Chapter 161 – The Fang and the Pact

The dragon’s wings sliced through the northern wind with steady, thunderous rhythm. Peter Eddings sat tall in the saddle, the cold air whipping his coat behind him as the land rolled by beneath him. At first he saw only broken neighborhoods, shattered houses with sagging rooftops. Soon he left the suburbs behind and spied farmland below instead. But not all of it was dead. The further north they flew, the more signs of activity appeared.

Somewhere up ahead were the farms where the orcs had appeared. From what his allies had gleaned, the orcs used to be pigs, normal farm animals. The return of magic had turned them into something much more dangerous. That was the prey he hunted today.

Peter smiled faintly.

It hadn’t been long since he found the right leverage to get the dragon to fight for him. It was only a couple of days since he rode into battle beside Turner and broke the back of the avian nest. But he was loath to let more time than that slide by without making more progress. Peter knew full well that other people were trying to do the same thing he was. The world was a violent, dangerous place now. The strong ruled. The weak served.

He intended to be strong. But he would lead, not just conquer. That, he thought, was the difference between a tyrant and a king.

Up ahead, smoke coiled into the sky in two places. Thick, black plumes rose from a pair of farms just a mile or so apart. There were two encampments, just as Carver had said. The fact that there were two camps told him the orc tribes didn’t trust each other enough to unify, even with the alliance and its territories spreading steadily south of them. That was a weakness he intended to exploit.

Peter guided the dragon lower to take a better look at the camps. Both were quite large, but the southern camp was smaller. There were fewer structures, and the place seemed only half the size of the bigger camp. He angled north, toward the larger of the two. If he was going to make a deal, it would be with the tribe that had more to offer.

Peter adjusted his grip on the reins and leaned slightly forward. “Let’s pay them a visit.”

They swept down from the sky, and the world below began to react.

The orc camp sprawled across the hill like a primitive hill fort. Palisades of sharpened timber ringed the outer edge, braced with scavenged metal and rusted chain-link. Inside, rows of huts and longhouses smoked gently, cooking fires rising from scores of places throughout the massive camp. There were a lot of orcs living there, perhaps as many as two thousand. Crude guard towers stood at the perimeter, their watchers already pointing skyward and sounding guttural alarms.

Peter drew a slow breath and smiled. “Let’s begin.”

The dragon shrieked, a bone-rattling sound that echoed across the valley. She folded her wings and dropped, wind howling past as they dove toward the camp’s southern edge.

The plan was to do some damage, so that he could awe them into submission. He wouldn’t annihilate the orcs. Not all of them, anyway. Just enough to make a point.

At fifty feet above the ground, the dragon reared back her head. Fire erupted from her jaws in a torrent, sweeping across the outer buildings. The flames set the first tower they struck alight in an instant. Timber ignited. The ground blackened. Two orc warriors caught in the blast didn’t even have time to scream. A third turned to run, only to be engulfed as the dragon continued spewing a firestorm onto the orc camp.

He didn’t aim for the heart of the camp. Instead, they circled the perimeter, trailing fire behind them. A second pass collapsed a cluster of lean-tos and scattered a squad of defenders rallying near the main gates. Peter guided the dragon toward another watch tower and she breathed more flames. The tower exploded with a satisfying crack of timber and shrieking orcs.

The camp panicked almost at once. Orcs ran everywhere, but not all were trying to flee. Many warriors formed up in fighting ranks, shields raised, blades drawn, roaring in defiance even as smoke and fire surrounded them. Peter noted that. Say what you will about orc hygiene, but they did have discipline. He’d seen that during the raid on Camp Johnson.

He directed the dragon into one final dive across a line of defenders surging toward them. She let out another gout of fire. The front ranks of orcs collapsed into ash and flame. The rear lines dropped their weapons and threw themselves to the ground, arms over heads.

Peter pulled up hard, banking away and letting the fire die off behind them. The dragon flared her wings and beat skyward again, circling once before descending in a slow spiral. Peter kept his posture straight, his face calm.

The dragon touched down just outside the main gate, claws gouging ruts in the dirt. Peter dismounted in one fluid motion and stood beside his dragon, waiting. The orcs needed to make the next move.

They waited just inside the ruined palisade, hundreds of them. They were singed, wide-eyed, and bloodied. Peter wasn’t shocked that they didn’t charge at him. He was impressed that they didn’t flee outright, though.

Peter met their gazes, one by one.

“Fetch your warchief,” he ordered.

The silence broke. Movement rippled through the crowd. The survivors scrambled to obey.

A few minutes later, the crowd parted. The orc who stepped forward was a head taller than the rest. He was broad-chested and covered with scars, and his armor was a cut above what most of his soldiers wore. His tusks were filed to points. The warchief locked his gaze onto Peter with an intense intelligence that didn’t match the savage exterior.

He carried a cleaver as long as Peter’s arm and a spear slung across his back. Neither was drawn. Not yet, anyway.

Peter didn’t move. The dragon loomed behind him, wings half-furled, smoke rising in lazy curls from her nostrils. Her presence made all the difference. Peter could escape this lot even without her. He felt confident of that. But with her, he was unbeatable. Better still, every orc facing him knew that, too.

The warchief stepped closer, finally stopping just ten paces away. He certainly was braver than most of his people. None of them had come anywhere near that close to the dragon.

“You are man?” the orc growled, his voice rough with accent but understandable. “Man with fire beast.”

“I am Peter Eddings,” Peter replied. Good that the orcs understood English. He hadn’t been sure what to do, if they didn’t. He probably could have convinced them with pantomime, but this was far easier. “And yes. The dragon is mine.”

A flicker of unease passed through the assembled orcs. The warchief didn’t blink, though. “You kill many.”

“I could have killed more,” Peter said calmly. “I didn’t come to destroy you. I came to offer a better path.”

The warchief cocked his head, like he scented a trap. “Speak.”

Peter stepped forward, his motions deliberate, each step demonstrating his lack of fear even in the face of so massive an army. “You’ve seen that I can command fire from the sky. It’s a power no army can resist. You can fight me and die, or you can join me and thrive.”

The orc’s eye narrowed. “Why want orcs?”

Peter allowed himself a small smile. “Because you’re strong. Because you’re survivors. And because I don’t need servants—I need soldiers. You serve me, and I give you war. I give you land. You rule your kind under my banner.”

“Rule all orcs?” The warchief bared his teeth. “You make me chief of chiefs?”

Peter inclined his head. “You will be the first among your kind. The highest. My protection will keep your enemies at bay. My strength will be your shield. In return, you serve when I call.”

The warchief grunted, clearly thinking it over. He stepped forward two more paces, enough that Peter could smell the soot on his armor. “You kill. Burn our homes. Kill my kin. And now want loyalty?”

“I gave you a demonstration,” Peter replied coolly. “Not a massacre. I could have razed this camp to the ground. I didn’t.”

The orc was silent. Around them, the warriors watched, shifting uneasily but still not approaching.

Then the warchief asked the question Peter had been waiting for.

“What about other tribe? South ridge. Old clan. They hate us. Raid us. Say we soft.”

Peter’s smile deepened. “We’ll burn them next.”

There was silence as the chief pondered his words. Then the warchief let out a low, guttural growl that grew into something like laughter. He turned to the watching crowd and raised both arms. “We live! We fight! We burn others!”

Cheers erupted. Not every orc joined in, but it was enough. The warchief knew how to get his people’s support. That was why it was best to work through vassals. They controlled their people, and Peter just had to control them. Vassals made everything so much easier.

The orc chief turned back to Peter and slammed his fist to his chest. “I bend knee. But only to fire king.”

Peter extended a hand. “Then come to me and claim what’s yours.”

The warchief stepped forward, stopping directly in front of Peter. Once he was there, he knelt. The motion was stiff, grudging—but real. His great cleaver thudded into the dirt as he bowed his head, the braids across his shoulder clattering against each other. For a long moment, no one else moved. Then one of the other warriors dropped to a knee. Then another. Then the rest followed like a slow-building wave, dozens of orcs lowering their heads, beaten not by force, but by what they’d seen.

Peter stepped forward and placed both hands on the warchief’s shoulders. The control stone Peter had absorbed pulsed within him as he focused, channeling will and command through it. He felt it when the bond took hold.

The Domain link snapped into place like a lock closing. The Domain, the chief, and even these orc warriors, the entire tribe all fell into alignment beneath him. Their loyalty now flowed through the warchief, who served as their anchor. And now, Peter’s newest vassal.

The orc shuddered slightly, eyes going wide at the sudden weight pressing behind his thoughts. He looked up at Peter. “What happen now?”

Peter smiled.

“Now, we do as I promised,” Peter said, turning to face the gathered horde, his voice rising with cold satisfaction, “We go kill your enemies. We bring them fire and death, until they bend the knee to you and recognize you as the leader of all orcs.”

That lit a fire in the warchief’s eyes. He stood swiftly, already barking orders. Warriors scattered to gather weapons and prepare beasts. The camp surged to life again as they made preparations for the coming battle.

Peter watched it all unfold, hands behind his back, the dragon looming silent and still. This was one more piece in place, and it had been even easier than he’d hoped. The orcs had fallen to him with barely a few blows struck. Now he would help them conquer the other orc camp. From his estimate, even if they killed a third of the orcs there, he would still add five or six hundred more warriors to his burgeoning army.

The warchief turned back toward him once more. Peter knew what he was seeing in the old orc’s eyes: ambition! But it was tempered for now with gratitude and awe. Soon, the warchief would lead both orc tribes as their high chieftain. Peter had promised it, and he would deliver.

And in return?

Peter would have an army unlike any other. Loyal. Brutal. Eager for conquest. Let the world tremble. His flames were spreading.