Chapter 9: Blood Pacts and Bone Steel

 Chapter 9: Blood Pacts and Bone Steel

The thunder of drums rolled across the Black Hills, echoing like the gods themselves beat war from the mountains. Beneath a sky thick with black clouds and ash, the Warcouncil of the Horde had assembled.

Tens of thousands of Orcs snarled and pounded fists against the stone arena—half-naked savages beside hulking warriors in dark bronze and boiled leather. Green flesh gleamed with oil and sweat, eyes glowing with bloodlust and firelight. Behind them, Goblins yelped atop enormous wolves, their spears shaking with anticipation, while ogres stood still as towers, waiting for the command to unleash hell.

At the heart of it all stood Warlord Moggraz Skullcleaver—the one-eyed Orc king whose axe had split kings and kinsmen alike.

His armour was forged from scorched iron, wrapped in bones of slain paladins and stitched with chains taken from broken castles. His helm, crowned with jagged tusks, bore the mark of the ancient god Urg’drath, the Bringer of Endless Fire.

Beside him, resting his massive fists on a bloodstained war table, stood Grothar the Bone-Splitter, a Giant Ogre—nearly ten feet tall, wrapped in plates of darkened steel fastened with dragonhide belts. His mace, thick as a tree trunk and crowned with spikes carved from demon horns, gleamed with dried gore.

Grothar growled, his voice like boulders grinding together.

“Let’s smash some bloody heads.”

The horde roared in approval.

Then came silence—as the Chios demon envoy arrived.

Shadows peeled open like curtains. From a rift in the air stepped Zhaereth the Eternal Flame, clad in robes of ash and molten gold. His eyes were pits of swirling magic, and every footstep turned stone to cinder.

He was followed by two Chios Archons—one with wings of fire and blades for hands, the other cloaked in runes that floated and whispered above its charred form.

Moggraz didn’t flinch.

“You have what we need?” the Orc asked, voice low.

Zhaereth smirked, revealing fangs like needles. “We offer you what your shamans never could. A final victory. In exchange… a realm of fire. Gold from the eastern vaults. Flesh in abundance. And…”—he swept a clawed hand across the gathered horde—“everlasting life.”

A low growl rippled through the Orcs. Temptation. Fear. Hunger.

Grothar snorted. “You promise a lot, flame-bastard.”

Zhaereth extended his hands. “We already gave you the firesteel.”

Behind the war table, two younger orcs pulled a cloth from a cart. Beneath it lay weapons unlike any they’d wielded before:

• Axes of blackened firesteel, their blades edged in red glow, humming with infernal power. Crafted to cleave through steel like it were straw.

• Swords that bled smoke, etched with demonic runes, capable of severing soul as well as sinew.

• Armour woven from the hides of flamebeasts, resistant to normal blade and arrow.

Moggraz picked up one of the swords, and as he held it aloft, a thin, singing scream echoed through the chamber—whether from the weapon or another realm, no one knew.

“This,” he growled, “will gut that pretty boy Salty like a stuck hog.”

Grothar slammed his mace into the floor, sending a crack racing across the stone. “If he even gets close. I’ll crush his skull like a melon.”

The orcs roared again.

Around them, the horde began to prepare:

• Warg-riders fastened their saddles, sharpening their wicked curved blades.

• Ogres tested their war hammers, each the size of a man.

• Goblin alchemists mixed explosives in bubbling cauldrons, preparing firebombs, poison clouds, and acid flasks.

• War-shamans summoned blood-runes into the dirt, calling on dark spirits and forgotten gods.

The Chios demons melted back into their realm with promises of support during the battle—sky fire, possession magic, and legions of lesser flameborn ready to sweep through the human ranks.

Moggraz turned to his commanders, spit sizzling on the firesteel.

“They ride toward us now. With cannons. With kings and queens. With men on horseback and fancy little banners.”

He raised his new sword, now thrumming with demonic energy.

“Let them come. The Earth will drink their blood.”

Grothar bared his jagged teeth in a grin.

“I’ll take Salty’s head for my belt.”

The Horde began to move, the Black Hills trembling as ten thousand warriors stomped and screamed and howled toward war.

The final battle had nearly begun.

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