Tor'Skan was a desolate swampland. The humidity in the swamps could stir up anger in the calmest of people. The dark, humid and rainy swamplands were difficult to navigate, though a number of torches had been put up over the years, and something of a trail had been made on the ground, as the feet of those who traveled through the swamps wore out the earth. Many years ago, the Orcs had set up crude bridges passing over the small deltas that flowed through the swamps. Though a number of bridges had been destroyed by war and time, some still remained on the deeper rivers, as even the most stalwart anti-Orc fighter would rather cross an Orc-made bridge than fall prey to whatever lurked beneath in the waters.

            These thoughts raced through Agronak's mind as he rode his wolf-mount through the swamp. Agronak Gro'Malog was highly respected Orc among his people, the son of Rand'Drek's original bodyguard. Agronak had been born when Rand'Drek was at the tender age of fourteen.

            Agronak's father had been killed when he was twelve. He had been the only Orc to go with Rand'Drek to Tor'Skan, and was killed by Gremax, the Orcish warlock, leader of the Warlock armies, whom Rand'Drek had slain. After Rand'Drek returned from the swamplands with the united Warlocks and Shaman, he took Agronak under his wing. Agronak and Rand'Drek formed a strong, brotherly companionship. Agronak had been taught basic fighting skills by his father, who had also taught Rand'Drek. Rand'Drek made a promise to Agronak that he would teach him everything his father had taught Rand'Drek. He had done well in upholding that promise.

            Rand'Drek had offered Agronak a position as a Shaman multiple times, as Agronak was extremely intelligent and cunning. However, Agronak's life lied within his blade. He was a warrior at heart, and would always be as such. In response to his refusal to take up position as a Shaman, Rand'Drek had his blacksmiths craft a fine sword for Agronak. Since the day it had been given to him, Agronak had carried the blade with him everywhere. Though he was known to use an axe when needed, he was skilled with his sword.

            Physically, Agronak was a strong Orc. He was 6'5", and well-muscled. His skin was light-green, though there was a hint of brown in it. He had two small fangs jutting from his lower jaw, which he had had small designs carved into. This was a tradition done by Orcs who wished to honor the dead. On his left fang was his father's birth insignia (a unique design given to Orcs at birth), his mother's, or what was though to be his mother's, on his right. Agronak had fairly long hair, a thick braid on the back of his head. He wore thick leather and steel armor, two large shoulder pads, steel spikes jutting from them. He wore black leather and steel armor on his body.

            The wolf he rode was a black-furred one. He was the runt of the litter when he was born, though he'd grown into a strong wolf. He'd named it Jurmag, after his father...

            Agronak arrived at his destination. A small camp in southwest Tor'Skan. It was purely a military camp, so it had no name. An Orc guard ran up to Agronak. The Orc was dressed in the primary guard attire. This consisted of leg, chest, and foot armor made from steel, along with thick leather gloves, and a weapon of choice. Some guards chose to wear horned helms, though this was entirely optional.

            "Greetings, Warlord Gro'Malog!" the guard yelled as he ran up to Agronak. "The camp's construction has been completed to the Warchief's orders!"

            "At ease, warrior!" Agronak yelled. "Is Sergeant Duracall here?"

            "No, sir. None of the guards at the post have seen him all day."

            Agronak sighed. "Very well. Thank you."

            "Would you like me to take your wolf to the stables?" the guard asked.

            "Yes. Thank you."

            The guard grabbed Jurmag's reins. Though Jurmag was anything other than passive, he was friendly to any Orc that approached him. However, if a Troll, Dwarf, Ogre or Human came close to him, he would go into a violent frenzy. He was a well-trained dog.

            Agronak walked into the camp and surveyed it. It looked like any other Orcish camp. It looked crude and pathetic to an outsider. However, looks were deceiving...

            An important factor in Orcish architecture was to make things look weak. This was why Orcs resented using steel an iron (they only used these in the capital city of Bloodstorm Spire, as wood and animal hide would not last long in the heat of the mountain). Instead, they created buildings using methods that were considered somewhat primitive. Rather than brick and mortar, they used sharpened tree trunks to create walls around their bases. Buildings were made from strong animal hide and wood. Roofs on houses were made from tarp and animal hides. While these seemed like pathetic structures compared to those of the Humans or Dwarves, one would be surprised. Not only were these buildings durable, but they were also much harder to siege. Because Orcs were fond of putting large, jutting spikes out from the bases of the walls of their encampments, it was much harder for heavy cavalry to charge the walls. It had been the building style of the Orcs for centuries, and they intended to keep it that way.

            Agronak went inside one of the tents. Inside it was a Shaman. The Shaman wore a white wolf skin hood, made from the head of a wolf, much like the tiger skin hoods the Trolls wore. On his body, the Shaman wore the fur of a wolf, worn like a robe. The Shaman wore two claws on his hands, runic markings on each, which allowed him to harness the powers of the elements. This was the standard way all Shaman dressed.

            "I apologize for coming in," Agronak said. "But has there been any word of Nazgrum Duracall around the camp?"

            The Shaman turned his head. "No." he said, in a raspy, bloody voice. He sounded somewhat sick, though in reality it was just his accent. "One of the guards was talking about him though."

            "Do you know where he is?"

            "He's in the Head Shaman's tent. Said he wasn't feeling well."

            "Thank you."

            Agronak left to the tent in the middle of the encampment. There was often a powerful Shaman that resided in every military encampment, often to cleanse the soldiers there of stress and impure spirits. While it was forbidden for a guard or warrior to enter the tent while the Shaman was in the middle of a session, it was acceptable for a highly ranked official to enter, so long as they did not disturb the Shaman until he was finished.

            Agronak stepped into the tent. The guard sat at a table in the center of the room. The hide on the floor was covered in soft fur. On the table, incense was burning in a small steel container. The tent was filled with steam, coming from a bed of hot coals that the Shaman occasionally tossed water onto. The Shaman wore a similar garb to the lower-ranked Shaman Rand'Drek had just spoken to. However, the single difference between a Shaman fighter and a highly ranked Shaman was the color of the wolf skin. This Shaman in the tent wore black to signify his experience, whereas the other Shaman wore white to signify he still had to earn his place as a warrior (Shaman were used on the battlefield, as they could harness the powers of the elements to heal their wounded allies, as well as hold their own in combat).

            The session was apparently over, as the guard took a swig of water from the bucket, and stood up. He thanked the Shaman, and left the tent, Agronak followed after him. The soldier noticed him, and turned to him.

            "Hail, Warlord Gro'Malog." The Orc said. "Is there any way I can assist you?"

            "Yes, actually." Agronak replied. "One of the Shaman in the camp said you were talking about Nazgrum Duracall earlier?"

            "Yes, Warlord. I arrived here last night, and Nazgrum was right outside the gate. He said he was heading north with a small platoon of soldiers. He should've been back by now though..."

            "Did he say specifically where he was going?"

            "To an old Shaman village from the war. He said that he wanted to salvage supplies and any relics or artifacts he could find." The soldier replied.

            "Strange..." Agronak said. "Trolls and Ogres usually don't inhabit those parts."

            "I can prepare a scout force if you wish to find him." The soldier replied.

            "Such is not necessary." Agronak replied. "I'll wait until dawn tomorrow. If he's not back by then, I'll go out."

            "Pardon me, Warlord, by why is it so urgent that you speak with Duracall?" the soldier asked.

            "The Warchief wishes to speak with him. He says it's extremely urgent. Most likely another scouting mission in the Human lands." replied Agronak.

            "Very well, Warlord Gro'Malog. The workers will pitch a tent for you."

            "Thank you." Agronak said. He went to the southeastern section of the camp, where the quarters for high-ranked officials were always put. Workers had already pitched a tent for him. Agronak thanked them before stepping into the tent.

            Agronak stripped his armor, and put his sword down underneath his cot. Agronak lay down, and fell asleep quickly.

***

            Rand'Drek looked around his throne room. He sat on the throne, made from strong wood and stone. Skulls, weapons and bones adorned the throne above his head. His axe, a weapon forged from adamantine, one that meant much to him, lay on the floor next to him. Two elite Orcish guards wearing heavy, mithril armor, and holding sturdy axes stood next to him. Throughout the room, Orcs stood on the sides of the room, ready to sacrifice their own lives for the sake of the Warchief.

            Rand'Drek stood and looked out the window in the spire. A number of Orcs bustled about in a small farm behind the mountain. Rand'Drek walked over to the door that led to the throne room, which led out into the large, bustling city. A number of female matrons led orphans around the spire, showing them statues modeled after Orcish heroes. Upon inheriting the title of Warchief, Rand'Drek had made it mandatory that all Orcs received some sort of education. At the least, they would have to be able to read and write. He'd decided that this would keep a level of intelligence in the ranks of his armies. Rand'Drek went back to the throne.

            Rand'Drek was a tall Orc. 6'8", exactly. Though he was not as muscular as other Orcs, he still possessed great amounts of strength. His skin was a dark green, his hair jet black. He had a rugged look to his face, and two sharpened fangs coming from his mouth. He wore gauntlets that had been plated with strong iron. He wore leather pants, with iron plates put on them for protection. Though in battle he wore an iron tunic, Rand'Drek didn't wear a shirt or chest armor any other time. He wore steel boots commonly.

            Rand'Drek's hair was long. He braided both sides of it, and put the thick braids on both sides of his shoulders. Rand'Drek had a number of tattoos on his chest, most of them being markings or symbols of Shamanism and Warlockery, merged with one another to symbolize the unity of the clans.

            Rand'Drek heard commotion outside the throne room. As he was about to stand up, an Orc, in soldier armor came running in. The Orc ran as close as he could to Rand'Drek, then collapsed. Rand'Drek stood up and went over to the Orc. He grasped the Orc's shoulders and shook him.

            "Are you alright?!" Rand'Drek yelled. The Orc sat up somewhat and opened his eyes. He blinked and looked around, then turned to Rand'Drek.        

            "Warchief..." the Orc said. "I bring word from....Duracall..."

            "Nazgrum Duracall?"

            "Yes, Warchief."

            "What's the matter? What about him?" Rand'Drek inquired. "And what of the rest of the party?"

            The Orc gasped for breath, and then spoke. "We were...inside an old Shaman village. Sergeant Duracall told us that we were to search though the huts for any of the ancient artifacts, as you asked. However, the village was under control by a group of Ogres..."

            "Ogres?" Rand'Drek seemed puzzled. Ogres usually didn't travel this far out. "Were they of the Crushbellow tribe?"

            "They did not carry banners, Warchief. They only wore armor with strange engravings on it, armor which was not of the Crushbellow Tribe.

            "Damn." Rand'Drek said. "You speak to the Shaman council. They will provide you with food and rest. I'll need to make preparations to head north..."

            "Thank you, Warchief." The Orc said. He bowed before Rand'Drek, and then walked out of the room.

            Rand'Drek turned to one of the guards. "Dal'Gar, help me pack. I'll be heading north tomorrow morning. I'll need to bring food and water with me. Go get my wolf from the stables."

            The guard nodded, and ran down and out of the city. The stables were behind the city, where the High Shaman and Warlords kept their wolves. Rand'Drek's was kept in the same stable.

            His wolf, a fierce grey-furred beast, was named Grale. In Orcish tradition, it is customary that when an Orc reaches adulthood, sixteen years of age in Orcish culture, they are taken to a stable full of wolves. The wolves will then examine the Orc. In a sense, the wolf chooses the Orc, rather than vice versa.

            Rand'Drek began putting his things into a small leather bag. The next week would be a long one...

***

            The Red Hills were oftentimes quiet. They were far to the North, between the Dwarven lands and the Stromadon lands. The sky was more often than not cloudy and dark, from the limitless amounts of smoke that had poured into it. There were very few trees in the region.

            The geography of the Red Hills was somewhat obvious. It had extremely large, rolling hills. On the far eastern side, where it touched the sea, mountains touched the skies. The grass in the land was brown and red year-round. Dirt paths that served as roads were constantly blown over, making the region very dangerous to travel alone.

            The name of the Hills lied within their history. Though some thought that the Hills received their name because of the color of the grass, this was untrue. The region had in fact been named the Red Hills because of the immense amount of bloodshed that had occurred in the land. Ever since the Elves established the nation of Sin'lathal, Dwarves, Elves, and Stromadon Humans had raged a relentless war on the field. A number of battles had taken place on the rolling hills. There were multiple marked graves and skeletons throughout the hills.

            This was what Glorv Earthkeeper had been told ever since he was a young Dwarf. Glorv, who was the bodyguard for Gornall Mithril, the Dwarven king, had always loved the geography of the land. Glorv was a skilled tactician and commander in the Dwarven army, and admired the Hills, as they were perfect for ambushes and hiding. He had grown used to the geography, and used it every bit to his advantage.

            Glorv was stout, much like any Dwarf. He stood at 3'8", and was very muscular and sturdy. His skin was tanned, a result of much outdoor travel. He kept a long, unshaven beard that fell down slightly past his waist, which he braided to prevent it from being a distraction. Glorv wore fine mithril armor with golden plating, signifying that he was highly ranked among the Dwarves.

            However, Glorv was well-known for one thing: he was the Dwarf who wielded the ancient artifact "Earthshaker". Earthshaker was the single most powerful war hammer on Tirath, forged from mithril, adamantine, Dwarven steel, and iron. In addition, it had been embedded with strange jewels found in Orcish ruins. These jewels were actually used by power Shaman to control the powers of the earth. This was where the name of the hammer came from. Because of the gems embedded into the hammer, Glorv was able to use the hammer to call upon various elements, ones which would imbue him with temporary strength and give him an advantage in battle. For this reason, Glorv guarded his weapon with his life. It had been given to him by Gornall after Glorv had proved himself in the defense of the Dwarven lands, and been inducted as Gornall's personal bodyguard.

            Glorv looked over his shoulder. The fairly large platoon of soldiers he'd been given were preparing to move out from camp. Though a number of the Dwarves in the platoon were riflemen, the vast majority of them were axe-wielders. These Dwarves were the brute force of their armies. They would gladly charge into battle and die for their countrymen. Glorv had been given a few cannon-men, but he doubted that they would be of much use.

            A Dwarf with a rifle in his hand came up to Glorv. Glorv turned around and looked at him.

            "Captain Eartherkeeper." The Dwarf said. All Dwarves spoke in thick, Scottish accents. "We have a problem..."

            "A problem? What is it lad?" Glorv asked. The rifleman motioned for Glorv to follow him. Glorv walked closely behind him, into a tent. There was a cot on the ground, and a table with a lantern on it. It gave off an eerie glow in the surprisingly dark tent.

            The Dwarf sat down at the table, which had a large, rolled up map. The Dwarf carefully unrolled the map, which, from its color, looked extremely old and worn. He pulled out a quill and a bottle of ink, dipped the quill into the ink, and looked at Glorv.

            "Now, our scouts have confirmed that there are in fact Elven resistance forces on the borders." The Dwarf said. Glorv studied the map with his eyes, as the rifleman made a few markings on the map along the borders of the Red Hills. "We also have reason to believe that the Mage's Guild from Stromadon has also sent a number of their wizards to keep our soldiers at bay. Stromadon might also be supplying foot soldiers."

            Glorv continued to study the map. "Can we confirm these reports, or are you just suspecting?"

            The Dwarf made a few more markings. "As far as the mages and foot soldiers go, we're unsure, but it's highly likely that they're aiding the Elves. If anywhere, the Stromadonian forces will be stationed on the western border of the Red Hills. The Elves have likely dispatched their forces on various points around the border."

            "So we march north, toward Sin'lathal?" Glorv asked.

            "That's from the other report that the scouts sent back." The rifleman replied. "Sin'lathal is sending small attack squads down south. These shouldn't be a huge problem in themselves, but the threat comes from the fact that a large number of them will hinder our progress greatly. In addition, if the Elves see one sign of us, they'll send their runners to the capital, and call for additional reinforcements. If we have the Elves and Humans marching on us at the same time, we'll have to pull back, which'll give them ground."

            Glorv sat and thought through his options. An all-out charge on Sin'lathal would be foolish. Too many men would die, and without the help of Laramoth, it would be foolhardy to even attempt to take on two armies.

            "Alright. Write this down." said Glorv. He took the map and quill from the rifleman and placed them in front of him. He made a few "x" marks near the southern borders of the Hills, next to the Dwarf-held lands. "We'll be dispatching cannon teams at these locations. In addition, firing squads ten through twenty-three will be dispatched at random locations a mile behind the cannon line. We will have scouts and runners ready to run from the cannon camps if a large number of Elven forces show up at any of them. If the heavy cavalry from Stromadon comes, we'll have hidden camps located in these positions." Glorv made a few more "x" marks on the map, slightly south of the primary cannon squads. "These camps will not fire until they see some signs of Stromadon cavalry or infantry. We will hold these positions for exactly two months. If no signs of enemy forces arrive, we will resume normal positions."

            The rifleman finished writing what Glorv had said, and sealed the paper in an envelope, then gave it Glorv. Glorv stepped out from the tent, into the cold, grey-skied Hills. He called over a runner, and handed the envelope to him.

            "Make sure this gets to the king. It is absolutely vital that he sees the contents of this envelope."

            The runner nodded, and headed southward. Glorv watched the runner as he went over the Hills, and out of sight. Glorv then went over the dying campfire the men had set up earlier that morning. A Dwarf offered him some stew, which he gladly accepted.

            The stew Glorv was given was nearly tasteless. It was watery, had near-spoiled beef in it, and very few vegetables. He was used to it though. The rations of the Dwarven army were often like this, in complete contrast to the food he regularly ate when at home. He lived in a fairly large house, a small ways away from the castle where Gornall Mithril resided. He enjoyed his personal life, though his true life lied on the battlefield. As Glorv finished the stew off, he heard the large bell in the middle of the encampment ringing.

            Glorv threw down the food and ran to the bell. This bell, only allowed to be rung by watchers, was to signify danger. The Dwarf watcher was pulling on the rope with all of his strength, as riflemen, footmen, and cannon loaders scrambled about the camp to get ready for whatever the attack was. They began lining up in organized formations at the front of the camp. Footman stood in the front, while riflemen and cannon-men stood behind them, or in the watchtowers.

            "What'd ya see?!" Glorv said, shaking the watcher.

            "Stromadon forces!" the watcher said. "They didn't look like a huge threat, but they did contain a good number of men! They were being backed by a group of Elven archers as well!"

            "Dammit!" said Glorv. He let go of the watcher and ran to his tent. He grabbed Earthshaker, and quickly pushed his way to the front of the groups of footmen. He stood in front of the ragged Dwarven warriors, ready as ever. From over one of the hills, he could make out the shapes of Humans marching down the hill, some on horses, while a small group of Elves stood in the back. In the front, a tall, large looking man rode a horse. His armor was made from Elven steel, nearly as strong as Dwarven Mithril, with its magical enchantments. The Dwarves stood completely still. As the Human forces came closer, the commander ordered them to halt. Glorv stepped forward. The Human apparently wanted to attempt to parley with him before the battle began. This was unusual, but Glorv was an honorable fighter, and would at least listen.

            Glorv stepped out onto the battlefield, his weapon still in hand, while two axe wielding Dwarves followed closely behind. The commander rode up with two foot soldiers in tow. He gave Glorv a quick glance, and pulled out a roll of parchment. Glorv stood with his arms folded.

            "On behalf of the Lionel Bartell, the king of Stromadon, and Alor Pollux, Lord of Sin'lathal, we offer you this treaty." The Human said, reading from the parchment. Glorv kept a stoic expression. "We demand that you remove this encampment from the premises, and pull your soldiers back into your land. In addition, we will remove ours."

            The man stopped. Glorv was surprised he hadn't continued, or why the man needed a piece of parchment to read such a short message, but he did not keep these thoughts in his head long.

            "I'll have to go with a no on that." Glorv said sarcastically. The two Dwarves behind him snickered slightly. The captain on the horse gave him a stern look, threw the paper to the ground, and turned his horse around. As he rode back to his group of soldiers, Glorv motioned for his men to prepare for a charge. Glorv retook his position, and looked off toward the distance. The captain raised his sword, and flung it down. Almost instantly, the Stromadon Humans charged down the hill, shields in front of them, swords ready to slice flesh.

            The Dwarven axe-men raised their shields into the air. As the soldiers came closer, they prepared to knock back their strikes, which would allow them to stun the human footmen and get in a few good hits before repeating the process. Glorv could see the Elven archers getting in firing range. There were a few mages in the small group, but not enough to pose a threat.

            The humans were roughly forty yards away now. Glorv stared off into the distance. They were now in the range of thirty yards. Twenty. Ten...

            Glorv let out a fierce cry. His voice thundered through the hills, provoking his soldiers to let out cries as well. Though the Humans looked somewhat distraught they continued their charge, at a slightly slower pace.

            The swords of the humans slammed into the shields of the Dwarves. Some humans were knocked back, while others flipped their blades and hit the Dwarves underneath the shields. The fighting had begun.

            Glorv watched as swords and axes clashed with one another. Riflemen from the towers shot at the Elven archers, while the archers did the same to the gunmen. Glorv ran through the frontlines of the footmen. He wanted to get a shot at the captain. He'd like nothing more than to slam Earthshaker into the bastard's head. He noticed the captain dismounting his horse a few yard away.

            Glorv charged at the man, letting out a cry. The captain gave a surprised look, but shook it off. He pulled out a sword and a shield from his back, and swung the sword at Glorv. The sword hit directly on Glorv's chest, and sent him back. Glorv recovered almost immediately, and got back up. He had a plan...

            The man charged at Glorv, his shield in front of him. Glorv ran slowly toward him, his hammer raised above his head. The captain came at him, swinging the sword at Glorv's abdomen. Suddenly, Glorv swung the hammer in a downward, circular motion, knocking the blade out of the way. He stuck the captain's ankles, knocking the man over. Glorv heard a small, cracking sound, and smiled to himself.

            The captain lay on the ground, clutching his ankles in pain. Earthshaker had snapped the bones in half, rendering the captain unable to walk. In his state of shock, his sword and shield had swung out of his hand. He was on the ground, praying.

            Glorv stepped forward. A worried look came across the man's face. His eyes grew wide, his face pale. He tried to speak, but Glorv was beyond listening. This man deserved to die a painful death...

            Glorv began swinging Earthshaker. As he picked up momentum, his body spiritually fused with the hammer, and began swinging with it. Glorv was almost like a tornado, his body spinning uncontrollably. As he spun, Glorv saw the captain's face was in utter shock. It became even more so as Earthshaker began to glimmer, then light up. It had been infused with the powers of the earth, and was ready to land the killing blow.

            Almost immediately Glorv stopped. As he stopped, the hammer came flying down, and landed on the captain's face. The hammer crushed his skull thoroughly, provoking an abruptly short scream, before his entire head was smashed under the hammer. Glorv prided in his victory, but did not dwell on it long. He rushed back into the battle.

            Because he was coming from behind the Humans, Glorv had the element of surprise. He swung Earthshaker wildly, hitting the feet, waists, and knees of the soldiers. Humans screamed in pain as they fell to the ground, unable to move. Dwarven axe-men quickly finished them off.

            As Glorv continued his rampage, he heard a yell to flee. He looked around. The surviving humans and elves were running north, away from the battle. They'd obviously lost too many to even consider trying to continue the fight. As they ran, Glorv let out a battle cry. His warriors followed.

            Two riflemen and five axe men had been killed in the fight. They were buried beneath the encampment that day. Glorv realized that the attacks would only get worse. However, as soon as his requests for more troops were answered, he'd be ready to hold more off.