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To the trolls

Erminor looked back at the cart with dismay as it creaked again. It was a brand new cart, especially made for tonight. It wasn't supposed to creak. But then again, it was loaded to the max of its capacity. Yet everything on it was needed this evening.

It had been a nerve-wrecking trip so far, up to the fort of Olog Rraus. Everywhere along the way they had seen signs of past encounters with the trolls. Burned husks of barricades here, some broken arrow-shafts there. They had started the trip early to hold small remembrances at each spot where an elf had died, honouring him or her.

Erminor had been leading magistrate for the outpost of Salty Breeze right from it's birth, and it had been a tough job. He had even doubted great magistrate Piarou's decision of settling here numerous times. But the settlement grew, and many elven warriors wanted to prove their mettle in this most dangerous town of all. Which they did. And this was with the trolls being quite passive as well.

But then came this weird message. It entailed a great opportunity, albeit dangerous. But to be able to see the layout of the troll-fort was too good to be ignored. So they had loaded up the new cart and left, him and 25 of his best and greatest heroes.

They had reached the outskirts of the town around the troll-fort, and it loomed up before them. It was brightly lit from the inside by fires. The cart still squeaked every now and then, but the roads were more even here. The houses around them were dark and closed off for the night.

As soon as they neared the fort itself, they could clearly hear crude but obviously festive music and singing from within its halls. When they entered the light falling from the windows they were spotted by a disgruntled looking guard. “Hmmpf” it said, “me was told yous would come. Wason the cart?” “We have brought elven wine and strong cheese for the Christmas party.” Erminor replied. “I'ss call bossman.” the guard said, pulling on a cord that set of a loud gong inside the hall.

After several minutes the door creaked open and a huge troll stepped outside. Grey hairs sprouted from his numerous warts. “Ahh, you have come. I am happy. And with goodies. Nice.” “I was surprised by your invitation” Erminor said. “Hey, it's Christmas. Even your enemies should be your brothers these days. Come on in.” The elves partied with the trolls all night long, and realized they were, besides the lack of true sophistication, not so different after all. 'Oh, how I wish it was Christmas every day.' Erminor thought as he left the hall, early in the morning.

Descent

[northwestern Mal Motsha -- just south of the bend in the great river]

The grey skies let loose their cool droplets, a hundred thousand well-guarded secrets: tiny orbs of precious water suddenly relinquished to the world. Over and over, without cease. We are here! they seemed to shout as they impacted. We are life, and now -- we bring that life to you!

Water struck earth and was absorbed into the soft, worked soil. It fell against green stalks and leaves and clung to them, dully glistening and trembling as the light breeze threatened to break its tenuous hold. And it fell upon the stony face of the lone orc who walked through this storm. It clanged against his massive armor and pummeled the broad, crested shield he wore slung across his back. It dripped off the helmet he carried under his arm, and it pooled in the large depressions his footsteps left in the tender earth.

Tender. It will be difficult to grow accustomed to a land that yields so readily to flesh, the orc thought. So many things about this place were unfamiliar to him. The abundant plant life, for one. The warmth in the air, and the generosity of the heavens when it came to spilling their precious secrets. The mountains of his homeland, rising now far behind him to the east, were made of rock and stone that would crush a thousand mortal bones before deigning to display the slightest crack. The air was crisp and the skies clear; storms were short and violent, not like these lazy, meandering rains that had been plaguing his travels ever since he had cleared the forest and swung his march southwest to hug the shores of the great river. Not for the first time, a scornful expression played across his face.

Why was he trudging through this soaked land, anyway? Was it not wrong to abandon his tribe, his clan? Was it not sinful to turn his back on the peaks, to cast his gaze away from the exalted heights so close to Sky, and instead plod ever downward, spurning the highest intentions of the Earthgod himself? Under what sun were his actions not an affront to all his kin?

His kin. They were, of course, his purpose in all this madness. His father had warned him against such a foolish and blasphemous course, but his stubbornness was hereditary, dooming any such warning to fall on deaf ears. And for the son of the clan Warplanner to flaunt the old wisdom such? The offense was multiplied many times. Journeying far from home, beyond the sacred peaks, and to what end?

"To live in the mudlands, as a worm?" his father had spat at him, shaking and snarling with rage boiling over. Raätalagk had drawn himself up at this, had struck his most imposing figure.

"To show that it can be done," he returned evenly, though his voice too shook with emotion, both anger and suppressed fear. "That the failure of the uprising did not cause these mountains to become our prison. That all the land, all the rock and soil and mud of Oruk's body, all of it is ours!"

Raätalagk snarled softly as he relived the memory, his lips rising to reveal his tusks in the typical orcish way. There was a kind of laughter in that snarl, one that bore not mirth, but merely release. His father and all those he knew were now far behind him.

In the years of the War, and all that came after, the only children the mad king killed were his own. 

In the center of the cemetery district of Ashk Dhaak in Arran, there is an obelisk supported by a plinth, 'round which the names of the Seven Bastards are inscribed.  Time and rain have worn the sharp edges of the letters away, and now the monument exists as yet another broken, human curiosity in Orc-held lands.

One wouldn't know it had been Embrey, seat of ancient kings - only the Allembine monks know the truth of that now - but there was a king, Styrald, ninth of his name, who decreed after fifty years of rule that his children should succeed him.  

***

According to Embrian custom, all royal progeny were entitled to a share of the kingdom to administer, with the crown passing to the eldest. Only recognized heirs were afforded a share, and it was understood that above all the kingdom must stay whole.

Styrald was handsome – it is recorded that Lannigold blood ran through his veins on his mother’s side. It is certain that he shared that family’s passions - for women and wine, and travel.  Never married, he had issue, and in his besotted condition, enamored by their mothers, he often lost track of how many he had claimed.

It came to pass he had named seven bastards, all of different mothers. There was the swarthy boy borne of the Sultan of Kazim’s daughter, and a miller’s girl, and the half-orc mage, and a ward of the Azure Throne no older than ten. 

The youngest was three, in swaddling - a Lannigold, on his mother’s side.

***

Seven armies converged on Embrey, and there the Bastards met their father. Styrald entreated them to settle their differences amicably. But denied a father’s love they decided they would have his empire.

After three days, Styrald saw there could be no amicable division. They would tear his kingdom apart.

And so he got very drunk, and invited them to the tower. Greed brought them to his chamber. There they drank with their father until the poison in their cup was spent. Alone, at last, with their father, to take the measure of a broken king as they lay waiting for their lives to flee them.

Until there was only an old man, weeping, and a babe in swaddling.