webcrawl/APGTE/Book-7/tex/Ch-033.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-north-iii}{%
\section{Interlude: North III}\label{interlude-north-iii}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``The diplomat's victory is to let the opponent win on your
terms.''}

-- Prince Fernando of Salamans
\end{quote}

Hakram hadn't put armour on.

A loose shirt, trousers and boots were all he wore as he held his axe
loosely in his grasp, watching his opponent move. Dag Clawtoe had
laughed off the challenge at first, thinking it a jest, but the laughter
had gone away when Hakram failed to join in. The older orc was taking
the duel seriously and had come in champion's garb: helm, mail and
greaves. Dag kept his shield up and his sword raised, circling as
warriors pounded the ground around them. The jemmek was liked by his
clan and their allies, but orcs liked a good fight even more.

``I'll end it without killing you,'' Dag Clawtoe growled.

Hakram did not answer. It was one of his weaknesses as a champion -- the
way his people saw it -- that he had no taste for that sort of banter.
The rough edge of his tongue he reserved only for people he was going to
kill. The tall orc took a step forward on the black earth and without
missing a beat Dag attacked as he moved. A short push forward, shield
steady as the blade thrust up towards his armpit. A smooth movement,
well practised, and Hakram's limbs of steel were not as quick as those
of flesh had been. It didn't matter, because he'd been waiting for the
strike: the moment his foot touched the ground he was already pivoting,
carrying his momentum forward as Dag's thrust passed him by.

His elbow smashed into the other orc's helmeted forehead, slamming him
to the floor.

Warriors roared in approval as Dag cursed and rolled away, slapping away
Hakram's light swing with his shield before rising into a crouch. He'd
lost his helmet, as Hakram had wanted. The leather strap had snapped and
the helm fallen into the grass, shaking free Dag's hair -- a long black
braid going from his forehead to his back. Hakram almost rubbed at the
elbow that'd struck the helm, but he knew he was imagining the ache.
Steel did not grow tender from striking at steel. Hakram rolled his
shoulder, loosening it, and waited for the wary jemmek to come for him
again. Dag hesitated, but he would be jeered at by his own warriors if
he looked afraid of the fight.

So he came, measured this time. A feint to the left, trying to draw
Hakram's blade, but when it passed without answer the other orc shot
forward. Surprised, Hakram took a step back that saved him from being
swept entirely off his feet when Dag's shield bashed into his chest. His
footing slipped but he backed away again, only to earn another bash --
at the head, but he was ready this time. Hakram's axe came down and
though he'd misjudged the distance it still came down on the shield arm
Dag had exposed by striking. Instead of the axe-head against mail it was
the shoulder that found its mark, a clean blow that had the jemmek
shouting in pain.

The arm wasn't quite broken but it was hurt. Dag was no greenhorn,
though, and pain didn't stop him. Hakram was hit in the shoulder by the
shield, forcing him in a backwards stumble, and in a discreet thrust
under that cover the jemmek's sword came for his belly. That he caught
with fingers of bone, steel scraping the pale, but the other orc used
the grip to tackle him. Hakram rocked backwards, swallowing a curse --
if he was pushed to the ground this was lost -- as Dag smashed their
foreheads together with a hellish scream. He dropped his axe, useless so
close anyway, but even pushing back he found that Dag had the advantage
on him. Hakram growled and tried to smash their foreheads again, but Dag
put the shield in the way. Inspiration. Steel fingers closed around the
rim of the shield, yanking it down. The other orc roared in pain, his
wounded arm twisted, and fangs flashed as he ripped through his own
shield straps to break free.

That'd been a mistake.

Hakram arm rose and he bashed Dag's head in with the freed shield. Dag
drew back, yelping, but it wasn't enough. One, two, three more hits to
the head and down Dag Clawtoe went. Eyes wide and unseeing he dropped
onto the black earth, only barely conscious. It was done. Hakram
breathed out, tossing away the shield. Howls and shouts of approval
erupted around them, dragging back Dag to some semblance of wakefulness.
He rose to his knees, expression still dazed.

``Why?'' the other orc asked, quietly enough he was barely heard beneath
the shouts. ``I'm not the chief, Deadhand. What would you take from me,
being \emph{camp-leader}?''

Hakram shook his head.

``They backed you,'' he said, gesturing at the warriors around them.
``And they still will.''

Dag scowled, confused.

``They back you,'' Hakram calmly said, ``only now \emph{you} back
\emph{me}.''

Confusion turned to anger but the other orc did not argue. It was not
the place of the defeated to argue terms with the victor. Yet there was
still an argument ahead of him, Hakram thought as he left the duelling
circle and traded backslaps with cheering warriors. Further back Oghuz
the Lame, chief of the Red Shields and the other leading light of the
alliance, was waiting with a few of his warriors at his side. The old
orc snorted when Hakram approached.

``You're not a Red Shield,'' Oghuz said. ``Unlike Dag I don't owe you
the courtesy of accepting a challenge.''

``It's not a fight I'm looking for,'' Hakram said.

``Isn't it?'' Oghuz scoffed, but after a moment he sighed.

He barked as his warriors to give him space, room enough that the two of
them would be able to speak without being overheard.

``That was a mistake,'' Oghuz said, gesturing at the duelling grounds.
``Dag had weaknesses as a man to front for but you have even more. You
think we'll just let ourselves be pressed into Callow's service in,
Named or not? It's a worthy queen you're serving, Deadhand, but she's
not one of ours.''

Hakram did not bother to answer that. It was a pit of an argument, one
he wouldn't be able to climb out of should he fall. So he took another
path.

``The duel,'' Hakram said. ``What did you think of it?''

``You're more used to using a shield with that axe,'' Oghuz replied.
``And you still cover for the metal like it's flesh when you don't think
about it.''

Hakram waited a moment, knowing the old champion would have more to say.

``It was unkind to Dag to stretch it out,'' the older orc added. ``You
could have knocked him half dead with that first elbow strike.''

The tall orc smiled without showing teeth.

``No,'' he said, ``I could not have.''

Because he could no longer feel his aspects. Could barely even see his
Name through the shadow cast by what he might yet become. Oghuz did not
miss the implication. There weren't a lot of reasons why Hakram would be
losing his Name, and only one that walked hand in hand with forcing
himself to the front of the alliance between their two clans. The old
orc let out a low hiss, worrying his lip.

``I do not seek service to anyone,'' Hakram said, and like that the
other man knew it to be true.

Now it was on Oghuz to decide whether or not Hakram Deadhand was someone
he could live with as the Warlord of their age. Tension stretched out.

``Ours are hungry Gods,'' the old orc finally said, leaning on his cane.
``Best to eat our fill before they catch up.''

A look up and down.

``You'll do.''

A pause, then a calculatingly casual question.

``Do you get on well with my daughter?''

Hakram grimaced. That wouldn't be happening. Even if Juniper didn't kill
him Aisha absolutely would -- and she'd probably get away with it too.

``Too much woman for me,'' he replied, and the old man laughed.

That was one alliance behind him then, Hakram thought. Time to visit the
other.

---

He was being watched.

The twins were already waiting for him when Hakram reached the grounds
of the Split Tree Clan. Sigvin and Sigvun were easiest to tell apart by
the ritual scars on their bodies: the latter's looked like woven
crescent moons, the former's like crisscrossing bite marks. Sigvun had
once implied he wouldn't mind Hakram getting the sort of closer look at
those scars his sister had been granting, but the tall orc had turned
him down. His preferences were well set. The twin had shrugged it off
and Hakram was on amicable terms with both -- as amicable as one could
be while trying to have opposite warlords elected, anyway. He might kill
them, or they him, but it wouldn't be killing done in the red.

``Back already?'' Sigvin teased.

Sigvun cocked a hairless brow.

``Should I speak to our kin about raising a pillar?'' he gravely asked.

Hakram rolled his eyes. Old-fashioned, the Split Tree. Hardly anyone
still hung woven crowns on sculpted pillars anymore: weddings were
family feasts under a shaman nowadays, not ceremonies to attract the
blessings of spirits.

``Take me to your chieftain,'' he said.

Though both kept light expressions, he could see the stiffening in the
way they stood. Uncertainty in Sigvun's eyes but triumph in Sigvin's.
\emph{She thinks she has swayed me}, Hakram thought. In a way she had.
The twins agreed without trouble but the light conversation died and
they walked the rest of the way in silence. He spent the time
considering he knew of Hegvor Allspeak, chief of the Split Tree Clan.
Which was little, for though Hakram could think offhand of half a dozen
feuds she had mediated and how he did not even know the old woman's age.
Much about the chief herself was obscured, which he suspected to be on
purpose.

He was not made to wait long before being led to a great tent where
three orcs, by the looks of them none younger than sixty winters, waited
seated. Introductions were briskly made. The oldest shaman of the clan,
Bjarte, sat to the right. To the left sat Gulda Hardhead, the most
honoured champion of the Split Tree, and between them sat a woman of
long white hair with a hard scar across her nose. Hegvor Allspeak, whose
eyes were of an unsettlingly pale yellow bordering on green. Hakram was
invited to sit across from them at a low table, an honour that was not
granted to the twins. They sat on the ground, near the back of the tent.
The two were trusted, Hakram thought, but their age meant their
influence was limited.

Hegvor pushed across the table a small bowl and cut of dried meat.

``I offer you meat and drink from my table,'' the chieftain said.

Brutally salty sheep and hard aragh were what Hakram wolfed down, but
that was an old and well-known negotiating trick. At least they hadn't
used Taghreb spices, which would have had him panting for water
throughout the entire talks.

``Hail, Hegvor Allspeak,'' he said.

``Hail, Hakram Deadhead,'' the old woman replied. ``The twins say you
ask of my time.''

``I do,'' he said.

She frowned.

``Not, I think, for what Sigvin hopes of you,'' Hegvor said. ``So what
it is you have come for, Deadhand, if not to lend your name to the
better cause?''

Hakram's dead fingers laid against the table, its intricate carvings
dimly felt to his senses. Like a\ldots{} pressure, nothing like what a
hand of flesh had been. And the pressures were lighter now, for the same
reason that Hakram thought he would no longer be able to Find something
he sought.

``Before I answer that question,'' he said, ``I want to describe
something to you.''

The bone fingers drummed against the wood, a sound like a rat gnawing.

``Within a week the taratoplu will have to disperse because it can no
longer be fed,'' Hakram said. ``As the pressure mounts on all clans to
gather behind a banner, the Graven Bone and the Stag-Crowned will cede
territories to some of the clans bordering them. Those clans will then
come to support Troke Snaketooth and get him elected as High Lord of the
Steppes.''

The Graven Bone and Stag-Crowned were the two strongest supporters of
Troke, despite being the two largest southern clans after his own,
because Malicia had also named them lords of the Steppes. They would be
his natural lieutenants, the highest under him after his election. That
was well worth territorial concessions to their own rivals, especially
when this was an offer that the Blackspears themselves could not make --
if Troke was seen to be weakening his clan to rope in others, he would
be made into a laughingstock.

``Dread Empress Malicia will recognize the title and formally charge
High Lord Troke with putting down the rebelling High Seat of Nok,''
Hakram said. ``Most clans will fall in line at the prospect of plunder
and even the Howling Wolves and the Red Shields will join the host.''

Utter silence from across the table.

``To secure Troke's position after the sack, the Wolves and the Shields
will be given the honour of being the first into the breach at Nok,'' he
calmly continued. ``You'll collude with either Malicia or High Lord
Dakarai to make their losses crippling, then keep them crippled after
you withdraw to the Steppes by keeping away returning legionaries.''

His fingers skittered across the wood still.

``You keep propping up Troke, after that, but begin looking to the
future,'' Hakram said. ``Marry a rising name in the Bones or the Stags
to one of your kin, then lay the grounds for them to be Snaketooth's
successor. Then you begin pushing for what you actually want.''

The tall orc showed teeth.

``At a guess? Bringing back the bronze urus as our coinage, a council of
shamans to mediate clan disputes like in the ancient Hordes and fixed
yearly gatherings under enforced truce,'' Hakram continued. ``If Troke
backs you, all the better. If he doesn't, he has an accident and you get
the prepared successor in power where they will be duly grateful.''

Hakram's dead hand went still.

``How close am I?'' he asked.

A long moment of silence.

``Only one yearly gathering,'' Barjte said, the shaman smiling. ``We
would consecrate holy grounds for the first time since the Miezans, our
High Seat of the Steppes.''

Good, Hakram thought. They had, without knowing it, come to agree with
one of his own notions in principle. Now he just needed to survive the
rest of this conversation. His eyes were on Hegvor, so he was surprised
when the answer came from behind.

``I \emph{told} you, grandmother,'' Sigvin erupted. ``We should have
tried to bring him from the start, it's such a waste that-''

``Be silent, girl,'' Hagvor peevishly cut in, ``until you stop thinking
with your snatch.''

Sigvin's mouth closed with an angry click of fangs. Her grandmother --
the things you learned, Hakram mused -- turned a cool gaze on him.

``You're a clever man, Deadhand,'' she said. ``So tell me the reason
you've come up with that I should let you leave this tent alive.''

So much for drink and meat from their table, Hakram thought amusedly.
His people were not the Taghreb, to hold the law of hospitality as
sacrosanct, but that's been a rather hasty turnabout. Still, there was
nothing like the threat of death to get a man's blood flowing.

``It won't work,'' Hakram said. ``Even if you kill me and get away with
it, even if I say nothing, it won't work.''

Gulda Hardhead bared her fangs.

``You think us fools, boy,'' the old champion said. ``Think we haven't
thought it through, maybe, that since we keep to old ways we're just
sav-''

``I think you haven't read reports of the Eyes of the Empire annotated
by the Scribe,'' Hakram calmly interrupted.

A start of surprise.

``You know things I do not,'' he said. ``That I could not learn or did
not care to. Are you so proud to believe the opposite cannot be true?''

Because if it were so, if they were a closed door, then he would have to
kill them all. Something pulsed in his belly at the thought, almost
eager. A craving not entirely his. He had rustled feathers with the
brusque answer, but where Gulda was growling and Bjarte looked politely
skeptical their leader only looked thoughtful. Considering. Examining
where she, too, might have been wrong. Something like hope bloomed in
Hakram, chasing away the bloodthirst.

``Trade,'' Hagvor Allspeak finally said. ``You think trade will bury us,
even if we restrict it.''

``You're a decade too late,'' Hakram said. ``The total volume of goods
traded between the empire and the Steppes is now about three fifths of
what is traded within the Steppes, by the Tower's estimates.''

Surprise from all of them, but only the chief and the shaman grasped
what that implied. Hagvor grimaced.

``You can't cut the flow of goods without impoverishing and starving too
many people,'' Hakram said. ``Either Troke turns on you to keep his seat
or he'll be facing rebellion from half the clans.''

``An empty tent is an invitation,'' Bjarte quoted.

They realized it too, then. Their measures were all sensible ones.
Bronze urus could be minted in the Steppes, there were rich deposits of
tin and copper barely touched, and it would mean no longer being
dependent on Praesi coinage. A council to mediate disputes would clamp
down on internal wars save those sanctioned by the `High Lord', which
would be used to purge enemies of the throne. Holy grounds bound to the
title of High Lord would make an effective capital for the Clans that
could serve as a place of truce and a way for the Split Tree to begin
their revival of what they considered to be the heart of orcish culture.

Only none of this could be done if Troke bucked them off or the Clans
fell into civil war. In Hakram's opinion, Troke cutting them loose to
keep his seat would likely result in civil war anyway -- without their
diplomatic support and reputation, he was a much weaker man and their
people responded only one way to weakness. And while that civil war
burned, Praes would turn its attention to them. It might be that the
exiled orc legionaries would return with the Tower's backing or that the
Empire would raise other lords of the Steppes outside Troke's authority,
to be honest the exact form didn't matter.

Whoever held the Tower would not tolerate a troublesome and rebellious
bloc just like the Tribes existing in the north of the Dread Empire, so
they'd intervene. Weaken and divide. The end result would likely be what
the Split Tree were trying to avoid in the first place with their grand
plan: southern clans tied up with the Legions and permanently at war
with the fading clans further north. A buffer state the Tower could use
as manpower for its armies and could never rise to become a threat to
Ater.

``We will adapt,'' Hagvor Allspeak finally said, tone weary. ``Change
our approach. For this chance I thank you, Hakram Deadhand.''

Hakram hummed. He did not take the implied dismissal.

``Your answer's not in closing the door,'' he said.

``It's even less in being eaten by the Tower,'' Hagvor curtly said.

``It's too late to cut ties to the degree you envisioned,'' he bluntly
replied. ``It would cost too much to too many people who have no reason
to listen to you except force. But that's the wrong approach, anyway,
because distance isn't what you actually want -- it's just the method
you decided would get you that.''

``And what would you know of what we want, Adjutant?'' Gulda Hardhead
scorned.

Hakram wondered if she truly disliked him or whether this was a ploy.
One friend, one foe, Hagvor striking the balance. Regardless, there was
an odd pall on the room after she spoke. Most faces were touched with a
frown, Bjarte even casting a wary look around. \emph{They can't feel the
Name anymore}, Hakram realized. \emph{The pressure of it.} The longer
the conversation had gone on, the more the last wisps of his moonlit
oath had gone away. Casting the Name in his face rang wrong to their
ears because he no longer held it. The chieftain considered him with
wary eyes. He smiled amicably, never showing teeth.

``You want a unified orc state with strong enough foundations that the
empire can't absorb it,'' he said. ``You want to avoid the Steppes being
empty because all the youths went south to the Legions, coming back only
to live in Legion towns and raise their children to do the same. You
want to avoid clan weavers abandoning the trade because it's easier to
buy ten baskets from Okoro at a copper each, to avoid storytellers
reading from Praesi books instead of learning the old sagas by rote. You
want for there to be someone other than Soninke scholars able to read
our glyphs in forty years.''

Gulda rocked back like he'd just slapped her across the face.

``I understand what you want perfectly,'' Hakram Deadhand. ``You're just
going about it wrong.''

His steel hand clasped the edge of the table, making it creak.

``You think that by making a few opportunities you'll turn our people
away from Praes, but you're not looking at the numbers,'' he said.
``You'll make a standing army at your holy grounds, but how many
warriors will be able to be part of it? A thousand, five? The Legions
will take \emph{anyone} and make them rich. And maybe destroying the
clans with ties to the empire would make room, free land and wealth, but
it won't work like that in practice. Not unless you slaughter the entire
clans and none one has the stomach for that so they'll move into the
Empire, migrate, and then it's the same problem you thought you avoided
only the border's thirty leagues south. Your fundamental mistake is that
you are denying opportunities instead of offering better ones.''

``We cannot outbid the Dread Empire,'' Hagvor quietly said.

``Then stop kneeling to it,'' Hakram flatly replied. ``You are trying to
mend this from a position of weakness that no one has forced on you but
yourself.''

``There's not enough support for rebellion,'' Gulda Hardhead told him.

Her tone was, he noted, significantly warmer than before.

``Not for secession, maybe,'' Hakram replied. ``But rebellion? We're
already rebels just by gathering here. How many clans do you think would
scream their throats sore in approval, if the proposal was instead to
march on Ater and cram our terms down the Tower's throat?''

``Many,'' Bjarte said. ``But what would that solve, Deadhand? We get
lenience for a generation, that is all. All the dooms are pushed back,
not ended.''

The white-haired chief hummed at him.

``You want to make\ldots{} opportunities,'' she said. ``That rival
theirs. Only they'll be ours, not the Tower's.''

``Trading with Praes, learning from it, being tied to it -- this is the
trend of the Steppes,'' Hakram said. ``And it cannot be reversed without
prohibitive costs. But none of these are unhealthy if they don't lead to
our being digested by the Empire. And the key to that is for us to offer
another way.''

``There is not enough wealth in the Steppes,'' Bjarte said. ``Ours are
not rich lands, save in grass and frost.''

``So why does the Empire care to assimilate us in the first place?''
Hakram replied. ``Manpower. Warriors. That is what we make that they
want from us, Praes and Callow both. Orcs soldiers have been the
backbone of the two most successful armies Calernia has seen since the
days of Triumphant.''

Hagvor caught on first.

``Mercenaries are illegal in Praes,'' she pointed out.

``Laws change at the end of a sword, in this empire,'' Hakram calmly
said. ``All the time. Why should it not be ours, for once?''

Rumbles of approval from the twins at his back. The older heads needed
more, though. Could see further.

``These armies took more than orcs to be victorious,'' Hagvor said.
``They make war in a new way. Companies, not warbands.''

``Let warbands do the work of warbands and companies the work of
companies,'' Hakram said. ``If we must raid, let us raid. But battles
are a soldier's trade and best left to soldiers.''

They didn't like hearing it, but that was the reality of it.

``Clans can't make an army like that,'' Gulda Hardhead said. ``Not on
the move. It takes too much training for the drills. You'd need a
settlement to support it.''

``A settlement where the wealth of retiring legionaries could flow,'' he
replied, ``and be put to use to benefit the Clans instead of unmake
them.''

Many orcs who'd lived in towns and cities for decades would balk at
returning to tents anyway. They all knew that. A solid roof over one's
head was a comfort few liked to let go of. And while they didn't like
the face of it -- a town for Legion orcs, for those who wanted to leave
the old ways -- they'd already agreed to a city in principle. Their holy
grounds for the High Lord of the Steppes would have been the same thing,
only smaller and poorer and badly run.

``It might grow to threaten our ways, this settlement,'' Bjarte said.
``The sole city of the orcs yet not bound to their ways.''

``So send shamans and teachers,'' Hakram said. ``And if you worry of the
Clans being adrift, raise your holy grounds in the Steppes to rival
it.''

Hagvor's eyes narrowed, the eerie tint of them making them look like
jewels in the light.

``You speak as if this settlement would not be in the Steppes,'' she
said.

``No,'' Hakram said, ``it wouldn't be.''

A beat as she figured it out.

``You mean to keep this fortress,'' she said, sounding a little
impressed.

``If the Dread Empire of Praes would keep us in the fold,'' Hakram
Deadhand said, ``then let it pay for that privilege. Lands and rights.
Is that not what all the High Seats rebel over?''

Hard smiles all around. He had them, he thought. Only the mirth went
away.

``Troke has made bargains with the Tower,'' Hagvor Allspeak finally
said. ``They would not pair with the path you describe.''

``No,'' Hakram quietly agreed, ``it is true that Troke Snaketooth cannot
deliver this to you.''

And he said nothing else, only meeting her eerie eyes with his own
unflinching stare. Silence stood, stretched, stayed. Like a physical
force, strong enough to cut with a knife. Until the white-haired
chieftain rose to her feet, limbs cracking and back bent. Hakram did not
look away.

Risen, she knelt.

``Warlord,'' Hagvor Allspeak swore, and so it was true.

Hakram breathed in as every other in the tent knelt the same, letting
the feeling settle over him. The claim. Already he could feel his
rivals. One the south, distant and faded. An old claim, long set aside
but not quite gone. Grem One-Eye still stood with few equals in the eyes
of his people. And another one, closer and sharper and just as aware of
him as Hakram was aware of them. Troke Snaketooth had been further along
his path than anyone else dreamed of.

And so, Hakram thought, it would end in red.

---

Within the hour Troke Snaketooth gave answer.

With unfortunately characteristic cunning, the chief struck where no one
had expected him to. Four fires erupted across the camp, which was not
unusual given the loose approach of some clans to precautions against
this, but these were no accidents. They burned down three of the largest
repositories of dried meat in the great camp surrounding Chagoro and the
largest tent of the Brazen Bird Clan -- whose territories near seaside
salt flats made the main trader of salt in the Steppes and the sole clan
to have brought a large amount of it to the taratoplu. Troke had burned
the food reserves and the ingredient needed to preserve butchered
animals. Clans would now live on the cattle they could butcher, which
would not last a week. Three, four days at best.

Now that a rival had appeared Troke meant to force a vote while he still
had numbers and the wind in his sail.

It was a good strategy, Hakram was forced to admit. The chief of the
Blackspears tried to summon the clans into the fortress barely an hour
after the fires, claiming they needed discussion, which would make
things even worse. It would deny Hakram time to grow his support: the
Split Tree were mustering like-minded clans in his behalf, but those
talks would take time. Two hours was not long enough. It was Oghuz who
found a solution: he ordered some of his warriors to terrify their own
clan's herds and let the cattle loose, resulting into a stampede away
from the camp. The Red Shield refused the summons, as they urgently
needed to gather back their sheep and pigs.

Oghuz's champions then loudly implied that this scattering was no
accident and that all of Troke's opponents might come to face the same
troubles, which had enough clans wary of the Blackspears the Snaketooth
had to push back the talks until sundown.

Torches lit up the great hall of the fortress of Chagoro, which in truth
had been the mess hall before being made into gathering grounds for the
Clans. No more than three heads could enter by clan, which still meant
more than six hundred orcs packed tight between the walls. Each
chieftain came with a painted shield, their vote to cast, though
counting them could get\ldots{} combative. Accusations of miscounting or
lies were common and usually settled in blood -- every chief had come
tonight with a champion among their three. The Blackspears and their
allies had come first, at least an hour early, so they had the back of
the hall to themselves and an imposing position. They looked many and
strong, which mattered more than most like to admit.

Hakram would make Troke rue that trick before all said and done.

He came as one of the three for the Howling Wolves, standing with the
clans of his birth as the shaman whose day it was to officiate -- a
woman from the Arrant Axes, a Blackspear ally -- sang one of the old
songs of praise to the Hungry Gods and reiterated these to be truce
grounds. Only duels would be allowed here, no red fights.
Unsurprisingly, though half a dozen chiefs clamoured to be the first to
speak it was Troke who was chosen by the shaman. The chieftain of the
Blackspears was a tall and well-formed orc, with short choppy hair and
three golden rings in each cheek that made the pale scars on his face
stand out. He was not built as thickly as some orcs, but as a warrior he
was second in his clan only to his husband.

Skarod Longaxe, the envoy that had come to Wolof and now stood at his
husband's side with cold eyes. Hakram would rather avoid fighting that
one. There were a lot of dirty jokes about the reason for that wedding
being that Skarod should have been called Longspear instead, but the
champion was one of the finest killers in the Steppes. He'd killed three
dozen warriors in duels without taking a wound, it was said, and only
gotten better since. Hakram was not certain he would win should they
fight.

``We're about to go hungry,'' Troke Snaketooth said.

His speaking voice was smooth and carried clearly. That'd been
practised, Hakram was sure of it. The man had always been ambitious.
There were murmurs among the assembled orcs, but no great exclamation of
disagreement or surprise. Most chiefs had either put it together or made
a friend who had, by now, though only the two larger alliances would
have a decent idea of the days left before it happened.

``Three days, my shamans say,'' Troke revealed. ``Three days before we'd
forced to leave behind this fortress and the choice we're meant to make
here.''

He swept the hall with his gaze.

``Shame,'' Troke Snaketooth snarled. ``Shame on you, on \emph{us}. How
long are we going to stand here quibbling when Praes lies open to our
south? Are we going to have to skulk back to the Steppes with our tails
between our legs because we couldn't agree on how to swallow the meat in
our maws?''

A chief from the far north took offence to that and was given turn to
speak by the shaman, but though the man was right that High Lord of the
Steppes was a larger choice than what Troke pretended it was not a
popular refrain with the hall. Seeing that, the man turned insulting and
that was a mistake. Challenges were traded and Skarod Longaxe stepped
forward. The chief's two warriors were slain and his own leg crippled as
Skarod forced three duels back-to-back. It was a statement, meant to cow
smaller clans, but Hakram thought it a mistake. Skarod had taken no
wound and tiredness would pass, but if Troke sent out his husband on his
behalf too often he'd look like a coward.

The next challenge he'd have to field himself, Hakram thought, or take a
hit to his reputation.

Other chiefs stepped forward to accuse Troke of using the situation to
grab power, but all toed the line and their accusations weren't winning
the hall so they petered out. No one wanted to fight the Blackspears if
it won them no support. It wasn't going to be that easy to call for a
vote, though. A chieftain from the east, baring her teeth wildly, tossed
out a different sort of challenge.

``You speak for you and yours, Troke, but there are others,'' she said.
``Other claims. Will Dag Clawtoe not speak up, if he seeks to be our
Warlord?''

That hadn't been arranged, though if it took much longer Hegvor had seen
to it someone else would speak along the same lines. Chiefs just liked
seeing bears fight in the pit, so many were willing to get that fight
started themselves if need be. Only this time it was Hakram who stepped
forward, axe at his hip. He could feel Troke's stare on him, the
recognition of the claim. The hatred from him and soon his husband.
They'd not know for sure until now, then.

``Dag Clawtoe is not who we would we acclaim for Warlord,'' Hakram said.
``I am.''

Surprise, some laughter -- he was a cripple, after all -- but more
murmurs. After the initial beat, though, the sound of blades on shields.
All save three of the clans that'd supported Dag for Warlord were making
known their support of him. Fools had listened to the nose, Hakram knew,
but the clever had been counting shields. The shaman called for silence,
then reluctantly granted him the right to address the hall.

``You've heard of me,'' he said, without false humility. ``I've fought
more battles than anyone in this hall, led armies to victory in the
west. I've killed fae and Revenants, monsters and Named. I've been to
Arcadia and back, walked beneath the gates of Keter and seen the First
Prince of Procer kneel. I'm Hakram Deadhand.''

He stared down the hall.

``You've heard of me,'' he gravelled.

Blades on shields, not only from his allies this time. His people did
like a good boast. It didn't mean votes, but it meant he was being
heard.

``I stand for Warlord by the weight of my deeds,'' he said, using the
old turn of phrase. ``Let them raise or bury me.''

A voice finally cut through, belatedly given right to speak by the
shaman.

``You're one of the Black Queen's,'' a chief shouted. ``Are we going to
kneel to Callow? \emph{Fuck} that.''

``That oath came to an end,'' Hakram said. ``I am the Adjutant no
longer.''

A beat of silence, an idea.

``Do you not agree, Snaketooth?'' he added.

Troke looked unpleasantly surprised at being called on, hesitating at
the answer\emph{. I win whatever you do}, Hakram thought. Either the
Blackspear would lie and deny their shared claim, an action that would
weight on any confrontation between them afterwards -- a finger on the
scales, Catherine would put it -- or Hakram would be vouched for by his
strongest rival. A word none would gainsay.

``He's not the Adjutant,'' Troke said, and tried to speak but shouting
drowned him out.

The shaman called for silence.

``He's not the Adjutant,'' Troke repeated, ``but he's worse. You're a
\emph{guest}, Hakram Deadhand. You left for the Legions and now you come
back for the crown Callow can't give you. What would you know of the
Steppes?''

Rumbles of approval. Particularly the northern clans, from the Lesser
Steppes or close. Some of those thought it suspicious when orcs even
talked to humans, much less fought at their side.

``I am an orc,'' Hakram laughed. ``What more do I need to know?''

That landed too, to Troke's visible distaste. Orcs were not so united in
their answers about what it meant to be one of their kind that everyone
-- or even most -- in this hall would agree with what Snaketooth would
mean by it.

``Funny, though, that making war west would make my scalp less green in
your eyes,'' he continued. ``Do you enjoy killing other orcs so very
much, Troke?''

Blades on shields. The Blackspears were not beloved even if they were on
the rise. They'd crossed many of the clans closest to them over the
years, some under Troke himself. The Snaketooth was wise enough not to
engage in that, which left room for another chief to speak up and keep
questioning whether Hakram was a Callowan spy or not. The woman insulted
him quite bluntly, obviously looking for a duel, but Hakram wouldn't
fight her himself. Her clan was too small for that and she was likely
looking to make a name through this. He looked back, and though Dag was
visibly eager to be called on Hakram spoke another name.

``Oghuz.''

The old orc laughed, appreciative. Oghuz the Lame's blade stayed in its
sheath as he walked up to fight Chieftain Sarai of the Drifting Leaves.
In front of a crowd of hundreds, the old champion brutally beat to death
the challenger with his blackwood cane. All it cost him was a cut on his
bared arm, which some in the hall would recognize as a habit from his
old champion days: there was one such scar on his arm for every kill
he'd made duelling. It was not a statement as bold as Troke's, but it
served as a stark warning for anyone trying to make a name off of
fighting him: try it and you might be remembered as a figure of fun
instead.

The right to speak was spread around after that, the shaman granting it
to every chieftain trying to drum up support for their own candidature
as Warlord -- or High Lord of the Steppes, as some took a page from
Troke's book instead. Neither Hakram not the Blackspears spoke up again,
not openly anyway. The alliances behind both of them sent people to
speak with other clans at the back of the hall, trying to buy support of
their own more quietly. For all that many oaths had been given outside
this hall, there was a long tradition of deciding which horse to eat
only at the very last moment.

Maybe an hour passed and people were getting restless. Dag came to him
as Hakram listened to the chief and shaman of the Ice Eaters, who was
promising that he knew a ritual involving bathing in human blood that
would give magic to all orcs should he be chosen as Warlord. Well, he
was definitely standing out from the others.

``We're up to fifty-four,'' Dag told him. ``Troke's nearing on ninety,
we think.''

Hakram nodded, thinking.

``Call a vote,'' he said.

Dag looked confused but nodded anyway. An allied chief asked for the
right to speak after the Ice Eaters chief left in sullen silence and
used it to call for an acclamation, a demand the hall took up with
relish. It was rare for an assembly to last so long without a vote being
called, often one was asked at the very start, to make it plain where
everyone stood before the talks began. Troke smelled something was
wrong, Hakram thought, because otherwise it would not have been wariness
on his face. All those who would stand for Warlord or High Lord strode
out, and without further ceremony shields began to be tossed as their
feet. Troke and Hakram's supporters threw their shields quickly, already
convinced, but most of the hall did not. A handful of other chiefs
earned about thirty shields between them, but most clans were holding
off to see what happened to the leading candidates.

That patience was rewarded when the Split Tree Clan and its seventeen
closest allies walked right past Troke to throw their shields at
Hakram's feet. They moved to stand with the alliance after, to roars of
surprise in the hall. Hakram almost smiled, because suddenly the back of
the hall that Troke had claimed and filled no longer looked like a solid
wall of support. It looked a little empty while staying very, very
visible. \emph{Didn't I say I'd make you rue that trick?} The final
counts were hard to be certain of, but Hakram trusted his eyes:
seventy-two to eighty-one. Troke had received more support than expected
but the gap had closed.

Now everyone in the hall knew that this ended with one of them the
victor, so the real fight began.

Champions first. It was a roughly even trade of victories and defeats,
with little unexpected save that Dag distinguished himself by winning
thrice -- though, unlike Skarod Longaxe, not in consecutive duels. The
first few duels were without rancour, but by the seventh the tone had
changed. Champions went for kills, not blood, and enmities were made.
Without a clear victor in the violence, the fight was passed on and so
Hakram stepped out of the crowd as Troke did. Armed, both of them, but
it wouldn't begin with steel.

``Deadhand,'' Troke Snaketooth said, enunciating every syllable.
``Pretty name. How did you get it again?''

``When I faced a hero and lived,'' Hakram replied. ``Without a Name of
my own.''

``When you lost a hand to a hero,'' Troke said. ``Only you've lost more
than that since. How much orc is there left in you, Deadhand?''

It'd been a certainty the man would bring up the crippling, but Hakram
still had to push down a grimace. He was past doubting himself over what
he had lost, but his kind had poor opinions of the crippled. Having
borne a Name -- still having a Name, for those who did not understand
the details and there would be many -- made up for it some, as such
things were forgiven in the renowned. Grem famously lacked an eye and
was not held in contempt for it. But that was only an eye. Hakram had
lost three limbs, nearly a quarter of his body was steel and bone.

Even among those who supported him, many faces agreed.

``\emph{All} orc, where it matters,'' a woman's voice called out.

Hungry Gods, was that Sigvin? Whoever it'd been there was a gale of
laughter as Troke bit down on a scowl. That was one way to disarm the
line of argument, Hakram supposed.

``You like to talk about who I am,'' Hakram noted. ``Who you are.''

``Because I don't know you, Deadhand,'' Troke said. ``Who here does? You
boast you've fought in many wars, but what I hear is that you've fought
for everyone but us.''

Hakram snorted.

``Us, Troke?'' he said. ``Who's that? How many of the clans in this hall
get to be called \emph{us}?''

``We're orcs,'' Troke scoffed. ``We get-''

``We're \emph{nothing},'' Hakram cut through.

Something like glee passed through Snaketooth's eyes as rumbles of anger
passed through the hall. Troke kept silent, all the better to give
Hakram enough rope to hang himself with. The tall orc cast a long look
around, unmoved by the anger.

``You don't like hearing that?'' he said. ``Good, you shouldn't. It
doesn't make it untrue.''

He gestured around them.

``Look at us, huddling in a Soninke fortress arguing which Praesi city
we should sack before we run back to the Steppes,'' Hakram scorned.
``Half the armies on Calernia are fighting the greatest war this
continent has ever seen and what does Troke Snaketooth offer you --
\emph{Nok}?''

He laughed, sharp and mocking.

``The least of the High Seats, and after the Ashurans already looted
it,'' Hakram said. ``For that privilege we're supposed to lick the
Tower's hands like loyal hounds?''

``So you want us to lick Procer's arse instead,'' Troke said. ``Is that
what you're getting at? We ought to sign up with the Grand Alliance and
go die for some fucking idiot princes in some nowhere out west? So much
for the fucking War College.''

Laughter and blades on shields. The War College was disliked by some,
Procer by nearly all. Callow was respected, in a way, but the
Principate? It was the decadent idiot of orc stories, the avatar of
excess and cupidity. There was not a thimble of esteem for the
Principate of Procer to be gathered in this entire hall.

``Procer's not my trouble,'' Hakram dismissed. ``But this kind of talk,
Troke? It's why I called us nothing.''

The Snaketooth had a wary glint in his eye. Last time that utterance had
not burned Hakram like the other orc had thought it would. The tall orc
instead turned to the chiefs around them, the clans.

``In five hundred years, when they talk of the fall of Keter, the war to
end all wars -- what will they say of the orcs?'' Hakram asked the hall.
``Where will the Clans be in that story?''

He sneered.

``Knifing each other over a few dozen chest of loot while the real
powers of Calernia carve the land up into great realms, the empires of
the coming age. That's what it gets you, playing the Tower's game.''

``So you want us to rebel, like Callow-''

``You talk more of Callow than I do, Troke,'' Hakram cuttingly replied.
``Do you need a recommendation to enrol in its army?''

Hard laughter, not kind to the chieftain of the Blackspears. It put the
man on the back foot long enough for Hakram to keep speaking.

``We became part of the Dread Empire of Praes because of the promises
made under the Declaration,'' he said. ``Do you think those promises
were kept?''

Rumbles of approval.

``Well?'' Hakram challenged. ``\emph{Do you}?''

Shouts, some harder to parse than others, but the screams of \emph{NO}
were clear.

``If the Praesi don't keep their end of the bargain, then why are we
still on our knees?''

Blades on shields. Troke's face darkened. He was losing the hall and
knew it.

``High Lord of the Steppes,'' Hakram scorned. ``What a way to call
burying your head in the sand. Troke offers you Nok and Malicia's
blessing, do you want to know what \emph{I} offer?

\emph{YES}, the assembly shouted.

``I give you Ater and all the Tower owes us,'' Hakram said.

A roar.

``I give you \emph{Keter}, riches and glory for a hundred years,''
Hakram said.

The roar grew.

``And when we come home at last, we'll raise a city from the stones we
took from theirs,'' Hakram Deadhand thundered. ``One great enough that
even in a thousand years they will tremble at the return of our Horde!''

The roar drowned out everything, and as it rose something grew within
Hakram. Sharpened, refined it. And, the tall orc thought as he met Troke
Snaketooth's eyes, the same thing was weakening inside his rival. The
tide was turning, and that meant there was only one way for Troke to win
now. The chieftain of the Blackspears slowly unsheathed his sword as the
roar finally died down.

``Castles in the sky,'' Troke Snaketooth bit out. ``Their fall will kill
us all. Answer for that, Deadhand, with a blade.''

``If you champion nothing, Troke,'' Hakram replied as he took his axe in
hand, ``that is the sole prize you can win.''

The other orc was quick. Quicker than he should be, even as tall as he
was. There was an unnatural swiftness to his limbs, the kind that came
from a claim settled into one's bones. Hakram was fresher to his own,
but he knew Names in a way that Troke did not. The chieftain's slash
found only steel as Hakram turned and let his arm take it, while he
continued to pivot and swung at the man's head. Troke dropped below the
blow before the arc had even begun and Hakram bared his teeth. He knew
how to win. They broke and circled each other as feet stomped against
stone and blades against shields, their steps careful until Hakram went
on the offensive.

A wild chop, cutting down with the beginnings of Name strength, but
Troke caught the haft of the axe with the side of his blade and
withstood it. Hakram drew back and the chieftain's footing shifted as he
gathered momentum, preparing for a throat that would go through Hakram's
throat. But then the tall orc took a hand off his axe, his bone one, and
slapped at the side of Troke's head. It was a blow that'd hurt but not
kill. Catherine would have taken it and finished the thrust, Indrani
would already be wrenching her swords of his eyes. But Troke had not yet
learned to set aside the instincts of a Name, and so he went to block
the slap with his sword instead of finishing the thrust. He'd begun to
move before his mind could catch up to the choice.

And so Hakram caught the blade in his dead hand and smiled. He squeezed,
steel grinding against bone with a horrid sound, and then the sword
\emph{broke}. Troke's eyes widened and he was pulling away, but the man
found the head of Hakram's axe resting against the side of his neck.
Someone let out a hoarse shout behind them. The Snaketooth's gaze did
not waver.

``I knew it might end this way,'' Troke said, grinning ruefully. ``But I
was \emph{hungry}, Deadhand.''

He breathed out.

``No regrets. Finish it.''

That was the way, wasn't it? The red, blood and rage and victory all in
one. But he'd never had the red in his blood before, so why start?
Hakram's axe drew back and he swung, Troke's eyes closing as the flat
side of the axe head came to rest against his neck.

``It is finished,'' Hakram said.

The man's eyes opened in startled surprise.

``I have a use for you, Troke Snaketooth,'' the Warlord said.

All around them shields were cast down and orcs knelt. The shaman had
not called for acclamation, but some things were beyond ceremony. Two
hundred shields fell at his feet, as inevitable as the coming of dawn.
It was done. The Warlord thought of a moonlit oath, then, and part of
him felt like weeping.

But it was done, raised and buried.