The dwarven stronghold still smelled of smoke.

  Not the rich, warm smoke of forge and hearth the stunties once cherished, but the bitter char of broken gates and burned banners. The stone halls of King Hramnor groaned beneath new masters. Orcish standards of blackened hide hung where dwarven runes had once gleamed. The anvils were cold. The braziers burned green.

  Warmonger stood upon a makeshift throne hammered from shattered shield-plates and splintered beams torn from the dwarven gate. It was crude. Temporary. He had not yet ordered his preferred throne brought into his new audience chamber.

  He did not sit.

  Three orcs knelt in the open courtyard below him. Each was broad as an ox and scarred from a lifetime of war. Blood still crusted their armor from the siege. Their tusks were bound with iron rings marking veteran status. Their names were known among the warbands.

  Gorhak the Ironjaw.

  Urtul Bonebreaker.

  Magrax of the Deep Fen.

  Each accused of cowardice.

  The accusation had come from Chieftain Rusk, who stood off to the side, chin lifted, eyes gleaming with something too polished to be hate.

  They had broken formation during the final push against the dwarven shield wall. They had withdrawn ten paces when the cannon fire tore through the front rank. They had regrouped rather than charge into the flames.

  Cowardice.

  The word hung in the cold mountain air like rot.

  Warmonger’s massive hands rested on the arms of the throne; he had decided to sit in after all. At his side leaned Ar’Sul, the demon blade, its edge blacker than night, its surface pulsing faintly as if breathing.

  Inside his skull, the whisper coiled.

  "Weakness. Cut it out. Tear the rot from the flesh of your people."

  Warmonger’s jaw tightened.

  Before him, the courtyard was filled with thousands of orcs. Warriors from the swamps. Raiders from the black marshes. Those who had bled to take this fortress. Their eyes watched.

  They needed strength.

  They needed certainty.

  Shermongrin stood among the chieftains, hood low over his brow, green lightning flickering faintly along the carved skull atop his staff. His eyes did not leave Warmonger’s face. He watched the flicker of doubt there.

  Good, he thought.

  Let it gnaw.

  The three accused orcs lifted their heads.

  Gorhak spoke first. “We did not run.”

  His voice carried like thunder in a cavern.

  “We pulled back to break the cannon sight. We charged again.”

  Magrax spat blood. “I killed six dwarves after the blast.”

  Urtul said nothing. He only stared at Warmonger, as if daring him to believe the accusation.

  Rusk stepped forward. “They broke line. Others followed. We lost ground.”

  “You lost ground,” Gorhak snarled. “Because you hid behind the ram.”

  A ripple moved through the gathered warriors.

  Shermongrin’s lips twitched.

  Warmonger felt it. The fracture. The beginning of doubt spreading like oil.

  At’Sul’s voice sharpened.

  "They challenge your authority. They shame you before your army. Spill their blood. Let fear seal the cracks."

  Warmonger closed his eyes for a breath.

  He remembered the swamps.

  Mud sucking at his ankles. Whelps fighting over scraps. Chieftains killing for pride. Raids against caravans that brought no lasting gain. Victory measured in corpses, not land.

  He had not taken the dwarven stronghold to repeat that.

  He had taken it to build.

  To carve a realm from stone.

  To give his people something beyond mud and endless skirmish.

  But the old ways clung like rot.

  An orc accused of cowardice must die.

  That was law.

  That was tradition.

  That was survival.

  Shermongrin’s voice rose smoothly. “If the mighty three are innocent, let Gorruk judge them.”

  Murmurs of approval.

  Death by combat.

  Let their god decide.

  Warmonger’s eyes opened. He stared at the three kneeling warriors.

  If he spared them, the chieftains would whisper.

  If he executed them outright, the loyalists would fracture.

  He felt the weight of a thousand expectations.

  He spared a look over at Shermongrin.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  He sensed the dung eater was behind this.

  Well played, he thought to himself. Then as the anger began to boil to the surface, he forced himself to calm.

  Thoughts of him flaying the flesh from his bones helped.

  At’Sul pulsed beside him.

  "Cut them down. Show them no mercy."

  Warmonger rose.

  The courtyard fell silent.

  “You are accused of cowardice,” he said, his voice deep enough to shake dust from stone. “You deny it.”

  Gorhak met his gaze. “I do.”

  “Then Gorruk will judge.”

  A roar of approval.

  Shermongrin bowed his head slightly, hiding the satisfaction in his eyes.

  Warmonger lifted At’Sul.

  The blade screamed in his mind, eager.

  Instead of drawing it fully, he turned and thrust it point-first into the stone beside the throne.

  Gasps.

  The demon’s fury exploded inside his skull.

  Coward! Use me! Tear them apart!

  Warmonger ignored it.

  He stepped down into the courtyard.

  “If Gorruk judges,” he said, “he will judge against me.”

  A ripple of shock moved through the gathered ranks.

  Shermongrin’s eyes narrowed.

  Warmonger stripped off his heavy gauntlets and cast them aside. Then his chest plate. He stood bare-armed, muscles knotted with old scars.

  “You will fight me,” he said to the three. “All at once.”

  The courtyard erupted.

  Oolong, his most loyal warrior, stepped forward instinctively. “Warlord—”

  Warmonger silenced him with a glance.

  “If you are innocent,” Warmonger continued, “Gorruk will give you strength enough to kill me.”

  Silence fell again.

  Gorhak rose first. Then Urtul. Then Magrax.

  They did not hesitate.

  They drew their weapons.

  Warmonger walked into the center of the fighting circle scratched into the stone.

  He raised his hands.

  At’Sul howled.

  "I will not be ignored."

  Warmonger felt the demon strain against the distance between them. The sword pulsed, its edge biting into stone as if trying to crawl toward him.

  The circle cleared.

  A drum began to pound.

  Gorhak charged first.

  He came in low, axe sweeping for Warmonger’s legs.

  Warmonger stepped inside the swing. His hand shot out, seizing Gorhak’s wrist. The bones ground together. Warmonger twisted.

  There was a crack like a snapped branch.

  Gorhak roared, but his other fist came up hard, slamming into Warmonger’s ribs. The blow would have shattered a lesser orc.

  Warmonger grunted.

  Urtul crashed into him from the side, shield-first, driving him backward.

  Magrax followed, spear thrusting for Warmonger’s throat.

  Warmonger caught the spear shaft between his palms. The tip nicked his shoulder, drawing blood.

  The sight of it sent a roar through the crowd.

  Blood.

  Their warlord bled.

  At’Sul’s voice swelled.

  "Kill them. Show them you are more than flesh."

  Warmonger’s eyes hardened.

  He yanked the spear forward, pulling Magrax off balance. With his other hand he drove his forehead into Magrax’s face.

  Bone crunched.

  Magrax stumbled.

  Gorhak, one arm hanging useless, hurled himself forward anyway, tackling Warmonger around the waist.

  All three crashed to the stone in a tangle of limbs.

  Urtul hammered down with his shield edge, smashing into Warmonger’s skull. Stars burst behind his eyes.

  Warmonger rolled, taking Gorhak with him, using the wounded orc as partial shield against Magrax’s renewed thrusts.

  He slammed his elbow into Gorhak’s throat.

  Something gave.

  He surged to his feet in one explosive motion, lifting Gorhak bodily and hurling him into Urtul.

  They collided hard enough to crack stone.

  Magrax lunged again.

  Warmonger sidestepped and drove his palm into Magrax’s chest.

  Not a punch.

  A shove.

  But the force behind it caved in ribs.

  Magrax staggered, breath gone.

  Warmonger seized his head with both hands and twisted.

  The snap of spine echoed.

  Magrax fell limp.

  The courtyard went wild.

  Gorhak roared in fury and pain, charging with his good arm swinging the axe wildly.

  Warmonger caught the blade on his forearm. It bit deep. Blood sprayed.

  He did not flinch.

  He stepped in close and sank his teeth into Gorhak’s throat.

  The crowd howled.

  Warmonger tore flesh free and flung the body aside.

  Urtul came at him last.

  No roar.

  No scream.

  Just grim determination.

  Shield up. Blade low.

  He circled.

  Warmonger circled with him.

  For a heartbeat the courtyard felt still.

  Urtul feinted high and slashed low.

  The blade cut across Warmonger’s thigh.

  Warmonger answered with a backhand that shattered the shield.

  Urtul dropped the ruined wood and drove forward anyway, ramming his shoulder into Warmonger’s midsection.

  They crashed to the ground again.

  Urtul’s knife plunged down.

  Warmonger caught his wrist mid-strike.

  They strained there, muscles bulging, faces inches apart.

  “If you are innocent,” Warmonger growled, “prove it.”

  Urtul’s teeth bared.

  “I never ran.”

  Warmonger believed him.

  The realization hit like a hammer.

  Too late.

  With a roar, Warmonger drove his knee up between Urtul’s ribs and twisted the knife free from his grip.

  He reversed it and plunged it into Urtul’s heart.

  Urtul exhaled once.

  Then he was still.

  Silence fell heavy.

  Warmonger rose slowly.

  Blood ran down his arms. From wounds given and taken.

  He looked at the three bodies.

  Gorruk had judged.

  The crowd erupted into chants of his name.

  Warmonger did not look victorious.

  He did not roar.

  He did not lift his arms.

  He walked from the circle without a word.

  At’Sul shrieked in his mind.

  "You denied me. You would have ended it sooner. Cleaner. Stronger."

  Warmonger ignored the blade.

  Behind him, Shermongrin watched everything.

  The shaman’s eyes gleamed.

  Yes, he thought.

  Let the guilt root deep.

  He turned slightly, catching Rusk’s eye.

  The chieftain swallowed.

  Shermongrin gave him the faintest nod.

  The seed had been planted. Three loyal warriors removed. The warlord burdened with doubt. The old ways reinforced before the army.

  Change would bleed.

  And blood was Shermongrin’s chosen soil.

  Warmonger did not stop until he reached the outer rampart overlooking the snow-choked valley.

  The wind bit at his wounds.

  He welcomed it.

  Oolong followed at a distance before finally speaking.

  “You should have taken the blade.”

  Warmonger did not turn. “I did not need it.”

  “That is not why.”

  Warmonger faced him then.

  Oolong was older. Scarred. His tusks chipped from countless battles. Loyal beyond question.

  “They were fierce,” Oolong said. “They fought well.”

  “They were framed,” Warmonger said quietly.

  Oolong’s brow furrowed.

  “I saw no cowardice during the battle,” Warmonger continued. “Only survival.”

  “Survival is not the same as victory.”

  “It must become so.”

  Oolong shook his head. “Our way is strength. If one falters, he dies. The rest grow harder.”

  Warmonger stepped closer.

  “Our way keeps us in swamps,” he said. “Fighting over scraps. Raiding caravans. Dying for mud.”

  He gestured toward the dwarven halls behind them.

  “This is stone. This is iron. These are walls that will last.”

  Oolong’s eyes flicked to the fortress.

  “And how do we hold it?” Oolong asked. “With mercy?”

  “With discipline,” Warmonger snapped. “With order. With fewer deaths wasted on pride.”

  “That is not our way.”

  “Our way must change.”

  The words hung heavy.

  Oolong’s jaw tightened.

  “You would make us like them.”

  “I would make us feared and respected,” Warmonger said. “Not beasts crawling from bogs.”

  “We are beasts.”

  Warmonger’s eyes flared.

  “No.”

  The single word carried more force than a blow.

  “We are warriors,” he continued. “We can build. We can hold. We can rule.”

  Oolong studied him.

  “And if the others do not follow?”

  “Then we force them.”

  Oolong gave a slow nod.

  “I follow,” he said. “Even if I do not understand.”

  Warmonger looked back out over the valley.

  Behind him, the fortress buzzed with celebration.

  Shermongrin stood within its heart, whispering to Rusk and other chieftains.

  The shaman’s voice was low.

  “The warlord grows soft,” he murmured. “He bleeds for the weak.”

  Rusk shifted uneasily. “He killed them.”

  “Yes,” Shermongrin said smoothly. “But he hesitated.”

  He tapped his staff lightly against the stone.

  “And hesitation is a crack.”

  His eyes glowed faintly green.

  “We must ensure he remembers what an orc is.”

  Rusk swallowed. “And if he does not?”

  Shermongrin smiled.

  “Then we remind him.”

  High on the rampart, Warmonger felt the mountain beneath his feet.

  He had won the fortress.

  He had won the circle.

  But he felt no triumph.

  Only the weight of three unnecessary deaths.

  At’Sul pulsed on the throne below, whispering promises of simpler rule. Of blood without doubt.

  Warmonger closed his eyes.

  He would not return to the swamps.

  Even if he had to fight his own kind to drag them from the mud.

  Behind him, Oolong stood watch.

  Below, Shermongrin’s plans coiled tighter.

  And deep within the stone halls of Deepstone, something darker than orc or demon began to stir, fed by conflict, waiting for the moment when the warlord’s inner struggle would finally split him open.

  The realm Warmonger dreamed of would not be forged by iron alone.

  It would be forged by war within his own people.

  And Shermongrin intended to make that war inevitable.