Chapter 38

  Reyn stood on the twisted remains of a walkway that had once belonged to the proud North Tower of Wolfsgrund. Beneath his boots, vitrified stone crunched—a souvenir of the extreme heat his Siege-Crabs had unleashed while breaching the inner barricades. He took a deep breath. The air tasted of ozone, burnt lubricating oil, and the sweet, heavy scent of victory.

  Actually, he just wanted to lie down. His head was still throbbing from the mental overexertion, and the divine shard in his soul pulsed with a frequency that reminded him of a nervous eyelid. He had Wolfsgrund. The strategic anchor of the North had fallen, the Barwans' golems had fled to Hammerfels with their tails between their legs, and the path to the heart of Caleon lay theoretically open. He was relieved—so relieved that he would have liked nothing more than to take a nap on this pile of rubble.

  But no. The destiny of a world ruler knew no closing time.

  "My Lord? The legions have formed up on the parade ground. They are waiting for a signal," Corven interrupted his thoughts. The general looked as if he had spent the entire night in a forge, but his gaze was wide awake.

  Reyn suppressed a sigh. "A speech. Of course. One cannot capture a fortress without opening one's mouth afterward, can they, Corven?"

  "It bolsters morale, My Lord. The Dragon-kin especially need validation right now. They bled heavily to scale these walls."

  Reyn smoothed his coat and adjusted his facade. He had to be the visionary leader now, the benevolent father of a new world order, not the exhausted mage longing for a cup of herbal tea. He descended the rubble, passing the massive, smoking hulls of his crabs, which now stood like sleeping monsters in the fortress courtyard.

  As he stepped onto the improvised podium—an overturned siege tower—a wave of cheering crashed against him. Thousands of Dragon-kin, mercenaries of the Heartfire Legion, and hypnotized Thulegard soldiers stared up at him. Reyn waited until silence settled over the square like a heavy blanket. He used a bit of his remaining mana to amplify his voice, ensuring it was not just heard, but felt in the very bones of those present.

  "Sons and daughters of the new era!" he began, his tone relaxed, almost companionable, yet underpinned by an unshakable authority. "Look around you. They told you these walls were impregnable. They told you House Wolfsgrund was the eternal guardian of the North. And today? Today, this stone serves only as the foundation for your boots!"

  Cheering erupted again. Reyn raised his hand.

  "I look at you, especially you, my scaled brothers," he said, fixing his gaze on a group of Dragon-kin infantrymen in the front row. "For years, you have been pushed into the shadows. They called you monsters, abused you as slaves for heavy labor, while the Lords of Caleon sat in their gilded halls and philosophized about the purity of blood. They sold you oppression as 'order.' They tried to make injustice palatable as 'tradition.'"

  He paused, letting the words sink in. He knew exactly which buttons to push. He wasn't just selling them a victory; he was selling them retribution, wrapped in a shiny vision of the future.

  "My new order knows no Lords who stand above you by mere birth!" he cried, his voice swelling. "In the world we have begun to build here today, there are no privileges for the few at the expense of the many. We are creating a structure where strength, loyalty, and craft count—not the name of your father. The injustice of the old world burns out in the ruins of Wolfsgrund! We march on, not to destroy, but to liberate!"

  The crowd went wild. It was a complete success. Reyn saw faces glowing with religious fervor. Even the hardened mercenaries of the Heartfire Legion looked for a moment as if they actually believed in something greater than their next pouch of gold. Reyn concluded the speech with a curt, powerful salute and hurried off the podium. He wanted out. He wanted to give the marching orders before the adrenaline dropped and the soldiers realized how tired they actually were.

  Corven was already waiting behind the podium. However, the general did not look as euphoric as the soldiers on the square. He held a parchment in his hand that he must have just received via messenger hawk or teleprinter.

  "Impressive words, My Lord," Corven said quietly as they strode toward the command tents. "But we have news from the Southwest. Uzug is making progress."

  Reyn stopped. "Progress is good. That means Luken and his little friends have their hands full. Has the Scar-Horde reached the borders of Rockguard?"

  Corven hesitated briefly. "Yes. But there is a detail in the informants' reports that is... unusual. Uzug's shamans are on the move. Our spies report a group that has separated from the main force and is heading directly for the fortress."

  Reyn rubbed his temples. "Shamans? Uzug has dozens of them. He loves having his shamans hurl fireballs."

  "Not dozens, My Lord," Corven corrected. "Four. Just four shamans alone. They ride without escort, without infantry, straight toward Rockguard. Our people say the ground turns black beneath their hooves."

  Reyn stared into the distance, where the first rays of morning sun bathed the smoking ruins of Wolfsgrund in a dirty gray. Four shamans? Alone against a fortress like Rockguard? That sounded like either a suicide mission or something even he hadn't quite calculated. Uzug was a brutal dog, but he was no fool. If he sent only four of his best mages, then those four had a specific task—or a power that replaced entire regiments.

  "Four..." Reyn murmured. An uneasy feeling crawled up his neck that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He thought of Luken, the Ironbrands, and the massive defensive installations in the Southwest. Had Uzug dug something up in the wastelands that he hadn't told Reyn about?

  "My Lord? Should we dispatch additional scouts to the South?" Corven asked worriedly.

  Reyn squared his shoulders and put on his usual arrogant smile, even if it felt a bit wooden this time. He could not show doubt. Not now, right after his grand speech.

  "Not necessary, Corven," he replied casually, clapping the general on the shoulder. "Uzug is an old warlord. He surely has a plan we don't quite see through yet. He knows Rockguard is a tough nut to crack. Perhaps these four are exactly the surgical intervention he needs to open the gates from the inside."

  "Are you sure?" Corven asked skeptically.

  "Absolutely," Reyn lied with the confidence of a master actor. "Prepare the departure. We'll leave a skeleton crew here and move the rest of the crabs south. I want to reach the borders of Barwan in three days. We cannot let the pressure subside."

  Corven saluted and walked off to pass on the orders. Reyn remained behind alone, staring at the black parchment in his hand that he had taken from Corven.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Four shamans. Internally, he wasn't sure at all. Uzug was unpredictable, and Orc magic was often so raw and chaotic that even for a master of arcane mechanics like himself, it was hard to read. Whatever was heading for Rockguard, it would reshuffle the cards in the Southwest.

  "Hopefully you know what you're doing, you old Orc," he whispered against the cold north wind.

  He turned and went to his tent. He had given a speech, conquered a fortress, and promised a new world. Now he finally needed that damn herbal tea—and maybe an hour of sleep before the next march began. Because if the four hexers in the South did what he feared, the "new order" would sink into chaos faster than he liked.

  Reyn closed his eyes for a moment and saw the image of the four riders in his mind's eye. Black, unstoppable, and full of hunger.

  Four, he thought grimly. Sometimes a small number is enough to ruin the entire arithmetic of a war.

  -

  The silence that settled over Rockguard was not the peaceful rest of a fading day. It was an unnatural, almost physically palpable pressure wave of muteness that swallowed every sound—the hissing of the steam boilers, the distant echo of forge hammers, even the wind that usually whistled incessantly through the jagged rocks of the Southwest.

  I stood on the highest walkway of the outer wall, my hands clamped so tightly around the cold stone parapet that the joints of my black gauntlets creaked faintly. Beside me, I felt the suppressed nervousness of the others. Elara of Ironbrand had her gaze fixed rigidly on the horizon, her hand resting on the hilt of her rapier while her knuckles turned white. Behind us, the golems of the Gray Lords hummed—giant, immobile shadows of stone and iron, whose pilots inside likely had the same hollow feeling in their stomachs as I did.

  "There," Vin whispered. Her voice was barely more than a breath, but in that absolute silence, it struck like the crack of a whip.

  On the horizon, where the barren wasteland merged into the shimmering light of the setting sun—another day had passed—four figures appeared. At first, they were only tiny black dots in the dusty haze, slowly approaching. They did not ride ordinary steeds; their mounts appeared massive, almost unnaturally large, leaving a trail of black, smoldering earth with every step.

  "That's them?" Valkor Ironbrand asked incredulously. His usual bluster had given way to deep skepticism. "Four? Uzug sends four people against one of the best-fortified bastions in Caleon? Either the bastard has gone mad, or he takes us for a bad joke."

  "Never underestimate what you don't understand, Valkor," I replied hoarsely.

  Gravor, within me, was strangely quiet, but it was not a relaxed peace. It was the alertness of a predator scenting another predator—one it cannot categorize. A cold shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the rising night chill. These four figures radiated an aura that settled over the land like a sticky, dark majesty. It wasn't mere terror; it was a grandeur that demanded obedience even before one saw their faces.

  Suddenly, the riders halted. They were still a good two miles from the walls, well outside the range of our cannons, but close enough that their movements could be observed through the Ironbrand telescopes. Synchronously, as if following an invisible baton, they dismounted.

  "What are they doing?" murmured Sergeant Horgas, who stood a bit further left with his men at the flamethrowers.

  The answer came instantly. The four figures made no move to continue on foot. Instead, they began to rise. Slowly, majestically, and without any visible effort, they ascended from the ground. They didn't just float; they walked on the air as if it were made of solid marble. Every step they took in the heights sent a violet shockwave through the ether that I could feel right down to my fingertips.

  "By the gods," Vin breathed, and I saw her instinctively take a step back. Her connection to nature was practically screaming in horror at this massive interference with the order of the world.

  They came closer. Rising higher until they were almost eye-level with us on the battlements, they glided through the air. The dust of the plain seemed to recoil before them. And the closer they came, the clearer the detail became that turned everyone's blood to ice.

  My eyes widened, and beside me, I heard the collective intake of breath from the Ironbrand soldiers and the Gray Lords.

  These were not Orcs in rags and leather. These were not shamans with bone ornaments and ritual paintings.

  The four sorcerers wore armor. But not just any armor. They were intricate, highly complex plate suits that glowed in a deep, pulsating blood-red. The material was clearly metallic, but it seemed to glow from within, as if liquid fire had been poured into the steel. Fine golden lines ran across the harnesses, forming complex runic patterns—patterns I knew all too well.

  "Arcane Armor," Elara gasped, her voice trembling with rage and disbelief. "Those are blood-red Arcane Armors! That is capital technology... that is the craftsmanship of Caleon!"

  It was a sacrilege. The Arcane Guard of Caleon wore these armors as a sign of their divine duty. They were the symbol of order, protection, and civilized power. That these four beings—these abominations of the wastelands—were encased in such suits was a slap in the face to anyone who had ever sworn an oath to the realm. Yet, the armor did not look foreign on them; it seemed one with their flesh, adapted to their broad shoulders and unnatural size.

  They stopped in the air about fifty meters from the wall. Four floating monuments of doom, shrouded in the eerie glow of their blood-red steel.

  I felt Gravor bare his teeth inside me. The majesty emanating from them was now almost suffocating. It was a pressure on my chest, as if the air itself were becoming heavier. These four sorcerers possessed a presence that went beyond what a normal mortal—or even a normal demon host—should radiate. It was a dark sanctity, a perverted grandeur that made Rockguard look like a shaky house of cards by comparison.

  The Gray Lords below us began to grow restless. The golems shifted their weight, their energy fists flickering nervously. The Ironbrand soldiers gripped their hand-projectors tightly, but no one fired. The paralysis of wonder was too great.

  The four shamans formed a perfect line. In the center floated the one who was obviously their leader. His helm was closed—a smooth, visorless face of red metal that showed no emotion. He wore a cloak of heavy black fabric that whipped in the wind, even though complete stillness reigned upon the wall.

  "Luken," whispered Arik, who now stood directly behind me. His ash-form flickered unstably, as if the mere presence of these beings disrupted his consistency. "What is that? Those aren't Orcs. That is something... else."

  "I don't know, Arik," I replied, without looking away. My heart hammered against my breastplate. "But they aren't here to negotiate."

  I reached for the hilt of my sword. The eagle pommel felt strangely warm under my gauntlet, almost as if it wanted to warn me or perhaps even encourage me. But the blade remained in its sheath. Against beings walking through the air in Arcane Armor, a sword suddenly seemed like a toy from a long-forgotten time.

  The tension on the wall was now so high you could practically hear it crackle. Elara had drawn her rapier, but the tip was trembling slightly. Valkor stared up with his mouth open, his face a mask of pure horror. The invincible fortress of Rockguard felt small in this moment. Tiny. An insignificant pile of stones that had nothing to oppose the wrath of these four giants.

  The leader of the sorcerers slowly raised his head. Although I couldn't see his eyes behind the red metal, I felt his gaze resting on me. It was not a look of hatred, but one of cool, almost pitiful observation. He looked at me as if I were an interesting insect he was about to crush—not out of malice, but out of pure necessity.

  Then he slowly raised his right hand. The armored gauntlet lit up, the golden runes upon it began to pulse violently, and a deep, vibrating tone filled the air—a sound that drove straight into the skull and echoed there like a bell.

  The other three shamans synchronously tilted their heads to the side. It was a gesture of waiting, of preparation for a judgment that had already been passed.

  I realized I was holding my breath. The world around me seemed to fade until only these four blood-red figures existed against the violet sky. The walls of Rockguard, the proud Ironbrands, the mighty golems—everything became background noise.

  Inside me, Gravor gathered all available energy, building barriers, preparing for a mental or physical impact. Scales slid over my skin, thorns grew from my shoulders, and my fingers lengthened and hardened until they took the shape of claws. I knew that in the next few seconds, words would be spoken that could change the fate of the Southwest forever.

  The leader of the sorcerers moved his head. He looked over the rows of defenders, past the golems, up to the inner keep. Then he lowered his arm again.

  The silence returned, but it was now even heavier than before. It was the silence in the second before lightning strikes.

  He breathed in. I could hear the mechanical hiss of the respirator in his helm, amplified by the uncanny acoustics of this moment. A soft, metallic click sounded as he activated his vocal modulator.

  Everyone on the wall held their breath. Elara pressed herself so hard against the battlements that the stone crumbled under her fingers. Vin closed her eyes as if she couldn't comprehend what was coming. Arik remained completely motionless, a statue of gray expectation and fear.

  The blood-red shaman opened his mouth.