Bloodborn

No man is born a king, regardless of what the lineage books say. A man is born a prince, but not all kings were first princes; and not all princes end as kings.

History of the Guilds

       By Elder Lighours

        

 

The meeting tent was as vast as it was luxurious. A long purple carpet ran down the center to the decorative throne raised on a solitary platform. On each side of the carpet stood crowds of advisors, nobles, and guild captains mingling with prophets, scribes, and ladies. Large barrels of wine and long tables of cooked chicken and fresh fruit lined the sides of the tent. The whole scene struck Umbra as more of a royal court than an advance war camp.

Lord Beritor stood across the tent next to Lord Duke Herrion. Lord Beritor brushed his blonde hair out of his face and straightened the gold sigil around his neck. Lord Herrion wore a similar sigil, but his was far simpler and less expensive. Herrion’s brown hair was chopped short for practicality and hygiene.

“So do you know what this council is about?” Lord Beritor asked while surveying all newcomers to see who decided to come and who decided to stay in bed.

“I do not,” Herrion answered taking a drink from his cup and picking out several plump grapes from a tray.

Beritor laughed at his friend. “You came to a council without knowing what it is about?”

“I come to my king when called,” Herrion explained.

“You are a much better man than I, then. I never do anything without first knowing why. Speaking of better men, there is Duke Johes. I hear his guild is the toast of the kingdom for their endless efforts to better the people’s lot.”

“Yes, what they leave out is him doubling taxes to pay for those endless efforts,” Herrion mentioned. Lord Beritor laughed again.

“The clever omitting of facts is the foundation of politics,” he stated. “Oh, and there is Umbra, Baron of Black Shield: the ideal of a guildsmen, or so they say.”

“Guildsmen raised this kingdom out of chaos,” Herrion replied turning to see the great Umbra himself. He had to stand on his toes to view over the crowd’s heads, but he managed.

“Yes,” Beritor agreed, “but into what?”

Umbra wandered around the tent, uninterested in the many conversations around him. His eyes were caught by the countless trophies sitting as displays of art around the room. A full visual record of the Guild King’s conquests was laid out for people who do not care about history.

Umbra walked around them, smiling occasionally at the memories they recalled. First, there were the horns of several Minotaur chiefs from back in the days of the Black Spears. Then there was a banner of a defeated lord next to the mantel of the Horsespear men. After that, there was the helmet of the King of Northrim, a symbol of his submission. Yet the true trophy of the North Wars was not an object, but was Koll. He was the much-loved son of old King Olfrie. He was the Guild King’s hostage and their guarantee of peace.

The blue silk folds of the tent lifted and the Guild King entered. The whole assembly kneeled in respect. The Guild King was an older man with greying hair and a well-trimmed black beard. The gold crown on his head was shaped like dragon claws to match the fierce dragon designs on his armor’s breastplate. His royal purple cloak draped over his shoulders with a gold four-pointed star similar to the Broken Lances’ symbol.

The Guild King approached his raised throne and sat on its cushions. The members of the assembly rose, as was protocol. The tent was silent as they waited for the Guild King to speak first.

“I hear we are hosting a green guest,” he said. The assembly laughed politely. “Where is Baron Umbra?” the Guild King asked.

“At your service, sire.” Umbra stepped out onto the deep purple rug and approached the Guild King’s throne.

“So your orc is well?”

“Well enough, sire.”

“I hear there is a messenger from the Warchief here. How did word reach him so fast?”

“I don’t know,” Umbra admitted. “Perhaps they have more scouts than we thought.”

“Or you let one live and he ran to his master,” the King said in a deep tone.

“It is possible, sire.”

The Guild King nodded his head slowly staring at the Baron. The Baron stood with his head bowed in respect.

“Send in the messenger,” the King commanded.

Umbra stepped back into the crowd. An orc of impressive size entered. He walked in with the confidence and boldness of most orc hunters. He wore the traditional orcish mismatch of harden leather patches held together by straps. A fur of a strange beast covered his shoulders while many bones tied to his belt symbolized his kills. The orc stood defiant before the Guild King.

“Speak your message, orc.”

The orc let out a snort then clenched his fists and closed his eyes in what appeared to be a strange prayer-like ritual. He then opened his hands out to the Guild King like offering a dish.

“Iron King, you come into the rolling plains uninvited. You march across burial grounds and burn villages that have done you no wrong. You sit in the Peace Place and ask for ‘settlement,’” the orc struggled with the unfamiliar word.

“All the while you sneak out and steal that which is not yours. The Warchief, chosen by his tribe, demands you leave these lands and return his son. If you refuse, the Warchief will call all the tribes to him and they will be more numerous than the grass of the hills.”

The Guild King sat quietly for a moment. He rubbed his chin and leaned forward in his seat. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the orc in front of him.

“Which chief?” he asked. “The orcs have so many I can’t keep count,” he said laughing and leaning causally back in his throne.

“The mighty Warchief of the Wazog,” the orc replied, insulted by the question.

“Is he not just the Warchief of the Wazog and their allies, though?”

“The other tribes will hear the drums and…”

“The other tribes are desperate,” the Guild King interrupted in a harsh, serious voice. “They fear the men in iron and they fear me. They know axes alone will not stop me. They long to sing the Life Song with me. The old Warchief will beat the drums, but none will answer his call. The Wazog have raided the other tribes too long. They have made themselves strong on the blood of others. Is not, ‘You eat what you kill,’ an orc saying. You have killed the bond between you and the other tribes, now you must eat it. The other tribes wish to see the smoke of your burning bodies. They wish to see your life force severed.

“I will march on the Warchief and lay him and his tribes to waste. Unless...” the Guild King raised a finger to intensify the point. “Unless the Warchief sings the Life Song and delivers to me all the books of dark arts and every Shaman’s tongue. Thus their corruption will be cleansed from this world and your people made whole with the Divines.

“In return for this, I will allow the tribes to live as they do now with minimal garrison. Agree and the Warchief will have peace and his son will be returned to him unharmed. I swear it. Refuse and none of your tribe will see the winter.”

The orc clenched his teeth; his hands returned to fists. His eyes glanced over the crowded tent. He spat on the purple carpet. Gasps echoed through the tent.

“No Wazog would agree to this in the Peace Place. You chant for war, iron king. We hear and accept.” The orc stormed out of the tent. Mumbles and whispers were quickly exchanged between members of the assembly. The Guild King stood, bringing silence to the tent.

“My war council will meet in the war tent,” he ordered before promptly leaving through the way he came. Umbra sighed and shifted under the weight of his armor.

Duke Johes came up from behind him. “I hope you were not planning on sleeping tonight,” he jested.

Umbra grunted and shook his head. “I am afraid sleep is a dream while on campaign.”

“Yes,” Johes laughed while stretching and watching the crowd leave. “So it will be war after all.”

“So it seems,” Umbra replied.

The Duke was a shorter man with a pointed white beard. His frame was slender compared to Umbra’s, but his muscles were strong. He wore simple chainmail armor with a steel breastplate. The gold sigil around his neck seems out of place on such a common-looking person.

“How are you, Johes?” Umbra asked.

“My health is good. My guild is rich, and my wife is fat. I know many with much less.” Umbra nodded his agreement. The crowd began to lessen, allowing a hole for Umbra and Johes to exit. The night air was cool, cooler than expected. Umbra breathed it in.

“The weather here is so strange,” Umbra commented. “It is summer at day and winter at night.”

“A strange land all around,” Johes replied as he crossed his arms to defend himself from the cold. “I hear kidnapping the Warchief’s son was your idea.”

“It was.” Umbra moved through the crowd and made his way towards the war tent. Johes followed close behind.

“I’m sure you had a different outcome in mind.”

“I did,” Umbra admitted.

“You cannot think of orcs as men. They have no ownership, as we would understand it. Any title or position is not held by the person, but by all his ancestors, too.”

“Sounds like hieratical law to me,” Umbra stated continuing down the row of tents.

“It’s very different than that. When an orc becomes Warchief, he loses his birth name and is only known by his tribe. Thus, he is the tribe and the tribe is him. He is his ancestors in flesh and his children are him, not just from him. They share one life force.”

“So why would the old Warchief refuse our offer?” Umbra asked coming to a stop and facing Johes.

“I don’t know,” admitted Johes. “I personally thought your plan would work. The orcs have no afterlife, only life force. The only true death to an orc is dying with no son, and then your life force ends.”

“So again, why refuse us?”

“Perhaps the old Warchief does not believe we will actually hurt his son,” Johes suggested with a shrug. Umbra stared at Johes for a moment.

“If it comes to it, I will kill him myself,” Umbra said. He then began to walk again.

“I will pray to the Divines it does not come to that,” Johes muttered.

Umbra paused. “You hold sympathy for these orcs?”

Johes smiled shyly and shook his head. “My lord Baron, I am against this war.”

Umbra stood where he was, unsure how to reply, as Johes moved past him and entered the war tent. Lord Beritor and Lord Duke Herrion had already arrived and were standing around a round table covered in various papers and maps. A large arrangement of candles in the center of the table dripped wax onto the pages. Umbra came to the table and set his hands down on the rough surface. He leaned on the sturdy structure and fought against his fatigue.

Night settled back onto the camp. Guard dogs barked at the strange sounds of the strange land. Men returned to snoring in their tents and dreaming the morning will never come. The Guild King entered the war tent and immediately started to shift papers and maps about.

The Guild Masters, who had been waiting for nearly an hour, were silent. They waited patiently for the Guild King to review everything. Umbra swallowed hard seeing the annoyance in the Guild King’s eyes. Apparently, he found the failing of Umbra’s plan unexpected and generally inconvenient to his campaign. It seemed the Guild King had more faith in the idea than Umbra believed.

“How many hunters will the Wazog be able to muster before we corner them?” he asked. Umbra moved several maps to different places forming a more complete picture of the land.

“Sire, we can assume the orcs will try to head to the river and connect with other tribes. We have nearly half our cavalry patrolling that river. They should be able to intercept any messengers or reinforcements. If we move quickly, we can cut them off in these hills. The scouts say the hills are high enough to hide our approach.”

“How many men will we be able to field?” Johes asked leaning over the maps to see them better.

“Around fifteen thousand infantry and two thousand cavalry,” Umbra replied. “We will move faster if we leave the camp and luggage here with a guard and march light.”

“You didn’t answer my original question, Umbra,” the Guild King pointed out. “How many hunters will the orcs field?” Umbra straightened his back and crossed his arms.

“Our estimates range from twenty to twenty five thousand, sire. Far less than we feared, also the orcs seem to have no cavalry or archers. Moreover, they are raiders and hunters. They are not acquainted with large scale war.”

“The Divines blessed us then,” the Guild King stated letting out an anxious breath.

“That is how the Prophets would see it, sire,” Umbra commented.

“But not you, Baron?”

“Sire, as Duke Johes would say, we cannot treat orcs like men. Orcs are known to be brutal fighters.”

“Brutal yes,” Lord Beritor added, “but not very smart. We will out maneuver them, sire.”

“I only advise caution,” Umbra stated.

“Always good advice,” the Guild King agreed. “If the old Warchief won’t deal, what do we do with his son?”

“Kill him,” Lord Beritor proclaimed waving a dismissive hand. “He is no good to us now. Chop his head off and send it to the other tribes as a message. Let them see what happens when you are stubborn and won’t see reason.” Duke Johes shook his head in disgust.

“You will gain nothing by killing him,” he said.

“And you are the expert on orcs?” Lord Beritor countered.

“It doesn’t take an expert to see the flaw in your plan. You would be destroying the Warchief’s life force. He would lose all reason to exist. He would become emboldened, frantic even. The rage it would cause among the orcs could never be quenched. There is nothing more dangerous than a beast with nothing to lose.”

“Life force? I don’t even know what you are talking about,” Lord Beritor laughed. “Sounds like rubbish to me. What I do know is that we must keep our word. We said to the Warchief, deal or we kill your son. He refuses to deal therefore the son must die: simple as that.”

“Sire,” Johes said turning towards the Guild King and ignoring Beritor entirely. “After we defeat his father, the son will be useful in forcing a peace deal beneficial to us, but only if he is alive.”

“I take the word of Duke Johes seriously,” Baron Umbra began, “but I cannot believe the old Warchief would have such disregard for his son. I take his defiance as a bluff. He believes we will not harm Del’Caf in fear of losing our leverage. Thus I suggest we cut off a hand and send it to the old Warchief to show the nature of our resolve.”

“Do we know if the Warchief is the power or just the a*s on the throne?” Lord Duke Herrion asked breaking his long silence. The other members of the council looked at each other unsure of the question.

“What do you mean?” Umbra asked.

“Well, like you Baron, I find the old Warchief’s disregard troubling. Is it possible age has forced his advisors to take the reins, so to speak? It would not be the first time such a thing has happened.”

“Unlikely,” Johes said shaking his head.

“Why?” Herrion asked thoughtfully.

“The orcs would see such acts as offensive to the tribe. The Warchief is the tribe embodied; one cannot go against that.”

“Then even more reason to kill the green skin,” Lord Beritor said with a casual wave of his hand. “His death will dishearten the whole tribe.”

Johes glared at Beritor with an expression of sheer shock. “Have you heard nothing I said?” he asked.

“I have heard you, Duke. However, I fail to see the negative as you do. If we kill the pup, it will hurt the Warchief’s judgment. You yourself said he would become irrational. That could become our advantage, and why should we care if his tribe becomes enraged? What people love invaders? Personally, the overly cautious nature of the Duke makes me ponder his intentions. Maybe the poor state of his guild makes him fear battle.”

“How dare you!” Duke Johes growled in a low voice.

“It is understandable, your guild is nearly a forth of our forces and most of them are fresh off their mother’s tit.”

“My boys are the finest in all the lands of Galsag!” Johes barked. Lord Beritor snickered.

“Oh please, I have seen your training methods.”

“I will not be spoken down to on guild matters by some highborn who founded a guild for tax purposes!”

Lord Beritor began to laugh aloud. Duke Johes took a step forward in anger. The Guild King raised his hand and all grew quiet.

“Tell me, Lord Beritor,” he began in a soft voice. “What good is a dead hostage? Will one pay ransom for a corpse? Also, why give the enemy fire to feed his blood thirst? The young orc will remain our guest, unharmed in any way. Perhaps the old Warchief is bluffing, perhaps he is not. Can we know the motives of orcs when we rarely understand the motives of men?

“All our scouts and spies say the Wazog tribe can unite the orcs. This must not happen. So, we will march with the bulk of our forces and destroy the Wazog. A garrison will be left with the camp and any supplies we cannot carry. This will serve to confuse our enemy’s scouts. The army will travel light and sleep in the mud for a few weeks. We will leave at first light.”

The Guild King stood back from the table. “If there is nothing else, my lords, I am exhausted.” The Guild Masters chuckled politely. The Guild King smiled and left. The Guild Masters bowed as he did.

Umbra stretched and yawned. “So war it will be. See you all for the march. It will not be a pleasant one.”

Lord Beritor began to walk out of the tent when Duke Johes cut in front of him, rudely pushing him aside. Lord Beritor smirked at the gesture. Lord Duke Herrion sighed.

“Why do you insult the good Duke like that?” he asked.

“He invites insult,” Lord Beritor replied.

“He seems to take your remarks personally.”

“How do you know it is not personal?”

“Because we are highborn,” Herrion commented, “and highborn do not make anything personal. It’s bad manners.”

“Among the highborn you would be right, but our current masters are soldiers with titles undeserving of their families. You expect me to believe you don’t suffer under these guildmen’s rule? I know you better than that. They are thugs and sell swords only in power by virtue of bloody victories.”

Herrion nodded, unable to dispute much of what his friend said. “If I remember right, Lord Beritor, you supported the Guild King in the North Wars: a time when many highborns felt as you do and went to the North’s King Olfrie for assistance.”

 Beritor waved a dismissing hand. “The Prophets had already thrown their support behind the guilds. It was suicidal for the Lords to challenge the combined might of the guilds and the Prophets. One thing has always been true in Galsag- where the Prophets go, so goes the kingdom. Like you say, Herrion, it was not personal.”

“So survival is your family’s words?”

“Might as well be.”

“And is that what you are doing here, Lord Beritor?” Herrion gestured his hands around the tent. “Surviving?”

“Yes,” Beritor proudly admitted, “and when the guilds lose their ill-gotten power, I will survive that too.”

“No one would dare test the Guild King’s power.”

“No, but they most certainly might test his successor. The Guild King has no noble blood. His power comes from the sword. Once he dies, so does his authority.”

“The Prophets have already sworn to uphold the heir, as have his grandfather, Lord Drako.”

“But will they?” Beritor pondered aloud. “All it takes is one man of power to say no to him and the whole scale of power in the kingdom shifts. The guilds have more weight on their scale for now but these lowborns won’t keep it.”

“It is a mistake to call them lowborns,” Herrion corrected.

“You consider them our equal?” Beritor asked shocked at the notion.

“No, of course not,” Herrion assured, “but they are not lowborn either. They were conceived in war, birthed in battle, and raised in steel. Lowborn? No " they are bloodborn.”