by Ben Stovall
The seats of the enclave passed mostly from father to son, and they robbed Larion of his progeny. Larion swiftly had the hammer brought down on the man responsible, giving both himself and Joravyn a great deal of closure. His family was stripped of its land and titles, the seat in the enclave being filled by election – the usual punishment for such a heinous crime.
The funeral for Dalion had been on a sunny day in the middle of spring. Larion spoke to Joravyn at length about how happy Dalion had been since attending the college, and thanked Joravyn for everything he had been to him. Larion invited him over to see their estate, but he refused. He told Larion that it’d only open wounds he’d struggled to close, and Joravyn divined a special meaning from the sunshine on the procession. He knew he had to move on. After he finished his education he sailed north to Gandaraar.
Just after the war with the orcs, he received word that Larion had died from an illness that their magic had been unable to cure. He didn’t attend that funeral, deciding that he was needed here. The ascension act was still active as well, denying Larion the chance to see his life’s work completed. In the message, it was mentioned that Joravyn had the qualifications to run for Larion’s seat on the enclave: the name recognition due to his efforts in the north, the skills, and the backing of seated members of the enclave. In all the years since he’d sailed north he hadn’t thought of returning to Kual’apir except that once. Ultimately, he refused, but the enclave sat an interim magister in the seat, who would relinquish it to Joravyn, should he change his mind.
The mage smiled, wiping a tear from his eye. He knew he would always love Dalion, and that Larion was a great man he was proud to have known. He held the cloth in his hands tightly, and realized he had been sitting here reminiscing too long. He channeled his magic and chanted the scrying spell, locking on to the Gray Sands, scanning for anything that would indicate that the army was approaching. His vision passed over the wasteland, scouting northward to the mountains on its border, then again down a parallel line just slightly more westward. Up and down his gaze went, and on the fifth cycle, he saw them. The army had set up a rather large camp on an oasis, of sorts. The exact whereabouts Joravyn couldn’t even guess at. That was not what mattered though, only their presence alone was of any consequence.
He extended his sight into the camp, scrutinizing every single detail he could. Information won wars, and he intended to gather as much as he was able. The tents present easily put the size of the army into at least ten thousand. And with necromancers, no matter how few they were, if even one of his comrades failed to win allies, Souhal would fall. And might even still.
However, many of the folk in the camp didn’t seem to have armor or weapons at all. In fact, they looked thin in a way that only starvation could explain. He thought on Aldayn’s words and realized the invaders had to march their whole army and all their citizens if what he claimed was true.
Joravyn then noticed a large tent toward the center of the encampment. He pushed his vision into it, the sweat on his brow nearly pulling him from his concentration. Inside a map of Gandaraar sat upon a table, displaying all the land from the edge of the Gray Sands to the Lowlands. Every settlement was marked. Both villages the scaleskin had in the area, all the orc clans’ camps, Souhal, Aelindaas, Daralton, Aljorn—all of them, every river, every mountain, every hill. Joravyn wondered how the necromancers had such information already. They even managed to map the Whitemarsh north of Aelindaas perfectly, something that took the best cartographers in Gandaraar decades to complete.
Then he heard the wingbeat of something colossal. The tents all rustled in the gale it created, the tabards the men around the table all wore billowing from the gust. Joravyn pulled himself from the tent to see outside. His success was his horror. On the western edge of the camp, a titanic black dragon sat, his large red eyes blazing as he looked over the site. It fanned its black wings, blocking a gale heavy with grit and sand.
The Dark One, he thought as the scrying spell ended. He grabbed his pack and stuffed all his belongings in. Once his gear was in order, he looked outside, and saw the sun setting. He frowned, feeling the chill air blow into the tunnel. Joravyn knew that he could dally no longer, not with the information he had now. Begrudgingly, he set off down the path and headed back to Souhal with all the haste he had.
✽ ✽ ✽
After two days, Joravyn approached the marble walls of the city. The mage had only stopped once, for after twenty-two hours of nonstop marching, his legs could not carry him any longer. The winds whipped around him, carrying snow that had been falling all day along with them. He held his cloak around himself tightly, longing for a warm fire and a hot meal. The mage had employed his magic to ensure his warmth, but after the long journey back, weariness dominated him.
He looked out from under his hood at the battlements that lined the top of the wall. An elf watched his approach, his dark hair billowing in the gale. He nodded to Fanrinn, who began making his way to meet him in the streets.
The guards opened the thieves’ door to allow the mage entrance to the city. Fanrinn stood just off the road and began walking with Joravyn as he followed his feet to the Unruly Pony.
“How did you fare in Aelindaas?” the mage asked.
“There was a little more trouble than I was expecting, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. The elves will be here tomorrow,” Fanrinn said. “I assume you’re here because you have bad news.”
“I saw the invaders in the sands two days ago. They’d made camp at an oasis … there were thousands of them, Fanrinn, and …” Joravyn choked on the words. “They have a dragon – the largest I’ve ever seen.”
Fanrinn frowned at that. He considered the words. “How large?”
The mage shrugged. He eyed the elf sidelong. “We’ll need all the help we can get. Are the others back yet?”
“Ulthan and Torvaas returned yesterday, and the Torgashin have set up a large camp for their people just inside of the southern wall, by the docks. Inaru and Lytha arrived a few hours ago and informed me that the orcs would be here in two days. King Aldariak will have the clans set up in Norvacka Park.” Fanrinn paused. He looked down the street solemnly before continuing, “Tyrdun and Ellaria have not been heard from.”
Joravyn’s mouth fell open. He set a hand on Fanrinn’s shoulder. “She’s fine, Stitches. She’ll be back any day.”
Fanrinn accepted the notion with a nod. They stepped into a large square where merchants were peddling their wares to any passerby with ears. Children were playing in the snow, jovially unaware of the impending threat to their livelihood. Joravyn received a concerned look from Fanrinn. “You need to rest,” the elf advised, “I’ll inform the king. You’ll catch your death if you don’t warm up, Joravyn.”
The mage couldn’t help but agree, and he turned to the small alley that led to the Unruly Pony. He gave Fanrinn a final wave, then enveloped himself in his cloak, clutching it so hard it threatened to rip. Joravyn sighed at the snow, wondering how the northerners seemed so indifferent to its presence. Back in the empire, it only snowed during the dead of winter, and their coastal cities didn’t seem to ever be plagued by it.
Joravyn smiled inwardly as he approached the inn and tavern that had become so permanent a fixture in their lives. With a beleaguered shove, the warm interior swallowed him.
✽ ✽ ✽
Ellaria shuddered and cursed the wind. The snow hadn’t stopped falling all day, dark clouds covering the sky like a blanket, leaving her to only guess at the time. She was sure it would be night soon, though it meant little since the sun hadn’t been allowed to shine its warmth on Gandaraar.
Tyrdun slowly approached from behind. She turned to watch him as he stepped up onto the hill next to her. They stood there silently observing the snow fall, the marble walls of Souhal hidden by the powder in the distance. They had departed Daralton that morning, and the force that the town was committing to the defense shared the road with the whole of the dwarves’ army. With
so many men and woman and their equipment, Ellaria wished they hadn’t agreed to travel with them back to Souhal, as the camps took a long time to pull up and even longer for the bulk to begin moving.
She sighed, catching Tyrdun’s eye. “Lass, ye can run ahead to Souhal if ye like,” the dwarf offered. She regarded him and thought on his words. She worried about her brother and the others; she was eager to set her mind at ease. Tyrdun watched her inward struggle and smiled. “They’re all already back, I promise. It wouldn’t be the first time I was the last one to get somewhere.”
She pursed her lips. “If Joravyn is back in Souhal, then we’re needed as soon as we can get there. We need to begin setting up defenses – deciding which group will go where, who’s in charge—everything.”
The dwarf agreed with a nod. He looked at the dwarves and humans that were wondering whether they were setting up camp or marching a little further in the cold. He turned to Ellaria again, and advised, “If these men and women are all exhausted, they won’t be of any use to Souhal. We need them rested, too.” Ellaria opened her mouth to argue, but found no words, and the elf yielded to Tyrdun. With a nod, he turned and gave the army the order to camp.
She let go of a forlorn sigh as she turned to help set up the tents. Walking into the edge of the camp, she heard shouting from the other side. She rushed over. A large host of orcs stood in rank on the road. The humans and dwarves held their weapons ready, prepared to strike at the order should anyone give it – commanding officer or not. Not that they were without reason, of course. Ellaria pushed through the crowd to the fore where Tyrdun had already been standing between the two lines of men.
“What’s going on here?” she asked. The orcs, she noticed, stood completely at ease, weapons sheathed. One stepped forward.
“I am Warchief Uldrik of the Bloodmaw. I am leading my clan to Souhal, to aid in its defense,” the orc said. “We were not expecting to run into your camp here.”
“The orcs are defending Souhal as well?” a man spat the question. The orcs did nothing in response, not rising to the bait.
“I’m a friend of Inaru’s,” Tyrdun said, trying to ease the tension. “He’s yer son, right? He’s the one who asked ye to come?”
The warchief nodded. “We are here to defend your homes in the hope that it helps defend our own.”
“You seem to have a lot more orcs with you than just those of the Bloodmaw clan, warchief,” Ellaria said pointedly.
“All of the orc clans have united in this regard. None of us would see our homes burn. If that means working with the ulgoshi, we will do so without hesitation.” Warchief Uldrik looked around the half-set-up camp, scrutinizing how all the humans and dwarves had stopped their work to gawk at his people. “Now, will you let us through?”
“If we’re to be allies, perhaps we should share our camp?” a man in the crowd asked.
Uldrik narrowed his eyes in the direction of the voice and shook his head. “No. My people will sleep easier without the idea of cowards attacking us in our sleep, as will your own.” With that, Tyrdun nodded and ordered the soldiers to move out of the way. The orcs began marching through. Ellaria stood beside Tyrdun, watching. Two orcs approached them, breaking from the ranks to do so. One wore crimson, and the other a dark tunic befitting that of the Dark Raven clan. Ellaria could not stop the slight scowl that spread across her features.
“I’m Krolligar. Inaru told me much about you before he returned to Souhal,” said the crimson clothed orc. He bowed his head to the dwarf. “I understand you are a great friend of his. It’s an honor to meet you, despite the circumstances.” The orc offered his hand.
Tyrdun shook it like he would that of an old friend. “Are ye his brother then? The way he always talked about ye it had sounded like you were dead.”
“He may have believed me to be. While he refused to deal the killing blow, I was in dire shape when he left,” Krolligar said. The orc then looked over to his companion. “Ah, forgive me—this is Rhu, of the Blood Ravens.”
“The Blood Ravens?” Ellaria probed.
“Yes,” Krolligar answered, “the Dark Ravens clan is no more.”
“The Blood Ravens are their replacement, then?” she asked.
Rhu looked around, his body tense and shaking, but Ellaria didn’t think it was from the cold. Krolligar leaned in to whisper. “When we were deciding whether we would aid Souhal or not there were … complications. The Dark Raven warchief was slain by Uldrik for refusing to cooperate. He installed Rhu as a puppet to control them.” The orc backed away from them and laughed loudly as if reacting to some joke they had told him. Rhu seemed to calm from this, letting go of a breath he had been holding.
“How did Uldrik manage to get away with that?” Tyrdun asked quietly. Ellaria shot a curious glance at the orcs, wondering the answer herself.
“There is an ancient rite,” Rhu spoke quietly. Ellaria had to admit his voice was smoother and less guttural than most orcs she’d heard. “Tal’rok. It can only be declared at the Stones of Rak’nor—”
“Or after being dealt a terrible offense,” Krolligar amended.
Rhu nodded agreeably before continuing, “The rules are simple. Single combat using your preferred weapon and armor. The victor receives everything in the loser’s ownership.”
“Everything?” Ellaria asked.
“Everything,” he reiterated.
Krolligar glanced at the orc ranks marching through the camp. Their numbers were thinning quickly. He turned back to Ellaria and Tyrdun. “We’re sorry to have caused any trouble in your camp. Thank you for allowing us through. We will see you at Souhal.”
And with that, the two orcs left to follow their kin. That … wasn’t what I expected. As the last of the orcs passed through the grounds, a wave of guilt washed over the elf. I was so quick to be suspicious of those two … but Krolligar’s more like Inaru than I could’ve imagined. And Rhu? He just seems … frightened. Rightfully so.
But he’s only in this position because Uldrik killed his predecessor … and that was because he’d refused to aid Souhal?
I … I don’t get it. A groan escaped her lips.
Tyrdun looked up at her as the last of the orc warriors left the camp. “Ye should get some rest, lass. I intend to have the army on the road as soon as possible. We arrive at Souhal tomorrow, no matter what.”
She nodded at her friend and left to set up her personal tent on the western end of the camp.
✽ ✽ ✽
Lytha shifted her weight from one foot to the other nervously as she looked out from atop the eastern wall. The sun loomed high in the sky, finally breaking out of its cloudy prison that had held it hostage for four days. The snow on the ground was not melting however, and Lytha had to squint her eyes to see the approaching force.
The orcs, true to their word, arrived at Souhal nine days after their meeting at the Stones of Rak’nor. The clans all journeyed in one large group, and if the guard didn’t know that they were here to help, the city protectors would’ve been sure the orcs were invading. A few of the clansmen carried the banners of their clans with pride, and Lytha was impressed that the standards seemed unaffected by the ice and snow.
Inaru fidgeted beside her. Lytha couldn’t imagine how uneasy this all must have made him, given his own troubles with the Bloodmaw clan. The large orc turned and began descending the steps to receive the orcs. Lytha followed quietly.
The gates swung open just as they reached the paved stones that lined the main road within the city’s walls. The warchiefs stood at the fore, their posture imposing. Uldrik looked over his shoulder and motioned for Krolligar to follow him as they walked toward her and Inaru. Lytha caught a look at Rhu, whose eyes darted back and forth, worry marking his visage.
Uldrik regarded them both with a mirthless grin. “It’s been more time than I care to remember since I was last on this side of the crossing,” the warchief reminisced. “I always knew I would come to be on this end again, but not as an ally of Souhal,
at my son’s request, no less.”
Krolligar snorted, which won a darting glance from Uldrik. “Did you believe you would conquer this city, father?”
Uldrik’s scowl deepened. “I do still.” The guards shot the four of them a worried look. Uldrik didn’t seem to notice. Or he didn’t care. “Hopefully their army isn’t destroyed by the invaders. I would prefer a challenge when I try my hand at it again.”
“You will do no such thing,” Inaru growled.
Uldrik chuckled. “Of course not, Inaru.” The warchief looked at the buildings and roads, eyeing them as if to commit every single bit of the city to memory.
Inaru sighed and shook his head. “You and the rest of the orcs will be toward the western side of the city. Just north of the gate is a park large enough for you all.”
Krolligar’s eyes widened. “You intend to have all the clans in one place? There will be fights.”
“No,” Inaru declared. “There will not. I need the orcs at their best, not injuring one another. Keep them in check. No fights.”
Uldrik snorted, his visage hard. He exhaled, and his countenance loosened. “We will do our best,” he promised. “It does us no good if the orcs fight amongst themselves when invaders come to claim the Lowlands.” The Bloodmaw Warchief turned and ventured to his comrades, explaining in guttural Orvok what Inaru had said.
