Casting Shadows: Chapter 1
“Zorn Uzkul: the Great Skull Land. It was on these ancient slopes that the Fire Dwarfs first came, travelling east from the World’s Edge and deep into the unknown. When the cataclysm came, it was in these lands that we first screamed into the darkness, abandoned by our ancestors and saved by a voice answering our prayers, whispering in the dark. He taught us to survive. He taught us true fear. He taught us to be feared.” - words attributed to Xarathustra.
Wind screeched across the barren lands whipping up dust devils of volcanic ash. The banners blew horizontally, their red cloth frayed and their icons faded.
Iron-shod boots crushed the dark earth as the sound of the marching column drew nearer to the fortress. The beating of the war drum kept a steady rhythm as the warriors of Mardurkarr’s personal guard moved in unison.
Before them Bezall rose. This was one of the many watch towers dotted across the wastes of Zorn Uzkul, upon the ancient paths between Uzkulak and distant Zhar Naggrund.
The fortress was a black stone ziggurat, the only landmark for miles in all directions, with a great unfinished black spire rising from its centre.
From within the edifice a horn was sounded. With a whip, an enormous ogre, stripped to the waist began working a mechanism to open a portcullis. His mouth sewn shut, he gave no cry as the barbs struck his scarred and weather beaten skin.
At the sound of a second horn the ogre held fast clutching a lever, the enormous iron gates held open by his strength alone.
As the dust cleared, in the doorway, stood an ancient dwarf. His beard, which flapped wildly from his chin, was white and lank. His top lip was free from hair and his mouth held tusks that were capped in gold. Upon his bald head two stumpy horns grew. The sorcerer wore fine, billowing, blue silk, clearly of Cathayan make, and a single pale taloned hand was held out from his robe in the traditional gesture of greeting.
“Our father bless you, Mardurkarr. The grobi brought news of your victory.”
The beating of the drum ceased and the soldiers stopped as if one organism. The wind continued to scream. A warrior stepped from the column and removed an enormous hat, fashioned into the visage of a leering brazen daemon with bovine features.
His face was younger than the elder sorcerer prophet before him, yet scarred with the long healed wounds of many battles. His braided beard was coal black and his moustache was curled in the style of the dwarfs of Zharr Naggrund. His armour was a scale mail of red and in his hand he held a great mace, the surface of which thrummed with unnatural energy.
“Well met, Enlil-Shazzar. It was a successful raid. The orcs were driven away and many taken as slaves. We bring these gifts to the tower of Bezall.”
“Has our father been given his due?” the older sorcerer enquired, one eyebrow raised.
Mardurkarr bristled slightly. If any of his infernal guard had noticed this annoyance they gave no sign: the column of perhaps a hundred dwarfs standing as still as the statues on the steps of Mingol Zhar Naggrund.
“We shall speak of this, away from the howling of the wastes and away from ears of lower castes, Enlil,” the warrior managed.
“Very well,” the ancient prophet conceded and stepped to the side.
Mardurkarr raised a fist and the drum began to beat once again. The snaking line of heavily armoured Dawi Zharr began marching through the entrance of the tower of Bezall.
Enlil watched them pass. The standard bearers first, then gunners, the warriors and finally the slavers dragging a dozen worried looking orcs, naked, with bleeding feet and ropes about their necks.
The army had crossed the threshold and moved into the darknesses of the fortress but Enlil Shazzar remained in the doorway looking out into the desolation of the Great Skull Lands.
Above him, the sound of protesting metal made itself known.
The ancient sorcerer paused and then looked above to see the portcullis groaning but remaining in place. Behind him, the beaten ogre, muscles shaking and sweat pouring held onto the enormous iron lever.
Its eyes were wide with fear.
Enlil Shazzar, master of the tower of Bezzal turned to this creature and considered for a moment how his fate was in its hands. If the slave’s strength was to fail or it was emboldened to seek revenge, his life would end. But its fear of him was all that kept him alive. If he could maintain that fear, he could complete his work and reign forever.
He took a step inside his fortress and somewhere a horn sounded once more. A nine tailed whip broke the skin of the ogre and he released the lever, the metal bars crashing into the earth.
“You look like a southerner, Mardurkarr”, Enlil Shazzar noted as he was poured a goblet of wine.
Mardurkarr sat upon a cushion on the floor, now changed into a fine red gown. His fingers were adorned with golden rings, his curled beard with gems and beads and his daemonic looking hat sat upon his head.
The elder dwarf handed him the drink, which he took and bowed slightly.
“We are one and the same, prophet,” said Mardurkarr, sipping his drink and considering its contents, “The Uzkulaks and Naggrunders.”
“Perhaps,” began Enlil, being served another drink by the silent goblin holding a massive amphora, “and perhaps we are not so alike.”
The sorcerer sat upon a cushion opposite.
Between them was a rug of exquisite beauty, depicting a scene of a dwarf wrestling with a bull. The air was thick with smoke as incense holders produced sweet smelling streams that reached the ceiling, where they coalesced into clouds. The walls were hidden by rich crushed velvet curtains on all sides.
“We of a far older tradition than those of the new capital,” continued the ancient wizard, “they care only for industry, forgery and growth.”
“What else is there?” Scoffed Mardurkarr.
“What are these things without the power to wield them? It was in these lands that our father first came to us beardling. It was in these lands he whispered into our hearts and freed us from our doom. This was where the fire in the furnace of our souls was first lit. Long before the gift of iron, black powder and steam.”
“Save your sermons, I am well versed old man.”
“And yet you do not understand. What truly matters is our father, who art in darkness. It is only through his divine will that we endured; that we continue to endure. Without him our work would mean naught.”
“And what is your point?”
“Have you paid your dues?”
“Enlil Shazzar - not this again. We praise him in our conquest and our acquisition of wealth - that is our power and that is our strength. Look at what we build in his name.” Mardurkarr Looked about the ornate room in which they sat. “Besides, our prize will serve us well in the mines north of your tower. It has been a cruel winter and Beshuk tells me that he has lost three manlings and an ogre to a cave-in not two moons ago. To throw away such gifts is not a sign of your piety it is a sign of foolishness.”
“What do you know of orcs Mardurkarr?” whispered Enlil Shazzar, their red gazes meeting.
“Are you once again my tutor? Should I practice my cunieform and recite the psalms of Xarathustra to you?!”
“Indulge me,” the prophet smiled as he sipped the red wine in his hand.
“They are lesser beings. Large but slow witted. They fight in great numbers. They have spirit but can be broken.”
“And who do they obey?”
“Their warbosses: great greenskins of enormous strength.”
“And why do they obey them?”
“They respect only might. They follow strength.”
“Why?”
“Because they do! It is their nature!”
The young dwarf was attempting to mask his anger at the condescending lecture from his old master. As he gesticulated, a drop of wine sloshed onto the rug. Immediately a goblin, emerging seemingly from behind a velvet curtain, fell upon the stain and scrubbed it furiously as the two dwarfs spoke.
“They fear them my boy. The orc fears that which is stronger than him. He fears that which can do him harm. The greater the harm, the greater the fear. And the orc obeys that which he fears.”
Mardurkarr adjusted his seating and frowned. He was reluctantly interested now.
Enlil rose from his seat, “The dark father, they say should not be loved. He should be feared. That was the bargain he struck with us, in the times of old and in the land of skulls. We fear him and we obey. And because of that, we survive. In this he showed us the way. To be like the dark father is to instil that fear in others…”
The aged sorcerer walked towards his friend as he spoke.
“By inspiring fear, we rule. Forget that and you will not survive in the darklands.“
Enlil stamped a foot down and, with a sickening crack, broke the neck of the goblin scrubbing the carpet. It twitched a little and then became still.
“I am out of wine,” he remarked nonchalantly and walked back to the first slave holding the amphora in the corner. With a single hand he held out the goblet and the shaking goblin nervously filled his cup. “We give our father his due. We share our gifts with him not out of love, but out of fear. And in return he shows us the way, so that like him we may inspire fear in others.”
Mardurkarr, although used to the bloodshed of the battlefield, was visibly unsettled and annoyed by Enlil Shazzar’s display of casual violence in a civilised setting. He managed to grumble, “they lost three men and an ogre in the mine…perhaps six orcs would suffice to replace them.”
“Very wise,” smiled Enlil, “and what of the remainder? I counted twelve altogether…”
The younger Dawi, had been defeated. His face was flushed in crimson. “We give our father his due.”
“We give our father his due,” repeated Enlil, his golden tusks shining as he smiled.
The howls of pain echoed throughout the corridors of the tower of Bezall. Deep within its dungeons a brass bull, with a fire lit beneath its belly fired steam from its nostrils. Cries of anguish reverberated through its brazen skin as the gaoler stoked the flames.
Before it, forced to watch, stood six broken orcs, with brands on their skin and fear in their eyes.
Hashut had been given his due.
