Full Amended Version of Wildwater: Rise of the Orr’un…
Picture Credit
(Made with Canva) [Note that “Mark Rogues” was an old pen name of mine]
Please see below for the Amended Version of this story. The story itself is largely unchanged from the original version, only with additional references to the Sovenian Dynasty, the Southern Fringe, and the Milithron Galaxy in which the story is set. Originally, the story was set in its own universe (Starspear), but I have since decided to incorporate the story into my wider space opera universe. I am currently working on a novel set in that universe called Falakin. It will take place in the Southern Fringe of the Galaxy, featuring the Resurrected Orr’un Conquest (and Garrun) as well as other Sovenian successor states.
(It is the same universe that pieces like this are set).
I hope you enjoy reading this. You can read the original version of this story here.
—
Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…
The words echoed through his mind in an interminable rhythm, growing stronger with each utterance. The voice that spoke those words was hushed and cold, like a whisper creaking out from a crack in the ice. And it carried great weight; the weight of frozen supernovas, of time-stopped neutron stars. It was a crushing weight, which pressed on his mind. He thought his head would split, erupt in fiery magma.
Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…
Garrun awoke with a start, breath shuddering, two hands grasping his delt-hide mattress while the third nursed his shocked, sweat-streaked face. Every pec and abdominal on his bare chest was tense and tight, as if readied for war. His silver skin glinted softly, creating a silver halo in the pitch-black. Calming himself, he glanced at the other slaves, Orr’uns like him, their silver skin glowing faintly to abate some of the dark. They were fast asleep in their beds; many were snoring. All were oblivious to him.
Garrun sighed, reflecting on his dream. He knew that voice. It had spoken to him many times by now. “The Whisper”, the legends called it. It was said to greet warriors in their sleep, to prepare them for their future. But what the legends excluded was whether that future was one of glory…or ruin.
Garrun had never been much of a believer in the fantastical, unlike many of his people. Orr’uns were big believers in myths and legends; they were ruled by the prophesied words of wizened elders and seers, whose inane mutterings carried with them enough weight to make emperors kneel.
It was on the words of the elders that we knelt to the Vorion Imperium, surrendered our conquests of Kela Major and Sihko to them, Garrun thought ruefully. The elders claimed it would bring us glory, but all the Vorion have brought us are chains, the same chains the Sovenians used to snare us to loyalty. The Orr’un Conquest has collapsed, and the rest of our territories are now theirs.
His chest tightened. The fall of the Sovenian Dynasty had liberated his people. They had warred across the Ca’apal Sector and across the Aarilith Belt. The upheaval of the Sovenians’ fall had left many splinter governments in its wake, and the Orr’uns had taken full advantage of that, spilling blood across the Southern Fringe. They had battled the Sovenian Earls, those few remaining of the Sovenian aristocracy who had formed their little protectorates across the Fringe. Then had come further conquests: the Great Human Civil War, where the Orr’uns had allied with the Ivoravi Federation and the Allied Liberation Front against the Ethlorianns; the Gallacag War, where they had fought both the Gallacag Alliance and the Krennoans; fighting the warrior castes of Calwa; and many, many more.
Garrun himself had marched on the bloodplains of the battlefield, following in the footsteps of his warrior father. He’d fought on the grass-deserts of Kela Major, in the warpholes of Vhoru, and on so many other worlds. Private Garrun, then Sergeant Garrun, and later, Commander Garrun. His only regret over his military career was that he had failed to become a general – though not for lack of trying.
But no longer did the Orr’un wage war. Two years ago, the Conquest had failed to conquer the world of Vadkerheim in the Orr’un-Sacodiar War; that had been the first of the great defeats, which had sent the Conquest on its downward spiral. This eventually led to the Great Betrayal by the elders, as they ceded the Conquered Territories to the Vorion Imperium, another great power left behind in the Sovenians’ wake. The Conquest had been dissolved and the Orr’un people, once might conquerors, had been conquered by the Vorions.
Now the Orr’uns were weighed down by the chains of the Vorion Imperium, their backs broken and their lives spent. The thought made Garrun’s insides coil in fury as he looked about at his fellow silver-skinned Orr’un slaves, lying peacefully in their beds. In time the Orr’un Conquest shall rise again. We will recover from the elders’ Great Betrayal.
Even now, a year after the Great Betrayal, many Orr’un slaves still believed in the elders’ myths and legends, prophecies and foresights. They still believed the elders would rescue them from their toil. In the past, Garrun had looked upon these people with scorn. But now, his perspective had changed.
For two weeks, the Whisper had appeared in his dreams. Sometimes it had incarnated itself in its bestial form of tentacles and fur; other times, like tonight, it simply whispered icy words. His name was an endless drumbeat, hissed through the night.
But what does it mean? Garrun’s square face twisted as he thought. But after many minutes thinking, he had found no answer. Determining that this was thought for another night, he turned over in his bed and fell promptly to sleep. The Whisper’s icy words resumed, promising another sleepless night.
#
The next day’s work was hard and laborious. The Vorion Imperium had built a series of mountain forts deep in the Crestfall Peaks of the moon of Kela Minor, to keep the local indigenous peoples – the Kelas, the Banshees, the Siiraan, and the like – under control. When the Orr’uns had first occupied the planet, nearly a decade ago, they had tried the same tactic with little success; the indigenous peoples refused to be tamed.
The Crestfall Peaks were in the Emyhr Wastes of Kela Minor, separating the northwest of the region from the south. The Wastes were a harsh and unforgiving environment. There were no nights here, and the sun ravaged the dustplain endlessly. Water was sparse; indeed, the ground was so cracked and broken that it threatened to give way at any moment. But worst of all was the fauna, deadlier even than the legendary poison jungles of Ry’bush’ii: rybeasts, thawbeaks, ulfs, giants, morkrakkens…there were enough dangerous beasts to make even fearless warriors like Ivan the Slayer tremble.
Garrun remembered back to when he had been stationed on Kela Minor, along with his special Dagger unit. The unit had contained some of the finest warriors in the Orr’un Second Legion; but a simple expedition into the mountain caves, where they had found only a handful of ulfs, had left the unit at less than half-strength. It was his failure as Dagger Commander which (among other things) Garrun attributed to his failure to become a general. As devastating as the ulf was, the huge loss of life was his fault.
Garrun grimaced as he stepped out of the fortress and onto the dusty plateau, following the line of slaves as they proceeded out, under the watchful eyes of the Vorion guards. The howling wind swept away most of the sound his boots made as they struck the plateau’s hard rock. He inhaled a lungful of dry air and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead for what felt like the thousandth time in the last few minutes and brushed aside his sweaty locks of dark hair. The air clogged his throat like clay, and his body was layered in a permanent film of sweat. In these fortresses, built specially to battle the deadly conditions of the Wastes, were mines, built to dig for ferrobrick, thocrete, and other materials the Vorions needed to build their forts. For miners, the Vorions used slaves.
‘Move, slave scum,’ barked one of the Vorion guards, eyes fixed on Garrun. He brandished a dusty old beamer; the gun’s barrel glinted dully in the sunlight. Garrun wasn’t even given the opportunity to oblige the request: he groaned as the guard struck his back with the beamer. Bent over and breathing hard, Garrun shuffled across the plateau alongside the rest of the slave group. His injury still burned, but the pain was gradually fading.
Most of the slaves were Orr’uns, like him, with silvery skin, three arms, and squarish heads. Their bare, silver chests gleamed in the sunlight. Like him, they had once been great warriors; now they were cogs in the Imperium’s slave empire. The non-Orr’uns in the group were mostly the Vorion guards, who wore tight, dark-grey bodysuits and helms, though a couple of the slaves were also non-Orr’un, from other species across the Southern Fringe. All the slaves looked thin and fragile. One – a small, ratty Siiraan – looked so emaciated Garrun half-expected it to simply soar away on the wind.
Eventually, they reached the edge of the plateau, where a towline was placed. Comprised of a metal rope set on a conveyor and attached to sequentially placed handlebars, the towline would carry them from the plateau, down the mountainside, and into the mines. Next to the towline sat the operating box, where a group of uniformed reptiloid operators stood by a cluster of terminals.
As the slaves arrived at the towline, a couple of the uniformed reptiloids – whose species Garrun still had yet to determine – scarpered out to meet them. After exchanging a few grunts of Oiy, the main language of the Vorion Imperium, with their guards, the reptiloids set to work getting the slaves on the towline. One by one they stepped up and grasped the handlebars, before the towline whisked them away.
As the slaves grasped the towline, Garrun noticed them suppress winces – and bit back a wince of his own. The handlebars were electrified, which paralysed the slaves and ensured they didn’t let go: the journey to the mines was long and the Imperium had already had valuable slaves fall to their deaths on the mountainside – intentionally or not.
When it was the Siiraan’s turn, the ratty being let out a pitiful wail as it grasped the handlebars, before the conveyor whisked it down the mountain. By contrast, when one of the huge Orr’un warriors at least twice Garrun’s height and width stepped up to the towline, he didn’t flinch when he grasped the handlebar. With a bald head and a body of bulging muscle, the warrior was Vax, a man Garrun had fought alongside only briefly in the Gallacag War. Garrun remembered being impressed by Vax’s warrior skill, though had been unnerved by what he’d perceived as the man’s unbridled sadism. Still, he had been a loyal son of the Conquest.
When it was Garrun’s turn to step forward and grasp the handlebars, he made sure to keep a hard face, like Vax had. Even as the electricity coursed through him, he glared furiously into the slitted eyes of the nearest reptiloid operator and was pleased to see the reptiloid was visibly shaken. Rattling and shaking, the towline carried him away.
As Garrun descended the mountain, the mountainside blurred beneath his feet. A few tufts of bramble and thorny bush poked up from gaps in the grey stone, but for the most part, the mountain was rocky and barren of life. Adjacent to the mountain, Garrun spied a huge river – the Grey River, which wound through much of the west region of the Wastes. Even all the way up on the mountainside, he could hear its rushing waters and foaming swells.
After a few minutes on the towline, Garrun’s arms began to ache. By the time he saw the mine – a gaping, black hole in the side of the mountain – his muscles felt fit to pop. As he drew closer, another spurt of electricity buzzed through the handlebars, un-paralysing him; he dropped from the towline, landing roughly in a cloud of dust at the entrance of the mine.
Hoisted to his feet by a rough-tongued guard, he heard sobbing and turned to see the ratty Siiraan slave coiled up in a ball, shivering with exertion and crying. One of the nearby Vorion guards stepped forwards and barked at it, but the Siiraan was unresponsive. The guard barked again, but there was still no reply. Finally, judging the ratty creature as unfit for mining duty, the guard drew their pistol and fired.
A bolt of blue energy zipped from the barrel of the pistol and into the Siiraan’s back, leaving a smoking hole in its torso. The Siiraan stopped crying and shivering. Its breathing slowed, then stopped altogether.
As the other slaves hurried away, trying to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, Garrun stayed put, staring at the Siiraan’s corpse. Like the Orr’uns, the Siiraan peoples had once been sworn to the Sovenian Dynasty, and with the Sovenians’ fall, had sought to build an empire for themselves. The Siiraan had been one of the smaller empires the Orr’uns had conquered in their Third Great Expansion. Garrun himself had fought and killed many Siiraan, on Vishos, on Uhh, and on their homeworld of Kela Major (which the Kela Minor moon orbited).
While the Orr’uns’ conquest had been bloody, they had at least respected the Siiraan. They had honoured their fallen soldiers with burials and – for the most prestigious of them – statues. The Vorions, though, did nothing of the sort.
There was a difference, at least Garrun thought so, between murder and killing on the battlefield. On the battlefield, both sides had implicitly consented to the other side trying to kill them; as such, death on the battlefield was justified. But murder had no logic like this: it was unjustifiable.
What that Vorion did was murder, Garrun thought disdainfully as he eyed the Siiraan’s still-smoking corpse. I will bury you, Garrun promised the corpse, before the guard dragged him away to the rest of the slaves.
Garrun tripped and was sent into Vax, the big Orr’un soldier. The big Orr’un caught him and righted him; he said nothing but gave Garrun a curt nod of acknowledgement.
Garrun turned away, fixing his gaze on the huge mouth of the cave, which brimmed with shadow. The guards barked some commands and led the slaves into the caves. Guards stationed at the cave mouth handed them pickaxes as they entered.
The guards led them deep into the gloom. It was near-pitch-black, lit only by a thin line of sconces tracing the edges of the mine. Away from the outside’s blazing heat, it was cool and damp. It would have been pleasant were it not for the great fogs of dust which clouded each chamber of the mine and the continued dink–dink–dink of the slaves’ pickaxes as they struck the rock. Lining every cave wall were haggard slaves with bare chests and tattered rags wrapped around their waists. They looked pleadingly at them as they passed, as if silently begging the new slaves to bring them reprieve from their toil.
They turned down one of the chasms, coming to another large cavern. Unlike the others, it was empty and silent and there were no dust clouds poisoning the air. The darkness cowered somewhat beneath the glowing silver skin of the Orr’uns.
The guards barked their commands, and the slaves lined themselves up along the cave wall, pickaxes poised. Garrun was reluctant at first to oblige, staring hard at one of the guards – a two-headed caninoid – before eventually taking his position on the cave wall between Vax and an old Orr’un.
‘Dig,’ ordered one of the guards, before they and the other guards retreated to the entrance of the cavern. There they stayed, peering intently at the miners. Their blacksteel pikes glimmered like onyx shards through the darkness. A handful of them had beamers; Garrun had not seen so many beamers ever in one place. The Sovenian stranglehold of shooter gas which powered the guns had made sure of that.
Garrun’s pickaxe sang with strength as he pummelled it into the rock. That strength would soon fade, he knew, but at least he had strength to begin with. Other slaves – most of the women and a couple of the older men – tired after only a few seconds, muscles burdened by months of toil; their pickaxes sang softly in barely-perceptible whispers.
Garrun glanced at the old Orr’un next to him. He looked entirely different without his gold finery and rubies, and were it not for his prior conversations with him, Garrun would not have recognised him. The old Orr’un’s face was tight and wrinkled, his potbelly had shrivelled to a patch of excess skin hanging from his bare torso, and his arms, which had previously rippled with fat, were now gaunt and skeletal.
It was safe to say Elder Volh’gaag Intrun had changed significantly during his time under the Vorion Imperium.
Garrun regarded the man with dark eyes, thick brows twisting. But Volh’gaag simply smiled kindly at him.
‘Strong as ever, Garrun de Tiorne,’ said the old Orr’un.
Amidst his mining, Garrun grunted an unintelligible response, before adding, ‘Not “de Tiorne”. Not anymore. That name is my father’s now, as it was first; I carry it no longer.’
‘A warrior’s title never leaves him–’
‘Not a warrior anymore.’ Garrun smashed his pickaxe into a chunk of rock, which shattered into a thousand pieces. He raised the pickaxe. ‘I’m a miner now. You elders made sure of that.’
A flash of something crossed Volh’gaag’s face, but it faded with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s for the glory of the Orr’un.’
Garrun rolled his eyes. If he had an amtag for every time he’d heard that, he’d be richer than the Merchants’ Union.
‘No, no, I’m serious,’ Volh’gaag continued, unabashed. ‘The Whisper came to us in a dream–’
Garrun froze. He dropped his pickaxe; it clattered on the rock. That was a new part of the story – a part he’d never heard before. ‘What did you say?’ he asked sharply, interrupting Volh’gaag.
His heart pounded. If the Whisper was part of the Great Betrayal, then could that mean…he was real? And if he was real – and that was a big if – what did he want with him?
The old man frowned. ‘What did I say? You mean about Seer Augrin and–’
Garrun shook his head. ‘No, no – before that.’ He stooped, picking up his fallen pickaxe. ‘The Whisper. You mentioned the Whisper.’
‘Oh?’ Volh’gaag shrugged. ‘Did I? No matter. Must’ve been a slip of the tongu–’
The old man never got to finish his sentence. With a low growl, Garrun leapt at him, pinning him against the cave wall with two hands. His third hand tore Volh’gaag’s pickaxe from his grip and cast it to the floor. He barely heard the clang as the pickaxe hit the ground – but the guards did. They shouted, not that Garrun heard.
Rage bubbled through him. ‘Tell me,’ Garrun growled, glaring at Volh’gaag. ‘TELL ME.’
Volh’gaag choked, eyes wide. He squirmed, trying hopelessly to break from Garrun’s grip. His silver face faded to grey then to purple.
Garrun groaned as a pike smacked into his back – followed shortly by another. He released the pickaxe and fell back as two guards grabbed him from behind. Roaring, he struggled against them, but couldn’t fight them off.
There came a thunderous bellow, and suddenly, the hulking frame of Vax appeared. He tore the two guards away from Garrun, throwing them across the cave, and pulled Garrun to his feet.
Garrun frowned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Saving you,’ the big Orr’un grunted. ‘As you saved me.’
Garrun’s frown deepened. He couldn’t remember saving anyone – and if he had saved someone, it wouldn’t have been the big warrior Vax. He didn’t need saving.
But before he could think on this any longer, a hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him to the floor. He grunted loudly as a pike struck his chest. More guards rushed in to restrain him and Vax, pinning them both to the floor. The guards with beamers watched, fingers twitching on their triggers.
‘Solitary for you both,’ one of the guards sneered. He gestured to the guards holding the two Orr’uns in place. Garrun and Vax groaned as pikes struck them in the abdomen.
As the guards pulled them to their feet, Garrun spied Volh’gaag approaching one of the guards, inhaling sharply. But the guard had no time for him, shoving the old man roughly into the cave wall.
Garrun and Vax were dragged to their feet and marched out of the chamber. As they walked through the cave gloom, Garrun watched Vax curiously, thinking on what he had said.
Did I really save him? Garrun thought.
#
That night, in solitary, Garrun struggled to sleep. Again, he was haunted by the Whisper. But this time, the words were accompanied by a flurry of images.
The words hissed out of the ice: Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…
He saw a circle of elders huddled at the centre of a marble hall. Wind tugged at their cloaks. Hoods concealed their faces. Pillars of yellow sepstone loomed over them, draping them in shadow.
There was a shout, and the elders suddenly parted, scattering about the hall. Some scarpered to the shelter of the marble pillars; others leapt into the air and soared up, towards the hall’s cavernous ceiling.
At the centre of the hall was a pool of blood, and in the middle of the pool was a body, its silver skin stained red.
A woman. Her long, golden hair was matted with congealed blood. Her three arms were splayed wide. She had unusually-sharp features – especially for the blocky-headed Orr’un race – which made her highly unattractive by Orr’un standards. Dangling around her neck was a green pendant on a silver chain.
The hair…the face…the pendant…Garrun recognised her at once. She was…
The words came in a thunderstorm, overriding all thought: Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…
A lake, forested by giant, red leaves. The sky was mottled orange, which shimmered off the lake’s clear waters. Birds twittered as they flew across the sky.
The lake was empty, barring one small boat, which drifted towards the lakeside harbour: a small jut of rock with a primitive boatman’s hut sat upon it. On the boat was a dark figure. The boat arrived at the harbour and the figure stepped out onto the rock, lashing the boat to a wooden post in the ground.
The figure was an Orr’un man with broad shoulders, a squarish face, and a thick brow. Tightly-curled strands of black hair trailed down the man’s shoulders. He looked almost Garrun’s spitting image.
Garrun’s eyes widened. That man, he was…
‘Stymio!’ came the shout from the boatman’s hut. Out came running a woman with golden hair and a sharp face. It was the woman from the previous vision, Garrun realised, the one who had been lying in a pool of blood. Her face was split into a broad smile.
‘Ellesst!’ As the woman ran to him, Stymio wrapped her up in his arms and spun her round, laughing.
Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…
Garrun saw the lake, gleaming golden in the sunset. There was a boat, both with gold-haired Ellesst and square-faced Stymio inside. Their silver skins shimmered in the orange light.
‘…has been months,’ Ellest finished, breathless with excitement. Her smile had yet to falter. ‘Yet my heart’s strength does not wane for you.’
He grinned back. ‘I love you, Ellesst Verea, and I will to the end of my days.’
If it was possible, her smile broadened. ‘I love you too, Stymio Axii.’ She paused. ‘So what has changed with you?’ She paused again, and a hint of sadness crept into her eyes. ‘Are you still a warrior?’
Stymio nodded slowly. ‘Yes. They call me Stymio “de Tiorne”, now – “the Wild One”. Apparently I did good in the Siege of Yhy’tu.’
Ellesst’s face turned to stone; her smile faltered. ‘Did you do good for the people of Yhy’tu, or was it good for the Sovenians?’
Stymio frowned. ‘What do you mean? Of course it was good for the Sovenians – that’s the whole point! We’re a step closer to finishing this blasted war with the Krennoans. Then there will be peace amongst the Sovenian Territories.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, what have you been up to?’
‘I – I’ve been meeting with the Diaa’sarn,’ Ellest stammered, bowing her head. ‘They’ve…started teaching…me…’
Stymio frowned. ‘And?’ he asked simply, voice empty.
She gulped. ‘I have a new name, too. Not Ellesst anymore, “Ki’on”. It means “Calmwater.” I…I have water affinity. Apparently, I have Mer heritage that I was unaware of.’
Stymio nodded slowly and inhaled sharply. ‘You going to become a shimmer-tail, then? A Gavorr?’
‘A Merfolk,’ Ellesst corrected. ‘Not a Gavorr. And I’m not sure. We’ll see. It won’t be for a long while, though; I only recently began my Path.’ At Stymio’s grave look, she added, ‘I know how you feel about the Mer, but I assure you, not all of them are like Lipl–’
‘Don’t call her “Lipl”,’ Stymio snapped. ‘You make her seem like a normal person. No, her name is Xal, the Traitor of Yvean, Feaster of Sanguine, Flocker of Greatsharks.’
Garrun could sense the man’s agitation: Stymio’s hands balled to fists. He had heard of Xal the Traitor: she was the Merfolk pirate who had murdered his grandparents.
‘Do not call her a common name like “Lipl”,’ Stymio exclaimed. ‘You make her seem ordinary. She was extraordinary – extraordinarily vile!’ His final words came out as a shout so sharp Ellesst flinched.
‘Stymio…’ Ellesst soothed, placing her hands on his shoulders. ‘It’s alright…’
‘No! Get off me, witch!’ Stymio pushed her hands away and got to his feet sharply, face tense.
The movement was enough to jostle the boat. Ellesst yelped as she tripped and toppled over the side.
Stymio’s eyes widened. He ran to the edge of the boat, but Ellesst had already sunk beneath the water. He let out a shout and readied to dive in after her, when suddenly the waters began to churn and foam, coiling around the boat.
‘No…’ Stymio gasped. ‘Ellesst! Ellesst! I’m–’
His words were drowned out by a furious growl. A pillar of foaming water shot up from the lake, engulfing the boat and it was lost from sight.
Garrun’s mind raced. No…No, this isn’t…Please don’t let it be…
As the water pillar crashed back down to the lake, the boat reappeared. Stymio was gone, but Ellesst was there, sobbing and nursing her stomach.
‘No, Stymio, no…I’m…I’m so sorry…’ she choked, rubbing her stomach. ‘I never…I never got to tell you…’
She swallowed. ‘Garrun. I will name him Garrun, after your father. He will be a warrior, the greatest warrior of the Orr’un. And he will carry your title, in your honour. Garrun de Tiorne, he shall be known.’
And for a final time, the words stampeded across Garrun’s mind: Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…
#
Dink-dink-dink
Garrun’s pickaxe crashed against the cave wall. A rock chunk shattered, sending fragments raining down to the floor. He grunted and swung again. His mind buzzed with the memory of last night’s visions.
Those two visions – his mother’s death and his father’s death – why had the Whisper shown them to him? He was well aware of his father’s death at the hands of his mother, before he was born, and of his mother’s subsequent death as punishment at the hands of the elders. He was also aware of his mother’s Merfolk heritage and powers – though no such powers had been passed onto him.
So, again, that begged the question: why?
Garrun’s mind raced, searching for answers but coming up short. He glanced across the cave at Volh’gaag, who had been moved to the cave wall opposite after he and Garrun’s altercation the previous day. Questions about the Whisper’s involvement in the Great Betrayal had also plagued Garrun’s mind, and he wondered if it could at all be linked to last night’s visions. Either way, even if there was no link, Volh’gaag had been one of the elders present at his mother’s execution – or murder, depending on how you looked at it – and could provide more information.
‘You okay?’ came the grunt from his left.
Garrun turned to face Vax, who had paused his mining to peer curiously at him. He nodded. ‘Yeah. Just thinking.’
Garrun swung his pickaxe. Dink! It lodged itself firmly in the rock. He tried to pull it free, but it wouldn’t budge. Giving up, he threw a pleading glance Vax’s way. The big Orr’un harrumphed, reached for the pickaxe, and easily pulled it free.
‘Thanks,’ Garrun muttered. He paused. ‘Yesterday, you said I “saved” you. What did you mean by that?’
Vax shrugged. ‘You saved my life. It is custom of my clan to remain loyal to those who have saved us; I will be loyal to you until my death.’
‘Right.’ Garrun frowned. ‘But…when exactly did I save your life?’
‘Gallacag War,’ Vax replied, rubbing his bald head. ‘Krennoans had joined the war with the Gallacag Alliance and were preparing a fleet to ambush the Gall’a orbital station. My unit was stationed on the Gall’a moon; had the attack gone through, we would’ve been slaughtered. But luck was on our side. Dagger unit – led by yourself – hijacked the fleet’s flagship. Delayed the attack by long enough that we could get everyone off the station. You saved the life of everyone in my unit, and for that I am eternally grateful.’
Garrun nodded. He remembered that mission – Operation Vaw Strike. For Dagger unit, it had just been another run-of-the-mill mission…not that he told Vax that. Instead, he smiled and thanked the big Orr’un before returning to mining. They dug for the rest of the morning and spoke little thereafter.
When it was time for their lunch break, Garrun attempted to talk to Volh’gaag. But if the old Orr’un had been reluctant yesterday, he was even more so now: Garrun couldn’t get a word out of him. It wasn’t until after they had returned to the fortress when Volh’gaag dragged him aside to talk.
The old Orr’un cast a quick glance about the darkened corridor, checking for guards, before turning back to Garrun. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know, fine. If that’s what he wants.’
Garrun frowned. But before he could speak, Volh’gaag answered his silent question. ‘The Whisper,’ he said. ‘I saw him in my dreams last night. He said to tell you everything or the Orr’uns would be doomed. I thought he was being a tad melodramatic, I can’t lie, but–’
Garrun cut over him. ‘How was the Whisper involved in the Great Betrayal?’
At first, Volh’gaag frowned, confused. Then his confusion faded to a tight face and sad eyes. ‘Ah. “Great Betrayal”. So that is what you have come to call it. A shame…’ His eyes seemed distant, as if not fully seeing what was in front of him. ‘We never meant for all this. We were only doing as he commanded. He promised us honour and glory – for the whole Orr’un race. That we would be able to conquer the territories left behind by the Sovenians…if we ceded to the Vorions.’
Garrun frowned. What had the Whisper been talking about? Why had he set into motion the Orr’uns’ slavery to the Imperium? And what did last night’s visions have to do with it – if anything?
‘My mother’s death,’ Garrun began. ‘What happened?’
Volh’gaag hesitated. ‘Your mother, Ki’on, or Ellesst – however you knew her – died in the Halls of Radiance on Ethara VI.’
Garrun nodded. ‘I know this – what else?’
‘She was executed for the murder of your father, Stymio de Tiorne,’ Volh’gaag continued. ‘A fine warrior of the Sovenians, your father was. Many of us disliked the Sovenians, even if we were loyal, but your father…he seemed enraptured with them. The Sovenian Dynasty, I almost think he wanted to become part of them. It was a shame he died.’ Sigh. ‘But it was a lie. She didn’t murder your father.’
Garrun frowned. How could this be? Ever since he was young, he had been told two things, two things that he had taken to be unshakeable truths: his mother had murdered his father with Merfolk magic and she had been executed by the elders as a result. He’d seen these truths firsthand in the visions the Whisper had shown him last night. But what Volh’gaag was suggesting was that those truths were wrong.
‘How?’ Garrun grunted, staring down at the old Orr’un. ‘Explain yourself.’
Volh’gaag nodded twice in quick succession, close to trembling beneath the big man’s stare. ‘Your mother did kill your father, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t her fault. She was cursed, cursed with the Water Rage. An ancient Ophan curse. A Ravens’ curse. How she got it, we don’t know, but we are sure she had it. The Water Rage is a strong and deadly curse capable of driving any being into a maddening rage – on contact with water. It is most potent with Mer magicians, who have an affinity for water. For some reason or another, the curse was triggered in your mother, and in a fit of Water Rage, she killed your father. By the customs of the elders, that would make the person who cursed her responsible for your father’s death.’
Garrun froze, blinking dumbly. No, it couldn’t be. But as he thought about it, it made sense. It aligned with last night’s vision, for starters; when his mother had quickly become incensed before eventually killing his father, it had been because of the curse.
‘Ordinarily,’ Volh’gaag continued. ‘your mother would have been spared by the elders. The curse, after all, was not her fault. But the Aged Elder – the leader of our order – proclaimed that she had to die.’
‘But why?’ Garrun asked. ‘Why?’
Volh’gaag shrugged. ‘I do not know. I doubt I will ever know. But still, I and many others followed our ancient leader’s command. Only days after your father’s death, your mother was brought before us for her own execution. I remember it well; as she died, the curse escaped her body, emitting a foul and rancid wave of magic so vile we elders were forced to recoil.’ So, in the vision, that had been when the elders had fled to safety, either up on the ceiling or behind the marble pillars.
Volh’gaag sighed. ‘I wish I could tell you more, but that is all there is to say.’ And with that, he made off down the dark corridor towards the living quarters, his silvery skin reflecting the orange light of the flaming lamps as he passed them.
#
Garrun couldn’t sleep that night. His mind was plagued by an indelible horde of questions. Questions about the Whisper, about his mother, about his father, and – increasingly – about the Aged Elder.
Sleep eventually came to him – and was accompanied by the Whisper’s visions.
First, as ever, came the words: Garrun…Garrun…Garrun…
Then Garrun saw the Whisper himself, stood on what looked to be a platform of purple light. The stars gleamed behind him, shining from the vast canvas of space.
The Whisper appeared to him now as a great tentacled beast, a giant, furry octopus with ten yellow eyes and what looked like hundreds of meaty tentacles, each floating gently as if in water. Garrun stood before him on the platform of purple light, a fraction of the Whisper’s gargantuan size.
‘Garrun, the time is close,’ the Whisper hissed in its icy rasp.
Garrun frowned. ‘The time for what? Tell me! What do you want with me?’
The Whisper exhaled, letting loose a howling wind which chilled Garrun to his bones. ‘I will answer some of your questions, young one, but others must be left for now.’
‘Why did you make the Orr’uns slaves to the Vorion Imperium?’
‘That question is easy enough to answer,’ said the Whisper. ‘The Orr’uns’ subjugation to the Vorions served twofold: first, as penance for placing their faith in weak rulers, in allowing the elders to lead them to ruin; and second, as a test for their future ruler, one who I hope has what it takes to guide them to great glory.’
‘And who is this ruler?’ Garrun asked, quickly.
‘I cannot answer that just yet,’ the Whisper replied, stroking a tentacle over the platform of purple light. ‘Not until I am sure.’ It paused, fixing each of its ten yellow eyes on Garrun; the Orr’un shivered. ‘One more question,’ the beast continued. ‘Of the questions in your mind, there is only one more I can answer.’
Garrun nodded, thinking, mind flicking through what felt like an endless list of questions. At last, he settled on a question he felt sure the Whisper would answer. ‘Those visions the previous night – why did you show them to me?’
‘Because you needed to see them,’ it answered. ‘You needed to see in those visions last night and in Volh’gaag’s words today the truth of what happened to your mother and father. The elders betrayed you. Your mother was innocent.’
Garrun frowned, eyeing the beast carefully. ‘There’s more to it than that, isn’t there? I can feel it.’
‘Yes,’ the Whisper hissed. ‘You are very perceptive. Good. Perhaps your race is not entirely doomed. Those visions last night, you needed to see that it wasn’t your mother’s Mer heritage which killed your father. That’s what your father’s family has led you to believe, and it is false. Not all Mer are like Xal the Traitor,
‘Your mother’s Mer heritage is your Mer heritage – and you must embrace it. Your mother had the Mer’s ability to control water, an ability which she has passed to you, even if you do not know it. You must embrace this ability – not shy away from it. The Merfolk have since declined, much like the Gavorr of old, but they must return.’
The Whisper waved a furry tentacle, and suddenly the platform of purple light and the stars disappeared. Garrun’s eyes widened as he found himself deep underwater, the Whisper registering as little more than a murky shape in the gloom of the water’s depths. At first, he went into a blind panic, scrabbling at the water, drowning – before he realised he was not, in fact, drowning, but breathing as normal.
‘Do not panic,’ came the Whisper’s booming voice through the shadows. ‘I have put a protective bubble around you to ensure you won’t drown.’
‘Where are we? Why am I here?’
‘We are on the Cosmic Plane, as we were before,’ the Whisper answered. ‘Only now, I have spawned us in a body of endless water. As for why we are in this body of water, well, I will be teaching you the basics of Mer magic. From there, you must figure out the Path yourself.’ It paused. ‘Now, close your eyes. Feel the water’s energy, flowing through you, flowing around you. Feel.’
Garrun frowned at the murky shape that was the Whisper. He didn’t especially want to learn the basics of this magic – regardless of what the Whisper said, he would never trust his Mer heritage.
‘Let go of your consciousness and feel…’
Against his better judgement, Garrun found himself obliging the Whisper’s commands. He closed his eyes, calmed his breathing and his pounding heart, and felt. Much to his surprise, he could feel it, whatever “it” was. The waters were brimmed with it, folded beneath the waves, embedded within the heart of every molecule. It was vibrant and sparkling and bright – yet also dull and easily-missed.
‘You learn quickly,’ the Whisper remarked. ‘You have become attuned to the water. Now, open your eyes.’
Garrun opened his eyes. A gasp bubbled from his lips. The Whisper’s frame was no longer murky – in fact, it was clear as day. And, too, Garrun’s mind seemed to race, energised by whatever it was he had found amidst the seas.
‘Yes, you can see clearly now, but that is not even scratching the surface,’ said the Whisper. ‘I have removed your protective bubble; your breathing is of your own accord. And do you feel that strength, that new wave of energy which has flooded inside you? That is the water’s gift; for your patience in attuning to it, it has empowered you.’
Suddenly, Garrun found himself yearning to learn more of the Mer magic, mystified by the great power he felt dashing down his veins. But the Whisper shut this line of thought down quickly. ‘That will be all this evening, I should think,’ it declared, nonchalantly waving a tentacle. At once, the water disappeared and they found themselves on the same platform of purple light amidst the endless bounds of space.
‘There is one last thing,’ said the Whisper, in its cold and creaking voice. ‘You asked before who would be the Orr’uns’ next ruler. I have your answer now: Garrun, you must be the one to lead the Resurrected Orr’un Conquest.’
Garrun’s eyes widened, head spinning. ‘Why me? I am no great man; I am a Commander and nothing more. I led one unit – that doesn’t mean I can lead a whole people.’
‘The Orr’uns need a strong leader, and that strong leader will be you,’ the Whisper answered.
‘But how?’ Garrun asked. ‘Where do I start?’
‘I think the Orr’uns’ penance has been sufficiently paid,’ said the Whisper. ‘You must break them from their chains, free them, and lead them. Take control of the Southern Fringe. Seize those territories that the Sovenians once held so dearly. That is your final trial. Now farewell…Garrun de Ki’orne…’ The Whisper’s voice hissed away, and the vision disappeared to blackness.
When Garrun awoke that next morning, he felt fresh, awakened, renewed. He was a new man now, with a new purpose: free his people and lead them to glory across the stars.
Garrun de Ki’orne, the Whisper had called him. It meant “Garrun the Wildwater”, meant to honour both his mother and father by merging their respective titles of “Ki’on” and “de Tiorne”. In the past, Garrun would have detested honouring any part of his mother; but now, after last night, he felt proud to have her title included in his name.
He smiled, looking across the other beds at the silver-skinned Orr’uns nestled in them. He knew them all: Vax…Liijak…Volh’gaag…Cayyon…Oshaaron…and so many more. These people would become his allies in his great war on the Vorion Imperium. With their help, he would resurrect the Orr’un Conquest and restore it to its former glory.
It took all his effort to stop a mad cheer erupting from his throat. Soon…soon the Orr’uns shall rise again!
#
Garrun wrapped his hand around the green pendant hanging around his neck. The pendant had been his mother’s and was one of the few possessions he still had to his name. It had been given to him by his uncle on his first birthday, and even despite knowing his mother had killed his father, he had chosen to keep the pendant all these years, though had never worn it.
After he had learned of the Water Rage curse from the Whisper, though, four nights ago, he had chosen to wear the pendant in honour of his mother and his new title, “Wildwater”.
He pressed the pendant to his lips, then let it fall back to his chest. He hoped it would bring him some luck. They needed it.
Garrun glanced at the Orr’un mining next to him – a young, brown-haired male by the name of Liijak – and nodded. ‘Now,’ he whispered.
Liijak nodded his understanding, resting his pickaxe against the cave wall. He stepped backwards, swaying slightly. He shouted groggily, then tripped, landing roughly on the cave floor. Garrun would have been concerned had he not known the young Orr’un was playing a ruse.
‘Help!’ Liijak shouted. His face suddenly flushed purple. Liijak had a bizarre skill in faking illnesses and injuries – which he was using to his advantage.
As they had predicted, two of the guards who had been watching over the slaves stepped towards Liijak. ‘What’s the matter?’ one of them asked. ‘Get back to work!’ he barked at the other slaves, who had stopped to goggle at the affair.
As the two guards approached, Garrun glanced at the Orr’un on the other side of Liijak – Vax – and nodded. He and Vax had both been purposefully positioned close to Liijak for this plan. The last couple of days, Garrun had been sparring with him and was glad to see, despite the last year of slavery, Vax’s battle senses still seemed as sharp as they had been in the Gallacag War. The big brute had beaten Garrun in all fields barring one: Mer magic (which Vax was adamant didn’t count).
As the two guards drew close, Vax gave a hand-signal. Garrun nodded. He understood: it was time.
At once, the two soldiers span on their heels, gripping their pickaxes tightly and swinging them. Two sickening thumps echoed through the cave chamber as the pickaxes crashed through the guards’ body armour and into the flesh beneath. But the two guards weren’t dead yet.
Thinking quickly, Garrun span and smashed his pickaxe – with the guard still impaled on it – into the cave wall. The guard whimpered, then collapsed in a pitiful heap on the rock. Vax opted for a more rugged strategy: pulling his pickaxe out from his victim’s belly, he swung again and again into the guard’s flesh until at last they fell silent.
Garrun jerked his head towards the entrance of the cave chamber. The fighting had attracted more armoured guards – who wielded more than just mere pikes. Garrun flinched at the sight of their beamers. He gritted his teeth; he couldn’t hesitate now.
Picking up his fallen foe’s pike, he shouted, ‘Now! For the Conquest!’
With a furious chorus of shouts and cheers, the Orr’un slaves turned away from the cave wall, and brandishing three pickaxes a piece, sprinted towards the guards. The dreadful din of the guards’ beamers roared through the cave; but even as many Orr’uns fell, the survivors didn’t stop their charge.
Garrun smiled as he watched them. They seemed rejuvenated, renewed. Maybe the Whisper was right. Maybe I can lead the Orr’uns to glory.
As the Orr’uns charged towards the armoured guards by the entrance, Garrun threw the pike. It struck one of the guards in the chest, taking him to his knees. Vax passed him the other pike, and he threw it through another guard’s head. A fountain of blood erupted from the guard’s face, and he collapsed on the stone.
Garrun glanced at Vax, who was brandishing his three pickaxes and staring hungrily at the fighting. ‘Come on. Let’s join them.’
With a victorious bellow, Vax raced towards the cave entrance, spinning and swinging his pickaxes. He was like a furious pickaxe-hurricane, spinning across the battlelines, impaling heads, chests, arms. Garrun was awe-struck by his fighting prowess.
And the rest were fighting well, too. While many had been cut down by the beamer fire, those that were left seemed to fight with triple their usual strength. Over the last few days, Garrun had sparred with many of these Orr’uns – but he had never seen them fight with such ferocity and strength before. The Orr’uns were machines built for war, and it was fully on display to him.
Unsurprisingly, the Orr’un slaves cut through the Vorion guards. In a matter of minutes, all but a few of the guards lay still on the rock floor. They let the survivors go, running off into the caves. The handful of beamers the Vorions wielded were distributed amongst the Orr’uns; they were no longer fighting at a disadvantage.
Garrun glanced at Vax, who held two surviving men between his three meaty hands. ‘Vax, let them go,’ he commanded.
The big Orr’un frowned. ‘Why? We’ll need them if we want to infiltrate the fort. Think of the damage we could wreak on the Imperium.’
‘ “Free them and lead them”, those were the Whisper’s orders,’ Garrun replied, shaking his head. ‘My priority is to get us offworld and safe. Once we’ve rebuilt the Conquest, then we can destroy the Imperium.’
Vax’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘What? We can’t just let them get away with this!’
‘They won’t,’ said Garrun calmly. ‘But we are in no state to try to fight them. Not yet.’ He turned back to the others, eyes fixing on the injured. ‘Medics, take a look at some of the injuries.’ He gestured to the others. ‘The rest of you, follow me.’
With him and Vax at the head of the column, they marched through the cave. Behind them, the medics – two twin brothers, Oji and Doji, and an elderly woman, Oshaaron – hastily tended to the wounded.
Up ahead lay the entrance to another of the chambers. Garrun spied the guards standing calmly by the entrance in their dark-grey bodysuits, black pikes glistening.
‘Quiet!’ Garrun hissed at the Orr’uns, who were moving noisily through the cave. He glanced at Vax and nodded. ‘Vax, with me. We’re going to give them a surprise.’
Vax still looked abashed from Garrun’s refusal to attack the Imperium fort. Still, he followed him obediently, creeping quietly along the cave wall. The others lay behind a safe distance away, ready to attack at Garrun’s command.
Garrun and Vax crept closer to the guards, preparing to strike. When they were only a metre or so away, Garrun gave the signal and both he and Vax moved to attack.
They easily crept behind the first two guards and twisted their necks. The guards let out brief yelps, before falling limp. Unfortunately, the other guards were much more difficult to deal with. They were able to take down one, slicing out his throat, but the others quickly overpowered them, striking their pikes against their backs. Garrun’s back burned with pain.
He shouted for the other Orr’uns to join them, but they were too far, would come too late. Garrun closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow to strike.
But it never did.
Instead, he turned around to see a Orr’un woman with short, silver hair yank the guard’s pike from his hands, twist it, and impale it back into him. The guard choked, then collapsed to the floor. All around them, the Orr’un slaves from inside the second chamber ran around, swinging their picks at the guards.
‘Took your time, Cayyon,’ Garrun remarked, inhaling sharply.
The silver-haired Orr’un woman – Cayyon – smirked. ‘I wanted to see you sweat, Wildwater.’ Her face gravened. ‘I’ll be honest, we were struggling to find an opening before you guys got here. Our slave group doesn’t have any warriors like you and Vax. I know you trained Guhy and Vero up, but no offence to them, they’re hardly comparable to you two.’
Garrun smiled. ‘Well, we came, and now you’re free. Come on. We need to move quickly.’
They freed the rest of the slaves in the caves – even the non-Orr’un ones – one chamber at a time. Friends, family, lovers were reunited in freedom. Garrun smiled as he watched Liijak and Vero reunite with their mother and Cayyon reunite with her muscular felinoid boyfriend; he was a Musalethean, Garrun saw, and silently to himself, he pondered what a Musalethean was doing out here in the Southern Fringe, so far from the Galactic Core.
His eyes caught sight of a small Orr’un girl sprinting into her father’s arms. He glanced to his left and saw Vax was watching them too. A flash of pain danced behind the big Orr’un’s eyes.
They were soon joined by the medics and the injured. While their injuries had not been fully treated, they had been patched up enough so they could survive the escape. Another bout of reunions ensued – which Garrun reluctantly cut short.
‘There’s no time,’ he reasoned. ‘We need to leave! Arm up,’ he said, picking up a pike from a fallen guard. ‘I want everyone who can wield them armed with a pike.’
Though there were a fair few of the Orr’uns who looked disgruntled by this, they simply bowed their heads and murmured, ‘Yes, Wildwater,’ before arming themselves and following him outside.
They hastily ran down the mountainside, making sure not to lose their footing. The cracked ground threatened to give way at any moment; Garrun only prayed they wouldn’t trigger a landslide. The sun beat on their back like a flaming whip, spurring them to speed.
Garrun eyed the Grey River at the bottom of the mountain and pointed it out. After much running and stumbling, they came down onto the river’s flat floodplain and were close to the water’s edge when – at the front of the column, where Garrun, Vax, and Cayyon were – the ground exploded.
They were thrown aside, flung into the air. Garrun crashed hard against the mountain. Wiping tears from his eyes, Garrun quickly got to his feet, looking around frantically to check on the others.
Looking through the thick dust cloud was difficult, but from what he could see, no one was majorly injured. He spied Vax shielding Cayyon with her body and breathed a sigh of relief.
However, as the dust plumes settled, a shiver settled on his spine. Standing in a great crate at the centre of the explosion site was an ulf.
Six-legged, giant, and covered in matted, black fur, the ulf smacked its paws furiously on the rock. Its two emerald eyes raked across the barren landscape. Its four mouths stretched in a furious howl which made Garrun’s heart quake.
He shivered. It had been the work of ulfs in the mountain caves which had tarnished his reputation as Dagger Commander and cost him a potential promotion to general. The ulfs had beaten him once – but they wouldn’t this time. He wasn’t just a leader of a unit this time, but of an entire people; he couldn’t afford to lose.
Stalking towards the ulf, gripping his pikes in three tight fists, Garrun shouted, ‘Vax! With me!’ He gritted his teeth, glaring at the ulf. ‘Cayyon, take them to the river. We’ll deal with this.’ When one of the young Orr’uns beside him raised his stolen beamer towards the ulf, Garrun shook his head and snapped, ‘Save your fire. You might need it. Go with Cayyon.’
As Cayyon gathered the others to her, including the men with beamers, Garrun glanced at Vax as the hulking Orr’un approached him. ‘Go from the right side. I’ll go in from the left.’
‘Target the legs,’ Vax advised. ‘If we can wound its legs, then we might get a shot at that thing’s head.’
Garrun nodded his understanding, then sprinted left. Vax ran towards the right. The ulf, unsure, glanced left to right and roared.
Garrun paused a second to see Cayyon and the others descend towards the riverbank. The Grey River was swollen with water from the northern temperate zones and was moving very fast.
Glancing across the floodplain at Vax, Garrun gritted his teeth. Vax raised his pikes into the air. That was the signal. In response, Garrun raised his pikes, then raced towards the ulf.
As he got closer, the sheer size of the ulf became much more impressive – and terrifying. It was nearly as big as a starfighter.
As Garrun neared the ulf, it swung at him. It was a slow, clumsy swing and he easily dodged it. He exhaled sharply. If one of the ulf’s strikes hit him, judging by the creature’s size, he’d be a goner for sure.
He was almost in striking range now. He leapt into the air and span, slashing with his pike. The ulf howled. As he passed through the ulf’s legs and to the other side, he skidded to a stop to admire his handiwork.
For a first strike, it wasn’t bad: he’d inflicted a deep cut on one of the ulf’s legs, crippling it, and a minor cut on another. All in all, it could’ve been much better – but it always could’ve been much worse. Vax had been far more successful, with deep cuts on two of the ulf’s legs and a shallow cut on another.
Glancing across at Vax on the other side of the ulf, he raised his three pikes. Vax did the same, and before the ulf could react, they both rushed in for a second strike.
Garrun sprinted towards the ulf, boots pounding on the rock. His heart roared. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a black shape coming towards him – the ulf’s paw – but it was too late for him to evade.
He braced himself, taking the impact to the chest. He rolled across the floodplain, kicking up dust. Rolling himself back onto his feet, he plunged a spear into the ground to steady himself, to stop his momentum carrying him further away. Wincing, he looked up to see Vax spin through the ulf’s legs, inflicting another couple of cuts on its limbs.
Pulling his spear out of the ground, Garrun rushed to meet Vax. ‘One more cut to its legs should do it,’ said Garrun, breathless. Behind him, the ulf roared in pain.
Vax nodded. ‘I’ll get the legs – you try to get the head.’
As laserfire suddenly rang out from the mountainside, the pair dropped to the ground. Garrun glanced up at the mountainside to see a stream of Vorion guards approaching, beamers buzzing. ‘They took their time,’ he muttered, glancing at Vax. ‘We need to kill this thing now and get to the river.’
Vax nodded and leapt to his feet, sprinting towards the ulf’s forelegs. Garrun followed after him, sprinting in the direction of the ulf’s head. He grimaced as laserfire from up on the mountainside traced his steps.
Vax reached his target first, dodging the ulf’s clumsy swipes as he span through its legs. The ulf’s four mouths splayed wide as it let out a bone-chilling scream. It collapsed to the floor – giving Garrun his opportunity. He ran towards the ulf’s head and leapt on, dodging the creature’s four mashing maws. With a thunderous bellow of victory, he drove all three pikes deep into the ulf’s giant, green eyes.
The ulf let out a final, desperate wail, before collapsing on the floodplain with an almighty thump. It lay, still and silent.
Garrun gasped, inhaling sharply, fists still wrapped tightly around his pikes. He’d done it – he’d beaten the ulf. He hoped this first victory would be reminiscent of his future success as the Orr’uns’ new leader.
He was jarred from his thoughts by the buzz of laserfire coming from up on the mountain. Reminded of the present threat at hand, he slid off the ulf and raced to the riverbank. He heard lasers strike the rock behind him as he ran, but he refused to look back. He fixed his eyes on the Grey River.
Reaching the riverbank, he shouted to Cayyon as he passed, ‘Stay on the riverbank. I’ll tell you when to come in!’
She frowned. ‘Whatever you’re doing, make it quick!’
He didn’t reply, jumping straight into the water. At once, he attuned (it was second-nature by now). He floated to the top of the water and closed his eyes.
Since the night he had first been given the title “Wildwater”, he had been training every night with the Whisper in the Cosmic Plane, refining his skills and becoming further attuned to the water and to his Mer heritage. Now was the time to see if it had paid off; now was his opportunity to live up to his “Wildwater” moniker.
He closed his eyes and imagined a platform of water rising out of the river. It became increasingly difficult to focus as the buzz of laserfire echoed all around him. He strained, feeling the water’s energies coil all around him. The water bubbled and foamed – then suddenly it began to rise. With much difficulty, he stopped it from rising, awaiting the others.
Keeping his eyes firmly shut, he shouted, ‘Cayyon! Get them on!’ He heard splashing as the other slaves frantically waded into the water.
Then he released the water platform. He wasn’t sure how high it rose to – he kept his eyes clamped shut – but he knew it would be enough to get them all to safety. The next settlement down the river was Thy, an indigenous Kela settlement the Vorions had yet to discover – at least, that was what he hoped. Garrun had only found the settlement by chance, stumbling across it on one of his unit’s many patrols through the Wastes.
By the whip of a single thought, the water pillar spurred at once into action. It set off down the river, carrying its awe-struck cargo to their destination. The sound of crashing water buffeted Garrun’s ears. He finally let himself open his eyes to see the water pillar towering over the river’s edge by at least fifty metres as it carried them downstream. He gasped. He’d surprised himself; he’d achieved nothing of the scale as yet in the Cosmic Plane with the Whisper.
He looked around at the Orr’uns and non-Orr’uns. All eyes were wide; all mouths gaped. He exchanged a look with Vax, who nodded back, impressed.
Keeping his eyes peeled for the telltale signs of the Thy settlement – namely, the huge carved monolith erected to honour one of the indigenous Kela people’s mythic deities. When he saw the stone statue, he at once killed the water pillar; it – and the slaves sat upon it – crashed down to the river’s surface below. He ordered the slaves to stay on the river’s edge while he left to negotiate with the Thy people. What they needed was a ship – something large enough to get them all offworld.
#
As the Kela mining frigate exited Kela Minor’s atmosphere, the red sands of Kela Major filled the bridge’s viewport. Looking out through the viewport, Garrun smiled. Kela Major, homeworld of the Siiraan and Kela peoples, had been the crown jewel of the – admittedly small – United Siiraan Empire, before the Orr’uns had conquered it nearly ten years ago. The Battle of Kela Major had been one of the hardest fought battles Garrun had participated in, and his achievements in the battle had earned him a Flying Zronyx to pin on his uniform.
He sighed. Memories of the Orr’uns’ previous glories always made him emotional; he turned away from the viewport, blinking back tears.
They had been lucky that Kela Minor was a newer Vorion territory, not yet assigned any space patrols. As such, exiting Kela space was markedly easier than it should have been. They approached the ringed miasma that was the Kela wormgate; it would link them to the wormspace network that connected the old Sovenian territories.
Cayyon tapped her computer terminal. ‘Still radio silence, sir.’
‘Good,’ Garrun replied. Radio silence meant they weren’t in trouble – yet. ‘I’m going down to the hold. Prepare a broadcast for me, straight to the Vorion forts on Kela Minor. I have something their beloved Emperor would surely love to hear.’
Followed by Vax, he strode to the door at the back of the bridge and pressed his palm against the console. The console beeped and the door slid open. They strode through and began making their way down to the cargo hold, where the others were assembled.
The cargo hold was a huge, cavernous chamber, encircled by a ringed catwalk. It was crammed with bodies, Orr’uns and other creatures. As Garrun stepped out onto the catwalk, the crowd cheered. Chants of “Wildwater!” echoed through the hold.
Garrun smiled, heart roaring with pride. He waved for them to be quiet. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’ He chuckled. As the final embers of cheering died, he began, ‘Congratulations, you’re free – all of you. The Orr’uns have suffered so at the hands of the Imperium, but no more. We shall resurrect the Orr’un Conquest and reclaim the worlds our traitorous elders forsook to the Imperium!’ The cheers started again, louder and wilder, though Garrun noticed the non-Orr’uns did not cheer.
‘And I,’ he continued. ‘shall lead you as your conquistador, Conquistador Garrun the Wildwater!’ More cheers, though yet again, the non-Orr’uns remained muted, shifting nervously. Garrun didn’t much care about them – they were non-Orr’uns, after all – but that didn’t mean he was just going to discard them.
‘To you non-Orr’uns who fought for freedom alongside us in the caves, we offer you citizenship within the Conquest, a very great honour. No non-Orr’un has ever achieved citizenship in the Orr’un Conquest; you will all be the first.’
The crowd descended into murmurs. Garrun noticed several Orr’uns and non-Orr’uns alike shaking their heads. Apparently, his idea was not a popular one. Apparently, they did not see the honour in joining the Conquest, the glory that they could achieve fighting for him and for the Resurrected Orr’un Conquest.
He glanced questioningly over his shoulder at Vax, who simply shrugged. Garrun nodded. Then, it was decided.
He signalled to Vax, who reached towards the wall, pulling away a computer terminal; the big man nodded.
From behind came a shout of, ‘What if we don’t want to join the Conquest?’
Garrun turned his head. ‘Come up here,’ he said. ‘Any who do not wish to join the rebirthed Orr’un Conquest, come up.’ He pointed to the set of stairs at the side of the hold leading up to the catwalk.
Much to his dismay, a decent number of people – around twenty in all – made their way up to the catwalk. Even more to Garrun’s dismay, a little under half of the dissenters were Orr’uns – one among them being Volh’gaag. No doubt the old elder disliked not being part of the new Orr’un ruling class. Also among the dissenters was Cayyon’s felinoid boyfriend, the Musalethean.
They don’t understand, Garrun thought angrily. They probably think they should just go back to being slaves on Kela Minor just because the elders ordered it. His eyes fixed on Volh’gaag, hard and steely. Still, they will be dealt with.
He gestured for the dissenters to stand on the opposite side of the catwalk, then turned to the rest of the crowd. ‘Here is the alternative to joining us,’ he announced.
Above where the dissenters were stood, four holes opened up in the ceiling of the hold. Out fell rocks, falling down in a great shower. The frigate had been a mining frigate, and it was in special mining storages above the hold where they stored the mined material. The dissenters screamed as rocks rained down upon them, covering the catwalk in a thick film of dust and stone. Finally, the screaming stopped.
They are dealt with. They threatened the Conquest and were justly executed. It was execution, not murder. A burst of ice blossomed in Garrun’s chest, chilling him. It was execution, not murder, he thought again, as if to drum it in his mind.
Garrun turned to Vax and gestured with his hand. The big man nodded and pressed a button on his terminal; the holes in the ceiling closed, cutting off the streams of falling rock.
‘That is your alternative,’ Garrun declared. He glared at the crowd, before he and Vax left the hold, proceeding back to the bridge.
Back at the bridge, Garrun sat down at one of the terminals and began to write his broadcast to the Vorions stationed at Kela Minor. Once finished, he sent it to Cayyon to beam it down to the moon. The female Orr’un worked swiftly; she still hadn’t yet discovered her boyfriend’s fate.
As she beamed the broadcast, he read through it again, smiling.
………………………………………………………………………………………
DECLARATION OF WILDWATER
To all who receive this message: beware. No doubt you are fully aware of the recent breakout of slaves from one of the Vorion Imperium’s mines on the moon of Kela Minor. However, there is more.
I, Conquistador Garrun the Wildwater, declare the foundation of the free peoples of the Orr’uns and the resurrection of the Orr’un Conquest. And upon the Vorion Imperium, we declare war…
………………………………………………………………………………………
—
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