Lashka

Orm Tullim felt feverish next to the burning embers in the brazier, which barely illuminated anything in the room. He could make out the edge of a dais a few feet away, and was aware of a restless shape at his side which he took to be Rhaga. There were other shapes too, shapes that crawled along the walls and at knee level, which he feared too much to look at directly.  

 "Vengeance?" The Old Mother Redbones growled in the darkness. "What do crusaders know of vengeance?"

Orm Tullim's eyes strained against the darkness. He knew with uncomfortable certainty that the shadows were moving around him.  "I know that Lashka deposed you; I know you must hate her."  

There was silence for a moment; Tullim struggled with the hope that he might have reached her. Then she laughed cruelly. "You humans think that we are mere savages, so easily moved. You think that many of my kind cannot speak your language because we are too simple..."

He jumped as something hissed in his ear, so close that its breath raised the little hairs at the base of its neck. "But we listen, from the darkness, Orm Tullim. We watch as you murder out of fear, as you let the strong starve for a bit of gold and let the weak thrive simply because the one that had borne them wears it."

"It is is not the Uruk way," she said, "to let the weak burden the tribe."

He made a noise of protest, which was quickly choked back in the soot and ash. The Old Mother laughed again; this time the sound was distant, in the direction of the dais.

"How savage of me," she said, turning the word into a jape, "not to clear the air." There was movement by the dais.

"Open the vents, and stoke the fire," the Old Mother called, and the shadows moved to comply.

There was a great grinding sound like gears, and he startled as a blast of icy air hit him from above, accompanied by a dry leathery sound like the wings of a giant bat. The room was gradually bathed in  silver moonlight. As the room brightened, he began to make out details.

The moving shadows were kobolds – dozens of them. They crawled over every surface, tending glittering orbs that sat in niches set into the walls. Copper orbs, which sat on the lower tiers, were by far the most numerous, though there were silver and gold there as well. He took a step towards them in fascination. 

As one, the kobolds turned on him and snarled; he hastily took a step back.

Her attendants, Tullim realized. That meant she still had power in the camp. Perhaps he could use that. As the smoke cleared he turned towards the dais, where he assumed she had seated herself. There was a throne there that looked like it had been fashioned out of iron and a giant's pelvic bones. And seated on that throne was-

He fought the urge to scream. "Am I not fair, Orm Tullim?" the Old Mother said mockingly.

This is my song, Lashka thought as she looked out over Ashk Harim, but do these children sing for me?

There were songs that the bards sang, she reasoned, songs that were as weak and watered-down as gnomish brew. This was different. It was the rhythm of sinew put to purpose, of the carving of wood and sharpened metal. It was a squealing calf as it was slaughtered for skin to make saddles and flexible armor; it was the exhalation of the bellows and the tolling of hammer on steel.

The wind carried other sounds to her ears - creche mothers singing to their whelps of the glory and battle their fathers would carry come first light. Old women sang the laments of chieftans long gone so that their spirits would give them courage. To the east, the servants of the gods spread the blood of slaves - elven, dwarven, and human - along each side of the triangular altar at the base of the temple complex.

Inside, she knew, the old priest Jaffa and his monks would be marking the heads and knives of the Iquadron acolytes with that same blood, so that even the shadows would melt before them, and the runes of power would tremble at their presence.

Old magic, she thought, written in the flesh. To be Uruk was to believe in the power of the blood. Why else take other races as slaves, or exact a blood-price from vanquished enemies? Why else consume the flesh of the dead, if not to gain their power.

"Rhugash is not happy to be left be left behind. He feels you shame him."

Lashka ignored Urgho for a moment, then sighed. "His son will honor his family; that should be enough."

"He says he is not ready to be fed to Old Mother Redbones just yet."

Lashka laughed. "I am rather fond of the fool, I must admit; she will not have him yet." She looked towards the southwest, towards the lights of Bristol Faire. "Besides, I need him here." In case I do not survive. He is the only one the others will listen to.

"Perhaps." Urgho said, "But my uncle will not survive a dozen more winters. Better he die in battle than a husk in a bed."

Lashka turned to him. "I need him," she said forcefully, "you will obey." His insolence was reminder that these were not really her people; not yet. She still had to prove herself in battle.

On the hill below them a great clamor came from the brewery. "Go see to the kobolds." Lashka said curtly. "I do not want them too drunk to fight in the morning."

Urgho inclined his head in submission. "As you say, Horde-Mother."

With Urgho gone, she was free with her thoughts, as unwelcome as they may be. On impulse, she unslung her battle horn, and placed it to her lips. The iron rim felt cold and cruel against her warm breath as she gave a might blast, which echoed off the wooden parapets of the gates below.

The clamor stopped suddenly; the entire city held its breath, and then a murmur started, building into a tide that coalesced around a single word taken up as a chant.

Uruk….Uruk…Uruk…

Now, she thought, my children sing for me.