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Chapter 2: The Nightusks

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Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #3

A nude orc is an honest orc.

An orc that is covered in clothing has something to hide.

*******

On the first night since his transformation, Amthos was itching to test his new powers and abilities. His whole body burned with a passion for battle and his loins were no different. Walking around in the nude, he had to remind himself to keep himself in check so that he didn’t work his new massive orc meat while they walked down the road. Some part of him was still curious about what the god Garodrash had said about his seed having the ability to turn others into orcs. However, Samuel advised Amthos that he didn’t want to make his presence known so soon and particularly since they were still deep within human territory. If he revealed himself now, no matter how much godly power he was imbued with, they would be severely outnumbered.

He didn’t want the merciless Holy Inquisition, the organised ranks of the Holy Army, the magic of the Alliance’s College of Magi or the immense numbers of the Holy Legion bearing down on him just yet.

But he still needed a fight.

“Spar with me,” he announced after their meal. He had torn through several hams that Samuel magically produced from his pack along with a loaf of bread and several gulps of wine from his never-ending wineskin. A bigger body meant he ate more after all. After having so much power poured into him, added to his new orcish nature and what could have been three pints of wine he was itching for a fight.

Samuel didn’t protest and got to his feet. Winterpaw and Veronica watched them impassively from where they sat as the two strode away from the campfire in the small clearing in the woods. Though still naked save for his cloak, Amthos was feeling confident as he now towered over the smaller Samuel at a monstrous nine feet tall. He doubted most orcs could match him in size and strength but again, he knew not to be over confident. Besides, he didn’t want to kill his advisor.

He picked up Grimight and hefted it easily over his shoulder. Recalling the Gods’ blessing, Grimight’s strength and his own was tied to how many people were loyal to him. As far as he knew, it was only Winterpaw, Veronica and Samuel. In theory, that gave him the strength of three men and one divine-powered orc. But he didn’t know Samuel’s strength.

In fact, he never noticed before but Samuel was carrying a sword in a scabbard by his right hip. The knight drew the weapon slowly, gently. It was odd that it didn’t have a cross guard. The black hilt merely led to a clear, crystal blade.

“That doesn’t look practical,” said Amthos.

“I am an advisor, not a fighter,” Samuel said. “But I will defend myself should the need arise.”

“Seems almost too pretty to break!” Amthos let out a proud roar and immediately charged forward. The weight of the weapon felt like nothing to him in his hands, almost like an extension of his own very arm. As Amthos charged forward Samuel calmly stood there, blade extended and ready to deflect the blow but just as the massive orc was just one single step away Samuel leapt back a few feet just as he brought the mace down. Amthos didn’t have enough time to pull back before the mace’s spiked head smashed into the ground with a thunderous crash. Amthos’s body shook with the force of the earth shuddering beneath his feet and once the tremors resided he looked down to see the crater where his mace bit into the earth.

It was then in a flash that he saw Samuel’s blade levelled at his left eye.

Winterpaw growled defensively but Veronica nickered at him.

“Realmbreaker is more than it seems,” warned the knight. Samuel stepped aside, allowing Amthos to pick up his mace again. “You could’ve killed someone less skilled with that blow.”

“I’ve killed before,” grunted Amthos.

“And that is what led to your subsequent branding and banishment?”

The question caused Amthos to absently scratch at his brand, seemingly so small compared to the rest of his pectoral but still very prominent to him. “No… I was the squire to the Lord-Knight Eranius von Karksteid.” He straightened and rolled his massive shoulders. “I accompanied him on hunts and raids against bandits. I’ve slain a man before in defence of my lord.” The Avatar regarded his big, green hands sorrowfully. “I was branded because I made a mistake.”

“Learn from your mistakes. Continue to make mistakes. It is what separates you from those who would call themselves infallible and godly.” Samuel lifted his blade again. “Now come at me again. I promise I won’t move. Try to control your strikes.”

“You best still move,” warned the Orc Avatar. “I am still not used to this.”

Again, he let out a tremendous roar and charged forward. This time he miscalculated his steps and actually overshot Samuel and brought his mace smashing against a nearby rock, shattering it completely.

“Damnit!” he cursed.

“You are bigger. Stronger. Faster. It takes time to get used to such things.”

“But I have the knowledge of the gods!” bellowed Amthos impatiently. “I should know how to use my own body!”

“Remember, the Old Gods speak in hyperboles.” He lowered his blade, the crystal tip just touching the ground. “Exactly what did Rivellin grant you? Think carefully now.”

The massive red-haired orc crossed his powerful arms thoughtfully. “Well… I know that red hair amongst orcs is rare. It’s actually a sign of divine blessing, some believe. Orcs vary in skin colour from shades of green to paler yellow. Orcs value strength above all else. It was a patriarchal society. Now it is more like several males trying desperately to survive. The weak are cared for and nursed back to health. No one is left behind. Tusk length and size is a direct relation to one’s virility regardless of cock size. They will fuck anyone, male and female alike and they even tried raiding human villages to fuck their females in the hopes they could have some half-orc breeds but that never bore fruit and…”

Amthos grunted. “That’s… almost everything.”

“Exactly,” Samuel said calmly. “Can you speak orcish? Do you know orcish customs?”

The Avatar frowned at him. “No…” Then he snorted loudly. “Now it seems like I was cheated out of a divine gift.”

“The Gods gave you what they thought you needed and that is still better than nothing. You have enough to at least pass as an amnesiac halfwit but little else.”

The knight stepped forward again, lifting his blade. “While the Old Gods gave you great gifts, you can’t rely on them completely. Remember, if they wanted you to be like them, if they had that capacity, they would have just taken over your body or created Avatars of themselves on the mortal plane. But they cannot. They’re not strong enough. They have exhausted a lot of power to make you what you are now. But you still have your heart. You still have your mind and your soul. You are still you and that is why they chose you.”

The knightly advisor glanced over his shoulder. “And it seems your first true test has arrived.”

The Orc tilted his head to the side. “What –”

Before he could finish, Samuel suddenly spun around, swinging his crystal blade through the air. Time seemed to slow as, at that moment, Amthos caught sight of the arrow hurtling straight for them. Samuel moved with lightning speed and his blade sliced right through the arrow, cleaving it in two and sending the two shards skittering to the ground.

Men wearing a ragged assortment of armour and rusted weaponry came bursting out of the wood work. They were organised and immediately wrapped ropes around Winterpaw’s muzzle, binding his jaws down. The swept the great Warg’s legs out from underneath him and hogtied him in a humiliating fashion. They immediately restrained Veronica as well.

The men, twelve of them surrounded Samuel and Amthos, weaponry raised and confidence in their stances.

Their leader was a bearded man who strode with a cocky swagger. His head was completely devoid of hair save for his thick, black beard. There was an ‘x-shaped’ scar on his bald skull and he strode forward wearing only a leather vest and ragged, dirty, red and white pants. There was a pair of leather sandals strapped to his feet that looked like they were military issue, something from the Holy Legion. From his strong build, Amthos had to guess he was a deserter.

“Well what do we have here?” chuckled the man. “A richly dressed human noble with his orc bodyguard.” The bandit lifted a crude looking scimitar towards Samuel, levelling it directly at the knight’s hidden chin. “What? Hoping to free your prize here to the wilds where he belongs? Got a bleeding heart Greenskin Sympathiser here, boys!”

The term made Amthos’ blood boil and he snarled. But several spears were instantly pointed at him, poking his chest. They didn’t pierce his flesh and he remembered that he had been granted immunity to mortal weapons. Then he also remembered Samuel’s warning that the Old Gods tended to exaggerate. Just how ‘immune’ was he?

Best not to risk it.

“You could not be more right,” Samuel said. “You see, if you take a look at my comrade’s chest, you’ll find a slightly modified brand of the accused Greenskin Sympathisers.”

The leader of the band frowned and regarded Amthos’ tattoos. The Orc Avatar felt it prudent to puff out his chest and show the man not only the brand but just how big he was. The spear tips pressed against his flesh and he could feel them pricking his skin. Not enough to draw blood but still, it stung a little.

“Cute,” sniffed the man. “So you branded your own pet orc. What does that achieve?”

“Perhaps you’re not thinking this through Kaltan,” said Samuel.

The man froze at the mention of his name and spun towards Samuel. “Fucking Triad! He’s a mage!”

“No. I am a No One.”

Samuel waved his hand absently. The men surrounded them started to let out frightened murmurs as their weapons shuddered in their hands. Then, all at once they leapt from their grips as if taken by some unseen hands and went flying into the air. A sound like snapping tree branches then echoed from the side of the camp as The binds holding down both Veroncia and Winterpaw suddenly transformed, their nutty brown lengths turning green, scaly and alive. Uncoiling from the two animals the serpents let out a loud hiss sprang towards the bandits as the two mounts moved into action.

Amthos bellowed a tremendous, war cry causing the two closest bandits let out a terrified scream just before they both pissed their tattered britches. He seized them both, one in each hand, and hurled them across the camp towards the other bandits. The snakes and mounts immediately attacked the remaining bandits, herding them into a big group next to their fallen comrades. Their weapons then suddenly returned to them as they descended from the sky, pinning themselves to the ground and surrounding the bandits in a makeshift cage.

The leader, Kaltan spun towards Samuel with a snarl. “Deviant fucker! Take this!” He murmured a few quick words under his breath and red flames coalesced around his hands. He immediately hurled it at the knight.

“No!” Amthos cried and he lunged forward, arm outstretched. The fireball collided with his forearm. He shut his eyes, waiting for the pain. Nothing came. There was a faint heat but little else. Both he and Kaltan stared at one another, stunned. He snapped out of his shock faster than the bandit leader and he immediately swung his outstretched arm, hitting the man square on the jaw and immediately knocking him out.

“Bandits…” snarled the Orc Avatar. “Should’ve known better.”

“They couldn’t have known better,” answered Samuel with a shrug. “To most others, we would have just appeared as a knight with his slave and possibly trophy orc. I mean, apart from that cloak, you’re not wearing anything else. In human standards, that’d be humiliating.”

“But for orcs, the less armour the better! We don’t hide behind steel plate and shields! There is no honour in that!”

“Funny, just yesterday you would have said the exact opposite,” Samuel added before turning towards the bandits.

“Still, they don’t know that.” The knight stepped over to the unconscious Kaltan. “They seem starved as well. This far north there are only mining settlements and all supply routes would be coming from the south. I suspect that they were driven out by local patrols.”

He strode towards where his pack lay and carried it over to the caged bandits. He brought over his wineskin as well.

“What are you doing?” Amthos demanded. “They attempted to rob us!”

“And?” answered the knight. “It was that kind of mentality that led to the war between the Alliance and the orcs in the first place. The Alliance wanted something from the orcs and took it. The orcs retaliated. War ensued.”

“Are you saying that orcs shouldn’t have tried to take their land back?”

Samuel reached into his pack and produced a loaf of bread. “I’m saying that if people weren’t so petty and possessive, perhaps things wouldn’t have turned out as badly as they did.” He held out the loaf to the bandits. “Here. It’s good. Not poison, I promise.”

The bandits regarded him dubiously.

“Right. No trust for mages.” He tossed the loaf to Amthos. “Here. Take a bite. Show them that it isn’t poisonous.”

Amthos scowled and regarded his new prisoners. They did look starved. A pang of pity hit him and he recalled how he had looked not too long ago before Samuel had found him. With a roll of his eyes, he took a big bite out of the loaf so as to leave as little for the men who had attempted to raid them as possible. He then tossed the remnants, at least half the loaf, amidst the remaining bandits. Samuel still produced more and even some cheese and meat for them to share.

Then the knight headed over to Kaltan, checking his wounds. The bandit leader suddenly woke and immediately lashed out at the knight. Amthos strode forward but immediately stopped as Samuel’s helmet was knocked off his head. Kaltan froze as well, his fingers just inches away from Samuel’s eyes.

“Luxeaus?” Amthos stammered, eyes wide in horror as he saw his own brother’s face staring impassively down at the bandit leader.

“Findain…?” croaked Kaltan, his eyes watering.

“I’m afraid not,” said the knight wearing his brother’s face. He picked up the helmet and slipped it back on. “I am a No One. Suffice to say any who look at my face will see only those that they seek to speak to the most.”

“So you have no face of your own… you are no one…”

Samuel rose and offered his armoured hand to Kaltan. “A good an explanation as any. Come Kaltan, there is wine, bread and meat for you. I believe we can wash away this little misunderstanding with some civilised words.”

Kaltan rubbed his jaw absently. There was bruising starting to form there from where Amthos had hit him. “It seems I am at your mercy regardless.” He flashed Samuel a grin. “Though I must admit, I never expected to be treated so civilly by a mage-knight.”

“I am not a mage-knight by your definition, Sergeant Kaltan.”

The bandit laughed heartily. “Knowing that I was a sergeant makes you a mage in my book, my captor.” He held up his hands in surrender. “So, what do you wish from us? We have little gold. Even less food. Our weapons are complete shit and even our bodies are probably disease ridden so I wouldn’t recommend using us in that fashion. The best we can offer you are the clothes on our back. Or kill us now and wear our skin for warmth. It only gets colder farther north.”

Amthos realised that Kaltan knew they were heading north. “You’ve been following us, haven’t you?”

The bandit gave him a sheepish grin. “Saw you emerging from the ruins of Loringram. Been following you the whole day. Thought we’d hit you while you slept but then you started roaring like you’re were having the best fuck of your fucking life. Could’ve brought the whole mountain down on you. So we thought we should hit you now before someone else came for you.”

“What!?” he roared, causing the very ground to shake beneath their feet. Kaltan looked stunned at the sudden outburst and Amthos immediately covered his mouth, realising the power of his voice. Apparently the gods hadn’t been exaggerating about that.

Samuel turned towards the snakes on the ground. “Would you kindly have a look around to see if anyone else is coming our way?”

The serpents nodded, turned and slithered away.

“Your warning is enough repayment,” said the knight, striding towards the cage of rusty weapons. He plucked a spear from the ground and gestured that the others are free to escape their confines. Winterpaw growled at them and Amthos snarls echoed their distrust. “But come. Sit by our fire. Share our food. You all look famished.”

Kaltan gave him a puzzled look. “What is your game...?”

Samuel shrugged as he reached into his pouch and held out some bread. “I figure if someone did hear Amthos, the more swords the better. Travelling north alone is terribly dangerous. There are bandits about, after all.”

That made the bandit blink a couple of times then he let out a bellow laugh. Without even thinking, he bit into the bread and chewed it. He rolled his eyes in ecstasy. “Oh. This is a good. What is that? Some sort of magical pouch?”

“Some sort. Don’t try to steal it. It won’t work for anyone else but myself. The wineskin, though, anyone can drink from that infinitely. Though I would rather keep an infinitely producing wineskin than pawn it. You could make a living as the first ever wine merchant without owning a vineyard.”

Kaltan threw his head back again and let out another laugh. “You I like.” He turned towards a growling Amthos. “Why can’t you be more like him?”

Amthos snarled. He couldn’t believe what was happening! The bandits that had attempted to rob them was now sharing their camp! As the twelve men gathered around Samuel who was handing them food, the Orc Avatar parked himself at the edge of camp. Winterpaw strode up next to him, curling up behind him and resting his muzzle against Amthos’ thick thigh. Both of them shared their disbelief that Samuel with turn enemies into friends so quickly! It was ridiculous.

Midway through his stewing, he noticed that the snakes were returning. The chatter died quickly as Samuel held up his hand for silence. One of the serpents slid up his arm and seemed to whisper something into his ear.

“We must put out the fire.”

Amthos was immediately on his feet and throwing dirt onto the fire pit they had formed. It surprised him when many of the other bandits began hurling their own clothes onto the fire to douse it. Samuel immediately gestured for them to hide in the darkness. The Orc Avatar crouched down next to Winterpaw, straining his pointed ears.

Then he heard them.

The thunder of hooves. The clank of armour. An Alliance patrol. He could see shadows sifting through the woods and bit his tongue. If he hadn’t been so callous about his roars, maybe Kaltan and his band wouldn’t have been brought here. Worse, perhaps this Alliance patrol would never have found them.

“They are looking for us,” Kaltan said softly, rising from where he was crouch. “Let us at least lead him away, friend. We know these woods better than anyone. We can lead them away and flee.”

Samuel gripped his arm and dragged him back down. “Nonsense. We’ll need someone who knows these woods better than anyone to guide us through them.”

Amthos snorted softly and then immediately covered his nose. So that was Samuel’s plan. Clever. But that just left the patrol which was drawing closer and closer.

“Where to?” bellowed a human.

“I saw them over here!”

Amthos’ heart constricted. Battling humans now? In unfamiliar terrain in an unfamiliar body? He wasn’t sure what he could do but with Grimight he might just survive yet.

“We will be overrun,” hissed Kaltan. “An Alliance patrol is at least thirty men. No matter how big your orc slave is, they have us outnumbered!”

Samuel chuckled softly. “Just trust me. Stay low and do not move. No one move.”

Amthos shut his eyes. As the sounds of hooves grew louder and louder, he was just itching to get up and fight. But he pulled himself in. It was that kind of impulsiveness that drew this band to him in the first place. His career as an Avatar of the Gods couldn’t end so quickly after it has started. No, he reined himself in and sat perfectly still.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Winterpaw growled but he stroked the Warg’s fur, gently calming him.

Then the patrol was upon them.

Twenty men bearing torches and riding atop horses came pouring in from the woods. One of the men was just inches away from Amthos and even looked directly at him. But the man continued to search and found nothing. He turned away.

“Camp fire,” announced one of the patrolmen. “Still warm. They were here. Not far. Move!”

And then, the patrol was pouring out into the woods, searching again.

No one moved for an entire five minutes until the thunder of hooves had completely vanished.

“No fire,” Kaltan ordered, rising to his feet. “We sleep cold tonight. Irksand, Londell, you take first watch. I’ll take second with Prar.” He then glanced towards Samuel. “I don’t know what you did but you saved us and spared us this night. We are in your debt.”

The No One waved his hand absently. “Think nothing of it.”

******

Amthos was woken by the sound of shuffling. He was immediately alert, fearing that the bandits had decided to try and slit their throats and leave with their valuables. Instead, it was just Kaltan switching places with one of the guards. He glanced over to where Sam lay perfectly still, still in his armour. He wondered who could sleep in such a thing.

Glancing over to the guard, he slowly rose and moved towards the bandit leader.

He wasn’t very stealthy and Kaltan noticed his approach. “You should sleep, slave. Your master will need you in the morning.”

“He is not my master,” Amthos growled. “He is my advisor. I am going to be the next orc warchief and reunite the tribes. We’re going to take back what is ours and more.”

Kaltan scoffed loudly. “I don’t know what lies your mage has filled your head with but that won’t happen. It’s only been over two decades since the Triumvirate became the Holy Triad but a lot has happened since then.”

That did not bode very well. “What do you mean? Speak, human.”

The bandit rolled his eyes. “What ‘tribe’ do you want me to speak of? The Hard Spear? The Thunder Callers? Blood Claws? Or perhaps the Earth Runners?”

“Tell me about the Hard Spear.”

There, Kaltan snorted. “Perhaps the smartest of the tribes. They’ve got a human ‘sponsor’.”

“A what?” sneered the Orc Avatar.

“A sponsor, boy. Just like how your master trudges you around like the salve you are, the Hard Spear tribe have a knight who rules over them. They live in his fort up at Whitepeak. They serve him. Entertain him. Die for him. He and his soldiers keep them in check and in turn protect them from anyone who would attack them for being orcs. They’re little more than pets. Just like you.”

Amthos kept his voice down but he snarled and seized Kaltan’s collar, hoisting him up into the air and slamming him into a nearby tree.

“I am no one’s pet!”

“Funny,” laughed the bandit. “Didn’t your master call himself a ‘No One’?”

Sneering, Amthos slammed the smug bandit against the tree trunk one more time. “Listen to me well, pinkskin. I am no slave. I will unite the tribes. I will become warchief and I will take back our lands!”

Kaltan threw his head back and let out a soft laugh so as not to disrupt the sleep of his comrades. “I owe your master a debt of gratitude so I will entertain his notions of restoring the orc tribes for whatever purpose he sees fit. But let me tell you something, boy.” He leaned forward, nose to nose with Amthos. “I was in the Holy Legion. I was one of those men who patrolled these lands. I know what they do to dreamers like you.”

Then, Amthos saw something in Kaltan’s eyes that he had only ever seen in his own reflection.

Disillusion.

“They squeeze those dreams right out of you. Whatever they do, you will end up as a husk of your former self either begging to die, begging to be fucked or begging to please your master. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t go spouting your stupid dreams out to just anyone.”

Suddenly, Kaltan jammed his fists into Amthos’ elbows. The blow suddenly made the big orc release the bandit. Lightning fast, Kaltan slammed a foot down onto Amthos’ bare toes, causing the big orc to yelp and immediately pulled his foot up. But as he did so, he left himself vulnerable to a blow from Kaltan’s fist straight to his chin.

The Orc Avatar toppled to the ground, gasping in pain.

“Especially to anyone who can kill you with his bare hands,” spat Kaltan.

Amthos glared balefully at the back of the bandit. It was humiliating that he, an Avatar of the Gods, would be felled by a mere human! Not even an epic hero or a righteous lord either! But just a bandit.

He grimaced, burning in his defeat.

******

“So tell me,” Kaltan asked loudly from the head of the group. “Where do you come from?”

Amthos rode atop Winterpaw, watching the group of bandits from the rear as they traversed the dense forests of the northern lands. The air was already growing colder. No matter how tall the trees or dense the shrubbery, he could make out the tall, towering, snowy peaks of the aptly named Fangs of the World. Having lived in Raonoak for most of his childhood, he had seen the distant snow-capped mountains for years but only as a faint white outline in the distance. Now, he realised just how tremendous they were. He heard that there were mountains far taller to the southwest where the trolls used to live but he never saw them.

“A place very far away,” answered Samuel enigmatically.

“Have you a surname, Master No One?”

“Many. I think it best you just refer to me as Samuel.”

Kaltan was annoyingly chatty. The Orc Avatar didn’t trust him. Though Samuel apparently did and allowed the man to lead them through the dense forests to some inn at the base of the Fangs of the World. They agreed that was where they would part ways for their band of bandits simply could not trek into the frozen wastes of the Fangs. The incessant chatter made Amthos think the man was trying to deceive them, lure them into a sense of camaraderie before stabbing them in the back.

“And tell me honestly, Master Samuel, what is it that you seek?” Kaltan had this smug look on his face as he glanced over his shoulder at Amthos. “Do you wish to unite the orcish tribes under the leadership of your freakish orc slave there? Is this some ambitious knight’s attempt to become king of the wild lands of the north?”

Samuel merely chuckled. “I believe that is a good as tale as any. The truth would be far more unbelievable and hard to swallow.”

The bandit laughed softly and gave the knight a mocking bow. “Indulge me, milord.”

Amthos balled his fists. How dare the smug bastard slight Samuel like that? Somehow, he managed to keep his cool even though his hand was already hovering over Grimight.

“Very well.” Samuel kept his gaze affixed forward. “Amthos was once human. He was Thomas Reinhardt of Raonoak. He was branded a Greenskin Sympathiser, thus the mark on his chest. The Old Gods chose him to be their Orc Avatar. They imbued him with great power and knowledge and a body that would make any orc…” His deep blue eyes turned to Kaltan briefly. “… or man quiver in their boots. A mission was entrusted onto him. He is to unite the orcish tribes and then take back what the orcs had lost in the recently ended war. He will rebuild their civilisation to something better than it was before.”

Kaltan laughed heartily. “A mighty noble goal. Pity there are no orc women left to fill the broken ranks of the orcs with their offspring!”

“That too has been resolved. For Amthos’ seed has the power to turn any human, elf or dwarf who consumes it into another orc, one touched by the Old Gods’ design.”

The bandit froze where he stood and glanced back towards Amthos. The look of fear on the bandit leader’s face filled Amthos’ mighty heart with a thrill he only felt when hunting back in the woods of Raonoak as a human.

“That is a mighty fine tale,” Kaltan said, his voice breaking softly. “If it were true. But I see your ambitions are far greater than my own. I hope you will remember us wherever you go whether it be at the seat of a new Orc Nation or in the dark depths of the underworld.”

“I have a feeling you will be hard to forget.”

Even Amthos felt a chill down his spine at those ominous words.

Then Samuel’s tone turned lighter. “Enough about us, Kaltan. What of your band? From where do you hail?”

The bandit leader rubbed the back of his neck absently. “Ah. We’re from the small mining town a little ways to the south. Me and my men here were all miners as well living beneath a governor. I was a soldier. Part of the Legion as you might imagine. Protected our borders and whatever else. Didn’t want anything else from that. Then tragedy struck. My life turned upside down. Lost all my hair.” He laughed heartily as he ran a hand through his bald scalp. “Ah but that is all in the past. Turned to banditry just to survive. You’ll find similar stories with my men. Pushed to desperation for reasons beyond our control.”

There was a sad, humourless smile on Kaltan’s face. “The Triad has a wicked sense of humour to those who do not openly live by their virtues.”

“The Triad have nothing to do with the choices of those who still live on Tirinead,” Samuel said. “You were led down this path either due to your choices or you are merely the victim of the consequences made by the choice of another. The Triad do not personally take an interest in individual lives unless something catches their attention.” Then, softly but still loud enough for Amthos’ ears to pick up, Samuel said, “A trait far too many gods mirror.”

That confused the Avatar. Was Samuel openly criticising the very same Gods that had made the weakling, emaciated human into the monumental orc he was now? Just who was this ‘No One’?

“You have some interesting views, my friend,” Kaltan laughed. “But take it from someone who fought in the war. Even if your big friend here musters the strength to pull together an Orc Nation and has the ‘powers’ you claim him to have, one single, small country will not be able to withstand the wrath of the Holy Alliance. The Triad revels in war.”

Samuel turned to the bandit leader. That chilling sensation that told Amthos that he was smiling came once more.

“Who said that he is the only Avatar?”

That caught the orc by surprise and he urged Winterpaw forward. “There are more?”

Samuel turned to him. “Yes. Each of the Old Gods has created an Avatar for their chosen species. As we speak, there is an Avatar for each of the major races oppressed by the Holy Alliance mustering their strength just as you are now, readying themselves to take the Holy Alliance both from within and from without. And I am alongside each of them.”

“You? But…”

“Trust me on this, Amthos. I am riding alongside each of them as I am riding alongside you now. We can confirm the story once we reach the tavern Kaltan is taking us to. Gossip has already reached their ears.”

That made the Orc Avatar a little… wary. Were there others opposing the Holy Alliance? If so, how would they react to the Orc Nation he was building? Would they be friend or foe? Why hadn’t the Old Gods told him that they had other plans in motion?

Suddenly, he didn’t feel so special anymore… it was like he was just a single pawn in a vast game.

It was a little past noon before they final arrived at the Rootfang Tavern. Located at the base of the Fangs of the World, the tavern was the last bastion of civilisation before the merciless Fangs began. It had once been a keep established in the early years after the orcish horde collapsed but had since fallen to disuse when the frequency of orcish raids had fallen to, at most, once a year.

The party approached the massive, stone walls that remained unguarded. The large wooden gates had long since been chopped down. A stable boy immediately approached Samuel, offering to take Veronica. The knight slipped off his steed and handed the boy the black mare’s reins. He also gave the boy a gold coin, more than the child would see in his entire lifetime. Another stableboy warily approached Amthos, eyeing Winterpaw with fear.

“Shall… I – I take care of your mount, milord?” mumbled the young man.

“Keep him fed,” grunted Amthos. “Red meat only. Do well and you get to keep your life.”

The boy let out a soft ‘eep’ and gently led Winterpaw away from the keep’s courtyard.

Samuel led the way into the keep which had been mostly gutted and converted into an actual tavern. This far from civilisation, however, the tables and bar were mostly empty save for the bartender who looked like he was merely busying himself with cleaning the same mug over and over again. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of party.

“Kaltan! You old dog!” exclaimed the man, spreading his meaty arms. “I thought you’d be dead!”

“Not so, Bort!” laughed the bandit, striding forward and giving the bartender a hug.

“Have you taken to escorting nobles now instead of common banditry? Or are you holding them hostage?”

“More like they’re holding us hostage.”

After a few quick introductions, Samuel bought drinks and meals for everyone, producing gold coins from a pouch with ease. Kaltan’s men cheered and Amthos had to admit that he was rather eager to eat something apart from admittedly fresh bread and cheese. There was a stew brewing that made him salivate and he had three helpings of it as well as some hearty mead. Within moments, the tavern was awash with chatter and laughter.

But the Orc Avatar kept his ears perked especially where Samuel and Kaltan were talking to the bartender.

******

“You must be joking,” Kaltan whispered gravely.

“I would never jest of such news,” answered Bort, cleaning wiping down the same mug for the fifth time in a row. “The Ten Captains have apparently collapsed. There is only the High Captain now and he seems to be mustering the pirates against the Holy Alliance. A mass escape of beast men was executed and from what I hear, a mighty Faxmorus was behind it. There are whispers of the bear-men, the Rhúl-Maul, of the swamps once again stirring and the rhino-men of the Neverborn Desert have apparently brokered a deal with the Freelands.

“It seems that the enemies of the Alliance are stirring.”

Kaltan turned his gaze to Samuel and the mysterious night merely shrugged.

“I told you so.”

Bort glanced between the two. “Know something?”

“I’m not too sure.” Kaltan’s eyes remained on the mage-knight. “Tell me, Samuel, what would you require?”

“Are you asking me what Amthos would need to forgive your attempted murder and mugging of us and to ensure you and your men remain untouched by the oncoming war?”

Whoever this man was, he was very clever. “Yes. I will offer anything if it will ensure that I live.”

“Be careful how you phrase that, Kaltan. Living is very different from being alive.”

That was a fair point. The bandit reached behind him, drawing a knife. Bort took a step back but Kaltan immediately set it on the table, hilt pointed towards Samuel. “I wish to live comfortably. I do not wish to be caught in another war and nor do I wish to spend every waking hour wondering when I am going to eat next and if the man I spy will be easy to rob or not. What can I do that will ensure me this?”

Samuel straightened but tilted his head slightly. “Many paths will lie open to you, Kaltan. None are easy and none are immediate. You will have to pick a side in the upcoming conflict. But why not start by telling me what you know about the remaining orc tribes.”

Kaltan scratched his beard absently before reciting what he knew of the few orc tribes that somehow managed to remain standing in the decades years since the war ended and the last of their women were wiped out.

The Thunder Callers, predominantly shamans and mystics, were holed up high in the mountain peaks. How they survived was unknown but occasionally, at night, one could see fires on the snowy caps that suggested they were still alive. Whether it was just some lasting spell to maintain a memory or actual living orcs was up for debate.

The Blood Claws were perhaps the most prominent in terms of orc raiding and a reminder that the orcs still lived. They rode Wargs like the old horde used to and mustered the strength to raid a town or two once a year but often retreated back into the frozen canyons before anyone could catch them. Their numbers grew fewer and fewer with every year and Alliance was just content to let them die slowly than marshal a force to eliminate them once and for all.

Then there were the Earth Runners. Apparently, they raided a vast dwarven mine deep in the mountains and then sealed all the entrances. They supposedly continue to live within but no one had ever seen them since then. Occasionally, there were rumours of seeing pale-yellow orcs along the mountain but that was just dismissed as fairytales.

What remained of the other orcs could no longer be called a ‘tribe’. Shattered and broken, they sheltered together and sought refuge amongst the few knights and nobles who made their home in the mountains. These ‘sponsors’ supposedly sheltered their orc servants but treated them little better than furniture.

“The Hard Spear tribe that you’re after live in Whitepeak,” Kaltan concluded. “That’s about three days march up the mountain. Not too far but your boy will need thicker clothing if he’s to survive.”

“The cold won’t bother him. Though I suppose it would be a problem if an icicle were to form on his cock.”

All three men chuckled softly.

“It’s rather funny,” Samuel began. “Amongst orcs, nudity is considered a sign of confidence and pride. Within Alliance lands, nudity is a sign of humiliation and poverty befitting only a slave.”

Kaltan drank from his tankard. “Makes me wonder which world I would rather be living in…”

“If you have to doubt, then I think you have your answer.”

Bort slammed a palm against the wooden bar and pointed an accusing finger against Samuel. “Hey now. Don’t you go turning my buddy here into a Greenskin Sympathiser. I don’t want him having one of them ugly brands somewhere on his body. He’s already ugly enough as is.”

Kaltan snorted into his mead and gave the bartender a mocking foul look. “You’re not my father, Bort. I can make my own decisions.” He leaned back against the bar, looking at the brooding Amthos at the far corner of the tavern. The massive orc tried not to look like he was watching them closely and turned his head way. In an attempt to appear nonchalant, Amthos put up his big, bare, dirty feet on the table and leaned back on his chair. The chair creaked beneath his incredible weight and before he could react, it snapped and he went crashing into the ground to the laughter of many of the other men.

Amthos, cheeks turning red in embarrassment, huffed at them with a cloud of condensation erupting from his large nostrils. He turned and stormed up the steps into the bedrooms of the keep.

“If it wasn’t obvious, we’ll be staying for a while,” Samuel said, dropping several gold coins on the table for a wide-eyed Bort. He threw in a few more for the chair.

“Well milord,” laughed Bort, sweeping up the gold coins. “You’ve paid for more than enough to live here in relative comfort for the rest of the year!”

Kaltan lifted an eyebrow at him. “Just how much gold are you carrying in that pouch of yours?”

“Actually, none.” Samuel reached into the bag and turned it inside out, revealing it to be completely empty. Curiously, the inside of the bag was an inky black. “This little trinket actually allows me to literally reach into the Alliance vaults and sneak a few coins out here and there.”

Bort’s eyes widened. “This is stolen gold!?”

The knight bobbed his head from side to side. “In one way, yes. In another, most definitely yes.”

Kaltan threw his head back and let out a boisterous laugh. It didn’t matter that the rest of his men had no idea what he was laughing about but they just joined in anyway. He always had that effect on his men. No matter how grim it got, his laughter always brightened their moods. “And that other satchel of yours. The one that produces food?”

“Ah that one genuinely generates food but it’s solely dependent on the location I am in. In fact…” He pulled out the satchel and reached into it. A moment later, he pulled out a whole, roast turkey and set it on the bar. “Seems that on the road, it generates easy to consume trail foods like bread, cheese and slices of ham. But in fine establishments like this, it produces more wholesome meals.” He picked out what appeared to be some bits of stuffing from between his fingers. “Amongst other things.”

“What matter of sorcerer are you!?” Bort exclaimed, both surprise and in awe at the magnificent bird in front of him.

“I am a No One,” answered the knight. “I mean you no harm. I am just here to guide and advise Amthos as well as the other Avatars of the Gods to restore balance to this world.”

Kaltan glanced towards Bort. “Basically like a divine messenger that pilfers gold from the Alliance’s pockets and keeps us all well fed!” He turned towards his men, hoisting his mug. “Am I right men!?”

Again, there was a cheer even though the eleven other bandits had no idea what they were cheering about.

“You sure do have a way with your troops,” observed Samuel.

“He’s always been like that,” Bort chuckled. “A man of the people. He remembers that soldiers are still men. We’re not just automatons in suits. We feel. We bleed. We cry.”

The knight fixed the bartender with his dark eyes. “We?”

“Bort was one of my men back in the day,” Kaltan said with a dismissive shrug. “We were in the town watch back in Copperhew. Bort here was ‘smart’ with his money and saved up every penny he had to buy this shitty place. The rest of us drowned ourselves in beer and actually enjoyed life.”

“I like to think I’m enjoying my life much more than you are now, Kaltan,” Bort countered.

“I have a patron who is paying for meals and housing for my men for the night.” Kaltan trained his tankard and slammed it back into the table. “As far as I am concerned, my life is fantastic and piss on the Triad!” He swung around, waving his hands towards his men. “Another round!”

Again, there was a boisterous cheer and Kaltan wandered over to celebrate with his men as food and mead came pouring out of the tavern’s kitchen.

Bort looked to Samuel for confirmation and the No One merely handed the man a few more gold coins.

“So what happened?” asked the mysterious white and gold-armoured man. “Kaltan merely mentioned that tragedy struck and his life was turned upside down.”

The bartender sighed and leaned against the bar. “Ah, sad tale that. Kaltan was never interested in women. Always preferred the company of men. He had his eyes on this cute little thing.”

“Findain.”

Bort lifted his eyebrows. “He told you? I’m surprised.”

“Not exactly.” Samuel gripped his helmet and lifted it. Bort froze. “You see, the name ‘No One’ is more than just a name. If I remove my helm, those who look upon me will see and hear the voice of the one that they most want to speak to.” He placed the helmet back on his head. “Kaltan knocked my helmet off and professed that name when he looked at my face.”

“I… I see,” Bort stammered. “Well, I suppose you are smart enough to piece the rest together. Findain was Kaltan’s lover. But the Holy Alliance frowns upon such ‘deviant’ behaviour. The only men who lay with other men are those of the bestial races for they have no females anymore. Humans who partake in such an act are publicly shamed. Kaltan is a resourceful man but Findain was a not. He couldn’t take the humiliation and hung himself rather than live as a bandit.”

Samuel nodded knowingly. “That explains much. It also speaks much about Kaltan’s strength and conviction that he would stay loyal to his men and remain standing despite such tragedy.”

Bort shook his head and returned to cleaning his mug. “I am not too sure of that, milord. From where I stand, Kaltan refuses to accept his lot in life and only lives by the hour. He has no purpose and will drift until he breathes his last.” He fixed the knight with a firm gaze. “If you are going to pay for his luxuries, have the sense to know when to take the baby away from his mother’s teat. Children must grow up one day.”

The knight sent a chilling feeling down Bort’s spine. The idea that the man behind the helmet was smiling at him somehow spread into his mind.

“That day may come sooner than you think.”

******

The dark, cold rooms of the keep were nowhere near the comfort levels of Roanoak but after months of living on the streets, travelling in the muck and the dark, having a roof over his head was a welcome. At least he wasn’t standing in the blistering cold, being pelted by rain or baked in the sun. He had been trekking for so long that he forgot that he had been tracking mud and grime into the room.

He sighed and carried his enormous bulk towards the bed which was really just a bed of hay with a scratch quilt draped over it. It was a little too small for his frame but it was good to feel something soft beneath his rump aside from soggy grass of wet soil. The big, red-haired orc rolled his shoulders, feeling the touch of the enchanted cloak upon his shoulders. It had been a long trek and he knew that there would many miles ahead yet.

He looked at his large hands. “Perhaps it had been naïve of me to think I would be granted instant glory the moment my feet touched the ground,” he whispered to himself. “This is a journey. One I swore to undertake.” His fingers curled into fists, muscles tightening. “I must tame this body before I can tame the tribes and then the rest of the world.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he rumbled.

To his surprise, the wooden frame swung open to reveal Kaltan. The bald, bearded man was red-faced and drunk and he was leaning against the stone doorframe with a very large pair of fur boots dangling from one hand and what appeared to be a clay jug in the other.

“So,” exclaimed the bandit. Amthos could smell his rancid, alcohol-soaked breath from where he sat. “How does it feel for the great King of the Orcs to be sitting amongst us peasants.” Kaltan lifted a finger, stopping Amthos from speaking. “No, no. I am wrong.” He pressed a hand against his chest. “I am not a peasant. I am lower than a peasant. I am a bandit. A lowlife. A criminal. The great saviour of the orc race wallowing in the filth and the mire.”

It was clear the man was trying to bait him into a response. As much as Amthos’ pride as an orc demanded him to get up and crush the puny human’s skull in his two hands, he was far better than that and remained calm.

“What do you want, Kaltan?” he demanded.

The man bowed at him mockingly. It would have been insulting of the bandit hadn’t stumbled forward comically and barely managed to catch himself from tripping over. “Why, I wish to wash your feet, of course! I’m in the presence of divine royalty, am I not? I should treat you as one.”

“Of course,” Amthos rumbled sarcastically. “I have no time for your mockery.”

“What else are you going to do for the rest of the day, pray tell?” Kaltan managed to straighten but only held the pose for about two second before he began staggering form left to right again.

It was just a little after noon. There was much daylight yet to be had so in theory, it would be possible for them to still get some ground. But from what he remembered, from this tavern on out, it was frozen wasteland. It would not be wise to be travelling out into the blistering cold with daylight quickly fading.

“And no use trying to tell me you can make it to some shelter, Your Majesty,” Kaltan said drunkenly. “I know for a fact that your armoured babysitter paid enough gold to have bought this whole tavern twice over!”

“Samuel’s generosity and general trust is something that I don’t entirely approve of,” Amthos admitted grumpily. “But he has not led me astray thus far.”

“Perfect.” Kaltan strode forward, set and set down his clay jug on a nearby stool. He seized a metal pail and then set it under the water pump over the little ditch in the corner of the stone room. After a few quick pulls of the rope, water came pouring out in little gushes from a hole in the wall. It got into the pail mostly but the rest sunk into the drain that was positioned at the centre of the ditch. Once he was done, he hung the pail over the crackling fire to warm the water. He then dragged a big, wooden basin over to where Amthos was sitting.

“Are you really going to wash my feet?” asked the Orc Avatar.

“I just bought these fine boots for Your Highness,” answered the bandit. “I don’t want you sullying them with your bare feet at least until after you’ve tried them once.”

“Bought? You bought me boots?”

“With what little gold I had. And yes, I bought them. I did not steal them.”

“My disbelief does not come from the fact that you bought me boots,” answered Amthos. “It stems from the fact that you would buy me boots at all.”

Kaltan let out his trademark, bellowing laugh. It was surprising that such a loud guffaw could come from someone that was not an orc. “I would be a fool to believe that I could ever repay your master. The man walks around in a suit of armour embedded with gold and carries a pouch with potentially infinite gold. He has fed us. Shown us mercy. Saved us from Alliance patrols and put a roof over our heads. I’ll be damned if I ever go into a form of eternal debt under him. Kaltan of Coppperhew repays his debts!”

Amthos was both impressed and a little confused. “And how will washing my feet and buying me boots somehow repay this debt of yours?”

The bandit glanced over to the fire and huffed loudly. He whispered a quick spell and the flames immediately surged and steam began pluming out of the pail. With practiced hands, he grabbed the pail’s handle and poured the warm waters into the basin in front of Amthos. He needed a second helping of water and went through the same process over again, never once answering the orc’s question.

Once the basin was modestly full, Kaltan took Amthos’ feet and dunked them into the water. The mighty red-haired orc sighed in relief as the warm waters immediately relaxed tense and seemingly frozen muscles. It felt so nice to have feeling and sensation return to them and he shuddered, almost wishing that warmth to rise further up his legs and seep into the rest of his body.

Kaltan’s rough, calloused hands gently plucked his right foot from the murky, dirty waters and began gently scrubbing the dirt and grime off them with a cloth. Memories of days when servants would do the same for him back at the Reinhardt Estate filled his mind. When the sweet, flowery scent of massage oils filled his nostrils, he returned to the warm summers where he basked in the sun while his feet were washed, scalp massaged and every need tended to.

The gentle rubbing of Kaltan’s hands against his sore feet was heaven especially when his thumbs kneaded his sore soles. Tense muscles finally relaxed and Amthos relaxed, leaning back slightly and letting out a soft sigh. He felt the bandit leader’s hot breath on his toes for a moment and noticed the man was scrutinising his feet intensely. What was so fascinating about his big, green orcish feet that could have the man so intensely focused.

Then, just as he was going to ask, Kaltan moved to his left foot. Days of being on the road alone instantly washed away and made him long for the days when he had worn comfortable boots. Again, he felt Kaltan’s breath on his toes. Perhaps he was just trying to dry them. He smiled to himself and wiggled his toes a little, just to let the hot air reach every part of his foot.

Then he was surprised by the warm touch of the human’s lips on his big toe.

The orc jerked forward but kept his foot where it was. Gold eyes wide, he watched the bald human tenderly caress his big, veiny feet, lovingly coaxing Amthos’ toe deeper and deeper into his mouth. Eyes shut, Kaltan ignored the rest of the world. Suddenly, the Orc Avatar wasn’t sure if the blush was from being completely inebriated or something else. The rising tent in Kaltans striped trousers seemed to confirm Amthos’ suspicions.

But he couldn’t deny that the odd sensation of his big toe sinking into the lips of the bandit wasn’t somewhat arousing. Somehow, the gentle caress of Kaltan’s tongue on his toe sent waves of heat and pleasure all throughout his body. His heart began racing, his might chest rising and heaving with deep, sensual breaths. The bald, scarred man slowly opened his eyes… and seemed to come to his senses.

Kaltan pulled his lips away slowly, his cheeks bright red. With a dry cloth and averted gaze, he gently dabbed the excess oil from Amthos’ feet before pushing the basin aside. Confused, Amthos only watched as the bandit ritualistically took the fur boots and gently slipped them onto the mighty orc’s feet. They fit perfectly.

“My debt is repaid,” grunted the bald brigand. He rose from his kneeling position and turned away. “Whitepeak is about three days northwest of here. On the map it looks closer but you’ll have a long trek upwards. Be careful. The snow is treacherous no matter what time of year.”

Amthos didn’t feel right leaving it there but he had no idea what to say. This was a man who, not long ago, wanted to mug and kill him and then just a few moments ago, he was sucking his big toe. This was a man who would not be indebted to anyone; a man who could bring the best out of his men and had survived in the wilds away from civilisation for so long.

“Come with me.”

Kaltan froze halfway to the doorway. Then he gave the Orc Avatar a bitter laugh. “You and your master might be strong enough to survive the trek but we are humans. Hungry humans who can barely hold ourselves up. It was by the grace of your master that we survived these past few days. We will not be able to make the trek.”

Amthos rose from his bed. “But what if you were not humans?”

The bandit shook his head. “So you are back to this tale again. The Gods gifted you with a blessed cock that can turn anyone – human, dwarf or elf – into an orc.” He fully turned towards the orc. “You expect me to believe that?”

The Avatar crossed his mighty arms. “I do, in fact. And I am willing to put a wager on it.” Amthos ran a hand down his crimson, furry coat. “I will wager you my coat. It shields me from the eyes of the Triad and all forms of magic that would seek me out. Whether you believe it or not, it looks expensive and I wager what you get when you pawn it will earn you enough to live comfortably at least until the year’s end.”

Kaltan tilted his head to the side slightly. “And what do you get if your powers prove true?”

“Your loyalty,” Amthos answered. “Yours and your men. I’ve seen rangers who pale in comparison to your skills in the woods. I did not see you and neither did Winterpaw. Only Samuel detected you but he is akin to the Gods themselves. You inspire loyalty in your men and treat them as brothers not soldiers. Even as a bandit, you maintain honour. I want you in my horde.”

The bald, scarred brigand laughed, shaking his head. “Your dreams are truly spectacular, orc.” His eyes grew distant, a small smile on his face. “You remind me of Findain. He had grand dreams as well.” Puffing out his chest and strode towards Amthos. “Very well. So I must drink your seed then?”

“My seed must just merely touch you,” he said with a shrug. “If you would just let me…”

The bandit suddenly seized Amthos’ half-erect dick, making the orc freeze. “Ah but I would not be a very good bandit if I did not see something so magnificent and attempt to take it.” Kaltan’s eyes roved Amthos’ strong chest. His hand reached out, brushing across the light dusting of hair across the hard, iron-like pectorals. Those very same hairs stood on end at the warm, sensual touch. “You truly are a magnificent orc.”

Though well past twenty summers in age, Amthos had never known the touch of a woman. He was the second son of Arben Reinhardt after all. Luxaeus was the Paladin and sworn to chastity. Arben wanted his last remaining heir to go to the most eligible woman and he touted that Thomas’ seed was not to be spilled except for the womb of the perfect woman. Of course Thomas had found pleasure in the privacy of his own room but the courts did not need to know that.

But this was the first time someone apart from a God would have filled him with pleasure. His flesh ached for it. He gently cupped Kaltan’s chin, feeling its strong angled point through the thick beard. Gravity pulled their lips together and both men felt the barriers of hesitation fall to the battering rams of lust and desire.

The taste of the human was exquisite and he wanted more. He pulled away, a smile across his strong, square jaw.

“I am sure you will make for a handsome orc as well,” he rumbled.

Kaltan gave him a knowing smirk and leaned forward, his lips finding purchase around Amthos’ nipple. The young human-turned-orc didn’t understand what such contact would do but when the bandit’s lips touched against his sensitive flesh, he gasped and his cock immediately grew plump with blood and desire.

Kaltan wisely pressed the throbbing member against Amthos hard abdominals. They both watched with mild amusement as that big, green appended grew longer, thicker and more vascular. It snaked its way up his abdominals like each solid block of muscle was a marker until it reached its height. Kaltan let out a soft moan of desire as Amthos’ cock reached the base of the mighty orc’s pectorals and came up to the bandit’s nose.

“Ah,” sighed the man with a bemused smile. “Sadly, this is not one sword I will be able to ‘take’.”

Amthos gave him a puzzled stare. “Are you going back on our wager?”

“No. It is an expression. I…” Kaltan affixed him with a stare. “You… You’re not a virgin, are you?”

The orc would’ve been embarrassed at the accusation but simply said, “My seed is made for one purpose and one purpose alone. The Gods decree it.”

“Of course.” The man gently took Kaltan’s hand, his own big hairy paw just closing around two of Amthos’ fingers. He led the orc to the bed and gently guided the Avatar to lie on his back against the straw mattress.

Kaltan unbuckled his trousers and removed his leather vest. He unwound his sandals and tossed them aside, revealing his fully naked form. Amthos marvelled at the many scars the man had across his back, arms, chest and legs. His awe was cut short when Kaltan took hold of his throbbing dick and leaned down, running his tongue along the underside of the orc’s dick.

Amthos gripped the quilt tight, grunting heavily with the rush of pleasure that burst from the bit of contact. He could already feel his balls churning with eagerness to spill his seed.

“Aaaah…” he moaned.

“So soon?” Kaltan asked, seemingly disappointed. “I suppose we cannot expect perfection from the Gods.” He shrugged and leaned down towards the darker flesh of Amthos’ cock head. “No matter. It has been a pleasure, orc. But I will have your cloak.”

Doubt crept through Amthos’ mind. As Samuel had warned, the Gods exaggerated. What if the gift to turn the Triad’s dark spell upon themselves was just another exaggeration? Then again, if that were the case, the cape was likely another embellishment. If he were proven wrong he would have nothing to lose… save perhaps the foundations of his mission.

No.

He was an Avatar of the Gods.

He would make Kaltan an orc. He would make a believer out of the bandit.

Amthos grit his teeth together and seized the back of Kaltan’s head, forcing the man to take as much of his cock as he was able. The bald brigand gagged for a moment but quickly, and expertly, subdued his gag reflex as the huge, orc dick that stretched his jaw to the limit was shoved down his throat. Amthos supressed a primal roar and kept his hips from jerking violently as his hot, sacred seed came pouring out of his balls and shooting up and out of his cock. Kaltan choked on the first blast, the cum spilling out from the corners of his mouth and dropping against Amthos’ legs in faintly glowing, white droplets. But the bandit drank the rest even as Amthos poured at least three tankards worth of seed down the man’s throat.

The Orc Avatar sighed in contentment as the warming sensation post orgasm washed over his body.

Kaltan gave his cock one last lick before straightening and wiping his lips. “Well, I must say I have never had the excuse of being the chosen of the Gods as an excuse to bed a man before. But I must say it works. I ought to use it some time.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Turning back towards Amthos, he held out a hand. “I’ll be taking your cloak now.”

Then he saw his own hand.

Both Amthos and the stunned cutthroat saw the faint discolouration at the tips of Kaltan’s fingertips, the faintly light-grassy green splotch just at the tip of his middle finger. Kaltan pulled his head back and lifted his hand to eye level. Both men watched in awe as the splotch grew and rapidly spread across his hand. Like Amthos, his nails grew harder and a solid, thick yellow. Muscles, sinew and bone rapidly grew as Kaltan’s hand throbbed into its new size.

The bandit held out his hand at arm’s length, looking at Amthos with panic in his eyes.

“You spoke truth! I… I…” His voice suddenly grew deeper and he immediately seized his throat. His fingers touched against one another and he realised that both his hands were rapidly growing.

Amthos saw the panic in his eyes and quickly sprang from the bed, holding the emerging orc’s shoulders firmly. “Peace, my brother,” he said in a soothing but commanding voice. He gave Kaltan a reassuring smile. “As I said. You will make for a handsome orc.”

Then he leaned down and pressed his lips against Kaltan’s.

The bandit’s eyes boggled. The deep, brown orbs flashed with divine power. Golden light seared his irises, permanently turning them into a bright yellow. In that moment, the Gods of Old touched the mortal man’s soul. It was nothing as intense as their interference with Amthos but it was enough to make him believe and realise the truth.

In that instant, Kaltan gave himself fully to the horde.

He threw himself completely at Amthos and both men toppled to the ground and a grapple of sweaty, lusty bodies. Primal lust and savagery erupted from both men as their desires rose to a feverous pitch. Their lips, locked in passion, began ravaging one another, tongues contesting for ground and desperate to taste one another. Kaltan’s hands hungrily explored every taut muscle and firm vein all over Amthos’ body while the Orc Avatar took pleasure in the sensation of every inch of the human’s body giving way to the new, orcish shape.

Amthos’ hands seized Kaltan’s ass. The muscles beneath his fingers grew taut. All semblance of fat vanished rapidly and all he could feel was rock-hard muscle that refused to move a single inch. He felt the orbs of muscle grow larger and larger, filling up his palms until he could squeeze them like juicy, firm, ripe fruit ready for the picking. He eased the cheeks apart and instinctively pushed his middle finger into the primed hole. Kaltan threw his head back and let out a cry not quite human but also not quite orc as yet either. He took that as encouragement and pushed his finger deeper and deeper. Kaltan’s dick, already so painfully erect and pushing up against Amthos’ gigantic member squirted precum happily as the Orc Avatar massaged the man’s prostate.

His spare hand roved down Kaltan’s legs, feeling the touch of the man’s thighs. The soft skin suddenly began vibrating. Hard steel cords grew deep within the man’s skin, ballooning his thighs out and shaping each one with the perfect outlines of each muscle group. Coal would turn to diamonds in the crevasses of his quads. The coarse hairs along his legs simply fell off with the heavy shaking, leaving his skin a light green, tougher than leather but completely hairless. Amthos’ hands roved down the man’s calves, running a finger along the horseshoe shape the succulent muscles made as they swelled and fed his feet with more and more mass and size. Their toes intertwined in pleasure, the warmth from their entangled legs urging them both into their sexual frenzy.

Kaltan began madly thrusting his dick against Amthos’ but with each thrust, he grew taller and his needs grew. Before long, Amthos’ cock slipped behind the man and without a moment of hesitation, Kaltan speared himself on the mighty member. He arched his back, letting out a lusty cry. Through tear-filled eyes, he looked down at his own stomach. A wall of rock-hard abdominals quickly formed before him, the sizeable eight blocks growing bigger, thicker and wider rapidly.

He took another look at his engorged hands, watching thick veins pump the orcish transformation up his forearms, through his biceps and into his shoulders. Pure, unbridled pleasure burst from every part of his body and with the Orc Avatar lustily thrusting deep into him, he was being overwhelmed. He seized his own nipples, giving them a powerful squeeze with his might fingers. They immediately turned a dark green and the flesh around them matched the lighter, forest green of the rest of his body.

The bandit’s pectorals burst forward, swelling in size to match his titanic biceps. His back flexed and straightened, adding several inches to his height and finally allowing him to take every inch of his Avatar’s might cock deep into himself. The emerging orc propped himself up so that he purposefully rode the might orc’s cock, feeling the full might of the blessed Greenskin’s thrusts through his very system.

His own cock surged with lust and desire. Thick ropes of precum poured out of him, carrying not only the contents of his prostate but also the vestiges of his dwindling human form. It grew thicker and thicker. As with all men of the Alliance he was circumcised. But as his dick grew longer and greener, with big, purple veins coursing along its massive length, his foreskin slipped over the pink head. It would slide over the tip for one moment and then the mushroom-like head would surge out another inch, looking a little greener than before. Over and over again, the two parts would play a game of cat and mouse until Kaltan’s cock was a big, green, orc dick pouring out precum from his enormous orange-sized balls like a faucet.

The bandit threw his head back unleashing a mighty, primal roar.

The green tinges of his transformation swept up through his thick, muscled neck and over his face. His jaw jut forward. Two burst upwards, two mighty spires and testaments to his masculinity. A thick brow gave him a look of savagery but his bright, golden eyes remained bright, sharp and intelligent. The dense beard around his chiselled, angled jaw grew less and less wild. It straightened and grew out longer. They wind themselves into braids; one long central braid to accentuate the angle of his chin and two other, smaller braids flanking it. The monument of hair fell directly at his might collarbone. Then, his scalp began to tingle. Dense, black hair quickly began growing, tumbling down his shoulders to form a waterfall of inky darkness that reached halfway down his mighty back.

Kaltan shut his eyes one final time as a human.

When he opened them next, he let out another, deafening roar, now as a full orc. His cock sprang with joy, cum blasting out of the uncut member and rocketing seed across the entire room and descending upon the fire. The torrent of his softly glowing seed immediately doused the flames, plunging them into relative darkness.

Then Amthos let out his own roar as his second orgasm came blasting from the Orc Avatar’s cock. Without the need to hold himself back for fear of breaking human frame, the orc’s cry shook the very walls and pushed a torrent of cum deep into the former bandit with enough force that Kaltan was almost shot completely off the thick, throbbing shaft. The newly made orc could only continue his roar, forming a chorus of ecstasy with his Avatar, as their cocks sent out jets of joy.

Kaltan never wanted to come down from that incredible high. Even as reality began descending upon him as his balls spent every drop of cum within them, he revelled in the pleasure of having such a powerful orgasm and being speared by a true, mighty orc touched by the Gods themselves.

He sighed in contentment, curling affectionately around his lord and Avatar. Amthos’ equally powerful arms wrapped around him, keeping them both warm. Their lips immediately met. The ravages of orcish lovemaking were left behind for gentle, affectionately kissing as both men drifted off into slumber, their destinies permanently tied to one another.

******

“Men, I know this is hard to swallow.” Kaltan marched in front of his dumbfounded troops. “But I am Kaltan. Just greener. And bigger.” He chuckled softly as he flexed one enormous bicep twice as large as a man’s skull.

He grinned broadly, showing off his tusks as he turned towards Amthos. He clapped the Avatar on the back with a massive hand. “This crazy son-of-a-bitch is telling the truth. He has the fucking power to turn anyone who drinks his cum into fucking orcs. And let me tell you boys, it feels amazing!”

No one spoke. The staff of the tavern were also gathered in the courtyard where Kaltan’s men stood in front of the two might orcs. Kaltan was the one with the lighter green flesh and long, black hair and beard. Amthos was the darker shade of green with fiery red hair. Even Bort stood far from the congregation but close enough to hear what Kaltan had to say.

“I don’t expect you boys to follow me everywhere,” Kaltan said. “But I’m going to tell you right now, the world is going to change. For the better. War is on the horizon. You’ve been stealing, killing and sneaking with me for years now. You know me. I don’t want to fight. I hate fighting a war just as much as I love big feet.” He winked as Amthos. The Avatar turned away and seemed to actually blush as and shuffle uncomfortably in his big, fur boots.

Continuing, Kaltan gave off a bellowing laugh and said, “But we can’t help it. War is coming. Change is on the winds and we’ve got to pick a side. Now I don’t know about you but the Alliance treated us like shit. We served the Holy-fucking-Triad for years and they threw us out on technicalities or because we did something that we felt was right. I don’t see a reason to be fighting for them if that’s the kind of shit we need to live with.”

Kaltan gestured at the cups filled with softly glowing, white man juices in front of him. “So I’m inviting all you good men. Join me. Join Amthos. Join the orcs. We’re going to tear this world apart and we’re going to cut a slice of it for ourselves!”

There was no doubt that was Kaltan in that enormous, brutish body because his men instantly cheered and charged for the cups. They downed it all without hesitation. Kaltan just had that kind of effect on people. Within moments, the eleven bandits were doubling over and lunging at one another as their lust and passion grew to extreme heights, their bodies bursting from their clothes in various shades of green, tusks jutting from their jutting lower jaws and muscles erupting to stretch their new, hide-like flesh taut.

Bort felt the presence of the No One beside him and found the strength to turn away from what was quickly becoming an orgy of Orcs. Many of his wait staff turned and hurried back into the keep in disgust but a few remained, fascinated.

“I think this counts as him growing up, don’t you think?” Samuel said

“He’s become an orc…” Bort murmured. “And not just any orc either. Orcs are at most seven feet tall. They’re giants amongst orcs.”

“The Gods saw fit to give this new breed of orc a slight advantage over their previous designs.”

“But he’s going to war!” Bort protested, gnashing his teeth together. “He could die.”

“He could. So could you. So could Amthos. So could everyone. It’s just a matter of ‘when’?”

“Don’t you care?”

Samuel looked Bort straight in the eye. “Kaltan once asked me what my surname was. I told him that I had many. Would you like to know what my true surname is?”

The frustrated and teary-eyed tavern keeper shook his head in exhaustion. “What?”

“Reaper.”

Bort froze.

“Death is part of life, Bort. It brings change. Whether or not Amthos is successful in his quest is up to him. I am here to merely advise and it is up to him to take my advice or not. I will help where I can but ultimately it is his choice as to where he leads his people, where he leads the horde.” The No One suddenly produced a vial of white fluid and placed it squarely in Bort’s hands. “Every choice has its consequences but every choice also has an owner. Will you be the owner of your own path?”

As the two talked, Amthos, his cock erect, found his another thick member being brushed up against his own. Kaltan wrapped his big arms around him and rubbed his nipples sensually. The playful Orc leaned against the Avatar light, his tongue dancing across the darker Orc’s pointed ears.

“We’re not going to join them?” cooed the former bandit.

“Have sex out here in the open in the courtyard of a rundown keep?” Amthos scoffed. “We’re not savages. Let them cum to their hearts content then let us rest and be ready. The Hard Spear tribe awaits.”

“All business. I like that. My charming self will go well with that.” He waved a hand through the air. “Think of it, Amthos the Avatar and Kaltan of Copperhew! Conquerors of the world!”

Amthos gave him a sly smile. “You should rid yourself of your human name. You’re an orc now.”

“Hmmm…” Kaltan mused as he ran his hand through his beard. He loved having a full head of hair and such a long, luscious beard. “Well… How about Knaatl?”

“Oh? What does it mean?”

The former bandit shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I just took the letters of ‘Kaltan’ and jumbled them around.”

“What? Where did you get that idea?”

The newly named Knaatl gave him a puzzled look. “Isn’t that where you got your name, Thomas?”

Amthos opened his mouth to protest when a realisation hit him. He spun.

“SAMUEL!”

*******

Eranius watched quietly as the crowd cheered for blood. Yeritnia was a good woman. An elegant elf with a heart of gold. It was a pity that heart bled for an orc. The greenskin had wandered too far south and had wandered into Yeritnia’s farm. She took him in, nursed him back to health. Affections apparently blossomed and she let herself get deflowered by the brutish beast. When her father found out, he alerted the guards. The orc had a mercifully quick death.

Yeritnia… Well, she lay rotting in Eranius’ dungeon for the past few months. Now, she was suspended in the air on a cruel execution device known as the ‘Triad’s Justice’. It was a brutal machine. Three golden wheels were arranged in a triangular fashion. The two at the base were connected to shackles attached to her arms and legs. The last was wrapped around her neck. Each of these wheels were attacked to a large, golden triangular frame. Naked and weeping, she was held over Execution Square where others had died before her in order to appease the Triad.

The people of Raonoak had gathered in the square like so many times before. They piled up around the large stone mural that depicted the emblem of the Holy Triad. There were stands rising several storeys into the air around the square, each of them packed with countless celebrants. All of them were demanding blood.

“How many times has this now been, Qurron?” Eranius sighed. He stood in a special box overseeing the entire affair. He did not believe in sitting for this occasion. A seat was reserved for those who were comfortable. He was far from comfortable with the death of a girl who merely showed some human decency to an orc.

“It is just our seventh,” answered his best friend.

“It seems like we’ve slaughtered an entire country.”

The War Mage rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “Take heart, milord. You are appeasing the Gods and the people of Raonoak are grateful for it.” Qurron clapped his hands. “Ah, and we begin.”

Eranius stared steelily at as the executioner professed Yeritnia’s crimes before the crowd. Originally, it had just been the crime of being a Greenskin Sympathiser. But now there were other crimes added. Adultery. Theft. Even conspiracy and murder. It didn’t matter if they were true or not. The crowd demanded her dead.

“How do you plead?” demanded the executioner.

For a long moment, the tall, naked woman with the dirty golden hair didn’t say anything.

Then… she began to laugh.

“I plead guilty,” she hissed, loudly so that everyone could hear. The crowd fell deathly silence. There was something… chillingly calm about the way she spoke. Her blue eyes rose and met Eranius’. Even over a hundred yards from the centre of the square, Eranius could make out those icy, accusing orbs that set his heart to freeze.

“I have seen the truth,” she exclaimed, tossing her head back. “The Triad is a lie! The true gods are returning aided by Star-Eyed Wolf!” She swung her head from side to side, gazing at the frightened crowd. “Rejoice all you filthy sinners! The true gods are forgiving! The White Woman will carry your souls regardless of your sins if you would let her! She will save you all from the parasites that you worship!”

Qurron stepped forward. “Enough of this! Kill her!”

The Triad’s Justice began to groan and move. The two wheels at the base of the triangle began to turn. Huge claws dug straight into Yeritnia’s arms and legs particularly at the joins of her elbows and knees. She screamed but she was smiling, laughing. Even as the device began to brutally tear her arms and legs apart from where the spikes were embedded she continued to laugh.

“Look for the Steed of the End!” she screamed, her laughter practically hysterical. “She will descend, she will bring the armies of truth and justice to the walls of the traitors and deceivers! Rejoice! Rejoice!” She grinned, her eyes wide and manic.

Eranius realised that she wasn’t staring at him.

She was staring straight at Qurron.

“All souls will be saved except for those who willingly throw themselves into the Triad’s ever-hungry maws!”

Then, at long last, the final wheel began to turn. Several spikes were brought swinging down, embedding themselves straight into the elf’s spine. As all feeling and sensation left her body, the two wheels at the base gave one last might tug. Her forearms and calves were severed from the rest of her body. Blood showers down onto the mural below. The crowd broke into a cheer as the last wheel turned. Her head was brutally wrenched from the rest of her torso, her spine ripped from the rest of her body in a fountain of blood.

The people of Raonoak saw the death of a traitor and a blasphemer.

Eranius… he just saw her grinning features… and how she stared with intent at Qurron.

*******

“Raaaaaaaaaargh!”

Knaatl rolled his eyes and easily sidestepped the wild blow from Amthos’ legendary mace. Using the flat side of his blade, he smacked the Avatar’s ass through his cloak playfully. That only angered the big, green orc but Knaatl had grown accustomed to his leader and lover’s moods. He turned his back to Amthos, spreading his arms helpless and began striding away.

“I don’t understand why you keep shouting like a wild animal. You announce yourself well before you attack.”

He heard Amthos growl without even turning around. “It’s because it helps me focus! Wraaaaaaaa!”

Knaatl sagged his shoulders and even had time to look to the other members of his band helplessly before ducking the wide, arcing blow of his Avatar and immediately spinning around. His rusted scimitar glanced across Amthos’ chest, slicing across his chest. No blood was drawn. The blade didn’t even cut through the skin but it still proved an annoyance and he hurt something more than Amthos’ body; his pride. Amthos stumbled forward and with just a well-placed shoulder, the big orc tumbled over Knaatl and landed flat on his back in front of the former Alliance patrolman.

“Combat isn’t about the savagery, roh’Fedar,” he said, switching to orcish for a brief moment. Samuel had been teaching the rest of the band orcish while they trained and practiced with their new bodies. Most of the band had come to call Amthos ‘dak’rahn’ which roughly translated to ‘warchief’. But Knaatl had come to call him ‘roh’Fedar’ which was an affectionate nickname that had no real translation. The closest in the Alliance Tongue was ‘little newborn stag I shall care for with all I have’. It was commonly used for fathers to their sons.

The former bandit held out his meaty arm and Amthos grabbed his forearm, allowing himself to be pulled up to his feet.

“You must remain calm,” Knaatl recited. “Level-headed and able to think clearly. Everything is a weapon in combat not just the fancy stick you’re holding in your hand.” He patted his elbow and then his shoulder. “Every part of your body can be used in a fight. If you can bite a man’s ear off and it will grant you an advantage, do it. Kick them in their jewels. Poke their eyes out.”

“There is no honour in such tactics,” Amthos murmured.

“Honour dies the moment the battle starts, roh’Fedar.” Knaatl patted his shoulder. “Now, get some rest. I seem to notice that we are missing one armoured demigod.”

Samuel was mysteriously missing though his steed remained alongside Winterpaw. Amthos nodded and rumbled softly as he joined the others who were either resting to sparring with their own weapons. Knaatl turned and sniffed the air. His senses had become sharper with his transformation but trying to find the No One was still somewhat difficult. He carried a strange scent that reminded him of crystals. It wasn’t that he knew how a crystal smelled just that when he caught a whiff of it, the thought of crystals immediately popped into his mind. He found the trail and followed it through the underbrush of the forest.

They had put some distance between them and Rootfang Tavern to prevent any risk to Bort so they were in dense, wild forests now. The air was still and cold. Snow had seeped past the dense canopy of trees and lay in splotches on the ground. Clearings were hard to find and they camped within the forest itself. That made them harder to find and track.

Knaatl found Samuel standing amongst the trees with a bow in his hands, a quiver over his shoulder. The knight drew an arrow slowly, pulling at the oddly black bowstring. He barely took aim and let it fly. The arrow embedded itself halfway through the trunk of an ancient oak. Knaatl let out a soft whistle of awe. It took some time to learn how to whistle again with his new tusks.

“A mighty bow there, hel’Midar.” He used the term that loosely translated to a respectful way of saying, ‘respected advisor’.

“It is not quite finished,” answered the knight. Knaatl detected movement beside the No One and noticed the big, green serpent slithering towards the man. Before he could shout a warning, the knight bent down and held out his hand towards the snake. It eagerly slid up his arm, curling around his armour and sliding over the bow. To his awe, the serpent twisted and curled around the length of the bow, its flesh solidifying into a shimmering green metal with his fanged jaws settling over the mouth of the bow.

Again, the No One drew an arrow but this time, the tip of the weapon erupted in a burst of green magical energies, hissing like a serpent and dripping with an ethereal, green liquid. He let the arrow fly. It struck the same oak with the same might, embedding into the trunk as hard as the other. But within moments, the oak’s trunk began to blacken and rot. Knaatl could hear the ancient plant groan in anguish at it died from the venomous wound.

Samuel lowered the weapon as the tree crumbled before him. Knaatl could just stare at the death before him. A shower of blackened leaves fell all around the No One while armoured man just stood there, watching as the mighty oak began splintering apart. Branches as big as a man crashed to the ground in a rain of dead leaves. The moment it collided with the ground, the structure just burst into a shower of dark splinters.

The No One turned to a stunned Knaatl.

The orc feared he would be the ‘live test’ of the weapon. Instead, he found the bow being offered to him.

“I have it on good authority that you much prefer a bow to a scimitar.”

Knaatl took a step back, holding up his hands. “Ah, no thank you, friend. Bows are too expensive to maintain. Arrows do not come cheap after all and neither do bowstrings! And they snap too easily. Against a sword they will crumble.”

“The wood is made of an ancient birch hundreds of years old. It has been compressed into this form. Once it stood tall enough to join the very many brother and sisters of this wood but now it has taken this shape. It is harder than any steel man may make. Diamonds will crack against its surface. The Gods, old and new, will look upon it with envy.”

The No One ran a finger along the emerald serpent decorating the dark bow. “The snake has come to embody treachery, sin, hatred and venom. This one has taken that to heart and now infuses itself into every arrow that flies from this bow. Its poison will flow eternally and death will chase those that its fangs bite.”

He then plucked at the jet-black string. “The bowstring is made from the night itself. Plucked from a starless night, it is darkness incarnate. Silent. Uncaring. Unbreakable save for the light of dawn. When enshrouded by the night, it will strike swiftly, silently and stronger and it would during daytime. Even the Alliance’s strongest walls will not stop an arrow launched by this bow at night.

“And as for arrows…” He held up his spare hand to his side. The black splinters of the crumbled oak suddenly sprang to his gauntlet. Knaatl realised that each one was the exact length and dimension for an arrow. “One merely need to strike any form of wood with the bow you will have numerous shafts for use.” He plucked one from the air and immediately nocked it. Each one had the grooves for an arrow. The arrow immediately burst into the venomous magical energies.

Knaatl held up his mighty hands in surrender. “A piece of wood will fly but an arrow needs fletching to strike true.”

Samuel lowered the arrow. “Very true.”

There was suddenly a loud cry from somewhere high above, a deafening screech that ended with a peel of thunder. Knaatl looked up and his jaw dropped in shock as a tremendous shadow fell over him. A brilliant, electric-blue bird came descending from the sky as big as his shoulders were broad. It circled high above and slowly descended. Samuel turned his back to Knaatl if only to show the plain, leather quiver across his back.

The bird, with purpose and determination, landed firmly on the leather. Its mighty talons merged with the brown, silky surface, its form seeping deep into the material. Its wings wrapped around the quiver affectionately and its head formed a strong clasp just above the rim of the quiver. Suddenly, it wasn’t a plain quiver anymore. It was a beautiful brown with the silvery-blue emblem of a bird.

Samuel slipped the black pieces of wood into the quiver where they briefly disappeared behind the head of the magnificent bird. When he plucked an arrow once more from the quiver, it suddenly had a ragged, wicked looking arrowhead akin to lightning and brilliant blue feathers for fletching.

Knaatl was in awe. He didn’t hesitate to take the weapon when the No One offered them to him once more.

“What power do you wield craft such gifts that the Gods themselves would crumble in exhaustion to make?” he asked.

Samuel chuckled softly. “Your Gods are obsessed with making something out of nothing. They are turning energy from the faith and actions of their worshipers into substances that they can use to further inspire others into believing in them. But I take what is already there, the ancient birch, the snake, the thunderhawk, and merely draw from them what makes them above and beyond the Gods.”

“You elevate them into the godhood and turn them into weapons?”

“No, my friend.” Samuel rested a hand on his shoulder. “If the Gods could control everything and everyone without effort, there would be no free will. They try to enforce their will upon the world, a world they may have created, but just like the child who grows to turn away from their parents, this world is no longer theirs. That is why they live in the heavens and not amongst their worshipers. But they still cannot live without their children. They are the elderly parents with countless riches who need their offspring to work for them while they pay their hard work with gifts, blessings and fortune.

“I do not bribe the world to help me.”

“Then how did you make this?” asked Knaatl, gesturing at the magnificent bow.

“I asked.”

******

Duskvenom he called it.

Duskvenom and Grimight. Two powerful divine weapons that only seemed to inspire the strength of the band of orcs all the more. Knaatl had told the rest of the band that the Gods had sought fit to gift him with the weapon through Samuel but Amthos had sensed that this was not the entire truth.

“Samuel made the weapon for you, didn’t he?” asked the Avatar, lounging in the tent he shared with his lover. Regardless of how sore they were from training, they had taken to ritualistically coupling every night. When Knaatl had returned with Duskvenom, he had been eager to test the strength of Grimight against the enchanted bow. It came as a surprise that the bow held firm even after a full blow from the divine weapon.

Knaatl set aside his bow and quiver and crawled into the small, tarp tent that Bort had given them. The money that Samuel had paid the tavern keeper more than paid for the food the bandits-turned-orcs had devoured and the mess they had made. So he gave them all supplies and a few spare sheets that the orcs turned into makeshift shelters. Most of the orcs combined their sheets into a single tent where they all slept under for warmth but Amthos and Knaatl kept one for themselves. Samuel slept under the stars and gave his supplies to the others.

The touch of Knaatl’s flesh against his own sent Amthos’ cock rising. Just the mere touch of one another got both men quickly rising with desire. Their lips met and tongues danced together before either of them got another word in. Amthos’ fingers gently caressed the bruises Knaatl had suffered from their sparring sessions and in turn, the older orc gave the Avatar’s firm rump a squeeze.

“How did you guess?” asked Knaatl as they broke their kiss. His fingers drew circles around Amthos’ nipples, the hairs across the darker green orc’s chest rising as if each strand was eager to press itself against the archer.

“Grimight feels divine,” he replied. “It feels warm. Right. When I hold it, I can feel the grace, might and love of the Gods from it. But with Duskvenom, I feel…” He trailed off. It was hard to describe what he felt about the weapon but at the same time, he didn’t want to offend Knaatl.

“Like it is purely of this world?” Knaatl finished.

His eyes brightened. “Exactly! Grimight is just –”

“From the Gods but Duskvenom feels firmly grounded in our realm. It has exaggerated qualities but it is still of Tirinead.”

Amthos nodded and nuzzled Knaatl affectionately, their bare chests pressed against one another. Knaatl lapped at his broad neck, bringing a moan from his lips. He would not be able to hold sensible conversation for very much longer before he would be ravaging the other orc. Reining himself back, he gently pushed himself away from his lover.

There were things he wanted to discuss.

“I am fond of you, Knaatl,” he confessed. “I do not want you to feel restless. I know I frustrate you as I learn how to control my body and I do not learn as fast as your men. For that I apologise.”

Knaatl chuckled softly and brushed his cheek with the back of his hand. “You are young, roh’Fedar. Your mind is not filled with useless thoughts and burdened with old memories.” He frowned slightly, sensing Amthos’ distress. “What bothers you?”

The Orc Avatar sat up, prompting Knaatl to do the same. He crossed his legs though his cock still seemed determined to be in contact with Knaatl and it bent towards the big orc, dripping precum onto Knaatl’s leg.

“I am going to forge a horde and a nation for the orcs,” said Amthos. “But I do not want you to fade into nothingness, another face amidst the thousands of orc faces.”

“Thousands?” Knaatl repeated, giving him a coy smile and lifting one bushy eyebrow. “You think too small, roh’Fedar.”

“Tens of thousands?”

Knaatl let out his bellowing laughter that rippled through Amthos and lifted his spirits. That bright, mirthful laugh was the fuel that ignited his soul, giving him strength. The orc clapped his shoulder and slipped his hand around the back of Amthos’ neck. He pulled the two of them together, their foreheads pressing together as Knaatl gave him an ambitious grin, their golden eyes meeting.

“The last census claimed that there are over two billion citizens of the Holy Alliance. That only accounts for those who are within the Alliance borders. There are still those bandits like we were and those who live past the borders, away from ‘civilisation’. When we unite the tribes, gather the northern wildmen and any other bandits, you will have a horde stronger than any before!”

Amthos had never considered the wildmen. They were humans who lived outside the Alliance borders. Many of them lived amongst the Fangs of the World in small encampments and tribes similar to the scattered orcs. They usually kept to themselves. According to historians, they found patches of greenery within the mountains and settled within, rarely venturing forth.

“Then there are the northern elves,” Knaatl continued, “and the dwarves with them. If we conquer them all, bring them into the folds of your horde, we will have numbers that make the Alliance pause!”

The Orc Avatar seized the sides of Knaatl’s head and pulled their lips together into a passionate lock. The two orcs tumbled over one another, their hot, sweating bodies pressed against one another and cock throbbing with need. He drew his tongue across Knaatl’s bare chest, tasting the salty sweat across the smooth mound, feeling the dense muscle rising and falling beneath his tastebuds.

“You inspire me,” he rumbled softly, pressing his head against the big orc’s chest. “You are my spear tip. My vanguard. My arrow that paves the way for the rest.”

Knaatl hummed contently, running his thick hands through Amthos’ fiery red hair. “And you are my Avatar. You lit the fire that sparked my ambition.” He leaned down and gently kissed Amthos’ forehead. “I will never forget that.”

******

While the rest of the camp slept, Samuel remained standing at its edge, far away from the where those unfortunate enough to be charged with the watch were positioned. The No One stood silently amidst the lush greenery, alone in the darkness. The air grew incredibly still. No owls hooted. No bugs dared to be within ten feet of him. The trees themselves tried to bend away from him and the shrubbery even purposefully tried to shrink away from the No One.

The ire of the Gods just had that kind of effect.

“Do you seek to usurp us, Writer?” accused the raspy, deathly voice of Malgorin. The Great Dragon of Death’s cloying breath wafted into the forest. Grass withered and died beneath Samuel’s feet. “We asked for your help. Would you turn your back on us and betray us?”

The No One opened his eyes. “You are wrong there, Malgorin. Your Creator asked me to help because you had lost control of your creations.” Those same deep, blue eyes narrowed. As they did so, his pupils morphed, transforming into eight-pointed stars with the edges cutting into his irises. Even Malgorin flinched at the gaze that befell upon him. “It was under the guidance of your pantheon that the Holy Alliance had been formed. You inspired Malstraad to forge an alliance with Pal-Kordain and Illirodur. You sent that divine comet to bless them with everlasting youth and weapons and arms that could cut through everything you had created. Those very same weapons were used to carve a path to heaven and into your own hides.

“I do not come here at your behest. You beseeched your Creator and she asked me to help. I am here to help her and not you.”

The collection of exiled Gods fell silent for a long moment.

“You equip mortals with weapons that rival Malstraad’s greatsword, Kordain’s shield and Illirodur’s staff.”

Samuel scoffed at the accusation. “And your point?”

“You chastise us about turning mortal men into our enemies which we will humbly accept. However, you do the same with Knaatl and Duskvenom_.”_

“But that’s where you’re wrong. I made Duskvenom yes and Knaatl currently wields it but he is not immortal or ageless. One day, he will die. Duskvenom will pass on to someone else or even be destroyed.” He looked to the heavens, to the Gods. “You deities believe yourself above the other inhabitants of this world but you are mortal just like them. To my point, you gave mortal men power and they took your place. There is nothing separating you from them apart from your forms. In the eyes of your Creator, you are all the same and she treats you all with the same gentle hand as she always has. I will not have you turning Amthos into an egotistical man-god fat on your dreams of vengeance and promises of grandeur.”

“He is our Avatar!”

“So are the others and I can see you creating shackles around them; granting them immortality and everlasting life so long as they remain loyal to you and praise your name. But I will not let Amthos or the others think he is some demigod above the others he rules. Duskvenom, Knaatl, the others and I will ensure to that. We will remind him that he is mortal just like them.”

“We will not have you corrupt what we have strived so long, sacrificed so much to create!”

“You did not create him!” Samuel snapped angrily. “You did not lie with his mother. You did not raise him as a father. You did not teach him, hunt with him, grow with him. You may have forged the world and set the rules by which he lives but you did not make him.”

“We gave him his body! His steed, his cape, his mount and all his powers!”

The No One calmed. “But that is not who Amthos is. If you define a man by the colour of his skin, the size of his muscles or what spells he can cast then you are just as foolish as your Creator claimed you to be.”

“He is who we decide him to be! We set him on this path and he will be the Avatar of the Orcs as we have designed!”

“His occupation will be the Avatar of the Orcs. But he is also Knaatl’s best friend. He is Luxaeus’ brother. Arben’s second son. Would you snuff all that out in your attempt at vengeance?”

“We will take what is rightfully ours!”

“And become the very Gods that you hate and revile?” Samuel turned his back to the apparition. “The Triad drained the divinity of the heroes that you created to help them to become the deities that they are now. They raised these children explicitly for war and then took away from them what made them special for their own goals. Will you be the same? Will you send your Avatars to war only to discard them once you have obtained your rightful place?”

The Gods didn’t respond.

“Do you feel that? All of you?” asked the No One. “That is shame. There are no Gods. Only mortals. Be proud of that and take comfort that maintaining and understanding your own mortality is what will destroy the Triad once and for all.”

“How can you claim such when you are immortal yourself?”

Samuel laughed softly. “I may appear like a god of gods to you but just like how the orcs pray to higher powers, so too do I look upwards to a power greater than my own.”

The No One strode away back to the camp.

“There is always someone better.”

******

When morning broke, Amthos found himself shivering slightly. His naked body was still very much wrapped around Knaatl but the parts of bare, muscled flesh untouched by the dark-haired orc yearned for physical contact and warmth. He pried open his bleary eyes and chuckled softly as evidence of the previous night’s passions marred Amthos’ beard. The big orc mumbled softly at the noise and opened his eyes slowly. Knaatl smacked his lips and took in Amthos’ glistening body. He immediately leaned down and they shared their first kiss of the morning.

Wordlessly, they emerged from their tent to the sounds of the rest of the camp rousing. The rest of the band emerged from their communal tent, evidence of their own exciting night. Samuel was already seeing to both Veronica and Winterpaw, brushing them down while Winterpaw was nuzzling him for attention. The knight really had a way with animals.

Knaatl began barking orders. He sent a few men to hunt before the sun fully rose. With the Fangs of the World so close, the sun remained hidden behind the towering mountains for a little longer yet. That allowed the hunters to catch some still sleeping prey unawares. Those that were not out hunting were preparing themselves for training and Samuel’s lectures.

Amthos declared that he wanted to bathe and he subtly hinted that Knaatl should join him. The bandit-turned-orc shouted a few more orders before following him to the nearby river that flowed down from the Fangs. It was a shallow river for orcs but most men would’ve have the gently flowing rivers rise up to their necks. For the orcs, it just their abdomens. The water was crystal clear but also bitingly cold.

Both men slipped into the stream and ducked their heads beneath river’s waters. They emerged a moment later, muscled green flesh glistening with droplets. Amthos dipped beneath the river a few more times just to make sure every strand of hair on his body was soaked. When he emerged, he saw Knaatl struggling to undo the braids of his beard.

Laughing, he reached over to his lover. “Here, let me help you.”

Amthos deftly began undoing the braids as he idly, pressed his body against Knaatl’s. The other orc wrapped an arm around his broad shoulders, bringing them closer together as he washed the cum stains out of his thick, black beard.

“Why do orc men braid their hair so?” asked Knaatl. “The men of the Alliance never grow their hair longer than past their chins.” He ran a hand through his luscious, silky, black mane. “Not that I mind having a full head of hair again.”

Drawing upon the cultural knowledge he had gained from the Gods, Amthos explained. “Orcs are often bald as they have hair. It is not so much how much hair one possesses but rather how one wears it.”

Knaatl laughed softly. “Ah, reminds me of the wenches back in Copperhew. We never got the most expensive tunics or dresses being a mining town but the women always made do with what little they had. Even the most tattered of rags would look fantastic in the hands of a skilled seamstress.”

Those words made Amthos wonder what kind of society he would build once he had put together his horde. He had always dreamed of having his own castle with servants but he didn’t think he would ever be able to look at another servant the same way after how he was treated while he was branded. In fact, that old scar began to itch. After weeks of not thinking about it, the brand suddenly felt like it had been freshly applied. He pressed a hand over the dark greenish symbol which would have appeared like a birthmark had he not known any better.

Knaatl’s strong hands around his fingers broke him from his musing. “What was it like? Being branded like that?”

Amthos curled his hand around his fellow orc’s. “Terrible. I was betrayed. I am the second son of the chief engineer of Raonoak. With my older brother a Paladin and my father’s great contributions to the fortress that is Raonoak, we were on the level of minor nobles. I was made a squire to Lord-Knight Eranius von Karksteid, ruler of the city. Had I remained, I probably would’ve become a knight myself and given lands.”

He sighed softly and leaned back against Knaatl’s arm. “But after a particular feast where I misspoke, I was accused of being a Greenskin Sympathiser. Even Lord Eranius turned on me. He branded me himself. My father testified against me and my beloved brother was forced to stay silent and watch as my skin was marred.”

Knaatl ran a finger around the large image of two orc tusks crossed. “The emblem of the Triad should be present with the mark as well…”

“It was also enchanted to burn anything from obscuring the brand. But Samuel somehow undid that. He erased the mark of the Triad and left me with this alone.” He ran a finger over the markings.

His lover made a thoughtful noise. “I think it would make a fine emblem for our horde, don’t you?”

“This?” he laughed. “A deformed mark of a Greenskin Sympathiser?”

Knaatl let out his trademark, bellowing laugh that made Amthos feel like he had wings that could lift him into the air. “Why not? How do you think the armies of the Holy Alliance will feel when that mark on thousands of banners marching towards them?” The big, dark-haired orc suddenly got up, spreading his arms wide. “The brand that would ostracise their own, marking those who bear it as scum and as Greenskin Sympathisers turned against them. Their own would flock to us! It will be a symbol of hope and righteous fury! Millions will bend a knee to you just to suck your cock!”

Amthos then came to the realisation that that there were potentially two billion people that he would have to cum for to turn them into Orcs. Even a fraction of that many people seemed exhausting to him. Though he was granted godly stamina, he wondered if he could just keep pumping out his seed to feed the masses like that.

“Knaatl…” he began.

Then the air suddenly sizzled.

Golden energy sprang through the air and whizzed past Amthos. The Orc Avatar’s eyes widened as the smile on Knaatl’s face suddenly faded and his jaw went slack with shock. The smell of burnt flesh cut through the crystal clear scent of the waters. Blood dripped down the big orc’s back and soaked into the river.

The former bandit suddenly lurched forward, falling face flat into the river.

“Knaatl!” Amthos screamed, leaping to his feet. “Who –?”

He turned in time to see a man dressed in the gold, blue and green of the Holy Alliance standing a short distance away. A bald head with a golden circlet marked him as one of the clergymen of the Alliance. His light chainmail and billowing robes supported that. In one hand he held a flail that doubled as an incense burner. In the other, crackling golden energies of Holy Magic. Flanking the man were two footmen wielding blessed swords and shields.

“Foolish sentiments from an orc with dreams too big for his small skull,” the cleric scowled. “Seize him! Red-headed orcs are rare and I know some tribes that could be drawn out at the news of one in our custody.”

“You will not take me so easily!” Amthos roared, rising from the stream angrily. He immediately regretted leaving both his cloak and Grimight back at the camp but he heard the sound of fighting in the distance. He guessed these patrol men were likely the same as those that they had avoided before arriving at Fangroot Tavern.

“An orc with spirit,” scoffed the cleric. “Very well. Let the Holy Triad’s divine justice put you in your place!”

Beams of light sprang out from the fingertips of the robed man, lancing out and striking Amthos’ bare, broad chest. The beams stung and pushed the Avatar back, briefly winding him. They would’ve cut the flesh of an ordinary man orc but it seemed that the blessings of the Old Gods truly did grant him some magical protection. He let out a bellowing roar and charged straight at the men.

Stunned that his spell did not work, the cleric took a step back while his guards charged forward. They swung their blades at him. The impact of the weapons stuck but they did not pierce his flesh. Fury blazed behind his eyes; eyes focused entirely on the cleric. This man had killed Knaatl! He would have his revenge.

With a roar, he seized the cleric by his collar and lifted him into the air.

“You will pay for what you have done!” he bellowed.

WHAM!

Stars flashed before his eyes and a dull pain emanated from the side of his head. He blinked a couple of times just in time to see the cleric’s flail come crashing down upon his head.

WHAM!

While no mortal weapon could pierce his skin, it could still cause damage with the mere impact. He felt dizzy as another blow came.

WHAM!

He dropped the cleric and staggered back.

“Weapons will not cut his flesh!” shouted the cleric. “But the blows will still weaken him! Beat him down! Now!”

Grunting, Amthos turned.

WHAM!

The blow from a soldier’s shield was strong enough to force him to spin around. The other soldier’s shield came slamming into his face, causing him to stagger towards the cleric. His anger was dulled by dizziness, confusion and pain. Somehow, he managed to lift his large hands towards the cleric but his vision was blurred and he could barely make out his foe.

“By the light of the Holy Triad,” scowled the man, lifting his flail. “Down, creature!”

WHAM!

*******

“KaLtaN oF CoPpERheW.”

At the sound of his old name, Knaatl opened his eyes. Fear filled him. A great pit of darkness loomed in front of him. It was like looking directly at an eclipse. The great circle of darkness was ringed by an ethereal fire of white light. However, embedded in the middle of the circle, nearly consuming it entirely were the three intertwined triangles of the Holy Triad.

True horror came, however, from the creatures growing from the Triad.

A gruesome mess of eyes, tentacles, flailing, emaciated limbs and gaping maws lashed madly out from the emblem. Their tentacles, tipped with tiny, almost baby-like hands reached towards him, stretching across the vast emptiness towards his very soul.

“No… No please…” he pleaded.

“wE sEe YoU.”

The voice seemed like three people speaking at once, the voice rattling his very core. Those slimy, black limbs closed in on him, inching closer and closer until one of them hovered just an inch away from his eyes.

“No… I beg of you…”

Someone grabbed his shoulder and suddenly yanked him back.

The creature writhed and immediately pulled back.

“YoU dARe InTErfErE!? YoU StOP oUr FeASt!?”

Knaatl wasn’t sure what the creature was. It… looked like a woman of pure white dressed in a billowing gown. But where the fabric started and ended compared to her alabaster flesh was impossible to tell. Her features were completely featureless save for her long, silky, white hair that crowned her angled features like a halo.

“He isn’t dead yet,” said the creature.

“He IS ouRs!”

His saviour turned to look over her shoulder at Knaatl. Even without eyes, he knew she could see him.

“Then come get him.”

Suddenly, Knaatl felt a pressure build in his chest. It came rushing up through his throat and bursting out of his lips in the form of warm, clear waters. He opened his eyes as he coughed and spluttered, emptying his lungs of all the water that had filled it.

“Easy, easy,” Samuel soothed gently, pressing a gauntleted hand against his shoulder. “Sit up. Get it all out of your lungs.”

Knaatl rolled onto his side, spewing the remnants of the water out of his system in ragged coughs. Through blurred vision, he took in a clear river where he had been bathing with Amthos. He recalled making a grain proclamation… and then pain. No limb on his body could move and he suddenly felt very, very cold.

Then that terrifying vision.

Groaning softly, he sat up, seeing the relief of the other orcs of his band. There were new scars and bruises on his men. Only seven of them were standing and his heart sank.

“Everyone is alive,” Samuel soothed, patting his shoulder. “The attackers included. Most fled once everyone rallied together and we captured five of them. However…”

Knaatl’s eyes widened. “Amthos!” He broke into a coughing fit, spluttering more water out between his lips. Samuel offered him some wine from his wineskin and he drank from it deeply. “Where is Amthos?”

“They took him on the merit of the colour of his hair,” said the No One, rising from his kneeling position. “The Holy Alliance still holds the belief that the tribes would sacrifice much to get a red-haired orc back from capture. An old and tired tactic that the tribes have wizened against but the Alliance seems to still hold as truth.”

Knaatl grunted and staggered to his feet. “Then we must rescue him at once.”

“In time,” said the knight. “We must tend to our wounded first.”

“There is no time!” bellowed Knaatl. “If Amthos falls to the Triad –”

“The cleric and his escort will not survive the night,” Samuel said darkly. “And Amthos will not be long separated from you. That I swear.”

Knaatl growled at him. “The longer we spend standing here doing nothing –”

“You know these woods better than anyone else, Knaatl. You all do. You are few in number. The cleric has magic and his thirty or so remaining patrolmen. You are still outnumbered. Our best hope of rescuing Amthos is playing intelligently instead of rushing forward blindly.”

He shook his head furiously. “But they could be getting farther and farther away!”

Somewhere above, a crow cawed. Knaatl looked up and was stunned to see a flock of the birds circling overhead. On some silent command, the winged beasts suddenly broke off into different directions.

“They can run,” Samuel said darkly, “but they cannot hide.” He turned to the other orcs who were relieved at that their leader was still alive. “See to your wounds. We will need at least three of you to stay here to guard our prisoners. The rest will come with us.”

“That’ll leave us with even less men to save our Avatar!” protested one of the orcs.

“The value of a man is not in his size or strength but in his deeds. Fight with the strength of ten men and you will outnumber and outmatch the patrolmen.”

“And the cleric?” asked another.

Samuel’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Leave him to me.”

Knaatl tried to step forward but suddenly felt cold and weak. His very bones felt like they had turned to ice and every muscle in his body turned to mush. He stumbled forward, barely catching himself on his hands and knees. The other orcs gave him one last look of concern before turning to make their preparations.

Samuel draped a cloak over his shoulders. It was Amthos’ cloak. He gripped its edge in frustration.

“I should’ve seen them,” he scowled. “I should have protected him.”

“Should is the word of a man with regret. Think about what you can and will do and act upon it. Don’t fret about would you could have done.”

Knaatl’s hands tightened into fists and he gave the knight a firm nod. Finding strength in limbs once more, he rose to his feet, lifting his head proudly. He felt the sun’s warmth bearing down on him but that only brought to mind that dark star with that tentacle horror.

“I saw something while I was asleep,” he whispered softly, afraid that the others would hear him. “It was…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what it was.”

“That was the Triad.”

He went cold again and gave the knight a stunned stare. “What? But… how? They… That thing was…”

Samuel averted his gaze, eyes filled with pity. “The three ambitious men who sought to become gods died the day that they achieved apotheosis. What was left was a single aspect of their personalities that’s grown into a malignant force that feeds and grows stronger on the plight of Tirinead. The Gods of the Triad that the Holy Alliance worships merely perpetuate a cycle of war to grow ever stronger and those that die as a result of conflict, no matter how small, are devoured.”

“It was going to… eat me?”

When Samuel didn’t respond, Knaatl knew the truth.

“The Alliance is a lie…” snarled the orc. “Its people are slaves to war and they feed that… thing.”

“One of the many reasons we must save Amthos.”

******

Amthos woke tied down by heavy manacles bound to stakes in the ground and weighed down by weighty, iron balls. Arcane runes were drawn all over the dark, metal surfaces keeping them in place. It seemed that his magical immunity ensured he was untouched by the mystical but anything else around him remained fully functioning.

His head throbbed but he could see that he was inside some sort of lavished tent. There was a bed not too far away with scrolls, books and holy emblems scattered everywhere. This was likely the quarters of the cleric.

The tent flaps sprang open and the cleric strode in unaccompanied. Seeing him awake, the cleric smirked. “My name is Jarinius don Normoor. I am a Priest of Malstraad.”

“A War Priest,” scowled Amthos. “Frontline troops that use their magic to strike down foes instead of heal like the Guard Priests of Koradin or the Death Priests of Illirodur.” He bared his fangs at the man. “Little more than the War Wizards.”

Jarinius took off his gauntlet and strode calmly, haughtily towards Amthos.

WHACK!

… and then struck him across the cheek with that very same glove.

“Do not liken me to the faithless wizards,” sneered the cleric. “I draw my magic from the Gods themselves. The wizards use their magic in the name of the Gods but use heretical arcane arts instead of divine will.”

“You are all the same to me,” Amthos spat. Blood mixed with his saliva. “Foul warmongers who see a fight just to appease your bloodthirsty Gods.”

“High praise from one from the battle hungry orcs.”

He pulled up against his chains, snapping at the cleric. “The orcs are crippled and merely trying to survive! We fight to survive and feed our bellies! You fight to get a rise!”

The cleric laughed darkly. “I could not expect a simple beast such as yourself to understand the nuances of faith. Your kind only knows bloodshed and war, after all. You cannot even muster the strength to unite as one and remain cowards, selling yourselves to the lords and knights of the frozen keeps and raiding when you could have focused on agriculture and cultivating the last remnants of your culture.”

“You pushed the orcs to the frozen wastelands of the Fangs!” Amthos shouted. “There is nothing but death there!”

“And yet the wildmen survive. Dwarves and elves continue to exist. You and your people are simply too dense and stupid to make the best of the land you were given by the grace of the Holy Triad. Instead you take from others what they have rightfully built for themselves.” Jarinius scoffed and turned his back to the orc. “Disgusting, filthy, Greenskins.”

“You know nothing about us!” roared Amthos.

The cleric rolled his eyes and fetched a dagger from a table. “Oh no?” He drew the silvery blade from its sheath, examining it with baleful glee in his eyes. “I have spent ten years fighting here in the Fangs of the World against your kind. I have learned much from the many, many, many orcs that I have captured and sold.”

The Orc Avatar’s blood went cold. “Sold?”

The human’s icy blue eyes turned to him. “Why yes. Orc hide is surprisingly tough. Stronger than the best leather. Cured and treated, it makes for some of the best armour or durable clothes. They are particularly popular on the western front near the Neverborn Desert for being light, strong and a suitable substitute for metal armour. Metal tends to cook our men if worn in the scorching sands, after all.”

The cleric tapped his finger against the tip of the blade. There was no change to his expression as he drew blood. “Orc tusks make for fine jewellery. Though not as popular as it used to be, they are in high demand now that the orc populace is dwindling.”

Just imagining orcs without their tusks was enough to make Amthos weep but the powerful Avatar refused to show any weakness to this base creature. “Monster!”

“Monster, am I?” The cleric approached him, swinging the blade around until it was pressed up against Amthos’ neck. “You should gaze upon your own reflection before accusing others of being monsters.” He leaned down, lips hovering over Amthos’ pointed ears. “I hear orc blood is used by the Wizards to create potions of strength and concoctions that can drive men into a frenzy. It is highly sought after.”

Amthos’ eyes went wide. Jarinius drew pressed the blade against his neck and drew it slowly across his skin. He could feel it scrape against his throat but it didn’t breach his flesh, thankfully. Seeing the cleric’s look of surprise, Amthos grinned.

“I will not be gutted like a pig for your amusement, Alliance whore! My skin will not break to your blades!”

The cleric scoffed at him. “Perhaps not.” He levelled the weapon directly at Amthos’ eye. “But the spirit is something that is just as breakable as bone.”

“You will never break my spirit!” he spat back. “I am the chosen of the Orcs! I am the blessed of Garodrash!”

“You invoke the false Gods.” Jarinius suddenly seized the back of Amthos’ head, pulling it back. “I assume you consider your fiery mane to be a sign of their favour then?” He levelled the blade just against his scalp. “Well, let us see if they still protect you as I strip you of your pride!”

Amthos sneered at him.

“Do your worst.”

******

Samuel’s birds had found the cleric’s encampment further down the river. They were far from subtle and had erected a rough palisade to protect themselves from potential retaliation by the orcs. They posted guards and even moved a few rocks around to form a sort of small tower from which their archers could pick off anyone who approached. But in the cover of the night, that tower afforded little assistance.

Knaatl remained crouched amongst the reeds of the river. The water sapped the warmth from his body but his mighty heart was pumping so hard that it didn’t matter. Flanking him were two of his men and Samuel who oddly moved silently and swiftly despite wearing full armour. The rest of the orcs had gone naked to avoid generating as much noise as possible. They had smeared mud over their green bodies to avoid being seen even in the near darkness.

Alliance patrolmen remained within the borders of the palisade with a single tent erected at the centre of the camp where the cleric clearly resided. A tremendous cry erupted from that same tent, Amthos roaring in defiance. The orcs remained still. Their experience as ambushers and bandits were coming into play.

In the darkness, Knaatl could feel the great power emanating from Duskvenom. Across his back, he had strapped Grimight for when he would meet with his lover and leader. He itched to send an arrow into the neck of the closest patrolman but knowing that these Holy Alliance troops were just deceived by foul Gods stayed his hand for the moment.

“Send the signal,” he whispered.

Samuel nodded and whispered into the ear of the raven perched on his shoulder. The bird gave him a single nod and immediately spread its wings. It launched into the sky, high above and invisible in the night. It let out two, shrill caws, paused, and then followed by another three in rapid succession.

Arrows hissed quietly through the night, striking torches and lamps. Torches toppled over and were extinguished in the damp ground. Lamps were shattered, spilling their oil onto the ground. A cry of alarm rose but all eyes were turned immediately away from the outskirts of the camp and towards the threat of fire.

The orcs immediately sprang to action, racing forward while no one was looking. Before anyone could register their presence, orcs were climbing the palisades easily and dragging men down to the ground.

“Alarm!” someone shouted. “The orcs are attacking!”

Knaatl knew he had precious few seconds before the camp was fully organised so he rushed across the grounds. Humans fumbled for their weapons and he took the opportunity to slam his mighty fist right into their faces, knocking them out in an instant. His men were doing the same. Injuring but not killing where possible. An arrow whizzed by his ear and he immediately turned towards the central, makeshift tower. If he had to guess, this camp had been here for a while, likely as a form of raiding outpost for the Alliance.

“The tower!” he roared. “Topple the tower!”

His orcs rushed towards the edifice with the three archers there desperately trying to fend them off. Using the discarded shields of those that had attacked their camp earlier, the orcs guarded themselves from the barrage. But the shields were small for the gargantuan orcs and the occasional arrow slipped through. They were not enough to critically injure the thick, muscular orcs however and they continued to charge.

Knaatl vaulted up the tower’s walls, hoisting himself up the fifteen feet to the top. The three archers screamed and desperately fumbled for their daggers. He bowled all three of them over, sending them hurtling over the edge and into the waiting arms of his orcs. They were caught but subsequently knocked unconscious.

From his new vantage point, Knaatl drew Duskvenom and sent magically imbued arrows into the disorganised and scrambling humans. His keen eyes noticed a man about to fell one of his orcs. As bitter as it was kill the lad, he valued the life of his fellow orc more. His arrow struck the man’s neck. If that wasn’t enough to kill him, Duskvenom’s poison quickly crept through the man’s system, turning his flesh black. The soldier toppled to the ground, curling up into the foetal position as his flesh and bone turned into charcoal and he died.

Movement from the corner of his eye brought the cleric and his two guardsmen emerging from his colourful tent. With a snarl, he immediately drew another arrow and let fly. One of the guards sprang in front of the man and lifted his shield. The arrow slammed into the metal but even the hardened steel darkened and crumbled like ash in the man’s hands.

“Foul orcish magic!” snarled the cleric, turning to Knaatl. “Begone!”

Knaatl immediately hurled himself off the tower. Searing light exploded from the cleric’s fingertips and washed over the top of the tower. His orcs roared as their eyes were seared by the blinding light. Knaatl hit the ground, rolling against the hard-packed ground. His legs and shoulders ached from the impact but the blood pumping through his body kept him from succumbing to them. He was immediately on his feet, drawing another arrow.

Then a chill ran through his spine.

A stone rose from below and hovered in front of his eyes.

The fighting immediately ceased. The stakes of the palisade were wrenched from the ground, rising into the air. The stones of the tower peeled away from one another, soaring into the air and hovering there. Tents, discarded weapons and even coals of the nearby fires were lifted into the night sky by some immeasurable force.

Samuel strode past him, silent as a ghost and with his cape of the night billowing behind him despite the still air.

The cleric immediately saw the source of the disturbance and his guards readied themselves. Brilliant light encased their blades as they enchanted them with Holy Magic. The holy man brushed them aside and strode forward, his divine mace dangling by his side.

“You dress too finely for an orc,” said the man. “A mage-knight turned Greenskin Sympathiser then?” He spat in disgust. “Nothing incenses me more than humans turning away from the one true faith due to misplaced pity for these pathetic beasts.”

As the great tent of the cleric was lifted into the air, Knaatl noticed the figure crouching on his knees and bound to the ground where the tent once stood. Holding back a cry, he rushed immediately to Amthos. Tears filled his eyes as he noticed that the great Orc’s once proud, red mane had been shaved from his head. He wrapped his arms around Amthos’ broad shoulders and the Avatar leaned against him, sobbing quietly.

“You look upon the orcs like they were ants,” Samuel said. “But you are ants to the very Gods you worship. You say that it angers you that I pity lesser creatures yet your Triad toys with you, the gnats on their world.”

“Blasphemy!” screamed the cleric. “You besmirch the love and justice of our gods!” He lifted his flail into the air. “I, Jarinius don Normoor, War Priest of the Malstraad the Aggressor, do hereby cleanse the world of Tirinead of your foul taint, orc-lover!” Light spilled out from the spiked head of his flail.

“I think not,” Samuel said calmly. “Will you please kneel?”

Without warning, every man from the Holy Alliance immediately fell to their knees. Even Jarinius did the same even though his face was still twisted in fury. Only when the dirt was soaking into his chainmail for a few seconds did he realised what he had just done.

“Now, if you would be so kind, drop your weapons.”

The Alliance troops immediately obeyed.

“Wh – What sorcery is this!?” stammered Jarinius. He visibly tried to get up but his body did not seem to obey. “H – how…!?”

Samuel strode forward, looming over the cleric. “It is simply amazing what one can achieve if one were to simply ask.”

The cleric scowled at him, baring his fangs like a rabid dog. “Foul sorcerer! You will die for this! The Gods smite you where you stand! May you and your children, all your kin, die in plague! May all your spawn die at birth and writhe in everlasting agony! Let the darkness devour your soul and –”

“Enough.”

Samuel gripped the priest’s forehead. “Allow me to unite you with your Gods. Kindly die.”

Jarinius’ eyes suddenly went empty and his body went limp. He slouched in position and his jaw fell slack. From where he stood, Knaatl could hear the dying breath of the cleric escape his lungs. Samuel gave the man’s forehead a small poke with a finger and despite being completely dead, the cleric’s spine arched backwards at an uncomfortable position, his knees still firmly placed into the ground.

The guards beside him screamed in terror but could not move from where they were rooted.

“Ah yes. I did ask you to kneel, did I not?” Samuel said casually. “Please, stop kneeling. That looks uncomfortable. All of you.”

Jarinius slumped to the ground, finally released from Samuel’s command. The other human troops immediately found their legs once again responsive and stumbled away from the No One. Orcs surged towards them, seizing the fearful and cowering men and marshalling them towards the centre of the encampment.

Samuel approached Amthos and Knaatl.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Amthos stared balefully at the corpse of Jarinius. “He deserved far worse.”

“I can think of nothing worse than being sent to the Gods he put so much faith in,” answered the No One.

“I can.”

“No,” Knaatl whispered softly. “No you can’t.” He gently kissed Amthos’ cheek. “Come. Let us get these chains off you.”

******

With the defeat of the Alliance patrol, Amthos stood proudly in front of his men, his orcs. No one died from his band though two men from the Alliance had perished in the melee. The others remained bound and gagged at the centre of the camp. The might Orc Avatar headed up to the top of the makeshift tower, looking to his men with Knaatl to his right and Samuel to his left.

“You all fought bravely,” he bellowed. “All to save me. I’m sure the Gods are grateful but so am I.” He turned to Knaatl, smiling brightly. “I dare not think what would have happened had you not come but know that I am forever grateful.”

The orcs cheered, thrusting their weapons into the air. They had pilfered the weapons from the Alliance patrolmen. Their old rusted weaponry were discarded and they even stripped armour from the soldiers and slapped them onto themselves, at least taking what would fit over their hulking orc bodies. Most of their captives were simply reduced to their britches or even completely naked.

“You have proven yourselves true orcs today,” he said, beaming with pride. “So it is today that I hereby name you all the Nightusk Tribe!”

The orcs stared at him. Even if they looked like orcs, they were still human in mind and soul. The significant of becoming a tribe was alien to them.

“It is a great honour,” Amthos tried to explain. “You all now have a name.” He clapped Knaatl’s shoulder. “And this is your new chieftain, Knaatl Nightusk!”

He sensed even Knaatl’s confusion and attempt at enthusiasm and he found himself starting to flounder.

“It is part of an orc’s identity to be part of a tribe,” Amthos tried to explain. “An orc without a tribe is an orc without a name, an identity. Now that you are tribe, you have that identity!”

The cheer that came from the newly named Nightusks was incredibly forced and weak. He could see the captive Alliance soldiers rolling their eyes and quietly snickered to themselves.

Then Samuel stepped forward.

“Humans are born already named,” said the No One. “A man is born bearing their father’s name and all the deeds and history that it carries. But you, as orcs, carry much more. You now carry the name of your very tribe with your names.” He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the gathered orcs. “Your deeds, your words and your lives are bound to that of your brothers. Each of your achievements will warm the hearts of the orc holding the shield beside you and their hands will always be there to lift you up should you fall.

“Take pride, Nightusks, for you now have the capacity to not only forge the futures of yourselves but of that of your entire tribe. Look to your right. Look to your left. Each orc you see before you is now your brother and together you will forge a destiny that will make the Gods weep in pride, your enemies cower in fear and all generations to come to whisper in awe! And it all starts this night, with this victory! You are the Nightusks and your story begins now!”

The orcs broke into a tremendous cheer, their cries and howls rattling the very trees and sending forest critters fleeing. Amthos regarded the No One in awe and his eyes drifted to the Alliance soldiers. He was stunned when he saw envy in their eyes and some were even looking to Samuel with something akin to longing.

Samuel turned to Knaatl. “They are all yours, chieftain.”

Knaatl grinned at him and nudged Amthos with an elbow. “Your speeches need work, roh’Fedar. You are fortunate to have the No One beside you.”

“I am indeed,” Amthos chuckled softly. He nodded towards Samuel. “Thank you. I will learn one day how to perfect the art of speech.”

The knight nodded at him and started heading down while the orcs started chanting ‘Nightusks’ over and over again. “There is always room to grow.”

Amthos followed the No One to the humans that remained bound and restrained. As the orcs began ripping open kegs of beer and preparing a feast, the No One roamed from face to face, searching for something. His eyes settled on one man and he reached over, pulling the gag from the man’s lips.

“If I were to offer you the opportunity to become an orc, to join the Nightusks,” said the No One. “Would you take it?”

Amthos reeled in surprise. “Wait! You would convert him?”

“Depends on his answer.” Samuel locked gazes with the man. “Would you?”

The soldier glanced to his comrades who were all shooting Samuel a piercing stare. Then he turned back to the No One. In a soft whisper, he made his reply.

“Yes.”

A chill ran down Amthos’ spine and he had the eerie feeling that Samuel was smiling beneath that helm of his.

*******

Eranius was just having his evening meal. Everything tasted like ash these days. The idea of slaughtering men who were convicted of little more than petty theft left him physical ill. But during the War of Apotheosis, the then Holy Triumvirate had done the same. This purge of crooks and sympathisers to the enemy was what granted them the boon that filled their plates would an abundance of food and birthed the heroes that would lead them to glory. So perhaps doing the same albeit on a smaller scale would see them through the dark days that Qurron constantly alluded to.

He feigned interest in the chatter of his lords and ladies of the court of Raonoak but truly, his mind was elsewhere. The celebration was still in full swing and at the very least, they were not running low on supplies. Perhaps the Gods had blessed them with a boon after all given that the troubles of the world seemed to stop at the borders of Raonoak.

Still, as lord of the city, he could not help but fear what else could be coming.

Were they simply ignoring the inevitable?

Should they be preparing for war instead of whittling the days away drunk in revelry?

In his dark thoughts, he barely realised when his new squire, some skinny fellow from a minor house, came rushing up to him, leaning towards his ear and speaking in a whisper.

“Milord, there’s news from the north. A War Priest has been found dead.”

It took a few moments for the words to fully register in Eranius’ mind but by then, he had continued eating as if nothing had happened. Keeping up the façade, he nodded towards his squire and ate for a little more, drinking until he was satisfied that he could muster the illusion of having a full belly. He excused himself from the congregation of lords in his grand hall and followed his squire into the adjacent hallway. Qurron was waiting for him.

“What’s this I hear about a dead priest?” he asked.

“A War Priest,” clarified Qurron. “One positioned in the borders far to the north. Jarinius don Normoor. A cruel man but one who upheld the virtues of our most Holy Triad. He was found dead alongside two other men of his patrol.”

The War Priests were almost zealous in their faith to Malstraad the Aggressor. They actively sought out battle and could usually be found in the borders of the Holy Alliance trying to push the Alliance’s reaches ever farther. It was no surprise that a War Priest was so far up north. The surprise came that one was found dead. War Priests were incredibly powerful. Where Wizards relied on both science and arcane mastery, the focused efforts of a Priest’s faith allowed them incredible spells and blessings from the God that they devoted themselves to. In short, Priests were highly specialised and capable of reaching into the vast wells of the Triad while Wizards were more versatile to any situation.

Both were not very easy to kill.

“Do we know how?”

“From all appearances, it was a mutiny,” answered Qurron with a shrug. “We didn’t find any of the other troops and little evidence of them. We did find evidence of orcs but I doubt even a band of fifty orcs could truly defeat the Priest. From the reports, I believe that Jarinius was killed by rebellious men. The traitors took what they could and fled. The orcs came later to pick off the rest like the raiding carrion that they are.”

Eranius’ lips twisted in disgust. “No matter how much we ease the worries of our people within Raonoak, there are still those up in the mining towns that still feel the corruption of dissent and doubt.”

“Jarinius was dead for at least a few days when he was found. News reached my ears this evening through a magical missive. The men who did this are likely long gone.”

“But we must send a message,” said the Lord-Knight. “Order some men. They are to do a tour across the mining town under our guidance. They are to take any prisoner and immediately execute them. Their corpse is to be hung over the entrance of every town as a message that the Holy Triad does not take too well to mutiny.”

Qurron bowed to his lord. “Very well, milord. It shall be done.”

Eranius didn’t like the idea of posting corpses in front of the villages but he feared that if hardened men had the balls to kill a War Priest, a devout follower of the Holy Triad, then the corruption had spread father and faster than he had feared.

Something must be done if peace was to be maintained.