Ulfir stumbled, half-conscious, as two towering orcs dragged him through the filth of a war camp carved into the rotting heart of the Dak Mar swamplands. His wrists were bound tight behind his back with cords that stank of mold and gore. His right leg hung useless, shattered below the knee. One eye was swollen shut. The other blinked weakly against the smoke and firelight that lit the encampment like the belly of some foul beast.

  Torch-pits flared along the muddy paths, flames hissing in the rain as they licked high into the steaming air. The light revealed monstrous forms gathered around every fire—hulking orcs, slobbering trolls, and shapes better left unnamed. Heads turned as Ulfir was dragged past, their stares heavy with hunger and disdain.

  He tried to swallow the bile rising in his throat. It didn’t hold. He gagged, coughing blood and acid, and earned a hard kick in the ribs for the offense. He didn’t cry out. He couldn’t. There was no breath left for that.

  They passed beneath a crude arch of bone and rusted blades—totems crowned with rotting skulls, their mouths agape in eternal screams. The earth beneath him pulsed, soaked not only with rain, but with older, darker fluids.

  At the camp’s center, a massive tree stump stood like a throne hewn from a god’s corpse. Braziers ringed it in firelight, their smoke curling around sharpened stakes and feasting pits.

  And upon the stump, seated like a crowned shadow of death, was Warmonger.

  Even at rest, the war king loomed. His armor was blackened and burned, etched with crimson runes that still pulsed faintly, as if hungry for fresh blood. A single glowing red eye stared out from beneath his iron helm. The other socket was a hollow ruin.

  In one gauntleted hand, he held a half-devoured leg—beast or man, it was impossible to tell. In the other, a chipped great axe rested against the stump, more an afterthought than a weapon.

  His presence was weight. It bent the back and crushed the breath. Around him, lesser creatures bowed low—not in respect, but survival.

  Ulfir was flung to the base of the throne like trash. He hit the muck with a groan, coughing, unable to rise.

  Lotharg, the orc who had led the slaughter of his scouts, stepped forward and knelt, his voice thick with pride.

  “This puny human is all that’s left of their scouting party, my war king.”

  Warmonger casually tossed the rest of his meal aside. The meat hit the mud with a wet slap.

  “And the caravan?” he asked, voice deep and slow—like a boulder grinding down a mountain.

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  “They travel the old mountain path above Twerg’s Hollow,” Lotharg answered. “The rains have turned the trail to mire. The mists blind them. They are slow. Exposed.”

  A smile split Warmonger’s cracked lips. It was not a kind thing.

  “Then they make easy prey.”

  From the shadows beside the throne, a figure shifted forward—Shermongrin, the shaman. He wore the hides of beasts and the bones of men. Talismans clattered with each step, and a serpent skull crowned the staff in his gnarled hand. His face was smeared with black paint, a third eye drawn across his brow in red.

  “They move under the cover of storm,” he hissed. “As if the gods favor them.”

  Warmonger turned his head. Slowly.

  That was all.

  Shermongrin fell silent.

  “You’ve done well, Lotharg,” Warmonger said, returning his gaze to the orc. “You and your hunters will be rewarded.”

  “Thank you, my war king,” Lotharg bowed deeply.

  “And the prisoner?”

  “Shall I slit his throat?”

  “No. Take him to the slave pens. He may still be of use.”

  Before the order finished leaving Warmonger’s lips, one of the red-and-black-painted warriors stepped forward. He struck Ulfir twice with a heavy club.

  The world went black.

  ?

  From behind the throne, a monstrous figure stepped into the firelight.

  He stood taller than any creature present—massive even by orcish standards. His body was a mountain of scarred flesh and iron. A beast’s jawbone was lashed to his pauldron, and his chest bore the warpaint of the newly sworn Blood Render Clan.

  “Yes, war king?” he asked, voice like stone grinding against stone.

  “Chief Bwull,” Warmonger said, still seated. “You’ve only just joined us, haven’t you?”

  Bwull nodded. “Yes, my war king.”

  “You served under Korvagg the Blackjaw before.”

  A pause.

  “I did.”

  Warmonger leaned forward, his crimson eye glinting in the firelight.

  “And your old war chief did not heed my call, did he?”

  Bwull’s jaw tightened. “He feared your ambition… said we would lose our lands. He wanted to wait. To watch.”

  Warmonger’s grin was teeth and death.

  “And so I split him in two—from groin to jaw—on the stone altar of Vru’gath.”

  He stood then, towering, casting a colossal shadow across the camp.

  “Once he was dead, your clan saw wisdom in obedience. The vote went my way.”

  Around them, the orcs roared, stomping weapons into mud and flame.

  Warmonger tossed the remains of his feast into the dark.

  “You and your warriors shall have first blood tonight.”

  Bwull dropped to one knee, forehead pressed to the filth. “You honor us, war king. We will not fail.”

  A moment passed.

  Then came a voice—soft, almost reverent.

  “Surely… the right of first blood should go to one of the older clans,” Shermongrin said, without lifting his eyes. “Those who followed you from the beginning…”

  The camp fell quiet.

  Warmonger’s grin remained—but the warmth was gone. What stared now was something cold. Final.

  “If you want first blood, shaman,” he said softly, “then draw your blade… and take it.”

  No one breathed.

  Shermongrin froze. His eyes twitched. His limbs trembled.

  Then, slowly, he dropped to his knees. Arms wide. Head low. Prostrate.

  “I meant no disrespect, Great War King.”

  Warmonger turned away from him as one might turn from a dying fire.

  “Ready your clan,” he commanded, voice iron and flame. “We march tonight. Let the storm cloak our blades. Let the mud drown their hope. Let their bones break beneath our charge.”

  Bwull struck his chest with a fist like a hammer. “At once!”

  He turned and vanished into the storm, shouting to his lieutenants with thunder in his lungs.

  Shermongrin remained kneeling long after the others had gone.

  Warmonger never looked back.

  He didn’t need to.

  They all knew.

  Tonight, would be blood.