Maquille struggled to put one foot in front of the other. Then struggled to do it again. He raised his arm and wiped the sweat from his brow, pausing a moment to look around him again. His tired eyes saw only what they had seen before. The barren wasteland stretched on in all directions and it appeared as though nothing lived here. There was only sand and gravel and a few rocky outcrops which cast invaluable shade. Maquille raised his waterskin to his mouth, but nothing came out. Resigned, he hung it back to his belt, then put another foot forward and wondered why there were still any orcs left.

Maquille looked up when he heard voices in front of him. The others had come to a halt and were discussing something ahead of them. A plume of smoke rose up in the distance and was headed their way. The group stopped and waited in silence for it to arrive.

The meeting party consisted of five orcs, riding scaly, horse-like creatures. They recognised Durzak and greeted him in their guttural language. Durzak turned to the three travellers and spoke, “I hope you will excuse my fellow tribesman, but they do not speak your tongue. You may ride with them to our camp.”

Maquille was just happy that the walk was over. He approached one of the riders, wondering how he was going mount the strange creature that the orc rode. The orc extended a hand to help him up. Maquille gratefully offered his hand, but winced when the orc’s powerful grip crushed his own. With one powerful pull, the orc lifted him of the ground and seated the mage in front of him. “Thank you,” Maquille said, but there was no indication that the rider understood him.

From the creature’s back, the ground looked quite far away, but Maquille suspected that his mind was playing tricks with him. Suddenly, they were moving. The ground sped by below them and the air filled with dust. Maquille closed his eyes and held his hands to his face, trying to keep the sand out, but it didn’t do much good.

Then they were slowing down again. They came to a stop and Maquille dared to open his eyes again. The group had halted just outside the orcs’ camp. The rider helped him down to the ground and he stumbled over to Damian and Gerome, who were already waiting with Durzak. “This way,” the orc told them and led the small group through the camp.

The camp consisted of hundreds of tents. Small shoddy ones stood on the outskirts, but the tents got larger and more ornate as they approached the centre of the camp. Clearly, the tents were pitched according to social standing. The orcs were all very busy – many were tending to the small cooking fires that dotted the camp – but they all stopped and stared as the small group passed.

There was a large clearing in the centre of the camp. A bigger cooking fire burned here and the smell of roasting meat hung heavily in the air. Maquille suddenly realised that he was hungry. He looked at Durzak, but the orc was not headed towards the clearing. He was taking them to the grandest test off all. Two guards stood watch outside, but parted their spears to allow the group entrance.

The dark interior of the tent was considerably cooler than the outside. A single orc sat behind a desk inside. He looked up when the four came in and Durzak immediately bowed. Maquille found the energy to enact an elegant bow, while the other two managed clumsy attempts.

“Stand at ease,” the orc commanded. Maquille looked up and studied the orc. He was as large as any other orc and gruesome scar running down his cheek. “I am Feng, leader of the Black Boar orcs,” the orc continued. “I do believe we have seen each other before.”

Maquille was puzzled. He very much doubted they had met the orc before. “Of course!” came Damian’s delighted voice from beside him. “In the pass. After you came to assist Coldwick. Oh. Forgive me, sir.” Damian proceeded to introduce himself and his two companions.

“You have a good memory, friend,” Feng responded. “But come, let us eat. Then we have much to discuss.”

At the leader’s sign, Durzak led everyone outside the tent and back into the scorching heat. Once they reached the clearing, Feng sat down on a log and the others joined him. A number of other orcs quickly rushed over, bringing roasted meat and a strong brew. Maquille looked at the others, hoping to take their lead. Gerome was staring distrustfully at the food he had been served, but Damian had no such qualms. He had already joined the orcs in wolfing it down. Maquille began to pick at the food. There was no need to act like a barbarian.

“To our new partnership!” Feng shouted. Feng was holding his tankard out, toasting. Maquille held his own out, then sipped carefully at the drink. Even so, he struggled to hold the small amount of liquid down.

When the meal was over, everyone looked expectantly towards the orc leader. “Sir, I think you have a lot of explaining to do,” Damian prompted him.

Feng sighed. “I'd best start from the beginning,” he began. “Hundreds of years ago, my people inhabited the cursed land you now call Mythalia. We'd been there for only two generations when the deadlings came for us. That was a dark time. Most of my people were massacred; the few survivors made their way into the Desolation. Life here has not been easy. It is a constant struggle for survival.

“When we became aware of the arrival of your people, we thought to send warning of what had happened. The warnings were not heeded and our messengers did not return.

“But after a hundred years, the deadlings did not return to desecrate the land. Some of the impatient clans thought to take the land back, but they were driven out. That part of history you know.

“Now the deadlings have returned and we wish to finally break the curse and be allowed to return to the lands we once inhabited. We have consulted our Oracle and she has spoken: 'The desert-dwellers must return with those who defy, for they can only triumph together.'

“We need your help as much as you need ours. We will take you to our Oracle to learn what must happen next.”