The lake lay still.
A mirror of glass, kissed by the morning sun and wrapped in willow’s shade. On its banks, where the soft wind danced through tall grass and the scent of wildflowers drifted like forgotten lullabies, a circle of women labored with laughter in their throats and suds on their hands. Their arms ached from scrubbing, but their hearts were light—fathers would return from the fields soon, and the children, wild as the river trout, shrieked and chased one another along the shoreline, barefoot and giggling.
It was a day untouched by war.
A day that would be devoured by it.
High above, in the hills wreathed in fog and vengeance, three shadows stared down at the peaceful scene. They were still as stone, perched like wolves before the pounce.
The middle rider shifted, his mount snorting and grumbling beneath him. It was no horse that bore this beast, but a massive war hog, scarred from countless battles, it's hide a tapestry of tusk-gouges and blade-scrapes. Its mouth foamed with impatience. It could smell the softness below.
And upon it sat Warmonger.
The War King of Dak'Mar. The Butcher of Blackreach.
He was massive even among his monstrous kin, nearly eight feet of corded muscle wrapped in spiked iron and ceremonial bone. Across his back lay Ar’Sul, the Obsidian Blade, a sword forged in demonfyre and quenched in the blood of kings. His shoulders bore ancient runes, carved into his flesh by hands long turned to ash, and glowing faintly with foul power. Few could read them. Fewer still lived after trying.
He looked down now at the town. The little lake. The women. The children.
And he smiled.
Only for a moment.
Then the smile vanished, smothered beneath the weight of discipline.
“This is the one,” he said softly, more to himself than his companions. His voice was a guttural thunder, the kind that could split skulls with the sound alone.
To his right, Wembe nodded. The War Master. One of the old blood. He was leaner, but no less cruel. His armor was lacquered black, and a necklace of severed ears hung from his chest like some perverse religious icon. Blue paint slashed across his face, a mark of the Shrieking Tribe, long devoured by Warmonger’s horde.
“Wembe,” Warmonger grunted, not turning. “Make the signal.”
Before Wembe could respond, the War King dug his heels into his hog’s sides and wheeled it around in a low, wide arc. The creature roared in protest and obeyed.
From behind them, the third figure chuckled.
“I sense a great victory today, my War King,” said Shermongrin, the Witch-Speaker, his voice oily with ambition.
Warmonger said nothing. He did not even look his way. That silence was colder than a blade.
Shermongrin flinched.
The snub was noticed.
Others would whisper.
And in Shermongrin’s soul, he added it to the list.
This would not be a battle.
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This would be a slaughter.
The town was a lamb tied to a butcher’s block—waiting, unaware, untouched.
“Don’t need armies to slaughter cattle,” a voice whispered.
Warmonger didn’t flinch.
It came from Ar’Sul, the demon-bound blade across his back. It hissed now with laughter, a noise like bone scraping on iron.
“Why not just walk down there?” it mused. “You and I alone could raze this place. Hours of blood. Screams. We’d feast like gods.”
Warmonger snarled low. “I could. But you miss the point, demon. This is for the emperor. Let him watch. Let him witness what happens when he hides behind walls while his people burn. I am not here for one village. I am here for vengeance.”
“And I,” purred Ar’Sul, “am here for souls.”
The orc king pulled hard on the reins, bringing his beast to a halt. He looked down from the hilltop—and there it was.
The Horde beneath him spread a living ocean of flesh and fury: thousands of orcs, goblins, trolls, ogres, and lizard-folk, all writhing in place with the eagerness of hounds before a hunt. Banners sewn from flayed skin and painted with the eye of Warmonger fluttered above the writhing mass.
Warmonger looked on satisfaction. Their blood was up. They were ready. He signaled to Wembe and returned to the ridge. A moment later he was joined by one hundred warriors. The chosen ones. Gutripper Clan. They would have the honor of the first kills. Wembe rode up to Warmongers left and Oogold joined him on the right. Shermongrin pushed his way through the throng of warriors, his bones clacking loudly. Warmonger looked down once more savoring the final moments.
A call rang out somewhere to his right. "Death to the humans!"
He did not turn to look. He did not have too.
Shermongrin stepped past him and slowly made his way down the line of warriors. As he walked, he smiled, a wicked, cruel gesture. None dared make eye contact. Good he thought. They knew their place. He studied each warrior as he strode by. Most were nervous, but they were not afraid. Then he spotted it. A warrior whose spear was shaking uncontrollably. He stopped right in front of the warrior and waited patiently for him to look up. After a few moments he obliged. Shermongrin savored the fear he saw in the warrior's eyes. Then suddenly, his head shot out. The hard bones in his forehead slamming down hard on the warrior's nose. Blood sprayed everywhere as the warrior dropped to the floor unconscious, his face a ruined mess.
Warmonger did not acknowledge the action. Instead, he turned to look at his warriors.
Some bore bone spears. Others wielded hammers, cleavers, axes made from the jaws of beasts.
Their armor was mismatched, stolen from fallen foes and reforged in swamp forges.
Their hunger was real.
Their hate—that was religion.
Wembe rode up beside his king and nodded once.”
“Make sure a few escapes,” Warmonger said. “So that the emperor knows his world ends in fire.”
He raised his sword, and the sky itself seemed to darken.
Down below, the wind shifted.
One of the women by the lake—Alissa, the butcher’s wife—cupped her hand against the sun and peered up toward the hills. Her boy, Henry, had wandered too far again, and she called after him.
“Henry! Don’t make me chase you, you little brute! Supper’s not going to cook itself—”
The boy wasn’t listening.
He was staring.
Eyes wide.
Mouth open.
At the hill.
Alissa turned.
Squinted.
And her heart fell into her stomach.
There were many shapes upon the ridge. Then she drew in a great gasp.
They were not men up there.
Not riders of the imperial watch.
They were green.
And massive.
“Oh gods,” she whispered.
“Henry—!”
She dropped the clothes. The whites, the linens, she had been soaking. All fell.
She ran. Screamed.
“ORCS! ORCS! WE ARE SET UPON—!”
But it was too late.
The horns blew.
Not one. Not two.
Dozens.
From every ridge, every forest edge, every path.
The Horde came roaring over the hills like the tide of the end times. War cries rose. Boulders rolled. Arrows darkened the sun.
Children scattered. Mothers screamed. A father ran with a shovel, only to be torn in half by a boar-rider’s charge.
Alissa reached Henry just as a net wrapped around her legs.
She shoved him forward.
“RUN!”
He did.
And the Horde rolled on.
From atop the hill, Warmonger watched with cold satisfaction. Fire had begun to spread. Screams were already rising. He saw a cluster of women try to form a line, wielding cooking knives and garden tools. Brave.
Pointless.
“I wonder,” murmured Ar’Sul, “will the Emperor weep when his precious lambs are gone? Or will he simply send more?”
Warmonger’s jaw clenched.
“No matter. I will carve my message upon his lands.”
Shermongrin stood at his side. He could not hide his smile.
Not yet.
The town would not survive this day.
But its ashes would speak.
And across the lake, as fire claimed the sky, and smoke danced with the clouds, a single small boy crept beneath the old pier, tears streaking his cheeks, clutching the bloody cloth of his mother’s apron.
He would live.
He would run.
And he would tell the tale.
Behind him Brask Hollow began to burn.
