The next morning, they wasted no time in getting away from the accursed ruins. The journey south along the last stretch of the old road was made in relative silence, with many furtive glances cast at every cliff face and cave entrance the party passed. Food supplies dwindled a little more each night, and many of the harder tubers couldn’t be eaten at all, for want of a fire to cook them.

  With each passing night, they began to have second thoughts. Second thoughts about choosing the old road through the mountains. Second thoughts about the whole journey.

  The mountain goats taunted them from the clifftops, and the howls of the wolves seemed to grow closer every night, although they never saw a sign of them beyond pawprints. Several times Koruk attempted to shoot at the goats on the ridgeline, wasting many arrows in the process. Eventually, by sheer luck, he managed to hit one, and Moktark patted him on the back many times for it. But when they attempted to track the wounded animal, they lost the trail in the rocks, and wasted the better part of a day trying to find it.

  Koruk decided not to waste any more of his arrows.

  Several days later, with the supplies of edible food having been gone for a full day, they ran into a pair of orcs walking in the opposite direction. They introduced themselves as prospectors of the Rock Crusher tribe, looking for new veins of ore to exploit. After much haggling, Koruk managed to convince them to part with some of their iron rations and a pot of water in exchange for two gold trinkets. They also got directions to a nearby pass in the south that would finally take them out of the mountains. After they had waved goodbye to the prospectors, Koruk spoke up, ending a silence which had lasted for days.

  “We could have bought an entire years worth of food with that gold in Wit’thod.” Koruk said, stuffing his face with some sort of unidentifiable pemmican-like food. It tasted stale, and had no other flavour of note. Moktark poked through his coinpurse.

  “We got one gold ring, and a few silver left. My belly is full and I’m not complaining. I hope they have something better to eat at Brittle Back.”

  “Brittle Teeth.” Koruk corrected. He hoped so too, he thought while swallowing.

  By nightfall they sighted brown grass and trees in a valley far below. They marched through the night by the light of the moons, desperate to be out of the barren mountains, and through much slipping and sliding on loose rocks. By daybreak they found themselves entering a vast savannah dotted with thick barrel-like trees that rose up like islands out of the brown grass. Morale greatly improved that day, as they were able to roast some of the tubers left over a blazing fire. They rested until the following morning, and were untroubled by the howls of wolves or skulking thieves.

  The journey through the plains was mostly uneventful, and went quickly over the flat, even terrain. The silence and pensiveness of the old road was gone, and they talked and joked easily. A week and a half passed traveling southwards, when the land began to change shape once again. The ground began to slope down into the beginnings of a great valley, and massive pillars of stratified rock began to jut out of the ground like the teeth of giants.

  Hence the name of the place, Koruk supposed. This must be Brittle Teeth. His journey had brought him to the very edge of the world. Somehow, he imagined it would look… different, but it was still fantastic to his eyes.

  As they continued into the valley, the teeth began to crowd closer together. Some of them had fantastic forms, looking like two or even three rocks balanced precariously on top of each other, and Koruk marvelled at what mighty beings must have crafted such a place. They began to pass people as well, hand carts mostly, but a few of the strange humped beasts too.

  One afternoon they rounded a corner, and all of a sudden the city was in front of them.

  Brittle Teeth (the city) was a strange sight to their eyes. Dome shaped adobe buildings of a radically different style than the usual orcish constructions rose up behind a low wall of the same material that didn’t look particularly defensible to Koruk’s eyes. Standing between them and that wall were thousands of striped tents in a dizzying array of colours, adorned with all sorts of ribbons and tassels and streamers that danced in the hot breeze. Beyond the town on two sides rose up a great range of jagged cliffs, and it looked for all the world as though the little settlement was sitting in the great maw of some enormous beast.

  Many people were milling about the tents, going into and out of the town, and fussing with animals and speaking loudly to one another. They looked to be dressed up as their tents were, wearing long garish robes that seemed to be interwoven with sashes and turbans and streamers in a cacophony of colours that made Koruk’s eyes hurt. Every inch of their bodies were covered, from head to toe.

  As the party entered the crowd, Koruk caught glimpses of violet eyes and red skin hiding behind the colourful masks, and he knew he wasn’t looking at orcs. They were red men. He had only heard of them in stories. From those stories he had imagined a horde of snarling wildmen come streaming out of the endless desert to rape and kill. The reality of them seemed far stranger, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it more or less.

  Every now and then he noticed a rather bulky bundle of cloth with two tusks sticking out of it, and knew that he was looking at an orc who had adopted the dress of this foreign race, albeit usually with far more muted colours.

  “Look at them.” Moktark said, nodding his head in the direction of one of the orcs. “Covering up their bodies like that… as if they’re ashamed. Even orcish women shouldn’t act so effeminate. It’s outlandish and obscene.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason for it.” Koruk said.

  “They’ve gone native. They can’t change their skin to be red so they cover it up.” Moktark said. He shook his head. “Isn’t right.”

  “We need to find a way into the desert. Should we ask around?”

  “All you’re likely to hear here is sales pitches.” Moktark said, looking around at the throngs of merchants loading up carts and pack beasts. “We need to find some proper, normal orcs to talk to. Come on, maybe we’ll find some in the city.”

  The city gate consisted of a low, rounded archway crowded with traffic. They weren’t challenged by any guards on their way through, and there was no gate and no real defences. Nobody seemed particularly worried about it. Koruk thought they must be crazy, but then he realized that any raiding army would have to first get through the tent city to even reach the gates. Maybe those merchants weren’t as helpless as they seemed, he thought.

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  The city was a lot… bigger up close. Brittle Teeth was a far cry from the cramped narrow paths and tiny huts of Wit’thod village. It featured broad paved avenues lined with market stalls, massive adobe brick buildings with multiple stories, and crowds of people haggling, shouting, and going about their business. For the most part the inhabitants were wearing the colourful robes of the red men, but every now and then they caught a glance of green skin laid bare to the sun, and the largest group of these seemed to be congregating around a large building that seemed to have been built out of several smaller dome-houses that had been joined together.

  As they approached, a group of drunk orcs stumbled out of the doorway, laughing and propping each other up as they climbed up the flight of stairs that led down into the building. They had bright green skin, and sported angry red tattoos. They were Beast tamers. Koruk and Moktark both readied themselves for a fight.

  “Hello friends! Brothers! It has been so long since I… hic… saw another friendly face! How are things at home? Things are great here!” One of them said, stumbling towards Koruk. He leaned on the young orc’s shoulder and whispered conspiratorially into his ear.

  “Stay away from the cactus wine, that shit hits hard.”

  He winked at Koruk, slapped him roughly on the back, and stumbled away to rejoin his friends, laughing raucously all the while.

  Koruk and Moktark exchanged a dumbstruck glance. Did they not realize that they were White Moons? Did they just not care? Koruk shook his head.

  This was a very strange place.

  As they entered the tavern, they were greeted by a cacophony of sights and smells that were utterly alien. The lighting was dim, cast from softly glowing lanterns suspended from the ceiling by the same coloured ribbons Koruk was used to seeing everywhere by now. There was a pungent odour of smoke and spice in the air, and amidst the many crowded tables Koruk saw for the first time red men with their heads uncovered, enjoying drinking and conversing with each other and occasionally with orcs.

  They were very peculiar to Koruk’s eyes, looking a lot like his human companion Oben, but with dark red ochre skin. From their foreheads jutted a variety of small horns. Some of the red men sported two horns, or four, or even a whole row across their foreheads, but they were always perfectly symmetrical. Their hair was raven black, just as his was, but it seemed much finer, usually curly instead of straight like an orc’s. Their faces and bodies were covered in strange swirling black tattoos that gave them a savage, ethereal appearance. They had no facial hair, nor any body hair from what he could see of their arms and legs, and their faces were so soft and feminine to his eyes that he wasn’t able to distinguish the men from women, if red men even had both sexes.

  Moktark nudged him in the ribs.

  “Don’t gawk at them. Let’s find a place to sit down.”

  Moktark selected one of the few empty tables and motioned for them to sit. Koruk felt utterly bewildered, and Oben didn’t appear much better. The two of them looked around at everything like it was going to sprout wings and fly away. Moktark seemed the most comfortable, and sighed.

  “Wait here, I’m going to go get some drinks.”

  Moktark went to the bar, and after awhile returned with three clay mugs of some kind of drink. Koruk at first thought it was some sort of clear beer, but it was sweet to the taste, almost overpoweringly so, and contrasted by a bitter aftertaste of some spice or herb he had never tasted. It was delicious.

  “I’m going to go talk to people at the bar about getting passage into the desert. Maybe someone will have heard of this black temple of yours.” Moktark said, gulping down the last of his drink in one go. With that, he walked off, leaving Koruk and Oben alone at the table together.

  Koruk felt great. That beast tamer was right. Everything was great.

  He hiccupped.

  The wine, or beer, or whatever it was, was especially great. Really great. He wished he could buy another mug, but Moktark had taken the money bag with him. Shit.

  “Drake… drake! We need more of this. We need the money. To get more of… this. What is this?”

  Oben smiled, but seemed distracted by something. He didn’t reply.

  After awhile a group of partying orcs wandered by, and spotted Koruk sitting alone with the human looking morosely into his empty cup. They approached.

  “What’s wrong? It’s no good seeing a young orc looking so sad in this house of pleasure!” One of them remarked. A female orc leaning on the speaker nodded empathically, smiling broadly.

  Koruk shyly mumbled something about being out of money.

  “Speak up! I’m too drunk to understand you.” the orc laughed. The others in his group laughed with him, as if on queue.

  “We’re going upstairs to party. Why don’t you tag along? Your pale imp friend there is welcome to join!”

  “Just don’t be surprised if you end up with some broken bones!” Another orc said.

  Oben politely declined, but before he knew it Koruk had been swept up out of his chair by the throng of merrymakers and taken up a flight of stairs to a back room.

  The room had several pieces of short furniture, and a level of decoration that bordered on “gaudy”. Uncomfortably short furniture for an orc, but they must be for the red men. Koruk sat down on a sort of low stool with a cushion on it, and it creaked alarmingly under his weight. Feeling a bit awkward and out of place, he looked around the room.

  The orcs who brought him there seemed to be from a wide variety of tribes. Beast Tamers, with their angular red tattoos. Shattered Storm, with their weird teal skin. The leader of the band looked to be a Bloodmaw, a hulking representative of what was universally considered the strongest of the orc tribes. They ruled the city of Kalzuk’thod, the warrior city, sister city to Orc’gar itself, and served as peacemakers when the clans and tribes had disputes. The Bloodmaw had bulging muscles and was covered in scars, but his good humour belied his brutal appearance. On either of his arms was a tall, barely clothed orcish woman.

  He threw one of them towards Koruk with a swing of his arm, and Koruk caught her, nearly falling off his stool in the process. The big Bloodmaw gave Koruk a toothy smile, his huge tusks shining crimson in the red light of the lamps overhead, and he winked before turning away laughing.

  Koruk felt extremely confused. One of the most dour, brutal warriors imaginable from the tribe that struck fear by its very name was acting like a friendly, excited kid who hadn’t a care in the world. Koruk watched him burst into dance with a Shattered Storm tribesman, who was easily a foot shorter than him. He looked at the giggling woman in his arms, pawing at his chest.

  Had he died and gone to paradise? He thought there would be more fighting in paradise.

  A red man – one of the orcs called him an imp? - entered the room. He, or maybe she, was carrying a large pitcher decorated with lavish and, as Koruk looked closer, extremely lewd scenes. The Bloodmaw cheerily danced up to him and dumped a green fistful of silver into the red man’s small hands, which nearly overflowed from them. The imp pocketed it into a purse, gave a courteous bow from the waist, and left the pitcher on a low table. The Bloodmaw let out a startling bellow which shook the ceiling, which Koruk could only interpret as a cheer, and started pouring the drink into small cups which looked comically dainty in his huge hands. He passed them around the room, and gave Koruk one, before thinking better of it and taking it back. He poured half the cup’s contents back into the pitcher and handed it back.

  “Best to take it easy young one.” He said.

  The clear liquid in the cup looked and smelled like nothing in particular. Koruk drank it.

  For awhile nothing happened. Then the world began to change into one of bright colours and pure joy, and he lost himself into the arms of his giggling partner.