Book One – Chapter 13

As the ice orich descended toward the Snowtrail, his exhaustion became unmistakable. He did not summon ice magic to aid his climb, relying instead on laboured movements to navigate the steep cliff. Methodically, his gnarled hands moved across the frozen rock. Whether he was conserving the last remnants of his resources or had entirely depleted his reserves was uncertain, but the strain in his movements betrayed the toll the battle had taken. His figure, hunched and deliberate, carried an unspoken urgency. Whatever strength remained, it was not limitless.

While the orich descended, another lone ork ascended. It was the grand male who had fought the voltera, fallen, and now clambered back onto the Snowtrail. He emerged far back where the warriors had fought the beast.

Gorak’s breath came heavy, his senses on high alert as his dark eyes swept across the snow-laden expanse, searching for enemies — or allies. He found neither. The battlefield was silent save for the distant echo of Tergak’s signalling horn, a sound that seemed to confirm the orich’s earlier proclamation of victory.

Gorak raised his own horn, its resonant call tearing through the howling wind as he signalled recognition. Nonetheless, the krag advanced cautiously, his axe ready, each step deliberate. As he moved towards Tergak, his gaze scoured the ground for signs of life. He blew his horn several more times, its mournful notes intended to stir any of his buried brethren who might yet live. But the snow remained still, the trail unbroken, its icy tombs offering no answer. His concern mounted. Though one of the orichs had proclaimed their victory, Gorak had yet to hear the horn of his brother. The krag’s horn sounded again, this time not as a signal to his warriors, but as a command to the orich and all that were with him. He demanded their presence. His command rang out two times, yet each time the orich’s response came not in compliance but in repetition, the same request echoing back at him.