Breath of the Titans: The False Titanbringer: Complete Trilogy

by Riley Westbrook

  Now Lov sat, contemplating the conversation. He stared at the eye, and knew he needed to solidify the orcs, the question was how.

  "So you're saying there are thirteen different tribes of orcs?" Lov asked, walking through the camp with The'oak. He and the old shaman were discussing ways to impress the Greatmothers, and for some reason, it always came back to war.

  "Yes, and if you hit the right one, you'll pick up more than one tribe." The small orc stopped at a hut, "I'll be right back." He said disappearing into the hut. Lov tapped his foot while he waited. When The'oak emerged from the building, he was carrying a burlap sack, blood dripping from the bottom of the bag.

  "What's that?" Lov asked as The'oak began walking to his hut.

  "I know where this talk goes, young one." The old man said, swinging the burlap sack as he walked. "You wish to make war, and if that’s the case, then you need Gruumnsh's blessing." He lifted the sack high, it continued to splatter the ground with red droplets. "This is our offering to him."

  "Shouldn't the offering be alive?" Lov asked.

  The'oak smiled at the young half-elf. "This is for personal strength. When I say prepare for war, I mean the champion fight. I can arrange for you to pick off four tribes in one vicious blow, but you have to win." The'oak thrust his hand up, clenching his fist and shaking it under the young elf's nose. “It won't be easy.”

  Lov nodded. "Set it up. The sooner the better."

  "Then I leave you to start the rock rolling." The shaman moved through the camp, nonchalantly whistling to himself

  A week had passed since The'oak had left. He was to return today with news of whether the brothers would meet the young chief in a champion fight. The four of them against Lov. The'oak had tried to talk Lov into a pitched battle involving the clans, but the little storm cloud had plans for the orcs. He needed as many of them alive as he could get.

  He ran around the camp another time, it would be his twentieth since this morning. His dragonhunger wouldn't let him settle down, compelling him to do something to keep busy and active. The training pits were taken over by the mass melee today, Lov knew he wouldn't get any practice there. Endurance training was just as important as the actual weapon training.

  Still, Lov couldn't wait for The'oak to arrive. He wanted this fight.

  Lov was making his twenty-fifth lap around the camp when The'oak ran in. The half-dragon turned around when he heard a messenger calling for him. “Lov! Lov! The'oak's here!” It was a smaller orc, possibly a child. It was hard to tell sometimes. His fur was short, but he did have a recent scar on the top left of his chest. The little orc's skin was as yellow as his teeth. He stopped next to Lov, doubling over, trying to catch his breath. “The'oak's come back from The Horn.” He said when he had caught his breath.

  Lov ran back the way the messenger had come, shouting, “Thanks!”, over his shoulder as he charged through the camp. He arrived to see a large crowd gathered around The'oak, the old orc basking in and loving the attention. The crowd parted for Lov, opening a hole so that he could reach the shaman.

  “They have accepted!” The'oak told Lov, dancing a small jig and spinning around. “They say that if you can beat them, they don't deserve the tribes.” The'oak laughed a little. “Those four always did underestimate you elves.”

  Lov joined The'oak in his jig dancing, twirling around himself. “Woot! Now all I have to do is win!”

  The'oak smiled at the young man. “We have a week to prepare you, and to make it to the Horn.” The'oak motioned some of the larger orcs over. “I wish we had more time, give us a chance to train you in the pit. I'd feel more comfortable if you were practicing your technique! Still, there's no time like now to begin.”

  They began the journey the next day, the rocks slick with wetness. Horses were nowhere to be found in orc lands. They were dinner if they were near. So Lov and The'oak with a party of fifteen honor guards marched through the wind and rain swept granite rocks, heading for the Horn.

  The'oak walked next to Lov, a spring in his step, all but hurrying to toss the young half-dragon to the wolves. Lov hated the feeling of walking to his own funeral, but also had confidence he could take on anyone. His uncle had fought against Wyrms, and Lov had gotten in a fair number of shots on the tall elf. If he could do this, he would become the most powerful chief in the Orc Lands in one fell sweep. The four tribes there comprised everything a serious army would need.

  The Mailua de Gruumnsh are the smiths, making armor and weapons of all sorts. Their sigil is a hammer, the Eye of Gruumnsh glaring from above the head. While they lacked the magical prowess of the Titanbringer, unable to bring life to their creations, the orcs themselves made up for it in sheer brutality. The weapons they make are serviceable at best, but perfect for an infantry. They are led by an average-sized orc. Paxtal is an unimposing figure. He had used his brothers' influence to climb to the top of the hierarchy, and represented the strongest smith the orcs had. He fought with two hammers, covered in runes and symbols of power. He had the least influence and power out of the brothers from what The'oak had told Lov.

  Ar Bola is the order of the healers. Savage and full of ritual, they offered blood sacrifices to Gruumnsh to pray for strength and stamina in coming battles. Their symbol was a large tree. Many eyes stared from its branches, and the roots shown are buried deep in the ground. The bull sacrifice that The'oak had made was learned from the Ar Bola. The old orc could not stress enough that Lov needed to watch Manatua. He was small and not very strong, but made up for it with herb lore and cunning. He had famously won a duel by blowing a powder into his enemy's face. The powder caused the poor soul to be susceptible to suggestion. He had fallen upon his own knife at Manatua's command. The'oak was confident that he could protect Lov from any harm with spells and sacrifices to Gruumnsh. For some reason the god seemed to smile upon the half-elf.

  Garta de Gruumnsh were the true strength of the army. They represented the elite. Those who would wage battle behind enemy lines, pushing the pike men and foot soldiers back. They were the ones that created room for the infantry that followed. They rode upon kegaroth. Lov knew first hand the fierce nature of the lizards, their bite alone made them dangerous to an army. Add the whip tail and razor sharp claws, plus an orc atop it swinging a sword, and it's a formidable, intimidating sight. Few could withstand the onslaught and viciousness. Poit was a smaller orc, his fur thick and coarse. Only one scar marred his body. A mark from a failed attempt to filch food from a kitchen. The little orc was quick and deadly with the scimitars he fought with.

  Last are the Povus de Gruumnsh, symbolized by crossed swords, an eye staring from the “X” they made. These were the fodder to be tossed without regard in waves to oncoming enemy forces. Thousands upon thousands of wasted lives, all from lack of stability

  Lov knew that if given time, he could form the orcs into a power unto themselves again. Return the dignity their army had lost since the Greatmother's March. Makarak rounded out the brothers. He was tall and broad, standing as tall as Nord, if The'oak's jump was to be believed. The least intelligent of the brothers was hampered by a large belly, a curse from drinking too much alcohol.

  So they traveled, the red rock changing to gray rock. The trail twisted and turned, as The'oak taught Lov all he knew of the brothers. Lov could tell that these paths were naturally made as he drifted between lessons. He felt the creatures that surrounded them, seeing the warm glow of life hidden from prying eyes. It distracted him from his lessons and pulled his eyes to the scenes along some of the walls. They were carved into the rock, brown and red pigments were mixed in, but faded with time. A few scenes still stood in stark contrast to the rock below them.

  Most were hunting scenes showing buffalo and deer. Others showed battle with other races, different colors representing the winners and losers in the scenes. They came around a twist in the rock and a larger picture appeared on the wall. Lov was taken aback. A figure stood prominent on the wall. It looked like the other orcs, but larger, wit
h protruding cheekbones and a bumpy skull, the jaw also appeared wider. The scene showed a battle, but the orcs seemed to be fighting stars, not the large figure. The orcs were losing the battle. Lov shook his head, wondering what that battle must have been like. The young half-dragon felt a kinship with the figure, as if he knew the person it depicted.

  They stopped for the night. There was no fuel for a fire, so they slept in a huddled pile, with, backs to each other. The rocks were intensely frigid in the dark, and Lov shivered so hard he didn't get much sleep. The next morning he awoke groggily, stiff and sore from sleeping in a sitting position. One of their party had crawled away, unable to sleep sitting up with other men pushing and shoving against him. Now he slept peacefully on the rocks, dead. They left him there, his body now a part of the circle of life.

  They came out onto a stony plain. Rocks and sand spread in every direction. Vegetation was sparse and bush like where it managed to find a hold, and cacti seemed to be the most prominent plant life. They stood tall and looked like men walking the desert from a distance. One of the orcs walked up to one, shoving a spike into the side of it. In moments, water began to drip from the end of it. The orc carefully drank the drops that fell before shoving the spike into another part of the cactus, coaxing a few more drops. He repeated the process a third time, then ran to catch up with the group. Lov realized he hadn't had a drink of water in a very long time, and he was thirsty. He approached the orc, pulling him to the side.

  Lov pointed to the cactus, then mimicked what the orc had done to get a drink. The orc nodded, handing Lov the spike. It was hollow all the way through. Lov approached the cactus. He stabbed at it with the spike, but didn't get penetration with it. It skittered against the skin of the cactus, and Lov was jabbed by a half dozen spines. When he pulled his hand back, the quills stayed with him, detaching from the cactus. The orc that had given Lov the spike pointed and laughed at him, coming back and taking the spike from the half-dragon.

  Lov's hunger reacted at the disrespect. He grabbed the orc by the fur on the scruff of his neck, tossing him into the cactus. The cactus snapped under the weight of the orc being thrown upon it. Lov laughed as the orc attempted to climb to his feet, slipping and falling face first onto the cactus again. Lov turned and walked away, leaving the orc to struggle to his own feet and follow.

  The young half-elf was still thirsty, but felt vindicated after watching his teaser become covered in cactus quills.

  Chapter Nine

  Tryton stepped out from the side of the mountain, approaching Draka who stood stargazing. Every once in awhile, she would move her thumb up and wipe at the sky as if smudging a bad mark. Tryton watched her, infatuated with how beautiful she truly was. They were each easily five thousand years old, yet she never showed a day of it. She always seemed just as powerful, just as in charge. He loved that about her. Slowly he approached and asked, “So what are you doing, my love?”

  Draka flashed a coy smile. “Preparing death and destruction for my enemies, of course. I might have to wipe a galaxy or two from the heavens, but they won't be missed.”

  Tryton shook his head. “I wonder how you can do that, wipe whole planets from the universe. Aren't you afraid of the negative backlash you'll receive?”

  Draka laughed, tossing her long white hair over her shoulder. “What would a god have to fear?” She asked. A beam of light shot from the sky, illuminating the cliff side their cave was in.

  Tryton covered his eyes, putting up a personal shield, but dropped it a moment later when the light dissipated. He looked to see that Draka had put a barrier of her own up. She laughed, mirth, malice, and insanity making for a chilling mix. She waved her arm, casting her own offensive spell. A large wheel of screaming faces, beams of light connecting them, shot off into the sky. They screamed and howled until Tryton couldn't hear them anymore. Even as the sound faded, he could see the lights flashing across the horizon. They filled him with a deep sense of unease, until they disappeared over the curve of the earth.

  “And of course,” Draka said, turning to Tryton, “some people never learn.” She kissed him before heading into the cave, towards their nest.

  Tyrosh sat in the branches of a dead tree on the side of the temple. She watched as thousands of peasants fled the city. Food had been arriving in the city for weeks, Titans were carrying it from the south. But the constructs had stopped giving it to the citizens. Instead they brought it all into the temple, saying those who wish to be fed must come study under Martell's tutelage. Soon all that would be left would be the rats and the thieves. Tyrosh hated thieves.

  Her thoughts however were a million miles away. While she couldn't access her transformational or elemental magics, she still had her mind. She used her innate gifts to astral project, to other places, scouring the land for her friends and family. She had found the elves among the Greatmothers. They were treated like dogs, but well cared for. Tyrosh cried every time she saw one of them with their ears cut off. Her heart cried out to see such a beautiful race reduced to looking less than majestic.

  She had also seen Nord, her husband's stalwart brother. It made her sad to see him struggle on, with everyone but Sanche lost to him. The fairies had managed to find him though. They always did in times of war. Tyrosh was excited to see the Anuunaki war machine on the battle field. Their lands had been closed to outsiders during the Greatmothers’ March. The dragon had heard of their ferocity and it filled her with heart to know they were on the side of good.

  Now she searched for her son. Her little gray storm cloud who always seemed so hard to get a bearing on. Tyrosh felt him near the orcs, but that couldn't be true. She had searched and searched among the slaves for days, never seeing him.

  She stepped to the Greatmothers’ Complex anyways, searching, hoping she would see him. Instead, she saw a spark, distant on the horizon.

  Tyrosh stepped to the spark, and watched her son walking along the rock paths, an escort of orc warriors with him. Tyrosh was impressed with Lov, he had managed to carve out a niche for himself. She smiled to see he still carried the bow his father had given him, happy to know Amon wasn't forgotten.

  Lov turned his head for a moment, as if seeing her and said “Hello, Mother.”

  Tyrosh lost all of her inner peace, and the scene shattered before her eyes. She sat once again, in the tree on the outside of the temple.

  Tyrosh all but jumped from the tree, landing hard on her cut tendon and falling to the ground. But even that pain couldn't dampen her spirits. She had seen her baby boy, and he wasn't a baby anymore. Amon would have been so proud of their child.

  Tears filled her eyes as she climbed to her feet. A Titan burst through the doorway, dropping a plate of half rotten fruit onto her table. It slammed the door behind itself while departing, leaving her alone again. Tyrosh considered ways to escape. Since she had been cut, walking was proving to be difficult, but diligence and hard work were paying off. She wouldn't be able to sprint, but she could more than manage a fast hobble. She took the less rotten fruits and put them with the others she was collecting.

  Soon, she would be leaving this dying hell behind.

  Chapter Ten

  Sanche had been dead for three days now. Nord had buried him in the ground, marking the grave with a large stone the Anuunaki had freed and then carried to place there. Sanche's grave would be a stop on a pilgrimage of their people one day, Nord was sure.

  When the tall elf returned from his journey with Missy, everything had been in chaos. A large section of the camp had been over run with some black liquid that just would not stop. It jumped into hosts, overpowering them, killing them, then taking control of their bodies. The only thing that had stopped it had been a fire arrow. It had landed in some of the black liquid, and it had gone up in a flash. A bright green fire had exploded from everywhere the black touched. It burnt nothing but flesh and the oily black liquid. As they sorted through the dead, the Anuunaki's lament for the departed a soft buzz, one that filled Nord with sadness. Th
ey found Sanche's body where the initial battle had started. The fire hadn't spread to here, as if the black puddles here away from the creature were inert.

  Now Nord had full charge over the day to day operations of the army that Sanche once commanded. He inspected camps, walked the guards for those asleep, and did everything he could to keep it as normal as possible.

  But it was grating on him, Nord was a man of action. He preferred to be moving and shaking, out in front with the scouts. This knuckle dragging grated against who he was. He pushed the Anuunaki to move faster, and to their credit, they squeezed another ten miles out that day, and every day since. Traveling with an imposingly large army was slow work though. Nord wanted to be in the Orc Lands... yesterday!

  They traveled northeast. They crossed the sand dunes to cut their way across country, trying to make the best time possible. If Nord thought he could have, he would have pushed the army all night long.

  Instead, he chaffed nightly, unable to sleep from grief as much as anything else. Jaxon had tried to talk to his friend, but Nord had stubbornly refused. He chased the little man from his tent before Jaxon could say more than a word. Talia was immune to the jibes, so Nord eventually just gave up poking him, and decided to let him do his job. In private, Nord knew he was falling apart.

  The giant elf took a moment to feel his jitters, shaking with pent up energy and stress, before striding through his tent flaps. The moment he stepped from the tent, he projected an air of cool confidence. He thanked Sanche for the lessons that made him able to shake off his feelings in front of the army.