III

"Once, in times long past, the orcs followed the leadership of He Who Never Sleeps, Gruumsh, in glorious battle throughout the mountains and into the forests where elves and humans live."

The story was one of the oldest tales of the orcs, of a long ago time when battle raged endlessly across the realm and the orcs were a truly feared and glorious people. By now, Jiri had practically memorized the story, but his brothers and sisters had yet to hear and understand the tales of the One Eye and its importance to the unity and purity of the orcish race.

Jitka, the crone, once again told the story, bundled in rough cloth and fur robes despite the warmth of the early autumn day. She sat in the center of almost a dozen young orcs, ranging in age from Jiri's dozen years to the youngest, who had seen no more than six or seven summers. It was the job of the crones to teach the children the history and traditions of the proud orcs; few men would ever see themselves grow old and withered as Jitka or the other women of the tribes did. Jiri himself had no intentions of ever growing as old as Jitka. He would enter the great feast halls of the One Eye as a strong, able bodied orc, not some withered crone or crippled bogalj.

"He Who Never Sleeps was a powerful and tireless warrior," Jitka explained, her raspy voice snapping Jiri back to the present. The crone's amber eyes, clouding over with milky white cataracts, nonetheless swept out over each student in turn to ensure they listened to her words. "He fought for days on end, his fury carrying him to greater heights of war and glory, until he had united all orcs under his banner and had raided far beyond the mountains, even beyond the great seas to vast deserts and frozen wastes. All of the lands of humans and elves, dwarves and goblins, feared the sight of the great orc, the fiercest berserker who ever lived!"

The crone paused for dramatic effect, glancing across the assembled youngsters.

"But even the greatest warriors can be taken," Jitka continued, her voice growing faintly low. "For in a great forest where He Who Never Sleeps roamed, he hunted a great hart, a deer with fur of whitest snow and horns of purest ivory. He Who Never Sleeps hunted the hart for days, weeks, even a month, following its tracks through great stands of oak and pine, across glistening rivers, closing inevitably behind the elusive beast. And though the hart was the greatest prize, one no hunter had ever brought down, the great orc's tireless chase brought him to the great creature, sipping from water in a tiny brook. The hart rushed away, but He Who Never Sleeps cast his javelins, striking the beast in its hind leg. The great orcish chieftain rushed forward, raising his spear to finish the beast, but as he reached it, he found in its place an elven girl!"

"And he killed her?" one of the youngest orcs, no older than eight, asked.

"No," Jitka replied, a faint smile coming to her ancient face. Her tusks, worn down to little more than stubs, barely showed above her lips. "The elven girl offered He Who Never Sleeps a prize greater than her own life, greater even than the ivory and hide of the hart that she had been."

"But… what could be greater than killing an elf?" another of the young ones inquired. Jitka's smile widened faintly. "What could the One Eye want?"

"Do you not understand?" the crone inquired. "I have not named him as the One Eye yet. For at one time, long ago, He Who Never Sleeps had two eyes, and he did not hate elves above all others. And when the girl offered him a gift of strength, He Who Never Sleeps did listen, for he did not know the treachery of their kind."

"What was it?" the youngest orc asked, wide eyed.

"She said that she could make him even stronger," Jitka answered. "She said she could brew a potion that would make He Who Never Sleeps stronger than the giants, and his skin would become tough as stone. But for such a potion, she would need something from the great warrior. She would need his left eye, for in it she would see that which would make the great warrior stronger and be able to brew the potion from these ingredients. Knowing the value of strength, He Who Never Sleeps drew his dagger and plucked his left eye from his skull, offering it to the elf in exchange for the potion. The girl told him to return in exactly one month's time to the exact spot where he had defeated her, and she would give him the potion that would make him the greatest warrior to ever walk the land. And after one month, the great warrior returned to the glen, ready to receive his boon for leaving the elven girl alive. Do you know what he found?"

Jitka glanced from one orc to the next, but the young sat rapt with attention, barely breathing.

"Nothing," the crone continued. "The elf did not return. There was no potion to make He Who Never Sleeps stronger. All he had gained from his mercy was the loss of his left eye. He Who Never Sleeps raged for days, tearing the great forest asunder in his search for the girl, but the elf had disappeared. He Who Never Sleeps was forced to return to his tribe with only one eye, and from that day he was known as One Eye Who Never Sleeps."

"He never found the elf?" one of the young orcs asked.

"No," Jitka answered. "But in the loss of his eye, He Who Never Sleeps gained much wisdom. He learned that mercy is a tool of deception. That one should never let an enemy escape, that one who begs for her life is not worth the effort of mercy. Those who beg for mercy are devious and evil, and must be destroyed even more than an honorable enemy that is prepared to die. The One Eye also learned that the elves, the hated forest dwelling creatures, are fey that hold nothing but malice and evil tricks for their natural superiors. Their Earth Mother is a malevolent being that plots our demise, and we must be wary of their transgressions. And finally, do not place your trust in the 'secrets' of arcane magic. Trust in your own strength, your own fury, and your own endurance. The One Eye will not look favorably upon one who trusts such underhanded tricks as a mage or druid offers. If your own strength does not suffice, grow stronger through your trials, your ordeals, and your victories against the lesser races. Magic will profit you nothing."

Jiri had heard the story many times before, but finally he had a new question about the ancient story.

"Crone?" the young orc asked, moving forward slightly. Jitka turned to him. "Whatever happened to the elf girl?"

"Well," Jitka began, smiling faintly, "perhaps one day you will find her. If you do, do not fall for her tricks. Slay her and return He Who Never Sleeps' eye to him. Do that, and you will have earned glory that orcs can only dream of."


One year ago, she had been the daughter of a powerful chieftain, given to one of the great young warriors of a tribe on the verge of glory and honor.

So much had changed in a year.

It was not often that Neza truly had a chance to look back upon the twisted path her life had taken since the previous summer. Her tribe, the Cold Spear, had suffered immensely over the past year before its ultimate dissolution only a few months before. Losses in battle and starvation had destroyed her tribe and killed her betrothed, but her tribe's misfortune had been a blessing of sorts to her. At only sixteen, just barely of age for marriage, Neza was now the wife of arguably the most powerful orc in all of the Khairathi Mountains, the greatest glory a female could obtain. Her father wallowed in misery at the bottom of Bijelo Polje, branded a coward and a weakling for surrendering his tribe, but Neza's marriage to Libor Bloody Fist was a backhanded compliment to the potential the chieftain had seen in Jure Cold Spear's bloodline.

"Do not do it that way," another female said, her voice stern and disapproving. "Libor does not like the blankets folded in such a manner."

"No one has shown me how he does like it," Neza countered, turning back to the other orc sharing Libor's tent with her. Kaja, twice Neza's age and the mother of Libor's four sons and two daughters, turned her almond eyes to the new wife.

"A wife should be attentive to what her husband desires," Kaja stated. Behind her, Eliska and Jarek, the youngest of Libor's children, played idly on the ground as their mother turned away from them. "No one should have to show a wife what her husband desires. That is for you to figure out. I was not told what Libor liked when I became his wife, nor should I have to tell you."

"Libor has expressed no dislike of the way in which I prepare his bed," Neza countered, unsure of how to approach the older wife. By rights, Kaja held more prestige of the two of them, as she had given Libor children, but the older wife had shown the new arrival nothing but disdain since Neza had come into the tent.

"Then you do not pay attention to your husband's needs," Kaja retorted. "You are fortunate that I am here to make up for your mistakes."

"I know you do not like me," Neza said, forgetting her chores and turning to the older wife. "You have made that plain since the day Libor took me. I do not know why Libor took no other wives during that time, but now he has. And we must live together, or face our husband's wrath together."

Kaja glared at her for a long moment, rage beginning to twist her face. For an instant Neza thought the older female would physically attack her, tensing for the coming assault.

"Libor never wanted you," Kaja finally growled out through clenched teeth. "Libor does not desire you. You are here only because others thought that the chieftain should marry again, and convinced him that a pathetic, mewling child from a failed tribe would make an acceptable wife. I am Libor's wife, child. He desires me, and me alone."

"Then why does Libor ask me to come to his bed so often?" Neza inquired, unable to resist the insult. Kaja's stood frozen by the counter, her face contorted by stunned outrage.

"You ungrateful little child!" she exclaimed, finally finding her voice.

"I will not take your insults any more, crone," Neza declared. "For three months I have allowed you to torture me. No more!"

Kaja took a furious step toward the younger wife, but the rustle of the tent flap stopped her before she could reach Neza.

"I hope I find my wives and children well," Libor said evenly, stepping into the dim interior from the bright afternoon outside. The chieftain looked from one to the other, his eyes stern.

"Husband!" Kaja said, turning and warmly embracing her husband. "Yes, your son and daughter play well, and I was teaching this one how you like your blankets arranged."

"That is good," Libor said, barely returning Kaja's show of affection. "Where is Jiri, and where are the others?"

"They are still with the crones," Kaja answered quickly, before Neza could answer herself. "This one was slow taking them to Jitka, so they remain with her."

"This one," Libor repeated, looking to Neza. Neza dropped her eyes slightly, properly submissive to her husband.

"Borivoj was not feeling well," she explained quietly. "I thought it would be best to delay a short time, for his sake."

"Borivoj," Libor repeated. The faintest hint of frustration came across the chieftain's face with the mention of his third son, no doubt due to the boy's weaker frame compared to his older brothers. "We must not baby him, Neza. He must grow stronger."

"Yes, husband," Neza agreed with a faint nod. From her position against Libor's chest, Kaja shot a smug smile at her, satisfied with the younger wife's apparent failing.

"I will cook your favorite stew tonight, husband," Kaja said, putting herself between Libor and Neza as she continued. "I have already begun preparing it, and I have found the roots that you like so much in your stew."

"Good work, Kaja," Libor said, smiling at his first wife. "Prepare Neza as well for tonight. I will have her."

"Neza?" Kaja repeated, her bright demeanor going notably false.

"That is what I said, Kaja," Libor confirmed. "Make sure my sons are well fed, especially Borivoj."

"Of… of course, husband," Kaja said, fighting to keep her frustration out of her voice. If Libor noticed her emotions, he refused to acknowledge them.

"Then continue," the chieftain stated, lifting the tent flap and starting back out into Bijelo Polje. As he disappeared, Kaja's façade melted away into seething anger.

"It seems our husband prefers me again," Neza stated simply. Kaja bared her tusks as she growled in fury, but turned and stormed out of the tent without another word.


The years had once been kind to him. Not so much any more.

Stribog groaned as he retrieved another branch from the pile left for him by the females, wincing from the aches of his old wounds. Grumbling under his breath, the badly scarred bogalj made his way back into the largest forge of Bijelo Polje, a crude, dome shaped kiln where he melted down captured bronze and copper to make the metal tips of javelins and the occasional arrow. Over four years, the crippled orc had learned much more than he had ever desired to know about judging the form of javelin hafts, or of pouring melted bronze into the rough molds to create the weapons the orcs needed. Stribog spent a moment judging the branch in his hand before opening the kiln door and tossing it into the fire, displeased at an almost imperceptible warp in the wood.

"Maybe next spring," the bogalj muttered to himself, taking a moment to absorb the heat of the furnace. Perhaps the autumn days were getting colder, or perhaps it just seemed that way. Shaking his head, Stribog shut the furnace again, unhappy with the dying heat of the coals. Such low heat would never melt the bronze candelabra sitting in the crude vat suspended over the embers.

"Maybe next spring?" a voice asked behind him. Stribog turned quickly, but winced as his old injuries made his sudden movement painful. "Forgive me, Stribog," Libor said quietly. "I did not mean to startle you."

"Perhaps my ears are beginning to fail, as well," the bogalj said, shaking his head as he walked past the chieftain to the pile of branches. "I used to have a better sense of the land around me."

"You were a great warrior," Libor said. "I feared the day when I would have had to face you for control of the tribe."

"It seems you have no reason to fear any more, Libor," Stribog pointed out. "You should thank Bozidar when it is your turn to see the One Eye."

"It is a battle still talked of throughout the mountains," Libor stated. "You gained much glory that day."

"Much glory, and wounds that will never heal," Stribog added. The orc's lungs could no longer hold the air to carry him through battle, nor would his arms or legs ever be strong enough to withstand the rigors of combat. Several of Stribog's teeth had also been knocked out, including his left tusk and three of his front teeth, completing a gruesome scar that took up most of the left side of his face. "But enough of that," the bogalj decided. "What is it you wish of me, Libor?"

Libor said nothing, but held his massive, wide bladed spear out. Stribog looked to the chieftain for a long moment before hesitantly taking the weapon in his hands.

"An excellent weapon," the bogalj observed, feeling the fine balance in the haft and observing the blackened, polished look of the steel. Libor's spear had likely been blessed as well; Predrag had been known to consecrate the weapons of the Bloody Fist's most powerful warriors, making them even stronger and sharper than their mundane counterparts. Stribog looked back to the chieftain, but Libor said nothing. "Is something wrong?" the smith asked, growing confused.

"It is a hobgoblin weapon," Libor replied, as if in explanation. Stribog looked over the fine weapon.

"It… is," he confirmed.

"Could you make one like it?" Libor asked simply. Stribog simply stared at the chieftain for a moment, too stunned to say anything.

"I… don't know," the bogalj answered. "I…. I have never tried something like this. I have never even worked with steel. I simply make arrowheads and javelin tips from melted bronze."

"I want you to try," Libor said. "You are too weak to find a last battle, but if you can make spears and other weapons like this, you will earn a new glory in the tribe."

"I… am bogalj," Stribog pointed out, astonished by the statement. "I can no longer gain glory. I live-"

"I know where you live!" Libor snapped, snatching his spear back angrily from the cripple. "And I do not care! You are the best weapon smith we have, and I want a weapon made by orcish hands!"

"Libor, have you gone mad?" Stribog exclaimed, finally finding his voice and temper. "We are orcs! We do not make weapons, we take weapons! Would you deny me a chance to find a good death if the enemy approaches so I can sit in this kiln and make spears? Would you reduce me to a hobgoblin, or worse still, a human?"

"I want an orcish weapon," Libor repeated, his voice dropping to a menacing snarl. "I will no longer send our rightful plunder to flat headed merchants from Trzebin or any other city. They mock us and feed on our strength!"

"They are without honor or glory," Stribog countered, "and I consider this conversation an insult. If Oleksandr or Kazatimiru ever venture close to our lands again, I will not be denied my good death! I will not enter the One Eye's feast halls like this!" the bogalj declared vehemently, gesturing to his broken body. "Battle will make me whole again!"

"You are a fool!" Libor spat.

"And you are a blasphemer!" Stribog retorted. "Tell me, chieftain, if you were in my place, would you give up your chance at your last glory to make weapons like some flat head or smooth skinned human?"

"The One Eye would make you whole again for your service to his people," Libor snarled.

"Would he?" Stribog asked. "Would you be willing to say those same words to Predrag?"

Libor paused for a long moment.

"He would agree with me," the chieftain finally decided. Stribog snorted out a derisive chuckle.

"I will take my chances with Oleksandr, when he comes in the spring," Stribog said. "I will not stand before the One Eye as a bogalj."

Libor's face darkened with rage, but the chieftain said nothing more as he turned sharply on his heel.

"Libor," Stribog called out. The chieftain stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "You have been a good chieftain. Do not let these blasphemous ideas lead to your downfall, for if you continue, it is only a matter of time."

"We shall see," Libor growled, stalking off into the camp.


Like almost every other road that led up the ridges, the road away from Stribog's makeshift forge led to the temple of the One Eye.

It was here that Libor retreated when he needed the guidance of the One Eye. The orcish chieftain stood in the doorway, staring up at the impressive statue of his god, One Eye Who Never Sleeps. In the dim, reddish glow of the braziers that surrounded it, the effigy's single ruby eye glittered as it seemed to look down on the chieftain, judging him as he stepped onto the black flagstones of the temple. Slowly Libor made his way to the statue, stopping in front of it and kneeling down in front of it. Carefully placing his spear on the floor in front of him, the chieftain kissed the flagstones in front of him before lifting his eyes to face the icon.

"Grant me your strength and your vision," Libor prayed quietly. "Fill me with the rage to face my enemies and the strength to emerge victorious. Guide my spear, that my strikes spill the lifeblood of my foes."

His brief prayer completed, the chieftain stood and turned away from the statue, his amber eyes searching the dark interior of the temple for signs of other orcs. After a moment, a shadow moved out of one of the small alcoves.

"My chieftain returns once more to pray?" the ancient orc asked, moving into the angry glow of the braziers. Wrapped in blood red robes, the old priest leaned on an ornate spear as a cane of sorts, his wild white hair thinning to wisps over his heavily wrinkled and badly scarred face.

"I am troubled, Predrag," Libor said as the wizened, one eyed priest moved to the warmth of one of the braziers. Predrag nodded, his good right eye following the chieftain as he rested his spear in the crook of his shoulder.

"This much I can see," the priest stated, a faint smile coming to his thin lips. "We have been victorious this summer. You defeated the half breed and gained the allegiance of the entire Cold Spear tribe. Of all the raids conducted by all the tribes this summer, we have brought back more food, more metal, and more slaves than any other tribe."

"Are we dying?" Libor asked bluntly, locking gazes with the ancient priest.

"We are all dying," Predrag responded, his smirk growing faintly wider to show his yellowed teeth and badly worn tusks. Libor snorted derisively.

"That is not my question," the chieftain clarified. "We are mighty warriors. We conquer all that we see. Yet we remain locked in these mountains. With each year we lose ground to humans, elves, and hobgoblins. Is this what the One Eye sees for us?"

"You do not see us as victorious?" Predrag inquired, turning away from the brazier and taking his spear in hand once more. "You do not think we will survive?"

"How can we?" Libor asked, frustrated. "What is it we must do? Why does the mongrel Hextor have grand cathedrals, and our mighty One Eye has only this crude shrine? Each year we take our rightful plunder in glorious battle, then give it back to the very same people we have conquered for their weapons!"

"And you do not like this," Predrag concluded. There was no malice in the ancient priest's voice, but Libor only grew more perturbed.

"We cannot do this forever!" the chieftain concluded angrily. "We survived the winter by using human slaves, but even now half the tribe demands their deaths and the destruction of the farms! And it was the One Eye's own vision!"

"No orc wishes to be a farmer," Predrag observed.

"We are not farmers!" Libor roared in fury. Predrag nodded sagely, leaning forward on his spear as he locked his one good eye on the chieftain.

"You seek something more," the old priest said. "You are envious of Trzebin, and the stories told to you by orcs who have seen the mighty city."

"Why do they have such a place, while we live in tents?" Libor asked.

"We do not build," Predrag explained. Libor slammed the butt of his spear on the floor.

"Slaves can build for us!" the chieftain bellowed. Predrag smiled.

"Slaves can do many things," the old priest said. "How many do we have?"

The chieftain hesitated for a moment.

"Not enough to build a city," Libor answered quietly. "And the others…"

"Orcs are proud of their heritage," Predrag explained. "Change will not come easily, if at all. It will take all of your strength, all of your fury, and all of your will to bring change to this tribe. Are you ready to undertake such a task?"

"You… approve of this?" Libor asked.

"You are our chieftain," Predrag stated in reply. "You are the strongest, the wisest, and the greatest among us. The One Eye has blessed you many times in the past, even over rivals that have also revered his name and followed his teachings."

"If the tribe were to hear that the One Eye approved of the changes I wish to make, they would be more willing to accept the farms and the slaves," Libor reasoned. "You must show your support of this, Predrag. If the priests of the One Eye say it is not against his teachings, then they have no choice!"

Predrag said nothing for a long moment, gazing into the embers of the brazier.

"There may be something I can do for you," the old priest finally said, raising his good eye to the chieftain again.

"I need you to back me!" Libor exclaimed. "If it is the One Eye's will, then you must show your support!"

"There is something, something more important than an old priest's opinion on slaves and farms," Predrag said, using the tip of his spear to swirl the burning embers. The priest remained lost in thought for a moment, studying the fire. "Something more important than any orc," he continued, looking up. The brazier cast his face in a hellish glow as a renewed vitality seemed to come to his ancient features. "Return to me soon, Libor. Soon, we will know if the One Eye does indeed favor your ideas."

"A vision?" Libor concluded, all too aware of Predrag's oracle-like status. The old priest said nothing. "When?" the chieftain pressed eagerly.

"Soon," Predrag replied. "But for now, celebrate. The equinox is upon us, and the Bloody Fist has proven to be the strongest of all the tribes. Celebrate the spoils of a year blessed in the vision of the One Eye."

Libor nodded slowly, his dissatisfaction with the answer apparent in his eyes.

"Celebrate," Predrag stated again, "for if the One Eye does allow me this vision, it will likely be the last celebration you see for some time."