by Tiger Hebert
The king inquired, “Why have I never heard of you? Why hasn’t anyone heard of you, for that matter?”
“Because you didn’t need to. But ancient evil is stirring, and Aurion is about to change forever, Great King.”
“The home of my people is destroyed, and most of my kinsmen are dead! I am no great king!” Tua’Liluon cried.
“King, look at these ships full of your people. If you refused to trust me, they would be dead too. You have an opportunity to not only save your people but to protect your way of life on this side of the Black Sea. Don’t mistake that for failure,” reassured Kiriana.
“My father led our people over the Black Sea because of war. Has it chased us all this way? I do not understand hatred and war, and I do not fully understand the dangers you speak of,” he murmured.
“Living in seclusion and peace was the path you chose for your people, but it is a path that you no longer have. Great King, you will learn much when we reach Tempour,” she assured him.
Gliding past the southernmost banks of the Shaillone Peninsula, the ships and their crew approached the human village of Port Harlan. The busy fishing village sat between the foot of the Mar’Krens and the peninsula. It was a tiny little town, but it would have to suffice because they needed food for the journey.
“Seratu, we will dock long enough to load the supplies, and then we will be off. Make sure we are ready to set sail once we are loaded,” ordered Kiriana.
“Yes, Mistress,” he replied as his gaze shifted from Kiriana back to Isiirial as he steered toward the port. The makeshift crews hurried to close the sails as they approached the fishing village. Slowing the vessels, the crews took final preparations to dock.
The redhead instructed one of her men, “Jaren, enough food and water for all. Three hundred mouths for ten days. Make it happen.”
“Consider it done, Mistress,” said the gray-bearded man. “Let’s get it done, brothers,” called Jaren to the other seven. Leaping from the side of the ship to the rapidly approaching dock, Jaren and the other seven hurried to the market to secure the goods.
◆◆◆
The local dockhand stared in disbelief at the sight before his eyes. “Elves in Port Harlan? Never would I have thought ta see tha day,” remarked the man.
“It is a surprise to us too, good man,” replied King Tua’Liluon.
“I had always heard tha tales of elves. I just knew I would see your kind one day. Today is my lucky day!” exclaimed the haggard fellow. “Shame you come under these circumstances.”
For a few moments, the king’s sorrows faded away, and a smile found his face. “What is your name, sir?” he asked.
“Williams, Gabriel Williams,” responded the man excitedly with a clumsy bow.
“Gabriel Williams, I think you need this more than I do,” said the king, handing him the keys to his former home. The silver keys were artfully engraved with elvish markings.
“Do you mean it? I mean, to keep?” Gabriel, unable to believe his luck, was staring at the keys with wonder.
“Indeed. They are yours, Gabriel Williams,” replied the king.
As the conversation was ending, Jaren and the brothers had returned and loaded the supplies hastily aboard the four arks, their ship being the last. As the last one to jump aboard the ship, Jaren unmoored the ship and shouted, “Let’s move!”
With that, the makeshift crews of men and mostly elves rowed their boats out of the safety of the harbor. As the crafts fixed a southern heading from the port, they released the sails. The busyness of the crew faded around them. Isiirial, the elf maiden, sat next to the king on the bow of the ship, staring behind them as the green forested peninsula slowly faded away.
“We will never see this again, will we, Uncle?” she asked as she fought back tears.
Placing a fatherly arm around her, he said, “That, young daughter of Trellion, I do not know.”
7 The Tribal Council
The Agremnall Hills rose just above the dark green tree line of the Zenari Wilds. This dramatic southern border of the hills came to an abrupt stop, but that was not the case in the other directions. The rolling green hills stretched beyond sight. Infrequent trees and numerous small villages dotted the landscape. This was orc country.
Orcs lived in these hills for hundreds of years. For a time, territorial disputes ranging from hunting skirmishes to all-out border wars had been fought between the various tribes at one time or another, until being united against a common foe. It brought an uneasy peace to the tribes, but a shadow grows. Darkness pervades the neighboring wilds, and it appears to be growing. It wasn’t always this way, though.
The Zenari Wilds were once home to one of the greatest cities in Darnisi. Karthusa was a thriving trade hub situated in the snaking coils of the Kiyai River. The words vibrant and exotic really couldn’t do justice to the full essence of the tropical paradise. Those days were long gone, though, and a darkness seemed to linger there. The men and women of the region zealously followed a new faith, devoting their lives to protecting whatever secrets were dwelling within their temples. Heightened aggression and violence had slowly made the jungle’s borders dangerous, leaving the orcs on high alert.
It was about time for one of the orc scouting parties to return. It was nearly breakfast time, so their patrol would have been reaching its conclusion. It was such a gorgeous morning, though. Who could blame them for taking their time? Even the wind slept in this morning, and it was quiet and peaceful. Two hawks swirled high above in a cloudless sky. Autumn meant the air was getting cooler, but the warmth of the sun was a nice touch. Then drums shattered it all.
Boom, boom, boom-boom. Boom, boom, boom-boom. Boom, boom, boom-boom.
The behemoth stilled his movements, his breathing. He listened. Boom, boom, boom-boom.
Returning to his business, Theros reached down and cupped water from the stream in his big gray hands. He dipped his face into his hands and let the water wash down over his face and past the single fang that jutted upward from the left corner of his mouth to splash to the grassy bank below. The warrior wiped his face with a rugged forearm. He opened his eyelids to reveal startling bright blue eyes that contrasted sharply with his slate complexion. The orc took a deep breath and exhaled before wringing the water from the foot-long white braid that hung from his chin.
His broad chest rose as he inhaled deeply. Then he rose from the kneeling position.
“Time to go, Swift,” he spoke to the wolf lying on the ground near him. Lounging in the sunlit grass, the animal sprang to his paws at his friend’s command. Turning toward the sound of the drums, Theros and the gray wolf ran east.
◆◆◆
The concern of a new threat forced the orc tribes into an uneasy alliance with each other. Named after a storied hero of ages past, the Gromgore Confederation was far from civilized and remained quite contentious. For this reason, the council of elders elected a single widely respected chieftain to work with the council and govern the new alliance. His name was Ogron Hammerfist of the GrayHide tribe.
“Who calls this council?” barked an uncharacteristically gaunt orc.
“I do, Mogrull. Do you have a problem with that?” snapped Ogron.
“Not I, Mighty Hammerfist,” remarked Mogrull sarcastically.
“We will begin once all the chiefs are here,” stated Ogron Hammerfist.
Orcs continued to arrive at the hall of elders for the tribal council. The hall was a large circular dwelling, not unlike their homes, just much larger. The domed hut was made of wood and hide, with a small opening in the roof for the smoke to exit. One by one, the chiefs took their places in a circle around the fire pit.
Darting inside the tent first was the gray wolf. He ran around to the far side of the circle and quickly settled down in an open spot. Seconds behind him, Theros strode into the hall, making his way to Swift and Ogron. He removed the two large hammers that hung from his belt and set them on the ground behind him as he sat down. This was customary pr
otocol for a tribal council.
There the two Hammerfists sat side by side, their relation unmistakable. Scarcely a pinch of fat could be found on either of the rugged orcs, and they were big even by orc standards, especially Theros. On average, orcs were just a bit taller than men and elves of average height, but their girth was immense. So much power was packed into their sturdy frames. Orcs already seemed larger than life, but those Hammerfist boys even made their peers look small. Their appearance was also unlike the others. Instead of the typical green tones, the two brothers were born with gray skin. Not even those within their own tribe shared the gray skin, but the brothers had become a symbol of pride among their people, and so they took on the name of the GrayHide tribe.
Ogron began the meeting, announcing, “By now you have all seen the smoke rising across the sea. Our scouts on the eastern shore have brought us disturbing news this morning. The elven city of Trellion has fallen.” Murmurs escaped the mouths of the council. “It appears Zenari raiders launched a seaborne assault in the night. The city is in ruins.”
“Who cares? Stupid fairy folk and their songs of whimsy,” spat Mogrull.
“We better care, you fool!” snarled Ogron. “This means that the Zenari are on the move, and they are expanding their borders. It means we must be ready at all times. Furthermore, it means we have one less potential ally against this common enemy. The Zenari are amassing a sizeable force, and they are a legit threat to us,” Ogron admitted.
“What would you have us do, Ogron?” asked one chief.
“We must prepare for battle, but more importantly, we must seek help,” replied the council’s chieftain.
“Help? We don’t need help! For who can stand against the might of the Orcs?” shouted Mogrull as he raised a balled fist.
Shouting and hooting ensued for a brief moment before order was restored.
“Proudly we have remained free and independent, but that pride will destroy our people. Never before have we seen a foe like the ones hidden in that dark jungle. We must secure allies that will stand with us,” implored Ogron.
“Who would you have us form an alliance with, Chieftain?” asked Theros.
“We must start with the humans of Storm Vale.”
“Humans? You have gone mad, Hammerfist. They would not risk their hides for the orcs, nor could we trust them,” snapped Mogrull.
“Mogrull, speak one more time so I can bury my hammer in your throat!” growled Theros as he rose to his feet in anger. “You are no chieftain, and if we relied on your poor judgment, our people would be wiped out before the first thaw of spring! This threat growing in the wilds is no laughing matter. I have seen the force that grows under that canopy, and we cannot survive it alone. If you ever wandered beyond the security of your village, you might know that, you coward!” fired Theros.
“Brother, please sit. Chiefs, we must remain focused on one enemy. No longer will orc shed orc blood. Begin the preparations, and we will send diplomats north to Storm Vale. We cannot afford to wait any longer. I will lead a reconnaissance mission into the jungle. I will leave at nightfall. This council is adjourned,” ordered Ogron.
◆◆◆
“Do not lose his scent, Swift,” spoke Theros is a low voice. Responding with a soft growl, the wolf trotted after the scent. Nose to the ground and hot on the trail, the wolf headed south. Theros quickly followed his guide in silence.
Upon his left shoulder, he carried the heavy steel pauldrons adorned with a carved image of his wolf. His torso and legs were partly wrapped in leather and a light coat of chain mail. Battle hammers hung from each side of his belt. They were half an arm’s length, the grips heavily wrapped in layers of tightly wound strips of leather. The heads were pure molded iron, ornately engraved. These unconventional weapons were not of orcish origin, but were rather of dwarven design.
As his feet raced, his mind drifted back to his old friend Dominar. Not many orcs had traveled as much or as widely as Theros, so not many had encountered dwarves in the last two hundred years. He had fond memories of his time down south in the Mar’Kren Mountains and with his friend. But he would have to visit those old memories another time. His mission at hand was of a grave nature.
Reaching the southern edge of the hills, Theros slowed up behind Swift. Slowly they crawled to the top of the ridgeline. Looking down over the ledge in the fading light of dusk, Theros and Swift watched as a figure skulked at the jungle’s edge. As they watched, three human figures stepped out from the shadow of the wood.
“They will set out after nightfall, not long from now,” spoke the first figure.
“How many are they?” asked one of the humans.
“Ogron typically travels with two,” shared the informant.
“We will be ready,” replied the men.
“Do not screw this up, or I will have your heads,” snarled the hooded figure.
“Oh, really? I think not, Mogrull. You are just scared that Ogron will live.” The soldier in the middle laughed. “Now get out of here, you filthy greenskin,” barked the soldier coldly, “before we kill you too.” Backpedaling away from the jungle, Mogrull hissed at the men before he turned back toward the hills.
“We must warn the chieftain. I just hope it isn’t too late,” said Theros as he and the wolf raced east.
8 The Fallen City
“Ugluk, Brozz, it is time,” said Ogron to the scouts.
“Yes, Chieftain,” they both replied as they followed him.
They headed south from the GrayHide village, which was on the eastern end of the hills, and traveled toward the Zenari Wilds. The sun was beginning to fade away more quickly this time of year. It would be well past nightfall when they reached their destination. The three orcs walked in silence as they departed the village. Ogron was not much for conversation, and the young scouts were not about to change that. He had too much on his mind these days. The Gromgore Confederation was a shaky alliance at best, and he knew it. What other options do I have? he asked himself. There were real allies among his people, but sometimes it seemed there were nearly as many fools and enemies. To protect his people, he would have to find a way to hold the confederation together. Even if they could form a strong bond among the tribes, how long could they stand in the shadow of the Zenari Empire?
The Zenari was once a great nation, a proud people thriving in the tropical metropolis of Karthusa. The human city was founded two hundred and forty-one years ago. Back then they welcomed peoples of all races to their paradise. Trade routes flourished as the massive hub connected Northern and Southern Darnisi.
Temples rose up to rival the great trees of the jungle, and the Kiyai River snaked through the heart of the city, where it fought to subdue the fury and chill of the Cold River. Masterfully carved stones formed the streets. Merchants lined the streets and riverbanks. They offered wares of silver and gold, riches that could only be outdone by the sweet exotic fruits of the jungle.
Those days were but a distant memory, even for the likes of an orc. Ogron could remember the vibrant colors and succulent smells from his youth as he made trips into the great jungle city some sixty-five years ago. Something changed, though. The temples in the Karthusa grew, but the essence of the city began to warp, wither, and die. The once-vibrant trade center faded as the life was seemingly drained out of its people. Merchants became distrusting and brooding. Guards patrolled the streets with an iron fist while the ranks and power of the priesthood rose to prominence in the capital, overthrowing the traditional monarchy.
The celebratory expression of life and peace that was at the core of the Zenari for so long faded away. Merchants grew cold. Guards began to lash out without provocation, attacking visitors and citizens alike without recourse. The riverbanks and streets became barren as the region quickly became volatile. Stories of executions in the city were widespread. The tales even spoke of sacrifices atop the temples and perhaps something even darker beneath it. Those rumors spoke of a black dragon.
The once-exotic para
dise had become an open grave for the living. Trade routes did not pass through Zenari lands anymore, nor did anyone for that matter. Even the sweltering heat of the jungle seemed to evacuate the ancient capital at times as a lingering cold draft would wash through the region.
Ogron remembered when the Zenari aggression first crossed over into his lands, spilling orc blood. No longer could the ancient city and its people be ignored. Shifting his focus, the chieftain surveyed the approaching tree line from a distance. Looking up into the night sky, he spoke, “Tonight the moon betrays us, so we must move with care,” replied Ogron as he crept toward the boundary.
Ugluk and Brozz followed him in silent acknowledgement. These young orcs wore similarly hued leathers that matched their chieftain and their tribe’s namesake. They were also considerably smaller than their leader, but he trusted them to be by his side.
These boys are not old enough to have even known Karthusa and her people before the shadow came. Perhaps it is better this way, he thought.
“The Cold River runs right into the city, but the current is dangerous and against us. If we need to escape the city, we may take the Kiyai. That snaking river winds its way through the heart of Karthusa, deep through the wilds, and it pours out into the cove of Shaillone. Much has changed in this wilderness since my youth, so if we lose our way, the river can at least guide us out,” instructed the elder.
The scouts nodded in agreement. Then Brozz noticed something.
“Chief, it looks like there is a trail over to the left,” announced Brozz.
“It looks…well-traveled,” remarked Ugluk.
