Tale of Conquerors-Chapter 138: Act I / The Distance Between Worlds

The sun had not yet crested the stone ridges when the courtyard gates of Emberhold creaked open, their iron hinges groaning under the weight of weathered oak. The wind carried the scent of pine resin and charred metal, sharp and familiar, but this morning it also bore dust—weeks' worth of it, fine and gray, clinging to cloaks and boots like a second skin. The cobblestones of the courtyard were streaked with it, the faint tracks of hooves and wheels already blurring under the restless breeze.

The scouts had returned.

Alexander stood in the upper gallery, overlooking the entrance, his hands resting lightly on the worn granite balustrade. The stone was cool against his palms, its surface pitted from years of rain and frost, etched with faint lichen that glowed faintly in the predawn light. Below, six riders dismounted in silence, their movements slow but deliberate, each step heavy with the weight of long roads. Their horses were thinner than they had left, ribs faintly visible beneath sweat-darkened coats, their heads bowed as stablehands led them toward water and rest. The riders' faces were leaner, too, cheekbones sharpened by hunger and wind, eyes sharp with the edge of long travel. Among them, Captain Alric Harth, the senior cavalry officer of the expedition, pulled back his hood, revealing hair matted with dust and a beard grown wild. He looked up—meeting Alexander's gaze with the quiet understanding of a man who had seen something far beyond expectations.

Alexander didn't wait. He descended the stairwell two at a time, his boots striking the worn steps with a rhythm that echoed through the keep's shadowed halls. The air grew cooler as he moved deeper, the scent of stone and damp iron replacing the open bite of the courtyard. His cloak brushed the walls, stirring faint clouds of dust from tapestries depicting Emberhold's first walls rising from ash—a reminder of what they'd built and what they stood to lose.

Minutes later, in the war room of the keep, the maps were unrolled across a broad table of blackened pine, its surface scarred from years of knives and gauntlets. The hearth crackled low, its embers casting a faint red glow across the room, catching the edges of steel armor stands and the glint of a ceremonial spear mounted above the door. The scouts sat with hot broth in their hands, steam rising around dust-covered beards and cracked lips, the clay mugs trembling slightly in fingers still stiff from cold nights. Alric stood beside the table, stiff-backed despite the fatigue that clung to his shoulders like a second cloak. His leather armor was scuffed and torn at the seams, the buckles dulled by grit, and a faint scar—new since his departure—traced the edge of his jaw.

"You were gone over a month," Alexander said, breaking the quiet first, his voice steady but carrying the weight of expectation. He stood at the head of the table, arms folded, his tunic still dusted with coal from the workshop, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Alric nodded, wiping a hand across his brow, leaving a smear of dirt. "Longer than we expected. What we found... wasn't close. The tribe we encountered—the one with the exiles—they were at the edge of a distant ravine. Past the fractured plateaus, beyond the Shardspine hills." He paused, his eyes flickering to the map. "It took us two weeks just to make it back at full gallop, and we lost a horse to a sinkhole on the way."

Alexander's brow furrowed, his gaze sharpening. "And the lands beyond?"

Alric unrolled a hand-drawn map, its parchment creased and stained from travel, the edges fraying where it had been folded too many times. He smoothed it flat, revealing a sketch of jagged ridges, winding rivers, and vast stretches marked with crosshatched warnings—quicksand, loose shale, deadfalls. "We barely scratched them," he said. "According to the old orc—the one the scouts called 'the Chief'—they came from even farther west. Farther than we dared ride. Days more beyond the exile grounds. Possibly weeks."

He tapped a spot on the map, a cluster of charcoal lines indicating the ravine, then gestured nearly to the edge of the parchment, where the paper ended in a jagged tear. "Here. That's where the Chief said his people lived. In a basin beyond the western mountains—a wide stretch of green, he called it, surrounded by cliffs, rivers, and what he named 'the great holds'. The soil's fertile, fed by springs, and the cliffs keep out the worst of the storms."

Alexander leaned in, his shadow falling across the map, the faint scent of iron and soot clinging to him. "They live in fortresses?"

"Not in our sense," Alric said, shaking his head. "But their tribes build strongholds—stone-walled villages with guarded entrances, towers of stacked slate no taller than three men. Hunting parties patrol the outer woods, armed with bone-tipped spears and bows strung with sinew. The society is organized, not scattered. They have laws, signals—horn calls that carry for miles."

"And they never knew we existed?" Silas asked, his voice rough as he joined from the doorway, his boots scuffing softly against the stone floor. He leaned against the frame, his gray cloak blending into the shadows, a ledger tucked under one arm from a morning spent tallying grain stores.

Alric shook his head again, the motion slow, deliberate. "Not fully. The Chief said they'd always believed the Ashen Expanse was cursed—a wasteland of ghosts and ash where nothing grows. Their outcasts were exiled eastward into it, left to die or wander. That's the only reason we met the ones we did—a handful of survivors, half-starved, living off roots and what game they could trap. The main body of orc civilization had no idea anything still lived beyond the black stone."

Alexander folded his arms, thoughtful, his fingers brushing the edge of a scar on his forearm—a reminder of a blade that had come too close in the last war. "And what did the Chief tell you about his people?"

The captain hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking to the other scouts, who sat silently, their broth cooling in their hands. Then he continued, his voice steady but tinged with something like awe. "They call themselves the Krahl-Vor. It means 'Those Who Endure' in their tongue, or close enough. Their society revolves around merit. Honor is tied to labor, to contribution—not blood. Chiefs are chosen, not born, raised up by the voices of their tribe after trials of strength and wisdom. Every tribe pays tribute to a central gathering of leaders they call the Council of Holds, which meets during the flood months once per cycle—when the rivers swell and travel's easier."

"Do they practice diplomacy?" Silas asked, stepping closer, the ledger now resting on the table's edge, its pages curling slightly from dampness.

Alric nodded. "Yes. Between tribes and occasionally with neighboring species. The Chief mentioned trade pacts with mountain gnolls, exchanging pelts for obsidian tools, and something he called 'deepkin,' though he couldn't describe them clearly—maybe cave-dwellers, maybe something else. Said they mostly barter—leather, meat, stone, ore. No formal ambassadors, but they send runners with tokens to seal agreements."

"And what of their economy?" Alexander asked, his voice cutting through the crackle of the hearth.

"Simple, but structured," Alric said. "No minted coin. They trade in weight and value—iron ingots, preserved food, tanning oils, hides. They have communal forges where smiths work in shifts, and shared granaries built into the cliffs to keep out vermin. They believe in scarcity discipline—what one tribe lacks, another provides, or they war over it. Raids aren't common, but they're brutal when they happen."

Silas raised a brow, his fingers tapping the ledger's spine. "A society balanced between trade and conflict."

"Exactly," Alric said, his gaze steady. "They're not primitive savages. They're isolationists with structure—people who've carved a life out of stone and scarcity."

"And why was the Chief exiled?" Alexander asked, his eyes narrowing slightly, searching Alric's face for the unspoken.

The captain's jaw tightened, just for a moment. "He didn't say outright. But he hinted that his ideas weren't welcome. He wanted to seek new lands, possibly open a channel with outsiders—trade, not war. That alone was enough to be cast out. The Council of Holds doesn't take kindly to change, from what he said."

Alexander tapped the edge of the map, his finger lingering on the charcoal sketch of the ravines, the ridges, the markers drawn from memory and caution. The lines were uneven, smudged in places where sweat or rain had blurred the ink, but they told a story—of distance, of unknowns, of a world that had grown larger overnight.

"Then the ones beyond—these 'Council of Holds'—they don't know we exist," he said, his voice low, measured.

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"Not yet," Alric confirmed, meeting his gaze. "The Chief said that if they learned we were here, they might either send scouts... or a warband. Depends on how they read the signs."

The room fell into stillness, the hearth's faint crackle the only sound, its glow flickering across the faces of men who had seen too many wars to dismiss the weight of those words. The scouts sat motionless, their mugs forgotten, eyes fixed on the map as if it might shift beneath their stare.

"And what did he want in return for all this knowledge?" Silas asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer, his fingers pausing on the ledger.

"A weapon," Alric said simply, his voice flat but heavy. "Forged from Tenebrium. A black metal axe—double-headed, light but sharp enough to split bone. We left him one, as agreed."

Silas's eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. "He'll show it to the others."

Alexander didn't answer immediately. His mind was moving faster than his voice—calculating supply lines stretching across uncharted plains, expansion projections for a city already straining at its seams, scout coverage for lands where a single misstep could mean ambush. Worst-case scenarios flickered through his thoughts: a warband crossing the Expanse, their horns echoing in the dark; a trade caravan turned away with blood instead of barter; a spark igniting a fire neither side could contain.

"The Dominion stands on a knife's edge," he said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade through cloth. "We expand too fast, we provoke. We slow down, we fall behind. Either path could lead to contact."

"And conflict," Silas added, his gaze flicking to the map, where the western edge faded into blank parchment.

Alexander nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the ravines, the ridges, the unknown beyond. "Not yet. But soon."

Outside, the wind shifted again, carrying dust from the Expanse into the streets of Emberhold, where it settled in the cracks between cobblestones and swirled around the forges' smoke. The city stirred, its people unaware of the weight now resting on their shoulders—a weight measured not in steel or stone, but in distance and time.

Far away, unknown to either side, two civilizations now stood aware of one another—for the first time in a thousand years.

And one of them had just seen black metal fall from the sky, its edge gleaming with a promise no exile could ignore.