David Dalglish - The Death of Promises

“I thought Gumgog,” Velixar said. “He seems capable enough.”

“Make him Warmaster,” Qurrah said. “But Trummug has heard the voice of Karak. He should be the Hordemaster.”

Velixar pondered over the decision. As he did, he watched Tessanna slice into her arm. The vicious cut splattered her dress with blood. Tears ran down her face, but she made no sound. When she caught him looking at her, she smiled.

“The cold makes it hurt more,” she said, her voice like the purr of a cat. “But the pleasure’s still there.”

“Indeed,” Velixar said, glancing back to Qurrah. “But will Lummug bow to his younger brother, I ask?”

“Of course not,” Qurrah said. “We are instituting a new era for the orcs. The old must go. Lummug will die, and Trummug will rule, with all the orcs worshipping the name of Karak.”

Velixar chuckled. “Very well. I will concede to your decision. Prepare the orcs to march. We have several more camps to collect before we reach Lummug’s.”

“Of course, master,” Qurrah said with a bow. The man in black bowed back, feeling his joy increasing. His apprentice had finally gained the confidence to argue back, to disagree, and not out of arrogance. His plan was a sound one. Any orc blessed enough to hear the words of Karak deserved to rule.

“Well done, Qurrah,” Velixar said as they entered the orc camp.

G umgog and Trummug didn’t just get along. They took to one another like brothers. The two were giants compared to the other orcs, and after an initial arm wrestling match, fist fight, and drinking competition, they were as close as any orcs would ever get. When Qurrah took them both aside to explain his plan, for Gumgog to be Warmaster and Trummug to be Hordemaster, both were thrilled beyond measure. They were also drunk beyond measure, which enhanced their reactions.

“But what, what about me brother?” Trummug asked. “He not like me being higher than him when me be smaller, and him older and he got this giant…what was me saying?”

“Your brother will bow to your reign,” Qurrah said, “or you will kill him in Karak’s name. Those are his choices.”

“I’ll beat him over the head for you,” Gumgog offered. “One good whack, kapow!” He smacked their table with his wooden arm. The weighted stone at the end smashed right through.

“You, you a good friend, orc,” Trummug said as he guzzled down his twentieth glass. “Good, good…” He vomited all over his chest. “Good friend. Kapow!”

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.