As he stepped back from mural before him, Tad asked: “Did an orc really paint this?” Goblins scribbled “Ottis was Here” near accidents in the Machines Works and sometimes teams were commissioned for big paintings to commemorate projects.   Those grand paintings usually depicted the top-level goblin behind the project as leading the workers to a bold, more productive future.  When Tad had the time, he and some friends explored the recesses of the Machines Works to catalog these forgotten works.

“A troll, Tad,” Toran answered, his voice hollow.  “His name was Orgunsir.”  The elf sighed and took a long sip of tea, his hand wrapped around the ceramic cup.  When done he held it at his waist, cradled between interwoven fingers, and stared down with a wistful smile on his face.

Were there a painter troll wandering the domain Tad would have head of it so this must have been some time back.   He stepped closer to the back wall of Toran’s shack.  All along the edges of the mural the plaster wall was cracked and flecked and its corners crumbled away.  Anywhere the paint lay was pristine. The paint itself had a sheen which made it seem freshly laid, perhaps even wet.  In the Machine Works, pieces were faded, stained, and torn after only a few years.  He could only imagine that being exposed to the fresh air and sunlight should have worn this piece down.  “How long ago—” Tad took a moment to reach up with one hand and run his fingertips along the wall.  The porous plaster giving way to the slick, slightly tacky paint.  “—did the troll, Orgunsir, paint this?”

“Only a couple of hundred years,” Toran said.

“Only,” Tad repeated with a mocking disbelief.  He’d once handled a form which bore signatures from seventy years ago. Even Glum was fresh from The Cave back then.

The painting depicted a dizzying maze of castles within castles drowning within a sea of towers, spires, and battlements.  They didn’t have the solid, boxy look of The Keep or the prison of Eternal Suffering with its tower deep in in Hangman’s Woods.  Instead, the mural showed arches and buttresses that were almost floral.  These were all contained within an even greater wall that reached to the sky and encompassed the city like an egg.  At the top an opening let the sun rain onto the castles and turned their roads into rivers of light.  Tad closed his eyes a moment and imagined how warm it must be directly under that hole.  He could almost feel the warmth and squint against the bright light shining through his eyelids. “What is this place, again?” Tad turned to Toran, his fingertips still pressed against the painting as if not to let go of the warmth he imagined the painting held.  Then a chill breeze tore between them.

“That’s Yendell, my home.” Toran stepped toward the mural. “The City of Yendell, specifically, which is the capital of the nation also named Yendell.”

“Yendell is the name of its ruler?” Tad finally pulled away from the wall.  The Central Keep would be but a spec in this city; it’s ruler, Dread Lord Yendell, would have to be a fearsome wraith indeed.

“No, no. The Nation is run by a council of elders, who also oversee the city.  ‘Yendell’ is a word from our ancient tongue, spoken by my great-great-grandfather.  ‘Yendell’ translates to ‘the home for business.’”

 “Is that so.” Tad shrugged.

“It’s a nuanced language.  That particular meaning was popularized by the city’s many innkeepers at the time.”

“These innkeepers are the ones who built it?  Built it into a … is that a giant egg?”

“An egg?” Toran stared at the painting a moment and tapped at his chin with the rim of his cup. “I see how you could think that. But no, it’s carved inside of a mountain.  While the innkeepers helped finance its construction, they needed dwarf magic to do it.  The rock of that mountain is immortal and so doesn’t weather while being impervious to all but enchanted tools.  The dwarves excavated much of the mountain’s interior. Then they carved the buildings at the direction of the elves.”

“The dwarves excavated it?  They’re servants to the elves, like we are to the Dread Lord?”

Shaking his head, Toran answered.  “Things are different in the World of Light.  The dwarves were working under contract with the nation of Yendell—although it was named Asloris back then.”

When Tad couldn’t muster a response and instead blinked in continued befuddlement, the elf continued: “Dwarves are equal to the elves, in their own way.  We cooperated in the construction of the city.  In exchange for their expertise and labor, the dwarves were paid with money.” He scrunched up his face. “Money being a means of acquiring goods and services, like food and shelter.”

“Food and shelter! Yes, the Dread Lord gives us that in exchange for service and loyalty!” 

Toran scowled and shook his head.  After a pained sigh he held his cup up to the torn mountaintop depicted in the painting.  “This was not a part of the plan, though.  The elves wanted more natural light inside the mountain, whereas the dwarves considered such an idea ridiculous. They said it left the city vulnerable.  The elves ended up expending a great deal of power to lop off the top of the mountain.” He made a slicing motion with his straightened hand.

“Just like that?” Tad asked, looking up at Toran. He mimicked the slicing motion.

“A little more complicated than that.  Several elves died in the casting of the spell.  The remaining peaks are named after them.”  Toran shrugged. 

Perhaps simpler than how goblins would do it.  Tad could imagine them drilling deep holes near the peaks and filling them with explosives to blow off the tops.  Maybe they’d cut at an angle so the insides would slide off? He smiled at the thought of the spectacular racket that would create.

The back door of Toran’s home was pushed open by Glum with a long, low creak.  The elder goblin leaned against the doorframe as he announced: “Gohta has arrived.”

Tad followed Toran back into the home.  Glum pulled at Tad’s sleeve as he walked past. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen an orc like that before,” his boss whispered.

Hohza was an orc warrior of some repute.  Tad had even heard he defeated a whole Dread Lord’s army by himself.  One would expect that the lone orc aligned with him would be an equally remarkable figure.  Such expectations were thoroughly dashed as Tad took in the sight of the Gohta, an overweight orc with tusks almost as diminutive as Tad’s! His plump cheeks made him look like a kid goblin fresh from the cave.

“Hail to the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows,” was Gohta’s hearty greeting to Tad and Toran as they entered.  He leaned two sheathed swords against the wall by the door.

“Hail the Dread Lord,” Hohza responded, not bothering to match his underling’s enthusiasm.  He was seated on a bench beside a stack of mis-matched pillows.  Some of the pillows’ stuffing poked through busted seams.  The orc was reading while leaning against a cushion that appeared ready to burst from its aged, worn cloth.

“You’re reading,” Gohta said to Hohza, sounding disappointed.

“I was.” Hohza stood up and clapped the book shut in his palm.  “Gohta, I would like to introduce you to the two newest members of our War Party, Tad and Glum.” He gestured toward the goblins.  Tad’s cheeks flushed at having his name spoken with such familiarity by a warrior orc.  He’d heard the Bosses in the Machine Works talk amongst each other in such a way and often wondered if he would achieve such a place of reverence.

The portly orc appeared uneasy as he nibbled his lower lip and looked between the goblins.  Finally he stooped and offered his hand to them.  “Welcome to the War Party, fellow servants of the glorious Dread Lord Withering Sorrows!”

“Praise the Dread Lord,” Glum said as he shook the orc’s hand.

“Are you ... particularly adept warriors ... for goblins,” Gohta asked while shaking Tad’s hand.

“We’re not warriors at all,” Glum answered.  He folded his arms over his chest and looked, with some disapproval, toward Hohza.  “Our esteemed war chief feels this makes us uniquely qualified for a role in his War Party.”

“A War Party should include of advisors for strategy as well as strong arms for combat,” Hohza rebuked with an educated air.  He slapped Gohta on the back. “Besides, we’ve more than enough mettle for the battlefield between us, do we not?”

“Yes, War Master Hohza,” Gohta said.  “Still, strong arms are useful.”

“I assure you, we haven’t any between us,” Glum grumbled.  He leaned into his cane while staring at Tad.

“Even if you did, and we’d had you last night, it would have done no good.  The War Master doesn’t value strong arms by his side,” Gohta whined.  Tad found the orc’s boyishness made him seem all the more petulant; like when he complained to Glum. The goblin looked away.

“Do not take it as a slight against you, Gohta.  You know I have my ways, and my views, and I do not wish to bring the weight of those down upon you.”

“I’m your War Party!” Another glance at the goblins. “I was.”

“You still are!” Hohza held Gohta by the shoulders as he spoke to him. “When I speak out against the Dread Lord it must be known that I do so as myself, Hohza, and not as a War Master, and not as a representative of my War Party.”

 “As your War Party it’s my duty—our duty— to fight by your side!”

“Yes, my friend, but it is also your duty to follow my command.”

Letting off an elongated, thoughtful “hmm” Toran drew everyone’s attention.  He stood over the stove, watching a kettle percolate, and mused.  “Now that is an interesting conundrum.  How are these duties prioritized?  Does a command to ignore the duty to fight alongside one’s War Master supersede the duty to obey orders? I wonder if there could be a set of circumstances where an order to not fight beside the War Master can be safely ignored?” He stopped when a horn blared outside so loudly that dishes rattled and books dropped from shelves.

“What was that,” Tad eked in fear.  He looked up, wary of the roof collapsing.

“That’s calling for a War Council, and not a regular one,” Hohza answered.  “Thank you for your aid last night, Toran. I wish I could spend more time visiting with you, but I must be off.”

“Ah, yes, the War Council.  Very important, that. Good luck with it. Send a bird if you need some advice about plumbing!” Glum pulled Tad towards the door with him.  The threads on Tad’s collar stretched near to breaking.

Hohza and Gohta crossed the distance to the door in only a few steps. They each picked up one of the swords.  After hefting the weapon in his hands, Hohza pulled at the handle, which gave a glimpse at a blade which shone blue. “No, no, Tad and Glum.  You’re members of my War Party now! You must be in attendance along with me.”  He furrowed his brow, looking down at the pair. “It would be unseemly for Gohta and I to ride in with you sitting in our laps, though.” He pointed his sword, still in its scabbard, toward Toran. “Doctor, see to it that these two goblins are provided with steeds.”

Toran nodded. “Yes. There’s a stable nearby. I’ll write up a requisition.”

That initial seed of fear from the blaring horn now took root.  Tad’s stomach roiled as he realized he’d never ridden an animal before! Goblins were far too little to be given a horse or buffalo and instead rode wolves and boars.  This seemed much worse to him, as an unruly horse or buffalo would throw you off or gore you whereas a displeased wolf or boar might eat its rider.

Glum flashed Tad a warm smile. Tad’s stomach roiled in fear as he envisioned his foot being gnawed off by an enraged boar.  Glum would have no problems! He’d talked in the past about his experience riding a wolf during his stint in the Logistics Corps.

Slapping a sheet down on the counter, Toran announced: “I’ve just the form!”

“Thank you,” Hohza said to the elf.  He stood inside the front doorway and turned.  Beyond him, outside, Gohta climbed on the back of a great buffalo.  A powerful horse waited beside him, Hohza’s steed.  “Will you be in attendance, doctor?”

Toran shook his head. “No. The War Councils of late have been about border reports and supply route disruptions.  Not things that interests me or that Withering Sorrows—“

It was an instinctual flinch that wracked Tad as he heard the wraith’s name without the title of “Dread Lord” preceding it.

“—would need my input for.  No, once I send these two off I’ll spend the day with some tea while I re-arrange my library; I’ve received a shipment of books from the World of Light that I need to inventory.”

Tad was tempted to volunteer himself to help with elf with inventorying the books.  Realizing it might make him appear cowardly, however, he resisted the urge.  This was, after all, just a War Council meeting.  There was nothing to fear about being surrounded by warriors in a room with the Dread Lord; he’d likely be eaten by his wolf or boar on the way to the Central Keep, anyway.