( Jormund POV )

The last rays of a hot sun linger on the savannah, scorching the cracked earth and dry grasses. I shield my weary eyes against the relentless golden onslaught, and hurry down the bank to the shade of a rank of tynhart trees. Their roots spread in great knee-high awnings, capable of weathering the current in the wet season and plunging deep into the gritty riverbed to provide during the dry season. Good cover, from the sun and anything else that might be watching. I pick my way across the tangle of knotted wood to a small clearing, and pause, eyes closed, enjoying the relatively cool provided by the copse.

Alas, I can’t take too long. We should have made camp an hour ago, but Altaï spotted this site on the treeline and insisted we continue. I hadn’t expected it to take an hour of stiff march, though; once again I underestimated elven eyes. Still, it was worth it for the shade, even if it does mean we’re low on supplies.

“Jade’s Blessing, it’s good to get out of the sun. No time left to hunt today, though.”

“Um… We’ve still have some smoked fish from that last village, but not much. Still, now we’ve made the treeline, maybe we can take a day to resupply, huh?”

“Yeah. Yeah, ok, I’ll see what I can catch tomorrow. It’d be nice to round out the fish, though. I’ll get a fire going, before it gets dark, if you want to go see what you can find?”

She nods absentmindedly, swinging her pack onto a flattish tangle of roots. I unwind my shirt from around my neck, wincing at the sunburn. Bizarrely, Altaï’s golden skin doesn’t seem to burn or blister, no matter how far we walk beneath the merciless sun. I’d feel bitter if I wasn’t enjoying the view so much.

I suspect the sentiment may be mutual. Altaï is watching me put my shirt back on with barely-concealed interest.

“Hmmmm. That ‘sunburn’ thing does seem terribly uncomfortable, from how you describe it. I’ll look out for any videleaf, I hear it’s good for strange skin conditions. You just mash up the leaves and… rub it in. I’m sure I can manage that.”

She winks and grins.

“Uh. Um. I’ll be fine. It’s hardly the first time I’ve been out in the heat. So… Uh. How much farther do you think the Gathering is?”

She doesn’t push at my clumsy change of subject.

“Well, the Heralds said that it was about a month travel from where we met them. And we’ve made good time. So maybe another... nine days? If they were right. But I’m not sure whether to trust you short-liveds on matters of time, it must be difficult to keep track at the speed at which you hurtle through it.”

I ignore the casual racism. After a month and a half, I’ve just tuned it out as an underlying feature of elvish conversation.

“I can’t wait to see it. Jade knows, I doubt I’ll ever see so many people in the same place again, let alone from so many tribes and places! Whatever happens, it’ll be interesting!”

“And fun, probably! I just hope it doesn’t prove too overwhelming for the non-elves, that might be bad. Anyway, I’m so happy you managed to convince Uncle to let you accompany me. I’ve really enjoyed your company.”

She steps up beside me and snakes an arm around my waist. She’s smiling at me expectantly. I almost decide to see where this is all leading, but then remember that the sun’s going down and there’s work to be done.

Carefully, I disentangle myself, to Altaï’s clear displeasure.

“Ah, we’ve still got a lot to do. I need to get some wood together before I lose the light altogether.”

Altaï pouts, and stalks off, which has the unfortunate effect of drawing my eye to, um…

Actually, that’s probably intentional.

I shake my head clear, and head off in the opposite direction, looking for fallen branches and dragging them back to our makeshift campsite. My mind wanders, and I think back to the Heralds we met along the road. Centaurs, a pair of them, well armed and well supplied, covering ground and spreading the word of a mighty Gathering. Representatives from a score of tribes, brought together for some mighty unknown purpose. It had caught my attention, of course - this, perhaps, was it, what I had been searching for. And Altaï seemed to think it would be some enormous festival, and had convinced herself that I was escorting her to it as some sort of bodyguard.

Elven psychodramas are beyond mortal comprehension, or at least beyond my motivation to pick apart. I just let her get on with it, whatever it is.

I pick up another fallen branch and start carrying it back to camp.

After our makeshift repast, Altaï informs me that she’s going to wash off the road dust in the river, and seems put out when I don’t bother telling her that’s a stupid idea and that she might be eaten by a kraken. She’s an adult, or older than me, in any case. She can take her own risks. Besides, I’m too worn out from the hike, and starting yet another campfire with rubbing sticks. Worth it, mind, if we’re going to stay another day.

I’m feeling curiously nostalgic for home and the many little tasks of my old routine. Gathering firewood, preparing food, guarding the smoking racks… lots to do, but there were always people to talk to and to lend a hand. Whereas I feel horribly exposed out here.

In the flickering gloom, I think back to the night when everything changed. I’ve often wondered how that night would have ended had the goblins not attacked, just Nym and I standing guard in the darkness.

She managed to surprise me by filching a little of the brew reserved for the adults, and we shared it in the quiet by the racks. She always seemed so innocent, but that evening revealed a new side of her to me. Someone not afraid to take risks, willing to break the rules if that’s what her goals required. It was a different Nym, and I found that strangely attractive.

I remember the feelings that I had for her, strong at the time, but buried beneath so much road dust that I’m no longer completely sure they’re there. It all seems so… far away. Distance and time, they do funny things to the heart.

I used to think that she was gorgeous, but her memory seems dull when I’m travelling with Altaï. How can any human compare to an elf?

I sigh, and retrieve my bedroll from my pack. It’s not much, a few skins sewn together, but it’s enough to ease out the pebbles and hold in the heat as the nights get colder.

Speaking of which, the temperature is dropping. I busy myself with sweeping a patch clear of grit and unlacing the roll.

A tap on the shoulder startles me.

“You don’t mind sharing that, do you?”

I turn, mustering some half-hearted excuse, but it all drops away, like my jaw and most of the bloodflow to my brain.

Behind me stands Altaï.

She is very, and rather pointedly, naked.

It’s almost impossible to say no to a naked elf.

( Huron POV )

The smoke is still rising from the remnants of the village behind us, the black column a marker of the graves of our victims. My warriors, clad in soot-stained leather, travel in a black column of a different sort. They’re in good cheer, the bearer goblins laden heavily with stolen goods and the human spearhands escorting many captives.

“I’m pleased to report minimal losses and few wounded, sir. Once Litra burnt their chieftain alive the fight seemed to go out of them. Most surrendered.”

The sight of my tribe charging the opponent camp made me feel something inexpressible. Power, and control, and unrelenting violence applied to my purpose, a certainty of brutal victory and total domination.

I’m already longing to feel it again. I watch my warriors for a moment, enjoying the moment of triumph, before returning to the task at hand.

“Yes, yes, minimal losses, but give me numbers, Lux. How many, and from which warbands?”

“Eleven goblin slaves, sir, spread roughly equally between the bands. A single goblin warrior from Litra’s Guard. No human losses, but two wounded, both should recover to full fitness.”

I turn to take a last look at the distant remnants of the vanquished village. Little remains but ash and rubble and broken bodies. The only survivors will be those too weak to enslave and too pathetic to be worth the effort of killing. I have no doubt their master will abandon this tribe as the failure it is. All the better for me - a new tribe may spawn in its place, with fresh picking for my warbands.

“Acceptable, Lux, if imperfect. But perhaps that is not an issue. Pain is a powerful teacher.”

After my defeat at the hands of the human-wolfkin alliance, I’d similarly abandoned my first tribe. However, I’d learnt from my defeat. The power of the fast-growing goblins was undoubtedly significant, but I needed to temper it with stronger, wiser units. The answer, of course, being a caste system - goblins at the bottom, humans in the middle, and a few elves at the top. Plenty of muscle, plenty of skills, each in their rightful place.

Unfortunate, really, that I’d only had enough points for three elves. A mighty king, served by his powerful and loyal twin sons… it’s a good image, that’s for sure. It’s not exactly a stable population, though, and I’d dumped a bunch of points into a major buff on them:

Tribal blessings

The Burning Bloodline

(450 points)

A spark of something greater burns in their blood. This bloodline is granted the power and temperament to lead. The inheriting line always has a high-grade fire affinity.

Fire Affinity always awakens by adulthood. Major Fire Affinity buff for inheriting line. Blessing diminishes with dilution of bloodline from inheriting line. Hidden temperament modifiers.

It was too tasty to pass up, but now I’m beginning to question my gamble. A few unlucky deaths and I could lose the point investment entirely, and I’d underestimated how hard it is to find other elves. Why the bloody hell can’t I find any elven women to capture?!

I glance back at the giant column of smoke behind us. Hmm. Maybe that’s why, now that I think about it. There are… logistical difficulties in capturing people who can see you coming and run much faster than you can.

I allow myself to be gently tugged along by the steady progress of my black-clad warband, quietly turning the puzzle over in my mind. I need speed, and stealth, neither of which are especially available. That, or I need a sucker punch. Plans spin and tumble behind my eyes, but few of them pass muster.

Below me, Litra, my powerful elven princeling, barks an order, pointing somewhere off and to the left. A ripple moves up the line, the humans beating the goblin slaves into silence. Slowly, chaos coalesces into order, and the warriors form a wide semicircle, prepared to receive some as-yet-unknown threat.

“Lux! What am I looking at?!”

“The elf claims to have spotted interlopers, sir. A pair of what, judging by his description, must be centaurs, heading towards us. He’s ordered a cautious reception, sir. Would you like me to override that?”

“No… No. I’m curious. Let us wait and see. It will be informative.”

And maybe, just maybe, might provide some new angle to exploit. One never knows.

We wait a while. I get Lux to speed my perception a little, letting me skip most of the forty odd minutes it takes for the centaurs to reach the party. I find some minor amusement from the high-speed twitching of the goblins as I wait the, subjective, minute and a half. And then, without Lux warning me, my minions return to their normal speed, and I hear the muffled thump of hooves on hard ground.

The centaurs burst from the golden grass into the centre of the semicircle in tandem, rearing most impressively. Each stands well over elf-height, well-muscled in both human and equine aspect, their burnt-dark skin blending seamlessly into black fur. Great antlers grow from their foreheads, and each carries a lance capable of spitting a dozen men.

Slowly, they come to bay, circling a few times, guarding one another’s backs as they stare down the assorted human-goblin horde. It comes as something as a surprise that, when they speak, it’s in rather quiet and measured tones.

But then, they’re carrying very large sticks indeed.

“We are Heralds of the Sovereign. We grant you invitation to a great Gathering, far from here.”

“Great secrets shalt be revealed. Power and privilege shalt be won by those who would risk all.”

“The echo of a new power shall emerge as a mighty thunder!”

“Hark, for we gift you the privilege of an invitation never to be bested!”

Their tone rises in a long crescendo, each leading perfectly into the declaration of the other, and they conclude their invitation with a mighty roar. It echoes in the sudden silence.

When the silence is broken, it is by a low chuckle. Litra steps into the semicircle, robes of red and black fluttering in the gentle breeze.

“And what a compelling invitation you make, Heralds. I don’t suppose more information might be forthcoming?”

“Now is not the time or place for the secrets of the Gathering. We are permitted to give you only the invitation, and directions to attend it.”

The scene falls silent once again.

“...Yes? And those directions are?”

“Place the midday sun on your back until you find the river, and follow its flow until you reach the mighty ocean. Where they meet, you shall find the Gathering. You must go quickly, however - it begins at the next convergence of the two moons.”

“I see! I see! How marvellous! Yes, this sounds most intriguing!”

He chuckles again, a sound of rich mirth all the more curious for its seeming lack of cause. Then, he breaks it off, suddenly. He snaps his fingers, fiery sparks spraying from them onto the dry ground.

“Ah! I almost forgot. I shall be frank, Heralds, I do not like those who stand above me, nor those who seek to awe me with strength. So, a choice, ‘Heralds’. Bow down to me, or accept the… consequences.”

The Heralds do not move. I lean down, fascinated despite myself. I’ve come to rather appreciate Litra’s approach to life. It’s so refreshingly unbound by consequence.

Below, a long moment of stillness, the only movement the rippling of the grasses and the trembling of the goblins. Then, Litra shrugs, a smirk flickering across his lips.

“So be it! I shall treasure your antlers.”

The Heralds move instantly, as one, but they are far too late. I close my eyes and listen to the screams as the blood ignites in their veins.