Thick gray smoke billowed over and through the village from the burning crops to his right while the homes before him stood abandoned and ghostly with the sight of corpses all around in the dirt. Merdon surveyed the scene with a grim seriousness hidden behind his new helmet. This was the cost of war. He'd lost count of how many battles had gone like this, on the front lines of all three of their advancing forces as he was. The sound of steel meeting steel, the ringing of swords, the shouts of men, and the cries of civilians were present even when he was away from the battlefields. Ghosts that lingered in his mind during even his quietest moments. Verist's teleportation magic had been helpful in taking him to these battles. It was his obligation, he felt, to see these fights firsthand, yet their scars lingered as long as the one on his cheek. A mental toll that would never heal no matter what magic was brought to bear.

Grot was commanding the army from one side, Shade another, and his own front was here, making the most direct approach of the three. It would have run a normal man ragged, but Merdon was well trained by the orcs, a far more effective war machine than the common soldier. Already they had been assailed by Avant's forces trying to push them back into the orcish territory, and each time they'd come out on top, despite losses to their forces. Something had begun to trouble him about their tactics however, the way they were met and repelled didn't speak of legendary enchanted warriors. They had yet to face any of the remaining Eyes forces. The ones who, hundreds of years ago, had single-handedly stomped the orcish invasion into the dirt.

It was not a quick march into Avant towards the capital they had on their hands. Their pace was slow, glacial even. Three separate groups were closing in, trying to divide Avant's military into unsalvagable pieces that each group could crush. That had yet to be the case in Merdon's experience. Avant's numbers were greater than the orcs' and kobolds' put together despite gaining the free ones in the nation itself, and Verist's plans to turn the nobility in on itself. Watching the burning village before him, Merdon couldn't help but feel his opponents so far out were untrained, like a militia instead of an army. Part of him didn't want to believe the king could be that cruel, despite everything they knew about the leader of Avant. That wasn't deplorable to the man with the crown, it would have been nothing for him to throw bodies at them just to slow down their approach, to wind them before they met the main forces. He wanted to believe their march had met with at least some of Avant's soldiers, that their tactic was working. The ruins whispered otherwise.

He made a note of that as his horse trot through the debris and remains of life that lingered for a time before the orcs' flames inevitably consumed all. War was brutal, all-consuming. It was showing the Avantians that they needed to be met with extreme force, it was crippling the very nation they were trying to correct as they carved through it like butchers across a cow. Methodical, practiced, unwavering, yet all of those things made them appear to be the exact monsters the people of Avant feared the orcs to be. How little they must have realized of combat. Of the wells that Avant had to poison to stem the flow of troops, of the traps that had been laid before the oncoming army. Villages just like the one before Merdon laden with disease, its own citizens falling in the off chance members of the encroaching force would drink from those toxic wells, interact with the infected townsfolk. Precautions had been taken, and the Avantians were far from aware of Skyeyes' healers, so those villages only came off as disgusting to Merdon. Pathetic attempts to wound an already weaker force at the cost of the citizens. The king was worse than he had ever imagined.

Sarel darted from the smoke, stepping behind several pieces of cover before scaling Merdon's mount and landing on his back. The knight's new orcish armor had been fitted with special notches just for her to grab onto. The blue-scaled assassin leaned into his ear and whispered a report from their scouts ahead, her breath muffled by the dark mask she now wore over her snout, much like Shade's. It worked well with her black leather and cloak to help conceal her more now that she wasn't simply hunting for wealth. In the next moment, Sarel was gone, leaping from the back of her mate and disappearing into the thick smog that surrounded the ghost town. Her report delivered, the kobold had other things to tend to in the fogs of war. Enemy scouts and messengers to catch up with and takedown, stragglers that couldn't be allowed to reinforce the enemy army or give away their positions. A grim burden laid on her shoulders, and it was one she took a certain joy in completing. Besides, Merdon wasn't exactly alone out there.

As the knight trotted through to the other side of the village, he came out to face his army, more of a detachment than anything else, breaking down their encampment and preparing to move out. Skyeyes came shambling out of the smoke, coughing and wheezing, his claw flapping in front of his face to clear away whatever was coming out of his lungs faster. He had insisted on traveling with the fire team in case they ran into trouble. The orcs chuckled at the little white kobold's reaction to the smoke. They'd done enough of this before to no longer be bothered by the smell and the fumes.

“Must we?” the priest complained as he hacked some phlegm up. “These crops could be better used-.”

“By no one,” Merdon insisted, removing his helmet only now that he was in the safety of their camp, and only for as long as he felt necessary. “Karsan has investments in other crops. Burning these raises his income and benefits the army.” Their merchant double agent playing the field had started to issue 'suggestions' on what should be destroyed and left alone. Not always his own purchases, to avoid suspicions, but enough to help fund their rebellion while still lining his own coffers no doubt. “I don't like it any more than you do,” the knight added, seeing Skyeyes' sour look.

“We need allies in Avant, but the man is a leech, Merdon.” No one denied that.

“Rather a helpful leech than something unhelpful,” the man shrugged. “We've months yet of marching and still no idea how to penetrate the walls of Ardmach other than a protracted siege.” Which they wouldn't win. They needed a smart play, something to outwit the Avantians. Meeting them on unfavorable ground was a death sentence.

The priest sighed. “Do we think he can provide that?” he asked Merdon bluntly. “It's been months already and we don't know what he's planning. Giving him more time to work doesn't necessarily sound like a positive.” It sounded like a way for him to milk the orcs and kobolds and then give him ample time to disappear into the night.

“Grot is supposed to be wringing that out of him as we speak,” Merdon assuaged with a smile. “I wish we could be there, but we've got more important things to tend to.”

Skyeyes nodded in agreement, with both of those statements. “My healers have patched up the wounded from that last skirmish,” he reported. “And I use that word with extreme emphasis. Merdon, these soldiers don't feel trained. Certainly not against orcs. It's almost as if-.”

“Someone dropped off supplies and told them to fend for themselves?” he finished with a sigh.

Skyeyes nodded in agreement.

“I've felt the same way for a while now. They have basic coordination, but most of them lack serious training. We're being baited.”

“To what end?” the kobold asked.

Unfortunately, Merdon didn't have an answer for him. The armored human shrugged, a rather noisy action in his current garb. “That's the question, why. What could they be planning that's worth throwing away the lives of their citizens?” It would take a rather deranged mind to work out the reasoning, or a look at the enemy's plans. Assuming they ever encountered an actual enemy camp and not well-armed civilians, mercenaries, and veterans.

Skyeyes looked at their group of orcs pensively. “Perhaps it's something to bring up the next time you meet with the others.” Thanks to Verist's magic, the three primary leaders of the orc army were able to meet and strategize frequently, at least more often than the average military officers.

The pair sat passively for a moment, letting the sounds of war wash over them and pull them under. Crackling fires could be heard in the distance, while the shouting of orc commanders was closer. Tools and armor clanked and dinged as the soldiers worked. Tents were uprooted, supplies were stored, wagons attached to horses. It was surreal for both of them. Merdon was used to working alone, to being an adventurer, not a soldier, not a general, and Skyeyes had always opposed the idea of open conflict until he saw how desperate things were. The priest wanted a way for the races to co-exist without this bloodshed, yet it seemed Avant had put the wheels in motion long ago. This conflict was inevitable.

“Does it ever feel like we're the bad guys?” Skyeyes asked the human quietly.

Merdon looked back at the smoke-covered village, where bodies lay abandoned, homes smashed and ripped open like wooden carcasses. And he and his army, they were the beasts that ripped them apart that way with brutish strength and weapons. All of that in his vision, he could only reply, “Sometimes, yes.”

Across the world, a certain merchant was bowing to Grot and smiling as he did it. The chief-of-chief's chamber was largely the same as it ever was, decorated by bone and hide to disguise the bland stone of the orcs' capital. Grot's throne was simplistic. A heavy wooden chair decorated with traditional pelts and bones from every orc chief's greatest hunts, not a few of which were human. That usually unnerved Avantians, but Karsan was making a killing off these orcs, and money overcame morbidity any time of the year. The chief-of-chiefs meanwhile was frowning at the sight of the human before him. No one was a fan of Karsan, not even the orc that defended him helping them. His posture, smile, extravagant aristocratic act, set everyone's teeth on edge in the orc lands. He was tolerated thanks to his connections and usefulness. Both were things that were running thin with Grot. The orc wanted real progress.

“You called for me, dear chief?” the merchant asked, standing upright.

Grot grunted at the platitudes. “I wanted to know how things are progressing.”

“Well,” Karsan started, tapping his chin and pacing before the orc throne, “profits are up tremendously. I've asked your armies to burn several of my competitor's stores while assaulting relatively few of my own, only enough to avoid too much suspicion. Knowing the invasion routes ahead of time helped with my purchases.”

The merchant glanced at Grot and caught the chief-of-chief's curled lip before changing the heading of his discussion. “Of course, sir,” Karsan bowed again as he spoke, “the coin has been reinvested into the war efforts a considerable amount. Your supply chains are healthier than ever, and your forges smelt the purest metals that can be found in Avant.”

Grot held up a large hand to stop him, “Yet we're no closer to breaking through the cursed walls of Ardmach. A promise you gave to me a month ago now.”

Karsan froze and nervously strummed his fingers along his side. “Yes, well... I didn't want to come to you so early with what I had discovered...” He'd wanted to find a way to make some gold off of it first, he meant. Grot could see through it.

“And what did you find out?” the dark-skinned orc coaxed the human.

Karsan bit his lip as he reached into his pocket and produced a sack. Grot sat, unenthused, until the little bag was opened. A single dark stone tumbled out into the human's hand, its onyx color a stain on the white silken hand of a merchant. The chief-of-chiefs sat forward, his eyes wide. It could have just been a piece of onyx, or obsidian, easily found from any of the mountains around Ardmach, but the context of their conversation mattered a great deal. The black walls that surrounded the capital, the cursed material that blotted out magic attempting to bypass it, the very thing that made their enemy's mountainous stronghold so unapproachable.

“I found a vein of what we believe makes up Ardmach's walls,” Karsan said quietly. “There's precious little of this left, and the artisans I've shown it to have yet to find a way to manipulate it as the Avantian's have to build their walls.”

Grot stared into the black rock for what felt like eternity. It was a miniature black hole, sucking in everything, even time, until his brain caught up. “Take it to Verist,” he told the merchant. “If there is anyone that can figure out what to do with it, it's the witch of the white tower.”

Karsan frowned but nodded. He couldn't argue with Grot, and his smile soon returned as he remembered how much money he was making playing both sides already. Besides, he had a whole vein of this mysterious mineral to mine out later. “Of course, chief,” the human said with a flourish. “Is that all?”

The orc scowled and waved him off. For all his help, the merchant's attitude still pissed Grot off.