The Disappearance of the Orcs, Part One

The king strode through the corridors of the Iron Palace, attended by his bodyguards and hovering soulmirrors that projected charts, figures and aerial views of the city’s defences. A chattering filled his head as the whisperfeed passed on updates from the perimeter.

SWORD SWARMS INBOUND AT 190-196 DEGREES

SHELL INTEGRITY HOLDING

FOUR WRAITHBOMB SALVOES IN THE PAST HOUR, THIRTY SIX SHELLS PER BARRAGE

SHELL INTEGRITY HOLDING

OGRIM MARTYR ASSAULT CONCENTRATED AT 88 DEGREES AND INCREASING IN INTENSITY

SHELL INTEGRITY HOLDING

Business as usual. The dull thud of the wraithbombs could be heard even in his inner chambers, superheating the air as their magickal energies hit the Shellweb and converted into manageable but intense flashes of heat and light. The perimeter would hold, as it had held true for almost six centuries now. Orcish engineering at its finest.

The king paused briefly at a gallery that gave him a broad view over the city. Beneath him Orsinium sprawled. No, not sprawled; that implied it was haphazard in construction. The city was ordered with cryptomathematical precision, a star shape with eight promontories and sixteen orbiting settlements, with the palace rising as a great spire in the centre. Half a million souls, numbers ruthlessly maintained, living beneath the great dark Ferrochalcum dome of the Shell. For six hundred years the only stars the Orcish peoples had seen were the glowing green runes that flickered in and out of existence on the dome’s inner surface, relaying the conditions on the outside and broadcasting civic propaganda. The king surveyed his realm for a moment and resumed his course.

As he entered the throne room the autoherald leapt into action, announcing his arrival in a booming voice.

“His excellency high chief Gortwog gro-Gortwog gro-Gortwog gra-Gortwog gro-Gortwog gra-Gortwog gra-Gortwog gro…”

The king batted the hovering autoherald away irritably. It flew into the stone wall and shattered. Immediately the repair mechanisms activated and its pieces glowed white and flowed together.

“Sixty-one generations, every fucking time!” Gortwog exclaimed to nobody in particular. “You all know who I am! What’s the need for this piece of crap?”

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, YOU PITIFUL MAGGOT, said a voice from the centre of the chamber.

Technicians and seers filled the throne room as usual, and all ignored the voice, again as usual. One figure strode towards the king, all business.

“Gortwog”, she grunted.

“Citizen Vorga”, he acknowledged her with a nod. “Any updates?”

Vorga was high bishop of the Fane of the Bloodied Wretch. She was young and idealistic, but like all the others present she wore the scars of the Long Siege with pride on her face and forearms.

“Nothing much, chief. Our guest says he’s in contact with Sheogorath, and that he’s gonna come and eat our eyes or something…”

MY BROTHER WILL PLANT HOT COALS IN YOUR BRAIN AND WE WILL DROWN YOU IN THE BLOOD OF YOUR ANCESTORS, SCUMLICKER!

The two continued to ignore the speaker. “He’s getting less inventive”, Gortwog said. “I think being in the throne room weakens him somehow”

“It’s true”, Vorga responded. “He liked it when we diverted the latrine through here. It’s the humiliation”

The king stroked his patchy white beard. “We can do that again maybe. I don’t remember why we stopped”

“Because that Dominion avatar slipped in shit and we had to postpone negotiations?”

“Ha, yeah”

Gortwog finally turned his direct attention on the centre of the chamber. Directly in front of the throne, on which lay the sacred femur of Gortwog (the original Gortwog, supposedly), was a glimmering tesseract that warped and distorted as one walked around it and saw it from different angles. The tesseract was surrounded by a ring of hallucinating seers who chanted constant adulation at the glaring being trapped within the impossible shape.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT YOU GREEN FREAK?!

The being’s name was Malak, and it was God.