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Chapter 4: Shalan’dar

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Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #5

Unlike some other nations that are divided into states or countries, orcs are divided purely into tribes. They all share the same territory under the banner of Amthosruud and there are no defined borders between tribes. This means that regardless of what tribe you belong to, you are generally welcomed into any land so long as it is within orc territory.

_There is still a sense of tribal pride, however. Each tribe has their own customs and traditions and some tribes do take issue with one another. These can be settled in a variety of ways but are generally resolved peacefully as orcs hold the preservation of their race and culture as their highest priority. Perhaps the greatest difference amongst the tribes like many of the former non-Alliance species, is the means of initiation. _

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The reports were somewhat concerning. Scouts far to the north reported great migrations of orcs pouring towards the far reaches of the Fangs of the World. Many of the border forts reported their own orc populations abruptly leaving, giving little notice or explanation. Even the tribes that raided Alliance lands or remained outside of Alliance law were seen moving and purposefully avoiding patrols and easy-to-attack targets.

Something was driving them, calling them, and Eranius was starting to feel a little uneasy with the development. He stood in the vast Atlas Chamber of Raonoak castle. Every Alliance castle, large fort or location of strategic importance had an Atlas Chamber. Though each Chamber was of differing size, they all had the same features. The ceiling was curved and enchanted to appear like the current sky with orbs of light representing the sun and moon as necessary. At about chest height, cloud formations hovered to match the current weather patterns. The ground was divided into equally shaped blocks and on each block was the enchanted to appear like the very world of Tirinead. Lush forests, unforgiving deserts, snowy peaks and proud cities all unfolded before him as if he were a giant striding upon the world.

Raonoak stood at his feet. Perched on the side of a mountain, it seemed so small compared to the titanic Fangs of the World which breached the cloud cover.

“Flag,” he demanded, holding out a hand.

His newest squire strode forward, clutching a tall pole with a red flag perched at the top. The youth passed through the magical illusions without difficulty, a faint chiming noise sounding as his feet stepped over border towns and small dukedoms. He took the flag from his squire and then strode forward a few steps. He placed it just a little bit north of Raonoak where he had heard that some orcs from Duchess Mirimed’s lands had abandoned their posts in a bloody conflict and were now heading north.

He then cast his gaze northward.

“Where are you all going?” he mused.

The doors to the Atlas Chamber sprang open and he lifted his gaze past the enchanted map. He repressed a groan as Orradin came charging in with Qurron not too far behind.

“What’s this I hear about orcs marching to the north?” bellowed the hero.

Even after twenty years since the end of the War of Apotheosis, Orradin was still a powerful being to behold. Though the divinity had been sapped from him to allow the Triad to ascend to godhood, the hero still benefitted from some godly gifts such as slowed aging. In many ways, he still appeared to only be within twenty to twenty-five summers old despite being at least forty. His blonde hair was cropped short and lush with colour, his features clean and unblemished save for a single slash horizontally across his nose that never seemed to heal properly.

Sadly, years of decadence and being treated like a king had added some softness into his features. The heroic chin and firm, strong neck had been layered with fat. Though his doublet and trousers made him appear strong and muscled, Eranius had caught him naked within brothels enough times to know that Orradin had become very soft. Heroes were made, they said, but they could also be unmade.

“Reports are coming in from all over that orcs are taking great pains to move to a particular location north,” Eranius answered with strained patience. He gestured at the other flags placed all over the room. “Each flag represents a large orc population that has abandoned their posts and suddenly began moving.”

“That’s all of them?” Orradin asked, his bright, blue eyes scanning the map.

“All that have been reported to us. Cleverer orcs move in the shadows and avoid detection.”

“Filthy greenskins,” scowled the hero. “Give me a hundred men. I’ll chase them all down and bring them to the slaughter.”

Eranius’ hands tightened into fists. “You know, Orradin, I had heard tales of your prowess in battle especially against the orcs. Legend said that the Old Gods purposefully imbued you with powers to slay orcs and that you grew stronger with each orc you slew. I would think that you would not need a hundred men to hunt some wayward orcs.”

The blonde champion bristled. “You know full well I am no longer as strong as I once was.”

“So I see.” Eranius made a point of staring directly at Orradin’s belly which the man tried to hide beneath a black tunic.

“Insult me if you will but this…” Orradin gestured at the map and the numerous flags around them. “… is a problem. We need to kill these greenskins before they can amass into a horde and march upon us!”

“I do not think that is wise,” Qurron said, stepping forward with a hand raised. “I have had reports that before the orcs moved, a multitude of unusually large black birds were seen in various locations across the northern part of the continent. Priests or Wizards within the vicinity detect nothing strange about them but some of our keener warriors note that the birds carry missives and vials with them. This suggests the workings of a mage.”

“Orcs don’t have mages,” scowled Orradin. “They have shamans. Mad spellcasters who draw upon the magics of earth, storm and fire. They would not be able to control birds unless they were thunderhawks.”

It seemed that despite the years of a sedentary lifestyle, Orradin still retained much of his knowledge of the orcs. That could be useful at least.

“Perhaps they have developed their reaches and techniques,” suggested Eranius. “Or, as Qurron alluded to, there could be a non-orc mage working behind the scenes.” He lifted his gaze towards his friend and most powerful mage. “Would it be possible that it is Noraduil?”

“That cold hearted bastard?” spat Orradin. “I thought he died.”

Eranius strode across the Atlas Chamber deep into the Fangs of the World. There were patches of greenery even amongst the icy peaks where the slopes fell low enough that the foliage could flourish. His eyes went to one particular peak, however, overlooking at sheer, icy valley. “That is only rumour and conjecture spread by the citizenry and storytellers. Noraduil is still very much alive. Or at least his progeny continue to live.”

“Progeny?” Orradin exclaimed. “That’s impossible. The Gods made us sterile.”

“That does not stop the industrious and inventive from finding a way,” Qurron said, coming to stand beside Eranius. “Several of the more magically inclined heroes of the War have found other ways to pass on their legacy instead of just sticking their cocks in the nearest hole and hoping something will grow.” He shot Orradin a foul look and the hero growled at him. “Noraduil retreated past Alliance borders to an icy fortress somewhere here…” He gestured at the peak Eranius was looking at. “The Shalan’dar are, in fact, the products of his experiments.”

Orradin glowered. “The snow elves have been attacking your forts for years now. If you know they come from Noraduil, why do you allow this? They are killing your own people.”

Eranius shook his head and turned back towards where the tiny little buildings represented each of the border forts. “Not so. The Shalan’dar only attack the forts with orc populations.” He narrowed his gaze as he strode towards the forts. “Noraduil guides them to strike at orcs and wildmen…” He rubbed his chin, pondering to himself. “Qurron…”

“Yes, milord,” answered the mage.

“On the last census, which forts had orcs amongst them?”

The Wizard let out a soft thoughtful hum. “From memory, there are only six.”

“Contact them. See which ones still have the orcs with them and which have left.” He swept a hand over the vast Fangs. “We have a lot of land to cover and sending our troops on pointless endeavours will exhaust our resources while giving the orcs more time to amass their power.”

Orradin stepped forward but Eranius shot him a piercing stare, stopping him in mid-step. “You may do as you wish, Greenslayer. But you will not have any of my men. And I know you are very much mortal now. You need my men to keep you safe.”

“This is heresy!” snapped the champion.

“This is tactics and strategy,” countered the Lord-Knight. “Running around attacking small pockets of fleeing orcs and chasing false leads will only exhaust us. No, if a new horde is forming, we must prepare ourselves. Especially if there is a mage behind it.”

******

Greendawn was quickly becoming overpopulated. Orcs from all the world were coming in every day, following Samuel’s missives. Amongst them were sympathisers. Branded or not, people were leaving their homes and families in the hopes of finding a new life far to the north away from the persecution of the Alliance. From the news, Raonoak had actually begun executing any Greenskin Sympathiser found in very brutal public displays.

Amthos couldn’t believe that Lord Eranius would go that far. He couldn’t believe that it was Eranius. It had to be Orradin. His fists clenched as he thought about that bloodthirsty sorry excuse for a human. A soft growl rose from his throat and his blood boiled just imagining the supposed hero’s pudgy features.

A soft nudge to his side brought him out of his dark thoughts and back to the present.

In Greendawn’s keep within the dining hall. Several tables had been arranged in a vaguely circular fashion with him sitting at one. Ramdrud as the head of the Hardshaft sat at another and Knaatl sat on a third. Another three seats were occupied by the three most prominent remaining tribes.

“Your thoughts, Hordemaker?” asked Dalgmar of the Thunder Callers.

The orc shaman wore a grey mane and was shrouded in thick bear hide, the bear’s head actually sitting atop his head like a hood. Like many of those that had taken the blessed seed of the orcs, he had grown immensely both in muscle and stature. At eight and a half feet tall, he was smaller than the other orcs at the circle of tables but what he lacked in physical prowess he made up for in incredible magical abilities. Tribal tattoos ran up and down his bluish-green flesh and there was an air of mysticism around him that soothed Amthos when they locked gazes.

Amthos glanced to Samuel who stood beside him. The No One was fully dressed in his armour again. Probably a wise move to avoid suspicion given his true appearance. Turning back to Dalgmar, he said, “This is a time for unity. We must decide on a course of action for all our people. Not just the orcs but those who would support us. The Alliance’s constant oppression of the orcs and public executions are sending more and more people to our arms. I say we send messages to the people of the Alliance stating that our borders are open to any who would set against the Triad and join us.”

The shaman nodded sagely. “A peaceful approach. I approve.”

Dalgmar was highly supportive of Amthos’ claim as warchief. He had received Samuel’s bird and message and instantly knew it to be true. With no shreds of doubt in his mind and soul, he took the Thunder Callers from their mountaintop perches and brought them to Greendawn.

Many still put great trust in the shamans as they had been the spiritual leaders of the orcish people before the War of Apotheosis scattered them. Some still remembered them and over the years, orcs that needed medical attention would try to make their way to the Thunder Callers for assistance. If they could not make the perilous journey, they would send someone that could. Even Greenskin Sympathisers would consult the shamans if the Priests and Wizards could not help them. Thus many rallied under the Thunder Callers.

But this was not a sentiment shared by everyone.

Bang!

Directly across from Amthos sat the wild and unruly Oringruud of the Blood Claws. The table still shook from where his mighty fist had struck the table. The dark skinned orc was big, brutish and covered in mud and dried blood. Blood palm prints lay all over his body and the wild, salt-and-pepper hair that seemed to stand on end like a lion’s mane around his head only added to his mad visage. Like Dalgmar, he too had drunk the vial that came with Samuel’s message but it was more of an accident than intent. He too had grown into a ferocious orc, brimming with muscles and standing at an intimidating 9 foot 11 inches, bigger than Amthos.

“Foolish and stupid,” Oringruud growled. “You are a child who you rather extend a hand to pet the Warg that would dig its fangs into your throat and drink your blood as you died in its jaws! Such sentimentality will only open ourselves to spies and traitors from the Alliance!”

His raider tribe was feared both amongst orcs and the Alliance for their brutality and unpredictable nature. The stereotype of the orcish race was mostly attributed to his tribe’s actions and Amthos was unsure if he was to be grateful or spiteful of that. Oringruud’s tribe had brought with them their vast army of Wargs and the distinct scent of wet dog.

“There is nothing to do here but arm our cocks and fuck the Alliance where it stands!” roared the chieftain. “They would neuter our race. Let us see how they feel when we do the same to them!”

Unfortunately, Oringruud considered Amthos a whelp and a fraud. Yes he had granted the orcish race a way to replenish their ranks but now that every transformed orc had the ability to change others into orcs, he saw no need for Amthos’ continued rule. He took the gift Amthos had given and if he had his way, he would rampage across all of Tirinead, fucking and changing everything and everyone into orcs wantonly without any consideration for the losses or sustainability of such a society. May shared this sentiment and especially when they heard that Amthos had once been a human, a squire of Eranius for that matter. Orcs joined Oringruud’s Blood Claws, eager to join in the raiding and extracting their vengeance upon the Alliance that had crippled them so badly.

A loud rumbling came from the last of the chieftains.

Urthak of the Earth Runners. By far the biggest of the chieftains gathered, Urthak stood at a mighty eleven feet tall, bigger than any of the other orcs gathered. His yellowish-green skin was made him more prominent than the others and it outlined every muscle on his ripped body. The hairless orc sat with his arms crossed and his thick, calloused hands settled quietly against his arms. His every breath was like a roll of thunder.

“That would lead to a long and protracted war, Oringruud,” rumbled the titanic orc. “No matter our power and current numbers, we do not have the numbers to challenge the Alliance. Should we do so now, we will crumble against their might.”

The Earth Runners had emerged from their self-exile in the mines and came to Greendawn more out of curiosity than any ambitions for conquest. They were the biggest of all the other orcs and many sought to join them due to their sheer stature alone. There was no doubt that the Earth Runners were physically the most intimidating and powerful of the other tribes. Their numbers second in size to the Hardshaft as well but that was soon changing as other orcs and Greenskin Sympathisers flocked to them.

Oringruud scoffed at the titanic orc. “And what would you have us do, Urthak? Retreat to your supposed stronghold and fuck each other so hard and pray that the Gods will see fit to allow men to birth children to bolster our numbers? Bah!”

Urthak’s stance, however, was far from… ‘orcish’. Now that they had incredible physiques, and great numbers, they sought to retreat further north. Maps and documents found within the mines told of a land called ‘Cald-Harun’ by the dwarves. Apparently, it was some sort of massive abandoned hold that sat in an incredibly defensible location. Surrounded by sheer mountains and hidden from the rest of the world, it was fully capable of being self-sustaining and could support the orc people and their sympathisers until the end of time. Urthak wanted to take everyone on a great migration to escape the Alliance lands and avoid further bloodshed.

The conflicting opinions and agendas were quickly giving Amthos a headache. They had been arguing about what path the horde should take for hours. When it wasn’t a question of the direction, it was a question of leadership. Dalgmar considered the transformation of humans to orcs and the leadership under Amthos enlightened but he didn’t trust Samuel who he claimed the spirits distrusted. Oringruud was just antagonistic while Urthak was stubborn and rather slow in his deliberations.

And as the days passed, more and more were flocking the Greendawn. At the very least Oringruud and Dalgmar recognised the need to expand the fort’s reaches and contributed their men to building up the surrounding land. Urthak saw little need in the exercise seeing as he wanted to move away anyway. Sadly, that gave Amthos a timeline. If Urthak’s supplies began to run low, he might just pack up and begin looking for his dwarven stronghold or attack the rest of Greendawn, steal what he could and then move.

It was like he was juggling several precious crystal goblets at the one time.

Oddly enough, Ramdrud thrived in the political situation and he sat to Amthos’ right with a mild smile on his face.

“Oringruud,” said the Hardshaft chieftain. “I see your point. The Alliance needs to be made wary and we can’t just open our borders to anyone. However, there are people who are being oppressed by the Alliance and seek refuge with us. I already have several lords and other border forts seeking to join our cause. More land and a larger domain surely would not hurt, yes? More resources would mean bigger weapons, better armour and a greater advantage when the conflict final arises.” Ramdrud leaned back in his chair, oddly comfortable in the situation. “Politics goes hand in hand with war.”

“Bah!” scoffed the Blood Claw chieftain. “That is not the orcish way.”

“That is not the Blood Claw way,” chastised Dalgmar. “The rest of us see and follow other paths.”

“But he still has a point,” said Ramdrud. “We need our borders to be secured in case Alliance spies or troops decide to execute a pre-emptive strike and slaughter our budding nation before it starts. We do not want another Paristead.”

At the mention of the horrific massacre that had crippled the orcs, the three chieftains became sullen. Even the raging Oringruud stopped snarling and slumped into his chair. Ramdrud tried not to smirk too obviously.

“So I propose this,” said the adept negotiator. “The Blood Claws are the fastest and most mobile of the tribes. Why not have them patrol our expanding borders. Scan and search any who would come to us seeking refuge. I doubt word has reached the Alliance of our unique abilities so feel free to fill any who pass with your seed to ensure their loyalty.” He lifted a finger. “Do not slaughter those that would flee, however. I would very much like them brought back to Greendawn to be interrogated.”

“Why spare the cravens?” snarled Oringruud.

“Because those that flee are more likely to have allegiances to the Alliance,” answered Ramdrud with a smile. “Were they brought here, we could extract that information from them and learn more of their movements. Information is crucial in war, after all, especially since we are at the disadvantage.”

The Blood Claw chieftain grunted in acknowledgement. “That is acceptable. But I expect us to go to war soon.” He pointed a finger forcefully at Amthos. “And I have no intention of following this inexperienced pup as my warchief!”

Urthak let out a grunt, indicating that he wanted to talk. “The Earth Runners do not desire a part in this conflict. Do as you will. We thank you for the gift of the Gods but we shall take us and ours to Cald-Harun.”

“You could,” Ramdrud said with a shrug. “But you would have to deal with harsh winter that is rapidly approaching, the wildmen and if I recall correctly, we have not had a raid from the Shalan’dar recently. I fully expect them to be amassing their forces soon. As powerful as you Earth Runners are, I do not expect you to stand against the might of the snow elves and their frost dwarves especially in the slopes of the Fangs.”

Urthak narrowed his gaze at Ramdrud. “You look like an orc but speak with the tongue of a serpent.” He grunted softly. “But I concede your point. However, the Earth Runners will not stay forever.”

“Of course! You are the guests of the Hardshaft. But if you would kindly lend your incredible bodies to aid in the fortification of Greendawn, that would be greatly appreciated. After all, the larger the fort, the more farms we can produce. The greater are harvest come the summer, we will be able to supply you with enough food to make the trek to Cald-Harun with ease.” He winked at Urthak slyly. “Finding the dwarven hold is one thing but if you find it without supplies and on empty stomachs, you will be little more than corpses littering the great hold’s front doors.”

At that, Oringruud let out a hearty chuckle. Urthak let out another grunt, conceding to Ramdrud’s point.

“Then it is settled,” Ramdrud concluded. “Let us convene this meeting. The Hardshaft -”

“Is going to sit on its fat ass and do nothing while we do all the work,” spat Oringruud. Ramdrud bristled at that and narrowed his yellow eyes. “Don’t think I don’t see what you are doing here, kol’farth.”

Ramdrud had to look to Samuel for a translation.

“It’s a derogatory term that translates to ‘son of a filthy father’,” explained the No One. “Usually used to refer to an orc who was born to a shameful sire. I suppose in this context it is used to refer to your origins as a former human.”

The Blood Claw chieftain growled at the splendidly armoured man. “To think you would need a human to translate our orcish language for you.”

“High praise from one who does not even know how to write the orcish language,” Samuel countered.

Oringruud was instantly on his feet. “Foul human! You will -”

“Enough!” Amthos boomed. His God-given voice was enough to give even Oringruud pause. Though he couldn’t force anyone to do as he said, his power was still enough to rattle the raging orc. “Samuel has earned our trust and he was the one that guided you here. You cannot deny that he is essential to the creation and maintenance of the orc nation. We all have our differences be it origins, knowledge or customs but we are all orcs. If not in body then at least in name and courage.”

The raging chieftain snarled and sat back down, fuming quietly.

“The Hardshaft and the Nightusks won’t be sitting idly by,” Amthos continued. “The Hardshafts are already working to build Greendawn into something more hospitable so that the other tribes and refugees are not living in tents out in the cold and beyond the fort’s walls. I suggest that the Nightusks scout to the north. I doubt these great migrations and our gathering here will have passed the notice of the snow elves. I fear they will strike soon and with our fortifications so vulnerable, we will not be able to defend the people who have come to trust in us.”

Dalgmar nodded sagely and in agreement. “The Thunder Callers will lend our aid to the sick and ailing. The journey here was taxing even for the hardiest of orcs and many are weary an injured.” He turned towards Samuel. “I heard tales of your ability to produce food and wine endlessly. Will you lend your aid?”

The No One nodded in agreement.

“We all have our tasks ahead of us,” Amthos said. “Daylight is fading. Let us be done with this meeting and be off.”

“That is the first wise thing I’ve heard come from your mouth,” Oringruud grunted. He stood and marched out. His personal guard were there with him as well as his Warg. They strode out of the main hall in a huff. Urthak at least had the courtesy of rising and giving a nod of acknowledgement to the other orcs before leaving.

Once they left, Amthos sighed and rubbed his temples. “As a human, I skirted the edges of politics being squire to Lord Eranius but now that I am at the heart of it, I find myself disliking the exercise.”

Ramdrud snickered. “It is fortunate then that you have me.” He patted Amthos’ shoulder affectionately. “Leave the political twists and brutal negotiations to me. I have had years of experience with this.”

A growl came from Dalgmar. “And should you be the ruler of this new nation?” sneered the shaman. “I am more than aware of how humans do their politics. With one hand extended, you offer peace but in the other you have a dagger ready to plunge into your ally’s back.”

“I’m offended,” Ramdrud growled. “I owe much to Amthos and Knaatl. I would not betray them.”

“You say that now but how would you react when the masses realise that Amthos’ role is greatly diminished now that any who receive his gift are equipped with the same power that makes him so special?”

That brought alarm to the Avatar and he spun to the shaman in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Think of it, my Avatar,” said the wizened sage gently. “What makes you so special in comparison to others like Oringruud and Urthak now? They are fully capable of transforming others into orcs now. In fact, they have created ‘initiation circles’ around Greendawn to bolster their numbers. You may have been granted infinite stamina, immunity to magic and mortal weapons and other divine gifts but you do not have military experience or knowledge on how to rule. Some would argue that you are just like one of the heroes of the Alliance. An excellent weapon but not fit to rule.”

Amthos’ was unsure how to feel about this revelation. More and more he was doubting his ability and role to rule as the leader of the orcs. He remembered that the Old Gods had tasked him with creating the orc nation and pushing it to new heights but they never told him to rule it.

“I will be honest, Dalgmar,” he began, “As of this moment, I have no ambitions to rule. Or at the very least to rule alone. My concerns are stabilising Greendawn and ensuring our borders remain strong and firm.”

Knaatl let out his booming laugh and clapped Amthos’ back loudly. “And that is why you have others like us, is it not, roh’Fedar?” He winked at Amthos and gave him a light shake. “Though I wish you had asked me first before sending my tribe into the mountains.”

Amthos stuttered. “I – I apologise. I needed something to calm Oringruud.”

“He certainly needs calming,” rumbled Ramdrud, his eyes narrowed. “His continued presence is a miasma to our efforts.” The former human noble turned to Dalgmar. “Tell me, what are the customs to depose a chieftain?”

“Ramdrud!” Amthos exclaimed.

Dalgmar laughed softly and waved the Avatar down. “Such is the nature of politics, my Avatar. There are times when we must eliminate our opponents.”

“We are not going to have Oringruud assassinated!” He frowned deeply. “Orc blood is scarce as is. I would not have it spilled over a simple disagreement.”

“Ah that only makes things more challenging and entertaining,” snicked Ramdrud. The bald orc rose from his seat and rolled his broad shoulders, a soft crackling coming from his neck as he rolled it. “We will have to deal with Oringruud before he incites a rebellion.”

“You’ll need to find a way to keep Urthak here as well,” Knaatl added. “If he leaves, he might take more with him.”

These plots and schemes made Amthos uneasy. It was naïve of him to think all the orcs would just unite under a single banner once he made his presence known but he had hoped that simple negotiation would be enough to convince those that doubted to join them. Perhaps another display of unity like the one that convinced Ramdrud to join them would be enough. Sadly, it seemed that his hands would need to get bloody.

“I see that this greatly disturbs you, my Avatar,” Dalgmar said gently. “Come, let us take a walk through Greendawn. Perhaps some air will help you clear your mind and soul. The spirits are often sympathetic to those who are out with nature rather than being confined in stone and finery.”

Amthos gave the shaman a thin smile and nodded. “That sounds very pleasant, thank you.” He glanced to the rest of his fellow orcs. “Will you all mind if I excused myself?”

“Go,” Knaatl said, shooing him lightly. “I have to see to my tribe seeing as we’re going off to a potentially dangerous missing that could lead to us being killed.”

He rolled his eyes at his good friend and gave Knaatl a nudge with an elbow. The congregation all left with Ramdrud heading off deeper into the keep likely to plot and scheme while Knaatl followed headed to the training yard to meet with his fellow Nightusks. Samuel wandered off elsewhere though to where only he knew.

Amthos followed the shaman out of the fort’s keep. The streets of the miniature town within the fort’s walls had been filled with tents and temporary housing with more spilling out past the main gates. Orcs and men were working diligently to build walls around the growing tent town. It was also curious to see that women were amongst those in the fort. Dwarves and even elves were also amongst the populace, some wearing the brands of a Greenskin Sympathiser while others were thus far unbranded. He wondered how many of them were willing to be turned into an orc.

“You have built something truly special here,” Dalgmar said as they strode through the narrow pathways between tents. “Even in the times before the War of Apotheosis, orcs kept to themselves. Nations were divided purely by species save for when the Alliance was formed. Now, you have orc, human, dwarf and elf within these walls.”

“I feel it is not enough,” sighed Amthos. He nodded to a few people who instantly recognised him by his red cloak. To many, however, he was just another orc especially those who were not turned. “The Alliance will surely notice their people missing. There is dissent and division within Greendawn and I fear we will find ourselves at war before we are ready.”

“All concerns for a ruler.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Am I not a ruler?”

Dalgmar took a few steps away from him before stopping and turning. “You are a catalyst for change. You are not a ruler. Ramdrud is closer to a ruler of the new age orcs than anyone else but that is closely contested by Urthak and Oringruud.”

Amthos’ shoulder sagged. “I see your point… So now I must question where my role lies.”

The shaman looked to the sky. “Certainly not an easy question to answer. Older, wiser men than yourself have asked the same and never found the answer.” He continued his walk and Amthos followed. “Often times when I find myself questioning my role and identity, I listen to the spirits. They provide me with guidance.”

“What are the spirits?” asked the Avatar. “From my knowledge granted by the Gods, they dismiss these spirits as something the orcs concocted as part of their belief that everything, even the rocks, air and ground beneath our feet has some degree of sentience.”

“The Old Gods do not support the existence of the spirits, then?”

Realising just how insulting that was, Amthos lowered his head in respect to the elder shaman. “No. They acknowledge it as the orc’s belief system and truly do not care so long as they continue to worship the Gods themselves. If I recall correctly, the belief is that the spirits are the children of the four Elemental Gods, Ystagur, Wirrium, Lovantier and Incarius.”

“That is our belief, yes,” Dalgmar said with an amused smile. “Perhaps they are not real and we simply delude ourselves. Perhaps they are and the Old Gods are simply arrogant and selfish fearing that another Triad might rise from our belief system. Regardless, the spirits are not a malevolent force. They are simply there.”

“So how do they help you?”

They stepped past the fort’s broad gates and into the vast tent city beyond the walls. From the vantage point of Greendawn, they could see the tents of all colours stretching out far and beyond the small hill. A low wall was already being constructed at the edge of the tarp houses with lumber crews hauling wood from the closest forests to erect a palisade. Others were digging a trench to clearly mark the borders of their budding town.

“The spirits simply act as they always have,” Dalgmar replied. “And it is up to us to draw inspiration from them.” He bent down and plucked a pebble from the ground. “The spirit of a stone, for example, is steadfast and unmoving. If you come upon a situation that requires you to be the same, you draw strength from that inspiration. If a pebble can be immovable, so can you.” The shaman set the stone back on the ground and then began wiggling his fingers through the air. “The spirit of the wind is flexible, fast and fickle. Can you be the same?”

Amthos scratched the back of his head slightly. “But don’t you shamans ‘listen’ to the spirits? Don’t they guide you?”

Dalgmar smiled at him. “They do indeed. The movement of a vast army causes shakes in the very earth and the spirits carry this message to us across vast distances. A great storm amassing will have the spirits raging.” The shaman spread his arms. “Everything we do resonates with the spirits and sometimes, the spirits themselves listen to us.”

The air suddenly grew a little colder. Sunlight began to fade and Amthos looked up in surprise. A small, black cloud began forming over them and just over the two of them. Within moments, rain began to fall.

Amthos laughed brightly. “I concede! I concede! The spirits are very much real!” The cloud dissipated into the air a moment later and Amthos flicked the droplets of water from his body. With a knowing smile, Dalgmar continued to lead the way through the camp.

“I must ask,” Amthos began, “why are you so open to my gifts and my way of thinking? I seek to forge a nation for ourselves but Oringruud wants to conquer and Urthak wants to retreat. Why cast your lot with me?”

The shaman once again stopped in his tracks and turned to the Avatar. “Both Oringruud and Urthak follow the old ways of the orcs. The Blood Claws are driven by their bloodlust and desire for vengeance. Despite knowing full well they are outnumbered, they will fight to the last if it will mean they will at least draw the blood of their opponents. This is what made them such incredible soldiers of the vanguard.

“Urthak of the Earth Runners were the builders and engineers of the horde during the war. They did not fight in the front lines but they built the infrastructure and the defences the horde desperately needed. They were workers not warriors. Much like they were then, they will seek out somewhere to fortify themselves and weather the storm.”

Dalgmar pressed a hand against his chest. “As for myself and the Thunder Callers, we were always the thinkers of the horde. We were to see things differently, discover and invent.” With a hand, he gestured towards Amthos. “In your vision, I see something new. A nation ruled by orcs but one that is open and welcome to all species as the orc race is dependent on them. A symbiotic relationship between orc and non-orc. It is certainly something different and one I am curious to see.”

“You’d throw aside your customs so easily?”

“I am not throwing them aside so much as I am evolving them.” Dalgmar looked to the distance. “We have lived under the same philosophy for over two decades now. Even before the war, we lived in a similar fashion. After a time, one must simply stop to think that if this is where our hard work and efforts have led to, perhaps it is time for a change.”

Glad to have someone so open minded on his side, Amthos said, “I wish the others were more like you.”

The shaman laughed. “That would be a wish you would regret. It is good to have people challenge us. Complacency will only lead to stagnation.”

“I suppose you are right there,” he admitted. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I still feel that my role is challenged and even redundant now that other more experienced chieftains have made their intention known. But I think I will fight for my right to rule. A new perspective might just be what the orc race needs.”

“Perhaps so,” Dalgmar said enigmatically. He looked to the west where a loud series of shouts and bellows originated. “Ah… it seems that the Blood Claws are initiating a new batch of applicants.”

The five main tribes had quickly formed their own rituals of initiation in the month or so since they had arrived in Greendawn. Each Trial of the Tusks had varying levels of difficulty but were no less challenging from one another. They also bred a sort of image for each of the tribes based on the Trials themselves. There were even talks of a school of sorts being built to prepare applicants for the Trial that they sought.

Knaatl kept up with his ritual of only admitting those who managed to catch him by surprise but he extended this to any of his senior officers. Being the only Trial that actually required a degree of strategy and stealth, the Nightusks were quickly painted as a sort of elite tribe that answered only to Amthos. The tribe did nothing to dismiss these rumours and actually encouraged it. Knaatl’s favouritism towards feet even bled into the Trial. Each Nightusk applicant who succeeded in catching an officer by surprise was rewarded with their very own set of open-toed fur boots. They were uniquely made – apparently one of the original Nightusks members had been a shoemaker before joining Knaatl’s band of rogues.

Ironically, Ramdrud’s Hardshaft tribe had one of the most sexually charged Trials. In short, an applicant had to fuck Ramdrud to satisfaction. Being an orc of considerable size, humans, dwarves and elves would have some difficulty truly satisfying Ramdrud which truly put them to the test. But those that could were granted the opportunity to drink from Ramdrud’s seed, transform there and then and have a passionate night of sex with the chieftain that many of the newly transformed orcs claimed would never compare to any other experience.

And then there was Oringruud’s Blood Claws and their Trial.

The smell of wet dog and filled the air and mixed with it was the strong scent or arousal. Oringruud’s men had dug a large pit at the base of Greendawn’s hill and erected rough wooden stands around it. The makeshift arena was about fifteen feet deep with only one entrance and exit. Bloodthirsty men and women were perched along the edges of the large ring and down in the mud were two combatants, one an orc and the other a dwarf.

Training weapons had been tossed into the ring and both combatants were battered and bruised. Naked, covered in mud and panting, both warriors charged at one another. Amthos pushed through the crowd and peered down into the arena for a better view. The Blood Claws took any and all applicants into their ranks with little care for who jumped into the ring. However, there was a deep sense of honour bound to the match. Depending on the valour displayed during the fight and who won, the applicant would find their place amongst the growing tribe. There was a loose hierarchy amongst the Blood Claws though Amthos had yet to fully understand it in its entirety.

He watched as the dwarf clashed his wooden axe against the orc’s bigger hammer. The blow of the fully transformed orc’s blow knocked the bearded man to his knees. The orc let out a bellowing roar and threw aside his weapon. Showing little mercy, the triumphant Greenskin flipped the dwarf onto his belly and shoved his dick into the man’s ass. The Blood Claws around the arena cheered, thrusting their fists into the air. None of them wore any form of pants or trousers. All the orcs, turned or not, were starting to develop erections while the non-orcs were working themselves into a sex-crazed frenzy by beating their meat furiously as they brayed for the dwarf’s transformation.

Amthos had to guiltily admit that he was growing erect himself as he watched the dwarf get ploughed mercilessly into the dirt. When the orc let out a triumphant roar and softly glowing white cum sprayed out of the full dwarf’s ass, he was fully erect beneath the trousers he wore. The dwarf threw his head back in a cry of lust, his cock sprouting bigger and bigger as his skin turned green. Amthos shamelessly rubbed his cock through the fabric of his pants, licking his lips as the short 4 foot man grew to twice his height and size, body bursting with new orcish strength.

A hand on his shoulder caused him to turn away from the delectable sight. Dalgmar, sporting his own erection beneath his bear-skin robes, beckoning him away from the crowd. As much as it pained him to leave a sight that was clearly stimulating, he followed the shaman’s advice and left the arena.

As they headed further away from the arena, Dalgmar asked, “What do you think of that ceremony?”

“It was brutal and barbaric,” Amthos grunted.

“That is what you think I want to hear. What do you truly think?”

The Orc Avatar frowned, his cheeks burning in shame. “Honestly? It was incredibly arousing and some part of me wants to strip off my cloak and my armour, jump into the ring and fuck the next applicant myself.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It would not have been proper…”

“Proper for what? A human or an orc? An Avatar or a mortal?”

He regarded the shaman with confusion. “Which am I supposed to be?”

Dalgmar smiled at him sympathetically and rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “That is something you will have to decide for yourself. But there is no shame in your desires.” He gestured at the sizeable log hiding beneath his thick robes. “As you can see, even my carnal desires are stirred by the sight. It must be a curse of Garodrash’s foil to the Triad’s sterility plague.”

Amthos inclined his head to the side. “I had heard about that but I was too young to fully understand the gravity of the spell cast. What happened?”

“Our women were simply killed at Paristead,” answered Dalgmar. “But I heard dark tales from the other races. Their women either spontaneously died or simply vanished. There are rumours from the dragons that their women merely turned into men though amongst them, it is often hard to tell the difference. There are races where their females grew sickly and died a slow painful death.”

The shaman turned to the western side of the camp where the Earth Runners were staying. “In fact, the Earth Runners were most affected by the curse the Triad cast upon us.”

The Avatar lifted an eyebrow in confusion. “They were? But I thought all the women were killed at Paristead.”

“They were. But the girls were kept with the Earth Runners. Orc females who were yet to flower.”

Amthos’ eyes widened. “There were females that still lived?”

Dalgmar nodded grimly. “Yes. Our hope actually lay with the Earth Runners even after Paristead. Their culture demanded that man and woman, girl or boy, be treated equally. Once you reached ten summers, you were required to serve in aiding in their construction projects so the young girls served on the front lines alongside the men.

“When Paristead occurred, the Earth Runners were commanded to retreat and the rest of the horde tasked with covering their retreat. Perhaps it was this tactic that drove into Urthak the desire to retreat and find a secure place to regroup. However, when the Triad ascended to godhood and cast their dark spell, all females were killed. If I recall correctly, Urthak’s own daughter died in his arms.”

Amthos’ heart broke and burned with fury at the same time. “The Triad will pay for what they have done.”

“Of that I am sure.” Dalgmar beckoned the Avatar to follow and he led him into the Earth Runner camp. “But not everyone is out for revenge like the Blood Claws. The Earth Runners are more than content to retreat to Cald-Harun and live the rest of their days unbothered by the rest of the world.”

“Aren’t they concerned that they’ll eventually die out?” Amthos asked. “My seed turns anyone into a new age orc but it does not grant them immortality or agelessness. Eventually, time will claim them and Malgorin will feast.”

“For over two decades such is the reality that we orcs have had to live with. Your arrival and gift is the first sign of hope we have had in so long. It will take a while for the dust to settle and the reality to set in that we now have hope once more.”

They crossed into the grounds where the Earth Runners we reliving. Unlike the others, they preferred to dig little caves or holes into the ground where they stayed. They were experts at keeping hiding and had even erected little wooden trapdoors over their tunnels, covered them with dirt and rocks to make them easy to miss.

Into one of the smaller caves, Amthos could see an elf woman cradling the enormous cock of an Earth Runner orc with the clear intention of making him orgasm. The orc tenderly caressed the woman in turn. The Earth Runners had a far longer initial ritual than the other tribes. An applicant was paired with a mentor and only when mentor and applicant had reached a mutual understanding of one another would the orc change the initiate. From what the Avatar heard, there were applicants who were still waiting to be turned even a month into the arrival of the Earth Runners. It was a common complaint amongst the would-be orcs that the Earth Runners took too long to change them but there was no denying that the sheer size and strength of the golden-skinned orcs was incomparable to the rest of the horde.

“What would you have me do?” Amthos asked.

“I would have you listen to your instincts,” answered Dalgmar. “You may have the body of an orc but you have the heart and mind of something more. Not an orc. Not a human. Perhaps a mix of both. You have a unique perspective amongst us and I see great value in that.”

“But what if I am wrong? What if I lead us to our doom?”

The shaman chuckled softly. “The orc race was already doomed. I suppose the only issue now is that you now share in their fate.”

Amthos lowered his gaze. “And I will be responsible for its outcome.”

A gentle hand fell on his shoulder. “We cannot control the wills of others regardless of the powers given to you by the Old Gods. You may lead but it is the choice of those who listen to follow. They may blame you for leading them to death but the choice was always theirs to follow.”

The Avatar gave him a nervous laugh. “Small comfort, I am afraid.”

“It is not comfort. That is truth.”

******

Further north of Greendawn were the frozen mountain ranges of the Fangs of the World. It was here where Knaatl and his Nightusks were trudging through the thick snow, huddled heavy fur cloaks wrapped around them and desperately trying to keep themselves warm. Thankfully no blizzard blew as they shifted through the deep snow. For a human, the snow would have risen up to their knees so the Nightusk chieftain was at least grateful for the growth in his stature that made navigating the shush easier. High above he saw the dark figure of Samuel astride his winged horse, Veronica. The No One had opted to accompany them for reasons only he knew.

Though he knew this task was only busy work and to placate the aggressive Oringruud, he still took pride in the mission and knew it was very important. They had been at Greendawn for a month now and from what he heard, they were overdue for an attack from the Shalan’dar. Having never ventured this far before, however, he was unsure what to look for.

“So exactly what does a snow elf look like?” he asked.

Somehow having heard him, Samuel came swooping down on Veronica. How the horse was suspended in the air was a mystery but she remained hovering above the snow.

“Do you know what an elf looks like?” Samuel asked, once again fully armoured.

“I’ve seen a few elves in my time. Taller than most humans. Tend to be slimmer, more athletic. Long pointed ears. Fair skin. Why?”

The No One looked to the north east. “Snow elves are a little different from the average elf. Like humans, elves can have a variety of skin tones from pale to dark, almost black. Their hair varies as well from platinum blonde, deep black, ruby red to even vibrant violets.”

Knaatl smirked. “You’re avoiding the question. You don’t know, do you?”

“Quite the contrary. I just want to make sure you have some context. You see, the Shalan’dar are warped and twisted creatures. They are universally pale, ghostly white. Their eyes are almost completely white as well. They are completely hairless as well.”

“So they are white all over, have white eyes, no hair and look a little like elves.” He gestured at their snowy surrounds. “Are you just giving me a description that will make them completely impossible to find here in the mountains?”

It was hard to tell with Samuel was irked by his mocking when he was wearing his full armour but he drew some satisfaction in the slight pause the No One made before responding.

“Sadly, that is how the Shalan’dar appear outwardly. But you’ll recognise them easily from their deformities.”

Knaatl reeled back in surprise. “Deformities?”

“Yes. The Shalan’dar do not have a very uniform appearance. Some have multiple limbs. Others have abnormal growths or extra legs. Some even have extra heads.”

“Your speech is so casual regarding these abominations.”

“I have seen far worse.” Samuel glanced at him. “As have you.”

The orc shuddered at the memory of the Triad. “Were the snow elves created by the Triad?”

“One could see it that way.” Veronica suddenly flicked her ears and Samuel glanced in the direction she turned. “I believe the Shalan’dar were created by one of the heroes of the past age, the elf Noraduil. For what purpose, I can only guess. Noraduil was made by the Old Gods but his loyalties lie with the Triad so one could think that he and the other heroes are products of both pantheons.” He nodded in the direction Veronica was looking. “There is something there.”

Suddenly, a tremendous cry erupted from the blankets of snow. The mounds actually burst alive like snow-covered eggs. Suddenly, ragged men dressed in heavy, grey cloaks and wielding crude weapons were charging straight at them, yelling incoherently. The orcs were instantly drawing their own weapons. Compared to the forty or so Nightusks, the twenty humans seemed so small but Knaatl knew not to underestimate his enemies.

He drew Duskvenom. It was the middle of the day so as he drew on the near-invisible bowstring, he had to use his own strength to fully notch the arrow. He let fly, the sizzling green bolt whizzing past one of the attacker’s ears, dangerously close but not touching him. It served as a warning and the man stared at Knaatl with wide, terrified eyes.

“Wildmen!” one of his warriors cried.

Not exactly the quarry he was looking for but Knaatl was not going to back down from a fight. Knowing how deadly Duskvenom could be and given that they were already in close quarters, he slung the bow over his shoulder and quickly drew his sidearm; a dagger. He clashed blades with one of the wildmen. With his superior strength, the hairy, mad-eyed man had to hold him back with both hands on his sword. Knaatl gave his opponent a quick smirk and brought his spare fist crashing into the male’s face.

A short distance away, two of the wildmen leapt upon the shoulders of one of the Nightusks in an attempt to overwhelm him. The orc merely shook them off, unleashing a deafening roar before kicking one in the gut and slamming a fist into the face of another. Another of the attackers tried to block a Nightusk’s heavy blow with a mace but his crude wooden shield shattered upon impact. Three of the wildmen tried to unseat Samuel from his stead. The No One grabbed one by his face, lifting him effortlessly into the air before tossing him dismissively aside. The other two were kicked by a bucking Veronica.

The rest of his orcs were quickly outnumbering and overpowering the remaining attackers, subduing them. Through feral snarls and angry shouts, the wildmen fought even as the orcs surrounded them. One of the Nightusks threw an unconscious northerner at the gathered group and they all fell down in a heap. A quick scan of the area revealed no further ambushes approaching.

Samuel sprang down from Veronica and strode over to the nearest of the maddened attackers. Each of them looked like they were a cross between a man and a wolf. Their hair was all shaggy and wild with thick, unkempt beards hanging from their faces. They all looked terribly hungry and malnourished. As was typical fashion for the No One, Samuel reached into his Bag of Infinite Meals. Up here in the frozen Fangs of the World, the bag produced what appeared to be cups of savour-smelling soup with chunks of bread inside.

“Here, you look starved,” said the mage. “Go on. I offer no harm.”

It occurred to Knaatl that the No One was treating the wildmen like one would treat a feral animal in the wild. He wondered if this envoy of the Gods viewed them all like beasts to be treated with a gentle hand. Certainly better than the alternative of being considered a pest and being killed on sight.

“You must be mad,” snarled one of the wildmen. “We attack you and you offer us food? Will you take our souls in exchange?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” chuckled the No One. “I simply want to know why you would lie in wait and ambush us here. You’re all awfully far from anywhere and few in number. Unless you are a scouting group for a greater host.”

“And if we are?” The man had stark, black hair and oddly tanned, leathery skin. Knaatl guessed that being exposed to the elements had forged his flesh to be a little more resilient to the cold. Despite this, the boy looked no more than twenty summers old. Strong with a little wry in his build.

“I sincerely doubt the chieftain of the Frost Tribe would send his one and only son on a mere scouting mission.”

The man went rigid and the wildmen all froze, looking to Samuel in surprise and fear.

“Yes, I know who you are, Oberyn Frost,” said the No One. “But what I am curious to know is why you are so far south and away from your normal hunting grounds.”

The young man spat at Samuel’s face. The wad landed on the knight’s armour and froze in the bitter cold. Knaatl growled threatening and loomed over the mage knight. “I do not fear you or your orc slaves, wizard.”

“No. Perhaps not. But you fear something else. You fear disappointing your father.” Samuel inclined his head to the side. “And dooming your tribe.”

The youngster scowled. “You ask me questions you already know the answer to. You waste breath and time.” He lunged forward and Knaatl immediately stepped forward, shoving him back. “Kill me now and be done with it!”

Samuel straightened and shook his head. “I think not. You were not sent here to scout out potential targets. No…” He cast his gaze around. Knaatl did the same and frowned as he noticed that there were about ten men and ten women in the band of attackers. “You were fleeing. You are also injured. Malnourished. This was not an ambush. This was an act of desperation from the last free vestiges of a tribe. You are hoping to relocate and repopulate.”

Oberyn remained defiant and did not speak.

“Knaatl,” Samuel said gently. “We need to bring them back to Greendawn. The Shalan’dar are coming and they know why and when.”

******

Oberyn Frost was not a very cooperative man and to Ramdrud, not that attractive. Even when the member of the Frost Tribe had been shaved and tidied up for his court, the young man looked to have a permanent scowl on his features which gave him an aged appearance. Ramdrud sat amidst the Circle of Chieftains as it was quickly coming to be known. Amthos at the centre with Knaatl and Ramdrud to his right. To his left were Dalgmar, Oringruud and Urthak. Samuel stood by Amthos’ side, not in a seat.

The savage from the north stood in front of the semicircle of tables restrained by chains and guarded by two burly orcs from the Hardshaft. He eyed Samuel with distrust and ignored everyone else in the room.

“So what value does this mute, skinny kol’drak have to us?” snarled Oringruud.

A glance at Samuel was all the No One needed to translate.

“Kol’drak means a pile of horse faeces that has been allowed to sit out in the sun for days. And I find worth in Oberyn and his group because they are fleeing the Shalan’dar advance. Something is happening that has caused the wildmen or at least this particular tribe to send out their strongest and most prospective males and females to find a new settlement. It’s an act of desperation. If it was an attempt at an escape then the whole tribe would have moved. But that is not the case. The rest of the tribe stayed to hold fast against the oncoming threat.”

Samuel nodded towards the prisoner. “What is coming Oberyn? What are the Shalan’dar plotting?”

The dark skinned barbarian spat on the ground as a reply.

“This is pointless,” rumbled Urthak. “Do you not possess the ability to read his thoughts?”

“No,” Samuel responded shortly. “I have the power to ask. Whether or not the one I ask complies is entirely up to them. Anyone and everyone can simply refuse.”

“Then let us prompt him further!” Oringruud roared, slamming a fist into the table. “Tell us what you know about the Shalan’dar!”

Samuel chuckled softly. “I doubt you will extract much from him with such a heavy hand”

Before the Blood Claw chieftain could start bellowing again, Ramdruud stood up and cleared his throat. “Oberyn, was it?” he said curtly. “If you will allow us, we here at Greendawn simply wish to know more about the Shalan’dar’s movements to defend our borders from them. As you can clearly see, we have a bustling metropolis here for both man and orc. You and your tribe are most welcome to find refuge here from the snow elves if you simply tell us what it is you know about their movements.”

“And what benefit would that see me?” snarled the savage. “Will you mount an offensive against them? Will you rescue my people?”

A big, black bird – larger than a crow or raven – suddenly came fluttering in from one the windows. It let out a loud squawk before resting on Samuel’s shoulder. The No One leaned towards its beak where it apparently began whispering to him. “I see…”

“What?” Oringruud demanded. “What did you learn?”

The No One was silent for a moment as he and Oberyn locked gazes. Then…

“Seems that there is a hero living far up north,” said the armoured wolf. “Noraduil. Since the end of the War of Apotheosis, he relocated high in the mountains. It seems that he was performing some experiments that revolve around the frost dwarves.”

Amthos went rigid in his seat. He also noticed the quick glance Knaatl gave Samuel. “What horrible abominations is he creating?”

Ramdrud sat back down and crossed his arms over his mighty chest. “I had heard of these experiments. When Priests or Wizards of the Alliance made their way here, they would occasionally speak of Naroduil. During the few times when they were here during a Shalan’dar attack, they would mention how the frost dwarves seemed to be ‘broken’ but the Shalan’dar themselves were empty. One Priest mentioned that he felt like several of the dwarves were all somehow part of a whole.”

Samuel laughed softly. “So Noraduil has taken to fragmenting the souls of captured wildmen and creating husks of these frost dwarves around them. That is what powers these golems. I had wondered how a single hero, no matter how powerful, could maintain such a large army.”

“That is… is… dreadful!” Amthos exclaimed. “What reason would he have for doing such a thing?”

“Perhaps it is related to the fact that the Shalan’dar are ‘empty’ as the Alliance Priests and Wizards have mentioned. I will not be able to know unless I examine one closer.”

BAM!

Oringruud slammed the table with a fist again. “And why should we trust the word of an Alliance spellcaster?” He pointed an accusing finger at Samuel. “And why should we take your word for it, for that matter?”

Ramdrud closed his eyes and tried not to sigh too loudly. He was honestly getting exasperated at Oringruud’s contrarian attitude. Regardless of what Amthos wanted, the poisonous chieftain had to be removed from power one way or another. Before another argument could ensue, he turned towards Oberyn.

“This is why you fled,” he concluded, ignoring Oringruud entirely. “Your people stayed behind to stall Noraduil’s attempt to ‘harvest’ your souls. You were tasked with continuing the tribe.”

“You know nothing about us!” snapped Oberyn.

“I know enough.” He turned to the rest of the Circle. “Noraduil was a powerful hero during the war and even afterwards, his knowledge of the magical arts is formidable. I would not put it past him to have created these Shalan’dar raids as an attempt to harvest more souls to create his own personal army. We need to end him before the Alliance catches wind of our activities and we are caught between two incredible forces.”

Urthak rumbled, a sound that shook the tables. “A reason why we should simply retreat to Cald-Harun.”

“And risk the Shalan’dar catching us on their turf?” Oringruud growled. “That is suicide. We would not have the resources to move all that are under our protection at once! Not unless we turn each and every person into an orc.” He slapped the table. “Ah, but there is a stroke of genius!” He turned to Amthos with a grin. “What say you, great Avatar? Let’s fuck every non-orc in Greendawn and march on the Shalan’dar! Chop off Noraduil’s head and send it straight to Trispire! Let the Alliance know we are strong and they are next!”

“I liked everything about that suggestion aside from the open declaration of war against the Alliance,” Knaatl said. “Our numbers may be great but the Alliance numbers far more. Even if every orc could fight for ten men, we would still be grossly outnumbered. If the Alliance brought their full might upon us we would be crushed. Let us not forget that they have active deities behind them and ours are simpering in exile.”

Dalgmar nodded grimly. “The Priests and Wizards of the Alliance are also far more geared towards combat than we shamans. Our arts will be of little use in the battlefield.”

“Then start learning how to hurl bolts of lightning and waken the earth to unleash fiery fury upon our foes!” Oringruud snapped. “This is war!”

Amthos slammed his fists into his table, shattering it immediately in two. “No it is not.” He pointed an accusing finger at Oringruud. “You are turning it into war. The Alliance does not yet know of us and we are not in open war with them. It is wrong to assume that the moment they learn of our intention and our abilities that they will declare open war. I for one know that Eranius of Raonoak is a reasonable man and he may just allow us to form our nation unopposed. Striking at a potential ally will only lead to more swords pointed at us than necessary!”

“And what would you have us do? Make love to them instead? Would you have us march up to Noraduil, drop our trousers and offer our asses to one of the bastards who slaughtered our people during the War?” Then Oringruud appeared to have come to a revelation. “Ah! But I forgot. It was not your people that were slaughtered. Your people were the ones doing the slaughtering!”

“I cannot be blamed for the actions of others of my race!” Amthos roared. “Just as every orc cannot be held up to your savage, primitive standards!”

“Primitive am I?” Oringruud roared back. He seized the edges of the table and upturned it with a grunt. “Then come at me, boy! Show me how the humans, even ones turned into orcs, are superior to the true blooded!”

Amthos was rising to the bait but Ramdrud could already see where this confrontation was going. Based on Oringruud’s words alone, regardless of whether or not Amthos overpowered the chieftain or not, the antagonistic orc would win. He quickly got to his feet and leapt over the table, placing himself between the two with his arms outstretched.

“Enough!” he roared. “Both of you, enough!” Amthos was pushing up against Ramdrud’s hand. The powerful Avatar’s might was causing Ramdrud to slide across the floor. Thankfully, Knaatl had gotten out of his seat and was pulling Amthos back.

“Our issue resides with Noraduil and the Shalan’dar,” Ramdrud said, shooting a venomous stare at Oringruud. “This meeting will deal with that topic. Those who do not wish to discuss this, leave now.”

The Blood Claw chieftain huffed loudly and turned, leaving with his entourage and Warg. Urthak nodded towards Ramdrud, acknowledging his wise handling of the matter but also departed. That left them with Knaatl, Dalgmar, Amthos, Samuel and their prisoner.

“You really must not rise to his bait, roh’Fedar,” Knaatl told Amthos, gently guiding the Avatar back to his seat.

Amthos growled in frustration. “He infuriates me!”

“I know. I know. But men like Oringruud only know how to fight. They speak through conflict. Wars are won in more ways than in the battlefield.”

Ramdrud turned to Oberyn who actually looked amused at the dissention he had witnessed. He thought quickly, first glancing towards Amthos and then back to the prisoner. And idea sprang to mind but he had to first check with Samuel. One look at the No One and he knew the mage knight had read his thoughts.

Samuel nodded.

“Oberyn,” he said. “You know where Noraduil is. You know where your tribe is. If I were to offer you a contingent of men to destroy Noraduil and free your tribe will you lead us there and broker a peace between our people?”

Amthos went rigid and even the normally composed Dalgmar was surprised by the proposition.

“A peace?” Oberyn repeated.

“As much as I would like to refute it, Oringruud was right,” said the bearish orc. “War is coming and I would rather not have to deal with raids from the wildmen of the north while our focus is solely on the south and the Alliance. If we help save the Frost Tribe, will you speak to the other tribes, have them cease all hostilities towards us? We will even offer then refuge and supplies if they will aid in the war effort. I foresee strikes from wildmen from another front as a way to weaken the Alliance further.”

The young man frowned deeply. “It is not my right to make such a decision.”

“Actually, it is,” Samuel said. “For all intents and purposes, you are the new chieftain of a new tribe since your father effectively sent you out to find a new home and make a tribe of your own. I know you still hold the firm belief that your father still lives but a great responsibility has been handed over to you.”

Oberyn snorted roughly. “You talk with a silver tongue.” He puffed out his chest and straightened. “Very well. I will speak on behalf of the Frost Tribe to the other wildmen but I cannot guarantee they will all agree.”

Ramdrud clapped his hands together. “Excellent.” Then he turned towards the rest of the orcs. “Amthos, Knaatl, you and the Nightusks need to go with Oberyn and free the Frost Tribe. Destroy Noraduil.”

“Me!?” Amthos exclaimed in shock. “My place is here!”

“Undeniably. However, as things stand, Oringruud will continue to bait you and antagonise you. I need time to settle things and get my hooks into his people first before he can continue to boil your blood and infuriate you into doing something foolish.” He nodded towards Samuel and Dalgmar. “The others and I will keep the situation stable and hopefully placate Oringruud and Urthak enough.”

Then he flashed the Avatar a grin. “Besides, should you return with the head of a hero of the war, particularly one renowned for killing orcs, then the chieftains will have to offer their begrudging respect. If not them, then at least their tribes.”

******

Raonoak Castle was oddly quiet that night. No crickets chirped, no birds of the night flew or hunted and even Eranius’ hounds who were always yapping just after the sun fell were mysteriously mute. If the Lord-Knight were a man to believe in omens and superstition, he would consider these ill tidings. However, he firmly believed that ‘premonitions’ were either the visions of madmen, false claims of those seeking attention or the magic of wizards or priests. Perhaps the Gods had some hand in it but everything had some explanation apart from some form of precognition.

His chambers were miserably quiet and he welcomed the creak of his wooden door and the light footsteps of Qurron as the War Wizard entered.

“You wished to see me, milord?”

“Yes. I hoped to catch you before you left with Orradin.” He turned to his oldest friend with a frown on his face. “Not that I do not trust Orradin but he is a product of the Old Gods who pledged allegiance to the Holy Triad. His enthusiasm to eliminate the orcs is appreciated but I sometimes wonder if it will benefit the Alliance.”

Qurron’s aged brow furrowed. “You doubt that the annihilation of the orcs is for the betterment of the Alliance?”

“No. I doubt that how Orradin hopes to eliminate the orc is for the betterment of the Alliance.” Eranius turned back towards his balcony. “Consider this, my friend: the orcs have not attacked us. People are flocking to them. If we unleash a raid upon them at this moment, we will be the aggressors. Disproval from the public will rise and that may give rise to more and more sympathisers that will only bolster the ranks of our enemies and weaken ours.”

The mage let out a thoughtful hum. “I see your point, Eranius. But similarly, we cannot show weakness.”

“I do not intend to.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Wizard. “I am going to assemble a group under Paladin Luxeaus Reinhardt. He will go directly to Whitepeak to investigate these orc migrations. Orradin does not yet know where the orcs are congregating only that it is to the north. You are to lead him on a roundabout route. Investigate the other border forts before Whitepeak.”

“What purpose will that serve?”

“Security. If Orradin attacks Whitepeak before Luxaeus has the opportunity to verify their hostility, then it will be an unprovoked attack and act of war. I was wary that the orcs might just be forming a small confederacy similar to the other races currently under the Alliance’s guidance.” He turned fully towards Qurron, spreading his arms. “Think of it, Qurron. What would the people say if the orcs simply put aside their savage ways and wish to fully convert to the faith of the Holy Triad? Perhaps they have realised that their existence is doomed without the grace of the Triad. If Orradin attacks them, think of the scandal.”

The War Wizard grimaced and shook his head. “I see your point. But why Luxeaus?”

“His is a faithful and loyal paladin. I never once questioned his loyalty.” Eranius turned his gaze elsewhere. “And perhaps there is a chance that the sojourn of all the orcs brought Thomas to the orcs and the poor lad could at least have some closure.”

Qurron nodded gravely. “You still feel guilty over the poor boy’s branding?”

Eranius grit his teeth in anger. “Thomas was just defending me and my word and Orradin twisted it to serve his bloodlust. If I can at the very least annoy our supposed ‘hero’, then I hope Thomas will at least feel somewhat avenged.” He shook his head and wandered over to the desk positioned in front of the fire. “But enough about Orradin. The mere mention of his name sets my heart afire.” The Lord-Knight pressed a hand against some parchment. “Tell me of another hero. Tell me of Noraduil.”

The War Wizard moved towards the table and shrugged. “What is there to tell? Like all the heroes of the past age, he was venerated and exalted as he grew into maturity and celebrated in the years after the War of Apotheosis. However, in recent years, like all the other heroes, they have found little comfort in their purposeless lives.”

“I find that hard to believe considering the Alliance is constantly attempting to expand its borders.”

“They have ample opportunity to serve the Alliance but they are all craven. Now that their divinity was given to the Holy Triad they are all mortal and with the casualties constantly occurring on the fronts, their chances of suffering a mortal wound are as high as any other man’s.” Qurron gestured absently to the north. “Noraduil was an accomplished elf mage. His expertise lay with ice. From what I hear, due to the shorter lifespan of elves, he found himself aging faster than say his human or dwarven heroic counterparts. Even so, it was still at a much slower rate compared to most of his race.”

Eranius rolled his eyes. “Some would sacrifice much to have such a curse.”

“Indeed. But for Noraduil, it was not enough. He was found researching means to extend his life in the libraries of Trispire. The College wanted to assist him in his endeavours but he found them frustrating and incompetent.”

“Were they?”

Qurron was incredulous. “Absolutely not. He just grew impatient and infuriated at their constant questions.” He shook his head. “The hero retreated north past the border forts. Supposedly, he’s created a stronghold for himself there where he continues his research to this day.”

“Are we even sure he is still alive?”

“Yes. Magical missives come to Trispire every now and then requesting for a research materials or a certain ingredient. As far as we are aware, Noraduil still lives and he continues his experiments alone in the forest wastes of the Fangs of World.” Qurron inclined his head slightly. “Why do you ask of him, milord? Do you truly believe that he is the source of the orc’s great migration?”

Eranius regarded the documents in front of him, mostly maps. “Perhaps. Those great black birst you mentioned come to mind. Attempts to intercept them are fruitless as the birds seem to be as shadow and move as swiftly as the winds. Wherever these birds land, either orcs or Greenskin Sympathisers start moving.”

The War Wizard frowned. “Yes… That is a disturbing thought...”

“There is more,” said the Lord-Knight gravely. “Black wolves as big as any Dire Wolf or Warg have been protecting the migrants. Merchants or travellers passing the roving groups report tales of the hopeful-eyed drifters following black horses.” He sifted through the papers. “From what you’ve told me about Noraduil, this does not fit his skills or method of operation.”

A chill fell through Eranius’ quarters as Qurron’s eyes went wide in shock.

“You suspect another mage is involved.” Then a cruel smirk crossed the Wizard’s lips. “And you wish to save your best assets until later. That is why you are sending Luxeaus to Whitepeak first and holding us back.”

“My intentions remain true to form as I have said,” Eranius snapped angrily. “That it has tactical value is a bonus.”

Qurron bowed respectfully. “As you say, milord.”

******

Amthos and the Nightusks left well before dawn and before any of the other residents of Greendawn could take note of their departure. As a sign of ‘good faith’ a messenger was sent to inform Oringruud and Urthak of their mission. Ramdrud however made sure that he ‘got lost’ and the two chieftains would not hear of the Avatar’s departure until much later. Amthos hated the duplicity but he could see the reasoning behind it. If the two learned of his absence, it would give them ample opportunity to seize power. Unfortunately, neither Ramdrud or Dalgmar were physically imposing compared to the ferocious Oringruud or the immense Urthak and if a trial by combat were called, they were likely to fall.

Of course Samuel was there but where was the honour in having him fight?

Astride Winterpaw, Amthos was being led by Oberyn as they headed up a mountain path to a place he called ‘Alforst’. Apparently, it was where the Frost Tribe were currently staying.

“I thought the wildmen were driven north by the Alliance when they refused to pledge allegiance to the Holy Triad,” he said to the barbarian.

“Propaganda that your zealots spout to explain our existence,” spat Oberyn. “Not everything revolves around the Usurper Gods. That tale likely made its rounds to keep your simple-minded sheep-people from realising that there are those outside the Alliance that refuse to bend a knee to the Three-Who-Became-Gods.”

He could understand the logic behind that. If the wildmen did exist before the Holy Triad came this far north, then their rule would not be considered absolute. People might start questioning them and may even endeavour to join them. That brought to mind the brand he wore against his pectoral and how so many of those who were flocking to Greendawn bore the same markings. He wondered if he could ask Samuel to dispel the magic of the brands and reshape as he had done before.

“So how did the wildmen come to be?”

Oberyn shot him a foul stare. “Don’t call us ‘wildmen’. We are not ‘wild’. We are the Nordian. The lands you know as the Fangs of the World is our country of Nordia.”

“Truly?” Knaatl laughed. “Why would you want to stay in such a frozen hell when the lands further south are much warmer and richer?”

The wildman scowled at him as he crested one particular peak. He then pointed downwards. “That is why.”

As Winterpaw came up next to the Nordian, Amthos’ eyes widened. What sat before him was a gentle slope of snow that slowly gave way to lush greenery. The vast valley looked both rich and warm and he could see evidence of farmland and agriculture amongst the dense forests and rolling plains of greenery. A river of clear blue water ran from the mountains like a vein, feeding the land with life and energy. However, he could also see odd icy spires of white jutting out of the land that seemed out of place.

“Within the slopes of the Fangs of the World are valleys such as this,” said Oberyn, his voice tainted by sorrow. “The Fangs are alive. They are not dead cold mountains as you would believe. The earth’s fiery life blood flows through them and they heat springs filled with minerals known for their healing properties all over the mountain. We make our homes in these valleys. We have nigh-impenetrable and unscaleable walls on most sides and incredible vantage points on the mountains slopes. The land is fertile and we live in peace away from your warring gods and blind piety.”

Knaatl scoffed at that. “Peace, you say? You may mock us for our way of life but I seem to recall several wildmen attacks which was the reason why the Alliance erected the border forts.”

“Only because we are driven by foul creatures such as Noraduil; a former member of the Alliance.”

Amthos could sense an argument rising and quickly intercepted the two by pointing at the icy spires. “What are those? Should they not have melted?”

Oberyn’s features turned sourer. “That is Noraduil’s doing. Through some dark magic, he plants those towers of ice amongst our land. Each one contains the frozen bodies of the tribesmen and women captured in the raid by the Shalan’dar or the frost dwarves. They are still very much alive but remain preserved and frozen in agony. Only when Noraduil requires one for his experiments will he pull one from the ice and bring them to his dark fortress.”

Knaatl grimaced. “They’re storage rooms. Terrifying edifices that commemorate his conquest. What madness has taken him?”

“I know not.” Oberyn turned to the left, further north. “Come. This land once belonged to the Roam Tribe. We must travel further north to reach the lands of the Frost Tribe. That is where Noraduil is.”

“Your tribe was closest to Noraduil?”

The Nordain shook his head grimly. “No. Noraduil moves.”

Amthos exchanged glances with Knaatl who shrugged in disbelief. “He moves?” repeated the Avatar.

“It is best if I show you.” Oberyn hugged the white cloak around his shoulders tighter. “Come. We still have much ground to cover.”

As the group began to march again Amthos could see out into the distance the remains of what must have been the last attack by the mad mage. Many of the frozen spires seemed to be placed around an area where one of the slopes had fallen. It looked like an avalanche or a landside had sent the snow down into the valley along with any tree’s in its path. The slope leading back up into the mountains was similarly littered with frozen spires and broken trees. But leading upwards he could see massive gaping holes that seemed as if they were pushed into the ground. The way they were spread out almost made it seem like it was the set of tracks for some massive creature but with so many so spread out it was impossible to tell what exactly made them.

Amthos had one nagging question that had been bothering him ever since he had first met Oberyn. After some time hiking his curiosity got the better of him and he finally asked, “Are you truly the chieftain of your tribe?”

Oberyn stopped in the snow. “Should my father still live, then no. However, with his passing, I will be.” He let out a bitter laugh. “It is somewhat humorous. Before I left, he passed onto me the rite of one who would become a chieftain.”

“You have a rite?”

The Nordain nodded grimly and looked to the north. “He said to me, ‘I, Alkair Frost of the Frost Tribe, Second of my Name, Son of Uldar Frost, hereby name you, Oberyn Frost, Chieftain of the Frost Tribe, Sixth of his name’.” Oberyn lowered his head. “Then he asked me if I accepted this responsibility.”

“You say ‘Frost’ an awful lot in your rite,” Knaatl observed.

Ignoring him, Amthos asked, “And you accepted?”

“I stuttered an acceptance, yes,” he chuckled in return. “For all intents and purposes, I am the chieftain of the Frost Tribe. But nothing stops me from passing this back to my father once he has been saved.”

Amthos smiled and rested a hand on the young chieftain’s shoulder. “Then we will be sure to save him.”

Oberyn couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, the young man pressed a fist against his chest. “Frost forever.”

“Is that some sort of greeting? A sign of agreement?”

“It is our traditional greeting, yes.”

“Then…” Amthos mirrored the gesture. “Frost forever.”

Oberyn shook his head, a faint smile on his face. “Other hand.”

******

It was almost sunset when a deafening bellowing came from somewhere in the keep. Ramdrud was perched behind his office desk, going over the list of supplies and materials that were coming in when he heard the roar. He sighed softly and rose from his seat.

“I had hoped he would not notice until tomorrow…” he admitted to himself.

Oringruud was a brute but he was far from stupid. Ramdrud was fairly sure the hot-headed orc had spies within his staff but he could not care less for that. He had his own men amongst each of the tribes gathering information for him as well. What his real trump card was was Samuel, who could root out any spies or traitors in the blink of an eye. Something he was sure he was already doing given that he could speak with the rats and mice making him the best source of information.

As he left his office, he found Samuel similarly striding towards the audience chamber.

“It seems the Blood Claw chieftain has discovered your duplicity,” observed the No One.

“It was not a duplicity. I sent the message. If he did not receive it, that is not my fault.”

“Let us see if he sees it that way.”

Ramdrud honestly was not fearful of the orc. Yes, Oringruud was stronger than him physically but back when he was human, he had to deal with such brutes on a daily basis. As the son of a minor noble, he was expected to carry on the name of the family proudly. Though that usually meant he was to be trained in swordsmanship and become some sort of large, sweaty, muscled beast, Ramdrud found himself admiring muscles than craving them for himself. That led to several bouts of mockery from other noble children who adhered to the stereotypes afforded to them as heirs to their name.

This was no different.

They stepped into the audience chamber where Oringruud had already thrown several vases around and ripped banners from their perches. Two of Ramdrud’s Hardshaft guards were lying on the ground unconscious while another three had spears levelled at the raging orc while peering nervously at his guard and Urthak who loomed over Oringruud’s shoulder.

Upon seeing him, Oringruud bellowed. “What is the meaning of this, Ramdrud!? Why were we not informed that the Avatar and his merry band of assassins had left Greendawn!?”

“I sent a messenger,” Ramdrud answered, reciting his rehearsed speech. “Did he not arrive?”

“You should have shown me courtesy and advised me in person! Moreover, why did the Avatar not tell me himself!?”

“His departure was of an urgent matter. You heard the barbarian’s testimony. Noraduil is conducting dark experiments north, far too close for comfort. He sought to deal with the matter personally.” Ramdrud smirked at the fuming orc. “And if we are speaking of courtesy, I would ask you not to savage my guard, ruin my vases or rip apart my pennants. That is simply rude.”

Oringruud scowled at him and stormed forward. Urthak was right behind him. The Hardshaft guards took a step back. “Do not play words with me, man-orc! This is the last outrage I have suffered!” He immediately drew the giant axe he wielded. “The Blood Claws will take leadership of this congregation! For the first time since the War, we have a chance to take back our lands and crush the Alliance and here you are whittling away the hours on petty fears like caged mice! I will not have it! This is not how orcs live!”

The orc levelled his axe at Ramdrud. “I challenge you, Ramdrud, for your leadership over the Hardshaft! I invoke Rokruun’Madar!”

Ramdrud tightened his fists. He had been expecting this. “Very well. For my champion -”

“Orcs do not follow the petty rules and your human customs,” scowled Oringruud. “It is you I challenge. You and I will face. No one else! Only death will end the challenge and the winner earns the right to lead the tribe of the fallen chieftain!”

That… he was not expecting. He glanced towards Samuel and then to the other members of the Hardshaft. Just from their look, he knew that there was no escape from this challenge. His heart was suddenly racing. Combat was not his strong suit and if he faced off against Oringruud, by the time Amthos returned the Hardshaft and indeed all of Greendawn will have fallen to the Blood Claws.

“I -”

Before he could finish, Samuel was suddenly moving. In an instant, he suddenly appeared behind Oringruud. A tremendous sound like a clap of thunder boomed across the audience chamber. The Blood Claws and Earth Runners were hurled to the corners of the chamber, slamming against the walls.

“Treachery!” scowled Oringruud, rising to his feet. “The mage turns upon us! Kill him!”

The Blood Claw Wargs and soldiers got to their feet… only for the very stone beneath them to suddenly shift and undulate like water. The stones formed large, grasping hands, seizing them immediately and pinning them to the ground. The Earth Runners moved to aid only for the torn banners to leap up from the ground like snakes and wrap around them, blanketing them and forcing them to the ground. Even the mighty Urthak was wrapped up like a rolled carpet and tossed to the ground, helpless.

Oringruud was the only one free and he charged towards Samuel, waving his axe like a madman. The No One easily lifted his armoured hand and caught the blade without so much as a moment of hesitation.

“Why should we adhere to your laws and customs?” asked Samuel. “You may be an orc but you are in Greendawn, a city built by the Avatar, warded by Ramdrud. I see no reason to adhere to old customs that only end in death.”

“You spit on our traditions!” Oringruud roared and pulled his axe back. He swung a fist towards The No One who simply ducked the blow.

“I acknowledge them,” countered Samuel. “But we will forge new ones.”

“And I will challenge those!” The Blood Claw chieftain lifted his axe over his head, grasped it in both hands and brought it crashing down. Samuel easily sidestepped the blow as Oringruud’s axe bit into the floor, but before he could lift it back up Samuel placed his foot on top of the axe. The mad Orc snarled as he tried to lift up his blade but the weapon just wouldn’t budge under the No One’s foot. That didn’t stop Oringruud from trying however as he took both hands in an attempt to lift it. Samuel however calmly lifted his foot for the slightest of moments before giving the hilt a gentle tap with his armoured boot. The keep shook as Oringruud’s entire body suddenly sunk as his blade was forced deep into the ground by a powerful force while he still stubbornly clung to his weapon. A shockwave blasted out of the impact, clearly visible as the dirt and dust on the floor was blasted outwards as the air was pushed out in a ring from where the axe bit into the stone blocks of the audience chamber floor.

Oringruud’s eyes widened. He desperately tried to pull the axe from where it rested but it seemed to be stuck. He stopped only when he noticed Samuel holding a finger over his face.

“Please do not die.”

The No One gave him a small flick of his finger but to the chieftain it was as if he had been uppercut by a mountain. The massive orc was sent flying straight upwards where he crashed into the ceiling. The force was strong enough to shake the entire keep and make a large dent in the ceiling. Ramdrud feared that he had actually killed Oringruud. Then, gravity took its course.

Oringruud let out a terrifying roar as if defying his fate. The mighty chieftain crashed to the ground with a mighty bam. The roof rumbled ominously. Large chunks of stone peeled away from the roof and came crashing down all around them. Miraculously, Oringruud was not crushed by the debris even as he lay prone on his face. Even despite the might fall, the chieftain remained alive and breathing.

Ramdrud had to admit that orcs were very resilient. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to breathe and Oringruud was rising to his feet, grimacing and with blood pouring down from his chin.

“Eight days,” Samuel said evenly. “In eight days, when the shadow of this axe rests exactly at this position, Amthos will be back in Greendawn successful from his mission. If he is not, we will concede control of both Greendawn and the Hardshaft to you. Further, I will lend my aid to you in my entire capacity. If he does however, you and Urthak must silence your open opposition to the Avatar and fall in line.”

The Blood Claw chieftain spat a bloody wad to the side but could do little more than glare balefully at Samuel.

“We agree,” rumbled Urthak from where he was restrained. “But you must swear fealty publically and Amthos is to publically declare Oringruud warchief of the tribe.”

“Agreed.”

One some hidden command, the stones let go of the hostile orcs. Blood Claw and Earth Runner alike scrambled to the aid of their respective warchiefs. Oringruud had to be helped onto his Warg by two orcs. They left with the Blood Claws shooting Samuel a baleful look. Urthak, however, seemed more relieved than anything.

Once they were alone, Ramdrud stepped up to Samuel, dismissing the rest of his Hardshaft. “Did you plan that?”

“Honestly, no,” answered the No One. “A story can take many routes and unfortunately, in this case, it chose to take the route where we are at most risk. I had honestly hoped Urthak would not succumb to Oringruud’s intimidation, buying us the time we needed for Amthos to return. However, it seems our Earth Runner chieftain has been granted a sort of… amnesty.”

Ramdrud didn’t need further prompting to know what the wolf meant. “Oringruud told him he could leave for his dwarven stronghold if he threw his lot with the Blood Claws. I honestly didn’t think Oringruud was capable of diplomacy.” He crossed his arms, staring at the axe embedded into the ground. “Didn’t you see this coming?”

“Didn’t you?”

The orc laughed softly. “Touché.”

Samuel regarded the doors where the two chieftains had left through. “Let me make something perfectly clear, Ramdrud; I can see into the minds of people and I can see the countless paths that they could possibly take into the future. However, seeing the future is entirely different from living in the present. A man may have a nine to ten chance in going right at a crossroads but he may still go left on a whim. All I can do is plan for as many possibilities as I can.”

Ramdrud frowned deeply. “I see. So did you plan this exchange with Oringruud?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And will Amthos make it back in eight days?”

“There are cases and possibilities where he will. Others where he does not return at all. We shall have to see in eight days.”

******

Oberyn led them quietly through the lush forest of the Frost Valley two days later, remaining low and with his axe drawn. The underbrush wasn’t quite dense but the winding woods were like a maze. Amthos found himself constantly ducking and weaving between the low hanging branches. The Nightusks found similar difficulty as they immense statures were ill suited for the forest. Many had to shuffle on their sides as some trees simply grew too close to one another. Marching in single file was the only way they could move without causing too much noise.

“It isn’t far now,” Oberyn whispered, pointing slightly upwards through the dense canopy. “You can see where his citadel is right now.”

According to the barbarian, Noraduil’s icy citadel was apparently perched on some sort of giant, icy spider. When the mage wanted to invade another wildman tribe, he would just march his monstrosity to the latest encampment, perch himself nearby and then unleash his hordes of Shalan’dar and frost dwarves. Most tribes never stood a chance.

“How did the Frost Tribe last so long?” Amthos asked. “You mentioned you think you are the last tribe there is?”

“Perhaps there are others,” said the young warrior. “But we only survived so long because we knew we could not win against Noraduil and we know these mountains better than even he. His citadel is hardly subtle so whenever our sentries spot it arriving, we pack and move.”

“You’re… nomads?”

“Nomads move from place to place in search for food and shelter,” Oberyn answered glumly. “We are fugitives running from a tyrant.”

Amthos thought back to the orcs who had no home of their own, constantly moving or relying on others to house them. Recalling his own experiences drifting from place to place, trying to hide his brand and begging on the streets, he could sympathise with the Frost Tribe. Only the wildmen had a terrible looming monster of ice constantly chasing them, diving them from one place to the other and preventing them from having a home of their own.

“As we have sworn before,” said the Avatar firmly. “We will rid you of Noraduil.” Then he gave the young man a gentle smile. “And perhaps you would bring your tribe to Greendawn. We have plenty of room and the land is rich. You would be welcome just like the others.”

The wildman froze in his steps and gave Amthos a searching look. “We do not need your pity…”

“It is not pity. It is an alliance. Noraduil is a product of the Alliance and we orcs have been oppressed for a long time by those that would call themselves ‘holy’. We are building a new nation. One that is accepting of anyone who would come to us so long as they do not mean us ill. All are welcome. Dwarf, elf, human. Any who would come to us.”

The barbarian turned his back to Amthos. “I doubt you would just let us stay without any repayment.”

“We only ask that you help in the betterment of Greendawn. Help protect its borders or its people, expand its reaches. Farm, build. Whatever you can do. We are a community not a dictatorship like the Alliance.”

Oberyn turned back towards the Avatar slightly. “Your offer is greatly appreciated. But these are our lands. As per our agreement, should you slay Noraduil the Frost Tribe will not strike at you or your budding nation. I will also speak to the other tribes on your behalf. I would not hope for much, however.”

“And why not?” Amthos asked cheerily. “Our offer will always stand, friend. The gates of Greendawn will always remain open to you. At the very least, let us open routes of trade. We can help the Frost Tribe become the most powerful Nordain tribe there is!”

The barbarian scoffed. “Let us see just how far we can recover after this.”

“Do not lose hope. I am sure your tribe can survive. There are still those already in Greendawn that may at least help your tribe rebuild.”

Suddenly, Winterpaw began growling, his ears pointed forward and twitching back and forth. The rest of the Nightusks were too preoccupied with trying to move through the dense forest to notice the steadily dropping temperature and the shadows moving between the branches. Amthos glanced at his loyal mount and then back to Oberyn. The Nordain warrior glanced back at him with cold, uncaring eyes.

“I was not talking about my tribe.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet shimmered with an ethereal blue light. Oberyn immediately moved away from the glow and before Amthos could cry out a warning, pillars of ice erupted from the ground all around them. The cold touch of the pillars bit into his flesh, embracing him and hurling him into the air. All too late, he realised that one of Noraduil’s icy prisons were rising around them. He tried to move, tried to get away but to his horror, the ice wrapped around his limbs and every inch of his body like a cold hands holding him in place.

He let out a mighty roar, a cry echoed by the rest of the Nightusks. His shout died in his throat as the ice wrapped entirely over his features, freezing it in place. As biting as the cold was, however, he remained fully aware of his surroundings and was forced to look at Oberyn as the barbarian turned towards the trapped orcs.

From the surrounding forest, dozens of short creatures made of black rock with icy blue veins running through them emerged. They all seemed to be made of the same general model – short, about 5 foot tall, stocky, brimming with muscles and with bald heads and glowing, blue eyes.

Littered amongst the frost dwarves were terrifying abominations. They were tall, lanky creatures with skin as pale as the snow itself. Deformed and looking like they were in constant agony, the creatures generally had hunched figures with shallow, sunken features. Their ears were abnormally long, even for elves, and their limbs were all bony and emaciated. Some bore odd deformities. One creature had a third vestal arm sprouting from his back and another had two, tiny baby-like legs sprouting from her gut. One poor creature had his head fused with his torso. All these creatures were dressed tattered rags and bore crude weaponry.

The Shalan’dar.

Amthos wanted to scream, to roar, to rail against the icy prison but he could barely move. He tried to move with all his might and heard a few crackles filled his ears. The ice was starting to break around his limbs.

Perhaps the Gods’ magical immunity wasn’t utterly useless after all.

“Fascinating.”

Though he could not move his head, Amthos could still swivel his eyes. He watched as a richly dressed Shalan’dar with no obvious deformities came striding into view. Unlike the others of his kind, he was tall, had a straight back and walked with poise and intelligence. Dressed in a long, flowing robe, he strode towards Oberyn and placed a bony hand with gold-painted nails as long as fingers onto the Nordain’s shoulder.

“You have done well, young Oberyn,” said the snow elf. “And it seems you have brought me the prize I sought.” The Shalan’dar turned icy blue eyes towards Amthos and strode towards the crystal prison. “Yes… the one touched by the Old Gods themselves.”

Amthos’ blood boiled.

CRASH!

The Shalan’dar jumped as Amthos’ fist exploded out of the pillar of ice, lunging for him. With a quick wave of his hand, the prison immediately closed around Amthos’ extended arm, encasing it once more.

“Oh my,” chuckled the mage, no doubt Noraduil. “So the Old Gods have granted you incredible strength. Enough to even resist my most trusted imprisonment spell. Fascinating indeed.”

He waved a hand over his shoulder. The Shalan’dar and the snow elves and frost dwarves began moving forward. The ice around Amthos moved and shifted like liquid. It pulled him free of the rest of the block, pulling him away from the Nightusks and Winterpaw until he landed in his own personal block at the foot of the enormous, icy pillar. The frost dwarves then began pushing the block towards the citadel.

“Wait!” Oberyn demanded. “What about my tribe? What about my father? You swore to let them go if I brought you this orc!”

Suddenly, Oberyn’s appearance suddenly made sense. Oberyn’s band was not designed to start a new tribe. They were the team sent to capture him. Ramdrud’s assumption had been wrong and Oberyn had merely pounced on the opportunity to capture the Avatar of the Orcs! All to save his tribe which had already fallen prey to Noraduil.

The hero of the War sighed and waved a hand absently through the air. “Your tribe has been freed. Go, take them before I change my mind.”

Relief washed over the young man’s face. “And my father?”

There, Noraduil grinned darkly. “Our agreement was that I would release your tribe if you brought me the one touched by the Old Gods. I never said that I would not continue to use them as I see fit. You may find your tribe significantly lacking in numbers.”

Oberyn’s eyes widened and Amthos’ heart broke. “My father…”

The Shalan’dar shrugged and turned his back to the Nordain warrior. “I do not know. All you wildmen look the same to me. I may have torn his soul asunder to make more frost dwarves. I may not. I do not know. They mean nothing to me now that I have this…” He looked to Amthos hungrily. “… fantastic specimen.”

Oberyn let out a pained roar and charged at Noraduil with his axe drawn. A Shalan’dar suddenly leapt into his path, taking the fatal blow. Others quickly hurled themselves at Oberyn. Though they were small and lanky, the Shalan’dar were numerous and wrestled the stronger wildman to the ground.

“You have until the end of the day to take your tribe away from my presence,” Noraduil said coldly. “Should I see you again, I will not be so merciful.”

With a sinister grin, Noraduil began striding through the forest, the frost dwarves pushing Amthos’ block away after him.

Amthos felt nothing but pity for Nordain man and hatred for Noraduil. He fought with all his strength, trying to break himself loose of the solid cube of ice. However, as he moved, the ice seemed to shift and reshape itself, hardening around the limbs he was trying to move to keep him from breaking free.

Then, as they passed the forest, he saw a sight of true horror.

It appeared like the entire forest had been torn from its roots and in its place was an entire mining facility. The forest abruptly ended and suddenly there was just barren dirt and frozen patches of land. Wildmen chained by enchanted ice and guarded by Shalan’dar and frost dwarves mined the sides of the mountains, hauling blocks of black stone deep from within the mountains and towards Noraduil’s enormous, frozen citadel. The towers of ice containing countless others wildmen littered the area, a constant reminder of their servitude.

Great holes had been dug into the ground and mine shafts built into the sides of the mountain. Artificially carved paths curved away from each mining location to the icy castle sitting atop what looked like titanic, slumbering spider made entirely of ice. Crude shelters made of the cut lumber was erected here and there as the only way of keeping out the cold for the freezing wildmen.

“You are likely wondering at my purpose here,” Noraduil said, his cruel, hawk-like features constantly smiling. “You see, after the War of Apotheosis, I lost my immortality just like any of the heroes. I had thought to seek the approval of the newly risen Gods of the Holy Triad in order to be granted that gift once more.” He gestured at the vast expanse before him, spreading his arms wide as they followed the long, flat path to his citadel. “So I sought to conquer one of the many locations that the Alliance had yet to spread to! The frozen north of our fair continent! I sought to subdue the wildmen, to bring our strength to the north!”

The elf lowered his arms, scowling softly. “But then I realised the sheer vastness of the Fangs of the World. One cannot simply navigate through the treacherous pathways and valleys of the Fangs even in an enchanted bastion atop an icy construct’s back. Blizzards, treacherous snows and avalanches have delayed my conquest more than I care to imagine. Time, unfortunately, is something even the Holy Triad cannot control and stall forever.” He ran a hand through his bald head. “One day, I found myself with a grey lock and I came to the stunning realisation of my own mortality.”

Amthos wanted to berate him that they were all mortal and that one day, he would die. It was something he accepted long ago. As the squire of the Lord-Knight, he had to be beside his lord at all time and if that meant dying for him, that was a reality he had accepted. Being exiled as a Greenskin Sympathiser, that reality became far more evident and even now as the Avatar, it was something he was well aware of despite his power.

“Elves do not last much more than fifty summers,” Noraduil continued as they approached the foot of the giant spider. “That is why most of my race tends to enjoy the carnal pleasures of life more readily than most other races. Dwarves take their time and humans flit somewhere in between. But even with the gifts of the Old Gods, I will scarcely last eighty, perhaps a hundred summers more. Still longer than most other mere mortals but I am no mere mortal.”

There was a fire in Noraduil’s eyes as he waved a hand. The spider leaned forward, opening its monstrous jaws to reveal the entrance into the citadel.

“I am a hero of the War of Apotheosis!” shouted the elf. “It was through my divinity that the Triad rose to their eminence now! And yet I am left here to languish in mortality and to age slowly! Where is the fairness in that?” Composing himself again, the elf said, “So I sought other means to prolong my life.”

He gestured at the Shalan’dar and frost dwarves. “I did my research and devised of a way to transfer my soul into a younger body. At first I sought to create an immortal body. I forged bodies from the rock of these mountains. I admit to being somewhat envious of the dwarves and their long lives so I first crated these hollow shells to suit my needs. However, I soon found that due to the lack of sensory organs and blood, the things that we fleshy being take advantage of, a soul transplanted into such a vessel tends to be somewhat… hollow. They degrade, becoming dull to the world and just as empty as the rocks that they inhabit.”

Amthos tried to look at the frost dwarves but they were behind him, pushing the block. What soul was trapped within their expanse? What poor creature was forced to slowly fade into a hollow husk?

“So I sought to create something a little closer to my own race,” Noraduil giggled, almost girlishly. They strode into the giant hallway of the citadel. It reminded him a lot of the great hallway atrium of Raonoak. Sweeping, icy pillars rose to flank the blue carpet they followed. The walls themselves, built out of ice, had been sculpted into the image of heroic battles all cantering around Noraduil. The hero’s arrogance shone through every sculpture, bust and emblem to his power. He even had banners made exclusively with his own personal insignia – a bald elf’s head cast over a snowflake.

“I had some student volunteers from the College of Magi, all elves of course, come to my home. They all leapt at the chance to aid a great hero such as myself. That they were being recruited to procreate was only too sweet for their little minds. They eagerly bred for me and using my magic, I accelerated their pregnancies. I sought to create the perfect body for myself by having certain elves breed with one another.”

Noraduil frowned deeply. “Sadly, they were bound my moral ethics and beseeched me to stop. They had to be eliminated and I was left with their offspring.” He glanced with disgust at the Shalan’dar. “Most, idiotic bastards barely capable of forming words. Perhaps that is in part my fault as I rapidly accelerated their aging until they were capable of breeding. Unfortunately, excessive interbreeding has caused the genetic deformities you now see before you.” He shrugged absently. “Far from the perfect body but good enough to keep the wildmen in check.”

Amthos tried to accuse Noraduil of being a monster but he remained firmly frozen in place.

“But then you came along.” The ‘hero’ turned to him with a bright grin. “Ah yes. I sensed your arrival the moment you came close to Whitepeak! Such immense divine powers and from the Old Gods themselves!”

Noraduil came to stand in front of the icy block himself, pressing a hand over the surface. Even with at least a good foot of solid ice between himself and the elf mage, Amthos felt his skin crawl.

“I have faith in you, my dear boy,” snickered the hero. “I have faith that you will somehow restore my divinity and make me immortal once more.”

******

The ice cracked slightly. Knaatl mentally grunted as he inched closer and closer to where Duskvenom hovered frozen in the ice. The sun had set and they were in near-darkness, alone in the wilderness and separated from their Avatar. Though they were all encased in the same block of ice, all the Nightusks were frozen and incapable of moving.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, the Nightusk chieftain lurched with all his effort towards his bow which rested so close. Like the past hundred times, the ice buckled against his superior strength and he managed to move about half an inch towards his enchanted weapon. Then, the ice would immediately heal around his hand, once again freezing him in place.

Just a little more.

Once again, he mustered his strength and lurched forward. It was like trying to overcome sleep paralysis. He was fully aware of himself but just could not move his own body no matter how much he tried. The only thing keeping him moving was the fear of what was happening to Amthos.

Another half inch forward and he was that much closer to his weapon.

If he could just get to it, just get it to fire, maybe the venom from the weapon could destroy the ice around them.

Movement caught his attention. He stopped, eyes darting around. There was a small contingent of frost dwarves encircling the column. Only two of the Shalan’dar patrolled the area and they seemed more concerned with plucking things from their sharpened, yellowed teeth than actually guarding their prisoners.

There was movement again, this time near the brush. The Shalan’dar took notice and one of them moved towards it, drawing a wicked, black dagger. As he approached the culprit bush, he let out an unholy screech that could be heard even through the ice. The deformed, partially-naked elf stabbed at the bush with his dagger, plunging the blade into the dark, leafy depths over and over again. After a minute, it stopped attacking, panting and dazing around with wild, wide, blue eyes.

It suddenly went rigid and let out a soft ‘ack’. The other snow elf jerked in surprise as its comrade toppled back, an arrow firmly between its eyes. Before the beast could react or scream in warning, another arrow came streaming from the shadows and buried itself into the mutant’s eye.

The shadows moved and suddenly, there were dozens of wildmen emerging from the underbrush, armed and ready. Leading them was Oberyn.

Knaatl held back a snarl as the traitor moved quickly towards the block of ice.

“Be still,” said the Nordain. “We will free you.”

When he glanced quickly at the frost dwarves, Oberyn smiled at him.

“They are stupid and do not attack unless ordered,” Oberyn explained. He stepped aside and gestured for his tribesmen to come forward. They brought pickaxes and other tools all made of the same black stone that the frost dwarves were made of. Somehow, the rock bit easily into the ice and kept the chunks from regenerating themselves. They drew closer and closer to him and he quickly shut his eyes as they began beating the ice around his face.

With one last bash, the chunks fell from his features and he could finally breathe fresh air again. He didn’t realise how much he missed the smell of the forest until he was freed from the ice.

“What of Amthos?” he demanded.

“Taken to Noraduil’s citadel,” answered Oberyn. “We will free him shortly but we must bolster our numbers.” There was a fire in the youth’s eyes that burned with vengeance. “I hope he is far more resilient than others that have been taken into that fort of the damned.”

“He is the Avatar of the Orcs,” Knaatl said, grunting at his arm was torn free. With one arm finally loose, he seized a chunk of ice around his neck and yanked it free. However, the ice instantly began healing again. One of the wildmen instantly slammed a black rock pick at the closing wound, somehow stopping it from healing.

“Noraduil’s spells is designed to prevent his frost dwarves from being caught in the same trap,” Oberyn explained. “He gestured at the pickaxe and their makeshift weapons. “We made these crude weapons over the length of our capture and hid them in plain sight. The Shalan’dar are not too wise and just considered them the same as the others provided to us. Since the frost dwarves are made of the same material, we can use it to cut through the ice without it healing.”

“Smart.” He locked gazes directly with Oberyn. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

Oberyn gave him a lopsided, grim smile. “The Nordain do not bend a knee so easily. When the Frost Tribe was captured, we sat quietly, observed, waiting for our opportunity. When Noraduil discovered this ‘divine force’ to the south, I volunteered to capture him in exchange for the freedom of our tribe. In truth, we were planning an escape knowing full well that the bastard would never uphold his word.”

Oberyn lowered his gaze grimly as Knaatl was freed.

The big orc took one of the pickaxes from the wildmen and gave the column of ice a mighty swing, shattering it and freeing Winterpaw in one blow. The Warg shook his white fur and plodded up next to Knaatl, blue eyes falling on Oberyn, judging him.

“Most of our tribe has been used in Noraduil’s experiments,” Oberyn explained. “But other wildmen tribes have been convinced to join our cause and we will be staging an attack soon. All of them are armed with the same black rock weaponry.” He held out his hand. “Are you with us?”

Knaatl regarded the arm suspiciously. “You purposefully let Amthos, the Avatar of the Orcs and possibly the most important orc in all of history to be captured by that madman?”

“A reason we have little time to waste. Now will you help us? If not to kill Noraduil but to free your Avatar?”

Scowling, Knaatl turned and swung his pickaxe once more at the ice column. This time, Duskvenom and his quiver fell to the ground. He snatched them up, nocked an arrow and levelled it at the pillar. The wildmen gawked at the sizzling bolt of green energies. When he let it fly, the arrow bit deep into the ice, cutting right through. Empowered by the night, Duskvenom sliced completely through the column and disappeared into the night. Where it touched, however, the ice began to blacken and crumble.

The wildmen gasped as the entire pillar abruptly shattered and all the orcs were freed.

“It seems my theory is proven correct,” Knaatl rumbled. He then turned toward Oberyn and seized the stunned Nordain’s hand firmly. “You have our aid.”

******

Of all the rooms in Greendawn Keep, the Atlas Chamber remained the one where most people avoided. It was erected as a formality as all border forts required one such room on the off chance that an invading force came in from the north and military organisation was needed. Since the border fort had remained untouched save for the few attacks from the Shalan’dar, the Chamber had been abandoned…

… until the resident No One occupied it.

Samuel stood on the disc that displayed the vast continent its current weather patterns. A short distance away, Veronica came striding onto the platform. Her form shimmered. The black fur across her body undulated like liquid and her stance changed to that of a biped. Within moments, there was a powerful looking humanoid horse with brilliant ethereal wings sprouting from her back. Across from her, the air vibrated like a wave of heat had passed through it. Space folded upon itself and a woman dressed in pure white stepped forward.

“Should we be concerned that Noraduil is about the extract the divine essence from Amthos?” Veronica asked.

“I am not,” answered Samuel. He pointed upwards. “They are.”

A thunderous boom shook the entire chamber. A distinct scent of male musk and hormonal need rose in the air. On anyone else, the presence of Garodrash would have had people throwing their clothes off and furiously mating. The No Ones, however, were completely unaffected.

“We have endured enough of your games, Writer! Amthos is in danger! You will fly to him immediately on your steed and rescue him this instant!”

The woman in white inclined her head to the side. There was a moment of silence then a vertical slit appeared down the length of her face. The fissure abruptly opened, revealing an enormous, red eye.

“Amthos’ soul is not so easily taken, Garodrash,” said I5 the Ingenious. “The gifts you have given him will cause no degree of frustration to Noraduil. He will not be able to extract the divine spark from him so easily.”

“Your assurances to us mean nothing! We demand action!”

“Action would diminish Amthos’ position amongst the orcs,” Veronica responded with a wave of her hand. “If R3 and I were to ride to his rescue, what would that mean to the likes of Oringruud and Urthak?” When the Gods were silent, Veronica continued. “They would think Samuel is the true hero and your sapling of a nation would once again fracture and shatter. Oringruud will take his Blood Claws and declare open war with the Alliance. Urthak will flee to Cald-Harun, leaving Greendawn vulnerable and your Avatar with the few Hardshaft, Nightusks and refugees that would follow him.” She spread her arms for emphasis. “And who would follow the lead of a would-be warchief who cannot even save himself from an elf wizard at half-power?”

“We simply cannot sit by and do nothing!”

Samuel, otherwise known as R3 the Writer of Reality, opened his eyes and finally spoke. “And we are. I have just spoken with Urthak and brokered an agreement on behalf of Ramdrud.”

Veronica, known by her title as V10 the Valiant, regarded the Writer with curiosity. “What have you done, Sam?”

He regarded her firmly. “Urthak wants to retreat to Cald-Harun. That is exactly what we will do.”

I5 closed her enormous eyes. “That is a harsh and perilous journey.” She swept her ethereal hands across the mountains of the Fangs of the World, settling a finger on one particular location. “This is where the hold is. It is far from Greendawn.”

“Perhaps. However, the only problem will truly be the elements and I can simply ask them not to intervene.”

“Preposterous,” boomed Garodrash. “Noraduil…” He stopped himself. “Oh… Oh! I see…”

“Indeed,” answered Samuel ominously. “Oringruud would have Urthak turn against us but he is now our ally provided Amthos arrives before the eight days are done.”

“Five now,” corrected Veronica.

“True. No doubt the Alliance will have detected the vast migrations of orcs and men by now. Moving deeper into the Fangs of the World beyond their reach is tactically viable.”

“That still does not answer the issue of Amthos at the mercy of Noraduil.”

The Writer of Reality smiled. “Garodrash, I see all possibilities in all realities. In order to steer this world towards one probability over the other, little movements must be made. Even the most insignificant of movements, the faintest of whispers, is enough to turn the tide in one direction of the other. Say perhaps, the odd whisper here and there about rebellion in the ears of the Nordain revealing to them how the black rock they mine can be used against Noraduil’s icy constructs or a simple observation that the frost dwarves do not act unless commanded by a Shalan’dar.”

A chill fell onto the room, the Old Gods shuddering.

“You already planned this, didn’t you?”

“Did I plan Oringruud to sway Urthak to his side and thus force us to make a counteroffer and thus migrate to Cald-Harun? No. Did I plan for Oberyn to betray Amthos only to double cross Noraduil and destroy the only thing barring us from a clear path to Cald-Harun? Yes.”

“How?”

“I can see all possibilities, remember? I simply plan accordingly.” He tapped the side of his helm. “After all, in this world I only have the power to ask and those of strong will can resist me easily enough. You must then ask yourself how I know what is in people’s minds when I never have asked them anything. Like, for instance, when I interrogated Knaatl when we first met or how I learned of Oberyn’s intentions.”

Veronica laughed softly. “You led him on. You knew that he was there to look for Amthos and lead him to Noraduil so you purposefully gave him some bait that he could take knowing he would pounce upon the opportunity. Clever. Very clever.”

“And,” I5 said, “you said in that meeting that you only had the power to ask and that Oberyn was resisting you. You made him aware that he was being played.”

“It is amazing what you can do when you simply ask,” Samuel said with a shrug. “Even more fascinating are mountains one can move with a simple suggestion.” He lifted his gaze towards the Old Gods. “So rest assured, Amthos will be fine. For the moment, the rest of us have preparations to make.”

******

“Why? Why? Why? Why!?”

Amthos woke.

He thought he was in a nightmare but unfortunately, he found himself once again suspended in mid-air, heavy chains around his wrists and ankles. He was held up at the far wall of an immense chamber of ice; Noraduil’s laboratory. Giant crystals of ice were perched above and below him, angled straight towards him with arcane runes engraved all over their lengths. A ritual circle sat at the centre of the room with braziers alight over strategic places.

Noraduil, clearly disturbed and frustrated paced the length of the room. His mad, blue eyes scanned the runes on the floor before he went rushing to the far table and poring over huge arcane tomes and notes. With a frustrated cry, he threw a heavy tome across the room.

“How are do you keep your divine spark!?” Noraduil roared, shooting Amthos a furious stare. “Is it your skin? Are orcs naturally resistant to arcane arts? Should I skin you?”

The Avatar flinched.

“No… No. If that fails you could die and I would lose my one chance at immortality.” The elf began pacing again. “Are my runes incorrect? My incantation? The alignment of the stars? What?”

He almost pitied the poor soul. So obsessed with immortality, Noraduil was literally biting his lower lip so hard that he was drawing blood.

“So close. So close. So close,” whispered the distressed over and over again.

He was mad, broken.

“You will never gain divinity from me,” he snarled. “You are a fallen soul. A broken man who is obsessed with becoming a god.”

Noraduil shot him a piercing stare. “Do not mock me, orc. An elf has risen to godhood before. I can do the same.”

“Not from my blood.”

The mage straightened from his desk and the mad gleam in his eyes faded, replaced with a dark bitterness and scorn. “You think you are special? Look at me, boy. I was just like you. I was a hero. Imbued with divinity, I was ageless and impervious to all damage. When I came of age, I waged war against your kind and slew countless Greenskins. I was a hero. Then, the Triad took that divinity to oust the very Gods that helped them rise to power. What makes you think the Old Gods would try to do the same with you now?”

Amthos flinched. “You know nothing.”

“Truly?” Noraduil slowly strode forward. “Tell me if this sounds familiar. The down trodden are graced with the presence of heroes blessed by the Gods themselves. These heroes take some time to accumulate their power and then charge forth against the opposition and crush them single-handedly. Sound familiar? Hmmm?”

He hated to admit it but it did sound very familiar.

“I am only one Avatar…”

“Do not lie to me, boy.” Noraduil turned away, sweeping his robes behind him. “I have sensed the presence of others. Little sparks here and there that quickly disappear. I suspect it must be some artefact they have or something that hides them from my sight but I have felt the ripples of their divine power here and there.”

Again proof that the Gods’ gifts were not so perfect.

“I am nothing like you,” Amthos sneered.

“Oh no?” The elf shot him a foul look. “Think of it, Avatar. You were given power by the Old Gods. The same Gods who gave me my powers. That same power was taken from me to give rise to the Triad. What makes you think that the Old Gods will not draw inspiration from the great betrayal and sap you of your divinity once the Alliance has been crushed, hmm? How do they plan to rise once more to godhood?”

“They are still Gods!”

“Severely weakened ones else they would have made more than you.” Noraduil turned away with a scowl. “Trust me on this boy, once your purpose had been fulfilled, you will be tossed aside by the Gods just as they did with me and all the other heroes.”

Amthos struggled against his chains with a sneer. “Even so, should I merely submit myself to your despair?” He lurched forward, fangs bared. “You have become obsessed, Noraduil. Nothing more than a creature that jealously looks to the past at what he had and longs for those bygone days! You see nothing in your future but returning to that!”

WHAM!

Noraduil slammed his hands to the table. “And what would you have me do? Submit to my mortality? Lie down and wait until my body becomes old, withered and grey? Or should I simply end my life now and spare myself the agony?”

Amthos could only feel pity for the miserably creature. “You should look to make the best of what you have,” he said gently. “Thousands of elves would beg to be your mate. Countless were eager to study underneath you. Craft the present for the future instead of leading it to repeat the past.”

Silence.

Noraduil then straightened and scoffed. “That is amusing coming from a reflection of the Old Gods’ mistakes reborn.” He waved absently at Amthos. “Enough of your morality and platitudes. Quiet down so that I may study.”

Then, the large doors to the chamber sprung open. A Shalan’dar came hobbling forward, letting out a guttural sound that could only be a form of language.

“What!?” snapped Noraduil. “I am very busy.” The snow elf began waving his hands madly, screeching and grunting. Noraduil’s brow furrowed. “What? The prisoners? What do you mean they are loose? How could they possibly get loose? We outnumber them!”

The entire chamber abruptly shook and tilted to the right. Amthos heard a soft cracking and looked to the ceiling. His chains were starting to waver. Looking to Noraduil, he watched panic quickly creep into the elf hero’s features before the elf threw up his hands in frustration. He shoved the Shalan’dar to the ground and hurried out of the chamber.

“This is my chance,” Amthos whispered to himself. Using all his might, he pulled at the chains. They groaned and bent. With the immense strength of an orc matched with the endless endurance of an Avatar, he never tired as he yanked and pulled. With a tremendous roar, he pulled his arm free of the bonds holding him down. He toppled to the ground, catching himself on his hands and knees.

Snarling, he yanked the chains holding his legs out of the ground, freeing him entirely. Amthos shook himself, glad that Noraduil hadn’t taken his cloak. Grimight sat at the far end of the chamber, likely for more of Noraduil’s studies. He quickly retrieved his mace and charged out the enormous, icy doors.

A large groaning filled his ears and the entire citadel lurched to the left. Amthos slid across the slick floor, landing against a nearby window. Outside, he could see hordes of what appeared to be prisoners charging at the citadel. Amongst them were a few flecks of green – the Nightusks. Then he saw exactly what was causing the citadel to destabilise.

The giant ice spider that the fortress sat upon had a growing, blackish infection rapidly spreading across its surface. Mere moments after the darkness crossed a surface, that very flesh would dissipate into dust and flitter away in the harsh, northern winds.

“Knaatl,” Amthos concluded. “He must have struck the spider with Duskvenom.”

That meant he had very little time before the spider and indeed the entire fortress crumbled into dust. He spun and hurried across the slanted floors. Shalan’dar scrambled across the vast, ice-covered hallways, screaming and flailing madly. None of them even paid him any mind as primal survival instincts drove them to flee the crumbling tower.

Boom!

The castle shuddered and suddenly tilted forward. Amthos gave a cry of shock as he lost his footing and slid across the ground. The stone in front of them began to blacken and just as quickly grumble into the wind. He could see the ground rapidly rising up to meet him as the citadel crumbled into nothingness.

Gritting his teeth together, the Avatar swung Grimight through the air, burying it into the stone to stall his fall. He swung himself mightily through the air, taking the mace with him. The large red-haired orc crashed through a window in a shower of glass and frost. The ground came up to meet him but on his own terms, landing boldly on his feet with a soft whump.

Behind him, Noraduil’s might icy citadel crashed to the ground. Enormous blue towers snapped in two, crumbled and shattered. The giant spider which it rested upon let out a single wail before all eight of its legs collapsed out from underneath it. The creeping darkness of night seeped through every rock, room and inch of the castle, turning it into nothing more than black dust.

Amthos got to his feet, watching the great hero’s centre of monstrosity perish.

Then he threw his head back, letting out a bellowing roar.

“Amthos!”

Knaatl came barrelling towards him, clapping his shoulder happily.

“Knaatl!” he exclaimed happily, bumping his shoulder against his favourite companion. “Did you do that?”

The Nightusk chieftain laughed brightly. “Ah yes. I had only expected to sicken the spider not completely cause it to crumble. Had I known, I would have stayed my hand!” He smacked Amthos’ chest happily. “But I should have known that a simple crumbling castle would not have held you back.”

“I am the Avatar,” he stated proudly. “How did you escape?”

“Believe it or not, Oberyn double-crossed Noraduil.”

The chieftain turned in time to heard the heavy footsteps of a Warg coming to them. Amthos was surprised to find Oberyn astride Winterpaw wielding what appeared to be two pickaxes made of the same black rock as the frost dwarves.

“Hail, Avatar Amthos!” Oberyn exclaimed with a grim grin. “I see you made it out alive.”

Amthos gripped Grimight tightly. “Explain to me why I should not cleave your head in two right now.”

Oberyn and Knaatl quickly recounted how it had always been Oberyn’s plan to double cross Noraduil. He just needed some of his tribesmen to be freed so that they could incite the break out. That Knaatl possessed an enchanted bow that could topple Noraduil’s spider was an added bonus.

“Noraduil became obsessed with you,” Oberyn said. “He is an obsessive person. You have seen what great lengths he would go to just to quench his obsessions.”

Thinking of the shattered souls of the frost dwarves and the abominations that were the Shalan’dar, Amthos could only agree.

“I knew that once he had you, he would be preoccupied,” continued the Nordain. “He is the only true threat. We made weapons from the very same rock that the frost dwarves are made from.” He lifted his pickaxe for emphasis. “Somehow, they cut through his magic and the Shalan’dar are too stupid to notice especially when they are hidden as mining tools.”

A loud screeching suddenly erupted from somewhere behind Amthos. Before he could turn, an enormous spear of ice hurled past him, sweeping past his ear and burying itself into Oberyn’s chest. The young warrior’s eyes widened in shock and time seemed to slow. Amthos could see the look of surprise on Oberyn’s face as he was yanked from Winterpaw’s back, his pickaxes flying from his grip.

“No!” Amthos roared. He spun.

Noraduil stood a few feet away, heaving, panting angrily with a bloody gash across his forehead. “So that is what happened.” Enormous blocks of ice erupted from the ground, hurling those that would attack him back. The Shalan’dar were quickly rallying behind the elf, shouting orders at their frost dwarves. The golemns began marching forward, pushing back the prisoners.

“I knew I should have killed him and his entire tribe when I had the opportunity,” sneered Noraduil. “No matter. My citadel I can rebuild. My army can be remade.” He lifted a bony finger towards Amthos. “It is you I want.”

Amthos gripped Grimight tightly. “I would sooner die.”

The elf’s features twisted into a dark grin. “In time, boy. In time.”

Knaatl was suddenly beside Amthos, drawing his bow. Before he could let fly, a spear of ice launched from the ground beside him, knocking the bow and sending his arrow flying far off target. Hands made entirely out of ice seized Knaatl, forcing him to his knees. Duskvenom was carried to Noraduil by several similar hands, shifting across the ground like a wave.

“Fascinating,” said the elf mage, regarding the intricate weapon. “I sense no magic from this. Yet it clearly has magical properties. In fact… I feel… nothing from it.”

Amthos roared. “Give that back!” He charge forward, lifting Grimight over his head.

Noraduil rolled his eyes and made an absent sweeping of his hand. A wall of ice erupted from the ground between them “Away with you. This bow fascinates -”

SMASH!

The elf’s eyes bulged… right before Grimight struck his forehead. Blood erupted from the elf’s skull, his expression permanently that of shock. The great hero crumbled to the ground, his features barely recognisable as his blood, brains and bones splattered all over the large crater that appeared from the blow.

Before Amthos could relax, the air began to hum loudly. He immediately wrenched Grimight from the hero’s skull, seized Duskvenom and scrambled back. Bolts of lightning sprang from Noraduil’s body, his form suddenly arching upwards as if possessed. An immense light erupted from his chest, shooting straight upwards and into the heavens.

BOOM!

A thunderclap knocked Amthos off his feet, sending him to the ground and with his ears ringing. Others around the fallen hero was hurled dozens of feet away. Shalan’dar crumbled to their knees, bowing and praying for mercy before the blistering light enveloped them. Light from the frost dwarves’ eyes faded and the long tortured souls could finally go to peace.

******

“You planned this,” accused Garodrash. “Amthos would never have been able to break through Noraduil’s barrier without Urthak’s alliance.”

Samuel remained silent.

“_Grimight _is only as strong as those who pledge their allegiance to Amthos. When you forged that truce, the mace grew stronger. Strong enough to kill Noraduil.”

“And release the remaining divine energy that the Triad could not consume. Pity that you can’t take it back now. At the very least it can be used to energise the land. Oh and I can’t take all the credit. Ramdrud was the one who asked me to forge the alliance.”

“But who suggested the idea?”

Samuel just smiled.

******

The light at long last faded.

Amthos blinked several times as he squeezed tears out of his eyes. His ears continued to ring so he relied on his others senses. There was… grass beneath him. He could smell flowers and feel the touch of the sun. As his vision cleared, he was surprised to find himself partially buried in a bed of wild grass in a lush, green plain.

The entire valley, the devastation that Noraduil had created… it was wiped away. Though the pits and mineshafts remained, they were covered in beautiful greenery. The land had healed. He looked about and immediately spotted Knaatl.

“Knaatl!” he cried, scrambling towards his friend.

The mighty orc tore his wrists free of the icy hands that gripped him and grinned towards the Avatar. They caught each other in an embrace, laughing joyfully and in relief. “Well done, fen’Rodar! You killed a hero of legend!”

The Nightusks cheered, thrusting their weapons into the air. Similarly, the Nordain did the same. They were now free.

But one particular Nordain came to mind.

Amthos released Knaatl and made his way to where Winterpaw was whimpering. Despite the land healing, wounds remained well and truly open. That included the fatal wound that Oberyn had suffered. The young chieftain of the Frost Tribe lay on his back, looking up at the sun as his blood seeped into the ground.

“Did we win?” asked the young warrior. “Or is this some delusion before death?”

Amthos laughed softly. “Even in victory you have a bitter sense of humour.” He gripped the spear of ice embedded into Oberyn’s belly. “I’m going to pull this out now. It will hurt.”

The young human shut his eyes and nodded.

With a single yank, Amthos pulled the blade of ice from Oberyn. To the Nordain’s credit, he didn’t cry out. Perhaps he was just too weak.

Oberyn smiled weakly. “My people are free of Noraduil.” The Nordain began gathering and they looked on in sorrow at their fallen chieftain. The proud human had enough strength to lift an arm and point at Amthos. “You… you offered peace, Amthos, Avatar of the Orcs. Upon Noraduil’s defeat, you would offer our people refuge with you. Will you honour that?”

Amthos glanced around, orc and human were all looking to him. He gently gripped Oberyn’s hand, barely bigger than his finger. “Of course. Your people are welcome with us. You have seen Greendawn. Stay strong, Oberyn Frost. You can still see it again.”

The young man shut his eyes, leaning back into the grass. “I go to see my father once more. Take care of them, Avatar Amthos. They look to you now as their leader… and chieftain.” With the last ounces of his strength, Oberyn winced and pried his eyes open. “What is your name? Your full name?”

Feeling a great emptiness in his chest, Amthos could only say, “Amthos Hordemaker. I was once Thomas Reinhardt of Raonoak.”

Oberyn winced. “Then… I, Oberyn Frost of the Frost Tribe, Sixth of my Name, Son of Alkair Frost, hereby name you, Amthos Frost Hordemaker, Chieftain of the Frost Tribe, First of his name and Avatar of the Orcs. Do you accept this responsibility?”

“Oberyn -”

“Do you accept!?” snarled the warrior.

Amthos felt tears on his cheeks. “I do.”

An eased smile crossed Oberyn’s face and he lay back in the grass. “Then go. Be good to your people. Lead with your heart.” Oberyn tried to lift his other arm towards his chest but could not manage. Amthos reached down and closed his hand into a fist before setting it over his heart. The young man smiled and nodded to him. “Frost forever.”

The Orc Avatar mirrored the gesture. “Frost forever.”

Orc and Nordain did the same, whispering ‘Frost forever’.

*******

News spread quickly.

Four days of hard trekking later and they were back in Greendawn. Mugs of ale, mead and whatever brew could be found were being shoved into his hands from the streets and he was surprised to find both Earth Runner and Blood Claws celebrating with them. Ramdrud had been right. Slaying a hero rocketed him instantly to popularity.

Though he wondered at what price.

The moment Amthos’ band returned to Greendawn with hundreds upon hundreds of humans behind them, everyone was eager for celebration. They had all seen the light in the sky, unsure what had caused it. With the Avatar returning, no one had a doubt on what it meant.

Amthos was greeted by the populace of Greendawn, cheering his name and chanting ‘Hordemaker’ over and over again. He tried to march proudly but the weight of Oberyn’s death and being given his own tribe bore heavily on his shoulders. It took the Frost Tribe and those from other tribes some time to come to terms with his powers. Some had willingly taken the mantle of an orc. Others merely stayed due to honour as members of the Frost. Few left, hoping to make their own fortune elsewhere. Those that departed did leave Amthos with a gift, however, a tradition amongst the Nordains.

Alongside Knaatl and Winterpaw, he marched into the keep, not at all surprised to find the Circle of Chieftains having gathered. What did surprise him, however, was the axe embedded into the middle of the room.

“I have returned,” he boomed.

“So we see,” Ramdrud said with a broad smile. “Welcome back, Avatar. You have met with success, I take it?”

“Noraduil is slain,” Knaatl confirmed. “I am witness to the act.”

Dalgmar was absolutely beaming. “We all did. The release of divine energies from the hero’s death was felt throughout the land. The spirits jumped for joy. The earth is much more fertile. The birds sing brighter. You have lifted a great darkness from our lands, Avatar. Honour to you.”

Amthos turned to Oringruud, expecting some degree of opposition but instead, the Blood Claw chieftain merely turned to Samuel.

The No One strode across the floor towards the axe embedded into the ground. “While you were away, we came to an arrangement,” he said. “If you did not return eight days after you left, we would give control over Greendawn and indeed all orcs to Oringruud.”

The Avatar’s eyes widened. He began quickly calculating the number of days that they had left.

Seven. They were gone seven days.

Samuel plucked the axe from the ground with ease. “If you did, however, Oringruud and Urthak were to set aside their issues with you and swear fealty to you unquestionably.”

Amthos revelled in how Oringruud was fuming. The orc’s features were practically turning red.

“Unfortunately, I was wrong.”

Then his heart fell.

Oringruud looked shock and so did everyone else.

“What!?” Knaatl roared. “We were gone seven days! Just seven! Even if we were gone for eight, surely we would still have met the timeline!”

“My exact words were ‘In eight days, when the shadow of this axe rests exactly at this position, Amthos will be back in Greendawn successful from his mission.’” Samuel turned his gaze towards Oringruud. Everyone could feel the chilling smile the No One gave the chieftain. “I gave no leniency towards the due date. You had to be exactly in eight days. Not a day earlier. Not a day later. You were back in seven.”

He lifted the axe towards Oringruud.

“What do you say, Oringruud, shall you take control the horde based on this?”

Amthos’ eyes widened as he tried to fight the grin on his face. Ramdrud was positively beaming and Dalgmar had to lift a mug to hide his deep chuckled. Knaatl took no pains to hide his entertainment and threw his head back, letting out his bellowing laugh.

Oringruud was trapped.

If he took control of the orcs now, it would be a hollow victory. Not a single person would respect him. Not even his own clan. Amthos had returned a day early, not only proving his worth as leader but his skill as well.

He only had one choice.

“You toy with me, mage,” snarled Oringruud. The fury in his eyes faded, however and he rose from his seat, offering Samuel a begrudging smile. “Well done. I applaud your trickery and silver tongue. You know I cannot take control of the orcs. Not now.” He bowed respectfully towards Samuel and then to Amthos. “I concede to follow the Avatar with all my might.”

Urthak rose from his seat. “As do the Earth Runners.”

“Then let us commemorate this event.”

Samuel suddenly snapped the axe in two, stunning Oringruud. Before the chieftain could protest, fires from the nearby lamps surged from the homes and came streaming towards the broken weapon. Steel was melted and abruptly reforged, becoming two slightly smaller single-sided axe heads. Stone from the very ground launched upwards, curling around the blades to form steady shafts. The metal rapidly cooled as all fire pooled into the one axe. A cold breeze blasted in from the windows and surrounded the second axe head. The magic of the two weapons faded softly and Samuel carried the two blades to Oringruud.

“I present to you, Blood and Honour, chieftain,” said the No One. “One, like fire, fills the veins of every orc and burns brightly. It is what drives them forward and keeps them warm at night. It is what gives them strength and keeps away the cold. The other, like ice, is binding and strong. A bulwark against those who would bring shame to the land and protect the innocent.”

Oringruud took the weapons and immediately, his right axe burst in to flames while visible icy winds burst out from his left axe. “Ah! Mighty weapons! Thank you, mage!”

Samuel bowed and moved back towards Amthos. “Avatar, you should know that the blast from Noraduil’s death was indeed felt by many. While you remain mostly immune to magical sight and scrying, that blast will have been felt by Priest and Wizards of the Alliance.”

All celebrations ceased and everyone turned to Samuel. They knew he was right.

“Then we must prepare!” Oringruud shouted. “Shore up our defences! Make Greendawn strong!”

“We do not have the resources,” exclaimed Ramdrud. “Or the manpower.” He glanced towards Urthak. “That leaves us with only one option.”

By that glance alone, the Avatar knew exactly what they intended.

“We’re going to Clad-Harun.”