Grommash was burning.

Both literally and figuratively. The moment his mind began to form coherent thoughts again, he felt the fire.

With every movement he felt the recently damaged tissue on his right side tear anew, only to be pulled together by the strange flame burning in his abdomen. Even so much as walking put him in absolute agony, yet right now he could not care one bit.

While it had never been his intention to become an actual shaman, Grommash had still undergone the necessary training. Which was what allowed him to understand the situation he was currently in.

His mana pool had been pitiful, compared to most shamans and even the lowest of trained mages. But right now his body was overflowing with mana that desperately wanted to cause havoc in the outside world. That mana came from a set of channels that he had never felt before, but had heard of.

Apparently shamans did not cultivate their own mana, instead relying on an ethereal connection between their people and the souls of their ancestors. Through that connection, surplus mana from those that did not need it could be pulled in, fueling the magic of the shamans. But that always came with a downside. Mana from that many different sources, was an unstable mixture of differing aspects. It could never be used to power grand spells that required careful [Mana manipulation] instead it was most useful for rituals, and the specific magic that called on the might of the ancestors.

Grommash had, despite Daranturn’s warnings, always wanted to be a grand spellcaster. He had spent years honing his mind, in the hopes of awakening to some magical talent. Sadly, due to the fact that he and his sister were clanless, he could not find a teacher for the magical arts.

Instead he had taken part in the shamans training, in hopes of learning at least some magical theory. The rest he had bargained for. Finding some mage from another clan and doing chores for them until they deemed it enough to throw him a few crumbs of knowledge.

That had been Grommash’s dream for as long as he could remember. Standing side by side with his Sister, her destroying their enemies and him raining hell upon them from afar.

Which is why it hurt so much.

Through the damaged channels on his right side, the overflowing mana exited his body, outside the range of his control. The channels that connected his abdomen to the ancestors, were gushing mana like there was no tomorrow.

Grommash took another step forward, through hazy eyes he looked at his surroundings. Everything was strange. The gathered orcs looked distressed and mentally exhausted. There were barriers covering the sky and shamans tending to the wounded not a few meters to his left.

But none of that interested grommash. Through the haze of pain, he noticed that one of the mages closest to him was glowing a weird shade of red. Shaking his head, Grommash refocused his vision and experimentally closed his left eye.

His vision immediately lost color. The only thing standing out in this monotone world, was the orc closest to him, who was now looking at grommash with a somewhat nervous expression.

The moment he looked into the mage's eyes, a wave of fury washed through his body.

Originating from his abdomen, and the foreign mana, a red haze began to flow through his body.

And with the haze, came the voices.

Thousands of voices echoed through his mind, all screaming one word.

“TRAITOR!”

With the word came an instant influx of knowledge that momentarily overwhelmed grommash. A moment later he knew what the red tinged orc had done.

With a fury Grommash did not know he was capable of, he let out the loudest bellow he could, while simultaneously raising his hands.

“BETRAYAL!”

From his mangled right hand, a chaotic wave of orange fire exploded outwards, similar in color to the flames burning along his body.

With the incredible fury at the forefront of his mind, fueled by the wrath of the ancestors in the form of the red thirst, Grommash had forgotten about bystanders.

As the screaming mass of orange flames impacted the mage and his surroundings, something strange happened. Instead of blowing everyone back, the only one affected was the mage, who fell to the ground in a screaming heap before he began to frantically roll across the ground.

The flames were apparently more tenacious than he expected, seeing that his frantic rolling had no effect.

Grommash had a strange experience, as it felt like thousands of people were watching through his own eyes. A quick look behind himself showed that no one was looking over his shoulder, so that feeling must be coming from his newfound connection to the ancestors.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

As he observed the struggling and crying mage, the flames suddenly changed color. Where before they had been a strange orange hue, now they rapidly turned a deep crimson, a hue that every orc knew by heart.

As if the red thirst itself was burning the mage, the flames grew violent and frantic, releasing a thick haze of red smoke into the air.

Grommash raised his gaze, looking at the people that were drawn to the commotion he caused. The shamans had strange looks on their faces, as they were suddenly overcome with the need to guard grommash, instead of stopping him from attacking more of his kin. The ceremonial guards that were in close proximity to their shamans seemed to be under the same impression.

Only the common warriors and mages looked ready to put him down at a moment's notice.

With the strange vision that his right eye showed, Grommash observed the approaching orcs. They looked normal, just a bit gray. The only exception was old Daranturn, who looked like a spiritual bonfire.

Thousands of strands extended from his abdomen, connecting him to the surrounding orcs and the ethereal figures that clung to him. They looked mostly like old orcs, but there was the occasional imposing warrior or tiny child in the mix. The figures clung to Daranturn’s back, fading in and out of sight as they switched places with each other constantly. The only common thread between them was the furious expression every last one of them wore.

Just as the group of orcs came into range for a conversation, a heavy lance of light smashed through a barrier close by, followed immediately by two more in different locations.

As the barrier shattered, the shamans that had collectively channeled power into it, simultaneously reeled from the backlash.

As if to add insult to injury, immediately afterwards, different forms of magical explosions happened in the most tightly packed groups of shamans.

Immediately, streaks of white light fell from the sky, the angels finally having decided to enter a melee. The orc warriors, that had been on the sidelines until now, roared as one before engaging. Despite the fact that they engaged on the ground, the angels kept their air superiority, as dozens of arrows rained from the sky, many finding their intended targets in the skulls or torsos of the defending orcs.

Grommash hobbled his way towards the melee, when his right eye picked something up. A squad of 3 orcs were making their way through the battlefield, moving past their kin as if they could not see them. The fact that they stayed untouched by arrow fire told grommash just as much as the red glow emanating from their body.

As they came closer, they changed direction, directly towards Daranturn.

Once again a wave of foreign anger crashed through Grommash, urging him to act. While his mind was still somewhat sluggish, he understood what the ancestors wanted.

His right arm began to cramp as a deluge of mana rushed through it, gathering in his right hand. From the wounds and scars that littered his right arm, sparks of electricity shot outwards, only to immediately ground themselves.

The volume of mana was more than Grommash could keep control of and he immediately wanted to let the power loose, but another of the foreign instincts stopped him.

As if another mind was there to control his mana, Grommash felt the flow of power through his right side stabilize. Still excess power leaked from his broken channels, but not nearly as much.

Grommash knew that he could force these wills from his mind and body at any time, forcing the power to be released, but he knew that they were helping him.

As more and more different minds began to join his efforts, the enemy came closer. They had seemingly no eye for any of the other orcs, making straight for the head shaman.

When they were less than 20 meters from Grommash, the foreign influences inside his mind told him that it was time.

Between the curled fingers of his right hand, little bolts of blood red lightning arced to and fro, creating a noise not unlike the chirping of birds. One moment the power was contained inside his hand and in the next, two of the orcs sported massive charred holes in their chests.

Barely a moment later the clap of thunder rang out, momentarily catching the attention of every being in his immediate vicinity.

Grommash’s hand hurt like hell, the explosion of superheated air having broken more than two fingers. Yet none of that mattered as there was still one of the glowing red orcs standing and he was looking right at Grommash. He seemed to take a moment to decide between continuing towards the head shaman or taking out grommash. With a dangerous glint in his eyes, he firmed the grip on his sword and began to approach grommash.

The foreign wills inside his mind once again stirred, but this time they requested mana. Grommash had no clue why they did not just take it, but he gave permission anyway.

Instantly the amount of mana in his pool dropped as ethereal figures of orange fires rose from the ground. The approaching orc was taken off guard as the tip of a spear nearly impaled his leg. He tried to step backwards but was immediately ran through the back as another ethereal orc rose behind him.

More and more of the flaming orcs came into being, the pull on Grommash’s mana intensifying with every new addition.

The flaming apparitions began to disperse through the chaotic melee, targeting any angel or red tinted orc they could find.

Grommash meanwhile was struggling. The pull on his mana pool was growing more and more intense, the apparitions needing his mana when their bodies were damaged. He sank to one knee as the pull intensified again. The volume of mana flowing through his body began to overwhelm the regeneration of the orange flames.

On his knees Grommash observed the brutal fight happening all around him. His mind retreated further and further as his body began to hurt, almost dissociating entirely.

Until something pulled his mind back to the forefront.

Another group of orcs was approaching, though this time Grommash knew who they were. The red thirst bubbled and boiled inside his mind as Grommash forced himself to his feet. The animalistic fury inside his mind causing his right side to once again light up with orange flames.

“Carborg FIRE MOUNTAIN!” he bellowed, a wave of fire exploding from his body as he momentarily lost control of his mana.

“TRAITOR! BETRAYER! COWARD!” he continued. Though his mind was nearly overwhelmed by fury, he could still see the grimace cross the older orcs face.

Carborg changed course and began to approach Grommash, his face contorted into an ugly grimace.

Grommash knew that right now would be the best opportunity he would ever have. Someone else would likely kill the traitorous wretch and he would never have his retribution.

Once Carborg was in range, Grommash immediately went on the offensive, seemingly taking the older orc off guard.

With a gesture of his right hand, a wave of orange flames exploded forward, momentarily cutting Grommash’s line of sight. Simultaneously he mentally requested one of the flaming apparitions to attack from the side.

Grommash knew that Carborg was more powerful and more experienced than him. He had to take the initiative and press that tiny advantage for all it was worth.

The moment the wave of fire began to disperse, one of the apparitions charged in with a two handed axe, only to be immediately bisected by a slash of Carborg’s two handed sword.

With a grimace Grommash let loose another wave of fire, but the fact that his opponent deemed it unnecessary to move away from his attack caused him to grow nervous.

Two more apparitions were summarily dispersed before the next wave of fire ran out.

Standing there unharmed, was Carborg, his right pauldron pointed forward, the image of a dragon impaled on a spear painted onto the red metal in white paint. From the emblem on his shoulder a golden dome of light protected the side of his body. He was entirely unharmed by the flames.

“I wish I had been more thorough back then.” Carborg said, a distinct tone of disappointment in his eyes.

“You and that blasted sister of yours are the only things standing in my way.”

Grommash’s face contorted into a furious grimace, but the voices in his head urged him to stay his hand, an opportunity would present itself.

The moment Carborg took a step forward, a familiar axe came hurtling through the air, impacting the emblem on his right shoulder with the sound of breaking glass as the barrier of golden magic shattered.

An instant later a furious asha came crashing through a group of orcs, sprinting low to the ground like an animal, her eyes filled with violence.