Sakrattars stared out over the ramparts of Castrum Solis, his gaze scanning the endless plains beyond. After several days of uneventful travel, the companions had reached Datharia. Sakrattars recalled watching placidly as the familiar rolling hills and scattered temperate forests of Aurelia slowly shifted into something more flat and desolate. It was the furthest north he had ever been and he couldn’t exactly say he was impressed. Where Aurelia and Taracosia teemed with densely populated cities connected by a matrix of paved roads, Datharia was barren and eerily quiet, the monotone landscape broken up only by the occasional military outpost or remote farmstead.
A strong wind rushed past Sakrattars and he quickly wrapped his robes closer to stave off the early autumn chill. Without trees or buildings to block the wind’s path, it was free to tear through the plains unchallenged, biting through clothing and ripping pages from spellbooks. Sakrattars’ eyes settled on the distant mountain range, a smattering of dark gray mounds on the horizon. Their destination—the ferix fortress, Forgeheart—was said to lie at the foot of those mountains. It was going to be a long, blustery journey, one that Sakrattars was beginning to regret. He closed his eyes and, as he had done several times since meeting Jo and Kaja, dreamed of the respect and admiration he’d receive for his studies on the zmaj. It would make it all worth it.
“My men are ready,” Dimitri called, jogging up the steps to the rampart. “Let’s head out.” The companions followed him to the garrison to collect his team, then to the northern gate. It took two soldiers to operate the crank that raised the heavy iron portcullis. Sakrattars waited as the chains creaked and groaned, feeling more nervous than he had expected. Once they left Castrum Solis, they would be beyond the borders of the Aurean Empire and out of Imperial protection. They would be on their own.
As they passed through the gate, Dimitri took the time to thank the guards and wish them well. He even cracked a joke about not returning, something Sakrattars did not find humorous in the slightest, but that made the soldiers chuckle and respond with their own quips in kind.
Dimitri had put together a team of nine men for their journey into Snowskull Steppes. Three of them rode ahead to scout the roads, two lagged behind to watch the rear, and four tended to the spare horses and supply wagon. Their captain was a middle-aged man named Lucius Tullius. His head was shaved to stubble, but he sported a brown beard streaked with gray, and his gear showed wear and tear from a long career with little time spent worrying about pomp and formality. The men under his command were ordinary legionnaires, dressed in the regular Imperial uniform rather than the navy blue of the Ordo Draconis. Their standard issue shields were emblazoned with the Gold Dragon. Sakrattars wondered if the soldiers even believed in dragons.
As they plodded along, Leif spoke up. “You’ve been up here before, haven’t you?” he asked Jo. “I think I remember you saying you have.”
“Yeah,” Jo replied with a shrug. “The Empire commissioned my Oceteya to come up sometimes.”
“In what capacity?” Leif urged good-naturedly, eager for conversation. “Any battle scars with a tale? I’ve been dying to know the story behind the ones along your back—” Everyone, including Leif, immediately recognized his misstep. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” he fumbled.
The glint in Jo’s eyes disappeared and her posture relaxed. “Not much to tell,” she said, as if the transgression never happened. “We came up, we cleared out the trouble-makers, we got paid, we went home.” She turned to Dimitri with a wry smile. Though he was mounted on horseback, their eyes were level. “I remember putting down more than one ferix raiding party on Datharian ranches,” she said. “Hope they don’t remember that when you ask them to play nice with Aurea.”
Dimitri laughed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re not very invested in the outcome of this mission.”
“And why are you so invested?” Leif scoffed. “Why does a Volgarian care so much about the state of the Aurean Empire’s northern border?”
Dimitri didn’t respond right away. The wagon wheels rumbled and their horses’ hooves scraped along the dusty dirt road. “It’s not about Aurea,” he said at last, “though I do not wish to see anything bad befall the Imperial people. I suppose you could say that I sympathize with those who fight against tyranny in their homeland. It’s the reason I had to leave mine, afterall.” The contempt on Leif’s face softened, but he set his jaw and didn’t say anything more.
Kaja looked at Dimitri. “You can’t go home?” she asked sadly. Each of her four companions heard the silent “either” at the end of her question.
He wasn’t briefed on the details of Kaja’s background, but Dimitri could sense the hidden emotion behind her words. “No,” he said with a warm smile, “but don’t worry about me, young Kaja, though your kindness is sweet. I have many friends here and no regrets.”
At midday, the party stopped by a stream to water the horses and refill their skins. They ate a light lunch of salt jerky and dried plums then stretched out for a short rest.
“Where are the scouts?” One legionnaire asked nervously as he rubbed down a chestnut horse. He was young, with a short patchy beard. “I hope they didn’t run across any orcs.”
Another snorted and put more force into his whetstone. “I wouldn’t mind blooding my blade. Otherwise, this trip might get boring.”
“Better watch your blade,” warned a third as he carried in a water bucket for the horses. “Remember, we’re here to find orcs who aren’t yet with Ironfang.”
“Bah! An orc’s an orc, they’re all the same. We let them menace the northern border for centuries and now we have the likes of Ironfang to deal with. We should have just wiped them out long ago.”
The reactions of the other squad members ranged from malicious agreement to horror and disgust. The arguing grew louder and more heated as some of the soldiers advocated for founding an outpost in Snowskull to support a long campaign, regardless of the outcome of their mission at hand. Sakrattars sighed and looked up from his spellbook. He had been hoping for some peace and quiet after a long morning of riding. Nearby, Jo—who was sprawled out on the grass with her eyes closed—stirred.
“You all can’t be serious,” the young legionnaire said incredulously. “I don’t want to stay beyond the border any longer than I have to.”
“Oh ho, someone’s a scared little lamb!”
“Lay off. Leo’s just settled with his woman and doesn’t have a death wish, is all.”
“Aye! Natiuhan! You’re a warrior. Isn’t it embarrassing for a soldier to fear death?”
Jo opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on them. “It is,” she said simply. The young soldier called Leo shrank under the criticism and his fellow’s gloating. “But so is wishing for blood,” she added. “You only fight when you have to.”
“That’s a funny thing coming from someone who made a career out of fighting.”
Jo muttered something in natiuhan and sat up. She stuck a small finger in her ear and scratched lazily. “You Imperials are so quick to glorify war.” She waved a hand towards their armor, which bore an insignia representing the goddess Aegis. “Our war spirit, Haelonoch the Boar, was once noble and great, sure, but he learned to fear death. He began to lash out, striking the enemy before they could strike him. Eventually, he craved the spilling of blood. It made him feel safe, but it also made him dangerous and closed-minded and incompatible with the other spirits. His story is a warning for warriors, not an example.”
“So natiuhans don’t follow their god of war?” Leo asked.
“Some do,” Jo said. “I don’t.”
“Who do you follow then?”
“Melcuni the Leopard.”
“And who’s that?”
Jo paused, then stood and placed a hand on Leo’s shoulder. He looked small, young, and eager to please. His brown eyes searched for her approval as a senior soldier. Jo smiled playfully. “She’s the Spirit of Death.”
Leo swallowed, his face turning a little green. Jo chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder a few times. As she walked away, the legionnaires whispered to each other.
“She follows the spirit of death?”
“Who are these people?”
The chatter gradually faded as they journeyed deeper into the Steppes. A road that had begun as a rough, muddy path soon became two wet ruts, then eventually a thin, winding game trail. The temperature fell steadily, and by the second day a stinging snow flurry had begun. The soldiers wrapped their armor in spare scraps of leather or linen. Seeing Sakrattars’ perplexed look, Leif leaned over on his horse. “To stop the metal from freezing to their flesh,” he said. “Like getting your tongue stuck to a frosty icicle, eh?”
Sakrattars frowned. “Not all of us are that dim,” he grumbled. But Leif was no longer paying attention—he was peering forward into the squall, where Dimitri and Captain Tullius trotted ahead of the column. The pair stopped, the captain standing in his stirrups, as a trio of riders came over a rise down the track. It was only their own scouts returning but, judging by the concerned looks on Dimitri’s and Tullius’ faces, this was not a scheduled resupply. The captain raised a fist and the column halted behind them to wait for the report.
Dimitri didn’t keep them waiting long. Turning his horse and trotting through the soaking wet grasses, he rejoined the column. “They found something,” he said in a hushed voice when he was close enough.
Tullius made a few sharp gestures and the legionnaires separated, dividing into small groups of two or three and fanning out across the track. Falling back into his auxilia training, Amale readied his bow and turned to join a nearby group.
“Uh. . . wait!” Leif whispered loudly. “Was that ‘retreat’ or ‘charge’?”
Amale stopped and glared at him, his ears laid back.
“Oh right.” Leif flushed as his memory finally produced the proper command. “Cautious advance by teams. I knew that, heh. . .”
“Did you say you made decanus?” Sakrattars asked scathingly.
Leif held a finger to his lips. “Hey now, we need to be quiet.”
Like wolves surrounding a deer, the company advanced up the hill. Some of the legionnaires, armed with crossbows, dismounted and crawled ahead through the slush and mud to crest the rise. When they reached the summit, they froze, then slowly rose to a kneel. Amale and Dimitri, then Leif and Jo, were all similarly struck into awed stillness. Jo motioned quickly for Sakrattars to turn his horse around but it was too late.
Sakrattars, with Kaja perched behind him, trotted into line. Reacting to Jo’s gestures, he reached back to shield Kaja’s eyes but she had already seen it. Nestled against a rocky outcrop, was a smoldering village. Sputtering embers glowed defiantly in the wet flurries, sending up puffs of steamy vapor whenever the weather touched them. The blackened frames of huts poured gray smoke into the moaning winds.
Kaja took in the sight in silence. Maybe it would have been easier if she cried or screamed, or even just looked away with a shiver, but the way she stared stoically made a sour taste rise up in Sakrattars’ throat. With an assenting nod from Jo, he turned his horse to take Kaja back to the supply wagon, but her wide blue eyes remained trained on the ruins until they retreated back down the hill.
Using hand-signals, Tullius instructed the troops to investigate the village. Half remained on the periphery, eyes on the steppes around them. There was nothing to see—icy mists obscured their view beyond a few dozen yards—but they remained ready nonetheless. All had heard tales of orc raiding parties seeming to emerge from nowhere. The rest moved into the ruins. Amale felt the tension in his bow, where he held an arrow partially nocked. Soldiers picked their way through the village, turning over smoking beams with their swords, ducking their heads into half-burned huts, saying nothing aloud but occasionally communicating with glances, nods, or gestures.
Leif found himself near the center of the village, where a black pillar of roughly hewn granite had been erected as a marker in the village square, orcish runes cut into its surface. Captain Tullius and Amale soon joined him, along with a couple of the soldiers. Leif recognized the look on Amale’s face. “What is it? Did you find something?”
“No, and that’s what concerns me,” Tullius said.
“No bodies.” Amale shook his head.
Leo approached along with Jo and the rest of the soldiers. “No stores in the granary either,” he said. “Everything’s been taken.”
“A raid,” Leif said knowingly. “We saw a lot of this in Balthissica.” He gestured at the ruins around them. “A rival clan comes through, takes everything—food, weapons, women—and burns the rest.”
“In these raids, did they take the men too?” Captain Tullius asked. “Or overpower the enemy without a single drop of blood? No, these people left willingly.” He raised his voice as much as he dared. “Regroup on the south end! We’re moving out!”
Cowed into silence by the captain’s confident authority, Leif lingered for a few moments more as the soldiers shouldered their shields and headed out of the village. Before too long, he followed.
It was sundown when the scouting team reported another encounter.
“Twenty. Maybe more,” the lead scout whispered. She was on her belly, partially hidden behind a windswept hill, with Tullius, Dimitri, and Jo by her side. Darkness had fallen quickly, bringing with it hail-like snow that felt like splinters of glass against the skin. Jo tucked her woolen cloak tighter around her body and turned back to where Kaja and Sakrattars were waiting by the wagon. Normally Kaja would be quite content with this kind of weather, but she had been silent since they left the burned village. Jo reminded herself to check in on her once it was safe to do so.
Ahead of them, three campfires flickered in the darkness, struggling to stay lit in the wind and snow. Shadowy shapes mingled around the fires, passing in front of them and blocking their light for a moment, then moving on.
“Are they civilians?” Tullius asked.
“Hard to tell with orcs, sir.”
He wasn’t pleased with the scout’s flippant response, but had to admit she had a point. He turned to Dimitri and raised his eyebrows. Dimitri took the look for what it was—this was going to be his first test of diplomacy in the Steppes.
In the camp, orcs clustered miserably around the firepits. Pots had been placed amid the coals, rough gruel bubbling inside. Even calling it “gruel” would be generous—it was a simple broth made from rain water and fibrous grass. Luckily, their ancestors had weathered worse storms than this one and passed that hardiness down to their kin. They would survive.
The chieftain spooned out a double helping of the tea-like broth for a young mother holding a babe wrapped in scraps of an old Imperial uniform. When a scout sounded the alert, he looked up swiftly. Torches were advancing on them.
Shouts and war-calls erupted from the camp. Hands beat on pots, on tent posts, on anything that could make noise, rousing the refugees from their rest. The chieftain rushed into the darkness, standing between the approaching threat and the camp. A handful of warriors stood around him, holding torches of their own. They would not be caught unawares.
The two spheres of torchlight grew closer, illuminating each group to the other. The orcs looked into the wind-whipped, squinting faces of Dimitri and his Imperial escort. The chieftain noticed Jo among them and frowned, his fist tightening around the handle of his axe. Humans and elves could be dealt with if need be, but they were in no shape to go up against natiuhans.
When the two groups became uncomfortably close, the chieftain spoke up in Imperial common. “Back the way you came,” he said with a gesture.
Dimitri stepped forward. “You’re in charge here, yes?”
The chieftain looked down at him, taking in everything from his stance, to his clothing, to the small dueling sword at his waist. Dimitri could almost hear the calculations running in the orc’s head. “Yeh,” he grunted.
Dimitri couldn’t blame them for being stand-offish. He was fully aware of what his presence looked like from their perspective and, from the looks of them, they had already been through a lot. Their clothing was a patchwork of whatever they could find: scraps of hide, sections of light cloth woven from steppe grasses, even rusted patches of armor that could have been Imperial in origin—whether stolen, bought, or salvaged. Their weapons were nothing more than hatchets, cudgels, and repurposed tools. However, what struck Dimitri most was how thin they were. Drawn in by curiosity, some of the orcs had emerged from their tents, and came to peer at the interlopers from the edge of the torchlight, the green skin of their faces sallow and sunken.
“I’m Dimitri Vasiliyev. I am—”
“—don’t give a sot who you are.”
The Imperial soldiers edged closer and Dimitri took a breath at the interruption. Orcs had a reputation for being laconic and rude, but he knew it was because they didn’t trust outsiders. “I come as an envoy of the Empire,” he began again. “And you are?” The orc did not answer and his hand never left the hilt of his axe. Dimitri continued regardless. “I’m looking for those who are not beholden to Gorzog Ironfang. We want to make a deal, in exchange for asylum within the Empire’s borders.”
Gasps broke out from both sides. Whispers were exchanged between the refugees, and between the soldiers. Clearly neither side had expected such an offer. Sakrattars bit his lip and Leif and Amale looked at each other. They hadn’t heard Dimitri get approval for this.
Dimitri waited for the ruckus to die down before continuing. “We want to know how many clans Ironfang has gathered, and we would like to hire a guide to lead us to Forgeheart.”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
One of the orc warriors spat on the ground, as a new wave of scandalized whispers broke out. Dimitri had hoped that his honesty and their common enemy in Ironfang would mean more than the centuries of bad blood between the orcs and the ferix, but perhaps he was being naive. Even when facing annihilation, the ancient roots of resentment ran deep.
“That all?” the chieftain asked. “Just for that, you take us in like orphans?”
“Here’s a tip, Imperial,” one of the warriors said, taking a half-step toward Dimitri, “if you’re trying to lure fresh slaves into your kingdom, make up a better lie.” Assenting jeers and snarls rippled through the other refugees, and a few of the Imperials slowly closed their hands around their sheathed swords.
“If we wanted you as prisoners or slaves, we wouldn’t be speaking,” Dimitri said, desperate to avoid confrontation. “It’s Ironfang who wants to enslave you and force you into his army. We want to help you end his reign of tyranny.” If this thawed the orcs’ sentiment at all, it didn’t show.
Jo sighed. The negotiations were going nowhere and she had seen enough hostile looks from the orcs to think that her presence was only serving to flame the tensions. Slowly but surely, she extracted herself from the main group and joined Kaja and Sakrattars in the rear. Sakrattars was watching the unfolding discussion but Kaja was staring off into the darkness, seemingly uninterested in the conversation. Jo found that strange—Kaja was normally fascinated by new places and new people. The horses shied and nickered as Jo approached, but she gently grasped Kaja’s pony by the bridle to hold him calm. She leaned over. “What is it?” she asked softly.
Kaja didn’t answer. The shimmering tapetum in her eyes glinted in the firelight as she peered into the pitch-black flurries beyond.
“What?” Jo repeated, quieter but more insistent, reaching out to put a hand on Kaja’s shoulder.
“There’s a dog out there,” Kaja whispered, pointing.
Jo squinted. “A dog?”
From all sides at once, terrible, howling snarls shattered the tension. Large shapes burst from the darkness, crashing into the negotiating parties like a wave upon a shorebreak. Jo pulled Kaja off the pony just as it started to rear and bolt. “Stay close!” she yelled, dropping Kaja down by her side. As one of the attackers lunged at them, Jo lashed out, punching at what she hoped was a vulnerable spot. Her cestus made contact with wet, matted fur and impacted the flesh and bone beneath. The beast was hurled back with a deep, sharp yelp.
Metal glinted as the warriors fought for their lives. United in the moment, legionnaires and refugees stood back-to-back—the Imperials bashing the creatures with their shields as the orcs grabbed great fistfuls of fur to pull the stricken animals to the ground. An odd whistle of whipping ropes pierced through the noise as weighted bolas struck the defenders and, one by one, they were felled. These were no feral beasts—there were orc raiders mounted on their backs, armored in blackened metal, their faces streaked with soot so they would not glint in the darkness. One of the mounts pinned down an Imperial soldier, locking its jaws around his chest as he screamed, and Jo finally recognized what they were: wargs, great wolves the size of ponies, each one saddled in crude leather and trained for battle.
The ambush was mere seconds old and already it was turning into a rout as the feeble resistance sputtered. “Go, Kaja!” Jo cried, hurling herself at the nearest warg. She scruffed the orc riding it by the back of his armor, and threw him into the ground. Though he impacted with enough force to make a divot in the cold mud, he was back on his feet in moments. Shards of ice, razor-sharp, whizzed past Jo and peppered the risen raider. He fell back, crying out in pain. Kaja repositioned, ready to channel more of the falling snow into projectiles.
“I said run!” Jo shouted. Just then, a bola struck her in the neck, the weights bruising her as the ropes wound tight around her throat. More angry than injured, Jo clawed at the offending coils. She had snapped more than a few Imperial ropes in her time, so she was expecting to be free in an instant. These ropes, however, were designed to restrain the likes of ferix and orcs. She managed to break them, but she lost precious seconds in doing so—seconds that the raiders used to throw more ropes around her legs. Grasping the ends firmly, they bolted aboard their wargs, yanking Jo’s balance out from under her and sending her crashing into the mud.
Jo thrashed impotently, the wind knocked out of her. For every rope she snapped, another looped around her wrist, her ankle, her neck. A warg latched onto her hand, pinning her arm down as she tried in vain to break free.
Craning her neck, Jo desperately searched for Kaja, hoping that she wouldn’t find her. Her stomach lurched when she saw two raiders restraining the young zmaj, who was hissing and thrashing like a feral cat. The orcs had scars of hoarfrost on almost every exposed surface and a nearby warg frantically pawed at its face where Kaja had scratched its eye. The urge to shift rippled beneath Jo’s skin. She wanted nothing more than to feel her jaws close around the raider’s throat before she whisked Kaja off into the night. She knew it was a futile desire though. As a sabercat, she was fast, but wargs could run for hours and easily wear her down. In the end, she had to accept defeat.
Amale, Dimitri, and Leif watched helplessly from where they were seated—arms and feet bound, and covered in cuts and bruises— as the rest of the survivors were rounded up. Nearby, Sakrattars raised his hands in surrender, pleading with the raiders not to hurt him. The area was littered with prone bodies, orc refugees and Imperials alike. Some lay deathly still, snowflakes falling unnoticed on their wide-eyed faces. Most were still alive and struggled against their bindings, growling, cursing, or railing against their captors, all to no effect.
As a raider rolled Leo onto his back to tighten the rope around his ankles, the young soldier yelled and, in one last act of defiance, kicked in the raider’s face, sending him sprawling backwards into the mud. In an instant, there was a flash of steel as a second raider pressed a long, jagged dagger to his throat. Leo swallowed, and lay still.
As quickly as it had begun, the fight was over.
*
*
Kaja groaned as she was thrown into the back of the cart. Foul-smelling hay cushioned the impact, but with her limbs bound, she could do nothing to break her fall. The pain was incomparable to her fear and confusion, though. Wriggling like a caterpillar, she managed to roll into a kneeling position. The cart bed was encased by crude, rusty metal bars and hitched to a pair of large, shaggy beasts with small black eyes and rounded horns on their noses. Kaja had never seen any creatures like them, but there was no time to be curious. Other shapes moved in the darkness beyond the bars—black-armored raiders leading captured soldiers and refugees, shoving them into carts or binding them neck-to-neck in a long line with rope collars.
Kaja grunted as someone else was carelessly tossed into her. “Oof. . . sorry, miss.” It was Leo’s familiar voice.
“It’s. . . it’s okay,” Kaja said quietly, not knowing what else to do.
More people were loaded into the cage until it was so full Kaja had to sit pressed up against the bars. Frantically, she scanned the area, trying to find anyone else she knew. Sakrattars, Amale, Tullius, and Leo were on the cart with her, whereas most of the imprisoned orcs were bound neck-to-neck behind them. She couldn’t find Leif or Dimitri.
Finally, she spotted Jo all of the way in the rear. Her muscular arms were bound behind her back so tightly it looked like they’d been pulled from their sockets. The orcs knew natihuans well and took no chances. As they made eye contact, Jo gave Kaja a meaningful look before she was dragged forward by a warg rider. For now, that was all they could have.
The cart creaked and rattled as the beasts bellowed and snorted, straining on their harnesses to pull their overloaded burden. Warg riders flanked the convoy, darting in to goad captives who were not walking fast enough.
Kaja didn’t know how much time had passed, but her aching bones and numb spots suggested it had been most of the night. She wiggled and shifted in a desperate bid to find some semblance of relief, and as she did, she noticed something—rather, someone—she hadn’t before. One of the prisoners in the cage had not been with their group and was not one of the refugees either. She sat with her head bowed, her wrists bound in her lap, her tangled black hair hanging around her face like a curtain. Perhaps sensing she was being watched, she raised her head.
Kaja’s eyes went wide as recognition came to her. A voice echoed in her memory.
My, if looks could kill. . .
It was the orc woman who had freed Osric from the bandits in Barsicum, the same one Kaja had seen outside Castrum Ustarius just before they encountered Lucretia and Bhorovane. The orc gave her a knowing look accompanied by a wan smile. “The gods sure have a sick sense of humor, neh?” she said in a weak rasp.
A massive fortress emerged out of the early morning fog, pulling Kaja’s attention away. It wasn’t made with cut stones like the Imperial constructions that Kaja had grown used to, but instead it was dug out of the ground itself. Dirt from an encircling trench had been piled high into earthen walls and reinforced with sharpened stakes and rocks. Within, a forest of tents in a panoply of different patterns and colors surrounded a large holdfast of rock and wood connected to a compound of fortified buildings.
As they approached, warg riders clambered over the embankments and cantered toward them. The riders were cloaked, their faces concealed by simple metal masks. Kaja’s heart leapt to her throat as she peered through the bars. The convoy stopped and the raiders casually greeted the masked riders in orcish. There was no shadowy miasma surrounding the riders, no malice dripping off their bodies like toxic slime. Their masks were made to mimic the Fallen, but they did not seem to be Fallen themselves. Kaja felt sick to her stomach. Who would want to be like them?
Something the raiders said to the masked riders seemed to get their attention. They glanced her way, still talking in curt, surprised tones. Kaja’s eyes widened and she instinctively dipped her head down to conceal her face. Did they know who she was? Maybe they weren’t Fallen, but they had to be working with the Irkallu, right? She glanced back at Jo, who looked exhausted from having been marched all night through the icy cold. Sakrattars was either asleep or unconscious, she wasn’t sure which.
Her brain was still desperately trying to come up with a plan as one of the masked orcs opened the cage door with a shriek of rusted metal. “You’re coming with me. The Warmaster will wanna see you,” he said, reaching into the cage. . .
. . . and dragging the orc bandit out onto the ground. Kaja was still staring after them in disbelief as the cage door slammed shut, and the convoy started marching again, heading for the fortified compound within.
*
*
Aroga spared one last glance at the white-haired girl as she was half-marched, half-dragged over to the wargs. With a grunt of protest, she was flung over the flanks of one of the stinking beasts like a sack of feed. The masked rider wheeled it around and trotted back into the camp. The army was starting to wake up for the day, and everywhere someone was lighting cooking fires, polishing weapons, or setting up sparring matches.
By the time the rider stopped, Aroga felt like her ribs were going to break. “Ugh, your beast’s got such a thin, bony ass. You should really feed it some more children, neh?”
Swinging a leg off the warg, the masked orc dragged his prisoner from his mount. “You’re funny,” he growled, deftly cutting her bindings before shoving her through the flaps of a large, impressive tent.
Aroga came to a rest in a kneel, her knees pressing into a carpet of soft, comfortable furs. Ahead of her, seated on a throne of wood, hide, and metal scrap, was the warlord Ironfang himself. His head resting on a hand, he regarded her with smug amusement. “Aroga. How nice of you to come all this way to see me.”
Aroga managed a snort of derision. “I wouldn’t cross a damned street to see you,” she said disdainfully.
Gorzog Ironfang lived up to his reputation. A full head taller than any natiuhan and as powerfully muscled, he towered over every other orc in the Snowskull Steppes. His tusks had grown so large, they were scrimshawed with designs depicting his many victories over his enemies. One of these tusks was wreathed in multiple bands of forged iron. On either side of the throne were guards, more for the show of power and control than for protection—Ironfang was more than capable of handling any threat that might cross him. The guards, arms folded over powerful chests, glared down at Aroga with the same expression one might give a pesky fly.
But it was the priestess that drew Aroga’s attention most of all. Cloaked in rich robes of black and white, she stood with poise and confidence, holding a staff carved from polished coal. She looked down at Aroga, her face betraying nothing.
Aroga rose to her feet, trying not to shake from the cold, the pain, and the exhaustion. “I’m here for Gorza.” She locked eyes with the priestess. “Free her, we’ll leave, and you’ll never hear from either of us again.” Ironfang leaned forward, his lips curling around his tusks.
Gorza rolled her eyes, scoffing. “By the gods, Aroga,” she said. “If nothing else, you are persistent. Don’t you even know what’s happening here? What we’re about to accomplish?”
“I don’t give a dire rat’s fart what you think you’re accomplishing,” Aroga said. “Those people are dangerous, I know you see that.” She glared at Ironfang. “And I gotta say, I’m not surprised you fell in with this lot. Scum clumps together, neh?” Ironfang chuckled, shaking his head at her brazenness. If anyone else dared to speak to him that way, their head would have been on a pike by now.
Gorza wrinkled her nose. “And you’re any better, working with Benjamin Saana and his bandits? Or do you forget who employs them?”
“How could I?”
“So why let yourself fall in with so-called ‘scum’?”
“To get to you, you idiot!”
“I’m not the idiot who got herself captured!”
“Oh my ass!”
“Daughters,” Ironfang said, his voice deep, commanding, confident. The word turned Aroga’s stomach. She tensed her muscles to prevent her body from revealing her feelings. Gorza, on the other hand, smiled. “Stop this arguing,” Ironfang ordered. “It gladdens me that you’ll both be here to witness my final victory in the Steppes. It’s time I set my sights on crushing Forgeheart once and for all.” He stood, gesturing to the furs lining the ground. One area was left conspicuously uncovered. “I will add Vyrkad Gleamgear’s pelt to my collection and then I will turn my sights beyond the mountains.”
“Very good, Father,” Gorza said, sweet and obedient.
Ironfang turned to a subordinate. “Put a spit on the fire. A whole goat.” As the orc scuttled away to prepare the meal, Ironfang tossed Gorza an earthen jug. She uncorked it and a strong, putrid odor filled the room. Aroga could feel her eyes watering. “From the former Warmaster’s personal store,” Ironfang said with a wicked grin. “Break fast with me and we’ll talk.”
But before they could get settled, someone else rushed into the tent. He whispered a few words to Ironfang. “Later,” Ironfang said to his daughters, “we’ll eat later.” Then he rose and followed the others out into the camp.
The sisters spent a few tense moments in silence, listening to the rowdy laughter of soldiers outside the tent. Gorza finally stood.
“I’ll see to the goat,” she said. It was a flimsy excuse.
“Gorza.” Aroga reached out and grabbed her sister’s arm. “It’s not too late.”
Gorza looked down in disgust. “What are you saying?”
Aroga tightened her grip. “Let’s leave. Tonight. We know these plains, these hills. We can go where Ironfang will never be able to find us.”
“And leave him during his moment of glory? I think not.”
“He’s a monster.”
“He’s our father.” Gorza pulled away from Aroga’s grasp, the medallions on her habit chiming softly.
“He sired us but no more,” Aroga said, her frustration and fear reaching her voice. “It was Mother who raised us, cared for us. She did everything in her power to get us away from that bastard and you dishonor her memory by crawling back to his side.”
Gorza’s eyes flashed dangerously, her face twisting into a sneer. Aroga could scarcely believe that the stranger in front of her was her beloved sister. “Mother was stupid, shortsighted,” Gorza spat venomously. “She could have been by his side, enjoying the glory of his victories. Instead she chose the life of a coward. I won’t make the same mistake.”
Now Aroga was beginning to get truly angry. “Yeah? Is that what this is to you?” she laughed, harsh and wheezing. “So, tell me, is there any price you won’t pay for a taste of someone else’s glory?” Gorza looked like she wanted to strike Aroga and Aroga would almost welcome it. They could fight like they did when they were children, knocking each other into the grass and kicking up clouds of dust and insects. Aroga was bigger, stronger, and perhaps what her sister needed was a sound thrashing in order to come to her senses.
“This is bigger than Father and bigger than me,” Gorza said. “I won’t let you keep dragging the mission down. You can either stand with us or I’ll be forced to tell Lord Alistair what you’ve done.”
Aroga was stunned. She and her sister had always been one, sharing everything ever since they had shared the womb. But this vision—this nightmare—was something they couldn’t share. She thought that Alistair was threatening Gorza, or maybe that awful witch, Hester, had enchanted her. But now Aroga was beginning to see the truth. Gorza didn’t suddenly care about Ironfang’s petty ambitions; he was just a means to an end in serving the Irkallu’s higher purpose. She believed in it.
Before Aroga could respond, another messenger pulled back the tent flap. “Priestess,” he greeted reverently. “The prisoners. There’s something you should see.”
Gorza looked at Aroga once more, before nodding at the messenger. “Lead on,” she said. Aroga reluctantly followed her sister out of the tent.
*
*
Sakrattars watched every movement from behind the bars of their prison. Ironfang’s forces had stripped them of all their weapons and packs and thrown them into proper cages. Jo, who had been marked as the most dangerous out of them, was chained wrist, neck, and ankle to a sturdy post outside. She was slumped over, exhausted and in pain from the recent beating they had given her. Sakrattars looked to Amale, who was shivering quietly, and then at Kaja, curled up and frightened. They shared their cell with Captain Tullius and the handful of surviving Imperial soldiers, and a pair of ferix prisoners of war. Leif and Dimitri were stowed in another cage nearby, alongside several more ferix and some of the orc refugees.
The ferix were much larger than Sakrattars had expected—if they straightened out their slumped posture they would rival natiuhans in height. The catfolk were burly and intimidating, with saber teeth and massive paws, and lightly-armored bodies covered in fluffy fur that blocked the biting cold. Their forearms and back had hard, scaly plates that overlapped like roof tiles, reminding Sakrattars of a shrimp in shell. He had been nervous about sharing a prison cell with the ferix, but so far they seemed wholly uninterested in their new roommates, for better or for worse.
Sakrattars tracked the guard as he went about his business. Fortunately, the orcs of the Steppes did not have a history of being magically-inclined and had allowed Sakrattars to keep his spell components simply because they hadn’t realized his pockets full of stones, dried herbs, and sand were threatening. Sakrattars only had to wait for the right opportunity and he might be able to free them.
His ears perked to the sound of footsteps and the harsh dialect of orcish. From around the corner appeared a priestess, a bandit, and an escort of guards. Sakrattars immediately recognized them as the orc sisters from outside Castrum Ustarius. So Grandmistress Anya and Dimitri were correct to believe that the Irkallu were operating in the Steppes. His eyes darted to his companions, but no one else seemed to realize it.
The priestess gazed into their cage, her yellow eyes studying Kaja, then drew back and issued a sharp command to the guards. Sakrattars stiffened, a lead weight dropped into his gut. He knew just enough of the language to understand that she knew who Kaja was. The guards approached, pulling out the key to unlock their cage. All the prisoners were on alert now, curious as to what was happening. Sakrattars’ hand went instinctively to his pocket. If he cast a spell now, he’d have to be certain that the people in their cell could take out the eight enemies present. Judging by their sorry state, he doubted that was possible, but he also didn’t know if they’d be able to find Kaja again if they took her to another location.
The bandit and four of the guards entered the cage. Amale’s ears flattened back and he growled, a deep rumbling noise that Sakrattars was surprised to hear come from the quiet lycaeon. Captain Tullius clenched a fist. The pair of ferix in the corner watched carefully. Then someone, Sakrattars couldn’t tell who, made a sudden movement and everything happened all at once.
Two of the guards trained their spears on Tullius and his men while another tackled Amale, quickly overpowering him and pinning him to the floor. The bandit grabbed Sakrattars’ arm, twisting it behind his back. The spell components dropped uselessly from his hand. “Don’t do it,” she murmured into his ear. The words sounded less like a threat, which was what Sakrattars was expecting, and more like advice, which he was not.
Jo strained against her chains, shouting curses, as the fourth guard approached his target. Kaja shied away from him until she hit the back of the cage. Amale writhed and snarled and snapped his jaws from beneath the firm grasp of the soldier on top of him.
“Hey!” Leif yelled from the other cage. “Leave her alone! Fight me you limp-backed squids! Don’t you touch her!” His efforts earned a sharp strike across the metal bars.
A surge of arcane energy crackled through the air and the guard hesitated for a moment, perhaps reading the danger in Kaja’s body language. Sakrattars’ breathing quickened as his mind frantically considered every grim possibility. Kaja was powerful, that wasn’t in question, but she wouldn’t be able to fight all of them alone and no one else was in the position to back her up. He wished he had cast his spell without hesitation, or that he tried to get them out sooner even if the risk was high.
“Don’t do it,” the bandit whispered again, scattering his anxious thoughts.
Then, for reasons he didn’t fully understand, Sakrattars locked eyes with Kaja and subtly shook his head “no”. The magic dissipated and the guard yanked Kaja to her feet, leading her out the door. Jo was apoplectic, digging deep trenches into the soil with her feet and thrashing against her restraints until they cut into her skin. The other guards were beating her with clubs but she barely seemed to notice them.
The priestess watched in satisfaction as the soldier led Kaja away. Before she turned to follow, she snapped an acidic reprimand at the guards. Sakrattars didn’t catch all of what she said but he did clock the borrowed word “wizard” from Imperial common and his heart skipped a beat. After a brief scuffle, the bandit stripped him of his robes and then relocked the cage. Sakrattars shivered in his linen underrobe, as cold as he was humiliated, and feeling rather hopeless without his chance at escape.
Ushered forward by the team of guards, Kaja took a last fleeting glance back at the companions, then vanished around the corner to face the unknown.