Only Villains Do That
Coda: In Which the Call is Heard

The miracle stone was visible for limns in every direction, its incredible height rising as it did from nearly the center of the Bronze Reaches. The savanna had only occasional outcroppings of rock and small stands of stunted khora, nothing that would impede the view; the stone could be seen from nearly every part of the Reaches, even from the surrounding mountains if one had a decent spyglass. Razik had tested that himself. Even without one, the glowing crescent moon symbol of Virya marking its peak had become a landmark that could not be missed at night.

Now, most of a month after its appearance, the Moot sprawling around the base of the miracle stone had become nearly as impressive in size. It had been many years, close to a lifetime, since the tribes of the Bronze Reaches had drawn together like this, and their numbers had only swelled since the last Moot.

The Raptor Ridge tribe had come from one of the longest distances away, barely making it by the appointed day for the Chiefmoot; between that and their relatively small size, they had had to settle for a camp on the farthest outskirts of the Moot. While some tribes would have chafed at the lack of prestige, Razik and his people were pragmatists. The inconvenience of having to walk so far into the trading spaces was minor, and heavily outweighed by the advantages of being able to swiftly depart should this turn out as ugly as large gatherings of orcs tended to.

“It’s calm, though,” Draghan commented, peering around as they walked. Razik grunted in agreement. Norr just stomped along in silence on his other side, never one to talk without good and specific reason.

“It’s calm!” Akk squawked, leaning over to affectionately nip at Razik’s ear. On his other shoulder, Ikk let out a set of cheerful whistles and nibbled at him from the left. Draghan gave the two parrots a long-suffering look, but said nothing. He’d long since given up fussing about his chieftain’s dignity.

In fact, their immediate surroundings were so tumultuous that Draghan’s soft words were barely audible, and even the piercing sound of Ikk’s whistling wouldn’t travel far. They were walking past a fighting ring at that moment, clamoring with shouts, cheers, grunting, and the thud of fists against flesh. On their other side, a vendor at a meat stall was engaged in a shouting match with three potential customers who had firm opinions about his prices. Orcs stomped through the open spaces between tents and stalls that made impromptu streets, cursing and snarling or laughing and boasting. It was noise and chaos everywhere.

And nobody within the range of Razik’s senses was bringing out a weapon, or going at anyone else hard enough to draw blood. For such a huge gathering of orcs, that was pretty calm. For such a mixture of orcs of every breed and tribe in the Bronze reaches, the sheer tranquility was incredible.

Greenskins intermixed with brownskins, a sea of flesh through which the towering gray bulk of ogres plodded here and there. Few of them, of course. Seeing them like this, so uncommon compared to their smaller brethren even over a century later, hammered home the scale of Satoshi Hara’s—cursed be his filthy soul—genocide. It was one thing to know ogres were rare, another to look at the contrast in numbers firsthand. All the tusked folk were here in numbers, even the pink skins and hairy pelts of those who were still excluded from some orcish gatherings and tribes. Despite Dark Lord Kroshkranth’s proclamation and the subsequent centuries of successful interbreeding, there were some interpretations of the Old Paths which stubbornly insisted that the pig and boar beastmen where not true orcs.

Yet here they all were, blending together. Not just every kind of orc, but every style of dress and body art, many decked out in full ceremonial regalia as this was the best chance in a generation for them to parade their glory. All mingling together—watching each other warily, of course, baring tusks and not infrequently exchanging blows. But it never escalated. They were, if not peaceful, at least…waiting. A month ago, Razik would never have believed that such a thing could come to be in the Bronze Reaches.

That was before the miracle stone, of course.

“Nearly as stable as our own camp,” he grunted. “It’s good to see. And…important to know.”

Draghan nodded, saying nothing. On Razik’s right shoulder, Akk ruffled his feathers and croaked softly, but also kept his peace.

The three of them were examined in turn as they passed through the crowds. Fortunately they made an imposing enough trio that others made room without protest; the bulk of the credit for that, of course, went to Norr, who was huge even by the standards of ogres. That, and he was carrying the banner of the Raptor Ridge tribe, signifying a chieftain’s escort. Doubtless most assumed the banner to refer to Draghan, for all that Razik walked in the center of their little formation. The old shaman’s bare arms were no less muscled for his advanced age, and the traditional tattoos that marked him Blessed with Magic showed off the considerable number of spells he possessed. He could be a chieftain in most tribes, if he wanted.

In contrast, the looks directly Razik’s way were either scornful or confused, which was just how he liked it. His baggy pants and the crimson bandanna knotted around his neck didn’t exactly fit the image of an orcish chieftain, much less the two noisy parrots riding on his shoulders. His only body adornment was the cap on his left tusk—which was gold, not something respectable like akornin or iron.

At any rate, they weren’t slowed by the crowd, and in fairly short order emerged from the throng of tents, stands, and other hasty structures which made up the Moot, as well as the crowds filling it. A space had been left, of course; the Moot was set up near the base of the miracle stone, not around or too close to it. At the very foot would be the chiefmoot, and this close it was clear that the circle had been settled around the firepit and was nearly filled, with the hosting tribe’s chieftain’s quarters set up practically against the base of the stone itself.

Ballsy move, that. Razik approved.

There was a space between the trading area and the line of guards protecting the chiefmoot; he took the time as they strode across it to examine the miracle stone from so close.

The height and proportions of the thing made it look slender from a distance. From here, he could tell that just one side of the perfectly square obelisk was wider than the walls of some forts that had not proved strong enough to repel his raiders. He couldn’t even make out the top from this angle, only the pale glow of Virya’s symbol from somewhere high above, casting a moon-like illumination over their surroundings as the afternoon faded into dusk.

He really was pushing the timing; the chiefmoot was to commence at sunset. Razik had made all haste to get here, and even so had not been sure just a few hours ago that he would make it.

A trio of guards moved to intercept them as they reached the boundary line, and he stopped before them, Draghan and Norr doing likewise. Since the Burned Plains tribe had called this Moot, all three were pigfolk, complete with pink hides, flat noses and beady little eyes, and a thick build that ran to fat even over what he knew would be as solid a core of muscle as any other orc. It spoke to the rising power of Burned Plains that so many orcs of so many tribes would answer their chieftain’s summons.

Then again, maybe that helped explain some of the peace in the Moot. If the traditionalists who wouldn’t accept pigmen as orcs hadn’t deigned to show up, that took care of one source of trouble.

“I am Razik.” He pounded his fist once against his left shoulder in the traditional salute. “The Raptor Ridge tribe answers the call of Burned Plains.”

One of the guards wrinkled his muzzle, showing off tusks as he eyed Razik up and down. “You are a chieftain?”

“Sounds the drums! Sound the drums!” Ikk squealed, bobbing up and down on his shoulder. Little bastard had the absolute worst timing, as always. That was why Razik loved him.

Norr thumped the butt of his towering bannerstaff into the earth, the impact hard enough they could all feel the tremor through their feet. Funny how others tended not to notice that the staff flying the banner of Raptor Ridge was an enormous khorodect spine thicker at its base than some people’s legs. After all, what was the point of having the biggest ogre anyone had ever seen as your bannerman if you weren’t going to flex a bit?

“You disrespect my chieftain?” Norr growled, his voice resembling distant thunder as much as the sound of someone speaking.

Of course Razik hadn’t taken offense; it he wanted to be taken seriously at first glance, it would be as simple as not dressing like this. The Burned Plains guards looked up at Norr with no sign of unease, obviously. They wouldn’t have been made honor guards if they could be spooked by the prospect of a swift, messy death. Then both men studied Draghan, who as usual stood in silence with his arms folded.

One of them nodded, then saluted Razik in reply, thumping his shoulder twice. “Such warriors would not follow an unworthy man. The Burned Plains sees the Raptor Ridge; honor repaid for honor given. Come as friends and go as you will, chieftain Razik.”

Both honor guards stepped aside, and the third approached between them. She was in full regalia, the cowl and shawl of a Black Priestess dangling with trophies and trinkets of her tribal allegiance.

“There is peace at the chiefmoot, as much as there is peace anywhere,” she intoned, holding out her hands. “I am Korag the Bluefoot, a Black Priestess of the Burned Plains tribe. By my name and honor, I will keep your weapons held in respect till the chiefmoot ends, and return them to you unmarred, chieftain of Raptor Ridge.”

He nodded and thumped his shoulder—twice, to the visible surprise of both guards—and handed her his scimitar and wristclaw without hesitation.

“Honor to your service, Virya’s daughter.”

She accepted his arms, handling them as reverently as if they were holy relics, as per the strength of her oath. Then all three of the guarding party moved aside.

“Try not to embarrass the tribe, boy,” Draghan grumbled, punching Razik’s shoulder. “For once.”

“Grow a thicker skin, old man,” Razik retorted, shoving him.

“Sound the drums!” Ikk squawked.

“Embarrass the tribe!” Akk screeched.

Draghan sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned to stomp back toward the outer line of guards, where other chieftains’ escorts stood with their tribal banners, watching and watched by the Burned Plains honor guards ringing the chiefmoot. Norr followed him without a word, exactly as he did most things.

Twilight was falling; it was dim enough that the fire cast the assembled chieftains seated in a half-circle around it in reddish light, not having to compete with the sun. Razik was apparently the last, the appointed hour mere minutes away now. There were gaps between the assembled orcs, of course, since there was no set roster for this gathering, much less assigned seating. Not every tribe in the Reaches would have bothered to come, and some that were coming could not get here in time for the chiefmoot.

Razik made for one of these gaps, between a brownskin whose full beard was beginning to go gray, and the only woman in the semicircle, a greenskin like himself. He knew there were more female chieftains than this in the Bronze Reaches, and made a mental note to find out whether they hadn’t deigned to answer the summons, or had not been called, or were just late. There were conflicting rumors about the practices of the Burned Plains, and it would help to know what prejudices they held.

The old man grunted and nodded at him, impressing Razik by not reacting visibly to his odd attire and pet parrots, even when Ikk whistled at him. Razik didn’t much like being impressed; he could always get whatever he needed from a blustering fool, but those with enough composure to control their knee-jerk reactions tended to be trouble. In the dim firelight, he hadn’t realized until he drew closer that the woman wore a Black Priestess’s shawl; he’d missed it at first glance because she had the cowl lowered, signifying she was not here on spiritual business. She eyed him up and down, and allowed her upper lip to curl faintly, but then turned back toward the fire with no other outward reaction.

He settled down on his knees, in the formal posture of tradition, from which any reasonably fit orc could spring upward and into action at an instant’s notice.

Akk made a couple of meaningless squawks, then leaned closer, rubbing his head against Razik’s face and chittering affectionately, which prompted Ikk to do the same on his other side.

“She’s Blessed with Magic,” Akk whispered right into his ear, inaudibly to anyone outside arm’s reach. “Decently powerful.” Sᴇaʀᴄh the ɴovᴇlꜰirᴇ.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

Razik reached up to tickle Ikk’s head with a fingertip.

“Nice birds,” said the old man on his left. “They tasty?”

“They’re my eyes,” Razik replied, grinning with his tusks on full display. “You eat mine, I’ll eat yours.”

“Fair,” the elder chieftain said with a grunt that was half chuckle, then hammered his fist once into his shoulder. “Gadna, Lion Forest.”

“Razik, Raptor Ridge.” He saluted back. Then turned an expectant look on the woman to his right.

She cocked an eyebrow in surprise, but pounded her shoulder. “Zhav, Silent Spring.”

Razik saluted her in the same way, noting the expressions of the other chieftains around the fire. There were other conversations going, but as the most recent arrival—and one with a rather loud presence—he had a lot of attention. It was well worth his time to mark which faces looked approving and which disdainful. More of the former than the latter, to his satisfaction. If this ended up being one of those groups that wouldn’t respect a woman chieftain, it was unlikely anything of value would happen here. So far, so good.

“It’s been a good Moot,” Gadna said, staring idly at the fire. “Lots of trade, some good fun for the brats. I’d say the journey wasn’t wasted for that alone, even if this meeting turns out as useless as I expect.”

“Well, it’s obviously to do with that,” said Razik jerking his head up toward the enormous miracle stone looming over them. “Any inkling what Burned Plains plans to say about it?”

“We’ll find out when we find out,” Gadna grunted. “I half suspect their chieftain’s just using the miracle as an excuse to throw a big party and position his tribe as leaders in the Reaches.”

“Burned Plains isn’t reckless enough to antagonize every other tribe that way,” said Zhav. “It remains to be seen whether they’ll offer us anything valuable enough to be worth it. That we’re here at all means they think they can.”

“I think you give them a lot of credit, Virya’s daughter,” Gadna retorted, using the title of respect to take the affront out of his rebuttal. “These are strictly New Paths orcs. Not much to ‘em but burning and looting.” He glanced at Razik, eyes darting up and down him, then grunted. “No offense, I guess.”

“Burning and looting!” Akk sang.

“Sound the drums!” added Ikk.

“Offense at what?” Razik asked, grinning. “Raptor Ridge is an Old Paths tribe.”

“Really.” The elder chieftain finally showed naked surprise at that, half-turning where he sat to study Razik more closely. “What interpretation?”

“My own.”

“Hnh. You must think a lot of yourself, boy.”

“Well, I ought to. I impress myself regularly, and I am not easily impressed!”

Gadna blinked at his grin, seeming to have no idea what to say to that. Zhav just curled her lip again and moved the conversation back on track.

“New Paths doesn’t mean mindless destruction, any chieftain should know that. Some New Paths tribes go that route, but they never last long. The Burned Plains are organized and successful. Their chieftain has a plan and the ability to execute it. You saw the honor guards, you know they can at least see value in traditions, even if they don’t believe in them as ardently as some.”

“They wouldn’t even have Black Priestesses if they didn’t keep some of the strengths of the Old Paths,” Razik agreed. “Ah, good. Wait’s over.”

The flap of the big tent arranged at the base of the miracle stone had been thrown back, and a form emerged.

“Wait’s over, he says,” Gadna grumbled. “You just got here. Real test of your patience.”

Razik grinned at him, but said nothing further. Conversations around the fire died out as all the assembled chieftains watched their host approach.

The huge pigman had to be the chieftain of the Burned Plains tribe, and it was obvious at a glance how he had risen to the leadership of a New Paths tribe: he was nearly the size of an ogre. That kind of brute strength would be needed to keep raiders who respected only violence in line. Privately, Razik agreed with Zhav; this orc would need as much wits as brawn to make his tribe as successful as it had become in the last few years.

The chieftain wasn’t the only focus of attention, however. As he drew closer, Razik realized there was another, much smaller person walking quietly behind and to the right of him. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes, as did several of the other chieftains around the fire. Some mutters rose, though no one spoke up vociferously.

The chieftain of the Burned Plains tribe had brought a slave with him to the chiefmoot: a dark elf woman. That was taking a risk. What New Paths raiders were prone to do with slaves was a major sore point for those who valued tradition. He wasn’t the only one immediately suspicious; Gadna growled to himself and Zhav bared her tusks fully in displeasure, muscles bulging as she tensed her whole body as if preparing to spring. Razik held his peace, for now. The elf was attired as a tribeswoman in a functional leather dress that even had the usual thickened patches stitched in for light armor, which boded well. Had she been in the skimpy rags New Paths orcs tended to put on slaves they were abusing, Razik would have stood and walked out without another word—as, he suspected, would quite a few of the assembled chieftains, including those to either side of him.

Subterfuge was one thing, and diplomacy another. There were some sins, though, that were not to be tolerated.

Akk pecked the side of his head urgently.

“She’s Blessed with Wisdom,” his familiar hissed, while the mundane parrot Ikk covered the sound with his cheerful whistles. “She’ll see us.”

Razik made himself breathe slowly and evenly. Well, it had to happen eventually; a familiar would know a familiar on sight, and they could all identify Blessings just by looking. He’d always known his cover would be blown the first time he came face to face with another Blessed with Wisdom, and had laid plans in advance to deal with it. Still, prepared or not, it was a blow. He had hoped to unlock a Wisdom perk that would enable his familiar to hide from others before it happened. Razik didn’t know for certain that such a perk existed, but suspected so just because there were Wisdom perks for every conceivable purpose and event. He had deliberately not asked Akk about it, fearing that even knowing of its existence would prevent him from unlocking it.

He studied the dark elf slave closely, ignoring the chieftain hosting them for now. She seemed healthy, not underfed and with no visible injuries, and wasn’t tied. The heavy bracers marking her enslaved status had tribal decorations; Razik didn’t know the Burned Plains customs exactly, but that was usually a mark of high favor. He saw nothing with her that looked like a familiar. Most interestingly, she wore a blindfold. It didn’t seem to prevent her from moving about smoothly, though. The woman walked as confidently as anyone with no visible guidance from the orc she accompanied, keeping pace and in her position behind him, and stopping when he stopped in front of the fire, the pair of them the focus of the chiefmoot.

“Chieftains of the Bronze Reaches,” the huge pigman orc greeted them in a deep, ringing voice, pounding his shoulder once in salute. “You give honor to the Burned Plains by answering my summons. Honor shall be given to you in full. I am Aruvogg, chieftain.”

“You’d better not have brought us here to show off your little pet, Aruvogg,” said one of the chieftains Razik didn’t recognize, earning mutters of agreement and a few chuckles.

“Did you blind that girl yourself?” demanded another.

Aruvogg reached one hand unerringly to his side and backward, laying it with surprising gentleness on the elf’s shoulder. The gesture emphasized the difference in their sizes; he could have crushed her head with a good squeeze. Razik decided he was almost certainly not abusing the woman. She’d never survive it.

“My Zyrphen sees more than any of you,” Aruvogg growled. “Hers is the Blessing of Wisdom.”

And at that signal, her familiar appeared. It had been hiding behind her, or perhaps invisible—there was probably a Wisdom perk that did that, too. Orcs muttered as the small creature, a flying serpent with a mane like a lion’s, swirled around Zyrphen’s head, the firelight flashing golden across its glittering scales. The thing wasn’t much bigger than Akk, really, but it knew how to leverage its long body and iridescent hide for maximum dramatic effect.

“In part, you are here because of her,” Aruvogg continued, looking directly at the chieftain who had chastised him, then pointed one meaty finger back at the enormous miracle stone blotting out the evening sky. “And because of that. I have called you here to tell you what I know, because all the tribes should know it, so we can decide what we shall do. Zyrphen serves among the Black Priestesses of my tribe, aiding and aided by their arts. The Wisdom perks she has unlocked pertain to the mysteries of Virya, and those who walk her path. The night the miracle stone appeared, other miracles occurred on other islands, all across Ephemera. Some of you will have heard word of these.”

“I have,” said Razik, echoed by agreement from a few other chieftains.

Aruvogg nodded his head once. “The world is in a furor to discern the meaning of these events—but some are privileged to know. Certain Spirits who give answers. Certain Blessed with Wisdom who possess the proper, rare perks. On that night, my Zyrphen was granted a vision, and showed it to my tribe. Verified by my Black Priestesses and shamans. Be honored, chieftains. While the great nations of the archipelago scrabble for hints of the truth, our people alone shall know.”

“Enough suspense,” growled the chieftain of the White Sands tribe, one of those Razik knew by sight. “If we wanted to listen to a storyteller, there are better ones in the Moot. Out with it.”

Rather than taking offense, Aruvogg grinned, baring his tusks in an expression of savage, triumphant vindication, and bellowed his answer.

“The Dark Crusade has begun.”

Everyone had more respect than to start yelling and carrying on in the middle of a chiefmoot, but the muttering at that was intense and came from nearly every orc present. Razik was one of the few who neither moved nor spoke. Zhav also refrained from grumbling, but she leaned forward, narrowing her eyes intently.

“So you say,” she interjected, her voice ringing over the rumbling and quelling it.

Aruvogg turned again, holding out one hand toward the slave, and spoke with surprising gentleness.

“Come, girl, share the vision. As you did before.”

Zyrphen stepped forward, approaching the bonfire, and only stopped when she was close enough that the heat of the flames would be uncomfortable even for an orc. Then, suddenly, she reached out and stuck her hand into the fire. Razik wasn’t the only onlooker who reared back in surprise.

“She’s fine,” Akk muttered in his ear. “This is a rare perk, but what she’s showing us is legit.”

The flames had changed shape when the dark elf touched them, rising upward in a spiraling column and then branching out, forming a picture in the air above the chiefmoot: a flickering sculpture of a vast khora forest, of the dense and healthy kind that was not found in the Bronze Reaches. Then, in a single great wash of fire, the illusory khora were wiped away.

“The Dark Lord rises!” Zyrphen cried, her voice projecting powerfully across the gathering. Razik noted its cadence, the intense delivery he had heard from shamans in the midst of deep trances—and charlatans who’d learned how to mimic that. “His rage burns an island from one coast to the next! His enemies are scoured away by cleansing fire! In Virya’s name, he raises a banner of flame and perfidy against those who would rule him! War is declared upon Sanora and all her get! Behold his coming, and pay heed to his challenge!”

The flames roared upward again, this time forming into the shape of a person. It was indistinct, being made of shifting fire; the face was too vague to be recognized, save that the figure was obviously human. The goddesses’ Champions were always human.

The burning man towering over them had his legs braced in a firm stance. He raised one hand to point at the distant horizon, and a voice deeper than thunder echoed over the entire Moot.

“I AM BECOME DEATH, THE SHATTERER OF WORLDS.”

Razik was, as he had boasted, not easily impressed—nor was he unfamiliar with trickery and the use of emotion to drive responses from an unwitting audience. Still, he felt it this time. The shiver that climbed up his spine was pure, ferocious euphoria, calling to the burning in every orc’s blood.

Zyrphen staggered back from the fire, her familiar twining about her neck in sudden, desperate support. Aruvogg stepped in before she could collapse, catching her slender form in his enormous paws. The great chieftain picked up the slave as if she weighed nothing, stepped far enough from the bonfire that she would not be singed, and set her down upon the hardened earth with astonishing tenderness. The dark elf barely manage to sit upright once he withdrew his grasp, panting for breath.

Aruvogg released her and watched carefully, only stepping away once he was certain she was not about to pass out. Then he turned back to the assembled chieftains, again baring his tusks in a grin of orcish challenge.

“And so you have heard it. The Dark Crusade comes again. Once more, the great game of the goddesses has begun. And once more, the age of the orcs will begin!”

“The Age of Destruction,” Razik echoed, far more quietly.

Well, this was going to make a mess of all his plans. But on the upside, it definitely wouldn’t be boring.

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