We refused the hospitality of Urganza to share a meal with her. Instead, Tharkas led us to a quiet corner ensuring the privacy of our discussion. Savvas still looked dishevelled and uninterested in our topic. Maapu decided that he would like to swing big axes with the orcs and left with my permission. Taltil ran off trying to barter fur for some other trinkets. Surprisingly, Theko joined some orc heaving a large rock and was soon invited to share a meal. So in the end it was just the four of us.
“What is the Storm Lord’s preferred fighting style?” I asked.
“He is an Orc general,” cited Lyria, “he prefers huge durable weapons and smashes with it.”
“So he just hits things with things?” I repeated Lyria’s words with irritation.
“Orcs do not have any martial school so it all boils down to individual preferences,” uttered Lyria.
No structured fighting style. The complexity of the task just compounded itself.
“In his younger days, he earned the moniker, the Mammoth Killer,” said Tharkas with concern for Urganza, ”During one of the hunting seasons, he got separated from his raid party. Alone, he battled a mammoth. They finally found him with his left rib pierced by the task and the dead mammoth nearby.”
“So he got hurt while fighting a mammoth and managed to slay it despite being wounded?” I asked.
“It is the manner in which he killed that made him a ravaging opponent,” Tharkas lowered his voice and clutched his hands together, “The mammoth died from a broken neck.”
I turned towards Lyria hoping that she would look through the fabricated tale but her expression was anything but solemn. She knew of this tale or rather her silence attested to the veracity of the claim.
“That is a commendable tale from his younger days. Maybe he has grown senile?” I still held a glimmer of hope.
“He is not the sort of general who directs the battle from behind,” answered Lyria.
Tharkas simply nodded, acknowledging Lyria’s assessment.
“Very few have challenged the Storm Lord but he still fights. He leads the battle, and the rest follow,” the orc spoke with both fear and awe.
“I will be honest. Urganza will die if she were to challenge the Storm Lord,” I said. A great warrior she might be, but the Storm Lord is in a different league.
“But Lady Rylonvirah, you have always made the impossible a reality,” uttered Tharkas, “That is why we came to you.”
“The Storm Lord has raw strength and years of experience behind him. He does not have a preferred fighting style. So there are no special moves to counter him. Urganza has no advantage over the Storm Lord,” I replied.
“But we know the Storm Lord prefers heavy weapons. How about duelling him with a lighter weapon like a rapier? The speed would give Urganza an edge in the duel,” Savvas spoke for the first time that evening.
“He survived taking a mammoth’s tusk through his ribs,” I scoffed at the suggestion, “Rapiers will fare no better than pinpricks.”
“How about a weapon with a range then?” offered Savvas with a sudden renewed interest.
“A polearm might work but will not guarantee success,” I answered after a bit of deliberation.
“No,” snapped back Savvas, “I meant urumi. You could train her. No one is more proficient with a urumi than you.”
“You need excellent command over longsword and bullwhip before you can even swing the urumi without hurting yourself,” Savvas rubbed the old scar on his shoulders unconsciously at my words.
“If I had a decade to train her, then she would have a chance with the urumi,” I concluded.
As I finished, a grim darkness settled on our little conference. Every face turned towards the dirt-covered ground and the despair slowly permeated.
“There are a few options, that I could think of. Zaehran could train her to dodge the attacks. That would drag the Storm Lord into a battle of endurance. Syrune and Colby might come with something innovative, like weapons that alter forms. Even the fae could teach her some mind tricks to taunt or confuse the opponent. Sadly none of them is viable at the moment,” I sulked and the silence returned to our group.
Eventually, Lyria broke the spell.
“Rils, if you get to watch the Storm Lord duel, would you be able to work a strategy?” she asked ignoring the horrified expression that appeared on my troubled face.
She continued paying no heed to my obvious disdain for her plan.
“Take the Warhammer with you and travel north towards the Mikhul’s Redoubt. That is where the Storm Lord is rallying his forces. I will first meet with Celerim, alone,” The last word she pronounced sharply to deny Savvas the chance to protest.
Even Savvas is excluded from their discussion. Obviously, Lyria wants to keep the topic of her discussion with Celerim confidential.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
“I will prepare a wagon and will lead the way,” volunteered Tharkas.
“In four or five days' time, if you stay on the trail, I will catch up with you. Once we meet with the Storm Lord, I will present the Warhammer as a tribute. Under the pretext of proving the worth of my weapon, I will demand a duel,” explained Lyria.
I felt relieved knowing that the risk to Lyria is minimal.
“Rils, observe the fight and work a strategy for Urganza. Then we return and train her. Time is of the essence since she will not be able to hold against the Storm Lord’s summons for long,” detailed Lyria.
“Also I will relieve you of The Sentinel,” said Lyria, “It is a gift I made for Celerim.”
That is a request that I had no right to deny.
Accepting her plan without further deliberation, we settled for the night.
*****
True to her words, late in the afternoon of the third day, Lyria did catch up with us. Her hair, unkempt and rugged stuck to her forehead from the heavy sweat. Thick dark circles hung distinctly below her eyes as she wiped the dust from her face.
Taltil was the first to offer Lyria refreshments while Theko gathered her dire boar mount. Seeing Lyria’s state Tharkas called for a temporary camp.
On closer examination, it was not the stress of catching up with us that was responsible for her paltry state. Lyria was not tired. She was morose.
“So how is he?” I cautiously approached the nifty subject.
“He is unharmed,” she replied. Why does she have to be so abrupt?
“And?” I prodded.
“He experienced things and experience changes people,” she said as if denoting a general remark on an apprentice’s progress report.
“I am worried about him,” I said, “and about you too.”
She turned towards me and beamed one of her cloud parting radiant smiles. If It wasn’t for the fact that I was seated on a wooden stump, I was certain my legs would have given away under her smile. She knew exactly how to divert my attention.
“He may have grown up physically but he was very much a lad. The experience was a transition point. It hardened him to the bleak reality,” She smiled again.
Stop doing it, Lyria. I cannot interrogate you when you make my heart flutter.
“What about Delyn? How did she convince him?” I asked.
“If you are worried, he will protect her like his own sister. You have my word on it. Does that ease your heart, honey?” responded Lyria.
Honey. She only calls me that during our private moments. It has been so long since she called me that. The word scrambled the inside of my head. All other thought processes went on a hiatus for an indefinite period of time.
*****
After what seemed like a week of the journey, Mikhul’s Redoubt loomed ahead. My expectation for a well-fortified military enclosure was betrayed as I laid my eyes on the vast scene sprawled before me.
Mikhul’s Redoubt was undoubtedly a Redoubt as the name implied. A huge vast crumbling tower, which only the bravest or the stupidest would seek shelter, even from a ravaging maelstrom. And the Orcs laid their multitude of camps beneath it.
Livestock and weapons were bartered on one side while bets and gambling reigned heavily on other corners of the encampment.
Seeing the variety of armours and the pocket of groups in which the Orcs mingled, it was evident that the Stone-Cleavers were not the only clan that answered the Storm Lord’s rallying cry.
Statistically, the gathered would amount to tens of thousands of orcs if not a hundred thousand and with more responding to the summons, the One-Horned Warlord has indeed managed to muster a huge force. But my immediate concern was in seeking an audience with the Storm Lord. Walking into his tent and demanding his time will not be a viable option.
I pondered on ways to gain an immediate audience with the Storm Lord. Lyria instead simply gathered us and approached the first sentry she laid her eyes on.
“The mistress of the forge requests an audience with the Storm Lord,” she requested in a commanding tone.
So Lyria does have some standing with the orcs. Where ever she hides, I reckon, her skill makes her noticeable.
At the same time, I had a new profound admiration for Lyria. I thought Lyria was meek and a simple peasant. Apparently, she could don authority like any regal born.
Soon hushed words soon spread among the crowds. A few friendly cheers and greetings were again thrown at Lyria. One burly Orc with a soot-covered leather apron dashed ahead, receiving a friendly pat on the shoulder from Lyria.
“Marm,” timidly asked the Orc in the apron, “have you come in response to the Storm Lord’s bidding?”
“Are you joining?” asked another orc.
“Will you finally wield a weapon?” asked another female orc excitedly, "break the vow?"
With no time to respond, the volley of questions directed at Lyria continued, threatening to drown her in a sea of directed queries.
Salvation appeared in the form of noise from clearing the throat and with that, the crowds parted.
The proud, straight-backed figure of Storm Lord stood distinguishingly himself from the rest of the orcs. With shoulders wide as a mountain range and without any form of visible fat, the Storm Lord cut a figure of sheer brutality defined by muscles encaged in a still ashen grey skin.
“Mistress of the forge,” he greeted Lyria, bearing a candour smile on his granite sculpted face, “have you finally considered the offer?”
“Lyllanthras will get an answer when I deem it necessary and if I deem it necessary,” replied Lyria drawing utter silence from all who heard, followed by muffled whispers.
Lyria, herself was seemingly unperturbed by the wave of hushed whispers that she caused. Instead, she struggled against a maelstrom of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Rage, regret and remorse are the prime culprits of her turmoil.
Not used to receiving an indignant answer within his own keep, the Storm Lord clenched his fist and his knuckles paled.
He shifted his challenging gaze in my direction and soon his anger evaporated without a trace.
“Have you come to speak on behalf of Urgangza?” he said as he cast his piercing gaze on Tharkas.
“Storm Lord, I come bearing a tribute,” interrupted Lyria as she presented the Warhammer.
Without casting a glance at the presented gift, the Storm Lord continued, “Honoured to receive a weapon crafted by you, Mistress of the Forge, but what is the true purpose of your visit?”
In words, that held an intelligence betraying his savage nature, he speculated, “Have you come to measure me and council Urganza? Maybe devise a way to exploit a weakness?”
“While we wait for the summons from the One-Horned Warlord, will you provide us a good sport in return?” loudly shouted the Storm Lord with contorted meaning.
I made a mental note, never to leave negotiations to Lyria.
While I assessed the sudden derailment of our meticulously crafted plan, the Storm Lord’s burning amber eyes settled on me.
“If your plan is to duel me, let me assure you, your death would be preordained before you set foot inside the arena,” I warned.
The Storm Lord gave a hearty laugh. Not the sort that a villain who cornered their prey gives but the sort a fellow who loves a heavy meal and a good drink gives.
“I am no fool to challenge the one who flayed the mind flayers,” said the Storm Lord. So behind the warlike feral exterior, hides a calculating mind.
“What about one of your companions?” asked the Storm Lord.
Tharkas simply shrugged. Taltil arched her back low, and curved her shoulders inwards. She drew an oblivious expression on her face and pretended to be a deaf and mute servant. Theko pretended not to know us. And then there was Maapu.
The wisdom of Beld, when he exiled them, rang true.
“If I win, what you give?” demanded Maapu.