The Disappearance of the Orcs, Part Three

Vorga blinked in the glare of the soulmirrors. Beneath the dais on which she stood the seer-technicians had gathered. They looked up at her expectantly. She blinked again. Sweat was pouring from her forehead, into her eyes.

No, not sweat. Blood.

She was covered in the blood and gore of her king, who lay in a heap at her feet. He had been as strong as any king, but for the first time she saw how old he had been, and how thin and wiry his body was. So much for him.

“Citizens!” she called out. At this moment her face and voice were being broadcast into every barracks, longhouse and temple in the city. She heard her own voice echoing back to her and realised she was being projected on to the great dome of the Shell as well.

“Citizens and comrades in arms! The king is dead and rotting! The line of Gortwogs is ended! I declare the Republic of Orsinium is now in effect! The end of our grand struggle is in sight!”

There was a roar in the chamber. The technicians and soldiers present shouted and raised their fists and stamped their feet, shaking their heads and casting spittle everywhere. They bellowed in mourning for their honoured king, and to acclaim the ascension of Vorga. Most of all, they shouted in anticipation of what was to come next.

Vorga gazed down on them, murder weapon in hand. She was still getting whisperfeed reports. Thras had risen from the ocean again and vanished. A great jungle had appeared in Cyrodiil, and was burning. The last living Kamal had emerged from its long frozen sleep and was laughing hysterically, terrifying its supplicant cult.

It’s now or never. Leave it too long and there’ll be nothing left.

She crossed the room, to an elaborate apparatus that incorporated a series of spun diamond bubbles surrounding a central socket. Each bubble contained something different: a rock, a piece of amber, a hank of hair, a shard of red crystal, an insect. They floated in their bubbles, and were visibly vibrating.

The room shook, and some masonry fell from the ceiling and shattered.

Here goes nothing.

Vorga stuck the bloodied femur into the socket of the machine. For a moment the world fell silent, and all she could hear was her own heartbeat.

Then the deafening noise began. Everything shook. She raced to the throne room’s balcony, which overlooked the city. Below her streets were realigning, moving on finely crafted casters. Some buildings rose and others slowly rotated. It was like watching an enormous watch mechanism.

Everything seemed to click into place, and the dome of the Shell evaporated, as though it had never existed.

The land beyond the city was devastated, utterly barren and scorched. The legacy of a millennium of war, Vorga thought. The sky above roiled and churned, and an opening formed in the clouds directly above. Raw creatia flowed from the sky- or was it coming from within the earth? Hard to tell. It was invisible but unmistakeable.

Orsinium had become an axis of the world. A crude, botched together job in many respects, but that was alright. It only had to work for a short while.

I AM HERE. IT HAS BEEN SO LONG.

Vorga looked back, and turned to face the heart of the chamber. The prison tesseract had vanished- it was no longer necessary. In the centre of the room stood a figure in golden armour. He seemed enormous, too big for even the throne room.

“Lord Trinimac”, Vorga whispered, before remembering herself and shouting. “Lord Trinimac! Your people have done their duty.”

SO YOU HAVE, LITTLE ONE, the god said. THOUGH IT TOOK MANY ERAS OF THIS FALLEN WORLD, YOU HAVE RETURNED TO ME WHAT I AM. IT WOULD NOT DO FOR ME TO MISS THE LANDFALL.

Vorga balled her fist to salute, and saw her hands. They were still strong and calloused, but they were smaller, with long fingers. And they were golden. She raised her hand to her face, and felt features that were at once familiar and strange. Looking about, she saw the other technicians look at one another in amazement. Not quite Saliache, thank fuck, but gold, tusked elves with strong backs and broad shoulders.

I HOPE YOU HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN THE WAYS OF WAR IN MY ABSENCE.

“Not a chance.”

GOOD. THERE IS A BATTLE TO BE FOUGHT. OBLIVION WALKS THE LAND. NOT THE PRINCIPALITY OF DAEDRA, BUT THE TRUE OBLIVION WHICH IS THE DEATH OF MEMORY. MOST WILL FALL. SOME MUST BE SAVED.

“And what about us? Are we gonna be saved, or do we do the saving?”

WHAT DO YOU THINK?

Of course. Some things never change.

“I’ll rally the troops. Will half a million be enough?”

IT WILL HAVE TO DO.

Some will be saved. One of the moons is some sort of sanctuary, and a couple of the daedra are taking in refugees. While they flee Numidium, we march towards it.

Maybe they’ll shake their heads at our imagining we can win against such a thing. Maybe they’ll commend us for our sacrifice, dying that the others might live.

Either way, they’ll have missed the point. They always do. The biggest, baddest thing ever to walk Tamriel is out there, and we have a chance to go spit in its eye. We may not look like it anymore, but we’re still Orcs, and I can’t think of a better way for it all to end.