The Teir’Dal’s Tithe
Chapter II: The Teir’Dal’s Tithe
The throne of Crushbone was not made of gold.
It was made of arrogance and the stench of unwashed Orc.
Sszar stood in the center of the Great Hall. His breath was a jagged hiss in the humid air. Around him, the IMS held the line. They were covered in the black, oily blood of the Emperor’s guard.
Gorg stood over a pile of mangled pawns, his hands stained to the elbows. Fluffy sat nearby, licking gore from his talons with a rhythmic, wet sound.
They had not come for glory.
They had come for the end of the contract.
⸻
Emperor Crush lay at Sszar’s feet.
The Orc leader’s throat had been opened by a jagged piece of scavenged steel. He did not die with a war cry. He died with a gurgle, staring at a ceiling he no longer owned.
Sszar wiped his blade on the Emperor's tattered surcoat.
“A king of dirt,” Sszar remarked.
“Dirt is still territory,” Voksh countered.
The Necromancer moved among the fallen. He did not seek trophies. He sought essence. He knelt by a dying Royal Guard and placed a hand over the orc’s cooling heart.
“The spark is fading,” Voksh whispered.
He didn't cast a spell. He performed an extraction.
With a sharp, guttural word, Voksh tore the last flicker of vitality from the orc and thrust it toward Sszar. The dark energy hit the Shadowknight’s chest like a physical blow.
Sszar staggered. For a heartbeat, his amber eyes flared with a cold, violet light.
“What was that?” Sszar rasped, clutching his chest.
“A down payment,” Voksh replied. “On the darkness you have yet to earn.”
⸻
The tapestries behind the throne shifted.
Ambassador D’Vinn stepped into the light.
The Teir’Dal did not look at the bodies. He looked at the Iksars as if they were a new breed of vermin that had suddenly learned to use tools.
“Inelegant,” D’Vinn said. His voice was like silk over a razor blade. “But thorough.”
Sszar leveled his rusted blade at the Dark Elf’s throat.
“The Orcs are finished, Teir’Dal. Our debt to the Emperor is paid in his own blood.”
D’Vinn’s smile did not reach his eyes.
“You misunderstand your value, Iksar. You are not mercenaries. You are an investment.”
He tossed a heavy, stained map onto the blood-slicked floor.
“The Orcs were a blunt instrument. I require a scalpel. South of here, in the fog of Dagnor, lies the Estate of Unrest. It is a place of perpetual rot. Go there. Occupy the grounds. Feed on the dead until you become something I can actually use.”
⸻
Jingles struck a single, trembling note on his lute.
The sound was fragile. It echoed off the stone walls, hollow and afraid.
Sszar looked at the map, then at his squad.
They were scarred. They were exhausted. They were thousands of miles from the swamps of Cabilis.
“We go,” Sszar said.
He looked at D’Vinn.
“But if your ‘Estate’ is a grave, I will come back and make sure you share it.”
The Ambassador’s laugh followed them as they marched out of the fortress.
“I certainly hope so, lizard. I certainly hope so.”
⸻
The IMS left Crushbone behind.
They did not look back at the fires.
They moved toward the mountains, a line of green scales in the purple twilight.
They had a name now.
They had a destination.
And in the center of the line, Sszar felt the stolen life-force in his chest begin to itch.
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