Interlude 2

Ural Kalingar, the chieftain of Clan Kalingar, usually referred to as either boss or overboss by his clanmates, believed in the power of presentation. "In victory," as he once said to his firstborn, "a propa overboss will show 'imself as cordial but firm; in defeat, as unbroken but reasonable; when talkin' to a dragon, as a poor meal."

The last part was especially important, and the reason behind a dozen muskoxen, a full eighth of his clan's herd, joining him and his company in their trek to the village of Earthmounds. They slowed them down considerably, being stubborn and belligerent creatures whose nature only got worse when they felt they were led into the jaws of death.

Ural made peace with it. Appeasing the dragon who proved itself to be a witch far more powerful than they could have predicted was important.

Proper witches and warlocks were beyond rare among dragonkind; to most, being a giant firebreathing beast was enough. They'd rather sleep, eat or count their riches than make the effort needed to learn magic. From what he knew, only the most ambitious rose above this nature.

Ambition - the one hunger no amount of oxen or gold could sate. Ural knew it well; he himself was very hungry.

===

To an outsider who wasn't a bite sized creature like a kobold or goblin, Earthmounds may have seemed unusual. Behind the moat and stone walls, instead of the expected buildings, lay what at first glance may look like a fortified piece of topography. Earthmounds was just that - mounds of grass and moss covered earth, filled with holes as if housing colonies of giant rabbits.

It made the non-hilly elements of the village stick all the more: The great smelting furnaces surrounding the forge; the cavernous shaft of the mine from which the iron and stone likely came; and of course the two dragons sitting under a giant piece of granite covered in skulls and flowers.

Ural saw his wife, concubines, as well as most of his company nod in approval at the sight. They appreciated a good trophy, and respected anyone who shared in said appreciation. They paid little mind to the skulls likely belonging to the fallen veterans; inter-clan conflicts made orcs their own most common prey. The chieftain wondered, was the dragon familiar with orc culture, or did it just have good taste?

Speaking of which, it in itself made for quite a sight. Lithe to the point of being near-serpentine, it looked more like a linnorm than a proper dragon, at least when compared to the bulky form of the green one sitting beside it. When coupled with its silver scales and sky blue, piercing eyes, it gave it an almost unearthly aura.

The rest of its court proved nothing unusual. Ural saw green dragons before, so the sight of a young adult female, while still intimidating up close, provided no new experiences. The same went for kobolds and goblins.

As the chieftain's eyes laid on the dragon's last aide, he mentally corrected himself - there was one other strange creature in the village. The bark-skinned being was a very unexpected sight. A fey? It would at least explain from where the silver dragon learned the strange magic it used against Agur and Kegher's boys.

But why would it serve a dragon? Or was it the dragon that served it? He needed to find out.

Ural approached the beast, adjusting his posture and step to give it humility without making him look servile or cowering. "Thank you fo' agreeing to tha talks, mighty drag'n. First fing first, as da proof of our goodwill, tha clan Kalingar wishes to give you'z gifts. A dozen of our best oxen, with plenty of meat on 'em, as well as sum' of our shinies." He motioned to the two orcs carrying a chest, who stepped forward, placing it on the ground before opening it. Dwarven gold shone from within.

The treasure had an immediate effect… on the wrong dragon. The green wyrm froze, gawking at it with eyes the size of plates; the silver one's irises enlarged slightly at its sight, but she quickly moved on, far more interested in the cattle.

"Your gifts," it spoke in Gobri, its tone deep and clear, "and the gesture behind them, are appreciated; however, I'm afraid neither gold nor oxen can bring back the lives lost in the regrettable 'misunderstanding'." The verbal quotations encased the last word like sarcophagus slabs. "A topic for later. Now, as custom demands, I'll let my herald introduce me."

There was a pause, filled with nothing but awkward silence. "Hik, if you may."

"Ah, right. Sorry Boss." Boss? Thought Ural; Interesting. "Her administrativeness, Lady Tanya Degurechaff, Dragonmelter, the slayer of Balor Mor, and the manager of Earthmounds and New Grotniks; Her attache and second in command, Lady Vaira; The…" the scarred kobold paused for a moment, glancing at his overlord with unsure stare, "ah, the administration's magic consultant, Igwe Sur'Serrantis; And the leaders of the tribes managed by the grace of Tanya Degurechaff: Elder Obok and Chieftain Borwit."

Ural nodded in aknowledgement. The introduction answered two questions.

One, the dragon was definitely in charge. No fey that ruled, even from the shadow, would look so cowed. In stories the pride of the fair folk was their main vice, and cause of downfall.

And two, Tanya Degurechaff learned her magics from it. This was bad.

"Thank you, Hik." The silver wyrm nodded. "Now, our dear guests, your dignity?"

Unharmed for now, Ural thought; something that may have to change in the future. "I'z Ural Kalingar, tha chieftain, or overboss, of clan Kalingar. Dis is my wife, Hetre Kalingar; my concubines, Gerwin and Ildre; my wife's consorts, Wedresh and Uluru."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." The dragon smiled with too many teeth. "Let's get right to the point then. Overboss Ural, your messenger said that the events leading to the death of my warriors were a result of a misunderstanding. Could you elaborate on it?"

"In a moment, Lady Tanya." Ural held up his hand. "Befo' I'z anwser, dere iz an orc custom we'z hafta fullfill."

The dragon tilted her head slightly. "Have to?"

Ural steeled himself. "Well, maybe not 'have to', but it'z still very important. All propa peace talks start with smokin' a pipe stuffed with nirre root." He removed the ceremonial pipe from its casing. It was a work of art, inherited from his grandfather and engraved with intricate patterns. It was stuffed with the absolute best nirre root, aromatic to the point one couldn't smell anything else. Essential when dealing with a creature that can smell lies. "You'zd honor us by takin' tha first drag, firebreather."

"No." The dragon's message was curt and ice cold. "Absolutely no smoking."

"I'z understand. Well then I and my company-"

"No. Smoking." The dragon growled out.

Ural was getting desperate. "But, tha tradition…"

The dragon pounded the ground with her tail with a loud *smack!*. "You haven't yet earned the right for it to be respected on my grounds. Now, we wasted enough time. Please, regarding the misunderstanding…"

===

I didn't hate smokers, or the act of smoking itself. There was a demand, and the market supplied it. On that front everything was as it should be.

However, like with any vice, indulging in it should have its time and place, absent of people who might object to being exposed to it. 'Tradition' was no excuse to make an exception to it; at least not without preceding negotiations, ones I refused to engage in until the main matter of the meeting was resolved.

The orcs were of course upset about being denied a part of their culture. That just meant they could join me and mine in being unhappy; bringing us closer to communication through shared feelings. And we needed it, the orc leader seemed currently unable to say even a word.

Eventually, the chieftain calmed himself down enough to start speaking. "Very well. It all started wif one of our forward flyboys findin' a group of gobbos travelin' tha steppe. From them we'z 'eard about you, and a tide of monsters dat destroyed deir home."

Likely the refugees from Grotniks, I thought. "Where are those goblins now? I don't see them with you."

"Dey'z begged to join us. Well, more like dey'z said 'anyfing fo' food and water'. So dey agreed to work fo' us in return. We'z don't really need 'em, but my youngest daughta' is planning to find 'erself a husband at tha yearly clan gatherin'; we'z sent dem along wit' her. Dem joinin' with tha bride will make for a fine dowry, and a boon to her man's clan."

"I assume they are happy with their fate?" It wasn't really my business, as I was no civil rights activist, but slavery irked me as a firm believer in individual's right of autonomy. Every member of society had a right to choose for which machine it would become a cog of.

"Happier than bein' a pile o' bones dryin' in tha sun, dats fo' sure. Anyway, deir story 'bout monsters roused tha imagination of our older boyz. Summer is comin' to a close, and tha winter promises to be an 'ard one; many of 'em wouldn't survive it, only drainin' tha clan's reserves while dyin'. It woz time for 'em to find deir final rest, and goin' down in glorious combat against da monsters was tha propa way."

I flared my nostrils, but smelled nothing but truth. I had no right to judge their motives; I myself had done far worse to survive, and would do so again if forced.

However, none of this explained why a group of orcs looking to change occupation from pensioners to corpses in a suitably brutal fashion ended up attacking me or Earthmounds.

I decided to voice my feelings. "I assume this somehow leads to the raid that took the lives of thirty six of my warriors?"

"Well… yes." The chieftain scratched his chin. "Tha beasts weren't dere. Dey buggered off somewhere else. And remember how tha gobbos told us about another terrifying monster?"

"Me." My tone was flat.

"It wasn't meant ta happen'!" The orc shouted in desperation. "We'z talked 'bout it, sure, but dey marched straight fo' you from tha abandoned gobbo village! Dey misunderstood my orders!"

A deep growl rumbled in my throat. "And in this misunderstanding, thirty seven soldiers, MY soldiers, died, with twice as many crippled, all sacrificed in the vain chase for a nebulous concept of glory. Thirty seven pairs of strong, adept hands I could be building the future with, will be laid to the ground today. If you wish for peace to be between us, gold and oxen are not gonna cut it. You will give the hands back. With interest."

"I'z-"

I stopped him. "And while your story presents a compelling, even romantic narrative of the old generation sacrificing themselves for the good of the new one, all while earning eternal glory, who then lost themselves in the fervor, it has one glaring inconsistency: the wyvern riders retreated from fighting me. This doesn't sound like the behavior of someone who came just to die."

The orc took a deep breath, then straightened his back, fixing me with a deep stare; his act of being a bumbling, intimidated mess seems to have come to a close. "Yes. Dey came to show you you'z weakness… that wasn't dere."

I didn't change my posture in answer. As I said I refused to play along with his games. "Continue."

"It'z story az old az tha oral tradition: a dragon, young'un, brightest of its clutch, learns a bit of magics. It dominates its simblingz, and, assured of its greatness, leavez tha nest early. Finds itself a village to rule ova', and starts throwin' itz weight 'round, steppin' on a tail of anotha dragon. Now here, tha story goes two ways: eitha da young'un iz really good, and kills da competitor, or it dies to tha older dragon. By whot gobbos described as you turnin' you'z rival into ball of fire, we'z thought you'z tha former, usin' magic to make tha enemy choke on 'is breath."

"And the part where he burned alive didn't give you pause?" That was Obok staring at the chieftain in disbelief.

The orc waved the kobold off. "Gobbos were scarred outta deir minds, leads to a lot of imagination."

"You told your story." I was getting impatient. "Now I'm waiting for its point."

"Tha point iz, I'z thought you suitable tool for my clan's ambition. Young, talented enough to win a fight against far bigga' and stronga'; We'z wanted to humble you, show you how far you and you'z warriors had to go. Wif you cowed and acceptin' our guidance, after sum time and trainin' you'zd grow into an ideal weapon to succeed where three previous attempts have failed."

"Succeed in what?" I growled out. I would never fight a battle that wasn't my own. The idea alone filled me with revulsion.

"First, unite da clans. Den, defeat tha Tchenmi and kill Irden; openin' tha cage of da steppes orcs found demselves in."

"You do realize how many points of failure this plan has, right?" It sounded like something conceived by a madman, someone who believed everything will go right. The orc even had the same look in his eyes as Shugel: one of absolute confidence in his vision.

"Yes," the overboss nodded, "maybe dat's why neitha my grandfatha or fatha succeeded. But my first mistake wuz finkin' you'z didn't know tha way of da orcs: da throphy, you'z underlings callin you boss, seein' through tha pipe trick immidietly. So mabe you'z right pick after all; merely tha approach wuz wrong. Tha Kalingar clan deprived you'z of hands to build da future with. Now it will give dem back to ya. Wif interest."

He stood there, in absolute silence, while me, Vaira, goblins and the kobolds who knew Gobri tried to wrap our minds around the sheer magnitude of his audacity and stupidity. We weren't the only ones: behind the orc, the bigger of his wife's consorts pinched the bridge of his nose before giving her a meaningful stare. She nodded back to him. Was somebody going against the script?

"Ural, ya blitherin' moron!" He shouted, drawing his axe. "Afta all ya said, whot makes you think she'd agree wif you'z? Whot makes ya think we'z go along wit' it eitha'?!"

===

The village of Amyu was filled with the chittering wail of a dying kikimore queen, and the stench of burned bug flesh.

Mirsa, slick with sweat, turned to the priest, as warriors and magi around her erupted into cheers from between the piled corpses of giant insectoids.

"Your Eminence, send the message to Ravuya's council: 'Amyu is finally secured as a staging ground.'"

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