Page 85 of Orc's Redemption

Istand on the Al’fa’s left, with Drogor on his right and Rosalind beside him. Zat’an stands to my right. Together, we overlook the arena — a wide expanse of dirt and sand, the very heart of the Zmaj stronghold. The ramp that encircles the walls curves like stone arms embracing this ancient battleground, where generations of Zmaj have trained with practice weapons worn smooth by use.

Trained to kill my people on sight.

I shove the thought down. Knowing this alliance is our only chance for survival doesn’t erase the past — it only buries it under necessity.

People file onto the sands, filling the space. My handful of Urr’ki huddle together with their human mates at their sides. The space immediately around them is empty, silent testament to the underlying hatreds between our peoples.

Humans and Zmaj cluster together uneasily — some bound by friendship, others by bonding, and others out of wary necessity — but everywhere, invisible walls divide us.

The depth of what we must overcome is written in every stance and glance. But the Shaman and beneath him the Paluga are a threat that overwhelms differences. The rivalries of our peoples pale in comparison to what is happening and what will come next. They may not see it yet, but they will. They must. And that is on us.

I thought the Al’fa was my rival, but he was only the embodiment of it. Compared to this, winning him over was easy.

My muscles ache with the effort of stillness, but I keep my composure carefully stoic. The only allowance I give to nerves is letting my eyes wander around the arena. I study the structure, that being easier to confront than all the staring eyes.

The stone is ancient. Weathered by time and countless lives that have touched it. Each crack and crevice whispers tales of lives lived and gone. The ramp spirals upward past hollowed-out homes carved into the stone, most long abandoned. The emptiness speaks of a people in decline, their numbers thinned by endless war.

Forcing myself to look at those whose minds I must win, I shift back to the assembled. From the elevated balcony, I can see the entire expanse. Rows upon rows of Zmaj warriors, their iridescent scales reflecting the torches. Interspersed amongst them are clusters of humans, their expressions a mix of hope and apprehension. The air is thick with anticipation. The weight of this gathering presses down on my chest.

The Al’fa, his golden scales catching the light, is a living embodiment of strength and authority. Za’tan stands slightly apart from me. I’m acutely aware of the chasm that separates me from him, not just in distance, but in trust. The murmurs of the crowd rise and fall like the tide. A symphony of voices echoing off the stone walls.

The Al’fa steps forward, lifting a clawed hand. Silence crashes down like a stone. His voice, deep and resonant, fills the arena.

“Warriors, humans, our allies,” he begins, his gaze sweeping over the assembled masses. “We stand at a crossroads,” the Al’fa says, his voice a rumble that seems to shake the stone itself. “A storm approaches —one no Zmaj and no human, can weather alone.”

A ripple of unease courses through the crowd. The tension is a palpable force that sets my nerves on edge.

“To face this impending threat,” the Al’fa continues, “I have decided that we must forge an alliance. That we must look beyond the grievances of the past.”

He pauses. Letting the idea sink in, building on the moment. Only a moment, but the seeds of his idea are planted. He continues after six beats of my heart.

“I am entering an alliance with the Urr’ki. We will stand as one against a threat that seeks to consume all of us.”

The reaction is immediate. Murmurs swell into shouts. A cacophony of disbelief and anger. Zmaj warriors exchange heated words while the humans look to one another in confusion. The name ‘Urr’ki’ is anathema. A wound still raw, not yet healed. No matter how it hurts I know that even the sight of one of us is a bitter taste on the tongues of many.

From the throng, a figure emerges. A huge and hulking Zmaj warrior, his crimson scales glinting like embers. His presence commands attention, and the crowd parts to let him through. He steps into the open space before the balcony, his gaze locked onto the Al’fa.

“Al’fa,” he calls out, his voice carrying the weight of challenge. “We have opened our homes to the humans. We have welcomed our brethren from the surface, though they once drove us to flee, to live under the mountain. We have shared our resources and our knowledge.”

Agreement is a low rumble from the crowd, empowering Galt’in. He throws his arms wide, shifting his glare between the Al’fa and me.

“You would have us kneel beside the very hands that spilled our blood?” Galt’in roars. “You ask us to forget generations of betrayal?”

The arena holds its breath. All eyes turn to the Al’fa, awaiting his response. Beside him, I feel the weight of this moment. The precarious balance on which our futures teeter. The Al’fa meets the warrior’s gaze, unflinching.

“It is not out of desire that I suggest this, Galt’in,” the Al’fa says, leaning onto the parapet of the balcony. “It is from necessity. The quakes that have threatened us are only a precursor. The Paluga stirs and will awaken. Such a thing is not something we can face alone.”

“The Paluga?” Galt’in snorts. He throws his arms wide and spins to look at the assembly. Murmurs of dissent and agreement fill the cavern. “You ask us to forget ages of blood and loss for a myth? That we bind together for what? To fight a bed time story?”

The Al’fa stiffens, tension rolling off of him so thick that it makes my skin prickle. His claws gouge deep furrows into the stone. A low growl rumbles from his chest, the air around him charged with barely restrained violence. His lips part and I know, with all the certainty that I will draw my next breath, that he is about to destroy the one hope I have.

My thoughts race, seeking something, anything I can do to calm him. This requires rationality, not force. I know he can do this, but the rage is in his eyes, in the coloration on the edges of his scales, and in every vibrating muscle.

Impulsively I reach out and press my hand to the small of his back, just above the tail — a silent tether, unseen by the crowd but felt by him. It’s subtle and no one below us can see what I’ve done, but Za’tan makes a soft noise. Not a protest, but a hiss of surprise I think.

The Al’fa lowers his head, closes his eyes and his mouth, inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring. When he looks back up he is calm and in control. I pull my hand back but at my side Za’tan makes a tsk sound. I’m not sure if it’s approval or disapproval.

“I hear you, Galt’in,” the Al’fa says, his voice calm. “And in your words I hear the challenge. If you wish to disagree with me, that is your right. I will accept your challenge, though it is not yet time for it.”

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