Koruk gingerly laid Moktark down on the bed of a wheeled cart. Several camels had been recaptured in the hills around town, but most of the carts would have to be pulled by teams of orcs. Sparing one last glance to his friend, he turned and went to retrieve Semthak and Kiwai.

  He found Semthak poking through the rubble of what had once been his home. The old orc had a faraway look in his eyes. Kiwai leaned against a wall opposite, nibbling something.

  “We’re about ready to go.”

  “How many can walk?” Semthak asked. He dropped a brick at his feet with a clatter.

  “Less than half. Many started falling ill after the battle. Others seem to have found their strength again. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Semthak nodded sadly. He looked towards the ugly tower, its shadow cast over them in the dawn light.

  “Did they find that human cart that was on patrol?”

  “No. Gone. Tracks lead west.”

  “They’ll be back. You’d be wise to leave those who can’t move. We’ll never make it to the mountains with that many.”

  “We’ll make it.”

  Semthak smiled mirthlessly.

  “I’ll hold you to it.”

  As they walked back to the staging area in the town square, they caught the eyes of all those they passed. Orcs engaged in smashing human machinery with bricks paused their rampage to look up at them. Orcs studying stolen human weapons cheered for them, firing their barkers into the air. Orcs salvaging the ruined town for food and supplies nodded at them.

  Their eyes were hard. Their posture was resolute. They shouted praise to Koruk, and shouts turned into a chant, reverberating through the ruined streets.

  “Giantkiller! Giantkiller!” the voices cried out.

  The town square was packed with thousands of bodies. They parted as Koruk passed, their expectant eyes upon him.

  “I think they want you to say something.” Semthak muttered.

  Koruk stopped, and washed his gaze over those thousands of faces. He cleared his throat.

  “They can be beaten! Do not despair! Find the strength within yourselves! Look to those who need you, and together, we will find safety, and when we return, we will find victory!”

  It wasn’t a very good speech, as far as they went, but it was good enough. The crowd roared in exultation, and redoubled their efforts. By noon that day every cart was packed with supplies and prostrate orcs, and every man and woman who could still stand was armed with knives, axes, barkers, and even bricks torn from the walls of buildings.

  And so they marched forth from Brittle Teeth, on the long road north. Many spared backward glances, but not a soul amongst them doubted that they would be back. Or they would die trying.

  “Look.” Kiwai said, pointing to the sky. A small black dot was visible, a tiny stream of cloud trailing behind it. The imp had sounded the alarm, and rushed to find Koruk. He was panting hard. Koruk turned way from Moktark’s sleeping form and the young women who were applying a wet compress to his forehead. “It’s flying low.”

  “Scatter! Find shelter where you can!” Koruk shouted. He dashed from wagon to wagon, yelling as he went.

  The orcs hastened to obey, carrying what wounded and sick they could as they abandoned the wagons and took cover behind rocks and barrell trees. There was precious little to hide behind since they cleared the last of the Brittle Teeth and entered the plains.

  Kiwai hopped nimbly behind a stray boulder, but Koruk never got a chance to reach him. There was a horrible screaming noise above him, and he instinctively hit the dirt mid stride as it passed over, and not a moment too soon. The ground under him shook as a serious of massive explosions threw up clods of dirt and fire into the air. When the dust cleared a bit, Koruk lifted his head, coughing.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Three of the wagons were gone, and several more overturned. All that remained of them were smoking craters. Bodies were strewn around where they fell, and not all of them got up again. Of the human’s death bird, there was no sign at all.

  “Moktark!”

  Koruk dashed toward the carts, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found Moktark’s intact. The big orc was awake, slumped against the side of the wooden vehicle along with the women.

  “Well little brother. I think that’s enough laying about for me.” Moktark said, smiling. He was looking better in spite of everything. Koruk helped him to his feet, and the warrior stood unsteadily, wavering about a bit. “Just need to get my… whoh.”

  Koruk caught Moktark as he nearly fell over.

  “I’m good little brother, just testing your reflexes.” Moktark laughed weakly. “Where are my axe and shield?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I can’t remember shit. Bits and pieces. Remember seeing you after we kicked the asses of those humans.”

  “You sure you’re alright?”

  “I’d feel better if I had my shield.”

  “We couldn’t find it. There wasn’t much time, but…”

  Moktark made an exaggerated frown that might have been comedic under any other circumstances.

  “Damn shame.” Moktark said, steadying himself on the wagon. “Don’t worry about me little brother. Go check on the rest. I’ll be fine. Honest.”

  Koruk lend what aid he could, and soon enough they were off again. From then on though, everyone kept at least one eye on the sky.

  It wasn’t to be the last of the aerial raids. As they travelled northwest through the plains, heading for the mountain pass, attack after attack came. And with each one, a few more orcs joined the halls of the honoured dead. The atmosphere in the caravan turned to frustration and anger, as the orcs could think of no way to come to grips with their foe who constantly harassed them. But still they continued on.

  More and more of the sick orcs recovered, although all of them suffered from amnesia about their experiences in the human-occupied city. Three in twenty did not wake up. They seemed to slip deeper into sleep, convulsing as if suffering a nightmare that would not end.

  “It doesn’t look good Koruk.” Semthak said between mouthfuls of bread. “Every day we lose more to the attacks, and every day we move slower. We aren’t going to make it.”

  Koruk said nothing, but simply stared into his soup bowl. He drained it, not even really tasting it. He felt so tired, and he realized suddenly he’d been up for days now. His sense of time was distorted, and nothing really felt real.

  “We have to leave them.”

  Koruk said nothing. He looked first to Kiwai. The imp nodded grimly, avoiding eye contact with him. He looked then to Moktark.

  “It’s what I would have wanted, y’know, if I was one of the unlucky ones. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of the deaths of everyone else.”

  Koruk dropped the bowl and held his head in his hands.

  “Koruk…” Semthak said.

  “I know, I know. I just…”

  “The gods will forgive you.” Kiwai said. “You saved many. Thousands. Let not the burden of their deaths be on your head, for without your acts of mercy they would share a fate far worse.”

  Koruk sat awhile longer, unmoving. He pushed through the exhaustion creeping into his mind.

  “Put weapons into their hands, and stand them up. Let them go out as warriors at least.” He said, finally. Semthak let out a breath. Moktark got to his feet.

  “I’ll see to it. With luck they’ll draw the enemy towards them. Get some sleep little brother.”

  Koruk was already asleep by the time he registered the last few words.

  They left the sleepers tied upright to stakes, trees, and rocks, and tied weapons into their hands that they would not drop them. A banner flapped in the breeze, bright yellow, depicting white teeth erupting from a plain. The army of the sleepers stood silent vigil, faces turned south, towards their former home.

  “May you find victory over your foes, and a good death.” Koruk said, turning away. The remnants of the caravan followed him. The remaining carts were abandoned with the sleeping heroes. The camels had long since been killed or fled from the sky raids. Close to ten thousand surviving orcs climbed up into the rocky foothills, heading for the promised safety of Orcus’s Claws.

  The attacks from the sky slowed, and they had grown so adept at spotting them that by now only a handful of orcs died with every bombardment.

  Two weeks later, after a gruelling forced march, they finally reached the camp of the Rock Crushers, nestled at the mouth of a yawning chasm in the cliff faces of the Claws. Sentries called for them to halt, and rushed to get Hemust.

  When the Rock Crusher warchief emerged from the camp, he was greeted not by the band of warriors he sent out, but by a grim faced army that filled the entire valley.

  “Well.” He said, hefting his warhammer to his shoulder. “You’ve been busy.”