Heirs of Hatred

Chapter 1: The Darkling and the Coward

Two orcs were running through a land of fire and ash. One of them, chasing the other. The chaser's skin was as dark as the sky full of smoke and his eyes as bright as the fires that spew from the burning mountains at the horizon. Desperate fury laid in these eyes for this chase was for more than a simple victory.

The chased one however, was green as the distant forests, he missed so dearly, and had eyes that were as dark as those of a wolf he missed even more. Pure fear laid open in those eyes. For his chase was about more than simple survival.

It was about victory for all the clans from the south. It was about the promise of victory and an end to all the chases.

His fear became a desperate fury for he knew he was too weak to fight his dark chaser. "Only without honour one would run, only with fear one would die." Words that were spoken by his mother once, and that weighed heavy on his heart as he ran across the ashen plains.

"Coward!" screamed the dark orc that chased him. The echo of his voice was only drowned by the roaring burning mountains. His body was painted with blood, most of it fresh, none of it his own. He knew his words were only partly true, for he was unsure how long he could run after the battle. The muscles in his legs burned like the fire he sought to protect, and his breaths became as heavy as the smoke he sought to conquer again. A fight would have been easier. And the green coward knew that. As much as he was a coward, he was no fool to stop running and face the dark chaser's axe.

Their rivalry had started before they were born. Enemies in a war not even their Elders remembered how it began, only that they fought. Always one clan against the other, always to live in fire and hatred and to soil their lands with the blood of their enemies. Over the ages too much of it had been spilled for there to ever be peace among their clans. Every family that lost one to the other had sworn for revenge. Had made it their tradition to hand down a weapon that would deliver the final blow of vengeance. But it was never the final blow. Blood was always there to breed more fury, more tears and more hatred until all their kind knew was the way of war. That was the only life an orc knew and even if both hoped for victory. It was not a hope to end the endless bloodshed, but to be victor of it.

The green coward knew he could outrun his dark chaser, but he did not know where to hide. The ashen plains were wide and open, only surrounded by a mountain range filled with caves that spew the earth's boiling blood across the grey land. Some of them filled with red roaring wyverns others with even darker shadows. Maybe he could throw his enemy in a pool of molten earth, maybe he could find a cave to lose him in, or maybe he would just run until one of them was stopped by their own body. A fight not of axe and sword but the muscles in their legs and the air in their lungs. Even then, no matter the option it was all only temporary for he knew his luck so far was to face only one, and only without his mount.

The dark servants of the dragon were known for their ability to take victory even when alone. Many clans thought it was mainly because of the beasts they rode, but the blood on his dark skin, and the bodies of the cowards' allies, spoke a different truth.

"If I can bring him to talk, he might waste his breath into his voice instead of the chase." The coward thought. It was not a grand plan, not one that could ensure victory but for now his legs and voice were the only weapons that gave him a hope.

"Quite bold to fight alone, darkling!" The coward almost choked on his own words, because he knew the irony of spewing them while fleeing.

"You'll get the bold of my axe! Coward!" The dark voice of his even darker chaser bellowed back. His words made no sense but the threat behind them was real.

But the darkling knew his legs would not be able to run much longer. Usually the servants of the dragon took their victory in mere seconds as they gave their all in every swing of every axe. If that was not enough to kill all foes, there was no point in wasting time with strategy or thought, only death. Still he had to admit that the coward was about to win as his legs burned more with every single step of his chase. Maybe it was the battle before that took most of his strength, maybe it was the heavy black and spiked armour on his legs that slowed him down, no matter what it was, it was about to take his victory.