The Chronicles of Aurion

by Tiger Hebert

  “Nope,” answered one of the orcs in a calm and clear voice.

  “Oh, so you’re just here to kill me,” he replied.

  “Nope,” answered the orc with a grin as he smashed the chains that held his friend captive, “but he will.”

  Without hesitation, Reklash lunged forward with terrifying speed. Valric attempted to fend him off with the blade, but the orc was too quick. Reklash spun past the sword and delivered a devastating shot with his forearm. The clothesline maneuver dropped the captain on impact. The dull thud of his body slamming into the frozen ground was punctuated by the sound of the breath being forced from his lungs. The captain struggled to catch his breath as the orc descended upon him. Reklash went for the kill, burying his fangs into the man’s throat. With one violent jerk of his head, he ripped Valric open, and it was over.

  Many of the orcs looked away from the horrific scene. Steam rose from the freshly blood-painted snow and the warm body slowly began to cool. Reklash was finally free, but he just sat there for a moment, kneeling over the body, blood dripping down from his mouth.

  The memories flashed through the chambers of his mind, bringing him back to another time. It was his sense of smell that was awakened first. The sulfurous smell of burning hair, his hair, filled his nostrils and coated the back of his throat. The aching memories of the bone-cracking blows found their way into his ribs once more. He could feel the iron shackles cutting deeper into his flesh as he struggled to break free, but he could not escape them. He was called a beast and a demon, and the purging process continued…for months. The memories of his imprisonment kept flowing through the orc’s mind.

  That was four years ago, but Reklash remembered it well. He remembered the smell. He remembered the pain. Oh, how he remembered the pain, but what he remembered more than anything, was the taste of blood. It was the taste of hatred.

  The orc growled as he pushed his weight down upon the man pinned beneath his boot. The frightened human squirmed to break free until he realized it was hopeless. So he did what anyone would do: he begged for mercy. Screamed, rather.

  “This village will burn,” growled Reklash as saliva oozed out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Reklash, that’s enough,” warned one of the older orcs that stood nearby.

  “You know we can’t trust these dogs,” barked Reklash.

  “Brother, stop! Leave these people alone; they are innocent,” reasoned the elder.

  “There are no innocent humans, Kurgall!” snapped Reklash as he squeezed the haft of his cleaver.

  Kurgall argued, “They are not the ones who—”

  “I have seen what their kind is capable of…” The enraged orc cut him off, “Yet they called me the monster.”

  The elder orc continued to plead with him, “Reklash, please, just let it go.”

  Reklash looked around at the human village that surrounded them and then he glanced down once more at the human that was being crushed under his foot. He slowly lifted the edge of his crude cleaver away from the man’s neck and he took his giant foot off the man’s chest.

  Reklash watched the human cry out in relief as he gave thanks. Then as he stood over the man, a drop of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he remembered. He remembered the taste…and he liked it.

  3

  Legacy of Blood

  Arden retched into the wooden bucket as the ship continued to sway upon the stormy seas. The weather had turned worse, keeping Absell and Arden cooped up in their humble quarters. They each could have used a break; a break from the cramped quarters and each other. The rain didn’t care about their comfort, though; it just kept pouring down, and Absell’s patience was wearing thin.

  “Can’t you just get it all out at once?” snapped Absell.

  Arden just groaned before doubling over again.

  Absell waited for him to finish and said, “You know, at this rate I will never be able to teach you—”

  “For heaven’s sake man—” started Arden, before discarding the last bits of his breakfast.

  “Goodness boy, there can’t possibly be anything left in there.”

  “Ugh…think you’re right…” muttered Arden, after rinsing out his mouth.

  “I hope so, because you have a lot to learn,” added the elder.

  Arden took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay…so the humans were enslaving the orcs, right?”

  “Well, no, not exactly. In most cases, orcs and humans simply avoided each other. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t all the Church’s fault either. Yes, they certainly made matters worse, but it all really started because of the ambitions of one man,” said Absell.

  “That bastard, Captain Valric!” guessed Arden.

  “Indeed, and you saw what happened to him,” said Absell.

  “He had it coming!”

  “He did,” agreed the teacher with a scowl.

  “But this is the start of our tale, not the end…” added Absell with a grin. “Nineteen years of bloodshed had passed; it was the year of 7286.”

  Thick clouds of smoke were pulled up and away by the sea breeze that blew in from the east. The smell of saltwater and burning homes fought for supremacy, each trying to outdo the other. The wind tugged on the coarse strands of Gazrin’s matted hair, but he just stood there looking on with pursed lips and a furrowed brow as the last cries had fallen silent. Another victory had been secured.

  The orc remained quiet as he picked up a freshly carved kluelle haunch from the nearby table. He hoisted it up just below his nose and closed his eyes. Drawing in a deep breath, he took in the spicy aroma. His mouth watered in anticipation and his tongue washed over his lips. Dark green eyelids sprang open, revealing intense eyes, their earthen brown hue highlighted by amber striations. His lips receded as his fangs plunged into the meat, sending drops of the golden juice squirting across his chin. Gazrin forced the partially chewed meat down, then he stepped over the body.

  It was just one of many though. The bodies of men, women, and even children littered the ground of this sea-side village. His creed was nothing sacred, nothing spared. Vengeance lived, and its name was Gazrin StormHowl.

  He wasn’t the biggest orc in the StormHowl tribe, but what Gazrin lacked in stature, he made up for in ferocity. Gazrin was the fire that burned in the veins of his people. He was an orc of few words, instead speaking through action—decisive, savage action. Since his appointment to warmaster, just three years ago, he had driven the orcs far beyond victory.

  The well-armored and highly trained soldiers of the Church’s army were no match for his forces. The ambushes that he became known for were uncontested feats of might, resulting in slaughter. The orcs would lie in wait, and when the human forces would pass by, the orcs would descend from the mountains like wildfire—moving swiftly with reckless abandon. With GoreFang in his grasp, Gazrin always led the charge. The crude weapon, formed from a wild menjar tusk, befitted such a menacing warrior. The heavy blade was rimmed with natural wave-like serrations, that bit and tore at its enemies. Yet the weight of the massive blade made it serve more as a barbed cudgel in some ways. It was the perfect tool for the work of a butcher.

  Simply winning those battles was never the plan. The brutality that ensued when Gazrin’s war band descended upon his foes was disturbing. It was far more than hacking and slashing; it was ripping and burning and tearing. He wouldn’t have any more mercy for humans than they had had for Reklash.

  He was just a boy then, but he remembered the day his father came home, and the haunting image of his marred body was seared into his mind. The flesh of one eye socket so scarred from the burns that it was rendered useless, and the entire expanse of his big green body told a story of torture. The pale green color of the scar tissue seemed to stretch out in every possible direction. And then there was that mark, the four-cornered eye, they called it. That insidious symbol of four diamond shaped eyes that were all bound by a circular eye at their center was the mark of the Church of Providence.
Even the chipped fang that jutted from his father’s mouth screamed of injustice.

  That day his father had vowed that the orcs of the Frostlands would never suffer at the hands of humans again. What had once been a tenuous and mistrusting relationship at best between the two races was now the memory of better days. The StormHowl tribe was at war.

  From boyhood, Gazrin watched his father lead their people. Reklash was a source of pride amongst them; they drew strength and courage from his boldness. He was an orc without fear, perhaps because he placed it all into the hearts and minds of the men and women of the valley. But the indomitable force behind the StormHowl tribe was fading. Age had betrayed Reklash, and his strength waned, giving way to sickness. Time and time again, he found the strength, deep within himself, to pull through. That well appeared to have finally run dry.

  As his condition worsened, the SpiritCallers begged the FrostFather for his healing, but their prayers went unanswered. Even though Reklash spat defiantly in the face of fate, he knew that soon his spirit would depart his body to join with the earth. Gazrin’s time to lead had come.

  Gazrin refused to accept the reality that stared him in the face. He saw that his father’s sickness had nearly run its course and his days ran short, but the glorious memories of Reklash’s victories against the humans lived on. Gazrin saw the battles play out in his mind, time and time again. He knew he could never be the champion his father was, but he hoped that his father would look upon him, in life or in death, with pride.

  The orc warmaster took another bite of the tender, smoked kluelle meat before handing the haunch off to one of his men. He scanned the village one more time as he chewed. Then he nodded his head in silent acknowledgement of the moment’s significance.

  “It’s done, Warmaster,” said Traung.

  Gazrin never made eye contact with Traung, instead his eyes shifted north.

  “Gazrin...you did it,” added Traung. “It’s done.”

  Those words should have had a finality to them, but they didn’t. The last human village upon the foothills of the Frostridge Mountains was destroyed, its inhabitants cut down. But the warmaster’s gaze was unrelenting as he scanned the horizon.

  “Warmas—,” started Traung before being cut off.

  “The war is not over, as long as they live,” snarled Gazrin.

  “Who?” asked Ferruk.

  “The Church of Providence,” he replied as he squeezed the grip of GoreFang.

  Ferruk responded, “Warmaster… there are no more churches here.”

  “I know,” was the quiet and controlled response.

  “You want to take the fight to Kiskarn and Rotenschof?” asked Traung.

  “Do humans live there?” asked Gazrin with his eyes still fixed on some place far beyond his sight.

  “Yes,” answered Ferruk.

  “And churches?” he asked.

  Again, Ferruk’s answer was, “Yes.”

  “Then the war is not over,” growled the warmaster.

  None of the orcs dared argue with the heart of the StormHowl, but they exchanged concerned glances with each other as they departed. The orcs mounted up and began their ride home, atop the mighty menjar. The creatures were not little, but they were rather stout and squat; they were the larger, hairier cousins of the jungle boars near the eastern kingdom of Jzatun. Like any wild beast that had been tamed, they could be dangerous, but the truth was that the menjar were not as terrible as they appeared. Even the tusks with their wicked barbs were used for tearing up the sweet roots of the khalia trees. They were great mounts on this rough terrain though, and soon the entire war party was on their way back to their home up in the mountains.

  There was a buzz in the air when the orc war party returned to their village, but it wasn’t to welcome home the troops. Instead, all the commotion throughout the mountainside village was directed toward a caravan that approached very slowly in the distance. The horse-drawn coach was guarded by twelve heavily armored warriors on horseback. Like the long tabards that draped over their armors, a single banner of the richest purple cloth whipped and snapped in the chilly mountain winds above them. That banner bore the four-cornered eye. These soldiers were the Ki’Roten, the knights of the Church of Providence.

  Gazrin’s heart was a war drum, pounding with anticipation. The very sight of that symbol stoked a fire that the Frostlands themselves couldn’t cool. His primal urge to unleash the StormHowl tribe upon them raged inside of him, but the knights carried white flags. Even for all his hatred, he would honor the old codes, and these particular white banners meant that they sought a parley.

  “After nineteen years of bloodshed, do they really seek peace?” asked Traung rhetorically.

  “The only peace humans know is when everyone is crushed beneath their boots,” spat Gazrin bitterly. “They may seek this…peace, but my father is no fool.”

  Traung asked, “Do you want me to go get—?”

  “I’ll go,” interrupted a potbellied orc who walked toward them. “Today has been rough on him. The fever...it...confuses him.”

  “Hagrum, I must see my father,” demanded Gazrin as he moved toward his father’s tent.

  Hagrum put his hands up in gentle protest and stepped in front of him saying, “Of course, my friend. The end is near for him, but please, let me make sure the fever has passed. He asked me not to let you see him that way. Please, let me honor his request.”

  Gazrin would honor his father in any way possible, so he simply responded with an orcish grunt.

  “Traung, you and Gazrin begin the parley. We will join you if Reklash is well enough,” added Hagrum.

  Gazrin nodded and Hagrum turned away and waddled toward the chief’s tent, which sat at the back end of the camp. As he approached the tent, Hagrum peeled back the thick menjar hide that served as a door flap, then he ducked inside. His eyes adjusted quickly to the candle-lit darkness as he made haste toward the ailing chief.

  “Gaz, son, is that you?” Reklash asked.

  Hagrum hesitated before answering, “Yes, Father...it’s me.”

  “Gaz, this war—” started the Chief before coughing overtook him.

  “Just rest, Father,” said Hagrum in a hushed voice.

  The coughing spell broke and Reklash spoke, “I have been blinded.”

  “It’s from the sickness, Father,” replied Hagrum.

  “Yes, son, but not this one,” he said between deep breaths.

  “What?” asked Hagrum as he leaned toward Reklash.

  “My hatred, my desire for vengeance…that was my sickness, and it left me blind,” groaned Reklash before coughing up a few drops of blood.

  “Please, Father do not carry this burden, just be at peace,” insisted Hagrum.

  “Son, please—” started Reklash before a fit of coughing stopped him. “Please, do not be blinded by hatred. Do not let it consume you, like it did me.”

  The words were far from touching Hagrum’s heart. He remembered the humans killing his father, and he wished they had only killed his mother. The humans took everything he had. Now all that was left was the hatred, and Hagrum wasn’t about to let go of it.

  “Be at peace...Father,” replied Hagrum as he crept closer to the ailing chief. The corpulent orc finally moved into the light of the candle’s faint glow, revealing his face to the sick orc. The cold, emotionless glare upon his face was frightening.

  Reklash gasped, his eyes wide with alarm. “You’re not my son! Hagrum, what’s the meaning of—” The raspy wet cough cut off his words once again.

  “No, I am not your son,” spat Hagrum. “But I am a child of your vision, and I will protect Gazrin from the weakness that has seeped into your blood.”

  Reklash tried to muster strength as the fat orc approached him, but even his voice was bereft of its former power. “There is no peace in vengeance—”

  Hagrum moved quickly, grabbing a nearby wet rag and forcing it over Reklash’s nose and mouth. The sickly chief’s body couldn’t remember its st
rength. Soon the struggle was over. The muffled cries for help were gone and the orc’s body lay lifeless. Hagrum tossed the wet rag back onto the table where he found it and walked out of the tent.

  At the other end of the StormHowl village, Gazrin and Traung stood face to face with the Church’s contingent. The orcs and the knights gave their leaders space to discuss the matters at hand, but neither force stood more than a few yards away. This war had seen many lives lost on both sides and neither race had any reason to trust the other.

  “Gazrin, your name is well known, as are your… accomplishments,” said the surprisingly tall woman, as she glared at him with unflinching gray eyes. Anjerra slowly cocked her head to the left, causing the strands of raven hair to fall over her shoulder as she continued. “But, I had hoped to speak with Chief Reklash.”

  Gazrin knew the rules of war; he couldn’t reveal any information to an adversary. He wouldn’t let them know the chief was ill. “Reklash has left these matters in my hands, Priestess,” he growled.

  The dark-haired woman was not amused. “Very well then. We both know that this war has been costly to both sides. We have lost countless people and villages, while your own tribe has shrunk dramatically. Neither side can afford to continue this war any longer; too much blood has been shed.”

  The dark skinned orc scowled at her, unaffected by her beauty. “I think you’re scared.”

  “Scared?” asked Anjerra. “Your forces have done well…slaughtering farmers and merchants. But that time is over, orc.”

  “The church is scared, otherwise they wouldn’t have sent a priestess,” growled Gazrin, slobber dripping from his mouth. “The Church of Providence starts a war, then comes to us begging for peace?”

  “You misunderstand me, orc. I do not come here asking you for peace. I come here offering your people a chance at survival. The Ki’Roten are a force that a hundred orc tribes could not withstand. This is a war you will not win,” declared Anjerra with an even volume, but a sharpening tone.