The wind howled across the desolation, a mournful dirge that carried the whispers of the dead. The Red Wastes stretched before them, an endless expanse of cracked earth and shifting dunes, as though the land itself had been burned hollow. What little grew here was twisted, gnarled—blackened husks of trees long since stripped of life.
Borgrim Blackmane stood at the edge of the wreckage, his thick arms crossed over his barrel chest, his once-proud beard now matted with brine and ash. His uncle, Baeric Khazul, knelt beside him, running a calloused hand through the red sand, letting it slip between his fingers as he murmured a prayer to the Forge-Father.
"We have nothing," Varnic muttered darkly, kicking a splintered plank that had once been part of their ship. "No steel, no provisions, and the gods only know what lurks beyond those dunes."
"Ashblood orcs," Thordrek grumbled, his voice like grinding stone. "Savages. They'll scent us before we even set foot past the first rise."
"Then we don't give them a reason to," said Gorim, Baeric's son, younger but no less grim-faced. "We go unseen."
Laughter, sharp and mirthless, cut through the dusk. It was Yaraq, the elder warrior, his features worn as weathered stone, his beard streaked with gray. "Unseen? There is no such thing in the Red Wastes, lad. The sand betrays all. The wind carries the breath of those who do not belong."
Khaltar spat into the dust, his dark eyes flicking toward the horizon. "Aye, and if we do not move, we die here just the same."
"And where would you lead them, Khaltar?" Rahotep's voice was as steady as it was severe, his captain's bearing unshaken despite their ruin. He was a hard man, one who had known both war and loss, but never once had he surrendered to either. "There is no safe path."
"There is no safety," Reza murmured. "Only the path forward."
Hadeefa, the elder woman, nodded. "She speaks true. We do not have the luxury of debate. The night will bring cold that will turn our bones to ice, and we have no fire to keep it at bay."
Arianne stepped forward then, her hunter's instincts guiding her words. "The dunes will shelter us from sight, but only if we move now. We can travel under cover of darkness, avoid the open flats where the orcs hunt."
"And if they find us?" Nadra, young but fierce, clenched her fists. "We have no weapons."
Soraya, standing beside Zahra, glanced down at the children by her side. "Then we pray they do not."
Borgrim exhaled heavily, his voice rumbling like a forge. "Prayers won't stop an orc's blade, but steel will." His hand clenched as if grasping for the weapon he no longer had.
Baeric grunted. "Then we find steel."
Their voices clashed like steel upon steel, sharp words cutting through the desert air. Borgrim and Rahotep stood firm in their argument, one demanding action, the other caution. Yaraq growled his discontent while Khaltar swore under his breath. The women, though silent, exchanged wary glances—every moment lost to debate was another moment closer to death. Then, the horn blew.
A deep, guttural sound, raw as the breaking of earth, filled the night air. It rolled over the dunes like the voice of an angry god, drowning their argument in its wake. It was no mere signal—it was a war cry, a call to slaughter. All turned toward the source.
From the crest of a blood-red dune, shadowed against the twilight, they came. Ashblood Orcs—tall, hulking creatures, their flesh a sickly gray, marked with dark veins that pulsed with the corrupt fire of their kind. Their tusks jutted from their jaws like broken swords, and their eyes burned ember-red, aglow with hunger and hatred. Their armor was crude but cruel, jagged plates of scavenged metal and bone, adorned with the sigils of their warbands—symbols of conquest, of butchery, of a hundred cities left to smolder in ruin.
And beneath them, their mounts. Twisted beasts, monstrous and unnatural, their bodies a grotesque fusion of reptile and nightmare. Dreadmaws.
Six-legged horrors with elongated skulls, rows of dagger-like teeth lining jaws that dripped with black ichor. Their bodies were covered in thick, spiked scales, their backs lined with bony ridges that jutted out like the remains of a half-buried skeleton. Their breath was rancid, a fetid stink that promised rot and death, and their clawed feet dug effortlessly into the loose sand as they thundered forward.
The orc leading them—broader than the rest, his skull crowned with jagged iron—raised his axe and bellowed, his voice carrying over the desert like a curse "The weak shall feed the strong!"
Then they charged. The Ashblood Orcs moved like wolves, circling, waiting for weakness. Their dreadmaws hissed and snapped, tongues flickering, their jagged teeth slick with spit.
Borgrim's hands clenched into fists, fury igniting in his blood. No steel, no axes, no shields—but he would not die kneeling. "Fight, damn you!" he roared, charging at the nearest orc.
The brute grunted in surprise as Borgrim slammed into him, fists striking hardened muscle. But it was like punching a mountain. The orc snarled and swung a meaty arm, sending Borgrim sprawling into the sand. The others moved in.
Baeric tried to wrest a blade from one of them, but the orc kicked his legs out, slamming him into the ground. Thordrek swung a broken piece of wood like a club, only to be grabbed by the throat and lifted off his feet.
Arianne, once a hunter, lunged for an orc's belt, reaching for a dagger. The orc twisted, caught her wrist, and threw her aside. Nadra fought like a wildcat, biting, clawing, but a mailed fist struck her temple, and she crumpled.
One by one, they fell. It was not quick, nor was it merciful. The Ashbloods did not slaughter them outright—death was not their intent. They beat them, bound them in rusted chains, and drove them forward, prodding with spear hafts. The march was endless.
They walked through the night, through dunes that swallowed the moonlight, through cracked salt flats where the bones of ancient beasts lay half-buried. The wounded staggered. The weak fell. But the orcs did not stop.
Then, as dawn bled across the horizon, they saw them. The Pillars of Suffering. Jagged monoliths of blackened stone, rising like the ribs of some long-dead titan. They loomed over a vast canyon, where the earth itself seemed to weep—thick mist clung to the ground, veiling what lay below. But the screams carried.
Borgrim saw them first. Figures, dozens, hanging in chains from the pillars, their bodies ravaged by sun and storm. Some still lived, writhing weakly. Others were long dead, their flesh dried and cracked.
A fate worse than death. The Ashbloods growled in their guttural tongue, shoving their captives forward. Through the towering monoliths of suffering, where the air reeked of blood and torment, he stood. Khargul the Ashen. A titan, even among the Red Orcs.
Where his kin were giants, he was a mountain. His skin, dark and cracked like scorched earth, bore the scars of a hundred battles. Tusks the size of daggers jutted from his jaw, and his armor—stitched together from the hides of slain beasts and plated with black iron—seemed more like a fortress than mere war-gear. The orcs feared him. The captives knew why.
He stepped forward, his heavy boots sinking into the ash-laden ground, his crimson cloak fluttering behind him like the banner of a dying sun. The Ashblood warriors growled in reverence, lowering their heads. One of them grabbed Borgrim by the hair, forcing him to kneel. Khargul leaned down.
His breath was hot as a forge, his deep-set eyes burning like embers in a pit of shadow. Then, in a voice like distant thunder, he spoke—low, guttural, ancient. "Weye uhlu ani k'oth, ma sawó riga wuro do?"
The words slithered into their ears, alien and unreadable. None understood. None except the orcs.
But they felt its weight. He was not asking them. He was testing them. Rahotep swallowed, his brow furrowed in defiance, but he dared not speak. The others remained silent.
Khargul waited. Then he exhaled, standing to his full, monstrous height. He turned to his warriors and repeated the words in their guttural tongue. Then, a cruel grin split his cracked lips, and in the common tongue, he translated"What brings the weak to the land of the strong?"
None dared speak. The weight of Khargul's words pressed upon them like a storm rolling over the dunes. The air was thick with the stench of death, the iron scent of old blood clinging to the wind.
Borgrim's fists clenched, his jaw tight. He was a warrior. A son of the forge. He had stood against beasts and men alike, but never had he felt the weight of death press so close. They did not need to ask what would happen if they answered wrong. They only had to look.
The caverns beyond the pillars yawned like the gaping maw of some ancient beast, and within its depths lay the truth—a charnel house of skulls and bones, stacked high as a warlord's throne. Some were brittle, blackened by time. Others still bore scraps of flesh, gnawed clean by whatever horrors lurked in the darkness.
This was not a war camp. This was a slaughterhouse. A single mistake, a single wrong word—and they would join the dead. Baeric's knuckles turned white where his hands were bound. Nadra trembled, but her eyes still burned, defiant. Even Yaraq, the eldest among them, remained silent. Khargul watched them. Studied them.
Then he chuckled, low and deep, like the rumble of distant thunder. "No words?" he mused in the common tongue, his voice thick with amusement. His tusks gleamed in the dying light. "Perhaps you are wise. Perhaps you know what becomes of those who lie."
He raised a hand, and one of the orcs growled a command. A prisoner—one they did not recognize, a man from another caravan long lost to the dunes—was dragged forth, kicking and thrashing. He was weak, his body battered and broken, but his eyes were wild with fear.
"No! No, please!" the man begged, his voice hoarse. "I—"
The orc shoved him forward. Khargul did not even draw his blade. He simply reached out with his massive hand, gripped the man's skull—And crushed it.
Bone split like dry wood. The body slumped, twitching, as the warlord let the corpse fall at his feet. Blood pooled into the sand, swallowed up like a sacrifice to the Red Wastes.
Khargul wiped his hand on his cloak, his eyes flickering back to his captives. "Speak now. Or feed the Pillars."