Urganza stood proud and tall. Her burning amber eyes considered all who gathered around her wide stone table in Forge Wife’s Folly. Only grim faces surrounded her. She cleared her throat. Her commanding voice drowned the din of the militia preparing fervently outside to defend their temporary home.

Looking at her, I could barely believe my eyes. Had I not been a witness to her tenaciousness, had I heard the tale second-hand from a wandering peddlar, I would have called it an overly exaggerated story. Her moss green-coloured skin was almost sheeny, that I suspected bioluminescence in her medication to aid her speedy recovery. But most astonishing of all, was her attitude. Her every move was filled with overflowing vitality, and she unconsciously infected those she came in contact. Like she held a cornucopia of energy and wasn’t averse to sharing it with anyone she met.

Her amber eyes darted towards Lyria in a silent acknowledgement. Then she caught me glaring at her.

“Rylonvirah, is there something that I should know?” she asked.

“I am happy to see you recuperate so well and I wish I could stay to help you face the oncoming horde but unfortunately, my presence is required elsewhere,” I answered her.

“If it is about my promise, know this, I have sworn on the tusk of my brother and I will uphold my vow,” assured Urganza in a loud voice booming across the wide hall.

She needs to learn that she is no longer a raid leader. She does not have to raise her voice to make her presence felt.

“Tharkas, what is the current situation?” asked Urganza.

Tharkas, who was seated beside Urganza stood and approached the table. He wore a deep wine red doublet with a tawny fur cloak, fastened from his shoulder to shoulder by a golden chain, the only item of luxury that he allowed himself. Despite his elegant attire, dark circles hung around his eyes. Obviously, the newly assigned position of the Seneschal of the Stone-Cleaver orcs placed a heavy strain upon him.

“Forge Wife’s Folly housed three thousand kin but as of now, we have four thousand refugees from Mikhul’s Redoubt and more trickling in every day.”

Despite the cool temperature and the fresh air current circulating the hall, beads of sweat glistened on Tharkas’s mauled forehead, which was promptly wiped with the back of his sleeves.

“Our resources will not hold. We need to relocate,” he added.

“What does the report from the Dusk Reavers say?” asked Urganza.

“More undead are advancing slowly. By the Dusk Reaver’s reckoning, it would be anywhere between two to three weeks before they reach Forge Wife’s Folly,” answered Tharkas. He slowly slumped back into the high-backed chair and let a deep sigh. For a faint moment, Tharkas appeared as if he aged a century in a week's passage.

Urganza’s brows knitted in furrows. Her worst fears, her own clan and kin, roaming as hollows husks, restlessly even after their death, have come true. Her hard-earned victory was just a theatrical display of arms. Her steadfast resolve and the sheer defiance that she mustered while withstanding the ferocious onslaught of the Storm Lord became futile. The sufferings she endured were in vain. In the end, she failed to prevent the terrible fate from happening.

“How many Ashen Bulwarks are with us?”

“Counting a thousand of our own militia and the eight companies of Ashen Bulwarks that accompanied us, enough to defend,” estimated Tharkas and added as an almost afterthought, “for a while.”

Eight companies of Ashen Bulwarks, almost one battalion. Depending on the size of individual companies, she would be lucky if she had two thousand Ashen Bulwarks at her disposal.

Urganza’s eyes apologetically settled on me.

“The other smaller clans have sent riders asking for help. If we send a rallying call and gather every Ashen Bulwark, we can expect another five thousand,” pondered Urganza, loudly verbalising her thoughts.

Without a pause and with resolute firmness, Urganza continued.

“I could only spare two companies of Ashen Bulwarks for your escort, Rylonvirah. I am hard-pressed between protecting my kin and the other clans. Too few warriors to cover a wide region,” She let her voice slowly trail away. Her eyes focused on the cracks running on the granite floor; refusing to meet my eyes.

It was evident that Urganza would be forced to rely on Ashen Bulwarks. The Dusk Reavers, though competent to work as an independent elite force, capable of operating well beyond enemy lines, and resourceful to survive in foreign terrain, still are rangers at heart. They could slay a few undead, and delay their advance, but in a pitched battle would fail to protect villagers and kinsfolk. I am certain, Urganza had already factored it in her approach.

“I will request the Dusk Reavers to join your escort army till Asterlund, though whether they honour my request or not, is up to them,” said Urganza in a faint attempt to rekindle assurance.

“And what is your plan now?” I prodded.

“There is an emergency gathering of clans, to discuss the undead threat.” She kept her reply simple.

Even for a race that glorified brutality and savagery, the upper echelons of power still played by the same rules. The Stone-Cleavers as well as the leaders of other minor clans must have already realised that they cannot survive the undead threat alone. They would undoubtedly need the Ashen Bulwarks as a shock troop and the Dusk Reavers for surveillance. To assemble every Ashen Bulwark, from multiple clans under a single banner, and the ability to direct the Dusk Reavers, requires tremendous might. Only an Orc Overlord could command such power. In effect, the gathering of clans is to elect the new High-King of the Orcs, the Orc Overlord.

“I expect a contingent of Dusk Reavers in two days' times, should they choose. Four Hundred Ashen Bulwarks of my own Warband are at your command. They have instructions to safely see you till the Baron Beoric’s land but I insist that they return safely back to us,” continued Urganza.

Given her current situation, she offered the best to us. All I could do for her in return is to assure the safety and the prompt return of her famed warriors.

While Urganza and Tharkas considered the meeting to be over, only an old orc, almost gnarled that I thought that he was an old tree root or a strong creeper growing along the walls of the hall, cleared his throat and pointed out that something was eating Lyria inside.

As all eyes turned on Lyria, she immediately clutched her hands tight. Her eyes darted around like swallows seeking escape. Then she fell silent.

“Forge Marm, Your opinions are highly prized in this hall,” coaxed Tharkas.

Seated barefoot, her toes wriggled and dug into the dirt-covered floor. Her cheeks burned as she turned towards me and met my eyes.

“We could cut across to Ellisinore. There are important people I would love to just see before we fly to Sarenthill,” coyly replied Lyria -- slowly and almost carefully.

I can’t believe she was considering that as an option, especially, since the bulk of Zelaphiel’s forces were concentrated around the region.

“Risky,” I interrupted before anyone could get their words in order, “That path will lead to inevitable conflict with the Paladins and our Storm Lord, needs her warriors.”

Lyria’s eyes lost their twinkle and she sported an adorable pout. Maybe I should do this very often, just to bask in the grace of her cute disappointment.

I slapped both my thighs; the sound of the slap echoing across the wide hall, attracting the attention of all; before standing to full height.

“I now leave your esteemed war council to prepare for our journey ahead but Seneschal Tharkas, may I intrude upon your valuable time?” I asked as I manoeuvred myself towards the door.

---

Outside Tharkas walked beside me, keeping pace with the long strides. An acknowledged silence hung between us. We quickly pushed past the band of marching militia, most of who still greeted Tharkas with congeniality.

Despite the fact that the new Storm Lord has not made any declaration, a heavy air of dread mingled with apprehension enveloped Forge Wife’s Folly. Farmers and herders hung their pitchforks in favour of tridents. Even the orc women and children were busy digging trenches along the periphery, assisted by a few ogres carrying finely sharpened wood, which were promptly erected as temporary palisades. Theko, with his frame smaller compared to the bulky ogres, still managed to match his rhythm with them as he assisted with the transport.

The clamour of warriors sparring and the repeated strike of overworked smiths forging weapons mingled into a heavy cacophonous din and echoed over the settlement. Maapu and his sappers, considering the undergoing preparations in Forge Wive’s Folly, would have had their work cut out for them. As for the Ogre Rock Hurlers, under him, the goblin would have definitely found a way to whip them up. Taltil, who valued independence more than the other two, most likely spent her time around the quartermaster, no doubt, bargaining with him or settling squabbles and bartering.

“When is the gathering planned?” I asked breaking the awkward tension between us.

“In ten days time,” he replied and with a tired expression added, “almost no time to organise defences around here,”

“You should leave tomorrow,” I said in a low whisper aided by a sibilant tone, “Pay your respects to the Clan Lords but focus on their shamans. Bribe if you can use the name of my mercenary company as insurance if need be.”

Tharkas simply nodded like a diligent apprentice following his master’s instructions.

“And remember,” I cautioned, “Power is never brokered in public and if you roll the dice properly, we would be greeting the new Overlord of the Orcs.”

Tharkas never uttered a word of verbal acknowledgement. His lips were tightly sealed, but if the faraway expression in his deep eyes and his sunken shoulders of a brooding philosopher were indications of any, then he is already considering his moves.

“Irrespective of the outcome, she should ride with the wind and meet with us. I would be travelling at a slower pace. So she should be able to catch us,” I added.

The newly appointed Seneschal turned towards me and his eyebrows shot upwards in bewilderment.

“Zelaphiel’s Paladin would soon lead their army to combat the undead threat. Urganza never knelt to the One-Horned-Warlord and she will not kneel before the Grand Paladin Champion. Soon, your lands will be contested and she herself would be caught fighting on two fronts,”

Tharkas gave deep sigh and shrugged, “Is it how it feels to be in charge? Always fearing one threat after another?”

I ignored his concern for the moment. There will be another time for the pep talk.

“Depending on the outcome of the gathering and the able-bodied warriors that she could arrange, our plan would change. For the worst, be prepared to abandon your lands,” I added.

The Seneschal’s face grew darker at my words.

“And that is why you play a far important role in the gathering,” I concluded and left him alone to his thoughts.

---

“Would you like to try one more slice?” said Lyria and without waiting for an answer she dropped another huge morsel on my bowl.

I turned my head to see if anyone paid any attention to us. If this were a normal camp of warriors, boisterous cheers would have erupted, followed by some lewd joke and in extreme situations when alcohol-drenched throats freely, one or another addled warrior would have stood up and thrust his hips to make his intentions clear. But no such thing happened. Either Urganza imbibed a strong discipline in her four hundred Ashen Bulwarks who now accompanied us or even the Ashen Bulwarks are afraid of Lyria. The fifty Dusk Reavers who responded to Lyria’s summons, mostly kept to the outer perimeter, choosing to enter the camp only to convey important information. The campfires of the Ashen Bulwarks were never shared with the Dusk Reavers.

In the past fifteen days that we travelled in their company, it became evident that even among the orcs, the rivalry between elite forces is common. While the Ashen Bulwarks considered themselves to be the epitome of shock troops and stalwart defenders, the Dusk Reavers prided themselves on their autonomy and their status of only liable to answer to the Orc Overlord.

“You don’t seem troubled at all?” I asked Lyria.

“Why should I?” Lyria retorted back, “I could steal sweet little kisses anytime I want.”

“Sweet little lies,” I replied taunting Lyria to take action. She slapped me on the shoulders and then pulled me in for a rib-cracking hug and a kiss. A moment later, sensing Taltil in our vicinity, she released her iron grip and smirked; a smirk that said it is far from over.

If Lyria was frustrated at our lack of privacy, she handled it well. Since stealth was of importance, and the robust Ashen Bulwarks were used to harsh elements, no tents were erected at night. Most of the nights were spent under the wide-open sky. On occasions, a wide stretched leather held by two simple poles served as a roof but there was an intoxicating charm in watching the beautiful jewel-littered night sky with Lyria soft breath caressing my cheeks. We would lie sideways, with the stars staring down on us; we look deep into the eyes of each other -- losing a part of ourselves, melding into one another. In those instances, we both were more than ourselves. At moments, when we were both assured of the solace of our own company, we would steal tiny kisses, to sate our increasingly gnawing lust.

Taltil gave Lyria a mixed look before she scurried herself towards Maapu and his band.

“Do they hate me?” asked Lyria.

I chuckled at her question.

“If they could, they would celebrate the wedding,” I replied.

“And what prevents them from celebrating?” posed Lyria. She stood up and slowly grabbed my hand, pulling me towards her. I willingly took her offer of a distracting walk with her.

We walked a few paces hand in hand, till the noise from the camp slowly died out and the stillness of the rocky barren land with sparse vegetation veiled us.

“Lyria, we are not getting married,” I said softly.

Her smile slowly wilted away but she still refused to relinquish her hold. She tightened her arms around me almost in a desperate attempt to stand before my words. Her eyes still smiled lovingly at me.

“But you love me. I could see it in you,” she answered.

“Lyria, we are not marrying. We are eloping,” I repeated myself clearly.

Lyria gave a sigh of relief and her seductive smile returned to her lips.

“Eloping means we are not inviting anyone,” I spelt each word -- slowly.

“The High-Archoness is not just anyone. I basically raised Celerim. Besides this would be a chance for Delyn to accompany him. We could all be together,” said Lyria enthusiastically.

I could only scoff at her naivety. All family members commune for a joyous occasion. Lyria can be a real romantic at heart.

Before I could think of my words, my expression darkened.

“Lyria, my relationship with my daughter is strained. I don’t know if she would feel happy or annoyed if she hears about it,”

I held back my well of tears and continued, “Besides, she is a Matriarch now. All eyes will be on her. If word gets out that she presented herself at the wedding of someone, who she personally exiled, Sinvaintra and every other house would peck her like vultures.”

Lyria threw her hand in frustration, “Then she is all alone. All the more reason for her to meet her mothers.”

“Mother,” I sneered in unconcealed anger, “Delyn has a mother, not mothers.”

Lyria frowned unhappily. She simply lowered her head and resumed walking, in silence. Her silence seemed pregnant with remorse. Her body heaved against mine in anguish. I pulled her along and made her sit beside me so that we could watch each other’s eyes.

I took the moment to address my own irrational anger. The self-reflection made me realise that I still held deep-seated untold anger at Lyria for abandoning Delyn in the crib. But on the other hand, Lyria always considered Delyn to be her daughter. Even in her letter that I retrieved from the octant laboratory, Lyria almost introduced herself as my daughter’s other mother.

After allowing her grief and my anger to work itself out, we were both ready to engage our future.

“Lyria, will you answer me in all honesty? Will you swear?” I asked.

She rubbed her moist eyes and nodded.

“Is there something about Delyn that you are hiding from me?” I thought of mentioning her letter to Delyn but considered against introducing additional details at this point in our conversation.

“Did you not realise it yet?” asked Lyria, in full surprise.

“Lyria, you have been irrational when it involves Delyn. You abandoned her. When you met with Celerim, you knew something about Delyn and ever since you have been trying to sneak into my bed. Have you been trying to seduce me because of her?”

At my accusatory pronouncement, Lyria said nothing but gripped my forearm tightly. We stared at each other for a long moment.

“I love her like a mother. I always have. She is all alone and in danger. ” finally insisted Lyria fervently as if she were defending her virginal virtue.

My voice dripped with scorn as I unleashed another verbal onslaught, “While fighting the Tenebrous Weaver, you tried to assure me that Delyn is capable on her own and yet now you want to protect her.”

Lyria slowly tilted her head to the left, slightly. When she finally spoke, she had the voice of a woman on her last breath. A woman who has given up on everything. Just an empty voice, without any hope or despair.

And what she said, is the only logical explanation for Delyn’s ability and the feat she pulled. Yet, it was also the most improbable and unlikely event in the recorded history of Dark-elves.

“Rils, She is an Aasimar.”