Arc V- Chapter 6: Basilisk Riders

Tharok Stonehowl

The war drums of the High Orcs were slow.

Not the frantic thunder of lesser tribes eager for blood, but deep, measured beats that rolled across the barren valleys of the Desolate Warrens like distant thunder. Each strike of hide against bone echoed through the jagged hills as the Basilisk Riders assembled.

The Warrens had been home for generations, but Tharok Stonehowl had never believed land was something a people should cling to.

Land was something to take when the moment demanded it.

And the moment had come.

Before him stretched the moving host of the High Orcs. Thousands of warriors marched between the broken ridges of the mountains, their skin ranging from deep crimson to shades of yellow and green. Banners marked with the sigil of the Basilisk Riders snapped in the harsh wind.

Massive eight-legged basilisks crawled through the column like living siege engines, their scaled bodies glistening in the gray sunlight. Warg packs ran along the flanks of the army, restless and eager.

Stonehowl Holdfast had been abandoned.

Not destroyed.

Simply… left behind.

A fortress was only useful when it faced the right enemy.

Tharok rode at the head of the host atop his enormous basilisk mount, a scarred creature whose eight clawed limbs crushed loose stone beneath its weight. The beast moved with unsettling grace despite its size, its tongue flicking through the cold air as it tasted the wind.

News had reached the Warrens weeks ago.

The humans of the Valecrest Kingdom were weakening.

Brightharbor had fallen

Their armies were scrambling.

And now the Troll King Ulg had gathered his forces around a rising power in the south.

The Red Maw.

Tharok did not yet know what to make of the goblin Fanglord who had united monsters under a single banner.

But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

If trolls were surrounding him…

Opportunity was near.

The High Orc warlord stared southward toward the distant lands of Fairehaven.

The human city stood like a cracked tooth on the edge of the frontier.

Weak.

Overextended.

And suddenly very alone.

The orcs had already struck once.

Brightharbor had burned beneath their advance, the Saints and Light-corrupted zealots driven screaming from the streets. What remained of the city now smoldered under the watch of High Orc sentries.

The Basilisk Riders had not lingered.

They had simply taken what they needed and moved on.

Because the real prize was not a ruined port.

The real prize was the heart of the frontier.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Fairehaven.

A city built to hold the wild back.

A city that suddenly found itself surrounded by enemies.

Tharok’s tusks gleamed white as he considered the coming battle.

Humans had grown arrogant.

They believed monsters could not think.

Could not plan.

Could not see weakness.

That belief would cost them dearly.

The wind shifted.

And with it came a smell that had nothing to do with armies or beasts.

Something older.

Something… irritating.

Tharok sighed heavily.

“Show yourself,” he rumbled.

The shadows between two broken stones stretched slightly longer than they should have.

From them stepped an old woman wrapped in ragged black cloth, leaning lazily on a twisted staff that looked more like a root than a tool.

Her smile was crooked.

“Ello, love.”

Tharok did not dismount.

He simply stared down at her from the saddle of his basilisk.

“You again.”

The Old Woman tilted her head as if examining a curious animal.

“Oh yes,” she said cheerfully. “Thought I’d stop by and see what the big lad was doing.”

Her eyes wandered across the marching army.

“So many tusks.”

“So many claws.”

She chuckled softly.

“War brewing, is it?”

Tharok snorted.

“You meddle too much, crone.”

The Old Woman seemed delighted by the insult.

“Meddling is the only interesting thing left to do,” she replied.

She leaned slightly on her staff and peered up at him.

“You’re leaving your mountain.”

“Observant.”

“You’re going to take the human city.”

Tharok shrugged slightly.

“If they cannot defend it, they do not deserve it.”

The Old Woman grinned wider.

“Very practical.”

Her eyes gleamed with strange amusement.

“Tell me, big tusks… what do you make of the goblin?”

Tharok’s expression hardened slightly.

“Which goblin?”

“The interesting one.”

The wind rustled the black rags around her shoulders.

“The Fanglord.”

For a moment Tharok said nothing.

He had heard the stories.

Goblins united.

Monsters working together.

A dominion rising beneath the mountains.

Impossible things.

Or perhaps simply new things.

“He survives,” Tharok said at last.

“That alone is impressive.”

The Old Woman laughed softly.

“Oh, he does more than survive.”

She leaned closer to the basilisk’s head, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“He changes things.”

Tharok frowned slightly.

“Everyone changes things.”

“Not like this one.”

The Old Woman tapped her staff lightly against the stone.

“He’s a hinge, love.”

Tharok rolled his shoulders impatiently.

“I don’t care what he is.”

The Old Woman’s grin widened.

“Oh, you will.”

Tharok’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

The Old Woman’s voice softened slightly.

“Because eventually…”

She gestured lazily toward the south.

“…the two of you will meet.”

The wind shifted again.

The orc warlord studied her for a long moment.

Then he snorted.

“If he stands in my way, I will kill him.”

The Old Woman laughed outright at that.

“Oh, I do hope you try.”

Tharok grimaced.

“Your games annoy me.”

“Yes,” she said pleasantly. “They do that.”

She stepped backward into the lengthening shadows.

“But they’re terribly fun.”

And then she was gone.

Tharok stared at the empty space where she had stood.

He scratched the side of his jaw with one clawed finger.

“Mad crone,” he muttered.

Then he kicked his basilisk forward.

The war drums rolled louder across the mountains.

And far to the south, the roads to Fairehaven were beginning to fill with orcs.