and turned his back to Lordrash.

“No…” he answered. “Ah dun deserve it…”

The entire arena fell silent, shocked as the victor turned and left. They all felt the faint chill down their spine of a No One that smiled.

******

The injuries were superficial at worst. The blood gash across his face had stopped bleeding. Thanks to the magic of the arena shaman, it had healed but still left him with a ragged scar running from the top of his right eyebrow down to the left corner of his jaw, cutting over his nose. Mrakon did not even get an hour to rest and recuperate before two, burly orcs entered the chamber where the shaman was treating him.

“The chieftain wishes to see him,” one of them grunted.

Was this Knaatl come to reprimand him for spitting at tradition and kill him? Or was this Amthos come to confront him about their previous encounter? Regardless of what happened, Mrakon puffed out his chest and willingly accepted whatever fate brought his way. If Knaatl or Amthos wanted him dead, he would fight and kill as long as it meant saving Ruven from the clutches of the Alliance.

The orcs were not rough with him and even seemed to revere him as they led him through the streets of Bhotanmar. Some passing orcs and non-orcs even gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Others murmured ‘Kalthuum’ as he passed them. Was that a word for coward? Defiler?

Whatever it meant, he brought his attention back to the present. He had to save Ruven. If even that meant cutting through every orc in this town to do it, he would. At the very least, he wanted to apologise to his long-time friend. Whether or not Ruven forgave him or not would not matter just as long as he had the opportunity to apologise.

He was let into a large stone house decorated with Warg motifs and weapons. There were usable spears, shields and swords plastered hung on the walls as decorations. This was certainly not Knaatl’s residence. The one of the orcs opened the door for him.

“Go in, kalthuum. The chieftain awaits.”

Mrakon took a step forward… then stopped. He glanced at the orc. “What does that mean? ‘Kalthuum’?

The orc smiled at him. “Champion. It means ‘champion’.”

Stunned, Mrakon backed away from the orc, wondering if he was being lied to. The orc shut the door as soon as he was away from range, leaving him with a strange, delectable scent of cooking pork delicately seasons and the faintly doughy aroma of bread. Lured by the smell, he turned and followed the smell. He found himself in a large dining chamber attached to a kitchen. A large orc with wild, black hair was poring over the stove, cooking.

The orc noticed him and gave him a smile. “Ah, kalthuum. I did not expect you so soon. Mind Gorefang. He does not like to be stepped on.”

Mrakon turned to where the orc was pointing and jumped at the sight of the huge, black, muscled Warg perched right next him. The Warg seemed to snicker at his surprise.

“Why ‘ave ya called me?”

The chieftain tossed a large circular pan with a deep surface against a sizzling fire. There were shreds of vegetables and pork being thrown amongst what appeared to be yellowish noodles. The smell was amazing.

“I wager you have not eaten since you arrived,” the orc said. “You were in the middle of afternoon meals when we attacked. That was nearly six hours ago. In that span, you angered the Nightusk chieftain, had your arm broken, received a weapon from hel’Midar and put my arena to shame.”

He realised he was in the presence of the Blood Claw chieftain. As he began to stutter an apology, he came to realise that the chieftain was actually cooking. Part of him expected the meals to be provided for the leader of the tribe but here was the head orc cooking. His stomach grumbled, heralding his hunger.

His host laughed. “You must forgive me cooking. I am not very skilled with this kind of dish. We have only recently made contact with the Horanmut and they have been trading these ‘egg noodles’ of theirs. I picked up this recipe from one of their merchants who apparently trade with the Rantori.”

“The Rantori have been enslaved by the Alliance…”

“True but they still maintain their culture even amongst their hovels and shanty towns.” The chieftain served some of the meal into stone bowls and them brought them over to the table, beckoning for Mrakon to sit. “Come. Sit. Eat. My table is yours.”

Unable to help himself, Mrakon sat down and began shovelling the food into his mouth even if it was with only one hand. After months of eating nothing but plain-tasting gruel, it was heaven to taste the myriad of flavours from the meal. It actually have meat again between his teeth, the savoury taste dancing on his tongue, almost made collapsed into tears.

“My name is Oringruud Blood Claw,” said the chieftain. “I am the chieftain of the Blood Claws and the owner of the arena that you have become champion of.”

“Ah’m no champion…” Mrakon muttered through a mouthful.

“Ah but you are. You see, those who enter the arena have only one goal in mind; to join the Blood Claws and become orcs. You, my young kalthuum, are the first to make a distinction between the two. You won the challenge but your refused to become an orc. In the eyes of the orcs, that makes you a champion.”

He could not understand how that could possibly make him a ‘champion’. “Why…?”

“Despite what your Alliance leaders would have you believe, we orcs are not brutish, rapacious beasts who will kill anything in sight and live only for war. I admit that my Blood Claws are close but we simply admire strength and honour amongst other things. You have shown honour. You defeated your opponent but did not force yourself upon them. You did not take from a wounded warrior what so many would have killed for. That level of restraint is humbling and something that the Blood Claws respect. I would be proud for you to be part of my tribe.”

Mrakon’s heart leapt to his throat. “I am a Blood Claw now?”

“The first honorary human Blood Claw,” agreed Oringruud. “I never thought I would allow one of your kind into my tribe but you showed great character in the battlefield. You fought already injured. Showed cunning. Mercy. Something few would consider in the heat of battle. It was… humbling.”

“Humblin’?”

The chieftain stared at his bowl of noodles pensively while he pet Warg padded over and nuzzled him gently. Without even looking, Oringruud handed the bowl to the enormous wolf-like creature, letting the Warg finish the meal for him.

“We Blood Claws have been driven by a need for vengeance,” said Oringruud. “It was our one desire to avenge those that were killed at Paristead and for all the unborn children that could have forged the future of our race. We raided. Attacked. Killed. All to make sure we carved a bloody path in history so that the orcs are not forgotten in history.”

Then Oringruud met Mrakon’s gaze. “When Amthos gave us this gift, our purpose was renewed. A fire was reignited inside of us. Suddenly, we had a means to take what we wanted, to turn those who had severed the cocks of our race and make them suffer as we did. That was our singular goal. The arena was the instrument of this. Two people would enter, one orc and one another. No matter what happened, two orcs would emerge. But today, you showed us another possibility.”

Mrakon frowned and set down his bowl. “Ya mean ta stay human?”

“Perhaps,” Oringruud mused. “You inspired me, Kalthuum. What if there were humans amongst the Alliance who could sow the seeds of dissent. Cast doubt into the Alliance and their Holy Triad. What if you could create more Greenskin Sympathisers and in turn, pave the way for the orcs to stride in uncontested? It would be much easier for my bands and these spies would serve to keep us informed of the movements of the Alliance.”

“Dun ya have that already?”

“I don’t,” muttered the chieftain with a snarl. “The Hardshaft do. Their chieftain, Ramdrud, is a master diplomat and a spymaster. He has connections all over the world and keeps Amthos informed if so much a fly flaps its wings. But I would like my own network. Where Ramdrud uses his to form alliances and forge trade routes, I would use my for war and conquest. I believe a human such as yourself would serve such a role.”

Mrakon regarded his arm which remained in a sling. “An’ if I dun wanna stay human?”

That caught the chieftain by surprise. “Your actions at the arena speak otherwise.”

“I dinna be an orc ‘cuz I fought an’ won,” Mrakon admitted. “I ain’t gonna beat sumone ta submission an’ suck ‘em off ta be an orc.”

Oringruud leaned forward, his enormous upper body easily crossing the distance of the dining table to lean close to Mrakon. “Then what do you want?”

The champion of the arena averted his gaze. “I dun know…”

“Yes you do. Ask. I am your chieftain. I will listen.”

Mrakon swallowed hard. “Mah best friend… Ruven. He wus taken by a mage. Qurron.”

Oringruud instantly went rigid, his eyes wide in surprise. “Qurron? The War Wizard that has the Lord-Knight of Raonoak’s ear? Friend of Eranius and the one who bore the prophecy of the Star-Eyed Wolf devouring the Triad, the White Woman raising the dead and the Dark Horse besieging Trispire?”

The injured farmer knew nothing about the prophecy but he knew about Qurron. “That wus th’ name Luxaeus gave the Wizard.”

The chieftain threw his head back, letting out the roaring laugh. “Fantastic!” He grinned at Mrakon, a savage intelligence flashing in his eyes. “Now listen to me, Kalthuum. I can see in you the very spark that I have, the drive to change, the ambition for war. You understand just as well as I do that there is no negotiating with monsters like Qurron and they will only bend a knee when those very knees are taken out from underneath them.”

The massive orc held out an enormous hand. “So I will bargain with you. Become an orc. Become my heir. Become the next chieftain of the Blood Claw tribe. In return, I will commit my entire tribe to finding your friend and slaying Qurron.”

It was exactly what Mrakon wanted; the power to save his best friend. He would become an orc but that had been his intention when he had entered the arena. But something… felt off. “Ya want sumthin’ else.”

“I do,” Oringruud said, his eyes flashing with desire. “You bear Bloodspear. A weapon that will no physical harm but will drive any cut by it into reckless rage.” He pointed at Mrakon. “As an orc, I will offer you to Amthos. You are to be his personal guard. He cannot refuse a gift of the Kalthuum and he cannot place you in some minor post. He must position you beside him. I want you to strike him with Bloodspear. Subtly so no one will notice.”

Mrakon’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“It will drive him to make brash decisions. Put his leadership into question. When he has proven he incapable of leading, I will drive the Blood Claws to the top of Bhotanmar and the orc horde. Then, with the full might of all the orcs, we will storm the Alliance lands, save your Ruven, slay Qurron and conquer Raonoak!”

In Mrkaon’s imagination, he could see that unfolding. From what he heard, Amthos was more concerned with the inner conflicts of his own tribe and Ramdrud was handling the diplomacy. Knaatl and his Nightusks were policing the city while the Earth Runners built it. Only the Blood Claws were striking out against the Alliance and they posed the best chance of saving Ruven. If the Blood Claws were to rule as the top tribe, then they would drive the orcs into the Alliance lands.

It was his best chance to save Ruven.

“What do Ah hav’ta do?”

Oringruud rose from his seat. He unlatched the leather armour binding him, letting the heavy plates fall to the ground. As he did so, his loincloth was revealed. Mrakon saw the large bulge of the orc’s cock and watched it steadily grow. The mighty chieftain did not hesitate to unwind the cloth from his waist, revealing his throbbing member, still rising.

“Do as your chieftain says,” rumbled Oringruud. “Suck my cock.”

The swamp farmer shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Oringruud’s thick, manly musk swept into his nostrils, making him shiver. These would be his last moments as a human. Some part of him wanted to cherish it but then he was reminded of the ‘human’ he used to be; that savage beast that only wanted blood. As a human, he had done nothing but cause pain.

Maybe as an orc, he could do something more.

He rose from his seat and took a step towards Oringruud. Something big, wet and thick slapped his forehead and he opened his eyes in surprise. The huge, dripping uncock head of the chieftain’s cock hovered before him. Mrakon could only gawk at the sight of the dick. It was simply enormous and so thick. His opened mouth was mistaken by Oringruud as a sign of his willingness and the chieftain shoved his cock forward, sticking it deep into Mrakon’s maw.

The farmer gagged as the meat pushed the limits of his lips and jaw. The slick precum dripped down his throat, causing him to choke. Oringruud’s big hands gently caressed his long, gangly hair.

“Ssssh,” soothed the orc, “drink, goe’mok. Savour the taste.”

Mrakon looked up questioningly at the chieftain. With some strange tenderness that he had never experienced from any man, even his own father, Oringruud brushed his big fingers down the side of Mrakon’s face.

“It means ‘my son’. For after this day, you will be my heir. My son. Goe’mok.”

A shiver ran down Mrakon’s spine as he closed his eyes and stood numb, unsure what to do now that the tremendous dick was in his mouth. Something told him that he should not displease Oringruud, his chieftain, so he began to run his tongue along the length of what could fit into his maw. His chieftain rumbled in pleasure especially when Mrakon slipped his tongue beneath the huge orc’s foreskin, caressing the tender flesh beneath and bringing a torrent of precum down Mrakon’s throat.

Oringruud began steadily thrusting, gently so not as to harm Mrakon. He grasped the back of the farmer’s head, guiding him on his journey to orcdom. When Mrakon lifted a hand and gently gripped the orc’s throbbing meat, the chieftain took his hand and began sliding it up and down his tremendous shaft.

Waves of precum began pouring out of the orc chieftain’s dick, far quicker than Mrakon could swallow. The sticky, salty, clear fluids were pouring out of the corners of his lips and Mrakon was steadily choking. Sensing his son’s distress, Oringruud pulled his cock out. With a smirk, he swept his massive arm across the dining table, clearing it entirely. He seized Mrakon by the hips and hoisted him into the air. The chieftain leaned down, breathing onto Mrakon’s neck.

The farmer quivered at the gentle caress of the orc’s warm breath. It was odd how tender this chieftain’s touch was. Even more so when the orc’s lips touched his neck, suckling on the flesh. The orc’s tusks and teeth sent jolts of pleasure throughout his own body. Despite his reservations about mating with another man, Mrakon found his cock filling with blood, his cheeks flushing and a soft moan rising from his throat.

Oringruud gently lowered him onto the table. For such big, brutish hands, his fingers were skilled and delicately peeled away Mrakon’s loincloth, revealing the farmer’s beating member.

“I will teach you how to suck cock, goe’mok. Just how my father, my… dran’mok did.”

Mrakon could only watch, paralysed, as the might orc leaned towards his cock. He almost screamed in terror as his member disappeared into the enormous paw of the chieftain. The sight of those huge tusks brought to mind bloody castration. Instead, a blast of pleasure like none he had ever felt before erupted throughout his body. Oringruud skilfully drew his tongue up and down Mrakon’s cock, all the while constantly sucking at the twitching meat. Each gentle slurp felt like a vacuum pulling at the seed in Mrakon’s balls.

The farmer let out a whine, arching his back. He had never felt suck pleasure before and he was blinded by it. His lungs were barely filled with breath as wave after wave of pleasure crashed upon him and reduced his entire body into a gelatinous mess save for his rock hard cock.

When Oringruud pulled his lips away, Mrakon moaned for more.

“Another lesson, goe’mok,” chuckled Oringruud. His big hands gently pushed Mrakon’s legs wide open. Fear struck the farmer as he envisioned being speared on the big orc’s cock. Instead, Oringruud leaned towards his exposed ass. Unable to see past his throbbing member, Mrakon could only hold his breath in anticipation.

He felt something wet and slick brush up against the sensitive flesh of his ass. Instinctively, he clenched his hole to protect it but that wet organ began drawing sensual circles around the pink, fleshy ring. It poked and prodded at his anus, gently coaxing him to relax. That same warm breath wafted over the sensitive flesh, reminding him of Oringruud’s gentle kisses. He calmed, opening his ass to the gentle length of the chieftain’s tongue.

“Ooooooh!” he moaned. “Dran’mok…”

Oringruud’s tongue invaded his insides, driving deeper and deeper. It moved, swirled and lapped at his flesh. Its warmth and full body left him yearning for more. The deeper it went, the deeper his need to be filled. He bit his lower lip, moaning for Oringruud over and over again. With his one good hand, he clenched the edge of the table, his cock shooting precum all over his chest.

The chieftain, his chieftain, pulled his tongue away, giving his balls one last playful flick before straightening.

“Are you ready, goe’mok?” asked the chieftain.

Panting, covered in sweat and eyes glazed over in pleasure, Mrakon said, “Take me my chieftain. Mount me, dran’mok! Mount me like a wolf in heat!”

Oringruud’s cock spewed precum all over his chest in excitement and the chieftain positioned himself onto the table. The big orc crouched over Mrakon and the farmer willingly wrapped his legs around Oringruud’s thick, muscled waist, offering full access to his ass for the chieftain’s cock. Oringruud leaned down, his lips gently sucking on Mrakon’s neck. The gentle caresses calmed Mrakon as his virgin ass was pierced by the titanic meat of the orc.

Both men let out a cry of ecstasy as Oringruud entered the human beneath him. The tightness of the human’s rear squeezed down on the chieftain’s cock and drove him into a maddening lust. Oringruud began thrusting, his long, deep grunts shaking the entire house. Between each grunt was the gasp of Mrakon as his humanity was fucked out of him.

Deeper and deeper Oringruud drove into Mrakon until he could push no more. Knowing full well what would come next, Oringruud took no pains to prolong his pleasure for the moment. With an almost disappointed gasp, he let his seed push out of his balls, pump up his dick and into Mrakon. The human beneath him shuddered at the sudden blast of molten seed in him.

Mrakon did not have a moment to relish the comforting warmth within him. Jolts of power suddenly blasted from the site of contact and through his entire body. His eyes were forced wide open, an immense force erupting from deep within his skull and thrashing to be let out. The dark, nearly-black orbs suddenly letting out a faint sizzling noise. A bright yellow light crackled through his irises, burning away the darkness and leaving them a brilliant, shining gold.

That same powerful force throbbed throughout his entire body. Every instinct in him told him to hold it in. He feared it was his bloodlust, that beast that wanted to kill orcs heedlessly, suddenly empowered and raging to rise to the surface.

“Open yourself, goe’mok,” soothed Oringruud. He thrust his hips forward, shoving his still erect dick into Mrakon and causing the man to gasp. “Embrace the strength. Embrace the orc within you!”

As if hearing him, the power flooded through his injured arm. Mrakon cried out in pain as the broken bones and bruised muscles suddenly crackled and reset themselves. Thick veins pumped through his muscles, clearly visible through the layers of bandages. With his new eyes, he looked upon his injured limb. His fingers tensed, forming a claw. With every beat of his racing heart, his hand surged with new strength. Mass was added to his bones and muscles. The bandages tightened around his arm or rather his arm grew bigger and bigger. Wry muscles ballooned into large orbs of raw strength. The sling around his neck snapped and he threw his arm back, instinctively flexing. The gesture pumped more blood and more of the transformation through his veins.

Mrakon gnashed his teeth together as the newfound strength burst into his shoulder. The muscles there erupted into two enormous, pumpkin-sized, teardrop-shaped mounds of muscle. Bandages tore, revealing his sweat-covered muscles. He gawked at its sheer size; the shoulder alone bigger than his head. A cry left his lips. His upper arm heaved abruptly; relaxing one second as if taking a breath and then suddenly tensing the next into a monstrous size. His biceps alone were almost as big as his shouder and their divide towards his triceps were so clear and cut that coal could vanish between their folds and reappear as diamonds. A whole complex river of veins snaked across the peaks of his biceps, seeping into his triceps and feeding into his proportional forearms. His hands tensed one more time as the veins fed into them, crawling across the back of his enormous hand. Desperate to grasp something with his new limb, Mrakon reached out and seized Oringruud’s shoulder, finding that it was now perfect for holding the chieftain’s meaty muscles.

The mere contact of human to orc flesh triggered another startling transformation. Mrakon’s sun-kissed skin suddenly began to harden at the point of contact. The leather-like hide lost its tinges of dark brown and began shifting to a more reddish colour. The discolouration spread rapidly across his hand, seeping down his forearms and over his arms and shoulders. There was no tinge of green in his new flesh. It was completely red.

The change stunned Oringruud and the two men exchanged glances, unsure what was happening.

Then Mrakon felt a powerful need within his loins and groaned. “Fuck me, dran’mok,” he pleaded.

That was all the permission Oringruud needed. The mighty chieftain let out a bellowing roar and thrust himself in and out of Mrakon. With the urging, the transformation continued.

Mrakon’s chest swelled into to enormous discs of throbbing muscles. With every breath, he found he could undulate his pectorals, getting them to jump up and down, pumping more and more blood through his entire body and spreading the addictive change. His cries grew deeper and deeper with his expanding torso. A sound like splitting leather filled the dining room as his spine stretched upwards. Mrakon’s lips pressed up against Oringruud’s own pectorals and he could not help but tongue his tongue over sweaty, salty, firm flesh. His constant growth caused him to travel over the peaks of the enormous chieftain’s pectorals, sliding over his pectorals, down the slopes to his collarbone and then to nibble affectionately at the chieftain’s corded neck. His growth did not stop there and he continued to incease his height until his lips found purchase against Oringruud’s.

Caught in lust, both men threw aside concerns over their current formes and locked lips, tongues dancing in passion. With the sudden increase in pass, Oringruud’s dick could finally hilt into Mrakon, sending both the orc and would-be-orc grinding against one another and causing the table beneath them to creak in protest. Oringruud’s merciless pounding pushed what little body fat was in Mrakon’s body out of the soon-to-be-orc’s body, leaving him lean and primed to become another member of the Blood Claws.

Muscles all over Mrakon’s body exploded with size and strength. His other arm burst into its new length and size, sailing through the air to seized Oringruud’s mighty back passionately. Back muscles grew rapidly to support his new size and weight, each muscle so clearly defined that it became a perfect canvas of masculinity with his thick spine dividing it right down the middle.

His stomach clenched abruptly, tightening around Oringruud’s cock and driving the chieftain closer and closer to a second orgasm. Hard abdominals ballooned out to form a set of iron-like eight blocks. His torso sloped perfectly into the tower of muscles that almost completely consumed his belly button within their folds. The dense, dark hairs rising from Mrakon’s groin grew even thicker and rose up from his groin to form a triangle that kissed the base of his belly button, the only visual cue to where the vestigial bodypart was.

Mrakon threw his head back with a roar. Blood rushed into his legs, still curled around Oringruud’s waist. His need to have the chieftain inside of him grew insatiable. Every time Oringruud pulled out, he pulled back with his legs, driving the chieftain back into him. The strength in his legs grew stronger and stronger with every drive. His quadriceps grew bigger and bigger, each muscle pressed up against his leathery, red flesh like a beast barely contained beneath a thin, paper sack. Thick veins rolled all over his legs, feeding into his huge, pulsating calves and finally into his enormous, skull-crushing feet.

The transforming orc squeezed his eyes shut. The change rolled back into his skull and he could feel it reshaping bones and skin. A low moan rose from his throat, many pitches deeper than his original voice. His lower jaw thrust forward. He had to open his mouth a little as two lower teeth sharpened and grew longer and longer, transforming into two, proud tusks. His brow grew thicker as his nose became a little flatter. The throbbing within his head pushed his ears outwards, giving them sharp points while the rest of his skull grew and reshaped to fit his new, tremendous body.

The force of transformation bled into the very hairs all over his body. The scraggly hair that tumbled over his shoulders were turned silky smooth and pitch black. The rough, unkempt beard was straightened and oddly shrank to hug the outlines of his strong, masculine, pointed jaw. Dense hairs over his forearms and legs grew thicker, growing in clumps to appear like black stripes. The same hairs over his chest grew to make it appear like he had bands of black springing from the valley between his monstrous pectorals.

Saving the best for last, Mrakon felt the change all rushing towards his cock. With the rest of his body completed, the force that had changed every inch of him all pooled into his balls. He groaned as his sack ballooned out and shook violently with every powerful thrust from Oringruud. When his balls could no longer contain the change, it had to surrender it towards his cock, pushing the throbbing length further and further upwards. He roared as rapidly thickening precum poured out of his growing dick. He could feel it rising up past his groin, sliding over each abdominal until he sat just above his belly button.

He could no longer hold in the pressure; the beast had to be let out.

Mrakon’s eyes squeezed shut and he let out a tremendous roar, one accompanied by Oringruud. Both orcs suddenly tensed. White, faintly glowing seed burst from Mrakon’s cock, his first orgasm as an orc. The blast of his man juices smothered his chest and slashed all over Oringruud’s. At the same time, the chieftain’s cock poured seed into him for the second time. The final trust from the chieftain was the final straw for the table beneath them. The wood crumbled beneath their combined weight, adding the final, explosive touch to their coupling.

The new orc’s lips were suddenly consumed by Oringruud’s, the warmth of another man’s contact against his flesh causing him to quiver and melt into the strong, muscular arms that protected him from the splinters and shards of the shattered table. Their cocks continued to pump out their seed until their sacks were completely empty. Even then, Mrakon was still thrusting, dry humping his chieftain until exhaustion took him and his eyes drifted to a close.

An unknown amount of time passed and Mrakon drifted into the first restful sleep he had in what seemed like an eternity. When he woke, he was surprised to find his ass devoid of Oringruud’s cock and himself desperately wishing for it. Oringruud was standing a short distance away, slapping on his armour.

“Dran’mok…?” he rumbled softly.

Oringruud smiled at him and leaned down with a smile. He gently kissed Mrakon’s lips. “Welcome to the tribe, goe’mok.”

******

The Circle of Chieftains and indeed the gathered orcs were all quiet and in awe. The first ever Red Orc stood in front of them all. His father and progenitor, Oringruud, stood proudly beside him. That Arnmok also held his magical spear, granted to him by the No One, had the onlookers in a state of silent anticipation.

The enormous orc was the tallest and biggest of the Blood Claws, even taller than his chieftain and rising to rival even the Earth Runners. His titanic build was only made more apparent by his unique colour amongst the orcs. With his long hair tied back in a ponytail behind his head, all could see his strong, masculine features as he stood there in some custom-made armour made from Warg fur and leather.

“May I present to you, Avatar Amthos,” Oringruud bellowed proudly, arm wrapped around the shoulders of the Red Orc, “Arnmok Blood Claw. My son and heir to the Blood Claw tribe!”

The Blood Claws had been the first to hear of the appointment, naturally, and they gave a bellowing cheer in the audience chamber. The volume of their cry spoke of just how much their numbers had grown. While still not the majority compared to the diplomatic Hardshaft, it was still a sizeable force.

“Welcome Arnmok,” Amthos said with a pleasant smile. “You are welcome to Bhotanmar both as a brother.”

Arnmok stepped forward, readying the words he had prepared with his father all night. “I am honoured, my Avatar.” He pressed a fist against his chest and bowed respectfully towards the Avatar. “I pledge my spear to your side. Allow me to stand by you, as tribute of the Blood Claw’s loyalty to the cause, my spear at the ready and with my arm poised to strike at enemies of the orcs.”

Ramdrud gave the Red Orc a bemused smile. “I think he wants to be your personal bodyguard, Amthos.”

“Out of the question!” Knaatl snarled, slamming a fist into the horseshoe-shaped table. “Amthos has his own bodyguards!”

“But none with a weapon from Samuel. And none with such a… vibrant colour.” Ramdrud’s eyes scanned Arnmok’s lean, muscled body hungrily. “I think he would make for a fine bodyguard.”

Knaatl continued his protests. “He is untrained, newly transformed and recently arrived! We cannot trust him with our Avatar’s flank!”

Urthak of the Earth Runners spoke, his voice booming across the entire chamber. “How can we learn to trust him when he will not be tested? Bhotanmar’s pride comes from opportunity to those who show initiative. The young pup wishes to be a soldier who stands beside the Avatar. Grant him the opportunity.”

Knaatl could only growl, turning to Dalgmar for his last chance at support.

“His strength is certainly admirable,” said the shaman chieftain. “We all saw his tenacity in the arena. Untrained he may be but he has the strong will of a true orc. I can see no one finer to stand beside our Avatar. A true symbol of one’s transformation from man to orc.”

The Nightusk chieftain sighed and collapsed back into his seat. “Very… well…”

Oringruud smiled, thrusting a fist into the air in triumph. “Hail to Arnmok! Hail to the Spear of the Avatar! Hail kalthuum!”

The entire chamber cheered. Everyone save the Circle joined in the cheer. Countless orcs came pouring in towards him, their hands slapping his back in typical orcish fashion and some shook his hand as the Alliance would. But through all the revelry, Arnmok could feel the smile of a No One as the blue-eyes knight stood off to the side, in the corner of the chamber like he had been banished by the circle.

Somehow… he just could not shake the feeling that this was all planned.

******

Lord-Knight Eranius von Karksteid stood poring over the maps and reports lain out before him. So many reports of dissent and betrayals. The squads he deployed to root out rebels and Greenskin Sympathisers and send them to rehabilitation camps were somewhat effective but it seemed that more and more, people were doubting the Alliance and the Holy Triad. Belief over the Unholy Trinity and the rise of the other races were quickly spreading the disease of doubt throughout the land.

Something had to be done.

“War is on the horizon.”

He looked up and found Orradin standing at the doorway to his study. The hero had lost a little bit of weight now that he was part of the roving squads looking for those who sacked Whitepeak. What puzzled Eranius was why the blonde-haired man was standing in Raonoak when he should be far away from the Lord-Knight’s presence.

“I have little time for your antagonism, Orradin,” scowled Eranius, as he straightened. “I am leaving on the morrow for Trispire. The Grand Chaplain is holding council to discuss the rising threat of all these non-Alliance races and even some of our own allies who seem to be rising under the banner of what they claim are ‘Avatars’.” He swept a hand over the large number of reports. “I have reports of this ‘Star-Eyed Wolf’ disgused as a man from every region. Some even at the same time.”

The hero chuckled darkly at him. “Do you believe in his divinity then?”

“No. I believe ‘he’ is actually many people. Perhaps different individuals who don the same armour and work towards a singular goal. Mages of incredible power who all work under the same name and for the same goal. That they hide their faces seem to only support my theory.” He scowled and looked directly to Orradin. “Why are you here? Should you not be investigating the sacking of Whitepeak?”

Orradin smirked at him. “I have. I also believe that I have a lead.”

Eager for anything to tell the Grand Chaplain that he had something to show for months of effort, Eranius asked, “What then?”

Turning away briefly, Orradin gave a jerk of his head. Two soldiers emerged with a single man between them. The individual, dressed in rags, was tossed to the ground in front of Eranius.

“Who is this?” demanded the Lord-Knight.

“He claims to have been the captain of the guard at Whitepeak,” answered Orradin.

Eranius’ eyes widened in surprise. “You! Speak!” he demanded.

The man kept is head lowered in respect. “My name is Torlidain, milord. I was once as Lord Orradin said.”

“What happened to Whitepeak?”

Torlidain sneered. “It is as you said. An ‘Avatar of the Orcs’ came to Whitepeak seeing to recreate the horde. He has the power to transform any man or woman into a male orc with the touch of his seed. He transformed the former Warden of Whitepeak, Drumdar, into an orc and rallied the orc tribes to the fortress. They migrated north away from Alliance lands to a place called Cald-Harun.”

“Cald-Harun?” Eranius repeated. “I have never heard of such a place.”

“I seek to depart to Qurron’s little hide out to learn more of the place,” Orradin offered. “It sounds dwarven. Though I suspect the orcs fled upon killing Noraduil knowing that we would investigate.”

Eranius looked to Torlidain. “How do you know this? Why should we trust you?”

The former guard captain kept his head low. “You only have my word, milord. But I swear to you, I speak the truth.” His teeth formed a sneer. “I was ousted by a mage, a man in white and gold armour and with a cloak of the stars over his shoulder. He claimed his name was ‘Samuel’ and he possesses considerable magical skill. I was banished from the fort by this man but I snuck amongst the orcs and Sympathisers that flooded to the fort afterwards. I learned of their intentions but broke away to tell you all what I have learned.” He lifted his gaze, his dark eyes filled with fire and determination… but also a lust for vengeance. “I am loyal to the Alliance and the Holy Triad alone.”

Something about the man did not sit well with him but it was certainly something more than he had previously. “Orradin, go to Qurron and learn what you can.” He gestured towards the guards. “Have Torlidain bathed and prepared. He will come with me to Trispire on the morrow to give testimony to the Grand Chaplain.”

He turned around, gazing out of the window to the north.

“War… War is coming.”