Qurrah left as each shouted for more. A short, sweaty goblin dragged over a barrel and filled their glasses. The two raised them in a toast as the half-orc exited the tent.
“Kapow!” they shouted in unison before slamming their mugs together.
“Kapow!”
T he next several camps quickly submitted to Trummug’s command, grabbing all their supplies and weaponry before stepping in line. At Qurrah’s request, they did not mention the required loyalty and worship to Karak. That would be for a later time, when Trummug was solidified as Hordemaster. With numbers nearing a thousand, they planned their assault on Fortress Mug.
I say smash through by force,” Trummug shouted, slamming an open palm against the table. “No sneaking and no talk. Brother’s not gonna give up, and I don’t want any rumors about me stabbing him in the back!”
“There will be no rumors,” Qurrah insisted, his voice soft and reassuring. In the cramped tent, Trummug’s shouts were painful to his ears, and he preferred to keep them to a minimum. “Any who question your strength will die by the sword. We cannot risk failure, though, and the last thing you want is a prolonged war.”
“You call me a coward?” Trummug asked, his eyes bulging.
“I said nothing of the sort.”
“You dare say me scared of war? War is what I live for!”
“You’re trying to reason with him,” Velixar said, chuckling from the corner. “I think we all can guess whether or not you will be successful.”
“Very well,” Qurrah said, plopping into his chair at the table. Tessanna sat beside him with her knees curled against her chest and her hands clutching the sides of the chair. She rocked back and forth as if she were mesmerized by the sounds around her. The half-orc gestured a finger toward Velixar. “Show me the wiser path.”
Velixar stood, his grin dark and wide beneath the cowl of his hood. Trummug crossed his arms, confident he could not be convinced. His small, weaker council wanted him to sneak past the guards at night and slaughter his brother. He, in his orcish sense of honor, wanted to attack the city at dawn, with drums and horns announcing his arrival. He wanted to take the title of Hordemaster by force and war, not stealth or trickery.
“You say you are not afraid of war,” Velixar said, pacing on the opposite side of the table from Trummug. “I believe you. Tell me, Trummug, who should rule the orcish tribes?”
“The strongest!”
“Yes, yes,” Velixar said, his grin growing more smug. “The strongest. And who is stronger, my dear friend, you or Lummug?”
“ME!” Trummug smashed the table with both fists and flexed, his enormous muscles bulging under his armor.
“Of course. I would not have allied with you otherwise. So if the strongest orc should rule, and you are the strongest, how do we go about proving that?”
“By me chopping off Lummug’s head, that’s how.”
Velixar clapped his hands and laughed, as if he had never heard such a brilliant idea.
“You’re right, so it doesn’t matter if Lummug has ten guards or ten thousand, you should rule. You’re the strongest.”
“That’s right.” He poked his chest with his thumb. “I’m the strongest.”
“Then all the fighting and war you want is just a waste of time. The real test, the only part that matters, is the fight between you and your brother. So, the smart thing to do is to fight Lummug alone, right?”
Trummug scratched his head. Deep inside he could feel a throb he had never felt before, dark and sinister. He had felt it ever since he had heard the words of Qurrah’s god, and now it pulsed with agreement. The man in black spoke truth. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.
“Aye, it be the smart thing,” Trummug said.
“So let us get you your brother. The more orcs that live, the more that join your army. You do want a grander army than Lummug ever had, don’t you?”
“I will smash everything he thinks he’s done!” Trummug shouted. “Get me to him. Once his head’s in my hands, all orcs will call me Hordemaster!”
Velixar winked at Qurrah, who only threw up his hands in surrender.
“That is how you do it,” the man in black said as he sat across from his disciple. “You just need to think simpler, less arguing, more coercing.”
“You should fight his war,” Tessanna said, her voice muffled by her knees. “You could bring the dead back, so no loss would matter. Less to feed.”
“True, my dear,” Velixar said. “But the orcs that live I can bring back. The dead, when slain, will stay dead. And raging orcs are far superior in combat to the mindless dead. And food will not be a problem. Fortress Mug has plenty of livestock for us to slaughter.”
“So tomorrow we kill?” Trummug shouted, bored of the conversation. “Tomorrow me be Hordemaster?”
“If Karak wills it, yes,” Velixar said, smiling at the orc. “But only if he wills it.”
They left the tent to sleep. Come the morning, they would prepare their army. If all went according to plan, they would not need it, but all there in that tent knew that things rarely went according to plan.
F ortress Mug was like all the other orc forts: surrounded by wooden palisades with sharpened tips, covered with banners, and possessing a single gate to enter. Fortress Mug, however, differed by how enormous it was, encircling giant fields full of pigs and goats. A tent five times the height of any orc loomed in the center, surrounded by hundreds of other tents, home to the orcs that swore allegiance directly to Lummug. Over three thousand lived there by Velixar’s estimate. A grand army, if united.
“Have we been spotted?” Qurrah asked Velixar as they stood at the outskirts of their camp and looked upon the fortress.
“I’m sure we have,” Velixar said. “The walls are bristling with orcs. The question is, will Lummug still be inside his tent?”
“He won’t leave until the fighting begins,” Qurrah said. Velixar glanced at his disciple and raised an eyebrow.
“Do you know that for sure?”
The half-orc shrugged. “I wouldn’t bet my life on it. I’d bet yours though.”
The man in black laughed.
“Summon Trummug,” he said when his laughter died. “It is time the orcs worshipped Karak once more.”
Qurrah went to fetch him, leaving Velixar to grin alone. He had been in a joyous mood for days. Everything was proceeding without a hitch, and the inevitable release of Karak seemed closer than ever.
“Me ready to kill!” Trummug bellowed to signify his arrival. Velixar turned to him, his smile growing larger.
“A fine sight you are,” he said, and he meant it. The orc’s armor was cleaned and polished. Massive amounts of gray muscle bulged underneath. On his head he wore a helmet made of iron. Surrounding it was six pairs of antlers, positioned so that tens of sharp points stretched out from his eyes and mouth toward his enemy. Two sharp spikes stretched out from his shoulders, an addition made by Velixar. His gauntlets, also made of iron, were stained red from blood.
“Almost ready,” the man in black said, admiring the sight. “But now you must accept the rewards Karak offers to those who keep his faith.”
He placed a hand on Trummug’s chest and closed his eyes. The orc fidgeted, unsure of what sorcery was about to take place. Then he felt the power flood into him. His muscles bulged. The armor, which had hung loose on him by Qurrah’s demand, suddenly latched tight and firm. He held his giant axe in one hand, though he had always needed two to lift it.
“Karak made me strong!” he shouted, his voice carrying further than it ever had. Qurrah smiled, a sad smile. He remembered how Harruq had looked when infused in a similar manner. Even Trummug, with his armor and muscle, paled in comparison.
“Always bless his name,” Velixar said, his voice captivating Trummug. “Let every kill honor your god. When you are Hordemaster, may every orc in Dezrel know the strength Karak offers.”
Trummug held his axe high above his head and bellowed out a war cry.
“Send me to fight!” he screamed. “I’ll go crazy if I don’t kill!”
