Book One – Chapter 13

But something was wrong. The orichs had sworn to intervene once the wizard had given life force to the golem. They were meant to observe and then act, to protect the warriors and seize control. Yet no magic has been cast.

Balthagar’s hands tightened around the haft of his warhammer, veins bulging as his fury grew. The orichs had insisted the warriors drag out the fight, demanded sacrifices, all to lure the sickly wizard into desperation — to give him the illusion his party could win, but to make the golem the only path to such victory. The orks had held back when they could have ended it swiftly, suffered losses to the voltera just to witness the spellcasting. They had obeyed. They had bled for this moment. And now the golem was awake, and his brother was gone, and the orichs were nowhere to be seen.

Something was terribly wrong. All of this was wrong. They were wrong. This was not the first time Balthagar had questioned their plans, but each time, Gorak had silenced his doubts. Gorak had always trusted the orichs, had always believed in their promises of power, and Gorak was krag — not only his brother, but his leader. But now, Gorak was gone, and with him, the last tether holding Balthagar’s doubts at bay snapped.

Balthagar blew his horn, urging the orks to retreat, then he hauled himself up the jagged mountainside, climbing, heading for the golem to stop it. But even as he moved, he knew it was too late. He was too far in the back to intervene in time. The warriors at the front, buried in the chest-deep snow, were too close, too exposed. They struggled to pull themselves free, clawing at the snow, some hauling their comrades or weapons out from underneath fallen rocks, but they were too slow. The golem was upon them.