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Sweat
dampened
and
darkened
his
fur
as
he
danced.
His
large
brown
eyes
were
closed
in
concentration,
his
hooves
again
finding
their
powerful
rhythm.
He
tossed
his
head,
short
horns
stabbing
the
air,
tail
twitching.
Others
danced
beside
him.
Their
body
heat
and
that
of
the
fire,
burning
brightly
despite
the
flakes
and
wind
drifting
down
from
the
smoke
hole
in
the
roof,
kept
the
lodge
warm
and
comfortable.
They
all
knew
what
was
transpiring
outside.
They
could
not
control
these
winds
and
snow,
as
they
could
ordinary
such
things.
No,
this
was
his
doing.
But
they
could
dance
and
feast
and
laugh
in
defiance
of
the
onslaught.
They
were
taunka;
they
would
endure.
The
world
was
blue
and
white
and
raging
outside,
but
inside
the
Great
Hall
the
air
was
warm
and
still.
A
fireplace
tall
enough
for
a
man
to
stand
in
was
filled
with
thick
logs,
the
crackling
of
their
burning
the
only
noise.
Over
the
ornately
decorated
mantel,
carved
with
images
of
fantastical
creatures,
the
giant
antler
of
a
shoveltusk
was
mounted.
Carved
dragon
heads
served
as
sconces,
holding
torches
with
flames
burning
bright.
Heavy
beams
supported
the
feast
hall
that
could
have
housed
dozens,
the
warm
orange
hue
of
the
fires
chasing
away
the
shadows
to
hide
on
the
corners.
The
cold
stone
of
the
floor
was
softened
and
warmed
by
thick
pelts
of
polar
bears,
shoveltusk,
and
other
creatures.
A
table,
long
and
heavy
and
carved,
occupied
most
of
the
space
in
the
room.
It
could
have
hosted
three
dozen
easily.
Only
three
figures
sat
at
the
table
now:
a
man,
an
orc,
and
a
boy.
None
of
it
was
real,
of
course.
The
man
who
sat
at
the
place
of
honor
at
the
table,
slightly
elevated
before
the
other
two
in
a
mammoth
carved
chair
that
was
not
quite
a
throne,
understood
this.
He
was
dreaming;
he
had
been
dreaming
for
a
long,
long
time.
The
hall,
the
shoveltusk
trophies,
the
fire,
the
table
the
orc
and
the
boy
all
were
simply
a
part
of
his
dreaming.
The
orc,
on
his
left,
was
elderly,
but
still
powerful.
The
orange
fire
and
torchlight
flickered
off
the
ghastly
image
he
bore
on
his
heavy
jawed
face
that
of
a
skull,
painted
on.
He
had
been
a
shaman,
able
to
direct
and
wield
vast
powers,
and
even
now,
even
just
as
a
figment
of
the
man’s
imagination,
he
was
intimidating.
The
boy
was
not.
Once,
he
might
have
been
a
handsome
child,
with
wide
sea
green
eyes,
fair
features,
and
golden
hair.
But
once
was
not
now.
The
boy
was
sick.
