Book One – Chapter 13

Frustration simmered beneath Gorak’s skin, his tusks bared in a silent snarl. He understood, though, that there may be reason behind this refusal to obey. He did not know whether their enemies had fled, been captured or were dead. He had seen nine orks fall from the cliffs, but altogether, he did not know who among his warriors had survived, where they rested, or if they needed imminent care. Gorak’s honour demanded that he confirm the fate of every last one of them. If any of the fallen around him yet lived, if any of those buried within the snow still drew breath, they would not survive long against the cold. However, searching blindly was futile. He needed magic to clear the snow, and for that, he needed to know what was keeping Tergak from obeying.

As Gorak hastened across the Snowtrail, his path brought him near a narrow stretch of the trail where the snow had piled thick and uneven. He moved cautiously, his massive boots crunching through the hardened crust of ice and powder.

Beneath the snow, hidden amidst the corpses of three fallen ork fighters, lay the scorchborn. She had ascended shortly before him, her distorted form a grotesque tapestry of root, lichen, and fungi pressed flat against the frozen earth. Twisted and warped, her humanoid shape had unravelled into a sprawling mass, snaking through the narrow spaces between the ork bodies. There she had remained still, concealed by the layers of snow, her movements deliberate and measured to avoid detection.

As Gorak drew closer, her body stirred ever so slightly, creeping with slow precision. Her gnarled limbs shifted beneath the snow, slithering between the fallen orks like roots seeking soil. She coiled tighter, her fungal mass flattening further into the frozen ground between the corpses of the fallen, so that Gorak would not trample her. The krag’s hulking form passed her by.