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Chapter 9: Winter’s End

*******

Facts About Tirinead – The Orcs #10

In the early stages of what is now known as the God War, the northern reaches were mostly under Alliance control. As the orcs of Amthosruud began making their presence known, both sides came to a tenuous stalemate. The orcs were segregated between the orcs loyal to the Avatar and those that followed Oringruud under the Blood Claw. The Alliance was stretched on all fronts due to uprisings and attacks from other races. While the orcs advanced, they could not push too hard for they were still vastly outnumbered and outgunned.

That all changed, however, with the coming of the Wargen.

*******

Orradin set down his axe with a mighty whump. The orcs around him stopped what they were doing and looked to him. All of them were weary, covered in sweat and more than a few were bleeding. But it was still not enough. If any of them were ever going to pass off as true orcs, they needed to be savage, unrelenting and brutish!

“You are all still holding back!” he bellowed furiously. “Each and every one of you is an orc now! You are feral! Brutal! Merciless! You are no longer human!” He paced amongst the orcs, his men whom he had purposefully transformed. None of them knew what he had done. Perhaps Qurron suspected but he had no evidence to back such a claim. But he had created a motivation for his men to remain in Hawkshollow.

They could never return to being human at the moment. Yes, Qurron promised them some way to turn them back but for the moment, they were stuck in their harsh, green forms. Either they succumbed to misery and took their own lives or committed to Orradin’s plan.

“You need to convince the knuckle-dragging brutes that you are just like them!” roared the hero. “You will not accomplish that by feigning weakness or showing vulnerability! You are orcs! Act like it!”

Perhaps all those years of fighting orcs had come to his benefit after all. Being trained by an orc played equally to his experiences. He knew how orcs thought, how they fought, how they acted. Until they were made human again, these men would have to be orcs so that when the encroaching horde finally reached them, they could sneak in, integrate amongst the orcs and destroy them from the inside.

They would be hailed as heroes.

And he would be the architect who forged such an ingenious plan.

“Wraaaaaaaargh!”

His lips curled up at the corners. At long last one of these men had taken on to what it meant to be a true orc. The thundering footsteps, that blood curdling roar, the scent of sweat and blood in the air… it all took him back to the days when he was fighting on the front lines, surrounded by men he could trust and thick in the muck and mire.

He spun just as the man-turned-orc lunged at him, arms poised to seize him in an enormous bear hug. Orradin lowered himself, charging forward, head and shoulders first. He collided with the soldier, shoulder pounding into the iron-like abdominal muscles beneath that green skin. The wind rushed out of the orcs broad, square jaw and his feet was lifted straight off the ground. Orradin used the same momentum to hurl the man over his shoulders, straightening up and throwing the male backwards. The orc hit the ground with a loud boom.

“Remember, you are all taller now! Bigger!” he bellowed. “Your vulnerable areas are larger! You will be slower! It will not take much to topple you! Just because you are bigger, do not be tempted to believe that an enterprising warrior cannot use your own momentum and size against you!”

He felt dozens of baleful eyes thrown at him as he stomped around the training grounds of Hawkhollow. None of their owners, however, did much more than mutter under their breath and curse his name. Many of them had families back in Raonoak or elsewhere in the north. Though none suspected he was responsible for their transformation, he had cut off all communication to the outside world save for the few supply caravans that would drop off food, arms and armour and whatever else they needed to prepare for the oncoming onslaught.

And the onslaught was indeed on its way

While none of the soldiers were allowed to send missives or letters, Orradin had remained very much in touch with the rest of the world. Turmoil had spread all across the world. Races that had once been neutral or even allied with the Alliance had turned against them. The Celestial Mages of the Rhakmirim had withdrawn their support in the wake of a civil war that the Alliance refused to be a part of. The Marabhantien king was assassinated and an Alliance noble was implicated for the crime causing the only source of the Royal Griffins of the Alliance to declare open war with Trispire. Even the Minotaurs had sealed off their underground passages and severely crippled Alliance supply lines.

Worse yet, the other races were turning their swords to the Alliance.

Most troubling of all – at least for Orradin – were the resurgence of the orcs. Thousands of them were pouring out from beyond the Fangs of the World. They were sweeping up all the border forts, claiming something about being disenfranchised and forming a new nation without the oppression of the Alliance. With most of the bordering north consisting of poor miners and exiled individuals, many flocked to their banner, growing their numbers with every town or fort that they conquered.

This new horde was growing rapidly and it both boiled Orradin’s blood and thrilled him at the same time. A new war was upon them and at last, he would get to spill orc blood once more!

A shout came from somewhere behind him and he turned, expecting another orc, charging at him in fury. Oddly enough, it was a human. A page and one of the few that had avoided being transformed in the mess hall that day several months ago.

“Milord!” exclaimed the boy. “We have riders approaching! They fly the banners of Raonoak!”

“Riders?”

Frowning, Orradin followed the boy to the gates of the ruined keep. The enormous gates swung open, revealing the blackened and skeletal frames of what had once been a mighty city, pillaged by the orcs during the last great war. The roads were still serviceable, however, and he could see a large group of riders charging towards them, flying the green and brown banners of Raonoak. Curiously, they bore the golden triangle of the Holy Triad atop their banners as well.

“Inquisition…?” he whispered.

As the riders drew closer and closer, he noticed that none of them bore the golden, jewel-encrusted runic armour of the Inquisition. They were Raonoak riders. Tough, dressed in heavy furs and with long, thick capes. Whether that was a relief or not was yet to be seen. Few people knew about his operations in Hawkshollow.

The sweet scent of incense wafted into his nostrils as Quarron suddenly appeared from within the castle. Just the thought of the War Wizard made him sick. They had remained well apart from one another to ensure some modicum of peace while they prepared for invasion of the orcs. At night, he could see strange lights flashing from the quarters of the Wizard and he only wondered what the grey old man was doing.

News of lords and ladies from the entire north had been fighting back against the orcs had reached their ears. Rehabilitation camps had been raided and their prisoners freed, no doubt to join the orcs. Villages were ransacked. Mines gutted and occupied. No one in the north had any leadership however. They needed direction. The moment Eranius returned and rallied them, all the better.

As of hearing of his plight, he caught sight of the man who was leading this band of riders.

“Eranius…” he breathed.

He felt his heart sink however as Quarron approached wearing a smug smirk.. “It seems that he has learned of your little orc training camp, eh Greenslayer?”

No doubt the mage had something to do with this but he did not want aggravate Eranius mere moments from his arrival. No doubt he was already on thin ice with the Lord-Knight given that he had effectively commandeered an entire fortress and to battalions of his men. Not to mention that he had lost the son of one of his closest friends. Though that he could easily blame of Qurron if it came to that.

The next few minutes were agonising as he waited for the riders to reach the castle. About a few minutes in, he realised that there one particular rider right beside Eranius that made Qurron paler than usual.

“I know not if this was your doing, mage,” he whispered quietly from the corner of his mouth. “But it seems you will not be without blame either.”

“I did not call Eranius here, if that is what you are implying,” sneered Qurron. “It seems fate has something else in store of us.”

Now he was worried. Though he had to admit that he knew that Qurron was not above lying.

When the riders finally arrived, it was to no great fanfare. Eranius drove his horse to a slow walk and approached them all with an air of superiority and cold displeasure. Orradin had expected this and crossed his arms to show that he was not going to take any intimidation from the Lord-Knight. Both of them were heroes in their own right but he was the only one with some divinity in his blood albeit one that was heavily diluted.

Eranius cast his gaze about the castle seeing orcs and men working alongside one another. “Had I not known any better, I would suspect that you are colluding with the orcs, Orradin.”

“These are still Alliance men under all that unnatural green skin, Eranius,” he answered gruffly. “Some foul creature corrupted our food and turned them into these hulking beasts. No doubt an orc plot to gather more power. Little do they know –”

The Lord-Knight of Raonoak lifted a mailed hand for silence. “I care not for your excuses or reasoning, Orradin. I know you plan to deploy these orcs of yours to be ‘absorbed’ by the larger host and then to sabotage them from the inside.”

Orradin made a mental note to find the rat who had let the details of his plan slip to someone outside of Hawkshollow. If Eranius knew, then no doubt someone else did as well. All it would take was a whisper and his entire plan could be jeopardized.

“Then you had best leave before someone suspects why the great Lord-Knight of Raonoak has stopped by this seemingly cursed place,” he sneered.

“As aggravating as ever, I see.” Eranius slipped off his horse and the other men dismounted as well. “I came here to add a stipulation to your self-imposed, unauthorised mission.” The lord handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy. “You will never make a convincing group of refugees if you do not have some ‘Greenskin Sympathisers’ amongst you. Amongst my men are some Inquisition spies and assassins. They will accompany your men. One of them, an agent blessed by the Holy Triad himself, will be tasked with assassinating the head of this orc uprising.”

Orradin’s eyes widened. He had expected opposition from Eranius but this… this was completely unexpected! Eranius was supporting him and even giving him men far better equipped to destroy the orcs!

“We should discuss this elsewhere,” Eranius said. “Away from open ears. But first…” He gestured towards his guest. “Orradin, I do not believe you have officially met Arben Reinhardt.”

It took all of Orradin’s effort not to smirk and laugh at that moment. The energy had to be pooled elsewhere and he stepped up to the portly man with a strong chest and very thick arms, thicker than his own. Arben had the look of a blacksmith on him and had the same dark brown hair as his sons. A thick beard wrapped around his chin with a single grey streak running down from the bottom of his lip. Orradin shook the man’s hand, feeling the hard callouses formed from years of working with machinery.

“I have heard of you, Master Mechanist,” said Orradin. “I have seen you with your sons before.”

“And I you, Lord Greenslayer,” grunted Arben. A man of few words, he nodded towards the War Wizard. “Qurron.”

At the mention of his name, Qurron paled, his lips tightening so much that they were almost invisible on his pallid face.

The introductions out of the way, they retired to palace in what had once been the king’s solar; a large airy room with a balcony overlooking most of Hawkshollow. Eranius set down his cloak, revealing that he was wearing full armour beneath it. The dust and grime of months of hard riding were on him and his squire immediately made to remove the thick plate mail from him. As was fitting, Eranius took up the seat where the king would have once sat as the squire pulled the boots off his feet. While this was being done, Eranius took a drink from his wineskin, grimacing at the warm taste.

“I heard that you had an encounter with the orcs before settling here.”

This was what Orradin had feared. One look at Arben and he knew that news had reached Raonoak and perhaps all the north of their failure and the loss of Paladin Luxaeus Reinhardt. How it had been revealed, he was unsure. Again, he had to find some way to discern how news had spread.

“We did,” Orradin replied. “The mage that was under Qurron’s tutelage had turned traitor and –”

Eranius waved him away. “I know the truth, Orradin. Do not try to place blame on Qurron.”

“But he –”

The Lord-Knight slammed a fist against the armrest of the chair. “Perhaps it would be better that I tell you what I know.” He pointed an accusing finger at Orradin. “In your desire to prove that orcs were involved in all this and escalate the matter, you convinced the mage Qurron was training to commit treason. All the while, you conspired with Qurron and Luxaeus to capture him so he does not escape. You used the mage to prove that orcs had attacked a rehabilitation camp only to suddenly find yourselves accosted by orcs and amongst them, the Star-Eyed Wolf. Though you sprung your trap, the Wolf revealed Qurron’s true motivations behind tainting Fallowday and staying his hand from allowing poor Thomas from being branded!”

Both men froze and Arben glowered from where he stood off to the side.

Eranius calmed and leaned back in his chair. “So in an attempt to save face, you both fled here and hoped that you could somehow rally some troops or evidence to bring you back into my good graces.”

“With all due respect,” Qurron began. “I sought to return to Raonoak but then the food was poisoned and –”

Again, the Lord-Knight raised a hand, silencing them both. “Enough, Qurron. We are to set aside all petty differences for that.” He shot Arben a piercing look. “Is that clear, Arben?”

“Yes,” grunted the mechanist.

Turning back to the two men, Eranius said, “The orcs are on the move. They have taken all the border forts including Whitepeak. Through either intimidation or some form of diplomacy, countless lords and ladies have joined with them. The north is heavily segregated and our enemies are all around us. I am here to resume command of my troops and rally the north.”

“So we will be returning to Raonoak?” Qurron said eagerly.

“No.” Eranius nodded towards Arben. “Hawkshollow is most tactically viable point in the north. Any who command it will command the supply lines for the rest of the north. The orcs will strike here before they strike Raonoak.” He pointed at Orradin. “Train your men. Make them a convincingly orcish. Take my assassins with you. Before the orcs arrive, send them out and chase them with your own men. Make it seem like they are being hunted. The orcs will take ‘their own’ and prime them for their mission.”

“To kill the Star-Eyed Wolf?” asked Orradin. “The bastard has some magic behind him that I cannot fathom. He disabled all of us.”

“No. Not the Wolf. The Wolf is a coward and a puppeteer. He acts through a proxy. A so called ‘Avatar’ who is akin to the warchief of old. My assassins will kill the Avatar. Take off the head of the horde. They will devolve into infighting once more. During that time, Arben will have built golems for you to take into battle.”

“That will not work,” grunted the hero. “We brought a golem against the ambush. The Wolf sucked the magic from it and rendered it useless and impotent.” He threw Qurron a mocking look.

“And that is why Qurron and I will be searching for an artefact to make the golems immune to such trickery,” said Eranius, rising from his seat. “The Holy Triad granted me a vision of a powerful relic. One that is capable of imbuing inanimate objects with the semblance of a soul. With it, our golems will be able to move autonomously without spells constantly moving them.”

Qurron’s eyes widened. “You speak of the Glak’Moramur. The Vessel of Life.”

“What?” Orradin demanded.

“It’s a legendary orc artefact. Their warped vision of Garodrash had him granting life to the world instead of just being responsible for fertility. The Glak’Moramur was meant to be the means by which he imbued mortal shells with souls.”

“Blasphemy!”

Eranius shook his head. “Blasphemy or not, the Holy Triad believes it exists and I will search for it. Qurron…” He snapped his fingers and his squire rushed to him, offering him a pack heavy with what appeared to be books. “Before we came here, we headed north past the orc lines. We found what had once been Noraduil’s fortress and his research into funnelling souls into inanimate objects. As we travel, I want you to research it. Commit it to memory. We will need it if we are to create golems that are not solely reliant on magic.”

The War Wizard’s eyes widened and he was practically drooling as he picked up the pack and regarded the tomes within. “Milord, I think I would be better served staying here and experimenting –”

“No, old friend,” Eranius said warmly. “The Vessel is likely heavily guarded with much of Garodrash’s remaining zealots. I have a few War Priests with me but with the turmoil amongst the Rhakmirim, there are precious few Wizard left loyal to the Alliance. I need your skills with the arcane arts to combat whatever sorcery the guardians of the Vessel may have.”

It disgusted Orradin that Eranius still had so much faith in the War Wizard despite his duplicity.

“It is an honour to serve you, as always milord,” said Qurron with a sidelong smirk at Orradin.

“Then we are agreed,” Eranius said. “I will remain here for a little longer to organise the defences against the orcs. Trispire has lifted the sanctions against the use of magic so we have no restrictions on how much magic we may use. I will be relying on your arcane arts, Qurron, to send missives to and from the lords and ladies.” He then turned to Orradin. “I will be trusting you to put up a convincing façade as well, Orradin. You know the orcs better than anyone else and you must train these men to be the orcs that they can be. The survival of the north depends on this plan being executed perfectly. If the Avatar lives and leads the fight against us, we will fall.”

“Understood,” grunted the hero.

The Lord of Raonoak turned his back to them, peering out the balcony into Hawkshollow. “We have much to do before us, gentlemen. Let us not falter.”

******

Greendawn.

It had been so long since he had been here last. Almost a year by his reckoning. That meant it had been more than a year since he had first transformed into an orc and perhaps a few months more since he had been branded as a Greenskin Sympathiser and set on this path. He was amazed at just how much had changed.

Now, instead of a ragtag collection of orcs from different tribes, come together by some compulsion, arguing amongst one another and struggling for power, they were all just a single nation of Amthosruud. All the orcs now wore the white and green armour of the nation. The proud banner of their nation billowed on the walls and flags of their emblem fluttered on the keep.

Amthos stood once more in the great hall of the vast keep, watching as the expansions that Ramdrud had originally intended for the fort finally came to fruition. With the aid of Incarius and the spirits, they were able to erect walls and vast defences with ease. Entire homes in the same design as those of Bhotanmar were rapidly erected to house the massive armies that came from Bhotanmar and spread to the rest of the north.

Once again, their portal network had been established and many of their enemies were caught by surprise as entire orc armies appeared out of nowhere and struck hard and fast where diplomacy failed. Before anyone could retaliate, entire fortresses would be erected with the help of the shamans under Ruven’s guidance mere days after occupation.

And at the centre of it all, Amthos found himself as the leader.

He was the Avatar of the Orcs.

Hands clasped behind his back, Amthos strode through the great hall which was rapidly being reconstructed to be more fitting of what Ramdrud envisioned as the ‘Gateway to the Green’. The army had carved a rather definitive path through the Fangs from Bhotanmar to Greendawn after all. He hoped the budding city would be the final stop before the city where the orc revolution began. Naturally, the decorations took off much of Ramdrud’s flair and style.

While the white and green banners of Amthosruud hung from the walls, there were also the flamboyantly coloured feathers, tall, creeping vines that curled around shining, marble and gold pillars and intricate mosaics all over the ground. The ceiling had been torn down from the relatively low-hanging, wooden buttressed to become a long, dome-like hollow decorated with images of historic battles and the Avatar.

“You have truly changed this fort, my friend,” chuckled Amthos as he approached Ramdrud. The portly, bald chieftain was poring over several plans dressed in rather bright colours as usual. He had never seen his good friend so happy before.

“Ah, I finally have the resources to bring the Greendawn that I envisioned to reality!” laughed Ramdrud, spreading his arms wide. “When I am done, Greendawn will be a shining beacon that will welcome everyone that looks upon it like a dawn! They will gaze upon it and be in awe of what orcs can achieve! More, it will be the appetiser for Bhotanmar! It will encourage those who step upon its gilded streets to make the sojourn to the greatest city in the north!”

Amthos laughed brightly and looked about the grand hall. It had been expanded. Where before, it could barely fit a hundred or so men on tables, drinking and eating, now it could house perhaps five times that and with plenty of room to spare. Of course, there was still much construction going on. He spied an elven artist kneeling beside a wall, gently painting a mural of the liberation of his family from an abusive lord. A dwarf architect was ordering several orcs on how to erect a pillar correctly. A human was treating to the injuries of an orc that had sprained a muscle.

It didn’t matter what race they were, orcs, humans, elves and dwarves came together to build Greendawn. They were not forcing the transformation onto anyone. Ramdrud had drawn up something he called the ‘Bhotanmar Accord’ which stated that no orc could ever force the change onto anyone. Only those who were willing would be subject to the Trials of the Tusks. Prisoners of war were treated fairly. They were not forced to transform and abandon their sense of identity and families just because they were conquered. They would not be like the Alliance who ‘rehabilitated’ those under their care.

“Sometimes it leaves me in awe how much we have achieved in just a few short months,” he admitted. “Perhaps half a year ago, we were huddled in Bhotanmar, fearing for our lives against Grauhl’s encroaching army. Now…”

“The Alliance and all the peoples of Tirinead are in awe both at our conquest and our society,” said Ramdrud with a devious grin. “How goes the raids by the way?”

Months since Grauhl’s defeat, the orcs had received an enormous boost of morale. Though they mourned those that had been lost, the fall of the First Orc had given them all the boost they needed to push into Alliance lands. They had proven that they could stand up against the first creations of the Old Gods. They had conquered what had been a centuries-old creature of hatred sustained only by his desire for destruction. The Alliance would not be able to stand up against them.

News of their victory reached far and wide. Ramdrud’s confidence in their victory and nonchalance in dealing with the lords of the Alliance bolstered their ranks and support. Those who were on the fence before had no doubt that the orcs were now a force to be reckoned with. They had dealt so casually with Grauhl, after all. How could smaller sovereignties stand up against them.

All the border forts swore fealty immediately. Crooks and criminals exiled to a life of damnation willingly joined the orc ranks, transforming into impressive male specimens ready to regain their honour.

This was no marauding warband either. With Knaatl and Luxaeus’ experience in the various military bodies of the Alliance and other commanders, they organised themselves into a strong, disciplined army. They approached battles honourably, minimised casualties and expanded Amthosruud’s borders with each passing day. Given that they were technically incapable of reproducing and were reliant on a supply of humans, elves or dwarves, they could not wantonly kill anyone who stood in their way after all.

“Luxaeus has taken his Warg Riders to the east and Knaatl is scouting to the southwest,” Amthos answered. “Arnmok has taken the Crimson Spears to the west.”

Ramdrud’s features darkened. “So it is true then. Oringruud strikes from the west.”

“The rumours seem to say so.”

Though those of Amthosruud approached conquest with a mix of shrewd diplomacy and brilliant war tactics, Oringruud’s Blood Claws were far less civil. They had made landfall somewhere in the west, far from Greendawn, bordering the Dracorian lands. The town of Yurgarth had fallen to them immediately and from the news, they were rapidly expanding by raping and pillaging any who fell in their way. Brutal ‘Fight Pits’ were erected to beat the fight and will out of initiates, forced to transform into orcs and to bleed until they were little more than animals. From there, they were crafted into Oringruud’s version of the perfect orc.

“It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that Oringruud’s antics have marred our race’s good name,” rumbled the spymaster. “Most just see us as a single race and not as two separate factions. That we effectively war amongst ourselves continues to cast this image of our species being a war-like and segregated people.”

“Arnmok will deal with him.” Amthos turned to look at the map that Ramdrud was poring over. “More plans for Greendawn?”

Ramdrud’s features brightened once more. “Several nobles are already seeking our protection from the Alliance. It seems that Eranius was away for months on a trip to Trispire and while the Lord-Knight was not there to lord over his assorted duchies and fiefdoms, the enterprising and ambitious took the opportunity of our uprising to seize power and land. Smaller villages and townships were forcibly annexed. We have nobles coming to us in the hopes of seeking protection.”

“Would our troops not be stretched a little thin?”

“Knaatl and Luxaeus assure me that we have men to spare.” Ramdrud gave him a sly grin. “Besides, it is either they go on a tour of duty across our lands or help me build our cities here.”

Given the two options, it was debatable which one was the better option.

“Speaking of whom…” Ramdrud said. “Luxaeus should be back today. Perhaps you should see your brother? The Warg Knight being greeted by the Avatar would be fantastic publicity.”

That was Ramdrud. Always thinking of his image. Thanking the spymaster, Amthos left the great hall and out into the courtyard. The harsh, chilly and frankly bleak landscape that had once been Greendawn was replaced by rich, lush and most of all, fertile gardens. With the spirits by them, nature itself had allied with them. Shamans’ pacts with their spirits allowed said spirits to materialise in the world. They took on fanciful shapes as bright, ethereal beings that floated and fluttered alongside their shamans. Finally, they were able to experience the physical realm without draining their shamans.

The courtyard was a prime example of such an environment as shamans read books or practiced their arts while their spirits fluttered about them. One particular healer was entertaining a group of children as his spirits danced around them and he told them stories. He was overjoyed to see that there were orc children as well. Dalgmar, in his wisdom, had begun an initiative to help integrate orcs into the biased races through their children. Parents who hoped to become orcs could induct their children into the orcs as early as when they were born. This allowed for orc babies and children to grow alongside their non-orc counterparts, fostering friendships from an early age.

The laughter of children was truly very heart-warming even in a time of war.

The thought of war brought his mood back to grim tidings. Eranius had returned to the north and from what he heard, was rallying the remaining nobles that were still loyal to him. Raids were getting more treacherous and fewer lords were submitting to them. Still, Amthosruud had grown incredibly and they now controlled a good portion of the mines that made the north so rich. In theory, in a war of attrition they would win if the Alliance did not supplement the north with supplies. Though he heard that the Alliance was being attacked from other angles by other Avatars and their troops so they would be hard pressed to keep all fronts happy.

Amthos wondered when he would meet the other Avatars, in fact. He was eager to meet the Dracorian Avatar who had lain claim to the north western shore of Tirinead and was dealing with Oringruud directly. The air between them needed to be cleared so that a potential ally did not see all orcs are brutal and war-like.

But he pushed such thoughts past him as he passed the natural looking arches of the courtyard. Crafted by the spirits themselves, the earth looked to have grown into the magnificent arcs instead of being crafted by a stonemason. Even the walls and stairwells were all thanks to the spirits and magically reinforced by them so that they would not break so easily.

Past the castle itself, there was Greendawn’s township. Taking from the architecture of Bhotanmar, the homes were square, blocky and mostly consisted of two storey buildings. The streets were organised in a grid-like fashion, spreading out to the natural hexagonal design of the original fort in all directions. With the fort sitting on a gentle slope, he could see most of the town from where he stood. It was an ever-expanding, living, breathing organism and one that he was proud to lord over. Although he had to question whether it was he who was ruling or Ramdrud.

Shaking the thought from his head, Amthos strode down the even, paved streets of the city. Again taking from Bhotanmar’s architecture and design, the streets were fitted with gutters for drainage, sidewalks for foot traffic and the streets themselves reserved for riders and wagons. Lampposts could be lit at night with torches to help illuminate the streets while he could heard the soft rushing of water from the various sewerage pipes installed into the ground, again with the help of the spirits. Bhotanmar had been the template that Greendawn was built after. It brought him much pride to think that soon the north would be filled with such innovative cities.

He had to wonder how the other races were faring.

The sound of howling brought him back to the present and he lifted his gaze towards the enormous gates of Greendawn. Since the city was ever-expanding, a new set of walls had to be erected every so often and with them, a new set of gates. Currently, there were four tall, imposing walls and each one dividing Greendawn into its four districts. The Outer District was reserved for farmlands and agriculture. The Merchant District, the next one over, was for trade and commerce. The Military District followed afterwards and then there was what Ramdrud called the Dawn District where the castle stood as well as the temple to Garodrash that Dalgmar insisted be erected.

Though Amthos did not fully worship Garodrash, he respected the shaman’s drive to at least acknowledge their patron.

As he stepped into the Military District, he could see a large pack of Warg Riders loping in. At their lead was an enormous white Warg and a human perched on his back. Like all the other warriors of Amthosruud, Luxaeus wore green and white armour and looked rather handsome now that he was done with the pristine, cleanly shaven look of Paladins. A rugged beard clung to his jawline but left his upper lip oddly exposed. His brown hair was left to be long and wavy and Amthos could even see a bit of his chest hair sprouting out past the neckline of his armour. Imagining the hours it would have spent to shave every inch of Luxaeus’ body just to fit the criteria of a Paladin was mind boggling.

“Brother!” he exclaimed, lifting an arm and waving it.

Luxaeus beamed and without so much as a twitch, Winterpaw made his way to them. Amthos’ heart broke as he drew closer and the straps that kept Luxaeus mounted on the King of Wargs became more evident. Despite Winterpaw’s aid in healing his brother, Luxaeus still could not use his legs. The shamans said it was because his spine was fractured beyond repair. Even the spirits could do nothing to heal it. Samuel said he could but Luxaeus, stubborn as ever, said he would not accept the help. Apparently it was a point of pride for him that he constantly rode a Warg. Amthos suspected the loss of his legs was a symbol of his and Winterpaw’s bond.

“Greendawn looks better than ever,” Luxaeus commented. “Winterpaw says these new roads are so much nicer on his paws than the rugged, stone-filled pathways of old.” He gently rubbed Winterpaw’s neck just behind the ear and the King of the Wargs rumbled affectionately. The bond the two shared truly was amazing. Even Amthos wasn’t allowed to touch Winterpaw there.

“Ramdrud has done an excellent job managing the economy of Amthosruud and pushing for expansion,” Amthos replied. “If not fleeing in fear from the Alliance or intimidated by our strength, counties and their lords are coming to us for our wealth and access to the rich mines.”

That the shamans could also detect where rich mineral veins were and could accelerate the growth and development of other exports such as wine, cotton and wood made the rising nation increasingly wealthy in such a short time. With the members of the Earth Runner tribe accustomed to mines and the Hardshaft excellent at agriculture, they were producing so much that their warehouses were overflowing with wealth.

It also helped that while they were expanding, it was not necessarily a ‘hostile’ expansion. They were not attacking regions that did not already show them hostility. Only areas that declared war upon them or were already of a low public opinion were being struck. Rehabilitation camps were a favourite target and any lord or ladies whose fall would garner them prestige amongst the courts were a favoured target.

Again, all of it under Ramdrud’s expert guidance.

“How was the raid on that camp?” he asked.

The brightness in Luxaeus’ mood faded. “As well as one can expect.” He sighed, lowering his enchanted hammer. “I cannot believe I used to send people to places like that. I suppose it was easy to dismiss the monstrosities being done in such places when one thinks that one is just following orders.” He glanced over his shoulder at where several of those broken and emaciated people were being handed clothing, good food to eat and being checked for injuries. It broke Amthos’ heart seeing one of the prisoners profusely refusing a meal because it ‘wasn’t meal time yet’.

“We are directly responsible for our actions,” Amthos recited. “And the consequences they bear.”

His brother nodded grimly. “I know.” Then Luxaeus brightened instantly. “Ah, but today is a day of celebration! We have won a victory! Let us turn to brighter things!”

Amthos beamed. “A fine idea. Come. I have some fine Ursarai wine that I am sure you will enjoy.”

They headed back to the castle itself where he was given a large room at the rear of the great hall. Already finely decorated with silks, plush rugs and gilded furniture, his quarters were a little too rich for his tastes. He suspected Ramdrud was just giving him as much luxury as possible to keep him placated. Apparently, it did his image no good if he was hefting materials about construction sites or sparring with the men out in the fields. He still worked his muscles, of course. He grew stir crazy just sitting in the room waiting for something to happen.

However, to greet his brother, he happily pulled a crystal decanter of wine and poured the contents into two goblets. He purposefully took his time as Luxaeus needed to hoist himself off Winterpaw and onto a nearby chair. Though his brother was sweating just from the exertion, he had gotten somewhat used to not having any use of his legs.

“You know,” Amthos began, “I heard that the Dracorian Avatar used to be incapable of using his legs as well. The Old Gods saw it fit to trade not only the ability to walk but to fly for his role as Avatar.” He carried over the two goblets and handed one to his brother.

Luxaeus sniffed the wine and gave it a nod of appreciation. “Are you saying that I should entreat the Old Gods to turn me scaly and capable of breathing fire?” He took a sip from the goblet and let out cough. “Oh… that’s strong.”

“Ursarai wine is very strong.” Amthos took a sip himself. The alcohol practically burned a new airway on its way down and that was only a sip. “And no, it was just a little fact. I heard that the Dracorians have this device called a ‘wheel-chair’ that lets those without use of their legs roll around at will. It is similar to a chair but has wheels on the sides that you push with your hands and arms.”

“That would be difficult going up and down stairs, would it not?”

“I can only imagine.”

Luxaeus shrugged and lowered the goblet towards Winterpaw who poked his muzzle into it and lapped up some of the wine. The Warg snorted in disgust and rested his head on Luxaeus’ lap. Not caring that a Warg had just drank from his goblet, Luxaeus took another sip. “Regardless, I would not trade Winterpaw for a chair with wheels.”

He smiled at the two. “I am happy you two are so close. Stories of the great Warg Knight astride a big, white Warg and wielding a hammer that could shatter the hardest of diamonds with a single blow have circulated through the north already. You have made quite the impression.”

There, Luxaeus snorted and set the goblet down. Winterpaw poked him and the Warg Knight rolled his eyes, turning to his good friend and mount. “You said it was disgusting.” Winterpaw rumbled in reply. “Fine. Here.” He gave Winterpaw the goblet again and the Warg lapped up some more of the extremely potent drink.

Their conversations always amused Amthos. Sometimes he wished he knew what Winterpaw was saying but it pleased him that his brother had such a strong bond. Particularly since he was no longer pining over the bond they once shared and pressuring him to go back to being human.

“We picked up a few defectors on our way back as well, you know,” said his brother. “Many had not only heard of my legend but also of the great orc ruler who could see all.”

“Me?”

“Ramdrud, actually.” Luxaeus fixed him with a warning stare. “I know he has been your good friend for a long time but I would warn you, Thomas, Ramdrud seeks to rule.”

He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “And honestly? I would welcome it.” He took another sip of the wine and grimaced at the taste. It did not getter better as he had been led to believe. “You know me, Luxaeus. I am not fit for ruling. I’ve always despised politics. I may have been Lord Eranius’ squire but I just preferred to stand there and do as I was told instead of being actually involved. Last time I involved myself in a political power play of court, I was branded and cast out.”

His brother grimaced. “You need not remind me.” There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “So what are your plans then once we carve the name of Amthosruud into this fine land? Will you abdicate your rule to Ramdrud?”

“I have studied the histories,” he said. “I am effectively warchief of the orcs. But a warchief only exists when there is war. In times of peace, the horde dissolves back into the tribes. I think we are past that and a king is needed.”

“You?”

“No. Ramdrud. I hope to make him king after this is done. I on the other hand…” Amthos smiled distantly and looked out the vast window that took up an entire wall of his quarters. “…I honestly do not know. I was once asked what my purpose was. I know now that it is to defend the people of Amthosruud.” The Avatar shook his head sadly. “But I do not wish to be this perpetual guardian like the countless heroes that still live within our land, waiting for the next war to strike. I do not wish to be like Orradin, clinging to some long-achieved purpose and pretending it was still valid. I want to be able to move forward with my life.”

Luxaeus gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know how you feel. As I said, it was so easy to dismiss the atrocities you’ve committed by simply saying you were following orders. My purpose seemed to always be to do as I was told by my liege lord. Thank you for giving me my freedom.”

“We in Amthosruud are all here by our own volition. We do not force others to become green or stand with us.” He sighed and looked pensively at his goblet and the wine within. “It does make me wonder what will happen once this war is done.

“You will always be the Avatar.”

“If the Avatar is needed, I will answer,” he replied with a nod. “But that will be for the King of the Orcs to decide.”

As he spoke those words, Amthos reiterated to himself his purpose. He was there to protect the orcs not rule them. If that meant he would do so from the shadows or only when he was called, he was happy to do so. The inspiration honestly came from Samuel who would only act in the direst of situations or when directly asked.

“Any room for a crippled former-Paladin and his Warg on your grand path to self-discovery?” Luxaeus asked.

“The more, the merrier,” laughed the Avatar. He bent down towards Winterpaw. “That is, of course, if Your Highness does not mind accompanying me again.”

The Warg King rumbled at him.

“He says he has always been by your side,” chuckled Luxaeus. His features lost some of their mirth. “What about… father…?”

Both men looked at each other, eyes locked and with a sense of dread filling both their hearts. Neither of them had discussed what would happen should they ever meet Arben again.

“You know,” began his brother, “rumours are already abound amongst the Alliance that I was brainwashed by the Star-Eyed Wolf and the same God of Dark Magic turned you into an orc and made you the Avatar as a patsy, a figurehead amongst the orcs to lead them to war.”

“I would not blame them to think so,” laughed Amthos. “Samuel was the one that brought me to the Old Gods to have me changed. From what he told me as well, it could have easily been you who had become Avatar and not I.”

“Me?”

Amthos nodded and recited what Samuel had told him of the infinite possibilities that their tale could have taken. He omitted the parts of how he chose his mate but merely mentioned how differently the destiny of the orcs could have been had different choices been made, not only his own but that of others as well.

“Perhaps I should see Samuel about this book of his,” chuckled Luxaeus. “I might be able to see how best to assault my next location.”

“The book only shows the past and the possibilities in the past. His eyes are what allows him to see into the future.” Amthos’ brow furrowed. “And you are already going to seek out another place to attack?”

His brother nodded grimly. “The village of Garvreim. Apparently, a local lord has taken Lord Eranius’ orders to rally troops far too seriously and has introduced martial law upon the village. The village is unwilling to submit to conscription since they are not under that lord’s protection. He has sent his own men to besiege it and they are now being attacked while defending themselves valiantly with pitchforks and farming tools. I hope to gain their support and save them.”

“Why not rest? You just came back. I can send one of the other battalions out.”

Luxaeus gave him a wry smile. On some silent commend between them, Winterpaw set himself up so the crippled Warg Knight could claw himself back onto the Warg King’s back. “Come now, Thomas, you have a network of shamans positioned in key places that can instantaneously teleport hundreds of men from one location to the other in the blink of an eye. Travel is hardly taxing. Besides, I cannot sit by and watch people suffer. Not anymore.”

Knowing his brother, there was nothing he could do to change his mind. Amthos knew he was the same way. Sighed softly and nodded.

“Just be careful, Luxaeus. The Alliance will only take our incursions for so long before they retaliate.”

The Warg Knight grinned at him. “You need not worry. With the other Avatars and races assaulting them, the Alliance is still paralysed and with their resources spread far too thinly. They will not be able to act until we push them into a corner. So far, they are still consolidating their power. If we do not expand ours, they will crush us.”

“A fair assessment but still… be careful.”

******

The Atlas Chamber was once again active but unlike the traditional chambers crafted for the various forts and townships, this one was a little different. At the centre of the room was the same magical map that gave everyone realistic, three-dimensional image of the continent. However, positioned around each the chamber were several large archways. Each one was crafted from grey stone and embedded with countless jewels and gilded with gold.

Ruven knew for a fact that gemstones held the incredible ability to store magical power and gold was a fine conductor for magic as well. The golden ruins all across the archways interlocked with the gemstones allowed for the casting of the incredible portal spells that allowed the orc army the mobility that they were so well known for.

The archways had actually been his invention. Linked with the Atlas Chamber map, it allowed him to keep track of where troops were going and coming from. It also removed the necessity of having a shaman on both sides of the portal to maintain the link. The large crystal that took up half of ceiling that hovered over the map provided enough energy to the portals to sustain them all.

The rattling of chains brought his mind from the enormous map to the entrance of the Chamber. Samuel strode in, in full armour and with his wings fully extended. These days, the No One was not hiding his alien nature.

“Samuel,” he greeted. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Quite frankly, I need something to do. Amthos is somewhat distrusting of me still and Ramdrud is wary as ever so there isn’t a soul to take my advice. I bear neither of them any grudges however. This was where our choices led and I am accepting of that.” The No One glanced around the vast chamber. “I must say, your fusion of arcane knowledge and shamanism is quite intriguing. You are working alongside the spirits instead of forcing them to bend to your will like druidism.”

The well-endowed orc beamed at him and waved at the large crystal above their heads. “Spirits originated from the Etherealm where all arcane spells come from. It seemed logical that for them to fully reach their potential, they must have a link to the Etherealm again through arcane arts. That is how the spirits are able to fully manifest now.” As if to emphasis his point, a bright yellow, ethereal creature that seemed like a cross between a lion and a bird flitted around his head before landing on his shoulder.

“And they help you power the portals by drawing energy from the sunlight into the large crystal.”

“They just guide the energies from the crystal to the portals. We still use the spells you gave us to open the portals.” He inclined his head to the side. “I would still very much like to know where you obtained such power and exactly how it works. None of the spirits expend their energy when we use that magic, the shamans who use it also are unburdened by the cost and there is no arcane energy involved.”

Samuel chuckled softly and wandered over to the map, peering down at the south-eastern side of the Fangs of the World. “Though the Creator has long abandoned Tirinead into its own fate, she still has power over it all. She gave me a few… tools that surpass even the Old Gods and the Triad in their understanding. The… ‘Town Portal’ spell is one of them.”

Ruven gave the No One a curious look. “That is something I have often wondered. If she cares so much about her creations, why did she not simply intervene herself? Why not wave her hand and reset everything as it should?”

“Same reason why you cannot simply focus all the spirits into a single missile and attack the Triad or Alliance. A movement as monumental as that would shatter all of Tirinead.” He leaned down towards one particular spot on the map, his eyes narrowed. “When the gods move, the world quakes in fear. Should the Creator even breathe... well, you can imagine the rest.”

That left the shaman with a sense of unease. “There are far greater forces at work here than we realise…”

“Nothing so dramatic.” Samuel straightened and locked his hypnotic gaze at him. “The Creator is simply a practical woman. She put a lot of effort into creating Tirinead and while she has moved on to other projects, she did not want to see it destroyed if only for the sake of the people that exist within it. She cannot condone what the Old Gods have done but she cannot intervene as well. This entire world was built around the belief that the Old Gods were the absolute power, that there is no one greater than they. If the Creator were suddenly to enter the fray, imagine the chaos it would cause. Religious wars would just be a starting point.”

He gave Samuel a wry smile. “Then what of you and your constant mantra that there are no gods?”

“Many still believe me to be a very powerful wizard. Remember, my abilities rest with my skills of ‘asking’ the world to do me a favour. In many ways, that is akin of shamanism. Ask around. Many think I am either an envoy of the Old Gods, a particularly powerful hero or just a very skilled shaman. To those of the Alliance, I form some form of Unholy Trinity alongside the ‘White Woman’ and ‘Dark Horse of Destruction’.”

“Does that counteract your ideal of remaining somewhat anonymous? I thought the purpose of a No One was to intervene but not be credited with the act.”

He sensed the No One smiling at him. “The conflicting account actually work in my favour. With so many accounts of my deeds and purposes, the general populace will not be sure what to believe and eventually form their own opinions. That Ramdrud and even Amthos do not fully trust me will curb any worship.” He chuckled softly and gestured towards the map. ‘All across Tirinead, it is the same. Fact turn to stories and stories become tall tales. Eventually, those tales will transform into legend and myth. Over time, I will be forgotten. After all, few can scarcely believe that I exist alongside the other Avatars. Those that see me think that I am just one part of a cult of powerful mages that all wear the same and bear the same name.” He pointed at his face. “That my appearance can change depending on whom looks upon me also adds to my anonymity.”

Ruven regarded the No One with a mixture of awe and surprise. Being attuned to the spirits, he knew that such an event was an eventuality. The spirits have observed mortals since the dawn of time. Grauhl was a prime example of a fact fading into obscurity. Even Dalgmar barely knew of him. Eventually, Samuel would fade into history as well.

As would they all.

“Ah, but I see your distress,” Samuel chuckled softly. He strode across the map and rested an armoured hand against Ruven’s should. “You are someone who measures success based on your deeds and actions not necessarily of those who follow you. I can understand that. A man of action. Your ambition and drive to help others without truly seeking self-glorification is truly admirable. There are few out there in the entire cosmos who would prioritise their own satisfaction and accomplishments over the praise of others.”

Ruven let out a nervous chuckle and averted his gaze which was someone difficult given that he was now much taller than the No One. To turn his eyes upwards seemed out of place for someone who currently felt like he had plateaued. “I still have much to offer. Though at this stage, I have no idea where else I can contribute. Watching the map and helping govern it is useful. Seeking out other Spirit Kings is worthwhile as well but I feel like…”

“It has become business-as-usual?” offered Samuel.

“Yes. I have done the same for months now. I desire to contribute something… new.”

The No One laughed softly and turned back towards the map. “Well then, perhaps you would not be opposed to taking a little field trip?”

“A field trip?” he repeated, puzzled.

At that moment, the doors to the chamber sprang open and in padded Luxaeus alongside his Warg Knights.

“Master Shaman!” bellowed the knight, waving his hammer. “We have need of your services!”

Samuel turned to Ruven. “Why not accompany Luxaeus on his journey? New inspiration comes from new experiences, after all. Being confined to this chamber and Greendawn will only have you stagnate. Perhaps you can even visit the Celestial Mages of the Rhakmirim or consult with the druids of the Fénrians?”

Smiling, the shaved shaman stepped towards Luxaeus with his arms spread wide in welcome. “Come, my friend. What is it that you desire?”

Luxaeus explained his mission at Garvreim. It was just a little past noon so he hoped they would be able to make it to the township to lend support to the embattled townspeople before the sunset. Ruven turned towards the map and studied it closely. He located Garvreim and the closest shaman. It would be a few hours ride from when they appeared but it was plausible.

“Perhaps you would need a shaman alongside you?” asked Ruven. “Should you liberate the town, you would likely not leave with the night upon you. I could help fortify the area.”

“That would be much appreciated,” exclaimed Luxaeus. His eyes turned to Samuel. “Perhaps you would accompany us as well, Lord No One?”

There were a few seconds where Samuel did not say anything. “Sadly, I have other arrangements that require my attention.”

That sentence rang a few alarms in Ruven’s mind. Did Samuel just not say that he was unoccupied since neither Ramdrud nor Amthos fully trusted him?

“A pity then,” Luxaeus said. He clapped Ruven’s shoulder lightly. “Come then, Master Shaman! We have much ground to cover and people to save!”

Ruven shot Samuel one last gaze before activating a nearby archway. A veil of shimmering lights filled the arch and like many times before, the Warg Knights strode through it, reappearing wherever the portal had been designed to send them.

Samuel watched them all go and waited in silence when the last of the group vanished through the portal. He stood still until the lights winked out of existence. Only then did he close his eyes and let out a soft sigh.

“I hope you can save him, Ruven. I sincerely do.”

******

The road was harsh and it had been years since Qurron had travelled on horseback or camped out under the stars. The ground was cold and bumpy, winter was coming once more bringing the cold and his old bones grew weary after a few days. However, he found comfort and familiarity in the tomes that he carried and pored over.

Noraduil truly did some fascinating research.

Under the firelight of the camp, he leafed through what perpetually frosted pages. Even this far south and no matter how close to the flames he brought the book, the parchment crackled with frost. It visibly secreted clouds of cold air and was so cold to the touch that he had to wear gloves when reading.

“You have been poring over that tome every day now, mage,” announced one of the soldiers. “What is it within it that fascinates you so?”

A typical grunt asking a question that he could not fully comprehend. Qurron much preferred the question from a knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing knuckle-dragger than the chilling sense he got from one of Eranius’ knew ‘Triad Knights’. He eyed the strange men in their solid black armour with glowing, purple edges. Their features were completely consumed by their helmets which had a silvery plate over their heads. How they saw, he could only guess but he had heard that there were developments in creating ‘one way mirrors’ of some sort. These Knights were all about the same height and all wore the same sort of armour.

Every inch of their body was covered in the thick, black metal that moved softly with a sound akin to hushed whispering instead of the usual creak of metal. Their boots were shaped like clawed feet that ground up the earth wherever they passed. Deep purple cloth hung from their waists like a cape, emblazoned with the emblem of the Holy Triad. Their breastplates were carved into the anatomically enhanced shape of a man’s torso but with the emblem of the Triad carved into the metal at the centre with three eyes positioned where the points of the triangles were. These eyes were embedded with strange, red jewels that glowed with the same intensity as the fire. Wide, sweeping pauldrons that looked like hundreds of tiny, baby-like hands reaching out from the black metal sprang from their shoulders while each hand was clawed like a bird’s. Apart from their curved, unseeing face plates, their heads were decorated with dark, black wings sweeping upwards from their jawlines, covering their ears and past their heads.

Again, Qurron had to question how these creatures could even see, hear or work as effective warriors if their senses were so dulled. He doubted they were truly human. He had never seen them eat or sleep and they constantly hovered around Eranius like loyal hounds to their master. Though there were only ten of them amongst about a hundred men, spotting one was very easy as they seemed to drain all light from around them.

Realising he had been asked a question, Qurron turned back to the man who had asked. “This tome is one of the notes of the famed hero mage, Noraduil. It seems that he fell sometime last fall. Likely to the orcs. His research was salvaged, however, by Lord Eranius. Research that could help us win the war against the greenskins.”

“Really? What could some dead mage offer us?”

Looking at the notes, Qurron ran a bony finger across the runes as he read. “Noraduil managed to perfect a technique where he shattered the soul of a single mortal and placed it into mechanisms that he called the ‘Frost Dwarves’. These stone automatons were thus powered by the soul inside of them, the soul offering the energy for the magic to move the limbs and follow basic commands.”

“Sounds barbaric if you ask me. You’d be sacrificing a single man to make a terrible army.”

Eranius’ deep, commanding voice brought everyone around the circle to attention. “That is why we seek the Vessel of Life.”

All eyes turned to the Lord-Knight of Raonoak who had silently appeared at the edge of the flame, flanked by two Triad Knights. Qurron could hear the strange whisperings coming from the knights even as they stood stoic and unmoving.

“The Vessel is an ancient artefact,” continued the Lord-Knight. “Supposedly something that the Old Gods used to create the souls that now inhabit each and every one of us.” He nodded towards Qurron. “The Holy Triad has given me guidance. The Star-Eyed Wolf has the ability to rob us of magic and in doing so, will disable much of our armies. However, he does not stop us entirely from moving. Our bodies can still move, it is just burdened by the heavy armour that we wear which is usually enchanted to become lighter.”

Many of the men around the campfire regarded the runes that were engraved across their cuirasses or the arcane parchments sealed onto their breastplates with wax.

“But the Triad proposes a new weapon for our war,” Eranius said, his eyes shining with holy inspiration. “A golem which is a mix of earth and machine. Within it is a skeleton of working gears and cogs powered by a soul. Its body covered in the blackrock that makes it resilient to assault be it physical or magical.” His eyes fell back towards Qurron. “We need Noraduil’s research to identify how a soul can power an inanimate object.”

Eranius sat down amongst the men while his Triad Knights remained stoic and unmoving. “I know all of you have been with me for some time now. We have travelled from Raonoak to Trispire and back again.” He smiled warmly towards those men around him. “The journey alone has kept you away from your families at least a year. We travelled past the orc lines and into the ruined castle of a fallen hero. You all deserve to know why we are doing this.”

“The Star-Eyed Wolf?” asked one of the men.

The Lord-Knight nodded grimly. “His abilities thus far have not been completely defined. We have heard various reports from all over the Alliance. Some say he robs us all of magic. Others claim he can throw bolts of searing white lightning from his fingertips that are unstoppable. There are even stories that claim that should he remove his helm and look at you with his eyes, you will be driven to madness.”

“And what do you believe, milord?”

For a long time, Eranius did not say anything and merely looked into the crackling fires. Qurron wished that he could see into his friend’s mind. Since they fought together, he could usually read Eranius like the very book that he held in his hands. But since he returned from Trispire, Eranius was distant, enigmatic and a very different man. Though he had heard such an experience was to be expected when touched by the Holy Triad. Divine intervention was a life-changing event, after all.

He was unsure if he was jealous or worried.

“I believe the Wolf is an enterprising collective of mages,” Eranius answered at length. “Somehow, they have managed to disguise themselves as one another and spread this rumour of them being a single entity, a ‘god’ come to equalise Tirinead. They fill our citizenry with delusions of salvation from this ‘White Woman’ and of a reckoning come by the hooves of this ‘Dark Horse of Destruction’. All in an attempt to steer us from the Holy Triad. They offer hope to those that would believe and strike fear upon those that would remain faithful. It is clever but it nothing but a farce.”

The Lord-Knight rose to his feet once more, holding a mailed fist in front of him. “They would shattered the Alliance not only through trickery but through sheer show of force by gathering the other races against us. But we will not stand for it!” He lifted his head, raising his voice with pride and strength that inspired men since he took command of the battle against Mad King Hawk. “We have been charged by the most blessed Holy Triad to fight against the orcs. Other Lords will combat the other races but it is our charge to push back the greenskins! This is our holy mission!” He slammed his hand against his heavy armoured chest. “I would give me life for our lands and the Alliance! Will you!?”

The men all thrust their hands into the air, giving a unified cry.

“We will push back the orcs! We will make them regret that they ever dared to oppose us!”

Another cry.

There was the Eranius that Qurron remembered.

“We will crush the Star-Eyed Wolf and his cursed magics! We will expose him for the charlatan that he really is!”

Soldiers were leaping to their feet, shouting in support.

“We will not rest until all of Tirinead once again knows peace! Alliance forever!”

“Alliance forever!” came the echoing cry.

Qurron smiled to himself. It was good to know that Eranius had not lost himself entirely to this ‘holy mission’ of his. Some comfort was had that the Holy Triad was actually intervening instead of simply sitting back and letting the mortal races fight. He had to admit to having lost some faith especially when Orradin became involved but now… well, he was very sure that they were going to succeed. With the book in his hands, he was certain of it.

As the men began cheering and singing war songs, Qurron turned a page.

******

It had taken longer to reach Garvreim than they had first expected. The sun had already set by the time the Warg Knights alongside Ruven had finally arrived at the edge of the town. A typical mountain town, it was located at the foothills of the Fangs of the World. Many of the farmlands stretched across multiple hillsides and the city itself was positioned at the base of a towering, snow-capped titan. The roads were dusty but well used with only idle stone walls to divide it from the various farms that dotted the landscape.

From where he stood, Luxaeus could see all the lights that illuminated the small township.

“We will have to make our arrival in the morning,” he said. “I will send scouts to discern the best approach. I imagine that Duke of Vlamshreidt’s men will be expecting raids or attacks from the townspeople but not from behind.”

Ruven slipped off Winterpaw and rubbed his rump. Clearly he was not used to riding on a Warg. Luxaeus had to admit that it had taken him some time to get used to it as well but having a spiritual link with the King of Wargs helped.

“Something feels… off,” admitted the shaman. He had Soulidar perched across his back and the magical staff began to hum softly as the shaman used his connection to the spirits. “The town… it feels too quiet…”

“It is nightfall. It is meant to be quiet.” Luxaeus waved his concerns away. “Come now. It must be the ride that is bothering you. Let us make camp. Cold camp. No fire. We do not wish to alert our enemies to our presence yet.”

He had to admit there was sense of unease that crept into his being as he looked upon Garvreim. He expected fires and slaughtered cattle. However, the farms were untouched. The lands well maintained and from all appearances, the town itself seemed intact. A town besieged should not be so calm. Taking Ruven’s advice, he decided to err on the side of caution. He told his two most trusted scouts, an elf and an orc, to quickly check upon the town while the rest of them made camp.

He was glad for Ruven’s presence. Without the use of his legs, he usually had to ask one of his men to pitch up a tent for him. As leader of the Warg Knights, it was somewhat demeaning. His enhanced sense of hearing had picked up that most of the men felt such a chore was something of a punishment. It was something he could not avoid but it still felt like he was being a burden to others. Ruven, at least, helped him pitch up his tent without complaint and even volunteered for the job.

“I have been meaning to ask, Ruven,” said the Warg Knight as he lowered himself onto the ground. Winterpaw curled around him protectively, allowing him to prop himself up against the Warg King. “Why have you not changed your name like the others who have taken on the green?”

The shaman gave him a wry smile. “I feel I do not deserve the honour.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course you have! Without you, we would have died under Grauhl’s blizzard!”

Ruven pursed his lips and sat down beside Luxaeus with a huff. “No… I think Incarius would have managed to maintain the shield without me. It would have been taxing, yes, and it would have delayed our departure from Bhotanmar a little longer but I do not believe it would have hindered the defence. His pact with me was convenient and helped revolutionise shamanism, yes, but it was under the guidance of Dalgmar and Samuel. It was not my achievement.”

He turned his golden eyes towards Luxaeus. “When you think of it, Knaatl helped slay a hero. Ramdrud has manoeuvred and maintained the politics of Amthosruud. Arnmok led his fellow Red Orcs in rebellion against Oringruud and brought them back to us. But what have I accomplished?”

“Creation of the network and technology of portals we use every day?” he offered. “You have been integral in our expansions, Ruven. Do not underestimate your contributions.”

“But all I did was improve upon a technique that was already developed.” Ruven shook his head and absently began drawing runes along the ground with the butt of his staff. “I have not fought on the front lines or done anything of true value. Anything I have contributed could have easily been done by others.”

He reached out and gripped Ruven’s shoulder tightly. “But it wasn’t. You did it. These are your deeds. No one else can take credit for them.”

“Perhaps.” Ruven smiled at him softly. “And what of you, fair knight? Surely transforming into an orc will cure you of your ailment?”

It was something he had considered many times before. The armlet that Samuel had given him remained secreted in his trunk back in Bhotanmar. He had no doubt that Samuel had intended for him to wear it to overcome his bias towards humans and need to become a family with his brother and father once more. Though he had veered in another direction, he was not to be rid of such a powerful artefact just yet.

“I think that would just diminish the bond that I share with Winterpaw here.” He rubbed the Warg gently between the ears. “After all, it was my choice to foolishly try to climb down from my quarters in my armour. I must live with that. We must all live with the consequences of our actions. I believe that is something Samuel constantly preaches.”

They shared a laugh at the No One’s expense. It seemed that they had both been on the receiving ends of his lectures.

The evening rations were handed out. Just some cured, salted beef and cold vegetable mush that was meant to help restore strength but not bloat them to the point of lethargy. At a moment’s notice, they would be more than capable of leaping up and drawing their weapons to defend themselves. They ate in silence for the most part with just a few whispers being shared here and there. The watch had already been decided and once they were finished, those on duty rose to watch for any attacks or intrusions.

Worry began to gnaw at Luxaeus, however. His scouts should have returned. He was about to ask Ruven if he search for his men using the spirits when his keen senses picked up something… odd. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air. There was a strange… sweet and floral scent in the air. Winterpaw detected is as well and so did some of the Wargs. It was an oddly familiar smell. Very sweet but with an odd bitterness to it akin to a mixture of strawberries and nutmeg. Luxaeus wracked his brain trying to remember where he had smelled something like that before.

Then it hit him.

“Blackfel… It’s a poison. It will cause a man’s flesh to burn like fire, every muscle overheating until it begins to eat itself within hours. It gets its name for the black veins that appear across the victim’s body…” His eyes widened in terror. “Inquisition Assassins! To arms!”

As spoke, black shadows began sweeping through the camp like dark, cloudy wraiths. The spears of smoke burst as men in midnight cloaks but bearing the mark of the Holy Triad came charging through their ranks, daggers flashing with an evil purplish colouration to their blades. Orcs and men cried out as they were cut by the deadly daggers and their poisons.

Ruven scrambled to his feet, hefting Solidar. “Foul assassins!” he cried. He lifted the staff into the air. A brilliant burst of light erupted from the tip. The shadowy killers recoiled, buying the orcs enough time to reach for their weapons and mount their wargs.

But as this happened, Luxaeus heard to tell tale sound of hooves riding up the road.

“Riders!” he cried, hoisting himself up onto Winterpaw. He seized Shatterfrost and brought it crashing down upon an assassin’s head. “Retreat!” he bellowed. “Re –”

One of the dark figures suddenly appeared by his side, leaping at him with a wicked, curved, serrated dagger ready. The man was on his left and he did not have the time or the agility to knock him back. His eyes widened –

And Winterpaw suddenly moved. The Warg King spun abruptly, wrenching from the path of the blade. His fangs dug deep into the cutthroat’s arm. By instinct, the man slashed at Winterpaw, blade sinking into the white warg’s flesh. A warg’s bite was vicious. With two massive fangs at the front and another two jutting out at the back of their jaws, once a warg found its prey, it would not let go. The Warg King was also many time stronger than any other warg and when he tossed his head from side to side, he flung the assassin around like one would a damp rag. A sickening tearing noise heralded huge chunks of the assassin’s arm being torn from his bone before finally being freed of Winterpaw’s jaws.

He could not worry too much as he heard the shout of the approaching riders. His first thought went to Ruven but he could not see the shaman. The other Warg Knights were already fleeing deep into the forest so he could only hope the beared of Solidar and Incarius’ pactmate had found another ride. Without another second to delay, Winterpaw charged through the woods, his mighty paws taking them in leaps and bounds over fallen trees, thick underbrush and low hanging branching.

The shouts of Alliance soldiers rang through the forest as well as the heavy snorts of their warhorses.

“These are no lord’s common grunts,” he sneered. Through the darkness of the forest, his keen, enhanced eyes noticed the black armour the horses wore alongside the rune-engraved breastplates that their riders had donned. Their sweeping, winged helms with the griffin head design on both their heads and pauldrons revealed these men to be part of the Inquisition, the elite soldiers of the Holy Alliance.

“Fuck.”

The air sizzled with magic. Bolts of ethereal, golden light shot through the air. A tree was struck and the bark sizzled and crackled before exploding outwards in a shower of fire and burnt wood. Where the Alliance Army focused on well-trained soldiers with a mix of magic and strength and the Alliance’s Legion was just brute force and numbers, the Inquisition were fewer in number but possessed the greatest mix of arcane ability and physical training. To be hunted by their Black Riders was both flattering and frightening.

His keen ears perked and he glanced over his shoulder. Two of the riders were rushing towards him from behind. Cursing under his breath, he urged Winterpaw to move faster but wargs were not built for speed, they were hunters who could endure long chases who could be powered by vendettas and grudges for years. The horses were quickly catching up.

“Alliance filth,” Luxaeus growled beneath his breath. He hefted his hammer over his head. Sensing his plan, Winterpaw veered towards a tree ahead of them, a tall, towering behemoth that must have stood for decades. Gritting his teeth, Luxaeus swung Shatterfrost at the trunk as thick as he was wide. In a single blow, he cleaved right through the tree. It groaned, a death knell, and tipped backwards towards the approaching riders.

One of the riders reared his horse but the other doggedly rushed forward, just barely clearing the tree before it smashed to the ground. Cursing under his breath, he saw the glistening tip of the Inquisitor’s spear as the Black Rider came rushing towards them.

With his eyes trained behind them and Winterpaw’s ahead, he directed the King of Wargs where the spear was jabbing, avoiding further injury. The rider drew closer and closer until they were side by side. Luxaeus bared his teeth at the man and swung Shatterfrost at him. But the Inquisitor had a longer reach with his spear. The blade glanced off the spears haft and Winterpaw whimpered in pain with the blade piercing his flesh.

“Bastard!” Luxaeus roared.

“Traitor!” countered the Inquisitor

Winterpaw snapped his jaws at the Black Rider’s horse but the beast was well trained and did not flinch. The Inquisitor, however, did. That was the opportunity Luxaeus was waiting for. He swung Shatterfrost. Again, he could not reach up to the man himself due to the hammer’s short reach but he could hit the man’s steed. The impact of the hammer shattered bones beneath the heavily muscled flanks of the mare. She stumbled immediately with a whinny.

But not before the Inquisitor gave out a terrified cry and hurled his spear. Winterpaw staggered for a moment as the spear jabbed into his flank but them pushed on forward. Pain blasted through his flesh with each movement but they could still hear the countless riders combing the forests for them.

“We need to find a place to hide,” Luxaeus said. “There!”

As fortune would have it, there was a small, rundown shack a short distance away. Likely a woodcutter or charcoal maker’s hut. Winterpaw pushed himself to the wooden frame. Luxaeus reached backwards and yanked the spear out of his friend, eyes wideneding at the purplish stain on the blade.

More Blackfel.

Beneath him, Winterpaw felt like an oven. The poison was doing its work, forcing the warg’s metabolism to reach frightening levels that every part of his body was starting to devour itself in a desperate bid for resources. Still, the Warg King staggered to the hut which had long been abandoned. Luxaeus pushed open the door for him and Winterpaw took a few steps into the hut before immediately collapsing.

Luxaeus fell to the ground, legs useless and mostly prone.

“Winterpaw!” he cried. With all his strength, he propped himself up on his arms and dragged himself over to his friend. “Stay with me! You can fight this!” He desperately glanced around the abandoned hut. There was dust everywhere and the could actually see the particles dancing around in the moonlight. Apart from a flea-infested bed, there was little else of use. “Blackfel can be fought. It needs constant application. Your body will burn through it fairly quickly if not constantly applied. You just need something to offset your current state.”

He grimaced and clawed himself towards a cabinet. Seizing the rim, he pulled himself up towards one of the doors and pulled it open. There was nothing inside save for some rotting goo that he did not even want to look at for more than a few moments.

“Luxaeus.”

Dropping himself down, he grimaced as pain exploded from the impact. “Stay calm, Winterpaw. Perhaps I can snap up one of these rats. They might taste foul and bony but at the very least –”

“It is of no use, fool of a man. This Blackfel is cursed by the Triad themselves.”

He turned towards Winterpaw. Fear immediately gripped his chest. The Warg King’s luxurious, white fur began falling off his frame. Ugly, black veins began crawling up the sites of his wounds. The brilliant blue eyes were glazed in pain. Everything Winterpaw had left was used to keep the proud warg propped upright.

“I can feel it sapping my strength. Even with the power of two souls and the blessings of the No Ones and Old Gods, I am dying.”

“No!” Luxaeus cried, crawling across the floor towards the warg. “You must just endure it! I can find you some food! Perhaps one of the others will find us! You just need to eat! Blackfel –”

“This is no ordinary poison, fool, as I have said. I feel it eating at my soul.”

“Soul…” Then his eyes brightened. “That’s it!” He rested a hand against Winterpaw’s shoulder. “You gave me part of your soul so that I could survive that fall. I can give you some of mine back in return! It will help you endure this!”

“No, you fool. This would only infect you to.”

He grinned viciously at Winterpaw. “When have you ever been able to dissuade me?” He sought no further confirmation or reassurance and closed his eyes.

Deep within himself, he found the bond between he and Winterpaw. In the darkness, it felt like a glimmering, white thread between himself and the powerful warg. On one side it was his own, brilliantly shining essence and on the other, Winterpaw’s dimming star. Without hesitation, he began pushing some of his own power through the thread and into the wargs. Pain wracked his body. His strength was rapidly leaving him but he was not going to let that stop him from ensuring that Winterpaw survived.

Wispy threads of light poured out of his sun-like soul, curling around the ethereal thread and inching towards Winterpaw. Hope swelled in his heart the moment the first filament touched the warg’s soul. Then that hope shattered.

He felt it.

The evil of the Triad.

In his mind, it felt like thousands upon thousands of black worms crawling all over one another and growing rapidly in mass. It ate at everything. It ripped and tore at Winterpaw’s essence, tiny little mouths constantly crawling over one another to devour everything that Winterpaw was from within.

This was not something he could stop.

Winterpaw realised that too.

In that moment, when their souls touched, they both knew the inevitability of the situation. But before Luxaeus could act on his own instincts, Winterpaw did something entirely unexpected.

The King of the Wargs pushed Luxaeus’ soul back with his own.

“What are you –” he began but in his shock, he allowed Winterpaw to pour his own essence into the brother of the Avatar. Luxaeus felt all the pain leave him and instead, he was filled with incredible strength the likes that he had never felt before. His heart was suddenly racing in his chest, his mind filling with new sensations and his skin tingling.

“I will not survive this, fool. But you can. Live for the both of us.”

“No…” Luxaeus whimpered, peeling his eyes open. Winterpaw was smiling at him, at least as much as a warg could. The ethereal glow emanating from them was quite angelic but as the seconds passed and as more of Winterpaw’s essence funnelled into Luxaeus, the glow from the King of the Wargs dulled. “No! Please, we can find a way!”

“You are a stubborn, idealistic fool who believes in fairy tales and perfect lives that no longer exist in this broken world. But you are my fool. I am proud of you, Luxaeus.”

Luxaeus wailed both in anguish and as the rush of power within his body became too much for his physical form to contain. He gnashed his teeth together, forcing back the cry that was building in his chest. All of Winterpaw’s essence meshed with his own. The bright sun that had been his soul grew bigger and bigger, illuminating the vast darkness of the void between them. He arched his back, eyes shut and mouth hanging wide open as a gagging soul rose from his throat. A scintillating light erupted from his body as the power of their combined souls could not be contained within a single mortal frame.

Powerful thoughts and memories came flooding into his mind. They flashed past his eyes like a wild collage, all colours and visions that he could hardly made sense of. Each one bore emotions that seeped into his mind, threatening to cause it to explode. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes as he tried to keep his head from erupting.

“Do not fight it,” soothed Winterpaw albeit weakly. “Let us be one.”

“It’s…” Luxaeus winced. “It’s… too much…!”

“Hush, you fool. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. Open your mind. Open your soul. Relax and let me in.”

The Warg Knight took a deep breath and slowly opened his eyes.

Suddenly, he was charging through the forests on his bare paws. A young warg with his pack. His mother looked down upon the litter with a firm and gentle gaze. He played with his brothers and sisters, growing, hunting, suckling from his mother’s teat until he was strong enough that his jaws could break the bones of a full grown elk. He was not the oldest of the litter but he grew to be the strongest.

Then, he was lord in a minor house. Human and listening lazily as he name was once again glossed over amongst the duke’s court. Ambition burned in his heart. Young and with both parents dead, he had to contend with countless other ambitious forces hoping to lay claim to his ancestral lands. Shrewd women hoped to marry him and seize power. Other houses hoped to muscle him into selling them his lands. He needed some way to appease the duke and elevate his position in court.

A flash of light and he was a warg again. Hatred burned in his heart as he stepped into the cave once more. The smell of blood was fresh and so was the scent of human and horses. His eyes fell upon the corpses of his brothers and sisters… and his mother. All of them were skinned of their hides and even his eldest brother, the toughest of them – though not the biggest – had his head lopped off. He turned his head to the moon to howl, vowing to kill those were responsible.

As the lord once more, he was riding atop his steed, unwittingly wearing the pelt of the brother around his shoulders. They were hunting a great warg that had terrorised their land along with his pack. Now the warg was cornered. Back up against a rocky wall, the beast would not relent. Even as some of his men punctured the monster’s flanks with their spears, he would just seize the weapon, yank the men off their steeds and then tear out their throats. The young lord gave out a shout as a challenge and lunged at the warg. The beast’s eyes met with his own and it charged at him. Pain exploded from his neck as enormous fangs bit into his jugular and snapped bone. Life drained from him and he slumped to the ground. His last thoughts were the hope that his men would kill the creature even if he died.

As their blood mingled their souls were taken the brilliant White Woman. She introduced herself as I5 the Ingenious. A No One. Offered another chance at life, the two souls took it even though it meant sharing the one body, that of the great White Warg. They were reborn on Tirinead as a single entity but they still warred between one another.

The lord would fight to for the humans but the warg would protect his kind. Over years, centuries, they fought one another. They watched kingdoms rise and fall. Tyrants and dictators died under their gaze and even the young lord’s house eventually fell. The vengeance of the warg could not sustain them forever either and eventually that anger burned out. They found peace between themselves and finally came together as one.

As Winterpaw.

They ruled quietly in obscurity for decades. Until a call came from the Old Gods.

And they met the Avatar.

Luxaeus threw his head back and roared, a cry that was not quite so human anymore. His soul meshed with that of Winterpaw’s. Though the Warg King began to fade, the raw power of the soul that had once consisted of two different entities began bleeding into the human’s physical frame and form. Thick veins began pushing up against Luxaeus’ flesh and his muscles all tensed, bracing itself for what was to come.

He shut his eyes briefly, accepting the last of Winterpaw’s essence into himself. The light from the great white warg faded as the last of his soul flew into the former Paladin. Winterpaw’s eyes lost all light and life. What strength remained in the empty shell faded and the great breast slumped to the ground, dead, all his life force in Luxaeus. The knight’s eyes sprang open. His bright, brown eyes were gone; replaced by burning red irises filled with the fury of a warg out for vengeance and blood.

Luxaeus’ fingers twitched as all the power in his body flooded through his limbs. The coursed through his veins like lava. It was the raw power of hatred, the desire for revenge and the lust to feel the blood of those that had killed Winterpaw dripping down his chin as his fangs sank into their throats. All that he accepted and agreed to. The Inquisition dogs had killed Winterpaw; had killed his soul-bonded mate!

He was not going to let that insult go unpunished!

His resolve set in stone, the lava-like strength erupted from the tips of his fingers. Sharp, black claws jutted from his flesh, shredding through the mail he wore. Bones crackled with growth and muscled gave off the sound of stretching leather. With a fierce growl, he yanked off his mailed gloves, throwing them aside. Bringing his hands to eye level, he watched as thick, leathery pads appeared on his palms. Fingers thickened, each one as thick as a normal man’s hand alone. Bright, white fur sprang up from his skin, sending a tingling sensation all throughout his body. His hands – no, his paws­ – now bigger than any man’s head.

The image of crushing that assassin’s head in his bare paws like a tomato brought a vicious grin to his face. Urged by his desire for revenge, thick veins crawled down from his mutated palms, creeping down his forearms. Ever muscle felt like it was being pumped with hot magma. Only when they burst out of his armour, leaving shredded metal all over the cabin floor did they finally cool. His forearms surged out of his mail and he seized his pauldrons, tearing them from his shoulder.

Now freed and with arms bare, the change could easily sweep up from his engorged forearms. His biceps bulged, arms lengthening until they were as long as he was tall. Each muscle was as big as his muscled chest, thick veins coursing over them like a rich river catchment over incredible mountains. The triceps of his arms erupted to support the mounds of his biceps and they led perfectly to his enormous, rounded shoulders. Thick white fur swept up through his exposed, human skin. Above them all, over, was a light coating of deep brown hair that decorated his forearms like sharp, brown blades.

His breastplate cracked and snapped with his growing mass. Luxaeus threw his head back, gnashing his teeth even as they began to sharpen and elongate into fangs. With his new claws, he tore right through the metal as if it was just a soft, fluffy pillow. He ripped the armour right off his body, letting out a blood curdling roar that deepened with each passing second. His cry was interrupted by a grunt. Both pectorals burst outwards in all directions. Lungs expanded, ribs lengthened and his spine stretched lengthwise. The same thick white fur spread all over his mountainous chest as if trying to smoothen the rough, diamond-hard edges of each curve and crevasse. But he just continued to grow.

He snarled and spun around, resting on his belly which was covered with head-sized blocks of muscle that protected his precious internal organs. The strength pumped across his back. Muscles bulged outwards, forming a symmetrical map of mountains and hills that shrugged off the remnants of his chest armour with ease. The same white fur swept all across his back with a brown crest running down the length of his spine.

As the flare of chestnut brown swept down towards his rump, an intense pressure built at the base of his spine. He snarled and tore at the seat of his pants, freeing his rump to the exposed air. As his ass began to swell and tighten into two, thick, rounded orbs of furry muscle, a bud formed just above his crack. The nub wiggled with new sensations, eager to be free. It grew longer, fluffier and lengthened until it was about as long as his legs. The brown line down his spine reached the new, wagging tail, forming a line right down the middle until the tip.

The change began to push in three opposite different at the same time. The first pushed towards his head, forcing him to shut his eyes as it felt like someone was trying to push at his face from the inside. The other pooled down towards his legs. After months of not feeling anything below his waist, it was shock to suddenly feel a mix of pleasure and pain as his muscles grew and expanded. Suddenly, he was kicking madly, urging the change to cleanse him of his fragile human shape and allow him to take vengeance on those that had killed the King of the Wargs. The last began pooling around his crotch. This was a different kind of heat, a pleasurable kind. He moaned and tore at the rest of his trousers, letting his balls hang nice and low as they became swollen in his seed.

Luxaeus grit his fangs together, stretching his head forward. The immense pressure began pushing his nose and jaw forward, stretching his features. His nose travelled along the length of his growing muzzle, his tongue stretching to fill the broad, square length. The two canines at the top row of his teeth felt like someone was yanking at them but instead of being torn from their roots, they were growing, lengthening. His lower canines felt the mix of agonising pain and pleasurable relief as well as they lengthened to fill his canine muzzle. Strangely, his back two molars also felt the surge of the change and the twisted outwards, growing into two enormous, upward facing fangs that would damn any who was caught that far in his jaws. His ears were pulled in the opposite direction, migrating to the top of his head and growing to become two, long, pointed, leaf-like structures filled with brown and white fur. The chestnut brown hair sitting atop his head shortened as a wave of white covered his new features but it quickly spread down the back of his head, meeting the mane that spread down the back of his spine.

At the same time, his toes wiggled in his boots. The moment of joy that he could finally move his feet again was overwhelmed by an immense desire to crush men’s heads with them and feel their brain matter between his toes. Claws erupted from his boots and before he could tear them away in an attempt to salvage them, the soles of his feet burst out of the cured leather, covered in leathery pads and a light dusting of white fur. There was only a brief moment when he could feel the cool air between his toes before his entire foot erupted from his boots. His toes continued to pull the rest of his foot away from the rest of his body, pulling it away from his heel. Enormous paws quickly grew with equally large claws ripping at the wood beneath him. His calves ballooned to support his gargantuan size and weigh; each one the size of a man’s head. Like his forearms, a flare of brown fur swept up from the back of his calves. His trousers stood no chance and tore at the seams. New powerful thighs burst, leaving him completely without clothes save for the thick, white and brown fur all over his body that did nothing to hide the definition of his engorged muscles.

With all this happening, Luxaeus was also awash with new sensations. His ears rang with intense sounds like those of the Inquisition men just outside the cabin cautiously approaching. He could smell their courage and also their fear. It made him desire for their blood on his claws all the more. Just the thought of seeing them all dead around him filled him with a strange arousal; an arousal that pumped more and more seed into his throbbing balls. He grimaced as his foreskin – removed as was Alliance custom – swept back up over his erect, human dick. The white fur swept up towards his groin but stopped short at the base of his cock. The brown fur took over, spreading over his cantaloupe-sized balls and over his dick. The moment it was covered in the dense, brown carpet, his member swelled in size. Precum dripped out from his new sheath, soaking into his fur and quickly filling the entire cabin with his scent. His member rose up to reach his belly button where a big, red point began to emerge from the confines of his furry sheath. As his transformations reached a climax, his new canine member rose from its slumber and rose to its full, tapered length. Most canines were capable of licking themselves but Luxaeus would never have to put much effort into the endeavour as his enormous member rose up to touch the base of his collarbone, dripping hot precum onto his chest where it pooled into the crevasse of his pectorals.

With one final roar, Luxaeus reached the completion of his transformation. Hot seed erupted from deep within his balls, tensing every last muscle in his body and sending a torrent of cum shooting high into the air with enough force that it struck that ceiling. The enormous half-warg, half-human beast turned his pleasure into a terrifying howl that shattered the windows of the cabin. He seized his cock with both paws and wrapped his jaws over the immense rocket. His own seed pumped down his throat, filling his belly with warmth and life. He gaged upon the salty flood, some of the goo dropping past his jaws and onto his belly.

He imagined this was what feeling the blood of his enemies on his jaws would be like.

And there were so many of them just waiting outside.

As his orgasm ended, Luxaeus lapped up the last of his cum from around his dick and rose. His ears brushed up against the cum covered ceiling. The light around him faded as the transformation and the transferral of souls ended.

Eyes a bright yellow, he turned to were Winterpaw’s corpse lay. Lifeless, motionless and flesh decaying already with the venom of the Holy Triad; the Triad that he had put so much faith in for so long and would not commit such an atrocity. His blood began to boil again and his yellow eyes burned into a bright, furious red.

The time of mourning was over.

Now… Now was the time for revenge.

******

Court was in session. Lord Faq-dela’quat and Duke Ar’selole, were both arguing over some petty land dispute and looking to the Avatar of the Orcs for some mediation. Amthos was more than happy to let Ramdrud take the lead even as he sat on the gilded throne while his ‘Governor’ meted out the details from both nobles to come to a suitable conclusion. More and more, he was growing surer that he would hand the reins of the kingdom to Ramdrud once the battle against the Alliance was over.

One of the lords shouted very loudly that a farm had been razed and he demanded compensation. That made Amthos wonder what life would be like if he were a simple farmer. His father, Arben, had been a war hero from the previous war and retired to a life of becoming the chief mechanist of Raonoak. While it was a peaceful life, his position was still very much mired in the politics of Raonoak as a good friend and ally of Eranius. People often came knocking to his door to try to sway him to their side. It usually meant free meals for the Reinhardts but they were still part of the political game.

Perhaps if he lived somewhere remote…

The blabbing human lords were interrupted with a thunderous boom.

All eyes turned towards the massive doors of the audience chamber as Samuel came charging in. Above him, the mighty Incarius glowed. The spiritualists and shamans amongst the court instantly knelt and bowed. Those that viewed Samuel as some deity did the same. All others made way for the two.

“What is the meaning of this,” Faq-dela’quat exclaimed, his twirled moustache twitching in agitation. “We are in the middle of court! I do not care if you are the so called Star-Eyed Wolf, procedure dictates–”

Samuel shot him a piercing look. “There is a time and place for everything, milord, including procedure and bureaucracy. This is not one of those times.” He turned his gaze back towards Ramdrud and Amthos. “Luxaeus and Ruven had been attacked by Inquisition troops. The supposed raid of Alliance soldiers upon Garvreim was a ruse and they were caught in it.”

Amthos immediately sat up in horror. “They have been captured by the Inquisition!?”

“Ruven has. Luxaeus is…”

He did not wait for the rest of the sentence and immediately rose to his feet. “Ramdrud, I am going to save my brother. Remain here and see to the affairs of Amthosruud.”

“Take care, Avatar,” Ramdrud warned. “The Inquisition is no force to be taken lightly.”

“I will be there to assist him,” Samuel said grimly. Then his eyes turned to Faq’dela-quat whose face was turning bright rage in fury. “For what it is worth, milord, setting fire to your own crops in the hopes of invoking the ire of the orcs and having them crush your political rival is a very weak ploy.”

Amthos marched past the No One and Samuel turned immediately to follow.

******

Inquisitor Patrocious Luscious Darkus. Ruven had heard of him from both Ramdrud and even before when he was human. Inquisitor Darkus was a ruthless man who did everything according to the guidance of the Holy Triad. Many called him insane. Those that were heard often were never seen again. Patrocious stood in front of Ruven in the dark, damp cell of a prison in Garvreim. Many of the orcs had been captured as well but some had managed to escape.

Dawn was upon them and Ruven had wondered all night what fate awaited him as he sat on the smelly, piss-soaked floor. Now, the dark-skinned man with a scar across his right eye and dressed in the black and gold of the Inquisitors stood in front of him, flanked by two of his men. One was an Inquisition Confessor, something akin to a War Wizard or War Priest. The other was an Inquisition Templar, the elite guard of the Inquisition.

Darkus looked down upon Ruven with a look of distain on his face and with Soulidar in one hand.

“Leave us,” rumbled Darkus to his two guards.

Without question, the other two Inquisitors turned and left, sealing the cell doors behind them as they did so. Darkus waited a few moments until their footsteps receded into the darkness of the cell before sighing softly and turning a sympathetic eye towards Ruven.

“Tell me something. Were you a man turned into an orc or were you always born one?”

“I was once a man,” Ruven confirmed grimly. “Though given what the Inquisition and the men of the Alliance have done in recent times, I question whether you were not the same.”

Darkus gave him a firm stare. “I too question the same.”

That caught the shaman by surprise but he remained cautious. The Inquisition was known for getting what they wanted from loose lips and perhaps gaining the comfort of an orc would be one such way.

Darkus knelt down, his armour groaning with the effort. “Do you know that the Grand Chaplain is dead?”

There, Ruven straightened in surprise. “He is?”

The Inquisitor nodded grimly. “The Marabhantien betrayed the Alliance. They discovered that they were to be the target of the next war had this uprising from all the other races not begun. They took back the griffins and assassinated the Grand Chaplain. Now our only link to the Holy Triad has been severed.”

The Grand Chaplain was the leader of the Holy Alliance and the holiest man amongst the Alliance. Supposedly being the only person who could commune with the Holy Triad personally, the Chaplain was the heart and soul of the Alliance. His death would mean chaos across the Alliance as the church desperately sought out a replacement to bring back order. If this was a recent event, it would take time for news to reach the north if it was allowed to reach them at all. The Inquisition was notorious for keeping secrets, after all.

“Why would the Alliance turn on the Marabhantien?” asked Ruven. “Were you not staunch allies?”

Darkus sighed softly. “The Holy Triad are three gods of war. They thrive on conflict whether it be amongst lords of the Alliance or enemies of the Alliance. With their sterility spell, most of the other races were incapable of sustaining a long battle or even mustering the strength to fight us. So, the goal was to ‘nurture’ some of the other races and strengthen them even with their waning numbers. This is so that when the other races were finally extinguished, a battle against them could occur and we could continue to appease the Triad.”

“That is monstrous!”

“And unsustainable,” agreed the Inquisitor. He looked upwards through the small hole in the ceiling that allowed sunlight in. “Our Grand Inquisitor was also killed in the coup against the Grand Chaplain. Now our forces are scattered and those few that could be organised remain on the floating city of Cardelstrann.” He placed a hand against his chest. “We of the Inquisition have always been privy to the Grand Chaplain’s plots and communications with the Holy Triad. We are agents of his will, after all. We knew what fate awaited the Marabhantien, the Rhakmirim and even the Minotaurs once the other races have been exhausted. But that does not necessarily mean we all agree.”

Ruven’s eyes narrowed. The spirits were still very much present around the room and they were telling him that Darkus was telling the truth. Though he trusted them, he did not trust Darkus. Inquisitors were brilliant users of all forms of magic and combat. It would not be beyond them, especially an experience Inquisitor such as Darkus, to manipulate the spirits.

“Why are you telling me this?” Ruven demanded.

There, Darkus lowered his voice. “I have in on good authority that our acting Grand Inquisitor has captured someone of importance to your uprising. A certain… wolf with blue eyes and pupils shaped like stars.”

The shaman’s eyes widened. The Inquisition had captured Samuel!? But that was impossible? Was he not still back at Greendawn? Then again… He had left with Luxaeus so quickly and there was something… off about the way Samuel was acting. Could it be that as Ruven left, the Star-Eyed Wolf had left through a portal and been captured by the Inquisition?

“And?” he answered, trying to refrain from revealing too much.

“I seek amnesty for this information,” answered Darkus. “Cardelstrann will be somewhere in the north soon. I seek nothing else to do with the Alliance and this Triad of War. If I were to tell you where Cardelstrann will be and assist you in liberating your Star-Eyed Wolf, I ask that me and my men be allowed to leave unmolested by your men and to live peacefully amongst your lands, our skin as it is and without a hint of green.”

It seemed that even the Inquisition was having its doubts and dissent.

“I will not be able to give you any form of amnesty as I am.”

“Fair enough.”

Darkus reached forward, a key in his hands. He undid Ruven’s manacles and then handed the shaman his staff. “I had heard that the Star-Eyed Wolf has a habit of handing trinkets to those that he trusts so I assume you know him well. There will be a distraction tonight. You are to free your men then and make for the woods. No one will stop you. Bring my message to your Avatar and –”

There was a sudden bang from down the hallway and with a quick look, Darkus nodded towards Ruven’s manacles. The shaman quickly pretended he was still shackled to the wall and kicked Soulidar across the room.

An Inquisitor Scout came rushing towards them, breathless and panting.

“Milord! We are under attack!”

Loud howls suddenly came filtering in through the hole in the ceiling. Screams and deafening roars accompanied them.

“By whom?” Darkus demanded.

The scout shook his head, a panicked look on his face. “They are like… Fénrians but bigger, more brutal and vicious! Their claws are sharp enough to shred armour with ease and they are led by this big, white wolf!”

Could that be Winterpaw and Luxaeus?

“Very well. Gather the men. I shall be with you shortly.”

The Scout saluted and immediately rushed off. Darkus turned to Ruven as he left. “It seems you will have to make your escape sooner than expected. Take care and remember my message.”

Ruven nodded and waited as Darkus left, the Inquisitor conveniently ‘forgetting’ to lock the cell doors behind him. The shouts of panic and howls grew louder and louder around him. Knowing he did not have much time left, Ruven quickly pulled himself from the wall and swept up Soulidar from the ground. With the key that Darkus gave him, he headed from cell to cell, freeing the orcs and men who had been imprisoned there.

Once freed, they immediately rushed out of the prison, now abandoned no doubt thanks to Darkus’ machinations. Relief washed over him as he headed for the door. Then the spirits screamed at him to stop and he ground to a halt much to the surprise of the orcs around him. He peered out the window instead.

And his jaw dropped.

Immense, feral creatures were ravaging the Inquisition troops. They were enormous, bulky and like a cross between a man and a wolf but nothing like the elegant and nimble Fénrians. They had hunched figures and fangs like a warg and dagger-like claws that were shredding the people of Garvreim like a farmer would harvest his crop. Each one was at least nine feet tall with the tallest rivalling even the Earth Runners in size. They brutally lunged upon the citizens of Gravreim, sinking their jaws into throats and limbs to a shower of blood.

“What in the name of the Gods…?” he gasped.

A window shattered on the other side of the prison. A man, a member of the militia from all appearances, had been thrown through the glass, bleeding from a bloody gash on his arm. The man reached up to him, begging for relief. The wound was deep and had torn an artery. There was nothing to do for him except spare him some suffering.

Ruven stepped forward –

Then the spirits screamed at him again.

He backed away as the man’s bright, green eyes suddenly filled with red. Severe twitching struck the man like he was struck by lightning and his limbs jerked and twisted in odd angles. The orcs backed away in shock as the man’s arms erupted out of his armour, covered in dense fur and with hands capable of ripping a torso in half. That very same had, possessed of its own will, tore at his armour, revealing thick fur and an immense, muscled chest. The man’s features shot forward in a painful transformation. A scream escaped the poor soul’s lips which quickly turned into an enraged, animalistic howl.

Ruven could feel the distortion of spirit and soul within the human. The spirits were fleeing from the sight. Every ounce of rage within the mortal frame was being exaggerated to unbearable proportions; an all-consuming inferno that threatened to devour every aspect of the mortal frame before him. Like a virus of the blood, it flooded the man’s system from his wound, twisting every aspect from his being until he was nothing but rage incarnate.

“By the Gods…” breathed Ruven. He thought quickly. “To the roof!” he bellowed. “Everyone to the roof!”

Unarmed and mostly defenceless, the orcs and immediately huddled over their non-orc counterparts to protect them with their burly bodies. The transformed man lunched at Ruven, fangs bared and eyes red with fury. Ruven immediately rallied the spirits around him, swinging Soulidar through the air. The very earth itself headed his call. The ground cracked as a huge, perfectly spherical ball of earth erupted from beneath the wooden floorboards and spun in the air in front of him. He thrust Soulidar forward, sending the ball hurtling into the warg-like beast. The impact broke bone and sent the terrible creature flying right through the wooden walls of the prison.

The ruckus caused caught the attention of the other beasts.

“Not my wisest move…” Ruven quickly stumbled backwards, cursing himself for the billowing robes he wore. “If I ever survive this, I will implement more travel-friendly robes for shamans!” The creatures howled and as he reached the foot of the stone stairwell, he swung his staff through the air, summoning a wall of earth to bar the path behind him. “Why must magic users constantly wear robes!” he lamented loudly.

He rushed into the second floor of the prison which served as the living quarters for the guardsmen. Thankfully, there were some discarded weapons sitting here and there. Too small for orc hands but still enough to give them a bit of a fighting chance should the worst come. He summoned another wall of earth to cover the stairwell while his men quickly armed themselves.

Crash!

One of the creatures shattered a nearby window. With claws as long as a dagger, the creature was able to crawl on the ceiling towards them! Quickly shaking away his fear, Ruven swung his staff towards the creature with a cry. Lightning arced from the weapon, striking the beast with enough force to send it flying back out the window. But where one fell, two quickly took their place. Ruven gathered flames in his spare hand and hurled it at the oncoming monstrosities while skipping back up the next flight of stairs to the rooftop. Thankfully, some of the non-orcs were able to equip themselves with bows and crossbows. Arrows and bolts flung past him at the creatures, stalling their advance. But every bit of pain only seemed to anger them more and they advanced with greater ferocity.

Ruven made it to the rooftop and sealed the stairwell with another wall of earth. The flat roof offered them little by means of escape but it made for a fine last stand. He felt Incarius’ presence and immediately looked to the south.

“Amthos and Incarius are on their way,” he bellowed. “We need but hold our ground!”

This renewed the spirits of the men around him and they drew what weapons they could or when they were unarmed, readied their fists.

Looking to the sky, he realised he needed some way to indicate to their reinforcements where they were. Entreating the spirits, he lifted Soulidar into the air. Dark clouds immediately began to gather high above him. Swirling in a mesmerising vortex, the thunderheads let out ominous rumbles as purple lightning arced between them. Just as the first warg-beast clawed its way onto the roof, a spear of electricity descended from the skies and struck it down, sending it back to the ground whimpering with a smell of singed flesh and fur in the air.

“Spirits hear my call!” Ruven bellowed. “Storm!”

Lightning fell from the clouds like raindrops; frequently and with little remorse.

“Sea!”

Rain quickly followed the descent of lightning. Amongst them, enormous balls of hail the size of a man’s head came hurtling towards the warg creatures. Those that managed to make it onto the roof quickly were struck by a barrage of the projectiles. Though it was not enough to knock them off, it came an opening for an orc to seize it and hurl it straight off the rooftop.

“Earth!”

The ground shoot ominously. Earth split apart and tremendous spikes enough to skewer a man shot into the air. These warg beasts were terribly agile, however, and though they were hurled into the air, they avoided the pointed tips and were merely slowed in their assault.

Ruven thrust his staff forward. “Fire!”

Searing flames blasted from the tip of his weapon. The monstrosities had no defence against pure flames and they were forced back as their flesh and fur were burned and blackened.

But it was not a sustainable defence. Ruven could feel the spirits’ strength waning and though he drew from Incarius and funnelled it into them, the Spirit King was still too far to lend his full strength. He tried to supplement them with his own might but he began to feel the strain on his body. His knees grew weak. A dwarf quickly hoisted him up, keeping him standing as he fired another blast of flame at more approaching beast men.

All around him, orcs and their allies fought valiantly against the beasts.

“Just a little longer!” he bellowed. “Reinforcements are on the horizon!”

A deafening crash filled his ears. A mighty, white fist broke through the wall of earth he had erected to bar the lower floors. His heart leapt to his throat. An enormous beast, bigger than any of the others, came lumbering out of the stairwell. Its fur was pure white save for artfully placed tufts of brown in certain areas. Like the other wargs, his eyes were red in fury.

Ruven spun and jammed his spear in the creature’s direction.

The creature was fast despite its size. Suddenly, Ruven was being lifted into the air by a huge paw. The other paw was twisting his arm, forcing him to relinquish Soulidar. His airways were being cut off and the warg-like beast roared at him, the noise so loud he could only hear a deafening ringing in his ears. In desperation, Ruven reached down and seized the monster’s head with his hands. He thrust his spirit into the beast like a lance…

… and came to a startling realisation.

“Luxaeus?”

All he got in reply was blinding anger… and deep, all-consuming sorrow.

Though the darkness was starting to encroach upon the corners of his eyes, he could see something was terribly wrong. He pierced the tormented soul with his own, swimming through the tides of fury like he was paddling through a raging storm. Memories flooded through him. Images of a cabin. A deadly venom.

Pain.

Loss.

Death.

Then he saw it.

A burning, red star. The soul of this creature.

“Luxaeus!” he cried. In the ocean of emotions, Ruven stood out as a single corporeal entity of pure, white light. The radiant red glow of Luxaeus’ tortured soul burned brightly that he could actually feel it singing his physical flesh.

“Open your eyes!” he cried. “It is I!”

But the sun just raged at him and he could feel the warg-creature’s claws digging into his throat. His strength was leaving him but that was just his mortal frame. His spirit was stronger than that. Calling upon the ethereal strength of the spirits around him, he reinforced his soul and shone even brighter in the sea of fury.

He squinted, trying to see what had caused Luxaeus to turn into such a raging beast.

It only took a moment for him to understand.

“Winterpaw…” he whispered sorrowfully. “Oh, I am so sorry, Luxaeus. I am so sorry.”

Strangely, the sun fury seethed a little, its intensity waning a little.

“You are angry. I understand. The Inquisition did something heinous and… they took someone very close to you away.” Ruven clutched his chest sorrowfully. “I can feel your pain. I can sense your tears and your anger. Winterpaw lives on in you but… I do not think this is how he would like to be remembered.”

The sun flared up again.

“Yes. I cannot tell you how to be. I did not have the bond you had with Winterpaw. But look upon yourself. Look at yourself in my eyes. The creature you see before you, is that the beast that Winterpaw was proud of? Is that the Luxaeus who shone so brightly that it made the stoic King of the Wargs share his soul with him, the one that saved his form death and to whom he passed his will onto?”

Luxaeus’ soul calmed significantly, still raging and lashing but not with a fury that was unbearable.

“Reflect upon his life,” Ruven counselled. “Two souls. One driven by ambition and the other by revenge. Two became one and fought one another. Eventually, vengeance was calmed by humanity and ambition was tempered by loyalty. Do not be the raging beast that had once been the warg. Be the one that we all knew, the single soul that bore the Avatar of the Orcs upon his back through war, the one who shared his soul with a broken, lonely man and the one who entrusted the future of his race to the knight who made him proud. Be both warg and man!”

The soul slowly lost its furious, red glow.

For the first time, the soul replied with words. “War…am… warg... man…”

Ruven retreated back into his body and gasped, blood dripping from the corners of his lips. Luxaeus looked upon him in surprise, his claws loosening around Ruven’s neck.

“N… Ruv…Ruv…en…?” grumbled the warg-man. He blinked several times and the fury in his eyes faded into a soft, golden yellow. “Gods!”

Luxaeus immediately released Ruven and caught him in his arms before the shaman could completely collapse to the ground. The wounds to the shaman’s neck were shallow but still bleeding.

“I’m sorry!” pleaded Luxaeus. “I… I do not know what came over me! I… I just…”

Ruven shook his head. “The others…?” he croaked.

Luxaeus lifted his head, seeing the melee around him. His hackles raised and his eyes flashed red once more. With a threatening bark, all the warg-men immediately stopped what they were doing and stepped back towards their pack leader, their Alpha. It seemed that the command Winterpaw held over the warg carried over to these warg-men.

Again, Luxaeus eyes shifted back to yellow and as the leader of this new race calmed, they shifted to a calm, bright blue.

“Will you…”

Ruven grimaced and gently rubbed his throat. The spirits immediately went to work healing his wounds. “I will survive… But the others in the town…”

Luxaeus lifted his head and nodded. A series of barks later and the warg-men around him bolted off, no doubt to calm the other beasts that had arisen as part of his rampage. As they darted off, he rested Ruven onto the ground, whimpering softly.

“I will be fine,” reassured the shaman. He shut his eyes as weariness began to claim him. “We must bring order back to the town. Your brother is on his way and if he is met by your brood and they are untamed, there will be more suffering.” He breathed softly. “Allow me some rest. I will aid…”

Then the shaman dipped into unconsciousness.

Luxaeus nuzzled him tenderly. “Thank you, my friend. Without you I would have been lost in the tides of rage for who knows how long.” He rose to his feet, towering over the orcs around him. “I will bring the men back to heel.” The orcs and non-orcs were starting to approach him cautiously. “Hear me! I am Luxaeus Reinhardt! Brother to the Avatar of the Orcs! Defend this structure! I will bring the other warg-men to heel and bring survivors here!” He pointed at Ruven. “Care for this orc with your lives! Should I see even a hair out of place, I will tear your hearts from your chest and then eat it in front of your very eyes!”

He looked solemnly towards Ruven.

“I will be back my friend.”

******

Samuel entered the cabin. He immediately saw the corpse of Winterpaw on the ground and his heart wept. In the span of a few hours, the corrupted Blackfel had already eaten away at the proud Warg’s flesh and innards, leaving little more than blackened bone and muscle that was so rotted and putrid that it may have been mistaken for a body left to rot for weeks. The smell was also awful.

He took another step and his armour and cloak vanished. Instead, it was replaced with a cool, black double-breasted suit with pinstripes and matching slacks. His polished, black shoes clicked softly against the floorboards. Sitting down next to the corpse, he reached into his pocket and brought a cigarette which he brought to his human lips. He lit it with, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Then he pulled out another and offered it to Winterpaw.

“Want one?”

On the other side of the rotting carcass, the ethereal form of the King of Wargs sat on his haunches. “That was always such a foul habit.”

Samuel chuckled softly and pocketed the cigarette. “It is one of the personas I had to adopt. It was the one that I had adopted when you first met me.” He snickered. “Remember? I5 decide to take you on a little ‘field trip’ to help your two fighting souls forge into one. I was on another world. In that reality, I was ‘Mr. Malice’. A supernatural, ‘immortal’ creature who would continue to exist so long as there was hatred and fury in the world.”

Winterpaw nodded in agreement and rested his head on Samuel’s lap. “Yes. I remember. You had existed for thousands of years because mortals would always continue to hate one another. I5 allowed me to follow you for a bit on your work. It helped me realise that there was enough anger in the world without me helping perpetuate it.”

The No One looked to the ceiling and blew a cloud of smoke. “You will be comforted to know that thanks to Ruven, Luxaeus’ fury was calmed.”

“I had not intended to become so enraged.” Winterpaw looked to the direction of the door which now was shattered off its hinges with enormous claw marks across the frame. “That pup truly cared for me, did he not?”

“He did. You and he were bonded to one another by your very souls. He carries you now within him.”

“Which begs the question. How am I here? Should I not be part of him?”

Samuel snickered softly and shook his head. “Oh no. What you gave him with the power of your soul. Your soul itself remains your own. It still is written in the analects of Tirinead that you are your own warg. One without a body, I will admit, but still your own.”

Winterpaw’s eyes lifted. “So I might return then?”

The No One lowered his gaze sadly. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Why not?” demanded the warg. “Do you not have the power to restore me to a suitable body? You are the Writer of Reality! If I5 could do it, so could you!”

“I could, trust me, Winterpaw, I could. But to do so would jeopardize the world itself. It would negate the lessons that Luxaeus has just learned and marginalise his new body and the consequences of your choices. You want him to grow as a person, do you not?”

Winterpaw dipped his head. “Yes… He is still a fool. Childish to think he could just undo everything Amthos has done and become and go back to the way things were once.” The warg chuckled softly. “I do suppose that it would be a bitter lesson that he is now mutated beyond that of a human. Even should he change Amthos back into human with that arm you gave him, he can never be human again.”

Samuel smirked. “Who says I ever intended the arm to be for Amthos? Or even Luxaeus for that matter?”

“But I thought –” Winterpaw shook his head. “Ah, I should remember there is no point in trying to predict your plans or outdo your schemes. Just answer me this.” He locked gazes with the Writer. “What of me now? Am I to wander Tirinead as an aimless spirit?”

“You could,” said the No One with a shrug. “It is always your choice. Then again…” He reached into his coat and pulled out a black and white tome. Winterpaw’s eyes widened as the No One slid it across the floor in front of him. “… you could always just take this.”

Winterpaw looked from the book to Samuel in shock. “You… You truly mean it? I can have it?”

Samuel smiled at him. “I feel you have more than earned the right.” He lifted his hands. “Two souls, one desiring revenge and the other burning with ambition. Two flames come as one to burn brighter than the other. Then tempered by brotherly love from an unlikely source and sacrificed so that the star of another may burn all the brighter. I think that is a fairly compelling tale. I also think that I would like to see it continued but this time written in the paws of the protagonist.”

Winterpaw smiled at him. “Perhaps so. Only you were wrong about one thing, Writer. I was not in love with Luxaeus.”

“Is that so? Then perhaps you would be better served with another lifetime to find your love.” The Warg King flinched and placed a paw on his book. That made the Writer of Reality laugh. “Winterpaw, let me tell you something.” He lowered the cigarette and gave the warg a smile. “The book does not end when the last page is turned. The story keeps writing itself. When I give someone the reins to write their own tale, it does not mean that they have learned everything they can learn. It means that they finally have the capacity to learn for themselves and to grow on their own. You will find your love one day. Of that I am sure.”

“You are sure? How?”

“Same way I know there are no gods. Gods are static creatures, ideals that are given life. Gods of Fire will forever remain Gods of Fire and have no capacity for growth. But mortals, they have the capacity to grow to become gods and more. That is why there is no such thing as gods. Just mortals.”

Samuel lifted the cigarette to his lips and took another puff. “Continue to grow, Winterpaw. Your story awaits.”

******

The return to Greendawn had been a struggle. Luxaeus had to constantly wrestle with himself and his new instincts as they made the trek to the nearby shaman who could transport them back to the city. At the same time, he had to keep his new pack in check. They quickly learned that orcs were immune to the ‘curse’ as many had come to see it but the non-orc races were not. A lot of resentment hung in the air for what he had done. There were several Inquisition members amongst his pack and even more disgruntled citizens of Garvreim. But regardless of their sentiments, they were all compelled to obey their Alpha.

Perhaps some parting gift from Winterpaw, Luxaeus held absolute command amongst the warg-men. Just one bark or order from him and they were all forced to obey. He hated exercising such control over them but at the moment, it was necessary to keep them from turning on the orcs. There was a risk bringing everyone to Greendawn but he and Amthos agreed that the warg-men needed to be examined for a cure and they could not return to the Alliance. The xenophobic Alliance would sooner kill them than look for a cure regardless of whether or not they were human before.

Inquisitor Darkus was one of the new warg-men and he was oddly accepting of the change and he strode beside Luxaeus with pride. He was unsure if that was all an act or genuine as the Inquisitor was now free of the Alliance and not an orc. From what Ruven told him, the Inquisitor was glad to be part of a new race that was separate from the Alliance but also unique amongst the orcs with no risk of being transformed into a greenskin. It was an odd sentiment to have but one Luxaeus did not want to dwell on too much.

When they arrived in Greendawn, many of the residents looked upon them in shock. Amthos had to make an announcement to introduce the ‘Wargen’ to the people of Amthosruud. Most of the newly made Wargen could not say ‘warg-men’ well due to their muzzles so it was just shortened to ‘Wargen’ and the name stuck.

For the moment, Luxaeus retired in his room where he struggled to find a comfortable position on his bed. With his long tail, if he lay on his back he squashed it and caused him discomfort. On his belly felt extremely strange due to his hunched position and he was unused to sleeping on his sides. He tossed and turned constantly.

“Damnit to hell…” he rumbled. He sat up but his claws dug into the mattress, shredding it and revealing the cotton beneath. “Fuck…” His blue eyes began to turn yellow as his rage bubbled up once more but he pushed himself back to calmness, focusing on his breathing as Ruven had advised.

The shaman, now being hailed as a ‘Spirit Healer’ had been conducting sessions with each of the transformed. His incredible control over his own spirit allowed him becalm the raging warg within each of the Wargen and bring the man back in control. It was a constant struggle to supress the beast within them but with practice, he was confident that the Wargen could become productive members of Amthosruud. For the moment, they were quarantined within the Military District of Greendawn with Luxaeus residing in the Castle District due to his relationship with the Avatar.

“I should be down there…” he rumbled, looking out the window. “I wonder if I could climb down the side of the castle…”

Remembering his last attempt at climbing, he decided to hold off.

A knock came to the door.

“Enter,” he rumbled.

It was Ruven.

“Master Shaman,” he greeted. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

Ruven noticed his shredded bed and chuckled. “It seems even you are still struggling to become accustomed to your new… ahem… equipment.”

Luxaeus snickered, flashing the shaman a grin. “Ramdrud is already creating Wargen-friendly toilets and he is already looking to create Wargen-friendly housing. We are much bigger than most orcs, after all. Though I fear that my men would become a little stir crazy after being confined for extended amounts of time.”

“Perhaps you should take them for ‘walks’ around Greendawn.”

He growled at the shaman. “Do not joke of that. We are not domesticated dogs to be held back on leashes.”

Ruven lifted his hands in apology. “I apologise. I merely came here to give you my thoughts on the progress amongst the Wargen.”

Now curious, Luxaeus sat back on his bed. “Oh? And what is that?”

Ruven shared his findings. Wargen were both male and female, seemingly spared for the Triad’s sterility plague. Women were most impacted as they feared what their children would become. The Wargen also had differing physiques. While most shared the same general features such as hunched stances, digitigrade stances and warg features, their fur patterns varied. Further, not all of them had tails. Some had short, nub-like tails while others did not have any at all.

“It is a rather curious little differentiation,” Ruven surmised. “I believe given time, the Wargen would become a society of its own.”

“Assuming we survive,” Luxaeus murmured mournfully. “I never intended this to happen, Ruven. But we infect much differently to orcs. You share intimate moments by sharing your seed. For us, a bite and you would become one of us. A bite…”

Ruven patted his shoulder gently. “Come now, Luxaeus. None of us could have anticipated that this would happen. Save perhaps for Samuel.” He glanced towards the door. “Which reminds me. I must have a word with him before the night is done.” Then he beamed towards Luxaeus. “But I also came here to tell you that I have finally chosen my orc name!”

Luxaeus’ ears perked. “You have? That is fantastic! Why now?”

The shaman shrugged absently. “It is something you said back in Garvreim.”

“Something I said? What?”

“As you were struggling to say my name, you scrambled the lettered. You called me ‘Neruv’. I think I will keep that. It sounds good in my ears.”

Luxaeus thought back to that moment and could not help but smile. The newly named orc gave him a pleasant pat on the shoulder before wandering out of his room with thanks. But as Neruv passed through the door, he stopped in surprise as Arnmok came into the room. They bid each other a fair evening before Arnmok turned into the room and stopped.

“So they were right. Ya did turn inta a warg-man thin’.”

Luxaeus laughed softly and gestured at his furry body. “I suppose so.” He gave the Red Orc a wry smile. “Then I suppose you and I share many similarities there them, do we not? You were the first Red Orc and I the first Wargen.”

Arnmok averted his gaze and smiled softly. It was hard to tell if he was blushing beneath his red skin but he entered the room and shut the door behind him. “Yeah… If ya want some advice ‘bout bein’ th’ first o’ sumthin’, Ah can always help.”

“Will this advice lead to my father betraying our race and making off with half of what is effectively the military strength of the nation?”

Arnmok shot him a foul stare and he laughed. Waving a paw in apology, he gestured for the Red Orc to sit by him. Arnmok gladly accepted the gesture and made the bed groan with his weight.

“Ah’m sorry ‘bout Winterpaw…” murmured the Red Orc. “Ah know ‘e wus close ta ya.”

Lowering his gaze and feeling that empty gnawing at his chest again, Luxaeus said, “Close does not cover it.” He clutched his chest. “When Winterpaw was here, it felt like I always had a friend, someone who I could confide in. While he gave me this form and transferred his soul onto mine, it does not feel the same. I feel… empty inside. It… it is hard to describe.”

He was surprised when Arnmok placed a hand on his paw. “Ah know ‘ow ya feel. Ah ain’t been th’ best with relationships. Ah lost Ruven fer a bit. My ‘father’ threw me in th’ ocean. An’ Ah spent months inna camp with a lot ah can’t ever remember. Ah ain’t ever gonna get that time back.”

“And I am sorry I sent you there,” Luxaeus said softly. He instinctively leaned down towards Arnmok and nuzzled him. “Were I not so blind then, where I a little bit more like Inquisitor Darkus and questioned my orders…”

Arnmok gently brushed his cheek with a hand. “‘s’okay. Ah ain’t faultin’ ya. Ah needed that time ta straighten m’self out. Still makes me feel hollow a bit, ya’know? Ah kinda wish Ah’d spent that time better.”

“I too regret the time I spent with Winterpaw. I wish I had spent it better.” He laughed bitterly. “We take advantage of that that we have and do not know what we have until we lose it.”

The Red Orc nodded sorrowfully. “True words.”

Luxaeus felt tears welling up in his eyes again and that emptiness in his chest began causing him to sob. His breathing grew ragged and he was clutching his chest tighter. “Winterpaw…” he wept softly.

Arnmok began to rise. “If ya want some privacy…”

“No, please…” he begged, pulling Arnmok back down. “I… I do not want to be alone right now.” He looked up to the Red Orc. “Will… will you hold me? Please?”

Amthos’ bodyguard looked down upon him sympathetically. “O’ course.”

******

The nomads consisted entirely of elves. Qurron had never heard of nomadic elves before but he guessed that was because these ones moved so frequently amongst the mountains that they were rarely in one place at any one time. Unlike the fair, tall and graceful elves he knew, these were big, burly and rather hairy. The only way he could tell them from humans were that they were six feet at a minimum and their ears were pointed.

Eranius sat in the hut of the elder of the tribe with Qurron by his side. The elder had welcomed them as they approached and gave their men food and shelter for the night. Now, they sat around a fire within the elder’s large hut, quietly sipping some tea that tasted quite floral.

“So what brings you so far from your castles, milord?” asked the old, grey-haired elf.

“I come seeking an ancient artefact,” Eranius said bluntly. “The Vessel of Life.”

“The Vessel of Life?” repeated the elder curiously. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Perhaps you know it from its orcish name. Glak’Moramur.”

There, the elder went rigid. “How would you know of the Glak’Moramur?”

“The Gods gave me a vision to seek it out,” said Eranius. “May I please have it?”

Suddenly on the defensive, the elder said. “We do not have it.”

The tension in the air suddenly rose and the elder’s guards in the room began reaching for their crude weapons. Eranius had no guards with him save for Qurron who already began preparing spells in his head for the inevitable encounter.

“I fear you are lying, my friend,” said Eranius. “The Gods told me that I would find the Vessel here and with it, we will be able to push back the orcs with ease. I also know that your tribe is purposefully avoiding Alliance lands because Garodrash gave you a warning and that you hope to flee behind orcish borders.”

“The Triad sent you!” exclaimed the elder.

The warriors in the tent suddenly advanced. Before they could get more than one step forward, however, huge, black hands burst from the tent walls, seizing their necks. The Triad Knights simply walked through the fabric walls, restraining the men with frightening ease. Through the walls, he could see the other Triad Knights rapidly rounding up the members of the tribe with the Raonoak knights doing the same.

He knew this would happen and he was rather pleased that Eranius’ plan had worked out well. Now the only matter that remained was finding where the Vessel was being kept.

“Tell me where the Vessel is, now,” growled Eranius.

The elder pursed his lips. “Do I have your assurance that my tribe will survive.”

“You are in no position to bargain, old man,” warned Qurron. “Besides…” He pointed at the clay jug that the elder had used to serve them tea. “That is the Glak’Moramur.”

Just the widening of the elder’s eyes was enough to confirm this with Eranius. The Lord-Knight reached over and plucked the jug from where it rested. Qurron rose from where he sat and pushed the elder out of the tent. Eranius followed shortly to where all the soldiers and Triad Knights had ushered the tribe into a circle around a large bonfire.

“At last,” Eranius sighed, holding the jug in his hands. “The Vessel of Life.” For a moment, he closed his eyes, his eyelids fluttering rapidly. A broad smile crossed his features. “Confirmed by the Triad themselves! Our quest is complete!”

The mean of the Alliance cheered.

Qurron, however, frowned. He had though that the Grand Chaplain had told Eranius where the Vessel was and that was the ‘vision’ he had. But was the Triad speaking to Eranius directly now? Was that not the greatest of blasphemies against the Grand Chaplain, supposedly the only person capable of communing with their Gods?

“With this, we will win the war against the greenskins and their allies!” Eranius shouted.

“The Vessel will never work for a black-hearted monster such as yourself!” sneered the elder. “It grants and strengthens souls! Only a pure being may use its power!”

Eranius looked to the man with cold, unfeeling eyes. “Yes. Very true. As it is now, that is how the Vessel works. But the Holy Triad has told me exactly how to forge it to our purpose.” He lifted his head. “Knights!”

Without warning, the Triad Knights drew their weapons.

Men began screaming and dying. Qurron’s eyes bulged in surprise as the Triad Knights turned to their own men and began slaughtering them all. Tribesman or soldier of Raonoak, it did no matter. They all died. Somehow, he was spared from the slaughter but he felt blood splatter on his face and robes and countless lives were taken in front of his eyes, the curled and twisting figures of the men silhouetted against the hellish bonfire at the centre of the small village.

When a hand fell on his shoulder, he jumped in surprise.

Eranius was grinning at him, his eyes wide. With the firelight flickering across his face, it was like looking at the epitome of madness.

“Fear not, my friend,” soothed the Lord-Knight in an oddly melodic, calm voice. “Their sacrifice will not be in vain.”

In his hands, the red clay jug began to shake. Strange, glowing, purple veins grew across the material; organic veins that pulsated with an unholy light. The Vessel’s frame turned a deep, light-absorbing black. An unearthly, purple glow began shining from deep within its bowels.

“See?” Eranius said, offering Qurron the Vessel. “It is already working. Now, my friend. I am trusting you with this most trusted of artefacts. You will make directly for Hawkshollow. Meet with Arben and forge for us the next generation of golems. Then return to Raonoak. Leave Orradin to destroy the orcs. Our fair city will become the centre of these new golems and we will supply them to the rest of the Alliance. We will be integral in winning this war. Not just against the orcs but against all of our enemies.”

Qurron felt the ominous, chilling presence of the Triad Knights behind him, looming over him with blood dripping down their black armour and blades. With no other choice, he took the Vessel from Eranius.

His flesh crawled upon touching the corrupt artefact.

“A… As you wish, milord…”