Page 268 of Scorching the Alien Empire
Directly before me stands my warband—the Ravager Berserkers. Their faces stern and strong—the pinnacle of our people. I know each of them. Have bled beside them. Jazreal. Corsark. Sarkoth. Razgor, to name a few.
My loyal Shorthairs also, almost lost among my towering brethren. They cheer the loudest, beating war drums, stomping feet, thumping chests that shake the blackened slag ground—a tide of fury and power.
“BERSERKERS NEVER SURRENDER, NEVER DIE!” I bellow, fist raised high.
“WAR CHIEFTAIN! WAR CHIEFTAIN!” The chant echoes, rising with the pounding war drums—raw, primal, unstoppable. The fire in my chest roars into an inferno. It’s intoxicating, almost overwhelming.
I stride forward, towering over the greatest warriors the universe has ever known—and I stand the pinnacle of that strength, a titan, a demigod.
Slaps to my shoulders. Cheers. Blessings. I take them all.
Jazreal falls in beside Drexios. “Hail, Divine Daughter. Hail, War Chieftain,” he shouts to be heard over the clamor, nodding to Princesa and me. “He’ll seek to keep your size and strength at a distance. Spear, most likely,” he smirks, twisting the working side of his face. “It’s what I’d do.”
“You did,” I correct with a subtle grin.
“Hah. Our battle was glorious.” He sighs, almost wistful. “But this... this will echo through the ages.” His gaze lifts to the churning obsidian clouds. “Stay on him. Stay patient. Wear him down and that strength of yours will prevail.”
“I won’t forget our training.” I nod, clasping his wrist, meeting his emerald eyes. “It’s been an honor, Death Herald.”
He smiles. “The honor is mine, War Chieftain. May you die a glorious death.”
“And you,” I say, eyes locked ahead.
Ash lashes across the plain like divine tears, thick enough to choke lesser warriors. Only the Magaxus—ash-gray, speckled gems—stand unfazed. We are Scarn’s children. Fire and ash our breath. The other clans? Weak things. Warvisors. Breathers. Fragile.
I near the heart of it now. Clan Draxxus waits. Theyglare.They watch.Hatred and awe war across their faces as the ground trembles beneath my approach.
“Out of the way, you voiding Draxxus bastards!” Drexios roars, swinging the dragon banner like a battering ram.
“Void you, whoreson!” comes the snarled reply, the crowd shoving back against us.
“Right, hold this.” Drexios thrusts the banner into a baffled Jazreal’s hands. “Come on then, you tree-hugging cunts!”
He launches into the mob, headbutting a green-haired Draxxus warrior before laying into the others with wild, joyous violence. Fists fly. Blood spatters. Screams rip the air—alongside laughter.
Mayhem.
I ignore it. The chaos clears a path. I clutch Princesa tighter as we press forward, Jazreal trailing behind, the dragon banner raised high and proud.
“We can’t take our little puppy anywhere without him snapping,” Princesa sighs, craning over my shoulder to watch.
We reach the heart of the plateau—a scorched ring of basalt surrounded by molten rivers, a pit of fire awaiting the fallen. I leap across the bubbling fissure and land hard, the blackenedstone cracking beneath my weight. Heat blurs the air. Ash falls like cursed snow, cloaking the masses in a deathly shroud.
The other four Chieftains are gathered, locked in grim debate. Their voices die as I approach. Chieftain Vorthax steps forward, pale gold eyes sharp behind his breathing mask.
“Take this, son of Gorexius,” he thunders, extending his massive axe—Stormcleaver—gifted to him by my father. “His spirit will rejoice, knowing vengeance was forged by his hand and yours.”
I wrap my fingers around the worn hilt, the weight settling like an old promise. Most couldn’t lift this weapon. But in my hands, it sings through the air like a swooping arrohawk.
“Thank you, Vorthax.” I growl, tracing the golden runes etched into the arcweave. “I’ll return it bathed in Krogoth’s blood.”
“Do it,” Vorthax says, clutching my wrist with a trembling hand. He leans in, ash coating his bright-feathered hair. “And you’ll have my eternal gratitude.”
Then—a war horn sounds.
A deep, bone-rattlingTHRUMMrolls across the slag field. A million voices hush, a sea of longhairs turns as one—towardhim.
Krogoth.
