Koruk awoke in his hut. His head hurt a bit, but he felt rested. A warm body pressed against him in his hammock, and he glanced over at the beautiful milkmaid nuzzled against him. Her hands felt soft on his chest. He barely remembered going home with her.

  It felt strange waking up in his own home, he thought. He had spent so much time at Moktark’s hut recently, that he sometimes forgot he had his own. It was much more poorly furnished than his friend’s home; his fishing gear, his hammock, a few bowls and baskets. He had no great prizes to display, no trophies.

  He sat up, being careful not to wake the woman, and gingerly covered her with a fur. Koruk wondered what would become of her. He imagined she would be indoctrinated into the village and would join the other women, living in the children’s quarter, or perhaps travel to one of the outlying pig ranches. Her skin would gradually change colour until it was mottled like his, and she would fit in. Perhaps the Beast Tamers would launch a raid to try to rescue her and take her back? Taking females in battle helped keep the blood of the village strong, and was commonplace, but Koruk imagined a beauty like her would be jealously desired by her former tribe.

  Koruk threw on a loincloth and looked around again. He wondered if he’d ever see this place again.

  “Uggghh my head...”

  It was the most Koruk had managed to get out of Moktark in three successive attempts at waking him. He shook the big orc again, and slapped him on the face.

  “Get up. We have to pack.”

  “Why? They said to relax. I’m relaxing, I’m relaxing!”

  He is right I suppose, Koruk thought. But something in his belly told him otherwise. He felt anxious to get on with the quest without delay. Was it just excitement to be getting out of the village? To win his place in the warriors hall? Maybe… but maybe not. He couldn’t put his finger on the feeling, which frustrated him and shortened his temper. Koruk kicked the hammock with his foot and got it swinging, nearly pitching Moktark out of it. The big orc swore and fumbled.

  “Ugh, give me water. Where’s Drake?” Moktark said, getting up. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

  Oben glanced up hearing his nickname called. He was dressed in orcish garb. A simple sleeveless linen tunic was held in place by a fur belt tied around his waist, and overtop of it was a thin poncho decorated with zig zagging stripes of red and blue. The clothing was sized for children, and he looked a bit overdressed to Koruk’s eyes. He appeared to have been drawing something on a piece of bark.

  “He looks like he’s ready to take on the world and win, which is more than I can say for you. Get up already!”

  After a bit more grumbling, Moktark got up and the trio set about preparing for the great journey ahead. They dressed light, deciding to forgo any armour or gear that might weigh them down. Moktark wore only a linen loincloth and a leather sash over his shoulder that supported his newly refitted shield on his back and a single thick fur shoulderpad on his right shoulder. The door-shield had been painted with the white moon, white crescent on black background, and leather straps cleverly lashed that he might hold it on his arm. He selected as well a broad, flat club with razor sharp shards of flint embedded in the edge.

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  Koruk dressed himself similarly to Oben minus the poncho, his sleeveless linen tunic going down to his thighs. He took with him his thick bow, a quiver of arrows and a small flint hatchet. He gave to Oben a broad stone dagger, which in the human’s hands looked more like a shortsword. Koruk also took a set of fishing gear including a net and rod, and a bundle of medicinal herbs and bandages.

  They gathered baskets of food (dried fish, salt pork, and small cakes made from ground fish and fat), a small pigskin tent, and a set of warm fur clothing for cold nights. These they tied securely to a travois which they would take turns dragging across the vast savanna to the south.

  The following morning, they set out. Nearly the entire village came out to greet them as they departed, wishing them victory in battle and bountiful plunder. As they passed beyond the city gates, Koruk saw the Bone Mother in the crowd. He could have sworn she was smiling.

  The old trails south were largely overgrown with grass and brambles, but still passable. The party made good time. The huge red sun was blazing overhead and the sky was clear and blue. The heat and the light made Koruk feel alive. His skin tingled happily, and sweat rolled down his cheeks as he lugged the travois along. Oben seemed to be having trouble however. His skin had begun turning red, and he had covered it with additional cloth, and cowled his head in his poncho. He didn’t complain though, and simply smiled at Koruk when he inquired.

  In the evening they pitched camp. Koruk fished in the north flowing waters of the blue run, and caught a few fish, and Moktark foraged some honey from a hive. Oben seemed half dead, and fell asleep immediately. He didn’t seem to be in much mood to chat.

  The following day saw them reach the river fork, and they followed it southeast as instructed. They were unmolested as they travelled, seeing no others after leaving the boundaries of the White Moon territory save for a wandering trader who was uninterested in them when he learned they had no money.

  Another night passed, and they began to get into the rhythm of travel. Every day Oben seemed to get stronger, and by the third night he no longer collapsed immediately when they stopped. His skin was starting to turn from an angry red to a light tan, as the orcs own skin bloomed brighter green from the nourishing sunlight. Oben’s injuries were healing fast as well. The bruising was disappearing from below his eyes and he could flex the fingers of his broken arm without pain.

  They sat around the fire together on the third night, roasting fish, joking and laughing. The white moon was high in the night sky, its crescent mouth appearing to devour the smaller dark moon. It was a good omen, Koruk thought, and he told stories of old adventures with Moktark where they had spent weeks exploring the boundaries of the tribal territories. Hunting, fishing, and getting into trouble more often than not.

  Oben laughed at the jokes, and smiled at the stories, but he told none of his own. Koruk found himself idly wondering what sort of life the small man seated next to him once lived. What fantastic and alien adventures his kind must lead, with flying ships of polished silver. Moktark occasionally nudged Oben to share, but the human always declined, simply shrugging and giving a non-answer.

  By the morning of the fifth day they could smell smoke in the air, and by midday they had come into sight of Zernthod, the ancient city of the soot shamans.