Arc VI- Chapter 8: Blood For The Blood Gods

Tharok Stonehowl grinned as the fight began in earnest, teeth bared, eyes alight with something that bordered on joy. He could feel it in Ghorvath the weight of him, the strength, the history carried in bone and muscle. This was no hollow victory waiting to be taken. This was something to earn. Each wound drawn from the Hornfather only seemed to drive Tharok further, deeper into the rhythm of battle. It had always been this way among the High Orcs of Stonehowl Holdfast the strongest rose, but none rose easily. Every warrior there was honed, blooded, sharpened by struggle. Tharok had simply been the one who endured the most.

Their weapons met with a force that shook the ground beneath them. Silence clashed against the dragonbone maul, and each impact sent dark, screaming sparks across the battlefield as though the axe devoured the strength of what it struck. The sound of it was deafening bone against steel, power against power echoing across the ridgelines as both armies fell still, watching.

Then the noise returned not from the duel, but from the warriors.

The Stonehowl orcs began first. Boots stomping. Shields slammed. A rising howl building in their throats as they called for their warlord to finish it. To break the Hornfather. To end him.

The Khazrathi answered.

Spears struck shields. Horns blared. Bleating cries rolled across the field, raw and furious, calling their leader forward, demanding he stand, demanding he win.

The world narrowed to two.

Tharok swung again, Silence cutting low before rising in a brutal arc that nearly sheared a chunk from Ghorvath’s horn. The impact cracked through the air like thunder. Tharok laughed, breath heavy but steady.

“You’re still smiling…” he said, almost approving.

Ghorvath answered with a violent bleat and surged forward, slamming into Tharok with the full weight of his body. The two collided and tumbled, crashing into the churned earth, rolling through mud and blood as the duel broke from weapon to body.

Tharok moved first.

His hand shot to Ghorvath’s horns, gripping them hard, dragging the Hornfather’s head down as he shifted his weight. His knee drove into Ghorvath’s throat, pinning him, forcing him into the dirt beneath him.

“Yield to me…” Tharok growled, breath hot, voice low and certain.

Ghorvath answered with steel.

A curved bone dagger flashed into his hand and drove into Tharok’s side.

The orc’s body jerked as the blade bit deep, the hold breaking as pain tore through him. Blood spilled hot down his flank.

Tharok roared.

Not in weakness.

In fury.

He tore back from the strike and came forward again immediately, abandoning weapons entirely. His fists drove into Ghorvath once, twice, again each blow heavy enough to crack bone, to shake the ground beneath them. He slammed the Hornfather back into the earth, gripping at the arm that held the dagger, forcing it away from his throat as Ghorvath fought to drive the blade home.

They struggled there, locked in brutal proximity breath, blood, strength nothing held back.

Tharok’s hand shifted.

Closed.

Around Ghorvath’s throat.

He began to squeeze.

“Yield…” he growled.

Ghorvath thrashed beneath him, strength still monstrous, still defiant.

Tharok tightened his grip.

“Yield.”

The Khazrathi leader’s strikes slowed. Not stopped but slowed. His breath hitched. His body strained against the inevitable.

Tharok leaned in closer, blood running down his side, his grip unrelenting.

“Yield.”

The world held.

The armies watched.

And finally as both sides appeared to be lifting weapons readying themselves to continue the battle themselves.

Ghorvath, son of Khetuk, yielded.

For a moment, nothing moved.

Then Tharok released him.

He pushed himself up, dropping briefly to one knee as blood continued to seep from his side, breath heavy but controlled. Then he rose. Slowly. Deliberately.

He turned.

Not to his warriors.

To the Khazrathi.

“Your leader has yielded.”

His voice carried across the battlefield, deep and absolute.

Tharok began to walk. Not pacing. Not circling. Walking through them through their ranks as if he already belonged there. His warpaint was streaked with fresh blood, his body marked by the fight, but his presence had not diminished. It had grown.

He met their eyes as he passed. Everyone he could.

“I spared his life,” he said.

A pause.

“Form a line. Submit yourselves to our cause.”

His gaze hardened not cruel, not mocking. Certain.

“You will find we are just… to those who fight with honor.”

The battlefield waited.

Not for war.

For decision.

Brightharbor burned differently after victory.

The great fires had mostly gone out. What remained were smaller things: warehouses smoldering beside the harbor, overturned wagons burning where someone had set them alight for amusement, cooking fires built from the remains of merchant stalls. Smoke hung low across the city, mingling with salt air and the stink of blood. Ships sat broken against the docks. Others had already been claimed, their holds emptied onto the streets while orcs argued loudly over what was worth keeping.

Tharok Stonehowl watched it all from a throne that had never been intended to be one.

Someone had dragged the high-backed chair from the residence of some merchant lord or harbor official and planted it atop the broad steps overlooking the market square. It was gilded, obnoxiously ornate, and entirely too small for him. Two Basilisk Riders had solved the last problem by breaking away the arms.

Tharok found the result acceptable.

He sat upon it with Silence resting against one shoulder, one leg stretched across the stone before him.

Victory surrounded him.

Not banners.

Not cheering.

Things.

Brightharbor had been wealthy.

That wealth now lay in heaps across the square.

Crates of preserved food. Salted meat. Grain. Wine. Tools. Rope. Medicine. Cloth. Metal. Coin. Anything useful was being sorted beneath the watchful eyes of warriors who understood that pillage without order became waste.

The weapons had received their own pile.

Swords.

Axes.

Spears.

Crossbows.

Shields.

Helms.

Breastplates.

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Enough equipment to arm hundreds.

Human armor had been stripped from corpses, pulled from armories, taken from guardhouses, or simply abandoned by soldiers who had decided surviving mattered more than carrying steel.

Tharok leaned forward as one of his warriors pulled a sword from the pile and tested its balance.

“Say what you will about these humans,” he said, “they are fine craftsmen.”

A few nearby orcs grunted agreement.

Tharok rose from his throne.

The warriors nearest the pile moved aside.

He wandered among the spoils, occasionally kicking something over with one boot. Most of the weapons were too small for him. Some were ornamental garbage. Others were good steel buried beneath decoration meant to impress men who apparently needed flowers carved into everything.

Then he saw the axe.

Tharok bent and pulled it free.

Human-made. Broad-bladed. Heavy enough that whoever had carried it had probably been an impressive bastard by human standards. The edge remained keen despite the battle, and the haft was wrapped in dark leather stained nearly black with blood.

Tharok turned it once in his hand.

Good balance.

Not Silence.

Nothing was Silence.

But useful.

He hooked the axe through his belt.

“I'll keep that.”

No one objected.

That was another benefit of being Warchief.

Tharok turned toward the waiting warriors.

“Take what you earned.”

That was all the permission they needed.

Orcs descended upon the pile.

Not like starving scavengers. There was ceremony to it, however crude a human might have found that ceremony. A warrior took a helm and immediately snapped the decorative crest from its crown. Another claimed a shield bearing the sigil of some human house and spat on it before scraping the paint away with a knife.

Others had already brought pigments.

Black.

Red.

Ochre.

Ash.

One warrior smeared a great black basilisk across a polished breastplate. Another hammered crude teeth along the rim of a human shield. Someone else had taken a perfectly serviceable knight's helm and was pounding its faceplate into something considerably more unpleasant.

The trophies were human.

They would not remain so.

By tomorrow, Brightharbor steel would march beneath Basilisk banners.

And now beneath another.

Tharok's gaze drifted toward the warriors camped farther down the square.

Khazrathi.

Horned helms stood among the Basilisk Riders now. Their banners had not been torn down. Their customs had not been stripped from them. They had fought. Their Hornfather had fought.

And both had survived.

That was enough.

Howl and Horn.

Tharok rather liked the sound of it.

A commotion near the eastern street drew his attention.

The last survivors were being brought forward.

There were perhaps three dozen.

Pathetic compared to the thousands who must once have called Brightharbor home.

Old men. Women. Children. A few wounded soldiers who had discarded their weapons. Some stared at Tharok with naked hatred. Others refused to look at him at all.

One man fell to his knees.

Tharok frowned.

“Get up.”

The man looked at him.

“I said get up.”

Slowly, trembling, the human obeyed.

Tharok descended the steps.

The square quieted as he approached them.

“You're going to Fairehaven.”

Confusion moved through the survivors.

One woman clutched a child tighter.

Tharok pointed toward the western road.

“No chains. No ransom. No games. Walk.”

Nobody moved.

Tharok sighed.

Humans complicated everything.

“You're alive,” he explained. “Try to appreciate it.”

That finally seemed to register.

The kneeling man formerly kneeling, Tharok corrected himself stared at him. “Why?”

Tharok considered the question.

Then shrugged.

“Because you're beaten.”

There was no glory in killing them now.

No strength to test.

No contest remaining.

Besides, frightened mouths traveled farther than banners.

Tharok stepped closer.

“Tell your people they live on land now claimed by Howl and Horn.”

The man's face went pale.

“Tell Fairehaven what happened here. Tell them the Basilisk Riders came. Tell them the Khazrathi march beside us.”

Tharok smiled.

“And tell them Brightharbor belongs to me.”

He stepped aside.

“Go.”

This time they moved.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

No warrior pursued them.

Tharok watched until the last disappeared beyond the ruined street.

“Subtle.”

The voice came from behind him.

Tharok closed his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Soft laughter answered him.

When he turned, the Old Woman was sitting on his throne.

Of course she was.

She lounged sideways across it as though she had owned the ridiculous thing all along, one leg draped over the other, shadow curling around her shoulders. No one else in the square seemed to notice her.

Or perhaps they had simply learned that when Tharok began arguing with empty chairs, it was best to mind their own affairs.

Her gaze wandered over the square.

“Howl and Horn,” she mused. “I like that.”

“Didn't ask.”

“No. You rarely do.”

Tharok walked back toward the throne.

She made no effort to move.

His newest helmet rested beside it.

The smiths had finished the work that morning.

It was heavier than his old helm, dark iron reinforced with pieces taken from Brightharbor's armory. From either side curved enormous ram horns.

A trophy.

A declaration.

Ghorvath still lived.

Barely.

Tharok picked up the helmet and examined one horn.

“The old goat's too stubborn to die.”

The Old Woman smiled. “You sound pleased.”

“I'd be disappointed if he did.”

“You nearly killed him.”

“He nearly killed me.”

“That isn't a denial.”

Tharok grunted.

Ghorvath's wounds were terrible. Broken bones. Torn muscle. Enough blood lost that lesser warriors would already have been stacked upon a pyre.

The healers expected him to recover.

Eventually.

Tharok had expected nothing less.

“A true warrior should survive losing to me at least once,” he said.

“How charitable.”

“Wasn't charity.”

“No,” the Old Woman agreed. “It rarely is with you.”

Tharok set the horned helmet beside Silence.

The Old Woman watched him for a moment.

Then her amusement faded just slightly.

“Time is on your side, Stonehowl.”

Tharok's eyes narrowed.

“But not as much as you think.”

There it was.

He knew that voice.

The one she used when she thought she was being clever.

“Fairehaven is frightened,” she continued. “Brightharbor is gone. The Valecrest armies are divided. Refugees carry stories faster than soldiers carry orders. If you strike quickly—”

“Mind your business.”

The Old Woman blinked.

Then placed one hand dramatically against her chest.

“I thought we were getting closer.”

Her tongue clicked against her teeth.

“Tsk, tsk.”

Tharok stepped toward her.

Even seated, she did not look remotely concerned.

That annoyed him more.

“Whatever you are, witch, I don't do these things just because you make suggestions.”

“No?”

“No.”

He leaned closer.

“Fairehaven was already ripe for the plucking.”

The Old Woman's smile returned.

“Of course.”

Tharok's hand settled upon Silence.

“Keep smiling.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

“You think because Vris entertains your games that I will?”

Something changed behind her eyes at the mention of the Fanglord.

Small.

Interesting.

Gone immediately.

“Vris entertains very little.”

“Then perhaps that's why you bother me.”

“Perhaps I simply enjoy your company.”

Tharok stared at her.

She stared back.

“Leave.”

The Old Woman sighed.

“Always when the conversation becomes interesting.”

Shadow began gathering around her.

Tharok watched without blinking.

Before darkness swallowed her completely, she smiled.

“I'll see you soon.”

“I'd prefer you didn't.”

“I know.”

Then she was gone.

The ridiculous golden throne sat empty.

Tharok stared at it for several seconds.

“Witch.”

He turned.

“Rhazgar!”

The answering roar came from across the square.

A moment later, a High Orc pushed through the gathered warriors. Rhazgar was red-skinned even by the standards of his people, his hide the deep color of dried blood. He was broad across the shoulders, though not so enormous as Tharok, with one broken tusk and a black braid hanging from the back of his otherwise shaved skull.

His second.

The warrior looked first at Tharok.

Then at the empty throne.

“You talking to ghosts again?”

Tharok glared at him.

Rhazgar wisely decided the question had been rhetorical.

“What do you need?”

Tharok looked west.

Beyond the ruined city.

Beyond the road upon which the survivors were already fleeing.

Toward Fairehaven.

The Old Woman had been right about one thing.

He hated when that happened.

Brightharbor had fallen faster than the humans could recover from it. Their armies were scattered. Their people frightened. Fairehaven would be receiving refugees, wounded soldiers, terrified merchants, and every rumor those mouths could carry.

Waiting would give them time.

Tharok had never been particularly fond of waiting.

“Get everyone fed,” he said. “Anything we can't carry gets burned. Load the grain, medicine, tools, and good steel first. Khazrathi get their share.”

Rhazgar nodded.

“And Ghorvath?”

Tharok glanced toward the Khazrathi encampment.

“Put the stubborn bastard on a wagon if you have to.”

That earned a grin.

“He'll hate that.”

“I know.”

Tharok picked up the ram-horned helmet.

He placed it over his head.

Around him, the conquered wealth of Brightharbor was already becoming something else. Human shields bore black basilisks. Golden armor disappeared beneath red warpaint. Horns were fastened to helms. Fine blades passed into scarred hands.

Brightharbor had armed the army that destroyed it.

Now it would arm the army coming next.

Tharok looked at Rhazgar.

“We leave at dawn.”