28.- The call of The abyss

The icy wind roared through the northern mountains, a cutting howl that carried the acrid scent of snow and rusted iron, lashing the jagged peaks like an invisible whip. In the black stone fortress known as Kragthar'Dun, the leaders of the orc tribes gathered under the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall, a cavernous sanctuary carved into the heart of the mountain. Resin torches burned with a reddish light, their flames crackling and casting dancing shadows on walls carved with ancient runes – symbols of war, blood, and spirits that had guided the orcs since the days of the first clans. The air was thick with tension, a weight that pressed on chests and made the wolf pelts hanging from the rafters stir restlessly. In the distance, the howling of wolves echoed between the peaks, a wild chorus that rose and fell with a tone of unease, as if sensing a storm that had not yet broken.

In the center of the hall, Chieftain Grommash slammed his war maul – a monstrous weapon of black iron, studded with the fangs of dead beasts – against the floor, the metallic impact echoing like a battle drum, demanding silence among the grunts and murmurs of the chieftains. He was a colossus of grayish skin, his bare torso crisscrossed with scars that narrated victories snatched with blood and steel, his prominent tusks gleaming under the torchlight. His eyes, red as embers, burned with a contained fury, and his presence filled the hall like the roar of a storm.

"Hear me!" bellowed Grommash, his voice deep as thunder rumbling in the caverns. "The wolves flee the lowlands, the hunters return with empty hands, and the bonfires burn with black smoke that does not rise. The shamans speak of broken omens – something stirs in the south, something that reeks of death and power. We must know what stalks our lands."

The other chieftains muttered among themselves, their grunts echoing against the stone. Some nodded, their hands clenching axes and spears with whitened knuckles; others frowned, their wind-weathered faces showing doubt. In recent weeks, an unease had grown among the tribes – the herds avoided the usual routes, the winds brought a chill that penetrated beyond the flesh, and the shamans, when consulting the omens, saw only confusing fragments: blood in the snow, an echo that was not sound, a shapeless hunger.

"And what do you propose, Grommash?" asked Shaman Throkka, her voice calm but charged with an authority that silenced even the fiercest warriors. She was a stooped old woman, her skin wrinkled like old leather, her white hair falling like snow on her shoulders. Her eyes shone with an unnatural gleam – yellow like those of a wolf under the moon – and her bony hands held a staff carved with raven skulls, each with runes that seemed to pulse with their own life. She wore tanned hides and necklaces of fangs, an echo of the spirits that guided her.

Grommash grunted, a sound that vibrated in his chest like the rumble of an avalanche. "The humans of Eldoria are always plotting something – their towers shine with magic, their armies march north. This reeks of their greed, some ritual they have unleashed."

"Not so fast," Throkka interrupted, raising a trembling but firm hand, her black nails glinting under the reddish light. "I have spoken with the spirits, Grommash. The visions are dark, but they do not point to Eldoria – yet. There is something else, something that waits."

A young warrior, Kragthar, stepped forward, his dark green skin taut over muscles marked by years of combat. His red eyes burned with fury, and a fresh scar crossed his left cheek, a reminder of his last hunt. He struck his chest with a leather-wrapped fist, the sound echoing like a drum. "Then we strike first! If the humans are plotting something, we will gut them before they reach us. Blood for blood!"

Throkka looked at him sternly, her staff striking the ground with a dry snap. "To act without knowing is the way of fools, Kragthar. Strength without mind is a broken weapon."

"We have waited too long already!" roared Kragthar, his voice cutting through the air as he pointed at the chieftains with an arm covered in war tattoos. "The humans will crush us if we do not act – them and their weak tricks!"

The hall erupted in a chaos of grunts and shouts. Some chieftains slammed their weapons against shields of wood and iron, supporting Grommash and Kragthar with roars of "War! Blood!" Others, more cautious, murmured their support for Throkka, their hands crossed over chests covered in furs, their eyes searching for answers in the shadows. The fire of the torches crackled louder, as if fueling the fury that filled the air.

A sudden tremor silenced the uproar, a shudder that shook the torches and dislodged dust from the runes on the walls. The orcs tensed, hands on their weapons, as the ground vibrated under their boots. Before they could react, a sound cut through the air – a low, deep note, like a trumpet resonating from the edge of the cosmos. It was not the howl of a wolf or the roar of a storm, but a lament that pierced the bones, an omen that chilled the blood and stopped the hearts. The torches faltered, their flames leaning towards the south as if being called, and the echo of the wolves in the mountains became a howl of panic, hundreds of howls that rose and died in an instant.

Grommash raised his maul, his tusks gleaming with fury. "What is this?" he roared, turning to Throkka, but the old woman had already closed her eyes, her hands clenching the staff as she whispered words in a guttural language that resonated with the wind.

A second tremor struck, more ferocious, a deafening roar that shook Kragthar'Dun as if a titanic hammer had fallen from the sky. Black stones fell from the vaulted ceiling, crashing to the ground in clouds of dust, and the runes on the walls glowed with a bloody red before fading, as if something had extinguished them. The chieftains staggered, some falling to their knees, as the second trumpet sounded – a high-pitched tone, a shriek that pierced the soul like an icy knife. The icy wind seeped through the cracks in the fortress, bringing a stench of ozone and decay that made the orcs growl, their noses wrinkling in instinct.

Grommash ran to the window carved into the stone, a narrow opening that overlooked the snowy peaks, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. The sky, previously gray with storm clouds, had turned a bloody red, a mantle of blood that spread as if the mountain itself were wounded. Black fissures opened in the firmament – jagged portals that vomited twisted shadows and an icy wind that ripped the snow from the peaks in whirlwinds. The stars, visible even under the daylight, erupted in frantic flashes, some fading into a deadly silence, swallowed by a darkness that seemed alive, pulsating. The snow below the fortress turned black, melting into viscous puddles that bubbled as if they were breathing, and the wolves – entire packs – fled down the slopes, their howls turning into whimpers of terror before silence claimed them.

"By the ancestors!" roared Grommash, striking the wall with his maul, the iron resonating against the stone as a crack opened under the impact. "What sorcery is this?"

Throkka opened her eyes, blood dripping from her nose as she staggered, her staff trembling in her hands. "It is not human sorcery," she whispered, her voice a broken thread. "I have seen… a broken sky, a horned shadow that devours the stars. This is older than the gods of war."

A third tremor struck, and the third trumpet resounded – a deep bellow that made ears bleed and cracked the ground beneath their feet. The cracks in the walls widened, spilling black dust, and the runes began to bleed, red threads running like living veins that stained the stone. The orcs shouted, some falling to the ground, their weapons slipping from trembling hands, as a wave of dark energy erupted from the sky, a whirlwind of shadows that struck the mountain with a thunderclap that shook the peaks. Rocks fell in black avalanches, crushing huts and pens at the base of Kragthar'Dun, and the air filled with a high-pitched hum that cut the ears like razors.

Kragthar roared, raising his double-edged axe towards the sky. "We will fight this!" he bellowed, but his voice was lost in the chaos as the torches went out one by one, plunging the hall into a reddish twilight. Laughter then arrived – "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" – a cruel and cold sound that cut through the lament of the trumpet, resonating from the fissures like an echo of death. It was not just a sound; it was a presence, a weight that crushed the spirit, freezing the blood and sowing despair in every heart. Grommash felt a shiver run down his spine, his maul trembling in his hand, as Throkka fell to her knees, blood running from her eyes as she whispered, "It is… hunger."

The fourth trumpet sounded – a discordant lament, a chorus of thousands of voices screaming in forgotten tongues. The sky split completely, the fissures merging into a colossal portal that showed an infinite abyss – a sea of darkness with bloody nebulae spinning in whirlwinds, blinking eyes that looked from the void. The icy wind became a hurricane, ripping rocks from the fortress and throwing bodies into the sky – a young warrior was dragged from the edge, his scream cut short by the abyss. The mountains collapsed into a black dust that obscured the horizon, and the remaining snow was stained a viscous black, bubbling as if something alive was emerging from its depths. The orcs raised their weapons in a war chant – "Blood and steel!" – a defiant anthem that echoed in the hall, but the extinguished torches smoked, and the bleeding runes faded, their light stolen by a power they could not name.

Throkka raised her staff, her voice cutting through the chaos like a broken blade: "Silence!" The orcs stopped, their grunts fading, and she pointed to the sky with a trembling finger. A final fissure opened above the Great Hall – a jagged portal that showed an infinite void, a sea of darkness with bleeding nebulae. From within emerged a figure: a spectral wolf, colossal, its red eyes burning like embers, its black fur rippling like living shadows. It floated above the hall, its presence chilling the air, and its voice resonated in the minds of all like a guttural roar: "The Queen has awakened her first echo. Prepare the blood."

With a howl that shook the walls, the wolf unleashed a blast of dark energy that struck the center of the hall, opening a crater in the ground and collapsing a stone table into pieces. Then it disappeared into the fissure, which closed with a final crack like a muffled thunder. The red sky remained, the trumpets silenced, but the echo of its laughter – and its warning – was etched in the air, an omen that resonated in every crack, in every soul.

The chieftains, paralyzed, looked at Grommash, who was breathing heavily, his maul clenched in a bloodied hand. The dust settled among the rubble of the hall, the extinguished torches smoking on the ground, and the silence was heavier than the chaos that preceded it. "Throkka," Grommash growled, his voice hoarse but cutting, "what do we do?"

The old woman stood up with effort, leaning on her staff, blood dripping from her face as she looked at the broken sky. "This is not Eldoria," she said, her voice an icy whisper. "I have seen a throne of blood in an abyss, a shadow that devours worlds. We must know more before we act."

"Know more?" roared Kragthar, throwing his axe to the ground with a clang that echoed in the hall. "This is war! The humans or whatever, we will rip them apart!"

Throkka looked at him, her eyes shining with an unnatural gleam. "If you fight without knowing, you will die without honor. This is bigger than humans, bigger than us."

An uneasy silence filled the hall, the orcs exchanging glances filled with fury and fear. Finally, Grommash slammed his maul against the ground once more, the sound cutting through the tension like an axe. "So be it," he said, his voice hardening. "We will send scouts – stealthy, swift. If the humans are behind this, blood will flow like rivers. If not…" He paused, his red eyes gleaming with a fear he would not admit. "Then may the ancestors guide us."

Throkka nodded, but her gaze was lost on the horizon, where the crimson sky seemed to bleed over the mountains. The spectral wolf, the trumpets, the laughter – everything resonated in her mind like a war drum that she could not silence. She knew that something immense was rising, something that would change the fate of all races, and although she could not see it clearly, she felt that the heart of this chaos beat closer than anyone imagined.