by Ben Stovall
✽ ✽ ✽
Ulthan struggled one of his boots free from the mud, then the other. He cursed the swamp and the Torgashin for living in it. Torvaas chuckled from ahead as he waited for the paladin to join him. The tribe’s hamlet was within sight, and Ulthan was going to lose his boots to the mud before they got there, he was sure of it. Finally, with a sickening schloomp sound, his boots were free, and he was on the more solid ground with Torvaas. The scaleskin shook his head, still chuckling.
Ulthan narrowed his eyes at him, and Torvaas held his hand up apologetically. “It is just entertaining to see someone struggle with the marsh. Apologies.”
Ulthan sighed and gestured for Torvaas to lead them into the camp. The paladin noticed immediately how the Torgashin tribesmen eyed Torvaas suspiciously, as if more outraged by his presence than Ulthan’s. Torvaas kept his face neutral as they walked through the village. The homes the scaleskin had built were ramshackle wood huts at best, and some were even made of mud. Most had large leaves from the surrounding flora or hides over their tops. The huts were more numerous than Ulthan had assumed, given Torvaas’s explanation of how they didn’t want to eschew the gifts of nature or some other such nonsense.
The pair passed a large gathering of scaleskin men and women. They glared at Torvaas, hissing low, teeth bared. The rogue flinched at the sound but continued moving forward. Ulthan frowned as he watched their eyes follow his comrade with distrust. Torvaas was not the first rogue the group had worked with, but none of the others had received such negative responses from their homes. A few dark glances from suspicious people, sure, but never the hatred of the entire settlement. But then, most rogues weren’t well-known for their skills.
They approached a large building made of stone, to Ulthan’s surprise. The rocks used in its construction were dark and seemed a little oppressive. It didn’t help that the building was on an incline, elevated above the town just enough to cause Ulthan to shrink slightly from the task. To Torvaas’s credit, he did not do the same. The scaleskin man strode toward the building with more purpose than Ulthan had seen him display, and he jogged to catch up to him at the threshold.
Torvaas sighed as he pushed the wooden door inward to enter. They stepped inside, and an older scaleskin regarded them from a chair across the room.
“Torvaas. Who is this?” the old scaleskin asked. His scales were stretched tightly over his withering muscles, age tugging at his features heavily. His scales were a bright green, no doubt growing lighter with time. He wore a brown robe adorned with bones and other such trophies. A large staff was held in his hand horizontally as if to guard himself. Ulthan could sense a slight magic about the man, primal and savage, not honed and deft as Joravyn’s magic had been from years of work and study.
“This man is Ulthan. He is the reason I have returned, for without him I would be dead, Valan Rivrak,” Torvaas said, kneeling. Ulthan stood awkwardly, unsure if he should repeat the motion. The old scaleskin chuckled quietly, releasing Ulthan from his embarrassment, and gestured for Torvaas to stand.
“Why have you returned?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“I bear grim news. From the west, an army approaches, its gaze upon Souhal. The humans will not be able to defend it on their own and seek allies.”
“And you believe the Torgashin should answer the call? Defend the humans with our lives?” Valan Rivrak questioned.
“The army threatens all life here in Gandaraar. If Souhal cannot stand against them, neither can our humble tribe. Together we have a better chance for survival.”
“There is sense to your words, Torvaas. I, however, cannot commit the whole of my tribe to Souhal at this moment,” Valan Rivrak responded, a solemnness in his voice.
“Why not? What do the Torgashin face?” Ulthan blurted out, not recalling when he had intended to speak.
“The tribe faces the Laxal’nalar.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“Nalar would translate loosely to hero in your tongue, corasin, though, in this case, hero is far from the truth. The man in question once betrayed me; laxal is our word for exiles,” Valan Rivrak explained. “He has returned, and without the warriors of the Torgashin tribe here, at home, he would take the village from us.”
Torvaas kneeled again before the aged scaleskin. “Valan,” he began, “if my friend and I were to remove the Laxal’nalar from the marsh—”
“You would free the soldiers of Torgas’hallan to aid Souhal, yes.”
“Does this exchange suit you, Ulthan?” Torvaas asked.
Ulthan frowned. “When you said remove him …”
“We would have to kill him,” Torvaas said. Ulthan noticed Valan Rivrak seemed unsurprised by the notion and wondered if the old scaleskin had intended it to be so. The rogue’s expression fell at the paladin’s hesitance. “Ulthan,” he stepped closer to him, placing a scaled hand on his shoulder, “we must do this. What is one exile’s life against the whole of your city? The whole of Gandaraar?”
“Why was he exiled?” Ulthan asked.
“He betrayed me,” the old scaleskin repeated. “That is all you must know.”
I don’t like working on word alone, old one. He looked at Torvaas, remembering all the harsh words and suspicious glances the man had received for returning to Torgas’hallan, and resolved he couldn’t allow his suffering to have been for nothing. He looked to Valan Rivrak, his eyes an icy glare. “Very well. I accept your terms.”
The old scaleskin nodded in assent. “My scouts inform me that he has set up in a cave to the east, across the bloodfens.”
“I know the area well, Valan,” Torvaas said. “We will leave at once.”
“You will,” Valan Rivrak responded with contempt. Ulthan was surprised that even the leader of the Torgashin held such low regard for his friend. It had not been a minute since the chieftain was asking Torvaas to use his talents for his own gain. The whole exchange left a scowl on Ulthan’s face, and he wondered how the scaleskin could act so derisively toward one of their own.
Without another word, they turned and left the room. Outside a small group of scaleskin men and women were gathered, speaking in their tongue, leaving Ulthan clueless as to what they were saying. He looked to Torvaas to ask and noticed his tightened jaw and tenseness at the situation. Ulthan opened his mouth to speak, to force the crowd to disperse when another scaleskin voice shouted over the others from behind.
The new voice was smooth and quick; it was feminine, or at least as feminine as Scalespeak would allow it to sound, and commanding. The crowd looked apologetically at its source. Not long after the scaleskin dispersed entirely, leaving him, Torvaas, and the woman alone. She approached them, and Ulthan couldn’t help but admire her curved figure. Her scales were a light brown, almost orange at the edges. She was wearing a simple tunic of green linen, with epaulets of dark leather that were not unlike Torvaas’s armor. Ulthan noticed her frame was similar to a human’s. Other than the tail, at least. And the scales.
“It is good to see you, Jala,” Torvaas said.
“And you, Ayru,” she responded. The scaleskin woman reached her arms around Torvaas and embraced him. Afterward, she looked over the paladin curiously. “Who is this?”
“I’m Ulthan of Solyvaan, here on King Aldariak’s orders, miss … Jala, was it?” Ulthan asked. The scaleskin arched a brow in response.
“Jala is not her name, my friend. Jala and Ayru are names of … familiarity,” Torvaas explained.
“Just as you would not call him Ayru,” the scaleskin woman replied with a wink. She turned to Ulthan. “I am Lyvalla, or alchemist.” She extended a hand toward him, and Ulthan gave it a firm shake. Her hand was surprisingly soft, considering the scales again.
Torvaas sighed. “We cannot stay, I’m afraid.”
She frowned before nodding. “Valan Rivrak seeks to send you after Laxal’nalar?”
Ulthan’s eyes widened in shock. “How did you know that?” he asked.
She looked a
t Torvaas, puzzled, realizing he hadn’t mentioned something. She shrugged. “He has been looking for someone to take that task for nearly three weeks now but lacked someone who could perform it reliably. Someone like—”
“Someone like Torvaas.” Ulthan frowned as she nodded. “Why would an alchemist know that?”
“I am also his daughter,” Lyvalla said. She seemed upset at the notion. Ulthan realized that he sensed the same primal magic within her that Valan Rivrak had, though it was even more savage and wild.
She placed a hand on Torvaas’s shoulder, her expression one of worry. “Will you be back soon?”
He nodded. “We only accepted the mission because we lacked other options. We need the aid of the Torgashin to save Souhal. When Laxal’nalar is slain, we will return.”
Lyvalla gave Torvaas a long, concerned look, but accepted the answer with a nod, and removed her hand from his shoulder. She slowly sauntered off, back to a hut that Ulthan assumed was the only alchemy lab in Torgas’hallan to resume her work.
Ulthan looked over to Torvaas. “Are you and her …?”
“No.”
Ulthan cocked his head to the side. “Why not?”
Torvaas looked at him for a while, opening his mouth to speak, but said nothing. He sighed after a moment, and finally managed, “We tried, once. I had been a torvaas for three weeks. Valan Rivrak caught wind of it and forbade us from … continuing.” Torvaas closed his eyes tightly, head turning away. “It will never work out, and she must move on. Her father will see that she does, in time. It is for the best.”
“Is it?” Ulthan asked. The question hung in the air. Torvaas looked to the paladin, frowning. The scaleskin man closed his eyes tightly for a moment and sighed heavily. He turned and began walking out of the village toward the east. Ulthan watched him for a moment, lips tight, before moving to catch up.
Seven
Inaru watched as the members of the Ironjaw clan approached the Stones of Raknor from the southwest. He and the other Bloodmaw orcs had been at the stones for four days now, awaiting the arrival of the others.
The Broken Shaft clan was the first to arrive, as their holdings were close to the holy site – a day east of it, at most. The day after the orcs of the Smoldering Mountain clan arrived from the northeast, followed by the Blood Suns from the west. The only one left was the Dark Ravens, furthest away from the standing stones; their holdings were in the rough hills and mountains on the northern side of Hayll’s Crossing, just south of Whitemarsh.
Inaru and several other orcs were receiving the Ironjaw clan. Krolligar stood on his left, and Lytha on his right. They were unsure how the Ironjaw orcs would react to her presence, but he didn’t want to leave her in the middle of the other clans. The standing stones were sacred ground; only duels were allowed if blood were to be spilled, but many of the others would justify harming a human as not within the bond of the agreement.
A large orc approached them, his steel plates just barely brighter than his gray underclothes. Inaru recognized him immediately, though he’d only met him twice before. Warchief Ironjaw. Inaru offered his hand, and the warchief smiled broadly before shaking it.
“Inaru of the Bloodmaw,” the large orc began, “it is good to see you again.”
“And you as well, warchief,” Inaru said. “There is plenty of room for your clan just over this way, if you like.” He gestured to an area just south of the central stone.
“That’ll do. When are you expecting the Dark Ravens?”
“Tomorrow would be our guess. Night will fall soon; I doubt they will arrive before it. Do you need help setting up your tents?” Inaru asked.
“No, we’ll be fine. Thank you. I look forward to your testimony.” Warchief Ironjaw bowed his head and then led his warriors to the area his clan was to stay in.
The orcs around Inaru dispersed quickly, leaving him, Lytha, and Krolligar where they stood. Inaru looked around, admiring the tents set up around the site. Bright orange canvases hugged the edge on his right, the Blood Suns. Yellow shelters were just a bit farther to the north of those—the Broken Shaft. Inaru was always confused by their choice of color and thought he might never have such a great chance to ask the clan himself. The Smoldering Mountain used brown tents, fitting their name, as the Bloodmaw had with their crimson canvases. While the Dark Ravens were not present, Inaru remembered their black tents well from the previous dealings with their clan. The sight of the gathered orcs was enough to steal his breath and send shivers through his core.
Krolligar tapped his shoulder and pointed behind him. He turned to look, and Alaka, warchief of the Smoldering Mountain, was walking toward him. As she neared, she said, “Inaru, a moment if you would.”
“Certainly,” the orc bowed.
Alaka eyed Lytha and Krolligar for a moment. “Alone, if you do not mind.” Inaru nodded to his companions, and they moved a few feet away from them. Alaka was the only current female warchief. Her frame was very different from Lytha’s – bulkier, muscular, tough – her skin was a bright green, as if it had been kissed by sunflowers. She bore a short mane of reddish brown hair, shaved on one side of her head, and Inaru admired her savage beauty. The two of them had met once before, nearly eleven years ago. The clans met here, at the stones, in a peaceful summit during the sacred holidays, but they had been children then—and Inaru didn’t know what to expect from her now. So far, she had been silent. “It … It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” Inaru admitted. “So, you became warchief?”
“I did. The clan thought me the best fit after Lagraal died from illness. The coronation was … incredible. I climbed the volcano accompanied by the sages and stared into the lava. In that moment, I knew what I was. What the Smoldering Mountain could be. It was exhilarating.”
“I think I’d like to see that one day,” Inaru replied.
“I’d be glad to show you.” Alaka winked. They were quiet for a moment before she spoke again, “You should come by my clan’s camp tonight. I’d like to know more about this enemy we may face. And we … maybe we could catch up. Reminisce about simpler times.”
Inaru felt himself blush. “I’ll be there,” he said. She smiled again and left him where he stood.
Krolligar and Lytha walked back toward him. Lytha arched an eyebrow at him with a smirk, and Krolligar beamed with unmistakable pride. He only shrugged in response, the grin on his jaw enormous.
A blast of a horn went up from the northern side of the stones. Krolligar and Inaru exchanged surprised glances. “Do you think that could be the Dark Ravens, brother?” Inaru asked.
“We should go,” Krolligar advised.
They hurried to the source of the horn, and sure enough a large host of orcs approached from the northwest. A banner held high above their ranks depicted a tan bird on a black backing. Warchief Uldrik approached them with some of the other clan leaders in tow. Behind him was Gorban of the Broken Shaft, a tall orc with pale green skin and hard muscles. He carried a pair of short swords at his belt and a bundle of javelins strapped to his back, preferring to keep his targets at a distance, but not shying away from a close enemy. Alaka stood close beside him.
A smaller orc with a shaved head stepped forward from the host, and Inaru realized that while he may have been leaner, shorter, and thinner than most, he held an air of leadership worthy of a warchief. Uldrik spoke: “Warchief Barduss. We did not expect you until tomorrow.”
“We have a reputation for arriving unexpectedly, as you well know, Uldrik.” The thin orc bowed low and then regarded them each in turn. Inaru realized he hadn’t a scar about his features, but he knew the orc had seen his share of battles, his agility obviously unrivaled by any orc present. The warchief turned toward the descending sun before facing them again. “We should take care of this business tonight; I wish to have my clan home before another blizzard sets in.”
Inaru felt his body tighten, taut as a bowstring. He looked to his father, and Uldrik nodded to Barduss. “I agree.”
>
Warchief Gorban, however, did not. “Now, now, what’s the rush?” he asked. “It has been six years since the clans gathered at the stones. Our traditions have withered. Let us take the night to celebrate our heritage, warchiefs.”
Alaka nodded in assent and said, “Gorban is right. I invoke vishkar’al.”
Barduss growled. “Very well, then.” He turned to his accompanying clansmen. “Looks like we’ll be setting up tents after all, boys. Rhu, take the lead. Dalthu, take our surplus of ale to the central stones. Tonight, we celebrate.”
Inaru felt relief unlike any other wash over him. “Wonderful idea, Warchief Gorban,” he said. He turned to Uldrik. “Father, we brought a spare klonto, didn’t we? I propose we butcher it and share it with our kin.”
Uldrik’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “A wonderful idea.”
Gorban nodded. “I will have my clansmen build bonfires.”
“Alas, a single klonto beast may not be enough for all the orcs present,” Alaka said pointedly. “I’ve got a few spare pounds of salted pork to offer to alleviate the burden, Uldrik.”
“Much appreciated,” the Bloodmaw Warchief bowed. “Inform Altokan and Ironjaw of the vishkar’al, Inaru.”
“At once,” he said with a bow.
✽ ✽ ✽
Lytha watched in awe. Dusk had settled, the day slowly creeping into night, and the celebration was well underway. Orcs of disparate clans danced around bonfires, sharing food and drink as if they were friends of the highest caliber. The Ironjaw and Blood Suns clan had both brought spare ale, allowing all the assembled to drink their fill. In this moment, everything else faded away. The orcs were one people once more, and nothing, save the dawning of the following day, would tell them otherwise.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She sat on a long log next to one of the fires, flanked by Inaru and Krolligar, who both held a bit of salted pork in one hand, and an earthenware mug of ale in the other. “How often do the clans gather like this?”
