A thin lance of light parted the clouds overhead, and split open the heavens. Lightning danced through the sky, and rain evaporated into clouds of mist that swirled and played like mischievous spirits around the shaft of radiance. It made no sound, save the rumble of thunder, and faded away after less than a second, leaving a halo on Moktark’s eyes. Beyond the ring formed in the rainclouds, he could see the twinkle of stars overhead. Some of those stars were moving, leaving streaks through the void as they fell to earth in a cascade.

  Then the rain began to fall with a vengeance. It splattered on the dry, charred ground, extinguishing fires and turning ash and dust to mud. Rivulets turned into rivers, all flowing downhill toward the Blue Run river. Toward Zernthod.

  The orc realized he had fallen to his knees. Blood and grime ran off his body in the cool deluge. The dead human lay still beside him, his unseeing eyes staring upward as though waiting for something that would never come.

  Gradually, Moktark pulled himself to his feet. He felt weary. His arm hung limp at his side. He noticed the sounds of battle had subsided, and the field lay silent around him. Frightened eyes looked at him expectantly.

  He cleared his throat, and let out a howl which cut through the night, and thousands of other voices took it up and echoed it.

  He smiled. They had won the day.

  When he led the horde into what was left of Zernthod, he was greeted by an honour guard lining the crumbling streets awaiting him. They stood aside to let him pass, their grubby faces bowed in respect. Most were injured, but looked as if they had been given a new lease on life. Through the grime and the rain, it was hard to distinguish which tribes they belonged to. They all seemed to meld together into one homogeneous whole.

  A broad figure stepped forward from the assembled host to greet their liberator.

  “You honour us with victory this day, Great Warchief. Warchief of Warchiefs.” He said. It took Moktark a moment to recognize his face.

  “Avol!” Moktark grinned at his old mentor, but his joy was not returned in kind. The chief of Wit’thod looked as though he had aged 50 years in a day, and his once mirthful face looked hollow. His eyes stared straight ahead, as though looking through Moktark’s soul. It disturbed Moktark to see the chief like this, but he rallied quickly. “It is good to see the White Moons still live. Where are our people, we must bring news of our victory to them!”

  “All that remain are here, along with the rest of the Northern Tribes. White Moon, Beast Tamer, Bloodmaw, Shattered Storm, Soot Serpent…” Avol said, his voice sounding distant. “Together we held the city. We held as long as we could.”

  “Had your hearts not been so firm, had the humans not been so focused on your defiance, we would not have gotten the drop on them. This victory is as much yours as ours, Avol. Take heart.” Moktark said, putting his hand on Avol’s bony shoulder. The old orc’s expression softened as Moktark pulled him in to a hug.

  “We are cowards.” Avol said, his voice a cracking whisper. Moktark felt wet tears on his shoulder. “Our homes are lost, our people enslaved. We fled to the walled city, and left them behind.”

  “Then they will be freed! Just as the humans have been broken here, shall we shatter them across all our lands. Allies from beyond the sand sea, the imps, are coming to our aid even now. We shall drive the invaders into the sea!”

  Avol nodded sadly.

  “This isn’t the time for this ugly talk. Come on. Let’s celebrate our victory. Together.”

  As the two armies mingled and caroused, telling war stories and sharing food and drink, Semthak picked through the ruins of his home. It was barely recognizable. The great works of art of his tribe, the furnaces, the causeways full of shouting merchants… all lost. The rain washed over the empty streets, tinged red with the blood of orc and human alike.

  The old orc seated himself on a head of a fallen statue, and rested his face in his hands.

  “Why did I come back here?”

  Overhead, the falling stars streaked through the clouds, tailing towards the damp earth below.

  Kiwai gazed at the collapsed remains of the temple with a mix of awe and horror. Every now and then it settled a little with a rumble, but otherwise lay still. Koruk thought even the strange luster had gone out of the stone, which seemed dull against the beating sun, and the sand which had been held back for eons by some strange magic was slowly starting to bury it. In a few years, he doubted anyone would even know this place existed.

  “Is it over?”

  Koruk pondered the question. He noticed Oben staring up at the sky, and cupping his hand over his eyes, Koruk looked to the sky. Thousands of small fireballs were silently streaking across the blue empyrean, toward the east. Dragon’s eggs, he realized.

  “No. I think things are only just getting started.”

  Koruk turned to the sandskimmer, and his thoughts turned toward the long journey home.

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  The eggs began to disgorge their living cargo, who were born again in an alien world. But as the humans strained their eyes against the harsh red sun, they were greeted with no friendly sights. The vanguard force never arrived to pick them up and take them to their new homes of steel and concrete where they would live and work. Instead, they were greeted by levelled spears and gun barrels, held by those strange creatures who were to be their slaves.

  While the bulk of the newly united orcish horde and their impid allies rounded up the confused and scared human colonists, Warchief Moktark took a small force to scout the fallen holds and villages, and drive out any remaining resistance.

  He needn’t have worried. In every case, what few humans remained fled their posts, abandoning their equipment and running into the hills. Breaking the human army at Zernthod seemed to have broken the to fight of their entire force, as though it was the string holding together their organization. All that remained were a few desperadoes and cowards, who looked to their own well being. Moktark let them go. He had no stomach for more fighting.

  There was no triumph. No feeling of victory as they entered the ruins of their former homes. In every case, the situation was the same. Those who had been captured by the humans were listless and confused, and when they were separated from the drugs used to control their minds, swiftly fell into comas. Unlike those in Brittle Teeth though, these orcs had been under the influence for far longer, and had grown too dependent. The light had gone out from their eyes for good. Nine in ten never woke up again.

  Moktark understood how close he had come to losing himself, and he understood there would be no saving these broken people. He would ensure that the fallen did not die in dishonour. He hefted his axe, and together with his warriors, he began his grisly task.

  Koruk stayed the vengeful hands of the orcs, and the human colonists were spared the brutality their people had inflicted upon the people of the lands they intended to steal. But, there was no food to feed so many, and no will to see their faces. It was decided that they would be exiled into the desert. The imps said that they knew of a land beyond the sands, and would lead them to their new home far away from Orc’gar, where hopefully they would never cause trouble again. Their technology was stripped from them, and they set out with only the clothes on their backs.

  Oben found himself cast out with them. His guilt and betrayal could not be overlooked, but Koruk and Moktark were unwilling to kill their old friend. His name never crossed their ears again. Drake would eventually become a popular villain in children’s tales told around orcish fires, but the man himself fell into obscurity.

  Not all humans were allowed to leave. Under Semthak’s direction, all those who were thought to participate in the drugging and enslavement of the orcs were captured, and one by one brought into a small dimly lit room, with only a table and two chairs.

  The old orc dropped a heavy barker onto the table, eliciting a squeal of panic from the frail human across from him. He sat heavily down in the chair, reenacting the ritual that had become habit now after a dozen times. The human avoided his gaze, eyes fixated on the weapon.

  “Now then.” Semthak began. “Let’s go over this again. Tell me how this thing works.”

  The orc claimed many great prizes from what would be known as the Sky Demon War. Barkers, vehicles, and many strange devices of unknown purpose fell into their hands. But the barkers soon ran out of ammunition, and the vehicles soon ran out of fuel, becoming useless but stylish trophies to be hung in the halls of champions. Most of the human artefacts though were confiscated by the soot shamans, who would preserve and study them, making great strides in the field of metalworking. In only a few short years, metal tools of bronze and iron became common household implements, and soon every orc enjoyed the comfort of cooking with iron pans, fishing with iron hooks, and fighting with iron axe. The shamans developed many strange engines as well, catapults and cranes, moving ferries and pulleys that could lift many times what an orc could hoist on his own. They mixed also many chemicals which fizzled and sparked and sent up plumes of smoke, to the great delight of the shamans and the concern of anyone else who happened to be watching.

  The surviving orcs remained unified under the banner of the Broken Tooth Horde, and a new great hall was raised in Wit’thod to deal with the complexities of inter-tribal politics. Its purpose was not to take the sovereignty of the tribes or keep them from occasionally warring, but to provide a unifying bulwark and culture to which every orc could look in times of strife and need. The Horde became a symbol of their shared destiny, and seated on a grand throne in front of that symbol was Moktark, Warchief of the Horde. His word was law, and his axe was justice. He ruled well for many years, and his people enjoyed a period of peace and rebuilding.

  The humans it was said, would build a new kingdom far to the west, across the desert. They lost most of their science and technology, retaining few of the splendors they they had once enjoyed. They did however, keep the knowledge of gunpowder, and the winds told of fierce wars that would break out amongst them frequently, dividing their kingdom up into smaller and smaller independent holdings. They seldom spoke to outsiders, and traded only a little with the imps. Gradually, their very existence would pass into the realm of distant memories, and eventually legends.

  As for the imps, they returned to their secluded existence amongst the sands, raiding and trading with orcs and humans alike as they saw fit. The raids on the orcs took on an almost ceremonial aspect, with little loss of life on either side.

  Koruk’s ears twitched as one such raid disrupted the peace of the oasis. The fish he was attempting to lure to his rod bolted as something splashed into the calm water beside him. An orc sprinted away toward his sandskimmer shouting in triumph, his arms filled with booty, as a pair of imps hurled stones and curses after him.

  “It was a mistake to lead your kind here. Now look at what we have to deal with!” Kiwai shouted, ducking a toppled basket of fish as the imps charged past the dock.

  “Ah, it’s just payback for last time. I’m upset that they scared my fish though.” Koruk said, looking wistfully at his rod. He sighed and picked up the basket with his catch. It would still be a tasty meal.

  The orcish raiders had made it back to their sandskimmer, and were trying to unfurl the sail while fending off angry villagers. The mock battle put a grin on Koruk’s face, and reminded him of old battles and adventures.

  His adventuring days were over though, or so he hoped. He had had enough of dodging bullets and rocks and magic. When Moktark and Avol had offered him the position of chief of Wit’thod, he had declined. Let someone else sort out that chaos, he thought. I’ve done my part in saving the world.

  “Are you coming? The caravan from Brittle Teeth is coming in tonight, they’re going to want to be fed in exchange for news.” Kiwai called. Koruk turned away as the orcish sandskimmer peeled away into the desert, its deck laden with silks and fruit. Not his fruit, of course. They knew where Koruk’s house was and wouldn’t dare rob him. A perk of being a hero of legend, Koruk supposed.

  Koruk hefted his fish basket, and thought about what to make for dinner.

  The End.