Continuing with his theatricality, Lord Draqaro stood up again, his hands moving just as much as his mouth. “Ruled by house Skalaf,” he repeated, “and protected by my own family, house Draqaro!” He gestured to Vighon in the crowd, drawing him forward. “My son, Captain Vighon Draqaro - the hero of Grey Stone who saved so many - has already been charged with defending the city!” He inspected his son up and down before adding, “So bold is he, that he believes he can fend off the orcs without his armour…” The levity roused a chortle from the lords and knights.
Vighon appeared self-conscious of his attire, especially under Inara’s scrutiny.
Gideon could see Lord Draqaro’s words for what they were: a distraction. He was directing their conversation his way, bringing up suggestions that the Master Dragorn found to be disturbing.
How does he think Vighon and a handful of soldiers can defend this city?
Ilargo agreed. He is either mentally unstable or he knows something we do not.
Or worse and it’s both, Gideon replied, exasperated at the thought of yet another person who knew more than him; The Crow was trying enough.
Ilargo could feel exactly what Gideon was about to do, but instead of the expected warning the dragon would usually offer before brash actions, he encouraged his companion. They had both seen too much blood and death to continue with these political games.
Turning to the surrounding crowd of pompous lords and old knights, Gideon barked, “Everyone out, now!” His sudden outburst shocked them all into silence, freezing them to the spot. “NOW!” he commanded again, only this time it was accompanied by an almighty roar from Ilargo outside.
The lords and knights quickly formed an unruly mob in their attempt to flee the throne room as quickly as possible. Gideon gave Galanör and Inara a subtle shake of the head, keeping them both where they were. It was the elf, however, who silently instructed Vighon to stay as well.
Unfazed by it all, Lord Draqaro took his seat for a second time and waited patiently. They locked eyes, each conveying their authority, until the doors slammed shut behind the last knight.
“I’m done bartering words, Lord Draqaro. You have no audience now, no one to please and no one to impress. I want straight answers. Too many have died for me to stand here and read between the lines.”
The lord of Namdhor tilted his head. “We’ve never met before, you and I,” he observed. “Understandable, I suppose. My elevation to a position in which we might have crossed paths is very recent. Then again,” he added, “this is the first time in what, twenty-five years, that the master of the Dragorn has stepped foot inside The Dragon Keep. It seems to me you’ve never been bothered with Namdhor before, so why bother now? We’ve got by without your help for a long time.”
“We tried to help when the north fell into civil war,” Gideon argued, “but the lords of the land, and eventually Queen Yelifer herself, rejected our aid. Whether or not you’re going to be foolish enough to reject our presence now, we are here to stay. You underestimate the orcs, Lord—”
“The orcs, yes!” Draqaro rudely interjected. “Or is your presence here due to the shift in power, I wonder. The Dragorn are servants to the realm, yes? Namdhor just became the realm. You have no purpose if you’re not serving the people and they’re all here. Uniting everyone under one sigil and one crown will make us strong again.”
Gideon could see the lord directing the conversation his way again. “Your strength currently resides beyond the mountains of Vengora,” he made clear. “The fealty of the refugees will not stand up to the orcs. You just heard it yourself; three thousand more march up from the west. Namdhor needs its army.”
“Namdhor’s army,” Lord Draqaro said, “is right where it needs to be. While you have been watching the other kingdoms fall, Master Thorn, I have been preparing for this war. When the orcs show their beastly faces, I will run them from the face of Verda myself.”
Something about his phrasing didn’t sit well with Gideon, but it was Ilargo’s sharper mind that detected it first. How could he have been preparing for this war before the orcs invaded? The army was sent to Dhenaheim before The Arid Lands fell.
Seeing his confusion, Inara revealed, “The lord of Namdhor has been visited by The Crow.”
“Some years ago,” Galanör added.
Gideon’s confusion increased, only now it was accompanied by concern. “The leader of The Black Hand came to see you?” he asked incredulously. “Specifically you or the queen?”
Lord Draqaro crossed his legs. “Since we’re laying all of our cards out on the table… He sought me out, and for good reason. He told me of the war to come and he told me how to win. He told me because I’m the one Namdhor needs.”
Gideon’s confusion and concern quickly morphed into anger. “You have conspired with a necromancer! The same dark wizard who unleashed the orcs in the first place! His order have long been an enemy to the realm—”
“An enemy?” Draqaro cut in. “Why would an enemy use his magic to warn me of the war and then give me the means to win it?”
Gideon couldn’t answer that, but it did beg other questions. “Is this why you’ve been digging through Vengora? Why the dwarves have taken offence? What did The Crow tell you, Lord Draqaro?”
A smug expression crept over his face and he glanced at the others around Gideon. “An ancient weapon lies in Vengora, one used to repel the orcs before.”
“What weapon?” Gideon demanded.
“I’m afraid that information has been bargained for by others,” the lord replied.
Gideon turned to regard Inara and then Galanör before finally settling on Vighon. He had a lot more questions but Lord Draqaro stood up and straightened his fitted black robe.
“I can see you have some catching up to do, Master Thorn. Take your time. And don’t worry about Namdhor or its people; I will take care of them…” Without another word, Lord Draqaro stalked out of the throne room, leaving via a side door.
Gideon waited for the door to shut. “What in all the hells has been going on in this city?”
“Not here,” Vighon replied, speaking for the first time. The captain, as he apparently was now, nodded at the main doors and led the way out.
Gideon paused on his way out of the throne room. He couldn’t help but look back at the dragon skull that encompassed the throne. Never mind the lord of Namdhor, he thought, even the keep itself is unwelcoming to the Dragorn.
33
A Slave to Magic
Deep into the north, the orcish army battled the mounting snow and falling ash. Karakulak likened the strange sky fall to the muds of the Tarkaris pits in The Under Realm.
Just as the thick muds would slow one down, so too did the snow and ash. The cold was of little deterrence, but he could see how unaccustomed his legions were to it. Their progress had been slow since entering the northern territory of man.
Adding to their poor morale, they had seen no bloodshed since the execution of the dark mages. The town of Dunwich had been empty, a fact that had seen tensions rise, particularly between the Savage Daggers and the Bone Breakers. The war between the two tribes had only been brought to an end because Karakulak assumed control of their entire race.
The recent dragon attack, however, had indeed thinned their numbers, and they couldn’t afford to lose any more due to in-fighting. More than one orc had received a lashing for misconduct.
The God-King would have liked to let his mind wander over the many ways he was going to slaughter the humans and enslave the dwarves, but, astride his enormous gark, he couldn’t help but think about The Crow and The Master Dragorn, whom he had recently encountered.
The Crow had been the orcs’ greatest ally freeing them in every way. Karakulak considered the power flowing through his veins and knew the wizard was also responsible for that. Yet, the Dragorn had said The Crow led them to his army…
It was possible the Dragorn was lying, trying to manipulate him and tear apart any alliance. It was also possible th
e orcs were being manipulated from both sides. The great orc tried to put aside such suspicions and focus on the facts. He was far superior to any Dragorn now and he possessed plenty of the elixir from The Crow. In the end, no human would be left alive, the wizard included.
A commotion erupted from the centre of the army, towards the south. Karakulak turned to investigate and discovered orcs running to one of the catapults. Due to its height, the mountain troll towing the catapult should have been visible above the sea of heads.
“Sire?” Grundi’s limited stature, even atop his gark, prevented him from seeing the problem.
“Come,” Karakulak ordered, guiding his mount towards the stalled catapult.
The orcs parted for their God-King and averted their gaze as his gark strode through the thick of them. The back of his saddle was adorned with four spikes, each topped with one of the mages’ heads; a continued reminder that he had split from The Black Hand.
When the last of the orcs between him and the catapult parted, he looked upon the fallen troll, dead in the snow. The God-King snarled and jumped off his growling gark.
“Who is responsible for these lumbering beasts?” he bellowed.
The orcs surrounding the catapult and the dead troll were reluctant to step forwards. Eventually, one orc, whose belt was laden with the skulls of his kills in Velia, broke away from the others. He genuflected and bowed his head, dipping him below Karakulak’s knee.
“The trolls are mine to see to, God-King Karakulak.”
Karakulak looked from the pathetic orc to the troll, face down in the snow. “No beast is good to work if it does not eat,” he told him. “Perhaps I should let you nourish the bellies of trolls!” The surrounding orcs became giddy at the thought.
“Forgive me, God-King Karakulak!” The troll master dropped his face to the snow.
“Forgive you?” Karakulak questioned, making a spectacle. “I shall reward you! No longer will you have to trouble yourself with these foul creatures. You shall have the honour of taking first blood when we meet the Namdhorians. I will make certain Chieftain Warhg of the Berserkers places you among those on the front line!”
The orcs laughed at their comrade’s bad luck. Very few survived the front lines, but even fewer would survive when charging alongside the suicidal Berserkers.
Karakulak pushed the orc into the crowd. “Blunt his horns!” he commanded, much to the troll master’s horror.
The God-King freed the thick chain from the catapult and used the large hook to get a purchase on the troll’s tough hide. The hook dug through, thanks to Karakulak’s mighty strength, and he picked up the length of chain. Without asking for aid, he dragged the troll carcass through the mud and snow.
The orcs looked on in awe and amazement, his display of strength beyond anything they had ever witnessed. His new muscles bulged and his veins pulsed under his pale skin as he yanked the chain over his shoulder.
When the path had been cleared, Karakulak ordered the nearest orcs to get behind the catapult and start pushing. They didn’t question him and not one hesitated, his words those of Gordomo Himself. They couldn’t, however, budge the catapult more than an inch.
“It’s stuck!” they cried.
Karakulak sighed and bared his fangs. He wondered, and not for the first time, whether he would be better conquering the world on his own. Leaving his gark, the God-King approached the back of the catapult, his meaningful strides pushing the orcs away. The back right wheel was indeed stuck in the mud.
The mighty orc caught sight of Grundi, watching him from astride his own gark. There was caution in his questioning expression, warning Karakulak about taking part in such laborious activities. Arduous work should be left to all but a king, after all.
Deciding that it would serve as another display of strength, Karakulak ignored Grundi. With both hands he heaved the corner of the giant catapult, lifting it clear of the mud.
“Push you maggots!” he barked at the gaping orcs.
As the catapult came back down on all four wheels, Karakulak felt a shiver pass through his muscles. Seconds later his joints began to ache and his sight waned. The orcs cheered their God-King’s name and howled into the air, but it all sounded distant to Karakulak. He inspected his right hand and discovered the fingers closing up, slaves to his spasming tendons and muscles.
“Make camp!” he yelled at the top of his considerable voice.
Again, no one questioned the order, despite the fact they hadn’t been travelling nearly long enough since their last camp. As always, the first of anything to be constructed was Karakulak’s tent, the details seen to by dozens of orcs.
Karakulak climbed on to his gark, which was beginning to look larger than before, and with his left hand he adjusted the reins to direct the mount into the depths of the army. With all the strength he could muster, Karakulak remained upright, his back straight and regal. He couldn’t show them a hint of distress.
By the time he reached the heart of the army, his chest had begun to hurt and his breathing had increased. Every inch of the muscles in his back began to itch as if set upon by a thousand crazed ants. The edges of his vision were a dark haze, forcing him to focus on the erecting tent. They had already put up the framework and covered it with walls, but they were still in the process of filling the interior.
“Leave it!” he shouted, waving them away from the entrance.
He jumped down from the gark and felt the vambrace on his forearm become loose. A quick glance showed that the muscles in his arm were shrinking…
“Get out!” he growled at those still inside, setting up his bed. “No one is to enter!”
Karakulak paused only to remove the small chest from his gark’s pack. No sooner had the fabric of the entrance dropped shut than the God-King fell to his knees and fumbled with the lock on the chest. The elixir glowed in the shadows of the tent, painting the orc in shades of green. With one thumb he popped the cork on a vial and downed the liquid in one.
He wanted to shout out, to scream, and roar. Karakulak held on to it, embracing the painful transformation that raged through his body again. The weak feeling in his bones and muscles quickly vanished, leaving his large vambrace to fit perfectly once again. The shadows became as light as day again, his senses returned to him.
Another minute went by and he found control of his ragged breathing. The sound of his heart beating in his ears subsided and he was able to rise. Clenching both fists, the God-King felt he was worthy of the title again.
Taking heed of his senses, Karakulak detected a familiar scent and spun around to face the entrance. His mother, the High Priestess of Gordomo, was standing before him with her staff in hand.
“What have you done?” she spat.
The God-King released a low rumble from deep in his throat, conveying his displeasure with the intrusion. “No one was to enter!” he roared.
The High Priestess ignored his outrage and stamped the ground with her staff. She moved around her son’s hulking form until her eyes rested on the small chest of green vials.
“What have you done, Karakulak?” she asked with trepidation. “It stinks of magics!”
Karakulak closed the gap between them and clamped his hand around his mother’s face, sealing her lips. With ease, he lifted her from the ground so that he didn’t have to look down at her. What little affection he had for her was long gone now, replaced with contempt and irritation.
“I have assured our victory,” he finally said. “Now, your faith will be tested, High Priestess. Will you worship Gordomo, a god who has allowed us to settle for The Under Realm? Or will you remain loyal to me, the God-King who has seen the orc risen above all others?”
His mother’s eyes lost their wild look as she contemplated his questions. Seeing that she was still capable of reasoning, Karakulak lowered her to the ground and released her head from his vice-like grip.
“This is unnatural, Karakulak,” the High Priestess continued in a more civil tone. “You have cut off The
Black Hand, yet you still cling to their magics. Worse still, you have used it to fool your people and imitate a real god. Gordomo will not be pleased…”
Exasperated with his mother’s narrow mindedness, the God-King sighed as he removed the small chest, placing it safely to one side. “If Gordomo is so displeased, let him strike me down in this very tent!”
“Do not test Him, Karakulak, for you will bring doom upon us all!” The High Priestess whispered a hushed prayer, asking for forgiveness.
“It seems you have a choice, Mother…” Karakulak slowly turned to face the High Priestess. “Drop to your knees and worship me right now, or leave this tent and tell of my transgressions. I would warn you against the latter,” he said ominously. “They have seen my power. They have seen these very hands bring down a dragon! Should you be judged as having lost your mind, another will be chosen to replace you as High Priestess.”
His mother looked away, her eyes darting about the tent frantically. “I stood by and watched you remove your father’s head.” She stamped her staff again, bringing the orcish skull to Karakulak’s attention. “When you rose up as king, I murdered your brother as a sign of loyalty, making certain you could never be challenged by blood. Now, you ask me to forsake my god for you?”
Karakulak dismissed everything she had said. “You did what you had to in order to survive. Nothing more. Your love of Gordomo will be your end if you do not relinquish it now, before me… your new god.”
The High Priestess hesitated, her options severely limited facing a superior opponent in both mind and body.
Karakulak continued to prey on her doubts, circling her. “Accept me as your new god, or see all the power you wield disappear. No more priestesses. No more servants. Even Gordomo will forget about such a pathetic little creature. I will have you pulling our war machines beside the trolls.” He finally stopped in front of her again, awaiting her response.
Now, without any further hesitation, the High Priestess dropped to one knee and bowed her head. “All will worship the God-King Karakulak!” she proclaimed.
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