The council hall of Black Stone Fortress was cold and silent. Pine resin crackled in the brazier, casting the shadows of the orc generals in grotesque shapes across the stone walls.
Abaal sat on the throne. The once-mighty Bloodhand Great Chieftain now wore a tattered wolfskin cloak. His single eye swept across the hall as he asked in a low voice, "Speak. What should we do from here?"
His eldest son, Aguirre, was the first to speak, his voice edged with urgency. "Father, about what the human envoy said yesterday... shouldn't we consider it?"
He did not dare say the word "surrender," but the meaning could not have been clearer.
The old priest Ota West leaned on his bone staff, his withered fingers tapping the floor with dull thuds. "The ancestors' spirits are wailing. The glory of the Zalge Clan cannot be buried by our hands. But..."
He paused, his gaze passing over the empty seats where the fallen commanders had once sat. "The ancestors also said that as long as the bloodline survives, glory can be forged anew."
Eugene, the chief administrator, lowered his head over a hide ledger and rasped, "The granaries have only seven days of rations left. More than half the horses are dead or wounded. Ironware, arrows, medicinal herbs... everything is gone. How long can Black Stone Fortress hold? Three days? Five?"
Kalem stood silently in the corner. The once-arrogant young general now wore battered armor, and a fresh scar marked his face.
He remembered his string of defeats beginning at the Black Stone Plain, and the army torn to pieces by human artillery. He remained silent.
Arroyo spat out a mouthful of blood and glared at Eugene. "Surrender? Let the humans drive us into cages and enslave us? The warriors of the Zalge Clan