CHAPTER 124: THE COUNCIL OF THREE

Deep within the cavernous halls of the Grave-Walker catacombs, three massive thrones carved from jagged obsidian and dragon bone looked down upon a central basin filled with swirling black miasma.

For the first time in three decades, the remaining Grand Chieftains of the Shattered Steppes had convened.

Across the steppes, shockwaves had spread like wildfire. A human boy, a survivor from the fallen southern kingdom, had not only slain Warlord Krag'gath and Chieftain Borgath, but had subjugated their remaining forces into a brutal fifteen hundred strong war-march. Worse still, rumors spoke of two giant, blindfolded hulks marching at the boy's side, bearing the exact frames and weapons of the dead warlords.

Sitting on the central throne was Grand Necromancer Mal'kor, Chieftain of the Grave-Walker Clan. His withered, grey skin was draped in silk robes woven from dead skin, and a pale staff of dragon bone rested across his skeletal knees.

"Krag'gath is dead. Borgath is executed," Mal'kor rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves sliding across a tombstone. "And fifteen hundred of our brethren march under a human banner. The balance of the steppes is shattered."

To his right sat Warlord Gor'muka, Grand Chieftain of the Dire-Fang Riders. He was a monstrous orc covered in jagged battle scars, casually flaying a fresh leg of meat with a rusted dagger while a giant, twenty-foot saber-toothed dire-wolf slumbered at his feet.

To his left loomed Grand King Thrum, leader of the Ashen-Crag Giants. Standing nearly fourteen feet tall with skin made of cracked volcanic rock, his mere breathing sounded like grinding boulders.

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"We must unite," Mal'kor urged, his hollow green eyes sweeping over the two warlords. "This human possesses spatial magic and high-tier dark constructs. If we remain divided, he will harvest us one by one. I propose an alliance, our three clans strike his war-march simultaneously."

Gor'muka paused his carving, threw his head back, and let out a boisterous, ear-splitting laugh that echoed through the catacombs.

"An alliance? Against a single human boy?" Gor'muka sneered, tossing the bone to his dire-wolf. "Krag'gath grew soft in his fortress, and Borgath was always a brainless brute who fought like a rabid dog. You fear shadow tricks because you live underground like a rat, Mal'kor!"

Giant King Thrum let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that shook dust from the ceiling. "A human leading orcs, absurd. Let the boy play conqueror. When his tiny horde reaches the volcanic wastes, my giants will step on them like beetles."

Mal'kor’s grip tightened on his bone staff. "You underestimate him. He cleanses the soul-beads of his victims. He turns our warlords into hollow thralls!"

"Then I will bring you his head to replace your staff!" Gor'muka roared, slamming his massive fist into the armrest of his throne.

The wolf-rider warlord stood up, his five-foot curved broadsword scraping against the basalt floor as his yellow eyes burned with wild, arrogant bloodlust.

"I don't need your stone-skinned fools, Thrum, and I don't need your corpses, old man," Gor'muka declared, spitting into the central basin. "The Dire-Fang Clan has four thousand mounted wolf-riders. We are the fastest, most violent fury on these plains! I will ride out tonight, butcher this human conqueror, and break his little puppet show before dawn!"

Without waiting for a response, Gor'muka turned his back on the council and strode out of the catacombs, his monstrous dire-wolf bounding beside him.

High on his throne, Grand Necromancer Mal'kor closed his hollow eyes and sighed softly.

"Fool," the old necromancer whispered to the dark air. "He marches straight into a grave."