The shaman paced around the sizable tent pitched in the field in the middle of their camp, from where the raids to the south were being coordinated. The one-armed youth and the aging warrior sat on cushions on the ground. He circled them twice, unhurriedly, before speaking again.

  "Let's summarize. An assault force, which included about half of our ogres and plenty of goblins to aid the clan warriors, such as yourselves, was defeated because they held out long enough for two relief units to catch you in a pincer?" he asked coldly, in a voice that was seemingly calm, but beneath which Bar’nar could hear suppressed rage.

  The veteran omitted the fact that the third unit had merely completed the formalities; they were already losing badly before they joined the equation. But presenting it that way would have put them in an even worse light. Luckily for him, the youth was agreeing with him. Due to blood loss, he hadn't been fully aware of everything that was happening around him at the time.

  "Yes, they must have drawn us into an ambush," Bar’nar confirmed.

  "From what you said, there were maybe four dozen warriors in one of them. You slaughtered half of one unit before the reinforcements joined the fight, with minimal losses. You still would have had the advantage, especially with the ogres!" He emphasized the last words with a slightly raised voice, but immediately controlled himself again.

  "I assume they used their most inferior warriors as bait, the kind they didn't mind sacrificing, and in the relief force, they used nothing but veterans," the older man stated, and the youth nodded his head vigorously in agreement. He knew it couldn't be true; he had seen youths among the enemies who arrived with the relief who couldn't have had more than a season or two of expeditions behind them. But the situation presented this way at least made some sense. He himself didn't fully understand why the second unit had been so damned effective and had put their ogres in the ground as if they did it regularly.

  The shaman weighed his words, and when he replied, "You may leave," Bar’nar was not at all certain whether he had believed his words or not. He wasn't going to worry about it now, however. The important thing was that, at least for now, they were free to go..

  He watched them go and waited a moment after they had left before allowing himself a quiet snarl. The shaman known as Boulder had been leading the Crescent Moon clan to domination in the region for weeks. He had gained the trust of the chieftain and his elders, something he had been specifically preparing for in recent months, and before that, had studied the path of the shamans in their circle for long years.

  This was the first unexpected stumble in his plan. Of course, he was aware that every plan required adjustments; as he had been taught, everything was a circle. We plan, we act, and when reality verifies us, we return to planning, wiser for the lesson life has given us. However, he had been certain that the mixture of orcs, ogres, and goblins he had developed was exceptionally effective against the classic composition of old Urg’hur's units. And now he had lost half of all his mountain ogres in some paltry ambush.

  He thought better while walking, so he continued to pace the tent. By the time a servant came to summon him to supper with the clan head, he already had a new idea. Since harrying his southern neighbor was no longer effective, it was time to use their decided numerical advantage now and simply move on to the next stage. He calculated that, with this one exception, they had still inflicted significant devastation on the enemy's ranks and lands. So, instead of puzzling over how they had managed to develop an effective counter, he would give them a new, bigger problem to solve.

  They sat down at the table together with somewhat grim faces. However, the shaman, with a confidence reinforced by the argument of a vision from the clan's ancestors, convinced the chieftain and his elders of this course of action. He presented the incident as an almost inevitable event, indicating that it was time to move on to the next phase of operations, the details of which he would present tomorrow at a meeting with all the commanders. They bought it without a stutter, nodding with full understanding, as if they had expected all along that this one defeat was the sign everyone had been waiting for. He accepted their reaction with satisfaction, hidden behind the gravity and coolness with which he presented the matter to them. This region was waiting to be conquered, and he had no intention of giving them time to breathe.

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  He let them debate among themselves, while he sank into his own thoughts for a moment. The Circle of Shamans had expectations of him. This region was to be persuaded, or forced, to follow their teachings. If he succeeded, his position in the circle would rise significantly. He would become the one who had secured their access to the eastern border. High hopes were placed in him. The Crescent Moon clan perfectly fulfilled the role of the structure around which their dominion would be centered. A controllable chieftain, an elder council accustomed to obedience, and the most numerous warriors. On top of that, he had strengthened them by bringing two dozen mountain ogres and a whole host of somewhat crazed, but useful, goblins over to their side. I hope we use up as many of them as possible in this war. I don't want to have to bother with them after it's all over, he thought, raising his goblet of wine from across the river, which was considered a rarity here, and drank to the chieftain's health.

  He was counting on the fact that after Wolf Rock fell, Riverbend would have no choice and would simply submit to their rule. But he had no intention of getting ahead of himself. First, I'll take care of Urg’hur's rabble, and then everything will fall into place, he concluded in his mind.

  * * *

  "We will put it to a discussion. That is all I can promise you," the short orc stated, rubbing his gnarled, work-worn hands. They were sitting together on a boulder by the riverbank. Their personal guards stood at a distance, ensuring their privacy.

  Urg’hur stared into the distance and remained silent for a long moment before replying, "You will decide as you see fit. But believe me, they will not stop at us. The Circle of Shamans has been plotting something for years, and now we see clearly what it is. They will find some pretext, more or less fabricated, and after the Bloody Oak, and then Wolf Rock, their obedient warriors will stand at your gates."

  "If we help you, they will surely come for us," he said, and then sighed.

  "If you help us, there will be no one left to come for you, my friend," the old warrior assured him, then continued. "My son will take whichever of your daughters you choose for him as his wife. A unit of my warriors, as long as I live, will protect your traders in every corner of the Great Marches. And our settlements will be bound by a perpetual defensive alliance. We have lived in peace for decades; it is time to take a step further. To avert this new threat and ensure that we can face future ones together, which will come when we are already among the ancestors."

  Urg’hur looked into the older man’s eyes, and he was certain he saw understanding and sympathy for this proposal in them. But in Riverbend, the entire council of elders decided, and no one could be sure how they would vote.

  "I will do what I can," the older man stated, stood up, and turned to the chieftain of Wolf Rock.

  Urg’hur also rose, clasped the older, shorter man's arm, and then said, "I ask for nothing more. Be well."

  They returned to their retinues and, under the cover of night, went their separate ways. Despite the ongoing war, the old chieftain had taken the trouble to come here personally to convince the most influential of the councilors to his idea. He offered much, but he also demanded much. In moments like these, even sensible orcs sometimes delude themselves that the turmoil of war will somehow pass them by, but in this case, it would be a pipe dream. It was clear to him that the Crescent Moon clan planned to subjugate all the local orcs who were free from shamanism. Urg’hur had expected such a move from the Circle of Shamans and only regretted that they hadn't made it when he was younger. At least they didn't wait until my death. That's something, he thought and snorted, taking his cloak from one of his warriors.

  The handful of veterans stared at him with questioning eyes, so before giving the signal to march, he explained briefly, "We have one vote for sure. A voice that the entire Riverbend council reckons with. We've done our part. In a few days, it will be clear if it was enough. And now, let's move!"

  They returned in silence, at a quick march that, despite their age, all were accustomed to. And when they were out of sight of the councilor's retinue, the chieftain's two wolves, which had remained hidden during the negotiations, joined them. Wolf Rock was left in the capable hands of Ner’hur, but they still wanted to be back in the stronghold as soon as possible. In moments like these, Urg’hur regretted that he had never established a stable of horses. But the traders from the east demanded too much for them, and the strong, stocky, horned Ovibos that lived in this region were suitable for pulling wagons but were too slow to ride. And these bastards are too proud, he thought, glancing at White, the giant wolf, who could easily carry him if he only wished to, and with a sigh, he quickened his pace.