Chapter 10
Two days later, and Nargol ached in places she shouldn’t.
The long ride had exhaustion resting deep into her bones.
She had to force herself to remain alert as she and Makhel slowed their shukans at the edge of a ravine.
Ahead rose the Temple of Spirits. The ancient ruins were half swallowed by stone and vine.
It was perched on a plateau like a scar sliced into the earth by the gods themselves.
Mist clung to the ground. It curled around the broken pillars and shattered stairways worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain.
The air felt heavier. It was thick with memories and power.
Nargol glanced around at the surrounding area and found that even the forest seemed to bow away from the temple.
The trees grew sparse and twisted away from the building as if they were unwilling to encroach too closely.
“We are here,” Makhel announced. She reined in her shukan beside hers.
Nargol’s throat tightened so she was unable to speak. She nodded quickly to acknowledge her friend.
She had not been this far east since childhood and even then she’d never been brought here.
No orc came to the Temple of Spirits lightly.
This was not a shrine meant for causal prayers.
This was where the ancestors lingered. Where Nogora’s presence was said to press so close, she could steal the breath from those who she deemed unworthy.
As Nargol dismounted, her thoughts betrayed her. They drifted away as they had for days, to Orlena.
The look in her eyes when Nargol had promised to return haunted her.
Hope tangled with doubt had been in those brown eyes.
Did she truly think Nargol wouldn’t return for her?
Nargol had been on battlefields, drenched in blood, had faced enemies with blades raised, yet that single look had shaken her more deeply.
I will come back, she vowed silently. This was one promise she would not break.
But first she would have to survive this.
“Stay here and graze, my friend. You deserve it.” Nargol firmly patted Torch’s shoulder.
They were leaving their shukans in an area that provided plenty of grass for them to rest and feed. Torch gave a low snort and turned away from her. He already had his head lowered and took his first bites.
She followed Makhel toward the ruins. Their boots crunched over gravel and broken stone.
The Temple loomed larger with each step.
Massive slabs of dark rock fitted together with a craftsmanship long lost to time.
Ancient Orcish runes were carved deep into the wall and glowed faintly.
They pulsed like a heartbeat beneath the layers of moss.
“This place was built thousands of solars ago,” Makhel said. Awe filled her voice. She shook her head slowly. “This came before clans. Before any one orc wore a crown.”
Nargol knew the history well. She had studied it since she was young. She had listened, wide-eyed, as the elders spoke of Nogora around roaring fires.
Nogora had been a fierce warrior who had refused to let her people fade.
In the age before steel and fire, when the orcs wandered as nomads, the world had been cruel, and their existence was fragile.
War had come with their ancient enemies, the trolls.
When the Karrnoth Horde had come to try to enslave the orcs, it was Nogora who’d led the charge against them.
But the war was only half the battle.
The land turned against the orcs. The soil withered, the rivers ran dry, and famine loomed over them. It was Nogora who refused to allow her people to shrivel into dust. She had climbed Mount Gorthul and offered her own heart to the gods in exchange for the survival of orcs.
From her blood, rivers had been born. From her bones, fertile land had risen, and from her sacrifice, the orcs had learned what it meant to endure.
Now orcs prayed to Nogora before battle and harvest alike. Warriors carved her sigil into their armor, famers etched it into plows. The strong believed they would feast beside Nogora in the Ironfang Halls where they died to be honored for eternity.
Nargol’s steps slowed.
“You’re thinking too much,” Makhel muttered.
“I’m thinking like I should be,” Nargol countered. She paused and stood in the temple. “What we are looking for just isn’t a piece of parchment. It is sacred. A part of our history.”
“The future of Aghon is scared as well. We must protect it. If Grat and Hagu succeed, they’ll plunge us into a war. They don’t care about Nogora’s will. They only care about the power they want.”
Nargol clenched her jaw. Makhel was right. Orcs were already plotting to tear down the Nidani clan in order to discard centuries of balance in favor of brutality masquerading as tradition.
“This isn’t about replacing one ruler with another,” Nargol said. “It’s about preserving what Nogora blessed us with.”
They reached the entrance. The wide archway was half collapsed, teeth of stone jutting downward like a skull frozen in mid-snarl. Cold air rushed out from within. It carried the scent of earth and history.
Nargol crossed the threshold, and a shiver immediately overtook her. She felt watched. Not with malice, but with curiosity.
The spirits of the ancestors lingered here. She could feel them brushing against her awareness. They whispered in a language that was long forgotten. Even with Nargol’s knowledge of multiple languages, it wasn’t any of the ones she knew. Goosebumps rose on her arms as they moved deeper inside.
The interior opened into a vast chamber. The ceiling was lost in the shadows. Pillars carved with scenes of battles and harvest lined the walls. Many of them were cracked or toppled yet still imposed the messages they wanted to be received. Roots snuck through the broken stone of the floor.
At the far end of the chamber stood an altar.
Nogora’s sigil was carved into the wall behind it. A fanged skull encircled by wheat, worn smooth by countless hands that had lain upon it in devotion. The sight stole Nargol’s breath away.
She dropped to one knee without conscious thought, unable to take her eyes off the symbolism of Nogora.
Makhel followed beside her. Silence enveloped them.
Nargol bowed her head and closed her eyes.
She breathed deep, and even though it was only she and Makhel in the chamber, she felt the eyes of the others watching.
“Nogora,” she whispered. She tried to will her racing heart to slow. “Mother of strength. Guardian of our people.”
She wasted no time in calling on the goddess. Her voice echoed softly while being swallowed by the stone walls that surrounded them.
“We come not as thieves but as your servants,” she continued. Her heart thudded even harder. “Orcs plot against everything you sacrificed yourself for. They twist your name to justify cruelty and division. What you blessed us with, they want to take away.”
She pressed her fist to her chest.
“I ask for forgiveness for what I must do. Guide me if I am worthy. Turn me away if I am not.” It was a risk she was taking. If she was not deemed worthy to be here, then they would have failed at their mission to obtain the artifact.
For a long while, neither of them moved. The silence became overwhelming. Nargol kept her eyes closed and waited for an answer from the goddess.
A warmth brushed her shoulder.
Nargol sucked in a sharp breath as a presence filled her that was light and fierce.
It was like standing beneath a storm-filled sky.
A gentle breeze blew past her, so soft she would have sworn someone had caressed her face with their fingertips.
Strength surged through her veins that was steady and sure.
The fear that had weighed her down eased and soon dissipated.
“Did you feel that?” Makhel gasped.
“I did,” Nargol breathed.
Without hesitation, she rose. She scanned the chambers. Three doorways led deep beneath the surface of the earth. Without a thought, she angled for the far-left one. Makhel strolled behind her.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Makhel’s voice echoed behind her.
“I’m not sure.”
They slowly descended the stone stairwell.
The air grew thick. The hairs on the back of Nargol’s neck stood erect.
She rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger.
She was unsure what they would find below.
The stairwell grew narrower and curved slightly.
The arrived in a darkened hallway that was so long, she couldn’t see where it ended.
Along the walls were sconces lit by small flames that never extinguished.
They paused.
“Now where?” Makhel came to stand by Nargol.
“Wherever the goddess will lead us,” Nargol murmured. She jerked her chin toward the never-ending hall. “Let’s go.”
“After you.” Makhel chuckled.
They passed sealed chambers and collapsed corridors without slowing. Nargol’s feet carried her toward a slender alcove hidden behind a fallen pillar. Her hands shook as she and Makhel stood staring at the object of this mission.
There, nestled within stone panels echoed with ancient wards, lay the decree.
The parchment was brittle with age, its edges darkened, yet the ink remained bold. Orcish runes proclaimed the words Nargol had memorized since childhood.
The Cydassi shall rule by strength and service. Only those who defeat them in honor may take the throne.
She stood in front of it in disbelief. She’d never seen it before and had always heard stories of it.
But now that she knew this document truly existed, she had to protect it.
She reached out a shaky hand and traced the edging of the delicate paper. She read the writings of the ancestors. It was in a language that was scarcely spoken or transcribed any longer.
Nargol sucked in a breath. She hadn’t read High Orcish since her youth. The script was jagged and deliberate. Each symbol was carved with purpose rather than beauty.