A Tide of Bones

by Ben Stovall

  With a deep breath, he continued walking along the battlements. On his right was the large park the orcs had made into their campground. A bonfire roared in the open center of the camp, with many of the green bodies surrounding it. The dwarf could only guess at what was happening down there, having never really seen an orc settlement or their nightly rituals. He entered a small room built onto the wall’s spine. It had no doors, only empty entryways and windows. On the left was a ladder that led to the top of the room, for a better vantage of the area around, and on the left, was …

  “Inaru?” Tyrdun asked.

  The orc started slightly, caught unaware by his friend’s presence. “Tyrdun … what are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Tyrdun answered. A quick moment passed between them before he added, “Wait, what are you doing here? I thought ye’d be down there?” Tyrdun pointed to the bonfire from the window.

  “I have not gone to see Uldrik yet,” he replied.

  “I see,” the dwarf said. “I can’t blame ye, based on yer stories.” The empathy was not lost on the orc as Tyrdun smiled slightly at his friend. He looked out onto the colored tents with the warrior, noticing they were arranged by hue.

  “Krolligar survived,” Inaru said.

  “I know. Met him on the road, actually.” He looked at his friend, who remained stoic. “That is a good thing, right?”

  “It is. He’s changed a lot,” Inaru said.

  They stood quietly for a moment, glad for the presence of the other but not needing to fill the silence with conversation. Minutes flew by before Tyrdun noticed Inaru carried his weapons.

  “Is that a new axe?” the dwarf asked.

  Inaru smiled. “It is.” He pulled the axe from its sheathe and presented it to the dwarf. “A gift from Warchief Ironjaw.”

  Tyrdun ran his finger along the rune, and Inaru opened his mouth but the dwarf shouted, “No! Don’t tell me! I’ve seen this one before!” He scrutinized it arduously, running his fingers through his beard. “Lightning!”

  “Storm,” Inaru corrected with pride. “Very close, my friend.”

  “This is very well made. Dwarven? Who enchanted it?”

  “Ironjaw said it had been in his family forever. That it was forged by ancient orc mage-smiths. A lost craft. Truly an extraordinary weapon.”

  “Incredible,” Tyrdun murmured. “Why do you have it on you, though?”

  “… I have a bad feeling about that,” Inaru said, pointing to the bonfire in the center of the orc camp. “It’s late, and there’s a lot of orcs out of their tents.”

  “Did ye notice them there before coming here?”

  “No,” the orc replied.

  “So, that’s not originally why you grabbed it,” Tyrdun pressed.

  Inaru frowned. “Uldrik is up to something … something horrible. I know it. I just don’t know what it is.” The orc dragged his hand down his face. “I should go investigate.”

  “Do ye want me to come with ye?”

  “I want you to. But I must go alone.” Inaru sighed. “Get some rest, Tyrdun.”

  The dwarf half-smiled at the orc. “I’ll see you in the morning, if I can get to sleep. If not, I’ll see you tonight, laddie.” Then, he spun around and headed back to the tower.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Inaru watched Tyrdun walk back down the battlements. He stared into the darkness until he could no longer hear the dwarf’s footsteps. Then, with a languid sigh, he looked back to the campground. Grimacing, he set off, walking northward to the nearest stairway to the camp.

  The orc was unable to tear his gaze from the bonfire’s flickering reaches his whole walk down the rampart. The flames danced, almost rhythmically, but that observation only troubled him further.

  Before he knew it, he had entered the tower on the northern side of King’s Way’s gate. Further on were two more such towers on the flanks of the northwestern gate, then one at the corner of the palisade even further down the walkway. He found the stairway on his right and descended. Inside, a guard slept on a cot next to a smoldering fire, wearing his armor minus the helmet, the sword leaned up against the wall beside him. Inaru crept through the room as quietly as he could manage and closed the door slowly as he left.

  With large, quick strides, he nearly jogged to the encampment. He ran past a few smaller roads and alleyways until he came to the park’s edge. The sight from here was even more distressing. Every orc in Souhal watched, staring toward the central bonfire, and most were screaming in outrage and a few even had tears streaking their cheeks. Inaru muscled his way through the crowd, shoving and pushing as needed to get a view of the proceedings.

  A gasp tore free of his lips. Uldrik stood before the bonfire, four poles making an arena around him. The smell of iron. Blood had been spilled. Over the orcs, he still couldn’t see the center entirely, couldn’t see anything but Uldrik cheering with his huge, wicked axe high above his head. Inaru doubled his efforts, rushing through the crowd, throwing men and women alike out of his path. He hoped none would begrudge him the effort, but he had to see—

  A yell of pain stole into the air, followed by another. The second had undoubtedly belonged to Uldrik, but Inaru wasn’t sure about the first. Finally, he burst through the crowd’s edge, standing just outside the rope-circle arena. Alaka and Gorban were tied to the poles on his right and left respectively, and thrown into the fire, burning, his face barely recognizable to Inaru, was Altokan’s corpse, his blood soaking the ground under the large blaze. The orcs were screaming and shouting at the injustice, but Uldrik ignored them as he swung his axe at Warchief Ironjaw, who barely managed a parry, then a strike on the Bloodmaw Warchief’s left shoulder. Inaru wanted to scream himself, to call out the madness of this event, but he hesitated, half-hoping Ironjaw would prove to be Uldrik’s end.

  But he only hesitated. “Uldrik!” he yelled, his voice raw with rage.

  Ironjaw’s gaze shot to the young orc. “Inaru? What—”

  Uldrik roared, hefting his axe into the air. He slammed the edge down into Ironjaw’s shoulder as he turned to Inaru, cleaving into his chest almost to his waist. Ironjaw’s eyes grew wide. A cough burst his lips, blood flowing from his mouth, gushing momentarily, like a river overtaking a dam of rocks. Uldrik’s cackle broke the stunned silence that had stolen into the crowd as Ironjaw fell onto his knees. Ironjaw’s eyes twisted with pain as he looked at Inaru, the orc’s last moment of lucidity, before Uldrik kicked the corpse from his axe.

  “Ironjaw!” the Bloodmaw Warchief yelled. “Your clan is no more!”

  “What have you done?” Inaru asked, his voice shaking.

  Uldrik finally noticed Inaru’s presence. He grinned maliciously, walking closer. “Welcome, son! Welcome, to this night of history! For decades, tales will be spun of my glory for this night!”

  “What have you done?” Inaru spat the question.

  Uldrik beamed. “I am fulfilling my destiny! Ovaruk himself honored my path after I slayed that dog, Barduss! He told me what I had always known deep within, that I was meant to unite the clans—that I will lead them to a new life, as one people, united, forever! And this—” the warchief turned in place, arms outstretched to the city beyond “—this will be our city! Souhal! Ours!” A cheer went up from the Bloodmaw orcs who stood on opposite side of the arena from Inaru. He hadn’t even noticed them there, screaming with joy at Uldrik’s display. He saw Krolligar and Rhu had both been beaten and bloodied, tied to a smaller mast to the left of the ring of blood, and no orcs dared stand at their side.

  Inaru’s scowl broke into a snarl. I … I did this. This is my fault. I brought a madman into my home and left him to his own machinations. And now …

  I won’t let him finish what he’s started. “Father. You have betrayed and dishonored me with your actions, as you have done your whole life. I invoke Tal’rok.”

  A gasp rippled over the crowd, one that would have echoed had there been any walls to bounce from. Uldrik’s mad grin faded, his elatio
n dissolving as he stared at Inaru. His visage twisted into a scowl unmatched. Fury bubbled beneath the surface of the warchief’s face, showing through clearly as he spoke, “Tal’rok? Tal’rok? You are unworthy—of everything! You are the biggest disappointment to all I have achieved, Inaru. Everything I have done in the last twenty-seven years has been despite you. And now, on the eve of my greatest moment, you challenge me this final time.

  “I accept. Enter the ring.” Uldrik turned on his heel and walked to the edge of the bonfire. He did not turn as Inaru drew his axes and cut the rope between him and the arena. Uldrik put his back to the fire, his face calm and controlled, but Inaru could see the thin veil between his façade and the rage underneath. He knew his father that well, at least.

  Inaru set himself into a stance, his left hand forward in preparation of a parry, and Storm off to the right, ready to counterattack. Uldrik hefted his axe, holding it with both hands to his right as he began charging. His mouth fell open, howling as he sprinted toward his son. Inaru waited until his father was a mere seven feet away, readying his axe to swing, before he threw himself to the right, rolling out of Uldrik’s path. The warchief’s axe cut into the dirt half a foot deep. He roared, using the handle to carry himself around toward Inaru, then pulling it free and bringing it overhead in a wide, swinging arc. Inaru kicked off the ground away from the swing, dodging its path entirely.

  “Stand and fight, coward!” Uldrik screamed. Inaru couldn’t help but smirk in response, causing the warchief to seethe. Uldrik lunged forward, axe coming leftward. Inaru managed to deflect the blow, the parry thankfully successful, but the strength and momentum of the attack sent the weapon from his hand three feet away from him. Inaru brought Storm around in rightward chop, surprising Uldrik. The weapon slammed into the warchief’s left arm, cutting through the heavy plates and into the muscles of his elbow. Inaru felt it strike the bone, and wrenched it out, blood and flesh raining onto the ground underneath them and freshly painting the warchief’s armor.

  Uldrik, grimacing, dropped his axe, knowing his strikes would be weak and unsatisfactory without both hands. Inaru brought Storm around again, seeing his chance to strike, but the warchief dove away and grabbed Inaru’s other axe from the ground. He lunged as he rose with the weapon, lashing out wickedly with rage. Inaru didn’t manage to stop the blow, unprepared as he was for the speed of the strike. It cut into his right side, the armor softening the blow enough that it didn’t cut into him but an inch – he hoped. Blood covered the white scales as the axe came out of his body, and Inaru had to take a few steps away from Uldrik to recover.

  The Bloodmaw Warchief and Inaru mirrored each other in a circle of steps, both awaiting the other’s reengagement. Uldrik spoke, “I knew you would betray me again. I should’ve killed you when you came back to my hold. Know that I will end Krolligar once I’ve thrown your body into the fire.”

  Inaru snorted. He said nothing.

  Which only served to infuriate Uldrik further. He bellowed again and dashed toward Inaru. Their weapons slammed together, once, twice, three times, four … Uldrik’s blows became more unmeasured, focused on quantity over quality. Unfortunately, it was working. Inaru spent every moment defending himself, unable to take advantage of any openings Uldrik’s flurry left. He was being pushed back into the center of the ring. He felt the heat of the bonfire on his back. Cursing, he parried a blow, then brought his fist around, connecting with Uldrik’s jaw. The warchief scowled, reeling from the strike, but swung again, hitting the broadside of Inaru’s axe. It jostled the weapon from his hand, but Inaru grabbed Uldrik’s arm with his left hand and held it still. He wrapped his right hand around the axe and wrenched it away, only managing to toss it aside. Uldrik punched him, square in the abdomen, and Inaru answered with a blow to his throat.

  The warchief wheezed, and Inaru threw his weight onto him, throwing the pair of them to the ground. He straddled his father, getting his boot down on the cut elbow. Uldrik howled in pain, his right arm reaching for Inaru’s throat. He held the probing limb away with his left and began pummeling the warchief’s face. A strike to the cheek. The nose. The ear. The jaw, twice. The temple. The mouth, twice. Uldrik roared throughout the beating, red ichor flying from his mouth into the dirt. A pair of teeth fell from him, and his broken tusk. Inaru looked down at his father’s bloody maw, and almost grinned. Uldrik was dizzy from the strikes, his face already beginning to swell. His arms were both limply on the ground at his sides. Inaru grabbed the right arm, and twisted it, a loud crack resounding as a scream broke the night air.

  He held the orc up by his armor’s collar. “It’s over, Uldrik,” Inaru spat. He rose, pulling the warchief with him. The orc’s bulk was the only thing that delayed him, as he was in no position to fight back any longer. He dragged him to the bonfire and threw him at it. Logs fell into the arena from the clash, and Uldrik fell flat on his chest as he bounced off the rigid wood, his back black with burns. Inaru hefted Strom off the ground and walked over to the warchief. He wrenched him upward again, forcing him to sit on his knees.

  Uldrik spit another tooth from his pulp of a face. He wheezed, and said, “You … will doom them …”

  Inaru roared, axe slamming into Uldrik’s shoulder, cutting down into his chest. Lightning broke the sky as the rune on the axe’s head flashed with power. The bolt slammed into Uldrik, roasting him, blood and skin exploding onto Inaru and the smoldering logs around them. He pulled the weapon out, and with a quick strike, removed Uldrik’s head from his shoulders. With another bellow, he kicked it into the fire. Inaru nearly fell to the ground, to his knees, but simply grabbed his weapons, returned them to his sheaths, and stepped away. Without even knowing where he’d been going, he crouched beside Alaka, and set about untying her bonds. He didn’t notice the Blood Raven orc scramble away from his approach, that had been holding a dagger to her throat throughout the display to ensure the orc’s compliance.

  “The … the Blood Ravens. He made Rhu do this,” she said.

  “Save your strength, warchief,” Inaru whispered.

  “I would be next to Ironjaw on the ground if you had not come,” she added.

  “Ironjaw may have won, had I not come,” Inaru said despondently. He gave the corpses a forlorn look before continuing to untie Alaka.

  “Look there,” she asked him. He glanced over to where her eyes led and saw a group of orcs wearing four distinct colors untying Gorban, Krolligar, and Rhu. “Bloodmaw, Ironjaw, Blood Ravens, and Blood Suns all answer to you now.”

  Inaru’s jaw hung low as he watched them break the bounds of the prisoners. “I … I am a warchief …”

  “You are the warchief. Gorban and I owe you our lives … everyone can see that.”

  The last of the bindings were untied and he looked at Alaka nonplussed. He stared at her, dumbfounded, before finally speaking again, “I can’t believe it.”

  Alaka wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him. “My orcs are yours,” she whispered. As she backed from the embrace, she regarded him curiously. “Gorban and I … with us around a question of leadership would arise for many of the orcs. Is there even a place for us now?”

  “I think … I think there is. Gorban’s wisdom is not something I wish to go without, in truth,” he answered. “His advice is a tool I would greatly need.”

  “An advisor, of sorts, then?” she clarified, to which Inaru nodded. “And what of me?”

  “You have accomplished a lot of things for the orcs,” Inaru said. “You’ve done things for our people and helped ease a lot of tensions left by your predecessor from the war. I would welcome your advice as well.”

  Alaka frowned as she looked away. “The Smoldering Mountain are proud orcs – they idolize me because of what I’ve done for them. Since the orcs did not see me fall before Uldrik, they will believe me your equal—if not your better. I fear they would not accept me becoming an advisor to you.”

  “I … I see. We must be equals,” Inaru said, knowing the truth in her words
.

  She looked at him apologetically. “I don’t know much of you Inaru, but I can’t imagine you wanted anything to turn out this way.” He cocked an eyebrow at her words. He hoped it was not that obvious. Alaka looked over at an approaching trio, and said, “I’ll leave you to it.” She rose and limped away toward her own clan.

  … Inaru’s clan.

  Krolligar hobbled over beside Rhu and Gorban. “Inaru, I … I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him.”

  Inaru rose from the ground and smiled compassionately at his brother. “This isn’t your fault—either of you.”

  “We’re finally free of him,” Krolligar whispered, exasperated.

  Rhu fell to his knees crying tears of joy. Gorban knelt beside him, head looking down as he waited.

  “I believe you’re our warchief now, brother,” Krolligar smiled with pride. “I know you will make a fine leader, to the largest Bloodmaw clan ever seen.”

  “No,” Inaru said, holding a hand up. “We will not be Bloodmaw, not anymore. That name will fade, as it should.”

  “Then what are we?” Gorban asked.

  Inaru paused, looking over to Warchief Ironjaw’s lifeless body. With a frown, he said, “We will be the Stormblades.”

  “I rather like that, brother,” Krolligar nodded.

  Inaru’s mind raced, reeling from the events, disbelieving they’d happened as they had. Surely his father slew him, and he was dreaming as he left the world? The stinging cuts and soreness reminded him that was not the case. He thought of how his friends would react to the news—to the idea that the orcs would finally be changing and becoming a harmonious part of Gandaraar, but then he realized …