At first, all of Hüitzlö's Orcs went along with Xöltlá's plans, not knowing what to do without a leader. They marched long from Hüitzlö's realm until they arrived in the land of Itzlí, though Itzlí had felt a disturbance since Hüitzlö's death and knew the shadows of war were marching his way. Xöltlá, who, like most who crave power, did not understand the repercussions of the actions he was undertaking to gain that power, marched his army headlong and tirelessly towards the mountainous realm of Itzlí. After weeks of marching and with very little rest or nourishment, Xöltlá found his army on his brother's borders, and he could taste the victory that he was assured was his. Overconfidence is the fault of many, and the Ancient Ones were no exception. Comfortable in his assumed impending victory, Xöltlá allowed his army to set up camp near his brother's borders so that they may rest, eat, and drink; for Xöltlá wanted his army prepared for the battle tomorrow. Xöltlá chose for the site of his camp a ravine between two hills, thinking that the area would hide his army from any of Itzlí's spies. However, unbeknownst to Xöltlá, Itzlí had correctly predicted he would choose such a poor location to make camp, given that Xöltlá did not know the mountainous terrain of Itzlí's realm, nor did Xöltlá have any experience commanding an army.
One of Itzlí's Dwarven spies, who had lived their entire life in the mountains and knew how to watch others without being seen, sat crouched on a nearby cliff looking down at Xöltlá's orcs while they made camp. Once the orcs had set up their camp and settled down for the night, the Dwarven spy left his position and returned to Itzlí and the commander of his army, both of whom were waiting just on the other side of the hill with upwards of thirty-thousand Dwarven soldiers behind them. As anyone from the mountains knew, the road Xöltlá traveled was the fastest route into the realm, and haste had caused Xöltlá to traverse this path without any thought into the ease with which his moves could be predicted. Itzlí and his Dwarven army were well aware that Xöltlá would march his army down this road and had been lying in wait for them for days. Itzlí had a cunning grin on his face as he saw his spy return, knowing that he had correctly guessed his brother's plan.
"What news?" Itzlí asked the spy.
"It was just as you had predicted. The orc army has made camp in the ravine. They are in the open and unaware," replied the spy.
"Good! Let us prepare for battle!" Itzlí said, turning towards his commander. "If my knowledge is correct, then Xöltlá's army consists of roughly ten-thousand orcs. That puts our strength at triple his. However, those orcs were created and trained for one thing, war. Do you believe your men can defeat them?"
"Without a doubt!" The commander replied in a stout manner. "Though we do not have the battle training of the orcs, we have worked long in the mines. I'd wager that each and every one of us Dwarves are twice as strong and three times as hearty as any orc. Aye, I know we can defeat them!"
"Very well! Though, I do have one more command before you leave," Itzlí said. "If you encounter Xöltlá down there, be wary, he is far more powerful than any number of mortals. Slaughter as many of his orcs as you can without fighting him directly. When it comes time to deal with Xöltlá, blow on your war horn, and I will deal with him myself! I would very much like to take his head for what he has done, but alas, Tëzcál demands that Xöltlá is captured alive so that he can answer for his crimes."
The Dwarven commander nodded, and then slowly, he and the Dwarven army began to march up the western face of the mountain. Once they got to the top, the commander peered down and saw that everything was quiet in the orc camp. He also saw, that at the back of the camp, almost a mile from the rest of the army, sat what was unmistakably Xöltlá's tent, for it was much larger than the rest and haughtily decorated in red gems. The Dwarven commander looked back at all of his men and made eye contact with those he could see, then he nodded. He then sat straight up in his horse, drew his axe, held it out in front of him, and with a terrific yell, began charging down the eastern face of the mountain towards the orc's camp. His troops rode behind him, and it sounded as if an avalanche was descending upon the orc's camp.
Many of the orcs awoke to the sound of screams, clashing steel, and the wild neighing of war horses. They rushed out of their tents, still groggy and half-armored. One orc, a sergeant named Mêk'lā, stepped out of his tent in time to see a Dwarven rider behead one of his fellow company men.[1] The severed head of this orc rolled until it came to a stop at Mêk'lā's feet, its cold lifeless eyes looking up at him. To Mêk'lā's relief, the Dwarf took no notice of him and rode on. Mêk'lā walked over to his fallen comrade's body and removed the sword since Mêk'lā himself had left his tent in too much of a hurry to remember to grab a weapon. He walked around examining the chaos and ruin, trying to stay unnoticed. He then came about a couple dozen orcs standing with their backs to one another in a circle. They were standing around what looked to be the remnants of a cooking fire from earlier that night. As Mêk'lā approached them he noticed there were scores of dead Dwarves around them and around ten dead orcs. The Orcish fighters closest to Mêk'lā turned their swords towards him once they heard him approach, but upon seeing who he was, they let out a cheer, for they were all members of the company he commanded.
"Mêk'lā! Be praised! It is good to see you're still with us!" One of the orcs exclaimed. The rest of the group raised their swords and let out a cheer in agreement.
"I'm glad to see you all are well, too," Mêk'lā replied. "What is happening?"
"The Dwarves must have seen us make camp!" Said one of the orcs, spitting on the ground afterward as if to clean his mouth of the words. "I knew it was a poor idea to camp in a ravine in an unfamiliar land!"
"You speak true, but we are soldiers, and to make camp here was our commander's orders," Mêk'lā said.
"And? Where is our commander now?" Another one of the orcs asked.
"I do not know, I've only just arrived on the battlefield," said Mêk'lā.
"I've heard that no one has seen him leave his tent yet. Do you think he has retreated and left us here to die so he can make an escape?"
"That's doubtful."
"Well, what do you think?" One of the orcs asked Mêk'lā.
Mêk'lā looked around for a few seconds contemplating the options. As he did, a handful of Dwarves swarmed the group but was easily turned back, with three Dwarves dying and only one Orc receiving a minor wound on their arm. At last, Mêk'lā spoke, "We do not know this land, so retreating is not the wisest of options. However, staying here and fighting appears to be getting us nowhere, their numbers are just too large." Mêk'lā then took another couple of moments to try and work out the riddle he just posed. "I say we stay here and fight until we cannot hold out much longer. We must wait and see what our commander's plan is. If we end up retreating, I suggest we try and make it to the realm of Quëtzlá, where maybe we can comfortably recover and rest. Perhaps the elves will take us in as refugees."
"As you command!" One of the Orcs replied. With that, the band of Orcs stood their ground and held off waves of Dwarven attackers. As their stand continued they began to grow weary, and some of them began to fall. After a while, one Orc died for every two Dwarves slain, a rate the Orcs could not sustain.
"We must retreat!" One Orc yelled. "Xöltlá has abandoned us!" The Orc pointed his sword towards Xöltlá's tent, indicating that no one had yet emerged.
Mêk'lā looked around franticly, trying to come to grips with the truth. Finally, after taking in as much mayhem and bloodshed as he could stomach, Mêk'lā gave the order. "Fall back!" He yelled, and the band of Orcs under his command began a fighting retreat into the mountains. A couple dozen other groups of Orcs followed their lead, and in a few moments, half of Xöltlá's army had either fled or was lying dead on the battlefield. Itzlí had also lost about half of his force to death and injury, leaving him with roughly fifteen thousand soldiers to Xöltlá's five thousand. Outnumbered, the battle did not continue much longer. Soon, the Orcs threw down their weapons and surrendered. Itzlí and his army rounded the Orc prisoners up and corralled them. Itzlí then road upon his horse up to the entrance of Xöltlá's tent.
"Your futile attempt is over, brother!" Itzlí boasted, sitting proudly upon his horse. "Come out, and accept your defeat!"
Xöltlá gave no response, and after a while, Itzlí grew frustrated. Itzlí dismounted his horse and began to approach Xöltlá's tent. Though, as he approached the tent, the sky grew dark, and the air became stifling and hard to breathe. Itzlí stopped in his tracks and then heard Xöltlá's voice booming from within the tent.
"You're sorely mistaken, brother," Xöltlá said ominously. "You think I fell into your trap, but it is you who is captured!" Xöltlá then began to utter words in the language of the Ancient Ones, a tongue that has been lost to time. Itzlí stood frozen, unsure of how to proceed. Then, the earth began to shake, and all of the slain warriors, both Dwarven and Orcish, began to rise. Their disfigured corpses, bearing the wounds of war, hobbled to their feet, grasping for whatever weapon lay near them. The screams of Itzlí's living Dwarven warriors first caught his attention. Itzlí turned around to see Xöltlá's undead army attacking those Dwarves that guarded the captured Orcs. Once their captors were slain, Xöltlá's voice, as if coming from the sky above, announced that they should "Take up arms! Destroy those who oppose you!" The once-captured Orcs headed Xöltlá's call, and after picking up whatever weapons they could find on the ground, joined the army of the undead in decimating what remained of Itzlí's force.
Itzlí stood in shock, watching as his army was destroyed. At that moment, he realized strategy and knowledge of battle was not enough to overcome Xöltlá's command of the Nether. Itzlí stood there for what seemed like an eternity, watching the massacre. Then, suddenly, he felt warm breath against his neck and heard Xöltlá's soft hissing whisper in his ear.
"Don't trouble yourself, brother," Xöltlá hissed almost sweetly. "You will not find death lonesome. Hüitzlö is awaiting you in the abyss." With that, Xöltlá produced his Nether dagger and slowly, almost reveling at the moment, slid it across Itzlí's throat. Itzlí fell to his knees, grasping at his throat as his blood flowed out like a torrent. Soon after, Itzlí lay dead at Xöltlá's feet. Xöltlá stood over his brother's body for a moment, taking everything in, experiencing every second. Then, he raised his arms above his head and shouted a single word in the tongue of the Ancient Ones. Immediately, Xöltlá's army of undead and Orcish warriors stopped their slaughter of the Dwarves. The remaining Dwarves stood confused as their assailants all turned to face Xöltlá.
Xöltlá bent down, and when he stood back up he was holding the decapitated head of Itzlí. "We have won a great victory today!" Xöltlá exclaimed while presenting the head, the sound of his voice was nearly drowned out by the roar of his followers. "Regather your strength! Collect your plunder! For soon, we march to the South! To the realm of Quëtzlá!" Again, his army roared. Those of Itzlí's army who still lived looked around in confusion before tossing down their weapons. Xöltlá took notice of this. "Do not fear," he said. "For unlike Itzlí, who enslaved you, I will be a benevolent master. Those who do not wish to accompany my troops may return to their labors in the mines without my ire. Though first, each of you must swear allegiance to me!"
All of the surviving Dwarves kneeled before Xöltlá, and though few decided to join his army's march against Quëtzlá, none again barred arms against him. Xöltlá smiled confidently at the display. "Rise reborn under the light of my reign!" Xöltlá announced. With this victory, the final leg of Xöltlá's conquest was underway. All that stood between him, and the complete conquest of Terra was Quëtzlá and her elves, and Tëzcál, the oldest and wisest of the Ancient Ones. Xöltlá felt confident in his victory against the elves, though he still worried about what plans Tëzcál had in store.
[1] During the reign of the Ancient Ones, each race had not yet developed its own language. All languages of Terra are thought to derive from one single language, assumed to have been spoken by the Ancient Ones. However, no records survive that detail how and when each race language branched off from one another. Any people of Orcish blood in the modern era now speak Elvish.