Arc V- Chapter 11: Stone and Shadow

The decision had barely settled across the Rootweb when the next storm arrived.

A goblin scout stumbled into the council chamber, breath ragged, armor scraped from hard travel. He nearly collapsed at the threshold before forcing himself forward and dropping to one knee before Vris.

“Fanglord,” he rasped, voice tight with urgency, “the Trollking… he has come.”

The chamber stilled.

Vris’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Speak.”

“Harrowhall is under siege,” the scout said. “Troll forces from the Eastern Crawl. More than we’ve ever seen. They surround the outer holdings.”

A flicker of tension passed through the gathered Ethrani, but the scout pressed on.

“Maz and Maggra hold the city. The walls stand. Hammergate still holds. No breaches yet.”

That mattered.

That meant there was still time.

Vris exhaled slowly through his nose, his mind already racing ahead of the moment. Maz was holding. Maggra was holding. The Red Maw still had its teeth.

But not for long.

Trolls did not stop. They ground down stone through sheer persistence.

He turned sharply toward the assembled elders.

“Then we don’t waste another breath.”

The authority in his voice carried differently now. He was no longer merely a guest beneath the Rootweb, nor an outsider begging for aid. He spoke as the warlord the Ethrani had chosen to stand beside—and as a commander who knew there was no time left for ceremony.

“I want your work begun immediately,” he continued. “Living stone. Weapons. Armor. For my officers. My champions.”

His crimson eyes flicked briefly toward Shirae, then toward Hadrik and Dunzok.

“Not crude shaping. I want them grown. Bound to those who wear them.”

The Ethrani exchanged glances.

It was no small request. Living stone was not iron hammered upon an anvil. It had to be coaxed, awakened, shaped around the nature of whoever would carry it.

The work would take time.

Time Harrowhall might not have.

But after everything the Ethrani had seen from the Fanglord—from the Hollowborn, from the Deep, from the impossible bargain he had carried back into their halls—they did not refuse.

“It will be done,” one of the elders said.

Even as the words were spoken, Ethrani artisans were already moving. Their hands brushed against the cavern walls as living stone stirred in response, veins of quartz pulsing beneath the surface like waking blood.

A faint scrape of chitin against stone drew Vris’s attention toward the rear passage.

The two Hollowborn stood there.

Black.

Silent.

Waiting.

His guards.

They were unlike the pale creatures that had hunted the Ethrani through the Deep for generations. Their carapaces were darker and considerably thicker, layered across their bodies like armor grown rather than forged. Their bone masks were narrower, their limbs heavier where strength mattered and leaner where speed demanded it.

The Queen had created them for him.

Vris studied the pair.

For one tempting moment, he imagined what would happen if he brought the rest.

Not two Hollowborn.

Not twenty.

Thousands.

He pictured the tunnels beneath Harrowhall boiling with chitin. Trolls disappearing beneath claws and bone. Siege camps waking to find the ground beneath them alive. Ulg’s army discovering that fortifications meant very little against an enemy that did not need roads, gates, or bridges to reach them.

Vris’s mouth slowly curled into a grin.

He could do it.

Or something close to it.

He could reach into that strange connection the Queen had given him and call warriors from the Deep. Those she placed beneath his authority would obey. He had already proven that.

The thought was intoxicating.

An army that did not question.

Did not hesitate.

Did not fear.

He could drown the trolls in Hollowborn.

Then the grin disappeared.

Vris looked toward the tunnel descending into the Deep.

“No.”

One of the black Hollowborn tilted its masked head.

Vris stared at it.

“The Queen stays below.”

The creature gave no indication that it understood the words.

It didn’t need to.

Vris understood.

That was enough.

He had learned something since becoming Fanglord.

An army was not merely the warriors standing in front of you. It was everything that allowed those warriors to exist.

Food. Shelter. Weapons. Breeding. Supply. Leadership.

And the Hollowborn possessed something even more important than all of those things.

Their Queen.

Vris could command warriors she entrusted to him, but the hive itself remained hers. She was its heart, its mother, and its future.

Lose warriors and the hive could create more.

Lose the Queen?

Vris did not know what happened then.

He had no intention of finding out.

The image of bringing her to Harrowhall suddenly seemed absurd.

The Queen was terrifying beneath the earth, surrounded by tunnels shaped for her brood and creatures that would throw themselves between her and death.

But the surface was different.

Vris knew that now.

There were archers capable of killing from hundreds of paces away. Siege engines that shattered walls. Radiant magic that burned things the caster never needed to touch. Dragons. Cavalry. Fire.

And above all of it, the sky.

Nowhere to disappear.

Nowhere to burrow unless the earth permitted it.

Too many directions from which death could come.

The Queen was too valuable to gamble simply because Vris wanted Ulg dead.

His claws curled.

He hated that conclusion.

The old Vris would have called hesitation weakness.

The Fanglord understood differently.

A weapon used badly was a weapon lost.

His crimson gaze returned to the two black Hollowborn.

And there was another problem.

These two were exceptional precisely because they were not ordinary Hollowborn.

They had been made for a purpose.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Protection. Obedience. War.

Vris slowly approached one.

The creature lowered its head as he examined the overlapping black plates protecting its throat and shoulders.

Purpose-grown.

That was the answer.

The existing Hollowborn were creatures of the Deep. They were built for darkness, cramped tunnels, sudden violence, and prey that could not escape once cornered.

The surface would demand something else.

Open ground. Long marches. Rain. Heat. Cold. Sunlight. Formation fighting. Sieges. Enemies on horseback. Enemies in the sky.

Magic thrown from distances the Hollowborn had never needed to comprehend.

Vris had spent his entire second life changing because remaining what he had been meant dying.

Why should they be different?

His eyes narrowed.

The Queen did not need to march north.

She needed to work.

Vris reached toward the connection between them.

Even now, he struggled to describe it. There were no words. No voice whispering inside his skull.

It was closer to instinct given direction.

Hunger carrying images.

Intent traveling through something older than language.

Vris closed his eyes.

Deep beneath him, something noticed.

The Queen.

Vris showed her the surface.

Not as a place.

As a problem.

Open sky. Hard sunlight. Rain hammering against armor. Trolls charging across open ground. Arrows falling from above. Horses smashing through infantry. Ogres breaking formations. Radiant fire tearing through darkness.

The Queen recoiled.

Then came curiosity.

Vris pushed the thought farther.

Not yet.

Impatience pressed against him.

Vris snorted.

“Yeah. I know.”

He showed her the pale Hollowborn next.

Then changed them.

Thicker carapace. Stronger legs. Bodies capable of traveling great distances. Eyes that did not recoil from daylight. Warriors capable of surviving beneath an open sky.

Not hunters dragged unwillingly from their burrows.

Soldiers made for a different world.

The pressure behind his eyes changed.

Curiosity became understanding.

Then hunger.

Vris opened his eyes and looked at the two black creatures standing before him.

There was another image he wanted her to understand.

He sent it.

The Queen.

Surrounded.

Protected.

Black shapes standing around her.

Not two.

More.

Larger than ordinary warriors.

Heavier.

Armor layered so thickly across them that blades struggled to find flesh beneath.

Creatures whose first instinct was not hunger.

Not conquest.

Not even obedience to Vris.

Her.

Protect the Queen.

Protect the brood.

Destroy anything that reached her.

Vris gave the thought a name.

Royal Guard.

The Queen’s response struck him hard enough that his eyes opened.

Possessiveness.

Approval.

And something strangely maternal.

Vris grimaced.

“Great. Another giant underground mother.”

One of his guards clicked softly.

Vris pointed at it.

“Don’t tell Ravha I said that.”

The Hollowborn stared at him.

“Good.”

He reached for the Queen again.

This time the message was simpler.

Grow.

Gather.

Learn.

Prepare.

He wanted warriors eventually capable of fighting beneath the sun.

He wanted Royal Guards capable of protecting their Queen from anything that managed to reach her.

But more importantly, he wanted the hive moved.

Not today.

Not while Harrowhall was under attack.

Later.

Somewhere connected to the Red Maw but protected from its most obvious roads and strongholds. A place enemies could not reach simply by taking Harrowhall. Somewhere the Queen could spread her brood without placing either the Hollowborn or his own people in constant danger.

He would need Shirae for that.

The Ethrani understood the Deep.

Hadrik understood the mountains.

Ravha understood networks better than any living creature Vris had ever known.

Between them, they could find somewhere.

A place for the Queen.

A place for the hive.

A place where the Hollowborn could become something more than monsters beneath the earth.

Far below, the Queen answered.

The stone beneath Vris’s feet trembled.

Once.

Then again.

And stopped.

Dunzok glanced toward Vris.

“Do I want to know what that was?”

“No.”

Dunzok nodded. “Good.”

Hadrik was less willing to leave it alone.

“What did ye tell that bloody nightmare down there?”

Vris turned toward him.

“To make more nightmares.”

Hadrik stared at him.

Dunzok did too.

Both looked toward the two black Hollowborn standing silently behind Vris.

Then toward the passage descending into the Deep.

Hadrik swallowed.

“How many?”

“As many as she needs.”

Dunzok’s tusked grin slowly returned.

“Oh, I like that.”

“You would,” Hadrik muttered.

Vris heard them but said nothing.

Part of him still wanted to turn around. To call the hive. To bring every Hollowborn warrior the Queen could spare and march upon Harrowhall with an army the trolls could never have anticipated.

But the scout had been clear.

Maz was holding.

Maggra was holding.

Hammergate stood.

No breaches.

There was still time.

Vris trusted them.

More importantly, he trusted what they had built together.

The Red Maw did not need every weapon it possessed thrown at every enemy that appeared at its gates.

The trolls would face goblins, orcs, ogres, Stone-Eaters, Ethrani, wargs, and Webmothers.

They would face everything the Red Maw had already become.

The Hollowborn would remain below.

For now.

They would gather.

They would grow.

They would change.

And somewhere in the darkness beneath Thyyren, their Queen would begin creating warriors for a world her children had never seen.

Maz was waiting.

Vris had no reason yet to believe otherwise.

So the Fanglord did something that once would have been impossible for him.

He chose not to use every weapon he possessed.

Then he turned back toward the gathered Ethrani.

“Shirae.”

She stepped forward immediately.

“Harrowhall needs fighters more than I need witnesses,” Vris said. “Take your honor guard and one hundred warriors. Reinforce the defenses. Find Maz.”

Shirae held his gaze.

There was no bow.

No submission.

Only understanding.

“The Rootweb stands with the Maw,” she said. “Harrowhall will not stand alone.”

Vris gave a single nod.

That was enough.

Shirae turned and began issuing orders. The response from her people was immediate. Ethrani warriors detached themselves from the gathered ranks with practiced precision, quartz weapons blooming from forearms and shoulders as they assembled around their princess.

Vris looked next toward Dunzok and Hadrik.

“We move now.”

There was no hesitation.

No debate.

Dunzok grinned, slinging his axe over his shoulder. “Thought you’d never say it.”

Hadrik cracked his neck with a low rumble. “About time we got back to the fight.”

Moments later, they were moving.

The ascent through the tunnels was no longer cautious.

It was a sprint.

Stone-Eaters, Blackgrin orcs, goblins, and Ethrani surged together through the winding passages. Boots, claws, and heavy feet thundered across ancient stone as the forces of the Red Maw drove upward toward war.

At a branching junction, Shirae raised one hand.

Her warriors immediately began peeling away from the larger force, turning toward a narrower passage that would carry them along a faster route toward Harrowhall.

Dunzok watched them go.

Then he looked at Shirae.

Then back at the Ethrani.

For several strides, the Blackgrin Warchief said nothing.

That alone was enough to make Shirae suspicious.

She glanced sideways.

Dunzok was staring at her.

Not subtly.

Shirae continued walking. “Is there something you require, Warchief?”

Dunzok scratched one tusk. “Trying to figure something out.”

“That sounds strenuous.”

His head turned toward her, and then the enormous orc barked a laugh.

“Hah! There she is.”

Shirae’s brow furrowed. “There who is?”

“Knew there had to be something underneath all that stone.”

“I am almost entirely stone.”

“Exactly my concern.”

Shirae gave him a long look before returning her attention to the tunnel ahead. Around them, Ethrani warriors moved with disciplined precision. Living crystal weapons formed along forearms and shoulders as they marched, violet light crawling through mineral veins beneath pale skin.

Dunzok watched them for a moment.

“Never thought I’d see rock-folk and orcs fighting on the same side.”

“Ethrani.”

“Rock-folk.”

“Ethrani.”

Dunzok considered this.

“Fancy rock-folk.”

Shirae stopped.

Dunzok made it another two steps before realizing she was no longer beside him.

He turned.

The Ethrani princess stood perfectly still.

Dunzok stared at her.

Shirae stared back.

Behind her, several members of the honor guard had become suspiciously interested in the walls.

Finally, Shirae spoke.

“Blackgrin.”

Dunzok’s grin widened. “See? You understand.”

“I understand that your people are exceptionally loud.”

“Means we’re alive.”

“It means I could hear your encampment from three caverns away.”

“Good. Saves us having to announce ourselves.”

“I assure you, Warchief, no one has ever wondered whether you had arrived.”

Dunzok barked another laugh. Shirae resumed walking, and he quickly caught up beside her.

“Your kind thinks too much,” he said.

“Thinking has kept us alive.”

“Fighting’s done the same for us.”

“Yes. I have observed that Blackgrin strategy appears to consist primarily of finding whatever is largest in the vicinity and striking it until circumstances improve.”

Dunzok nodded approvingly. “Now you’re learning.”

“That was criticism.”

“Still learning.”

For the first time, Shirae’s composure cracked. It was small, barely there, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Dunzok saw it immediately.

His eyes narrowed. “Was that a smile?”

“No.”

“Looked like one.”

“You are mistaken.”

“I’ve seen Maz make that face.”

Shirae’s expression immediately flattened. “I do not know whether I should be offended by that comparison.”

“You should.”

“Thank you.”

“She’d probably hit me for saying it.”

“That does improve my opinion of her.”

Dunzok laughed again, loud enough that several Ethrani ahead glanced back.

Shirae sighed. “Do you ever move quietly?”

“When I’m killing something.”

“That is reassuring.”

“It should be.”

They walked a few more strides before Dunzok’s humor faded slightly. His gaze moved across the hundred Ethrani warriors following their princess toward a war that, until recently, had not been theirs.

“You know what’s waiting up there?” he asked.

Shirae looked at him. “Trolls.”

“Lots of trolls.”

“I am familiar with numbers.”

“Big ones.”

“I am also familiar with size.”

Dunzok grunted. “Good.”

Shirae studied him.

There was something different in his voice now. The mockery remained, but something sat beneath it.

Concern.

Not for himself.

For them.

“You think we are unprepared.”

“I think you’ve spent a long time fighting things that live down here.” His tusks shifted as his jaw tightened. “Surface war’s different.”

Shirae’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How?”

“Messier.”

“That is your expert assessment?”

“Very.”

Despite herself, she almost smiled again.

“Trolls don’t care how pretty your formations are,” Dunzok continued. “They don’t care how old your people are. They get hold of you, they tear you apart. You put one down, make sure it stays down.”

Shirae considered him for several moments before inclining her head.

“Advice.”

Dunzok shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I will treasure the occasion.”

“And Princess?”

She looked toward him.

“If it goes bad…” The grin returned. “Stay behind me.”

Shirae stopped walking again.

Dunzok slowly turned.

Her quartz blade grew from her forearm with a crystalline hiss.

The Blackgrin Warchief looked at it.

Then at her.

Shirae’s pale eyes glimmered.

“If it goes badly, Warchief…” The faintest smile touched her lips. “…try to keep up.”

She turned and strode toward her waiting warriors.

Dunzok stood there for a heartbeat.

Then another.

His grin slowly spread until both tusks were completely exposed.

“Hah!”

Hadrik lumbered past him. “What’re ye grinnin’ about?”

Dunzok hefted his axe onto his shoulder and started after the others. “Think I like the rock-folk.”

From farther down the tunnel came Shirae’s voice.

“Ethrani!”

Dunzok’s laughter thundered through the cavern.

“Definitely like ’em.”

Shirae disappeared into the branching passage with her warriors flowing behind her, violet light receding into the dark until the last shimmer vanished around the bend.

Dunzok watched for half a heartbeat longer.

Then Hadrik shoved a heavy shoulder into him as he passed.

“Come on, lover-boy.”

Dunzok’s head snapped toward him.

“I’ll bury this axe in yer arse.”

Hadrik’s laughter rolled down the tunnel.

“Quietly, I hope.”

Dunzok growled and started after him.

Further ahead, Hadrik eventually caught up to Vris, the Stone-Eater’s heavy strides easily matching the Fanglord’s pace.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Hadrik let out a low rumble.

“Thought you might not come back.”

Vris didn’t slow. “Wasn’t planning on dying.”

Hadrik snorted. “Still. You went down there alone.”

He reached out, grabbing Vris by the forearm and pulling him into a firm, crushing clasp. The gesture was brief but heavy with meaning.

“Glad you proved me wrong.”

Vris met his gaze.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

A sharp, feral goblin grin.

“Someone had to.”

Hadrik barked a laugh. “Maddest lad I’ve ever seen.”

They released the clasp and continued forward, their pace never breaking.

Behind Vris came the Stone-Eaters and Blackgrin.

Ahead of him, Shirae and her Ethrani raced toward Harrowhall.

Far below, the Hollowborn Queen remained in the darkness, carrying out the task he had given her.

Above them all, war waited.

Vris drove his warriors onward.

He was not returning alone.

He was bringing the Red Maw.