Chapter 1: Haizen

My father told me you can’t trust anything save the metal in your hand. That’s always stuck with me.

I can almost hear his voice even now as I practice forms with the stout battle ax in my hands. The magic has mostly faded from the blue-gray metal. The rich engravings were done by a hand far more skillful than an orc craftsman. My father believed it had been won from the hands of a Dark Elf by one of our ancestors back on Protheka.

The legends say the ax could once be thrown, and would return to the wielder. That no longer functions, if indeed it ever did. Some tales grow with the telling. Sometimes I wonder at the stories told about Dark Elves, if they could really be as capricious and cruel as they were made to sound.

The Crimson Sun Clan fortress is, I’m told, a former penitentiary for humans to imprison other humans. Orcs do not imprison their criminals. It’s death or exile in most cases. I will admit, however, that the former prison makes for an excellent fortress Thick stone walls, and a high hedgerow which has a steel fence at its core, protect our kith and kin from the other clans, and the wild beasts which roam our adopted land.

There are some orc compounds where the walls are meant to hold people in rather than out. Not so in the Crimson Sun. Chieftain Malik has instilled a sense of propriety and justice rare among our people.

Many of our kind, even those from different clans, seek out my counsel. Haizen the Just, they call me. I hate the title with a passion normally reserved for battle. When I hear footsteps beating the pavement outside the training area, I assume it’s another case of that.

A young orc warrior, his limbs still spindly with youth, rushes into the ivy-strewn walls of the training area. The grave expression on his face makes me drop my practice immediately and turn to him.

“What’s wrong, Khulch? You look as if you’ve seen a Dark Elf.”

“It’s Chieftain…” he pants heavily, struggling to regain his wind. “Chieftain Malik has…”

“Calm yourself, boy.” I bury the head of my ax into a stout wooden stump. The handle vibrates for a second as I turn toward the water barrel in the corner of the training area. I ladle some water into a wooden bowl and bring it to him.

“Drink,” I command. My words carry the weight of my being second in command of the clan. As soon as the water touches the boy’s lips, he realizes how thirsty he is. He drains the bowl in one go, gasping as he sets it down on the sun drenched stones.

“Now that you have your wind and your wits back, tell me what has happened.”

“Chief Malik and his party were ambushed on their way back from a meeting with the Skyfire and Blackstone clans.”

My eyes narrow. The summit was an important one. Now that Dark Elves had appeared on this new world, called Earth by the humans, it was only a matter of time until they established a foothold.

It presents a threat to all of the clans. I push that terrifying but not immediate concern out of my head in favor of my chieftain’s wellbeing.

“Does Chief Malik still live?”

“He lives, but has fallen into a slumber from which he cannot be awakened.”

I curse, kicking the wooden bowl across the training area. It strikes the ivy-covered wall and cracks in two. The bifurcated halves lay toppled on one another, drops of moisture glittering like jewels in the sun.

“I knew I should have gone in his stead. This is all my fault.”

“Haizen?” he cocks his head to the side. “How is it your fault? The Chief insisted he be the one to go.”

“I could have talked him out of it.” I clench my hands into fists. “I didn’t try hard enough to convince him.”

Malik is a venerable Chieftain. He does not swing an ax or a sword as quickly as he once did, but his mind remains sharp as ever. Even so, there’s another reason why protecting Malik is so vital.

He’s the last of the Originals, the Orcs who came through the portal from Protheka. If he dies, so does a vital link to our heritage.

I run to the Chieftain’s quarters, a large dwelling at the top of a stone tower. When I ascend the staircase, I hear the sounds of voices raised in anger.

Gripping my ax, I rush to the top of the tower and enter the chief’s chambers, my bare chest heaving. I find the Chief laying in his bed, eyes closed, his head and chest heavily swaddled. Our shamans have lost the power to heal with magic, and they can’t handle some wounds.

The source of the arguments turns out to be three orcs, not so venerable as Malik but far older than myself. Normally, I respect their wisdom. On this occasion, I find it difficult.

An orc with one eye and half his hair burned away raises his fist in the air and shakes it.

“The two of you are weak, and have not seen battle in many summers. Droig has seen battle not a moon ago. I should be the one to lead the tribe.”

“You couldn’t lead shit out of your own ass,” replies an orc with his hair in long, thick braids. “You are not old enough to possess the wisdom needed to lead our people.”

The third orc, who had a brightly dyed swath of hair down the center of his head, laugh heartily.

“No one will follow an uncharismatic bore like yourself, Rav.”

“Like they will follow your banner, Kalem.”

“Enough!”

My bellow silences their nattering. I stride among them, fixing each with a withering glare.

“Our chieftain still draws breath, and you dare to seize power for yourselves? Our ancestors dream of  you with regret and shame.”

Droig dares to scowl back at me.

“He breathes, aye, but is there anything left inside the body? Malik may very well be like a popped seed pod. Empty on the inside.”

“Chief Malik to you,” I growl. “He has yet to make a decision on his heir.”

“And are we to assume it will be you?” Rav scoffs. “A mere stripling?”

“You are to assume nothing. Our chief still lives. He still leads.” My tone dares him to challenge me.

Kalem’s laugh splits the air. I turn to him and find that he’s lounging casually against the wall, looking quite full of himself.

“The point is moot. My forces are moving toward this tower right now to make sure that our chieftain rests peacefully.” His smirk draws a growl from deep in my throat. He chuckles and gestures toward one of the windows looking out on the fortress. “Take a look for yourself. I have a dozen loyal orcs.”

“Thirty?” Droig sneers. “You bribed them, surely. Besides, your mere thirty men are no match for the twenty loyal retainers I also have marching on this tower.”

Rav gets a dejected look in his eyes. I think he regrets not having his own forces do just the same thing.

“You’re using our Chief’s weakest moment to claim power for yourselves?” My voice rises with anger.

“Give it up, Haizen.” Droig gives me a contemptuous look. “If you wanted power for yourself, you should have gathered men of your own.”

I give him my blackest stare, and he has the good sense to blanch.

“I do not seek power. I seek to protect my Chief. And what good are your forces…if they are all dead?”

I march over to the Chief’s weapons rack and draw out a basket of javelins.

“What are you going on about?” Droig’s voice carries a note of panic. “You are mighty indeed, Haizen, but you cannot defeat more than thirty orcs.”

I move to the doorway which leads to the catwalk surrounding the tower’s top level. When Droig does not move aside I knock him to the floor with my shoulder. I do not even slow down.

I step out into the sun, squinting against its brightness. To the west, I see the dozen or so men Kalem has hired. To the north, an approaching mob of Droig’s followers.

I turn toward the smaller group. Best get the small fry out of the way first. I hefted a javelin and sized up the distance.

I let it fly, a black streak against the azure sky. It arcs downward, dropping tip first toward the advancing orc traitors.

The javelin’s tip takes out an Orc in the middle of their ranks. It slides in through his throat, spearing through his body at an angle to emerge on the other side. The orc topples, but the javelin holds his limp body upright as blood froths from his mouth.

Before the approaching Orcs even comprehend what’s going on, I’ve let three more javelins fly. The orcs scatter, trying to take cover. One of the javelins shatters its metal tip on the stone of our fortress. The other two sink home into flesh, nourishing the ivy with a rain of blood.

I turn to the other approaching group. I hurl the remaining javelins, thinning out their ranks until they, too, seek cover.

I come back into the tower to find that Rav is the only elder remaining. The other two have no doubt fled to join their decimated factions. Which one do I slay first?

I choose the larger group. When I charge around the corner and spot them coming down the avenue, I heft my ax in two hands and bellow with rage.

The lead orc screams as I bury my ax in his chest. Chain mail flies in a stinging swarm as I smash the ax into the next foe, before decapitating the next. I’ve always been good at killing.

Droig has the good grace not to beg for his life as I end the last of his  minions. He hefts his sword and even smiles.

“If I must die, I am honored it will be on your blade.”

“Traitors like you sully the word honor with your miserable tongues.”

He tries to block my swing. I smash right through his sword and cave in his face. I blink away the blood, thinking maybe my ancestral ax still has a bit of magic in it yet.

Kalem’s followers don’t fight to the last man. Half of them flee when they see me coming. The others throw their lives away in a futile attempt to stave off their own end and usher in the reign of chief Kalem.

“Please, Haizen.” Kalem throws his sword down and holds his hands up in the air. “I only did what I did for the good of the clan.”

“You did so for your own good, and no other.” I gesture at the bloody, quivering lumps on the street. “See what your greed has wrought, and make peace with your ancestors, for you are about to join them.”

I strike his head clean from his body. He should not have disarmed himself.

I return to the tower and find Shaman Dulas attending to Chief Malik. His hand glows briefly, but soon flickers out. Dulas shakes his head sadly and then looks up to face me.

“You have made an example of the traitors? To deter further insurrection?”

“Indeed.” I use a rough cloth to wipe as much of the blood off myself as I can manage before entering the chief’s chambers. “How is he?”

“Not well. I have removed the arrowhead from his chest and done what I can to repair the damage. My magic has grown too weak to help him fully recover. I fear he may never awaken.”

“Is there nothing that can be done for him?”

“Not by an Orc Shaman with little power left remaining to him.” His brows arch slightly. “If you could procure one of the human doctors, however, he might have a chance.”

“A human doctor? They are rare, and treasured. Such a task will not be easy.”

Dulas nods grimly.

“The decision lies in your hands, Haizen.”

The weight of the situation falls over my shoulders and threatens to make me crumble, but I will not allow it. I must do what I can for my Chief, no matter the personal risk.

I only hope Malik can cling to life long enough for me to find one of the human Doctors.