Shaman's Record

Tenth of July, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War

Shaman Koroc the Singer of Clan Glacierheart recording.

It has been a month Since the Great Gathering, as it is now known. Clan Glacierheart grows stronger with each passing day. More warriors and womenfolk flow slowly in to swell the ranks. Watchtowers have grown to guard towers. Muddy flats are now hard-packed mustering grounds. The Elders have all taken up their tasks, and Wolfbite Glacierheart's wisdom of taking on Otab the Old, Lokk the Brutal, and Vuggie the Vivid is showing. Not one of the Elders has the time or wit to manage everything, but they are all working together, adding strength to strength, and Clan Glacierheart grows ever stronger for it.

Vuggie the Vivid has taken on the task of leading the Scouts. In this, her skills are hard to match. Already, her bands have started taking to the goat-trails along the edges of the Westmarch Valley. They may not have great numbers, for few Orcs can move silently enough, or wait long enough, to pass unnoticed. Yet the Elders put great weight on their abilities, and any orc who stops to think of the larger picture can see why. They tell not only of the human's strengths (or current weakness), but also of their food, their water, and their support. When the time comes, they are to cut into all three, sinking a sword into the humans' backs.

Lokk the Brutal leads the warbands already preparing for the assault down the valley itself. Indeed he spends time pouring over maps, seeking positions and places to use the crushing weight of his orcs. Those who knew him before the Great Gathering would have sworn to all of the Gods that he had not the wit to do this, but I think instead that he did not have the scouts. Instead, he had to find the foe by forcing them to come to him in open battle. Now he does not, and is eager to press his newfound advantage.

Otab the Old may no longer lead from the front, but as Glacierheart swells in numbers, his insistence on planning for more than just the fight at hand is showing itself. The food is ever short, the water never quite enough, But there is always some of each, and space to sleep. Already he is stockpiling wood for the winter to come, and salting away what meat can be spared. We may not eat well, now or then, but we should not go hungry.

Wolfbite Glacierhear himself is the heart of the Clan. Where the other elders are buried to their necks in planning and work, Wolfbite always has the time to work with the healers, the mothers, the children. He is always the mentor, the mediator, the peacekeeper.

The Peacekeeper. That is a title I would have never thought possible.

But I never thought that those of No Clan would be of a Clan once more. That I would live to see a day where only one Clan ruled Glacierheart, and did so without shedding the blood of all others. Yet it is so. Indeed, more then so. A pattern is emerging, particularly among the youngest of us. They speak not of Clans, but of place. I am not sure what to make of it, or what to call it. There is a new spirit to them, a new and burning desire. It is slowly spreading, and with it seems to spread a fierce vitality, a desire to be.

The humans know not what they have created by driving us up into the mountains, but it is coming for them. Drums beat in the distance, sounding the cadence of war.

But in the darkness of the night, when I stand alone with my thoughts, I cannot help but wonder. How many of us will there be next spring?

Aris Cretu's journal

Twelfth of July, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War

Tam turned fifteen today. It is a small thing, but the small celebration and extra ration of drink was enough to break the endless marching and drilling.

She and I are both strong enough, and perhaps mad enough, to sign up for the Ur-handers. To agree to stand at the forefront of the pike block, taking extra pay for extra risk, and swinging awesome blades. We've been assigned to Sergeant Gork, an old half-orc. He's a bastard of a taskmaster, but his unit doesn't lose nearly as many men as the other Ur-handers do, so that's a plus.

He also didn't blink when he found out Tam was a girl. The secret is out now, but there are more than a few women in the ranks, even one of the smiths is one, so getting equipment that fits right shouldn't be a problem for her. For me, I always have problems getting boots. The cobblers know me on sight by now, I think, and at least one of them has a pattern of my slabs (as he called them). Full armor will have to wait until we get to Westmarch and the smiths can set up permanently. At least any bandits or marauders are probably smart enough not to attack a thousand-strong column on the march. If not, then the pikes will sort them out in short order.

Rumor has it that we are to reach Westmarch inside of the week, if the weather holds. I'll believe that when we get there.

Chronicler Vian's Log

Twentieth of July, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War.

On this day Ironbark Company reached the Westmarch Border Fort. The first reaction by many of the veterans was a resounding 'that's the fort?' It's not much to look at, and clearly build by the lowest bidder, but the engineers behind it knew what they were doing.

The fort itself is set atop a hill, if the thirty-foot high, half-mile long hump can be called a hill. The walls are high enough, and there are places for catapults (noe currently in them, of course). The mountains rise away to either side, but more than a mile lays between the outer walls and the beginnings of the mountains themselves. Plenty of room to surround the fort, envelop it in siege lines. But the fort sits right in the throat of the valley, with large streams flowing down from the mountains behind it. Passing it by is not an option for any army, as the road would be needed to keep supplies flowing.

What worries me is raiding-bands can slip through that gap if they so desire, or even use the goat-trails up in the mountains themselves. Getting substantial amounts of loot back past the fort would be harder still. We have some months before the snow flies. While the farmers set about harvesting, Ironbark will be setting up outposts, watchtowers to sound the alarm. With the recruits who stuck it out through the training on the march here, we have a thousand men to cover three miles. Hopefully, the local garrison will be able to make up the numbers we (hopefully will not) need.

The scouts are already out, searching for positions, information, mapping the goat-trails. The reports are already coming back of occasional skirmishes. No losses yet, but I have to wonder who is scouting who.

The locals are nervous. They claim to hear drums in the night, echoing down from the mountains. I'll have to check with some of the half-orcs in our ranks, see if there is any importance or substance to the rumors.

Addendum:

There is significance. More than one half-orc remembers drums being used in ceremonies, and veterans recall them being used to summon a clan for a major endeavor. The Captain needs to know. With any luck, our presence here will deter the Orcs until the snow flies. The garrison has time for drill now, but the corn harvest will start in the last week of September, stretching all the way into the end of December. Weather permitting, of course.

That is the tail end of campaigning season for armies, precisely because they forage crops out of the fields to feed themselves as they go. If the Orcs want food, then Ironbark is going to have to stand alone against their raiders during the harvest.

I smell discord on the wind. If the Orc clans are gathering strength, they don't mean to just raid, they mean to invade. If Ironbark holds the initial rush, this is going to be a bitter winter war.

Shaman's Record

First of August, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War

Shaman Koroc the Singer of Clan Glacierheart recording.

The scouts are back, and dire word follows in their wake. Pikes! Pikes on the High-road! The Elders debate closely, debating whether to strike now, or wait for the harvest. I have sat on their councils, listened and recorded their words. They would make for a poor Clan-song, full of fury but saying little. Elders Otab and Vuggie both want more information. Numbers of foes, of pikes and bows. Elder Lokk wants to hit the foe now, smash them before they can dig in, because digging them back out again will be far more costly.

Elder Wolfbite wants to know who the Pikes are. Something black is churning in his mind, eating at his heart. He and Elder Otab are both old enough to remember being pushed from Westmarch. But where Elder Otab made it to safety unscarred, Elder Wolfbite saw things he will not repeat, not even to fellow shamans. That day he buried his old name and Clan. Shadows of the Past reach far, and they are stained with blood and fire.

I pity our foes, for they know not the beast that they have awoken.