Vernal mages forced trees to twist and bend as their massive roots rose from the water to form bridges for Wiccer’s army to march over. The sound of churning wood echoed through the silent Blood Bog, but Wiccer still felt an unseen presence watching him through the darkness.

The newly appointed general hiked side by side with the Varis king and the Southtail king. They waited their turn as a large willow tree reached over and scooped them and twenty other soldiers with a slow swing of its bough. It reached over to pass them off to another tree.

The final leg of the chain of trees lowered Wiccer and his soldiers onto a muddy road where the rest of the army regrouped. Wiccer nodded as an older green robed mage dressed in light chainmail armor saluted him.

“The entire army has been safely transported over the swamp, General,” reported the mage.

Wiccer nodded. He had not gotten used to being called a general. To him he was still a major, not even a colonel yet. He had worked hard to rise through the ranks one by one. To be a brevet general appointed by his father felt unearned.

“Very good, Captain. Tell your mages to fall back into formation,” ordered Wiccer. His years as an Anti-Rogue Operative left him doubting the necessity of mages in warfare. Had he been with Elucard, getting through the swamps would have been just a matter of leaping through the trees. However, he knew not every soldier had his training, but even so, a boat or a raft! What were the engineers for? Using a mage spoiled them and if he did not keep his senses sharp, magic would spoil him too.

Bugles blared across the ranks and signaled the men to continue marching, but conflicting commands came from the vanguard.

“What’s the bloody hold up!?” shouted Greyblade.

Wiccer shook his head. “We’re at a standstill. Something must be spooking our front.”

“Perhaps an alligator or two?” suggested Dallin.

Wiccer shoved his way to the front of the army where he saw a row of yellow and green skinned orcs, armed to the teeth, and standing in the way of any forward progression for Wiccer’s forces.

The tallest and most ferocious of the orcs stepped forward. He lifted his brutal looking jaw-boned axe and roared at the top of his lungs. All across the swamp, Wiccer heard the echoes of howls and warcries surrounding his army.

Wiccer pushed further ahead of his men and before him the shadow of the savage humanoid that towered over his head.

“I take it you are the leader of the Blood Bog Orcs?” asked Wiccer. He puffed out his chest and tried to raise himself a few inches more, not that it would help his stature compared to the eight-foot tall orc.

The orc brought his face close to Wiccer’s. The foul stench of dried blood filled Wiccer’s nostrils, but he did not flinch. The orc growled and brandished his yellow stained teeth, his tusks pushed up against Wiccer’s cheeks. Once again, he did not flinch. Finally the orc let out a spine-twisting scream. Drool and spit splashed across Wiccers face, but he did not flinch.

The orc nodded and chuckled. “You must be the rabbits’ chieftain. You are puny but strong.”

Wiccer wiped the saliva away from his brow and offered his hand. “I command this army, and Mave Silvertail, who I assume you speak of.”

The orc yanked Wiccer’s arm and brought him in for a bone crunching hug. “I am Bloodaxe. Chieftain of the Blood Bog Orcs.”

Bloodaxe dropped Wiccer to his knees and he staggered to get to his feet. “I am not a chieftain myself, but allow me to introduce you to them.” Wiccer waited for the orc to nod before he sent a runner to fetch Dallin and Greyblade. “This is King Everitt Dallin of Varis and King Aemor Greyblade of Southtail. They are both great chieftains of Dragon Realm Cypress.”

Bloodaxe lifted his heavy weapon onto his shoulder and smiled. “I welcome you to my swamp. Come to my hut, we drink bone broth and talk war.”

***

Bloodaxe’s hut reminded Wiccer of a Newsun tribe hut. Decorative painted bones and beads hung from the ceiling. Alligator hides depicting crude battle scenes draped the walls. They once belonged to alligators larger than any of the ones he spotted while traversing through the swamp.

Bloodaxe, Wiccer, Dallin, and Greyblade sat cross-legged in a ring around an ember glowing fire. Wiccer sipped from a wooden bowl of broth. It tasted like saltwater, but it had an aftertaste of smoked deer. Ever the diplomat, Wiccer smiled, but decided against taking another sip.

Wiccer patted his chest and extended his arm to the two kings. “We are the Cypress Alliance. Do we have permission to cross through your lands unharmed?”

Bloodaxe lifted a long bone pipe. He brought one end to his mouth and puffed a plume of smoke. He bowed his head and passed it to Wiccer.

“Only orcish tribes may smoke with the Blood Bog. My kin, the Cragtale Orcs and the Stormtusk Orcs, shall give their blessing to our new kin, the Cypress Alliance.” As gruff as his exterior was, Bloodaxe was almost stoic at this moment.

Wiccer inhaled the arid and bitter smoke, it burned his throat and forced him to heave and cough. Bloodaxe roared in laughter. Wiccer found his composure before passing the pipe to Greyblade.

“Bloodaxe, brother, what did Mave Silvertail promise you for our safe passage?” asked Wiccer. His throat was now cracked and dry. He swallowed the rest of his bone broth, smacking his lips and imagining drowning in the fresh river water next to his childhood home

Bloodaxe leaned forward and smirked. “My people were promised our land back.”

“How much land would you like?” asked Dallin as he passed the pipe back to the orc.

Bloodaxe raised an eyebrow. “Stupid question. All of it!”

Greyblade and Dallin looked at each other, whispering out of earshot of the chieftain.

“We never decided how we would divvy up this land,” said Greyblade.

“I imagined you would overtake Estinia, eventually, and so New Estinia would become a Varis territory.” said Dallin.

“Well, if you would like to share New Estinia with these orcish chaps, you’re very well welcomed to.”

Dallin turned to Bloodaxe, who gave him an ugly sneer. The king straightened his crown. “We would like to keep—”

“A war with the orcs is ill advised, my king,” hissed Wiccer under his breath.

Dallin coughed into his hand before speaking once more. “We would like to keep our promise with the orcs. The Blood Bog, the Cragtale, and the Stormtusk shall reclaim what they lost from the Estinians!”

Bloodaxe let out a long howl and held up his bowl. “I give you my best warriors! We feast and dance tonight! My Cypress brethren shall be blessed with the soul of this land and heart of an orc!”