Editorial Pre-Chapter Note: A very short chapter today, but alas, there was nothing more to say, dear readers. Enjoy what this chapter lacks in elaboration by considering its implications. After all, who else was sent to this world?
High Shaman Karthrack let the singsong voice of the prophet wash over him across the flames of the ritual campfire. Garin, the Green.
What tale paints me a picture of victory? Of glory?
Karthrack felt more kinship with the flames than with their glorious leaders. For it is I who will ensure that this plan goes down in a blazing inferno.
He tilted his head back, studying the orc—the creature that had brought so much suffering to this world, the creature responsible for this war, this genocide. The creature who had given him his opportunity to make things right.
Garin stopped speaking, and Taruk, his elder brother—scarred and marked by decades of war—took over, discussing which Avatars were expected to manifest during the Battle of the Citadel. It was clear whose fate he would carry—that of the orcish aspect of war, the Infernal Drum. He had the symbols of the divinity tattooed deep into his skin, scars and tattoos mixed into a picture of vicious beauty.
Karthrack thought back to his other life, when he had lived in New York, worked on Wall Street. How blind I have been.
He thought back to the World Tree—a communion of spirits spanning half a world—cut down by the System’s slaves for daring to resist. That wound had never healed. It was the fire that burned in him still.
He touched the itching outgrowths on his skin, where black bark was growing over flesh, scabbing across his body. The Black Tree. The new way.
Two artifacts lay heavy in Karthrack’s satchel as Taruk worked himself up in a frenzy, extolling orcish combat virtue—conveniently forgetting goblin kind served as combat slaves for them. Cavalry. Labor
Karthrack’s face remained a mask of perfect equanimity. Even I was nothing more than a beast of burden to them—but their green bastard of a prophet would have his comeuppance.
The artifacts—they marked the beginning and zenith of his story. The white pearl that had been with him when he awoke in this world, granted by the strange System-Corruption, claiming to be an entity from the past. A much more recent past. He hadn't been able to put together all the pieces, but this was the far future. 60,000 years ago the system had come to this star. Earth, or as linguistic drift had altered the term, Urf was nothing but a distant legend. He knew there were others from Earth here. And now those two new entities from before the system. He had talked to at least three of the earthlings, and knew he hadn’t been chosen for the next part of the shadow entities plan.
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He suppressed a smile. But I can’t be blamed for taking a peek.
But first—he smiled and nodded as he was addressed. A mission for the shamans. A spell. The spell he had suggested. Taruk was smart enough not to make it a fulcrum of his plan, but even being given the power of the ritual in a side role would be sufficient.
The other artifact—a plain brass-rod, no longer than ten inches—rested heavy in his pocket. Its surface was engraved with draconic script so dense that none of the poor magnification glasses of this world had allowed him to read it. The dragons had used it to slay the dwarven kings. A shiver ran down his spine at the memory of that fallen civilization.
He looked around at the dozens upon dozens of powerful System-blessed adventurers in the room and smiled. The weapon I will use to kill all of you. Well—at least those who only use magic as a tool. It can be circumvented, after all.
He smiled, making it seem as if he was agreeing with Taruk. I hope you die screaming, and may the humans choke beside you—I can’t decide which of you I despise more.
A victory would be won on this day. Taruk was right in that. Neither for greenskins nor paleskins—this would be nature’s victory, for the beauty of life he had only learned to serve in this world. My second chance.
The council broke up, and as he maneuvered through meaningless conversations, he caught more than one warrior’s suspicious glance. Too many eyes lingered. Too many silences followed him. He left the cordon of warriors who gave him disapproving looks. Orcs, to a man. No mere goblin would be allowed so close to this holy circle. At least not one below such a station as his.
Martak was waiting on the other side. One of his disciples. One of the dumber ones. A disposable pawn. Because that’s what he needed today.
Still, a shiver went down his spine as he reached into the satchel and extracted the white pearl, wrapped in leather cloth. He had held onto it for decades. Only to hand it to this sorry excuse for a shaman.
“You are to open this package only when you have arrived at the location. The old tower. You understand that? Good. You will dig wherever it is most bright. You have the pickaxe?”
“Yes.”
“Bring me a shard of the sphere of the object you find. Do not destroy it totally. Repeat my instructions.”
Martak stammered, repeating the instructions with enough errors to make Karthrack’s teeth clench. One mistake, and the oath could damn them all.
The High Shaman walked on toward his other disciples and apprentices. Five groups. They would target the city’s sub-crystals. A ritual to poison the earth—for the enemy—to make any advancement they gained meaningless.
At least that was what he had told the Prophet and his thrice-cursed brother. We’ll see what will be meaningless in the end.
Involuntarily, his fingers went into the satchel and he clutched the draconic weapon. He allowed himself a long, suffering breath.Time to speak with the only other exile from his world, his time—the mad German.
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