Far to the northwest of Argren, beyond the jagged spine of the Dragon’s Tooth Mountains and the shadowed eaves of the Sylvanesti forests, the wind howled a lonely song across the vast treeless expanses of the Tusklands as the sun’s descent painted the sky in deepening crimson hues.
Grom, a young Orc barely into his second tusk-sharpening, was thrilled. It was by far the best week of the year. The Bloodied Axe clan had gathered at their ancestral Killing Ground – a shallow, bowl-shaped depression in the steppe, stained dark from generations of ritual sacrifice. The coppery tang of fresh blood, the roar of bonfires, and the guttural, boastful chants of his kin heralded the first day of the Festival of Slaughter.
Orcs and Orcesses clad in animal hides adorned with iron jewelry and bone trophies swaggered and roared, displaying their most prized catches from the past moon’s hunts. A hulking warrior named Grishnak dragged forward a massive, struggling plains-boar, and with a roar, slit its throat over the Cauldron of Skulls, its steaming blood mingling with the congealed remnants of past offerings, to the excited cheers of the crowd. Orcess Urga presented a brace of giant steppe eagles, their fierce eyes now glazed in death.
In past festivals, Grom had seen captives from rival tribes, or even the occasional human or dwarf foolish enough to wander too far, meet their end in the Cauldron. Strength was law, after all, and one-upmanship in slaughter the highest virtue. Grom himself had only managed a scrawny steppe-wolf this year, earning him a few dismissive grunts from the older warriors, a fact that still stung.
As the sun began to dip below the vast horizon, amidst the start of firelit dances and contests of strength, a low, distant rumble, like far-off thunder, intruded in this most holy of ceremonies. Heads turned. Chants died down. Chief Borok looked up, and his old facial scars reddened anew as his brow furrowed.
A cloud of dust from the east grew rapidly closer, resolving itself into a horde.
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Hundreds of Orcs, not of their clan, nor any of the familiar nearby tribes. Strangers heavily armored in black, ill-fitting plate. And they rode not the shaggy steppe ponies of the Tusklands, but massive, scaled lizards – basilisks, creatures usually found only in the deepest, most accursed canyons. The ground trembled beneath the thudding impact of their mounts’ clawed feet.
The basilisk riders fanned out, surrounding the Bloodied Axe clan’s encampment with a swift, disciplined precision.
At their center, riding a particularly fearsome basilisk adorned with polished skulls, was a figure smaller than Orcs, slender, delicate, robed from head to foot in shifting, shadowy silks writhing with a life of their own. Its face was hidden behind an impassive ivory mask.
Chief Borok, who feared no Orc, no beast, no creature of land, water or air, took an involuntary step back, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The other warriors of his kin gripped their weapons too.
The robed figure spoke, and a chill went down Grom’s spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. The melodic, beautiful voice of the stranger behind the mask carried an undercurrent of icy command. And it spoke their dialect perfectly, without accent or hesitation.
"Greetings, warriors of the Bloodied Axe," the melodic voice flowed from behind the disguise. "Chief Borok. Your strength is noted. Your ferocity commendable. But the world changes. A new wind blows across the steppes. A new banner is to be raised."
Chief Borok snorted, trying to regain his composure. "We fly no banner but our own, stranger! What business have you, disrupting our sacred festival with your lizards, what are you, you masked… thing?"
The robed figure seemed to uncoil slightly on its basilisk mount. The air grew colder. Even the crackling bonfires dimmed. "The Great Devourer awakens, Chief Borok. Its call echoes across the lands. The tribes gather. The Chained are marching."
Grom’s heart thundered as he saw fear flicker in Chief Borok’s one good eye.
"We bow to no one!" Borok bellowed.
The melodic voice chuckled, a sound like chimes of ice. "Bowing is not required, Chief. Only… allegiance. Contribution. You and your warriors will serve the Great Devourer. You will march under its shadow. You will share in the bounty of a world remade in its image. Or," the voice hardened, honed to a razor edge, "you will provide the first offering to its reawakening hunger. Your choice is… limited."
The heavily armored basilisk riders shifted, their weapons glinting in the firelight.
