gobboguy

[gobboguy]

Chapter 28: A New Dawn Arises

The chamber was dimly lit by a brazier in the corner, its embers casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The scent of sweat, leather, and blood still clung to Ulf’s skin, despite the change of clothes. She paced restlessly, her white tunic loose on her frame, her brown trousers tucked into sturdy boots.

Badwen stood before her, unmoving, her arms crossed over her broad chest. Her flabby frame was still smeared with battle grime, her black armor scratched but unbroken. She watched Ulf with an expression of patience, though her lips pressed into a thin line.

"You freed him?" Ulf’s voice was sharp, cutting through the thick air between them. "You—of all people—released Hate? Why?"

Badwen did not flinch. "Because it was the only way to end the war without tearing the Domination apart."

Ulf scoffed, shaking her head. "So you betray your Queen’s daughter for a traitor?"

"I serve my Queen," Badwen said evenly. "And I serve you. Even when you don’t understand it."

Ulf stopped pacing, turning to glare at her. "And why should I ever trust you when I become Queen?"

Badwen’s eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening. "Because the duty of a servant is to serve her master," she said firmly. "Even when her master is wrong."

"Wrong?" Ulf took a step closer, her red eyes blazing. "You dare to tell me I was wrong?"

"I dare nothing," Badwen said. "I did what was necessary. If Queen Ionia had sent assassins, it would have been cowardice. A human act. And we are better than humans."

Ulf exhaled sharply. She hated how much that stung, because it was true. The thought of an Orcish Queen stooping to such treachery made her tusks clench. Orcs settled their battles with strength, not shadows.

Badwen saw the flicker of realization in Ulf’s expression and pressed on.

"Snagkill could only be defeated by an Orc without allegiance," she said. "Hate was that Orc. He had nothing to lose and everything to prove. It had to be him."

Ulf’s hands curled into fists. "And what if he had lost? What if Snagkill had crushed him and marched his army into the city, burned Gelberg to the ground?"

"Then I would have fought and died alongside you," Badwen said without hesitation.

Ulf stared at her.

Badwen took a step forward, lowering her voice. "I do not expect you to thank me. I do not expect you to forgive me. But I did what had to be done. And I would do it again."

Silence stretched between them. The fire crackled in the brazier, filling the air with the scent of charred wood.

Finally, Ulf exhaled.

"Damn you, Badwen," she muttered.

Badwen smirked, turned to leave and spoke over her shoulder. "You’re welcome, Princess."

Ulf gritted her teeth—but she could not deny it. Badwen was right.

The heavy wooden door shut behind Badwen with a dull thud, leaving Ulf alone in the chamber—at least for a moment. She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple, but before she could collect her thoughts, the door creaked open again.

Goreboar stepped inside, his heavy boots scuffing against the stone. He had cleaned up from battle, but the bandages around his thigh and the stiff way he moved betrayed his injuries. His trim leather jerkin was fastened tight over his broad chest, and his sharp eyes flickered in the dim firelight.

The air between them tensed like a drawn bowstring.

Ulf forced herself to relax, to breathe. This was Goreboar, her betrothed, her friend. She gestured toward the room, an attempt at ease. "The war is over."

Goreboar nodded but said nothing.

She cleared her throat and continued, shifting awkwardly. "And with the rebellion crushed, we can finally turn our attention to Acury. The humans won’t stay idle for long. We’ll need to—”

"Do you still love him?" Goreboar’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Ulf froze.

She looked at him, at the way his jaw clenched, his tusks tight against his lips. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even accusing. He just… wanted to know.

Her shoulders sagged. "Goreboar—"

"Just tell me the truth, Ulf."

She sighed, running a hand over her face before answering. "I… I don’t know."

Goreboar’s nostrils flared. He took a step closer, his voice thick. "I've always loved you, Ulf. Since we were young. Since before Hate was ever a name on your lips. Why can’t you love me back?"

Her chest tightened. "I want to," she said softly. "And in a way, I do. But my heart—" She shook her head, frustrated with herself. "I still feel the pain of Hate’s betrayal. And despite everything, despite knowing better, part of me…" She trailed off.

Goreboar studied her. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Then I will prove myself," he said firmly. "I will show you that I am worthy of your hand."

He turned, his wounded leg stiff but steady as he strode to the door.

Ulf swallowed, watching him go. The door shut behind him, leaving her alone once more.

She pressed a hand to her chest.

She had fought in wars. She had stood against horrors from the Underkingdom. She had faced death more times than she could count.

And yet, somehow, this—this uncertain, tangled mess of love and loyalty—felt like the hardest battle of all.

Goreboar's breath came in shallow gasps as the door slammed shut behind him. He had barely made it down the corridor before the pain in his shoulder became unbearable. The cold stone of the wall met his back as he leaned against it, groaning in frustration. His hand instinctively moved to his shoulder, pressing against the dull ache. Then the pain flared, sharp and sudden, and he cried out, his vision momentarily darkening.

Grimacing, he tore at his jerkin, pulling it open with a grunt. His green skin beneath was marred by the strange, inky black mark that now spread across his shoulder and down his chest. The vine-like pattern seemed to pulse with an eerie, unnatural life. A chill crept down his spine as he traced the contours of the wound with a trembling hand. What was this? What had he touched? The vine-like scar was curling up his arm, dark and almost alive.

For Ulf, he reminded himself through clenched teeth. Stay strong. You have to stay strong.

He shook off the creeping fear, trying to focus. The last thing he needed was to lose himself in pain and confusion. He was needed—he had a role to play, a promise to fulfill. Ulf...

But just as he was about to push himself away from the wall, a sharp sound sliced through the silence—the scrape of leather against stone. Goreboar spun, his tusks bared, only to find a figure cloaked in shadow, her form lithe and unyielding.

Purtgurz, Mistress of Shadows. Her presence was always like the creeping darkness, unsettling and cold. She stood just inside the corridor, her hood pulled low to obscure most of her face. Her eyes, however, gleamed with an unsettling awareness beneath the shadowed rim.

At her feet, two halflings, their heads bowed in respect, clung to her side. Their beady eyes flicked between Goreboar and their mistress, both quiet and obedient.

Goreboar sneered as his eyes flicked to the hunched forms of Purtgurz’s halfling slaves—ratlings, as some called them. The little creatures clung to her shadow, their beady eyes darting about, always listening, always watching. Disgust coiled in his gut. Orcs fought, bled, and won their power with strength, not by skulking in the dark like vermin. Yet Purtgurz wielded them like knives, slipping them into places no Orc could tread, whispering their secrets into her waiting ears. It was a coward’s tool, unworthy of an Orc—but then again, Purtgurz had always been something other than a true warrior of the Domination.

Goreboar’s snarl deepened. What does she want with me now? He knew her reputation all too well. The Spy Mistress, the shadow that lingered behind every secret and every whisper.

"Had enough of the fighting already?" Purtgurz’s voice was low, almost melodic, but there was an edge to it—sharp and predatory. She took a slow step forward, the shadows seeming to swirl around her, casting her in an almost otherworldly glow. "Or are you... weakened by something else?"

Goreboar’s hand instinctively went to the wound on his shoulder, as though trying to hide it, but Purtgurz’s keen eyes were already on him. Her gaze flickered to the vine-like marks stretching across his chest.

"You know something, don’t you?" He growled, his voice rough. "What is this?"

Purtgurz’s lips curled into a thin smile, her eyes flashing with amusement. "What is it that troubles you, Goreboar? That mark... it’s not from battle, is it?"

Goreboar narrowed his eyes, his stance shifting as he prepared to defend himself, his teeth gritting against the pain. "You’ll speak plainly, spy. What do you know?"

The halflings stirred at her feet, but they did not speak, leaving Purtgurz to answer in her own time. She raised a slender finger, pointing at the vine-like scar, her voice soft and knowing. "You’ve encountered something... other than Orcish strength. Something older. Something that’s not meant for you."

Goreboar’s pulse quickened, and he felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Other? He wanted to lash out, but something held him back, the uncertainty in his own flesh too much to fight through.

"What is it?" His voice came out more urgently now, his instincts clawing at him. "What does it mean?!"

Purtgurz’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it—only cold calculation. "It means you’re more than just an Orc now, Goreboar. What you’ve touched... has marked you." She stepped closer, her presence suffocating in its darkness. "And whether you like it or not, you’re a part of something much bigger than the Domination now. But don’t worry, warrior. It’s all in your blood, after all."

The halflings behind her looked to each other, then back to Goreboar, but they said nothing, remaining as silent as their mistress.

Goreboar’s blood turned to ice in his veins, but his resolve did not waver. He clenched his fists, his jaw tight. "And what do you want with me, Purtgurz?"

She tilted her head, as though considering him carefully. "I want nothing more than to offer... assistance." Her voice had dropped to a whisper. "After all, I’m not the only one who knows the price of power. You’ve been chosen by it, just as I have. It’s only a matter of time before you understand."

Goreboar shook his head, trying to push the sick feeling away. Chosen? Was that what this was? Had he been cursed, or was this something else entirely?

"I have no time for riddles, Purtgurz." He growled. "What do you want from me?"

She stepped back, her dark eyes gleaming with that unnerving certainty. "I need you to understand something, Goreboar. In this game, the rules are always changing. You’re no longer just a pawn. You’re something... more." She straightened, glancing over her shoulder at the halflings. "And when you’re ready, I’ll be here."

Without another word, she turned, her presence melting back into the shadows. The halflings followed her silently, disappearing into the corridor, leaving Goreboar standing there alone, the weight of her words pressing down on him.

He hissed in pain, feeling the burn of the mark once again. What had he gotten himself into?

Meanwhile, outside in the city...

Gelberg lay in ruin, its once-mighty walls cracked and crumbling, its streets littered with debris and the bodies of the fallen. Fires smoldered in the distance, sending greasy plumes of smoke into the bruised evening sky. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and ash, mingling with the low moans of the wounded and the grief-stricken wails of the bereaved.

An Orc mother knelt in the rubble, her great shoulders shaking as she wept over the crushed body of her son, a boy barely old enough to wield a blade, now flattened beneath a massive chunk of stone hurled from a catapult. Not far from her, warriors struggled to pull an unconscious Orc from the wreckage of a collapsed house. His legs were twisted unnaturally, his green skin palliid from blood loss. A healer muttered darkly; the chances of saving him were slim.

In the streets, little Orc whelps sobbed outside the splintered remains of their home, their eyes wide with fear, their cries unanswered. Their parents were nowhere to be seen—dead, or buried beneath the wreckage. Thralls, the human and dwarf slaves of the Domination, scurried through the chaos, their heads down, their eyes darting nervously as they tried to avoid drawing attention. Some vanished into the shadows, knowing their masters were too distracted to watch them closely now.

The devastation of Gelberg stretched from the ruined gates to the very heart of the city. Smoke curled from shattered buildings, the stench of scorched wood and charred flesh thick in the air. The once-proud avenues, where Orcs had marched in strength and song, were now clogged with rubble and corpses. Pools of blood mixed with rainwater, forming crimson rivers that trickled down the broken cobblestones.

A great statue of Arrowcatcher lay toppled in the central square, its stone face cracked in half, one tusk shattered. Once a symbol of Orcish might, now it was a grim testament to the city's suffering. Near its fallen form, a group of weary warriors dug through the remains of a collapsed armory, pulling out the crushed and twisted bodies of their kin.

Near the marketplace, the great bazaar that had once overflowed with trade and raucous laughter was a smoldering ruin. Stalls lay overturned, their wares scattered and trampled. A wagon full of grain had been set ablaze, the fire licking hungrily at the remains of nearby shops. A butcher, his apron still stained with the blood of animals long since slaughtered, sat with his back to a blackened post, staring blankly at nothing. His shop was gone, his family missing.

A temple dedicated to MOG stood battered but unbroken, its stone walls pockmarked by ballista bolts and scorched from fire. A priestess knelt in the entrance, her robes soaked with the blood of those she had tried to save. The bodies of the faithful lay in heaps around her, some still clutching their weapons, others frozen in final prayers.

Elsewhere, an old Orc war veteran sat on the steps of his ruined home, his tusks chipped, his arm limp and broken. He muttered to himself, over and over, a battle hymn from wars long past. His granddaughter clung to his side, her tiny fists balled in his tattered cloak, her young mind struggling to comprehend the ruin around her.

The harbor, once the pride of Gelberg’s trade, was in chaos. Ships burned, their hulls splitting apart as they sank into the murky waters. The docks were littered with bodies, some Orcish, some Darkfire rebels, all abandoned in the struggle. The tide carried the dead out to sea, their green and gray forms bobbing in the surf like driftwood.

And through it all, the people of Gelberg moved like ghosts—some searching for lost loved ones, others digging graves, others simply staring at the ruin of their home. The city had endured, but barely. Now, as night fell, it did not sleep. It held its breath, waiting for what horrors would come next.

Then...

A week had passed since the fires of war had been extinguished in Gelberg, yet the city still bore the scars of battle. Even so, it was no longer a place of mourning but of labor and purpose. Orcs from every corner of the Gelbeg Domination flooded into the city, some bearing the marks of past battles, others fresh-faced and eager to serve. They came with tools to rebuild, with strong backs to lift the shattered walls, and with weapons to answer the coming war. The past divisions of Darkfire rebels and loyalists were buried beneath a common cause—survival.

The sounds of construction filled the air. Great cranes, fashioned from timber hauled from distant forests, hoisted massive stones to repair the sundered walls. Orcish masons worked tirelessly, their muscular arms coated in dust and sweat as they sealed cracks and reinforced the city's defenses. The great gates, once splintered by siege, were being replaced with thicker iron-bound wood, stronger than before. The marketplace, once a ruin, was seeing the first signs of revival as merchants returned, their stalls rising like new shoots after a wildfire.

In the vast courtyard below the Orcish Hall, warbands gathered in massive formations, banners snapping in the cold morning wind. They came to pledge their blades, their blood, and their lives to the Domination. Some were warriors who had fought in the civil war and now sought redemption, others were young warriors eager for their first taste of battle, while hardened veterans stood silent, their tusks stained from decades of conflict.

From the high balcony of the Orcish Hall, Queen Ionia and Ulf watched their people rally. The Queen stood resplendent in a gown of black and crimson, the colors of the Domination, the bodice tight against her ample frame, its metalwork etched with the snarling faces of the ancestors. A golden crown adorned her head, thick with rubies and shaped like a warhelm, a symbol of her rule as both sovereign and warrior. She held herself with the weight of years, her presence undeniable despite her human blood.

Ulf, standing beside her, loomed over her mother like a shadow of steel and flesh. Clad in a flowing gown of deep green, belted with golden chains, her arms and shoulders remained bare, displaying the scars of countless battles. Her black hair, tied back in a simple ponytail, allowed her striking red eyes to shine with unrelenting intensity. A crown of black iron sat upon her head, wickedly spiked and resting just beneath her tall, pointed ears. She was the future of the Domination—Orcish to her core, fierce, unyielding.

“They come in droves,” Ulf muttered, surveying the gathering forces. “Not just to rebuild, but to fight. The Domination stands as one, once again. The old ways, the warband rivalries… they’re fading. It took the civil war to forge us into something greater.”

Ionia nodded, her expression unreadable. “It took the brink of ruin to remind us of what we have built. But this unity comes at a cost, daughter. We face the humans now, and they will not hesitate to burn everything we have struggled for.”

“Acury is strong,” Ulf admitted, gripping the stone railing, “but they have never faced an enemy like us. The first true Orcish nation. We will not kneel.”

“No,” Ionia agreed, her voice rich with finality. “We will not.”

The mother and daughter shared a glance—one of mutual understanding, of shared purpose. The time for mourning was over. Now was the time for war.

With a final look over the assembled warriors, they turned and strode into the castle interior, their crowns glinting in the torchlight. The warbands awaited their Queen’s decree. The Domination would march, and Acury would tremble.

As the great iron doors of the throne room swung open, Queen Ionia and Ulf strode forth into the grand hall of Gelberg’s heart. The floor was still stained with the blood of the recent war, the great tapestries had been torn, and braziers burned low, casting flickering shadows upon the gathered warbands. Yet the air was thick with something electric—a simmering hunger, a yearning for more.

Trailing behind them, ever-vigilant, were their two sworn guardians. Badwen, her massive frame wrapped in thick plate and fur, walked with the quiet, deliberate gait of a warrior always prepared to strike. At her side hung a wickedly slender crimson colored sword, a thing of brutal efficiency. Beside her, Hate moved with an unsettling grace for a warrior so immense, his fat layering over coiled muscle, his thick hands resting on the pommels of twin blackened daggers. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, though those closest to him could sense the tension simmering beneath his affable smirk.

On the highest step, Ionia turned to face her people, placing one foot forward and planting it firmly upon the stone. At her side, Jukkavice lay like a sleeping beast, its blackened steel shot through with veins of pulsing red, still wet with the lifeblood of her enemies. A hush fell over the gathered thousands as her crimson eyes swept the horde. Then she spoke.

“Orcs of the Domination, hear me. Our city bears its wounds, our dead lie in the streets, but tell me—what of it? We are Orcs! What in this wretched world can break us?”

A rolling cry of defiance filled the night, shaking the broken walls. Ulf stood at her side, her heart pounding as the crowd roared.

“This war that has divided us is over! The pretender Snagkill is slain! His warbands are leaderless! The rebellion is crushed beneath our heel, and the true war—our war—begins at last!”

The chant swelled again, fists raised high, bellies drummed like war drums. Hate, standing at the top of the stairs beside Badwen, let his tusks flash in a grin as he surveyed the gathered horde, his massive arms crossed over his thick chest.

“We have been attacked! The humans of Acury believed we were weak. That they could strike us and we would cower. But we do not cower. We have never cowered! We are Domination! We are the storm! We are the horde that sweeps over this world! Sidhedark is ours to rule, not because it is given to us, but because we will take it!”

The Orcs erupted in raw, frenzied cheers, stamping their feet and beating their bellies, their voices a deafening tide of sound. The clanging of axes against shields created a harsh metallic symphony.

Ionia lifted Jukkavice, and the crimson veins within the blade seemed to pulse like a living thing. “Acury shall be the first! We will break them, burn them, and build something stronger in their place. The war is over, but our destiny begins now!”

The crowd surged forward, their voices swelling in an ear-shaking roar. Warriors pounded their chests, roaring their devotion. The chants of “Hail Ionia! Hail Ulf!” echoed through the ruined streets, loud enough to wake the gods beneath the stone.

Standing there, flanked by Badwen and Hate, Ulf felt the truth settle in her bones. The civil war was over.

A new war had just begun.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 27: Aftermath

The streets of Gelberg were thick with the stench of blood and burning wood, the cries of the wounded rising in a grim chorus to the smoke-choked sky. Ulf fought like a beast unchained, her black armor streaked with gore, her great sword carving through the ranks of the Darkfire rebels with relentless precision.

Beside her, Badwen fought with grim determination, her axe flashing as she carved down any who dared challenge her Queen’s daughter. But it was not enough—more raiders came, fresh and howling, the fires of conquest in their eyes.

Then, looming over the melee, a towering Orcess, broad-shouldered and clad in heavy chain, strode forward. Nogkut Yellow-Skull.

With a bellow, she swung her great maul, forcing Ulf back. The impact cracked the stones beneath their feet, sending splinters of rock skittering across the blood-slicked ground. Ulf gritted her teeth, her muscles burning with exhaustion.

Nogkut pressed her advantage, swinging again and again, her strength monstrous. Ulf barely dodged, feeling the wind of each blow threaten to knock her off balance.

Then, just as Nogkut raised her weapon for a final, crushing strike—Badwen struck. Her sword bit deep into the Orcess’s exposed ribs. Nogkut snarled and turned, but Ulf was already moving. With a roar, she drove her blade through Nogkut’s chest, the steel bursting from the Orcess’s back in a spray of blood.

Nogkut staggered, eyes wide in disbelief. Then she crumpled, lifeless.

Ulf stood over the corpse, her chest heaving, her arms trembling.

And then, through the smoke and chaos, she saw them—a fresh wave of Darkfire raiders, their swords already wet with blood, pouring into the street like a tide of death.

She gripped her sword, but deep in her heart, she knew—this was too many.

Then, clear and sharp over the sounds of battle, a horn blew.

All movement stopped. The enemy raiders faltered, lowering their weapons, their faces twisted in confusion.

Another horn blast.

Then a voice, echoing down the ruined streets.

"The war is over! Snagkill Darkfire is dead!"

Ulf felt the words like a hammer blow to the chest. She blinked, stunned, her mind struggling to grasp what had just been said.

The war… over?

Snagkill… dead?

How?

Her grip on her sword tightened, and she turned her gaze toward the retreating enemy, her heart pounding with a mixture of disbelief, suspicion, and a deep, gnawing need to understand.

The streets of Gelberg lay in ruin, the scars of war etched deep into the stone and the flesh of its people. Smoke still curled from shattered buildings, and the wails of the wounded echoed through the alleys. Bodies—Orcish bodies, both Darkfire rebels and loyalists—littered the ground, their blood mingling in thick pools. Some still lived, groaning, clutching at severed limbs, their eyes hollow with the weight of betrayal and loss.

Ulf did not slow. She raced up the great hill toward the Orcish Hall, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The rebels and loyalists lining the streets eyed each other warily, hands gripping weapons, uncertain of what came next. The battle had stopped, but its echoes lingered in every tense glance, every knotted muscle. Brother against brother. Warborn against warborn.

She shoved through the crowd of her kin, the massive bodies of her brethren packed tight before the Hall’s massive iron gates. The stink of sweat, blood, and unwashed flesh was thick in the air, and the low grumble of uneasy murmurs rumbled through the gathered Orcs.

"Move!" Badwen’s voice cracked like a whip. She was smaller than most, but her presence was a storm. "Make way for your princess, whelps!"

The reaction was immediate. Darkfire rebels flinched, loyalists bowed their heads, and those caught between quickly shuffled aside.

"Apologies, Princess!" one Orc grunted, lowering his head.

"Forgive us, my Princess." another rumbled, stepping back.

Ulf barely heard them. She pushed forward, teeth bared, until finally, the massive iron doors of the Hall were before her. And then, with a thunderous clang, they flung open.

Queen Ionia stood in the threshold, her flabby form barely constrained by the tight embrace of her black Orcish armor. Spikes jutted from her pauldrons, skulls dangled from chains at her waist, and her breastplate groaned under the weight of her heavy gut. Her face was smeared with the blood of her enemies, streaked in crude warpaint.

Beside her, High Warchief Gutd loomed, his hulking form dark against the firelit backdrop of the Hall. His tusks were bared, his massive war-axe resting across his shoulder, but his eyes watched the gathered horde with something almost like amusement.

Ulf did not hesitate. She strode forward, past the whispers and stunned silence of the crowd, and fell to one knee before her mother.

"Queen Ionia, my mother, my sovereign."

Ionia’s blood-slicked lips curled into a grin. She reached out, her thick fingers settling atop Ulf’s head.

"Daughter."

The damage to Gelberg’s walls was severe. Great sections had crumbled where the sappers had done their work, leaving jagged gaps where only rubble remained. Smoke curled from shattered ramparts, and the air was thick with the scent of scorched stone and Orcish blood. Defenders milled about, hastily reinforcing what they could, propping up makeshift barriers of wood and stone, but it was clear—the proud walls of Gelberg had been breached.

Ulf clenched her fists, her red eyes scanning the destruction. "The city is wounded."

Queen Ionia snorted, the sound deep and guttural. "The walls will be rebuilt. And stronger than before. We are Orcs, daughter. No race on Sidhedark has our strength. We do not fall. We endure."

Ulf nodded, but her mind burned with another question. "Then why did Snagkill sue for peace? He had us."

Before Ionia could answer, the sound of hooves thundered in the distance. A low oinking call echoed over the city, followed by the sharp blast of trumpets. The Orcs on the hill turned, their grunts and murmurs rippling through the crowd.

"Riders!" someone called.

"Whose banner?" another growled.

The trumpeters blasted again, and through the parting crowd, a rider sat high in the saddle, his voice ringing over the assembled warriors.

"Make way! The Warchief of Rad’Udu arrives!"

Ulf squinted, her heart thudding. The assembled Orcs grunted, spreading out on either side of the path as the riders approached, their pennants snapping in the wind. She saw the first ranks crest the hill—dark-clad warriors, their helms gleaming, their standards bearing the white banner of truce.

And at their head, on a warhorse as massive as a beast of legend, rode him.

Ulf’s breath caught. Her eyes went wide.

"No..." she whispered.

The massive rider led the procession with unshaken confidence, his tusks gleaming in the morning light. His long black hair whipped behind him, caught in the wind like a banner of its own. His frame, thick with both fat and muscle, filled his armor with an undeniable presence—heavy, powerful, and utterly commanding.

Hate.

He rode with the ease of a conqueror, his dark eyes unreadable as he approached the gates of Gelberg. The phalanx of his guards—hard-faced warriors bearing white flags of peace—flanked him in perfect formation.

The Orcs on the hill grunted, their breath coming heavy, their confusion thick.

"What is this?"

"Hate? Alive?"

"He was a traitor!"

Hate paid them no mind. He reined his warhorse to a halt before the Queen of the Orcs and dismounted, his heavy boots striking the stone with finality. He strode forward, his thick arms swinging, his steps unhurried.

Then, before the Queen and all assembled, Hate fell to his knees.

"Queen Ionia." His voice was deep, clear, unwavering.

Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, Hate released himself, warm urine spreading over the ground beneath him—a sign of absolute submission before the true ruler of the Orcs.

The crowd fell silent.

Hate remained kneeling, his massive frame bowed before the Queen of all Orcs, his voice carrying over the gathered warriors.

"I am Hate, King of the Darkfire Rebellion, Warchief of Rad’Udu." His tusks gleamed as he lifted his chin. "And I declare the war over. Queen Ionia will rule supreme, as is her right, as Queen of all Orcs."

A wave of murmurs spread through the crowd. The rebel Orcs glanced at each other, some exchanging cautious grunts and oinks, others breaking into wide, tusked smiles. War had raged long, and many were weary of fighting their own kin. The thought of peace—a united Domination under Queen Ionia—stirred hope where before there had only been bloodshed.

Queen Ionia, however, did not share in their murmured relief. She stepped forward, her massive bulk looming over Hate, her black armor gleaming with spikes and skulls, her face unreadable beneath the smear of enemy blood. When she spoke, her voice was as deep and terrible as the crack of a mountain breaking.

"How can this be?"

Hate did not flinch. He met her gaze, unwavering. "I defeated Snagkill in honorable combat. He lies dead, and by right, I claimed his title. Furthermore, I have slain the rebellious Warchiefs who stood beside him. Their warbands will choose new leaders—ones who will serve the Queen."

The murmurs grew louder. Among the Darkfire warriors, there were no protests—only nods of grim satisfaction. Many had followed Snagkill and his Warchiefs out of loyalty, but war against their own had worn them down. Now, the chance to put down their arms and rejoin their kin was laid before them.

But even as the warriors seemed relieved, all eyes turned back to the Queen.

Ionia stood still, her crimson gaze locked on Hate. Her silence was a storm gathering on the horizon. Though he had ended the war, Hate was still a traitor. The first of their kind to raise a hand against the Domination. Worse, he had once served the Underking, the great enemy of their people. The weight of her wroth pressed down on the gathered Orcs like an iron hand.

Then, without a word, she stepped forward and placed her booted foot on Hate’s bowed head.

The crowd gasped.

The gesture was clear. She had accepted his defeat.

A long silence stretched between them before Ionia finally let out a deep, guttural sigh. Then, with an oink of satisfaction, she slapped her prodigious belly with a resounding thunderclap.

"So tell me, Hate," she rumbled. "What is it you desire? For this service, you have earned a boon."

Hate lifted his head, his dark eyes gleaming. "I desire only to serve the Queen. All my life."

A beat of silence. Then, Queen Ionia laughed, loud and rolling like a war drum.

"Then serve you shall."

Hate rose to his full height, towering over most of the gathered Orcs. His dark eyes gleamed as he turned to the Queen, his voice steady and resolute.

"I will serve alongside Badwen as your personal guard, my Queen." He placed a heavy fist over his broad chest. "As such, I renounce my rule over Rad’Udu. I abandon all titles and lands to serve you, as Badwen has before me. My life belongs to the Domination."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, some nodding in approval, others grumbling under their breath. Hate had been their enemy, the leader of the rebellion, the traitor who had defied the Domination. And yet, here he stood, swearing fealty not just to the Queen, but to the unity of their people.

Queen Ionia watched him for a long moment, her blue eyes unreadable. Then she oinked, a deep, approving sound.

"So be it," she declared. "Let old prejudices be done with. Hate’s crimes are no more."

She held out one hand, her pudgy fingers wiggling. Hate leaned forward, took her hand and kissed it, sealing his oath.

A mix of cheers and grunts spread through the gathered Orcs. Some accepted her ruling without question, eager for peace, while others crossed their arms, their tusks bared in quiet discontent.

Hate dropped to one knee and took Ionia’s massive hand in both of his, bowing his head as he swore his oath of loyalty. His lips brushed against her knuckles, sealing his vow.

Then he turned to Ulf.

She felt her breath hitch as Hate dropped to one knee before her, just as he had before her mother. His gaze was steady, unwavering, as he reached for her hand.

"And to you, Princess Ulf," he said, his deep voice quieter but no less firm. "I swear my strength, my blade, and my life. May my blood spill before yours does."

He kissed her hand.

Ulf felt a rush of warmth flood her face, her heartbeat quickening against her will. Her fingers twitched in his grasp, the weight of his touch stirring something deep inside her—something she had fought to bury beneath duty and war.

"I accept your fealty," she said, her voice strong, though her grip on his hand lingered just a second longer than necessary.

Then her eyes lifted, scanning the crowd—and froze when she saw him.

Goreboar.

He stood among the warriors, his face shadowed, his gaze locked onto hers. But it was his expression that struck her like a dagger to the gut. It was not anger, not fury, nor even disgust.

It was sadness. A deep, quiet hurt, one that said everything without a single word.

And in that moment, Ulf understood the truth.

She still loved Hate.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 26: Gelberg's Salvation

The air was thick with sweat and blood, the first light of dawn casting long shadows across the war camp. Hate and Snagkill circled each other like wolves, their breath coming fast, their bodies coiled with tension. Around them, the gathered Orcs watched in hushed anticipation, their eyes gleaming in the firelight. The fate of the Domination hung in the balance.

Snagkill struck first, his one-handed mace a blur as he swung for Hate’s head. Hate ducked low, feeling the rush of air as the weapon passed inches from his skull. He twisted, slashing with his daggers, but Snagkill’s armor deflected the blows. The larger Orc snarled and lunged, forcing Hate back with a flurry of brutal swings.

Hate moved like a shadow, dodging, slipping past Snagkill’s attacks, striking where he could. A quick slice at the ribs, a jab toward the exposed flesh of his neck—but Snagkill was relentless, pressing forward with sheer brute strength. He roared his devotion to MOG with every strike, the fervor in his eyes like a burning flame.

Then, Hate made a mistake.

He feinted left, too slow—Snagkill read the movement, twisted his hips, and brought the club down in a savage arc. The impact was thunderous. Hate’s daggers flew from his hands, clattering uselessly onto the dirt. He stumbled back, dazed, his fingers twitching as if grasping for weapons that were no longer there.

Snagkill grinned, raising his club high. Victory was his.

"For MOG! For the true Domination!" he bellowed, his voice triumphant. The watching Orcs roared in approval, their blood singing for the kill.

Hate stood, unarmed, breathing hard. Snagkill's shadow fell over him. The club came down—

—but Hate was faster.

In a single, fluid motion, he reached behind his back, his fingers finding the hilt of a hidden knife strapped just beneath his armor. With a flick of his wrist, he let it fly.

The blade spun end over end—swift, silent, true.

It buried itself in Snagkill’s throat.

For a moment, silence.

Snagkill’s triumphant snarl twisted into a gurgling choke. His eyes went wide as he staggered back, clutching at the knife, blood spilling hot and dark between his fingers. He tried to speak, to call upon MOG one last time—but no words came. His legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees.

And then, the self-proclaimed King Hrall fell face-first into the dirt.

Dead.

A stunned hush fell over the camp. Every Orc stared in disbelief, the weight of what had just happened sinking in. Their leader—their king, their chosen—was slain.

Then, slowly, heads began to bow.

Because under the old laws of the Orcs, there could be no question. By rite of combat, by the blood spilled before MOG, leadership had passed.

Hate was Warchief.

A murmur spread through the assembled Orcs as Hate stepped forward, standing over Snagkill’s lifeless body. Blood pooled beneath the fallen warlord, dark and thick in the dirt, but Hate was not yet finished. He reached for the ties of his trousers, loosening them with deliberate slowness, his face unreadable.

Then, in the old way, he let himself piss upon the corpse.

A hush fell over the crowd, and then came the nods of understanding. This was no mere victory—this was dominance, absolute and final. No challenge would be brooked. No whispers of rebellion would stir. Hate had claimed his place as Warchief, and there would be no question of his rule.

As the last of his piss spattered onto Snagkill’s armor, Hate fastened his trousers once more and turned to face the gathered Orcs. His voice rang sharp and clear.

"Send riders to the front! Recall the warbands! The fight is over—the war ends now!"

There was a beat of silence, and then the messengers scattered, their feet pounding the earth as they ran toward the battle raging at Gelberg’s walls.

Hate exhaled, rubbing his aching jaw, his fingers still sticky with Snagkill’s blood. He looked out at the assembled warriors, their faces torn between awe, confusion, and something else—something close to relief.

The rebellion had ended.

One way or another, the Domination would survive.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 25: Gelberg, Breached

A terrible crack split the air like the breaking of a mountain. For a moment, all sound seemed to vanish beneath the sheer weight of the noise—then, with a deafening roar, the eastern wall of Gelberg shuddered and began to fall.

Stone and mortar tumbled like an avalanche, crushing defenders and rebels alike as dust choked the battlefield. Ulf’s breath caught in her throat as she turned, her crimson eyes wide with disbelief. The walls of Gelberg—breached! The Darkfire rebels had done it. The city was open to the horde.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then, like a flood unleashed, the cry went up from the Darkfire ranks. A thunderous, bloodthirsty roar of triumph as the rebels surged forward, pouring through the crumbling breach. The city was theirs for the taking.

But Ulf did not freeze. She did not falter.

"TO ME, ORCS OF GELBERG!" her voice rang out like a warhorn, slicing through the chaos. "WITH ME! DEFEND THE CITY!"

Her warriors, stunned but loyal, turned to their princess, to the saint of the Orcs. Goreboar was already sprinting toward the breach, his bow raised as he bellowed orders for reinforcements. Badwen Crimson-Blade, blood-streaked and snarling, took up her post by the Queen’s side, blade flashing as she prepared to sell her life dearly.

The battle had turned. Gelberg’s walls had fallen. But Ulf was still standing, and she would not let her city fall without a fight.

With a furious cry, she charged toward the breach. And her warriors followed.

Goreboar stood at the shattered breach, his silhouette framed by fire and smoke, his voice rising above the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.

“HARO! FOR QUEEN AND KINGDOM!”

His bowstring sang, loosing arrow after arrow with deadly precision. The first struck an advancing rebel in the throat, sending him tumbling back into the press of bodies. The second took another in the eye, dropping him instantly. With practiced ease, he fired again—piercing a charging axeman’s knee, sending him sprawling. Blood slicked the broken stones beneath his feet, yet still, they came.

The Darkfire horde poured through the breach like a black tide, surging over the rubble and fallen bodies. Goreboar took no step back, no moment to breathe—his arrows flew as fast as his fingers could draw them, his arms steady even as sweat and soot clung to his skin. But his quiver was thinning. For every rebel he felled, ten more pushed forward.

Then came the shadow.

A hulking Orc, clad in black iron, leapt onto the rubble before him, his armor gleaming with the firelight of the burning city. His tusks were filed to jagged points, his crimson warpaint streaked across a snarling face.

"Goreboar the Archer," the brute sneered, hefting a massive cleaver onto his shoulder. "I’ve heard the songs. I wonder how well they’ll sing of you once your head is on a spike."

Goreboar drew, loosing an arrow aimed at the rebel’s throat—but the brute was fast. With a sweep of his cleaver, he knocked the shaft aside and lunged forward.

"I am Draghul Iron-Tusk, legate of the Ash-Hounds legion! And you—are just a worm with a stick!"

The cleaver swung in a brutal arc. Goreboar twisted aside, the blade missing his ribs by a breath. But the force of the swing sent a shockwave through the air, knocking his bow from his grasp. It clattered to the stones.

Draghul laughed, towering over him. "Let’s see how you fare without your little twigs!"

Goreboar wasted no time. He dropped low, rolling through the rubble just as the cleaver crashed into the ground where he had stood, sending stone shards flying. His fingers clawed at the bloodied dirt until they found what they sought—a fallen longsword, slick with gore. He wrenched it free just as Draghul turned, eyes blazing.

The rebel chieftain roared and came at him again. Goreboar barely had time to parry. Steel met steel in a shower of sparks, the impact numbing his arms. Draghul was stronger, heavier—each blow sent tremors through Goreboar’s bones. The cleaver swung again, a horizontal slice meant to take his head. He ducked, feeling the wind of the strike rush past. Another swing. Another dodge. But he was running out of space.

A ruined pillar loomed behind him. Trapped.

Draghul grinned, raising the cleaver for the killing blow. "Die on your feet, archer. It’s more than you deser—"

Goreboar moved first.

With a surge of strength, he lunged forward, stepping inside Draghul’s guard. The longsword plunged upward, driving into the rebel’s gut with brutal force.

Draghul’s words died in a gurgling choke. His eyes widened, disbelieving, as Goreboar twisted the blade and ripped it free. Blood gushed, hot and dark, staining the rubble at their feet. The Ash-Hound Warchief staggered, trying to speak—but only a wet rattle escaped his throat before he collapsed.

Goreboar stood over the body, panting, sweat and blood dripping from his face. Around him, the battle raged, the breach still flooding with enemies. He bent down, seized his bow once more, and turned back to the fight.

The city would not fall this day.

Goreboar slumped against the cracked stone pillar, his breath ragged, his vision swimming. Blood poured from the gash in his thigh, soaking his trousers and pooling beneath him. He pressed his hand against the wound, but the pain was a fire, sharp and relentless. His fingers trembled as he ripped a strip from his sleeve, biting back a curse as he tied it tight around his leg.

Through the shifting shadows of firelight, the battle raged on. The breach in the wall had been fully overrun—Orcish rebels poured through in a howling tide, their weapons slick with the blood of the fallen. From deep within the city, he heard the defiant cries of civilians taking up arms, fighting in desperate pockets of resistance. But it would not be enough. The day was lost.

Goreboar exhaled, a heavy, weary sigh.

So this is how it ends.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the hilt of his sword. If this was his last stand, then so be it. He would die on his feet, like a true Orc of Gelberg. With a grunt, he forced himself upright, ready to step out and meet the enemy one last time.

Then—something moved.

A flicker of motion at the edge of his vision. He looked down.

From beneath the rubble, a twisted, thorn-like vine slithered forth, its surface black and glistening, pulsing as if alive. It crept toward him, coiling and curling, its barbed tip reaching. Goreboar froze, watching in wary fascination.

What is this?

The vine struck.

A sudden lash—sharp as a blade—sliced across his exposed arm. He oinked in surprise, jerking back, gripping the fresh wound. Blood welled from the thin cut, beading like dark rubies on his skin. He hissed in pain, but when he looked again—

Nothing.

The vine was gone.

He blinked, heart pounding. His breath came shallow, uneven. Had he imagined it? A fevered hallucination from blood loss? He glanced at his arm, at the fresh welt left by the thorny strike.

No...it was real.

A strange shiver ran through him. The battle’s roar still thundered in his ears, the city’s fate teetering on a knife’s edge—but for a moment, Goreboar could only stare at his arm, at the vanishing vine, and wonder what strange fate had just brushed against him.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 24: The War Camp of Snagkill Darkfire  

The fires of Darkfire's camp burned low, casting flickering shadows across the sea of tents and war banners. The stench of sweat, blood, and smoldering pitch hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of roasted game and damp earth. A chorus of grumbling orcs stirred among the ranks, some sharpening blades, others tending to their wounded, their spirits hardened by the siege. Siege engines loomed in the distance, their charred remains a stark reminder of the battle waged against Gelberg’s walls.  

Inside the great command tent, beneath a heavy canvas marked with a blackened hand wreathed in green fire, Snagkill Darkfire sat in brooding silence. His silver armor gleamed in the lamplight, the black sigil emblazoned across his chest stark against the polished steel. Where once his left hand had been, a bandaged stump rested on the table beside his war-helm. Around him, his five generals—Korrak the Red, Gorvash Two-Tusks, Malgrim the Hound, Azgarn the Silent, and Urzha Steel-Eye—debated furiously, their voices raised in frustration.  

“The walls hold, Hrall,” Korrak growled, slamming a fist against the map-strewn table. “The fire has cost us. Our rams are ruined, our ladders burned, and still Ionia mocks us from behind her cursed stones!”  

“We cannot afford another direct assault,” Urzha muttered, her yellow eyes narrowing. “If we do, we will break ourselves against the walls before the city does.”  

Snagkill lifted his remaining hand, silencing them all. His voice, calm but edged with iron, cut through the tent. “We breach the city by morning.”  

The generals exchanged glances, waiting for him to explain.  

“Our sappers will move under the cover of night,” Snagkill continued. “They will dig beneath the walls, undermine their foundations. At dawn, Gelberg’s defenses will crack, and when they do, we will pour through like floodwaters.”  

Gorvash grinned savagely, his tusks gleaming. “And when we take the city?”  

Snagkill leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “Then I make my offer.”  

Silence fell over the tent.  

“Ionia will have a choice,” Snagkill said, his voice measured. “Marriage, or the sword.”  

A beat passed before Korrak chuckled, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “A bold gambit, Hrall.”  

Snagkill’s lips curled. “She is a warrior, but she is also a ruler. She knows what is at stake. I will not humiliate her—I will offer her the throne beside me, and together, we will end this civil war. The Gelbeg Domination will live on, but under my rule.”  

Malgrim let out a low growl, thoughtful. “And the princess?”  

Snagkill exhaled sharply through his nose. “Ulf will be spared. But she is too dangerous to remain in Gelberg. She will be sent north to Cairn Doom, where she will live out her days as a priestess of MOG. There, she can rage at the gods in her solitude.”  

A murmur of approval rippled through the tent. Even the most battle-hardened among them knew that a kingdom divided could not last. A union between Snagkill and Ionia would solidify his claim, ensuring the loyalty of the old guard while securing the future of the Orcs.  

Korrak clapped his hands together. “A wise plan, Hrall.”  

“A kingly plan,” Urzha nodded, her steel eye glinting.  

One by one, the generals bowed their heads in deference. The room filled with the murmured oath that sealed their loyalty:  

“For the True King.”

Later that night, the crackling firelight cast long shadows over the war table as Snagkill Darkfire drank deep from a bronze goblet, his silver armor reflecting the flickering glow. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced ale, and the murmur of conversation between his generals—Korrak the Red, Gorvash Two-Tusks, Malgrim the Hound, Azgarn the Silent, and Urzha Steel-Eye—filled the tent like the low growl of wolves.  

It was then that a whisper of movement slipped through the entrance, a robed and hooded figure stepping forward in silence before dropping to one knee.  

A shout went up from the guards outside. Steel rasped as spears were drawn, the points glinting in the firelight.  

Snagkill snarled, shoving himself to his feet, his left arm a bandaged stump, his right hand clenched into a fist. “Who dares?”  

The figure did not flinch. His voice was low, calm, deliberate.  

“I have no name for you, Hrall. No honor to claim. My master is queen and country.”  

Gorvash stepped forward, his tusks bared in a sneer. “Enough riddles! Show your face, dog!”  

Snagkill's eyes burned with suspicion, his jaw tightening. “Remove your hood,” he growled. “Orcish honor demands you face your foe.”  

The figure hesitated for only a moment before lifting his hands. The hood fell back, and stringy, tangled black hair fell loose—framing a gaunt face, a wild beard, and a pair of sharp, cunning eyes.  

Hate.  

A roar of fury ripped from Snagkill’s throat as he slammed his fist onto the table, sending goblets and maps flying.  

“TRAITOR!” he bellowed. “MONSTER! HUMAN LOVER!”  

The generals rose as one, hands on their weapons, murderous fury in their eyes. The name Hate was cursed among Orcs. He was the bane of his own kin, the first betrayer since Gelbeg himself had led them from Orc Island. His name was a warning whispered to warband pups at night—a name of shame, a name of infamy.  

Snagkill stepped forward, eyes flashing with rage. “How dare you step into my presence, you filth! You dare mock me, mock all Orcs, with your existence!?”  

But Hate did not cower. Instead, he smiled, a slow, roguish grin full of teeth and insolence.  

“I dare indeed,” Hate murmured. “I dare to challenge the Darkfire himself.”

The tent erupted in fury.  

Korrak the Red stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, the firelight catching the jagged scars along his brawny forearms. “I’ll break you, traitor,” he snarled, rolling his shoulders. “You’re not worth my king’s time.”  

Hate frowned as if considering. Then, slowly, a wicked grin curled across his lips. He raised a black-nailed finger, pointing directly at Korrak.  

“You? Fight me?” Hate chuckled, shaking his head. “No… no, I don’t think you can fight at all.”  

Korrak’s brows furrowed. A flicker of confusion crossed his face—then his muscles seized, his breath hitched, and he stumbled, hands clutching at his throat.  

All around him, the other generals convulsed, trembling, their tusked faces twisted in sudden agony. Snagkill himself jerked, his knees buckling, a strangled noise escaping his throat as he clutched at his chest. The firelight danced in his wide, furious eyes.  

The poison worked swiftly, a cruel and invisible blade cutting through Snagkill’s war council. Korrak the Red was the first to fall, his mighty frame locking up as he clawed at his throat, his face turning an unnatural shade of purple before he collapsed in a spasming heap. Gorvash One-Eye let out a strangled grunt, his good eye bulging in disbelief as he toppled forward onto the war table, sending goblets and maps flying as his body convulsed. Malgrim the Bastard fought it the longest, staggering back with a shaking hand pressed against his stomach, eyes wide with fury before his legs failed him and he crumpled, gurgling curses. Urzha the Storm-Born shuddered violently, her hands twitching as if trying to breath one last time, only for her breath to hitch and her body to slump lifelessly against the tent’s central post. Azgarn the Silent made no sound at all—true to his name, he simply stiffened, his mouth parting in a voiceless gasp before his lifeless eyes rolled back and he slid bonelessly to the floor. Within moments, the great minds of Darkfire lay still, leaving only Snagkill—shaking, seething, and alone.

The guards rushed forward, weapons raised—but none dared touch their king.  

Hate sighed, almost lazily, watching the chaos unfold. He pulled a small corked vial from his belt and rolled it between his fingers.  

“Poison,” he murmured, “is your opponent tonight.”  

Snagkill managed a strangled roar, but it died in his throat, reduced to a ragged wheeze as his body convulsed.  

Hate, ever-smiling, tossed the corked bottle toward him. It clinked against the war table, rolling to a stop before Snagkill’s trembling fingers.  

“Drink it, Hrall,” Hate said. “Or join your warriors in the dark.”  

Snagkill’s eyes burned with fury, but his hands snatched the bottle, his survival instincts overriding his rage. He uncorked it with his teeth and drank deep, the bitter liquid sliding down his throat.  

The shaking stopped.  

But all around him, the others lay dead—Korrak sprawled on his back, Gorvash collapsed over the war table, Malgrim still twitching, Urzha motionless, and Azgarn the Silent staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes lifeless.  

Snagkill, breathing hard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he lifted his gaze, eyes dark with murderous rage.  

“Why?” he spat. “Why did you save me?”  

Hate crossed his arms, his expression as smug as ever. “Because I want to challenge you.”  

Snagkill bared his teeth, his hands clenching into fists.  

“Challenge me? You’d claim Rad’Udu’s throne?”  

Hate nodded. “I will win, take your crown, and then surrender it to Ulf and Queen Ionia. The rebellion ends with me.”  

Snagkill snorted, his lips curling in a sneer. “A traitor’s plan, through and through. And a coward’s, to boot. Poison? A human’s weapon. You have no honor.”  

Hate’s smile deepened.  

“Perhaps,” he murmured, “but it’s just the kind of plan that might work.”

Snagkill snarled as he pushed himself up, shaking off the lingering tremors of the poison. His silver armor gleamed in the torchlight, though his face was contorted in fury. "MOG has chosen me!" he spat, pounding his chest with his remaining hand. "The Mandate of MOG has left Ulf! She is no longer fit to rule—her weakness, her failure, they are proof! The Orcs of Gelberg will fall before me, and the true kingdom of our people will rise!"

Hate glared at him, arms crossed, his wiry frame still relaxed despite the tension in the air. "Ulf is the one who slew the Underking," he countered, his voice cold. "She is the hero who saved this world. That alone proves she is the rightful Queen."

Snagkill barked a harsh laugh, his lips curling in disgust. "The Underking? He’s not dead—only defeated!" He spat on the ground. "She had the chance to end him forever, but she hesitated. She let him live because of you!" He pointed an accusing finger at Hate. "Her love for you, her human half, made her weak! She is tainted by mercy, by sentiment, by the blood of our enemies!"

Hate shrugged, unbothered. "Doesn’t matter. She will be Queen." His grin widened, though his eyes were sharp.

Snagkill scoffed and began to circle Hate like a predator stalking wounded prey. "Morning nears," he growled. "The attack will begin soon, and my sappers will crack Gelberg open like a ripe skull. Your last treacherous gambit will mean nothing."

Hate gave his best cocky smile, raising his hands. "Then you'd better hurry up and kill me in honorable combat. If I take your head, the other Orcs will recognize me as Warchief, and this war ends now."

Snagkill chuckled darkly, flexing his fingers as he stepped closer. "You will not defeat me, Hate." His voice was thick with confidence, with certainty. "You are no warrior—you are a coward and a liar. And now, you will die as one."

The cold air of dawn wrapped around them as they stepped from the tent, the hush of wary whispers spreading through the gathered warriors. The first slivers of morning light painted the sky in bruised shades of violet and red. Around them, the vast camp stirred with the sound of war drums and barking orders, soldiers shaking off sleep and readying for battle. None of them knew that, before the sun fully rose, their warlord might be dead.  

Snagkill stood tall, his armor gleaming with the sigil of Darkfire—the black hand wreathed in green flame. His left arm was missing, but his remaining strength was formidable. He bared his tusks and roared for a weapon. A soldier stepped forward and tossed him a mighty one-handed mace, the head of which was a brutal iron block, wrapped in crude bands of spiked steel. Its handle was thick, wrapped in blackened leather, and the base bore the seal of some forgotten warlord from centuries past. This was a weapon built for crushing, for obliterating flesh and bone alike.  

Across from him, Hate reached inside his ragged cloak and pulled free two daggers—wicked, curved things with jagged edges that gleamed dully in the firelight. He flipped them nonchalantly, testing their weight with a smirk, the very picture of ease. But his sharp eyes never left Snagkill’s.  

Snagkill raised his mace high, his voice booming: "To the victor, let MOG decide!"  

Hate barked a laugh, twirling his blades and sliding into a low, balanced stance. "May our spilled blood show who is worthy," he responded smoothly, the traditional answer to such a challenge.  

Snagkill sneered, tightening his grip on the mace. "You know the words, traitor. But you are no true Orc."  

Hate's smirk deepened, his eyes glinting. "Then let MOG decide who the true Orc is."  

The two circled each other, feet shifting over packed dirt, watching for an opening. The world around them faded—the stirring army, the torches flickering, the distant clang of armor and sharpening blades. The tension stretched, thick as blood in the air, as warrior and rogue prepared to decide the fate of the Gelbeg Domination in the only way that truly mattered.

The first rays of the sun burst over the horizon, gilding the battlefield in gold and crimson as Snagkill lunged. His mace swung through the air like a comet, aiming to crush Hate in one devastating blow. Hate barely twisted aside, the weapon slamming into the ground where he had stood, sending up a spray of dirt and pebbles.  

A ripple of grunts and murmurs passed through the gathered Orcs as they watched, eyes sharp with anticipation. This was not just a fight between two warriors—this was the battle for the soul of their people.  

Hate moved like a shadow, light on his feet despite his weakened frame. He slashed low, a quick, almost careless flick of the wrist meant to test Snagkill’s reflexes. The warlord batted the dagger aside with his mace, stepping forward to press the advantage. His strength was undeniable, his fervor a burning thing in his single remaining hand.  

"You’re slow, traitor!" Snagkill sneered, bringing his weapon up again.  

Hate gave a sharp, breathless laugh as he danced back. "And you’re missing a hand."  

Snagkill snarled and rushed forward, the ground trembling beneath his boots. He swung high, forcing Hate to duck, then immediately pivoted to bring his knee up into Hate’s ribs. The impact sent the rogue skidding backward, coughing, his daggers dipping slightly.  

The crowd murmured louder now, some nodding in approval, others whispering among themselves. Hate straightened, spitting blood onto the dirt, but his eyes glowed with something dangerously close to amusement.  

"Not bad," he muttered, shifting his stance. His muscles ached from weeks in a cell, but his instincts were still sharp. He flicked his daggers again, shifting them in his grip.  

Snagkill didn’t wait—he stormed forward with relentless fury. His mace became a blur, each swing meant to cripple or kill, and Hate had to call on every ounce of his skill to evade. He ducked, sidestepped, rolled under a sweeping arc—his movements fluid, but growing slower with each desperate dodge.  

The Orcs around them grunted at each near-miss, at each clever feint and brutal counter. Some cheered for Snagkill, for his righteous fury and the raw power behind each strike. Others watched Hate with sharp interest, the roguish fighter who should have been broken but still moved with deadly grace.  

Blades flashed, the mace thundered, breath came heavy, and sweat dripped to the dust. Still, no victor emerged. The fight raged on, neither warrior willing to fall, neither willing to surrender.  

And the sun rose higher, bathing them both in the harsh, unyielding light of the new day.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 23: The Siege of Gelberg  

The valley before Gelberg’s mighty walls churned with the weight of war. Smoke clung to the earth, thick with the stench of iron, sweat, and roasting meat. Thousands of Orcs stood in rigid formation, banners snapping in the cold wind. Each bore the sigil of Snagkill Darkfire—a black hand wreathed in flame upon a green field.  

Their war machines were in place, massive constructs of wood and iron designed to break the city’s will. The Maw, a great battering ram with iron teeth, loomed like a beast ready to bite. The Baleflame Throwers, trebuchets modified to hurl barrels of alchemic fire, stood primed to reduce Gelberg to a charred husk. Spinebreakers, their giant ballistae, gleamed under torchlight, ready to punch through stone and flesh alike. Beneath the earth, sappers worked tirelessly, carving through the bedrock, hoping to send the walls tumbling down from within.  

The army of Darkfire was prepared for the killing.  

At the heart of the encampment, beneath a great tent of black and green, Snagkill Darkfire sat upon a throne of carved obsidian. His silver armor gleamed in the dim torchlight, its surface engraved with the mark of his rebellion. His left hand was missing, a cruel reminder of the past, and his red eyes glowed beneath a heavy brow, reflecting the firelight like embers.  

Before him stood his five generals, battle-hardened and ruthless.  

Korrak the Red, a scarred brute clad in blackened plate, slammed his fist upon the war table. “The walls of Gelberg will not stand, Hrall,” he declared, his voice like grinding stone. “We have the machines. We have the numbers. They are as good as dust.”  

Beside him, Gorvash Two-Tusks, once a devout Paladin of MOG, now a warlord clad in chainmail and thick furs, nodded. “Their faith is broken. The Darkfire Paladins will crush them. This kingdom was built on faith, and now it crumbles beneath it.”  

Malgrim the Hound, thin and wiry, his eyes gleaming with cruel intelligence, leaned forward. “My tunnel-rats have been digging for days. If the walls do not fall to fire and steel, they will fall from within.”  

Azgarn the Silent, the former admiral turned cavalry master, rested a hand on his sword’s pommel and indicated silently to their weak left flank.

Urzha Steel-Eye, the youngest, but the hungriest for blood, sneered. “You need only give the command, Hrall,” she said, her fingers twitching over the pommel of her cleaver. “Let me unleash my hounds, and I will show you how a city drowns in its own blood.”  

Snagkill listened in silence, his fingers drumming against the war table. The weight of victory sat upon his shoulders. It was his decision alone.  

After a long moment, he spoke. “The war is at its end.” His voice was calm, cold, certain. “Gelberg is a dying beast, thrashing in its final moments. We will give it a warrior’s death.”  

A grim silence followed, then a roar of approval.  

"The city will burn!" Shartha snarled.  

"The Domination will be ashes!" Mazgush added.  

Zhadra knelt first, pounding a fist over her heart. “And you, Hrall. You shall be its king.”  

One by one, the generals followed, bowing before their chosen ruler.  

“Hail Hrall. Snagkill,” they declared in unison, voices like thunder. “King of the True Orcs!”  

Snagkill did not smile. He only tightened his grip on the hilt of his great mace and gazed through the open tent flap, where Gelberg’s walls loomed in the distance.  

Tomorrow, the city would fall.  

Tomorrow, he would claim his destiny.

The first wave struck at dawn.

The war horns of Darkfire howled through the valley, a chorus of doom carried on the wind. As the sun broke over the eastern mountains, it painted the battlefield in streaks of red, a warning of the slaughter to come. Drums thundered, shaking the earth as thousands of warriors charged forth, a tide of iron and fury crashing against Gelberg’s mighty walls.

Ionia stood at the battlements, her eyes sharp and cold as she surveyed the battlefield. Her golden hair was tied back, her heavy Orcish armor battle-worn but unbroken. Her great sword Juukavice rested against her shoulder, a reminder to all that she was Queen of the Orcs, no matter how many called her human.

"Shields up!" she barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Archers, loose!"

A storm of arrows rained down, black shafts piercing the flesh of the charging Darkfire warriors. The front ranks faltered as the first bodies hit the ground, but the wave did not stop.

Ulf stood beside her, her red eyes blazing with battle-lust. She had shed her helm, her black ponytail whipping in the wind as she swung her heavy cleaver-sword, directing warriors where the lines were weakest.

“They’re bringing up the ladders, Mother!” Ulf shouted. “We need the oil ready!”

Ionia nodded sharply and turned to her officers. “Flame cauldrons! Spill their guts across the wall!”

From the ramparts, great cauldrons of flaming oil were tipped over, crashing down upon the besiegers. Screams tore through the ranks as the boiling liquid consumed flesh, turning warriors into living torches.

But still, the Darkfire Horde surged forward.

BOOM.

A deep, sickening crack filled the air as a massive siege ram, the Maw, struck against the great gates of Gelberg. The doors shuddered beneath the impact, the iron reinforcements groaning.

“Again!” roared Varzug the Breaker, his massive frame driving the charge, his warhammer raised high. “Tear them open!”

The Maw slammed forward again, and this time the gates splintered, cracks spider-webbing across the thick oak.

On the ramparts, Goreboar ran like a demon, his bare arms glistening with sweat as he hauled a scorpion ballista into position. He barked orders at the archers, kicking aside the body of a slain warrior.

"String it tighter!" he bellowed, shoving an arrow the size of a spear into place. "Ready... FIRE!"

The scorpion bolt shot forth, punching through a Darkfire Paladin, sending the armored warrior crashing into two others before embedding itself deep into a siege ladder, sending it toppling backward.

Below, the enemy reached the walls.

Hooks clamped onto stone, ropes pulled taut as the first climbers began their ascent.

Ulf kicked away a ladder, sending warriors plummeting to their deaths. She turned, just in time to see a Darkfire orc vault over the edge, his curved blade swinging for her head.

She caught it on her bracer, sparks flying, then drove her knee into his gut, forcing him back before cleaving his head from his shoulders.

The siege had turned into a brutal melee.

Ionia cut down two warriors with a single sweep of Juukavice. “Hold the walls!” she shouted. “For the Domination!”

"For the Domination!" came the answering cry.

But the gates groaned, splintering further as the Maw slammed into them once more.

"Mother!" Ulf turned, breathing heavily. "They're going to break through!"

Ionia clenched her jaw. She knew it too.

Goreboar leaped up onto the battlements, panting. “We can hold them back, but not forever!” he snarled. “We need reinforcements from the lower city or we’re done for!”

Ionia looked around. Their lines were holding, but the Darkfire Horde was endless. And soon, the walls would be breached.

The battle for Gelberg had only just begun.

With a roar of defiance, the defenders of Gelberg heaved great clay jars over the ramparts, their thick, tar-coated surfaces glistening in the firelight. As they hurtled downward, the Darkfire orcs below barely had time to react before the jars shattered upon impact, unleashing torrents of Naga Fire. The vile substance ignited instantly, its unnatural, green-black flames clinging to flesh, wood, and steel alike. The Maw, once a mighty battering ram, became a funeral pyre, its iron braces glowing red-hot as the infernal fire licked and consumed the siege engine. Orcs screamed and writhed, their armor becoming molten prisons as the unyielding blaze spread, devouring everything in its path. From the walls, Ulf bellowed a war cry, her voice rising over the carnage, as the Gelberg defenders rained down more death, ensuring that nothing—not even water nor time—could extinguish the Maw’s burning ruin.

The night sky glowed orange as the Maw burned, its iron fittings warping and twisting in the intense heat. The Naga fire clung to it, thick and unrelenting, licking up the splintered gates and charring the bodies of the Darkfire orcs caught in the blast. Their screams filled the air, howls of agony as they tried to roll and claw at their burning flesh, but Naga fire did not die. Not with water, not with sand. It burned until there was nothing left.

Above, on the ramparts, the defenders of Gelberg roared in triumph.

Ulf clenched a bloody fist and bellowed, “For Gelberg!” Her warriors took up the cry, raising their weapons high. The sudden turn in the battle sent a wave of fear through the Darkfire ranks. Their mighty siege weapon, their key to breaching the gates, was nothing but a smoldering ruin.

For a moment, just a moment, it seemed as though the attack had faltered.

Then the war horns sounded again.

From the Darkfire command tent, Snagkill’s generals moved swiftly, their voices carrying through the din of war.

“Forget the gate!” snarled Warchief Druv the Ashen. He was a towering orc, his red-washed plate armor scorched from previous battles. “Break the walls! The bastards have to crumble somewhere!”

Zardok Steelgut, a wiry, one-eyed orc, pointed with his cleaver. “We still have the sappers! Dig beneath their foundations! Collapsing a section will do what the Maw couldn’t!”

“More ladders,” growled Vorrak the Bane, his wolfskin cloak whipping in the wind. “If we cannot go through, we will go over.”

Snagkill himself watched the battlefield, his silver armor glinting in the firelight, his face a mask of grim determination. His missing hand ached at his side, as if sensing how close victory had been—only to be snatched away by flame.

But he was no fool. This was not over.

“Send the Blackfangs to the left flank,” he ordered. “Have them pressure the walls while the sappers work. Vorrak, keep their archers pinned down. Zardok, make sure our reserves are ready when the breach comes.”

The generals nodded and scattered, the war drums booming once more as Darkfire renewed its assault.

Back at the walls, Ionia narrowed her eyes, watching the shifting movements below.

“They’re changing tactics,” she muttered. “The next strike won’t be so direct.”

Goreboar, panting and covered in soot and blood, wiped a hand over his sweat-slicked brow. “No more rams coming, at least,” he said, voice hoarse. “But they aren’t pulling back.”

Ulf’s expression darkened. “They’re waiting.”

A lull had fallen over the battlefield.

The dead littered the ground between the walls and the Darkfire lines, their bodies cast in flickering light. The heat from the burning Maw still radiated outward, warping the air, but beyond it, the enemy stood poised.

Archers loosed sporadically, warriors clashed at ladders, but neither side gave or took significant ground. It was a siege in deadlock, a test of endurance, of patience.

Behind the walls, the reality of war set in.

Inside Gelberg, the streets were filled with wounded warriors and desperate thralls, hurrying to bring water and supplies to the front. Blacksmiths worked without rest, reforging armor, resharpening blades dulled by endless battle.

Ionia turned to Goreboar. “How long can we hold?”

The orc warrior sighed. “If they breach, hours. If not? Depends on how much food and water we have.”

She clenched her fists.

Gelberg was strong, its walls thick and its warriors hardened. But against a siege of this scale, one thing was certain—

It was only a matter of time.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 22: A Shadow Over Gelberg

The Orcish Hall was drowned in shadow, the once-proud banners of the Gelbeg Domination hanging limply, their rich embroidery seeming tattered in the dim torchlight. The air was thick with whispers and resignation, the scent of smoke, sweat, and ink mingling as scribes scratched out last wills, final orders, and desperate pleas for mercy that would never come.

Ulf moved swiftly through the halls, her heavy boots clanking against the stone, but her presence did little to silence the sombre murmurs around her.

Near an arched window, a noble Orcish lady, clad in a voluminous gown of deep green and gold, knelt beside her two children. Her tusked lips pressed into a grim smile as she adjusted the brooch on her daughter's dress, her calloused fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"Be still, my loves," she whispered, smoothing the boy’s hair. "We will not flee. We will stand beside our queen, and we will die as Orcs."

Ulf’s stomach tightened, but she pressed on.

To her right, a noble in a blood-red cloak stood over a table, his large hands gripping a thrall’s shoulders so tightly his nails bit into flesh. The thrall quivered, eyes downcast, as the noble shoved a massive, iron-studded greatsword into his arms.

"Take this to my eldest at the gate," the noble barked. "Tell him he is the last of our line. Our blade must not fall into enemy hands while I still draw breath!"

The thrall, pale-faced, nodded and ran before the noble could change his mind and send him to the front himself.

Further down the hall, a group of orcish commanders huddled near a dying brazier, muttering in low, urgent voices.

"We cannot hold, and they know it," one grumbled, rubbing a ragged scar along his chin.

"Then what?" spat another. "Bend the knee? To Snagkill? To the humans?"

A bitter laugh. "To MOG himself, if it keeps our heads on our shoulders."

Ulf passed them without a word, her red eyes burning.

She could smell their despair, their fear. The halls of her ancestors, once ringing with laughter and war songs, now reeked of something fouler than death—hopelessness.

She clenched her fists. No.

Not yet.

The throne room of Gelberg was dimly lit, the towering braziers burning low, as though the very fire had begun to mourn. The banners of the Domination hung silent and heavy, weighed down by the air of defeat.  

At the foot of the great black throne, Queen Ionia sat, leaning forward, her head in her hands. Her golden hair, once so bright in the firelight, now seemed dull, as if sorrow had drained the color from it. Across her lap lay Juukavice, the sacred blade of the Domination, its blade cold and unstirred.  

She looked as though she had aged ten years overnight.  

Before her, Gutd, High Warchief of the Domination, stood with his arms crossed, his braided beard tucked against his chest. His voice was low and steady, the voice of a commander preparing for the inevitable.  

“They will breach the walls, my Queen. We must be ready for the siege.”  

Goreboar, Ulf’s betrothed, stood beside him, his usual mirth replaced by grim focus. His black bow rested at his side, and a fresh cut streaked across his forehead.  

“Darkfire’s troops move like carrion birds, circling us,” he reported. “They’ve sealed the roads. There’s no way out.”  

At the Queen’s right hand, Badwen Crimson-Blade gripped the hilt of her sword, her red eyes flickering between the gathered warriors. She looked as if she were searching for someone, anyone, to lift the weight from Ionia’s shoulders.  

Then—the doors burst open.  

Ulf strode forward, her boots hammering against the stone as she rushed toward the throne. She moved without hesitation, falling to one knee before her mother.  

“Mother,” she breathed, her red eyes searching Ionia’s tired face.  

Ionia slowly lifted her hand and placed it against Ulf’s head, her touch soft but heavy with regret. She let out a sigh, one that spoke of years of struggle, of battles fought and lost.  

“I have failed,” she whispered. “I led our people into this war. I thought I could carve a home for us, a true kingdom. And now—” her voice caught, and her fingers tightened against Ulf’s hair. “Now I have led them to ruin.”  

Ulf gritted her teeth and lifted her gaze.  

“If it is MOG’s will that we die here, then so be it,” she said fiercely. “But we will die as heroes. We will die as true Orcs.”  

The room fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them all.  

Then—slowly, ever so slowly, Ionia’s lips curled into something resembling a smile. The first in what felt like an age.  

She straightened her back, her grip firming on Juukavice.  

“You are your father’s daughter,” she murmured. “And mine.”  

She let out a long breath and rose fully upon the throne, her eyes now clear, unwavering.  

“So be it,” she declared, her voice stronger now. “Let Snagkill come. Let the humans come. We will meet them at the gates.”  

The fire in the braziers flickered, as if stirred by her will.

Badwen Crimson-Blade paced like a caged beast.  

Her boots struck the stone floor of the Orcish Hall, each step filled with the frustration that burned in her chest. Her hand hovered near the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white from gripping the handle too tightly. She had sworn to protect her Queen, to lay down her life before Ionia was ever harmed. She had sworn to avenge Bilesnot, her Soulmaave, who had been cut down in battle, his tusks shattered, his blood staining the ground before she could reach him.  

And now—now she was on the verge of failing both vows.  

The Hall around her was a tomb of dread.  

Near the far wall, a noble Orcess adjusted her voluminous gown, her golden bangles clinking softly. She bent to kiss the cold lips of her soulmaave, felled by the aim of an arrow that had lodged itself in his throat.

Across the chamber, a gray-haired noble snarled orders at a thrall, commanding him to see that his estate was set aflame with the enemy breached the gates. “I’ll see this city burn before you humans even get a single whit of your gold back!

All around her, Orcs prepared for death—some with grim resolve, others with barely concealed fear. Warriors sat sharpening their axes, speaking in low murmurs of battles past. Thralls moved quickly, their eyes wide, knowing that the coming battle might be their last chance to run or die free.  

Badwen snarled under her breath, her fingers twitching toward her blade.  

This could not be how it ended.  

She turned her gaze toward the throne, where Ulf knelt before her mother.  

The sight of the Princess sent a spark of something deep into Badwen’s chest—hope, defiance, purpose.  

Ulf was the blood of Gelbeg. The heir to the greatest Orcish kingdom that had ever existed. If she lived—if she took the throne—then perhaps all was not lost.  

Badwen clenched her jaw and took a deep, shuddering breath.  

I will not fail.  

If the gods demanded her blood, then she would spill it gladly—but she would see Ulf rise to power first.  

She swore it.

A thought then slithered into Badwen’s mind like a serpent.

A dangerous thought.

A brutal, traitorous thought.

It made her stomach churn, made her tusks clench so hard her jaw ached. It was not the thought of battle, of bleeding, of dying. No, it was something far worse.

Subterfuge.

Deception.

The way of humans.

Badwen shuddered, her skin crawling at the mere comparison. Orcs fought with steel and strength, not with lies. But the truth was carved into the bones of this hall—they had lost.

Snagkill had won.

Unless…

Badwen’s red eyes flicked to Ionia, still seated upon her throne, and then to Ulf, who knelt before her. The blood of Gelbeg, the last hope of their people. She could not allow them to die here.

Not like this.

Not to their own kind.

Badwen’s grip tightened on the hilt of her sword, her fingers twitching. There was one way. One way to end this rebellion before it devoured the Domination whole.

But it would require the skills of an Orc without honor.

An Orc like…

Badwen grimaced.

She knew what she must do.

Her lips curled in disgust, but her feet were already moving. She stormed toward the doors of the hall, pushing past murmuring nobles and sharpening blades.

There was one Orc who could help her.

A killer, a liar, a survivor.

A traitor to all things Orcish.

Hate.

Badwen moved like a shadow down the narrow stone steps, her bootfalls echoing in the damp corridor. The torches lining the walls flickered, their weak flames barely holding back the oppressive darkness of the dungeons beneath the Orcish Hall.  

She could smell fear.  

The thralls—human, dwarves, even a few broken Dakfire Orcs—pressed themselves against the bars of their cells as she passed. Hollow eyes peered at her from the gloom, hands gripping iron bars with a desperate, silent plea.  

Badwen sneered. Pathetic. These wretches had once been warriors, now they were little more than rats in cages. She turned her gaze to a gaunt human, his ribs like the bars he clutched.  

"You’ll die down here, slave," she spat. "Best pray to whatever gods you have left that it’s quick."  

The man did not reply. He only stared, his lips curling into a hateful grin.  

Badwen curled her own in disgust and strode past. She had no time for the dregs of war.  

She reached the final cell at the end of the hall. The guard there stiffened, hand on his axe.  

"Leave us," she ordered.  

The guard hesitated. “But High Warchief Gutd said—”  

Badwen turned her head slowly, her red eyes flashing. "I don’t give a thrall’s piss what Gutd said. Get out."  

The guard swallowed, then bowed stiffly and retreated up the stairs.  

Badwen turned back to the cell.  

Inside, Hate sat against the far wall, his back resting on the damp stone. His long black hair, once neatly braided, hung in wild, tangled strands over his face. His normally massive, rotund frame had withered, his powerful bulk reduced to a husk.  

But his eyes—those treacherous, cunning eyes—still burned with life.  

"Look what the rats dragged in," he rasped, his lips cracking as he smiled.  

Badwen crossed her arms. "You look like filth."  

Hate laughed, though it was hoarse and dry. "And you still smell like a boar’s ass. We’ve both seen better days."  

Badwen gritted her teeth, stepping closer. "I should kill you where you sit, traitor."  

Hate smirked. "Then why haven’t you?"  

Badwen's fingers twitched on her sword hilt, but she did not draw. Instead, she took a slow breath through her nose.  

"You claim to serve the Princess," she said at last.  

Hate straightened, his weary smile fading. He placed a fist over his heart.  

"In life and death," he said, voice steady. "My love for her demands nothing less than my dedication and life's blood."  

Badwen growled. She wanted to hate him, to spit on him, to break his teeth. But she could not deny the truth in his words.  

"Then perhaps," she said slowly, "there is something you can do. But it will cost you any and all of your honor."  

Hate chuckled. "Honor?" He leaned forward, grinning, his teeth sharp and yellowed in the torchlight. "I lost that long ago. What more can I lose?"  

Badwen stepped forward.  

She unlocked the cell.  

The door groaned open.  

Hate stood, towering over her, though his body was weak and trembling.  

Badwen looked up into those sharp, hungry eyes and let out a slow breath.  

"Then perhaps we can make a deal…"

[gobboguy]

Chapter 21: The Scourging of the North

The Acurian war host rolled south like an unstoppable storm, a sea of steel and banners, their golden emblems gleaming beneath the pale winter sun. Thousands of human knights, clad in polished plate, led the charge, their lances glinting like the fangs of some monstrous beast. Behind them came the thrall legions—freed slaves, emboldened by their thirst for vengeance, wielding crude weapons and looted Orcish steel, their war cries filled with righteous fury.

Smoke choked the sky.

Villages burned.

Orcish families—warriors, women, and whelps alike—fled in terror, abandoning their homes as the Acurian tide surged forth. The war drums of Doomthrall pounded in the distance, summoning what warriors remained, but many had already fallen at Durm-Varr, and the Gelberg Dominion was reeling.

At the village of Gor'Vek, a towering Orcish champion, Gurthak the Red, made his stand, his massive iron axe cleaving through ranks of human infantry. But for every knight he struck down, three more took their place. The Acurian bowmen rained death upon him, and soon the champion fell, his body riddled with arrows. His whelps, his wives, and his warriors—all slaughtered or scattered into the wilderness.

To the south, in the plains of Magdul, another band of warriors, led by Warchief Krudak One-Eye, sought to slow the advance. But the Acurians came with siege engines—great wooden ballistae and iron-plated war wagons, bristling with spikes and shields, their wheels crushing Orcish bodies beneath them. The war wagons rolled forth, shields locked together like an impenetrable wall, while mounted knights struck like lightning from the flanks.

Krudak bellowed his final war cry, raising his sword to the sky—only for an Acurian catapult to hurl a boulder that smashed him into the ground, his body obliterated.

By nightfall, Magdul burned, its inhabitants put to the sword or driven into the wilderness.

The thralls, now free, screamed their vengeance, dragging down Orcish overseers who had once whipped them in the slave pits. They showed no mercy—Orcish men were slaughtered, their women taken, their children slain or sent fleeing into the mountains.

And always, at the head of the advancing Acurian army, the great war machines lumbered forward, rolling over fields and forests, their destination clear—

DOOMTHRALL.

The last true city of the north, the great stronghold of the Bloodreaver Clan, and the first major Orcish city to stand in the Acurian path.

If Doomthrall fell…

The north would be lost.

The Siege of Doomthrall

The drums of war thundered atop Doomthrall’s mighty black-stone walls, each beat echoing over the frozen plains. Warchief Thragga Bloodreaver, grim-faced and armored in thick, spiked plates, stood high upon the ramparts, her red war banner whipping violently in the frigid wind. Beside her, the half-blood son of Jekul, Gutscratcher, his jagged tusks gleaming with spit and fury, roared at his warriors.

"The humans want our city?" he bellowed. "Let them choke on our spears!"

Below, the Acurian war host swarmed like ants, their torches flickering in the darkness. Siege towers rolled forward, reinforced with thick iron plating to withstand arrows and fire. Enormous battering rams, carried by teams of oxen and war slaves, trundled toward Doomthrall’s gates.

The first assault came at dawn.

The Acurians marched in disciplined ranks, shields locked, pikes bristling like a wall of thorns. Their ballistae loosed iron-tipped bolts, tearing through Orcish defenders like paper. The archers atop Doomthrall’s walls returned fire, sending black-feathered arrows into the sea of flesh below.

With a mighty crack, the first siege tower struck the walls. The drawbridge slammed down, and armored knights poured forth.

"Kill them! Drown them in blood!" Gutscratcher screamed, leading the charge.

The ramparts became a charnel house.

Gutscratcher wielded Jekul’s axe, its heavy blade splitting helmets and skulls alike. He grabbed a charging knight by the throat, lifting him high and hurling him over the wall, his screams lost in the chaos below. Spears stabbed, swords slashed, axes hacked. The wall ran slick with red and black blood, but still the Acurians came.

Then, from the west, a cry rose—the gates!

A battering ram had breached Doomthrall’s outer gates, and Acurian infantry flooded in.

Gutscratcher did not hesitate.

"Open the slave pits!" he roared. "Make them earn their freedom in blood!"

The thralls, former human slaves and prisoners, were hurled into the breach, armed with rusted weapons and bare rage. Some turned against the Orcs, taking the chance to avenge their years of servitude. Others, desperate for survival, threw themselves upon the knights, dragging them down into the mud, biting, clawing, stabbing.

It was a slaughter.

But it was enough.

Reinforcements surged forth, Thragga herself leading a detachment of berserkers, their bodies painted with fresh blood. They carved a path through the human lines, forcing them back through the broken gates.

The Acurians retreated, leaving hundreds of bodies behind.

For now, Doomthrall held.

But food stores were low.

The walls were cracked.

And they all knew—the humans would return.

Gutscratcher, bloodied but grinning, turned to Thragga. "If we hold until the end of the civil war, we live. If not…" He spat onto the corpse of an Acurian knight.

"We die as Orcs."

 The Siege of Doomthrall

The war horns of Acury blared across the frozen plains, their deep, mournful notes shaking the very bones of Doomthrall’s defenders. The human war host stretched as far as the eye could see, banners of crimson and gold fluttering beneath a sky choked with smoke. Siege towers, built of ironwood and reinforced with steel plates, rumbled forward, pushed by teams of thralls eager to see their former masters burn.

Atop the black-stone walls, Gutscratcher—son of Jekul, heir to Doomthrall, and last hope of its defenders—watched with a sneer. His thick arms, crisscrossed with old scars, rested on the haft of his great-axe. His warriors, battered but unbowed, tightened their grips on spear and bow.

"Here they come," growled an old shield-bearer beside him.

Gutscratcher spat over the wall. "Then we’ll send them back in pieces."

 The First Assault

The siege towers reached the walls first. Their massive drawbridges slammed down with a thunderous crash, and armored knights poured forth like a flood of steel. Orcish defenders met them with howls of rage, hacking and stabbing in the cramped melee.

Gutscratcher was in the thick of it, his great-axe cleaving through plate and flesh alike. He shattered a knight’s shield with a single blow, then buried his weapon in another’s chest before kicking the corpse over the wall.

Beneath the ramparts, Acurian war machines groaned forward. A battering ram, its head carved in the shape of a snarling lion, slammed into Doomthrall’s outer gates. With each impact, splinters flew.

Then came the breach.

The gates burst open, and Acurian infantry flooded in.

"Fall back to the second wall!" Gutscratcher roared. "Seal the inner gate!"

His warriors moved swiftly, dragging barricades into place as the first ranks of human soldiers crashed into their defenses. Blood painted the cobblestones as Doomthrall’s warriors fought with savage desperation.

 A Desperate Defense

With the outer defenses lost, Gutscratcher turned to his final gamble.

"Open the slave pits!" he barked.

The thralls of Doomthrall, a mix of humans and captured rebels, were armed and thrown into the fray. Some, their rage unchained, turned on their former Orcish masters, attacking in a desperate bid for freedom. Others, seeing the sheer numbers of Acury’s army, fought alongside the Orcs, knowing the alternative was death.

The battle devolved into chaos.

The streets of Doomthrall ran red with Acurian and Orcish blood alike. Thralls stabbed knights in the back only to be cut down seconds later. Orcish berserkers, foaming at the mouth, tore through enemy ranks but fell to well-placed arrows.

Gutscratcher, his axe dripping with gore, rallied his warriors atop the inner gate.

"Doomthrall is not fallen yet!" he bellowed. "We hold until we cannot!"

 The Aftermath

By nightfall, the Acurians withdrew, leaving hundreds of bodies behind. Their siege towers lay in ruin, their dead piled high against the blackened walls.

But Doomthrall had paid in blood.

Food was running low.

Ammunition was spent.

And the enemy would return.

Standing atop the ramparts, Gutscratcher gazed toward the distant mountains. The war in the south raged on, and no relief would come—not yet.

He ran a thumb along the edge of his axe and exhaled sharply.

"We hold."

[gobboguy]

Chapter 20: The Battle of Durm-Varr

The field of Durm-Varr stretched wide beneath a brooding sky, flanked by the dark Cleoleham River to the west and jagged, craggy hills to the east. The earth, once lush and green, had been trampled into mud and dust by the countless Orcish warbands assembling for battle. The banners of the Gelberg Domination fluttered in the wind, each marked with the green hand of the Orcs.

The sun rose behind Queen Ionia’s host, casting long shadows as her warriors took their positions. She stood upon a ridge, surveying her forces—tens of thousands of hardened Orcish warriors, clad in chain and leather, bearing axes, maces, and war-spears. The air buzzed with murmurs of war chants, the deep growls of Warchiefs barking orders, and the clatter of iron.

Across the battlefield, the rebel host of Snagkill the Blessed formed their lines. His army stood defiant, shield walls bristling, banners fluttering, and paladins of MOG chanting war prayers. Their white-gold armor gleamed, a stark contrast to the darker, grizzled warriors of Ionia’s dominion. Snagkill himself, his mace pulsing with divine power, sat atop a towering war horse, his crimson cape billowing as he raised his hand in benediction.

Between them lay the blood-soaked valley of Durm-Varr, where thousands would soon meet their fate.

The valley of Durm-Varr was a minor holding of a Orcish knight in service to Chommogh. Normally a place of great wealth in food, its massive wheat fields had been ground to nothing but dead vegetation and mud. It's rolling hills now stood testament to the oncoming slaughter.

Ionia, with her generals at her side, watched as the enemy took the higher ground, their position defensively strong. She had let them choose their battlefield, but she had also chosen her trap.

“They think us eager fools,” she muttered, a grim smile touching her lips.

Fartbringer, his bulk shifting in the saddle, chuckled. “They are not wrong. I am eager to split some skulls.”

But Ionia was not ready to commit her full force. She knew that Snagkill’s faith-bound warriors were disciplined and stubborn; if she rushed headlong, her forces would break upon them like waves against stone. Instead, she issued her first command.

“Advance the skirmishers.”

The Orcish archers and light-footed raiders rushed forth, forming loose lines. Their bows twanged, and a storm of black-feathered arrows arced toward the rebel front lines. Snagkill’s shield wall locked together, their heavy tower shields absorbing the barrage with brutal efficiency.

Then, with a mighty war horn, Snagkill’s calvalry charged forward. Massive beasts thundered across the field, their riders wielding long-hafted spears and shrieking battle cries to MOG. They crashed into Ionia’s left flank, shattering Orcish skirmishers and tossing bodies into the air like ragdolls.

For a moment, it seemed the rebels had the advantage.

Then, from behind Ionia’s main force, the cavalry of Doomthrall surged forth. Heavily armored riders led by Thragga Bloodreaver smashed into the exposed flanks of Snagkill’s charging riders. The battlefield erupted into chaos—swords clashed, beasts shrieked, and the muddy ground turned red.

Ionia watched, eyes narrow, lips pressed together. This was just the beginning.

The true slaughter was yet to come.

The battlefield of Durm-Varr roared with the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the thunder of hooves tearing into the blood-soaked earth. Ionia’s left flank surged forward, her cavalry eager and confident, their weapons hacking through the outnumbered Darkfire riders. The rebels buckled under the assault, their lines breaking, their forces in retreat. Victory seemed close—too close.

And then, Snagkill struck.

From behind the retreating riders, a hidden fourth line of spearmen—grim-faced warriors in gleaming white and gold—rose up like a tide. Their spears, wickedly long and barbed, jutted forward in an impenetrable wall.

“HOLD!” bellowed the rebel captains, their voices cutting through the chaos.

But the Gelberg riders had no time to react. Their momentum carried them forward—straight into the trap.

With a deafening CRASH, spears met charging beasts, skewering riders through the gut, their war-boars and wolves rearing in panic as the second rank of spearmen thrust again and again. Bodies crumpled, impaled, shrieking. Blood sprayed across shields, and the once-proud Gelberg cavalry buckled.

And then, like a tide pulling back only to surge forth again, the retreating Darkfire cavalry wheeled around.

The Orcish rebels, who had feigned their withdrawal, now charged back with terrible force, smashing into the disorganized remains of Ionia’s left flank.

“No!” Ionia roared, her eyes wide in horror.

The trap had snapped shut.

Surrounded, cut off, and assailed from both sides, the Gelberg cavalry crumbled. Riders fell screaming, trampled beneath hooves and hacked down by once-fleeing foes. The spearmen pressed forward, driving their long shafts into any Orc still standing, while the rebel cavalry cut through the ranks with brutal precision.

The left wing collapsed.

Panicked riders **broke formation, fleeing for their lives** back toward the Gelberg lines. The once-mighty charge had turned into a desperate rout.

On her command hill, Ionia’s face twisted with fury. “Regroup! Sound the retreat! Hold the center!”

But she knew the truth—Snagkill had struck a terrible blow.

The battlefield of Durm-Varr had become a slaughterhouse.

Snagkill, astride his war-beast, raised his blessed mace to the sky. The golden light of the sun shone upon him, and his voice rang out like thunder:

“PALADINS OF THE FAITH! PURGE THE FALSE QUEEN’S LEGIONS!”

From the heart of his formation, his third line surged forward—the Templars of MOG, the battle-hardened elite of his army. Their armor gleamed, their war chants filled the air, and their blessed weapons cracked with divine fury.

They hit Ionia’s front lines like a hammer against brittle iron.

The Gelberg warriors struggled to hold, but they had already lost their left flank. Now, Snagkill’s cavalry raked their backs, cutting down the disorganized ranks as the Paladins pressed forward.

The Orcs of Gelberg fought desperately**—axes clashing against shields, spears lashing out at the charging enemy—but **it was too much.

The lines buckled.

Then the panic took hold.

“RUN! RUN! THE FAITHFUL ARE UPON US!”

Like a plague, fear spread through Ionia’s ranks. Soldiers threw down their weapons, turning from battle to flee. The once-proud warriors of Gelberg trampled their own in their desperation to escape the wrath of Snagkill’s host.

Paladins cut them down as they ran, their divine blessings guiding their blades. Lances pierced fleeing backs. The golden banners of MOG’s chosen waved triumphantly over the dying and the damned.

Ionia’s face twisted in rage and despair. She had lost.

The truth was undeniable.

“Sound the retreat!” she roared, fury in her voice. “Get to the river! Get to the Cleoleham!”

The trumpets blew—a desperate, broken call.

The retreat became a rout.

Across the battlefield, Gelberg warriors tossed aside their banners, their pride, and their honor as they ran.

Those who could dove into the Cleoleham River, trying to swim to safety. Many drowned, dragged down by their armor. Others were picked off by archers on the banks, their bodies floating away with the crimson tide.

Ionia rode at the rear, her blade flashing as she cut down any foe who dared pursue. Blood splattered her armor, her breath came ragged—but she would not be taken today.

Her army was broken. The day was lost.

And Snagkill, victorious, stood atop a hill, raising Bonebreaker to the sky.

The **Paladins of MOG knelt before him,** chanting his name as the sun set over Durm-Varr.

The rout from Durm-Varr was a brutal, chaotic retreat, the once-proud banners of the Gelberg Domination now tattered and smeared with blood and mud. The Cleoleham River ran red, choked with the bodies of those who had drowned trying to escape Snagkill’s forces. Those who survived the crossing pressed southward in a panicked, disorganized wave, limping back toward the safety of Gelberg.

For days, the roads were lined with the wounded—Orcs with shattered limbs, missing tusks, and bloodied armor, their once-fearsome roars reduced to muttered curses and painful groans. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and defeat.

By the time they reached the hills overlooking Gelberg, what remained of Ionia’s army was a hollow shell of its former strength. The great Orcish city loomed in the distance, its dark walls marked with the skulls of Farfield’s human defenders—a city built on conquest, yet now standing on the precipice of its own undoing.

The Queen’s war camp sat atop a rocky hill, its fires burning low as dusk crept in. Guards paced the perimeter in grim silence, their eyes constantly scanning the northern horizon for signs of Snagkill’s pursuit.

In the largest tent, Ionia sat in silence, her hands resting limply on her lap, fingers stained with dried blood. Her once-glorious black armor—the same armor that had gleamed with victory in so many battles—was dented and dulled. The crown of the Queen of the Orcs weighed heavily on her brow, but it was the weight of defeat that truly bent her shoulders.

Ulf stood nearby, still clad in her own battle-worn armor, her arms crossed over her chest. She could hardly recognize her mother—the fierce, cunning woman who had led the Domination for years, now slumped like a broken blade.

“Mother,” Ulf’s voice was steady, but not unkind. “We live. We survived. That means the war isn’t over.”

Ionia didn’t move, her blue eyes staring blankly at the map before her, still marked with the battle lines of Durm-Varr—the site of their humiliation.

“We lost the north,” Ionia muttered at last, her voice hoarse. “The Warchiefs will know. Thragga, Fartbringer... They value strength above all. And we showed them weakness.”

Ulf clenched her jaw, stepping closer. “We showed them that we can bleed. But we also showed them that we still stand. Snagkill hasn’t won Gelberg yet.”

Ionia let out a bitter laugh. “How long do you think they’ll follow a human queen and a half-breed princess when Snagkill claims the blood of Gelbeg himself?”

Ulf’s fists tightened. “We will remind them who we are. We are Gelberg. We are Orcs.

The tent fell into silence again, broken only by the distant sound of crackling campfires.

Then—

The flap of the tent burst open.

A messenger Orc stumbled inside, his eyes wide with panic, his face slick with sweat and grime. His armor hung loosely on his frame, as though he had ridden hard for days.

“My Queen!” he gasped, sinking to one knee. “The humans of Acury**—from the north—they’ve… they’ve **attacked!”

The air seemed to freeze.

Ionia’s head snapped up. “What?”

“The Acurian army crossed the border,” the messenger rasped. “They march on our lands—they seek to strike while we are weak.”

Ulf’s stomach twisted.

Not only had they lost the north to Snagkill… but now the humans had seen their chance to strike.

The Domination was being attacked from within and without.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 19: The Queen’s War

The war in the north was a brutal, grinding conflict. Snagkill Darkfire and his rebels sought to entrench themselves, using the dense forests and rugged hills to resist the Queen’s advance. But Ionia, the Queen of the Orcs, was no fool.

Her enemies sneered at her **human blood**, whispering that she was soft, that she did not have the stomach for war. They were wrong. **Ionia had learned from the best**—from Gutd, from the Warchiefs before her, and from the **Orcish way of war itself**.

Skirmish at the Black Pike Ridge

Snagkill’s forces attempted to lure Ionia into a **deadly trap**, using a narrow **ravine** where his warriors could ambush her from the cliffs. Instead, **Ionia anticipated the ploy.** She **feigned a retreat**, drawing Snagkill’s best warriors out from their **fortified positions**.

As the rebels gave chase, her **hidden cavalry**—Orcish riders she had positioned in the **dense pinewoods**—swooped down like **wolves upon prey.** The Darkfire warriors, suddenly **caught between Ionia’s retreating force and the fresh cavalry charge**, were **butchered in the ravine** they had meant to use as a death trap.

The Frozen Crossing

Snagkill attempted to cross the **Iceflow River** to flank Ionia’s army, believing the ice would hold. But **Ionia had spies among his ranks**. She sent a **small force to harass his crossing**, **forcing his warriors to gather en masse** in the weakest section of the river. Then, **Ionia’s sappers, Orcish engineers trained in siegecraft, shattered the ice with well-placed charges.**

The river **swallowed hundreds of Snagkill’s warriors**, dragging them under into the **freezing abyss**. Those who made it across found themselves **outnumbered, isolated, and slaughtered** on the riverbank by Ionia’s waiting legions.

The Night Raid on Ghur’zoth Hill

Knowing that Snagkill relied on his **camp’s central firepits** for warmth in the bitter northern cold, Ionia ordered a **night raid**. Her warriors—painted black with soot and wearing **fur-lined leathers** to blend with the snow—**crept into the Darkfire camp.**

They **snuffed out the fires**, killed **sentinels in their sleep**, and **released thralls** who turned on their former masters. By the time **Snagkill’s warriors awoke to the alarm**, they were **freezing, leaderless, and in total disarray.**

**Ionia struck at dawn.** The weakened, **shivering rebels** stood no chance.

The Queen’s Strategy

Battle after battle, **Snagkill was forced to retreat further north**, his rebellion bleeding strength.

The **Darkfire rebels had underestimated Ionia** because she was **human**, thinking her **unfit to command Orcs**. But the **Orcs of the north whispered a new name for her**—

**Ionia the Unyielding.**

And **Snagkill Darkfire** began to realize that **if he did not win soon, he would not win at all.**

### **The Turning Tide: Snagkill’s Victories**

Though **Ionia had struck heavy blows** against the Darkfire rebels, **Snagkill was not defeated.** He was an Orc raised in battle, a warrior-priest of **MOG**, and he would not yield so easily.

He adapted. He studied **Ionia’s tactics**, learning from his mistakes. He struck **where she was weakest**, forcing the Queen to **spread her forces thin.**

Victory at the Wailing Steppes

A thick **fog blanketed the battlefield** as Ionia’s forward scouts rode ahead, unaware that **Snagkill’s forces had set a trap.**

The Darkfire rebels had hidden themselves in **trenches covered with brush and dirt**, waiting until **Ionia’s front line marched past them.**

Then, **Snagkill gave the signal.**

Hundreds of **Orcish warriors erupted from the ground**, hacking into Ionia’s ranks with **feral fury.** From the flanks, Snagkill’s **best cavalry, the Iron Tusks**, swept in like a **black tide**, cutting down Ionia’s commanders before they could react.

By nightfall, **Ionia’s army was in retreat**, leaving hundreds of dead in the blood-soaked grass.

---

#### **The Sack of Durzun Hold**

Snagkill knew that **Ionia relied on supply lines** from the southern forts to feed and arm her forces.

He struck at **Durzun Hold**, a key supply post, using **Darkfire Orcs disguised as Gelberg warriors.** The deception worked—by the time the real defenders realized the treachery, **it was too late.**

Snagkill’s warriors **swarmed the fort, putting it to the torch.** The **Queen’s supplies burned** in the night, and her troops in the north **began to starve.**

---

#### **The Fall of Gronak Skullcrusher**

Ionia, furious, sent one of her **greatest champions** to **crush Snagkill once and for all**—

**Gronak Skullcrusher,** Warchief of the **Skullguard.**

Gronak was **a mountain of muscle**, clad in **black iron armor**, wielding **Bonebreaker**, a mace that had **shattered castle gates** and **broken countless foes.**

Snagkill **did not fear him.**

The battle took place at **the Gates of Mogrin**, where Snagkill and his **legions of Darkfire warriors** awaited Gronak’s charge. The two armies **clashed in brutal, close-quarters combat**, the **sound of steel on steel** deafening the mountains.

Gronak **carved a bloody path** through Snagkill’s ranks, **bellowing his war cry**, his **mace caving in skulls with every swing.**

But Snagkill’s **general, Vargash the Unyielding, awaited him.**

Vargash was a **towering brute**, his black-iron **greatsword dripping with blood**. He met **Gronak head-on, exchanging blow after blow.**

The two warriors fought **like titans**, but Gronak **made one mistake**—he raised Bonebreaker **too high for a killing blow.**

Vargash **lunged low, slicing through the Warchief’s knee** and bringing him down. Before Gronak could recover, **Vargash drove his sword through his chest**, pinning him to the earth.

With a final **snarl**, the mighty **Skullcrusher fell.**

Vargash **claimed Bonebreaker, raising it high** as the Darkfire rebels **roared in triumph.**

The Queen **had lost one of her greatest warriors.**

And **Snagkill had taken another step toward victory.**

The War Council of the Queen

The great war tent was lit by torches, the flames flickering in the dim, smoky air. A **massive war table** stood in the center, covered in maps and figurines representing armies and fortifications. The tension in the air was **thick as blood.**

Queen **Ionia** stood at the head, her hands clasped behind her back. Her **golden hair**, streaked with battle-grime, was pulled into a severe braid. She was clad in **Orcish battle plate**, a symbol of her rule over the Gelberg Dominion. Her blues eyes, cruel and unrelenting, scanned the gathered warlords.

They were **Orcs of legend**, **mighty warriors**, and **blood-hardened conquerors.**

And they all wanted **one thing.**

**War.**

A **towering brute** of an Orc, **Fartbringer** was known as much for his stench as for his prowess in battle. His **massive belly shook** as he slammed a **calloused fist** against the table.

"**Enough waiting, Queen!**" he bellowed, **his tusks glinting in the firelight.** “We have let Snagkill dance around us for too long. He is not some wily Goblin to play games—he is an Orc! And an Orc must be crushed, not outmaneuvered!”

The other warchiefs grunted in agreement.

Gaelira, **the only other woman at the table**, stood tall in **spiked armor**, her **grayish-green skin** scarred from **decades of war.** Her **piercing red eyes** narrowed at Ionia.

“I respect your mind, Queen,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “But a war won through caution is a war that stretches into eternity. We must force Snagkill’s hand before he builds **more fortresses** and turns the North into a **bastion of defiance.**”

She placed a **dagger on the map**, pointing at Snagkill’s **stronghold.**

“We march. We draw him out. We end this.”

Thragga, the infamous **Bloodreaver**, chuckled darkly. She was **a monstrous figure**, her neck adorned with a necklace made from the **finger bones** of her slain enemies.

“**I thirst for war, Queen.**” She grinned, her fangs bared. “Your patience has been **wise,** but **Gronak is dead, and Snagkill has lost his strongest champion.** He is at his **peak confidence**, which means he is at his **most vulnerable.**”

She leaned forward, her **red-painted hands** pressing into the table.

“Let us test his faith in MOG by **showing him what true Orcish fury looks like.**”

Dakath, Son of Gronak, Warchief of Idgo’Dol**

The newest **Warchief**, **Dakath**, was younger than the others, but his presence was **just as formidable.** He was **massive**, even by Orc standards, his **broad shoulders draped in the furs of his father’s slain enemies.** His **eyes burned with vengeance.**

“My father fell in battle,” Dakath growled, his voice thick with emotion. “His Skullguard were **butchered.** His **mighty mace, Bonebreaker, stolen!**”

He slammed a **clenched fist** onto the table.

“**No more waiting! No more patience!** Let me ride at the head of the vanguard, and I will tear Bonebreaker from Vargash’s **cold corpse.**”

The war tent erupted in **roars of approval.**

At last, **Ulf** spoke, her deep voice **cutting through the noise.** She stood at her **mother’s side**, tall and **iron-willed**, clad in her **black armor.**

“Mother,” she said, placing a **hand on Ionia’s shoulder.** “We have fought long enough. You have been wise. But **they are right.**”

She gestured to the Warchiefs.

“**The time for patience is over. We must ride. We must fight. We must break Snagkill upon the anvil of our strength.**”

Ionia remained **silent**, her **gaze locked** on the map. The flames flickered, casting **shadows** over the battlefield before them.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

“Very well,” she said, her voice **cold and firm.** “We fight.”

The **Orcs roared.**

The **final battle had begun.**

[gobboguy]

Chapter 18: Drakkath's Defeat

The ground quaked beneath the thunder of hooves, the war cries of the Darkfire rebels filling the night as they surged toward the fort, weapons raised, ready for slaughter. Drakkath rode at the head, his sword glinting under the pale moon, his blood burning with fury. This was it. This was the moment.

Then—

From the shadows of the hills, a new sound rose, like the deep rumble of an oncoming storm.

"When you ride against the princess," came a booming voice, filled with laughter and death, "keep your eyes open!"

Goreboar.

A single black arrow cut through the night—

It struck true.

Drakkath's head snapped back, his snarl frozen in place as the obsidian-tipped arrow punched between his eyes. Blood sprayed, his body jerking violently before he tumbled from his saddle, hitting the ground in a lifeless heap.

For a heartbeat, the Darkfire rebels **stared in horror**—

And then, with a **deafening roar**, Goreboar **led the charge.**

**Steel clashed.**

Hooves **pounded**.

The two cavalries **collided**, the impact a symphony of **screaming metal**, **whinnying horses**, and the brutal **oinking battle cries** of Orcs locked in deadly combat.

Spears snapped. Swords hewed through **flesh and bone**. Riders were thrown from their mounts, trampled beneath the chaos. The air was thick with the smell of **blood and sweat**, the cries of the wounded mixing with the relentless **war drums** of battle.

Goreboar, his massive form **looming** in the fray, swung his black greatsword, **cleaving** through rebel riders as his laughter **boomed** across the battlefield.

And then—

A new **roar** rose above the slaughter.

**"FOR GELBERG!"**

From the fort, **Ulf's forces surged forth**, their **shields locked**, their **weapons gleaming** in the moonlight. Like an **unstoppable tide**, they **crashed** into the rebel lines, **splitting them apart**.

The Darkfire forces **buckled**.

They **broke.**

And then—

They **routed.**

Orcs of Darkfire **threw down their weapons**, their battle cries turning to **screams of terror** as they **fled**, their leader dead, their **dream of victory shattered**.

Ulf, standing atop the ramparts, watched the battlefield with a **savage grin**, her red eyes gleaming.

Tonight, the **Princess of Gelberg** had **won.**

**Goreboar** swung down from his horse, his boots crunching against the bloodied dirt. Without hesitation, he handed his **black bow** to a nearby Orc and **strode forward**, eyes locked on Ulf as she stood amidst the fallen, her armor gleaming with the **grime of battle**.

**"Princess!"** he called, his voice still thick with battle-lust.

Ulf **turned**, her red eyes flashing. **Goreboar was on her in an instant**, his massive arms **scooping her up**, lifting her **off the ground**. Their armor **clanked**, her laughter **rang out**, raw and triumphant.

**"We've won! By MOG, we've won!"** she exulted, gripping the back of his **thick neck**, pressing her forehead to his.

He **set her down**, his hands still on her **shoulders**, shaking her slightly, as if to make sure she was real.

**"Aye,"** he said, grinning, tusks gleaming. **"We've broken Drakkath. The Darkfire rebellion bleeds tonight."**

Around them, the **moans of the dying** and the **crackle of burning siege weapons** filled the air. Victory had come at a cost, but it was **theirs**.

Ulf exhaled, her **breath misting in the cold night air**.

**"This changes everything,"** she murmured. **"Drakkath was the hammer. Without him, the rebels in the north will have to fight alone. My mother can press her advantage—she can push Snagkill back."**

Goreboar frowned, glancing over the battlefield. **"Snagkill is no fool. He'll dig in, make her bleed for every inch of ground. And Hrall…"** His voice darkened. **"Hrall is still out there."**

Ulf’s expression hardened. **"Hrall will not sit idle. He’ll see this as weakness and strike. But…"** She looked up at Goreboar, her gaze burning with determination. **"For the first time, I see a path forward. For the first time, I have hope."**

Goreboar **studied her face**, then **grasped her hand**, his grip firm, steady. **"Then hold onto it, Princess. The war is far from over, but tonight—tonight, we've earned our hope."**

She **squeezed his hand back**, her fingers **tight around his**. **"Tomorrow, we march. But tonight—we live."**

[gobboguy]

Chapter 17: Ulf Rides Again

Ulf sat on a great stone throne, draped in furs and armor, her long legs sprawled lazily before her, one arm resting upon the pommel of her sword. The firelight cast a hungry glow upon her red eyes as she swirled her mulled wine, watching Goreboar loose an arrow into a distant target with a soft thunk. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the stink of war and death.

The sudden, frantic oinking of an approaching scout made her tilt her head. An Orc burst into the tent, panting, his broad chest heaving. He thumped his fist against his chest in salute.

“Princess! Two rebels have come over from the other side. They claim to have information.”

Ulf set her goblet down with deliberate slowness, her lips curling into a smirk. “Have they, now?” She rose, stretching, before glancing at Goreboar, who arched a brow but said nothing.

“Bring them forward,” she commanded.

The guards dragged in two Orcs, their tunics stained with sweat and grime, their wrists shackled in iron. They reeked of fear, eyes darting wildly, their skin slick with cold sweat.

Ulf stepped down from her stone seat and approached them, towering over them. She studied them in silence, letting the weight of her presence settle upon them like an iron brand. Finally, she spoke, her voice low and sharp as a whetted blade.

“You were once warriors of the Darkfire.” Her red gaze burned into theirs. “You raised your blades for Hrall. And yet here you are—on your knees before me. Tell me, dogs, why should I not cleave you in twain for your treachery?”

The rebels shuddered, casting their eyes to the dirt. One swallowed thickly and rasped, “We… we have seen the truth, Princess. Hrall is not the heir. He is not the warlord to lead us.”

Ulf let out a short, derisive laugh. “Oh? And now you seek to kneel before me?” Her grin turned cruel. “Very well. Kneel properly.”

The Orcs paled. They hesitated.

Ulf’s smile vanished. “I said. Kneel. Properly.”

The tension in the air was suffocating. Every warrior present held their breath, eyes locked on the two wretches.

One let out a shaking breath, then his knees buckled. His comrade followed, and both hunched low. Their bodies trembled. And then—

A wet, unmistakable trickle ran down their legs.

A hush fell over the tent. The murmurs began immediately.

“They’ve done it.”

“The ancient sign of submission…”

“They’ve yielded truly.”

Ulf tapped a finger against her chin, then bared her tusks in a wide, predatory grin. She oinked in satisfied pleasure. She let the moment stretch, let the humiliation sink into their very bones before she finally spoke.

“I am a gracious princess.” She stepped forward, resting a heavy hand upon their bowed heads. “Rise.”

The rebels staggered up, their heads hanging low, their shame plain for all to see.

“Now,” Ulf said, voice honeyed with cruel amusement, “tell me what you know.”

The two former rebels bowed low once more, addressing her in the proper fashion.

"Princess Ulf," one rumbled, keeping his gaze downcast, "in the southernmost section of Drakkath’s wall… there is weakness. The work remains unfinished. The defenses are thin, and the fort protecting it is undermanned."

Ulf’s lips curled in a knowing grin. *Mog provides.* She turned on her heel, pacing, her mind already racing through the possibilities. This was the moment she had been waiting for.

She stopped suddenly and turned to Goreboar, eyes gleaming like embers. "Muster the cavalry," she ordered. "Take your best riders and circle wide. I will lead a cohort straight at that fort. Drakkath will have no choice but to respond—when he does, you strike from behind and bottle them in like swine for slaughter."

Goreboar threw back his head and laughed, a deep, throaty sound. “Now that is a warlord’s mind at work.” He flashed his tusks and thumped his chest. “You are truly Gelbeg’s spawn, Princess.”

Ulf grinned, feeling the fire of battle roaring through her veins. Without another word, she stepped forward, lifted a heavy palm, and slapped her belly with a loud thud.

A ripple of excitement coursed through the gathered warriors. The ancient signal was unmistakable. A leader had made her decision. War was upon them.

Ulf roared, and a hundred voices answered in kind, the sound shaking the very earth.

“Mount up!” she bellowed. “Tonight, we ride!”

The dawn was a sickly shade of gray, the first hints of sunlight struggling through the mist that clung to the wooden palisade. Grakth, an Orc warrior of Drakkath’s forces, stood atop the wall, shifting his weight and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His thoughts drifted to his wife and their litter of whelps back home—seven strong, the youngest still suckling. If Mog willed it, he would see them again soon.

Thwick!

An arrow whizzed past his ear, so close he felt the rush of air against his cheek.

Grakth blinked. "What?" He oinked.

Another arrow embedded itself into the wooden palisade beside his head. Raiders!

His mouth opened to shout, but before he could, the bushes at the treeline erupted. A horde of Orcs on horseback came thundering forth, their war cries splitting the early morning hush like a blade through flesh.

“TO ARMS!” Grakth roared, gripping his spear and ringing the alarm bell.

The garrison stirred sluggishly, but there was no time. From the dust and rising dawn came the unmistakable glint of steel and the rhythmic pounding of hooves. Ulf had come.

A chorus of heavy thunks sounded as iron-tipped grappling hooks *latched* onto the palisade walls. The enemy wasted no time—ropes were drawn taut, ladders slammed against the wooden barricade, and the first warriors began their ascent.

A Darkfire Orc rushed to cut one of the ropes, only for an axe to split his skull before he could act.

Then came her.

Ulf, Princess of the Domination, was first over the walls, her black armor catching the dim morning light, her red eyes blazing with battle lust. Her blade, dark as midnight and broad as a cleaver, struck down into the first defender, shearing through shoulder and chest alike.

“Hold the ladders!” she bellowed. “Push forward! Let no one stand!”

Her warriors surged up behind her, a tidal wave of muscle and fury.

Grakth snarled and braced himself, lunging with his spear. Ulf turned—her blade clashed against his, driving it aside with brutal force. Before he could recover, she slammed her gauntleted fist into his face, cracking his tusks and sending him sprawling to the wooden planks.

A second later, a boot crushed his chest, and an axe ended his thoughts of home forever.

Around them, the battle raged. Orcs tumbled from the walls, arrows sprouted from throats, and steel met flesh in a cacophony of slaughter. Ulf carved through her foes, roaring orders—“Break the gate!”—“Push them off the walls!”

Beneath the walls, Goreboar led a second charge, his cavalry thundering through the open gaps of the fort’s defenses, hacking down any who dared stand before them.

The fort was doomed.

Ulf knew it.

Drakkath would soon know it.

Drakkath Tidebane stood atop a rocky outcrop, the pale light of the moon casting his chiseled features in shadow. Below him, the Darkfire army moved like a great tide of iron and flesh, their banners whispering in the cool night breeze. His blood burned with the thrill of impending victory.

The princess had made a fatal error.

She had abandoned her high ground.

Drakkath's lips curled into a smirk as he studied the distant silhouette of the captured fort. She had taken it in a glorious charge, but in doing so, she had placed herself in a trap of her own making.

Surrounded by two walls, cut off from her supply lines, and with his forces pressing in from all sides, Ulf would be hemmed in like a boar in a pit.

"The fool," he murmured, folding his arms across his broad chest.

Behind him, his officers gathered, their armor dark as the night, blades freshly oiled, axes gleaming in the torchlight.

"Tonight, we end this charade," Drakkath declared, turning to them. "By dawn, the Princess will kneel before Hrall, and Gelberg will belong to its true son once more."

A ripple of excited murmurs spread through the ranks.

The warriors of the Darkfire Rebellion moved. Their mail and leather armor were muffled with dark cloth to soften the sound, their weapons strapped tightly to their backs. Some bore thick wooden shields painted with Hrall’s sigil, while others carried the cruel curved blades favored by the island-born Orcs of the old ways. The air buzzed with whispers—

"Princess Ulf thinks herself a Warchief—"

"—a half-human leading Orcs to war! Ha!"

"By MOG, Hrall will set things right."

They advanced through the night, moving swiftly over the rugged terrain, their heavy boots crunching against frost-laced earth.

Ahead, the fort loomed—a black mass against the night sky.

Drakkath took one last look before raising his arm.

"March, warriors of the Darkfire! *We take the fort before the sun rises!*"

A chorus of low growls and hushed roars rippled through the army.

The trap was set. Ulf would soon realize the true battle had only just begun.

The night sky was filled with the roar of battle as the Darkfire rebels surged forward, their torches flickering like a thousand angry fireflies against the gloom. War horns bellowed, the heavy beat of Orcish war drums setting the pace for the assault. The rebels stormed the fort with the fervor of zealots, scaling ladders, hammering at the gate with heavy iron-banded rams, and clashing in brutal melee atop the palisade walls.

Ulf’s warriors fought with savage determination, their shields locked in a solid wall of muscle and steel. Arrows and spears rained from the ramparts, cutting down the first wave of Darkfire warriors before they could set foot inside the fort. But the rebels were relentless. They believed in Hrall. They believed in their cause. They threw themselves at the defenders like rabid beasts, screaming praises to Snagkill Darkfire and the *true* King of the Gelberg Dominion.

The gate shuddered under the force of the battering ram. Splinters flew. Ulf's captains roared orders to reinforce it, but the Darkfire rebels were like a rising tide, forcing their way through sheer will and numbers. Finally, with a thunderous crack, the great wooden gates burst open, and the Darkfire Orcs surged inside, roaring in triumph—

Only for their cries of victory to die in their throats.

Before them stood another fort.

A second set of palisade walls, hastily but sturdily constructed, reinforced with stone and sharpened stakes. Towers loomed above them, manned by archers already nocking arrows. The true stronghold had been built within the shell of the first.

Ulf had expected this assault.

And now the rebels were trapped.

Standing atop the ramparts of the inner fort, Princess Ulf sneered, one boot planted on the wooden railing. Her red eyes gleamed like embers in the firelight.

"Fools," she snarled. "Did you think I would make it so easy for you?"

She raised a gauntleted fist.

"ARCHERS! CUT THEM DOWN!"

A storm of arrows darkened the sky, cutting through the night like razors. The rebels screamed as they were struck, some collapsing instantly, others clawing at their throats where the feathered shafts protruded. The narrow space between the inner and outer walls became a killing ground, the Darkfire Orcs pressed too tightly together to maneuver, easy targets for Ulf’s marksmen.

Panic began to spread among the rebels as they realized they had walked directly into her trap.

From the ramparts, Ulf let out a booming, victorious laugh.

"Drakkath sends cattle to be butchered!" she roared. "Let them bleed!"

From his vantage point on the rocky hill, Drakkath Tidebane watched in growing horror as the battle within the first fort turned into a massacre. His warriors, once surging with righteous zeal, now clawed at the walls of the inner fort, their screams of rage turning into howls of agony as Ulf’s archers rained death upon them.

His nostrils flared, his grip tightening on the pommel of his sword. This was not how it was supposed to go.

"Damn her."

The Princess had played them like fools.

But it was not over. Not yet.

Drakkath turned to his assembled cavalry, his face contorted in a mask of fury and resolve. He raised his jagged greatsword high, the moonlight glinting off its bloodied edge. His voice rang across the valley like a war drum.

"Haro! Darkfire! Haro!"

The battle cry sent a shockwave through his assembled forces. The ground shook as thousands of hooves pounded against the dirt, riders pulling back their reins, weapons flashing as they turned toward the fort.

The warriors of Darkfire took up the cry, their voices merging into a thunderous, echoing roar—

"HARO! DARKFIRE! HARO!"

Like a tidal wave of steel and fury, they charged.

Drakkath spurred his war-beast forward, riding hard at the head of his elite vanguard. Dust billowed in their wake, the banners of Darkfire snapping in the wind.

This would be no simple skirmish.

This was now or never.

They would break that fort.

They would cut down Ulf and scatter her forces.

And they would claim the Gelbeg Domination for Hrall.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 16: The War Begins

Drakkath's camp sprawled like a hive of activity beneath the cold light of the moon. Tents lined with banners bearing the crimson flame of the Darkfire rebellion fluttered in the night breeze, the sigil of Hrall emblazoned boldly. Fires crackled at intervals, casting long, flickering shadows over the warriors moving purposefully among the ranks.

At the camp's heart, an eerie reverence hung in the air. Rows of Orc Paladins knelt in disciplined lines, their massive forms encased in gleaming black and crimson armor. They murmured prayers to MOG from the Codex of MOG, their voices a deep, resonant chorus that echoed through the camp. Nearby, thralls polished the paladins’ weapons and armor with trembling hands, their heads bowed, while others waited silently in crude wooden cages, their faces gaunt with fear.

A circle of Orc Priestesses had gathered beneath the moonlight. Their bare bodies glistened with streaks of crimson paint, applied in intricate patterns that seemed to writhe in the firelight. They polished their ceremonial knives with meticulous care, the sharp edges glinting. Their chants rose and fell like the waves of an unseen tide, their guttural prayers to MOG reverberating through the camp. The thralls in the cages beside them whimpered softly, huddling together as the priestesses’ dark eyes passed over them.

Inside the central tent, Drakkath Tidebane, clad in his battle-worn armor, stood before a map-strewn table, his face set with grim determination. His lieutenant, Urgath Steelmaw, a burly Orc with scars crisscrossing his face and an eye replaced with a glimmering red crystal, loomed over the table, arms crossed.

Drakkath tapped the map, his finger lingering on the position of Ulf’s camp atop Ludh Irgol. “They’ve boxed us in,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Grat’s blockade cuts off our supply lines by sea, and Ulf’s forces hold the high ground. Without fresh food, we’ll starve before we can launch an assault. But,” he added, his crimson eyes gleaming, “we have the advantage of time. Her army is green—whelps barely out of training. A prolonged siege will demoralize them. Ulf is untested as a commander. If her forces crumble, so does her reputation, and Hrall will be seen as the stronger leader.”

Steelmaw grunted, his one good eye narrowing. “And the streams?”

Drakkath nodded, gesturing to the map. “Ludh Irgol relies on fresh water from these streams,” he said, pointing to the thin blue lines snaking through the terrain. “If we cut them off, her army will suffer. The rocky outcrop they hold may be defensible, but it’s also a trap. They’ll bake under the sun without water, their morale breaking faster than their bodies.”

Steelmaw frowned. “It’ll take time to reroute or block the streams. And they’ll see us coming.”

“That’s why we’ll be subtle,” Drakkath replied, a cunning smile playing across his lips. He turned to the back of the tent and barked, “Engineers, step forward!”

A group of Orc engineers entered, their tools clinking at their belts and their faces lit with anticipation. Drakkath gestured to the map, pointing at the streams near Ludh Irgol. “You’ll work under cover of night, digging diversions and damming the water. I don’t care what it takes—rocks, timber, thralls—block those streams. Do it quietly. Let Ulf wake to find her camp parched and desperate.”

The lead engineer, an older Orc named Zoghur Flatrock with a heavy brow and weathered hands, nodded. “It’ll be done, Warchief,” he said.

Drakkath leaned forward, his crimson eyes blazing. “Failure is not an option. If you’re caught, you fight to the death. Understood?”

The engineers thumped their fists against their chests in salute and hurried out.

Drakkath turned back to Steelmaw. “Once their morale starts to crack, we’ll press the attack. But until then, we hold our ground. Let them think they have the upper hand.”

Steelmaw smirked, the glint of his crystal eye catching the firelight. “They’ll never see it coming.”

Drakkath’s lips curled into a wolfish grin. “No, they won’t.”

The night was thick with fog rolling in from the sea, muffling footsteps and making the terrain treacherous. Drakkath’s engineers moved like ghosts through the underbrush, their darkened armor blending into the night, their picks and spades wrapped in cloth to stifle any noise. Under Zoghur Flatrock’s command, they worked swiftly, diverting streams with carefully placed logs and stones, their silent efforts meant to dry up the water supply to Ludh Irgol before dawn.

Then came the sound—hooves pounding like distant thunder.

A horn blast cut through the night air, followed by the roar of warriors. From the darkness, Goreboar and his riders descended upon them, their war cries shattering the stillness. The engineers barely had time to react before the mounted Orcs were upon them, blades flashing in the moonlight.

Goreboar himself led the charge, his massive frame looming over his steed, his tusks bared in a feral snarl. His black mane of hair streamed behind him as he drew his bow, an arrow flying and impaling an engineer mid-turn, the Orc’s body jerking violently before sliding off onto the damp earth.

The engineers were warriors in their own right, hardened Orcs from the mountains, but they were outmatched. Some tried to flee, only to be ridden down and trampled underhoof, their dying screams swallowed by the roar of combat. Others stood their ground, raising crude axes and picks in a desperate defense.

Zoghur Flatrock fought with the ferocity of a cornered beast, swinging a massive stone-headed hammer and shattering a rider’s leg with a sickening crunch. But Goreboar was already upon him. The two locked eyes, and Zoghur roared, charging at him, his hammer raised high.

Goreboar didn’t hesitate. With a single fluid motion, he drew his bow.

The weapon whistled through the air and struck true—piercing Zoghur squarely between the eyes. The engineer chieftain’s body froze, his hammer slipping from his fingers before he toppled backward, dead before he hit the ground.

The surviving engineers, seeing their leader slain, faltered. Some fought on, but others dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.

Goreboar dismounted, wiping his blood covered hands on a fallen foe before turning to a kneeling Orc, his hands still trembling from the battle. “You yield?”

The captured Orc nodded, eyes flickering between Goreboar and the bloodied corpses around him. “Aye. No use dying for a lost cause.”

Goreboar grabbed him by the collar, hauling him to his feet. “Then make yourself useful. What was Flatrock’s plan?”

The engineer hesitated, then spat. “Wasn’t just the water. Drakkath’s building a wall—an earthen fortification. He means to trap you in Ludh Irgol, cut you off from the north. Starve you out, make you easy prey.”

A rumble of discontent passed through the riders. Goreboar’s grip tightened. “How far along?”

“Still in the early stages. But they’re working fast.”

Goreboar released him with a shove and turned to his warriors. “Drakkath wants a siege? Wants to cut us off?” He scoffed. “Mog’s blood, we’ll not wait for him to tighten the noose.”

He turned to his messengers. “Ride to Ulf! Tell her what we’ve learned. We act now!”

The riders spurred their mounts, hooves tearing through the night as they rode like hell itself was at their backs. Goreboar wiped the sweat from his brow and looked to the horizon where Ulf’s camp stood in the distance.

Time was against them. If they waited, the noose would tighten.

This battle had to start on their terms.

The days that followed were a blur of blood, fire, and fury. The walls of Ludh Irgol stood, but neither side could sit idle—the war raged across the barricades in a series of brutal skirmishes, each one a test of strength, endurance, and cunning.

The Battle of the Western Gate

At dawn, the Darkfire rebels launched a probing assault on the western gate, hoping to breach Ulf’s defenses before they could fully reinforce. With war cries echoing across the valley, a hundred Darkfire warriors rushed forward, shields locked and spears gleaming in the morning light.

Ulf, atop her great black war-steed, bellowed a challenge and spurred forward, her black armor gleaming like obsidian. She raised her massive blade and rode straight into their ranks, her presence like a bolt of lightning.

With one mighty sweep, she cut down three warriors in a single stroke, sending their broken bodies tumbling into the mud. Her warriors surged behind her, slamming into the Darkfire lines with unrelenting force. The clash of metal, the crunch of breaking bone, and the roar of battle filled the air.

An enemy champion—a massive Orc bearing the insignia of Hrall—charged at Ulf, wielding twin axes. He roared, "For Snagkill Darkfire!" and swung to cleave her in two.

Ulf caught his attack on her bracer and retaliated with a savage backhand, shattering his jaw. As he reeled, she plunged her sword into his chest and tore it free, sending him crumpling to the ground.

With their leader slain, the Darkfire warriors faltered, and Ulf’s forces drove them back, cutting them down as they fled.

Goreboar’s Charge at the Eastern Wall

While Ulf held the western gate, Goreboar led a counterattack on the eastern flank, where Darkfire engineers were attempting to dig beneath their defenses.

The enemy worked fast, their trenches snaking toward the walls like a creeping doom. But Goreboar was faster.

With a mighty war cry, he led a force of heavily armored cavalry in a thundering charge. Hooves pounded against the dirt as his riders swept down upon the enemy sappers, their lances striking like lightning.

Goreboar himself rode at the head, his boar-hide cloak billowing behind him. He wielded his bow, the string twanging as he pierced the skulls of several Orcs at once.

A Darkfire sapper tried to rally his men, but Goreboar rode him down, trampling him into the mud. As the enemy broke and scattered, he dismounted and personally collapsed one of their tunnels, hurling a massive boulder into its entrance.

Looking over his bloodied warriors, he roared, “We hold!”

And the Orcs cheered, their spirits rising even as the battle wore on.

The Night Raid

That night, Ulf led a daring raid beyond the barricades, seeking to disrupt Drakkath’s supply lines. Clad in black war paint, she and a small band of elite warriors slipped past the enemy sentries and struck at a convoy of wagons laden with food and water.

With swift, brutal efficiency, they cut down the guards, torched the supplies, and vanished into the night like ghosts. The Darkfire rebels awoke to find their provisions burning, their morale shaken.

From atop her barricades, Ulf watched the flames rise and whispered, “Let them starve before we do.”

The Cost of War

For every victory, there was a price. Orcish bodies piled high along the walls, their blood soaking the dirt. But Ulf and Goreboar did not waver. Each day, they fought, bled, and drove their warriors forward with unyielding strength.

Drakkath had trapped them within Ludh Irgol.

But it was he who was beginning to feel the noose tighten.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 15: Hero's Arrival

The march southward was a grueling affair, marked by the relentless pace set by Ulf and Goreboar. The Orcish legion moved like a tide of iron and flesh, their footfalls pounding the earth in unison. Ulf, towering above her warriors, marched at the front, her black armor gleaming under the pale Sidhedark sun. Her red eyes burned with purpose, and her braided black hair whipped behind her like a battle standard. At her side, Goreboar kept pace, his trimmed leather jerkin and armored trousers caked with mud. Despite his usual joking demeanor, he spoke often, urging the soldiers on with sharp, commanding words.

“Keep moving!” he bellowed, his voice a rumble that carried over the lines. “Do you want the rebels at your mother’s gates? March, you swine, march!”

The Orcs grumbled, but their discipline held. They were warriors, hardened by years of conquest, and their pride would not allow them to falter. Still, the journey was punishing.

The first day saw them crossing open plains, the winter grass crunching beneath their boots. The sky hung low and gray, and a bitter wind whipped at their faces. Packs of thralls struggled to keep pace, hauling supply wagons laden with food, weapons, and tents. At every rest stop, Ulf personally checked the lines, her presence alone enough to inspire weary warriors to stand straighter.

By the second day, the terrain had grown rougher, transitioning into rocky hills that slowed their progress. The Orcs climbed in silence, their breaths misting in the cold air. Ulf’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon, her thoughts clearly on the enemy ahead.

“Do you think we’ll catch them before they reach the neck?” Goreboar asked as they paused at a ridge.

“We have to,” Ulf replied, her voice low but firm. “If they break through, the rebellion could turn the tide. I won’t let that happen.”

The third day brought rain, a cold, driving deluge that turned the dirt roads into rivers of mud. The Orcs trudged on, their armor and weapons coated in grime. Many slipped and fell, only to be dragged back to their feet by their comrades. Goreboar kept spirits high by telling crude jokes, his deep laugh cutting through the storm.

“Careful, lads!” he called out as an Orc slipped face-first into a puddle. “The mud’s got more fight in it than a pack of hungry whelps!”

Ulf, meanwhile, said little, her focus on the horizon. At night, she would gather the officers and pour over maps by the light of a brazier, her red eyes gleaming with intensity.

On the fourth day, they entered the forests that bordered the peninsula’s neck. The trees loomed high above, their bare branches clawing at the gray sky. Scouts reported signs of the enemy: trampled undergrowth, abandoned campfires, and the faint smell of cooking meat.

“They’re close,” Goreboar growled, sharpening reaching for his bow as they rested beneath a cluster of ancient oaks.

“Then we strike soon,” Ulf replied, her voice steady. “No rest until the neck is ours. I want every Orc ready to fight by sunrise.”

That night, the camp buzzed with anticipation. Orcs oiled their weapons, checked their armor, and exchanged quiet words of encouragement. Thralls scurried between tents, distributing rations of roasted meat and sour bread.

As Ulf walked among her troops, she paused to address a group of young warriors barely out of whelping.

“This is your chance to prove yourselves,” she said, her voice cutting through the night like a blade. “Fight for your queen, for your land, and for the honor of the Gelbeg Domination. Fight, and you will be remembered.”

The young Orcs nodded solemnly, their hands tightening around their weapons.

By dawn on the fifth day, the army was poised to strike. The forest ahead was quiet, the enemy hidden in its depths. Ulf and Goreboar stood at the front, their warriors arrayed behind them.

“Today, we cut the serpent’s head,” Ulf declared, her voice carrying over the ranks. “For Gelberg!”

“For Gelberg!” the army roared back, and the march continued, faster now, with the promise of blood on the wind.

As Ulf’s legion crested the final rise, the rocky shore of Khalbuldruz came into view. The Orc city sprawled across the jagged coastline, its buildings carved directly into the black stone cliffs. The natural fortifications made the city appear more like a fortress than a settlement, with high walls rising above the crashing waves below. The skyline was dominated by a central keep, its spiked towers adorned with banners bearing the emblem of the Gelbeg Domination: a green hand on a field of black. Smoke rose in thin streams from forges and kitchens, mingling with the salty air, while Orcs bustled about the city’s narrow streets and stone piers.

Khalbuldruz was a moderate city, home to roughly 15,000 Orcs, a mix of hardened warriors, fisherfolk, smiths, and laborers. It had long been a critical outpost for supplying the Domination's armies, and its rocky harbor sheltered a modest fleet of fishing vessels and war galleys. The city’s leader, Chieftain Morggar Stoneclaw, was known for his cunning and stubbornness. A scarred veteran of the Farfield conquest, Morggar had lost his left arm in battle, but he wielded a massive cleaver with his remaining hand, earning him his moniker.

Ulf gazed at the city with a grim expression. “Khalbuldruz,” she said, her red eyes narrowing. “If the Darkfire rebellion takes it, they’ll have a foothold to choke us off from the Grimclaw Point peninsula. We cannot allow that to happen.”

Goreboar rode up beside her, his boar-like steed snorting and pawing at the ground. His armor was splattered with mud from the forced march, but his demeanor was as sharp as ever. “The Darkfire forces are moving north,” he reported, pointing to the faint trails of smoke on the horizon. “They’re trying to bypass the city and cut us off before we can entrench here.”

Ulf’s jaw tightened. “Then we don’t have much time.” She turned in her saddle, her voice carrying over the ranks of her warriors. “Legion! We march to Khalbuldruz. We will fortify it and ensure it remains ours. The rebellion will not pass!”

A roar of approval swept through the ranks as Ulf spurred her mount forward, descending the hill at a gallop. The thunder of hooves and boots followed as the legion surged toward the city.

As they entered Khalbuldruz, its gates swung open to welcome them. Chieftain Morggar Stoneclaw stood at the entrance, his massive frame clad in battered plate armor. The scar running down his face twitched as he stepped forward to greet Ulf. His cleaver rested on his shoulder, and a group of his warriors stood ready at his back.

“Princess Ulf,” Morggar rumbled, bowing his head slightly. “You’ve come in time. We’ve been preparing, but against the numbers Snagkill commands, our walls won’t hold forever.”

“They won’t have to,” Ulf said, dismounting her steed. Her gaze swept over the city’s defenses, calculating. “We’ll bolster your forces and strengthen your walls. If Khalbuldruz falls, this entire peninsula could be lost.”

Morggar nodded, his expression hard. “Then let’s get to work.”

Ulf turned to Goreboar, her tone sharp and decisive. “Secure the harbor and prepare the city’s fleet. If the Darkfire rebels try to assault from the sea, we’ll need every ship ready to hold the line.”

“Aye,” Goreboar said, spurring his mount toward the harbor.

Ulf’s presence was a whirlwind of purpose as she moved through the city, her voice and orders rallying warriors and laborers alike. She knew that holding Khalbuldruz was the key to breaking the Darkfire rebellion’s momentum. And she would not let it fall.

As Princess Ulf strode through the streets of Khalbuldruz, the citizens emerged from their homes and workplaces to greet her. The air was heavy with desperation but also reverence. The towering princess, her black armor gleaming despite the grime of the march, was a beacon of hope for the beleaguered city. Orcs of all walks of life crowded around her, their pleas carried on the salty air.

A pregnant Orcess, her belly swollen and her chest bare as she nursed two whelps at once, dropped to her knees before Ulf. Her tusks glinted as she bowed her head, her voice trembling. “Princess Ulf, saint of MOG, hear my plea. My soulmaave marches to war under your banner. Bless his axe that he may return to me, not with a corpse cart but with riches and thralls to raise our growing brood. Please, my princess!” She clutched at Ulf’s greaves, her whelps squirming and fussing in her arms.

Ulf placed a gauntleted hand gently on the Orcess’s head, her crimson eyes softening. “Your soulmaave shall have Mog’s favor, brave mother. His strength will honor the Domination, and his riches will honor your brood. You and your children are the lifeblood of our people.”

Nearby, an elderly Orc nobleman, adorned in a battered silver gorget and ceremonial sash, approached with a deep bow. His expression was taut with worry. “My brothers fight in Chommogh,” he said, his voice strained but respectful. “They hold the river for you, Princess, but I fear they are outnumbered. Pray, grant them your blessing, that MOG may strengthen their arms and their hearts.”

“They fight with honor, and they fight for the Domination,” Ulf replied, raising her voice so that those gathered could hear. “MOG watches over them, and their sacrifice will not be in vain. They will endure, as all true Orcs endure.”

An Orc laborer, his hands calloused and his skin stained with the grime of years of toil, pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He fell to his knees and pounded his chest in salute. “Princess, I beg you! Let me fight in your retinue. My hands are strong, my blood unyielding. I will serve you better with axe than shovel.”

Ulf studied him for a moment, seeing the fire in his eyes. “Your strength is seen, and your will is worthy. Report to Goreboar at the harbor. If you can prove yourself there, you may yet fight under my banner.” The laborer grunted in gratitude, bowing so low his tusks scraped the dirt.

Finally, an Orc woman with broad shoulders and flour streaked across her green skin approached. Her apron was tattered, her expression equal parts pride and embarrassment. Behind her, a group of human thralls struggled to carry baskets of bread and jugs of water toward the camp. She barked at them harshly, snapping her fingers until they moved faster. “Princess Ulf,” she said, bowing stiffly, “I have nothing to give but this bread and water. My ovens have burned day and night for your warriors. Forgive me, but it’s all I can do.”

Ulf reached out and clasped the baker’s arm, her grip firm but warm. “You give what you can, and that is more than enough. The strength of the Domination lies not only in its warriors but in its people. You honor us all with your dedication.”

The baker exhaled a breath she had clearly been holding and barked another order to her thralls, who quickened their pace to distribute the supplies.

Ulf’s presence and words lifted the spirits of the gathered Orcs, their reverence for her growing with each interaction. For many, she was not just a warrior or a leader—she was the embodiment of the Domination’s strength, the hope that would carry them through the storm of war.

Inside the chieftain's hall of Khalbuldruz, the air was thick with the scent of stew and freshly baked bread. The tables groaned under the weight of hearty fare: a rich stew made from sea slug meat, roast mermaid and root vegetables, spiced heavily with naga salt and orcroot, alongside loaves of dark bread still steaming from the ovens. Orcish dining was always a communal, rowdy affair, and even now, as captains and lieutenants gathered around the tables, the clatter of bowls and the satisfied grunts of warriors filled the air. Yet, a somber undertone settled over the meal as war was the true focus of the evening.

Ulf sat at the head of the main table, her black armor gleaming faintly in the firelight, her crimson eyes surveying the faces of her commanders. To her right sat Goreboar, his muscular and lithe form hunched over a bowl of stew that he devoured with gusto, pausing occasionally to rip chunks of bread and dip them into the thick broth. Around them were captains and lieutenants from various warbands, their expressions serious despite the comforts of food and drink.

Goreboar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward, slapping a large map spread out across the table with his broad palm. “Drakkath Tidebane’s forces number 82,000 strong,” he began, his deep voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “He commands seasoned veterans—warriors forged in the fires of conquest. Many of his captains hail from Orc Island, from the original thousand who struck out with Gelbeg in the Great Crossing. They know war like we know the taste of this stew.” He gestured to his meal with a grunt before continuing.

“Our forces, by contrast, number 100,000,” he went on, his tone heavy with caution. “But most of them are green—new recruits barely out of whelping. They’re eager, aye, but untested. In a direct clash, Drakkath’s veterans will tear through them like a boar through an unarmored thrall.”

The room rumbled with discontent as the assembled Orcs growled and muttered to one another. One of the lieutenants, a scarred Orcess with an iron ring through her nose, slammed her fist on the table. “Numbers are strength,” she barked, tusks bared. “We’ll drown them in our blood if we must. The Domination cannot fall to these traitors!”

Ulf raised a hand, silencing the room. Her voice, calm yet commanding, cut through the tension. “Numbers are a foundation, but they are not the whole. Our forces may lack experience, but they do not lack heart. And they do not lack leadership.” She gestured around the table. “Each of you carries the weight of your warbands. Your strength will forge these recruits into warriors. Your will shall turn the tide.”

Goreboar nodded, his expression grim. “We can’t rely on brute force alone. Drakkath’s army is disciplined, experienced, and cunning. They’ll bait us into traps, exploit weaknesses in our lines, and hammer us with precision strikes. We need to outthink them, outmaneuver them.”

A younger captain, barely older than the recruits Goreboar spoke of, leaned forward. “What of their supply lines? If we can sever them—”

“Drakkath isn’t a fool,” Goreboar interrupted, though not unkindly. “His supplies are well-guarded, and his forces are mobile. We’d lose more than we’d gain trying to starve him out. No, we need to hit him where he’s strong—on the field—and break his spirit.”

The room fell silent for a moment as the captains considered this. Ulf, her fingers resting lightly on the hilt of her blackened blade, leaned forward. “We cannot afford to underestimate Drakkath, but neither can we allow fear to guide us. We have the advantage of numbers, yes, but also the advantage of purpose. The Darkfire rebels fight for ambition and division. We fight for unity. For the Domination. That will be the fire that tempers our recruits into warriors.”

One of the older captains, a grizzled veteran with a jagged scar across his brow, grunted his approval. “If they bleed, they’ll break,” he said simply.

Ulf nodded. “Then we shall make them bleed. Rest well tonight, my captains. Tomorrow, we march to meet Drakkath. And by MOG, we shall remind these rebels why the Domination has endured.”

A chorus of guttural cheers erupted around the room, the Orcs slamming their fists on the tables in approval. Goreboar grinned, tearing another hunk of bread and raising it in salute to Ulf. The room may have been filled with tension and uncertainty, but for now, it was also filled with resolve. The Domination would fight, and the Domination would endure.

The firelight danced in Ulf’s crimson eyes as she studied the map once more, her black-armored fingers tracing the topography of the terrain around Khalbuldruz. Her gaze settled on a rocky rise to the north of the city, a place the map marked as Ludh Irgol, or the "Hill of Broken Iron." It was a steep, jagged outcrop overlooking the hilly plains, with a narrow ridge leading up to the summit and the sea to its back. A natural fortress.

Ulf leaned back in her seat, her face set with determination. “This is where we hold them,” she declared, her voice carrying through the room. The captains leaned forward, their eyes following her hand as she tapped Ludh Irgol on the map. “We establish our camp here. From the summit, we command the high ground, with a clear view of the surrounding land. Drakkath’s forces will be forced to fight uphill, their momentum broken before they even reach our lines.”

Goreboar’s thick brows furrowed as he considered the plan, his tusks gleaming in the firelight. “It’s a good position,” he admitted, stroking his chin. “But we’ll need to fortify it quickly. Drakkath won’t wait long before advancing. If we don’t prepare in time, we’ll be the ones fighting uphill.”

“That’s why you’ll lead the first group of engineers,” Ulf replied, her tone resolute. “Take the best builders we have and as many thralls as you need. Begin constructing fortifications immediately—trenches, barricades, and siege defenses. The rest of the army will follow in waves to reinforce the camp. We’ll make Ludh Irgol a bastion Drakkath’s veterans will break themselves against.”

The room rumbled with murmurs of approval as the captains nodded. Goreboar slammed a fist against his chest, his face breaking into a fierce grin. “Consider it done. I’ll have the first defenses up before sunrise.”

Ulf allowed herself a small smile, the anticipation coursing through her veins. She could feel the weight of the moment—the opportunity to prove herself not just as a warrior but as a commander, a leader worthy of her bloodline. She turned to the captains gathered around her, her voice rising.

“This is our stand! We fight not just for the Domination, but for the legacy of Gelbeg, for our people, and for unity! Let Drakkath come with all his veterans, let him throw everything he has at us! We will hold Ludh Irgol, and we will break his rebellion here!”

A thunderous cheer erupted from the assembled Orcs, fists pounding against tables and armored chests in a cacophony of approval. Goreboar rose from his seat, his chair scraping back, and began issuing orders to the captains, who hurried to rally their warbands and prepare the engineers.

As the hall emptied, Ulf remained at the table, her fingers tracing the map once more. She could feel her blood rising, the anticipation building into a roaring flame within her. This was her moment, her chance to carve her name into the annals of Orcish history. She clenched her fists, her crimson eyes blazing as she whispered to herself, “They will know the strength of the Domination. They will know the strength of Ulf.”

The war drums began to sound outside the hall, a steady rhythm that echoed through Khalbuldruz. The Orcs of the Domination were on the move, and Ludh Irgol would soon become the stage for a battle that would decide the fate of the peninsula—and the war.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 14: Blood on the Water

The dark waters between Grimclaw Point and the Broken Tusk Peninsula churned with the chaos of battle. The Orcish navy, composed of heavy galleons bristling with iron-tipped rams and rows of mangonels, formed an impenetrable line across the strait. Each ship, its sails dyed deep red and black, bore the insignia of the Gelbeg Domination—a skull wreathed in flames. The air was thick with the smell of brine, blood, and the acrid smoke of burning pitch.

The Darkfire navy, a ragged fleet of lighter, swifter ships, attempted to dart through the blockade, their sails painted with the crescent of Snagkill's rebellion. They moved like wolves, hunting for gaps in the Orcish line, but the galleons proved too sturdy and disciplined.

An Orcish war horn bellowed from the deck of the Bloodrend, the flagship of the Domination. Its captain, Admiral Zogdur Ironwave, a scarred veteran of the seas, barked orders to his crew. “Ready the harpoons! Ram the bastards into the depths! Show them the fury of Gelberg!”

A Darkfire cutter, sleek and fast, raced toward the Bloodrend. The rebels aboard screamed battle cries as they unleashed a volley of flaming arrows. The missiles rained down but skittered harmlessly off the Orcish galleon’s reinforced hull.

“Return fire!” Zogdur roared.

A pair of mangonels released their payloads—burning barrels of pitch and tar that smashed into the cutter’s deck. Flames erupted, engulfing the ship in a fiery inferno. Darkfire rebels leaped overboard, their cries swallowed by the raging sea.

Beneath the waves, the waters were alive with movement. The Naga, serpentine allies of the Domination, swam with lethal grace. Their green and silver scales shimmered in the dim light as they slithered toward the struggling Darkfire sailors.

A Naga huntress, her trident gleaming with the glow of enchantment, dragged a rebel beneath the waves. The man struggled, his bubbles rising in panicked bursts, but the Naga’s strength was relentless. One by one, rebels who thought they had escaped the fire above met their doom in the cold, suffocating depths.

On the deck of the Razorclaw, another galleon, an Orc captain led his crew in a brutal boarding action. Grappling hooks anchored their ship to a Darkfire frigate, and with a roar, the Orcs surged forward. They fought like demons, their axes and scimitars flashing under the moonlight. Blood slicked the decks as the Darkfire sailors, outmatched and outnumbered, fell to the relentless assault.

“Leave no survivors!” the captain bellowed, his tusks gleaming as he crushed an enemy’s skull with his hammer. “The sea will feast on their bones!”

As dawn broke over the strait, the waters were littered with the wreckage of Darkfire ships. The Orcish navy, though battered, held firm, their galleons forming an unbroken wall against the rebellion’s advance. Orc sailors cheered as another enemy vessel sank beneath the waves, its mast breaking like a twig.

On the horizon, the remnants of the Darkfire fleet turned tail, retreating back toward Grimclaw Point. But even then, the Naga hunted them, dragging the wounded and dying into the black abyss.

Zogdur Ironwave stood at the prow of the *Bloodrend*, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the battlefield. “Send word to the Queen,” he growled. “The sea is ours. The rebellion will not cross these waters.”

From the decks of the Domination’s fleet, war cries echoed over the waves, mingling with the cries of the dying and the groan of sinking ships. The rebellion had been dealt a harsh blow, and Gelberg remained unbroken.

The rebel ship Stormcrow heaved and groaned as Balgaj Jal'drokul's boarding party lashed their galleon to its side. A dozen grappling hooks bit into the enemy's railing, pulling the ships closer until their hulls scraped together in a deafening grind of wood and iron. The Orcs of Gelberg let out thunderous roars as they threw boarding planks across the gap, charging with axes raised high.

Balgaj Jal’drokul was at the forefront, a towering figure clad in crude but effective plate armor, his green skin marked with scars and warpaint. His helmet, shaped into the snarling visage of a boar, made him look like an avatar of wrath. He wielded a massive cleaver-like blade, chipped and battered but no less deadly. As he leapt aboard the Stormcrow, he bellowed, "For Gelberg! For Queen Ionia and Princess Ulf! Crush these traitors!"

The rebels were waiting for them, their own war cries piercing the air. They fought like zealots, their voices raised in chants of "Snagkill Darkfire! Hrall the True King!" They wore mismatched armor, scavenged from fallen foes or forged in secret, and carried weapons gleaming with desperation and fervor.

The clash was immediate and brutal. Balgaj's cleaver came down in a sweeping arc, splitting a rebel’s shield in two and burying itself deep into the Orc’s chest. The traitor collapsed with a strangled cry, but another rushed forward to take his place, swinging a jagged blade aimed for Balgaj’s neck.

With a snarl, Balgaj sidestepped the blow and smashed his gauntleted fist into the rebel’s face, breaking tusks and sending him sprawling. Around him, his warriors fought with savage intensity. Orcish axes met Orcish scimitars, and the deck became a maelstrom of blood and fury.

A Gelberg Orc, smaller but wiry, locked blades with a rebel twice his size. The rebel hissed, “You fight for false queens and daughters. Hrall will bring us glory!”

The Gelberg Orc growled back, “Snagkill betrayed his blood. He’ll rot in chains!” With a twist of his blade, he disarmed the rebel and plunged a dagger into his throat.

Above the fray, the rebel captain, a fearsome female Orc with crimson tattoos, shouted orders. “Hold the line! Drive them back! For Hrall! For the true king!” She wielded a double-headed axe, cutting down two Gelberg Orcs who tried to charge her.

Balgaj spotted her and roared, pointing his cleaver at her. “Your king is a traitor, and so are you! Come face me if you have the courage!”

The rebel captain snarled and charged, her axe raised. The two collided with the force of a storm, their weapons clashing in sparks of steel. The captain fought with a ferocity born of faith, her strikes wild but powerful. Balgaj, in contrast, was methodical, using his strength and experience to wear her down.

Around them, the battle raged. Gelberg Orcs pushed the rebels back step by step, their superior numbers and discipline beginning to tell. But the rebels refused to break, their voices still chanting Snagkill's name as they fought to the death.

Finally, Balgaj saw an opening. He parried the captain’s overhead swing and delivered a crushing kick to her knee, dropping her to the deck. With a grim growl, he brought his cleaver down, ending her life in a single, brutal stroke.

He stood over her body, breathing heavily, as the last of the rebels were cut down or driven into the sea. The deck of the Stormcrow was slick with blood, and the air was thick with the coppery stench of death.

“Secure the ship!” Balgaj barked, wiping his blade on a fallen rebel. His warriors roared in triumph, raising their weapons high.

As the captured Stormcrow was lashed to their fleet, Balgaj looked out over the waves. “Snagkill's forces may have faith on their side,” he muttered, “but we have the sea, the steel, and the strength of Gelberg. Let them come.”

[gobboguy]

Chapter 13: The First Blow is Struck

From the jagged cliffs of Grimclaw Point, the sea stretched endlessly south, its azure surface calm and shimmering under the bright midday sun. A pair of elderly Orcs, their leathery skin darkened by years of sun and salt, sat aboard a simple fishing boat. The vessel rocked gently with the tide, its nets half-full with writhing fish.

Gogmuk Broadtusk, an Orc with a gray-streaked beard and a belly that showed his love for good food and strong drink, leaned back against the mast, lazily chewing a stalk of Orcroot. The bitter tang mixed pleasantly with the pipe of Orcweed he puffed on, its smoke curling into the serene sky. Beside him sat Crugg One-Ear, named for the scarred absence of his right ear—a souvenir from his warring days. He squinted against the sunlight, his pipe clenched in his teeth.

“You hear what Mogsha was harping on about this morning?” Gogmuk grumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. “Said I don’t pull my weight around the house. I told her, I fought in three campaigns! Lost two toes to a damn elf blade! She has two thralls to help her! That not enough for her?”

Crugg snorted, his laugh turning into a raspy cough. “Nagging wives, brother. They forget the old days soon enough. My Ugla’s the same. Always harping about the whelps’ manners, like I’m supposed to be their tutor. Bah! I told her, they’re Orcs—manners’ll come when they’ve taken their first heads!”

They shared a chuckle, their moods light despite the grumbles. They spoke of days gone by, of old battles fought and scars earned, and of their many whelps scattered across Gogzuz-By-the-Sea. For all the fire of their youth, they had earned this quiet life.

“Darkfire rebellion,” Gogmuk muttered after a moment, flicking a fish scale from his lap. “Everyone’s talking about it. Snagkill this, Snagkill that. Bunch of noisy pups, far as I’m concerned. Let the young sort it out.”

Crugg nodded, exhaling another puff of smoke. “Aye. Let ‘em bicker and bash skulls. We’ve done our part. The sea’s a better friend to us now than war ever was.”

Suddenly, Gogmuk froze, his pipe slipping from his lips. His eyes widened as he stared out at the horizon. “Crugg…” he rasped, his voice tight with alarm.

Crugg followed his gaze, and his mouth fell open. Ships. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Their sails were dark, emblazoned with blood-red glyphs that even at this distance seemed to pulse with menace. The ships themselves were terrifying constructions, their prows carved into the shapes of leering Orcish skulls, their hulls reinforced with iron plating. War galleons and longships, built for speed and destruction, cut through the water like wolves closing in on prey.

“By MOG’s teeth,” Crugg breathed. “That’s a fleet.”

Gogmuk scrambled to his feet, his joints creaking with age. He grabbed the oars and thrust them into Crugg’s hands. “Row, you old goat! We’ve got to get to shore!”

Crugg didn’t argue. He spat out his pipe and began rowing with all the strength his weathered muscles could muster. The boat lurched forward, slicing through the placid water as fast as the two old warriors could make it go.

Gogmuk stood at the bow, his weathered face set with grim determination. “Someone’s got to warn the village,” he muttered. “If they catch us unawares, Gogzuz-By-the-Sea’ll be ashes by nightfall.”

As the boat drew closer to shore, the alarm in their hearts grew. The once-peaceful sea behind them now carried the promise of death and fire. The Orcs of Gogzuz-By-the-Sea would need to prepare for war, whether they liked it or not.

As Gogmuk and Crugg strained against the oars, the ominous fleet closed in with frightening speed. The galleons, towering and menacing, seemed to glide effortlessly through the water, their sails snapping in the brisk wind. A sudden lurch sent their small boat rocking as a net of thick, tarred ropes ensnared them. Before they could react, they were hoisted into the air, the sea dripping from their catch like dark rain, and deposited onto the deck of the nearest ship with a resounding thud.

The scene aboard the galleon was a stark contrast to the quiet they had left behind. The deck bustled with the raw energy of Orcish martial discipline. Orc sailors, their bodies marked with scars and adorned with talismans of bone and iron, moved with practiced precision. Some hauled ropes and adjusted sails, their calloused hands pulling knots tight. Others inspected weapons—blades gleaming with fresh oil, javelins stacked in neat racks, and barrels of arrows ready to fire.

Despite the ship’s orderliness, there was an unmistakable swagger to its crew. They sang guttural sea shanties as they worked, their voices rising and falling like the waves themselves. Here and there, groups of Orcs arm-wrestled or sparred with wooden staves, their laughter hearty and sharp. The scent of salt, sweat, and roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the tang of brine.

From the shadows of the helm, an Orc emerged, his stride calm yet commanding. He was tall and lean, his build suggesting agility rather than brute strength. His long black hair was tied into a thick braid that fell over his shoulder, and his armor was a sleek mix of leather and steel, marked with the crimson sigil of Hrall, son of Gelbeg. His yellow eyes gleamed with intelligence, and a wickedly curved sword hung at his side, its hilt wrapped in sharkskin.

“I am Drakkath Tidebane,” he said, his voice smooth and deep, with the faintest hint of amusement. “You’ve had a long row, old ones. Welcome aboard the *Crimson Wave.*”

Gogmuk and Crugg, still tangled in the net, glared up at him, their Orcish pride sparking despite the situation.

“Spare us your pleasantries, Tidebane,” Crugg growled, struggling against the ropes. “What do you want with us?”

Drakkath crouched down, inspecting the two with the air of a predator sizing up prey. “What I want,” he said, “is your cooperation. Grimclaw Point is about to become a pivotal stronghold in the war effort. The King of the Gelbeg Domination—Hrall, rightful son of Gelbeg—will soon make his claim known to all. Your village, Gogzuz-By-the-Sea, will be vital to ensuring his victory.”

He stood and gestured to the horizon, where the rest of the fleet loomed like a black tide. “Our king will ensure the Domination’s survival and glory. All we ask is that the Orcs of Grimclaw Point welcome their king and fight in his name.”

Gogmuk spat on the deck, his defiance undimmed by age. “Hrall’s no son of Gelbeg. He’s a usurper. Our loyalty lies with Queen Ionia and Princess Ulf.”

Drakkath smiled, showing sharp teeth. “Loyalty is admirable,” he said softly. “But misplaced loyalty? That can be… corrected.”

At his signal, the net was cut, and the two older Orcs were hauled to their feet by the crew. “You’ll deliver my message,” Drakkath said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Tell your village that Hrall comes with the strength of the seas at his back. It would be wise to prepare a warm welcome.”

He turned and began to walk away, but paused, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, and old ones? I’d advise against rowing back. We’ll provide you with faster transport. Consider it a gesture of goodwill… from your king.”

As the crew dragged Gogmuk and Crugg toward the edge of the deck, the two old warriors exchanged grim looks. The quiet of their retirement had been shattered, and the storm of war had found even them.

Meanwhile, back in Ionia’s war camp...

In the smoky interior of the war tent, the atmosphere was tense as Queen Ionia leaned over the war table, her black armor catching the flickering light of the torches. Maps sprawled before her, showing the Domination's territories, the river Cleoleham, and the besieged city of Chommogh. Ulf stood at her side, her tall frame a shadow of determination beside her mother. The council murmured in low tones, debating tactics and logistics.

The flap of the tent burst open, and a messenger stumbled in, his armor muddy and dented from hard travel. He sank to one knee, breathing heavily as he looked up at Ionia with a mix of urgency and reverence.

“Your Majesty,” he rasped, his voice raw. “I bring dire news.”

Ionia stepped forward, her blue eyes flashing. “Speak, messenger. What calamity has come to my shores?”

The messenger bowed his head. “A fleet, my Queen. A great fleet of ships bearing the banner of the Darkfire Rebellion has landed at Grimclaw Point. They’ve disembarked their warriors and are marching north as we speak. If they make it to the mainland…” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “Your forces will be surrounded, and Gelberg itself will be open to attack—from both land and sea.”

A wave of shocked murmurs rippled through the council. Grat Merbane, the grizzled Warchief of Idgo'Dol, slammed his massive fist onto the table, rattling the wooden cups and iron daggers scattered across it. “Foolhardy bastards!” he bellowed, his deep voice vibrating through the room. “Crossing so close to the stormy season? They could’ve lost their entire navy to the seas!”

Ionia raised a hand, silencing the room. Her lips curved into a wry smile, though her expression remained grave. “Foolhardy, yes,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “But also a winning gambit. They’ve taken the risk—and now the advantage lies with them. We are on the defensive.”

Ulf clenched her fists, her red eyes blazing. “Mother, give me a legion,” she said, her voice firm and commanding. “I will march south to the neck of the peninsula and hold them there. They will not set foot on the mainland.”

Ionia studied her daughter for a moment, pride flickering in her gaze. Then she nodded. “You shall have your legion, my daughter. But understand this—this is no simple skirmish. If Grimclaw Point falls, the rebellion will have a foothold to strike at Gelberg itself. You must not fail.”

Ulf placed her fist over her heart and bowed her head. “I will not fail, Mother. I swear it by MOG.”

The queen turned to her council. “Gutd, prepare the troops for Ulf’s command. Gaelira, secure the supply lines—we will need every resource to reinforce the southern defense. Thragga, keep our forces at Chommogh sharp. The rebellion thinks they can break us. Let us prove them wrong.”

The Warchiefs nodded, their expressions grim but resolute. The air in the tent grew heavier, charged with the promise of bloodshed and glory. The war had taken a darker turn, but the Queen of the Orcs was far from defeated.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 12: The Gathering of the Warbands

The tent of the Queen of the Orcs stood out amidst the sprawling camp. It was a towering structure of dark green canvas, reinforced with iron poles and adorned with banners bearing the sigil of the Domination: a green hand on a field of black. Inside, the air was warm from braziers, the scent of burning coal mingling with the aroma of spiced Orcish mead. Rich furs lined the ground, muffling footsteps, while a massive wooden table stood at the center, scarred with old knife marks and carvings from countless war councils.

Seated around the table were the highest-ranking members of the Domination’s forces. Ionia, the human Queen of the Orcs, leaned forward, her hands braced on the edge of the table. She wore armor polished to a dull gleam, her long blonde hair tied back into a braid. Her striking blue eyes moved from one map to another, tracing the lines of the Cleoleham River that snaked its way toward their first target: Chommogh.

Ulf stood at her side, clad in black armor trimmed with crimson. Her red eyes gleamed as she pointed toward the map. “The river will slow us down, Mother, but it’s also a natural defense. If we strike hard and fast, we can catch Chommogh before they’ve fully fortified.”

Ionia nodded but glanced up as the tent flap opened. Fartbringer entered, his sheer bulk demanding attention. The ancient Orc was profoundly obese, his purple robes tailored to flow around his girth with surprising elegance. His graying hair hung loose over his shoulders, and his tusks, though yellowed with age, were polished and adorned with golden rings. Behind him followed two of his wives, both heavily pregnant. They wore noble-style gowns of deep green and gold, their bodices tight against their swollen forms. Each carried a delicate fan, occasionally lifting it to cool themselves.

Fartbringer spread his arms wide as he approached the table, his face splitting into a warm grin. “My queen!” he boomed, his voice deep and gravelly. “Still leading us to glory after all these years. It’s good to see you, Ionia.”

Ionia smirked, straightening to greet him. “Fartbringer. Still filling the world with sons and daughters, I see. Do you ever tire?”

The old Orc laughed heartily, patting his round belly. “Not once, my queen. Mog blessed me with a strong back and a stronger appetite—for war and for family.” His wives giggled softly, fanning themselves as they moved to the side of the tent, their sharp eyes scanning the gathered company.

Fartbringer stepped closer to the table, his heavy footfalls sinking into the furs beneath him. He studied the map, his gray brows furrowing. “The Cleoleham,” he muttered, stroking his beard. “It’s a good choice, but the waters can be treacherous in the spring. If Chommogh’s forces are prepared, they may try to flood the banks to slow us.”

“Then we dam the river upstream,” Ionia said firmly, her finger stabbing at a point north of Chommogh. “We cut off their water supply, force them to defend on two fronts. Ulf, you’ll lead the vanguard across the ford here.”

Ulf nodded, her expression serious. “I’ll take Doomthrall and Idgo’Dol’s forces. Gronak and Thragga are eager for blood.”

Fartbringer chuckled, his belly shaking. “Thragga is always eager for blood. It’s a wonder she hasn’t tried to challenge the river itself.”

Ionia smirked, her gaze softening as she looked at the old Orc. “And you, old friend? Will you march with us, or are you content to leave the fighting to your son?”

Fartbringer leaned on the table, his weight making the wood creak. “I’ll march,” he said with a grin. “If only to keep the young whelps in line. Goreboar may have my blood, but he still needs to learn the value of patience.”

The tent filled with the murmurs of war planning, the rustling of maps, and the occasional burst of laughter as the leaders of the Domination prepared for the storm to come. Outside, the camp roared with life, but within the tent, the fate of Gelberg—and perhaps all of Sidhedark—was being forged.

Ionia leaned back, arms crossed as her green eyes fixed on Fartbringer. “What of the paladin Snagkill sent against you, Fartbringer? Word is he’s been sending his lackeys to challenge our leaders. How did you fare against one of MOG’s so-called chosen?”

The old Orc chuckled deeply, the sound rumbling in his massive chest. He rested a hand on the table, his thick fingers drumming against the wood. “Oh, he came to me full of fire and righteousness,” Fartbringer began, a grin spreading across his weathered face. “A young upstart, all muscle and faith, thinking MOG himself was guiding his blade. He declared me unworthy to lead Goruk’Gath, claimed my age and my… size”—he patted his enormous belly—“made me weak. I couldn’t let such insolence stand, could I?”

Ulf raised an eyebrow. “And? What happened?”

Fartbringer straightened, his purple robes shifting as he adjusted his bulk. “The whelp was all speed and fury, but he lacked discipline. He charged at me like a wild boar, swinging that glowing mace of his as if MOG would strike me down with every blow.”

He gestured dramatically, his large hands miming the paladin’s reckless swings. “I didn’t even bother drawing my blade at first. I just sidestepped, let him tire himself out. His footwork was sloppy, his strikes predictable. By the time he realized his mistake, I was ready.”

Fartbringer’s grin widened, his tusks gleaming. “When I finally drew my axe, he looked like he’d seen Mog’s ghost. One swing, Ulf. Just one. I caught his mace mid-swing with the haft, twisted it out of his hands, and sent him sprawling with the flat of my blade.”

The tent was silent for a moment, save for the crackle of the braziers. Then Fartbringer leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “I spared him, of course. Told him to take his bruised pride back to Snagkill and deliver a message: experience beats youthful arrogance every time.”

Ionia smirked, shaking her head. “I trust he won’t be issuing another challenge anytime soon.”

Fartbringer shrugged, his grin never fading. “If he does, I’ll just remind him why the warchief of Goruk’Gath has survived every challenge for decades. Age may slow the body, my queen, but wisdom… wisdom sharpens the mind.”

The queen nodded, her expression thoughtful as she regarded her old friend. “Let’s hope the rest of our leaders have your wit, Fartbringer. We’ll need it in the days ahead.”

Ulf, standing beside her, couldn’t help but smile faintly. Despite his gruff demeanor and larger-than-life presence, Fartbringer’s confidence and experience were a reassuring presence in the midst of uncertainty.

The heavy canvas of the war tent rustled as Warchief Thragga Bloodreaver entered. She was an imposing figure, her girth rivaling even that of the hulking Fartbringer. Her armor, blackened steel adorned with jagged spikes, clung tightly to her robust frame, evidence of a life lived on the battlefield. A gleaming crimson sash marked her rank, and around her neck hung a string of human teeth—a grim reminder of her victories. Her head was freshly shaved, her scalp smooth and reflecting the flickering lamplight, the act a visible mark of grief and reverence.

Thragga approached the table and knelt before Ulf with surprising grace for her size. Her large hands gently grasped Ulf's, and she kissed them with a solemnity that silenced the room. "My sister," she said, her deep voice carrying a tremor of both reverence and sorrow. She looked up, her piercing red eyes meeting Ulf’s. "I kneel before you as kin, though our bond was forged in grief."

Ulf blinked, tears pricking her crimson eyes. "Thragga, your loss…" Her voice cracked, and she quickly composed herself. "Do you hold me any ill will for Jekul's death?"

Thragga rose to her feet, towering over the table yet radiating a quiet dignity. She placed a massive hand over her heart. "Never, my sister. Jekul fought bravely and died with honor. I shaved my head not in anger but in tribute to him. It would have been the highest honor to have been your sister-wife." She straightened, her shaved scalp glinting in the lamplight as she cast a long, mournful glance at the map of the Domination spread across the table.

Ulf swallowed hard, nodding. "He was one of my greatest companions. His loss still stings deeply."

Goreboar, standing nearby, stepped forward. His voice was calm yet strong, steadying the room with his presence. "Jekul would have been proud to know that his bloodmaave and queen stand together now, stronger than ever. His legacy is not one of despair but of unity. Together, we will honor him by ensuring Snagkill’s betrayal will not undo what Jekul and so many others fought for."

Thragga turned to Goreboar, a rare smile breaking through her stern expression. "Well said, my prince," she rumbled. Then, turning back to Ulf, she knelt once more, her head bowed low. "The traitorous Snagkill will feel my wrath. My axes are sharp, my warband is ready, and my soul burns with the desire to see justice done."

Ulf extended her hand again, this time gripping Thragga’s forearm in the gesture of warriors. "Then let us strike together, my sister. For Jekul, for the Domination, and for MOG."

Thragga rose, her eyes blazing with determination. "For Jekul," she echoed. With a final nod, she took her leave, her heavy footsteps reverberating through the tent as she prepared her warriors for the bloodshed to come.

The heavy flap of the tent swept aside, and Gronak Skullcrusher entered with the air of a war god. He was a titan of an Orc, clad in a resplendent suit of blackened plate armor etched with golden runes, each line commemorating his countless victories. His mighty mace, Bonebreaker, rested against his shoulder, its enormous spiked head gleaming with the promise of carnage. Flanking him were six elite warriors, their every movement precise and purposeful. These were the Skullguard, Gronak’s personal vanguard, Orcs honed to perfection in the art of war. Each wore matching armor adorned with snarling skull motifs, their weapons razor-sharp and deadly.

The Skullguard formed a disciplined line behind their Warchief as Gronak strode forward, his heavy boots thudding against the ground. His bald head glistened under the lamplight, the faint scars on his scalp whispering of past battles. With a reverent bow, he knelt before Queen Ionia, holding out his gauntleted hands in offering.

"Your Majesty," Gronak’s deep voice rumbled like thunder. His gaze was unwavering as he removed his mace and carefully took her hand, drawing a wickedly sharp blade from his belt. With meticulous precision, he sharpened her black nails to a lethal edge, his every movement a display of submission and reverence.

"Many Orcs still honor Gelbeg and his vision for a unified race," Gronak said, his voice steady but impassioned. "I am here to pledge my loyalty, now and forever, to the true Queen and her Princess. Let no traitor's lies sway my allegiance."

Queen Ionia's blue eyes gleamed as she oinked softly, a sound of satisfaction and approval. With calculated grace, she lifted her armored foot and placed it firmly atop Gronak’s bald head, a sign of dominance and acceptance in Orcish tradition. "Then rise, Gronak Skullcrusher, Warchief of Idgo'dol. Fight for your Queen and your Princess, and let MOG witness the might of our people." She slapped her belly with a resounding smack, a gesture that brought the Skullguard to immediate attention.

Gronak rose slowly, his eyes burning with determination. He turned to his warriors and roared, a primal sound that reverberated through the tent and out into the night. The Skullguard echoed his cry, their voices harmonizing into a thunderous chant that rattled the very air.

Ulf, standing beside the Queen, felt a surge of approval as she watched the display of loyalty and strength. "With warriors like these," she said, her voice filled with resolve, "Snagkill’s treachery doesn’t stand a chance."

Gronak turned to her and pounded his chest with a massive fist. "The Princess has my loyalty for all time. The traitor will fall beneath Bonebreaker, and the Domination will remain strong."

Ionia nodded, her expression one of fierce pride. "Then prepare your warriors, Gronak. We march at dawn."

The tent flap opened once more, and the scent of exotic smoke rolled in like a herald of the arrival. Warchief Gaelira, immense in both stature and presence, was carried in on a grand palanquin of crimson velvet, the gold accents glinting in the firelight. Her rotund form sprawled across the cushioned platform, adorned in black armor intricately laced with shimmering threads of silver. Diaphanous silk veils cascaded from her shoulders, a stark contrast to the rugged steel.

Gaelira puffed leisurely on a long-stemmed pipe, the head of which was shaped like a snarling dragon. Wisps of the potent drug Stone of the Lotus swirled around her, forming ghostly shapes that danced in the lamplight. Her thralls, a mix of humans and dwarves, struggled under the weight of her palanquin but maintained their pace, their faces drawn and submissive.

Ionia, standing at the war table, burst into laughter at the sight. "Gaelira! Still making an entrance worthy of a Queen yourself!"

The Warchief let out a booming chuckle as she waved a bejeweled hand, signaling her thralls to set her down. "And you, my old friend, still rule like one!" She dismissed the carriers with a sharp gesture, her rings catching the light. "Begone, you lot, except you, Myra."

A dwarven maiden, small but sturdy, scurried forward. She carried a basin of warm water and fragrant oils. Gaelira extended her bare leg, and Myra knelt to massage her feet, her nimble hands working with practiced skill.

"You spoil me too much, Ionia," Gaelira said through a cloud of smoke. Her voice was deep and rich, every word tinged with mirth. "One day, I'll have to write a song about how you never let me get bored!"

"Spare me your mockery," Ionia retorted with a smirk. "You’re the only one in this room who could laugh in the face of war and mean it."

Ulf stepped forward, her expression somber as she addressed the Warchief. "Gaelira, I must ask your forgiveness. For the death of your son, Rogmog, at the hands of Hate. It was my failure that allowed—"

Gaelira waved a hand lazily, interrupting her. "Oh, stop with your apologies, Princess. Rogmog fought an honorable battle, and if he fell to Hate, it was because he was bested. I’ve sons enough, and those that remain are sharpening their blades as we speak. Hate will have his reckoning in time, but I bear you no ill will." She puffed her pipe, blowing a perfect smoke ring into the air. "Besides, Rogmog always did lack my good sense."

Ionia nodded, her face a mixture of pride and gratitude. "Your loyalty and wisdom will be remembered, Gaelira. The Domination owes you much."

Gaelira inclined her head, accepting the praise as though it were her due. "I’ve stood by you since we killed that bastard Fiu, and I’ll stand by you now. Let the traitors come. They’ll learn that even silk hides steel."

Ionia turned to the assembled Warchiefs, her voice rising above the clamor of the tent. "The Warchiefs are gathered, the warbands are united, and the time for action is at hand. War will descend on the Domination like a storm, and we will emerge stronger than ever!"

The tent filled with the sound of Orcish roars and the pounding of fists against armor. The war council was concluded, and the horde would march. Sidhedark would soon tremble under the might of the Dominion.

The air in the tent was thick with tension and the lingering scent of pipe smoke when the flap was pushed open with an abrupt gust of cold air. A tall, imposing figure entered, her dark, enameled armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight. It was Badwen the Crimson Blade, her black hair tied back, her face stern yet etched with the faintest shadow of grief.

She dropped to one knee before Queen Ionia, her voice steady but heavy with emotion. "Your Majesty, I come not as a warrior, but as a blade seeking a master. My soulmaave, Bilesnot, is dead, but his will endures within me. I am without purpose except to serve you. I forsake all I own, all I am, to live only for you and Princess Ulf. My life, my loyalty, my very blood—these are yours to command."

A murmur rippled through the tent, Orcs exchanging glances at such a public display of devotion. Even among the Domination, this was rare.

Queen Ionia, moved by the earnestness of Badwen's declaration, stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You honor me, Badwen. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded. From this day forward, you shall serve as my shadow—the beginnings of an elite force, answerable only to me. Together, we will shape the Queen's Royal Guard, a unit that will defend the throne in all circumstances. Do you accept this mantle?"

Badwen’s eyes glimmered with pride as she nodded. Then, without hesitation, she performed the ultimate gesture of Orcish submission: she wet herself, the dark liquid pooling beneath her. The acrid smell wafted through the tent, causing the gathered Warchiefs and warriors to murmur in approval. This was the truest form of humility, an act that declared her body, pride, and dignity entirely belonged to her Queen.

Ulf, though initially taken aback, stepped forward and addressed the gathered council. "Badwen is a paragon of Orcish values—loyalty, strength, and selflessness. Let none question her devotion!"

The murmurs turned to nods of agreement, the respect for Badwen evident in their faces.

Ionia smiled, a rare softness touching her expression. She gestured for Badwen to rise. "Stand, my shadow. You have my trust, and we have much to discuss. Together, we will forge the Royal Guard into a force unlike any other."

Badwen rose, her shoulders squared, her grief for Bilesnot seemingly replaced with renewed purpose. She followed Ionia to a smaller side chamber of the tent, her movements deliberate and precise, already embodying the role she had sworn to take.

The war council watched her go, and the tent fell into a solemn silence, the weight of what had just transpired settling over all. With Badwen’s declaration, the Queen’s strength had grown immeasurably, and the path to war seemed ever clearer.

Later that night, a messenger arrived from Snagkill’s camp.

The firelight flickered off the blackened armor of Queen Ionia as she sat at the head of the war council. Her piercing blue eyes were like icy flames, glowing with calculated fury as the messenger knelt before her. The tension in the air was palpable, every Orc in the grand tent straining to hear the words from Snagkill’s camp.

The messenger spoke with a trembling voice, clearly aware of the dangerous crowd surrounding him. "Snagkill demands the immediate abdication of the throne, the dissolution of the Gelberg Dominion, and the banishment of Queen Ionia and Princess Ulf."

The council erupted in a cacophony of roars and oaths. Orcish Warchiefs slammed their fists against the table, rattling goblets and scattering maps. Warchief Gutd, the High Warchief, rose to his feet, towering above the others. His tusks glinted in the firelight as he snarled, "That whelp dares make such demands? He spits on Gelbeg’s name and dishonors all we’ve built! He’ll pay with his head for this insolence!"

The other Warchiefs echoed his sentiment, each adding their own curses and declarations of vengeance. Thragga slammed her axe onto the table, cracking the wood, while Gaelira took a long drag from her pipe, smoke curling around her sneering face. Gronak’s voice boomed above the din, calling for immediate bloodshed.

Ionia raised her hand, her armor creaking softly as she gestured for silence. The council fell quiet, though the smoldering anger in the room was palpable. Her voice, calm but cutting, carried through the tent. "Our wrath will find Snagkill in time. But rage without purpose is the folly of fools. Let us first consider the battlefield before us."

She turned to Gutd, who stepped forward to address the council. His large hands hovered over the map sprawled across the table. "By the numbers, we have the advantage," he began. "Fifty thousand Orcs under our banners against Snagkill’s thirty thousand. But numbers don’t tell the whole tale. Many of our forces are fresh recruits, barely out of whelping. Snagkill’s troops are seasoned—the Farfield conquerors, hunters, and paladins. They are trained and disciplined."

The gathered Orcs growled, the thought of their kin being outmatched a bitter pill. Gutd continued, stabbing his finger at the map. "But we have Gelberg, the greatest port in Sidhedark, and with it, control of supplies and reinforcements. If we take Chommogh..." His finger slid down the map to trace the river Cleoleham, "...we will control the river from the south and north. That would starve Snagkill’s forces in Rad’Udu. He’d have no choice but to engage us on our terms or wither away in defeat."

The council murmured in agreement, the plan beginning to form. Thragga nodded grimly. "The breadbasket of Chommogh is vital. Without it, his rebellion dies a slow death."

Ulf, standing beside her mother, folded her arms, her crimson eyes narrowing. "And yet, taking Chommogh will be no easy feat. Its fields are wide, its defenses stout. It will bleed us if we do not strike carefully."

Gaelira exhaled another plume of smoke, her voice languid yet sharp. "Then let it bleed us. Victory often demands a toll. The question is whether we are willing to pay it."

Ionia leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the map. "We will pay what is necessary. Chommogh is the key. Control the river, and we sever Snagkill’s lifeline. We cut off his rebellion at the root."

The Queen rose to her feet, her presence commanding silence once more. She placed her hand on Ulf’s shoulder, her expression resolute. "Send word to the warbands. Prepare the troops. Tomorrow, we march for Chommogh. And when we take it, the tides of this war will turn in our favor."

The council let out a collective roar of approval, the sound reverberating through the tent and out into the night. Even as the firelight danced against their war-worn faces, there was no mistaking the hunger in their eyes. War was upon them, and the Orcs would meet it with fire and fury.