Strife Among the Orcs

Along the banks of the Bindler River, tents of all sizes were pitched; this had now become the Red Blood Tribe's temporary stronghold. Following that battle, the former orc vanguard Soro Blooddrinker had taken Batu's place as the tribe's acting chieftain. However... the seat was not an easy one to occupy. At that moment, the main tent was brightly lit, simmering with collective fury. With contorted faces and spittle flying from their fangs, the orcs roared, "Soro, you coward!" An orc commander raised his spear and bellowed, "The Father God declared that the weak-willed should have their chests pierced by sharp spears! You are not worthy of being our chieftain!" "The dwarves killed our chieftain! In the face of such a blood debt, you actually tell us to rest and recuperate?" Someone aimed the tip of a spear straight at Soro's skull as he sat upon the throne of bone. "Soro, where is the vengeance you promised? For months now, we orcs have been scuttling about in hiding, hunted across the steppe like rabbits by dwarven patrols!" A burly orc growled in a low voice, "Remember this, Soro: you only became chieftain out of pure luck. If things continue like this, we won't mind replacing you with another..." *Crack!* Soro rose from the bone throne, violently slamming his palm down until the table before him splintered. He scanned the faces of the assembled orcs and thrust an arm toward the south, his voice thick with fury. "Batu is dead, and the old shaman is dead too! What do we have left to seek vengeance against the Mountain Kingdom? You remnants and battered wretches? If you self-proclaimed warriors are so capable, go intercept that gold-scaled reptile yourselves! He has already wiped out twelve of our outposts this month alone!" A hush fell over the tent. The orcs were struck dumb, the air itself turning so thick it felt nearly frozen. Over this period, the orcs' ordeal could only be described as miserable. Beset by severe shortages of food and supplies, the once-massive orc army had broken up into smaller bands, wandering the lands as nomads. The orcs had devolved back into their former disjointed state. Elven and dwarven patrols from the Mountain Kingdom swept across the vast Ugo Steppe, relentlessly hunting down isolated stragglers. And that gold dragon was a beacon of dawn to the dwarves, yet in the eyes of the orcs, he was a reaper of lives, a devil who brought purgatory itself. In sheer terror, they even took to calling him "the Punisher." The gold dragon often soared through the skies, beating his wings and unleashing torrents of blazing dragonfire, mercilessly reducing orc strongholds to ashes, leaving behind nothing but smoke-billowing, charred ruins strewn with corpses. "I admit that I cannot compare to heroes favored by the Father God like Batu or Kork. But... you useless filth think you can ride roughshod over me? Our defeat lies squarely on the shoulders of you mediocre cowards! Lord Batu gave everything he had, while you stood idly by! Anyone who wants the seat of chieftain of the Red Blood Tribe, step forward and take it! I fear no one's challenge!" Soro's furious shout echoed through the tent. The orc commanders, so aggressive just moments ago, were now struck silent. For Soro was right. Batu Skullsplitter's might had been plain for all to see; none of them had even been qualified to intervene in his battle. And with every last Eye of Gruumsh in the clan slain, Soro Blooddrinker—famed far and wide for drinking the raw blood of giants—truly was the strongest among them. The orc commander who had been the first to object stepped forward, seeking to smooth over the tension. He muttered, "Soro, perhaps..." Yet right at that moment, chaos erupted. An ear-splitting whistle shrieked through the air as an arrow pierced the felt cloth of the tent, hurtling straight for Soro's chest. *Whoosh—* Every orc present recognized it—the sound of an arrow slicing through the air. "Ambush!" Soro cried out. Twisting sideways with blinding speed, he dodged the strike by a hair's breadth. *Crack!* The arrow sank deep into the bone throne. At the same time, elite orc warriors stationed outside rushed forward at the commotion, taking up defensive positions and scanning for the source of the attack. "Dammit, how could..." Clenching his chest and panting for breath, Soro glared at the arrow. It was embedded deep in a solid skull, driven by tremendous force, and deadly venom seeped from its point. The assassination attempt was sinister and ruthless, its objective crystal clear: to take the life of Soro Blooddrinker himself! The arrow's fletching caught his eye. Soro narrowed his eyes, staring intently at the brown plumage, his voice turning raspy. "Mountain vulture feathers..." Only orcs bred such brutal, hideous birds of prey to craft fletchings like this. A jolt ran through Soro's heart. This assassination attempt had not come from the Mountain Kingdom—it had come from within the orc army itself! Grabbing his spear, the orc charged out of the tent. He swung his gaze toward the direction from which the arrow had flown. As a former hunting captain, he spotted movement in a patch of dry grass a hundred meters away in an instant. Messy footprints, kicked-up soil, scattered feathers... Soro was certain this was no trick of the wind: an enemy was lurking in that thicket! Yet he did not rush blindly or give warning. Holding his breath, he coiled every muscle in his body, tightened his grip on the barbed spear, and hurled it with tremendous force. *Swish—* The spear ripped through the air and struck deep into the withered grass. Blood spattered as the clump shook violently, accompanied by a muffled wail of agony. Striding over to his worg, Soro mounted it and roared, "The enemy is right there! Take him alive! Do not let him escape!" The worg cavalry surged forward in coordinated squads of three or four, galloping in from different directions to surround the patch of dead grass completely. Approaching the thicket, Soro finally saw the true face of his would-be assassin—an emaciated orc clad in tattered brown robes. Pinned to the earth by the spear, blood gushed steadily from the orc's wound as surrounding cavalrymen glared down hungrily. A worg rider beside him hefted his spear and sneered, "Lord Soro, this bastard dared try to assassinate you! Why don't we torture him—" Soro raised a hand to cut him off. "Wait. I have questions for him." The dying orc on the ground raised his head, glaring at Soro with sheer hatred, and spat a mocking sneer. "Kill me, you Red Blood bastard. You cowardly fraud." Soro looked down at him from his mount, brow furrowing. "Why do this? We orcs who follow the Father God's will are supposed to be united. Lord Batu said that regardless of which clan we hail from, we must stand together against our foes, slay the dwarves and elves, and reclaim the land that belongs to us." "Enough!" The orc let out an enraged snarl, bloodshot eyes bulging as bloody spittle sprayed from his mouth. "I've had enough of the Red Blood Tribe's hypocrisy! You preach unity against outsiders, yet here you are, seizing the territory of our Jackdaw Clan! You stole the lands my ancestors spent centuries conquering, leaving us displaced and destitute!" Soro could not help but argue, "This is only a temporary encampment! The orc host will rise again! We will avenge Lord Batu, crush the Mountain Kingdom, and take Evindeldan..." The orc assassin's face contorted further, his mockery completely undisguised. "Soro, stop feeding us the lies spun by your Red Blood Tribe! Without Batu, how could the orcs ever breach Evindeldan? With you?" For a moment, Soro was at a complete loss for words. He had to admit that he had harbored selfish motives in securing the finest pastures for the Red Blood Tribe; his intentions were hardly as noble as his words made them out to be. "It was you arrogant bastards from the Red Fang Tribe who deceived our chieftain, reducing us to stray dogs until our total ruin!" Summoning his very last dregs of strength, the orc bellowed at the top of his lungs and flung a venom-coated dagger straight at Soro. "How dare you!" "Despicable dog!" The surrounding orc soldiers swarmed forward, brandishing their spears and scimitars, hacking the assassin from the Jackdaw Clan into pieces. Soro stared in silence at the unrecognizable pile of shredded flesh. Before long, the howl of a worg drifted from the distance. A scout arriving from the west brought word: "Lord Soro, the Jackdaw Clan suffered a massive offensive by dwarven forces several days ago, and has already..." "I know." Soro turned his head toward the nearby Blackstone Mountains. That was where the shield dwarves dwelt, and the high wall that the orcs had failed to breach for thousands of years. It was this endless, undulating mountain range that barred the orcs within these barren, desolate lands, forcing them to butcher one another for survival and scraps of resources. *Batu, you were a hero to all orcs, but what am I supposed to do now? Must the history of orcs slaughtering one another repeat itself forever?* Soro let out a deep sigh, a rare expression of helplessness surfacing across his scarred, hideous face. Orcs were synonymous with crudeness and savagery, rarely given to deep contemplation, but in this moment, Soro felt a profound sense of powerlessness. He did not notice that the orc corpses drifting in the Bindler River trembled faintly, or that an intensely deep, all-consuming shade of black had suddenly emerged within the waters.