The Chronicles of Aurion

by Tiger Hebert

  The Chief’s right hand man ignored him though, and instead remained on high alert. Drawing in a deep breath, the former scout checked for scents upon the wind. His exhalation was accompanied by narrowing eyes that continued to search the shadows.

  “Gazrin, I don’t like it,” Traung warned again. “Orcs haven’t been this close to Kiskarn since the day your father was rescued.”

  Hagrum butted in again, saying, “You are an embarrassment to orcs.”

  Gazrin didn’t say anything, but he did fire a glance in Hagrum’s direction. The fat orc was too busy scowling at the target of his ire to notice. He hated that Gazrin trusted Traung. It should have been him, he thought. It was his mother after all, that bore Gazrin for Reklash and his wife. They were supposed to be brothers. But it was Traung who Gazrin confided in, so Hagrum took every opportunity to belittle him.

  “What is it about humans that scares you so much?” asked Hagrum mockingly.

  Muscles throughout Traung’s upper body rippled as he dug his fingernails into the saddle’s leather pommel. The orc took a deep breath before responding, then with a controlled exhale he released his breath and the saddle. He understood that despite how toxic and manipulative Hagrum could be, that he was not the real threat here.

  Traung sarcastically remarked, “Oh, I don’t know, perhaps it’s that our boy Gaz just chopped off their queen’s head.”

  The stone expression on Gazrin’s face shifted as he raised an eyebrow saying, “And?”

  “Never once, since the start of the war, have we ever gotten this far into human lands without real resistance,” replied Traung. “And now we march uncontested all the way to Kiskarn itself?”

  “We just torched three towns and slaughtered their villagers—,” started Hagrum.

  Traung interrupted him. “That’s my point! Villagers, not soldiers. Their queen is dead and now we just walk right in the front door? Hagrum, how stupid are you? Gaz, you have to see that this is a trap!”

  Full of vitriol, Hagrum said, “We are this close to destroying the humans and winning the war and you would have us turn back? How dare you rob the warmaster of his vengeance!”

  Traung fought to get through to his friend. “Gaz, trust me on this one, please,” he begged with wide eyes.

  “Why must you defy the will of the warmaster?” hissed Hagrum.

  “The warmaster? That’s all you call him. Did you forget that he is your chief now? Why do you hunger for war?” snapped Traung as he fought the urge to throttle Hagrum.

  Gazrin just stared off as he tried to process his friend’s impassioned plea. The past several weeks of village raids had been bountiful. They provided enough food to feed his people for the rest of the winter, but he struggled with the thought of turning back now. He was still haunted with the memory of what they did to his father. Then his eyes shifted to the lights in the distance, the lights of the Kiskarn Cathedral. The orc’s face revealed little before giving way to a painful grimace. His jaw tightened, jowls bulging. The highly pronounced vein emerged over his left temple, pulsing with each thundering beat of his heart, but he said nothing. He stood upon the threshold of retribution, and the door was about to come crashing down. His hand found the leather bound grip of GoreFang and strength surged through his body as he growled the orc creed, “Ker ut Kraw.”

  The orcs quietly echoed their creed, as they approached the sprawling city of Kiskarn. The city itself was a bit strange, because unlike most of the cities that were spread across this half of Aurion, Kiskarn had nothing in the way of defensive structures. It was as if the city grew too far too fast, preventing any walls from being built. It was absurd. These people had been at war with the orcs for almost twenty years, and they didn’t have so much as a wall or gate. The church’s arrogance was astounding.

  Gazrin raised a closed fist into the air, halting their advance. “Leave the menjar here; we walk.”

  Following the warmaster’s lead, the orc warriors dismounted and prepared to finish the journey on foot.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Ferruk as he surveyed the city that loomed before them.

  “The Cathedral burns tonight,” was Gazrin’s unflinching response.

  “The plan of attack?” inquired Traung.

  Gazrin lifted GoreFang to his side and snarled, “Kill everyone that gets in the way.”

  “Gaz, that’s an objective, not a plan. We need a plan,” argued Traung.

  In a hushed voice Ferruk urged the warmaster to reconsider. “Gaz, Traung’s right. Just look at all these homes and shops—they’re all dark. I know it’s late an’ all, but this don’t feel right.”

  Traung looked to his friend once more, but he didn’t see him. He only saw what was left of Gazrin. Crimson droplets fell from the orc’s dark green skin. Those burning eyes told a tale of vengeance as they narrowed into a focus that could not be undone. The chief’s unrelenting gaze locked onto the towering wall of stained glass that decorated the massive cathedral. The light inside illuminated the bright yellow and orange glass, casting its warm glow over the city’s frozen streets. Traung and Ferruk’s pleas failed, their words falling on deaf ears. He strode into the city with the orc war band right behind him.

  Gazrin lead the orc warriors forward. Silently, with crude cleavers and blades in hand, nearly two hundred orcs crept through the moonlit streets of Kiskarn. The bright light of the moon left them fully exposed as they snuck toward the towering building at the heart of the city. The only grace afforded them was the driving wind that muffled the sound their feet made as they crushed the crusted snow beneath their boots. The cathedral seemed to grow impossibly taller as they pressed closer. Gazrin and his warriors were only fifty yards away from it when something strange, something terrible happened.

  An eerie chant rose in the air at the precise moment that the winter winds fell silent. It was common for the humans to chant as they worshipped their gods, but this was different. It was not the human tongue; it was something foreign, and it wasn’t coming from the church. Gazrin froze his breathing to listen. He heard but a single utterance, repeated over and over again, by not one voice, but dozens. The chants were all around them. They were surrounded.

  The squeaky voice of a young woman rang out from a nearby rooftop. “Kri Bvor Kettuoro.” With just those three words, she issued the command. A radiant orb of light grew between her hands. The spiraling comet bore the flames of the setting sun’s angry gaze. The blazing sphere swelled rapidly, illuminating the girl’s young and scarred face long enough to allow the orcs to see her scream in agony as she released the ball of flame. Her petite body collapsed into the darkened void behind the flames. Her ball of fire surged down from the rooftop into the streets where the orcs were crowded.

  The ball of fire slammed into the frozen street, and the resulting blast enveloped several orcs. The flames tore at their clothes and gnawed at their flesh as it quickly consumed them. Hagrum was one of the three orcs that howled in pain as the flames overtook them. Chaos and confusion overtook the orcs, as a series of fiery orbs emerged in the night, each of their casters protected by the high rooftops of the city.

  “FrostFather,” exclaimed Gazrin, his face twisted in disbelief. They had never seen magic before. Despite the shock, the orc didn’t hesitate in bellowing the warcry, “Ker ut Kraw!”

  The orcs’ trained response was to answer the call, even in the midst of chaos, and they did. Some orcs tried to scale the walls of the buildings while others tried to throw daggers and axes at the fire-casters. There were too many though.

  The fire-casters worked quickly. Soon torrents of flame rained down upon the orcs from above, each one released to the tune of agony. The fire-casters themselves were being burned each time they released the fire! Even still, the storm of fireballs continued.

  The orcs tried to scramble for cover, but they were too bunched together. The smell of burning hair and flesh quickly filled the air as the city street became engulfed in flames. Burning bodies collided with those
that were not yet aflame, and the carnage spread.

  Gazrin dodged an incoming barrage only to be sent tumbling from the concussive blast. He rolled across the frigid ground, stopping only when he slammed into a nearby building. He was okay, but the blow to his head left him dazed. Holding his head in his hands, he watched his people burn as he fought to shake off the effects. Once he had gathered himself, he lifted his powerful body from the ground, and began to scale the side of the building. Orcs were not known for their climbing prowess, but something unnatural drove him.

  He reached up and grasped at the edge of the clay-tiled roof with one hand, and then the other. With a deep groan, the orc pulled his heavy body up just enough to climb onto the rooftop. There he saw a man at the other end of the roof, beginning to cast another spell upon the orcs below. Gazrin’s hand instinctively found the familiar feeling of soft leather creaking in his grip as he pulled GoreFang from its sheath on his back.

  Gazrin dashed across the flat roof toward his target, with his wicked blade at the ready. The vibration of the warmaster’s thundering steps alerted the human. The robed man spun, his growing orb of fire still between his hands, but it was too late. The barbed bite of GoreFang was too much for flesh and bone.

  Gazrin took a quick look around at the battle scene. Ferruk and two other orcs had managed to reach different rooftops, taking out a handful of enemies, but at least two dozen of the flame-tossing mages remained. Their fiery assaults burned his people alive. His legs propelled him through the air toward the next rooftop before he could even think, as his body instinctively threw itself into battle. Gazrin’s cut his enemies down with his barbaric blade and the fury to match. He did not just kill the humans, he butchered them, leaving naught but mutilated corpses in his wake.

  Soon Traung and joined his old friend and a few other orcs atop the roof. The five orcs charged toward the final remnant of mages. The seven humans that remained turned their attention toward their attackers. The first few didn’t stand a chance. The orcs closed in on them too fast. The stone cleavers destroyed them before their incantations could be completed, and the orcs surged forward over their dead bodies.

  “Bekla Somni Vish,” shouted a voice two rooftops away. The violent purple light arced through the air before it hit its mark. A thunderous crack was joined by the horrific screams of one of the charging orcs. The bolt of energy laid waste to his body; like an unseen axe rending flesh, it split him apart. The orc’s legs and torso crashed separately to the tiled surface of the roof. His cries filled the air, and then another flash of light came. The second bolt of violet lightning missed its target, but it destroyed the rooftop, sending the second orc crashing to the burning streets below.

  Traung’s axe found its way into the chest of the last fire-caster, leaving only the mage who hurled the purple lightning from the next roof. But then they heard those words again.

  “Kill him!” roared Gazrin as Traung and Ferruk raced toward the final human.

  The slender human once again uttered the words, “Bekla Somni Vish.” He cried out in pain as the white violet light leapt from his fingertips. The awful crack of thunder was accompanied by a sickening thud as Ferruk’s headless body crashed to the ground below. He must have spoken those words again, because he howled in pain as he hunched over and the next bolt of energy arced toward Gazrin with blinding speed. He was suddenly crashing to the tiled surface and the agonized cry echoed, but it wasn’t his own. Traung tried to pull himself over to his chief, but his legs were gone. Blood rushed from the place where he had been struck.

  “Noooo!” raged Gazrin as he watched his best friend die in front of him.

  Gazrin squeezed the grip of his bloody blade, then sprang to his feet. The orc sprinted toward the shadowy rooftop where the last mage stood, hunched over. Gazrin leapt across the final chasm, and darted towards the mage with GoreFang prepared to bite. The mage was too weakened from his spells to defend himself when Gazrin jumped toward him.

  “Vek Minu Khai,” snapped a feminine voice.

  Clutched in two hands, GoreFang was preparing to descend when the orc was halted in midair. His body hung suspended a couple feet off of the ground, his hands bound and crushed by an enormous force. He looked up and found bands of black light wrapped around his wrists, shackling them together.

  The enraged orc spat blood and howled, “I’ll kill you!”

  “No orc, you won’t,” answered the female voice. “Or should I call you Gazrin, son of the notorious Reklash.”

  He looked around, but he couldn’t see anyone other than the scrawny man before him, who had now collapsed to the ground.

  “No orc, you won’t kill him and you won’t kill me,” the woman said as she stepped out of the shadows. “I have something special in mind for you.”

  “Killing all my people wasn’t enough?” he snarled, his eyes searching her darkened face.

  “No, not for you, great StormHowl; that could never be enough,” she answered with a chill in her voice.

  “Then kill me and be done with it, witch,” he growled.

  “Oh no, I have waited far too long for this day,” was her reply, tinged with an unsettling sense of amusement.

  The full figured woman stepped out into the moonlight. Her salted-raven hair framed her lovely pale face. Her beautiful, but cold smile sent chills down his spine, making him unable to speak. So she continued.

  The orc groaned from the painful grasp of the magical bindings. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  She stepped almost close enough to touch him, the smile still upon her lips. “Revenge, of course.”

  “Humans started the war, but you want revenge? Ha!” shouted the orc before spitting blood toward her.

  “You see, your father stole something from me, something very special. And then you, young StormHowl, have stolen from me too. I have tried everything to get them back. I have failed in that endeavor, but as you can see, I discovered…other things…valuable things along the way,” said the woman.

  “We stole nothing from you,” he barked.

  “Oh, you have stolen much from me, orc. Nineteen years ago, your father proved he deserved to be kept in those chains. When that monster was freed, orcs slaughtered thousands of innocent people! Among them, my lover and the father of my child,” said the sorceress as tears of bitterness began to well up in her eyes. “He wasn’t an officer or a soldier, just a simple farmer, and your people murdered him too.”

  Unmoved, the scowling orc simply grunted.

  “For nineteen years I wished to annihilate your kind, wiping them from the face of this planet,” said the woman through clenched teeth. “But one voice always stayed my hand. My beautiful but naive daughter held too firmly to the ideal of peace between humans and orcs, and she held it until you cut off her head!”

  A moment of realization washed over the orc. His mind flashed back to the young woman who had stood before him in the name of peace. That young woman, the queen had come humbly before him, risking her own life, for the sake of peace—and in his fury, he had killed her. The ache in his arms and shoulders helped bring his focus back to the present. He hung there, awaiting his fate, fully realizing now the role he had played in it. He stared at the grief-stricken woman, and for the first time in his life, he felt pity for someone other than himself or his father. It allowed the orc to take his eyes off of himself and study her for a moment. The lines in her face showed age and beauty, her tearful eyes which once offered gentleness only carried sorrow and resentment now. Then, as he silently contemplated these things, a tiny flicker of light that had previously gone unnoticed caught his eye. It was the large gemstone that hung around her neck. It was huge, nearly the size of the woman’s fist. Its color would have been impossible to determine in the night were it not for the violet light that seemed to periodically pulse through the stone.

  Noticing his focus on the gem, Queen Yezreth chuckled, “Oh, don’t worry Gazrin StormHowl, you will become quite familiar with the strange qualit
ies of my Elder Stone. It is quite a marvelous thing…”

  His emotions twisted in his mind. Her amusement drew his ire and he snapped, “Claim your prize, witch. Kill me. It is what you long for.”

  “Kill you? That would be too good for you, orc. No, you will not only witness the annihilation of your people, you will be its herald,” declared Yezreth as she broke off a wicked cackle.

  The winter winds returned, seemingly at her beckoning. Gazrin shook violently as rage once again consumed him. The mighty orc fought with all his strength to break free from the magical restraints, but they did not falter. The imprisoned orc raged as his fury grew, but his howls were devoured by the wind.

  5

  Rise and Ruin

  Absell and Arden agreed: the warm sunlight and the cool sea breeze felt marvelous. The foul weather had quite literally put a damper on much of their voyage, so it was nice to finally spend some time above deck.

  “How are my two favorite customers doing today?” asked Captain Ponterossi, as he peeled an orange.

  “Excellent, Captain. It’s nice to finally see some sunshine,” admitted Absell.

  “Yep, we should have clear sailing for the next couple o’ days. Who knows beyond that,” Ponterossi added.

  “How much longer do you think it will be before we reach Antirri?” asked Arden.

  “Hard tellin’, not knowin’, but my guess is another two weeks,” answered Ponterossi. “Unless of course we come across some…opportunities.”

  That dangerous grin of his returned. Arden had every right to be frightened. Captain Ponterossi scared the daylights out of grown men from one end of the Black Sea to the other. The world was full of tales of his schemes and foul deeds. Ships were never just ransacked. The crews were never just captured. No, Ponterossi made a statement with each and every “opportunity” that came his way. The crews were killed and the ships were always burned. It seemed odd to many that Captain Ponterossi was squandering valuable resources. Both ships and slaves would of course fetch fine prices on the black markets, but the Captain understood one thing that many men found out the hard way. His reputation was far more valuable.