General Kretesh laid Spellreaver against the wall and and sat down, shifting uncomfortably. The miniature throne was made from cherry-wood and elaborately carved with the holly symbol of the Witch-Goddess, Hecate- a fact he found most discomforting - but it was the largest that could be found to furnish his bedchamber and it would have to do for a reading chair until a larger one could be made. Any human would have found it needlessly oversized, but to an orc, it was large enough for a casual chair. General Kretesh, however, was an orc of considerable size and he found it to be just a bit too cramped for his liking.
At least, he reminded himself, I am out of that damned robe.
The red and white robe laying in a careless heap on the bed on the other end of the room had belonged to his old master before he died in the war twenty-five years ago. Though unusually pragmatic for a Vaselliano noble, Master Scapelli had always had a thing for appearances and the robe was meant to make sure that everyone knew a wizard was walking past, which meant it was gaudy and flowing and impossible to move around in. Still, it was a potent magical object, enchanted with numerous protection spells, all of which had failed to protect its original owner from an arrow in the throat.
He had worn it when he first returned to the plains, when he had first rejoined his old tribe and when he began his conquest of the other orc tribes, and many of his kin viewed it as a symbol of his authority and expected him to wear it, but he still preferred his deerskin jerkin, pants and sturdy, buffalo-hide boots. Even with all the beads and ornaments that accompanied a shaman’s garment clicking every time he moved, it was still far more comfortable.
Donning his reading glasses, he took the heavy, leather-bound book from the end table beside him and opened it to the bookmark. Of the many treasures brought back from the expeditions to explore the ruins of the fallen Babyl empire, books were something Kretesh always looked forward to recovering and he rewarded his followers well for such finds. Rumors went around that the General was seeking great magic in these ancient tomes, which was true, though not the sort of magic they thought it was. The magic of these books was not something that would aid him in his conquest of Gaea, or on the field of battle, but in his larger, loftier goals. More important than spells, these books gave him a greater understanding of the cultures of the world, which he would need if he was to bring the world together under a single banner and restore order once again.
Before he had read more than a few pages, there came a knock at the door. He looked up once, considered it for a moment, then turned back to his book. The knock came again and, pained by the choice of his book or whatever trivial matter was being brought before him, he hesitated again, groaning and grinding his teeth angrily. The knock came a third time.
“Enter,” he commanded.
The door opened and Major Beulg came in, his dreadlocks bouncing as he bowed, bending at the waist. Kretesh took a moment to acknowledge him before readjusting his glasses and turning his attention back to his book. Beulg straightened up and fingered the golden chain connecting the rings in his nose and ear, nervously sucking on the scar that crossed over his lips from his nose to his chin.
“General Kretesh,” he said finally. “An emissary has arrived from the north. They are waiting at the front gate.”
“Who are they?” Kretesh made no effort to disguise the irritation in his voice, nor did he look up from his book.
“They are, augh . . .” Beulg hesitated a moment, toying with the unfamiliar word. “They’re those Basalo shamans.”
“Vaselliano,” Kretesh corrected. “What do they want.”
“They want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“They won’t say to anyone but you.”
Beulg’s voice frothed with loathing and Kretesh rolled his eyes up to look at him. From the expression on the major’s face - strained by the effort to keep calm - he gathered there was some tension over the matter. By the way he kept stroking that ugly chain, it must be close to blows out there. But then, it was to be expected, if those fools were arrogant enough about their message to demand it be delivered directly to the highest authority. What in the nine circles of Kadhul could they possibly think was so important?
“Shall I send them away?”
Kretesh wanted to say yes. Typhus’s fangs, he didn’t want to leave his book just to talk with a bunch of pompous, small-minded human wizards. No, not talk, discuss matters of gravest importance - they always used such inflated language in Vasellio. It was never ‘This is what’s happening, is that okay?’ or even ‘We are here to give you a message.’ No, it was always ‘You are hereby informed by the order of the Supreme Chancellor, Archmage so-and-so that at such-and-such a place, at some particular time ghora ghora ghora . . .’
Gods, he was not interested in any of that. And he was quite behind in his reading besides.
“Or, if I give the order, our crossbowmen can fill them full of bolts,” Beulg suggested.
Kretesh looked back to his book for a moment. Turning the page, he saw an illustration of a warrior in shining armor with a flaming sword fighting against a hideous, horned monster that must have stood at least fifteen feet tall. The creature’s coal-black skin gave off wisps of smoke, its fangs glinted in the light, dripping with saliva, and its eyes glowed with a deep-red fury. Bellow, the caption read, “The Warrior of Flame fights against an orc.”
Sighing in disgust, he replaced his bookmark, closed the tome and laid it on the table. As much as he would love to see those bureaucrats shot down and their skins made into dolls for children to play with, there was no reason to make the world think of orcs as monsters any more than it already did. He picked up his greataxe and started for the door.
“Shouldn’t you wear your robe?” Beulg asked.
Kretesh looked at the rumpled thing lying on the bed. He really should wear it, since the wizards were likely to look at this meeting as official political business.
“Fulkhas,” he cursed and stepped past the major, leaving the wadded mess where it was.
Smiling in approval, Beulg stuffed a sprig of devil-weed from the pouch at his belt into his mouth and closed the door behind him.
Archamge Juliano Gandolfo, Second Counsilor to Supreme Chancellor, High Archmage Calvino, stood outside the gate of General Kretesh’s compound. At least, he believed it was General Kretesh’s compound; there were very few such structures on the wild plains and the information he had been given came from the most reliable of sources, Diviner Caladonna, but the hesitation they were displaying was enough to make him question even her impeccable skills in The Art.
The building - if it could be called such - was a large dome of iron plates, crudely thrown together by whatever means these orcs could manage. There were only two flags, General Kretesh’s standard - an axe, of all things! - and a standard bearing the holy symbol of Typhus, a spiked gauntlet grasping a bolt of lightning in its clutches. There were no symbols, or stained-glass windows, or statues. It wasn’t even painted. It was just a revolting lump of metal in the middle of a vast, empty field of long grass.
Four towers rose up on the sides of it, from which a contingent of soldiers waited with their crossbows trained on them, waiting the inevitable order to kill. He had heard that General Kretesh was a reasonable man, for an orc, and that he was even a wizard, if such things could be possible - an orc wizard? Well, wouldn’t that be something to see? - but still, he was glad he warned his attendants to weave a ward to deflect their missiles and to keep a good offensive spell ready in their minds, just in case. If the rumors of Kretesh’s respectable nature proved to be false, or if this wasn’t actually General Kretesh’s stronghold . . . well, he wouldn’t mind removing that unsightly wart of wood and metal from the face of the world.
Truth be told, this was the first time Archmage Gandolfo had ever seen orcs before and he was more than a little surprised. They weren’t giants with horns and wings, they didn’t have long, forked tongues dripping with venom or acid, they didn’t have flames bursting from their eyes - he at least expected them to have claws, but no, not even that. Their full-plate armor was carefully polished and remarkably well crafted, but it didn’t have any spikes or razors on it, nor were they wearing skulls or severed human hands from their belts. All in all, the stories were proving to be considerably exaggerated. They did have skin of a grotesque, ash-gray color and their eyes were yellow, or sometimes pale-green, and they had a distinctive overbite, but aside from that, he’d almost have thought they were human. Just looking at them, it was hard to think of these brutes as the monsters they really were.
At last, there appeared to be some movement inside. He could see the sentries lowering their crossbows, some of them turning to look back into windows of the fortress at whoever was approaching. Perhaps the great General Kretesh was finally going to grant them an audience.
About time.
The crude iron gates slowly opened with a loud creaking, tearing up clods of dirt and grass. Archmage Gandolfo stood up a little straighter, shoulders back, and forced himself to stand perfectly still, despite the painful screeching of metal on metal. From the dingy blackness within, two orcs marched out with as much acclamation as a pair of cattle being herded out to slaughter. One was the orc with the strange haircut - Belg, he had called himself - who had come out to greet them before. Still in his chain-mail armor, marked on the shoulder with three red stripes to signify some rank within their army, the creature’s lips were moving rhythmically, as though he were chewing something. The archmage assumed it must have been some grass or weed; the plainsmen were always chewing some sort of drug.
The other he had not seen before. Taller than the first by a head, this orc’s black hair was conservatively cropped and noticeably better groomed than the others he had seen, making Archmage Gandolfo feel a sense of relief to know they weren’t all so unkempt. He wore no armor, but a crude, sleeveless shirt and pants made from some animal’s hide and thick leather boots. Strings of beads and gems dangled from his shirt, probably some primitive display of wealth, but what caught the archmage’s attention was the tremendous axe he carried, shining silver in the light of the midday sun. The blade of the weapon gleamed with a pale yellow glow and the gilded handle was engraved with potent magical symbols.
The two orcs stopped in front of them and stood there, waiting expectantly. Nodding with as much respect as he could muster, the archmage forced a smile. He did not show his teeth, thinking it was best not to give the beasts any reason to believe they meant aggression, but the grip on his staff unconsciously tightened.
“I am in the presence of the great General Kretesh?” he asked.
“You are,” the orc replied in a soft and unusally articulate voice. “What is your business with me?”
At last, the wizard thought impatiently, but said, “I am Archmage Gandolfo, Second Councilor of the Crimson Tower Conclave. These are my attendants,” he motioned to the two wizards behind him and then gave them no more thought. “By the order of the Supreme Chancellor, High Archmage Picarro Calvino, you are hereby informed that . . .”
He cut off suddenly, noticing that General Kretesh was making an odd sound in his throat. To him, it sounded something like ‘ho ho ho’ - was the orc laughing at him? - and waving his hand in an odd gesture the archmage didn’t recognize.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, unable to keep the indignance out of his voice.
“State your business,” General Kretesh demanded brusquely. “Speak it plainly, I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Archmage Gandolfo’s hands ached for the white-knuckled grasp on his staff. Did these barbarians have no conception of the importance of convention? Could they truly be so crude as to not understand the proper means of showing respect for authority? It took every ounce of self-control to keep from scowling at the orc. His attendants, however, did not have as much discipline.
“You will show Archmage Gandolfo the respect he deserves,” said the one on his left.
To this, the orc called Belg laughed raucously. Turning to General Kretesh, he muttered something in their guttural tongue, then turned to the wizards and spat on the ground at the archmage’s feet. Though he knew his face would be sore the next day, he forced himself to continue smiling, but his attendants stared in horror at the brown blob on the ground.
“How dare you?” one of the attendants began, but Archmage Gandolfo raised a hand to silence him.
“If you wish me to be brief,” he said.
General Kretesh nodded and Archmage Gandolfo cursed silently. It had taken him over an hour to memorize his speech and now it was to be wasted, simply because these animals had no appreciation for the effort people put into their work. So uncivilized. And now he had no way of knowing for certain he covered all the important parts. He cursed silently again.
“We,” he paused, thinking of how to word it in such a way that General Kretesh could understand. “We seek an alliance with your people. We would like to hire mercenaries.”
The look of astonishment that passed between the orcs made the archmage feel sick to his stomach. Where they such a violent people that the concept of an alliance was beyond their comprehension? It was worse than he thought, if they were that bestial. He had warned the Tower Council that it was an outrageous mistake to approach the orcs.
The confusion on General Kretesh’s face changed slowly to wariness. “The other nations will look poorly upon such a treaty.”
This time it was Archmage Gandolfo’s turn to look astonished, try though he might to hide it. He had never expected them to understand anything so complex as international politics, but then, even monsters must understand the need for relations among their own kind. Still, a statement of such evolved intelligence was more than he ever expected from an orc.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “But we have reason to believe another war is on the horizon.”
“With Adun,” General Kretesh said.
Archmage Gandolfo continued as though there had been no interruption. “During the last war, Adun’s General, Hubert Von Housan, marched all over our land, unchallenged, for we did not have military power to hold them off.”
“Wuss,” Belg snorted.
General Kretesh gave the orc an angry glare and it quickly fell into silence. Archmage Gandolfo made a mental note to find out what that particular orc word meant - he assumed it was some sort of insult, but there was no point in ruining negotiations by making it an issue. He continued.
“If there is another war, we do not wish to repeat the same events. We wish to have your warriors to aid us.”
General Kretesh eyed him sideways. “You have wizards, many wizards, and they have none. What can they do against you?”
Archmage Gandolfo scoffed at the brutish notion. “The battlefield is no place for wizards. We are rulers, not soldiers. We do not sully our hands with the blood of our enemies like common . . .”
By the look on Belg’s face, the archmage wondered if he had misspoken. The beast scowled viciously, revealing the fangs of his lower jaw and growled. The creature turned to General Kretesh and spoke in its feral tongue and, for a moment, the general appeared to be considering the words - if they could be called that. Finally, he shook his head. The other began to protest, but he held up his clenched fist and it swallowed whatever it had been about to say.
“What do we gain from this alliance?” he asked.
Smiling, Archmage Gandolfo replied, “We are prepared to offer you a generous sum.”
“We have no need for gold,” the general interrupted. “There is nothing we can do with it, but we do need trade. As you can see,” he gestured to the fortress, “we do not have much and my people are not skilled in the ways of agriculture. Give us food, materials to build our encampments and forge our weapons and see to the needs of my soldiers while they guard your homes from foreign invaders,” he stopped a moment and appeared to be considering, then with a smile added, “and books.”
Archmage Gandolfo’s stomach tightened with apprehension. Did he truly expect them to share their knowledge of The Art with him? The secrets of arcane magic were theirs and theirs alone. Mere orcs had no right to it.
“What sort of books?” he said carefully.
“Any books,” the general replied.
The archmage relaxed visibly. “If that is all you desire, then consider it done.”
General Kretesh extended his hand. Suppressing a shudder, Archmage Gandolfo took it and shook. Suddenly, the general’s expression hardened and before the archmage could react, he was jerked forward and the orc’s hand closed on his throat, holding it firmly enough that he felt the pressure, but not enough to harm him. The attendants reacted by beginning to chant the words of their spells, but the archmage ordered them to hold and they stopped instantly.
“We have a bargain,” General Kretesh hissed. “In two weeks time, four battalions of my men will cross the borders into your land. At the same time, you will have everything you have promised me in payment, ready to be shipped back to us. If you fail, or if you refuse to show my men proper respect, we will kill you all. Remember, we are risking our lives to defend yours. You owe much to us.”
Archmage Gandolfo nodded weakly, forcing himself to smile. “It will be done. As to respect, my people will show it to you, so long as you do the same.”
General Kretesh released the wizard, then turned and strolled back into his fortress as proud as could be, clearly supposing he had got the better of them in the deal. Belg hesitated a moment, staring in disbelief at the wizards, then at the general and back again, then followed his leader. With a terrible screech, the gates slowly closed.
“Why did you tolerate that sort of treatment, Archmage Gandolfo?” one of the attendants asked.
“Had you give the word, we could have reduced the whole fortress to ash,” said the other. “Then they would have known to respect us.”
Archmage Gandolfo straightened his robes, smoothed his hair and took a deep breath to steady himself. His heart was still pounding in his chest, but at least the ordeal was over and everything had come out better than he expected. The Conclave would be pleased.
“A devil’s bargain?” he said to himself, almost laughing. “It isn’t the first Crimson Tower will have made and it certainly won’t be the last,” he turned slowly to his attendants, his grip tightening on his staff, “but we now have four battalions of orc warriors to defend our borders. If Adun thinks to invade us now, they will find it no easy task.” He suddenly lashed out, striking the attendant to his left with his staff on the side of the head. “Had your foolish comments ruined this alliance, I would have turned you into a hare and tossed you into a den of wolves. Make no mistake, it would mean nothing to me. If you ever speak out of turn again, you will regret it, but not long enough for it to matter. Understand?”
The attendant nodded, trembling from fear. Archmage Gandolfo looked back at the fortress one last time.
“Barbarians,” he said, spitting the word out as if it were a bad taste in his mouth.
After his meeting with the wizards, Kretesh felt a need to bathe. What terrible creatures they were, to stand by and watch their own people be slaughtered by invading armies when it was within their power to stop them. They had no sense of responsibility to the people they ruled. He would feel no remorse when he finally threw down the Tower Council and piked up their heads as a warning to future generations about what happens when you don’t serve your people.
“Permission to speak frankly, sir,” Beulg requested.
“Granted.”
As Kretesh opened the door to his room, tossing Spellreaver onto the bed and taking his seat on that much-to-small chair, Beulg ran his fingers through his hair and groaned in his throat, trying to think of how he wanted to say what was on his mind.
“Those men, they’re (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!)-breathed,” the major spat. “They open their mouths, but all that comes out is (Gibbering Mouther Ate Your Word!). You know, I hear Basalano women are made to stay ‘mah all their lives and they don’t even try to do anything about it.”
Kretesh considered correcting Beulg’s pronunciation again, but decided against it. He picked up his reading glasses from the end table and carefully fit them over his nose.
“It’s true. It’s likely worse than you’ve heard, as you may have gathered from the way they speak. They are a horrid people.”
“Then why?” Beulg demanded.
The general picked up his book and opened it to the page he had left off. “I know that you think I have made a bargain with a devil, Beulg, but you must understand, it is necessary.”
“But . . .”
Kretesh cut him off. “Because we need what they have to offer us. To bring together the wayward tribes of our people and teach them to be true warriors was child’s play. They needed only a strong leader who knew the right things to say to unite them, but we do not have the resources to launch our campaigns into the northern kingdoms. We barely have enough steel to arm half our men with proper weapons. Once those shipments come through, we will have more than we have ever needed.”
“I don’t know,” Beulg muttered. “I don’t trust them. That man, he made me think of a snake about to strike, only he didn’t have the decency to rattle his tail.”
Kretesh put his hand on Beulg’s shoulder and smiled. “Don’t trust them. That way, you’ll have an advantage over them when you lead my men into their kingdom. They’ll be expecting us to attack them at any time, but otherwise, they’ll trust us implicitly. They’ll never suspect that we are capable of such a cunning plan as I have laid out for them.”
Noting the hint of sarcasm in Kretesh’s voice, Beulg leaned forward intently. “What plan is that?”
“While you are defending their borders,” Kretesh explained, “you will also be observing them; both the Vaselliano and the Adun. Study their battle tactics and report them back to me, so that we can plan in advance how we will fight them. When the invasion of the northern kingdoms begins, we will know exactly how and where to strike. We will crush them in one swift blow, before they even have a chance to organize.”
Beulg grinned broadly, his scar livid. Standing straight, he saluted the general. “Thank you for this mission, sir. I will lead it with honor.”
“Good, good,” Kretesh replied absently, opening his book again and searching out his place in it. “Organize our forces, and tell First Lieutenant Rrkal that she is in command of this outpost for the time being. Unless we are under attack by enemy forces, I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” the major answered.
Kretesh waved him away and Beulg closed the door behind him. Sighing deeply, the general looked again at the picture in the book.
“The Warrior of Flame fights an orc, huh?” he said with a bitter laugh. Turning the page, he spat “Barbarians.”
