Page 1 of X’nath (Dark Orcs of Helfallow)

1

The Glint of Opportunity

X’NATH

T he air in the Mountain’s Spine crackled with the smell of metal and mischief, swirling around our camp like a rogue spark in a dry forest. I leaned against a rusted gear from one of our old contraptions, idly sharpening my blade while watching my clanmates scurry about. Their raucous laughter mixed with the occasional growl of giant weasels—our oversized partners in crime.

You’d think a band of orcs living in a mountain would be all brawn and bravado, but we had a knack for thievery and steam-powered antics.

I was X’nath, son of Larek of the Savage Claw Clan. Many say pride ran deep in our blood, but I say their envy ran deeper. I had every right to boast and had the scars to prove it. While others might roll their eyes at the thought of an orc aspiring to something beyond smashing skulls and raiding graves, I was all about ambition. A young blood by clan standards, I could still beat the best of them. The older orcs were simply jealous of my vitality.

A laugh escaped over my own thoughts. Flipping the blade a few times, I easily caught it by the hilt and resheathed it.

My wit was also sharper than my knife, and I wasn’t afraid to show it.

Today, the usual mischief buzzed with a different kind of excitement. Word had spread like wildfire—an actual shipwreck was located at the valley’s edge, and it was rumored to be carrying females . Not just any females, but ones with bright eyes and laughter that could light up even our gloomy mountain. We were a dwindling clan, and our chances of finding mates were as slim as a weasel's tail.

“X’nath! You’re just the orc we need!” Greag bellowed from across the camp, his arms waving like he was trying to take flight. His giant grey weasel, Bolg, sniffed at his boots, searching for scraps.

“Need me for what?” I shot back, flicking my head in his direction. “You want someone to wrestle that fat merchant? You’d better ask a bigger orc.”

He rolled his eyes, a smirk creeping onto his face. “No, you fool! We’ve got a plan, and it’s brilliant! The ship, if still intact, will be unguarded while they rest. Just imagine the loot—and the women!”

The scout reported a massive ship struggling against the storm, as skaevin—large, leathery birds with water-resistant feathers usually trained by one of our rival clans, the Cliffers—soared above. These birds were renowned for being trained by one of the clans to scavenge the seas. It was no secret that women were a rare commodity among us, and if the clans from the cliffs were showing interest in this particular ship, it was up to us to uncover the truth. Was it merely the women they sought, or was there something more to the ship’s mystery?

“And what? You want me to charm them with my rugged good looks?” I quipped, crossing my arms. “I’d sooner scare them off with my face.”

“Trust me, they’ll be swooning by the time we’re done,” Greag shot back, puffing his chest out. “We’ll hit them at dusk, using the fog as cover. Bolg can scout ahead. With the weasels leading the charge, we’ll be unstoppable! They’ll never see us coming.”

I chuckled, unable to help myself. Bolg was more than just a pet; he was part of our secret weapon. The clan’s weasels could slip through the tiniest cracks, snatch up anything shiny, and return to us like well-trained orc thieves. If anyone could sneak aboard the remnants of a shipwreck undetected, it was them.

“Count me in, then,” I said, grinning wide. “But I get first pick on the loot.”

“Deal! But don’t scare the rest of them off with your mug,” He replied, slapping me on the back hard enough to almost send me stumbling. “Might take more than a shiny trinket and wit to win them over!”

“Ha! I’ll have them wrapped around my finger before you can say ‘treasure,’” I boasted, cracking my knuckles.

“Good luck with that,” another orc chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’ll need more than charm when they see your charming personality.”

I rolled my eyes at Vakgar, the only son of Trilog. His bloodline traced back to the original warriors who split off to form the Savage Claw Clan. While our way of life had shifted and adapted over the years, we remained fierce warriors when the need arose—if thieving and convenience didn’t do the job.

"Just watch me," I retorted, brushing past Vakgar with a smirk, before turning to my own weasel partner in crime. "Yargol, you ready to catch us some prizes?"

Yargol let out a chittering screech, his small, agile form scampering over to my side. His sharp eyes gleamed with excitement as he nipped playfully at my boots. Bolg, Greag’s weasel, mirrored Yargol’s eagerness, chattering as his nose twitched at the scent of something to hunt. I gave both of them a brief nod, a silent promise that we’d soon be on the move.

Around us, the camp came alive with activity. Greag was rallying the clan as they gathered supplies. More orcs began to emerge from their tents, their gruff voices echoing through the air as they packed up crates and checked their weapons. Some were hauling crates of scrap metal, while others hunched over makeshift stoves, cooking up what little food they had left before the journey.

I watched as several of the older orcs lugged out strange, clunky contraptions—rudimentary steampunk gear cobbled together from salvaged parts. These weren't young warriors eager to prove themselves; these were seasoned fighters, scarred and wise, who had spent years raiding human trader ships. The bulky, steam-powered backpacks they wore hissed and clanked with every movement, while crude rifles—patched together from bits of steel and glass—were slung across their backs, the barrel gleaming faintly in the dimming light. Some of them wore goggles that gave them a half-mad look, their faces smeared with oil and soot from years of tinkering with stolen human technology.

I didn’t trust those crude rifles, so I stuck with my axe. It wasn’t that long ago when one of them accidentally discharged and blew the face off one of the old orcs. That memory still haunted me.

Vakgar, who was now surveying the equipment, let out a low growl as he inspected a large, jagged sword that seemed more suited for smashing than slicing. He grunted in approval, slinging it over his shoulder. The air smelled of metal, oil, and something faintly burnt—a familiar scent for us, signaling that chaos was just around the corner.

I threw a glance at the distant peaks, the sun beginning its descent. The landscape was bathed in an orange glow across the camp. There was a thrill in the air, a promise of adventure, and I could practically taste the victory that awaited us. The excitement in my chest was more than just anticipation—it was the sense that something big was on the horizon, something worth fighting for. This wasn’t just about looting a shipwreck; it was our chance to prove ourselves, to carve out our place once more as a clan to be reckoned with, a clan that no one would dare mess with.

Greag was barking orders now, assigning specific orcs to our journey and organizing the rest in preparation for what lay ahead. I gave Yargol one final pat on the head before turning to lend a hand to the others.

"We'll be ready by nightfall," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.

As the camp buzzed with preparations, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this journey was going to be different. There was something about it, something beyond just the promise of loot and women. Whatever lay ahead, I knew it would push us to our limits—and that was exactly what I wanted.

We gathered our men in the heart of the mountain, where its looming walls shielded our camp from the dangers of the outside world. As I took in the sight of our clan, that familiar rush of adrenaline surged through me. “Listen up, you scrappy lot!” I shouted. “Tonight, we raid! Let’s show the world what real orcs are made of!”

The response was immediate. A deafening roar erupted from the group, their voices booming in unison. Orcs lifted their weapons high—axes, swords, crude rifles—and pounded their fists against shields. Some checked their gear, tightening straps and sharpening blades, while others slapped each other on the back, grinning like they were already in the thick of the fight. Excitement filled the air, a primal energy that made the ground beneath us seem to tremble.

"Just remember to keep your mouth shut while we’re sneaking around!" Greag barked from behind us, his voice cutting through the chatter. Laughter rippled through the group, the sound of camaraderie building the tension before the raid.

“Right, right,” I replied, waving my hand dismissively. “I’ll let my looks do the talking.”

“Good luck with that, X’nath,” another orc chuckled from the back. “I’ll bring the ointment for the burns when you scare them off!”

The group erupted in laughter again, but Greag was quick to silence it with a sharp look. He moved through the crowd, checking on the final preparations. Our group was now set—a band of seven orcs, a mix of those in their prime and others who had seen battle in the past.

Vakgar, stood at the front, his massive frame towering over most of us. A seasoned warrior with the scars to prove it, he had the strength of a bear and the experience of a dozen battles.

Beside him was Korrin, a battle-hardened orc who had once led a charge against a human fort before his clan fell into disarray. His weathered face was marked with years of war, his weapon—a pistol and a jagged hammer—always within arm's reach.

Then there was Gorruk, older than most, with a grizzled beard that looked like it had seen decades of hard living. He was silent but deadly, a master of stealth despite his age, and had a reputation for quietly slipping behind enemy lines and vanishing into the shadows. He had seen enough fights to know when to strike and when to wait.

The rest of us were a mix of younger orcs, still finding our way in the world, but no less fierce for it. I took my place among them, feeling the weight of my axe settle in my hands as I scanned the group. Yargol chattered at my feet, clearly as eager as I was, his fur bristling with anticipation.

“Everyone ready?” Greag called, his voice low but carrying over the group. Bolg ran between his legs and climbed onto his shoulder.

We all nodded, tightening our gear one last time, checking weapons, and adjusting straps. The air was charged with focus now, the joking and laughter fading as we moved into our final preparations.

Greag gave a sharp nod, his gaze steady. "Good. We hit hard, we hit fast, and we stay quiet. The loot is ours for the taking—if we do this right."

I could feel the pulse of excitement in the pit of my stomach, but there was also a sharpened edge of caution. The older orcs had seen enough to know what could go wrong. This wasn’t just a raid for loot—it was a chance to prove ourselves, to show the clans what we were made of. We weren’t just a band of outcasts anymore; we were Savage Claw Clan, and it was time to make our mark.

Silence descended upon us as we left the heart of the mountain. With a cocky grin, I faced the horizon. Tonight, we’d either claim our future or dive deeper into chaos. Either way, I was ready for it all, with my weasel by my side and my clan at my back. With a grin plastered on my face, I knew we were destined for something unforgettable—or at least, a night to remember.