A black shape looms between sand and sky, occluding the stars. A great pyramid of purest darkness, drinking in the light from the heavens and the earth. Its obsidian faces seem to know no end, its height immeasurable by any rule. The observer had some vague memory of traveling here, over miles of desert, facing strange beasts and stranger peoples, but it seems inconsequential compared to the majesty of the edifice towering in front of him. The red sands seem to rise up around its base, concealing an even greater bulk beneath the shifting earth. Suddenly the sky turns red, matching the colour of the endless sand sea, and for an instant the pyramid is illuminated against a backdrop. Thousands of glistening black steps lay before him, and he began to ascend. Up and up he went, his legs lifting and falling as he trudged upwards towards the summit of this artificial mountain. Suddenly there’s a flash of light, and the world turned to fire, and then darkness...

  Koruk awoke with a jolt, his eyes opening to look at a bright blue sky. The red orb of the sun was high in the sky.

  He rose from his bed of dry grass and rubbed his face with huge hamlike hands. What a dream, he thought to himself. Although he’d been sleeping the better part of the day, he felt as tired as if he hadn’t rested at all, and a dull ache throbbed in the back of his skull.

  Bringing himself to his feet, he half walked half stumbled his way over to the river’s edge, and scooped up great handfuls of water to splash his face and wash the fatigue away. Rubbing the water out of his eyes, he opened them, and gazed down into the water.

  A familiar face stared back at him. It had a thick, jutting jaw with two large white tusks that curved up towards a wide, squashed looking nose. Between a heavy brow and high cheekbones were two small, tired looking brown eyes. Wide, pointed ears stuck out sideways from a headful of tousled black hair. And most distinctive of all, was his mottled green and brown skin, which identified him as a member of the White Moon tribe. It was the face of an orc. The rugged face of a creature built in every way to live a hard life in a hard land. His face.

  Feeling more awake after the bracingly cold water, Koruk looked around his little camp, and spotted his fish trap set up in the river. A fish’s tail splashed out of the water, and Koruk’s face split into a wide smile. Forgetting his dream and shaking off his mental fog, he bounded over to the trap, a simple ring of stones in the water with a basket set up between them to catch passing fish. Today four fish had made their way into the enclosure, including one fair sized one. He snatched the basket up out of the water along with the fish. Moktark would be happy. This would be a good meal for both of them, and he knew his friend would be hungry after a hard day of training.

  Slinging the basket onto the ground back at camp, the orc selected a knife, a good flint blade he had knapped a week ago, and got to work gutting them, tossing the entrails into the water. He ran his thick green finger down the spine to to remove the last of the blood, rinsed them off, and returned them to the basket, tossing the rest of his tools in with them. Hoisting the basket up onto his shoulder, he started the short walk up the hill and back to the village.

  Wit’thod village was a humble place. Never the biggest or strongest orcish hold, it was nevertheless ringed by a sturdy stake wall, with several watchtowers visible behind, standing vigil for enemies. As Koruk came up to the open gates, he waved to a warrior standing watch.

  The young warrior leaned in as he passed by.

  “Hey, any luck, Koruk?”

  “Don’t get any ideas Runerg, you’ll have to catch your own meal!” Koruk said, laughing jovially in a deep, resonant voice.

  Runerg made an exaggerated sad face, but didn’t press the matter, and waved him through.

  The village itself was a tightly packed affair. Times had been good recently, and the narrow streets were crowded with many new huts and other buildings as the village expanded within the confines of the walls. Woven banners waved over dozens of red painted roofs, proclaiming the might of the White Moons, and Koruk noticed many children running through the streets chasing scruffcats and playing games of make believe with sticks. As he reached the centre of the village, his nose wrinkled a bit, as he caught a whiff of the pigpens where the animals were taken in overnight. Moktark would be there, he figured, taking advantage of the open space to practice.

  Koruk soon found his friend, taking swings at a wooden dummy with a club. Moktark was an accomplished warrior, several years older than him, but he still came here every day to keep his skills sharp and his body in shape. The White Moons had been at relative peace with their neighbours for many years now, barring the odd border skirmish or pig raid, but he always said it was important to be ready for the day that wasn’t true. The tribes lived under constant tension, competing for limited resources and space, and the laws and the wisdom of the great council were not always enough to keep the peace.

  Sweat beaded on the big orc’s mottled skin as he trained. He was about half a head taller than Koruk, his bulging muscles taut with exertion. His thick, jutting jaw was framed by a short chinstrap beard, and his long black hair was done up in a braid behind his head.

  Koruk watched his friend in silence for awhile, as the larger orc bashed away at the dummy, occasionally making a feint or lashing out with a kick. Moktark seemed genuinely happy here, and every blow he struck seemed to improve his mood.

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  Eventually he stopped pummelling the battered target, and stood panting with his hands on his knees, completely out of breath. Wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, he noticed Koruk watching him, and waved a breathless greeting. Koruk held up the basket of fish, a shit eating grin on his face, and they both laughed together.

  Deciding not to eat near the pigpens, the pair went to Moktark’s hut to enjoy their meal. Like most orcish dwellings it was a simple, round structure, built of stone, mud, and roofed with crudely split wooden shingles. The roof was painted ochre red, and the door was daubed with jagged yellow runes: part of some superstition Moktark subscribed to about ghosts and ghouls. Koruk had asked once, and Moktark had told him:

  “With these, I fear no living foe!” Moktark had boasted, flexing his huge arms. “But how do you defend against a spirit? How do you strike at it? Even if your axe rips apart its body, how do you kill the dead? He will come back and laugh at you! That is what the magic is for little brother. I don’t want to deal with these things.”

  Koruk had doubts ghosts were even real, but Moktark seemed to have none, and his big friend seemed happy with that arrangement. He had gotten the Bone Mother to make the runes herself, and trusted that he was suitably protected against any spooky night terrors that might come to bother him.

  The inside of his hut was comfortable, and suited a bachelor. A hammock was strung between two thick posts in the wall, hanging near a still smouldering firepit in the centre of the dwelling. Trophies of all sorts lined the walls and racks of shelves set up on one side of the room, showing off the warrior’s victories. The skulls of dire wolves and crag lions hung beside broken shields and axes, and the shelves displayed a wide assortment of strange trinkets and treasures taken during raids. Anything particularly valuable Moktark had traded away, but he kept these things out of sentimentality, as did most warriors in the village. Baskets and sacks of dried meat and vegetables were piled randomly throughout the room as well, and Moktark brought out a big clay pot from under his hammock as Koruk proudly displayed the fish he had caught.

  As Moktark rekindled the fire, Koruk got to work on dinner. He impaled three of the fish, including the big one, on sticks, and stabbed them into the sand around the fire for safekeeping. The last fish he began to cut up, slicing carefully through the back and against the ribs, until he had removed most of the meat into two nice fillets. These he chopped into bite sized chunks, and threw into the pot, along with some fresh-ish tubers and herbs. He poured water on top from an amphora, and set it to boil on the fire. As the food cooked and the fire burned down, the two friends got to talking.

  “You should come with me on the next raid little brother! Me and some of the boys were planning on hitting the Beast Tamers again. Their pigs are fat, and their warriors are flighty. It will be a good fight.” Moktark said, pulling one of the fish-sticks out of the sand and holding it over the coals. The sun was going down, and the fire cast their faces in dark shadows as they cooked.

  Koruk smiled at the term “little brother”. In truth, he and Moktark had no relation at all that he knew of, but ever since they were children, the older orc had treated him like a little brother. They were always going off on adventures to steal this or hunt that. Koruk wasn’t surprised at all that Moktark had taken the warrior’s path. He was a natural fighter and leader.

  “You know I’m not much for fighting.” Koruk said, looking down at his feet. “I’m not even half as big as you are, and it’s all I can do to wrangle a few fish.”

  “For which I am grateful. Here.” Moktark said, handing Koruk the larger fish. It was perfectly cooked, its golden skin flaking off and revealing succulent white flesh. “You need to eat big to get big! You don’t eat enough.”

  Koruk accepted the fish, and dug in. It was tasty. He preferred pork, but fish was easier to catch. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned.

  “You eat enough for ten of us! If I ate as much as you do the whole village would starve.”

  They both polished off the roasted fish. The soup was bubbling in the pot, and smelled delicious. Moktark rummaged around in the heaps of stuff near his bed, and eventually produced two clay bowls. Holding the soup pot between two sticks, he poured an equal measure of soup into both.

  As they waited for the soup to cool, Moktark continued his spiel.

  “You could handle it I think. The Beast Tamers are weak, and we haven’t hit them for awhile so they’ll be lazy. You know, I’ve never seen an orc as scrawny as a ‘tamer. You and me, we would tower over them like crag lions over rabbits! We could take their pigs and their gold and their women, and live like kings of old Orc’gar!” The warrior said, spreading his arms wide, casting a fierce shadow over the wall of the hut. He calmed down a bit, and looked a little embarrassed. “Well, think about it anyways. We could always use a good reliable set of hands, even if you don’t want to do any fighting. The others will accept you. I will personally vouch for you.”

  It seemed like they had this conversation every day. Moktark meant well, Koruk knew. However, he had doubts that the other warriors would accept him, even if he wanted to go. He was unbloodied, unscarred, and in their eyes unfit to be a warrior. He was sickly as a child, and the Bone Mother had kept him alive with medicines and sorceries. There were whispers among that he was touched by spirits, who had sustained him. Even if they ignored their superstitions, the other warriors generally thought of him as a potential liability on a raid, and although they were polite around him to avoid offending Moktark, Koruk knew he would never really be one of them no matter how hard he tried.

  So, after reaching adulthood, Koruk had not engaged in the traditional activity of young orcish men, and spent his time fishing and hunting instead, bringing back food for himself and often the rest of the village, if he was especially successful. It was a good, lazy life, and Koruk didn’t mind it. Most days he got to lay in the sun and relax, and the fish caught themselves.

  Koruk and Moktark sat in silence for awhile, watching the embers of the fire dance hypnotically before them. It cast a red glow throughout the hut that reminded Koruk of the dream. After some hesitation, he decided to bring it up.

  He described in detail the pyramid, the red sky, the red sands. Moktark sat silently and listened, gazing at nothing, as he took it in.

  When the story was concluded, the big orc got up and rummaged through his pile again, bringing out another hammock.

  “Sleep here tonight little brother. The house is warded, and you won’t be haunted by spirits.” He said, making a strange hand gesture. Koruk sighed, but decided to acquiesce. He didn’t really feel like sleeping in his bare hut anyways.