Chapter 5

Shamaness L’ara used her elbow to get a trolloc’s hand off her meaty green buttocks and to get herself to the front of the line that surrounded the Council of Elders. Around her, the murmur of conversation from orc, goblin, trolloc, and dracorc mouths, muzzles and lips were all on the same three topics of conversation.

Elves.

Elves.

Elves.

“The Scentbeast has been missing for a week now,” a muttered voice over her head passed from lip to ear. “She was hunting after that missing goblin freighter...”

“They attacked two of our villages, and left only one survivor. That-”

“Deathlight magic, have you-”

L’ara finally reached the edge of the viewing line, gripping the bone and skull barricade that kept the teeming Hoard from the Elders, who had been gathered to debate what needed to be done. The highest elder, her father, Tarish, was seated upon the captured throne of Castle Khazgad, while the other elders were arrayed in their own state. There was the high shamaness, T’oral, who was standing near to the Grand Shaman Ner’gal, both of them in animated discussion. There was the queen of the trollocs, Laibiak Headtaker, who was sharpening a bone spear as she rested her feet on the back of a simpering, pleased looking human male wearing her scent markers and little else. There were the three highest flight-masters of the dracorcs, who were each cuddled up around a warming brazier, their wings and tails intertwined, like a three headed beast. There was the high inventmaster of the goblins, Teeterak Gadgetbin, who was fiddling with a-

BOOM!

The resounding explosion that shook the chambers caused most of the Hoard to jerk, and the gaping hole that had been blown in the wall shone down on the stunned assistants of the inventmaster. A quiet squabble ended with the new high inventmaster, Teena Leafbrew, siting in the somewhat rickety, smoking metal chair that the inventmaster preferred. She immediately started to fidget with her own gadget – which looked like a six barreled flamepowder pistol – while Tarish stood from his throne.

“We call this meeting of elders to order,” he said, then reached over and snatched the gadget from Leafbrew.

“How dare you!” The inventmaster squeaked as she bounced off her seat. Like most orc elders, Tarish settled this minor rebellion by swatting the gobliness on her rump, which caused her to squeak with an entirely different tone before sitting down.

“We call this meeting of elders to order,” Tarish said, firmly. “To discuss the matter ... of the elves.” He snapped his fingers and a female orc stepped forward, carrying a scroll scrawled with runes, that he took and held aloft. “Less than a week after the fall of Khazgad and the capitulation of the Kingdom of Thurandal, a human village under our protection was slaughtered by an creature known as an elf. They used magic that even now sickens the land and left many humans touched by it too withered to even breathe, their own teeth rotting from their skulls, their hair falling from their skulls in clumps. This came on the heel of a goblinoid freighter going missing. While we know the risks incurred by goblin craft-”

“They’re within statistical variance!” Investmaster Leafbrew called out.

“-we still dispatched the frigate Scentbeast to track her down. Elder Green, your report.”

One of the dracorc flight-masters slid from the pile, stretching his green scaled shoulders, rolling his neck with a clack and clack that could be heard even from the sidelines. “Our flights spotted flotsam and wreckage, caught in the eddies that flow from across the great ocean. Without a doubt, they were part of the Scentbeast. We tracked them back as best we could, but there was no sign of a wreck. As best as we can tell, the whole ship was struck from existance.”

“Was it deathlight?” A orcish male called from the sidelines.

“We don’t know,” Elder Green said, firmly, then louder as more calls of questions came from the sidelines. “If I knew more, I’d say it! We dared not tarry. The air smelled...” He paused. “Occupied.”

Murmurs and whispers came from throughout the room. L’ara’s eyes, though, were locked on Ner’gul. He stepped forward, waving his skull tipped staff to draw attention to his hunched, withered form.

“Heed me, oh Hoard!” he called out. “This is the warning that our people have been given, for generations: The great foe has finally been found. The slaver that would see all the world in chains!”

“How can you tell?”

“He speaks the truth!”

“Bloodfilth!”

That last drew a fierce glare from Ner’gal, his eyes piercing and gazing for who had cried forth. L’ara personally cheered them on – but she also was far from shocked that none in the crowd was brave enough to actually own those words. Instead, Ner’gal growled and clacked his staff against the ground. “Bloodfilth ... this name I have born for long, but I remind all here, it was by my hand that we survived our first campaigns. The father of our current Eldest saw much use in my creations – some ogrocs yet fight in the Hoard...” His fingers spread across his chest. “And I see much need of my wisdom in the coming war – for these elves are an evil of which we have never seen before.”

“Explain yourself,” Queen Headtaker said, lifting her head, her tusks glinting in the torchlight. “How do you know more of these elves than any of us?”

“I have traveled far in my time in ... disgrace,” Ner’gal said, shooting a glare at the high shamaness, who sniffed and turned her gaze from him. The crowd, though, listened raptly to his every word. “I saw some hints of the elf-lands in my travels. The rumors of strange creatures from across the Great Sea, tales of how they might trick and trap humans in their snares and wicked ways. I gave them little countenance – after all, humans have said many a tale about us.” He sniffed. “But then ... the attacks came. And with it the fell magic deathlight, seen before my very eyes!” He pointed at his eyes, as if to remind all he had them.

“He ... speaks truth,” High Shamaness T’oral said, her voice grudging – before shifting to a tone of disgust. “I saw the poor humans that the elves left behind. Deathlight is not merely flame or fire, it somehow reaches into the very blood itself, corrupting it, mutating it, twisting it.” She shook her head. “It is a horrid magic.”

“If deathlight is real, what else might be real?” Ner’gal shouted, turning to the crowd. “What else. The humans told tales that eating of elf-food in elf-lands would bind their souls to their enslavement. They told of vast cavern cities where elves worship creatures of pure magic, and use that magic to chain themselves into elaborate bondage. But worse? Humans claim that elves know not death.”

Soft murmuring swept through the crowd. L’ara shook her head, her voice soft. “That’s impossible,” she said, firmly.

Beside her, she felt a warm breath puffing against her ear, and a question – rumbled so low she barely heard it. “Why does it seem to disgust you all so?”

L’ara jerked and saw that the former prince Othar had managed to slip near her, despite his massive frame. His scaled brow was drawn in and his lips were pursed as he looked down at the Elders.

“Immortality is a disease,” L’ara said, softly. “All things die, and are born again. The only thing that lives forever is the worst of ailments – bloodrot, bonegrowths, brain-stones. Parts of the body clinging to life with such tenacity that they strangle life itself out of the poor orc carrying them. It’s vile.”

Othar grunted.

In the arena of Elders, the dracorcs and goblins were starting to put their own weight in. “You have many conjectures, many theories, many rumors, but very little in the way of proof,” Leafbrew said, frowning as she twirled the barrels of her pistol around and around – somehow, she had snatched it back from Elder Firak while he had been distracted. “We cannot embark on yet another war on nothing but rumors. At least when we fought the humans, they had slaves begging us to rescue them.”

“Exactly,” Elder Red growled as she stood from the pile of dracorcs. “Maybe we should send a diplomatic mission-”

The door to the elder’s chamber burst open, flooding the room with more sunlight. A panting orc came rushing in, bearing a parcel in her left hand. “Elders!” she exclaimed. “The freighter came back in! The captain needs to speak to us, now!”

“Bring him in!” Leafbrew shouted, while Queen Headtaker stood from her rest, her hand sliding along her human footstool’s back. He nuzzled her bright blue thigh, while Othar grumbled.

“You all speak so much about slavery, while condoning that,” he said, which produced a scoff and look of utter contempt from L’ara.

“Do you not have loveslaves?” she asked. “Men and women that submit to those they have fallen for?”