A Cold God, Chapter 13

I kept my hands clasped behind my back, watching as three reanimated Greenskins spoke on my behalf. They stood a few steps in front of me, their green skin grayed by death, their eyes lit with faint blue light. Their voices rumbled, forming halting syllables that almost matched human words. Sometimes, they struggled, slurring a vowel or hissing when they tried to form certain sounds. But it worked well enough, especially since I had no interest in reanimating people–not if I can avoid it, at least. So, the Greenskins were the best possible option. 

Each time they spoke, the People nearby would straighten, tilt their heads, and listen carefully–reactions that, I figured, might’ve originated from their constant battles against the Greenskins, ones that held not even the tiniest place for diplomacy. They did not flinch at the sight of these undead translators. They merely accepted it. The People had already decided I was a God of Death and Darkness, the Lion of Night. Seeing me direct corpses and commanding undead legions came as no surprise. Some even gave small nods, as though it confirmed their view of the world. 

The Elder watched from a short distance, arms folded. She observed the Greenskins with measured calm. When one of them mispronounced simple words, her lips curled faintly. But she made no complaint. Then she gestured for them to continue, stepping aside so they could haul a massive timber log toward a half-built shelter.

Communicating with several people at once was no longer as problematic as it was anymore. Now, they knew that the reanimated brutes spoke on my behalf–that their words were my words and that, through my frost, they were all a part of me just as I was a part of them. I stood with them, as cold and unmoving as a statue. When I needed to convey a thought, the reanimated Greenskins barked it out in deep, gravelly tones.

I only revealed a fraction of my undead army, though. Letting them see millions upon millions of corpses would have stirred more than awe. It would have stirred fear. And I… did not want them to be afraid of me. Despite the shift in dynamics, I still considered them to be… well… the only family I have in this world. Having them look upon me with fear would hurt even me–or maybe not. I did not want to find out, honestly. So, I kept that legion in hidden places. My reanimated beasts, even the behemoths and leviathans, and the bulk of the Greenskin dead lay dormant in remote caves, sealed under ice or locked away in frostbound valleys. There they would sleep until I summoned them.

For daily tasks, I brought out only a dozen Greenskins. They wore simple tattered clothes, remnants from the horde I had slain. Their massive frames towered over most humans, their thick arms bristling with once-living muscle. Their skin had lost the usual vivid green hue, replaced by a pallor that shimmered faintly with my frost–a far lighter shade. Their jaws twitched when they spoke, revealing crooked fangs. Yet the People regarded them without fear. Some even gave polite nods as the undead Greenskins trudged by with logs or sacks of supplies.

Sometimes, I saw the children run up to watch them work. The children pointed and whispered, eyebrows lifting when the Greenskins lifted an entire fallen trunk alone. The undead said nothing, but the children would grin. One child tried to tug on a Greenskin’s thick arm, then pulled back when the cold made his fingers tingle. He raised his eyebrows, rubbing his hands together, before darting off.

I kept the undead barbarians busy with labor. They carried heavy lumber, hoisted large stones, and cleared debris from around the settlement. They needed no rest. They never ate nor drank. They did not complain, did not tire. That constant labor helped the tribe expand. New longhouses rose. Defensive walls grew higher. Fields were tilled more quickly, with the orcs pushing crude plows that once needed teams of men.

In quiet moments, I stood aside and watched them. I noticed each orc’s face was twisted in a permanent grimace, but they felt no pain. They lacked any real will. Their minds were husks, linked to my greater self–just like every other undead creature I’d raised from the ground. Their ability to speak was a small spark of functionality I maintained. 

Sometimes, they bungled a word. For instance, they struggled with “harvest” or “melodic.” The shape of their jaws made certain consonants awkward. But that was to be expected. Their vocal cords aside, the Greenskins were merely humanoid; I doubt they were anywhere close to humans in terms of evolution. In fact, I was pretty sure they were straight up aliens. So, physical differences were to be expected; one being their inability to pronounce a myriad of words. When that happened, one or two of the People stifled chuckles, or pressed fingers to their lips. I found myself smiling with them. 

Over the following weeks, the People worked side by side with the reanimated Greenskins. They hauled resources, built more shelters, dug a larger pantry. The undead proved invaluable. They did not tire. They did not slack. When one’s arm tore off under strain, it was simply reattached with stitches, continuing the task. Very efficient.

One evening, I stood at the edge of the settlement, gazing at the horizon. The Greenskins had piled cut logs near a new shed. A few children lingered, watching as the undead stacked timber. Through me, one of the undead began humming, or something close to humming–an old song from a faint and nameless memory from my time as a human. The child nearest jerked his head, eyes wide, and stepped back. The orc continued, croaking a low tune that lacked any melody. The child giggled, apparently entertained.

I let a faint exhale escape my lips. If the People could accept these undead so easily, perhaps they truly had accepted me, in all my dark power. They labeled me a God of Death, so an undead workforce made sense. 

In another corner, a young hunter tested a new bow. An undead stood by, holding a target. The arrow flew, striking the target near the center. The Greenskin grunted, applauding with a flat expression. The hunter beamed, lowering his bow. Another arrow flew. The Greenskin stood still, letting the arrow thud inches from its chest, unflinching. The hunter smiled, nodding. 

That night, I stood near the Elder’s hut, my gaze roaming over the settlement. Fires burned low. The People finished their meals or prepared for rest. My reanimated greenskins paced the outer perimeter, spears in hand, eyes glowing like faint blue coals. Occasionally, through their eyes, I spotted some manner of movement beyond the torches, yet nothing approached. The cold air carried only the rustle of wind through the trees. The valley lay quiet. The People were safe.

I did not sleep. My frost-bound senses reached far through all the little critters I’d reanimated. Birds perched on high branches, their hollow eyes scanning the horizon. Small beasts, shaped by my power, prowled at the edges of the forest. Insects crept along the ground, listening for footsteps. I felt everything they sensed. The night passed calmly. Dawn brought a faint glow over the eastern ridge.

Soon, the sound of hoofbeats echoed across the plains. I turned, narrowing my eyes at the line of distant figures approaching. They rode scaly saurian beasts, each rider dressed in armor bearing the emblem of Queen Lysara. There were about twenty of them. They moved at a measured pace, not charging, yet tension clung to them. My guess: they had come because of the widespread frost and the recent slaughter of greenskins. All that cold might have touched their lands.

They halted at our gate, raising a banner high. Their crest fluttered in the early light. I sensed no immediate hostility. The Elder joined me, stepping carefully over a patch of frost. She paused beside me, resting a hand on her staff. One of my reanimated greenskins stood behind us, carrying a crude axe and a sheath of words. It could talk for me if needed.

I eyed the riders. I recalled that Queen Lysara had given my tribe these lands. She treated our warriors fairly, letting them scout and fight greenskins in exchange for food and metal. But now the greenskins in these parts were gone. Perhaps Lysara wanted more. Perhaps she planned to ask for their service in a human war. Or maybe she just wanted to confirm rumors of my power. I did not know. I had no spies in her city. I had chosen not to pry open her privacy by way of reanimated insects and whatnot. Her courtesy deserved mine in return.

The riders waited patiently. Some patted their beasts’ necks. Others kept a watchful eye on the gate. One rider, taller than the rest, tightened his reins. His shoulders hinted at authority. My frost swirled at my feet, but I calmed it. I did not wish to freeze them unannounced.

The Elder glanced up at me. She lifted an eyebrow, then spoke quietly. “Shall I represent our tribe, oh Lion of Night, in dealing with these stone-dwellers? Or will you meet them yourself?”

I thought about it for a moment. Despite the irony of it, the monstrous Greenskins were likely more familiar as opposed to my avatar–a nine feet tall jacked up frosty human. One of the reanimated dead answered for me. Its rough voice, jarring yet clear enough, rumbled from its throat. “I do not believe it a good idea to appear in this form. I shall meet them, but the dead shall speak for me–not my avatar. But you, honored Elder, shall speak for the People.”

The Elder bowed her head a fraction, bracelets jingling softly. She looked at me, waiting for my agreement. I breathed out, thin mist swirling in front of my face. Then I inclined my head. The greenskin stepped past us, moving toward the gate.

A handful of villagers, seeing the newcomers, approached from behind huts. Some carried short bows, others only carried cautious gazes. They recognized the riders’ sigil. None panicked. But tension pulsed in the air.

I walked closer, stopping at the threshold. The undead greenskin advanced a few paces beyond, raising a hand in greeting. Its voice crackled in the morning stillness. “The People welcome you, honored friends and allies. State your purpose.”

A rider dismounted, removing his helm to reveal a scarred face and cropped hair. He paused, eyebrows lifting at the sight of a reanimated brute speaking. After a moment, he shrugged. Then he inclined his head slightly. 

“I am Captain Benjen Stark,” he said. His words were measured, calm. “Under orders of Queen Lysara, my party and I bear a message and a proposal from her highness. May we enter?”

The Elder turned to me. I nodded at her. She turned to Captain Benjen Stark and smiled. “Of course. Friends are welcome in our camp. Please, leave your beasts and your weapons upon them and you may enter. Violence and aggression are forbidden among our tribesmen–the same rules and courtesies are extended to our guests. Will you abide by that?” 

“I shall.” Captain Benjen Stark smiled, bowed his head, and untangled his sword and sheath from his belt, before placing it in a large satchel that hung from the side of his saurian beast. His fellow warriors did the same. The Elder gestured them forth and led them to the Gathering Hall. Ten of their warriors entered our camp and accompanied Captain Benjen; the other nine stayed behind to watch over their saurian mounts. We entered the Gathering Hall, but only the Elder, Benjen, and I walked in. Everyone else stayed outside. Benjen’s warriors mingled with my tribesmen. 

The Elder sat down first, on a fur rug on the floor. Captain Benjen did the same, sitting across from her. I kept the reanimated Greenskin standing. Usually, some form of fermented beverage would be served from hollowed out animal bones, but we had none at the moment–or, at least, none to spare for guests. The Elder smiled and spoke, “Now, what message did queen Lysara send?” 

“The Kings and Queens of the realm are gathering,” Captain Benjen began. “Hundreds of them.” 

The Elder raised a brow. As far as we knew then, the lands of the stone-dwellers were divided into hundreds and hundreds of kingdoms and just as many kings and queens–a vast land of rivers and valleys, swamps and streams, islands and mountains. I would’ve loved to explore all of that, but the differing states were often at war with each other. Queen Lysara, for instance, had some kind of feud with at least half of her neighboring rulers. The Elder leaned forward slightly. “Why?” 

“Foreign invaders,” Captain Benjen answered. “We know them only as the Dawn Empire.”