Path of Dragons 16 - Chapter 29 - The Nature of Orcs (Patreon)

Ok’tarik threw the stone table across the room.  It smashed against the wall, crushing a work-slave before shattering into a thousand pieces.  Ethera rushed through his muscles, pulsing with every beat of his heart.  The atmosphere surrounding him sizzled with unsatisfied rage, roiling so violently that it visibly distorted the air.  For a moment, only a pregnant silence filled the chamber, and so oppressively that it felt as impactful as the raging inferno within Ok’tarik’s core.

Clutching his hands into tight fists, he closed his eyes and forced himself to take control of his emotions.  He was no berserker.  He was better than that.  Taking a deep breath, he gradually imposed his will upon his anger, replacing it with something purer.  With something with far more potential.

Purpose.

His people needed him to be more than his base emotions.  He needed to rise above his nature, lest he lead them into a self-perpetuating loop where nothing ever changed. 

When he opened his eyes, his face was calm.  There was still rage lingering in his thoughts, but he refused to let it impact him further.  Instead, he focused on the problem at hand.

Or problems, plural.

The first was that his work-slaves still hadn’t finished their project.  Hopefully, that would change, and soon.  Once they completed their task, he could move forward with his plans.  However, the second issue was far more prevalent in his thoughts. 

“How many?” he demanded.

“Less than fifteen,” answered the work-slave.  He was old.  Probably older than any other orc Ok’tarik had ever seen, and he’d made it that far through a combination of intelligence, ruthlessness, and practicality. 

Firouk. 

Ok’tarik had known the work-slave for most of his life – at least since reaching maturity – and he’d only recently learned Firouk’s name.

Until then, he’d simply assumed that work-slaves lacked names at all.  It was just one more oversight dictated by his orcish nature.  He’d overcome some of those problems, but more always loomed in the shadows. 

The problem was that he was often unaware of their existence until they made themselves known.  He didn’t know what he didn’t know.  And despite having lived for centuries, he felt like a child taking his first steps in a new world.  Necessarily, he would stumble.  He would be forced to reevaluate long-held truths.  He just needed to keep an open mind – a difficulty for any orc.

In any case, Firouk had proven himself to be an invaluable asset.  The old work-slave didn’t look like much.  Like others of his kind, he was small, with thin limbs and a slightly emaciated appearance.  However, there was strength in his grip, and he ruled the other work-slaves with an iron fist that rivaled Ok’tarik’s control over the other orcs.

His long beard was an oddity.  It descended well past his waist, and it was far smoother than any other orc’s facial hair – at least from what Ok’tarik had seen.  He had no hair on his head, and his tusks looked brittle.  One was capped with an iron tip. 

“Fifteen ships,” Ok’tarik growled. 

Out of more than two hundred.  He’d cautioned them not to go, but their leader – a shaman named Kasik – had ignored Ok’tarik’s warnings.  Unfortunately, he’d been slain after an encounter with the Druid.  Ok’tarik had looked forward to holding Kasik accountable.  Now, he would never have that chance.

“Did they recover the treasure?” he asked.

“They did not.”

Ok’tarik wanted to throw something else.  Such a waste.  If Kasik had simply waited, he could have brought ten times that number of ships.  Twenty.  And they could have at least gathered the natural treasure that had caused such a ruckus.  Even Ok’tarik wanted it – whatever it was. 

They’d all felt its birth.

A quake that likely extended all the way to the core, the event had left everyone agitated and excited.  And when some of the scout ships had found the origin, Kasik had taken it upon himself to lead a fleet to recover it.

And he had found himself facing off against that infernal Druid.  The mere thought of his continued existence left Ok’tarik with a mingled sense of anger, anticipation, and something approaching satisfaction. 

The creature was remarkable, and their encounter had set Ok’tarik on a path towards sapience.  And perhaps toward the liberation of his people.  Any Druid who could do that was special in a way that few could even understand.  The way he fought was an inspiration. 

Ok’tarik admired him.

Yet, he also hated him in a way that only a defeated orc could loathe his enemy.  Often, he dreamed of ripping the dragon’s limbs away.  Or imprisoning him as he had the wyrm. 

Ok’tarik also couldn’t deny that he felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that Kasik had failed to defeat the Druid.  Was it because Ok’tarik wanted him for himself?  Or was it something else?  Something he wasn’t quite prepared to confront, perhaps?

There was no way to know.

Or rather, Ok’tarik wasn’t going to investigate those feelings anytime soon.  Instead, he moved on, asking, “Is it ready?”

“That is why I came,” Farouk answered.  “The craftsmen have finished their task.  It is complete.”

“Show me,” Ok’tarik ordered, gesturing toward the door. 

With that Farouk bowed his head and turned on his heel.  In only a moment, he’d led Ok’tarik through that door and into the tunnels of Agmar.  Once, they’d felt comforting and familiar, but now, they seemed more like a prison.  The halls were more than large enough to accommodate orcish height.  Indeed – they’d been built for dragons, so the ceilings rose more than a hundred feet above his head. 

But Ok’tarik had to admit that he much preferred his ship. 

There was just something about sailing through the skies of Orveth Kaal that spoke to his spirit.  It made him want to explore other skies.  Other worlds.  To see new things, to fight novel enemies.  To live a life unconstrained.

Ok’tarik considered that grand idea as he followed Farouk through those expansive halls.  The orcs treated Agmar like a large camp, though one with permanent institutions like the crafting pits, the shipyard, and other such necessities.  They still lived like transient creatures, though.  Mostly in tents lining the halls, huddled together like primitive animals. 

Only those who’d reached some degree of real power – enough for their intelligence to progress past bestial cunning – chose to live in more established quarters.  The difference was proof that they had the potential to become more.  That Ok’tarik could lead them into a glorious future where they forced the system to acknowledge them.

It was a noble goal, but he knew it would not happen overnight.

Perhaps not even in his lifetime.  But he would not rest.  Such was his mandate.  Such was the purpose that drove him.

He needed to repeat that resolution every time he saw the reality of his people.  They were a long way off from taking those first steps.

Gradually, they descended into the depths of Agmar, passing from the sections dominated by warriors and into the areas claimed by the work-slaves.  Oddly enough, those were far better organized and much more civilized, with something approaching community among the residents.

They were still orcs, though.

That meant that they still fought their own battles of dominance.  Sometimes, the altercations were physical, but the conflicts were often much more subtle.  Ok’tarik didn’t understand those wars of politics, words, or other ephemeral concepts – not quite – but he was beginning to comprehend just how deep it all went.

It was difficult to observe them, though.  Where he went, cowering followed.  Surely, the work-slaves behaved far differently when someone like him wasn’t around.

In any case, he followed Farouk to the crafting pits, which were located deep in the heart of the landmass.  Once, the area had been a grand forge used by the dragon founders of Orveth Kaal.  Some of that inherent majesty remained, mostly in the sheer size of the operation.  The chamber was at least five miles across and made of sturdy stone bridges whose pillars descended into a lake of molten lava far below.

Somehow, that melted rock was utilized to power the hundreds of forges encircling the chamber, but the mechanism allowing that was a mystery to Ok’tarik.  That it worked was more than enough information for him. 

Other than the size, evidence of draconic origin persisted in the form taken by the forges themselves.  Each one was shaped like a dragon’s head, while intricate designs of gold and silver traced their way across the walls.  Above hovered a dense ball of blue ethera that cast its light across the chamber.

Thousands of orcs worked in the crafting pits.  Most were smiths, manipulating the iron harvested in the outermost ring.  But there were other crafters as well, ranging from leatherworkers to cooks. 

It was an entire civilization within a civilization, and most of those crafters would never see the light of day.  They would never feel the winds of Orveth Kaal.  In that way, they were even more trapped than the rest of their race.

Predictably, Farouk led Ok’tarik to the most prominent bridge.  It cut across the center of the chamber, culminating in a massive forge that resembled the yawning mouth of a dragon.  Hundreds of work-slaves labored in its vicinity, hammering iron weapons on anvils built into the bridge itself.

One anvil was larger than all the rest, and it was made of some sort of metal that resembled nothing else Ok’tarik had ever seen.  As they drew closer, he became even less certain as to its origin.  The metal was mostly black, but it featured a glittering pattern that looked like nothing so much as a night sky. 

More importantly, it glimmered with so much ethera that it made the hairs on the back of Ok’tarik’s neck stand on end.  Normally, when he felt that kind of simmering power, it was just before an explosion.

But the Star Forge had been there since before Agmar existed, and the work-slaves insisted that it was perfectly stable.  No one of consequence would really trust that assessment, but the fact that it hadn’t destroyed everything was proof enough among those who even knew it existed.

Most didn’t.

Because few warriors ever ventured so far into Agmar.  It happened, but very rarely.

Soon, they reached their destination.  One of the work-slaves – a soot-covered orc who looked even smaller than the others of his kind – stepped forward and looked Ok’tarik up and down.

“You’re him.”

“I am,” said Ok’tarik.

“Thought you’d be bigger.”

Then, without another word, the smith turned around and walked away.  A few moments later, he returned with a leather-wrapped bundle.  It was long and slim, maybe eight feet from tip to tip. 

More importantly, Ok’tarik could feel the power of it before the smith had even retrieved it. 

“Good weapon,” the smith stated, handing it over without even a hint of ceremony.  “Strong.”

Ok’tarik took it.  Then, he reverently unwrapped the bundled leather, revealing an ivory shaft.  The composition of its base material – the fang he’d taken from the wyrm – was mostly unchanged.  However, the shaft had been carved so densely that Ok’tarik questioned whether it really was the work of an orcish craftsman. 

The designs were unfamiliar, but that wasn’t unusual.  Most of the enchantments they used were like that.  Adopted from items and materials leftover after the dragons had abandoned Orveth Kaal, they were incomprehensible even to work-slaves who specialized in such things. 

But they knew enough to establish their use, which was all that was required to make ships, armor, and weapons.  They couldn’t really iterate on those designs, but that was equally unsurprising.  Orcs were not adaptable by nature.

Ok’tarik studied the shaft for a few seconds, feeling his ethera leap from his hand into the material without even a moment’s delay.  It glowed slightly, the light traveling up the haft, tracing those runes until it reached the bladed tip.

It was made of the same material, and it merged seamlessly with the rest of the weapon. However, the leaf-shaped blade was sharp and pointed – as any good spear required.

“Does it please you?” asked the smith.

Ok’tarik nodded.  “It does.”

The work-slave nodded, then walked away, presumably to work on his next project.  For once, Ok’tarik didn’t mark the laborer’s departure.  Instead, he was wholly focused on the spear.  It wasn’t just a weapon.  It was a symbol.  He’d torn the fang from a powerful wyrm and converted it for his use. 

That was what he intended to do with the situation with the dragons, too. 

He would rip them apart and use them as a ladder for his people.

“Farouk,” he growled, getting the work-slave’s attention.  “Gather the other chiefs.  We go to war.”