Tarn’s lungs let him know the exact moment he had left the confines of the Axe Dungeon. Even as the rest of his senses were coming to grips with the new world he was entering, the acrid thickness of the air bit at his insides.
“Ach!” Lash cried out from next to him, spitting onto the ground. “Air so bad! Look clean, but taste like mud!”
Tarn blinked against the tears that were forming in his irritated eyes, trying to get a sense of their surroundings. All his life he had been told about the deep, dark jungles of Ak-Thanon, but what lay before him seemed different than the stories.
A few hundred feet past the edge of the axe’s impact crater, thick green trees and vines were everywhere. The jungle was a wall surrounding them in every direction with emerald vegetation, but there was also a lush abundance of other colors. Large red and blue flowers dotted the thick brush around them, while brilliant white birds called to each other from treetop perches. The ground was covered in tall, lush golden grasses that ebbed and flowed with the wind like a sea.
If not for the pungent attack of the air, Ak-Thanon would be beautiful in a way Tarn had never really seen before. The clean spires of the Realm’s capital city had their majesty, and the impressive farms of the south celebrated the human ability to reshape the wild coastal prairies to their own ends.
But here, green life was untamed and everywhere. The orcs either lived alongside nature, or it simply considered them beneath its notice.
“Cover your mouth, human!” Durmin called to them, as the others began exiting the portal. “You are reacting to the effects of the Dark Tears – the ants. Without the culling, they are running rampant this season!”
Ants? Tarn looked down at his feet but saw no sign of insects. The ground itself was little but blasted dirt for several hundred feet away from the axe. No signs of life at all.
“Life in Ak-Thanon comes and goes with the swarm.” Durmin gestured above them. “But even they avoid the axe. We need to make haste, before a Progenitor or their thralls come by. Hurry, with hope, you may get used to the air in time!”
Tarn turned to look back up at the massive structure they had just departed.
The Axe Dungeon rose hundreds of feet into the sky directly above them, blocking the sun with its handle angled upwards as if the thin clouds themselves had placed it there. He was reminded of the maps he and Isca had seen and nodded to the sentient building as he stifled another cough. He and the Sword Dungeon had reached an understanding, but toward the axe, he felt nothing but animosity.
I’ll be back. It was a promise to Isca and a vow to himself. We’re not done with you yet.
The rest of the team had exited now, and most were attempting to cover their mouths and noses with whatever they had available. Lash had gone deep into Bog’s cloak and was now comically peeking out from below the collar.
All but Isca had their heads down, struggling to get their nausea and coughing under control. Durmin left Tarn’s side, heading to tend to a coughing Aryo.
“This air doesn’t bother you?” Tarn rasped to Isca as she ran over, using her wings to speed her approach. His throat felt like it was made of sand. “Is your world like this?”
“No, not like this.” Her antennas crossed at the suggestion. “But we have pollen storms every spring, and sand devils the year round. I guess I’m more used to things like this.”
Tarn looked back at Durmin. Having given Aryo a flask of water from his belt, the orc now had his back to them and was sprinting away toward the edge of the jungle. All around them, the sounds of the vast forest were blending into a cacophony. Safety or an enemy could be less than a mile away and they’d never know it.
Their mysterious guide rushed away, muttering about songs and ants. And where were the Progenitors? There was too much in the dark here, and he didn’t like the idea of relying on someone else for information again.
Fortunately, he had a trusted option available.
“Since this air isn’t affecting you.” He stopped, allowing another cough to escape. “Do you think you can … get above these clouds and carefully take a look around? See what we’re getting into?”
It meant she’d be above the canopy, and possibly exposed to whatever else might be in the area. But they needed to depend on more than just Narsol’s strange and hurried brother for information.
“Solid idea!” Isca grinned and increased the speed of her wings. “Don’t give me that look, of course, I’ll be careful.”
Winking and then pulling her goggles over her eyes, she shot directly up into the mists above them and was gone.
The others caught up, moving faster now. Urthin appeared mostly composed, his bloodshot eyes the only sign he was struggling. In stark contrast, Jental and Aryo moved forward as a unit, leaning on each other for support.
Letting out another cough, Tarn turned away from the dungeon. The orc was already moving to guide them to a small path deeper into the crater. As his mind began to move away from the final battles inside the axe and the environmental assault of Ak-Thanon, new questions emerged.
Who was this orc?
“You were waiting for us?” Tarn caught up to Durmin, matching his pace. “You said Narsol-“
“My brother had us waiting at the entrance. Me and a few of the others, we’re all that’s left of the resistance. We’ve been taking six-hour shifts outside the dungeon all week. I got the lucky draw. I never thought anyone would actually come, but it beats being out here dodging thralls while looking for food. Who would have guessed Narsol would actually pull his plan off?”
His brother was dead, and he didn’t even look for him. Despite all that was happening, and the confusion he felt, his thoughts still paused at the loss. He himself had been in this moment, just a few months prior. But at least he had been there.
“Durmin, about your brother. Narsol was-“
“Yes.” Durmin nodded, smiling wistfully. “My unorthodox elder brother, always with his thoughts and plans off somewhere. Trying to save us all-“
“He’s… dead. I’m sorry, I-“
Durmin put his hands up, silencing Tarn.
“Please stop. I don’t want to know how he died. You wouldn’t understand, you’re a human. We will celebrate Narsol’s life here, not his death. How any of us dies is a secret, kept as guarded as we can. If we know, we never share. If we don’t know, we never ask.”
“That … is a noble tradition.” Bog had caught up with them. As she spoke, there was a catch in her throat. Durmin looked up at her, eyes narrowing.
“You look familiar,” he said to her. He looked off in the distance, eyes narrowing at a strange metal spire a few miles to the west, its tip poking above the tree line. “But the tower’s song continues to whisper at my mind, and keeping it at bay makes things confusing. Come on, we need to get below ground before I hear it for too long.”
There was a buzzing whine of insectile wings as Isca descended directly in front of them. Her face wore none of the mirth she had shown just moments ago.
“Patrol coming!” She pointed off to the east, into the jungle. “A large Progenitor and what looked like several orcs. I also saw a large tower and-“
“You!” Durmin pointed a shaking finger at Isca. “I saw you earlier… but I thought the song might be playing with my mind. You look like their winged thralls, the ones they landed with.”
“Isca’s one of us.” Tarn stepped in front of the Kithikin. “She can be trusted and-“
To Tarn’s surprise, she pushed him aside and approached Durmin. The orc was caught off guard and stepped back.
“You’ve seen my people? Here in this world? Where were they – tell me!”
“If they are your people, they are thralls now. Just like mine are. The song is in their head, they hear only the thoughts of the Progenitors. If a patrol is coming, we must hurry to the shelter!”
Durmin turned away from Isca and forward through the jungle and underbrush. Wordlessly, Tarn and the rest of the team quickly followed, trying to match the rushing orc’s speed and route. Though he could discern no pattern, Durmin seemed to know exactly which branch he wanted to move, which leaf he decided to step upon. It was hurried, but it was very deliberate.
As they ran deeper and deeper into the darkening undergrowth, Tarn slowly became aware that they were descending in altitude. Despite appearing like a vast and level plain of overgrowth when they exited the dungeon, the jungles of Ak-Thanon had deep grooves and canyons within them.
The humidity in the air increased, but it became easier to breathe as they descended due to the reduced pollen and other irritants. Tarn could hear the trickling of water up ahead, a steady babble that ran above the hum of insects and chattering bird calls. The light grew dimmer as less sun could reach them through the canopy, though the heat only lessened slightly.
Finally they seemed to reach the location Durmin had been pushing them toward. A stream wound its way through a canyon it must have carved out over centuries, barely more than a rivulet. Tarn spotted a few frogs hopping out of the orc’s way as he paused next to a moss-covered tree stump.
Silently, Durmin put one hand up, and Tarn instinctively halted. Behind him, he heard the others slow and then stop their progress. Thankfully even Lash stayed quiet, and the jungle was only filled with the cacophony of bird calls, insect screeches, and the massive leaves shaking in the light wind.
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The orc put one hand to his mouth and let out a small whistle. Tarn found it almost indistinguishable from the chorus of birdsong all around them, but like the others, he waited to see who would respond to the obvious signal.
There was a pause, and then a dim light began to leak out of the top of the tree stump as a small trap door opened at the top. The illumination was incredibly faint, and Tarn was sure if his eyes had not already adjusted to the dark shadows of the jungle, he never would have seen it. Which he was sure was the idea.
Durmin gestured enthusiastically with his hands, and Tarn shot forward. He cleared the stream in a single leap, feeling proud of how quietly he landed. There was a ladder visible at the top of the hole cut in the stump, but no other clue of what waited within.
It was this or nothing though. Gambling that the orcs hated the Progenitors more than they hated him, Tarn quickly hopped on the ladder and descended into the depths, having no idea what he’d find within.
“This is not the … resistance base I was hoping for,” Urthin whispered to Tarn.
Tarn had to agree. After descending a short distance down the ladder, they had been met not by a solider or a strategist but a young and surly orc girl named Ornla, barely a teenager by Tarn’s estimate. She took one look at his human features and then shook her head, as if a bad prophecy had finally come true.
Ornla had led them down a thin, narrow hallway carved out of the dirt, which opened up into a similar narrow cave passage. The walls were damp with moisture, and a small stream ran at their feet. The ceiling height was variable, and at times they had to crawl in order to fit through some of the tighter sections. Past the hallway, they had found themselves in a chamber large enough for them all to sit around a small cooking pot. Several other narrow passages led off in shadowed directions.
“Safe place,” Lash said, eyes widening in the dim light. “Place to hide. Safe but boring.”
“We cannot hide here anymore,” Durmin grunted. “The Axe Dungeon opening will have been sensed by the Progenitors. By tomorrow they will send more patrols to secure the tower. We waited for you, now you must do what Narsol brought you here for.”
Tarn winced at the mention of Narsol. He’d have to tell these people eventually.
“Durmin,” Tarn struggled to keep up with the racing orc. “We are here to help, but have a lot of questions, and we need rest. We’ve been through a lot.”
“Very well.” Grunting frustration, he pulled a small crate over and sat upon it. “Ask your questions and then rest. But we must strike soon.”
“Thank you.” Leaning against the wall and slumping to the ground, Tarn felt the ache in his legs subside slightly. He ran his hands down his aching legs, and felt the small crystal tube compressed in his pockets. Pulling it out, he held it in the air for Durmin to see.
“What’s this thing?” His fingers ran lightly across the button on its surface. “It looked important, so I grabbed it.”
At the sight of the device, Durmin dropped his head into his hands, sighing.
“Ah, my mind. Am I so addled already?” He looked up, seeing the confusion in Tarn’s and the others’ eyes. “It simply controls the door to the dungeon. I was in such a hurry to get you back here. I should have told you to close it and force the Progenitors to earn their next departure.”
“A key!” Lash’s eyes lit up, scampering over to stare at the small crystal in Tarn’s hands.
“Of a sort,” Durmin said. “It may be used twice. Whatever happens here, it could be your path back into the dungeon, and home if you desire it.”
“We will need to go back into the axe,” Tarn said, eyeing Isca as he put the crystal back in his pocket. “But not to go home. Not yet anyway.”
“That is your choice.” Durmin leaned back, letting out another tired sigh. Tarn was struck by the sheer exhaustion he displayed. “What other questions do you have?”
“Okay what about the air here. You said it has something to do with… ants?”
“You do not know of the ants?” Ornla spat the question. “Of course not. The sun laughs to think a human would know of this.”
“Do not speak of the sun, girl,” Durmin admonished. “I beg you Ornla. To talk of such things is to invite in the song. You know this. Go and prepare the packs, and fetch what water we can spare.”
Ornla nodded with a heavy sigh, then headed back into the dirt tunnels of the enclosure.
“The ants come through the gateway every summer, and cut a swath across the jungles and fields, consuming all crops in their path. As they do so, they release a caustic scent into the air. Every year the ants chase us down to the south, until the approach of winter finally calls them home.”
“But why was she angry?” Aryo paced back and forth in the rear of the space, while Lash watched him closely. “Why would she be mad that we wouldn’t know about these ants? How could we?”
Tarn thought back to the first vision the Sword Dungeon had ever shown him. A moment in its history when one man had plucked it and its siblings from their simple lives, sharing crimson sands with a small collection of insects.
“Because… because humans did this to them,” Tarn recalled, searching his memories. “Or at least, Arch Mage Lurim did. He went through a portal in the memories the Sword Dungeon showed me, a gateway to another world. In that world, he warped and changed the creatures there to create the dungeons. When Lurim was done, I guess he … left the door open.”
“Exactly,” Durmin said. “A thousand years ago. That year the ants chased us down the coast, nearly starving us out in the process. Our chieftain at the time declared war on your kind in retaliation, beginning the first Blood Summer. So it has been for generations untold.”
Ornla returned, the look on her face just as dark and angry as before. She carried a tray of small clay cups, each filled with warm, tepid water. She handed a cup to Durmin, then left the rest in reach of the group. In moments, she had retreated back into the shadows, her back a roadmap of notched muscles and tension.
Tarn took one of the small cups, draining its contents to ease the damage the acrid air had done to his throat. Room temperature and filled with grit, it offered a slight relief at best.
“We never knew any of this.” He turned back to Durmin. “No one ever knew why the Blood Summers started. Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
“We do not speak of it to outsiders, least of all to enemies! Our chieftains did not want our enemy to know how badly we had been hurt, how weak we had become. Over time, this way became the way we lived. The ants, the culling, the Blood Summers. All of it. To question it now would be like questioning the ground underneath our feet. And it is dangerous to speak of.”
“This song you spoke of.” Isca leaned in closer. “What is it? Why don’t we hear it?”
“She should.” Durmin nodded at a surprised Bog. “But it sings words in our minds, words only orcs would know. Ballads of great battles, odes to legendary heroes, laments of crushing defeats. And a message hidden inside them all, like smoke in the wind.”
He narrowed his eyes, his hands balling into fists.
“Obedience. To the Progenitors. It is how we become their thralls, tools for their hands to grasp. Their lies come wrapped in the cloth of our legends, our culture.”
“My father…” Isca took a step back, no doubt imagining how this had been done to her own world. She stumbled into Tarn’s arms, and allowed him to help her to a seat.
“Intriguing.” A ghost of passion had crept into Urthin’s voice. “We have seen the dungeons have the ability to communicate with us mentally. Placing statistics and information in our minds. Having studied them for years, millennia even, the Progenitors may have mastered this skill as well.”
“Mind control?” Tarn looked back at Urthin with skepticism. “Not even Lurim achieved that.”
“And yet, these creatures have. And they are achieving it with history! By using the shared memories, legends, and touchstones that every member of a culture has taught to them through the generations.”
“I see,” Urthin said. “That is why it doesn’t affect Bog. She has no knowledge of this culture. This ‘song’ has no meaning for her. Narsol and his family, as outsiders cast out from their peers, have a similar resistance.”
“Not similar.” Durmin shook his head. “We may resist, but it is not enough. It grows louder every day. More insistent. In time, it will wear us down.”
“I am sorry,” Isca said. “What you’ve told me is upsetting, and now my fears grow that my own world is lost. Yet if we’re to fix this, we have pressing issues to focus on. When I was scouting, the Progenitor I saw was wearing some sort of suit. Do you know why?”
“The air again.” A thin, bitter smile crept across Durmin’s face. “The gas produced by the ants’ deforestation burns them far worse than it seems to affect most of you. They cannot breathe it, or even be exposed to it.”
“A vulnerability!” Bog slammed one fist into her hand. “One we can use, maybe?”
“No, that is why they have the song. You’d never get close enough to a Progenitor to threaten it. Each of them is surrounded by orcs who now see them as gods. They are willing to die to protect the very people who are destroying them. It is sickening.”
The Progenitors have pushed themselves to all of this, but for what? As Tarn looked around the cavern of wounded and exhausted men and women, a few orcs, humans, and a goblin, the insanity of what it was all for seemed to laugh at him from the shadows.
Ak-Thanon’s environment was hostile to the Progenitors, as was the Axe Dungeon they were using for transit. Even if they wanted the Realm, they couldn’t possibly settle here in Ak Thanon. With the orc’s help, they’d eventually win a war with the Realm across the ocean, but it would be long and costly.
But for what? Simple conquest? He guessed the Progenitors already controlled what seemed like dozens of worlds, maybe hundreds. Yet they pursued the Realm with singular, almost religious abandon.
The song made the orcs see the Progenitors as gods, but who were the gods of the Progenitors? What song did they hear?
Tarn stood upright suddenly, drawing the attention of every eye in the room.
“If we can’t beat the Progenitors outright,” he looked back at Durmin. “Then we remove the song. We do that, and we’ve removed the control, right? The Progenitors need the orcs to do their dirty work and protect them. Without you, they’re just a few big bugs who can’t breathe the air.”
Durmin let out a sigh that echoed throughout the cavern.
“We have thought of this, human. We have sent four teams to their accursed tower, in the vain hope they could resist its call long enough to find a way in and disable it. Our youngest, our best, and most capable. None have returned, and I am sure all are now dead or thralls themselves.”
“But now you have us.” Tarn held his hands wide. He could feel the warmth of confidence returning to his heart. “None of us are affected by the song, not even Bog. If you guide us to this tower, we’ll get in and take out whatever is making the song. Then together finally send the Progenitors back where they belong.”
“Yes!” Bog joined Tarn in standing. “Yes – Durmin we can do this. I see your doubt, but you do not know who we are. Tarn can get us there. We can save everyone still. Just lead us in, show us the best route to get there.”
“They speak the truth.” Urthin steepled his fingers as he looked at the orc. “We have accomplished much that was considered impossible. Witness our presence in these very lands.”
Durmin took a deep breath, looking around the room. At that moment, Tarn felt he could see every hard day the orc had suffered in his tired eyes, every loss and death his mind and heart had been forced to endure.
“No.”
“No?” Bog looked back at Durmin incredulously. “What do you mean, no? This is your last chance! How can you-“
“Because this is indeed our last chance!” Durmin stepped closer to Bog, glaring as he stared up at her. “Just as you say. As far as I know, the few we have left here in these tunnels are all that remains of our people. A few dozen, all outsiders. Mostly children. We know less of orc history, thus the song takes longer. We should be running, trying to preserve what we have left! Not throw it all away on some last insane gamble of my brother’s!”
The same fiery passion for his people that Tarn had seen in Narsol’s eyes burned in Durmin’s as well. Apparently, they had different views on how to best save their culture and history, but still had the same objective.
“I get it, Durmin.” Tarn leaned forward. “Really, I do. I give you my word. We can do this. All through the journey Narsol kept telling me he would do anything to save his people. Even run to his enemy and ask them for help. So tell me, would you brother want you to run? If you run, are you still orcs?”
“Do not pretend to know us!” Durmin threw his cup cross the room, where the clay shattered against the wall. “Of course, it pains me to run. But I have nothing left to fight with, and I cannot gamble what little future we have left… on the word of a human.”
Tarn’s heart fell as he saw no hint of a give in Durmin’s glassy stare. Without a guide, they’d have to wander the jungle looking for a route to the tower, eating up time he was pretty sure they didn’t have. He was about to turn to Urthin and discuss alternate plans, when Bog suddenly ripped the cloak from her body.
Durmin gasped as the tattered garment fell to the floor. His eyes widened with recognition. Bog stepped forward, placing one powerful hand on Durmin’s shoulder.
“A human isn’t asking you to trust them.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “An orc is. The Kai-Vai Ryiah is.”
She stepped closer as his eyes narrowed in recognition.
“Help me, Durmin.” She knelt down, taking his hand into hers. “Help us end this. For orcs, humans, everyone they have hurt. Bring meaning to your brother’s death. To all the death.”
Durmin looked back at her, his jaw clenching for a moment. His gaze went to the darkened passage where Ornla had disappeared. Beyond there, Tarn knew, lay all the orcs he had vowed to protect. He then turned back to Bog and smiled.
“We leave at sunrise.”