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Chapter 11: Greenslayer

*******

Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #12

Orradin Greenslayer was a renowned hero not only for having survived the War of Apotheosis but also living to see the God War. He was well known for the number of orcs he killed, earning his surname. His savagery in battle particularly against the orcs was legendary.

However, his legend ended at the Battle for Hawkshollow.

*******

The orcs were coming.

Their war drums could be heard over the mountains as well as the thunderous stomps of their big feet. Though severely outnumbered with most of their men having been transformed into orcs and then lost in that blotched mission, reinforcements had arrived. Having heard that a great offensive against the orcs was being staged in Hawkshollow, nobles sent what troops they could spare to save face. But those that they sent were cowardly, young or the old and feeble. Many even deserted upon hearing the booming drums of the orcs.

Orradin prepared as best as he could. Hawkshollow had a lot of winding streets, dead ends and crossroads perfect for laying out traps. His sappers were hard at work making the city as hard to navigate as possible. Several miles worth of burnt out buildings and ghosts lay between the edge of the once-mighty metropolis to the castle. He hoped that it would be enough to hold back the incoming forces or at least help reduce their morale and numbers.

With only about two thousand men at his disposal and with few of them trusting of him as their commander, he was not entirely sure that he could stand up against the orcish horde. Already, he could see the white and green banners of this nation of 'Amthosruud' approaching from the north. Siege engines rolled amidst the enormous host. The morning light glistened off their alabaster and emerald armour as they marched in perfect formation. This was not the orcish horde he had faced twenty years ago. This was a great, opposing, organised army.

Within the week, they would be at the gates of Hawkshollow.

There was still hope, however. He received word that Eranius was sending in several battalions to support him. If they could hold off for another two weeks, they would have enough men to push back the orcish offensive. It was that faint hope that kept the men from deserting. Well, that and the fact that Orradin had thrown men who attempted to flee into the darkest, most rat-infested dungeon in the castle. Since the announcement and the very public display of mercy from the Orc Avatar, Orradin had been struggling to maintain command. Examples had to be made to force others into compliance.

Then there was also his secret weapon.

The Darklight Golems.

The blonde haired hero strode into one of the many workshops that Arben had set up all over the city. It was his plan to unleash these golems whenever the orcs had entered the winding roads of the gutted town. He looked upon the towering 20 foot monstrosities. Without Samuel, they could no longer rob the golems of their magic. Better yet, thanks to the research from Qurron on Noraduil's soul-transferring abilities coupled with Arben's master craftsmanship of golems, these walking titans would be capable of cleaving a swathe of destruction through the orcish horde with ease.

The only problem was that there were so few of them.

The production of each golem took at least three days each and was expensive on materials. With most of the north having fallen to the orcs, the mining of blackrock had nearly ground to a halt. Most of the magic-resistant material had to be brought in from the few lords and ladies that were still loyal to the Alliance around Hawkshollow. Others had to be cannibalised from other blackrock golems that were now obsolete. However, Eranius was hoarding the rest of it all for himself to build the Orkiller which Arben was also overseeing from Hawkshollow.

The master engineer worked tirelessly to build the seventeenth golem in under their control. He stood on a ladder, using a wrench to twist a bolt in the endoskeleton of the towering behemoth. The man's eyes were sunken and his face was pallid, sweat rolling off his brown constantly. Several pounds of weight had dropped from the man's figure as he worked non-stop since Qurron had arrived with the Vessel of Life.

“Does this make the seventeenth in our arsenal?" Orradin asked as he stepped through the workshop. There were piles of blackrock resting everywhere as well as an assortment of gears, cogs and oil. Two already complete golems stood in racks not too far away, currently dormant. Qurron had already crafted souls to be placed within them and he could see the swirling, dark purple energies currently sitting in shimmering, glass and metal tubes on the golem's chests. One simply had to push the tubes into the chest cavity and they would be activated.

“Twentieth, actually," Arben rumbled. He hiked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of another three golems that were hidden in the back of the workshop. “Tell Qurron to hurry up and create more souls to be put into them. I've done my part. Now that craven wizard with wandering eyes needs to do his."

Clearly there was still some resentment between Arben and the War Wizard. Though Orradin was hardly ever one to pry into people's personal lives, he nonetheless reasoned that if Arben was the sire of the Avatar of the Orcs, then he might have some insight into his son.

“How much do you know of this orcish invasion?"

“As much as there is to know," rumbled the mechanist. “The orcs, like many of the other races, are up in arms and attacking Alliance lands. The touch of their very seed will transform any Alliance-race into an orc. From what I hear, it is the same with the other races as well."

The other races and even former allies were turning on the Alliance. The Holy Triad's grip on Tirinead was faltering. Humans, elves and dwarves were now the target of this revolution's ire. It was the War of Apotheosis all over again. He had to wonder if the gods would intervene again by bringing in a new batch of heroes. Perhaps they had already done so. Only these heroes would be imbued with the divine blessing of the Triad whereas relics such as himself were tainted by the touch of the very Gods that sought to elevate the other races to supremacy.

“What about the Avatar?" he asked. “What do you know of him?"

Arben pulled back from his work and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “That he is my son?" He shot Orradin a piercing look. “Is that what you were implying, Greenslayer? Do you question my loyalty given that it was from my seed that the Avatar of the Orcs was born? I caution you not to judge me in this regard. From what I recall, it was your petty warmongering and malicious twist of words that landed him in this situation in the first place."

Some other time, Orradin would have lashed out at the man who was probably just half a decade his senior. “I regret my words then, Master Engineer. I do." He looked out the window of the workshop. He could see the fires from the horde in the distance. They were so close now. “I am a man of war. I know little else but battle. Were I more intelligent man, perhaps I should've sold my services to the gladiatorial battles but I am not. I sought a fight and I saw orcs where there were none. This experience is… humbling."

He recalled that encounter with Amthos in his room, when Samuel had brought the Avatar to him. Seeing the man that he had inadvertently transformed into his nemesis… it made him think back on his actions. Was the shame, humiliation and the sheer terror he felt in his heart truly worth all that had done? Some part of him was somewhat elated that he would be able to fight orcs again but another saw the numbers, saw the odds and realised that he could fight but the chances to win were extremely slim.

And Amthos' speech… his forgiveness of those that had been sent to assassinate him…

“I have a job to do, Orradin," Arben said sternly. “I never leave a job undone. I will build these golems for you. This will be my last. Then I must go to Raonoak to build the Orkiller for Eranius." The bearded man rested a hand on the slick, reflective surface of the golem. “Afterwards then perhaps I will have the strength to look my sons in the eyes again."

“You feel shame for them?"

“No." Arben shook his head sadly. “I am ashamed of myself. Perhaps if I had not been so preoccupied with my own work, I could have done something to save Thomas. Even were he branded, I have friends and relatives who could have housed him. At least seen him in comfort instead of allow him to be cast out. Perhaps had I been there for my boys, Luxaeus would not have been driven to search for his brother and he could have been convinced to stay by my side. But as I said, I never leave a job undone."

He slammed a fist against the solid blackrock of the golem's chest. “At the time, I was away from Raonoak and commissioned into doing something else. Thomas begged me to stay for the Fallowday festival but I left that very same night to see to my work. Had I simply stayed the night…"

Orradin saw the sorrow in the older man's eyes. Regret gnawed at them both, it seemed.

“If you were to meet your son, what would you do?" he asked.

Arben shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps I would turn into an orc just to be with them. Perhaps I would kill him to end this madness. I do not know. That is a choice for the future and one I cannot focus on at the moment. I have a job to do."

The hero bowed in respect. “Then I take my leave of you. Thank you for your commitment."

“A moment, Greenslayer." As Orradin straightened, reflexes took over and he caught a silver rod from Arben.

“That is the control rod for the golems," explained the engineer. “At your will, press the button at the top. It will command all the golems to activate. They will do your bidding so long as you hold the rod. Should someone else take hold of it, they will control the golems. Keep it on your person at all times."

It was amazing how such a small object could turn the battle. Though odder things had happened. After all, an ancient jug could supposedly generate souls and that was what rendered these golems immune to the magic-draining abilities of the Star-Eyed Wolf. Then again, it seemed almost moot now that the Wolf was dead.

Although…

“A question for you, Master Engineer."

“What?" Arben asked hotly, stepping down from his ladder. “I am quite busy, Greenslayer."

“Do you believe the Star-Eyed Wolf is truly dead?"

There, Arben paused and looked to him, face neutral and unmoving. “In all honesty, I cannot be sure. I have heard tales of the Wolf in the other regions doing fantastical things. I know Eranius insists that they are simply Mage-Knights who adopt the same costume but somehow, I believe him to be more. It is too soon after his 'death' to know the truth but I would prepare for his return if I were you." He patted the golems. “That is why we have these, is it not?"

There was something incredibly unsettling about the golems. Though they were a mix of machinery and magic, only when the soul was embedded into it did they somehow obtain and otherworldly feeling to them. Just seeing those tubes with that ethereal, purple energy within made his skin crawl.

“I suppose so."

******

Being on the move again reminded Knaatl of when he was back in the Holy Legion or the days when he and Amthos travelled through the north. Only this time, instead of a small band of twenty or so men, they now had a whole host of almost thirty-thousand warriors. It was one of the biggest armies ever mustered in all of Tirinead. He was sure the Alliance could rally more men should they want but with the other races had now taking the orcs' example and declaring war on the Alliance, the military might of the once unified coalition was spread thin.

That and he heard rumours that the Grand Chaplain was dead and the Holy Inquisition was shattered and disorganised. With the elite of the Alliance's troops momentarily disabled, that just left the organised, numerous soldiers of the Legion and the disciplined troops but fewer of the Holy Army spread across an entire continent.

If there was ever a time to strike, it was now.

But he also knew the stakes. As he looked out from the small ridge into the enormous encampment, he was astounded at the sight of such an enormous host. Not since the War of Apotheosis had so many orcs been gathered in one place. Supplemented by their allies, they were thousands of men strong. All marching under a single banner; the white and green of Amthosruud.

He made his way through the tent city. Thanks to the shamans travelling with them, they could erect 'natural' walls within an instant. Huge, fifty-foot stone walls complete with stairs to lead up to the battlements and even a moat filled with spikes were created within the day and could be dismantled within mere hours. It was a mobile fortress. That meant that there were few places to have some privacy within and fewer ways to leave the fortress undetected.

But he had become skilled in the art of stealth since he had become an orc. Perhaps there was irony in that. He was bigger than he had ever before but he was far more limber and quiet. With Duskvenom slung over his shoulder, he hurried up the stairs to the northern wall. Making sure no one was looking, he quickly set a hook on the wall and hurled the rope down the side of the wall. He quickly swept down the side of the wall, leaping deftly from the vertical stone to the other side of the moat, avoiding death by impalement.

Heart beating and with excitement in his chest, he rushed into the dense forests north of Hawkshollow to the designated meeting place.

Arnmok was already waiting for him in the glade. Grinning, the dark-haired orc entered the quiet clearing, bringing a light to the Red Orc's face. They need not formulate words and merely collided with one another, arms wrapped around each other's muscled frame and lips meeting in a tender kiss that lasted for several minutes. Eventually, they had to come back up for air but not before Knaatl pushed Arnmok to the ground and lay top him, their bodies rising in warmth.

“I have missed you," he whispered softly.

“An' Ah you," answered the Red Orc with a smile. They shuffled across the grassy ground until they were propped up against one of the large trees in the clearing. “This'll be th' last time we see each other fer a while, ain't it?"

Knaatl nodded grimly. In the morning, before dawn, he was going to take a small detachment of troops behind Hawkshollow to sabotage some supply lines leading to the encampment. They had it on good word from some of their allies that Eranius was sending reinforcements in a week to Hawkshollow. The fortress may be cursed by it was still a formidable structure and even should they take it within a week, they could not leave such a key structure undefended. If Eranius somehow reinforced it while the greater Amthosian army was on the move, they potentially had an enemy at their backs. At the moment, Orradin's forces were weakened with their failed sabotage attempt. This was their best chance to take the tactically critical location and take a key figurehead of the north.

If Orradin Greenslayer fell, most of the north would either surrender or swear fealty to Amthosruud.

But they were not going to take any chances.

“I'll come back," Knaatl reassured him, running a hand over the thick leather armour of the Red Orc. “But you better take care of Amthos. Just as the Alliance cannot afford to lose Orradin, we cannot afford to lose our Avatar."

Arnmok pounded his chest with a fist. “Ah swear on mah life. Ah'll keep Amthos safe."

Knaatl beamed lewdly and kissed Arnmok's cheek. “Gods your accent is sexy." He was already growing uncomfortably hard. His cock was growing in his trousers with a distinct wet spot developing at crotch area of the grey fabric. Arnmok was no different save that his leather armour hid the fact far easier. Knaatl leaned in and gently ran his tongue against his mate's sinewy neck, bringing a shudder from the Red Orc.

Arnmok fumbled for his belt, panting in excitement as his need to be filled mounted. At the same time, Knaatl's urge to stick his cock deep into his mate and breed with him until the sun rose grew unbearable.

But both orcs would have to wait a little longer because they both heard the shuffling of shrubbery and heard the soft gasp of surprise. They turned towards the source of the sound.

“Don't mind me!" the white-furred Wargen exclaimed, holding up his paws. “Just passing through!"

“Luxaeus?" Arnmok asked, straightening slightly. “What are you doing here?"

“Patrolling…" Luxaeus said, creeping back further into the shadows. Despite that, the moonlight revealed the deep blush on his cheeks that coloured his fur pink.

The Wargen were still not entirely trusted in the encampment so they were positioned in their own little mini-fort just outside of the large fortress. This one was quite open to the outside since the Wargen tended to get stir crazy when confined within walls even one that was miles wide such as the mobile fort. To this end, they were employed as the patrollers of the fort, free to scour the woods for any would-be intruders and saboteurs while enjoying the freedom of open air.

Curious, Knaatl beckoned for Luxaeus to emerge from the bushes. “Why don't you come out of there, Luxaeus? It is far too nice a night to be shouting across a glade."

“No, no, no," stammered the Wargen leader. “I shall just be on my way. You two are clearly busy."

“Not that you mind the view, I see," chuckled Knaatl, pointing.

Luxaeus looked down and grimaced in embarrassment. Poking out of the shrubbery was the thick, bright red tip of his cock, precum oozing from the tip. “Damn traitor…"

“When was th' last time ya 'ad sum relief, Lux?" Arnmok asked.

The familiarity in his mate's tone was not missed on Knaatl. Both Arnmok and Luxaeus had found friendship being the first of their respective races. He knew that they often met for some friendly conversation and was even included in some of them as Luxaeus lamented about the troubles of being the leader of a new race. Arnmok was not so much a 'leader' of the Red Orcs as simply a respected figurehead being Amthos' bodyguard and helping in Grauhl's defeat.

“I would rather not think of it," murmured Luxaeus, averting his gaze. “The more I do, the harder it becomes."

“Are ya still talkin' 'bout yer virginity or yer dick?"

Knowing that he would not have to hide for much longer, Knaatl let out his trademark booming laugh. “Paladins must be chaste, right? So your balls must be like big, hairy blueberries by now!" He winked at the Wargen. “I bet all those warg instincts isn't doing much for that vow of chastity now, eh?"

Knaatl spread his legs wide, making sure that Luxaeus could see the very distinct bulge in his trousers. His precum was soaking into the fabric and helping outline his still growing dick. Arnmok caught the idea and rolled his eyes, instead pulling up his legs to hide his own erection.

“Stop tempting me!" Luxaeus bellowed. “You orcs are lucky to be able to have sex with whomever you want! A single bite from we Wargen and we would turn another!"

“Only if they are of an Alliance race," corrected Knaatl. “You could always fuck an orc. And I've heard the howls from your camp. You people fuck as often as we do. Louder too. Any of the women got pregnant yet?"

Luxaeus shook his head and turned his back to them. “I have had enough of your taunts, Knaatl. Enjoy your evening. I shall keep the others from interrupting you."

“Lux, wait!" Arnmok exclaimed, immediately leaping to his feet. For a big guy, he was quite fast and closed the distance between him and Luxaeus very quickly. He gripped the Wargen's paw and pulled him back into the clearing. “Dun be ashamed o' yer urges. Ya ain't a Paladin no more."

Knaatl's eyes widened as Luxaeus' cock came into full few. Not even fully hard and it was already longer than his arm! He licked his lips, eager to taste that big, red rod. Moreover, his eyes fell on Luxaeus' very big paws and he could not help but wonder what it would be like to taste them as well.

“My body may not be that of a human Paladin's but I am still one at heart," rumbled Luxaeus. He tried to yank his hand away from Arnmok but the Red Orc refused to let go. “I shall be on my way."

“No," Arnmok said firmly. “Ya ain't gonna go back ta patrollin' like this." He gestured at Luxaeus' cock. “Ya ain't gonna think of nuthin' but yer cock until we get it off. So Ah'll tell ya what yer gonna do." He reached out and seized Luxaeus' dick. The Wargen's knees quivered and his bright blue eyes fluttered. “Yer gonna come 'ere, stick that puppy maker in me an' get yer rocks off."

Luxaeus regained his composure. “N – N – No. You are Knaatl's mate –"

“Please!" Knaatl exclaimed, his cock painfully straining his trousers. “You're thinking of humans who only fuck one person at a time. We orcs…" He spread his arms wide. “We fuck anyone!"

“That is your dick talking," growled the Wargen. “Tomorrow morning, we will awake with regret. I would rather avoid that."

Arnmok smiled and suddenly pressed his body against Luxaeus' thick, muscled, furry chest. Gently running a hand over the Wargen's thick pectorals, he leaned towards the Wargen's pointed ears and whispered, “So… we're gonna be at this all night then?"

Luxaeus' knees went weak and he began panting uncontrollably, tail wagging back and forth and fanning his musk into the air. “Y – You…"

The Red Orc glanced over his shoulder where Knaatl was already leaning against the tree, arms behind his head and cock fully erect invitingly. Clearly he had no opposition to the idea. Smiling, Arnmok leaned towards Luxaeus and gently kissed his thick, furry neck. The little peck of his lips caused the Wargen to instinctively tilt his head away, ears folded back and eyes shut in pleasure. Careful not to let his tusks cause injury, Arnmok peppered the Wargen's muscled chest with his kisses, slowly working his way towards the dark nipples hidden beneath the dense, white fur. The moment he found it and his tongue brushed against the sensitive but fully erect flesh, Luxaeus gasped. The Wargen had to reach up and grip the lusty orc's shoulder for support as his legs were already wavering.

After years of devout chastity, to have a man touch him in such a way was simply overwhelming. With thick orc pheromones in the air and his balls practically bursting with need, Luxaeus found no strength to resist the onslaught from Arnmok's tongue as it ran circles around his nipples. Soft whimpers left his lips just as precum came bursting from the tip of his bright red rod. Another hand gripped his member and he gasped. Just as he looked down at the alien sensation, he found another pair of lips latching onto his unattended nipple. Knaatl's tongue caused Luxaeus' legs to buckle entirely and the poor Wargen could just barely catch himself on the broad shoulders of the two orcs.

The sudden dip in his stance caused the two orcs to bend their knees and as they did so, their gazes met. Both men caught sight of the throbbing, needy member that Luxaeus had tried to hide so valiantly and they shared a devious grin between themselves. Arnmok was the first to lean towards the bright, red dick and give its sensitive flesh just the faintest touch with his tongue. Luxaeus whined in need, eyes already glazed over in lust and panting uncontrollably. Knaatl smirked at the Wargen's reaction and took his own taste of the massive piece of meat.

Both orcs took one hand of the member each. Knaatl went low, lapping at the base of Luxaeus' cock and massaging the big warg-man's balls. Arnmok ran his tongue up and down the end of the member, encouraging the flow of precum from those furry balls, all the way up the pulsating length and out of the tip. He found himself showered by the sticky, clear goo. The taste was predictably salty but held a certain spice to it that he found strangely alluring. He wrapped his lips around the tip of Luxaeus' cock and suckled on the tip.

The Wargen thrust his hips in the first sign of sexual desire that the former paladin had ever shown in years. Arnmok smiled inwardly and encouraging the thrusting, supressing his gag reflex instinctively as the Wargen's cock slid in and out of his mouth, diving down his throat, depositing a fresh batch of precum, before sliding back out.

For his part, Knaatl's hands slowly roved as he continued to suckle on the Wargen's hairy balls. His fingers crawled over Luxaeus' thick, meaty legs to the firm, furry ass behind. Powerful as his own hands were, when he squeezed upon hard buns, they barely moved. Still, he guided his fingers slowly towards the Wargen's crack and gently pressed a finger into the finely-cut valley. Luxaeus thrust his hips forward, tightening his ass in the gesture but as he pulled back to thrust deeper into Arnmok, the steel trap opened and allowed Knaatl another inch inside. When he found his prize, Luxaeus gasped.

Knaatl pulled his lips away from the Wargen's balls, giving them one last lick before quickly shuffling behind the former paladin. He rose to his feet and as he did so, his own hard cock slipped between the crack of the Wargen, not penetrating the virgin hole but hovering there tauntingly, awaiting for an invitation. Knaatl wrapped his massive, meaty arms around Luxaeus' chest, holding the Wargen comfortingly, lovingly, even as his fingers drew circles around the diamond-hard nipples.

“B – B – Be gentle…"

Knaatl gently kissed the Wargen's neck. “I won't hurt you. Just tell me if it starts hurting and I will stop."

Luxaeus nodded firmly, bravely. Knaatl gripped his own dick and slowly guided it into the furry hole of the Wargen. The embrace of the furry, muscled ass was strange and alien but also very inviting. His own cock was pouring precum like a waterfall in excitement, offering sufficient lubricant as it coated the virgin hole. Luxaeus shivered as Knaatl's dick slowly pushed up against his pucker. The orc pressed himself in and Luxaeus gasped, instinctively thrusting forward and away from the invading cock. A burst of pleasure came from his nipples as Knaatl gave the fleshy nubs a lightly twist, instantly relaxing him and sending him rocking back onto the dick.

“Oooooh…" he howled softly. “That feels…"

“So… tight…" Knaatl grunted. He didn't want to start thrusting too soon but he found himself up against a wall and had to pull back slightly for a running start. As he thrust into the Wargen, Luxaeus moaned. His eyes were halfway rolled into his head and his tongue was hanging out in an expression of utter bliss. His tail was wagging happily from side to side. For a virgin, he was taking the experience rather well.

Taking that as encouragement, Knaatl pulled back once more and gave the Wargen another powerful thrust. A sharp bark left the warg-like male's muzzle and he bit his lower lip, ears folded back and needy whimper leaving his throat. Luxaeus gripped the back of Arnmok's head, shoving his pointed cock deeper into the Red Orc only to swing back and impale himself further on Knaatl's cock. The twin pleasures of being filled and filling someone else overrode any reservations he may have had and he rode the tides of lust and desire heedlessly.

Suddenly, Arnmok pulled himself away from Luxaeus' cock, gasping and gurgling a little. He swallowed the mouthful of precum he had and gave the big Wargen above him a sly smile. Before Luxaeus could ask what was on his mind, the Red Orc leaned towards the ground, back to the grass. He lifted his legs, spreading them wide and exposing his ass for the Wargen, his eyes shining winsomely.

Luxaeus did not need further invitation and leaned down pushing the point of his cock into Arnmok's well-used hole. Both males howled in ecstasy, joined by Knaatl who was pulled down with the kneeling Wargen. Arnmok curled his legs around Luxaeus powerful thighs, securing his position as the Wargen rocked back and forth, pushing himself deeper and deeper into the Red Orc. His hands freed, Arnmok instinctively curled them around Luxaeus' shoulders for support.

Something about the sight aroused Knaatl to no end and he could not help but think how exciting it would be for the two to kiss. He gave Luxaeus ass a powerful thrust, driving the Wargen to lean further down and in doing so, pushing the pointed cock deeper into Arnmok. Both men were pushed closer together by the Nightusk chieftain, their breath and sweat draping over one another. Realising the power of his thrusts, Knaatl grinned viciously and gave another earth-shattering thrust.

Luxaeus grunted loudly, catching his weight on the ground with his strong arms. Knaatl pulled them closer together as the Wargen hilted into him. Their noses touched and for a brief moment, the two were shocked at the sudden contact. Knaatl would not give them a second to think too deeply on the moment and gave another trust, forcing their lips to meet. He wondered who would be the first to initiate true intimacy. It was a surprise when Luxaeus' tongue pushed out between his lupine lips and dove into Arnmok's throat. The Red Orc tilted his head to the side, welcoming the invasion.

The Wargen was overwhelmed by the sensations that were assaulting him. From the delightful sensation of being filled to his cock squirming with joy inside Arnmok, he feared that he would lose himself to the beast and ravage these two orcs in a sexual haze. But then his lips met Arnmok's and a new sensation blossomed in his chest. He wasn't sure what it was but it made him feel all the more human. He clung onto that sensation, diving deep for Arnmok's tonsils and relishing the sensations of his chiselled chest pressing up against Arnmok's broad pectorals, rock hard abdominals rubbing against one another as Knaatl drove their pace. He could feel the Red Orc's own cock pressed up against his belly and from there, Arnmok's racing heartbeat as the member pulsated and throbbed. The point of the enormous dick was oddly close to his own heart, almost like some part of Arnmok was reaching towards him, reaching through the beast of his body and aiming for the human soul within.

And Luxaeus reached out in turn. Perhaps it was this revelation and some part of the beast inside of him wanted desperately to wrench control back but a bulbous growth began springing forth from the base of his dick. It was far more sensitive than the rest of his member and as it inflated, it pressed up against Arnmok's hole. For the two men, the sensation was electric and they stopped their passionate kissing for a moment just to process what was happening.

But Knaatl would not let them think. The powerful chieftain's thrusts were growing stronger, faster and lustier. Luxaeus tore his lips away from Arnmok, baring his fangs and eyes squeezed shut, a growl rising from his throat. His knot was pushed further and further into Arnmok by Knaatl's merciless pace. At the same time, Arnmok arched his back, mouth agape in a silent cry of ecstasy as he was stretched further than he had ever been before.

Luxaeus could feel his seed bubbling up from his balls, molten hot. It was almost painful trying to keep it inside of him but he wanted – no, needed – to tie with Arnmok. Instinct and desires demanded it. With each trust from Knaatl, he threw his own weight and strength into it and he drove himself deeper and deeper into Arnmok until with a resounding, wet pop, his knot slipped into Arnmok. There was a moment of relief that rippled down his spine but it was only a second of reprieve. Knaatl came hammering back, his pace unbroken, and the Wargen was sent into a frenzy.

Luxaeus panted and thrust madly into Arnmok, pulling back as far as his knot would go before throwing himself into the Red Orc, sending a wild cry of ecstasy from the male beneath him. Suddenly, Arnmok's back arched and a cry erupted from his throat. Luxaeus shuddered as the feeling of the Red Orc's cum splattering all over his chest sent him reeling. The surprise of having another man's seed all over him gave room for the beast to shatter the dams of restraint that kept him from spilling his own juices. The flood came so suddenly that Luxaeus was barely conscious as he tipped his head back and let out an ear-splitting howl in time with his cock going rigid and unleashing a torrent of hot, Wargen seed.

The Wargen leader's howl turned into a gasp as Knaatl gave him one last thrust and the rush of hot fluids rushed into his insides. As how own seed pumped out of his cock, leaving him with the odd sensation of warmth, the heat from Knaatl's seed ignited a fire within him that only send him thrusting harder and harder, squeezing every last drop of cum out of his balls until he collapsed from exhaustion on top of Arnmok. Little did he know that in doing so, his lips met with Arnmok's once more and the Red Orc happily took his turn in mounting an invasion of the Wargen's muzzle with his tongue.

Luxaeus slumped over the orc, holding the man against him tightly, protecting him against the night's cold. At the same time, Knaatl gently pulled him to the ground, rolling him off Arnmok to keep him from crushing the orc beneath him. The powerful chieftain's arms around his waist was a welcome comfort.

He could not help but smile

Behind him was an orc that could drive him wild, who could bring out the beast in him and in front of him, lips locked, was the man who could remind him of his humanity.

For the first time since becoming a Wargen, he truly felt at peace.

******

Perhaps had they been on friendlier terms, Orradin would have pitied Qurron but given recent events, even the simple mention of the War Wizard's name left a bitter taste in his mouth. In many ways, both of them were to blame for the current situation. Perhaps had they acted differently, Amthos would not have risen to power as he was now. Then again, perhaps the Old Gods would have just picked another human to be their puppet. Still, it felt so much easier to blame the wizard than himself.

He strode into the tower of the deplorable man, cursing at the reasoning behind every magic using somehow needing to always be in some tower and the hundreds of steps it took to get up there. Inside, Qurron looked haggard and even more skeletal than before. Clearly he had lost some weight. The Vessel of Life sat on a table by itself at the far end of the room, emitting that same eerie purple light that seemed to engulf the entire room. It didn't seem like the wizard had had any sleep for days. Though he would be surprised if anyone had any true rest in a long while.

“Wizard," Orradin growled from where he stood. “Master Arben has almost finished with the last of the golems. You are behind in infusing them with souls to power them."

Qurron looked up at him, his eyes wide and almost bulging out of his skull. A bitter, humourless smile crossed his lips. He gestured at the three containers filled with the writhing purple energies from the Vessel. “They are there. Take them should you wish."

It occurred to Orradin that Qurron was stuffing clothing into a pack.

“You are leaving," he stated.

“Yes." The Wizard straightened and headed over to one of the nearby tables where he plucked a book. “I will be accompanying Arben on his journey to Raonoak. The Vessel must be returned to the city to complete the Orkiller after all."

The Orkiller. Eranius' secret weapon against the orcs. It would take more than a week to travel to Raonoak by horseback and he was unsure if Qurron planned to use a spell to make the journey swifter. However, Orradin knew when he was being thrown up as a rear guard. Too many times during his 'training' had he been thrown to the wolves with the explicit hope that he would die or at least the odds against his favour. He could still remember all those gamblers and fat merchants hollering at him to die for the sake of their bets. Every time he refused to fall. Every time he lost them money.

This would be no different.

“If you think you can skirt your responsibility over creating this mess my fleeing to Eranius, then you are sorely mistaken."

Qurron turned to him, defiant. “You cannot stop me, hero. Eranius ordered me to –"

Suddenly, he was upon the War Wizard, hovering over him with a fistful of the mage's robes in his fist. “It is not Eranius that you need to worry about, wizard. I will not allow you flee to the safe haven of Raonoak and leave me to die or to clean up your mess."

“My mess?" sneered Qurron. The Wizard tried to push him away but Orradin had a firm grip around the Wizard's coat. “Was it not you who antagonised Thomas and led him to becoming this Avatar?"

“Was it not you who falsely conjured your vision into reality just to prove yourself right?" countered Orradin. That silenced the Wizard. Seizing his victory, Orradin threw Qurron's frail frame towards the bed. “Listen well, Qurron. You will stand at the walls beside the other men. You will fight with staff and sword. I care not if you die but you will take responsibility for what you have done."

“But the Orkiller –"

“Write your notes. Send it with Arben. Other Wizards at Raonoak can complete your work on the Orkiller." He pointed an accusing finger at Qurron. “You will not leave Hawkshallow without drawing blood. Be it yours or an orc's, I care not. But you will fight."

The decision was more over strategic relevance than truly threatening Qurron. Shamans moved with the armies of Amthosruud. That meant they had some form of magic beside them. While Orradin knew some spells, it would not be enough against the ferocious elemental might of the shamans. They needed a mage to better their odds. Qurron would not have been his first choice and he would have preferred some of the zealous War Priests but they were far off and would not arrive before the orcs attacked.

“You cannot force me to cast your spells for you!" snarled Qurron, rising to his feet. “At a moment's notice, I can whisk myself away from here and –"

“Prove to the world exactly what a coward you are," growled Orradin. “You were too craven to confess your feelings to Arben's wife, too craven to admit you were wrong and orchestrated your own 'vision' and now you are too craven to fight to right your wrongs. You leave now and your name will forever be a mark of cowardice. And if you think no one will know because we are all doomed to die here…" There, Orradin flashed him a grin. “Then you are once again mistaken."

The War Wizard's jaw became hard set, his jaw shaking. “What did you do, Greenslayer?"

The hero's features softened slightly as he turned his gaze out the window. “There are men here that do not deserve to die at the hands of the orcs. Fathers. Husbands. Brothers. Their soft hearts and heavy burdens would only weigh them down in battle. I released them from service whether they liked it or not." Then his eyes hardened and he shot Qurron another fierce stare. “But not before I made sure they were well aware of your treachery."

Qurron realised he was trapped. Should he leave, those men that Orradin had released would know instantly of his betrayal. Though he could easily hide away or secret himself in Eranius' court, there would be no hiding his presence once news spread. Even the College of Magi would be hostile to him. After all, as a War Wizard he was expected to fight, to use his powers for war. If he turned tail and ran, it would be against the very teachings that he was raised and that he claimed to follow.

“You are dooming us all!" Qurron screeched.

“I am dooming us both," answered the hero coldly. “I will die on the field of glory and fighting an opponent that I have craved for decades. You? Well, you will die for your sins."

“Is that all you care for?" snapped the Wizard hotly, even showing some spine by baring his teeth. “To die on the battlefield against the enemy you were always made for? Will your endless pursuit against your foe never end? What will happen when the last orc dies?" Then a wicked smile crossed his features. “Will turn to a mage like me to make some unsuspecting village full of orcs? Will you seek your enemy until your last breath? Will you continue to fight the Greenskins until your bones are dust and the maggots eat at your eyeballs?"

Rage erupted within Orradin. Nothing would have pleased him more than the seize the Wizard around the neck and hurl him out the window. But something about the man's words stung more than it should have. A seconds of soul searching later, he realised what it was.

The conversation he had with Amthos when Samuel had brought them together.

“I pity you, Orradin Greenslayer, I truly do. Every aspect of your life is bent around killing orcs. Your very name is built around it.

“But what will you do once the last orc is dead? Would you collect our seed and force feed it to men so that you would always have something to hunt? Would you simply wither and die in a brothel, penniless and destitute?"

The weight of the words hung over his shoulders. When he looked upon the War Wizard, he tasted a bitterness on his tongue. That snarling, wrinkled face, knuckled white in fury and brown creased in frustration… he wondered if that was what he would look like fifty or perhaps sixty from now. Old but still fighting for a cause that was long dead… Orradin suddenly felt very weary, very weak. Unwilling to show any signs of weakness in front of Qurron, he began to turn away from the wizard.

“Nothing to say, Greenslayer?" barked Qurron. “Have I finally found the weak link in your armour?"

“Perhaps," Orradin mumbled softly. “But something I have realised, Qurron." He threw a piercing, bitter glanced over his shoulder. “You and I are a lot alike. You seek to maintain your status quo where you are the renowned and respected mage. I seek to return to that state of war and elation when I earned my name. Looking at you now… I can see my future."

Orradin turned his back to the Wizard and marched out of the chamber.

“… and I despise it."

******

Amthos sat on a pile of cushions, regarding the maps before him and running through the battle plans over and over again. They were less than a day from Hawkshollow. It had been decided that they avoid marching upon the fortress immediately. They needed to be refreshed and ready for a battle when they reached the battlefield. At first light, they would march once more and be at the fortress before noon.

Knaatl and his advance team had already left to hinder reinforcements from Raonoak. Ruven and Dalgmar were preparing the shamans for battle, rallying the spirits about them. Arnmok was inspecting the troops alongside Luxaeus who was keeping the Wargen in line. It was a surprise that even Ramdrud had accompanied the horde but he made himself useful by inspiring the troops as a future-king was wont to.

For Amthos, he had been an avid student of war under Eranius but not one that was so experienced. Regardless, he knew that besieging Hawkshollow would not be easy. Though most of the land surrounding the once-grand capital was flat plains of farmlands. The fortress was constructed in such a way that it had been the envy of all the north during the reign of Mad King Hawk. Even after passing from hand to hand and over decades, the walls still remained strong and sturdy. The ruins of the former townships around the castle also ensured that a myriad of traps and ambushes could lie waiting for them not to mention it would disrupt their formation. Their war machines were heavily exposed as they rolled through the ruins.

It was a good thing that Ramdrud was here as his magical owl, Grace, could easily scout through the city unhindered. Already, they had exposed many traps that the defenders had lain for them. Clever ones too. They mixed more obvious traps with well-concealed ones. Overconfidence would quickly undo the undisciplined.

But there was one thing that was bothered Amthos.

There were several 'traps' littering the city. Big ones. He was unsure what they were as what Ramdrud reported from Grace were vague and did not fit any description they could identify. Big black monoliths were erected at certain locations, mostly intersections and bottlenecks. They seemed to be large tombs or coffins but what rested inside could not be determined. Was much as he wanted to avoid them, Orradin was clever enough to ensure that no matter which route to the city they took, they had to encounter one. Three of them were even erected at the base of the castle.

“I best ask Ramdrud if he has more information," he told himself. He looked to his right forlornly. “Ah, I wish you were still here, Samuel. Even your cryptic clues were a welcome comfort."

He straightened from his table and strode out of the large tent that had been allocated to him. The smell of orcs, Wargen and warrior men wafted into his nostrils. He was pleased when he saw even women of the other races readying themselves in armour and preparing for the battle that was to come. Though orcs would always be men now, that did not mean that they found themselves superior. They were dependent on the other races producing children to continue to exist. He hoped Ramdrud would remember that when he took up the crown of Amthosruud.

Striding through the tent city confined by the enormous walls of the shamans, he navigated to Ramdrud's tent. The two expectedly burly guards told him that Ramdrud was out and said he was visiting Ruven and the shamans. That seemed a logical move for the future king. Ramdrud would need to have a solid relationship with the shamans. Of all the other leaders, only Dalgmar and Knaatl truly remained as the traditional chieftains. Amthos had abdicated when he declared Amthosruud formed and Oringruud had turned traitor. Though there were murmurings of Arnmok being a new chieftain of the Red Orcs.

He moved through the rest of city, taking an entire hour to weave through the tents and warriors towards the northern section of the encampment. There, the shamans made their temporary home. Just like in Bhotanmar or Greendawn, their huts and tents were decorated with totems to the spirits and runes that helped the ethereal beings manifest in the material world. The playful little creatures danced all over, as thick as the shamans who sat amongst them. Even amongst them, though, Amthos strode with an air of respect. Spirits visibly bowed to him or avoided his path. The power of the Avatar certainly had that effect on the world. He had to wonder how the other races and their Avatars were received.

After a few enquiries, he learned where Ruven's tent was, the second largest tent apparently. He navigated through the crowds and soldiers preparing for war. All the non-combatants remained within the cities and only those willing or capable of fighting were with them. People of all ages, sizes and races were within their encampment, all wearing the white and green of Amthosruud. Mixed with the colourful spirits that danced about them, Amthos found his breath stolen by the beauty and serenity of it all though they were on the eve of war.

Something caught his attention; a flicker of black fur, blonde hair and sapphire-blue, almost black eyes. Stunned at the phantom, Amthos veered off course and hurried towards what he thought was surely a ghost. He came to a crossroads in the little mobile fortress, the firelight from the lamps and spirits around him his only source of light.

“I must be hallucinating…"

But no.

There he was again. A fleeting vision of a jet-black Fénrian dressed in strange clothing disappearing between two tents. Amthos' heart was racing and he charged after the apparition. He seized the first person he saw the moment he turned the corner.

“Avatar!" exclaimed the male, a dwarf. “An honour!"

“Ah… apologies," he murmured. “I thought you were someone else. Carry on."

Shaking himself, Amthos turned around –

“Ah!" he cried.

There he was.

Standing there in the middle of the road, looking directly at him with a gentle smile on his lupine features. Amthos rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not hallucinating. As he opened them again, he noticed that no one was moving around him. The fires had stopped flickering, the air was still and every warrior was frozen in whatever they were doing.

“Samuel…?"

“Come now," said the wolf. “You did not honestly believe that I would have died that easily, did you?"

“I…" Amthos shook his head. “What are you doing here? You trivialise your death, the message you gave me by being here."

The wolf gave him a gentle smile and nodded. “I know but you always knew I was not dead. Few others know the same but that's why you spirited my armour away and interred it somewhere it could not be touched, is it not? To keep others from asking the same questions you are asking yourself now."

Amthos nodded slowly. “Are you truly immortal? Are you a god?"

“There are no gods. Just mortals," recited the No One. “But I did indeed 'die' at the hands of Torlidain. It just so happens that as a No One, I am unbound by the laws of this reality. 'Death' for me is not the same as it is for you. It is beyond the definition of the Old Gods and the Triad."

“So you were never really in any danger?"

“No." Samuel scratched his chest absently. “Still hurt like hell though… Sometimes I am tempted to remove the aspect of pain from my incarnations but then that would just be cheating." He smiled at Amthos. “Anyway, I only came here to give you something. Consider it my parting gift before the final confrontation."

The Avatar tilted his head in surprise as the No One held out what appeared to be a piece of parchment. As he took it and unfurled it, he recognised it as a map.

“I once gave Urthak a similar map but it was of Bhotanmar," Samuel said. “It gave him the knowledge to lead the Earth Runners away from Bhotanmar and to strip away the advantage Grauhl had with his surprise tunnels."

“And Urthak died because of it…"

“Actually, the map I gave him would have led him far away from Bhotanmar. It had been my intention that Urthak and the Earth Runners be the orcish contingency just in case you fell against the First One. Instead, he discarded the map and came rushing to your aid." Samuel laughed softly. “Ah… so many options, so many paths…" The wolf shook his head. “The map you hold in your hands will lead you to an unclaimed plot of land at the base of the Fangs of the World. The land is rich and fertile. There is natural irrigation from a nearby river. It is protected by natural borders and the spirits there are highly active and will heed your call."

“Why are you telling me this?"

Samuel made to turn away. “Just a parting gift. I figured that after all that you have been through you deserved something for yourself without any ulterior motives or heartless puppeteers like me pulling your strings." He flashed Amthos a bright grin. “Besides, I figured this was the opportune moment to answer any questions you may have that have been nagging at you since we met."

Amthos regarded the parchment and then the No One again. “Questions…" He laughed bitterly. “I have so many…"

“Then ask them." Samuel gestured around him at the frozen surroundings. “We have the time."

He laughed softly and regarded the No One fondly. “Are there any restrictions? Can I ask about Orradin's battle plan? Our chances of success?"

“You can but you know that mortal fate shall and always will be in mortal hands. Any plan set into motion could very well change on a whim."

“I figured as much." He sighed, his broad shoulders sagging. “It would be fruitless to ask about the future then. So… let me ask this instead." His features grew grim. “Exactly what is the Holy Triad? Why are they so… corrupt? What happened to Torlidain? When I saw him… he was a totally different man."

Samuel's features twisted into an expression of regret and disgust. “The Holy Triad were once the great three men who led the Alliance to victory. However, they underestimated the weight of godhood. You see, I am lucky in that I get to switch my eyes off. I still had to learn that the hard way, though, and there were times in the beginning of my tale that I almost went mad because I could not 'stop seeing'. When the three mortal men became gods, they were suddenly exposed to everything on Tirinead. It was too much for their mortal psyches and it broke them. The three kings you knew are dead. I have their stories with me, in fact. But the Triad that you know is just three parasitic creatures who feast on the conflicts brought on by the people of Tirinead to feed their own insatiable hunger. They have some degree of intelligence about them but really no more than a cunning animal capable of feeding and defending itself. They do not look to the future and they do not understand the consequences of their actions."

Amthos lowered his gaze. “So they must be destroyed… But what then? Will the Old Gods return to their thrones?"

Samuel crossed his arms with a smile. “I am sure with your talks with Neruv and the other shamans you've come to your own conclusion about what the Old Gods really are, right? What do you believe them to be?"

The Avatar shrugged his mighty shoulders. “Honestly? I believe them to be just incredibly powerful spirits. Perhaps they were creators of the other spirits and us but that is within their power just as spirits are capable of creating fire or water through their connection with nature."

Samuel chuckled softly. “You will despise me for this but I have fostered other beliefs in the other races. Some believe them to be true gods and others still have other interpretations like the spirits of incredibly powerful, distant stars or incredibly powerful mages who have managed to maintain sentience despite merging with the omnispell. Such differences will likely be the root of future conflicts. Religion is a great divider, after all."

“Why?" There was no hatred or anger in Amthos' voice. “Why would you let that happen?"

“Because Tirinead needs diversity as much as it needs unity. I do not expect all the races to suddenly join hands at the end of this and live happily ever after. There will be prejudices. There will be hatred. There will be war. But that is the nature of all mortals. We fight. We play. We grow. If I made it so that all the races united under the Old Gods under a single belief, what is to stop the former pantheon from repeating their old mistakes and just being another, albeit more numerous, Triad?"

Then he understood. “So by separating interpretations, you splinter their power. No one race is stronger than the other. They would have to divide their attention to each one equally."

“Exactly. Showing favouritism towards one or the other will invite the ire of the others. Even though the orcs do not see the Old Gods are true gods, they are still Garodrash's favoured race. War against them will invoke the wrath of the God of Fertility who has followers in other races as well."

Amthos chuckled softly and understood the ploy convoluted as it was. “What will you do with the Triad then?"

“Honestly?" Samuel shrugged. “I do not know. I have yet to decide. Ask me again when you march upon Trispire." He gave Amthos a sly wink.

“So I will only see you then?"

The No One smiled at him. “Come now. You know me better than that. All you need to do is ask and I will be more than happy to help." The wolf stepped towards Amthos and rested a paw on his shoulder. “You are not just another job to me, Amthos. You are a loyal friend, a proud warrior and a point of pride for me. I am richer for having met you. It was a joy watching you grow into the strong orc that you are now and I look forward to seeing how much more you will develop."

There, Amthos smiled back and clasped the wolf's paw tightly. “Thank you, Samuel. I appreciate it."

The wolf laughed softly. “Ah, since we are speaking so fondly with one another, let us disperse with the alias. Call me by my true name."

He smiled brightly at Amthos.

“It's Jacob. Jacob Samuel Reaper."

******

The booming of the war drums was deafening.

From the walls where Orradin stood, he could see the enormous stone wall encroaching upon Hawkshollow. Like watching a mountain move. A rumbling filled the air like a deep, resounding chorus to the war drums. Every second that passed, Orradin became aware of just how huge that wall was. He wondered if the orcs planned on moving their entire army in such a way. He doubted that anything could stop it. Perhaps if they had the aid of some competent mages, then perhaps it could be stalled.

“What say you, mage?" he asked. Qurron stood right next to him, gilded staff gripped tightly in his bony knuckles. “Is there anything you can do to stop that monstrosity?"

Qurron regarded the encroaching wall with narrowed eyes. “Honestly, I have never seen such an enormous act of sorcery before even during the War of Apotheosis. I was not there when the Triad ascended to the heavens or the Old Gods cast down. This seams a feat for the gods. The most I can do, perhaps, is encase a section in ice so it would be easier to break or try to shatter it with a few spells but without help, I do not think I will be able to breach it."

He was not sure what he expected. At least he did not put his faith in the War Wizard. Had he done so, he would have been bitterly disappointed. When a loud rumble filled his ears, he turned back towards the approaching wall. Dark thunderheads sprang up from nowhere and rapidly spread towards them.

“And a storm," he rumbled bitterly. “Looks like they're really putting their shamans to work.

The War Wizard snorted derisively. “Shamanism is divided into four categories." He pointed his staff towards the approaching wall, still perhaps half an hour or so before reaching the far wall and the edge of the farmlands. “Earth." Then he gestured towards the thunderclouds. “Storm, Sea and Fire."

As the enormous clouds reached them and blotted out the sun, Orradin said, “Think they can call down fire from the heavens?"

Qurron shook his head. “They rely on their 'spirits' which, from what I have studied, are embodied within the elements. They cannot force a spirit to do or enact something that is against its nature. That is what Druids do. They –"

As he finished, lightning fell from the clouds and struck one of the burned, ruined houses in the township of Hawkshollow. Though the wood was burned, it still caught fire. A fire that quickly began to spread with a supernatural hand guiding it. More bolts fell from the sky in precision strikes. One of the men screamed as one such bolt struck him and he toppled off the wall. Qurron swung his staff in the man's direction, catching him in a nimbus of white light and gently lowering him to the ground. Despite this, the man was severely burned and twitching. Medics and healers quickly went to him.

“Pikemen!" he hollered. “Bannermen! Raise your pikes into the air. Place them upon the walls." He spread his arms wide and began uttering an incantation. The spikes at the end of each pike and banner began to glow with a soft, white light. Lightning that fell from the clouds curved away from their victims and struck the spikes instead.

“There," Qurron said, lowering his arms. “That should keep us from being killed before the battle even begins."

Orradin nodded grimly as the fire began to spread further and further, encircling the fort and casting the approaching wall in a sort of hellish light. Rain began pelting them but that only seemed to fuel the fire. The sudden downpour made the parapets dangerous and slippery. Battling on the walls would be treacherous. However, the orcs would still need to navigate the traps he had lain in the city streets and the golems waiting for them.

“So we have earth," he said, returning his gaze to the wall. “Storm. Fire. I wonder where sea would come in."

“Unless they could miraculously bring the ocean crashing upon here, many miles inland, I doubt we will get more than this rain." Qurron smiled with some degree of confidence. “Of that I am at least glad."

The rumbling grew louder and louder. The wall was now approaching the outlying farms. Orradin eagerly awaited the moment when the foolish Greenskins emerged from behind their walls and marched into his streets, finding themselves slaughtered at every turn by his traps and golems.

But as the minutes ticked by, the wall showed no signs of stopping. In fact, it seemed to be accelerating. A terrifying realisation quickly dawned upon him as the wall rolled over the farmlands and smashes right through the outlying man-made wall.

“They are not stopping…" He blinked a few times, trying to process the gravity of his own words. Then he spun to Qurron. “They are not stopping! They will run us over with their wall!"

The War Wizard's eyes widened and he quickly glanced off to the side, muttering to himself. “Malstraad's Hammer? No… not big enough… Shining Swords of the War God? No… It would not work…"

“Mage!"

“Give me time!" Qurron snapped. “There must be a spell… something…" Then his eyes widened. “Ah!" He lifted his staff into the air just as the orc's enormous wall of earth barged through the city. Carefully laid traps were immediately devastated and the ground itself began to rumble threateningly. Orradin had to clutch the edge of the wall to keep himself from falling. “Holy Triad give me strength!"

Arcane runes began shining around Qurron's right hand in the shape of a circle. The mage's eyes began to emit a brilliant, red glow as the same runes encircled the tip of his staff. Another rumbling rose up from the earth but this one was far closer. Orradin looked over the edge of the walls, regarding the moat that stood between them and the rest of the city. The three, massive, blackrock coffins containing the golems assigned to defending the castle stood on the other side of the moat. Brilliant white light sprang up from the earth several feet away from the coffins.

Over the rumbling, Qurron continued to mutter his incantation. The wall was getting closer and closer, its progress growing faster. It was already halfway through the city. The ruins of Hawkshollow's town was gathered at the base of the wall like some deranged plough cleaving through a wheat field. Orradin saw his future. Dead at the foot of that wall. Never even having a chance to lift his sword or sink his blade into orc flesh. It would be a humiliating defeat and a sign of the orc's power.

Refusing to submit to such a defeat, he roared and flung his hand back. Mustering what spells he knew, he hurled a fireball from the defender's wall. It fizzled out uselessly before even reaching the encroaching wall as the rain only grew heavier but its effect was felt across the defenders. Shouts of spells erupted from the men on the wall. Lightning, fire, ice and arcane bolts were hurled from those who knew them. It struck the encroaching earth and Orradin liked to think it somewhat stalled the approach. Maybe the shamans were stunned that someone was actually attacking them back.

“Qurron!" bellowed Orradin.

But the mage ignored him and lifted his hands into the air. The air sizzled with magic. The hairs on Orradin's arms stood on end and he felt the familiar gnawing sensation at the root of his teeth as raw power and the light ascending from the earth grew brighter still. A high pitched keening rose from the spell followed by a peel of thunder. The lights became focused into tall pillars, piercing straight upwards like glorious beams that cut through the storm and darkness. To Orradin, they looked like glowing, gilded jail cell bars. With a resounding sound like shattering glass, huge, silvery rods erupted from the ground where the lights were focused. They rose up to at least forty feet tall, slightly smaller than the orc wall but their effect was clearly felt. Arcane runes glowed an eerie purple all over their lengths and each one let out a deem, thrumming sound like someone plucking strings of a lute.

The storm suddenly stalled and the rain abated immediately. The fires raging in the streets seemed to lose its sentience and just raged as a wild conflagration but quickly found itself lacking usable fuel as the rain had doused every inch of the city. Not another bolt of lightning descended from the storm. The thunderheads even began to start dissipating directly above the castle though they continued to rage over the orc's mobile fortress. The orc wall slowed its approach before coming to a full halt halfway through the town.

Qurron collapsed and Orradin immediately caught him.

“What did you do?" demanded the Greenslayer.

The War Wizard was completely pale and cold sweat dropped from his brow, mixed with the freezing raindrops that had fallen. “Archildon's Rods of Dispelling." His breathing was ragged and his eyelids were fluttering. Orradin would not let him fall into unconsciousness and slapped the mage awake. Qurron threw him a fiery stare. “They will keep any shamanistic spell from being cast within a certain range. So long as we do not wander too far past them, we are safe."

Qurron used his staff to prop himself up. “But the Rods were designed to only be about as tall as my staff and wielded like such. Hitting a spell with it would dispel the effect of the spell. To summon twenty of them and in such great size…" He gave Orradin a wry grin. “I hope you understand just how exhausting that was."

“If you seek reprieve, again you are mistaken." Orradin roughly lifted the Wizard to his feet. “This was just their first volley. Who knows what else they have in store." He glanced off to the town. “They have already bowled over most of our town and traps. Some of the golems were likely crushed as a result."

He retrieved the control rod that Arben had crafted for him, clutching it tightly. “Prepare yourself, mage. Here they come."

Like an enormous lip opening, the massive stone wall rose from the ground. The sound of war drum grew louder and louder. Orradin felt his heart seize up in his mighty chest as the orcs came marching out of from behind their fortress. His eyes widened at the sight of their glistening white and green armour.

These were not the orcs that he had fought twenty years ago. Those orcs were brutish, wild and savage. They never marched in formation. They just charged, wielding crude weapons and barely dressed as they worked themselves up into a wild rage. It made fighting them that much harder as in their berserk state, they could shrug off physical injury. Any war machines they had were just primitive imitations of what they had seen from the Alliance troops.

But these orcs… these Amthosians… they marched in perfect formation. Their weapons glistened in the sunlight, new, sharp and deadly. They were all dressed in the stylised white and green armour, each one a shining knight for their country. The wild wargs that had always been part of orc society were all armoured and padded forward in perfect, straight lines with their riders astride them. Banners of the green nation fluttered proudly over the approaching host and the even the shamans, dressed in their white and green robes strode in the back, proud and ready for battle and surrounded by the spirits that they worshiped.

And then he saw him.

Amthos.

The Avatar of the Orcs strode proudly at the forefront of the battle. Like the other orcs, he was dressed in armour painted white with green edges, covering every inch of his massive, muscled body. His brilliant red cape fluttered behind him. On his head he wore a proud, broad helm that had three spikes – two at the temples and one at the centre of his head – reminiscent of the Star-Eyed Wolf's own helm. He was surrounded by a whole host of red-skinned orcs the likes of which Orradin had never seen.

And then… there were the wolf-men.

“What are those?" demanded one of the men.

Orradin could not provide an answer. Striding proudly beside Amthos was an enormous creature that looked like a Fénrian but more wild, savage. The creature had white fur covering his body save for certain parts which were covered in brown highlights. Leather armour wrapped around his enormous, muscled, furry body. Towering over most of the other orcs, the creature's appearance brought to attention the others of its kind. They were dispersed amongst the orc host in battalions of their own. Like the orcs, they were orderly and marched with proud.

“Fénrians?" Orradin asked the mage.

“No…" Qurron whispered, shaking his head. “They cannot be. Those look more like a cross between man and warg…" He exchanged glances with the hero. “A lasting gift from the Star-Eyed Wolf?"

Suddenly, the war drums ceased and the orcs stopped their march.

They were still a good distance away and many traps and hidden golems yet lay between them. He could not understand why the orcs would suddenly stop. Then, the air crackled just beyond the magical rods. A shimmering disc of light appeared and through it, Orradin could see the Avatar clearly along with his red-skinned entourage.

“Listen to me well, defenders of Hawkshollow," bellowed the Avatar, his voice carrying from the disc. Orradin quickly checked behind him to make sure no such portals appeared within his walls. Thankfully, that was not the case. “You are all here defending your country, your friends, your family, your people. I can respect that and I do not fault you for raising your weapons against us, those that would see your very livelihood shattered. We are the invaders. I acknowledge that."

“Listen not to his words!" Qurron barked, slamming his staff into the ground. The mere gesture had his wavering. “They are corruption incarnate!"

If the Avatar could hear Qurron's accusation, he showed no signs of it. “The world is changing. Orcs are no longer the dispersed and destitute people you once knew. We are uniting under a single banner and we are rising to form a nation: Amthosruud. But we are not here to conquer, to rape or to kill." He pressed a hand against his armoured chest. “Know that we orcs are all male. We have no means to reproduce save for seeking humans, dwarves or elves who would take the mantle of an orc."

“What is he doing…?" Orradin wondered aloud. “He is exposing his race's weakness. A cunning man would take that to mean that we would win in a war of attrition."

“So we ask you this," the Avatar continued. “Do not waste your lives. Do not put your hearts, minds and souls behind a nation that would send saboteurs to kill the heads of its enemies instead of meeting them fairly on the field of battle. Do not put your trust in gods who would use this to do their work!"

The Avatar suddenly reached behind him and threw a large bundle of rags in front of him. The disc panned to the writhing pile. Orradin realised there was a man in the folds of the filthy fabric. A man he recognised as the 'assassin' that Eranius had sent against the Avatar.

The man, Torlidain, looked up towards the orc and then towards Hawkshollow. A man grin crossed his face, his eyes wide, bloodshot and like plates. “I killed a god!" he screeched. “I killed the Star-Eyed Wolf! He is no more!" Then that smile on his face wavered and, on his knees, he clutched the sides of his head. “So why… why do I feel so… so empty!? Why!? He was smiling! Smiling at me! Smiling at me when he died!"

“He has gone mad…" Qurron whispered. “No doubt the death of that mage would've released some energies that will have –"

“No." Orradin frowned deeply. “The madness that takes him is not one induced by sorcery. It is his failing." A bitterness touched his tongue and he could not bear to look upon the wretched, maddened creature in front of him for it was a reflection of himself. “He achieved his goal but now finds himself empty and unsated. He has nothing else in this life. He has killed a 'god'. What else will compare?"

He turned towards one of his men and grabbed the bow and an arrow from the man.

“He's dead! Dead! Dead you hear me!" bellowed the maddened assassin.

Orradin nocked the arrow, taking careful aim. As if sensing his impending doom, Torlidain began crawling forward, reaching out with a hand towards Hawkshollow.

“I saved the Alliance! The Holy Triad gave me great power and skill! They gave me the might to kill a god!"

The Greenslayer gnashed his teeth together.

“So why!? Why do you not cheer!? Why do you not scream my name!? I am returned to you! I saved you!"

Then he let fly.

“I am your hero!"

Thwack!

The might of the arrow sent Torlidain flying back. It struck him directly in the throat. With the distance, however, it wasn't enough to snap his neck completely. The poor wretch fell back, clawing at his throat while blood seeped down his chest and drowning him. His eyes were filled with confusion. The fool could not understand why he was dying and why all the people on the wall just looked upon him with disdain and disgust. He reached out to them, bloodied hands begging for answers.

But no one gave him anything.

“Just die you son-of-a-bitch…" muttered Orradin, shoving the bow back into his man's arms.

Orradin's eyes were brought back to the Avatar as the disc swivelled around to face the mighty, armoured orc.

“This is what loyalty to the Holy Triad will lead you," said Amthos sorrowfully, looking upon the dead body of the assassin. “We cannot let this go on any further. Do not fight for the Alliance. I do not ask that you fight for us. I only ask that you give us the man who would drive you to this and who would purposefully turn your friends and family into orcs just to continue a war that ended a long time ago but which he never stopped fighting! Give us Orradin Greenslayer!"

Orradin felt the eyes of his men on him. He could tell that even Qurron was seriously considering the proposition.

“Brave words, orc," he shouted back. He hoped the disc carried words both ways. “But you have no proof of your accusations save your own words!" No one else knew what the Avatar knew. True, Samuel had revealed the truth when they had met but no one else was there to prove it. Everything else was conjecture. “Bring me the proof that I poisoned my own men to fight this war and I will gladly surrender myself to your mercy! Otherwise, cease this farce and face me on the battlefield!"

Amthos shut his eyes briefly and seemed to sigh in resignation. “I was hoping you would have more honour than that, Orradin. You know the truth. You know what you did. And yet, despite that all, you would still throw the lives of your men at me, at us_. For what? You save your own life? To fight that final battle that you so desperately crave?"_ His eyes snapped opened again. “You are no better than Torlidain. You will die, Orradin, but you will die the same as that assassin. I will not give you the satisfaction you crave!"

He drew his mighty mace. “Know this, defenders of Hawkshollow, come at us as you will but my men have explicit orders to avoid any pointless deaths. You are not at fault for the allegiances you were born into or actions of a man whom you put your trust in as your commander! I will treat prisoners with dignity and respect. But what happens on the battlefield, if you become an orc or otherwise, is not on me. Let history know that I gave you all the chance the surrender but it was the foolishness of one man who would have you thrown into death's jaws nonetheless!"

The Avatar lifted his mace into the air. “Now! Charge! For Amthosruud!"

The disc winked out of existence and the image of the Avatar of the orcs was replaced by the sight of thousands of orcs and their allies charging straight at them.

But Orradin was ready. At long last, blood was pumping through his veins and the thrill of battle had finally filled him. With a vicious grin, he held up his hand. Archers on his side lifted their bows and prepared to fire. Before he could give the signal however, those wild warg-like men came charging ahead of the orcs. He paused as the creatures began pouncing at certain locations, disappearing into ruined houses and ducking and weaving through the ruins of the town.

“They're undoing your traps!" Qurron exclaimed. “How did they know!?"

“It does not matter," he snarled. “Fire!"

Archers let loose with a hail of arrows. The sky darkened with fletched shafts and descended upon the charging orcs. It was too much to hope that Amthos would fall in the first volley. His red-skinned guards came charging forward, lifting enormous tower shields above their heads and blocking the oncoming assault. The shamans who stayed well behind the front lines entreated the winds, causing the arrows to veer off course.

“I thought you said the shamans could not cast their spells," he growled at Qurron.

“They can still cast spells but not within close proximity of the Rods," sneered the mage. “But the shamans control nature itself. Just because you throw a fireball through water it does not mean it will fizzle out upon contact. It will travel some distance through the ocean first before dissipating completely!" He nodded towards the blustering winds. “The same goes for them. They call upon their storms and while their control over the elements die upon reaching the Rods' influence, the winds must continue to blow!"

“Foul magics…" Orradin lifted his arm into the air. “Fire at will!"

Arrows sang through the air, falling upon the orcs. Few made it through the wall of shields and struck the attackers beneath but protected by thick armour and even thicker muscles, the orcs merely shrugged them off. Enormous siege towers rolled down streets, unhindered by the traps that he had set as these warg-men disarmed each and every one of them.

So much for his brilliant plans.

Snarling, Orradin lifted the control rod into the air. “Awaken, golems!" he bellowed. “Awaken and wreak havoc upon these foul Greenskins!"

He expected some sort of thunderous rumble, a resounding boom or any sign that the golems would rouse from their slumber. Only the roar and thunder of the orcs approach was his answer. Nothing stirred within the black coffins of the golems.

“What…?" He regarded the rod in frustration. “Why is it not working!?"

“Perhaps we should ask the smith that made it," Qurron spat.

“Arben has already left for Raonoak. The golems are useless to us!"

The War Wizard gave him a puzzled stare. “He has? But I saw him at his workshop just an hour ago. He said you were keeping him here like me."

He spun to the Wizard, eyes wide. “What? No! He told me Eranius needed him at Raonoak to finish he Orkiller. He should have left before the battle begun!" Betrayal was in the air but he could not waste a second thinking about it as the orcs drew closer and closer. He shoved the rod into Qurron's hand. “Go. Get answers from the mechanist. I will defend the wall for as long as I can." Then he lashed out, seizing the old man's collar. “And you had best not betray me, mage. I swear, dead or alive, I will have my revenge should you show your yellow belly."

Qurron nodded fearfully and Orradin shoved him in the direction of the stairs. The mage scampered off, bolting towards the castle. That leave the steely-jawed Greenslayer to turned towards the oncoming orcs. He drew his sword and picked up the shield that was sitting in front of him. His heart was pounding hard in his chest. Adrenaline burned in his veins. That thrill of battle was long gone.

The image of Torlidain's maddened features burned into his mind. The wretched creature, with no purpose in life as he had fulfilled his only task, now abandoned by the gods and with no allies or friends to call upon in his time of need.

Was that his destiny?

What lay after this battle?

Win or lose, where would Orradin Greenslayer go next?

******

Amthos charged under the umbrella of shields, trying not to flinch every time he heard the loud clang of an arrow striking the metal and bouncing off. Every now and then, he would see one of his personal guard grunt as an arrow pierced through the metal wall and struck a limb. Only a few cut through their armour and struck flesh but the orcs continued marching forward. Through the gaps in the walls, he could see the Wargen sweeping ahead of them, leaping between ruined buildings and dodging the arrows with frightening ease. They quickly approached the walls of Hawkshollow castle, using their claws to easily climb of the length and strike at the warrior atop it.

For the moment, Amthos' eyes were on the massive, silver rods that were stalling the shaman's spells. “We must destroy those towers!" he commanded. “Send the command! The towers are our objective!"

An elven messenger beside him nodded and quickly rushed from his side, heading to the other commanders to inform them of the Avatar's edict.

Amthos turned to Arnmok who stood by his side. “Bring us to the nearest spire."

His friend and head of his person guard nodded firmly. “Ya got it."

The orcs charged towards one of the silvery spires, shields lifted to protect them. Amthos approached the loudly humming spire and lifted Grimight. He roared and swung his massive mace. The rod immediately crumbled with a single, mighty strike. The runes all over its surface immediately fizzled out and the humming rose in pitch to an ear-splitting screech. The spire lurched to the side, toppling to the ground with a thunderous crash.

Satisfied, he saw his other fellow orcs rushing towards the nineteen remaining towers. They would have a little more trouble with them but they would soon fall. Then the shamans would be able to utilise their abilities again to shatter the defences of the Alliance. The siege engines drew closer and closer to the walls of Hawkshollow. The moat prevented access from the ground to the orcs but the Wargen could make the leap easily. If they could lower the drawbridge, they would be able to storm the castle. For now, Amthos and his group hunkered down beneath their shields, waiting for the siege towers to draw closer.

The elven messenger was suddenly by his side again, panting heavily.

“Milord! There are orcs approaching from the west!"

“The west?" Amthos asked, puzzled. “I didn't send a detachment in that direction…"

“They are red, sire. They fly under the banner of the Blood Claws!"

Amthos immediately exchanged glances with Arnmok and they whispered, “Oringruud" in unison.

“Th' bastard is gonna try ta smash us onna walls!" sneered Arnmok. “We ain't ready fer 'im!"

The one advantage the Amthosians had was their shamans but if Oringruud attacked in just the right way, they would be immune from the attacks so long as the rods were in place. If he was smart, he would actually defend some of the rods. Worse yet, Oringruud had mobility with his wargs so they would be upon them faster than the Wargen could lower the drawbridge or the siege towers could reach the castle walls.

“We need to meet him on the battlefield." Amthos gripped Arnmok's shoulder tightly. “Go. I know you have business to attend to with your progenitor. Take those whom you need with you. I will be fine."

Arnmok gripped his forearm in thanks and then rose. “Red Guard!" he bellowed. “To me! We face the traitor!"

The orcs around him started marching off to the west to meet the traitor legions. Exposed, he stood on the battlefield while arrows rained down around him. Whether it was out of divine providence or sheer luck, none of the arrows struck him. The winds whipped around him, causing his cape to flutter proudly like a red banner. He lifted his eyes to the walls where the defenders were fighting against the Wargen.

He took a deep breath and lifted his mace over his shoulder. Mustering his strength, Amthos charged forward, pumping his legs as far and as fast as they would go. The edge of the moat came rushing towards him but he refused to look at the dark waters or the spikes that horrors the lay within. The giant black monoliths that remained quiet were left behind him. His heart leapt to his throat as a filament of doubt shot through his body, nothing more than a sliver. But he refused to let it take root. That little thread of hesitation faded and fuelled him all the more. With a roar, he vaulted off the edge of the moat and swung his mace.

SMASH!

Hard rock and aged bricks that had withstood countless battles and tenants shattered. They gave way with a lasting groan to the Avatar as the mighty, armoured, green orc ploughed right through them and landed securely in the courtyard amongst stunned men. Amthos rose from his crouch, lifting his gaze to the wall where Orradin stood, stunned at his entrance. Perhaps the arrogant bastard was finally coming to realise that he was not dealing with an ordinary orc or an ordinary hero for that matter.

“Kill him!" roared the Greenslayer from his perch.

Amthos had to hold back. He did not want to kill any of these men needlessly. He swung Grimight around in a wide circle. The sheer force of the swing was enough to blow several of the heavily armoured men, each of them trained soldiers and warriors by trade, back several feet. Some even toppled to the ground from the blast.

Then, something unexpected happened.

One of the soldiers amongst the defender thrust his sword into the air and gave a shout. “For Amthos! For the Green North!" The man then turned towards his fellow defender and cut the stunned man down.

“Amthosruud!" came an echoing shout and another man turned on his own allies.

One of the traitor men suddenly rushed to Amthos' side, pressing a back against the Avatar and defending him with sword and shield. “Lord Barrowmont of Silent Peak sends his regards, milord."

Once again, Ramdrud's political machinations proved their worth. Somehow, he had convinced a good chunk of the Alliance lords to send their men to defend Hawkshollow and then turn upon the defenders at a moment's notice.

“Your name, my good man," Amthos said as other allies from Barrowmont came rushing to him.

“Captain Calsthrun of Silent Peak, milord." The man, a grey-haired, grizzled soldier, grunted as he deflected a blow from a raging Hawkshollow defender. Amthos reached past him, seized the man's blade and gave it a twist. The metal snapped in his mighty hand and the poor attack fell to his knees in fear.

“You will make a fine orc should you wish it, captain."

The man grinned at him broadly. “I am your man, milord. What are your orders?"

Amthos pointed Grimight at the drawbridge. “We must get that open to let the rest of our troops in."

“Then we shall defend you with all our might." Calsthrun lifted his shield, catching an arrow that could have taken out his eye. “Men! To the drawbridge!"

Once again, he was surrounded by men willing to defend him, their shields raised. They formed a wedge shape and pushed towards the drawbridge. Orradin was roaring at them to keep them away from the mechanism but Amthos' size and the sudden betrayal of the men that they thought were by their side had crushed the defender's morale.

Then there was the Wargen.

Luxaeus' brood launched themselves at the men, biting and tearing with their fangs and claws capable of shredding right through armour. It struck some as odd that the victims were left with bloody gashed before the Wargen moved on to attack someone else. Of course, that left time for the infection to set in. When the first man let out a scream and tore off his own armour, his features pushing forward into a lupine muzzle, the defenders realised that they were dealing with more than just warg-like beasts. They were dealing with a pandemic.

It was to the credit of the warriors around him that the defenders continued to hold their ground despite overwhelming odds. Though there were several, the young in particular, who threw down their arms and held up their hands in surrender. He saw one red-haired boy, likely no older than he was when he was first turned, throw down his spear and held and fell to his knees. A man behind him, snarled at the youngster and lifted an axe.

Amthos' eyes widened and he immediately leapt past the line of his entourage. The boy's eyes widened and he shut them tight.

Thwack!

The would-be assassin screamed as Amthos crushed his arm within his armour. “Coward," he growled at the man. “Leave men to deal with the consequences of their choices and slay them not for being sensible!" With a roar, he picked up the man, lifting him a good three feet off the ground and threw him aside. He reached down and hoisted the boy onto his feet. “Come on, son. You need not fear me."

The boy nodded feverishly as Amthos hurried him back into the wall of soldiers. Calsthrun handed him a sword and they pushed further towards the drawbridge. Arrows stopped raining from above as the Wargen occupied all the archers. A deep, thunderous boom filled his ears. The first of the siege towers made their way to the walls. The enormous, white and green mobile fortresses unfurled their own bridges and landed on the walls of Hawkshollow. Amthosians poured out, shouting their battle cries as they overwhelmed those on the walls.

“Retreat!"

The cry came as a surprise especially since it came from Orradin. The hero, dressed in his shining gold armour, was at the base of the wall, waving his mighty two-handed sword, Greenslayer, through the air. “Retreat! To the castle! Rally! Rally!"

As tempting as it was to charge at the man and end the battle now, he had ensured that Orradin was reviled by his men. There would be more needless loss of life if he eliminated the hero now as his men were still very much autonomous. No, he had the think of the long battle and that meant getting that drawbridge down.

The defenders began pouring towards the castle which left a relatively clear path for Amthos to rush towards the drawbridge controls. He kicked the lever down and watched the thick chains unspool rapidly. Enormous wooden plants creaked. The titanic bridge lurched forward and slammed into the other side of the moat. The remaining Amthosians charged across, filling the vast courtyard of the fortress and pushing Orradin's defenders further and further back to the castle.

His eyes lifted to the silvery spires that had been erected, watching as they crumbled.

Then his eyes went to the large, black monoliths.

“What were those for…?" he whispered to himself.

******

Two hundred Red Orcs had come with Arnmok when he had turned away from Oringruud's ambitions and chose to defend Bhotanmar instead of leaving the orcs to die against Grauhl. All of them had been former Blood Claw members and since then, some others had joined their ranks through the natural passage of time. Perhaps some orcs had been recommended by other Red Orcs and were thus 'promoted' through some exchange of semen. There were others who joined of their own volition, swearing to be one of Amthos' personal guard. After some rigorous training, regardless of their former species, they were inducted and their flesh turned red.

All in all, the Red Guard numbered four hundred men and they now stood on the western front of Hawkshollow, just past the outer edge of the city's walls, watching as Oringruud's Blood Claws approached.

There was no doubt that the traitorous chieftain had been madly recruiting for this very day. From where he stood, Arnmok could see the large horde of orcs rapidly approaching. There was no order to their approach. Mounted soldiers on wargs rushed heedlessly ahead of foot soldiers in no particular order. Amongst them, he could see a particularly large orc, skin still green as they day that he was born, charging ahead of them all astride a warg with an axe in his hand that was ablaze with fire.

Arnmok could still remember the tender caress of his 'father' when he had first been transformed. But he also remembered how all subsequent lovemaking sessions had been rough, unforgiving and more of an excuse for the chieftain to get his rocks off than as a true relationship. It was unlike the bond he shared with Knaatl… or even Luxaeus for that matter. He wondered if Oringruud ever really cared for him or if he had just been a means to further his own ambitions.

No mattered. He hefted Blood Spear in one hand and his mighty tower shield in the other. “Stand yer ground!" he shouted. “Their wargs are gonna come at us! We ain't gonna give 'em any ground!"

“Did someone say 'wargs'?"

The rough, growly voice that stirred his loins caught him by surprise. Luxaeus was suddenly striding up beside him, the proud, white Wargen lifting his head and sniffing the air.

“What are ya doin' here?" Arnmok demanded.

Luxaeus gave him a rueful smile. “I smelled something off in the wind and I am not speaking of Orradin befouling his britches when Amthos hurled himself right through the walls of Hawkshollow and the very men that he had employed began turning on him."

The Red Orc gave his Wargen friend a puzzled look. “Yer tellin' me that Amthos broke th' walls that stood since Mad King Hawk?"

For a moment Luxaeus blinked at in realisation then threw his head back and laughed in a very Knaatl-like way. “I suppose you are right! He did!"

He smiled at the white Wargen. “An' ya called 'im Amthos fer once."

The smile on Luxaeus' lupine face became reminiscent and distant. “Yes. I suppose you are right on that account as well."

Other Wargen were joining the ranks of the Red Guard, bolstering their numbers. It was certainly nothing close to the numbers of the oncoming Blood Claws but it was a comfort nonetheless. Arnmok crouched behind his shield, lifting Blood Spear so that it was position just beside the thick tower shield and poked out in front of him. Beside him, the other Red Guard did the same, forming a single wall of spears and shields. He knew Blood Spear could do no physical harm but it would also drive whomever he struck with in into a rage. The Red Guard moved as a single unit. The male to his left and his right protected him. The moment the victim of Blood Spear was vulnerable, his comrade would strike.

Peering between the shields, Arnmok could see the charging wargs and their orc riders. His eyes remained on Oringruud. There was a bit of hope in his chest that the traitor would see him and make a beeline for him. Perhaps the gods were listening because the chieftain saw the glimmering red of Blood Spear and immediately charged.

Arnmok braced himself, bunching his enormous muscles and digging his feet deep into the ground.

Oringruud was growing closer. The thunder of the warg's paws on the ground was a constant rumble. He could see the fierce yellow eyes of his progenitor beneath the horned helm now. Oringruud released the reins of his mount, holding on by his thick muscular legs alone and drawing the other half of Blood and Honour. Arnmok remembered being cradled by those legs and the sense of comfort and security he had wrapped in the chieftain's powerful arms. After how he had been treated, after his blinding rage against orcs and indeed being shattered into a broken man, having such a strong, powerful being protecting him had been so welcome.

But he shook such feelings away.

He now had another man that could give him that comfort. He had a noble purpose that drove him forward and friends that would protect him and he would protect them in turn. No longer would he have to rely on Oringruud as his shield.

He had his own.

Suddenly, Luxaeus rose from his crouching position. Oringruud looked momentarily shocked at the sight of the massive Wargen but none more so when Luxaeus puffed out his chest and unleashed an earth-shattering roar. All the wargs amongst the Blood Claws suddenly balked, ceasing their charge much to the confusion of the cavalry. Luxaeus then let out a loud, commanding howl. The wargs immediately reacted.

Blood Claws were thrown from their mounts as the wargs spun around and bit their rider's legs, hurling them off and pinning them to the ground. Even Oringruud was forced to leap off his mount as the warg turned on him.

“You are still with me, Winterpaw," said Luxaeus proudly. Then he lifted his head. “Wargen! Attack!"

Under the command of the massive Wargen, the half-warg, half-men leapt over the wall of Red Guard defenders and crossed the plains on all fours. Arnmok was stunned as the tides suddenly turned. Numbers were no longer a factor. The sheer chaos of the battle had turned the battle in their favour!

Shaking himself free of his surprise, he straightened. “Red Guard! Charge!"

His trumpeting cry rallied the Red Guard and sent them charging forward at the Blood Claws. Disordered and suddenly panicked by the presence of the Wargen, the Blood Claws suddenly found themselves being assaulted by the better armoured and armed Red Guard. It broke Arnmok's heart to see Red Orc clashing against Red Orc but he knew this was necessary.

This was what Oringruud's greet and ambitions had led to.

Speaking of his progenitor, he spied the chieftain mercilessly hacking the neck of his traitorous warg. Blood and Honour burned with the magics that Samuel had enchanted it. The irony was not lost on Arnmok that the axes Oringruud wielded were named after the very things that the chieftain had turned his back against the moment he betrayed Bhotanmar. Arnmok wrenched his helm from his head and let out a bellowing challenge.

The Blood Claw chieftain saw him and grinned savagely. Meeting his roar, Oringruud charged forward, his mighty feet carrying him across the plains until he was almost upon Arnmok. The Red Orc thrust his spear at the charging green-skinned orc but Oringruud carried with him years of experience in raiding settlements and war. He leapt easily into the air, dodging Arnmok's blow and bringing his axes overhead for a devastating blow. Arnmok expected the bold blow. If anything, he knew his dran'mok was a proud orc and one who would take the flashiest means to fell his enemy.

Arnmok immediately brought up his shield and lunged forward, catching Oringruud's shins against the solid metal. The chieftain's weight threatened to buckle Arnmok's knees but with an incredible show of strength, he used his foe's own momentum against him and hurled the chieftain over his shoulder. Oringruud crashed to the ground, rolling onto his side and scrambling to his feet.

“You have grown, goe'mok," sneered Oringruud, a flicker of pride in his golden eyes.

“Ya have no right ta call me that anymore!" barked Arnmok. “Ya abandoned us at Bhotanmar!"

“I abandoned you!?" Oringruud charged forward. The fire and ice of his axes clashed with Arnmok's shield. “It was you who turned your back on your chieftain! I gave an order and you disobeyed it!"

Arnmok lashed out with Blood Spear, aiming to drive Oringruud back but he was surprised when his burly opponent did not move and let the spear pass harmlessly through him. “Ah turned mah back onna traitor," he growled back. “Ya betrayed Bhotanmar, betrayed Amthos whom ya gave yer loyalty to!"

“Amthos is no orc!" roared the chieftain. His massive muscled bulged and he shoved Arnmok back with sheer strength alone. The Red Orc's feet ground against the grass beneath him. “He is a human child pretending to be an orc. He knows nothing of our culture, nothing of what it means to be an orc!" Oringruud spread his arms wide as if embracing the war and chaos around him. “We are warriors! We revel in war! This talk of unity, removing the barriers between tribes! It is not the orcish way!"

“Th' orcish way led ta th' orcs nearly dyin' out!" Arnmok roared and charged forward. Oringruud sidestepped his blow and swung his axes at Arnmok. The confident grin on the chieftain's face faded as Arnmok spun away from him, swinging Blood Spear wide. The magical weapon passed through Oringruud's arms and his axes, sending him off balance as he had expected Arnmok to block him with his shield. As he pitched forward, Arnmok's shield came colliding with his cheek as the Red Orc continued his spin, sending Oringruud crashing to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Arnmok straightened over the downed orc. “Yer people jus' fought an' fought. It ain't the Traid nor th' Alliance that nearly wiped ya off th' earth. It wus ya all throwin' yerselves at th' gates without thinkin'."

Oringruud spat, blood mixing with his saliva as he rose to his feet. “The ramblings of a human looking out into the orcish way. You understand nothing!"

The fury in the chieftain's eyes was clearly evident and as he charged, Oringruud wantonly threw the icy half of Blood and Honour at Arnmok. It was clearly a distraction move and Arnmok was ready for it. He immediately raised his tower shield to block the move and the moment he heard the axe bounce off the metal, he pulled the shield from his arm and thrust it forward. He barely got to see Oringruud collided with the tall slab of metal and trip over it.

Arnmok coolly strode forward and slammed a heavily armoured foot on Oringruud's arm, the one holding the last axe he had. The mighty chieftain howled in rage and anger as Blood Spear's effects start to really take hold.

“Yer th' one that doesn't understand th' orcish way," he growled. “Orcs are 'bout growin' stronger, challengin' ourselves an' bein' better than we were. We fought one another cuz that's what we thought would make us stronger. We conquered cuz it wus a sign of our power." He shook his head. “Ain't that way no more, Oringruud. We dun have ta kill ta be stronger. True strength…"

He swung Blood Spear towards the downed chieftain, the red tip levelled at the orc's left eye.

“… is keepin' life not takin' it."

******

The battle did not seem to be going very well. From the sounds of crashing and thunderous booms, Arben guessed that the orcs had already breached the castle walls and were battering the keep itself. It would not be long before they would storm through the halls and reach him here, in his workshop. The engineer sat quietly at his desk, unsure what would be coming through those doors but he knew he would have little time.

His calloused hand glided across the parchment hastily.

“… and I have always been proud of you boys," he whispered to himself softly. “No matter what choice you make or what shape you take, you will always be my sons. I only regret that I could not spend more time with you both. Come what may, I am proud to call you my sons…"

The doors suddenly sprang open and he quickly signed his last letter to his sons. His panic was for nothing however, as Qurron stormed through the doors. Oddly enough, the mage appeared somewhat calm despite all the chaos occurring around him. In fact, he never looked more in control and collected since the orcs were first sighted nearly a week ago.

“Qurron…" Arben announced, folded the parchment in two before sealing it inside a box. “I thought Orradin would have had you fighting at the front lines."

“He did. Then something happened." Qurron tossed a metal rod across the room. The control rod clattered to the floor and rested at Arben's feet. “Your golems did not work."

There, the master engineer smiled and lifted his gaze defiantly to the mage. “Come now, Qurron. Did you honestly think I would play a part in the murder of my own two sons? Love transcends all regardless of race, after all." Then his features turned sour. “And marital status, it seems."

The War Wizard's features grew hard. “You did not deserve her. The only reason she married you was due to one drunken night which spawned that thick-headed, pious knuckle-dragger that was your first born!"

“Is that your opinion or hers?"

“You never gave her the love she deserved!" roared the War Wizard. “You were always busy with your trinkets and inventions! Had you been a more attentive father and husband, she would never have died!"

Arben regarded the wooden box he had resting on his desk. With a wave of his hand, he cast a spell that sealed it from anyone save for his sons. “I gave my wife everything that I could. I gave her a second son because she so desperately wanted another even though it would cost her the very life that I cherished. She gave this world two beautiful sons." He lifted his gaze back to Qurron. “Sons that you would destroy because they reminded you of what you could not obtain."

Qurron sneered but then his features grew cold. “Where is the Vessel of Life?"

He gestured towards a nearby shelf where a clay jug rested. “You know that thing is a cursed item. Whatever its initial purpose, it has been corrupted and twisted by whatever Eranius did when he found it."

“I know." Qurron strode towards the jug and plucked it from the shelf. “He slaughtered his own men and corrupted the Vessel, imbuing with the will of the Triad. However, the Vessel can no longer create souls as it once did. No. Now all it can do is transfer the tormented souls of those that died in its presence and were sacrificed to it into something else. It is the only way I could provide you with those capsules that could power your defective golems."

“My golems are not defective," Arben countered with a smirk. “They are working as designed."

“As enormous paperweights?"

“Precisely."

Qurron huffed loudly and began shrugging off his robes revealing light, travelling gear beneath.

The gesture made Arben frown in confusing. “What are you doing?"

“If you think you are the only one who can weave plots and deceptions that you are sorely mistaken, Reinhardt." He turned with a dark smile towards the master engineer. “You see, Orradin made a very good point just before the battle, a point that I had already come to much earlier on. I cannot leave this battle." As if to emphasise his point, the earth shook with an explosion. “Orradin has revealed my deception to the world and all already know of how I manipulated your son and effectively began this war. Though it was never my intention, I created this Avatar."

“And should you decide to flee, it will be known throughout the kingdom because my son is merciful." Arben smiled. “Thomas always was a gentle soul."

“Exactly so. My name will be tainted and I will be painted as craven. However…" Qurron flashed the engineer a wicked smile. “You gave me quite a very interesting avenue to take. I asked you to stay despite Eranius' orders, remember?"

There, Arben laughed softly and nodded. “Ah… I see. So you would pin me as the traitor. You will kill me here and now, throw your clothing on the corpse and likely collapse this workshop. Perhaps wreath it in fire to make sure my corpse is beyond recognition. Your clothes would remain and others would think I were you. You likely wove some story for Orradin. Made it seem like you fought off the traitor that sabotaged his golems. When they find my corpse, it will be believed that you fought valiantly against a traitor that managed to escape while in reality, you are the cowardly rat that fled."

“Sharp as ever." Qurron bowed towards Arben menacingly. As he did so, balls of red flame sprang up around him, forming a seething halo behind his head. “I leave you to your fate, Reinhardt. Know you have caused me no end of heartache and while I would have enjoyed throttling the life out of your throat personally, I must make my leave. I have plans I must make and a new life to forge."

As the War Wizard turned to leave, Arben lifted his hand. “A moment, Qurron." A chilling smile crossed the engineer's lips as he pulled a lever right beside his desk. The doors to his workshop immediately slammed shut.

Qurron just laughed. “You think mere wood and stone can hold me?"

“Try casting a spell," challenged Arben. His rival's features slowly began to drop. “Magic dampeners. Something I learned from the dwarves. You will not cast within these walls. And speaking of these walls…"

He pulled another lever.

The ceiling began to shake and dust began to cascade from above them.

“What are you doing!?" Qurron bellowed, looking up at the ceiling in shock.

“You think I would be so foolish to just let you stride in here and do this?" Arben countered. “I had honestly hoped that Orradin would personally come here and accuse me of treachery so that I could kill him myself but this will have to do!" His features hardened. “I have rigged this entire workshop to collapse, Qurron. Within a few moments, the entire ceiling will fall upon us and we will both be buried under half of Hawkshollow! If I cannot be with my sons, at the very least I can rid them of one of their enemies!"

The War Wizard's eyes widened in terror and he spun to Arben. “You are mad! You would kill us both!"

A certain serenity came across Arben's lips. “I have lived a long life and sired two incredible sons. I am ready for the next one."

The mage let out a primal roar and Arben was surprised when he found the Wizard's staff pressed against his neck and himself pinned against his desk.

“You mad fool!" screeched Qurron. “I could take you out of here! Disable these wards and I will have you see your sons!"

“A deal with a demon if I ever heard one!" Arben was stronger than the fragile mage. With years working the forge and with machinery, his thick arms allowed him to haul the Wizard easily off him and toss the man across the room. “You spit venom with every word and I would sooner die than make a deal with you!"

Realising that his staff was useless, Qurron tossed it aside. His eyes settled on the forge, still hot with coals and fire. He seized a brand sitting amongst the coals even as the ceiling above them began to collapse. Huge blocks of rock crashed around them but the wild mage rushed forward, the brand in his hands alight with fire.

Arben reached behind his desk and seized the chair he had been sitting on. He swung at the mage but, despite his age, Qurron was fast. The Wizard ducked beneath the blow and slammed the brand against Arben's left arm. The pain caused the engineer to drop the chair. The moment of distraction saw his foe immediately slam him against his desk. Instincts took over and he seized Qurron's arm just in time to keep his eye from being poke out by the fiery brand. He could feel his skin sizzling with the sheer proximity of the hot steel.

“Something I noted about your actions, Arben," sneered Qurron. “Had there been a way to disable the dampeners, you would not have defended yourself. If you were so sure that I would die here, you would let me kill you. But judging by the fact that you stand defensively over this desk…"

Qurron nodded towards the lever.

“… I can disable the dampeners with just a flick of a switch!"

Arben scowled. “You will die here, mage!"

With all his strength, he twisted Qurron's wrist, a satisfying crack meeting his ears as the brand twisted in the air and pressed right up against Qurron's cheek. The mage howled and pulled back. Arben kicked him away. Panting, he turned towards the lever that the mage had been eyeing. He seized it, pushing it past its limits in an attempt to snap the wooden shaft.

A rough hand with nails like claws dug into his neck and another raked across his face, pulling him back. Through blood and sweat, he saw Qurron leap for the lever, the flesh on his cheek blackened with two crescent moons crossing one another ironically akin to the Greenskin Sympathiser brand.

“No!" Arben cried.

But Qurron pulled at the lever and the dampeners immediately powered down.

With a triumphant smile, Qurron threw the engineer one last look. Arben lunged at him. There was a flash of fire and steel. Pain exploded out of Arben's left hand as the brand slammed hard into his palms. Qurron dug it deep and with enough force to pierce flesh and bone and pin his hand against the wooden frame of the desk.

Arben collapsed in pain, barely conscious as Qurron stood over him with a smirk.

“Die in a tomb of your own making, Reinhardt."

Then, the mage was gone.

“Thomas… Luxaeus…" he whispered softly.

Arben shut his eyes. The walls around him began crumbling. The last of the lamps shattered, plunging him into utter darkness.

“I am so sorry…"

******

Orcs came pouring into the castle keep itself. The thick, wooden doors stood no chance against the supernatural might of the Avatar. Orradin positioned his men within the great hall where they would make their last stand. Gritting his teeth together, the Greenslayer held his massive sword in shaking hands. Drenched in sweat and blood, the hero found himself doing something he never thought he would ever do.

He prayed for a miracle.

No one answered save for the cries of his men as they charged to meet the orcs. Everything was a blur of green and red as he charged through the battle, swinging his blade as far as it would go and pushing himself, bathed in the blood of his enemies.

His heart pounded hard in his chest. Blood pumped through his veins and muscles screamed in exertion. It was just like the battles he had fought twenty years ago. But this was… different. It was… empty. There was no fear. No thrill. No… satisfaction every time he slew an orc.

One of the green-skinned beast charged at him from the left and he deftly ducked the wide blow. The floor was slick with blood and he easily slipped between the orc's legs while swinging his blade through the beast's calves. The beast toppled over and could not rise fast enough before he was springing to his feet and driving his blade through the back of the grunt's skull. He wrenched Greenslayer out from brain and bone and turned around, ready for more.

But the killing of the orc gave him no satisfaction. Years before, he remembered how he savoured every death that he dealt. Pride swelled in his chest. Satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment. But this… this…

It was pointless.

One of those warg-like beasts came charging at him, jaws snapping. Remembering just how infectious they were, Orradin threw himself backwards, resting prone on the ground but with his armoured legs lifted. The Wargen landed on his feet, claws scraping across his armour and rending right through it. Grimacing through the pain, Orradin launched the beast back into the crowd before leaping back upright.

Why was he not feeling accomplished? Could it be that he would only ever have that sense of elation when he was winning a battle? Was the futility of the battle actually weighing him down more than his armour.

Speaking of his armour, he felt his blood seeping through the bloody gashes across his chest plate. Now useless, he unlatched it and let it fall to the ground. The hero threw aside his gauntlets and pauldrons. With so many fighting around him, he needed the mobility more than he needed the armour.

Then he saw him.

Silhouetted against the light from beyond the great hall's doors, the Avatar stood amongst the chaos, red cape billowing behind him and no longer wearing his helmet. That massive mace of his sat by his side. Their gazes met.

Orradin felt a spark rise up in his chest. If he could kill the Avatar… if he could just chop off the head… then maybe it would all be worth it. Maybe he could feel that rush of joy once more as he killed an orc worthy of his name!

He let out a trumpeting bellow and charged, hefting Greenslayer over his shoulder as he leapt, swerved and threw himself at the Avatar. Amthos closed his eyes for the briefest of moments and seemed to let out a sigh. Orradin took his chance.

“Die orc scum!"

WHAM!

His eyes bulged. All the air from his lungs came rushing out of his chest as Grimight's mass collided with his exposed chest. The spikes that had been the carved orc features on the mace dug into his flesh, sending burning spikes of pain throughout his chest. Perhaps the Avatar was holding back or it was some fragment of Orradin's remaining divinity but he just collapsed to his knees instead of being hurled all the way across the hall.

Orradin gagged and gasped, blood spilling from between his lips.

“It is over, Orradin," Amthos said calmly. “Call off your men. End this bloodshed."

He grit his teeth together, staring defiantly at the orc. “I will never rest while an orc yet lives!" He bellowed and got to his feet. He lifted Greenslayer –

Then a strange sensation came jolting out of his hand. There was a sudden weakness in the limb and he gasped as his fingers slackened around the blade. He fell back to his knees, clutching his right wrist with his other hand and holding the limb in front of his face. Every finger and muscle felt so stiff as if it had turned to rock. The fingers curled agonisingly slowly, forming claws as they tensed uncontrollably.

“Wh – What…?" he grimaced.

The first fleck of green appeared on the tips of his fingers. There was a moment of confusion on his face as he watched that greenish tinge spread down his fingers, the digits growing bigger, thicker. Then he realised exactly what it meant.

“No… No!" He looked up defiantly at Amthos. “How!?"

“I coated Grimight with my seed for just this occasion," Amthos said calmly. “I could think of no more fitting ending to the Greenslayer."

Fear gripped Orradin's heart. He was going to be turned into an orc. All his life, he had fought and killed orcs and now… now he was going to become one!

“No!"

He rose to his feet defiantly but his infected arm chose that moment to bulge out and abruptly grow. His forearms surged outwards just as his hands grew to three times their size. Corded muscles and thick veins rushed all the way up his arm and spread the green taint all up to his shoulder. The sudden shift in weight sent him collapsing back to his knees. Instinctively, he seized the massive, emerald green limb as it ripped right through his tunic and remnants of his clothing. The moment his human hand touched the tough, almost leathery-flesh, it became infected.

Realising his error, Orradin immediately tore his hand away but only to watch it spasm and twitch as it too began to change. He roared in defiance, cementing his transformation as it spread across his chest and caused his lungs to expand.

The great slayer of orcs threw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as the green plague crossed his already muscled chest and sent his pectorals bursting out of his tunic. What little fat remained on his body bubbled away to give mass to his new height and size. Some vain hope remained in that his leg armour would preserve some part of his humanity. He could feel the orcish flesh and muscles growing beneath the golden steel, bending the metal and causing it to groan. He prayed for some relief and it came when his thighs surged clear out of his armour, sending slabs of metal flying. Feet and toes burst from his boots, revealing big, green soles.

Orradin suddenly opened his eyes and the bright, cornflower blue he had been born with were gone, replaced by the bright gold of an orc's. He roared as animalistic instincts took over and he seized he cock. The monster of a dick surged out a bush of thick, golden hairs, big, throbbing and green. As another roar left his throat, tusks emerged from his lips and his features were consumed by the emerald green of the rest of his body.

Cum came spraying out of his cock, splashing the Avatar who stood impassively in front of him. Orradin tried to stem the tide, tried to preserve what remained of his dignity and his humanity but every time he tried to stall the flood, his body defied him and sent another blast of hot seed blasting out of his tremendous member. He bellowed in defiance one last time and one last time, his cock unleashed a torrent of seed to put most orcs to shame.

And he just... surrendered.

There was no saving the Greenslayer anymore.

He was now an orc.

His mighty shoulder sagged, huge hands falling to his sides. Eyes fell upon his throbbing member, a testament to his lost humanity. The weight of his situation and crushed spirit pushed his head down. Tears fell from his eyes freely.

All around him, the defenders saw their champion fall in the most humiliating way. Morale was instantly broken. A few continued to fight valiant but even they saw the futility of their situation. Weapons fell from hands and signs of surrender were echoed across the great hall.

Amthos breathed a sigh of relief.

The battle was won.

It was over.

******

Qurron staggered down the road, grimacing at his injury.

“Damn that Arben," he cursed. “Suicidal fool…" He looked up at the shining sun and then behind him. Far to the north, Hawkshollow will have fallen. Though he suffered some injuries for it, he was at least glad that he had rid himself of two enemies. Orradin was likely dead at the Avatar's hands and now Arben was dead as well.

Better yet, he now held the Vessel of Life.

It would make for the perfect bargaining chip with Eranius. Offering it up to the Lord-Knight in exchange for refuge and likely an escort to Trispire would ensure his continued and comfortable survival. A few gold greasing the hands of some nobles and he could easily disappear into the crowd and ride this war to its end. Perhaps he could pawn himself off as a hedge wizard. The College would not be looking for him, not while the war continued to rage.

Leave Eranius and his war. Leave the north and its painful memories. It was time for a fresh start.

Set in his goals, Qurron lifted his head and began striding down the road.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

His heart froze.

Several orcs began rising out of the bushes flanking the roads.

“The Gods must be jesting…" he grimaced.

“And here we were expecting Eranius' reinforcements," Knaatl said, smiling broadly with his enchanted bow at the ready. “Instead, we find ourselves in the company of the treacherous mage." The dark-haired orc laughed brightly. “Ah, I do not know whether to thank you for inadvertently bringing us Amthos or to curse you for what you have done. Regardless…"

Qurron's eyes widened as the orc lifted his bow and the arrowhead began to seethe with venomous green energies.

“… you will be coming with us, Qurron."

They knew who he was. So they likely knew his story.

“You have me at a disadvantage, orc," scowled the mage.

“You may refer to me as Knaatl."

“Knaatl," repeated Qurron. “Good. Now I know what to write on your gravestone."

A blast of air suddenly erupted from him, kicking up the dust on the road and shrouding him. He felt something fly past his left flank, bringing a burning sensation but it was just a graze. Scowling, he swept his hands around him and immediately brushed aside the momentary smokescreen he had created.

The stunned orcs looked up to their doom.

Qurron swung his hand forward. Nimbus of red light launched from his hand and immediately collided with Knaatl. The orc was hurled back, his body crunching and bending forwards at an obscene angle. The other orcs around him immediately ducked for cover, a wise move.

Wincing, Qurron flung his free hand over his head, casting a spell over himself. He then rushed forward, faster than any man his age or species could ever run. His feet carried him several feet in half a second and zooming down the road, away from the ambush.

As he sped by, he caught the blank, dead stare of the orc he had just killed.

The confident orc with his bow lay on the ground, eyes still wide in shock. The bastard had died painlessly. More than any of his kind deserved but Qurron did not have the luxury to make sure every orc was killed excruciatingly painfully.

He needed to be elsewhere. Away from his war.

Away from orcs like this… this…

Knaatl. Whoever he was.

*******

A once proud chieftain and self-proclaimed warchief, now dragged through the muck and mire before the man that he both detested and respected. Oringruud was hurled into the dirt in front of Amthos. Beside the great Avatar of the Orcs stood the chieftain's 'son', Arnmok. There was a tinge of pride in Oringruud's heart that Arnmok had managed to best him in combat. There was no better way for an orc to fall than in battle. But that pride was corrupted by the bitterness of being taken prisoner. Arnmok should have finished him there and then. A pity that the Red Orc's spear could not pierce mortal flesh.

“Do what you will with me," sneered Oringruud, rising. Two firm hands from two orcs pushed him back to the ground, keeping him on his knees. “But make it quick. Hang my corpse from your highest tower or impale me on your banners for all to see but you will not see me beg for my life."

There was a flash of anger in the Avatar's eyes. “Twice now, Oringruud. Twice now you have caused the loss of life from your fellow orcs."

“Seems to me that there were more than orcs on the field this day," spat the chieftain. “Look at you. You call yourselves orcs? Where is the pride in your race? You dance with elves, you fuck dwarves and share mead with humans. Then there are these… these…"

“Wargen," rumbled the titanic warg-man beast standing beside the Avatar. “We are the Wargen."

“Dogs. All of you. Only made to be mounted by a true race."

Luxaeus lurched forward but Amthos quickly lifted an arm and blocked his path to the throat of the foul-mouthed chieftain. The Avatar knew that this was just the last venomous hisses of a viper that had been defanged and dried of his poison.

“You betrayed us at Bhotanmar and left us to the mercy of Grauhl. Then you turned your blade against us on the day that we opted to take Hawkshollow. For these crimes, by all rights and by the blood of those that you have killed, I should nail you to a wall and leave you to bleed and roast in the sun while the carrion peck at your withered and wasted body."

“Then do it, boy," growled Oringruud with a maniacal grin. “No death would be better for one such as I."

“No death, yes," answered Amthos grimly. “But there are worse things in life than death." He reached behind him, beneath his crimson cloak and retrieved a satchel. He tossed it to Oringruud's feet where it emitted a loud, metallic clatter. “I will give you the one thing you do not deserve and never had, Oringruud. Honour."

The Avatar began to back away, untying his coat and leaving it in Arnmok's hands. He gave Luxaeus his mace. A squire, an elf, quickly approached and gave him an ordinary, metal sword and a shield.

“What are you doing?" Oringruud demanded. The orcs restraining him pulled away. A crowd was gathering around them, forming a circle of bodies and a wall of flesh that was impassable. His eyes went to the satchel that lay before him. Unfolding it, he gazed upon Blood and Honour.

He realised what this was.

Once again, he was trapped by the machinations of those around him. Just like when Samuel had tricked him back at Greendawn. He could defend himself and perhaps live but what would it be for? He would not have the respect of the men around him. The dubious honour of killing the Avatar of the Orcs may yet be his to claim but for how long would he savour victory before he was mauled by the men of this circle? Hundreds, perhaps thousands of eyes were upon him. They were on the walls, perching themselves sup on crates or spying through magical discs hovering in the air.

They all wanted to see the fate of the Great Betrayer.

“What do I have to gain from this?" he sneered. “Just kill me and be done with it. I will not dance to your tune."

“So is this how you would wish to go?" countered Amthos. “On his knees and begging for death? That is not how an orc should die. That is not how any of us should die! We do not hunger for war but neither will we lie down and wait for death's cold embrace without fighting back! Pick up your weapons, Oringruud!"

“Just so you can have some show and pride in taking me to my grave?" growled the green-skinned chieftain. “I think not! I would rather die than serve your purposes any more!" He seized one blade of his magical axes and lifted it into the air. “Even it be by my own hand!"

The axe fell and for the briefest of moments, Oringruud felt a flash of pain. Then that pain intensified and he began to laugh. He lifted his bloodied stump of a hand, showing the crowd what he had done even as his life began pouring out of the wound.

“You will not have me, Avatar! I will forever stay defiant to you!"

Weakness began to overwhelm him and he slowly lowered his hand. His stance began to waver and the maniacal grin on his features began to fade… into a proud smile. As the corners of his vision began to darken, he found himself looking directly at Arnmok. The Red Orc's steely gaze made him proud.

“But let it not be said that I was bested this day by a true orc," he rumbled. “I will never agree with you. I will never again fight for you. But I respect you. Well done."

Oringruud lurched forward, slamming into the stones of Hawkshollow. Blood pooled around him as he breathed his last.

Amthos shook his head grimly before bowing his head in respect. “A true orc to the very last. A stubborn orc but an orc nevertheless." He lifted his head, lifting his voice to its trumpeting volume so that all orcs would hear him. “Let it be known that Oringruud of the Blood Claws fought for what he believed was the future of the orcs. His vision did not come to fruition and it conflicted with ours but he remained committed to it. Though his tactics were less than honourable, he still fought as a true orc would have.

“Let us honour him not as an enemy of Amthosruud…" He sighed softly. “… but as an orc who gave his life to better ours."

*******

There was an odd quiet all over Raonoak. Qurron had not expected a parade when he rode back in through the city's gates but at the same time, he had expected more hustle and bustle. Instead, the streets were frighteningly quiet. Triad Knights were everywhere. Every street corner had one of the Knights standing there, stoic and unmoving. In front of each door, a Knight stood guard. The city was not entirely devoid of life, though. The markets were still filled with people but they were all hunched, hiding their faces and with the Knights standing guard over them, protecting them. A sense of menace hung over the entire city. Something was definitely wrong.

Qurron rode up the side of the mountain that Roanoak castle was perched against, passing the guard houses. None of the human loyalists who stood guard gave him more than a glance as he crossed the massive bridge from the mountain to the castle itself. He grimaced as the jostling of the horse had had commandeered from a farmer shifted beneath him, aggravating the painful wound inflicted on his flank. He glanced at the injury for the briefest of moments, wincing as he saw the blackened flesh beneath. Whatever that orc – what was his name again… Knaatl? – had hit him with had infested him with some sort of venom. It was eating away at his flesh and strength. Thanks to some quick arcane magics on his side, the spread had been stalled but not permanently stopped. He would need to go to his quarters and discern a cure before he left these lands permanently.

For the moment, though, he had to secure his passage to freedom.

A stableboy took his horse and when asked, he was told that Eranius was in the audience chamber. Likely holding court, Qurron thought. Without his staff, he could only stagger forward and try to ignore the pain from not only the wound to his flank but the burning brand that Arben had given him. Something else he would have to fix before he headed out lest someone mistake the wound as one of the Greenskin Sympathiser brands.

Though it would have been customary to go to his quarters first and clean up, he was in a hurry to depart from these lands. If Eranius grew flighty, he would likely call upon his 'dear old friend' to fight by his side and Qurron had no intention of fighting against the overwhelming orcish forces. He doubted that even the forces of some new heroes could oppose the Amthosians. Especially with those warg-like creatures.

He made his way to the audience chamber and the Triad Knights there opened the enormous, wooden doors for him. To his surprise, the hall was completely empty save for Eranius himself. The Lord-Knight of Raonoak sat on his throne, perched on a dais at the end of the hall. An eerie purple glow emanated from all the lamps and torches in the hall, each one burning with a lavender flame. More emblems of the Holy Triad hung around the chamber than he had ever seen before. Eranius never was what one would consider zealous or fanatical so this was an abrupt change.

Steeling himself, Qurron strode down the hall to where Eranius watched him approach. As he drew closer, he noticed the odd purple light emanating from the Lord-Knights eyes. That gave him pause. He had only seen such a glow once before in the eyes of the Grand Chaplain and the reasoning given behind it was that the Chaplain had been touched by the Triad.

Had Eranius truly been blessed by the Gods of the Alliance?

“Milord…" Qurron began.

“No need for formalities, Qurron." Eranius spoke with a strange twang to his voice. It was like three over voices spoke alongside his own. One whispered his words in unison and seemed to leave a lingering hiss at the end of each syllable. Another shouted, roaring and nearly overwhelming Eranius' own voice. The third wasn't so much as a voice but like a scraping claw against Qurron's mind like a dagger carving the words into his very soul. When Eranius smiled, Qurron felt his heart freeze. “We are friends here."

“O – o – of course, Eranius."

The Lord-Knight frowned at him. “Do you fear me, Qurron?"

He was unsure how to answer that. “You are a noble, strong and wise leader…"

“You have not answered the question." Eranius rose menacingly from his seat. “Do you fear me, Qurron?"

The War Wizard swallowed hard and instantly fell to his knees. “I fear any man who wears that crown but I respect you which is something I would not grant to just any Lord-Knight."

That seemed to placate the ruler of Raonaok. “Well said." Eranius sat back down on his throne again. “What news do you bring?"

Glad to have the awkwardness pushed aside, Qurron said, “Hawkshollow has fallen and so has Orradin. I know not his face but it is likely he was killed in the battlefield of glory like he had always hoped or he has been turned into that which he reviles the most. Worse yet, your dear friend, Arben Reinhardt, has been killed as well. Though he was ordered to leave and report to you directly after he finished with his golems, he decided to stay. He bid me to bring you the Vessel of Life, however, to which I dutifully offer to you."

Eranius was silent for a moment… then he scoffed. “Your lies are well crafted, Qurron. Had I not known better, I would have believed them."

The War Wizard froze where he knelt.

“The Holy Triad have given me sight beyond mortal comprehension, mage_. I saw your betrayal of Arben. I saw your manipulation of Orradin and the men of Hawkshollow. I_ know of your desire to barter the Vessel for your freedom."

A myriad of thoughts began swimming through Qurron's mind. In the flurry, he conceived of ways to escape. A quick teleportation spell would likely see him to safety but for how long? Eranius likely had the rest of the mages of Raonoak at his beck and call. They would hunt him down to the ends of the earth. Unless he had something Eranius wanted desperately. His eyes fell on the Vessel of Life which he clutched in both hands.

Eranius' laughter chilled him. “And now you think you could escape by holding the Vessel hostage. I think not. I no longer need it. From the infinite knowledge of the Holy Triad, I have learned all I need to finish the Orkiller!" He spread his arms wide, lifting his eyes to the sky in praise to the gods. “That is little more than an empty relic from an age past and from worms who would call them gods but who played with forces beyond their ken!"

Qurron began mentally preparing himself for the spell he needed to escape.

“But you have served me well regardless."

That gave him pause and he watched Eranius turned back towards him, a smile on his face.

“You have eliminated the traitor Arben who would sacrifice all and betray his gods for his own disloyal sons. You have sealed the doom of Orradin Greenslayer, a worthless mongrel pining for days of glory long past and remnant of the Old Gods. For this, I will grant you your freedom."

Stunned by the announcement, Qurron searched the Lord-Knight's features for any deception. There was only that odd glow in his eyes and a benevolent smile. Shakily, he rose to his feet, regarding the Vessel in his hand before turning back to Eranius.

“Thank… you…"

Eranius lifted his head, looking down upon Qurron. “Your motives were pure in a sense. You took the warning from the Holy Triad and though you took it upon your own hands to preserve your own dignity and led to the creation of the current Orc Avatar, we realise that the Old gods would have attempted to create an Avatar regardless. You are not entirely at fault even though your rivalry with Arben may have led to some unfortunate circumstances. You were nonetheless a loyal servant of the Holy Triad."

The Lord-Knight gave him an absent flick of his wrists. “Go then. You have your freedom."

Qurron was unsure what to say. He could only bow in respect and fear before turning around to leave. Perhaps luck was on his side. No. Not luck. The Triad was smiling down upon him. Whether that was a blessing or a curse was yet to be seen.

He was already going through the plans he would make to escape when –

Smash!

The Vessel in his hands abruptly shattered. He looked down in surprise. There was a big, blackish-purple tentacle that had struck the brown, clay vessel. A tentacle that was springing out of his gut! The pain came like a wave of fire and he gagged, his torn diaphragm pressing up against the intruding tendril.

“I gave you freedom," Eranius boomed ominously. Qurron was dragged across the audience chamber and lifted into the air until he was face to face with the Lord-Knight. The invading tentacle was springing from Eranius' arm! A wicked grin crossed the once noble ruler's features, his lips spilling further back from his face than was humanly possible. Strange, black, tentacles began springing from his flesh, each one ending in child-like hands that seized Qurron's flesh, sending chills through the War Wizard's body.

“Now you shall have it. Freedom from this life. And a new one in servitude of us."

Qurron screamed but it was a cry that had been heard from the castle every night since the Lord-Knight had returned from the north. The citizens of Raonoak just quickly shut themselves back into their homes, quietly praying that they would not be called to the castle to meet whatever fate led to the horrific cries that came from its dark towers.

All through it all, the Triad Knights stood stoically.

******

There was a bitter irony in the fate of Orradin Greenslayer.

Shackled and bound, the once great hero of the Holy Alliance found himself confined to the very dungeons of Hawkshollow. Worse yet, his flesh was now leathery and green. Two bulbous tusks jutted out of his lower jaw and he bore an unnaturally large dick that swung between his thick, muscled legs. Worse yet, strange urges constantly invaded his mind and every few minutes, his eyes would wander to the muscled backs of the orcs that stood guard at his cell. Blood rushed to his cock and before he knew it, he was bearing a fully erect member that rose up to his chin, taunting him with its sensitive, uncut head and begging him for release. The guards would laugh at his plight and drew some sick pleasure in his deprived state. They would even sometimes fondle each other and engage and some lewd teasing to get a rise out of Orradin.

Sad to say, the newly made orc's body could do nothing but entertain them.

He hated this body. He hated what he had become.

An orc… the very thing that he had sworn to destroy and which he had devoted his life to killing. Perhaps it was wise on the Avatar's side to restrain him lest he take his own life. No doubt the orcs would want to parade him across all of Tirinead to prove to the world that even the great heroes of the Alliance were not immune to their infectious seed.

The guards abruptly snapped to attention, their armour clanking as they slammed their fists against their chests. Orradin rolled his eyes. Perhaps that bald orc with the sceptre would once again bring some dignitary to prove that it was Orradin behind these bars. Or perhaps it was the shaman. The one with the magical staff, the one who claimed to once have been Ruven.

No.

It was the Avatar himself.

“Please give us some privacy," Amthos said to the guards.

The men saluted and headed off. Amthos pulled open the door and stepped into the cell, standing in front of the blonde-haired orc. Orradin growled at him as the Avatar appraised his handiwork. Orradin refused to let himself be embarrassed as the red-haired orc took in his thick, muscled calves covered in a light dusting of blonde hair, his large thighs that tapered to a shapely waist which sprouted dense, curly blonde hairs around his crotch. Those very same hairs formed a spike of gold upwards through the valleys of his abdominal muscles and then spread out to frame his juicy, muscled pectorals. The hair on his chest spread to his flanks to almost meet the hair from his armpits. His arms strained from being suspended against the wall for so long causing thick veins to bulge across his green skin and every muscle to strain. Like Amthos, his hair was cut short in the front but rolled down the back of his head and halfway down his spine like a mane.

“Come to gloat?" sneered the blonde orc.

Amthos tilted his head to the side slightly. “It crossed my mind, yes, but I decided that were our roles reversed you would likely gloat and I am making an effort to not be like you."

“How noble of you."

“Do not scoff. You and I are very much alike."

Orradin laughed bitterly. “I suppose you could say that now given what you have done to me. Apart from our hair colour, we could be brothers."

“I mean in more ways that appearance, Orradin," said Amthos gravely. “You and I were both touched by the gods. The same gods, in fact. We were both charged with changing the world but where you were sent to kill orcs, I was sent to save them. Moreover, you and I were both without a purpose."

“I have my purpose!" he barked. “Or at least I did until you took it away from me."

Amthos gave him a short, sarcastic laugh. “You honestly believe that killing orcs was your only purpose? No. I believe there is more to you than that. Though you cannot see it."

Orradin turned his gaze away, spitting to the side. “It matters not. I am now an orc. I am the very thing that I detest. You have taken everything away from me."

The Avatar drew closer. “Why do you hate orcs so much? Was it because of your trainer? The one who treated you so poorly?"

“It was not only him!" Orradin roared. “You are savages! You are brutish, foul beasts who take, conquer and rape! You turned me with your own seed! You employ monsters like those… those…"

“Wargen."

“Yes! Them! You are a plague against humanity and civilisation!"

“I see." Amthos glanced away briefly before turning back to Orradin with a smile. “So the way the Alliance treats dissidents is not barbaric? The way those who have a slightly different opinion are branded and then cast out is not appalling? The way the Alliance treats other races like second-hand citizens or slaves is justified?"

“Yes!"

“Why? Because they are not human?"

“Yes!"

“Then what of the dwarves and elves? Will humanity, the 'perfect race' eventually kill them too? Are the non-human races amongst the Alliance going to be turned into enemies and wiped out in your mad lust for conquest until only humans remain on Tirinead? What then?" Before Orradin continued, Amthos continued. “Will humanity splinter into kingdoms and war amongst one another? Will they still remain united under the Triad? Or will you just devolve into tribes and slaughter each other until no one is left."

“That is not what will happen and you know it!"

Amthos nodded in agreement. “I know because I will not let it. I and the other Avatars. We celebrate our differences, Orradin, we do not divine because of them. You look at me and see a greenskin. I look upon you and look past the colour of your flesh and see the broken but spirited man who fought a war and lived through great trials and tribulations only to find himself without a place in the future he has created." He shook his head gravely. “There is not always a 'next battle', Orradin. One day, you will have to set down your blade and say 'I've killed enough'."

“So long as there are orcs living, I will never stop killing!"

“Even if you were the last orc alive?" asked Amthos coolly.

For a moment, Orradin pondered that conundrum but reaffirmed his convictions at the next moment. “Only until the last of your kind is dead will I willingly take my own life to rid Tirinead of your taint! Even it takes me countless centuries, I will defy death until no orcs breathes even if I have to be the last to taint the air with my foul breath."

Strangely, the threat only made the Avatar laugh. “You remind me of Grauhl."

“Who?"

“The First Orc. The… prototype of the orcs. It was by his hand that orcs became the green-skinned men you know now and his hatred for the gods that made him and put him on this path extended through the ages. He would lure people to the far north where Bhotanmar now stands and attack any who occupied the city, adding them to his undead army that was fuelled by his rage alone." He lifted his gaze to meet Orradin's. “Is that all you are, Orradin? Hatred? Anger? Nothing more?"

“I need not be anything else," scowled the hero.

“I do not believe that." Amthos straightened and reached up towards Orradin. The hero turned his gaze away with a sneer, unwilling to let even a single inch of him be touched by the Avatar. To his surprise, he heard metal bending and his right arm was suddenly freed. The relief that washed up his limb was like ambrosia. Amthos crushed the chains in his hand for the hero's other arm and Orradin dropped to the floor.

“What are you doing?" he demanded.

Amthos moved behind him and wrenched the chains pinning Orradin to the ground. “You were born into this world a hero. You had no choice in the matter. One could blame every choice you made since then on that one fact. But now, you are reborn an orc."

“Through no choice of my own," he snarled.

“Perhaps. Take this as a new beginning for you. You could do as you have threatened and seek to kill every orc that you come across and hunt down those that exist on Tirinead. Or perhaps you could make amends and join the rest of our nation." Orradin scoffed at that but Amthos ignored it and pulled the last bonds that kept him pinned to the ground. “Or you could always seek a cure to your condition. I am sure some mages could change your form somewhere. You might even entreat the Triad should you desire. But know this…"

Amthos moved back into Orradin's vision. “The choices you make from this point on are your own. No one else's. You cannot blame the Old Gods, the Triad or even me for what has happened and what will happen. This is your fresh start. For the first time in your life, your destiny is in your hands." Amthos took a step to the side revealing the open jail cell door. “I have left some clothes and a sword on the table outside these cells. You best hide your hair. There are no other blonde orcs in existence and word of your appearance has already spread amongst us. I have asked a friend of mine to also open a path for you to leave past the walls."

Orradin shuffled to his feet, glaring at the Avatar and searching for some ulterior motive in the red-haired orc's features. But he could find none. Amthos' features were unreadable and stoic. “You realise you could very well be letting loose the greatest threat to your reign. I could come back with an army of my own. Maybe even fanatical orcs that would die for me and we could crush you and your nation. I could be the greatest weapon of the Alliance against you! They could study my seed and find a cure!"

“And that will be a consequence of my choice. That I accept."

There was a sudden rush of footsteps and Amthos turned as an orc in a billowing robe came rushing down. For a moment, Orradin's eyes met with the orc's and he thought he recognised the greenskin. Perhaps… Ruven? He was unsure how he knew.

“Avatar," said Neruv hastily and out of breath. “I have… news.."

Suddenly, Amthos' cool composure fell. “Good… or bad?"

Some other day, Orradin would have enjoyed watching the orc that had been the bane of his life for the last year twist in the wind but with freedom on the line, he decided to cooperate… for the moment and remained silent.

“Bad…" Neruv whispered softly. “It is about Knaatl…"

“What of him?" Amthos asked, his voice rising with worry.

“He's… He's dead."

The air in the cell seemed to immediately run cold and the colour on the Avatar's face drained away. His eyes went wide and his jaw began to slip open in shock. Again, some other day, Orradin would have enjoyed the seeing his enemy in pain but he had to think of escape.

“Knaatl…? How…?"

“The rest of the Nightusks reported that they encountered a mage fleeing from Hawkshollow. He blasted everyone away with his arcane spells and Knaatl's neck was snapped during the conflict."

Orradin could not help himself. “A mage? Was he tall, about as tall as I am… was…?" He had to remind himself he was no longer human. “Wispy hair? White. Pale looking with deep, black eyes?"

“Qurron," sneered Amthos. “It was Qurron…"

Neruv nodded slowly. “That fits the description the Nightusks gave us."

“That bastard!" Orradin growled, rising to his feet. “He was meant to be checking on Arben! Instead he flees and…" A realisation suddenly dawned on him.

Qurron had known Arben was staying in the castle.

Qurron had been the one to check on the mechanic.

Qurron had was the one caught down the road.

“He played me!" Orradin roared, rattling the walls. “He must've been the one to trick Arben into staying in the castle! He must've sabotaged the golems! All to make some excuse to flee!"

Amthos turned to him, worry in his eyes. “Arben…? My father was here?"

There was another opportunity to shoot piercing arrows into the Avatar's heart but his best chances of survival and escape was to cooperate. “Yes. Eranius had him build the golems for us. I had asked him to leave for Raonoak but apparently, Qurron had tricked him into staying. Or perhaps he had stayed of his own volition. It matters now. I had sent Qurron to check on him but then the castle collapsed. I assumed that was your doing?" He asked the last at the shaman.

Neruv shook his head. “No. We did not cast any spells to collapse the castle. Not when there were so many of us inside."

“Then it must've been Qurron," Orradin spat. “He collapsed the castle, burying the workshop and no doubt Arben all in a ploy to make us believe he died."

A soft smile crossed Amthos' lips. He did not seem to be listening to Orradin's conspiracies. “My father… He loved us." Then he caught Neruv's fallen features. “What troubles you, Neruv?"

“Neruv…?" Orradin asked, regarding the shaman curiously. “You bear a resemblance to this would-be-wizard I knew. Ruven."

The shaman gave him a gentle smile. “It is I, Orradin. The man you tricked into confirming orc involvement at Vramsheit and then turned on. As part of our ordination into an orc, we change our names."

“Into anagrams of your former names. Creative." Orradin shook his head and looked back to Amthos, remaining on his knees as a sign of submission. “Should you hurry, you might still recover your father."

Neruv nodded grimly. “It has been two days since we conquered Hawkshollow. The most we can do is recover his body…"

Amthos' eyes squeezed shut, tears running down his cheek. Orradin took some small comfort in seeing the Avatar's crestfallen features. But at the same time, he could not help but reflect at Amthos' words. Where they had their similarities, they also had their differences. Where Orradin cried in joy when his 'father' died by his own hands, Amthos genuinely wept for his.

He could not help but wonder if he would have grown to be a different man had circumstances been different.

“I would like to see him," Amthos murmured softly. “I will join you. Let us clear the rubble. Do not tell Luxaeus. Not yet. We must… Let us prepare the body first." He lifted his gaze, holding a hand to his chest. “And Knaatl… oh Knaatl… I… He…" Amthos sobbed softly.

Orradin couldn't believe that this was the leader that had defeated him. A crying child!

Then the Avatar turned to him. “You still have your freedom, Greenslayer. I suggest you take it."

Stunned, Orradin could only watch as Amthos hurriedly left the cells and rushed out of the jail, leaving him to his devices and to his newfound freedom. The great hero of the War of Apotheosis just could not fathom why this great leader of men and orcs, someone who was clearly knowledgeable in manipulating the populace, charismatic, an passable tactician and courageous to the point of stupidity would allow him to be free. Had he been in the Avatar's position, he would have strung up Orradin as a sign of vengeance against those that had killed not only his father but also someone whom he obviously cared for deeply.

“The heart is a weak muscle," scoffed the hero-turned-orc.

Deciding not to abuse his blessings, Orradin quickly hurried out of his cell and out of the jail. He found the clothes that Amthos had offered him sitting on a table in the room beyond. The guards were absent which gave Orradin time to quickly don the white tunic and the roughly spun cloth trousers. He grimaced at their size and first thought that they were too big to fit. However, they wrapped rather snuggly around his immense frame and had to remind himself he was not many times bigger than when he was a human. The cloth was also a little abrasive against the thick, blonde hairs on his chest and he made a note that the first opportunity he got, he would shave it clean off. He never had that as a human and he was not going to keep it. There was a cloak with a hood that he could wear to hide hair starkly brilliant hair which he quickly flung on. A pair of leather sandals had been left for him. They were no riding boots and were not made for marching but they would be enough to carry to the next town. The sword Amthos had promised was there as well. Foolish of the human-turned orc to give him a weapon.

Already making plans of escape and some means of transforming back into the human he was, Orradin hurried out of the dungeon and found himself back in the warzone that had once been Hawkshollow. It seemed that the orcs were already starting to tear down the ancient fortress and rebuilding it into something new. He only hoped that the curse on this land would befall them too.

Though he was loathed to trust Amthos, he remembered the Avatar's words well. Only one of two options remained ahead of him. Either Amthos was true to his word and the Avatar was truly as trusting and gullible as he seemed or the Avatar was setting a trap for him. Either way, Orradin figured he could not lose from such a situation. He could either prove Amthos was a liar and not as perfect as he seemed or escape and plot his revenge. Oddly enough, proving the Avatar was not infallible seemed far more appealing than any other route.

He made his way through the crowds, keeping his head down. To his surprise, he saw orc children and wondered if somehow the males had found some means to produce offspring. He shook his head at the disgusting thought. He did notice that there were females of other races amongst the camp as well. Definitely no female orcs but he saw female Wargen as well. He wondered what kind of monster would allow for children to accompany an army but then realised that the orcs were likely still 'liberating' other villages and sending them to Hawkshollow. This fortress had been a central hub before the War after all.

It took some time to reach the passage that Amthos had indicated but as the Avatar had promised, there was a small hole in the wall there with a bridge seemingly naturally made to cross the moat of spikes that the shamans had created. He glanced over his shoulder, waiting for some orcs to come riding on their feral wolf-like beasts to arrest him. An entire hour passed before he realised no one was coming.

At least not yet.

“You truly are a fool, Amthos," he sneered. “Little more than a child. Just you wait. I shall return one day and you will regret this act of mercy."

He bounded across the bridge but stopped about halfway through. A thought had occurred to him. Perhaps the alarm to the orcs was only triggered once he fully crossed the bridge. It would be incredibly clever of the Avatar to claim that Orradin had managed to make his way out only to stumble upon an orc 'patrol' even if that patrol was only dispatched the moment some spell triggered the moment Orradin completely left the walled city. He could recapture Orradin, perhaps break a little bit of the hero's spirit and boast about the Greenslayer's incompetence.

“A valiant effort," sneered the blonde orc. “But you shall not seize me."

He stormed fully across the bridge and then sat himself down on the other side, mighty legs crossed and just waiting.

An hour passed.

And then two.

When dawn finally came, Orradin was left cold, with dew gathering around his cloak and wondering where that orc patrol was. Why hadn't someone come to arrest him? Had Amthos truly just let him go?

“This makes no sense!" he sneered, rising to his feet. “What game are you playing?"

Naturally, no response came.

“Fine! I warned you that upon my release I would be the bane of your existence! Well so be it! From this day forth, you are my nemesis! My entire purpose is life is to break you and leave you grovelling at my feet!"

He turned with a huff and lifted a foot…

… but just found that he could not leave.

The questions swirling about his head were just too powerful. He needed answers.

With a roar, he turned around and stormed back across the bridge. The wind whipped up and blew back his hood, revealing his blonde mane. Orcs and Amthosians alike turned to see him and immediately started to raise a panic but he did not care. He stormed all the way up to the castle, shoving past guards who tried to stop him. They didn't seem to be trying very hard but when he reached the King's Solar in Hawkshollow, he barged right through the big wooden doors and began shouting.

“Why have you not sent someone to stop me!?"

Amthos was seated behind the desk that Eranius once occupied and around him were several other orcs. Of them was that big, white Wargen that that led those feral beasts into battle.

“What is he doing out of his cell?" growled the warg-like creature.

“I let him go free," answered Amthos. His features were grim, his red hair ragged and eyes bloodshot. Clearly he had not slept very well over the night. “I will explain later. Could you all just give me some time alone with him?"

The orcs grumbled and shuffled off, throwing Orradin baleful looks before shutting the door behind him.

“Explain," snarled the former-hero. “I have seen mercy before. I was raised in the gladiatorial ring. I know when mercy should be granted. But this… this is just foolishness! Why would you set me, your greatest foe, free?"

Amthos leaned back in his chair, hands on his lap. “I have seen enough bloodshed in my young life, Orradin. Too much sorrow already. My dearest friend has just died. We will hold a sermon for him this evening. I do not know if anyone will mourn your passing but I will not inflict this pain upon them." He gently beat his chest with one hand.

“You are soft!" Orradin snarled. “A leader of men must he tough! Soldiers will die! It is a risk! You cannot let that burden you!"

The Avatar suddenly bolted to his feet and slammed his fists into the table. There was a resounding crack and the ancient, wooden desk shattered in half. “They may die but that does not mean I will leave them in the dirt for the crows and carrion!" Amthos swung a hand over his shoulder. “Those men had lives. Families, children, friends. Now they will never see them again and the world is poorer from having lost such a soul! A casualty of war is no less important because men with differing ideals were clashing blades and butting heads!"

“If you continue to lead this way, your enemies will exploit your bleeding soul!" snarled the hero.

“Why would you care? You have your freedom. I have given you a second chance. Something those that are dead will never have."

“You said that before. That makes no sense! I could kill you! I could undo everything you have done! You will be another casualty that you would mourn."

“And who would mourn you when you passed, Orradin," snarled the Avatar. “Look outside. I can tell you now this castle will drown in the tears of those that would mourn my passing even though I would rather they turn to another. But when you breathe your last, who will shed a tear? Who will cry for you Orradin?"

The hero opened his mouth to counter… but found himself choking. There was no answer for that because no one would cry over his corpse. He did not even have a pet who would weep for him. At most, he would be a footnote in the annals of history. Doubtless most would just pass over his name in the years to come.

“You could certainly try and rise against me," Amthos said, recovering his composure. “I would always try to stop you. But whatever you may think, this is no trick. You have your freedom. Do with it as you will."

Orradin's hands curled into fists and he shook here he stood. He would not accept this. Certainly this was what the Avatar wanted. To have him raise an army against him. Perhaps it was some great con. A long ploy to make him either raise an army of orcs or rebels only for him to reveal at the very end that he had shown their leader mercy. Perhaps then the forces Orradin raised would turncoat and join the Amthosian.

Yes, that would be a clever ploy indeed.

But he would not be fooled by it. He would not fall in line to the Avatar. He would make sure he was remembered and that when he passed, rivers of tears would flood the world!

“Well I refuse your 'mercy'," he snapped.

“If you think I will snap chains on you again, you best think again," Amthos said calmly. “I would not want you anywhere near me especially given this exchange."

And that was where he found the Avatar's weakness.

A devious grin crossed his features, one that even made Amthos' smug smile fade. “Then consider me your shadow."

“Pardon?" asked the Avatar.

“I will be your servant. Your page. Your squire as you were to Eranius. I will be by your side and fetch you wine or your food. I will wash your feet after every day's march. You will have no choice. I am binding myself to your service. You will not have my loyalty but you will have my body. Should you wish to stick your foul green cock in my ass and use me as your plaything, you will have it." He slammed his hands on the broken desk, grinning toothily as he leaned over to the Avatar. “But know this. Even if I scream in pain, I will win for you will prove once and for all that you are the bestial orcs that you truly are."

Amthos lifted one of his red eyebrows, utterly puzzled. “I am quite unsure how to react to this…"

“As you should. Because I will say it plain and simple now. I will learn all I can of you. I will learn your strengths, your weaknesses. And one day, make no mistake, I will turn it on you and have you prone on your back and begging."

For a moment, there was a look of calculation on Amthos' features.

“You twist my words and use them against me. Clever. I suppose it would be better to have you by my side where I can watch you than elsewhere. Fine. Have it your way. But I will not be kind."

“Nor will I."

Amthos appraised the orc before him. “Fine. Let us get you new clothing. That which I gave you was meant for travel not the squire of the Avatar. Then we make preparations for the funeral. Be prepared to run around. A lot."

*******

For so long, Hawkshollow had stood as a cursed place. From the very first time when the orcs had pushed the Mad King Hawk from its borders to all the lords and ladies who had taken up residence within it, the city and castle had been a blackened reminder that any who entered it would suffer a terrible fate. Perhaps it was fitting, then, that the ancient stones and burned, nearly petrified wooden skeletons of the town served as the funeral pyre for those that died in the battle.

The entire city. No inch of it left untouched. Bodies lay wrapped in fine silken wraps, dipped in fragrant oils so that they would burn quicker. The streets, houses, courtyards and halls of the entire city were lined with the bodies. Canals of oil and wood were arranged across the roads. Bouquets, letters on parchment to the deceased and treasured belongings flowed on the rivers of dark oil.

Amthosians encircled the city from the city's walls holding torches.

Amthos stood at their forefront. Giant discs of light portrayed his image and voice across to all those spread across the city. His heart was heavy and it took all his strength to remain standing. However, he managed to lift his head and turn to the crowd.

“We all have someone who died in this city," he said. He caught sight of Orradin who was cleaning his ears mockingly. Taking the signal, he lifted his voice louder. “Be they a friend, a brother, a sister, a mother, a father, a comrade in arms or even just the mere memory of what has happened this day, there is some part of us that dead in this city.

“Long ago, the orcs descended from their homeland and destroyed Hawkshollow, driving the humans from it. They tried to ravage the castle but left it a skeleton of its former self. Over the years, others have come into possession of Hawkshollow but misfortune has always befallen them. Perhaps it was some curse upon the place. Only when the orcs fully destroy the city will this land once again be free of the memory that has held it for so long and it can finally move on.

“Let us not be like Hawkshollow. Let us not remember those that have died for what they did not see or that which they will never experience. Let us instead remember them for their greatness. Whether they were defending or attacking, it matters not. They stood for their beliefs. They died for them. Let their names not by synonymous with defeat or death. Let their deeds not go forgotten and their lives remembered only because they died in this place. Let us remember them for who they were!"

He turned around, lifting his torch into the air. “A trusted friend…"

Neruv then stepped up beside him, lifting his own torch into the air. “An inspiring leader…"

Ramdrud lifted his torch and came to stand on his other side. “A beacon of hope…"

Even Luxaeus came to stride forward with his own torch. “An unrivalled warrior…"

Lastly, Arnmok came up. “A lover…"

Then, as one, they set down their torches. The flames immediately caught on the river of oil and rushed towards the city. A blast of flame spread immediately through the city like a fiery road suddenly igniting. As it spread, it branched off into specifically created canals and alleys, spreading in all the directions. Kindling that had been set up beside the channels immediately caught fire, immediately spreading the flame. All around them, others approached the city-wide funeral pyre, setting down or throwing their torches to the chorus of their wails and cries of sorrow.

The flames spread, sweeping all throughout the city. Amthos knew that it would soon reach the castle itself and sure enough, the entire moat which had been filled with oil and flammable material caught alight in a giant burst of flame. The eerie, black monoliths that had contained the golems were like dark mirrors in the burning city, reflecting the flames around them. He kept his eyes on the castle itself for it was within there that he had interred Knaatl.

“Rest in peace, my friend," he mourned softly. “And thank you."

Neruv suddenly tugged his arm, leaning towards him in a whisper. “The castle isn't catching on fire…"

He heard a snort behind him and Orradin stepped forward dressed in a new white and green tunic as his page. The hero-orc had opted to wear a pair of trousers that cut off at his thighs and a pair of leather sandals. Apparently, full length trousers hindered his movement as Amthos had him running around arranging the funeral.

“Hawkshollow has stood the test of time and countless invasions," said Orradin with a sickening smirk. “What makes you think your elaborate campfire will turn it to ash?"

Amthos refused to take the bait and just turned back to the flames.

His eyes immediately widened.

Standing amongst the raging fire, just barely visible, was a familiar figure. A being dressed in white and gold armour with a cloak of the stars fluttering behind him. A pair of blue eyes with pupils shaped like eight-pointed stars were the only thing visible beneath his helm.

Before he could say anything, the figure's wings suddenly unfurled, spreading wide as a pair of enormous, skeletal wings made entirely out of chains.

The flames immediately rushed upwards in an enormous burst, a triumphant whoosh forcing all the onlookers back. The castle immediately became a beacon of flame, a single point of fiery red light that shone and illuminated the area around Hawkshollow like a miniature sun.

Orradin's jaw dropped in shock. “What just happened? How…?"

Amthos glanced to his left and right. Confused glances were exchanged. None has seen the No One standing there… or the one standing beside him… An orc with flowing black hair and a laugh that could shake the entire earth.

In fact… he was fairly sure he could hear Knaatl's laugh in his distant memory.

The Avatar of the Orcs shut his eyes briefly, a tear running down his cheek and a content smile across his features.

“I best see to my father," he said, turning away from the pyre.

“What?" Neruv asked. “Should you not stay for a little longer? Knaatl…"

“Is in good hands," he answered softly. “I believe he would like me to focus on the living. My father is still amongst us and we need to focus on keeping him that way."

His smile grew bolder, inspired by the sight he had beheld.

“Come. We still have a nation to fight for."

******

The flames did not burn and as Knaatl stood amongst them, Samuel by his side, he watched with teary eyes as the Amthosians bid goodbye not only to their loves ones that had passed but also the lives they had once lived. With the fall of Hawkshollow, the nation of Amthosruud had truly been formed.

There was no more running from the Alliance.

They were not haunted by an army of Red Orcs led by a traitor.

There was no hero bent on their destruction.

True freedom, not only for their race or their nation but from the Triad was within their grasp.

He could not stop grinning, tears in his eyes. “Ah, I only wish I could have seen them all raise their flag over Trispire…"

“You still can, you know," said Samuel. “Nothing is stopping you from staying here. You will be a disembodied ghost but at the very least you will see them."

The orc placed his hand son his hips. “No. My tale here is done, I think. I mean, after all this…" He let out his bellowing laugh that reached into the physical realm even in the realms of the dead. “… I wouldn't want to come back after they burned a whole goddamn city for me!"

Samuel chuckled at that. “I suppose that's fair."

“Still… I never thought it would end like that." Again, Knaatl laughed. “Damn! It was so sudden!"

“Honestly, you had one of the best expressions in death that I ever hand. You looked so surprised. It was like you were saying 'Oh, so this is what dying's like'."

Again, the orc threw his head back and laughed brightly. “Well what is in store for me now? Where do I fit in your grand plan?"

Samuel shrugged and spread his arms. “My plans for you were well and truly over when we first met you. It was all so that Amthos could get some company and remember his humanity. That he turned you all into orcs… well, that was just a bonus."

Knaatl smiled and crossed his arms behind his head. “Well, I've travelled the world. I've had my fair share of fights. I only wish I had found someone to settle down with."

“You did not love Arnmok."

“Oh I did. But I have this feeling that he's been drawing closer to Luxaeus. Besides, now I'm dead. I would not want him to linger on my memory. He should move on. I would not want to just wait until he dies so we can be together once more. He deserves happiness."

“Just like you moved on from your former fancy, so should he."

“Exactly!"

“Well you know…"

Samuel began to turn around and as he did, Knaatl followed him. The orc was stunned when he saw an enormous white door in front of him.

“Out of all the people I've interacted with amongst the orcs, you are the only one that has seen the Triad and been the Naught."

“Your point?"

“You know more truths of this world and the inner workings of reality as a whole than anyone else. Perhaps I could provide you with an option?"

“An option eh?" Knaatl beamed, crossing his arms. “And what might that be?"

He could sense the No One smiling even though he couldn't see the man's face.

“This isn't the end of your story, Knaatl."

The large doors peeled open revealing a plane of endless white, of endless possibilities, beyond.

“It's just a turn of the page in your book."

Epilogue

*******

Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #13

Today the nation of Amthosruud is defined as the entirety of the northern shore with a cut-off at the Valhalay Valley, across the southern ridge about 100 miles south of what was once Raonoak – now known as Thomastown – and across a western border that is the Green Road. The orcs have boasted a healthy population of about 280 million now from the last census with other races declaring themselves citizens of the nation.

The Emerald Crown, the crown forged by the great mechanic and smith, Arben, rests on the King of the Orcs who makes his seat in Greendawn. With Bhotanmar the Great Harbour of the North and Thomastown as the Bastion of the South, Amthosruud has become a shining example of civilisation.

_Legend says that on the day of the year now known as the Emerald Night when the Crowd was first set on the First King of the Orcs, it is possible to see a particularly bright and cheerful red-haired orc with a voice that could shatter mountains and a crimson cape celebrating amongst the people. _

*******

“And that concludes our story for this evening," Neruv said softly, bowing his head. “The rise of Amthosruud, the founding of our great nation, was built on the blood, sweat and tears of so many. Always remember that we came here not on blade alone but through the open arms of compassion, the tempered will of discipline and the hardened steps of purpose. So that is what Amthos taught us and so we should forever hold it in our hearts as Amthosians."

With that, the old storyteller bows to the solemn applause of the others of the tavern. Then he turns to shuffle off, disappearing into the crowd as the patrons return to their drink and chatter.

“Ah, I see you have many questions, friend," said the tavernkeeper with a faint smile. “What happens after that? What of the corruption of Raonoak and Eranius? What happened to Orradin and Amthos? What of Arben, was he truly alive? If so, how did he survive?"

The orc chuckles softly and nods towards Neruv. “Sadly, that tale is not contained within the one that describes the founding of Amthosruud. The tale that the old storyteller gave us saw the birth of an Avatar, a nation's first steps into the world and its final, glorious birth into a true fighting force that culminated in burning what had been a lasting remnant of the old world's perceptions of the orc race into something new sanctified by the ashes of all those that gave their lives to give a race's second chance at a future.

“There are many tales yet such as how Amthos led the battle against Eranius and to Trispire alongside the other Avatars. Perhaps the story of how Neruv ventured into the Etherealm and empowered the spirits through the creation of the Spirit Nexus. There is yet the story of how Ramdrud weaved through the courts of the north and faced his father. Let us not forget Luxaeus's story of waking the Great Wargs from the slumber. Arben's creation of the Emerald Crown is another story yet to be told. Ah, and let us not forget about Arnmok and facing his demons to take up his father's mantle as the great military leader of Amthosruud. And of course, there is Orradin's journey to redemption.

“But those are tales for another time."

Avatar: Amthos the Hordemaker

The End