Chapter 71. Caravan
The cloud drifted through empty sky, following a heading the orcs had indicated with varying degrees of reluctance. The landscape below shifted from ruins to rocky hills to patches of scraggly forest that looked like they'd given up halfway through growing.
Sael stood near the front edge, watching the horizon. Behind him, the orcs had settled into an uneasy silence broken only by the occasional shuffle of weight or cleared throat.
Finally, the older orc spoke. "You shouldn't go."
Sael glanced back. The orc's arms were crossed again, that familiar defensive posture from earlier, but his expression had shifted from terror to one closer to grim concern.
"The general is dangerous," the one with the cracked sword added. "Korreth the Unyielding. He's earned that title through three decades of combat. Even before the lord's transformation, he was one of our finest warriors."
The mage nodded slowly. "And he's been Enhanced. The lord's power—whatever it is—he's shared fragments of it with his most loyal followers. They're stronger now. Faster and more resilient."
"He killed a level 700 adventurer in single combat," Sarek said quietly. His hands were loose at his sides, but his jaw was tight. "Ripped his enchanted armor apart like it was paper."
Sael absorbed this information without comment. The orcs took his silence as permission to continue.
"The lord himself..." The older orc shook his head. "You asked where to find him. The answer is that you don't. Not if you value your life."
"He killed two Pillars," the one with the cracked sword said.
"Hmm."
This was a hmm of awareness.
The mage's hands pressed against his thighs. "I was there. I saw what he did. The Sultan threw everything he had at him and the lord just... walked through them. Then he..." The orc's voice dropped. "He devoured them. Both of them."
A sick silence followed those words.
"We don't..." Sarek started, then stopped. His jaw worked like he was trying to find the right words. "We don't eat people. That's not—we're not monsters. We don't do that. But the lord..." His voice went quieter. "The lord isn't what he was."
"He's not just strong," the older orc continued. "He's beyond anything we've encountered. Beyond what should be possible. The army follows him because they're terrified of what he'll do if they don't. And because he's given them victories. He's turned us from scattered refugees into a force that makes kingdoms tremble."
"You're powerful, mage," the one with the cracked sword said, looking at Sael directly. "We've seen that. You healed injuries that could have eventually killed us, and you fly through the air on a cloud like it's nothing. But the lord..." He shook his head. "He's something else entirely."
Sael turned to face them fully and found the orcs were all watching him.
"I understand your concern, b—"
"Do you?" The older orc cut him off, his expression shifting toward frustration.
Well. That was rather rude, though Sael supposed the orc was agitated enough not to notice—or perhaps didn't care. Either way.
The orc continued without pause. "We're not trying to frighten you away because we doubt your abilities. We're trying to keep you from walking into certain death. The lord devoured the Ashen Sultan and the Buried King. Everyone knows those names. Everyone. And he consumed them like they were nothing."
"Even if you could match him in direct confrontation," the mage added, "which I'm not certain anyone could, he has an army. Hundreds of warriors who've been trained and equipped. You'd be facing impossible odds."
Sarek leaned forward slightly. "Who are you, exactly? To be so confident about confronting someone who killed two Pillars?"
The question hung in the air as Sael blinked. Then blinked again.
Oh.
He hadn't introduced himself properly. He'd just launched into healing them, then brought them onto the cloud, then started asking questions about their lord and their circumstances.
That was... remarkably rude, actually.
Heat crept up the back of his neck. "I apologize," he said. "I should have done this earlier."
He stepped forward and extended his hand toward the older orc, who stared at it for a moment before cautiously accepting the gesture.
The older orc's hand went still in his grip. His eyes widened fractionally.
"Gorek," the orc said after a pause that lasted just slightly too long.
Sael moved to the next orc, repeating the gesture. "Nice to meet you, Sael of Hel."
"...Marak," the one with the cracked sword said, his voice careful. His eyes flicked to Gorek, then back to Sael.
"Sael of Hel, pleasure."
"Theron," the mage offered, his expression unreadable.
Halfway through extending his hand to the fourth orc, Sael realized he probably didn't need to repeat his full name every single time. They'd all heard it. They were standing right there. But now he'd already done it three times, and if he stopped, would the last two think he was being dismissive? Or that he considered them less worthy of a proper introduction? He was already committed to this approach, and changing it midway would just make things awkward.
"Hello," he completed the handshake. "Sael of Hel."
"...Dresh," said the fourth orc, who'd been mostly quiet until now. His handshake was brief, almost uncertain.
Finally, Sael turned to the youngest. "Sael of Hel."
"Sarek," the young orc said slowly. "Son of Barek."
The silence that followed was heavy with something Sael couldn't quite identify. The orcs were all looking at him now with expressions that ranged from skeptical to cautiously curious to outright disbelieving.
Gorek cleared his throat. "Sael of Hel," he repeated, testing the words. "The Sael of Hel?"
"Yes."
The orcs exchanged glances.
"The Sael of Hel who fought in the Battle of Yrsult," Gorek said. Not quite a question, not quite a statement.
"Yes."
"The one from the histories."
"Hmm."
Another exchange of glances.
Sael wasn't entirely sure if they believed him or not. It was a reasonable thing to doubt— the news of his return may not have spread here yet, and also, historical figures were supposed to stay historical, after all, safely contained in books and stories where they belonged. Having one appear on a cloud and heal your wounds while asking about your corrupted warlord was probably not something covered in most people's expectations for how their day would go.
"That's..." Theron started, then stopped. He tried again. "You're supposed to be dead."
"I got better."
That was a joke. And he'd thought it was a pretty good one, too: light, self-deprecating, the kind of thing that might ease the current tension. But sadly, the orcs just ignored him.
"Sael the Great..." Gorek repeated again, like saying it more times would make it make more sense.
No one even cracked a smile. Not even a polite courtesy chuckle. They'd just... moved right past it like he hadn't said anything at all.
Sael kept his expression neutral, though something in his chest felt a bit deflated. Well. Perhaps humor didn't translate well across the language barrier. He nodded to each of them, then gestured back toward where Robin and Oz had taken up positions near the rear of the cloud. "That's Robin," he said in orcish, pointing to the fox.
Robin, who'd been examining something on the cloud's surface, looked up at the sound of his name. His ears perked forward, expression curious but uncomprehending, they'd been speaking orcish this entire time, after all.
The orcs looked at Robin with mild interest, though their attention was clearly still mostly on processing Sael's identity.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
"And that's Oz."
The chicken stood near the edge, perfectly still, one eye fixed on the horizon. He hadn't moved in several minutes.
"I think... I heard this chicken talk earlier?" Theron asked, sounding genuinely curious despite his obvious distraction.
All five orcs were staring at Oz now.
Oz's head turned slowly. One unblinking eye fixed on Theron, then swept across the other orcs in sequence. The look could only be described as withering.
He opened his beak.
"Impudent," Oz said, his voice carrying that particular quality of disdain, as if he'd been personally insulted by their existence. "Stop looking at me without my permission."
The orcs didn't react. They just kept staring, clearly not understanding a word.
Oz's feathers ruffled. "I said stop."
There was only more staring.
The chicken turned his glare on Sael, radiating accusation.
"They don't speak Common," Sael explained in Common, then switched to orcish. "Please don't stare at him. He has... a temperament."
"The chicken has a temperament?" Marak repeated slowly.
"Yes."
"...Why?"
That was a reasonable question, and Sael didn't have a good answer for it. "He just does. It's best not to provoke him."
Oz made a sound somewhere between a cluck and a scoff, apparently satisfied now that the staring had stopped, and turned back to watching the horizon.
"So," Sarek said slowly, his voice still carrying that note of disbelief. "You're Sael of Hel. The hero from the Ash Wars. And you now have a talking chicken with a temperament."
"Yes."
"And you're going to confront our lord. Who devoured the Ashen Sultan and the Buried King."
"Indeed."
Sarek looked at the other orcs and they looked back at him. No one seemed to know what to say to that.
"Smoke," Robin interrupted.
Everyone turned. The fox was standing now, one hand raised slightly, pointing toward the southern horizon.
Sael followed the gesture and spotted it immediately: a dark column rising into the sky, thick and black in a way that suggested substantial burning. Too much smoke for a simple campfire or even a forge.
He stepped to the edge of the cloud, focusing on the smoke's source and he could make out movement at the base of the column: tiny figures scattered across what looked like open ground.
His vision sharpened as he channeled mana through his eyes and the distant scene snapped into clarity.
It was a caravan, strung out across a cleared stretch of ground between two patches of forest. Multiple wagons were on fire, their canvas coverings sending up those thick black columns. People were running, some trying to fight, others just fleeing. And moving between them, weapons raised, were orcs.
A lot of orcs.
"Hold on," Sael said.