Zu stared at the heavens, nerves jittering. No star remained in hiding in the fresh Solodon night air. He traced the constellations twinkling against the inky backdrop: Koruzan, her tusks and great battleaxe; Korzha with her knife and wicked grin and tiny toes; Kaza’s ever-seeing eye. The trio of greenskin goddesses were rising in the cloudless eastern sky, coming to aid in Yechvan’s recovery, or so Zu hoped. Algernica’s horn of battle dominated the space overhead, so clear he could almost hear her celestial call. And Eroa’s lone north star sparkled bright and true as ever. But the dastardly Oryx, god of fear, and Heralis, goddess of strife, were poking their treacherous heads over the southern horizon. Worst of all, Zyrr, god of elves and enslaver of orcs and humans, sat on his gilded throne between the greenskin goddesses and Algernica. Pointed ears piqued, he was sure to be listening. Hlenice still hung in the west, a sliver clinging to the dark patch over the mountains. She would soon be gone, unable to provide her protection any longer. Zu could but hope it was enough.

  Four men emerged from the direction of the shaman’s house on the north end of town carrying Yechvan on a litter. Zu watched his friend with admiration and trepidation. He’d never felt so vulnerable before, so scared, so nervous. He would accept Eroa’s fate for Yechvan, should she choose to take him for her own, but Zu’s path would darken a shade for each step he took without his friend by his side.

  Every orc, human and blooded in Go’hai had gathered to witness the Gar Hira. They lingered on the edge of the amphitheater, awaiting Yechvan’s arrival. Kezza stood alone on the dais, armed with her herbs and her magick. Zu could but hope it was enough.

  A burly orc beat a constant rhythm on the southernmost small drum, named for Zegor, Hlenice’s lone demigod and lover, guider of ways and revealer of secrets. The man’s oiled, olive skin glistened in the glow of the bonfires that blazed every ten paces around the town center. The pounding reverberated through the crisp, dry air and echoed off the western cliffs, a rumbling thud to the pulse of a slow, steady heartbeat.

  The men bearing the litter brought Yechvan down the ramp to the heart of the amphitheater. They walked in step with the drum, in step with every heartbeat in the city, and settled Yechvan atop the dais.

  With a nod from Kezza, the other twenty-seven smaller drums signaled the commencement of the ritual—three strikes in sync with Zegor’s drum. Banxians from all walks of life descended into the amphitheater. One after another after another, they filed into the rows and sat cross-legged on the stones, looking down on the raised dais. When the cavernous space was full to bursting, a hundred hundred within, the remaining men and women crowded the edge, leaning against the half wall or the wooden buildings in the town’s center, all eager to do their part to save Yechvan. Zu could but hope it was enough.

  Grusk and Little Grask stood on either side of Yechvan, an arm’s length from where he lay. Kezza knelt beside him. She reached quick hands into the woven baskets of herbs she’d arranged around his prone form, tossing them into her mortar and grinding. Her body swayed to the cadence, to an otherworldly melody meant only for her.

  “You’re not going down there?” Ulula asked from beside Zu.

  “I will know when the time is right.” Zu gave a half-smile.

  “To please the gods, no doubt,” Ulula said, her smile matching his.

  “You should join me,” he said impulsively. “You are as close to Yechvan as any.”

  “Except you.” She nudged Zu with her good arm. Like most gathered to witness the ritual, she wore the traditional orc garb for ceremonial occasions: a colorful rectangle of cloth with a single hole cut for the head, myriad shades of yellow and red and white and orange combined in mesmerizing patterns. It was folded across her body and belted at the waist. She had opted for pants instead of a skirt, although the skirt was more traditional for both men and women.

  “Why did you wear your armor and bring your yari? More dramatic?” she asked.

  “Yechvan and I have been forged in battle. If this is to be the last I see of him in this life, I would give him my yari so that he may protect himself in the next.”

  “Do you think he will live?” Ulula asked, voice thick with emotion.

  The thirty-four drums boomed in unison, to shake the heavens and awaken the gods.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Zu’s jaw tightened. “We shall soon find out.”

  As if the gods had plucked her strings, Kezza went rigid. They raised her arms above her head and pulled her legs akimbo before she righted herself. She spoke the ancestral language of the orcs in a resonant, earthy timbre. She spun, gliding across the dais, repeating herself in each direction for all the crowd to hear. It was an old ritual, old as Ex’ala herself. And Kezza truly was an orc of the ancient order, not to be trifled with. As she continued to speak, the tug of doubt inside Zu melted away.

  “Brave and selfless hero.” That was what Kezza called Yechvan. In that most ancient of tongues, she said, “This youngling shrugged off the safety of anonymity. He waded into the raging seas of Koruzan’s trials willingly. And triumphed, though he may have paid the ultimate price.”

  As much as the Gar Hira was magick, it was also a spectacle. Orcish rituals were entertainment, so Kezza switched to a more modern dialect, one the audience understood. Zu’s mother used to tell him: “If you’ve something worth saying, use the old tongue for the gods, the new for your people.”

  The drummers pounded in time with Kezza’s words, a gentle tempo to sway the crowd, to involve them, to align everyone and everything in time with her, in time with Yechvan.

  Her tone was soft but powerful, driven by the steady beat. That power settled over the gathering like morning mist. They were comforted by it, absorbed in the story their shaman wove. She spoke of Yechvan, of his triumphs: victor at the Battle of Horyu Field, victor at the Battle of Shuju Pass, victor at Wilkaz, victor at the Battle of the Great Plain, victor at the Battle of Uryu Hill, victor at Ivig, victor at Korku Cross, and finally, victor at the Battle of Gard Pass. At twenty years of age, Yechvan had commanded more victories than any other in Banx save Grusk himself.

  Zu and Ulula exchanged a mirthful glance as Kezza rattled off the exhaustive list of Yechvan’s victories. Their most stubborn of friends would have cringed to hear it. Even his self-perceived greatest failure, the Battle of Shuju Pass, was considered by most to be a resounding success.

  It was Grusk’s turn to speak. His deep rumble echoed alongside the drumbeat, not enhanced by it, as Kezza’s had been. The qish had known Yechvan nearly all his years, had taken him in as an orphan, provided him with the most rigorous training and the finest tutors Banx could offer. Zu had little doubt that Grusk loved Yechvan more than his own children. Usually gruff, Grusk spoke of his general with tenderness, shared stories of Yechvan as a child. No one made a sound. Much as Zu hated to admit it, the irascible qish had a way with his people, human and blooded and orc alike.

  Zu’s mind flitted back to childhood memories awakened by Grusk’s wistful anecdotes. He remembered the willful boy who had refused to give up, even after Zu had beaten him once, twice, a hundred times in martial combat. The boy who burned candles late into the night, bent over his books. The boy who would not be prevailed upon to skip out on meditation or shirk his duties. As a youngling, Yechvan had embodied the ancient teaching that mind and body and soul must be as one.

  During the past six years, Yechvan had been knocked out of balance. Zu’s Perysh mentor, Algena, had once told him that should the mind break, the body would falter; should the body wither, the soul would surely wilt; should the soul wander, the mind could do naught but follow. The purpose of the Gar Hira must be to refit those pieces; the ritual must realign Yechvan’s mind, body and soul.

  With this realization, a sudden and uncontrollable urge overtook Zu. He leapt onto the ramp and rushed the dais, his chant spilling from deep within his breast, a wave crashing upon the rocks. “Yechvan toh Zu han groch Koruzan, ni droch ga. Ni droch koh, ni droch kah! Yechvan toh Zu! Havadrach oog!”

  It was adapted from an orcish chant of ages long past, an offering to Koruzan. ‘Yechvan and Zu offer ourselves to you, Koruzan. We give blood, we give life, we give tribute! Yechvan and Zu! For honor!’ The words Zu had bellowed after the Battle of Uryu Hill had become their mantra, then the chant had spread, growing into a rallying cry for all of Banx.

  Zu stood beside Yechvan, as he’d always done. As he would continue to do so long as they both drew breath.

  “Yechvan toh Zu!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  “Yechvan toh Zu!” Zu roared in response. He pounded his chest with both fists and raised his yari. “Havadrach oog!”

  He repeated the words as he thrust his weapon toward the heavens to the rhythm of the building boom of the drums. One voice became five, and then ten, twenty, a hundred. Their call shook the rocks on the mountain. It was lightning; it was an undrownable rumble of thunder galloping across the sky. For the first time since Kezza had suggested the ritual, Zu felt sure Koruzan would smile upon Yechvan, her favored son.

  The shaman continued to pray and dance as the ground beneath her trembled with the weight of the voices, with the stomping of feet so frenzied they were like to shatter the stones. Orc and blooded and human jumped and danced and celebrated. What had begun as a somber gathering had morphed into a raucous tribute to Koruzan, to Yechvan.

  As the chant rose to an ear-shattering clamor, a pillar of light beamed down from the stars, a ray that reached out and illuminated the shaman. The undulating shimmer engulfed her as she bent over Yechvan’s prostrate, unconscious form. When she touched him, the light spread, the inviting glow enveloping him in a cocoon.

  “Yechvan toh Zu! Yechvan toh Zu! Yechvan toh Zu!” the crowd shouted to the pulse of the drums, but Zu was frozen, mesmerized by the light that now took hold of his friend, his brother. Was Zu the only one who saw it? What did it mean? Surely Koruzan had smiled on her ever-faithful servant.

  And then, as if lightning shot through his veins, Yechvan sat bolt upright, gasping for air.