Usurping the Throne

"Tell me, child, of all the Orcs in the world... cough, cough..."

My uncle's voice came with heavy coughing, loud enough to drown out even the hoofbeats of the guards on either side.

"...which kind is the most dangerous?"

He came back to himself and lifted his gaze from the mud beneath the hooves.

"The dying kind."

Mounted on his horse, he was in low spirits, a full horse's length behind his uncle's carriage.

"Yes, the dying kind." His uncle's weak voice suddenly seemed infused with fresh vitality.

Just like his uncle in his prime, pointing out the course of the realm and commanding the world with sweeping vigor.

"Like a sand scorpion's stinger hidden in its tail, a venomous snake's fangs buried deep in its mouth, or dangerous quicksand concealed underground."

Back then, his uncle's figure had been tall and imposing, his arms powerful, his voice deep and resonant.

At that thought, he gave a low snort, urged his horse on with the whip, and hurried a few steps forward until he reached the carriage.

But his uncle was like a desert after a storm. The voice that had just been roused sank back into hoarseness and dejection.

"Then which kind of Orc is the safest?"

He answered unhurriedly.

"The dead kind."

"No, Old Man taught you that," his uncle snorted. "A dead Orc is a good Orc."

"But I say, Cyril, the safest Orc..."

"...is also the dying kind."

He paused.

His uncle's weak voice rose and fell with the horse's movement.

"Because they're like arrows at the end of a powerful crossbow's range, the trailing edge of a terrifying sandstorm, or the last embers of spent fuel."

"Impressive in sound and fury, but with no strength left behind."

He squeezed his horse's flanks and frowned hard.

"This