Threats were everywhere in the Land of Darkness and so the wary orc was the living orc. Even in this council room, where he was supposed to be surrounded by allies, Hohza could never stop watching his surroundings and those around him. One of the nearby War Master’s jockeying for the Dread Lord’s attention might literally stab him in the back or some crazed beast conjured by the wraith could rampage through the room, mauling orcs and trolls. Both happened within the past year.

Bigrummar, that lumbering oaf, perked up at the announcement of invaders from the World of Light. That golden feather hanging from the troll’s neck shone brighter as he puffed up his chest so the Dread Lord would notice and pick him as the lead for the campaign to come.

Being picked to confront invaders was a death sentence disguised as an honor. Those that came from the World of Light were well armed, highly skilled, and completely unconcerned with the lives of their enemies. When other Dread Lords attacked, they counted on converting the survivors to their side and worked accordingly.

The more Withering Sorrows rattled off details of the invaders the less interested Hohza was in combatting them. They were a contingent of elves camped just outsider Withering Fields who sent a band of mercenaries lead by Bonnelle Rhodian, who was well known for her exploits in the Land of Darkness. In contrast, the murmurs of encouragement from the gallery swelled to a boisterous rally. The War Parties cheered on their War Masters, encouraging them to claim the honor of leading the Dread Lord’s defenses.

“Smash that red haired dwarf to jelly,” Yurzan hollered to Bigrummar.

“Akor,” The War Party of Akor the Almighty Orc chanted, pumping their fists in the air.

Hohza looked upon his meager War Party and was pleased that Gohta and his newest recruits, a pair of goblins, mirrored Hohza’s own calm. The older goblin appeared to be lost in thought and utterly detached from the scene around him. Unfortunately, Hohza’s place near the head of the table meant that his gaze drew the attention of Withering Sorrows. In a moment, the wraith was looking at his motley War Party as well.

“Ah, yes, your new recruits,” Withering Sorrows said. “Perhaps they can offer some insight into this matter, Hohza?” The Dread Lord raised his eyebrows and looked back at the orc.

Glum, the older goblin, appeared ready to talk, but before he could utter a word, Tad, his assistant, began babbling a response: “Excuse me, Great Dread Lord Withering Sorrows,” the young goblin began, already forgetting the advice he’d been given at the start of the meeting. “I’m … uh … Tad … and I just want to let you know that it’s a great honor to see you again.”

“Again?” The Dread Lord reeled back in their throne, the lights of their eyes blazing brighter for a moment.

“We haven’t met before. However, you saved my life at Terror Fields a few years back. You killed several bearwulvs. It’s … a great honor to be in your presence again … I mean …” He made a weak attempt at a bow, seeming unsure whether to commit to the act partway through.

“I’m sure it is, goblin,” the Dread Lord responded with cool disregard. “Tell me, what are your thoughts on the invaders?”

“Well, you’ve reported on their numbers and names but … do we know where they come from?”

Bigrummar’s laugh was a rumble that echoed from deep in his chest. The chain holding the feather rattled as he bellowed: “Fine recruit, Hohza! He’s too stupid to know elves come from the World of Light!”

Tad glowered at Bigrummar, who had his back to the goblin. “What I mean is where specifically in the World of Light? In the Machine Works, it’s not uncommon for work crews to tag their work, especially if they came in from another part of your domain. That way workers who come after will have some idea who made a repair, so we know who to ask if we have questions. In this case, it might help us to understand what they want or what they might do to get it?” Tad shrugged and glanced at Glum, who nodded approval.

A faint smile, a crack of red against the pitch-black skull of the Dread Lord’s face, made Hohza lean back in his chair, momentarily relieved. “Yes. The scouts reported the elves’ banner bore a symbol: a trapezoid, however the top of it is concave and there are a series of small triangles on either side.”

Throwing himself forward, held back only by his hands as they strangled the armrests, Hohza blurted: “They’re from Yendell!”

“Yendell? No!” The Dread Lord rolled his eyes in Hohza’s direction. “Yendell is an elven word which means ‘home away from home.’ It was founded by travelers and merchants. Their symbol is a hearth! I would have imagined someone studying under an elf from Yendell would know that!” The Dread Lord’s mocking laugh was imitated a moment later by the gathered War Masters.

Bristling for a moment, Hohza considered his words carefully, knowing that simply calling the Dread Lord a fool would result in his death. “That is partially correct, Dread Lord Withering Sorrows.” Hohza bowed his head. “That was the symbol from many years ago, back when—” He paused, knowing that it could be dangerous to let slip the knowledge he had of the Dread Lord. “Back before the capital was moved to a city within a mountain. Their symbol is now what you’ve described, or at least it was that way when Doctor Toran went into exile. The trapezoid represents how they lopped off the mountain’s top to let in the light, and the triangles are the pieces of the mountain scattered about. There are cities among them.” Head still lowered, Hohza dared to look at the Dread Lord from the corners of his eyes. The inky body rippled with barely restrained rage.

“I see,” the Dread Lord said. “Well, since you’re so close to Doctor Toran, a native of Yendell, you had best discuss this matter with him as you take charge of this matter.”

“Wise and powerful Dread Lord Withering Sorrows, do you mean,” Bigrummar asked.

The Dread Lord rose from their throne. “War Master Hohza has been charged with repelling the invaders and I grant him access to my vaults as well as the latest contributions from the Logistics Corps to aid in this campaign. I have not had the pleasure of showing the World of Light what my forces are capable of for quite some time, and I shall not be shamed by your performance.” The wraith stared directly at Hohza as he vanished from the room by pulling himself into a tornado that shrank into nothing.

Once the room stilled, the War Masters filed out with their War Parties, none bothering to address Hohza. Not even Bigrummar managed some parting words of discouragement or a dirty look. Shortly, all who remained were Hohza, Gohta, Glum, and Tad.

“What do we now?” Tad asked as he approached the table, keeping a wide berth of the Dread Lord’s throne.

Hohza slumped in his chair, looking over his team. Hohza had hoped the goblins’ unique perspectives might give him an edge in dealing with the other War Masters and Dread Lord in the future. Now he could only hope they’d help keep him alive through the end of this campaign. He sighed and covered his face. Would his legacy only be the small personal victory of having enraged his Dread Lord with superior knowledge of Yendell?

“Gohta, there is a collection of enchanted items kept specifically for this situation. Go get them from the vaults and bring them to Doctor Toran’s home. The rest of us will go directly to the doctor to see if he can provide any insight on this matter.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “I will warn you goblins now that survival in battling invaders from the World of Light is a rare thing, however the prestige that comes from success is a sacred treasure. Why, you would be able to smack the Dread Lord in the face and I doubt they’d dare to raise their voice in response.”

Gohta and Tad gasped at the suggestion, the boy cupping his mouth with his hands.

“Yendell soldiers here … in Withering Sorrows’ domain?” Doctor Toran sat backed into a chair and dropped, stiff-legged, into it. Tea spilled out of his mug and onto the kitchen table as he stared ahead, shock evident on his face.

“Yes.” Hohza held his cup in his fist. The doctor had long since abandoned giving him mugs with a handle. An orc’s thick, muscular fingers, calloused from endless training and combat, struggled to navigate the thin handles and weren’t bothered by the heat.

The goblins, however, were much more sensitive. Tad repeatedly blew into his tea as he delicately held the mug with his fingertips while Glum left his to cool on the table.

“The scouts’ reports were quite specific on the designs on the banners flown at the invaders’ camp, and even the red and gold on their armor is consistent with what you’ve told me of your homeland,” said Hohza.

“Former homeland,” Toran sharply retorted. He looked longingly at a stack of books on the floor. Hohza was familiar with that stack; the history of Yendell volumes 3 through 12, which contained the conclusion of the introduction and the tumultuous first 150 years of the nation. “It’s funny that Withering Sorrows was unfamiliar with the current emblem of Yendell. We’ve been friends for a thousand years and discussed the World of Light many times, but his knowledge of it comes from his time there as a wandering wraith, almost three elven lifetimes before my birth. I suppose that explains some of the disagreements we’ve had.”

“The Dread Lord was in the World of Light,” Tad asked, looking up at Toran with a big smile and bigger eyes. So excited was he to learn about the Dread Lord that his fingers slid across the hot body of the mug and he pulled them away, wincing.

“Yes! But they were not a Dread Lord at that time. It was fashionable for wraiths to venture into the World of Light and learn our ways before returning to the Dark Lands for conquest.” Toran tilted his head, and his smile went from winsome to mischievous. “At that time, Withering Sorrows went by August Temptation and was something of a flirt, or so I’ve read.”

Tad and Glum exchanged befuddled looks, then shrugs, and Tad asked: “What’s a flirt?”

The doctor sighed. He and Hohza had trouble discussing such concepts when they’d come up in his reading. In the end, Hohza just accepted that the world those books described was too different from his own to be of any use.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Toran answered. “What matters is that Yendell is invading. Sadly, I can’t offer any insight into the matter. It’s been twelve hundred years since I left that place. While Fairlaigh or the border nations might need to take enchanted items from these lands for whatever reason, I’m confident Yendell had resources enough to do without an invasion.” He looked up at the ceiling. “But times change. There could be some evil wizard or demon threatening their lands … and for whatever reason they’ve determined the key to vanquishing it lies in Withering Sorrows’ vaults.”

Hohza leaned back in his chair. “Speaking of which; Gohta should be arriving with those lures soon enough.”

Glum finally slurped down a portion of his tea, followed by nibbling some of the dry, flaky pastries Toran baked for them. He wiped his sleeve across his face, sighing with satisfaction, and asked: “How does that work? How do we know Gohta will bring what the invaders are after?”

“Since they’re your countrymen, Toran, you could talk to them and find out what they want!” Tad bounced in his seat, a side effect of tea and excitement. Hohza was reminded of the giddy enthusiasm that many child orcs displayed during their first few days of training, before they realized that it would be the drudgery of the rest of their lives.

Toran shook his head. “Former countrymen, Tad, and I can assure you they’d not hesitate to remind me of such, nor do I care to give them the chance. No, the Dread Lords have their ways about these matters, and I would prefer to not interfere.” He looked down and scratched his chin in thought. “Although the reports of a mass of soldiers and mages is troubling; it indicates some urgency to their mission. They perhaps used a translocation spel to get here. On top of that, Bonnelle has quite the reputation in the Land of Darkness.” He frowned at Hohza. “Don’t take this lightly.”

“I will be careful,” Hohza replied. Tension pulled the corners of his mouth to a muted frown.

“Be very careful, Hohza. Know that there’s no shame in yielding should they survive whatever gauntlet you put in their way. Especially if you’ve claimed at least one of them! At that point Withering Sorrows has his victory and so there’s no need for you to throw your life away.”

Hohza nodded in frustrated agreement with the elf’s words.

The brief silence was interrupted as Tad, eyeing the rest of Glum’s tea, asked: “Why did you leave Yendell?”

Staring into his mug of tea, the elf bit his lip and hesitated. A hint of a tear peeked out the corners of his eyes, but he blinked it away and turned to look at the night sky through the window. Below was Drink Town, and those arriving from their finished shifts collided with drunks on their way to the barracks. Even on the top of the hill, the echoes of off-tune songs, shouted arguments, and raucous laughter could be heard from the figures as they drifted through the light spilled from the bars’ windows. “They were … unkind to a pupil of mine.”

“Judging by the thrashing Hohza received last night, not much has changed,” Glum mused too loudly as he guarded his pastry from Tad.

The unkindest treatment in the World of Light paled in comparison to the daily rigors of the Land of Darkness, Hohza thought. He turned a keen eye on his mentor. They’d never gotten into a deep discussion of what drove the doctor to the Land of Darkness, despite a driving curiosity and many attempts to satisfy it.

“No. That was different. Here, they disagree with what he says. Back there, it was about what she was. The Land of Darkness is a place of brutal, simple honesty. The Dread Lords seek power, all others serve them to that end, and success is predicated on strength. In Yendell civility masks most truths.”

The goblins looked at each other and blinked in mutual incomprehension. Even Hohza could offer no clarification despite the benefits of the elf’s schooling.

Toran added, with a frustrated roll of his eyes: “I don’t like them.” The Doctor craned his neck, peering out the window and remarked that Gohta was arriving.

Not waiting for his subordinate to knock on the front door, Hohza set down his tea on the kitchen counter and rushed over. He opened the door in time to see Gohta climb off the back of his buffalo and swing a sack over his shoulder. He approached the door, his pudgy cheeks pushed back in a smile, as the bag clattered with each step.

Although Hohza had confidence his subordinate could manage, he asked: “Do you need any help?” Then: “Was there any difficulty at the vault?”

“No and no, War Master Hohza,” Gohta answered cheerily. “Word was sent from the Keep, and they had these items prepared before I arrived at the vault.” He tromped into the home and headed straight for the kitchen table. Toran barely had time to remove the mugs and plate of pastries before Gohta slammed his bag down on it.

“These are lures,” Gohta said. He held open the bag’s mouth and began scooping out boxes and bags.

Hohza grabbed a small leather pouch and poured a collection of brass rings into his palms. Tad pulled a long case toward him and popped it open, uttering “wow” at what he saw inside. Gohta busied himself untangling a mess of leather straps and steel buckles.

Glum—crawling along the tabletop—pulled a sealed envelope from the satchel. The old goblin plopped himself down on the table, pushing aside a velvet bag with a wooden handle sticking out of its mouth, which was otherwise cinched shut with a thick golden rope.

“Don’t you know to read the manifest,” Glum grumbled as he popped open the envelope with his finger. The red wax seal crumbled and fell on the table. He unfolded the parchment, too large for the perfunctory text, and held it close to his squinted eyes as he read off the inventory. “Let’s see, we have: some of the Many Rings of Power, count of twelve; the Bridle of Turning, for making boxes with your horses, that sounds unpleasant; the Shattered Mirror of Foretelling, it can show you things that will be, might be, and won’t be … so it’s guessing with magic; the Eggfinity, which turns those who hold it into immortal stone; enchanted keystones, a count of three; keystone key, count of one; and finally the Wraith’s Edge, a weapon of great power when wielded by a wraith … do they really need more power?” Glum scratched his head.

Leaning over Tad, Toran plucked the Wraith’s Edge from the box. It was a stone-hewn blade of black with veins of gold throughout. He ran his thumb against its edge, and grimaced as it pushed the skin but didn’t cut. “Have you seen a wraith fight?”

“I have!” Tad raised his hands, practically leaping from his chair as he did so. “The Dread Lord Withering Sorrows saved my life! Took on a whole herd of bearwulvs!” He threw his fists through the air to illustrate the epic battle. When nobody engaged his outburst, he shrank back in his seat.

“I have no doubt Withering Sorrows could accomplish such a thing. A wraith has no need for a weapon,” Toran said. He tossed the dagger down on the table. It skided across the surface until Hohza caught the blade.

“All of these are worthless items. The results of wraiths pouring far too much energy into failed experiments. However, they emanate power, and that power will draw the enemy to us.” He clasped his hands together. “War Party,” he beckoned his team.

“Yes, War Master Hohza?” Gohta saluted, holding his hand to his forehead. He looked toward the two goblins, who were unfamiliar with such formality. They shrugged and muttered a half-hearted “yeah?”

“Rest well tonight, for tomorrow we head to the Prison of Eternal Suffering, where we will oversee its repair and plan our defenses,” Hohza spoke with a firm, authoritative voice. It was important for someone on this campaign to at least pretend to be enthusiastic.