by Tiger Hebert
The storm would not relent. Several nights had passed, and it seemed that they would never escape this terrible dream. The white-capped waves crashed over the ships’ decks as the frigid arctic air ripped at the sails and the crew alike. Occasional streaks of lightning pierced the dark skies. The wooden ships were tossed violently from crest to crest. Fortunately, the ships were scattered enough that they did not risk slamming into each other, but the real concern was that the boats would instead be dashed upon the rocky coastline. The combination of shallow waters and innumerable rock formations made their passage under these conditions perilous. Who would have thought that these humans would be seafaring people? Despite their life among the Sky Reach Mountains, the fishermen who captained these vessels were quite adept sailors, but the seas were treacherous at best.
“You do not look well,” remarked Melgrim to the big orc.
“I don’t like boats!” barked Theros.
“You don’t say? You are green after all.” The captain laughed.
Before he could even finish his remark, the big orc stumbled to catch his balance as he leaned over the side of the ship, discarding the remnants of his dinner. The sickly-looking orc turned back and wiped his mouth.
“That’s the last of it, I hope,” groaned Theros.
“Good. There can’t possibly be any more,” quipped the captain as he held on tight.
“We’re not much for seafaring,” added Ogron as he held fast to the nearby rigging.
“It will all be over soon, my friends, hopefully by our choosing,” admitted the human as another smaller wave crested over the top of the deck.
After regaining his balance, Theros leaned over the edge and heaved again.
“Now I think he’s empty,” interjected Tomar to a chorus of human laughter.
The storm winds swirled around them as the ships continued to take a beating in the turbulent waters. Cracks of thunder rang out as bolts of lightning continued to spring forth from the blackened clouds. Rain and waves alike poured down upon the crew of the nine fishing boats throughout the night. There was no avoiding it, and there was really no steering the vessels. Their only option was to hold tight and ride out the storm.
Deep into the night, the brutal assault of the arctic winds finally ended, and the seas calmed. The travelers would finally be able to rest safely, as it was smooth sailing. Theros took up a resting position in the rear corner of the ship, wedging himself between some cargo barrels. He tipped his big head back, and a deep sleep fell over him.
His vision was of the blackest of blacks; an overwhelming darkness surrounded him. Then in the distance appeared that which resembled a spark of blue flames. As he stared at the light, it moved closer and closer. The blue spark grew into a radiant star that burned brightly before him. The flames of the star moved as if it was alive, and then it transfigured into a mighty Lion of pure cobalt flames. The eyes shimmered and rippled, as if hinting at their untold depth. Those piercing eyes stared at him, into him. The Lion held seven stars in the midst of His right paw and a double-edged sword temporarily appeared to come out of His mouth. The solemn look on the Lion’s face was replaced by a peaceful one. It was as if the Creature was trying to comfort him.
In a silent tongue, the Creature whispered voiceless words that moved like a rushing wind and drifted right into Theros’ own mouth. Then without hesitation or delay, the great Lion turned away and ran off into the darkness. Just as the Lion was consumed or enveloped by the darkness, a bright light fell from the heavens into the midst of the great shadow. When the light reached the place where the Lion had been, it exploded! Magnificent rays of blue and white light shot out in every direction! At the site of impact sat the same star, burning with blue flames. The darkness was gone. Then before he could even react, the star flew back to the heavens where it came from, and it was out of sight.
In his vision, he expected the darkness to return, and he longed for the star to fall again. Then his emotions began to shift, as did his view. His eyes dropped down until he was looking at his own chest. That was when he saw a smaller star of fiery blue blazing before him. He looked around him and saw hundreds—no, thousands of others appear as they stepped out of the vanishing shadow. They were of all shapes and sizes. Male and female, orc and even dwarf, and they, too, bore the burning fire upon their chests. All those who bore the flame lifted their awe-filled eyes to the heavens in wonder, and he joined them. The last thing he saw was a Lion flashing across the sky with a key ring in His mouth. His vision faded. His mind’s eyes closed, and he slumbered restfully.
The sun lit the dawn sky. The craggy coastline gave way to verdant hills that rolled into the distance. The journey through the night had somehow gotten them safely to a place at least somewhat close to their destination. Theros rose from his slumber and rubbed his eyes. He sat in silence as he pondered the vision’s meaning.
“This is the Ferrin Highlands,” said Tomar as he turned to the newly awoken orcs. “We should reach our destination soon.”
“What is in this place?” asked Sharka.
“Who, rather than what,” replied King Tiereon as he joined the conversation.
“Yesterday, you mentioned something of an ally?” interjected Ogron almost as a question.
“The Ferrin Highlands are home to the Hand of Horus,” answered the king with a twinge of optimism. “They are a timeless order of priests committed to battling against the forces of darkness. Hopefully they still honor the old code.”
“Priests? No offense, Your Majesty, but we will need more than simple men of the cloth,” retorted Ogron in disappointment. The king laughed at the chieftain.
In frustration, the chief barked, “You think this is funny?”
With a quick response, the king fired back, “I think it’s funny that you presume they are men of the cloth, or that they are men at all, for that matter!”
“Did you not just say that they were priests?” snapped the confused orc.
“Yes, my dear chief, but those who serve the light come in many different packages. You orcs should understand that quite well,” said the king with a subtle wink.
While the king continued to talk with Ogron and his companions, his wounded son, Captain Nikolai, watched from the other side of the boat. He glared at them silently with disgust as he watched Theros stroke his wolf’s gray coat. He was furious with his father for even speaking with their kind.
No king of men should even be addressed directly by an orc, he thought.
The orcs made him uncomfortable. They were different from him and his people. Their culture and customs were unfamiliar to him, and he knew he couldn’t trust them. He knew what they were.
They are filthy savages that are no better than the wild animals that sleep next to them. It is only a matter of time before they betray us and bury their axes in our backs. Why can’t he see it? Foolish old man. We must get them before they get us. They must be eliminated.
His thoughts were interrupted by the excitement on the ship deck. As they passed around the narrow stretch of rock that reached out into the sea, they spotted the landing. It was not a harbor or a port, but rather something like a cove. The sandy crescent beach was a welcome sight, albeit an unexpected one. It was important because it would allow them to safely run their ships aground.
The ships, one by one, lurched to a halt as they drove into the sandy seafloor. The loading ramps were dropped down into the shallow waters, and they began to file out of the ships. They were all fortunate that the fishing ships were so large, as every bit of space was needed for the passengers and the minimal amount of supplies they could bring. Otherwise, all of the animals would have been left behind. As it were, though, there were nearly thirty horses and about ten hralls that did make the escape from Storm Vale. Joining them on the beach front were nearly nine hundred humans and close to another four hundred orcs.
As the multitude trudged their way toward the shore, the sandy salt water of the high tide lapped at their backs. Then
in the distance, they heard the thundering of hooves, and it was not long before a cavalry came stampeding down the road toward them. The armored soldiers held their golden banners high and their halberds forward as they charged down from the highland cliffs to the shore. These horsemen were a fearsome sight to behold, and they were just that—horse-men. The great size of the centaur was impressive, at nearly seven feet tall, even Theros had to look up to them. As they reached the shoreline, their hooves trampled the sand as they formed an armored line. Side by side, the cavalry regiment pointed their long-bladed weapons toward the strangers.
“The Hand of Horus are centaur?” shouted Sharka with excitement. “I thought the centaur were dead!”
“You are the Hand of Horus?” asked Ogron with surprise.
“I am Lokar, brigade commander of the Hand of Horus,” announced one of the centaurs. “Who are you, and what is your business in the Ferrin Highlands?”
“Commander Lokar, I am Tiereon Thorinson, king of the men of the Storm Reach Mountains. This is Ogron Hammerfist, the chieftain of the orcs of the Agremnall Hills,” replied the human king. “We are in great need, and we have come to call upon the might of the centaur.”
“Your hope is misplaced, stranger,” admitted the centaur as he stepped forward about half a horse’s length.
“I don’t understand,” replied the bewildered king.
“Things have changed, King. Our borders have been closed for some time,” Lokar informed them. “You should be leaving now.”
The king indignantly rose up at this response and defiantly rebuked the commander, saying, “Before you were a calf, there was a covenant. That covenant was established by the order, declaring that the as long as the Hand of Horus stood, it stood for the light, declaring war on the darkness! Has the hour grown so dark that even the centaurs have abandoned their virtue? Abandoned their covenant and forsaken their honor?” The passion in Tiereon’s voice remained as he said, “I hope not because it would leave the world darker than I can bear.”
The truth of the king’s words pierced the commander, and conflicting emotions of anger and shame twisted inside him. All the centaurs’ eyes dropped to the ground in the midst of the silence. Lokar nodded his head in silent agreement and lifted his eyes to meet the king once again.
“A shadow has long rested over this place. I cannot promise that which you seek, but I will take you to the magi to plead your case,” replied the horse-man dutifully.
“Dark clouds may block the sun, but they can never stop it from shining,” added the wise old king.
“I pray you are right. Clouds have covered this land for a long time. This way,” directed Lokar.
The king turned and asked Captain Melgrim and the Hammerfist brothers to accompany him, and they promptly mounted up as well. His son, Nikolai, attempted to join the group, but he was dismissed by the king. The young prince fumed. It was an outrage that his father would take Melgrim and two orcs to accompany him.
The foursome followed their escort up the road, away from the sandy shoreline. Once they had climbed up to the highlands, they could finally see the beautiful landscape that remained hidden from below. A cool mist had settled over the rolling hills of dew drenched grass. The smattering of oaks and maples painted the countryside with a wonderful array of fall colors as the season’s change became more evident.
Twenty centaur soldiers made up the cavalry detachment that led the guests across the highlands. They trotted their way down the dirt road and into the mist toward the capital city of Ferrin da’Dour. Despite everything that had taken place, the younger Hammerfist rested in silence. He couldn’t take his mind off the vision he had seen. It kept replaying over and over again in his mind. He tried to push it to the back of his mind, but he couldn’t focus on anything else.
His brother leaned over toward the hrall that carried him and whispered, “What’s troubling you?”
Snapped from his trance, he tried to smile at his big brother.
“Oh, nothing. I am just tired.”
“Don’t lie to me, little brother,” playfully warned Ogron.
“Later,” responded Theros.
“Later,” the chieftain agreed.
It seemed like they rode through the grassy hills and the forested roads for ages, but then they finally passed out of the last tree line, and there before them in the distance stood their destination. The casket of a town was not what they expected. The wasted fortifications were not much to look upon. The ancient stonework appeared to be long forgotten. A smoke masquerading as a mist draped over the ruined city. Only the dead could live here. It was eerie, haunting. It more closely resembled the ruins of a once-great nation, one that was lost in battle rather than any bastion of hope. Worn wooden posts jutted up into the air from their stone and clay foundations. Clay and stone buildings with dilapidated straw roofs dotted the otherwise beautiful countryside, both in and around the city center. The verdant fields appeared to be the only thing that even resembled the living.
They passed through the countryside, watching as the centaur women and children scampered out of their way timidly and fearfully as they rushed into their homes. Some homes were even caved-in, leaving nothing but a pile of straw and rubble. They approached the sprawling city, and even the large wooden gate was tattered and fallen to ruin. The convoy marched them right into the open city. The king and the orcs were dismayed and disappointed at everything they were seeing. Utter disrepair did not even come close to describing the state of affairs. The visitors were led through the cold and muddied streets of the old city.
In the wake of the convoy, centaurs crowded inside the city walls to observe the rare occasion. Then, deep into the heart of the city, they finally reached the old temple of the order. The wood-and-stone building showed its age. The wooden sign above the door hung loose by a single chain as it rocked in the chilling breeze. The white hand that was once prominently displayed was faded and chipped away. At the sound of the commotion, three centaur elders emerged slowly from the temple. Despite their brown coats, the gray hairs of their heads and beards revealed their true age.
“What is this?” asked the first elder, Elymas.
“Who are you?” asked the second elder, Paulus.
“Why have you come?” asked Paphos, the third elder, in rapid succession.
Commander Lokar stepped aside, giving way to their guests. King Tiereon and his companions pressed forward toward the magi.
“I am Tiereon Thorinson, king of the men of the Storm Reach Mountains, and this is Ogron Hammerfist, the chieftain of the orcs of the Agremnall Hills,” answered the king. “The Hand of Horus was once an ally of our people, and we have come to call upon their aid once more.”
“Be plain. What is it that you seek, King Tiereon?” snapped Paulus.
“A perilous time is upon us. The black dragon has twisted the minds and the hearts of the people of Karthusa, waging war upon orc and elf alike. Minotaur have laid siege to the kingdom of Storm Vale and have taken the city. Our only hope is to band together and face the growing forces of darkness.”
“When the kingdoms of man stood for the light, there was hope for this world. That age has passed, and thus so will you,” answered Elymas coldly.
Paulus added, “The darkness has grown strong, and the shadows grow long.”
Paphos punctuated it with, “Hope has died.”
The king grew angry with them and shouted, “The power and hope was never in the hands of man! The Hand of Horus should know that better than anyone. What about the prophecies? What about your code, your covenant?”
In an eerie and sycophantic resonance, all three of the elders said, “The prophecies have failed.”
Shock and outrage overcame the king, and he yelled, “You are not magi! You are magos! You venomous snakes of deceit and treachery! When did you turn from the light and sell your souls to the darkness?”
The crowd murmured as they witnessed the heated exchanged between this human and the triumvirate, a
nd they did not know what to think or believe.
“King Tiereon, you can save your people,” hissed Paulus as his eyes pooled with darkness.
Paphos added, “Join us.”
Then Elymas finished with, “And serve the black dragon, Slayvin!”
The crowd immediately went into an uproar as the dialogue continued.
Theros leapt from his hrall with his massive two-handed hammer held high over his head. The iron head of the maul glowed with a pulsing blue fire as it arced through the air. Then with something beyond his own strength, he slammed the hammer down upon the ground. A smoldering flash of brilliant blue-and-white light surged out from the impact site, and the ground was singed.
The mighty orc dropped the hammer to the ground and stood up to his full height and uttered the words imparted to him in the vision, “Matouf zit maloor Kejan zit touille, da ustef baleel utkian lial leut Grize Ustrach.”
The three magi stumbled backward, trying to catch their balance. Everyone else just stood and stared in disbelief at the orc as he spoke in a foreign language. Looks of confusion swept over the crowd, starting with the magi. Their very faces began to twitch, writhe, and contort, as if wrestling with themselves.
“How do you know the tongue of the elders?” asked the stunned Lokar.
Theros ignored the question as he stared at the elders with intent.
“What did he say?” begged Ogron and the king.
Without hesitation, Lokar recited the words spoken by Theros in the common tongue, “If my children will listen to my voice, they will hear utterance of long-kept secrets of the Most High.”
“I have seen the Lion who holds the seven stars in his right hand. From His mouth comes a doubled-edged sword, and His face shines like the sun. I have seen the Frelsarine, and he is prepared to take the keys of death and Hades forever, establishing his kingdom,” shouted Theros with power and authority, as if propelled by an unseen force.
As the words of truth were still in his mouth, power was released, and the elders writhed and screamed. Their faces shook as the shadows of darkness were violently ripped off them. The elders staggered to gather themselves, as if they were on quaking ground. Their countenances were restored, and the darkness was gone.
