Thunder split the air, and white fire lit up the night sky. A flash in the distance was followed by the crack of detonation as the artillery shell exploded amidst the ruins.

  Vissald lowered his binocs as the howitzer crew laboured to feed another shell into the cannon. His scowl deepened.

  The city was by all rights, completely destroyed. The wall had collapsed. Every building had been reduced to a burned out husk. Every well had been poisoned. Every supply line cut.

  So why the hell were they still here?

  ++Second squad, under fire! Sector 2-A. Requesting armour.++

  ++Third mobile infantry, clear the trenches in 2-A.++

  ++Cannot comply. We are combat ineffective. Requesting pickup.++

  Vissald plucked the combead out of his ear and threw it to the ground in frustration. It was the same thing every day, and had been for weeks. They’d clear out another orcish hidey-hole and move in to secure a sector, only to be ambushed in an adjoining sector. The primitives were using a network of tunnels and trenches to sneak around the ruins, and for every one they collapsed, two more were dug. His forces had fortified several safe zones in the city, but everything beyond those fortresses was a no mans land.

  It was suppose to be easy. They were supposed to surrender or run in terror like the other stupid savages had. So why was it different here?

  Vissald spat, and picked his combead back up. For “stupid savages” they had sure learned how to use a gun quickly. He had fallen into the classic trap of armies throughout history, of allowing a highly mobile force to be bogged down in a guerrilla slogfest. And he wasn’t going to take it lying down. He fit the combead back into his ear, and was again greeted with panicked chatter.

  “All units, abandon your positions and pull out. Get clear of the city and rendezvous at Sector 16B. Artillery and air units, cover their withdrawal.”

  “Sir? What’s going on?” A voice asked beside him. The young lieutenant in charge of the artillery company was looking at him with concern in her eyes.

  “This is getting us nowhere. We’re behind schedule. I’m calling in an orbital strike.”

  “But our orders…”

  “I don’t need to be reminded of my orders lieutenant. I’ll deal with Fost later.” Vissald said. His scowl lightened, and a sly grin crossed his face. “Always remember lieutenant. It’s a lot easier to ask for forgiveness than beg for permission.”

  The man seated himself on a stump, and pulled out a starch bar. He tapped on the combead until the device had keyed into the correct channel, cycling through a mire of panicked reports, frantic orders, and confused requests.

  No, this hadn’t gone as planned. Vissald took a bite of the bland ration, and chewed it thoughtfully.

  “ISS Dominant, this is Vissald. Requesting orbital strike at the following coordinates.” He said, his mouth half full of food. He keyed in a set of coordinates on his wrist pad with satisfaction. Vissald had always enjoyed seeing the big guns come out.

  ++This is Dominant. Confirm request for nuclear strike at 1563.0937.++

  “Confirmed.”

  ++We’re going to need secondary authorization. Stand by.++

  “No. Fuck that. Emergency authorization VISS-244-Gamma. Check my damn voiceprint you navy twats. I need that nuke and I need it yesterday.”

  ++… Confirmed. Uh, we’ll be in orbital position in t-12 hours. Stand by and ensure your men are cleared for radiological contamination.++

  Vissald hung up and popped the rest of the ration bar into his mouth. In the distance fireballs flared as shells flashed. His smile widened.

  “Lets see them hide from this.”

  Vissald got to his feet and brushed the crumbs off his armour. A thud echoed from somewhere to his left, along with cries of panic. As he turned he watched one of the guns go up in a fireball as a swarm of dark, howling shapes poured over the crest of a hill.

  It really hadn’t gone as planned, Vissald thought to himself. He slid down his visor, and bent down to pick up his assault cannon.

  A cheer rose as the fireball lit the field, and it spread like wildfire through the horde, until it was as if one mighty voice was calling out with all the subtlety of a volcano erupting.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  It’s quite a feat to keep an army of ten thousand rowdy warriors quiet. It is especially difficult, when every one of those warriors was being driven by vengeance. Somehow though, Moktark had pulled off the seemingly impossible, and snuck his army under cover of darkness right up to the rear of the human lines.

  A single patrol could have ruined them. A single sentry. A single aircraft flying over. But in the half week it had taken to march the horde down the narrow mountain passes and into sight of the burning embers of Zernthod, they had encountered none. Moktark suspected the humans were regretting their arrogance now, as another pile of crates went up in a fireball.

  Humans fled and died as the horde poured over the hill, a veritable landslide of bodies crushing any who dared stand in its way. Torches were hurled into ammo stockpiles, and they went up in flames, crackling and popping as they ignited into plumes.

  “Charge! Don’t stop until you reach the city! For Hemust! For Orc’gar!” Moktark yelled. The cheer rose louder, drowning out the report of barkers and detonating artillery.

  Moktark took a moment to survey the destruction. Fires dotted the open field, small conflagrations spreading into infernos as the dry summer grass ignited. In the red light of the fire he watched the flash of axe and sword, arrow and barker, as the horde swept over the scattered humans. He watched as the hatch was ripped off a human vehicle by two hulking orcs. He watched as another big barker went up in a fireball.

  He watched, and smiled. Revenge felt good. Revenge for the humiliation. For the torture. For the loss.

  An intense battle seemed to be raging one hill over. Orcs were being thrown back by fire and fury, and he spotted a trio of armoured giants standing with their backs to the inferno, barkers blazing in their hands. Moktark’s smile broadened.

  “And here I was worried I was going to miss the fun.” He said, charging forward.

  A black ruin loomed out of the red sand.

  “I see it! We’ve done it!” Kiwai called from atop the mast. The imp scrambled down the rigging with the deftness of a monkey, a grin on his face.

  Koruk wished he could return it, but he was troubled by doubts. He idly rolled the dull blue stone between his fingers. What was he doing back here? Were his friends even now risking their lives to fight the humans while he indulged this flight of fancy?

  “Furl the sail to half mast!” Kiwai shouted, grabbing the rope that controlled the mainsail to affect a course change. Koruk shook off his thoughts and started untying knots, the working of the barge having become almost instinctual at this point.

  The craft gently rolled over the last dune towards the black temple, or what was left of it. Massive obsidian boulders lay strewn through the sand where they had been thrown, many already being swallowed up by the shifting desert.

  There was nobody else there. No tents or sandskimmers greeted them. As had been the case in every oasis they’d passed through for supplies. It was as if the entire impid race had vanished. At least they had made good time, with Kiwai’s direction.

  “Come on. Let’s see if there’s still a way inside.” Koruk said, hopping down off the deck. The cool sand crunched underfoot, and the night air bit at his extremities.

  Kiwai dropped a torch down the shaft and clattered against the cold stone, the pinprick of light showing a spiderweb of cracks and fissures snaking through the stone. As if to emphasize the point, a few black pebbles cascaded after it.

  “It does not seem safe.” Kiwai declared. Koruk looked at him, and then down the crumbling staircase they had just ascended. Huge holes had been blown in the sides of the pyramid and subsequently collapsed, making the structure look more like a mountain of cobblestone.

  “I’m amazed its as intact as it is down there.” Koruk said, straining his eyes. “Besides, are we really going to turn back now?”

  In answer, Kiwai unrolled a length of rope, and dropped it down the shaft. Given how broken the stone was, Koruk doubted they even needed it anymore.

  “I will go first. I am less clumsy.” Kiwai said. Koruk nodded, silently admiring the bravery concealed behind the insult.

  Koruk tripped on loose stones as he landed, and coughed as dust blew into his nose when his face nearly met the floor.

  “It looks… stable.” Kiwai said. He brandished the torch around the chamber, examining the damage. There was a sadness in his voice that tugged at Koruk.

  “Yeah. It seems okay. You alright?” He asked. A silence built for a long moment before Kiwai answered.

  “I have never seen the oracle before, or been inside her temple. Seeing it in such a state…” He began, but his words choked off.

  “I see.” Koruk said. He couldn’t really think of anything else to say at that moment. “Uh, I think that way leads down to the main room, where the oracle was. Is.”

  Kiwai visibly composed himself, and turned toward the indicated doorway.

  “Then let us begin.”

  The descent through the crumbling passages was a somber experience. The sense of adventure, of danger and excitement and confusion that had accompanied Koruk during his first exploration of those dark halls was gone. The temple felt dull and lifeless now, as though some spark of life had been pulled from the very walls. It felt like a tomb.

  It wasn’t long until their torchlight revealed an open chamber, deep in the heart of the structure. Koruk let out a sigh as he took in his surroundings. Other than a few pebbles having fallen from the ceiling, the room was surprisingly intact, resting just as he had left it. The once glowing tubes and pipes lay dead, strung about like spiderwebs in some long abandoned dungeon. The magical table that the oracle lived in was broken, its guts spilling out the side where Semthak had tried to fix it, to no avail.

  “What is this place?” Kiwai breathed, looking around in awe.

  “The oracle is here. Or was. Come on, let’s get to work.” Koruk said. The heart of stone gleamed in the torchlight, and seemed to radiate it back.

  Koruk knelt down beside the destroyed machine, and looked at the stone in his hand. He had no idea what he was suppose to do with it, but he supposed he had plenty of time to try to figure it out.

  “Halt!” A voice called behind him, speaking a strangely dialected orcish.

  Or maybe he didn’t have much time at all.