by Tiger Hebert
Pointing over the dimly light horizon, Ogron instructed the young orc that held the reins, “North. Do not stop until you find the Storm Reach Mountains. Go!”
The young orc took the lead and ushered the caravan north from the hills. Leading the pack of hralls loaded with his people, he urged the massive beast forward. With deep and powerful strides, the thick gray-skinned beasts began to move with uncanny speed, covering ground quickly as they departed their home.
Ogron and Theros climbed aboard two of the remaining hralls. There they sat upon the bulls’ broad backs. The beasts stood nearly double the height of an orc. They looked south toward the encroaching Zenari army, watching Mogrull realize his escape.
Racing toward the army, Mogrull flung his outstretched arms, reaching toward the blackened beast and crying out, “Master, master, your servant has returned!”
Narrowing his gaze upon Mogrull, the fiery slits of the dragon’s eyes smoldered before he uttered his command. “Archers.”
The entire army halted their march, creating a cacophony of synchronized boots crashing to the ground. The foot soldiers in the front of the line dropped down to one knee as rows of archers stood behind them with bows drawn awaiting further command.
“But, master?” cried the old chieftain.
“Fire.”
The shock of the betrayal was outdone only by the piercing agony of arrows ripping through his hide. The bite of the cool morning air was warmed by the flow of his blood spilling over his body. Fear danced in his eyes as he crashed to his knees. Clutching one of the arrows buried in his chest, the orc struggled to breathe.
“You betrayed your own flesh and blood. I have no further use for you, traitor,” hissed Slayvin. “Zenari, march,” commanded the dragon as he redirected his focus.
The massive Zenari army resumed their march upon the southern slopes of the Agremnall Hills. Mogrull’s blood-drenched cough was buried under the sound of the army. Soon his body, too, was buried under their feet.
“Time to move, brother,” said Ogron to his younger brother.
“Yes, Chief, we’ve ground to make up,” replied Theros as he directed the hrall northward.
“Good-bye, hills of Agremnall,” spoke the chief before he urged his beast forward.
◆◆◆
“Ugluk, it’s the Zenari! The villages to the south are on the move. You are to lead us north till the Storm Reach,” exclaimed the scout as he raced into the chaos-riddled village.
“What of the chieftain?” demanded Ugluk as he loaded the last wagon.
“He is evacuating the DaggerTooths. He will meet us later. We must ride at once!” panted the young greenskin.
“We must ride. Brozz, I need you at the tail,” instructed the senior scout as he climbed atop his hrall.
“Yes, brother,” replied Brozz.
“Gron, I need you to stay here until the chieftain and the DaggerTooth tribe passes through here. Direct all others down our path.”
“Yes, brother, as you command,” replied the young scout as he rested upon a carved wooden bench.
Ugluk drove his powerful beast forward past the herd of wagons as he positioned himself at the head of the pack. He pointed beyond the upper reach of the hills, over the plains and the barrens to the great peaks of the north. With a gentle pat to the thick neck of the hrall, he pushed the beast forward.
The caravan slowly crawled over the northern ridgeline before it passed down the faded green slopes. The gradual descent made for a quickened escape. The tromping of the hralls’ hooves was muffled by the tall grass while the creaking and groaning of the wagons overcame their silent departure.
Sad and disheartened looks draped over the many faces of the orcs as they said good-bye to their ancestral homeland. Not many of them understood what was taking place; even fewer truly understood why they were leaving their home. Most hadn’t even seen a Zenari, no less a dragon. There had only been whispers of the approaching shadow, but never had orcs given up without a fight. To many, this retreat felt cowardly, and the confusion caused anger, but they trusted Ogron. He had always displayed great wisdom concerning his people, and they would have to believe he was doing just that now.
The green hills spilled onto the open plains of An’Doral. The vast plains stretched from sea to sea, far beyond sight. The untamed fields offered a bounty of wild grains at their peak. The harvest season was arriving, and the rich aroma of the blended crops permeated the cool air. Rich with flavor and ripe with the maturity of their season, they stood tall in the morning sun. The cloudless morning sky gave birth to the rising sun. The warm sunlight raced across the fields, glinting off their mature stalks. A golden glow radiated over the plains as specks of amber and bronze colored heads of grain dotted the landscape. Gentle rays of light caressed the travelers with a welcome touch of warmth that cut through the cool morning breeze.
It was either the rising of the sun or the sounds of the travelers that brought the fields to life. Swallows darted with elegance over the fields of grain. Looping and swooping with grace, they ushered in the day with their song.
Kluelles hidden among the stalks raised their heads above the grain. Soft brown eyes gazed over the horizon. Their gold and cream colored faces were speckled with brown spots on their jaws and snouts. Their delicate features were accentuated by pointy ears and long spiraled antlers, whose rich mocha color matched their spotted countenance. Three kluelles moved away to a safer distance, effortlessly bounding away, each leap covering a full wagon’s length or more. The graceful design of their sleek bodies was beautiful, truly a sight to behold. More mocha speckles marked their tan fur coats along their lower back and hindquarters until their legs turned completely brown down to their hooves.
Ugluk kept the orcs moving forward, though, as he forged a path through the heart of the tall crops. The stalks were crushed easily beneath the weight of his hrall’s hooves. In single file, the wagons followed closely behind him through the golden corridor. He did not know what their future held, but he was determined that his people would at least have a future, something that was no longer possible in the shadow of the dragon.
◆◆◆
Theros and Ogron rode side by side at the tail of the DaggerTooth caravan. With a rapid pace, the hrall led wagons moved northeast over the rolling terrain. Their course was to pass each major village on their journey north. The signs had been good so far. They were halfway across the Agremnalls, and each tribe had already evacuated. However, they still had a few miles to travel before they were into the plains. Once they reached An’Doral, they could really pick up speed, but it was a delicate balance between being quick and being reckless in the hills. Ogron just needed to make sure he could get his people to the fields safely, and then they could outrun the Zenari. But one moment of carelessness could lead to damaged wagons or injured hralls, neither of which they could afford.
In the distance, they could hear the pursuit of the enemy. The Zenari foot soldiers ran with an unnatural speed. Ogron watched over his shoulder as village after village was put to flame. Plumes of black smoke poured into the air as their huts blazed. Like black ants, the Zenari swarmed the hills behind them, blotting out the very grass itself. They covered ground quickly, closing in on the caravan.
“We must have them prepared to defend the wagons,” snarled the chieftain.
“Yes, Chief!” responded Theros.
“Where’s Swift?” asked Ogron.
“He’s in Sharka’s wagon.”
They pushed their beasts forward as they raced up the sides of the caravan, Ogron to the left and Theros to the right. Shouting to the orcs in the wagons, they issued the orders, “We must not stop, so be prepared to defend the wagons!”
The orcs scrambled to arm themselves as the women and children moved to cover in the center of each wagon. The men lined the perimeter of each vessel, and they held fast to their weapons, preparing to defend their people. Some held spears, some had axes, others wielded bolt throwers, and still othe
rs with various tools of war.
The wagons barreled over the green hills toward the final orc village, home of the GrayHide tribe. In the distance, they saw the young scout awaiting their arrival with excitement. Now was not a time to slow down, though, for the Zenari raced like mad dogs chasing after a kill, closing the gap rapidly.
“Gron, quickly!” bellowed Theros as he raced his hrall toward the village ahead of the caravan.
The young orc stood on the wooden bench until Theros reached him. Then he leapt onto the back of the mighty hrall, grasping at the harness as his body swung wildly. Theros reached back and grabbed a fistful of leathers, pulling Gron up on top of the beast.
“Brace yourself. We have work to do!” growled Theros as he circled the hrall back toward the caravan in a counterclockwise arc.
The black-robed warriors of the Zenari dashed down over the last hill top toward the caravan. Screaming like madmen, they charged after the wagons. The rough terrain of the hills restrained the wagons too much. They would be overtaken in seconds. Waves of soldiers brandishing swords and spears pressed toward the rearmost wagons.
The anticipation of the battle was mounting when a heavy bolt was launched from a bolt thrower, slamming hard into the shoulder of a Zenari. His body spun and twisted at the impact as he was thrown to the ground, causing several other Zenari to crash to the ground. Silence hung in the air for a brief moment before a fearsome howl echoed from the orcish wagon. The roar sparked a chain reaction throughout the caravan as they echoed their people’s war cries.
The Zenari were greeted with bolt and spear, but they continued to swarm after the wagons. Bodies stumbled and fell, but more black warriors filled their ranks. Dashing forward, some of them leapt upon the sides of the wagons, only to be hacked down by stone-hewn axes, while others made their mark first, taking orc life with their own, a suicidal assault.
The wagons’ speed diminished gradually as they reached the final village, as they had to prepare for the final descent out of the hills. As they slowed a bit, the horde of savages began to surround them from the back and sides. They hurled their spears into the wagons, killing anything they could.
With a ferocious roar, Theros and Gron charged into the left side of the Zenari ranks. The mighty hrall whipped his powerful neck back and forth as he gored warriors with his tusks. Crushing dozens of bodies underfoot, they plowed through the wave of soldiers. Theros swung his hammer down upon unsuspecting men, and they fell before him. The two orcs and the hrall emerged from the human wreckage, and Theros pushed the beast northward, past the village.
Their charge gave the wagons the time needed to clear the final ridge before the sloping descent. The two orcs and their hrall raced after the caravan as it rapidly dropped out of sight. Charging fearlessly over the ridge, the hrall picked up tremendous speed on the descent as they chased after their companions.
The Zenari archers who trailed the warriors finally reached the ridgeline and let fly a volley of arrows. Hundreds of arrows whistled as they soared through the sky toward the orcs, but the caravan had put too much distance between them and their pursuers, and the arrows fell short of their mark.
Quickly the Zenari army grew further and further away as the caravan rolled onto the plains. In the distance, they watched the Zenari end their failed pursuit. It was then that they saw the black dragon descend on their village with fire. Within moments, only billowing clouds of black smoke remained of their homeland.
Many of them grieved for their homeland and the fallen, but at least some of them had escaped. For the moment they had a future—that is, something that wasn’t a certainty only minutes before. For now, that would have to be enough, so they continued north. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for all of their kind. Many of the southernmost tribes had not joined the caravan, and by now they wouldn’t.
◆◆◆
The days had grown long and tiresome. The adrenaline-infused start to their trip left them exhausted, yet the orcs traveled onward for a fourth day. The mighty hralls worked steadily as they pulled the wagons further and further away from the hills. With the sun rapidly covering ground in the west and the grain fields fading to the south, they traveled through a land that was foreign to most of them.
Pale brown powdered sand stretched in every direction. Each crashing hoof erupted into small swirling storms of dust and sand. There was little to see here. Sparse patches of dying vegetation dotted the terrain. However, there was one truly special thing to behold—the jagged peaks of the great Sky Reach Mountains reaching up in the distance and piercing the bright blue sky. It was stunning, especially for the orcs who had never traveled this far north, which was, in fact, the majority of them. In contrast to what many believe, the orcs, generally speaking, remain quite close to their own territories. Theros Hammerfist was one of the few exceptions to the rule.
The eastern sky grew darker as twilight approached. A pale but clear sky began to give way to the first few stars of the night sky. Faintly they sparkled, barely seen against the changing blue canvas. The only sounds were the wind and the wagons. The region itself was desolate yet strangely alive. Cool air descended upon the barrens from the north, racing over the desert wasteland. It howled as it beat against the makeshift tents that covered the wagons. Women and their young huddled inside the shelters to avoid the brunt of the sandstorms while the men drove the wagons and kept watch.
“With everything that happened today, do you think Sharka will be alright?” asked Ogron, lifting the silence.
“She’s strong, besides he had more daughters than he knew to count,” replied Theros.
“True, but she had just one father,” said Ogron.
“He might have sired her, but he was no father,” replied Theros.
Ugluk rode up beside them and interrupted the conversation.
“Chieftain, the hralls need rest. We should stop for the night and make camp. We can set out at daybreak for the mountains.”
“We are uninvited guests here,” said Ogron with a momentary pause. “We must not stop.”
“But this land is empty, forgotten…” blurted Ugluk, a perplexed look on his face as he looked around.
Then Theros cautioned him, “Do not let this place fool you, young scout. This land is not dead, but sleeping, and it is about to wake.”
“We are fortunate to have gone unnoticed this long,” remarked Ogron as his eyes continued to scan the horizon.
“Then what is this place?” inquired Ugluk.
“These are the Hungering Sands, home of the Ni’al,” answered Ogron.
“Who are the Ni’al?” asked Ugluk with a look of confusion on his face.
“Not who, rather what,” answered Theros matter-of-factly.
“The Ni’al are perhaps the oldest creatures on Darnisi, but that is debatable. What isn’t debatable is their cunning and voracity,” replied the chieftain.
“What kind of beasts are they?” questioned the scout.
“The Ni’al are giant hellish insects that live beneath the sands. At night, they eat,” explained Ogron. “We must clear the sands tonight!”
The fading glare of the setting sun was replaced by the soft glow of the moon. Stars hung brilliantly in the night sky. The wind settled, but the cool of the night air infiltrated their caravan.
And so they rode, as silence descended upon them once more.
12 Brotherhood of the Unveiled Eye
Human and elven eyes devoured the foreign landscape, tracing the prominent ridgeline of the Mar’Krens as it dove into the jungle. Dense tropical jungles dominated the scene. Crescent-shaped sandy beaches formed a natural cove, cradling the mouth of the river. The four wooden arks glided toward the inlet, over the rippling waves of high tide.
Seratu issued the command, “Drop sails.”
Quickly man and elf alike moved to unfasten and lower the large sails. The lightness of the sails belied their massive size. Yet after withstanding the brutal trade winds, the strength of the elven cra
ftsmanship could not be doubted.
The change of the season, particularly around the Mar’Krens, could lend itself to disastrous weather. With the cold air rushing down over the mountain range, it would often collide fiercely with the warmer sea air. They had been very fortunate on their journey, though. The shifting air currents increased the power of the trade winds enough to give them excellent traveling speed, and they were free from storms. After their brief stop in Port Harlan, they made it all the way down and around the southern tip of Darnisi and then back up to the ends of the Mar’Krens in just over eleven days, which was quite remarkable in its own right.
“The Yaresh will take us to the city of Tempour. With no delays, we can expect to arrive in a few hours,” informed Kiriana as the boats floated toward the river.
King Tua’Liluon nodded silently. He tried to absorb all of the marvelous sights before his eyes. Palms and ferns were the lush backdrop for many exotic fruits and flowers, all varied in shape and size, their colors rich and vibrant. Yellows, reds, purples, and even hints of blue accented the verdant jungle. Krinals cawed at the travelers from their canopy perches. Brilliant orange feathers draped over them like robes of royalty. The long-tailed birds alerted the jungle of their visitors.
With the sails down and the oars out, they began their journey up the river into the heart of the jungle. The elves and men pushed the light brown ships up river under the power of their oars. Only minutes after beginning their ascent up the winding river, the ocean disappeared from sight. The green canopy encircled them as the sounds of the jungle resonated through the air.
“Have your maidens get the children and the injured below into the storage deck. The river can be dangerous, so we must be vigilant. These jungles are home not only to the brotherhood but the Danji too. The Danji are rogue tribes of the An’wari. They are known locally as the flesh eaters. They are outcasts from their own people because of their sacrilegious acts and rituals. The Danji live a distance from the southern borders of our homelands. They are a wicked and fearless people who honor only death itself. Unfortunately, we must pass through their lands to reach the great city,” explained Kiriana.
