Dorias nodded. Of all humans, he best understood the sad history of the dragons. “There is something I should tell you.” The dragon’s head popped forward, sending Dorias a half step back. He calmed his heart with a deep breath before continuing. “I believe that I have sensed the same presence you mentioned.”
The dragon cocked his head in a quizzical expression. “It forbids me entry into the Dreamrealm,” Dorias continued. “It is a dark, shadowy cloud that I cannot penetrate with my mind.”
Silence pervaded the clearing. Groovax stared in thought. Shade stamped cautiously. Any other horse would have bolted long before. Merl sat in his perch, for once saying nothing.
“Perhaps…” The dragon cocked his head. “I will not speculate. Your magic is far different from ours.” He stepped back and stretched his arms, fanning out the fingers of his golden wings. They caught the firelight and reflected it back like polished bronze. “I know your resonance, human. If you find a way back into your Dreamrealm, you may contact me from there. If I discover anything more, I will find you myself.”
Dorias bowed again. “You may be confident in your trust, Lord Dragon. This darkness has spurned me to action already. Our alliance against it honors me.”
Groovax laughed once more. It echoed across of the rivers below, masking the rush of their flow. Dorias felt the laughter in his stomach and bones. It made him want to giggle.
“We shall see if this becomes an alliance, human.” The dragon laughed again, flapped his wings, and leaped into the moonlit sky. Dorias heard another chuckle from a distance as the great beast disappeared into the night. His spirits dipped in sadness at the dragon’s parting.
“Flame!” Merl cawed out, startling Dorias.
“At least that flame isn’t aimed at us, Merl.” He watched a dark shape cross the moon. “For now.”
“Blessed are the Fires from which were made. Blessed be the Fires to which we return”
— Boar Clan funerary rites
Slar slumped back into the tall chair of carved ebony, abandoned to him by Boar chieftain Lagdred. A sneering Brother Ortax leaned in close to his ear.
“The Wolves do not deserve to join our holy war,” the lead shaman of the Boar Clan whispered. “Send them on their way. They ask too much.”
A wave of Slar’s hand silenced the shaman. Ortax stepped back with a deferential nod of his head.
“It is the command of Galdreth that I be Warchief of the united clans, not just the Boar and Ram.” Slar inclined his head toward the orcs gathered in front of him. “Much as we have this one chair at Blackstone for the chieftain of the Boar, we shall have seven when we build a new fortress at Dragonsclaw.”
He heaved himself up, shifting the ancient scimitar of his family that rested on his hip. The representatives of the Wolf Clan fingered their own weapons. “No one is more aware of the long standing feud between Wolf and Boar than you and I, Fargon.”
The grizzled captain of the Wolves scowled at him. Slar remembered that face laughing with him many years ago. “You were fostered with my father to seal the peace after our last clanwar. You and I have hunted Boar lands together.”
“You made a wife of my cousin,” Fargon grumbled in reply.
“And no one misses Naleena more than I!” Slar snapped, more harshly than he intended. “Her death haunts me still, and her son chooses to live among your people.”
Fargon lifted a black eyebrow. “He is your son, too.”
Slar snorted and waved a hand. “My sons are warriors of the Boar Clan. One has captured Victor status to honor his people.”
Fargon remained silent, but his lips curled to show a fang. Instead, the orc wrapped in a black wolf pelt spoke.
“This discussion is not to the point.” The shaman lifted a finger. “This is about the honor of the Wolf Clan. We insist that we not be lackeys to the Boar, unlike the sad Rams.” He shot a glance at the one Ram in attendance.
Balthor kept his silence, though rage scudded across his face.
Slar folded his hands behind his back and addressed the room. “The place of the Wolf Clan in this alliance shall be the same as it is for Boar and Ram, for Bear and Snake and all the others once they join. This is the time we have awaited, my fellows. Galdreth has returned to us from the Elder Days.” He brought his hands forward into fists. “Do you not understand that this is our opportunity to wipe away all the old clan rivalries? It is our chance to take our rightful place in this land—to drive the humans back into the sea from whence they came.”
Fargon’s pink eyes fixed on Slar, reminding him of his long dead wife. His heart twinged at the memory of her. He had thought those feelings long since buried. Those eyes also remind me of Nalan’s, though I have not seen him in ten years. If only he had chosen the warrior’s path instead of…
Those thoughts were not for now, and Slar drove them from his mind. He slapped his hands together. “Many of the Boar Clan, under the leadership of my son Grindar, have already begun the journey to Dragonsclaw, while more Boar warriors muster for Chieftain Lagdred. The Ram Clan gathers at Dragonsclaw as well. Galdreth commands that you do the same.” Slar did not favor this approach, but felt forced to use it. “Do not forget that our ancient master has returned. Has Galdreth not appeared before Chieftain Valgrar?”
Fargon nodded. “The spirit has shown itself to my uncle. That is the only reason we stand here now.” The warrior watched him in silence. Slar was about to renew his argument when Fargon finally continued. “I will return to Craghold. Chieftain Valgrar shall have the final say, but we cannot ignore Galdreth’s return.” He moved to walk away before he paused and met Slar’s gaze squarely. “Even if Valgrar decides not to come, I will meet you at Dragonsclaw. Not because of the return of some ancient spirit that I do not understand, but because of your words, which I grasp quite well.” He nodded again, this time with a bit of a bow. “I will greet you again before Midsummer…Warchief.”
The Wolf Clan delegation ushered themselves from Blackstone’s great hall, Fargon the last to leave. He tapped his fist to his heart in silent farewell before the doors closed behind him.
“Will he bring his clan?” Ortax asked once the bar slammed down.
“It is not the Wolves that I worry about.” Slar’s eyes remained upon the exit through which Fargon and his men had left. “The Shark will join us when Wolf does. Snake and Bear will come in time. It is the Mammoth who hold my doubts.”
Balthor of the Ram grunted his agreement.
Yes. The Ram and Boar founded our friendship fighting the Mammoth Clan.
“Chieftain Sargash will choose to join us when Galdreth comes upon him.” Ortax lifted his nose with a confident air. He had been among the first to support alliance once the spirit appeared to him.
Yet you did not support me as Warchief. I will not forget that. Nor will Galdreth. When the rear door squeaked open, Slar turned and his frown for Ortax melted. Radgred came around the corner, a slight smile on his aged face. Behind him strode Sharrog, his face so much like Slar’s. My Midsummer boy, Victor at his first Clanhold!
“So I see you have returned from your hunt.” Slar grinned as wide as propriety allowed in public. “Has the ice cracked yet?”
“It has indeed, father.” Sharrog tapped a fist over his heart. The smile, however, shifted to a frown. “There were few mammoths to be found, but the caribou were great in number.”
Slar reached out to clasp his son’s arm. “Good then. We will have plenty of supplies for our march to Dragonsclaw.”
Sharrog frowned and moved as if to speak, but Radgred interrupted. “Perhaps we should get something to eat.” The old sergeant growled at the gathered orcs. “The Warchief and son should have a meal of the fresh meat together.”
With a nod of understanding, Sharrog walked out the door through which he had entered. Radgred followed close behind him. But before Slar exited, he a
ddressed the assembled orcs. “I thank you all for your attendance.” He looked at the Ram chieftain’s son. “Especially you, Balthor. This alliance between Ram and Boar will be the core of a new nation for our people.” He returned Balthor’s nod of agreement. “We begin our journey to Dragonsclaw in three days. It will be an honor to walk on Ram Clan land again.”
Balthor dropped into a full bow. “It is our honor, Warchief.”
Brother Ortax frowned at the younger orc. “The honor is to serve Galdreth.”
“Indeed,” Slar added with an air of finality.
The group broke up with a round of nods. Slar had never known a time when his people were so agreeable. Perhaps the fear that Galdreth brings is the greatest motivator of all. My arguments would never have held sway in normal times.
Shifting his swordbelt one last time, Slar followed his son and advisor toward the central stairwell leading to his chambers at the top of Blackstone. All the warriors who stood guard in the hall saluted their Warchief, fist over heart when he passed. He returned it to each of them in turn, slowing his progress even more. By the time he reached the stairs, Sharrog and Radgred neared their top. Slar took the steps two at a time, catching the pair as they reached the door to his new chambers.
“Father! Glad you could join us.” The younger orc laughed. “The needs of your alliance are tedious. I prefer open battle to the intrigues of the hall myself.”
“Ha!” Radgred tipped his chin. “What do you know of real battle, youngling? A dozen years of training and one victory at Clanhold, and you think you know war!” He rubbed an old wound on his shoulder. Slar remembered the battle against the Wolf Clan where Radgred had gained it. “I will take these good meals and warm beds any time.”
“Yes, but you are not the one standing with shamans all day.” Slar sniffed the air. The scent of fresh kill wafted near his nostrils. “Perhaps you are right about the food, though.”
Laid out in the entry hall to his private suite sat raw and rare cuts of meat heaped on silver platters. In the center of the table lay an uncooked mammoth tenderloin the size of Slar’s leg. Spread out next to it they found several loins of elk and caribou in various states of doneness. On another platter sat a piece of the mammoth’s liver. Other organs lay piled on silver and pewter dishes. A chest-sized saltcellar sat open upon a table, heaped with shiny white, gray, and pink crystals.
“I also brought this.” Sharrog pulled a small leather bag from his pack. A pungent scent leaped into Slar’s nose. “A pouch of uncle Grimbrad’s herbs, from the patch near his lodge.”
Radgred eyed the meats. “I will stoke the brazier in the central room.”
The three lingered over the meal for the rest of the evening. Dark red wine washed the meat into Slar’s belly, while the tasty salts danced on his tongue. He and Sharrog shared the oversized liver without cooking it.
Purple blood ran over Slar’s chin. He wiped it on the side of his hand then licked his finger clean. “So you did find at least one mammoth.”
Sharrog nodded. He took another tear off the rich, slimy organ. “One alone, and he was young at that.”
“I wonder if their orc cousins will be as scarce when the time comes.” Radgred held a piece of the tenderloin on an iron rod over the fire. “I do not have Ortax’s faith in Chief Sargash.”
Slar opened his mouth to speak until he felt the old knot in his gut tighten. He knew the pain had nothing to do with the flood of meat. The knot had been absent throughout the winter, while he and his sons, with Radgred’s help, gathered the Boar, Ram, and eventually the Wolf Clans together. Only thrice had he felt the pain – when Galdreth appeared to the other clan chieftains with Slar in his presence. But that dreadful burning flared now.
The dark shadow swirled together in an instant. Galdreth’s strength always radiated at its most powerful when it first appeared. The silver eyes glittered from the shadows within the parlor. They shined down upon Slar, who wiped the liver blood from his lips. Radgred and Sharrog dropped to their knees, meats cast aside. Radgred went directly to a prostrate position, while Sharrog eyed the spirit before he followed the older orc.
“My master,” Slar whispered, bowing low.
The voice grated like old rust. Your alliance grows, but not with the alacrity I require. I shall go unto the remaining clans alone. I cannot wait for your feeble bodies to travel there.
Slar offered another bow. “Yes, my master.” His stomach pains lessened. Let the dark spirit go alone. He kept his eyes averted. “We will be at Dragonsclaw within two weeks. Over fifty thousand Boar, Ram, and Wolf warriors will gather at your call.”
That is not enough!
The knot sharpened, like a knife twisting in Slar’s gut.
You must begin the training of new reserves that will join us. The Bear and Snake will have to provide the rest of our strength.
“We will begin gathering new forces at once, master.” Slar swallowed against the bile that threatened to rise in his throat with the words.
What of my vessel? I have given you the tracing stones. Have they found him yet?
The longer Slar listened to the voice, the more his agony grew. It grated upon his mind and spirit, as well as his ears. “The first team is preparing to strike, my master. Their orders are clear and specific. More teams move into place.”
Very good, Warchief Slar. You will bring the vessel to Dragonsclaw immediately upon his capture.
“I shall, master Galdreth.”
The shadowy spirit spiraled in upon itself, disappearing with an audible concussion.
Slar stood erect, shifting his swordbelt to its proper position. Sharrog rose with more ease than Radgred, who huffed and straightened his knees.
“I despise that being,” Sharrog spat at the emptiness left behind.
“You should watch your tongue.” Radgred pointed at the young warrior. “You are too untried to know what is best for your people.”
Slar sighed. I do not wish to agree with my son, but I do. He scratched his knuckles on his day-old beard. “Our people have fought among each other for centuries, ever since the humans returned. Trapped in the Northlands, without an outlet for our growth, we waste our lives and resources attacking each other over and over again.” Slar reached toward Sharrog. “If we follow Galdreth’s lead, we can unite our people and regain a place of power equal to, even surpassing, that of the other races. Without Galdreth’s presence, we would never have gotten this far in bringing the clans together.” He grabbed his son’s shoulders. “What we might do here has not been done in a thousand years.”
Sharrog spread his hands. “At what cost, father?”
Slar did not answer. He simply shook his head. “You are too young to understand. I will see that you learn.” He took a step back. “You will soon have a taste of the battle you claim to crave. You will scream Galdreth’s name when you charge into it.”
Sharrog tossed the piece of liver he had just bitten into back on the platter. He spit the chunk in his mouth onto the fire, where it hissed and spluttered away. “As you say, father.” He wiped his hands and face on a crimson towel. “I shall gather my grunts. We will march toward Dragonsclaw before the night is out. We shall be your eyes and ears along the western Dragonscales.”
Slar wanted to protest. He wanted this feast to continue into the night, with more wine and women to join them later. However, the burning in his stomach soured the idea of more food, and his pride prevented him asking Sharrog to stay.
Slar called to his son’s back as he stalked toward the stairwell. “You will have a place of honor in the host.”
Sharrog turned at the door. “Perhaps. Only I will fight with the ancient warcries of the Boar Clan on my lips.” His blood red eyes met Slar’s. “And I will die calling out the name of my mother and father.” He marched away down the steps.
Radgred tore into a chunk of mammoth loin and li
cked the grease from his skewer. “He will see reason.”
Slar shook his head. “I fear he already does.”
Fear not to incorporate the pagan traditions of the people when teaching them of the Balance. It is through our harnessing of their ingrained symbology and calendar that we can more easily spread the Temple’s influence to those of all previous faiths.
— Letters of Banelaw the Paladin to the High Elder Caladrion (122 A.R.)
The central dome of the Temple of Balance in Dadric did not spread wide enough to contain all of the townspeople. The situation required dozens of citizens to gather outside the circle of supporting pillars, huddled upon the grassy knoll on which the temple sat. Tallen Westar smelled the burning incense, but he heard only murmurs from the priest. If he stood on tiptoe, he could see the already bald young man swinging the censer. Behind Brother Benard, an older man in pristine black and white robes incanted prayers to the Balance, for good sun and plentiful rains to bless the fields this season.
I’ve heard it enough times to recite the bloody prayer myself. Tallen sighed. At least Father Vernin is quiet and kind. We’ve had worse before.
While Tallen listened to the priest drone on, most of his attention focused on the azure robed priestess of Water. Her exotic features enchanted him, with her almond eyes and chocolate colored skin. She hailed from the Southern Realm, near the border with Hadon, where Water worship remained quite common. Sister Jelena stopped by the Sleeping Gryphon once every summer to bless the grotto and pool that welled up behind it. She told Tallen once that it was ancient and holy. Alone of all holidays, the priests of Balance allowed the sister to join them in the temple for the Sowing Festival. Superstitious old farmers, whose purses the priests would dip into from time to time, considered it bad luck to ignore the Water Aspect at the Sowing Festival.
If Sister Jelena only knew what the priests said about her after a few drinks in the Gryphon. With a shake of his head, Tallen turned his gaze to the crowd gathered around him. He noticed Jennette standing near the outer edge of the temple with her father, who still wore the flour-dusted apron of his trade.
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