Many stories would be told about this day. When the Dragon and the Khan fought over the blood of the Clan. Shamans would tell how one era ended and another was forged in battle. How the days were crafted by those who would not relent, those who denied to fall, those that were fueled by not just fury but the will to protect what they loved. Even if it was forgotten. These would be days of remembrance. Where the orcs of north and south were witnessing the terror of sorcery, but despite its end, stood and died with pride.

  The ancient echo of hatred was wielded by the Frostsong Clan, forged into a weapon that would ring in the new era. One way or the other. And the egg and the sun casted their eyes on the valley.

  Defiance was born in the forge and blessed by song. There was no rider to wield it but one. Half had been off with the Khan, the other with the Dragon. The clan didn’t know they were one swarm again and detached from both. They would learn before the day ended.

  As the morning arose over the eastern mountains the clan's song echoed over the land and woke it with the sun. Snow went to crystal in her light and rode the song over the valley and onto the sea. There was no wind. There was no cloud. Only sun and moon resting in the sky. Even the boiling sea seemed to hold its breath. The land was calm, because it knew the terror ahead. And the ancestors waited for their call.

  Down at the forge the last remaining rider, Gor’mash the dire, took the sword. He carried the obsidian armour of a rider and the bloodstained yack pelt of a man to be blessed. He was a warrior who had the honour to train legends, but he was far past his prime. He knew that well, and the clan could see it too. Slowly the old shaman stepped to the side and made room for the rider to take the sword. Doubt cursed his mind. Then he felt his chieftain's hand on his armoured shoulder. He turned and saw the ire’s nod. An old friend who had been with him for most of his life. There was no room for doubt. Only for Defiance. He nodded back and slowly walked up to the sword. The snow crunched below his obsidian boots and finally he stood before it. He shared a glance with the smith and laid his hand on the grip. The smith removed his. And silence remained. Only the cracking fires of the forge made sound. No wind, no bird, and still not even the distant sea.

  He closed his eyes and breathed. The sword was hot. Even through the yak’s pelt around the grib he could feel it. It carried more weight than any reasonable weapon should, but it wasn't a reasonable fight they were choosing, and it was more than the metal that gave it weight. It would test its wielder, deem them worthy or not. It was crafted by the metal its prey’s fire had created, and wielded by the sons and daughters of the last true enemy the dragon had slain. Those that had gotten so much of her spirit. Fury and pride. The lust for battle and defiance for death. They were the chosen forged in the battle that ended the last aera. Those who would end her fight many millennia after her death. The Heirs of her Hatred.

  Slowly he breathed in one more time before he took it and raised it above his head. It felt like lifting a boulder and he wasn’t sure how long his old muscles could hold it. But the clan cheered for him. He saw their faces and heard their voices. From the elders to the young, they were cheering, for they felt hope. He wouldn’t allow his body to break that hope and held on. He planted his feet in a wide angle and raised it above him with a roar that echoed through the silent valley and into the mountain. To the deep and the land, and over the snow to the sea.

  Quickly the roar became plenty as the clan answered the call. Their voices scared the beast and woke the sea. It touched the wind from its sleep and made it sing to their roar.

  It started to howl through the caves and valleys to become part of the Frostsongs true melody. Their roar was a promise of their final stand and the last vow of hatred.

  Gor’Mash grinned. These were times of horror and sacrifice. Where orcs would be in leashes by Khans and Dragons. Yet even with his old age he had never seen the clan so strongly stand together. Not even when the south attacked or when winter became cold. That day they truly sang as one.

  The sword started to vibrate and its runes to glow in the glint of fire. It answered the roar and the wind gathered more and more. Gor’Mash looked up at it and for a second it looked as if the ash of the forge was circling around the blade while the eggs still shining shadow was mirrored on the edge. The dead and the unborn. They were watching just like the living. They knew it was the battle that would decide the fate of their kind, and beyond.

  He closed his eyes and brought the sword back down before him. He could just barely look above the hilt as it was planted again. He breathed in and out while he could feel the heartbeat of fire in his hands.

  Then the air shifted and the highest crystals of snow started to melt. The shamans’ eyes widened and Gor’Mash knew what was about to come. Fire was flying from the west. Yet it was different than last time.

  The red cloud that was slowly casting above the mountains was so much smaller. The furthest end of its leathery wings pointed out of it and the red lightning seemed weak. There was no grandeur, no terror it commanded in beast, orc or shaman. Just a wounded beast barely holding on to life. If this was their enemy, it seemed almost without honour to fight. Yet it was still a mountain of scales and fire. Even in this state, many would die.

  “It is wounded.” The old shaman whispered with closed eyes. “Its flame but a flicker..” He grinned and slowly looked back up. “It feels pain..”

  “Not yet.” Gor’Mash answered as he gazed up to the flying mountain of scales.

  The Ire smiled at the riders words. “That it arrives just when the forging is complete…” He uttered. “Fate and doom are smiling on us this day.”

  Gor’Mash started to smile yet his eyes never left his prey. “I say let us answer it.”

  He roared again and so did the clan. The runes on Defiance were glowing like fire and the wind was rising around them. Snow and ash bundled together and declared their intent.

  But the Dragon had no eyes for them. It flew onwards. Slower than before yet without an end. The grand cloud of fire around it was lifted and gave room to its full form. Its movement was weak, its wings just gliding instead of flying. And even now, any Wyvern would have a hard time to catch it.

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  “To the mountain!” The Ire commanded before Gor’Mash could. They rushed for it yet knew the way up was long. They ran. The dragon flew. Both had half the valley to go, and the clan even the many caves and tunnels up the hollowed mountain.

  The sword was heavy yet it still didn’t feel like it was slowing Gor’Mash down. Instead its heartbeat became his own. And his feet were pushed forward by its weight.

  But the clan was more than the group that had been at the forge. The Frostsong was one of the three grand clans of the north. With many villages around the valley and thousands of caves inside the hollowed mountain. Those that weren’t at the craft were ready inside the mountain. Only the oldest and the children were watching from afar. From the last edge at the boiling sea, or the hunters villages at the first pines to the south.

  Those inside the mountain were ready. So they had told themselves for the longest time. Now that they saw the Dragons dire wounds they knew. Today, this beast would die.

  It roared once more and the red lightning around struck into a peak of the distant mountains in the west. Beyond it was a village and the elders told the children to run. Their fate was but one of plenty that day. The Dragon didn’t care, neither did it even notice. Its gigantic eyes were hard to keep open, yet it felt a sick pain of joy. All those that would defy it, would die. It would be a new era and soon, all so very soon, the time of hatching was upon them.

  From the caves that looked at the west roars of sorrow and anger arose as the village was struck by the avalanche, casted by the dragon’s thunder. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, were screaming for their families. Their sorrow turned to hatred and their cries to fire. They would be the first to launch and fight and the dragon should learn that there was only one thing that was more dangerous than an orc ready to die.

  As it finally arrived at the mountain its claws dug deep into it. They melted all the snow around and filled the caves with a terrible heat that blurred the very air. But it was far from the peak. Far lower than it had planned to be. Its wings were giving in and it had to climb.

  Last time it met the Frostsong, its eyes were weary for an attack, now it was desperate. Only fixated at the peak, only clinging to the future it was so close to achieve. Slowly and with its last muscles it started to climb. One claw after the other clung into the mountain and shook its foundation. Then it stopped as its eyes widened. A song echoed through the mountain.

  The shamans that had not been at the forging were gathered at the windhall at its peak. All the Frostsong had. From the youngest apprentice to the oldest elder and all in between. Every shaman that had not been part of the forge was here. And they sang. From their throats to the mountain and the land. Wind gathered around and quickly became a storm of ice and hate. The Dragon growled and made the mountain shake with its throat. It knew it couldn’t spew fire so it just continued but was met by the very hate it enjoyed so much. Spears rained down from the mountain and at it. It smiled at them, even right now it would not pierce its hide. Yet its eyes grew concerned when nothing but a shadow of spears rained down. It closed its eyes and had to look down to protect its face from the worst.

  The stories tell that a thousand spears were breaking on its neck before the first warrior jumped for it. With their axes high, they tried to cut below its scales. From the tunnels to the air and the Dragon below.

  Inside the caves the claws that were clinging to the mountain were hacked like trees. It growled again and looked up. Warriors fell from its body and to their doom. Their names were plenty as they earned their warriors death. Above the mountain lightning gathered and while the shamans sang it started to strike down at the Dragon. One of it crashed into claw and more quickly followed. With a roar of pain the lightning forced it away from the mountain. It fell. Its belly exposed and upwards spears and orcs rained down after it.

  Even though they weren’t high yet, Gor’Mash and the others saw their chance. They ran through the tunnel that led to the riders cave. There he waited as the Dragon was falling. The ire said something, but he couldn’t hear it. The shamans whispered and sang, but he couldn’t feel it. Only the heartbeat of the sword remained in his mind and once the Dragon had been falling past them he roared and ran and jumped. He raised the sword high while lightning struck around him. No matter the end, he knew this was his warriors death.

  But the sword rejected that thought. Defiance was not accepting such a warrior. It whispered it the ancient tongue and suddenly Gor’Mash knew it would not be him. He knew before the dragon flapped its wings and pushed him and the spears away. He crashed into the mountain. His back was broken and his body falling. The sword fell with him and with only one strike he knew he had failed. The Dragon lived, and so did he. Neither was an option now.

  The lightning that was set up above the mountain started to rain down like the spears did before but were answered as the Dragon finally roared with the same might it had shown days ago. It knew its life was on the edge. The greatness it had always been dreamed of was so close, but so was its death. A distant part of its mind remembered the last time it had been like this. And it smiled. Finally, he remembered the taste of her heart. Red lightning struck around it and accompanied its roar. It crashed at the mountain and caused more snow to slide down. Some of the caves gave in and buried the orcs inside. Others had to run for the hole in its centre and even the shamans’ song stopped for a moment while the sky was conquered by red.

  The Dragons power was no mere sorcery. It was the natural rule of the land and while a sorceress had struggled to stand against but one shaman, now the choir of shamans struggled to stand against the beast that once had formed the land. While it roared lightning struck all around it and forced up to the cloud in the sky. As the shamans' song drowned out the sky started to turn red like a puddle of blood.

  Down in the snow Gor’Mash felt nothing but the cold snow on his face. His back was broken and he couldn’t move. The sword was lost somewhere else and he had lost. He tried to crawl and stand, but there was no part of his body that was still moving. It was broken.

  Gasping he looked up where the dragon had landed. It roared loud enough to echo its voice over the continent and with all the muscle it could still muster dashed back up. It struggled and would it not reach the peak in time the clan would have mustered itself again, yet it was all in vain. A few shamans still tried to sing but their voices struggled against the dragon’s roar. A few warriors tried to throw or jump as it dashed by, but were thrown away by the sheer force of its wind alone. They lost. Not even one true strike by the sword and they lost. Gor’Mash felt anger at the blade, but he had know it would test its wielder. He was ready to accept his warriors death, what else did it demand?

  He didn’t know how long he was laying there but finally he heard a song again. For a moment he smiled until he realised it was of no orc. Panic was coursing through his broken body when he realised.

  The dragon was singing. It sat atop the mountain's peak and sang as deep from its gigantic throat as possible and its voice echoed far beyond the lands of the Frostsong.

  While it did it closed its claw and far beyond the Frostsong’s eyes in the ashen dunes the obsidian spires answered its call. A thousand obsidian claws that were planted there at the dawn of the land started to close and the ashes of the ancestors rose at the dragon's command. It would taste it all. The living, the dead and the yet unborn. While it sang it looked up at the egg in the sky. With nothing but hunger.

  Gor’Mash knew he needed to move but his body wouldn’t listen. His bones were shattered and their hopes cracked. But the sword remained and he knew someone would take it. Someone would wield it. Someone would be true to its name, and end the dragon.