Of Orcs and Men: a vaguely D&D SI - Gladiusone

[kclcmdr]

I have the Author's permission to post this here on SV - Author Gladiusone

Of Orcs and Men: a vaguely D&D SI
Gladiusone. Of Orcs and Men_A Vaguely SV D&D SI ARCHIVED ... ARCHIVE SV LINK --


Gladiusone. Of Orcs and Men_A Vaguely D&D SI ARCHIVED ... ARCHIVE SB LINK --
Author - Gladiusone

Gladiusone. Of Orcs and Men_A Vaguely D&D SI ... SB LINK --
Gladiusone ... non DIRECT SB Story LINK - Of Orcs and Men_A Vaguely D&D SI







xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

LIKES per chapter as of 01/10/2015
Gladiusone..CH_01a - 084 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_02a - 098 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_03a - 077 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_04a - 096 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_05a - 079 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_06a - 080 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_07a - 080 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_08a - 098 Likes
Kclcmdr..Omake - 024 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_09a - 107 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_10a - 101 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_11a - 122 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_12a - 128 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_13a - 131 Likes
Gladiusone..CH_14a - 100 Likes












===============
Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_01a - Wakeup, Ork, IlnevalFaerungods, OrcSavages, GreyOrc Huruk, Now ORC ​

Part 1​

I blinked my eyes blearily, and rolled onto my side. The ground underneath me was cold, damp and hard: not in the least like my warm, comfortable bed. Around me was the sound of night: crickets, the rustle of the wind through trees, the crackle of a fire, and my nose twitched at the acrid scent of burning wood. Nope, I was most certainly not in my room at home, the last place I could remember being.​

With effort I opened my eyes ... and lurched back with a yelp. Sitting on the other side of a small fire sat a large, muscle bound figure, clad in rough furs and leather, a long sword resting bare across his knees. This was scary enough, but this particular figure had porcine features, large tusks, and beady yellow eyes that peered at me through the gloom, reflecting the flame's light balefully.​

He laughed as I scrambled back, drawing my knees up in front of me and scrabbling about for a weapon, a phone, or maybe my alarm clock, in order to wake myself up from this nightmare.​

"Don't fret, little human mortal," rasped the figure in deep and accented English, still giggling. "I have already eaten."​

"Very reassuring," I responded, trying not to hyperventilate. "So I assume I'm not dreaming?"​

"Humph. I would prefer to consider myself a nightmare, rather than a 'dream'," he continued, his eyes glinting in dark humour. "I am Ilneval, Horde Leader, War Maker! God of orcs, half-orcs, of tactics and victory! I am general to Gruumsh, and when his mighty spear smites his enemies, it is my planning that brought that foe within reach!" He leaned forward and thrust his snout towards me, the light from the fire casting ghastly shadows over his green-grey face. "You know me," he accused.​

Satisfied, for the moment, that I wasn't a late-night snack, I brushed dirt off my knees and crossed my legs underneath me. "Um, the name is familiar." I thought furiously. "Okay, you're one of the orc gods from Faerun, right?"​

He barked a harsh laugh. "And much further, mortal. My worshipers cover worlds, and fill them with pyres of the defeated foe in my honour." But he frowned. "And yet ... my people remain savages. They build nothing, leave nothing behind them. Tomorrow is as meaningless as yesterday. Humans, dwarves," he spat into the fire, causing the spittle sizzle loudly, "and elves grow, learn new tricks, new crafts. They build empires, while my children scrabble in the mud."​

I couldn't help feeling a little empathy for the deity. Orcs were, apart from goblins, the biggest losers in fantasy. Yeah, they kicked butt when they could, but for the most part, they never got past barbarian hordes. Dangerous to small communities, and even kingdoms, but a strong nation with a disciplined army and some decent spellcasters would generally spoil their fun. Of course, that's human storytelling, I thought. No one likes to read about an orc horde stomping all over humanity ... except 40K fans, of course.​

"I ... kinda get where you're coming from," I said. "Of course, strictly from a human point of view, that's a good thing." Inwardly I cringed as soon as I said it: it's not a good idea to piss off a god when he pulls you aside for a chat.​

"Humph," he grunted. "Good for humans. Not good for orcs. So: since orcs don't build empires, I need an orc who isn't an orc." He pointed a sharp fingernail at me.​

"Woah!" I shouted, raising both hands in front of me. "I'm no Genghis Khan, mate. I can barely hold down a job, let alone build an empire!"​

"Grey orc named Huruk is chief of Stonegrinder tribe. Great warrior, loyal worshiper. Wants to make orcs great, but not smart enough. No 'vision'. So I take your soul, and swap it with his. You get his body, his memories, his skills. He comes to afterlife, and fights and dies forever. You take his place, and build a true orc empire. Build a 'civilisation'. Make orcs not wall fodder for other races: make them strong. Unite them, and make them great. If you succeed, I put you back where I found you, like nothing happened."​

I blinked. "What happens if I fail?"​

Illneval shrugged. "Other orcs kill you. Eat you. I start again."​

"Oookay. I guess that counts as motivation. Do I get a choice?"​

"No." Reaching through the fire with a suddenly long arm, he thrust his clawed hand into my chest, and with a wrenching, wet sound, tore my soul from my body.​

Fortunately, that's where I passed out.​

*** *** ***​

I sat up with a start, my hand clutching at my chest, my heart pounding and my lungs labouring to draw breath. My head swam, and I tossed aside the strangely heavy covers of my bed to stick my legs out to get up.​

Almost immediately, I realised that something was wrong. Firstly, I was not on a raised mattress, but on blankets laid out on the ground. Secondly, I was not in my bedroom, but in some kind of tent, the sounds of a busy camp coming from outside, along with the appropriate smells. Thirdly, the hand pressing against my chest was not the one I had been born with.​

I paused for a moment, raising my hand to look at it in the dim light of the tent. Long, strong fingers, heavy with calluses from hard work and with roughly hewn nails, the skin a grey hew rather than the normal pink I was used to. In a panic, I glanced around, saw a bowl of water on top of a wooden chest, and lurched over to peer into it.​

Reflected in the copper bowl was not my face: it had yellow eyes, long, ragged blue-black hair, a heavy brow and a jutting jaw full of too many sharp teeth! I almost thought that someone had covered my face with a latex prosthetic, but the reflection moved too easily, too accurately expressing my shock and terror. It may not have been my face, but it was the face I now wore.​

That was when I passed out. Again.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_02a - ReAwaken, HurukStoneGrinders, Garog, Bar, Highlands, IllnevalPlans ​

Part 2​

Some time later, I awoke again, this time far more composed. While I slept, the memories and skills of Huruk's mind had filtered into my brain: I knew who he was - who I was, now. I knew where I was, I knew both major dialects of orcish (grey and mountain), I could speak the Common tongue of the Lowlander humans ... sort of, and knew enough goblin to curse, demand submission and 'where to the latrines' ... again, sort of. I looked over at where a sword lay on a chest, in a fine leather and bronze sheath, attached to a belt of much rougher material. I reached up and clasped at the large tooth, roughly set in gold and soldered to a silver chain around my neck, a trophy from a time that a younger Huruk ... that I ... slew a young green dragon. The meat fed the tribe for a month.​

I stood up, and stretched, finding my balance. My new limbs were strong and fit, with sinewy muscles toned from swinging sword and shield, of climbing mountains and swimming rivers. I flexed my fingers, and knew the best way to hold a sword, and the best way to skin a deer.​

I remembered growing up in a war camp, of raiding and fighting and killing until the blood flowed behind my eyes, and I wanted to throw up, but the remnants of Huruk exalted at the deaths of his enemies. My enemies.​

I shook my head, and my long, lank hair brushed against my shoulders. I was Huruk now. Yes, I was still me, but I was him, too. I remembered living my life in Australia, a boring suburban geek with a wage-slave job ... and I remembered living as a chieftain's son, then a chief, after my father died battling another clan.​

I was me, and Huruk, and as time went on, there seemed to be less and less separation between the two.​

Huruk of the Stonegrinders is the name I am known by in this world, I reasoned. I'd better get used to it.​

*** *** ***​

I ducked under the tentflap, and stepped into the camp, blinking in the morning light as I shrugged a vest over my shoulders. Around me bustled the six hundred souls of the Stonegrinders, from the hunters returning with deer and rabbits, to women and youngsters cooking and maintaining gear, to the priests huddling around their campfires. The mountain air was brisk, and apart from the ever present scent of unwashed orc, rotting garbage and poorly dug latrines, it didn't smell too bad.​

And if nothing else says I've been shoved into a new body, that does the trick.​

One of the tribe's women, a distant cousin of about fifteen hurried over and handed me a bowl of venison stew, with wild onions and turnips. I grunted appropriately and sat down by a fire to eat.​

"So, you finally woke up, did you?" grated a semi-familiar voice, and I didn't bother turning around.​

"Benefits of being chief, Garog," I said between gulps of stew, "I get to sleep in while you do all the hard work."​

"Bah," complained the other orc, slumping down on the log next to me, and passing me a roughly-carved wooden mug of goat's milk, "If I were chief, you'd have to drag me out of that tent, I'd have so many women filling my blankets!" A hefty orc who was three inches taller than me, Garog was a long-time battle comrade and hunt-partner of Huruk ... of mine. Even by orc standards, his features were rough-hewn and craggy, his teeth yellow, pitted and crooked. He was rather more successful with orc women in his (somewhat limited) imagination than in reality.​

Of course, that didn't count the slaves, who didn't really have a choice in the matter, or any females who happened to be in a camp or settlement our band raided. A large part of me, the civilised, liberal human, was horrified, sickened and enraged by the way orcs in general, and Huruk and his kin in particular, lived their lives. For the part that was a grey orc, it was perfectly natural for the strong to take advantage of the weak, and that taking captive or conquered women was the right of the conqueror.​

I resolved to split the difference between raging through the camp, freeing slaves and smiting rapists, and diving in to the debauchery, enslaving and rapine myself, and put it aside for the moment. There was no point being killed for insanity before I had a chance to do my job: long term, civilising the orcs would save more lives and prevent more people losing their freedom. That didn't mean I'd be dragging a collared orc girl to my bed anytime soon.​

"As if any of them would have you," grinned another tribesman as he took his seat across the fire from us. Bar was more slender and, to my remaining human sensitivities, more handsome person than any other orc in the camp, due to having a human mother, a survivor from a raid on a Lowland settlement twenty years before. Needless to say, his mother was long dead, and he had suffered a fair amount of ridicule and contempt for his 'weak' human blood. Half a decade of being one of the toughest, smartest warriors in the tribe had forced all but the most reticent of detractors that he might be half human, but he was all orc. Unlike Garog or myself, his hair was cut short, emphasising his pointed ears and thick, muscled neck.​

"I could out-wench you any day, runt," growled Garog, half rising to his feet, but I placed a hand on his arm to restrain him, and he sat down only half reluctantly. This sort of posturing, ribbing and semi-fighting was fairly normal in an orc camp, and it wasn't unusual for several fights to break out during the day. As long as no one was killed or maimed, it was more amusing than alarming. If there were casualties ... well, depending on who you were, it was either still amusing, or rage-inducing.​

Orcs and discipline didn't go together well. That was something I had to change ... somehow.​

"We're going out scouting today," I pronounced, and their attention turned to me. The three of us had been virtually synonymous for some years now, since I beat both of them in a brawl when we were younger. I was stronger than Bar and a better fighter than Garog, and the three of us made an impressive team, as far as orcs go. That meant, generally, they'd back me, until I showed enough weakness to justify stabbing me in the back. So far, that hadn't happened, so my word was law ... apart from the priests.​

Largely, the chiefs of grey orc tribes were battle-leaders and figureheads, with the high priests of the various gods doing most of the actual work of planning and organising the people. It was generally a good system, as chieftains were better at fighting than thinking, and were happy to leave the skull work to the clerics.​

Either I had to change that, to break their hold on the tribe, or I had to coopt them.​

*** *** ***​

The three of us finished climbing the rise, and were greeted by a panoramic view. The Stonegrinders lived in the Highlands, a sparsely populated region of harsh mountains and fertile valleys. Snow from the higher peaks melted into rivers fed by underground sources, and mineral springs warmed the sheltered dells. Orcs, goblins of varying breeds, a few ogre and giant clans, as well as a few hardy human tribes lived mostly nomadic lives, with a few groups occupying valleys and hill forts, eking out a primitive pastoral life, with one eye on their crops and herds, with the other on watch for raiders. Beneath us was the upper Underdark, mostly occupied by kobolds, goblins and some other barbaric folk, as well as the usual monsters. There were stories of dwarf kingdoms and drow holdings deeper down, but no one had delved that deep in recent memory.​

By fantasy standards, it was fairly typical. Every couple of centuries, the population would grow past the limit of the Highland's resources, and would eventually boil over into the Lowlands, where the resulting horde would burn and pillage for a few years, until the 'civilised' nations managed to get their acts together, muster their armies, and drive us back into the hills. In between mass incursions, raiding parties sortie down to burn farms and ambush merchants, bringing back goods, slaves and, supposedly, glory.​

Also typically, it was a brutal, senseless cycle, with the orc, goblin and other monstrous folk being doomed to endlessly repeat the same, sad tales. Life in the Highlands was dirty, brutal and short.​

I turned my gaze northwards. More specifically, the Stonegrinders were one of six orc tribes who lived, traded and fought in the same general region. Three tribes were smaller, with one barely being two hundred hardy souls, while the Hearteaters were around fifteen hundred strong, occupying a ruined fort built untold centuries before by some ancient empire, probably human in origin. The Hearteater's holdfast guarded a fertile valley, where their slaves grew crops, forged weapons, wove cloth and brewed mead. The other tribes traded slaves, raw materials and booty from raids for wheat, finished weapons, tanned leather and cloth.​

It would have been a good system, if the Hearteater's chiefs and high priests didn't encourage their people to lord it over the other tribes, bargaining unfairly and demanding obeisance and tribute. Although better than nothing, their craftsmen were poor, their farmers unskilled, and their merchants greedy. Instead of enriching all the tribes, the Hearteaters were a drain on the region, using their numbers and fortified position to intimidate and bully the rest.​

I raised a hand to my forehead to shelter my eyes from the early morning sunlight, once again cursing the orcish eyesight that, while making us deadly night fighters, made daytime travel an annoyance. As soon as we have the industry, I'm making sunglasses, I promised myself.​

"Don't know why we're lugging ourselves up here," grumbled Garog.​

"Because I had a thought through the night," I exaggerated, still working to turn my borrowed memories of the layout of the region into something my human understanding could work with. I need a pencil and paper ... or at least some slate and chalk. Hell, I'd take a lump of charcoal and some stretched hide.​

"A thought," explained Bar, grinning at our mutual friend, "Is like your brain burping, and ideas coming out. I don't suppose you're all that familiar with the process," he quipped.​

The larger orc growled and swiped at Bar with a clawed hand, which the half-orc dodged.​

"I need to tell you both something," I said seriously.​

"Huruk, you've very pretty, but we both prefer the females of the species," joked Bar. Garog just grunted, and waited for me to continue.​

"Last night ... I had a dream. I dreamt that Ilneval came to me." Their interest picked up: generally, grey orcs were more pious than their mountain kinfolk, who lived both atop and under the higher peaks to the east. Bar had a greater interest, due to Ilneval being his patron, as god of half-orcs. Garog, although a worshiper of Gruumsh, still had respect for the war leader of the gods.​

"Illneval is dissatisfied with the way orcs live," I explained, and I was met with mild confusion. Of course, being raised in the tribes, they had little understanding that there was any other way to live. "The lives of orcs matter little to the world, unless we come together as a horde to threaten the Lowlanders. Then we are like a flooded river, violent and dangerous, but a danger that will pass." I pointed at a snow-capped peak in the distance. "The god wishes us to become more like the mountain: deadly, solid and permanent."​

Still, they both looked confused. I sighed. "Step one is uniting the local tribes, and knocking the Hearteaters off their throne."​

Garog laughed, an ugly, barking sound. "Now why didn't you say that in the first place! Any plan that starts with kicking a Hearteater in the balls is a plan I can get behind!"​

Bar shook his head. "What he said."​

Alright: I've got my first two followers. They're bloodthirsty barbarians, and would stab me in the back the moment they think it would be in their best interest, but it's a start.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_03a - Huruk&Janara, Priestness, NewTactics, Garog, Cormag, Brigitte, MerchantDaughter ​

Part 3​

I waded through the cold mountain stream, and paused to bend down and cup a handful of water to my lips. If i was human, I probably wouldn't dare do this, I thought ironically as I swallowed the icy water, enjoying the taste. As Huruk, I had rarely heard of an orc dying, or even suffering, from any disease like typhoid, cholera or indeed any illness that could be linked to impure water. Our strong constitutions seemed to be quite capable of keeping a little bacteria at bay.​

The rest of the tribe continued marching through the water, and I paused to watch them cross, many of them meeting my eyes and nodding respectfully as they waded past, their backs laden with bundles of clothes, tools, food, weapons and all the sundry necessities of life in the hills. In the two months since I had 'arrived', I had already made more than a few waves, but a combination of quick thinking and brute force had quieted any aspiring challengers.​

Fortunately, Huruk had always been more focused on fighting than fornication, so my distaste for the slave tents went largely unnoticed, although a few had raised eyebrows at my sudden temperance, drinking mead and ale more out of duty than pleasure.​

"Getting tired, chief?" asked a sardonic voice from behind me, and I turned to face my challenger. Speaking of that few ...​

"Pausing to survey the lay of the land," I countered, smiling as Janara, priestess of Ilneval scowled. Wearing leather leggings and a tunic of coarse-woven wool, she was dressed largely like any woman of the Stonegrinders, except for the necklaces, arm-rings, earrings, eyebrow piercings and hair-decorations that denoted her status as one of the tribe's clergy. She wore a sword belted at her waist, a decent piece of steel comparable to my own blade, but also carried a heavy, polished staff that was carved with orcish runes and tipped by a garishly painted kobold skull. A heavy pelt from a winter wolf hung from her shoulders, trophy from a childhood hunt that had proved, to many, the favour of the gods.​

In the hierarchy of the tribe, Janara ranked third, with the high priest of Gruumsh ranking first and the high priest of Illneval coming a close second. It was rumoured that she was higher in the War Maker's eyes and favour, but the realities of custom meant that she was unlikely to rise any higher while those other two lived. In many other tribes, especially mountain orc clans, she would simply have killed them. With grey orcs, things were slightly more complicated: we weren't an smarter than our larger cousins, but we tended to be stronger willed and less easily cowed. We also respected those with connections to the gods.​

So, as second highest servant to the god who was my patron, she was more than a little miffed as my attitude turned from almost fawning obedience to polite, respectful correctness. She was angry that I didn't put a foot out of line that she could jump on, staying carefully within the boundaries of tradition without actually being subservient. The habit of priests ruling from the shadows rather than in front, using the chief as a mascot and a tiller to guide the tribe, played in my favour.​

Janare sniffed, and waded past me, her cloak trailing in the water behind her. At barely twenty, the same age my body was now, she was widely considered the loveliest she-orc the region had produced in living memory. Straight black hair, fine grey skin, sharp tusks that jutted from a strong jaw, ears that swept to a sharp point, she was, even to my fading human sensibilities, a handsome woman. True, she'd never be a runway model, even if you gave her a human face and skin-tone, with the stocky, strong figure of an orc woman, but my part-orc subconscious couldn't help noticing her wide hips and well-developed muscles.​

Remember, boyo, she's probably had to eat human flesh as part of her initiation into the priesthood, I told myself.Remember when Ilneval said they'd eat you if you slipped up? She'd be first in line for a cut of meat!​

*** *** ***​

Nearing sundown, we arrived at our destination. In front of us was a camp similar to the one we had established a half dozen times in the last eight weeks, and between it and our weary tribe stood a shitload of orcs. Standing about in clumps of brothers and sisters, battle-companions and gangs, resting their weight on spears, axe-hafts and shields, some with bows over their shoulders and others carrying huge swords, the Fleshtearers were the epitome of orcish barbarism: each one a fierce warrior, each one willing to fight and die, but as individual fighters or in small groups of heroes.​

My bunch behind me weren't much better. Oh, I had encouraged, cajoled, convinced and threatened enough that they stood in a rough line, most carrying spear and round shield, with others bearing bows, javelins and longer spears standing behind. I had claimed that the concept was the result of a dream I had had, of a wall that, instead of being assaulted by orcish hordes, attacked by itself, crushing tribe after tribe beneath its earth, stone and wooden ramparts, flinging rocks, arrows and fire at those who would oppose it.​

Thank you high school drama class, I mused. Not content with turning me into an inhuman barbarian, Ilneval had turned me into something worse: a politician. It had worked ... sort of. The shield wall concept was still new to them, and many were sceptical, but I had enough reputation as a hardass to get away with it ... as long as it didn't fall apart the first time we tried it for real.​

Passing my spear and shield to Garog, I drew my sword, and passed it to Bar. As both tribes watched on, I stepped forward, and faced my counterpart.​

Taller, broader and far uglier than myself, Cornag had more than a hint of mountain ancestry, traits that he had put to good use in my father's day, when both of them were young heroes of the people, battling giants and ogres and wyverns together. His face heavy with scars from both battle and ritual, he walked forward and sneered down at me, his breath heavy with alcohol and near-raw meat. "You're shorter than I thought you'd be," he snarled, and his tribesmen laughed. "Are you sure your mother didn't rut with a goblin instead?" Again, his followers hooted with amusement.​

I shrugged. "For my part, I didn't believe until this moment just how ugly you were: clearly, when the gods were handing out looks, someone had stuck you in the jakes ... head first!" It was the Stonegrinder's turn to bellow with laughter, and the other tribe hurled japes and insults flying right back.​

Cornag growled down at me, but I stood my ground, and smiled. The tribes grew silent, and the moment stretched out, his hostility verses my indifference. Finally, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Ha! You're a better curser than your father was, at least," he cried, and slapped his meaty hands down on my shoulders, giving me a good-natured shake. Behind us, our respective tribes brightened up, or conversely grew sad, as it seemed that we wouldn't be fighting each other today.​

*** *** ***​

"You're still shorter than your father," complained Cornag as he cheerfully passed me a wyvern-horn of mead, which I accepted with a grunt. "When we fought the Stormcrows, his axe slew many with each blow, and ran red with their coward blood!"​

I hid my smile: Cornag's memory was somewhat flexible, as I recall looking down at my father years before his death. Still, no reason to shatter the other orc's illusions. Besides, everyone looks shorter than his seven foot, even my six-three. "That tale has been told many times over our fires, and they tell often of your bravery and strength in that battle," I allowed, and his returning grin was, by orc standards, positively sunny. "But now where are we? The Stormcrows are largely dead, reduced to a tribe of survivors and a scattering of renegades and little families throughout the mountains, and our tribes are still fewer than they were before that battle."​

He paused, his own horn falling from his lips. "It was a glorious battle," he said firmly.​

"But one that accomplished ... what?" Seeing his lack of comprehension, I changed tact. "Who did you hate more: the Stormcrows or the Hearteaters?"​

He responded instantly. "The Hearteaters, may He of One Eye consume their souls!"​

"Aye, the same with me. They are arrogant where there is little justification, proud where they have acomplished nothing, and cruel where there is little need and less reward. They barter unfairly for the goods their slaves produce, and they know that all they need do is sit, and breed, and laugh as we scrabble about, stealing from one another in order to pay their prices for the things we need."​

The chief of the Fleshtearers grunted, and shrugged, gulping down mead. "So? They're stronger, have more warriors than any other tribe ... any three tribes! There is not much we can do about it, is there?"​

I leaned forward. "And what if there were?"​

Cornag's beady eyes glittered in the firelight. "Well then ... if there were ... I think I'd need another drink! Wench! Mead," he bellowed, and from the rear of the tent came a dirty, shuffling figure in rags. It took me a moment to realise that his servant was a human: the first one I had seen with Huruk's eyes since arriving in this world. Covered in dirt, hair a matted mess, it was hard to pick out that the slave was a girl, maybe fifteen, with a collar of stiff leather locked around her neck.​

Cornag saw my attention, and grinned, the sight of his tusks making the slave girl flinch. "You like her? One of my boys grabbed her last time they went west. Stupid as all get out, even for a human, and not too pretty, either. Still, she understands good orcish if you kick her hard enough, and not too bad in the blankets, although she doesn't struggle as much as she used to." He raised an eyebrow. "Tell you what: if you like her look, why not take her off my hands? She won't breed, that's for sure, and she's too scrawny to make a decent meal, so she's only costing me food."​

I took another look over her, and the girl cringed. "I could, in fact, find a use for her," I said slowly, and I saw the fear in her eyes intensify.​

"Done!" he shouted, and smashed his drinking horn against mine, and we drank to a bargain well struck.​

*** *** ***​

Later, in my own tent, I sat cross-legged on my blankets and studied my new slave. She knelt in front of me, face to the floor, shivering in fear as she wondered what fresh hell her life as an orcish captive held in store for her.​

Fuck that.​

"Girl," I said firmly, "Sit up. Look at me."​

She slowly obeyed, hesitantly rising, bracing herself in case I was only ordering her to rise so I could strike her down again. Seeing I simply sat there, she gradually straightened, and looked at me ... although her eyes rose no higher than my chest, not daring to look me in the eyes.​

"Girl," I said again, this time softer (sort of: with the way the orc language was constructed, it was hard to actually speak softly), "I am Huruk, chief of the Stonegrinders. I am not Cornag, chief of the Fleshtearers. Do you doubt me?"​

She was clarly confused, but shook her head violently, her messy hair tossing about her shoulders. "No, master Huruk, I do not doubt."​

I nodded. "Good. Since I am not Cornag, I do not act as he does, nor demand what he does. I demand only two things: obedience, and honesty. If you obey, and tell me truth, you will neither be harmed nor forced: do you understand?"​

She probably didn't believe me, but she nodded. "Yes, master Huruk, I understand."​

"Understanding is good: belief will take longer. Fetch mead, and two mugs," I ordered, and she scuttled over to obey, handing me a mug and pouring liquid from the earthenware jug into it. Then she looked down at the other mug, confused. "Pour one for yourself," I said, and she blinked, then slowly did so, pausing every so often in case I changed my mind. I just sat there, looking at her over the rim of my mug.​

Eventually, she was kneeling in front of me, full mug in hand, and at a gesture from me, took a sip. She swallowed, almost choked, but recovered, and took another.​

After a few moments, I spoke again. "What is your name?"​

She seemed startled by the question. "B-rigitte, master," she stuttered.​

"Brigitte. Good. Brigitte, do you enjoy being a slave?"​

Her eyes darted up to fix on my face, and her expression conveyed the obvious response: 'What do you think, orc boy?' Then she realised her mistake, and lowered her eyes again in a hurry.​

"Good: an honest response. Brigitte, hear me: were you to be freed, today, what would you do?"​

She blinked, but risked an honest answer. "Go home," she mumbled.​

"Home ... through the mountains, that you do not know, past bands of creatures who would simply re-enslave you, or kill you, or eat you ... with no weapons, no supplies, poor clothing and, as I see, being underfed to begin with."​

Her eyes began to shed tears of hopelessness.​

"Brigitte," I said again, and she startled. "Brigitte, I am going to offer you a chance." She blinked in confusion. "If you behave well, if you are honest with me and obey me, if you do not make trouble ... then I will ensure that you are returned to human lands." I raised a hand. "I will not promise to reunite you with family: that is likely beyond me. But as far as to the nearest human kingdom, I can safely promise." She didn't need to speak: I could tell she doubted me. "I will not swear, for you will not believe me, nor my gods. Instead, I will simply say that, if you do not behave well, if you are not honest, and if you do not obey ... I will return you to Curnag. Do you believe that?"​

She nodded fiercely. "Yes, master Huruk, I believe. I believe."​

"Good." I gestured with my mug, and she obediently took another gulp. "So, to begin. You speak, and understand, my tongue well. I know a little human, the Common tongue," I used the appropriate translation of the language's name. "Me speak little, speak bad. Orc not same, not work same, so speak bad," I spoke in her native tongue, and I saw her understanding in her eyes. "Talk like child, or broken in head. Sound stupid. Am not stupid, though." I shifted back to orc. "So, from now on, each night, you will come to my tent, and we will talk. In Common. You will tell me of your lands, your kings, your gods and your merchants. You will describe how they live, what they believe, and who they bow to." I nodded to a corner of the tent. "You will sleep there after: I will not beat you, or rape you, or torture you." I put down my mug, and she followed suit. "We will begin now," I said firmly.​

"Wait," she said, before cringing. When I gestured for her to continue, she said softly, "Do you want to learn to speak, or read as well? To make marks, and understand them," she explained.​

I chuckled. "I can read, girl," I assured her, to her surprise. Huruk's father had forced him to learn, to accept the tutelage of the priests, saying it would make him a better chief to be able to read the legends, to read messages from other chiefs, to leave marks in stone and carved in trees. Huruk had never been a good student, but he knew the letters. Orc used a form of dwarf script, and very little high art was produced, but most priests and many chiefs - even a few warriors - were literate.​

Then I started. "You mean you know how?" I asked incredulously.​

Brigitte nodded.​

I smiled. "Who were you before, that you were taught to read and write?"​

She hesitated. "My father ... he was a merchant. He let me help him manage his legers, and read his maps and books."​

I nodded. "Well then: it seems you are even more valuable than I had thought: you may earn your freedom faster." Then I shifted back to Common. "Now, we talk. Your name is?"​

She hesitated, then swallowed. "My name is Brigitte. I am a slave."​

"Me ... am Huruk. Not be slave always," I said firmly.​

It didn't matter if she didn't believe me: one day, hopefully, my word would be made good.​

If I lived long enough.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_04a - Vekan&Cumag, IronHelms, Huruk, Hearteaters, PlannedTrap, ShieldWalls, SpearWalls, HOLD!, JanaraImpressed​

Part 4​

I was talking to Vekan, the Stonegrinder's blacksmith when Curnag found me. Well, I say blacksmith, but he wasn't really. Nomadic life in the hills didn't really lead to good metalwork: mostly, he knew how to get metal fairly hot with a campfire and beat the hell out of it until it yielded to what he wanted. He couldn't smelt ore, or work with alloys, but he could reshape iron, somewhat, for small things.​

I examined the helmet he presented me with. It was a simple cap of iron, with a brutal bar nasal. The hammering was rough, and the metal poorly polished, but it looked like solid work. I experimentally placed it on my head, and the leather padding seemed to hold it steady. I removed it again, and nodded, handing it back to him. "Excellent work, Vekan! Now, if only we had another twenty-score of these!" His face fell at the thought of that much iron, and that many helmets, and the amount of work it would take with his poor tools. Before I could reassure him that we didn't need them immediately, the other chief arrived, and I sent the smith on his way. He scurried off, clutching the helm in his hands.​

"Bah, never saw the point of a metal cap myself," grumbled Curnag, but he grinned at me. "Seems like a waste of good iron, and makes your neck hurt."​

Orc's armour was as eclectic as their weaponry: many wore nothing more than a vest of rawhide, or boiled leather. Others wore chain mail of various design, or scale, and some even owned breastplates looted from more civilised realms. I had a huburk of chain in my tent that covered me from crown to knees, and my arms to the wrists (booty from the same raid that had gained me my sword), but many of my tribe simply didn't bother. That was another thing I was trying to change: making sure all my warriors had at least a leather jerkin and a helm, bracers and greaves, and a decent round shield to carry into battle. So far, I had managed the shield, mostly, and I was making progress with the leather.​

"Better the foe bleeding than you," I countered, but slapped the older orc on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get some lunch: I hear the hunters brought down a boar earlier, and it should be starting to roast nicely."​

We walked through the camp, and I took a moment to assess the situation. Between our tribes, we had almost thirteen hundred orcs, six hundred of mine and seven hundred of his, nearly equal to the Hearteater's fifteen hundred. Unfortunately, that didn't tell the whole tale. Of those thirteen hundred, we could field barely nine hundred, the rest being the children too young to fight, the elderly (such as existed amongst orcs), and the female non-combatants, those who raised and cared for the children, watched the slaves, and generally did the work to keep the camp functional.​

The Hearteaters, however, had not only a secure, fortified position, they also had plentiful food and water, along with slaves aplenty to do the tasks they didn't want to do, like farming, brewing, cutting wood, fetching water, cooking and mending. All in all, almost the entire adult tribe were able to be put into the field, fully twelve hundred orcs as of the last time they went to war, driving out a band of bugbears who had been encroaching on Hearteater territory. The goblinoids were fierce fighters, but had numbered less than half the Hearteater host, and had been slaughtered, with only some of the women and the stronger boys taken as slaves. Many of those now worked in the fields beneath the craggy walls of the Hearteater fort under the watchful eyes of their orc conquerors.​

So, between their numbers and their entrenched position, even with my otherworldly knowledge, we weren't likely to be able to take the Hearteaters in a fair fight.​

Fortunately, I had no intention of fighting fair.​

"Your boys are making some of my lads jittery," confided Curnag as we walked. "Getting all pissy about how deep they're digging shit holes, of all things, and where we dig 'em. Causing a couple of fights." He didn't sound broken up about it, more amused than anything.​

I grunted. So, Bar and Garoig are doing their jobs: good. I couldn't exactly explain germ theory to my tribe, so a lot of it came down to 'I'm the chief, this is how I want it done, do it or I'll plant my boot in your ass.' Surprisingly, it worked: orcs were used to doing what bigger, tougher orcs told them to do. Ass-kicking is authority, I mused with a grin.​

"I hate how shit smells: digging deep means you can't smell it as much, and if it's away from the water it means the water don't taste like piss."​

Curnag raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Not a bad idea."​

Orcs, I had found, weren't actually stupid. Oh, to be sure, they're not mental giants, and are lazy, cruel and stubborn to boot. But if you explained something in a way that made sense, keep it simple, and come at it from the right angle, they're likely to get the point.​

I shrugged, as though it wasn't worth worrying about. "Besides, we've got bigger things to worry about."​

He grinned. "Like slaughtering those bastard Hearteaters."​

I shook my head. "Not yet."​

Curnag reared back, and grabbed my arm. "What? Boy, you said you -"​

I tore my arm out of his grip and rounded on him, snarling viciously. "Fuck, what did you think I had in mind? Just march up there and demand they fight us in the open?"​

He shrugged. "Worked for the Stormcrows."​

"Well, the Stormcrows are mostly Bahgtru worshipers," I countered, naming the Son of Gruumsh, god of loyalty, brute strength and stupidity. Yes, some orcs worship a deity who encourages stupidity. No wonder we were stereotyped. "They're so dumb rocks laugh at them!"​

Curnag growled, turning away. "So? Don't see why we can't just -"​

"Hurl our tribes against the Hearteater's walls, trying to drown them in our blood? Even if we win - and we wouldn't - our people would be dead. So we need to do this the smart way: Ilneval's way."​

Curnag barked in laughter. "Your father always said you only chose Ilneval as your patron 'cause you wanted to bed that pretty shaman-girl of yours."​

I slapped him on the shoulder. "Then some of her smarts must have rubbed off on me every time she slugged me for suggesting she share my tent," I joked, and we shared a laugh. It was true: Huruk had never really been a smart guy, even for an orc, but it wasn't all just because he had the hots for Janara. He really had wanted more for his people than the endless cycle of horde and shattered tribes. He had literally offered himself to Ilneval as a sacrafice, a way of finding a path forward for his people.​

I wouldn't let that sacrifice be in vain.​

Besides, I wanted to go home.​

"So if we're not heading off to kill Hearteaters," Curnag asked eventually, "Then what in the Infinite Layers of the Abyss are we going to do?"​

I paused. So far, I hadn't actually told anyone my plans. They were still percolating around in my brain, and it was only the fact that my people knew - and feared - me that allowed me to get this far. "The first part," I said quietly, "Is complete some unfinished business."​

*** *** ***​

A week later, Bar loped back into camp, his fangs bared in a vicious grin. "They're right where we thought they'd be," he announced, to the muttered approval of the gathered orcs.​

Curnag barked his version of a chuckle. "What did I tell you? They're not smart enough to be imaginative! Every year at this time, ever since the days of my grandfather's grandfather, they come here!" He hefted his greataxe, a massive thing of jagged metal and heavy wood. He wore no armour, but for a pair of leather braces on his wrists.​

I nodded, and considered the rough map scratched into the dirt between us. The Stormcrows had encamped at a place where the Gurash river split, and became the Jord and the Karen. Fed by springs high up in the mountains and swollen by snowmelt in the spring, the Gurash was not exactly the Murray, but it was the source of most of the fresh water in the region, and flowed strong and fast. The Jord ran right through the valley ruled over by the Hearteaters, and fed their crops and their populace.​

Basically, the smaller tribe was hemmed into a triangle, with fast-flowing water on two sides, and seemingly unaware that their enemies were cutting off the other side.​

"Any scouts or lookouts?" I pressed Bar for more details.​

He shrugged. "They're having a party, clustered around some big ass bonfires, chugging mead: most are too busy getting drunk to bother with keeping watch."​

I nodded. "Right." I looked up at the afternoon sky. "We've got about four hours to nightfall. Bar, Garog," I spoke to my companions, "Get the troops ready. Keep them quiet, but get them moving. I want them drawn up just at the edge of the woods. Chief Curnag, I want half of your warriors, less a guard for the camp, formed up on either side of our formation: I don't want any stragglers getting passed you, there must be none who escape."​

Curnag grinned. "Don't worry: they won't get passed my boys!"​

"Good." I turned to where Kartan, High Priest of Gruumsh and the senior cleric in our two tribes. "I would appreciate any magic that could help us today," I said politely, "As well as any favour you can encourage the gods to send our way."​

The priest, who had ritually gouged out his own eye in imitation of his lord, hefted his oversized spear. "Do not fear: the Stormcrows have been living in the shadow of their defeat for long enough! He Who Watches demands this battle, to remove the stain of their weakness! Such is the will of Gruumsh!" The rest of the assembled orcs shivered, as only priests were allowed to speak the chief orc god's name aloud.​

I nodded again, and loosened my sword in it's scabbard, and stood up. "Then we are ready. May the gods be with us this day."​

*** *** ***​

My chain huburk rattled around my knees as I approach the edge of the clearing where the Stormcrows were enjoying themselves. In the fading light of the day, I could see them through the trees, leaping about and howling, emptying wineskins down their throats and waving swords and spears around. Not exactly OH&S approved behaviour, I mused, before jamming my helm onto my head and making sure my shield was buckled to my arm properly. "Everyone know their jobs?" I asked, and Garog scowled.​

"Yes, yes, a hundred times yes! What's wrong, Huruk? You didn't used to be such a worrier!"​

I grinned, and slapped my hand on his boiled leather jerkin. "Someone has to worry a little, Garog! The god's know, you just don't have the brains for it!"​

The larger orc bared his tusks at me, but laughed along with the others at the joke. Generally, if you insulted another orc, he'd either gut you, or laugh about it. Knowing which he was likely to do at any given time was part of the fun of having orc friends.​

I took a deep breath. "Then we begin." I nodded to one of the younger tribesmen, and he lifted a twisted, copper horn to his lips, and blew a strangled, piercing tone that warbled and screeched, but was clearly audable through the trees. Along the treeline, hundreds of Stonegrinders and Fleshtearers drew their weapons and started out towards the tribe below. I stood in the middle of our rough formation, and readied my spear, locking my shield with my neighbours. At the second toot of the horn, we began to move forward at a steady pace.​

It wqas as rough as hell. Orcs usualluy advanced as a mass, hurling themselves at the biggest, baddest enemy they could find, and beat at it until it fell. Marching in disciplined formations was a foreign concept, and I realised from the beginning that even something as simple as a shield wall was going to be a work in process.​

Behind me, I could hear Garog and Bar striding back and forth behind the line, shoving and kicking and dragging orcs into position, cursing at them and making obscene threats. Behind them came the archers and javalin- and axe-throwers, hefting their weapons and growling for the front line to hurry up.​

"Steady," I cried out, "Keep in line, may Him of the Eye eat your souls! I'll gut the first orc who breaks formation, and serve their balls for dinner!"​

In front of us, a few of the smarter Stormcrows noticed us, and started milling about, some readying their weapons, some gathering into groups, while others simply launched themselves at us. "Spears!" I howled, and thrust mine over my shield, my neighbours doing the same, until our shield wall bristled with jagged iron blades.​

The distance shrank, and I shouted again. "Archers! Now!" I couldn't see, but I could hear the sudden whir and whoosh of arrows, spears and axes being hurled over our heads, until they started landing amongst the ragged hoard in front of us. Most harmlessly hit the dirt, while others sank into orc flesh, raising howls of pain to match the bellows of rage the Stormcrows were emitting.​

They kept coming.​

Finally, I judged we were close enough, and shouted out, "Halt! Stop walking, you motherless bastards!" After days of practice, it was still pretty ragged, but for the most part, the line stopped, and spears were lowered, aimed right at the oncoming orcs. "Brace yourselves," I howled, and A cry arose from our ranks as the second line tribesmen shoved longer spears over our shoulders, suddenly doubling the forest of spear points facing the foe.​

I felt a hand on my mailed shoulder, and vaguely heard a familiar voice shouting behind me, calling out to Ilneval in an archaic form of orcish, which had roughly the same relationship to the 'modern' tongue as Latin has to Itallian or French. Strength flooded my limbs, and I suddenly felt as though I could lift a horse and throw a cow. Wow: so this is how Steve Rogers felt, I allowed a moment of insane geekery, before I focused my attention on the seven-foot berserker orc in front of me, waving an axe over his head in both hands. I deftly angled my spear, and he threw himself upon it, the razor-sharp point tearing its way through his throat as another spear point pierced his shoulder. Still roaring in fury, he swung his axe down twuce, tearing gouges into my shield and that of the orc on my left before a third spear took him from my right, and he fell to his knees.​

"Hold! I cried, jerking my spear free as the main mass of the tribe arrived at the shield wall, and I set my feet and threw my shoulder into my shield. "Hold, damn you," I shouted once more, and the Stormcrows hit the shield wall.​

For those of you who have never stood in a shield wall, consider yourselves lucky. It's a hellish experience, standing with nothing but a hunk of heavy wood and iron between you and berserk orcs howling for your blood, throwing your weight against them like trying to hold a door closed, stabbing your spear blindly over the top because it was too dangerous to stick your head out to aim properly. I felt arrows glancing off my helm, and cursed as a spear thrust went over my shield and tore at the mail links guarding my shoulders. At some point my spear broke, sunk halfway into the gut of a screaming Stormcrow, and I dropped the shattered shaft and drew my sword, thrusting at the faces and throats of the other orcs crying for my blood.​

It was nine minutes that lasted an age, but eventually the fury abated, and the pressure was lessening. My blood thudding through my veins, I raised my sword towards the sky. "Stay in line, Stonegrinders! Stay with the men to your flanks ... but advance! Push them back! Push them into the river! Drown them, in water or blood, it is their choice!" Cries of agreement and praise to the gods and wordless howls came from either side of me, and I took a step forward, then another, my shield lead on my arm, my fingers locked onto the hilt of my sword in a death grip, sweat half blinding me and the howls of the enraged and dying filliung my ears.​

I almost stumbled wen I stepped over a Stormcrow corpse, but I advanced, and we pushed, and the Stormcrows fought. And died.​

None chose the river, I'll give them that.​

*** *** ***​

I sat on a log that had probably been the place of the Stormcrows cheif, and sank my teeth into the hunk of meat in my hands that someone had passed me. Around me, orcs of two tribes celebrated the fall of a third, cheering and drinking and telling tall tales of courage and savagery. Captured stores of food and drink were shared out, and I concentrated on the crackle of the fire in front of me rather than listen to the cries of those females my orcs had taken alive.​

A familiar figure sat down beside me, and grinned a toothy grin. "A mighty victory, and not before time," insisted Janara, scooping up stew from her wooden bowl. "From this day, the Stormcrows will be naught but a memory."​

"And not that for long, unless they are mentioned to tell of how they were wiped out," I rejoined, washing my mouthful down with a swig of ale. "My thanks, priestess, for the gift of strength during the battle," I said seriously, but she just grunted.​

"My duty to the tribe, and to you, my chief," she insisted, and for the first time, there seemed to be a hint of respect in her voice. "I will admit, I doubted this 'walking wall' would work," she continued, gesturing with her wooden spoon, "But we slew more than a hundred orcs, and suffered barely a dozen injuries. Three dead. Why didn't we do this long ago?" she wondered, and I hesitated, but spoke anyway.​

"Because we have forgotten that strength of wit and cunning is as important as strength of fist. Because too many orcs favour the way of Bahgtru, rather than Ilneval. Because we forget that orcs who stand together for the tribe are stronger than those who fight alone, seeking glory."​

We sat in silence for a moment, eating while the fire burned, a log popping as it burned through.​

"I was wrong," she said after a while. "I thought you were just another muscle-brained orc, only claiming to follow Ilneval because you wanted to bed me. But now it seems that wasn't your intent."​

"To be honest," I said with a smile, "It wasn't my only intent."​

She nodded, and stood up. "So it seems. A fine victory, myu chief. May the gods grant you many more."​

As she walked off, I considered the results of the battle. When we had finished, there were no adult males left of the Stormcrows, and few females. No one who lifted a sword or spear or axe was spared. Those females who survived would be taken as bed partners for orcs of our tribes, and the children would largely be adopted into the families of those who killed their parents. Give a few years, some initiation rites and they'll be proper Stonegrinders. The Stormcrows were dust in the wind.​

There were several reasons for this. Firstly, I needed to blood my troops, and prove that I wasn't just talking out of my ass about new ways of fighting: I had shown that not only did my way work, but that it worked better than the old ways. When I introduced another new idea later, I could point to this victory as proof that it was generally a good idea to listen to me.​

Secondly, I needed to prove my ruthlessness, my capacity to completely destroy a tribe. This way, when it came to showing mercy, I could point out the consequences of not accepting terms. Better to be conquered than to be nothing.​

Thirdly, we needed their weapons, their armour, their supplies. A generation before, the Stormcrows had been a large, powerful tribe, and they still had plenty of swords, knives and pieces of chain and plate.​

Lastly, I needed to see this place. I needed to see the lay of the land, the river, the mountains. My plans were still forming, but I already had a few ideas in place, and I was growing more certain by the moment that this location was key.​

As I chewed, it dawned on me just what sort of meat I had been given. My jaws slowed, and I sat, considering. Then I shrugged, and swallowed. Better than being left for carrion eaters, I mused, and tore off another mouthful of fallen Stormcrow.​

I was an orc.​

I had better get used to it.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_05a - SharingSpoils, Garog&Bar, Curnag&Huruk, WinterQuarters, Luthic, Brigitte, HotBaths, Janare, Romance ​

Part 5​

We rested up for a while after the battle, sharing out the spoils and making any necessary repairs to our gear. The Stormcrows had owned a fair amount of kit, and shirts and coats of mail, pieces of plate and helmets were parcelled out to those who needed them, while spears, swords and knives were piled up and shared out. For the less militarily minded, there was also piles of jewellery, pieces of precious metal, ornaments, trophies, cloaks, blankets, tools, rugs, pottery, all the necessities of life. Some of the other Stonegrinders had objected when I announced that we would split the loot equally with the Fleshtearers, claiming that it was our shield wall that won the battle, but I insisted ... violently. The objectors still grumbled, but they did so quietly, nursing their broken teeth.​

For that matter, a surprising number of Fleshtearers were expressing interest in the way we fought. Orcs of the Stonegrinder tribe were undewrstandably proud of their new method, and graciously (well, relatively graciously) offered to demonstrate.​

I had just returned from washing in the river when Garog and Bar walked up to me, their shields slung over their backs and their helms hanging from their belts. "How did it go?" I asked, finishing using my cloak to rub the water out of my hair.​

Garog grumbled. "Shit."​

Bar elaborated. "It's the same dammed problem: everyone goes at their own pace. It doesn't matter how much we yell at them to stay together, some orcs always move faster than others, and some slower, and gaps appear in the wall!"​

"And gaps mean bastards getting through the line," added Garog.​

"Which is bad," finished Bar with a shrug.​

"True," I said, giving my cloak a flick to remove some of the water and draping it over my arm. "Any thoughts?"​

Garog scratched his head. "Nah. Well, one, but it's stupid." I motioned at him to say it anyway. "Gargh. I mean, what if everyone used the same foot at the same time? Like shield foot, spear foot, shield foot," he continued, demonstrating the action. Then he looked back up at us, and snorted. "Told you it was stupid."​

I blinked. "Actually, that's not a bad idea."​

Garog's jaw dropped, and Bar hit him on the shoulder, grinning.​

Out of the mouths of orcs ...​

*** *** ***​

Curnag grunted as a mixed group of tribesmen moved past, with Bar marching alongside them, calling out "shield, spear, shield, spear, shield, spear ..." while Garog walked on the other side, kicking and shoving at anyone who dropped out of time.​

"Waste of time: look like morons, dancing like that. Nothing to do with real fighting," he complained, but I just shrugged.​

"It seems to work."​

"Hungh. Where's the glory? Where's the joy?"​

"I don't know," added one of his tribesmen, who was watching the practice avidly. "I wouldn't mind having a mate on either side so no bastard stabs me in the back."​

"Eh. Bunch of pansies," grumbled Curnag, but waved a hand. "Fuck it. Still looks stupid." Then he turned back to me. "Ain't gonna be much use against the Hearteaters," he accused. "Not like you can march one of your shield walls up their stone walls, can you? Hard to climb with a shield in one hand, and a spear in the other, eh?"​

I smiled. "True. Which is why we won't do it that way."​

Curnag spat on the ground. "Don't play word games, boy. I'm not some soft-headed half-orc, or a goblin you can bamboozle! Tell me straight: when are we going to kill the Hearteaters!"​

I looked up at the sun. "Hmmm. Next year, I think."​

The group was silent, then Curnag spat out a blistering string of curses, then rounded on me. "What are you playing at, boy? I'm not going to stand here and let -"​

"Shut you damned mouth," I shouted, giving the larger orc a shove. "And stop calling me boy! I did what I said I would: Ikilledthe Stormcrows! My ways of fighting work! Your tents are full of spoils! So show some fucking respect, old man!"​

For a moment, I thought he was going to go for his knife. He stood there, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring. But he didn't attack, so I continued.​

"Do you think it would be easy? A little trick, and the most powerful tribe in the area just rolls over and dies? Killing moronic Stormcrows is easy: taking a fort from an enemy that outnumbers us is hard. It will take planning, and effort, and time. It won't be fast, and it won't be simple, but we have a good chance of success."​

I waved my hand around, indicating the area. "In a year, we'll both be stronger. We'll have more fighters, practiced in our new methods of fighting. In a year, we'll have more and better weapons and armour. We will have time to prepare supplies, and gather more allies.​

"Blood brother of my father," I said seriously, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "Together we have finished what you and my father started. In time, we will eclipse all the efforts of our ancestors. Will you trust me in this?"​

Curnag glared at me, panting, but eventually his eyes lowered, and he shrugged my hand from his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't ... whatever." Then he jabbed a clawed finger at me. "Next year. The beginning of summer. Here. Don't be late ... Huruk."​

I nodded calmly. "Upon the blade of Foe Smiter, Ilneval's blade, I swear."​

*** *** ***​

Four days after the battle, our tribes went our separate ways. Too many orcs couldn't subsist on hunting the same land for long, and it was time for us to renew our journeys through our range. So a month after we killed the Stormcrows, we were miles away, camped near a minor tributary of the River Karen, and life went on.​

There was something hypnotic about the stately progression of an orc camp. Every day was different, but the routine of hunting, gathering, eating, scouting, training, brawling and praying never changed.​

It's a hell of a thing, I thought as I finished offering a prayer to Ilneval after bringing down a deer, for an atheist to become a fervent worshiper. The threat of my soul being mortared into the Wall of the Faithless was enough for my sense of self preservation to overcome my scepticism. Besides: I know this guy's real ... and I know I don't want him pissed off at me!​

I drew my knife and went about the messy, hard but necessary task of dressing the carcass. One thing about having the life of an orc dropped into your head, it turned a squeamish suburbanite into a veteran hunter.​

The weather was getting colder, even by mountain standards, and the winds were getting icier. Winter, as it were, was coming. Before long, heavy clouds would deposit deep layers of snow, and travel would become impossible, even for small groups. The passes would be clogged, food would be scarce, and even the rivers frozen over. While it was still possible to use the extensive systems of the Underdark to travel, there were few entrances in our region, and those networks were already occupied, and it would take full scale warfare to clear them.​

So, the Stonegrinders were heading for a system of caves we had used as our winter quarters for centuries, caverns and tunnels where we could store jerky and grain and dried fruit, roots and vegetables, wine and ale, where we could wait out the bitter storms and frozen winds of winter in security. It was a chance to do some serious maintenance to our gear, to teach our children and to breed more, to give thanks to the gods and to curse those of other races, who had stolen summer and spring from us (orcs tended to blame others for their hardships ... not so different from humans, now that I think about it ...).​

Even now there were patches of snow on the ground and in the trees, so we were basically slaughtering our way east, using what salt we possessed to pack some meat, while smoking more over the campfires, filling packs with wild vegetables and roots. We were behind schedule, but thanks to our victory over the Stormcrows, we had more than enough supplies to last the winter.​

When I was finished with the carcass, I hoisted it over my shoulders and trudged back in the direction of camp. It won't be leftover orc for dinner tonight!​

*** *** ***​

The tribe stood in silence before the entrance to the cave while the priestess of Luthic performed the traditional blessing. For most of the year, the clergy of the Cave Mother, wife of Gruumsh and patron of female orcs, caves and healing, were considered a minor sect, but in winter they came into their own. Many orc children would be either conceived or born during the long nights below ground, winter chills and diseases needed to be combated, and the close quarters of subterranean quarters meant we were in greater need than normal for wisdom and calm. So, for the days we would spend in the caves, Luthic's priestesses were largely in charge.​

At least the old girl is enjoying herself, I mused, as the elderly cleric chanted and waved her hands, calling on the blessings of the goddess and the rest of the pantheon for our winter rest. I think this is the most excitement she gets all year! In the crowd, I could see at least a few of the younger female orcs chanting along, mouthing the words and swaying in time. Looks like she's getting some new recruits, too ... good. Better than following Old One Eye and His Idiot Son.​

Unfortunately for the rest of the tribe, the ceremony took three hours, with the priestess raving in an archaic orc dialect that few of them could follow.​

Aside from their respect for the gods, it was probably only the inevitable party that was promised to follow that kept them standing still.​

*** *** ***​

The celebration was in full swing in the main cavern when I dropped my packs and weapons in the corner of the roughly hewn chamber that was reserved for the chief. Amazingly, there was a large raised platform that was essentially a bed (made of stone, but with a few furs and blankets, it would be comfortable enough). Lit by several small magical flames that gave off little light and no heat, it wasn't huge, but I could live there. A heavy door, reinforced with bronze and iron studs and decorations, kept it separated from the rest of the complex.​

Brigitte, as my personal slave, was already putting her own meagre belongings in her designated corner. After the battle, I had made sure that she wasn't forced to share in our cannibalistic feasts, and that she was well fed on more appropriate fare, so she was starting to look less like a skinny pile of dirty rags. Her hair, when washed in a mountain stream, turned out to be a honey blonde, and her skin was soft and pale, with a bit of a tan. Under all the dirt and misery, there was a pretty young girl, and I made sure to keep her close, in order to keep my word that she would not be harmed any further.​

A few of the tribe had made suggestions that I wasn't beating her enough, and that coddling the human was a weakness a chief couldn't afford. More, however, made jokes about how I was able to tame the girl so easily, and I was clearly keeping her in line using methods other than a firm hand. True, but not in the way they mean. Still, it can't help the reputation: vicious on the battlefield, and potent in bed. I hadn't touched her, but didn't deny it when it was suggested. She's safer that way, and she knows it.​

"Brigitte," I said in Common, "Tidy up here, then get something to eat. If anything happens, talk to Bar. If anyone bothers you, talk to Garog. Understood?" Our evening conversations had improved my mastery of her tongue to the point that I actually sounded like an adult without a head injury.​

"Yes, master Huruk," she said with a bow. She was actually adapting fairly well to her position, and seemed to be making a role for herself as my personal assistant/valet, which I supposed was easier to deal with than being property. Eh, if it works for her, and helps her sleep at night, then more power to her. She hasn't tried to slit my throat yet, so I reckon that's a good sign.​

I gave her a closed-lipped smile, and headed off, seeking something I had been looking forward to for months.​

*** *** ***​

I groaned in pleasure as I sank down into the pool of hot water. The lower levels of the cave system included a series of hot springs, and over the generations the Stonegrinders had shaped them into a comfortable set of baths. Probably it's what gave us our name, I mused as I closed my eyes and let the heat sink into my pores, chipping away at the rock until it did what we wanted.​

All in all, things were going pretty well. The tribe was following my lead well, and my reputation as a war leader and planner of victories was spreading. We were well set for the winter, and we had enough space in the main cavern for some limited drill, so our skills wouldn't grow stale. Besides, I had a few errands I wanted to run, and a small party could use the Underdark tunnels to visit some interesting places, even during the harshest winters.​

A rustling of cloth and rattle of metal drew my attention over the flowing water, and my eyes jerked open, my hand sliding for my dagger, and I was surprised to see Janare entering the bathing chamber. "I would have thought you would be helping to officiate the celebrations," I said quietly, my fingers inches from the hilt of my blade. If she's decided to make her move and pull a regime change on me ...​

"One could say the same of you," she countered, removing her winter wolf cloak and hanging it over a rock. "Your father would have been in the centre of things, singing and dancing and pouring mead down his throat until he passed out."​

I shrugged. "Oh, I'll drink and sing and dance later, but I promised myself that the very first thing I'd do on our first night in the caves was to enjoy a damned good hot soak."​

She nodded. "I can understand that." Unfastening her belt, she tossed it aside, reached down and pulled her robe over her head. I blinked as the cleric stood before me completely nude, and my body couldn't help but react. Orc society wasn't exactly prudish, and living in the outdoors meant you inevitable had to bath with members of the opposite sex, but as I mentioned before, she was one hot orc lady ... and it had been quite a while for me.​

Janare casually stepped down into the pool with me, and moaned as the steaming hot water enveloped her. "Ahh, I do miss this during the year," she admitted, letting her arms float on the top of the water as she sank down until only her head was above water, her hair floating around her.​

We sat in silence for a few minutes, muffled echoes of the party above the only break in the quiet. Then she spoke. "You are not your father." She tilted her head to one side. "You are not like any chief I have ever seen. You have changed, Huruk of the Stonegrinders. Four months ago, you would be above, making a fool of yourself, drowning in drink and the praise of your warriors. Four months ago, you could not have led us to victory over the Stormcrows, or planned to bring down the Hearteaters after the snow melts. Four months ago, you would have bedded that human girl instead of spending the nights talking to her." I opened my mouth to deny it, but she raised a hand out of the water to stop me.​

"You have changed, Huruk, my chief, and it is for the better. I say this because four months ago, I was granted a vision by great Ilneval. He showed me something, something incredible, something that I did not wish to see or believe.​

"He showed me you: standing atop a mountain, your sword drawn, and below you, rings of orcs chieftains, warriors ... priests. All kneeling, raising their weapons in praise, in obedience, in service. I saw myself there, amongst those closest to your feet." Her eyes grew flinty. "I did not wish to see this, because I knew you to be a fool, a mindless brute, a simple orc who had no better dream than to live and fuck and fight and kill and eat and drink."​

Then her eyes softened. "But now I see another orc before me. I see one who will become a legend, as none have before. I see the future of our people, and of all our kind. I see ..." and she rose up, water cascading from her shoulders and her full breasts, and waded until her knees were pressing against mine. "I see more than the endless days of tribe and horde. I see greatness, Huruk," she insisted, heat in her eyes as she leant forward to wrap her arms around my neck and straddled my lap, pressing her chest against mine. Running her fingers through my hair, she looked down at me with ... something ... in her eyes. Something that didn't belong on the face of an orc.​

Hope.​

"I see greatness, Huruk, my chief, and if you think I would let you have it without me, you are still not as smart as you think you are!"​

Ah, greedy self interest: that's more orky.​

She cut off further talk by pressing her lips against me, and my arms encircled her and pulled her close against me.​

We never made it to the party.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_06a - TheCaves; Tales&Meads, RugbyPhalanx, Huruk&Assassin, Janare&Wounds, Theatrixs, JarikGuild, Kartan, Brigitte ​

Part 6​

During winter, being an orc didn't really suck.​

Yeah, we spent a lot of time inside, listening to the wind howl through the mountains, but we were mostly dry and mostly warm, with enough to eat (even if it was bland fare to say the least) and we found ways to pass the time. I spent hours with Vekan, who was using the time well, doing the maintainance on the tribe's gear that couldn't easily be done in the field. With a better setup, he wasn't as bad a smith as I thought, and I put in time, along with a lot of the other warriors, assisting him.​

Evenings were largely spent in the main cavern, eating and drinking while listening to tribesmen take turns reciting legends of ancient heroes (heroes to the orcs, that is, which means probably the equivalent to Atilla the Hun and Genghis Khan to the local humans), which wasn't really a bad way to kill a few hours, if you didn't mind listening to all the inventive ways these ancient orcs disembowelled, decapitated, defiled and occasionally defenestrated the hapless civilised folk they came across.​

It was better when you woke up the next day in bed with a gorgeous, smart, powerful woman who thought you were pretty hot too.​

(As an aside to the curious, the sex was good. Normally, orc intercourse involved a bit of grunting and sweating, with the male having most of the fun, so Janare hadn't gone into this with much in the way of expectations. However, when you combine the body of a young, fit orc warrior with the education and upbringing of a 21st century Western male who had a working internet connection, you have something that your average orc female simply wasn't prepared for. Suffice to say, I wound up with averyenthusiastic bed partner.)​

During the days we practiced our weapon skills, and taught the younger orcs. There was enough room in the main gallery for some limited drill, and boredom gave way to competition as bands started to see who could hold a better shield wall. Inevitably, each team started calling more mates in, and they quickly ran out of room to lengthen the shield walls, so they added extra ranks, in a rough formation that resembled a rugby scrum.​

Yes, my orcs had inadvertently invented the phalanx.​

Fortunately, they fought with clubs and sheathed swords and spear butts, so it was mostly bruises, cracked heads and the occasional visit to the cleric for injuries.​

We only ventured outside to brave the cold when we were hunting for fresh firewood, or when the closeness of the stone walls got a bit too much. Still, we didn't often stay outside for long: it was really unpleasant.​

All in all, I was almost enjoying my first real winter as an orc.​

Which is why having someone creep up behind me while I was walking down a corridor and try to shove a dagger into my spine was a bit of a rude awakening.​

"Motherlesssonofawhoringbastardoathbreakingbitch!" I swore viciously as the knife sliced along my shoulder blade. Spinning about, I was able to grab the assailant's wrist with both hands and prevent him from hitting me again. Long ago self-defence lessons combined with Huruk's lifetime of brawling and close combat kicked in, and I used a basic hip-throw to send the other orc sprawling, his knife skittering across the stone floor. Dropping into a low, wide stance, I took stock of the situation. "Jarik," I growled, recognising my attacker, "What in the Seven Hells are you doing?" He wasn't exactly one of my fans, having resisted my earlier innovations, and hadn't adapted well to fighting in the shield wall, but I thought I had cowed him properly. It seems I was a little premature.​

"Blasphemer! Tainter of the purity of the orc!" He shouted at me, spittle flying from his mouth as he scrambled to his feet. "You would have us turn away from the ways of He Who Never Sleeps!" Howling, he threw himself at me, his hands reaching for my throat.​

I stepped inside his reach, thrust my arms up between his forearms, and pushed them to both sides, then lunged forward and slammed my forehead into his face. As he reeled back, I launched a snap kick to the side of his knee, sending him down with a sickening crack. I then hit him behind the ear with a pile driver punch that, thick orc skull or no, sent him into the darkness.​

By then, the commotion had drawn an audience, and four or five orcs had turned up to see what was going on. Seeing me standing over the fallen body of Jarik, bleeding from a wound to my back and his bloody dagger lying on the floor, even most orcs weren't rash enough to come to the wrong conclusion.​

Breathing heavily, I pointed at the unconscious orc in front of me. "Pick that up," I instructed in my best 'the chief is pissed off' voice.​

*** *** ***​

I shifted in my seat as Janare examined the knife wound on my back. I winced as she jabbed at it with a finger. "Are you going to heal it, or just admire it," I asked grumpily.​

She slapped me on the shoulder. "Quiet. Do I tell you how to fight battles? Hmm?"​

"Frequently, oh priestess of the War Leader," I joked somewhat irreverently, but shut up at her sharp glance. "Right, whatever. Just get on with it."​

Seemingly satisfied, she held her hand over the slice and chanted softly, and quickly the pain receded, and was replaced by an odd itchy, crawling sensation, and then I was fine. Janare picked up a rag to wipe off my shoulder, but I stopped her. "Leave it." I sat back on my raised chair, shirtless and bloody.​

Leading a tribe of orcs was part 'president of a biker gang', part 'feudal lord' and part 'amateur Russian Roulette player.' It involved luck, physical intimidation, tradition, and no small amount of theatre. So as the Stonegrinders gathered, I sat on my not-quite-a-throne, unsheathed sword lying across my knees. The war banner of the tribe, a fist of grey stone on brown, hung behind me, with Bar and Garog on either side, spear and shield in hand. Garog wore a battered bronze breastplate that he had salvaged from the Stormcrows, while Bar preferred his shirt of chain with iron plates reinforcing the shoulders. Both wore their helmets. Janare stood at my shoulder, wearing her robe embroidered with orcish runes and sigils, her kobold-skulled staff at hand, and Brigitte, wearing the best dress she owned (she had spent quite a few evenings sewing the cloth, and was quite proud of her creation) knelt at my feet, hands folded on her lap.​

At a slight motion from me, Bar and Garog lifted the iron-shod butts of their spears and struck them against the stone floor of the cavern, three times. The loud bangs echoed around the gallery, and the gathered orcs obediently quieted down.​

Like I said, theatre.​

Once the hall was quiet, I spoke. "I am furious." The tribesmen shuffled, but didn't respond. "I am furious, but not at you." I pointed to the unconscious orc lying between my chair and the crowd. "I'm furious with him. More: I am ashamed!​

"You all know Jarik. You all remember how he objected to the wall of shields. You remember how he laughed, called it foolish and cowardly and unmanly, and then grew sullen and angry when we - we, my people, the Stonegrinders! - proved that it worked: our shield wall shattered the Stormcrows until the only ones left alive are now our thralls!" There was a mumble of agreement and pride at that.​

"Jarik was shamed by his nay saying, and being proven wrong, but he could not admit it. Yes, he fought as he was told, shared in the spoils and the glory, but he could not forget that he had been wrong. He was humiliated, and sought to rectify his shame.​

"This is normal," I said softly, my words carrying through the cave. "We are orcs! Children of Spear Father and Cave Mother, we are strong, and we survive, because we are a proud race!" The tribe cheered, and I let them go as they chanted the names and titles of the gods, naming their ancestors and their deeds, but eventually I raised my hand, and they grew (slowly) quiet once more. "Jarik is a proud orc, and a man of this tribe: he had a right to redress any slight against him! You all know our traditions: he could have challenged me, taken the chieftainship for his own, and turned us back to the way things were before.​

"But, again, we all know Jarik: we know that, while he is a fine warrior, he could not beat me at table, in brawling, or with sword in hand!" There was a laugh at that, as when we were younger, the other orc had often challenged Huruk, and been soundly defeated each time.​

" Knowing this, he, instead, chose the path of the coward!" I tossed his bloody knife onto Jarik's still body, and cries of denial, and rage, and hissing and spitting and revulsion came from the crowd. Grey orcs were not our mountain kin: if we wanted to challenge someone, we did so, but a knife in the back wasn't exactly our style. "He stabbed me from behind, while we were in winter quarters, and without warning."​

I paused, and the crowd quieted down, leaning towards me, as though hanging on my words. "And so I am ashamed: because Jarik is a member of our tribe, and by acting in such a cowardly, treacherous manner, without honour or pride, he has brought shame to me, to you, to all of us!" Again the cries were deafening, echoing off the stone walls, and I let them go, sharing in their outrage and fury. I was a Stonegrinder: human soul or no, Australian memories or not, these were my people!​

Finally, I held up my hand again for silence. It took longer this time, but eventually it came. I took a deep breath. Before I could speak, a familiar figure stepped from the crowd, carrying a heavy spear that dangled with fetishes, streamers and the skulls of various humanoids. "My chief," he intoned, "I would speak."​

I nodded, and gestured with one hand. "We welcome your wisdom, High Priest Kartan!"​

The eldest and senior cleric to Gruumsh leaned heavily on his spear, which was only partially ceremonial: it was also an enchanted weapon, that would magically shift from a short spear, to a long spear, to a javelin at the owner's command. It was one of only a few magical weapons the tribe owned, and was carried by the most highly ranked of our shamans. "Jarik has displayed a distinct lack of honour and respect for the traditions of the tribe, and for the position of chief. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated, and so it is the will of the gods that he be cast out."​

Murmurs of agreement rose up from the crowd, and I nodded. "I thank you for your words, Kartan. They are well chosen." I glanced at one of the younger orcs, who grabbed a wooden bucket of water and emptied it over Jarik's face. The would-be assassin spluttered awake, coughing and spitting, sitting up to wipe the water out of his eyes. Then he blinked, realising where he was. "Jarik," Kartan said loudly, "You have been accused of cowardice and treachery, of trying to kill your chief by stealth, and betraying the tribe. What have you to say for yourself?"​

"I ... but I ..." Jarik lurched to his feet, staring at me, then looking over his shoulder at the crowd. He turned to face Kartan, raising his hand, but the old orc glared at him, and he remained silent. Seeing no help from that quarter, Jarik turned back to me and snarled. "You are the one who betrayed the Stonegrinders, Huruk! You are turning your back on the ways that make us strong, the truth of the orc! You are a coward and fool and I challenge you for the position of chief!" He held his chin up in triumph.​

I laughed. "You tried to stab me in the back, from behind, without warning, and now you want a fair fight? Worse, if you won, what kind of leader would an assassin be for a tribe of warriors?" The crowd laughed along with me, and Jarik's face burned with rage. "No, you will be taken from this cave, and sent out into the dark cold of winter, where your putrid flesh can feed a pack of wolves." I motioned, and Bar and Garog hefted their spears and started towards him.​

"What? No! No! Nooo!" he cried, and in a fit of rage, leapt forwards, pushing his way past my warriors, and threw himself at me ...​

... and rammed himself upon the sword I had lifted from my knees and pointed at him. Transfixed by the blade, he looked down at his chest, then up at me, blood pouring from his mouth, then collapsed.​

I pulled my sword free, having not risen from my seat, and lay the bloody weapon back across my knees. "Take that carcass out of here: we don't want it stinking up the place," I said loudly for the crowd to hear, and chuckles and guffaws signalled that they appreciated the joke.​

*** *** ***​

"Of course it was Kartan who put him up to it," said Janare in exasperation as she handed me a cup of wine, then pouring one for herself. We were sitting on my blankets, the evening after the 'trial', and Brigitte was asleep in her corner, having collapsed from stress the moment the tribe was no longer paying any attention to her: being in the path of a barbarian berserker, even if you weren't the target, wasn't a fun feeling. I had had a few shakes myself. "Kartan is afraid that he's losing power over the tribe, that the followers of Ilneval aren't satisfied with following Gruumsh anymore, and that you, particularly, aren't just going to follow his lead. So he convinced Jarik that he should kill you and become chief, a chief that Kartan could control. But when he failed ..."​

"Kartan cut him off, denied all knowledge to protect himself," I agreed. Survival, after all, was the primary tenant of the faith of Gruumsh. It was usually interpreted as 'survival of the tribe and the orcs in general' but a lot took it to mean 'anything so long as I get to keep living.' "So, he'll try again?"​

"Of course," she said, snuggling under my arm as I pulled her close. "Still, not for a while, and it's likely to be different next time. Whatever else he is, Kartan is wily and crafty, if not exactly smart. He won't risk himself unless he has no other choice. But his position in the tribe means more to him than the good of the tribe, let alone orcs as a whole," she said the last part haltingly, still getting used to thinking in those terms herself.​

"Then we'll have to be ready for him," I stated. "When we break camp after winter ... I plan for us to be stronger than we've ever been, and this time next year ... the Stonegrinders will be the dominant force in the region.​

"I won't let one old priest threaten our people's future."​

Janare stared at me with hungry eyes, gulped down her wine, then threw herself at me.​

Trust me to get involved with a girl that gets hot and bothered by politics, I thought ... and then didn't do much thinking for the rest of the night.​

*** *** ***​

"Nah, I can't do it," Vekan snorted, pausing from where he was hammering the dents out of a helmet. He gave my long sword another look, then snorted again. "I'm not bad, but I can't make anything like that. My grandfather could, now he was a hells of a smith. I remember watching him work, and he taught me a lot, but he died before I became a man, and my father was never interested in forge work, so most of his secrets were lost. That's a Lowland blade, and those bastards may be puny, cowardly humans," he spat into the forge, smiling as the spittle evaporated before hitting the coals, "But they know their iron. I don't have the iron, I don't have the tools, I don't have the forge," he pointed at the smallish forge he was using, and the two young orcs kneeling beside it working the bellows.​

It was pretty much what I expected, and I sheathed my sword. "Alright," I said, "I didn't think so. So, what if I told you that my goal is to have a sword of this quality in the hands of every one of our tribe's warriors?"​

He laughed, an ugly bark of a sound. "I'd say you're dreaming! Even the Hearteaters couldn't do that, and they have the kobolds sending all the ore they dig up to them! And their ore makes crap iron, like this," he picked up a broken iron blade. "Broke when it was stuck into a Stormcrow ribcage. Bah. Only good for cutting down into making knives, and shitty knives at that."​

"And if you had access to the Hearteater's forges?" I prodded, "And had apprentices and workers? And maybe," I added, "A better way of smelting the ore into better iron?"​

Vekan turned to me and frowned. "Grandfather did always said the best way was to smelt your own ore ... but he never taught me how he did it." He spat again. "But it's dreaming. You'd have to dig those bastards out of their fort like a bunch of ticks, and we'd all die trying!"​

"But," I presses, "If we had those forges, if you had the labour, if we could heat the fires hot enough, and if we can get the iron ore direct from the kobold mines ..."​

Vekan was quiet for a minute. "Then maybe - maybe! - we can make some good swords. But they wouldn't be like that slayer," he pointed at the sword on my hip. "I'm not bad, like I said, but I can't make a monster like that."​

I gestured with my hands. "Maybe two feet of blade, thick, but coming to a tapered point? Short quillons, enough hilt for a single hand and a hefty pommel?"​

Vekan scratched at his hairy arm. "Eh, sound do-able. Bit longer than most short blades, but I reckon I can get that done. Might take a few tries to get it down," he warned, and I nodded. "Yeah, I can do that. Get me the iron, the forges and a few lads a bit smarter than these," he jerked his chin at his apprentices, "And I can start turning them out. Until then," he pointed back at where the helmet lay, "I've got other work to do: so unless you're planning on running me through, piss off and let me do it."​

*** *** ***​

It was mostly little things that make the difference. Like the millstones I introduced (thanks to Janare's use of the 'stone shape' spell to get what I wanted made quickly, so others could copy them with more traditional tools) that replaced the slave girl on her knees with a pair of stones, laboriously grinding grain into flour until her back, wrists and knees were ruined. Or the pedal-powered potter's wheel, that had the high cleric of Luthic outright kiss me on the cheek for introducing (it was only a bit of wood and metal work, rough as hell but a vast improvement over the traditional method). My pedal-powered lathe took a lot longer, but eventually, with a bit of help from Vekan, I was able to whack one together.​

So far, we had the basic tools we needed, but were limited to muscle-power, and lacked the resources we needed to actually make a lot of progress. So far, these were more curiosities to the tribe, something to while away the hours shut up indoors while winter howled outside. But we were still a long way from an industrial revolution.​

For that, we needed to take the Hearteater's fortress, and achieve dominance over the region. We needed resources, trade goods, and above all, allies.​

It was time to do a little adventuring.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_07a - Expedition; Brigitte&Janara, Bar&Garog, Huruk, DragonSkull, RichHorde, Coins&Mithril ​

Part 7​

Our little expedition headed out through one of the deepest caverns in our little cave system. After a careful wait, the tribe's priests used 'Stone Shape' to open a hole in the rock wide enough for us to enter the most upper tunnels of the Underdark. After we were through, they closed the rock again, and we were plunged into darkness.​

Brigitte clutched at my cloak, even though she knew it was coming, until her eyes began to adjust to the gloom, lit only by a dim glow of bio luminescent fungi running along the walls and ceiling.​

We were few in number, to better slip past any threat. Garog and Bar were of course with me, both in their armour, helms and shields, spears and swords. Janare had left her staff behind, preferring to carry her sword and a shield painted with the bloody sword totem of her god, and wore a coat of brigadine, pieces of metal plate riveted to a leather jerkin. Brigitte wore only a padded gambeson over her tunic and trousers, belted at the waist, and a leather cap over her brown curls, armed with a buckler and short sword. We were also accompanied by a pair of rothe, shaggy bison-like beasts that most tribes used for meat, milk, leather and as pack animals. Able to see in the dark like orcs and able to keep up with us, they were perfect to carry the bulk of our supplies ... and any loot we came across in our travels.​

Bar ran ahead, his soft boots virtually silent on the stone floor, with the bulk of our team in the middle, and Garog bringing up the rear. We marched in mostly silence, due to the distance noise could travel in the Underdark, and my mind wandered back to when we were preparing for the trip.​

*** *** ***​

Brigitte entered my quarters, bowed, walked over to stand in front of me and knelt in a practiced motion. "Master?" she asked in Common.​

I smiled. "Brigitte, I am preparing to go on a journey. The tribe needs things I cannot provide them here, so I must go and get them," I said in orc, unusual for the two of us in private.​

She looked up, terror in her eyes. "And ... and you plan to leave me behind?"​

I spoke softly. "It will be a long journey, full of monsters and dangers. Your life would be in constant danger -"​

"No less than alone in these caves without your protection," she hissed, her fear making her bold. "Master, I know that only your presence prevents many of your orcs from ... using me, for pleasure or for ... food. If you were to leave ... please! Take me with you!"​

I frowned. "We cannot take a party member who cannot defend themselves: you would be armed, armoured, and carry your own gear. You will have to fight at times. Can you?"​

She laughed, an ugly, sad sound. "I killed two Fleshtearers before I was taken: my father insisted I know how to fight before he took me on his travels ... much good it did me." But she glared up at me. "My only chance of going home is if you keep your promise. You can't do that if you're dead, or if I am. So I'm not leaving your side." Then she cast her eyes down, demurely. "That is, if it pleases Master."​

*** *** ***​

The others had thought it was pretty silly to bring my slave along, and even sillier to arm her, but again the orc tendency towards 'ass kicking is authority' was in my favour: if I wanted an armed slave, then that was my business, and they weren't going to make a fuss about it. So she marched along with us, a single human peering in the dark amongst orcs. She had a small light attached to her cap, a tiny stone upon which Janare had cast a 'continual light' spell, and it was enough, along with the dim ambient light, to allow her to see where she was going, without drawing too much attention to us.​

So, our little band made fairly good time, navigating by memories, scraps of maps and markings carved into the rock at intersections, Janare's knowledge of orc, dwarf, goblin and kobold dialects making the job easier. A week into our trek, and we hadn't run into any denizens of the Underdark, thank Ilneval: we had skirted around what looked like a slime warren, and hidden while a collumn of hobgoblins marched past, but so far had avoided contact.​

The nights were as stressful as the days, huddled around in little alcoves, eating cold, dry rations and drinking water mixed with a little wine. We took turns keeping watch, sleeping with our weapons at hand and wrapped in our cloaks and blankets. Fortunately, the earth around us kept us warm, even a little hot at times, but the air was sometimes stagnant, and sometimes howled through the tunnels like a dragon's breath.​

So it was with great pleasure that we finally emerged from a small cave and into the world above.​

It was evening, with us having completely lost track of the time of day due to being underground for days, and the air was clean and crisp. Snow was heavy on the ground, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and after so long underground even the most orcy orc felt the need to stand under the open sky for a few moments in silence. Brigitte was almost in tears at the sight of the setting sun.​

Still, we had hours to go. We unpacked our snowshoes, one item I didn't get to take credit for inventing, and the small, carved wooden lenses that resembled Inuit snow goggles, to keep the snow glare out of our eyes. Despite the clarity of the night, it was still bitter cold, and we were glad that Janare had prepared an 'Endure Elements' spell for each of us, protecting us from the worst of the biting cold. "Sorry, you'll have to ditch the light," I instructed Brigitte, who somewhat sullenly obeyed. "If we walk along in the dark carrying it, it will alert anyone within a dozen miles where we are. Don't worry: the moon should be half full, so you won't be marching blind."​

"Only by half," she mumbled, but did as she was told, slipping the glowing stone into her belt pouch.​

After three hours of marching over the snow, past trees and boulders, we arrived at a stream that was almost completely frozen over. Breathing hard, I pulled off my goggles, tossed my hair, and looked around. Under moon- and starlight, it took a few moments for the details to match, but ... I grinned, and moved over to one of the lower, snow-covered boulders.​

Garog stuck the butt of his spear in the snow, and leaned on it. "So what the fuck are we doing here? We didn't get stuck into anything down there: a good walk in the Underdark completely wasted!"​

I scraped at the snow with my gloved hand, and laughed as my scratching revealed something below ... something that wasn't rock. "Here, give me a hand," I commanded, and the others obeyed, helping me clear the snow off what seemed to be ...​

Brigitte gasped. "It's a dragon skull!"​

I grinned down at the grey lump of bone, horn and teeth having long been looted from it, so that it looked decidedly feeble. "It was a green dragon, about thirty feet long," I stated, delighted that Huruk's memory was so accurate. "Underneath is the rest of it, less the meat and some of the useful bones. Three years ago, when we three," I indicated the other males and myself, "slew the beast, we stuck the head on top, as a warning to all that past that the Stonegrinders were mighty enough to slay even the mightiest predator." I shrugged. "Okay, so we were younger then, and the act seemed far more glorious."​

"Speak for yourself," grumbled Garog. "I'm still damned proud. Nearly broke my bloody axe, putting that notch in the bastard's jawbone," he pointed to where the jaw did indeed have a large chunk out of it.​

"So why is it still here?" the sole human in the group wanted to know.​

The others just looked at her like she was stupid, so I took pity on her. "Because it's a big piece of bone the size of a barrel. It's heavy, and doesn't really serve any purpose. Besides, it's useful as a landmark. Passers-by have chipped bits off it for good luck charms," I ran my gloves along where just such activity had clearly taken place, "And eventually it will be reduced to smaller pieces, and, one day, gone completely. Until then, it stands as a part of the land, and a part of legend."​

We stood in silence for a moment, the crisp night air biting at our lungs as our breath smoked in front of us, until I nodded. "Right." I looked around to get my bearings. "This way," I guided us down hill towards the stream.​

"So what the bloody hell is important enough for us to clamber all the way across miles of snow?" asked Bar, clearly more than a little annoyed at me.​

"Because," I panted, as we marched along the stream as it wound into the hills, "Back then, I was a moron."​

"What'd you mean, 'back then'?"?" asked Garog, and we laughed.​

After a few more minutes, I decided to elaborate. "We were so wrapped up in killing the dragon, so godsdamned happy to be alive, we didn't think about the important thing. The one thing that you've always got to remember about dragons."​

"What's that?" asked Bar.​

I paused, looking back over my shoulder at them. "Dragons have hoards."​

*** *** ***​

Centuries before, this little river had been larger, and cut its way through the rock to create a gorge, that we were clambering into, climbing over rocks and ice. We had removed our snowshoes to give our boots better grip, but it was still slow going, and we were getting exhausted. But the growing sound in the distance egged us on, and we continued, hauling ourselves and our rothe over the terrain. The rock walls on either side of us grew closer, but eventually it opened up into a large pool, with cliffs all around. The water roared over the falls a hundred and fifty feet above, crashing into the water below. It was only close to the mouth of the river that the water began to freeze.​

Fortunately, there was a path around the pool, barely wide enough for us to walk, and we carefully threaded our way around, several times nearly falling into the water. It took almost another hour, even with Brigitte's light to help us see, but eventually we approached the falls. The roar of the water was deafening, and it was falling so violently that even protected from the chill, we still raised our shields to protect us from bits of ice falling from above.​

Finally we were there. The falls made it difficult for us to talk, and even the stoic rothe were near panicking, but we were bloody close. Handing shield and spear to Brigitte, I bent down and picked up a large river stone, polished smooth by centuries of running water. Hefting it over my head, I judged the weight, then hurled it into the falls. It disappeared into the water, and I could barely hear a dull thud a moment later.​

I was swamped by relief, and a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. I had been dreading coming all this way, and discovering that I was wrong all along, and wasted hours of effort for nothing.​

"Garog!" I bellowed above the roar of falling water, "With me!" I took back my shield, and together we, the two largest and strongest of our party, raised our shields above our heads with both hands, and, pressing the rims together, forced our way into the falls.​

The pressure was immense, and the jarring thuds of bits of ice hitting our shields was unnerving, but we were able to open up a small opening that revealed a cave entrance hidden by the waterfall. The others needed no prompting, and they hurriedly hauled the two balking rothe and our geat through into the darkness. With one last grunt of effort, we followed.​

*** *** ***​

"It was just a bit of skull work," I stated as we ventured further into the cave, weapons at the ready. "I didn't know much about dragons back then, but I've asked a few questions from those who did, Old Cur, for instance," I named an elderly tribesman who had, conveniently, passed away the previous winter. "He said that greens like to build their lairs in the hills, preferring shear cliffs, but loved entrances like this, covered by waterfalls and the like. As far as I know, this is the only sizable falls within fifty, sixty miles of where we killed it. Greens are teritorial, and this one was pretty young, so I didn't think it could have been far from home."​

"But how could you be sure this was the right place," asked Bar, peering about with spear in both hands, his shield slung over his back.​

I shrugged. "I guessed."​

"What?" squeaked Brigitte.​

"I figured I had a good chance ... and if I was wrong, we're not far out of our way. We still have a few stops to make, and if this one hadn't panned out, we'd still be able to accomplish our task." I grinned. "I'm really happy it worked out this way, though," I stated as the tunnel opened out into a cavern. Dotted with stalactites and stalagmites, it was easily as large as our main cavern, but not as polished. Brigitte's light panned over the stone, until we all saw something glitter in the dark, and we gasped alongside her.​

It doesn't matter how jaded you are, or how civilised: a dragon's hoard will always take your breath away.​

*** *** ***​

Okay, it wasn't huge: it was certainly not the bed of riches you see Smaug or some other ancient drake lying on. There were maybe three thousand coins, mostly silver with plenty of copper and a few gold, a pile of jewellery the dragon had probably used as a pillow, and a few other odds and ends: two goblets (one gold, the other plain pewter) a mirror, a few bowls and plates of various metals and levels of ornamentation, a broken wagon wheel ...​

It still knocked our socks off (well, it would have, if any of us wore them).​

Garog knelt down, picking up a handfull of coins and let them fall through his fingers, striking the ground with a beautiful clinking sound. "Amazing," he breathed.​

Bar was holding a golden chain, set with gemstones, up to the dim light. "Such riches ... our people have never seen!"​

Brigitte hesitantly picked up one of the coins Garog had dropped, and examined it. "THis is a Dorian silver half-crown," she insisted, before picking up a copper. "And this is a Maro demi-mark. Lowlander realms," she added, at Janare's questioning look. "A long way to the West and South. Either this dragon used to live somewhere else, or it took much of this weath from another treasure hoard: the coins are rare evn in human lands, and old. At least three centuries."​

Garog grunted. "Weird pictures," he said, running his thumb over the coin in his hand. "Why a dog on this side, and a face on this one?" he asked.​

"May I?" she asked, and he absently tossed the coin to her, and she hissed as she ran her fingers over the heavy gold piece. "It's a Zari wolf, minted by Emperor Hassa the Ninth. Look," she held the face side so Garog could see, "It's his name, 'Hassa', and the numeral 'nine', and the year it was struck, '1324'."​

He laughed. "Funny way to write numbers - yes, Bar, I can read."​

"No funnier than ours," I commented absently, brushing through the mound of wealth. "The numbers we inherited from the dwarves are just as complicated and unwieldy as anything the humans ever came up with."​

"And I suppose you could do better," asked Janare.​

I shrugged. "I'm a little busy winning a war: I can overhaul our script another day."​

"Is that how you see this?" asked Brigitte, handing the coin back to Garog, who had pulled out a bag and started shoving fistfulls of coin into it. "A war? Against the Hearteaters?"​

"The Hearteaters? Hells no," I snorted in derision. "What do I care about those squatters? My war is against history." I paused as my careful digging uncovered somethign underneath the coins. "Here, have a look at this ..." I pulled from the pile a set of chain mail, coins falling from its folds as I raised it up. A shirt, with short sleeves and no coif, it shimmered in the dim light with a silvery texture that had refused to tarnish in the damp.​

"Is that ..."​

"Mithril," I breathed. I had never seen it in either life, but it matched the descriptions: brilliant, light and strong.​

"Pretty, but too small for a warrior to wear," said Janare dismissively. Indeed, it was clearly designed for someone with a slender form, narrow shoulders and waist.​

"Elf shit," snorted Garog, turning back to the coins and jewellery, things he knew.​

I nodded. It was probably the armour of an elven adventurer who had run afoul of the dragon. Then my eye caught something else. "Hmm," I picked up the object: a sheathed sword, with a delicately formed hilt. Hissing, I passed the mail to Brigitte, who sat staring at it, and drew the blade. Long and narrow, it came to a wicked point, but had two sharp edges. If anything, it resembled an early rapier, long and able to cut and thrust, but it was so light ... it too, it seemed, was made from mithril, hilt and blade of one piece, likely the weapon of the same adventurer who wore the mail. An elven thinblade? "Well," I said with a smile, "It seems we have something better for you to carry, Brigitte."​

"What?"​

*** *** ***​

We made our way down the stream again the next day, our rothe laden with booty, but we were still able to make good time. Wearing our goggles again, we shielded our eyes from the light as best we could, suddenly looking forward to returning underground.​

Brigitte's gambeson was packed away, her new chain shirt being light and comfortable enough to wear without padding. Her new blade rode on her hip, her cloak wrapped around her, and there was a certain spring in her step, the only sign of her captivity being the leather band around her neck.​

I can't keep her much longer ... pity, though, the way she's blossoming. Still, she should be allowed to go home.​

"Right," asked Janare once we were back safely in the tunnels, "Where to next?"​

"Up," I said, leading us towards a passage that angled upwards. "We go up."​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_08a - Brigette&Huruk, Heights, JarlBolg, FrostGiant, HobgoblinServants, Trade&Goods, UnderDark, Kobolds, Deal ​

Part 8​

Our band wound its way up the path, our snowshoes giving us purchase on the thick ground covering, and the rothe managing to force their way though, but it was slow going. The wind was ice, snow was in our faces, and only Janare's spells were allowing us to keep going. As it was, none of us were exactly enjoying ourselves.​

In my old life I would have been paralysed: I had never enjoyed heights, and I avoided cliffs and edges whenever I could. Huruk, however, actually enjoyed free climbing (often to reach the nests of birds to raid them for their eggs), and so this wide path up the side of the mountain was an easy walk for him.​

"How much further!" cried Brigitte, her thick cloak flapping in the fierce wind, nearly stumbling under the weight of her pack.​

"Not far!" I shouted back, grabbing her arm to haul her to her feet. On her other side, Janare grabbed the other arm, and over the human girl's head we shared a small, toothy grin. Really, the young human girl was holding up surprisingly well. She clearly wasn't as strong or as tough as even an orc girl of her age and size would be, but she was nevertheless doing her best.​

Toughness was a trait that orcs admired, as was bloody-minded stubbornness.​

It was about two hours later (I think: it's not exactly like I had a watch on, or could judge by the sun with all the clouds in the way) that our path up the mountain turned a final dog-leg, and up ahead was our destination. Before us lay a large curtain wall of roughly dressed stone and blocks of ice, with a massive gate guarded by a portcullis of black iron. As we drew closer, it became obvious that the scale was off: the gate was over twenty feet high, and the walls were enormous.​

As we approached, a large head stuck out over the wall above the gate. "Ho there," bellowed the guard, wearing a horned helmet of heavy iron, the top half of his face covered by spectacles. "Who goes there? Speak, before we splat you!"​

"I am Huruk," I cried out over the wind, "Chief of the Stonegrinder tribe! I would speak to your leader, on a matter of trade and war!"​

"Humph," the guard complained. "Wait here, tiny." Then he disapeared.​

We huddled together for about another half hour, until finally the portcullis was raised on a hinge, and two guards walked out, the horns of their helmets almost brushing the top of the gate as they passed through. Each carried a massive, broad bladed axe in their hands, and their hauberks of mail hung about their knees as they marched. Their skins were a ghostly white, and their long, braided hair and beards were pale blue. The snow under our feet shifted as their boots marched closer, until they were close enough for me to judge that each topped out at over sixteen feet, over twice even Garog's height. "Huruk of the Stonegrinder tribe," intoned the slightly broader one (other than that, there was little to tell them apart), you are invited, along with your companions, to sup with Jarl Bolg."​

"Be polite," warned the other, "Or you'll wind up being served for breakfast."​

*** *** ***​

Inside the frost giant fort was as roughly built as the outside: not a race known for their aesthetics. Blocky buildings were flush against the curtain wall, and several more dotted the courtyard. The biggest one was mostly of stone, with a heavy slate roof, clearly the Jarl's hall that seemed to jut directly out of the mountainside. It was to this enormous building that we were escorted.​

Inside was dark and a little smoky, due to several large braziers hanging from the roof by heavy chains, but it was clear that they were for light, not warmth. The dominating feature of the hall (that was only half what we saw outside: clearly, the other half was literally cut out of the mountain), was an enormous trestle table, formed from an enormous tree, hauled up the mountain, split in half and the two halves propped up side by side to form the upper surface. The great table ran almost the length of the hall, with several benches on either side, while at the far end multiple large chairs were used. Many of these seats were taken by giants who ate or drank or talked in rumbles.​

Hobgoblin servants, larger and smarter cousins to the more common goblin, rushed back and forth, bringing platters of food, stone and metal goblets of ale, and cleaning up when their masters splattered their dinner on the floor.​

At the head of the table was a veritable throne, chiselled from a large block of grey marble, and upon it sat a giant among giants, the master of the hall, Jarl Bolg.​

Massive even among his kin, he towered a full foot over the tallest frost giant even when seated. He wore no crown, but instead a mantle made from two winter wolf pelts, the enormous preadator's heads resting over each shoulder and down his back, joined below his throat by a heavy gold chain. Even at table he wore a chain shirt, and his titanic maul was propped up against the side of his throne. His goblet was a huge chunk of ice, and his plate was a slab of stone. He continued to eat what looked like a whole leg of rothe as we approached the foot of the table, and belched, wiping his greasy fingers on his tangled beard of blue and grey.​

Putting down his meal, he peered down at us for a few minutes, and my companions bristled at the scrutiny, but I motioned for them to remain still. It was a simple game, with him trying to unsettle us, and with most orcs it would have succeeded. We had discussed this event, however, and we were as best prepared as we could be.​

Finally, he gave up, and gulped down some mead, then belched again. "Well," he rumbled, rapping his knuckles on the table, the sound echoing throughout the hall like a battering ram, "The hour grows late, a deeply pleasant winter is setting in, and suddenly the gate of my holdfast is breached by an orc. Not only an orc," he added, raising a hand, "But Chief Huruk, no less, of the Stonegrinders." The other giants of Bolg's clan mumbled amongst themselves, sounding like waves crashing against the shore.​

I lowered the hood of my cloak, snow falling from me to the dirt floor. "You have heard of me?" I asked in a genuine tone.​

Bolg barked a laugh like falling boulders. "Hah! It seems it is impossible not to hear! Huruk Dragon Slayer, Huruk Tribe Crusher! All autumn and into the winter, all travellers and traders through my lands have said little that did not concern you!" He tore off a hunk of black bread and sopped up some grease from his plate. "When the kobolds send their envoys with tribute of iron and amber, they speak of you. When the Hearteaters trade grain for my copper, they speak of you. Honestly, I tire of nothing but 'Huruk, Hurik, Huruk.'" He raised a blue eyebrow at me, but I remained stoic.​

Finally, he growled and swallowed the bread. "So," he continued when his mouth was free, "You told my man that you wished to speak of trade and war. Speak, then ... begin with either, but speak quickly."​

I took a breath. "Jarl Bolg," I began, "The two are inextricably linked." He frowned, and not without reason: orcish didn't use a word like 'inextricably' all that often, and he probably had to work it out through context. "First, since you know of our victory over the Stormcrows, then you must know that there was considerable loot." I nodded to Gurog, who moved over to one of the rothe, and pulled out a heavy leather bundle, which he passed to one of the younger giants. The lad looked at his jarl, who nodded and waved him over.​

It was almost like watching a child unwrap a present (if the child were a seventeen-foot tall monster with a penchant for eating sophants). Tearing the rope like string, he unfolded the leather to reveal a large sword and a similarly sized axe, both with grips intended for large hands. "We found these among the Stormcrows," I continued, as Bolg lifted the sword (a greatsword even to Garog, but a one-handed weapon for a giant) to examine the blade. "They were of fine craft, but clearly meant to be weilded by one of your stature, rather than clumbsily by one of my own folk."​

"These were forged by our fire-loving cousins," Bold grunted, "But good workmanship for all that. Filthy beasts they may be, but they craft well." He nodded. "And you are right: these are meant for greater hands than yours," he observed, but not, likely, meant to cause offense. Again, I had to signal to my companions not to react.​

"The weapons are not all of our gifts: we also bring good silver, and jewellery for the women of the jarl." This time Bar came forth with a heavy bag of silver coins in one hand, and a handful of necklaces in the other. Even Bolg raised both eyebrows at this gifting, and the mumbles of the giants grew louder.​

As the coins were spilt out onto his plate (two hundred coins, a sizable part of the dragon hoard, but thankfully not cutting into the goods that were my fallback if the hoard had not been there), he pushed several around with a massive fingertip. "Generous ... most generous," he rumbled, then looked at us with eyes of frozen flint. "Which makes this giant wonder what the orc wants in return? Ah, but it comes to me," he raised his hands as though enlightened, "This brings us to war, yes? The mighty war chief wishes to add a force of giants to his army, to throw us against the walls of his enemies, yes? You seek to destroy the Hearteaters as you did the Stormcrows? No, do not bother to deny it, were I in your position I would want the same!​

"But I am not! I am Jarl Bolg, King over the Mountain! Beneath my fortress, hundreds of slaves labour to carve ore from my mines! All land that lies within a day's march of my gate is indisputably my domain, and fear of my hammer reaches even further! I have wealth, and power, and glory, and you would have me sacrifice the strongest of my fighting men by hurling them against the stone fortress of the Hearteaters?" He grabbed a handful of coins and hurled them across the hall. "No! No, not for a hundred times this much silver! I trade with whom I please, I slay whom I please, I do none of this for you!" His bellow filled the hall and echoed off the roof, and the building was silent.​

Throughout his fury, I was calm, I was still, I was scared out of my mind. Of all my gambles so far, this one was the greatest, and possibly the least necessary. I could succeed without this ... but it would make things much easier in the long run.​

After a few moments, I spoke up. "Did I ask for warriors to fight and die for me, Jarl Bolg? While I respect the might of your people, I fear your very size precludes you from joining our peculiar new style of fighting. No, Jarl Bolg, I do not come seeking warriors, although, when the time comes, I would not pass up the opportunity to see my foes crushed under stones hurled by your kin.​

"Although you are right in one respect: I come seeking your help against the Hearteaters. I have a great need of your strength, although not to swing axes. If you choose not to join our efforts?" I shrugged. "Then I shall go, and you will liekly enjoy my gifts long after you have forgotten my name. However," I grinned fiercely, "If you would but listen, I feel we may come to an accord that would not only profit both of our peoples, but win you even grerater fame than you already possess, with not one drop of giant blood spilt."​

Jarl Bolg glowered down at me for a moment, and for that moment, I feared that I would end up on a spit. Fortunately, Ilneval smiled on my boldness, and Bolg nodded. "Lad," he spoke to the younger giant, "Fetch some plates and mugs for these orcs: they stay to be fed dinner, not for dinner." He paused. "And find something to put under their asses, so they can reach the table top."​

*** *** ***​

The next day we headed down the mountain again, our packs restocked with trail rations, our riches a little less, but our hope for the future brighter than ever. The next few days passed without incident as we returned to the Underdark, and headed back in the direction of the winter caves.​

Of course, we had to make a stop, first.​

*** *** ***​

We approached the cavern without stealth, largely because there was no point. For hours, we had been shadowed by small, stealthy figures in the dark: they knew that we were coming. "I have never seen one in the flesh," whispered Brigitte as we walked, her hand gripping the hilt of her blade. "Some say they look like rats, others like small, wingless wyverns."​

Up ahead, chittering sounds echoed through the tunnel. "More like a cross between a goblin and a crocodile," I corrected.​

"What's a cro-" she cut off as several figures, none more than five foot tall, stepped out from behind stalagmites. "Ah, I see," she observed.​

Short, slender, with bony limbs and scaly skin, the kobolds had long snouts, large luminous eyes and moved with lightning suddenness. "They prefer to think of themselves as dragonkin, though," I added.​

"Really small dragons," rumbled Garog as the kobold guards surrounded us, waving their spears about as they chittered at us and encouraged us to enter the cavern.​

Within were more kobolds, both on the ground and clinging to the walls, most with spears and clubs, but others carrying slings or short bows at the ready. While most wore scraps of cloth or leather, near the centre of the cave was a tall kobold dressed in a robe of decent wool, dyed a deep red and carring a staff. Kobold sorcerer, identifies as a red. Little guy's got an ego ... maybe he's earned it.​

"I speak orc," the leader proclaimed as we approached. "You are Stonegrinders? We not trade with you, Hearteaters say. Say, 'only send iron to us, only send amber and gemstones, and we send food. Grain, birds, rothe.'" He spat on the floor, and around us hundreds of kobolds copied the gesture. "Wevils in grain, birds are skinny, rothe are old. Still, in grandsire's day, tried to say no. Hearteaters come and kill many. Say next time, prices higher." He leveled his staff at us. "How high the prices after we trade with you? How many eggs smashed, how many of clan killed?"​

I cocked my head to one side. He copied the motion. "I come to trade, but not for iron, not for amber, and not for gemstones."​

He hissed. "Hoo. Then what you want to trade in, Stonegrinder? That is what we burrow for, what the rocks offer."​

I smiled, baring my tusks, and many kobolds drew back, clutching their weapons, but Red didn't. "It is your burrowers I seek. I hear kobolds dig fast, and well."​

He hissed again, and I realised it was kobold laughter. "Dig. Yes, we dig! Faster than dwarves, better than gnomes," he spat on the ground again, and again the others copied him. Note to self: watch where I step. "Why need us? Orcs dig, too!"​

I nodded. "Aye, we do, and well. But for what I have in mind, I need a lot more dug than my own people can do ... and besides, we'll be rather busy with," I hefted my spear, "other work."​

Red tilted his head back the other way. "And if we do this? What we get?"​

"Well," I began, "If we succeed, then it won't be the Hearteaters trading with you. You will be able to trade with whoever you choose ... but I hope you will be willing to settle on some fair prices," I grinned. "And, if you want something more concrete ..." I pulled a large, heavy bag from my belt, and tossed it to him. He deftly caught it from the air, and with a sharp claw cut it open. A mixture of silver and gold coins fell out. He hissed again, but in a different tone.​

"Well? Do we have an agreement? Dig for gold now, and dig for good trade later?"​

Red caught a gold piece as it fell, and held it up to the dim light. "We ... have deal."​

*** *** ***​

"But how do we know we can trust them? The giants, the kobolds," wondered Brigitte as we continued along the tunnel towards home.​

I shrugged. "Call it ... enlightened self interest. Besides," I grinned at her, "Never underestimate the value of a reputation. Specifically, the reputation of the Hearteaters being a bunch of assholes who don't bargain fairly, and often forget they've made the deals in the first place. Whereas, the Stonegrinders have a reputation for living up to our word."​

"Really?" she asked.​

I shrugged again. "My father promised that the Stormcrows would be crushed so that none would speak their name with anything but scorn and derision, that their bloodlines would be taken by other tribes, that their sons would never call out to the gods. He vowed that they would be utterly destroyed. I kept his promise for him. And I'll keep my word with these, as well.​

"Of course, if they betray me, they know that I keep all kinds of promises."​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Kclcmdr..Omake - Tavern; Meal&Mead, DrunkBraggert, BrigitteAnnoy, DunksHeadChamberPot, Huruk, AngerIssues

Now if only she'd stop trying to stab them?

Click to shrink...

As the Travelling Group enters a human tavern and once the patrons and the human owner got over the group of Orcs and their one Human companion armed and armoured..

They get their meal and mugs of ale & mead over to an empty table when Brigitte slowly recognizes a drunken patron regaling the loss of one of his missions into Orc territory..

Brigitte " YOU! You drunken LOUT@! I recognize you.!

Tracker " Heh?? Do I know you, madam? Saaay, hic... you look vaguely familiar....

Brigitte " Of course, you do, you cowardly tracker... You left my father and I to fend ourselves from Orc Raiders while you jump upon your horse and took our own horses to escape while I watch my father die!!

Tracker " What?! But... bu bu... But... How did you survive?! I saw them overrun the encampment and I had not a chance to do anything but run for my ...

Brigitte " ... paltry stinkin life, ya drunken sot!!
I'm gonna pummel your head into the chamber pot until you realize you are a craven besotted lout of a tracker and an utter braggert!!

Brigitte heaves the drunken tracker off his rear and proceeds to dunk his head into a very smelly and half-full chamber pot while the rest of the patrons look on in shock as they see a well armed human lady continue to shove and push the sodden and urine fill head of the drunken lout back and forth out of the smelly holder......

Huruk " ...... she had anger issues ...... "
- speaking out loud to his companions and to the rest of the confused patrons....

One of Huruk's companions: "Holy shit that is hot. Do you think she's spoken for?"

*chamber pot impacts on his head, knocking him to the ground*

Same companion: "I'm not hearing a no!"

Click to shrink...

part 1



===============
Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_09a - WarriorPoliticanMerchant, Kartan&Janare, Brigitte, Huruk&Curnag, Barga, RiverDammingBolg, FightOrFamine ​

Chapter 9​

Our return to the cave was a cause for celebration, which translated to feasting, drinking and storytelling. Like I said, boredom was one of the major enemies during winter, and any distraction was a welcome one.​

Even discounting our diplomatic efforts, our journey had been successful. Ten pounds of copper ingots from the giants, fifty pounds of iron and ten pounds of amber and other semi-precious stones from the kobolds, and a few odds and ends we either found or took from the bodies of the occasional gnoll, goblin or roving monster we encountered along the way (I would have included those encounters, but they genuinely weren't interesting, mostly a little hack and slash, then loot the bodies).​

First warrior, then politician, then merchant. Man, I had a lot of hats.​

So, party. Lots of ale, some freshly roasted rothe, singing and tale-telling. Bar and Garog were lapping up all the attention, loudly regaling the tribe with exaggerated descriptions of their exploits, surrounded by some very impressed orc girls, many of whom had grown up a lot in the two months we were gone (apparently, orc puberty hits hard and fast).​

It did get tense at one point, when Kartan approached my seat (where I was relaxing with a haunch of meat and a mug of mead. "It is well that you return, my chief," the high priest intoned, bowing slightly, "But one wonders at the cost to the tribe of your adventures. While we were glad to hear that you discovered the dragon's hoard, I am troubled that you then chose to give the bulk of that treasure to giants and kobolds!"​

I swallowed my mouthful of meat, washed it down with a gulp of mead, then passed plate and mug to Brigitte, who knelt patiently next to my chair, her long, honey-coloured hair freshly cleaned and spread over the shoulders of the shining mithril mail shirt she wore over her simple, but well made, trousers and tunic. "I exchanged goods to the frost giants and the kobolds, yes," I said seriously, my voice carrying throughout the cave, so that all could hear, "But it was mine to trade. I took only from my own share of our loot from last year, as is my right as chief!" While much of what the tribe captures in battle went to whoever captured it, traditionally the lions share went directly to the chief.​

Kartan frowned. "But the chief receives such a large share of booty in order to support the tribe, not his own interests!"​

"Which I have done. In return for some trinkets, coin and a few blades, we have gained allies that we shall need in the coming months, and agreements for further trade! Our craftsmen now have the metals they need to prepare for the coming year, the gems they wish to create jewellery for adornment and for trade, and to support the needs of the priesthood, to the glory of the gods! We are not the poorer, Holy One, but the richer for our efforts!"​

Kartan blinked, not expecting such a reasoned, passionate challenge. He's used to being the one best able to think rings around his peers, I thought as I leaned forward in my chair, logical, critical thought not really being a standard trait for orc warriors. "But -" he began, but Janare interrupted, stepping forward to stand next to me.​

"Chief Huruk is correct, Holy Kartan. He traded, as is his right, using his own possessions, and in the interests of the tribe. We face the new year stronger than we were last year, glory to the gods!" The assembled tribe called out in their agreement, praising the gods, myself and my companions, in that order. It was a pretty heady sensation.​

I stood up and held up a hand for silence. "Enough! It has been a long journey, and as much as I enjoy your admiration, I hear my blankets calling!" I wrapped an arm around Janare's shoulders, and did the same to Brigitte, much to the cheers and whistles of the tribe.​

Off to one side, Bar drained his stein and tossed it aside, before scooping the girl off his knee and tossing her over his shoulder. "Sounds like a brilliant suggestion!" Garog followed suit, but he ended up with a squealing orc girl over each shoulder, kicking and shouting as he slapped their asses (although it sounded more like laughter than cries for help).​

Good for you, boys, I thought as I led my girls out of the cave and towards my quarters. You've earned it.​

*** *** ***​

Despite what you read in romance novels or see in movies, arduous journeys through the wilderness are not exactly conducive to a healthy sex life. At the end of every day, you're cold, wet, physically exhausted and on edge from being constantly on the lookout for threats. There's a reason why, historically, sentry duty was considered a punishment, since the poor slobs on watch had to stay alert while everyone else got some much needed rest.​

Thus, aside from a little fondling and making out while huddling together, Janare and I hadn't had much in the way of intimacy since leaving the caves. Privacy was hard to come by when you were sticking close for protection against predators, and, while prudishness isn't exactly an orcish trait (as previously mentioned), rubbing into my comrades noses that I had a woman while they didn't would be impolitic - as well as dangerous for Brigitte, no matter how much those guys respected/liked/feared me.​

I refrained from ripping Janare's clothes off the moment the door was closed ... barely.​

A while later, I lay back on my bed, breathing heavily, while an equally exhausted Janare lay her sweating body on top of mine. Our first bout of lovemaking had been hard, fast, loud and violent: I would have worried that I was too rough, but the bite marks I could feel on my shoulder and throat told me that her need was as urgent as mine. The second time was more sedate and tender, if still appropriately vigorous. "That," I grunted, "Was worth the wait."​

"It will do for now," she allowed in a somewhat hoarse, husky voice. "We have much time to make up for," she added, nipping gently at my chest.​

"Pleasant as the thought is, we cannot simply spend the rest of winter in bed. We have preparations to make, and a war to win."​

"Well, we cannot let our chief lose sleep whilst he plans for battle: I must quickly find other quarters, so as not to disturb your rest," she jokingly reached for the covers, but I pulled her back down, and kissed her soundly.​

"I think I can manage to keep you satisfied and crush the Hearteaters at the same time," I insisted after our lips parted.​

"Hmmm, truly a warrior of legend, to have such stamina," she whispered, snuggling in close.​

Before we could break into round three, a soft noise drew my attention. Half sitting up, I looked up to see Brigitte standing next to my bed. In the gloom, I could see that she had discarded her mail and trousers, and stood there in just her tunic and collar. Belatedly, I remembered that she had entered the room with us, and had, presumably, spent the last hour or two listening to us go at it. That wasn't unusual, as Janare had been sharing my bed in the weeks prior to our little journey, but she normally at least pretended to sleep. "Brigitte? Is there something wrong?" I asked in Common.​

"No, Master," she said hesitantly in orc. "I wanted ... I mean, I hoped ... we ..." She took a deep, ragged breath. "I don't want to sleep alone."​

During our journey, more often than not, Brigitte had slept at my side, huddled up for body warmth. Understandably, she had been reluctant at first, due to her experiences amongst the Fleshtearers: I couldn't imagine that it was easy for her to be close to any male, let alone an orc. But after a few cold nights, she had relented, and I spent many a night with Janare on one side and Brigitte on the other.​

Still, I had expected her to retreat to her old position once we returned to the caves. I glanced down at Janare, but she just shrugged.​

Clearly, changing my species did not make me suddenly able to understand women.​

Silently, I raised my hand and offered it to her. Gingerly, she took it, and I slowly pulled her down onto the bed, and she snuggled under the furs with us, so that I had one girl on either side, and both resting their heads on my chest. On impulse, I gently raised her hand to my mouth, and brushed her knuckles against my lips. "Sleep well," I whispered, "And dream nicely."​

"Pleasant dreams," she corrected automatically, and the three of us drifted off to sleep.​

*** *** ***​

"Huruk!" cried Curnag, and I grinned at the sight of the older orc. In contrast to our meeting the previous year, we quickly clasped wrists and clapped each other on the back. "Good to see you, you little bastard!"​

"You too, old man," I joked back, giving him a shake. "You're looking well: winter agreed with you!"​

"Bah! Summer agrees with me!" he gestured around. "The snows have melted, the game is plentiful, and you have promised me the demise of our enemies: what could be better?"​

"Then we had best be about it," I agreed, and I took a moment to examine his troops as they marched past.​

And troops they were: during the last few months, they had adopted the same basic tactical arrangement that the Stonegrinders had proved so effective the previous year, standing in ranks with spear and shield. To my somewhat biased eye, they didn't seem to be as organised and disciplined as my own tribe were, but it was a vast improvement over the rabble that had previously been the norm.​

"They look good," I assured the other chief, and he snorted.​

"They look hungry, but not for food: they're well fed. We slaughtered a goblin tribe in the Kar valley, to the west before we reached our winter caves, and took much booty, slaves and supplies. Goblin jerky might not be all that tasty, but it sustains as well as any other meat," he confided. Indeed, amongst his tribe were diminutive figures, poorly dressed and laden with burdens, the relative few of that tribe, presumably, who were still alive. "And our numbers have grown: word of our victories have spread, and many warriors and their families have joined the Fleshtearers over the spring."​

I nodded. We had found a similar effect after the snows began to melt: orc renegades flocked to the Stonegrinders as individuals and small family units, eager to gain the security of a proud, powerful tribe, hungry for glory, booty and a future for their children. Between young orcs coming of age and new recruits, the Stonegrinders could field five hundred and twenty seven orcs, male and female, both in the shield wall and as missile troops, as well as thirteen clerics of various rank. Another two hundred and eight were too young, too old, or too pregnant to fight, bringing our total numbers to seven hundred and forty one.​

Our troops were better equipped, as well, with the booty from the Stormcrows and the labours of our people over the winter giving about half of our warriors a basic boiled leather vest, pauldrons, bracers and greaves, with the other half having a motley collection of mail, brigadine, hide or bronze or iron plates. Most had helms of iron or bronze, with the remainder having leather caps, and every fighter carried a metal-bossed wooden shield and a long, iron-tipped spear, or else a bow, bundle of javelins or a bandoleer of axes for hurling.​

"Then we shall have to feed them in battle," I said seriously, and Curnag beamed.​

"It had best be soon," came a new voice, and we both turned to see one of the Fleshtearers stalk over. A large, muscular female, she wore a heavy mail shirt laced over a leather jerkin, and a skirt of metal-backed leather strips hanging down to her knees. Her long black hair was braided and piled up on top of her head in sort of a bun, and she had a conical helm hanging from her belt. A short, heavy blade hung from her belt, and she wore her round shield strapped to her back. Taller and broader than Janare, she was only a few inches shorter than me, and while she didn't have my lover's flawless beauty she was still an attractive girl, and from the way her mail bulged above her belt, she was spectacularly stacked to go along with her bare biceps.​

"The winter was long, and we have spilt no blood since the snows melted," she continued, coming to stand beside Curnag, "Our warriors are growing impatient."​

"Chief Huruk," Curnag said, still grinning, "This is my brother's daughter, Barga. She fought alongside my warriors during our destruction of the Stormcrows, and has become a fierce supporter of your new style of battle. Sometimes I think she's far more bloodthirsty than any of my warriors!"​

Not surprising, I thought. Orc society certainly wasn't a paragon of political correctness and equality, but it wasn't as clear cut as it might appear. Instead of being divided along clear gender lines, it was more 'warrior vs non-combatant' ... or perhaps, 'bully vs victim'. In any case, if a woman was strong enough, fierce enough and skilled enough, she could fight alongside the men, and was generally considered their equal. Other than entering the ranks of the priests, it was the only way an orc woman could rise to a prominent position within the tribe.​

"Then come," I invited them both, "And see what we are preparing for the Hearteaters: by the time we are done, we may slake even her thirst!"​

They laughed, and I led them down the path, to the expanse of cleared land that I had designated as the Fleshtearer's camp site. Already, tents were being erected, fire and latrine trenches dug, and barrels of water and ale set up for those with a thirst. Within a short walk of the Gurash river, and fairly close to the Stonegrinder camp, it was on a slight rise. All in all, a good place to settle for a while.​

I offered to let them examine the land, but Curnag waved me off. "If my boys and girls don't know how to set up a camp without me holding their hands, then the Hearteaters deserve to slaughter us! I want to see what you've got planned, oh clever one!"​

I laughed, and led them down to the river, where it forked into the Jord and the Karen. As we approached, the sound of shouting, laughter, wood and iron on earth and stone echoed through the hills, and the earth vibrated so much that Barga gripped her sword hilt firmly as we climbed over a rise, and took in the sight below.​

Six enormous giants strode back and forth, performing immense feats of strength. One broad shouldered specimen tore a massive boulder from the side of the hill, then hoisted it over his back and carried it over to a huge pile of similar stones. Another walked over from the woods, an enormous tree trunk on each shoulder. Nearby, two more swung immense mattocks, digging huge rents in the earth as they dug a deep trench between the bank of the river and the foot of the mountain. A final one was using a hunk of tree as a mallet, and was pounding a line of stripped tree trunks into the earth at intervals behind the trench.​

Around and amongst the giants, kobolds with picks and shovels worked, shaping and piling the disturbed earth, so that there was a berm of dirt behind the trench, and around the tree trunks now sticking out of the ground. Across the Karen, we could see more kobolds digging another, deeper trench, starting some yards from the river, and cutting across the tree line, turning the former campsite of the Stormcrows into an island.​

They weren't alone: orc men and women also toiled, free and slave, filling wicker baskets with smaller stones, and hauling larger rocks themselves into piles. Warriors with spears and bows stood nearby, and wandered about, keeping an eye out for trouble.​

"A lot of effort," commented Curnag, taking it all in, "But not what I was hoping for! The Hearteaters are down there," he pointed south, down the path of the Karen, "Not here! They have no reason to leave their fort, so why bother digging in up here?"​

"You mean to bait them," observed Barga, making both of us look over at her. She looked back, somewhat smugly. "You plan to enrage Chief Narog, and make him come to you." She glanced over the entrenchments again. "You must have a very crude and inventive insult planned, to make him come all the way up here!"​

I smiled, shaking my head. "You have it half right: I do plan to make Narog come to me. But it is not humiliation that will bring him to us, but necessity. Watch, and all will become clear."​

*** *** ***​

As the day dragged on, more orcs of both tribes were pressed into service, and the efforts continued. When the trench between the rivers was finished, giants at both ends used their mattocks to cut through the last few feet of earth, and water flowed fast from the Jord across to the Karen. Then the giants hefted the largest of the stones they had collected, and waded out waist deep into the cold water of the river, and placed them into the river bed. They then turned around and fetched more boulders. As the barrier of stones grew, the water flowed faster and more violently, splashing and snarling around the obstacles. As the hours passed, the waters grew more and more dangerous, and even the enormous strength of the giants was challenged as they built their dam higher and thicker.​

It wasn't perfect, as there were many gaps between the rocks, but the baskets of smaller stones were pressed into service, shoved into crevices and holes. By the late afternoon, the giants in the water were tied to massive iron chains held by their companions on shore, so violent the water had become. But it was working: downstream, the Jord was growing lower, as more and more water found its way into the Karen instead, seeking the path of least resistance.​

Finally, it was Janare's turn. Along with six of the clerics of our combined tribes, she was carried into the water by Bolg's men, and held against the fierce rapids of the crude dam. Crying out to the gods in virtual unison, these powerful priests channelled the divine power, and used the 'Stone Shape' spell to meld the boulders and stones together, to force the pile of concentrated earth into one, huge barrier.​

The onlookers cried out in wonder as a single, rough-hewn piece of rock blocked the Jord, forcing most of the water to flow instead into the Karen, and away from the valley below. A fast, fierce torrent flowed over the top of the dam, but it was a trickle compared to the massive flow of water that had previously flowed through the riverbed.​

As my followers congratulated me on our success, I maintained a show of confidence and pride.​

Inside, I was stunned. Ye gods: it actually, bloody well worked!​

*** *** ***​

That night, the leaders of the Fleshtearers feasted with us in our camp, as we celebrated what I silently labelled 'Phase 1'. "I still don't get it," grumbled Curnag as he chewed on a chicken leg. "So you cut off their water, so what? Plenty of ale and meat and wine to drink, and it tastes a lot better than water anyway ... and you can't get good and drunk off water anyway!"​

I gestured with my mead mug as we sat around the campfire in front of my tent. "True, but it takes water to make more of any of those drinks. Also, while their orcs may slake their thirst with alcohol, their slaves are not likely to be so lucky ... and anyway, eventually, they'll run out.​

"More so," I continued, "They're not nomads, not anymore, living off the land and able to move on when they've run out of food. Most of their food comes from their fields, from the crops they grow and the cattle they raise. Rothe, cows, pigs, sheep, goats, all need water ... and lots of it, every day. Very soon, without a reliable, ample source of water, their herds will die, and they will begin to starve.​

"With their hill fort, the Hearteaters are safe from any foe except famine. If they do not come and break our dam soon, their tribe will be as dead as the Stormcrows. Either they sit and starve, or they come and fight.​

"Either way, we win."​

The other chief growled. "I still don't understand why we can't just -" but was cut off by his niece, who was sitting next to him on the log.​

"But I do. It is a good plan, Chief Huruk," she agreed, raising her horn to me, a gesture I returned. "To hunger and thirst!"​

"Or cold iron," I toasted, and around us orcs cheered and drained their drinks.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_10a - Huruk&Brigitte, Narog, Bar, Holok, Barag, NigDag, EyeGougers&BoneBreakers, Plans ​

Chapter 10​

I grunted as I dragged my hauberk over my head, shifting my shoulders to work out some of the stiffness that came from wearing mail for hours. I then stripped off my rust-stained tunic and sat down cross-legged on my blankets as I accepted a mug of wine from Brigitte. "Thank you," I said in Common, as was our normal speech when alone, unless speaking of something of importance. "Numbers?"​

She knelt down behind me and I groaned as her small fingers started to work some of the knots out of my muscles. "Six hundred and fifty-one fighting orcs," she said, her thumbs digging into my shoulders and back, "Two hundred and eighty children, old men and women, including pregnant ones, twenty priests. All told, nine hundred and fifty-one Fleshtearers, along with around a hundred and twenty slaves, about half of them goblins. Bar didn't bother counting them carefully."​

It was just the two of us in my tent, as Janare was spending the night with the other clerics, holding a ceremony to thank the gods for their assistance today, and to ask for their blessings on us for the days of battle ahead. Such things were not for common orc eyes, so I would have to survive an evening without her.​

"Excellent. I asked Curnag, he simply said 'more than last year, and enough for this year!'" I shook my head at the typical vagueness of my ally, but I paused when Brigitte's fingers stopped moving. I put down my mug, reached up and took hold of her hand, looking over my shoulder at her stricken face. "Forgive me," I said, my free hand running one of my knuckles down the side of her face. "I am not unaware of how ... distraught being near them makes you."​

She closed her eyes and shuddered, but I felt her press her cheek slightly against my hand. "It is ... not easy," she admitted. "Seeing their chief ... even from inside your tent ... I feared that he would come in and take me back ..."​

I cupped her chin firmly, and her eyes opened to look into mine. "Hear me, Brigitte: no one, not man, nor orc, nor god, will take you from me. When the time comes, I will tear this," my fingers trailed down to the thick leather around her neck, "from your body with my own hands, and escort you to human lands myself, but until then, no one will harm you. You have my word, which I have never broken. Do you believe me?" I asked, echoing our first conversation together. She nodded, her eyes watery with fear and frustration. "Good. This," I tapped the collar again, "Keeps you safe, while you are recognised as mine. Until you are freed, any who would harm you must go through me first, and after, you will be safe amongst your own people. Upon my life, Curnag will not have you."​

We sat in silence for a time, until her hands resumed their work on my back, and I turned back around, enjoying her fingertips working over my thick, mildly scarred shoulders. When she was finished, I lay down, took her in my arms, and doused the light, and we went to sleep.​

*** *** ***​

"What the fuck do you mean 'we're gonna run out of food?'" bellowed Chief Narog, throwing his golden goblet aside, spilling wine across the floor of the hall. Getting up from his carved wooden throne, he ignored the cringing, collared slaves who whimpered as they scampered to mop up the mess with their rags. "We've got hundreds of gods-damned pigs, cows, rothe and goats! I can hear them making a racket right this moment!"​

His subordinate, a hefty orc clad in half plate and furs, shifted uncomfortably in front of him. "You can hear them, Chief Narog," he insisted, "Because they're thirsty. Since the river dried up, there's not enough to water them with! Their troughs run dry, and some have already died of thirst!"​

"Gargh!" shouted Narog, half drawing the hefty bastard sword he kept at his side, "So get some water! It just rained last week!"​

"We once had cisterns," added another of his advisors, a priest of Gruumsh, leaning on his staff, "But your father had them broken up for rubble, to help repair the ruined gatehouse, and patch the walls of our fortress," he gestured with his free hand. "He said that the river would always provide us with all the water we would need."​

"Bah," Narog complained, shoving his blade back into its sheath. He reached out and grabbed the front of the first orc's breastplate. "You," he hissed, "Take two score of warriors. Go upstream, find out what is blocking the river, then fix it!"​

*** *** ***​

"Well, took them long enough," whispered Bar as we peeked over the crest of the hill, watching the twenty-odd Hearteaters sullenly march towards us along the mostly dry riverbed. "You'd think they'd investigate the moment the river dropped, but it took these morons three days to bother sending anyone up here!"​

"Well, it could be worse," I commented calmly as I examined our opposition. They were marching in a ragged column, slowly moving north under the direction of a large, aggressive orc dressed in furs and pieces of plate. Actually, most of the Hearteaters had were wearing similar outfits, ugly slabs of serrated or spiked metal riveted to leather or fur. Most carried cleaver-like swords, axes or spears that were designed by Games Workshop rather than a professional armourer. "Looks like they've kept a lot of iron for themselves, but ..."​

"But their craftsmen are shit," concluded Barga, on the other side of me. The more time I spent with the Fleshtearer girl, the more impressed I was. At maybe eighteen, she was about six foot tall and very athletic, a skilled swordswoman and spear carrier, fast and strong. She was also smart, really smart: she picked up combat techniques and tactical tricks with amazing speed. We had sparred three times since meeting, getting the feel of the other's skills, and I defeated her each time ... but each fight was closer than it should have been. "Seriously, I could make better gear, and I'm better at breaking things than making them!"​

"It seems they don't feel the need to make great armour or weapons: those are designed to intimidate as much as be effective," I observed, before motioning for them to follow me back down the hill to where our troops were waiting quietly. We had set out south the day after we dammed the river, with fifty warriors from each tribe as an advance guard while the rest concentrated on improving our fortifications. Forty carried bows of varying lengths and construction, with the other sixty with spears, shields and blades. "Right," I spoke up, so everyone could hear, "We've got about forty bastards heading our way. They're lazy, arrogant and pissed off at being sent out on a march, so they're not expecting trouble.​

"We'll hit them with an ambush, nothing tricky. Bar, take the archers up the slope, take position and keep quiet. With any luck, they'll walk right by," I pointed down to the narrow path that wound between the hill and the muddy river bed. "The rest of us will take up position in that thicket," I gestured at a nearby woods, maybe a hundred yards from the river. "Bar fires first, once they're all past his position, then we charge. Got it?" There were murmurs of agreement and impolite gestures aimed at the Hearteaters. "Right then. Move it."​

*** *** ***​

Holok was pissed off. Not only did the Chief upbraid him in front of the senior members of the tribe, but he was leading this piss-poor bunch of lazy sods upriver, with no idea how to fix a bloody river when it was broken, and his wineskin was already empty.​

"Oi! You," he commanded one of his men, tossing the unfortunate orc his wineskin. "Go refill this for me!"​

The hapless orc looked down at the skin, then back south towards the stronghold.​

Holok snarled. "In the river, you moron! There ain't much, but there's enough for me. Now git!" he sent the warrior off with a kick to the backside to keep him moving. "And no muddy shit: get me clean water!" He shook his head, and motioned for the rest of the troop to continue. At this rate we'll be days getting wherever we're going ... what if the blockage is up high in the mountains? Do I keep going? Hells, I'm not going back until I've got something to report ...​

Still grumbling, he led his warriors around the bend, and continued north. The little bludger can run to catch up when he's got my water, he reasoned. Serves him right.​

He was still grumbling when the orc to his left cried out, falling with an arrow between his shoulders. "What the -" he shouted, and automatically turned and raised his shield, only for several shafts to bounce off, and one particularly nasty arrow head burst through the wood, the point stopping an inch from his eye. "Archers!" he shouted out, and waved his heavy sword to order his men. "Up the hill! Get them -" But was cut off as a roar came from his right, and he blinked as a horde of orcs burst from the tree line and were hurling themselves at him.​

He made a split-second decision. The archers can't hit us if we're fighting those bastards! "Turn! Hit them! This way!" he ordered, grabbing the orc next to him and shoving him in the right direction. "Go! Charge! Cut them down!" With a roar, his remaining men, some with arrows sticking out of them, counter-charged the approaching orcs.​

Seeing that his men were acting appropriately, Holok took another look at the large number of approaching orcs, and did the smart thing. He turned and fled south.​

*** *** ***​

It wasn't exactly a shield wall. We were moving too fast, our long legs eating up the distance, and it wasn't really necessary. They were already under fire from the archers, milling around in confusion, and we outnumbered them over two to one (well, half again, if you only count the melee troops). Twenty yards from the Hearteaters, I hurled my spear, the heavy-bladed shaft striking a running orc in the belly, sending him tumbling into the ground. Damn, I hope that didn't break the shaft: I like that spear, I thought idly as I drew my sword, and suddenly there was no more time to think.​

I led with my shield, ramming the boss into the face of an orc, then slashing my sword down on another's chest, slicing through his leather jerkin, sprawling the grass with blood. I ducked under another Hearteater's clumsy axe swing, then jabbed up into his gut, screaming wordlessly as his blood poured down my sword and over my hand. Ripping my blade free, I spun about and hammered at the shield of another foeman with my sword, only for one of my men to hook his hand axe over the top of the shield, and yank it aside so I could punch the rim of my shield into the orc's throat.​

I kept driving forwards, my blood pounding in my ears as I cut and punched and kicked and stabbed and roared and sliced. Around me and behind me I could hear my followers doing the same, and when the Hearteaters turned to run, I cut them down just as fast. I absently realised that I was shouting out Ilneval's name, and I felt I could slay and slay and slay forever.​

A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I screamed, turning around to thrust my sword at the new foe, and only at the last moment did I realise that it was Barga, her heavy scimitar held to one side, her shield discarded, and her face splattered with blood. She said something, but it took me a moment for my ears to clear. "Huruk! Huruk, stop! They're dead, we won! Huruk!"​

Suddenly, I was exhausted. My sword and shield felt like they were made of lead, I could barely breath, and I was almost hyperventilating as I lowered my sword, and fell to one knee, my shield falling from my grip. She knelt beside me, and I placed my free hand on her shoulder to steady myself. Barga grinned at me, and I realised I was grinning back.​

Bar ran up, his longbow in his hands and his breath short. "Huruk! Two escaped, including their leader. I can take a party and go run them down -"​

"No!" I said, then, with Barga's help, rose to my feet. I took a deep breath, and released her, standing on my own, the tension flowing from my shoulders as I got myself under control. "No. We'll leave them to take word back to Narog. We want them up here. Strip the bodies: it may be shitty gear, but it's better than nothing. We can always turn it into something useful later."​

"And the bodies?" asked Barga, and I suddenly noticed just how pretty she was when she smiled ... and was covered in enemy blood. Careful, mate: your orc is showing.​

"Leave them. We want Narog pissed off, but not out of his mind angry: next time, he'll send a bigger force, and we'll cut that down too. Eventually, he'll send up his whole tribe, and he'll lead it ... and that's when we'll cut his gods-damned head off!"​

*** *** ***​

Back at our temporary camp, a couple of miles upstream, I gulped down some water, then poured some more over my face. Fuuuck, that's good! Around me, the other warriors were similarly draining water skins and patching wounds. None of our troops had died, but several had suffered semi-serious injuries, bad enough that I had authorised use of some of our healing potions. The rest could wait until we were back at the dam, myself included: I had picked up a slash along my cheek that I honestly had no memory receiving. It was coated with a foul-smelling cream that stung like hell, but managed to stop the bleeding pretty fast.​

"Corna and Granna can walk now," reported Barga as she approached tossing me a wineskin. I still wasn't much of a drinker, but it wasn't really strong, and it tasted great as I greedily sucked down a mouthful or two. "What's next? I assume we're not just waiting here for Narog to send more Hearteaters up here."​

I shook my head. "Bar and some of his archers should stay, keep a watch out. If the Hearteaters send up scouts, I want their throats cut." Nearby, Bar nodded his understanding. "I want him marching blind. If he just comes up directly, don't get stuck in: bloody him a bit and then pull back." I glanced back at Barga. "Send our worst wounded back upstream, and tell them to bring back another hundred or so with shovels. We'll dig in at that pass I pointed out on our way down," I gestured vaguely northward, "and we can hold him there for a day or so. It's a balancing act," I held out my hand and waggled it back and forth. "We need to buy enough time to get the defences ready, and get Narog desperate enough to throw himself at us, but if he takes too long, we'll starve before he does."​

Barga chuckled as she took the wineskin back from me, and took a gulp. "'Buy time'," she quoted, amused by the phrase. "Nice: I'll have to use that. And blood is the coin, yes?"​

I nodded. "Blood, and death. Let's make sure it's the Hearteaters who pay in full, shall we?"​

*** *** ***​

The next four days were a little frustrating, as Chief Narog sent small units of scouts to probe north, running Bar's skirmishers ragged hunting them down before they could send back much intelligence. We now had three hundred orcs at the pass, and had dug a reasonable ditch-and-berm defence, with a rough palisade about four feet high, tipped with sharpened stakes. The waiting was grating, as we had little to do but dig, train and pass the time as best as we could. Gambling was a big deal: there were already pools going on regarding when the Hearteaters would attack in force, how many of them, how long we could hold them off for, how many of us would die, how many of them would die ... loot from dead Hearteaters was used as stakes for dice and knife games, or for betting on bouts between practicing warriors.​

Honestly, the hardest part, aside from the waiting, was keeping us watered. Three hundred orcs, plus thirty-odd scouts, drank a lot, and there was a near-constant stream of rothe caravans going up and down stream, carrying barrels of semi-clear water down to us, as well as food and fresh arrows, knives, spears, shovels, etc.​

I fingered a thumb of silver taken from one of the fallen enemies as I read the latest missive from Janare. Literally a thumb: it had been made by pressing an orc's thumb into wet clay, letting it dry, then pouring molten silver into the mould. The soft metal was scratched and misshapen, but the original form was still clear. Strange ... where did Hearteaters get raw silver to begin with? The kobolds don't have any silver mines, and the Hearteaters aren't exactly miners themselves! Other fallen Hearteaters had possessed similar trinkets, presumably a form of coinage. I shook my head, and returned to the orc runes chalked onto the piece of parchment.​

"... managing to keep peace in camp, keep supplies moving. Brig. very useful, good with numbers. Have kept her away from Cornag, can't lose either of them. Was trouble, orc accused kob. of theft, turns out kob. didn't do it. Made speech about working together, you could have done better. Missing you in bed: Brig. warm but too soft." I smiled at the image of both my girls curled up in my tent. "Hurry up and piss off Narog, get home. J."​

Working on it, babe, I mused, then looked up as Bar and a few of his men jogged into camp. I stuffed the silver and parchment into my belt, then stood up and marched over. Barga and a few of the other senior warriors joined us. "What's going on? Why are you -"​

Bar shook his head as he panted, placing his hands on his knees as he bent over to catch his breath. "Forget the holding action: Narog's on the march! It looks like every Hearteater who can pick up a knife is on his way up here, and more besides! There must be over sixteen-hundred orcs marching up stream!"​

I frowned, and around me orcs muttered to one another. This was bad: our worst estimates had been that Narog had maybe fourteen-hundred orcs ready to fight, and that was if he stripped his defences bare.​

"It gets worse: he's also sent a hundred ogres and maybe twenty-score goblins and bugbears."​

I swore viciously, and Barga echoed me in fervency. The greenskins were mostly wall fodder, but the ogres were bad news. It could only mean that Narog had entered into an alliance with a tribe of the ill-tempered monsters.​

Barga stopped cursing and asked, "Could the extra orcs be from another tribe?"​

I was kicking myself as Bar nodded. "They've got lighter gear, and more spears and clubs." He thought it over. "Maybe four hundred of them? Wouldn't be much more than that."​

Barga nodded, then turned to me. "There were rumours that Narog was making overtures to the Eyegougers and the Bonebreakers over winter," she named the other two surviving tribes in the region.​

I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of my sword. "It seems we weren't the only ones seeking allies," I said, somewhat unnecessarily. "Could they have been warned of our intentions?"​

Barga shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he was planning on sending a large raiding force east into the Lowlands? Maybe he got inspired by the Stormcrow's fate, and planned on killing us off before we could make trouble? Hells, maybe Narog's not as dumb as we think he is."​

Bar grinned, straightening up. "Now you're talking nonsense," he joked, and Barga bared her teeth at him in humour.​

I growled. "Alright. Our original plan is worthless," I glanced at the fortifications with a sudden feeling of pointlessness. "We can't hold off two thousand and more enemies with the troops we have, not for long, and we'd be slaughtered if we tried to withdraw while they pressed at us. Bar," I turned to my long-time friend, "You and your men have done well, but I will ask more of you. We need to keep Narog marching blind: we need to ambush their scouts, harry them, keep them off balance and angry."​

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that cheered something deep in the orcish part of my soul. "Hearteaters are deaf, blind and stupid: must come from sitting in that pile of stones for so long!"​

"Right: just be careful, we don't want to get overconfident."​

Bar frowned. "Over ... come on, Huruk, you can't just go making up words like that!"​

"Bull: I'm the bloody chief, I can do what I like!"​

*** *** ***​

Nig Dag was not happy. This wasn't unusual. He had grown up as a slave of the Hearteaters, as had his father and grandfather before him. Skinny and short, he had managed to survive a dozen years, avoiding being killed by his older relatives or the orcs who owned his tribe, scrambling for what food he could eat, avoiding any work he could. Like many of his kind, he laboured in the orc tribe's fields, under the brutal eye and arm of his bugbear overseers, the larger breed of goblin being treated marginally better than his folk, and thus lording their improved status over the less fortunate. So, he dug in the dirt, watched for bugs (extra food shouldn't go to waste just because the orcs don't want it eating their crops), and did his best not to offend any of his betters.​

So far, by bowing and scraping, and by surreptitiously backstabbing several of his older brothers, he had managed to survive, and become useful, and was about to be transferred to sheep-herder duty, where he could skive off, kill and eat the occasional lamb, and generally laugh at all the other goblins working hard in the fields.​

Until the water stopped flowing, and the orcs got angry, and Nig Dag got really thirsty. He didn't really understand it, but he and a lot of other goblins were rounded up, given crude weapons, and told to start marching. Soon he was tired, and thirsty, his mouth tasted of dust and muck, and his feet hurt.​

Then a bugbear grabbed him, hauled him to the front, and he was told that he would 'scout ahead', and watch for signs of ambush. Nig Dag wasn't a warrior, or even a hunter, and he had no clue as to how to use the iron-banded club and hide shield he carried, his previous murders being carried out by either hitting his target from behind with a rock, or by strangulation in their sleep. Still, to refuse would have been to commit suicide, and so he, three other gobllins, and their bugbear overseer, marched upstream, over hills and through thickets, until they were separated from the stream, and suddenly were in thick woods, and the overseer was doing his best not to admit that they were lost.​

"Should just cut throat and run," whispered Gab Nun, one of the other goblins, but Nig Dag shook his head.​

"Better cut own throat. Bugbear stupid, but tough! You want to kill? Try, he kill, and then we eat you!"​

"Stop talking!" shouted the bugbear, and the goblins obediently cowered. "Keep moving! That way," he pointed with his mace, and they scurried off.​

"Fucking bugbear, fucking orcs, fucking woods," grumbled Nig Dag, as he stomped through the brush, swinging his club to knock some foliage out of his way, and giggled as a few leaves were knocked loose.​

He rounded a tree, expecting to find another, and instead was surprised by an orc, wearing leathers, carrying a sword, a sword that was really quite pretty, all shiny and sharp and dripping red -​

*** *** ***​

"What the fuck do you mean we don't have any idea? I told you to fucking send out fucking scouts," shouted Narog, and his lieutenant cowered, a gesture that pleased the chief, but he didn't let that pleasure show on his face.​

Two days north of the fortress, and his force was the strongest his people had ever marshalled. Even with a sizable garrison to protect the women, children and wealth of his people, he still commanded over two thousand warriors: two tribes of orcs, a band of ogres and various mercenaries, all of whom he had paid well with gold, silver, food, ale, women and promises of future loot and glory. He had been planning this for years. It was to be the beginning of his true legend, He imagined himself at the head of a horde, flooding into the Lowlands to slaughter the human pestilence, dig the dwarves out of their holes, and burn the elf-trash forests to the ground! He would kill their warriors, loot their treasuries, burn their fields, rape their wives and daughters, and defile their temples and do everything else any right-thinking orc would do given half the chance!​

Instead, he was marching up his own valley, augmenting his forces with goblin slaves for extra wall fodder (or fodder if they ran out of food), because someone had diverted his river! Oh, he had dismissed it at first, but as time went on, he saw the sense in it: someone was trying to prevent him from leading his crusade east!​

Holok was an idiot, but when he and the only other surviving orcs returned from their expedition, he had told his chief that he recognised both Huruk, chief of the Stonegrinders, and Barga, battle-bitch of the Fleshtearers, indicating that both tribes had united to oppose him. They obviously feel invincible after wiping out the Stormcrows, as though that were a mighty victory! They knew they could not face me in open combat, so they planned to weaken my warriors through thirst and hunger! Cowards!​

So, he decided to march in force, strike at them before they were ready, before they could implement whatever sneaky, pathetic little plan they had come up with! He would smash them with orc, and ogre, and even goblin slaves if he had to, and he would kill Huruk and Curnag, slaughter their fighters, and rape Barga while she watched his followers eat her people.​

At least that was the plan, which was growing more difficult because his army was blind!​

"I'm sorry, great chief," babbled Kulek, his new second (after he had replaced that moron Holok, who's head had been placed on a spike above the gates of the fort). "We send the scouts, but they don't come back! We send out more, and they find the bodies of the others, or they don't come back either! We sent goblins, with bugbears to keep them moving, but they were all killed! We send out orc scouts, but they get ambushed!"​

Narog spat on the ground, then walked across his tent to face the high cleric of Gruumsh who had advised him since before he had replaced (violently) his father. "What say you, Holy One? You asked the gods for a sign? Offered them blood and wine, and received an answer?"​

The priest bowed his head. "The gods are silent: they expect us to fight our own wars. Gruumsh," he paused as all the other gathered orcs shivered at the name of their overgod, "Will aid us in battle, but we must first find that battle and fight it, a challenge that He has given us!" He looked up, his one eye intent on the chief, the other gouged out by his own fingers in reverence for his dread master. "The deaths of our scouts are His will: he wishes us to force our way forward, sweeping aside all who would oppose us!"​

Narog snarled. "So be it," he cried, and pulled his sword from its scabbard, the rune-etched blade glowing softly with arcane blue light as he held it high above his head. "We march: and we shall drive the snivelling bastards who oppose us back to their caves, until they whimper and cower at the very mention of our names!"​

Around him, the chieftains of the Eyegougers and Bonebreakers drew their own weapons, and the leader of the ogre band thumped the ground with his massive fists, and all around them the warriors in earshot did the same, their bellows and oaths and cheers filling the night, drowning out the crackle of campfires.​

*** *** ***​

"Someone's happy about something," mumbled Barga as we peered through the darkness at the Hearteater camp, a massive hodge-podge of tents and fires. She bit off a piece of jerky then passed the rest to me, and I took it with a nod of thanks. The meat was hard, dry, and tasted slightly rancid: goblin was not exactly the most tastey of meats. Still, it filled the stomach, and challenged the jaw, helping to pass the time.​

"Well, the more they party, the more they'll stretch their water, the more they drink and get drunk, the better it'll be for us," I whispered as I took a swig of water from my skin. "Better to fight an enemy when you're fresh, watered and fed and they're hungry, tired and nursing a hangover."​

"Sensible," she nodded, then blinked. "Never thought of it that way." She nudged me with her elbow. "You really are an odd one: sometimes, you really don't talk like an orc at all, you know that?"​

I shrugged. "Maybe. All I know is, I like winning a lot better than losing."​

She chuckled. "Again, there's sense in that." She looked around. "Right, time to get moving: even Hearteaters will have more than one patrol out on a night like this, and we shouldn't risk running into another."​

"Now who's making sense?" I asked in a joking tone, and rose from my knees where we had been crouching, stepping over the broken bodies of the enemy patrol we had ambushed a few minutes before, so that we could get a good look at the Hearteater's encampment. We had seen all I expected us to see, and the news was good.​

The bad guys were coming, and they outnumbered us, but they had absolutely no idea what they were walking into.​

"Let's go: it's a two day march to the dam, and I'm looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed. Let them party all they want. We'll have our own celebration after we've won."​

We slipped into the night, leaving the bodies of our enemies to grow cold behind us.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_11a - LayerDef; Jardin&Curnag, Narog, Brigitte, Duel&Mages, Barga&Janare, Victory, Bar&Spoils ​

Chapter 11​

By the time my group reached the dam, we were dirty, hungry, thirsty and looking forward to a good rest. Unfortunately, that wasn't in the cards, but we could probably look forward to a decent meal, a good drink, warm blankets and maybe some fun before sleep.​

Aside from a few of Bar's scouts, we were the rear guard, and the Hearteaters were barely a day behind us. Travelling blind (what with our killing their scouts every chance we got, until they stopped sending them out, the enemy were slowly but surely approaching our encampment, and while we harried and nibbled at their edges, we hadn't really killed enough to do more than piss them off.​

Which was, in fact, part of the plan.​

When my group approached our lines, we ran into teams of orcs cutting trees, lopping branches off, then dragging the logs north. Mostly young males, free or slave, with a leavening of older, armed orcs to keep watch, they cheered as we returned, battered and bloody though we were. We raised our weapons and voices in response, tired though we were, and marched on.​

Breaking through the tree line, we paused to see the massive undertaking our tribes had achieved.​

Almost six hundred yards of woods had been cleared, with naught but stubby and jagged stumps left behind after the trunks had been hewn down or, in some cases, ripped out. With a steep, almost vertical slope to the left, and the muddy, moist riverbed to the right, there was a fairly neat column about three hundred yards wide that led straight to our fortifications.​

Which were, in themselves, impressive.​

First was a row of stakes, about one every yard or so, six foot long branches or small saplings sharpened to points, driven into the ground at a 45-degree angle. Not intended as a barrier, instead they were supposed to break up formations (such as orcs used them, in any case), force groups to bunch up, and slow down to move past them.​

Then came the ditch, four feet deep and lined with shorter stakes, most about a foot or two sticking out of the ground. Again, not designed to inflict harm, or to stop the enemy, but to make them better targets.​

Directly behind the ditch was the wall itself: four feet of earth, topped by six feet of wooden palisade. The sight of armed orcs sticking their heads over the top suggested that they had completed the parapet behind the wall, allowing for multiple ranks of orcs to stand behind the protection. In addition, four wooden towers, each four yards wide and rising six feet above the top of the wall, providing extra elevation for archers, and better vision for lookouts.​

Oh, it was ramshackle: the lines were wonky, the rows of stakes uneven, the walls and towers likely lashed together rather than nailed or dove-tailed as I would prefer it, but in the week we had been gone? It was amazing work.​

As we crossed the killing field, I imagined how the Hearteaters would feel, bursting out of the trees and coming face to face with stakes, ditch, wall and over a thousand defiant defenders ...​

Ropes were lowered as we approached, and greetings, jokes and insults were exchanced as we wove our way through the stakes, clambored up through the ditch, and then climbed up the wall. It's one thing to read about this sort of thing in a book, and snear at such simple, flimsy defences, low walls and shallow ditches ... but it's another thing to actually cross those self-same obstacles, and learn just how tiring it is. Now imagine doing it under continuous fire, your mates dying around you, the orc behind you shoving you forward, the screams of the dying in front of you ...​

Reaching the top of the wall, two of the guards help haul me over, and I turned around in turn to help the rest of my group. Once we were all up, I turned around and looked south, to where the Hearteaters would come from.​

You sorry bastards are fucked. Fucked!​

*** *** ***​

"Over two thousand," grumbled Curnag as the leaders of the gathered groups convened around the fireplace in front of my tent. "A hundred ogres ... this is not good," he said, glaring at me, obviously blaming me for underestimating the foe.​

I shrugged, scooping the last gravy from my bowl with a hunk of black bread. "Plus whatever force he left behind to watch his women and treasure," I added, which only made him scowl harder. Ignoring him, I gulped down some ale, and belched loudly. "It's not that bad," I said clearly, and all eyes turned to me. "Narog will be here tomorrow, likely in the morning, after marching all night." That was a given: orc forces usually marched and fought during the hours of darkness, camping before dawn, then sleeping through most of the day. This was mostly because our eyes were designed for the dark, and bright light hurt. In the mountains, surrounded by hills, the horizon was high, meaning that we had long periods of twilight and dusk, with short days and long nights.​

"Bar should be disengaging about now, and will be through our lines long before Narog's force gets anywhere close. When his first troops hit that tree line," I gestured south, "They'll run back and tell him that we're here, and what the conditions are like. He may want to see for himself. Either way, he'll quickly realise that he's stuck."​

Jardin, the eldest and most senior of the six frost giants in camp (which wasn't very old or senior, given that Bolg had sent a half dozen adolescents, not wanting to risk his more experienced, stronger warriors) stroked his short yellow beard as he sat cross-legged a fair distance from the fire. "How so?" he asked, his voice rumbling through the camp. "He may simply decide to march back downstream, either to return to his fortress or to cross the river, and march up the other bank."​

"Because he can't," I said firmly. "Narog has no idea what's waiting for him - he couldn't. He's expecting us to meet him in battle, in the old, traditional way, or to flee from his numbers. Either way, he's expecting this to be over fast. I scouted his camp myself, along with Barga," I nodded to the warrior woman, who nodded back. "He brought with him a few rothe, mostly to carry barrels of water, wine, mead, whatever, and maybe for milk, if they think of that. But he can't possibly have enough to water his force for longer than the march up here. When they left their camp for the night, they left behind empty barrels, and the bones of eaten rothe and other carcasses. Their supplies are stretched: they must reach the river tomorrow, the day after at the latest.​

"If they march back downstream, half of them will die of thirst before they reach the fort, and half of those who survived would fight over what drink remained. Worse, after marching his people all this way, and just turning around at the sight of our wall ..." I smiled around, and chuckles came from the gathered warriors, as they imagined the reaction of Narog's men if he acted so. "In any case, it would be the end of either Narog, or the Hearteaters."​

"And if they try to cross?" asked the kobold leader, the sorcerer I thought of as 'Red', who was actually named Karanaka, his orcish having improved in the last few weeks. "Cross river, they not face wall."​

I nod. "True. But again, Narog needs to get this done, fast. He doesn't have the reserves, he must be losing men to thirst, heatstroke, sickness every day. His men are tired, hungry, and hungry for blood. Withdrawing, even if it's just to cross the river further downstream, is a major gamble, one he might not survive. And if he did it here?" I grinned. "In this mud, it would take forever to get all his troops across, and they would make perfect targets for our arrows, javelins and, if Jardin is willing," I raised an eyebrow, and the frost giant nodded, "boulders. He would lose hundreds ... many hundreds of men trying. And," I grinned savagely, "If that isn't enough, we have a better weapon: the dam itself.​

"Orcs," I said, with no small amount of understatement, "Do not swim well."​

*** *** ***​

I was reclining in a deck chair beside the pool of a five-star beach resort, drink in one hand and brand new David Weber book in the other, while Janare, Brigitte, Barga, Cordelia Chase and Seven of Nine frolicked around in very skimpy bikinis. The sun was shining, but it was okay, because I was wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses, and I was wondering if my grey orcish skin would tan when Supergirl and Wonder Woman landed next to me and started massaging my feet and shoulders, respectively.​

As the kryptonian girl smiled up at me while caressing my soles with her thumbs, the buxom Amazon leaned down so that her lips were next to my ear, her hot breath on my neck as her strong fingers stroked my shoulders. "While I'm sure you're having a wonderful time," murmured Princess Diana, "I'm afraid it's coming to a close."​

"Hmm?" I asked, leaning my head back against her breasts and looking up into her classically beautiful face. "What do you mean?"​

She smiled down at me. "I mean, it's time to get up."​

I frowned. "But I just -"​

Suddenly, Wonder Woman's visage was replaced by the savage majesty of Ilneval himself, snarling down at me as he dug his claws into my flesh. "It is time! Wake up!"​

*** *** ***​

I sat up violently, my hand reaching for the dagger I kept close at hand, but I quickly recognised that the hand on my shoulder was Janare, who was shaking me awake. "Wake up, Huruk: it is time! Bar is returning, and the enemy cannot be far behind!" Behind the priestess, Brigitte was busy fastening the last buckles of the orc woman's brigadine. Her own mail shirt already in place, her honey blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her sword at her waist.​

I groaned, rolled to my knees, and shook myself violently to wake up. I took the cup of water from Janare, gulped it down, then grabbed my tunic from the ground nearby and yanked it over my head, quickly followed by stomping into my boots. Then both girls helped me into my hauberk, the familiar weight settling onto my shoulders, and I buckled on my sword belt. Brigitte passed me my helmet, which I hung from my belt, and I picked up my spear and shield from where they lay near the entrance to the tent. Mere minutes after waking up, I was garbed for war, and ready to fight, the very picture of a fierce orc chieftain.​

I think I'm gonna be sick ...​

*** *** ***​

We marched through the camp, the cries and warnings of the lookouts waking more warriors from their blankets, and the air was full of swearing, grunting orcs as they hauled themselves into armour, grabbed their weapons, and headed for the wall. I paused to scoop up a handful of bread and a mouthful of stew from a nearby campfire, but kept moving, Janare and Brigitte behind me. Garog fell into step behind me, a comforting mass of familiar warrior, and more and more of my tribe followed suit.​

The crowd parted for us to see Curnag and his entourage, likewise garbed in armour and carrying weapons, if slightly more flamboyantly. His spear was tied with feathers, and his leather breastplate had a large handprint cast in blood over the heart. Beside him was his niece, who was grinning, despite having a similar bloody handprint marring most of one side of her face, scraps of silk and leather tied into her braids.​

"It is time?" roared the other chief, and his men cheered, and I felt their enthusiasm. Months of waiting, weeks of working, and it all came down to this, today. Then Curnag's eye went past my shoulder, and he frowned. "What: you decided to bring your human slave girl? Do you think Narog'll catch eye of her, and he'll be too busy trying to rape her to fight back? Or is that flimsy, silly mail shirt supposed to blind him? Most use it'd be." He spat on the ground noisily.​

I felt Brigitte's hand settle on her sword hilt, but she didn't draw it. Good, since I needed both of them alive. "I find her useful, Curnag, and as we all know, an orc may do with his property as he pleases. If it pleases me to have her naked in my blankets, then I shall do so. If it pleases me to have her armed at my back, then I shall do so. Either way, it is thanks to you, since she was your gift to me. More important issues await, such as a battle of some description?" My orcs laughed, and many of his did as well, so Curnag grunted, but just spat on the ground again, and stomped off, his followers flowing after. Barga paused a moment, nodding slightly to me, then hefted her shield and headed south herself.​

"Come on," I called, "It wouldn't do to keep the Hearteaters waiting!"​

*** *** ***​

I reached down and hauled Bar up over the wall, grunting with the effort, but grinning as my friend clambers over and settles his boots on the deck. "Ah," he breaths, taking a moment to catch his breath, "I would not want to be doing that with arrows and spears falling about me," he admitted, straightening up, shading his eyes from the morning light as he looked around.​

"Or with sword or axe waiting for you at the top," I said, clapping him on the iron pauldron. "I had the same thought myself yesterday as I was helped over the wall. I doubt any of the Hearteaters would disagree with either of us!" Orcs gathered around the returning scouts, shouting questions and cheering at the blood on their clothes and faces.​

"Nor I," the half orc answered, clapping his hand down onto my mailed shoulder. "Narog's men aren't far behind us: the bastard kept sending out scouts: goblins, bugbears, scared little orcs. He had one bunch, a skilled group of hunters led by an orog," he named an orc/ogre crossbreed, "Who wasn't half bad in the bush, but I led him into an ambush, and cut his damned throat!" Cheers erupted as he thrust his free fist into the air. "Still, he pressed his troops hard: they were rarely far behind, and -" He cut off, and turned to look south, and I followed suit.​

In the distance, at the tree line, figures were walking out into the sunlight. Huge, shaggy creatures with stooped shoulders and jutting jaws, their long arms trailing massive clubs and long spears led the way, with orcs flowing around them, and small goblins scampered around as hundreds and hundreds of enemies ventured out. Here and there were knots of other races, the massive, horned heads of minotaurs, hairy bugbears, even some fur clad humans, with massive swords over their shoulders.​

There was no order to the host, no ranks or divisions. Groups huddled around banners and standards, hung with hides painted with crude images, topped with skulls or even still rotting heads, tribal totems or offerings to the gods, or just because it looked fierce. Many orcs closer to the centre wore heavier armour, iron plates and chain mail, carrying heavy swords and axes, while others did with hide, leather and padded armour, spears and clubs.​

But in the middle, out the front, strode a figure in mail and plate, a heavy sword strapped to his back, and carrying a long, wicked-tipped spear. Standing, so I judged, at just under eight feet tall, he was big, even for a mountain orc, he was flanked by orcs carrying banners, one of the Unwinking Eye, the other of a hand gripping a half-eaten heart. Proclaiming his loyalty to his god, and his pride in his tribe, it could be only one orc.​

Narog.​

*** *** ***​

"May Bahgtru break their bones," cursed the Hearteater chief as he stared across the cleared field at the massive wall.​

After marching all night, he had expected a quick, sharp fight, sending the Stonegrinders and their lackeys fleeing for their lives, followed by an evening spent enjoying himself with the spoils. He had pushed his host, against the advice of some of his (now deceased) advisors and lieutenants, and now his followers were hungry, tired, thirsty and furious. Around and behind him, he could hear the grumbling, the whining, the muttered complaints and curses as they all saw what he did: instead of standing and fighting like orcs, the enemy had decided to hide behind a wall like ... like a bunch of humans!​

I can't go back, he realised immediately. Yes, I could march back down the river, cross, and come up the other bank, but that would take too long! If I pull back, after all my speaches about 'sweeping the foe aside', I'll be a laughing stock! Besides, I'm thirst too! I need to break that dam, now!​

There was no other option. He knew, he knew, that he still had the numbers, that he had the fury, that he had the blessings of the gods. Moreover, he knew that if he failed, he'd die anyway, and it's far better to die fighting an enemy, any enemy, than knifed in the back by your displeased followers.​

Stabbing his spear into the earth, he reached over his shoulder, he drew his blade, an enchanted sword that he had taken from the cold dead hands of a stupid human paladin some years before when he had come up the hills seeking some woman or other he had stolen, raped, killed and eaten (he was never clear on which particular woman the pink-skin was so pissed about: they all looked alike to him), and raised it high above his head.​

"Foreward! Charge! Kill the Stonegrinders! Kill the Fleshtearers! Kill every single, motherless bitch and bastard that stands before you! Drown them in their own blood, and may Yurtrus take any who flees! Charge!" he bellowed, and his followers bellowed in return, hungry for the chance to finally kill something! Pointing his sword at the wall, he followed word with action, and set off into a loping charge forward, even as he was quickly overtaken by the longer legs of his ogre allies. "Charge! Kill them! The gods demand it! Kill them all!"​

*** *** ***​

"They seem a little pissed off at us," said Bar mildly as the Hearteater host started to flow in our direction.​

"They do indeed ... I wonder, what could possibly have set them off like that?" I asked, before slapping him on the back. "Feel like sitting this one out? You must be exhausted, and no one would think the less of you if -"​

"Fuck that," the half-orc snorted, before snatching up his longbow and drawing an arrow from the bag attached to his belt.​

I grinned, before picking up my spear from where it was propped up against the wall, and hefted it. "Right," I shouted out, my voice carrying thanks to a little cantrip Janare had provided. "Let's kill something!"​

The archers in the towers started firing as soon as the enemy came into range, our longbowmen and crossbowmen sending lethal quarrels and arrows singing through the air to plunge into their massed ranks. Clothyard shafts pierced skulls, punctured lungs and opened up entrails, and iron-headed bolts struck thick hides and wooden shields. More were wounded than killed, but those who fell were trampled by those who came behind, making most wounds lethal. As the range closed, the archers became more accurate, and Hearteaters began dying in greater numbers, but more missiles missed than hit, and the enemy were too determined to let a few losses slow them down.​

As they charged closer, their vicious war cries echoing across the field, more archers opened up with their shorter, less powerful weapons, and the air was filled by the hissing of arrows and the cries of the injured, but still they came. In the van was a massive ogre, ten feet tall, carrying a massive slab of wood for a shield and wielding a huge, iron-studded club in the other hand, howling and spitting defiance as his shield sprouted a half-dozen missiles, others bouncing off his thick hide, or causing minor injuries that just made him more furious.​

Judging the distance, I called out for my orcs to employ our next line of weapons. Spearmen took up a two-foot-long piece of wood, notched at the end, and affixed their spears to the notch. Hauling back their arms, they snapped them forwards, the extra length of the spear-thrower vastly increasing their range, speed and accuracy. I grinned as the spears arced up into the air: based on the classical atl-atl and the woomera, this deceptively simple device was able to triple the effectiveness of my spearmen with only a little training.​

Spears fell amongst the foe, striking at impossible range and with terrible force, transfixing orcs and in one case impaling a goblin from the crown of his head to his crotch in a remarkable fluke of aerodynamics. Ogres howled as heavy blades and long shafts sprouted from their limbs or torsos, and the great beast in the van was incredibly unlucky, a spear flying into his open mouth and piercing out the back of his neck, his club and shield falling from his grip as he collapsed, just before reaching the first line of stakes.​

Emboldened by their success, my orcs launched a second volley of spears and javelins, and a third, but by then the first ranks of the enemy hit the stakes. Ogres and orcs slowed, aiming to step around the sharpened wood, but were shoved forward by those behind them, and dozens found themselves transfixed on the stakes, howling in pain and impotent rage as their supposed allied trampled over their backs to cross the hazards. Even as more projectiles rained down upon them, Hearteater warriors scrambled down into the ditch, and many died there, while others managed to haul themselves over the short stakes, and start to climb the embankment.​

"Hold!" I shouted, raising my spear and hefting my shield, standing right behind the wall, as Garog and hundreds of other Stonegrinders around me did the same. Gripping my spear firmly, I angled the head down, and waited to strike.​

A massive ogre, covered in blood and gore, howled as he used his long arms to lever himself up the slope, and my spear darted down, striking the crown of his head. I yanked it free in a spray of blood and brains as the ogre fell, rolling back down into the ditch, but the beast was quickly replaced by another, and more came behind him.​

This could take a while ...​

Jab, jab, thrust, jab ... up and down the wall, the same actions were repeated as orc, ogre and goblin struggled to overcome our defences. Here and there a determined effort was made, massive ogres forcing their way through the spears, shields and blades of my forces to clambor over the wall, but the ranks behind the first quickly pushed forwards, and slew them, closing the gap and hurling the bodies of the dead back down the slope.​

A hurled club from below struck my helm, and I stumbled back, bouncing off the orcs behind me, but not before an ogre leapt over the wall, howling as his massive mouth frothed, swinging a hammer in both hands, crushing the skull of an orc that tried to stab him in the stomach, then grabbing another by the shoulder, and bodily lifting the unfortunate screaming warrior up into the air, and bit down, chewing the top half of his head off, letting the twitching body flop to the deck.​

Scrabbling for my spear, I gave up and slipped my sword from its scabbard, and threw myself forward as three enemy orcs climbed over the wall, and I shouted out for others to follow me. I ducked under one swing of the ogre's maul, deflected an orcish sword blade with my shield, and sliced a hunk of flesh out of the ogre's knee, but not before a spear thrust from the other side bit into my thigh. I howled in pain, but swung my sword down, cutting the shaft off and ramming the rim of my shield into the other orc's face.​

A cry from my left drew my attention to a flash of silver, and I blinked as Brigitte's long, slender blade was withdrawn from the first orc's throat, but there was no time to cheer, as the ogre grabbed his hammer with both hands, and hauled it back to swing down at me ... but not before a head-sized stone struck him directly in the face, knocking him backwards to tumble back over the wall.​

Rushing forwards, I quickly dispatched the last orc and rammed my shield back onto the wall, preparing for the next attack. I spared a glance back over my shoulder, and I saw the massive form of Jardin bending down to pick up another rock in each hand, then hauled back his arm to hurl his projectiles, one after the other, at other ogres as they reared their heads over the wall.​

I panted as I leant hard against the wall, hot blood streaming down my leg, but I managed to grin as Brigitte, her buckler swapped out for the shield of a fallen ally, pushed herself into position next to me, her blood-stained sword darting out to skewer any enemy who would dare approach. "I think they're angry at us," she shouted, over the screaming and dying.​

"Whatever," I huffed, slicing the hand off an orc who tried to pull himself up the wall, then tore a chunk out of his neck on the backswing, "Could have given you that idea?"​

"Humans are naturally," she let out a grunt as she pushed her sword through an ogre's eye, the beast crying out in agony before another Stonegrinder hurled a spear into it's belly, knocking it back, "Perceptive, not like you orcs!"​

A loud thud behind us made us look back over our shoulders, in time to see a goblin fall over, a knife in hand, with Janare standing over it with staff in both hands, the iron ferrule covered in blood, hair and brain matter. "Of course, no one can notice everything," Brigitte quipped quickly, before turning back to the fight to block an axe blow, and counterattack.​

The cleric stepped forward and pressed her hand to my shoulder, murmured words I couldn't' understand and I felt my thigh knit itself back together. "I think we're winning," I shouted, seeing the press of foes start to thin out, as they started to die faster than they could climb.​

"Huruk! Huruk!" came a cry, and I glanced up to see Bar hanging out of the nearest tower, pointing in the other direction. "Breakthrough! It's Narog!"​

Or it could just be that most of the bad guys have hit a different part of the wall, and we're just getting the dregs. I cursed, then turned to Janare. She nodded: this was a situation we had prepared for. She raised her staff and her free hand, crying out for Ilneval's aid, and I felt fresh strength and purpose flooding my limbs. Then her prayer changed, and i felt supercharged as I pulled a small bottle from my belt, and downed the contents. The world slowed down as the valuable Potion of Haste took hold. Coupled with the 'Bulls Strength' and 'Aid' spells Janare had cast on me, I was stronger, faster and tougher than ever before.​

Casting my shield aside, I raced past the defenders, leapt into the air and grabbed hold of the tower, hauling myself up with ease. I moved past a still shouting Bar, then crossed thr tower, and looked down.​

Below, a wedge of Hearteaters and their allies had carved their way onto the wall, and in the van of the assault was Narog himself with a clearly magical sword, flanked by orog (half orc, half ogre hybrids) and orc bodyguards. He took a hit from a defender, but managed to kill the other orc before a cleric behind him healed his wound, letting the chief keep fighting.​

Can't forget that the bad guys have healing magic too, I mused idly as I threw myself from the tower, falling slowly to the deck below. Which means I've got to finish this fast!​

Bending my knees almost to the ground to absorb the shock of my leap, I rose quickly and hurled myself forwards, leaping over the crumbling line of orcs to ram the boss of my shield directly into Narog's bulky form. The force of impact was incredible, with both my increaced speed and strength a factor, but the other chieftain managing to stay on his feet, and shoved back, sending me almost sprawling to the deck. I grit my teeth, set my feet, and threw mytself back into the fight.​

Even in my boosted state, the fight was a blur. Narog was bigger, stronger and tougher than any orc I had ever fought, and was far quicker than a being of his bulk deserved to be. Whether it was from a similar magical boost, fluke of nature or simple experience, my blade clanged against his, then I deflected a return blow with my sheild, then my stab glanced off his breastplate. He swung his sword in both hands, precluding a shield, but he had increased force and leverage, making him just as deadly, and his heavier armour meant he could focus on the offense. He roared imprecations at me, his blade like lightning as it carved chunks out of my shield, the force of the blows rocking down my arm into my core as I struggled to regain the initiative. Then another fierce blow shattered my sheild, leaving me holding just the boss, and hurled me to the ground behind the deck.​

I lay in the mud for a moment, the breath driven from my lungs, and for a moment, I just wanted to lie there and go to sleep. But the orcish fury was still in me, even as the magical speed of the potion faded, and I used my sword to lever myself to my knees as a big form splattered down into the mud in front of me.​

"You must be Huruk," Narog ground out as he raised his sword. "You've caused me a lot of pain, boy," he shouted as he stepped forwards. "I'm gonna stick your fucking head on a pole, and put it aboive me bed, so you can watch me rape your mother, your sisters, your women and all the females of your tribe - even the ugly ones - just so I know you'll -" He cut off as I threw a handfull of mud into his face, which he had kindly left unprotected due to refusing to wear a helmet.​

"Gaarghfft!" he spluttered, and I leapt into action, snatching a handaxe from the corpse another fallen orc (friend or foe I couldn't tell), and swung sword and axe in a lethal pattern, slicing at his exposed flesh, knocking aside his blind, wild swings, and generally beating the hell out of him. With my unsteady footing, and with my arms feeling like lead, my lungs on fire, I couldn't make it pretty, but I had enough strength to -​

A burning, searing beam of light struck my chest, and I screamed as my mail turned hot, only my undertunic saving me from massive burns. Staggering back, I saw one of Narog's clerics standing up on the deck, spear in hand, the other readying to send another 'Searing Light' beam at me, before Janare stepped up behind him and shoved her sword through his back and out his chest.​

Narog used the opportunity to scoop the mud out of his eyes, and he glared at me with absulture fury. "Arrgh!" he shouted, any thought of poetic revenge driven out of his mind by the simple desire to kill as he gripped his sword and swung it at me. I was still almost blinded by the cleric's spell, but I managed to deflect the first blow with my axe, and ducked under the second, my return swing slicing deep into the meat of his thigh through a weakened patch of mail. Foaming at the mouth, the enemy chief roared as he hurled himself forward, forcing me onto the defensive, until a swung sword blade cut his left arm off at the wrist. Blood spurting from the stump barely missed my face, coating my shoulder instead, and I used the opportunity to swing my axe into his side.​

I don't really remember the rest of the fight, other than being vaguely aware that the sword that cut off his hand belonged to Barga, and between us we managed to take Narog apart, splitting his attention, carving off one piece at a time.​

I'm not sure which of us actually killed him, but afterwards it was my sword thrust through his chest, and hers buried in his kidney, and we both sat panting over Narog's corpse as the cries above turned from defensive to offensive. I later learned that losing Narog had taken the heart out of the attackers, and had broken their will to attack. Survival instincts kicked in, and suddenly the Hearteaters and their allies had somewhere else to be, and Curnag had, in a moment of inspiration, ordered a counterattack, turning a retreat into a rout as hundreds of Stonegrinders and Fleshtearers descended from the wall and began the real slaughter.​

But that, I'd learn later. For that moment, I was busy doing my best not to pass out.​

*** *** ***​

"It's a bit crazy right now," observed Bar several hours later as we walked the battlefield, stepping over bodies. "We've got about half our number out there, hunting down any fleeing Hearteater, but most of the rest were either sensible or exhausted enough to be satisfied with driving them off. Besides, there's the spoils to consider," he added with a tired grin.​

True. Around us, allied orcs were picking through the dead, gathering trophies, coins, trinkets, food, whatever. Wounded or surrendered Hearteaters were rounded up, and the victors were busy taking their traditional liberties with the females (and a lot of the males: most orcs were equal-opportunity when it came to humiliating a fallen foe). Not all were orcs, either: I saw at least one female minotaur being forced to the ground, ropes tossed around her horns as orcs tore her armour and clothes off while she brayed in fear and pain as her captors laughed, and there were females among the enemy's ogres who would soon be bearing orog children: again, victorious orcs weren't all that picky.​

Brigitte turned her face away, remembered pain and humiliation in her eyes, but she straightened her spine and just gripped her hilt until her knuckles went white.​

"They would have done the same and worse to you," offered Janare in her accented but mostly fluent Common, in a moment of impressive perception and empathy.​

But the blonde girl shook her head. "Doesn't make it right," she countered, and Janare shrugged, the matter gone from her head.​

Our group came across Curnag as he was wrenching his axe out of the chest of a fallen orc. "Ha! Good fight," he cried as we approached, waving the bloody weapon in the air, and around us other orcs took up the cry, before going back to their post-battle activities. "Heared you took out Narog: bloody good job, that," he continued as he tore a piece of the corpse' tunic to wipe off the blade of his axe.​

I exchanged a glance with Barga, who shrugged. "Call it a group effort," I amended, and some of the orcs blinked at the odd phrasing (not a common term in orcish), but Curnag shook his head.​

"Eh, you burst that blister on Yurtrus' backside," he said, naming the orc god of death and disease. "Which is a victory in itself. Now, what's the plan? I reckon we can just wnader downstream, and finish killing off any Hearteater warriors we find, then make sport with their women and children at the fort ... but I'll bet you've got another fancy plan, am I right?"​

I blinked. Wow, he's actually getting smarter? Who'd have thunk it? "Something like that." I looked up at where the light was fading from the sky. We'd been fighting most of the day, and night was falling fast. "But that can wait for tomorrow."​

I had a dream to get back to.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..​

CH_12a - Curnag&HurukChitchat, BargaHeir, Janare, CardinYields, SworeAllegiance, HurukOfHighlands ​

hapter 12​

The crowd cheered as the hammers of the giants and the spells of the priests broke the dam apart piece by piece, and in spectacular splashes and gouts of water the river was returned to its original path. The muddy riverbed was awash again with life-giving water, and downstream, I knew that some would be celebrating, assuming that their chief Narog had been successful. If I could have afforded it, I would have left the dam in place until our conquest of the valley and it's fort was complete, but it would all be pointless if all we took were barren, dead lands.​

Curnag slapped me on the shoulder. "A fine battle, and a fine spectacle. The gods are pleased with you, my young friend, I am sure of it!"​

I grinned, and clapped him on the arm. "I know they have blessed me, blood brother of my father. I have a fine tribe at my back, a new sword to carry into battle," I reached up and touched the long hilt of Narog's blade, now mine, where it poked out over my shoulder, "And women in my blankets to keep me warm. And now we," I gestured between us, "have a mighty victory to our names, so that we may be celebrated in story and song."​

"Bah," he spat to one side, "Your victory, Huruk. I am not a complete fool," he leaned towards me in a manner of conspiracy. "No matter what others may say. I know I am more Bahgtru's servant than Ilneval's, and I am a better fighter than planner, but even I can see that you are far more than a simple orc."​

I felt a shiver run down my spine. "And what, exactly, am I then?" I asked carefully.​

He laughed. "You have a destiny, Huruk! Ilneval calls you to perform great deeds, and you will fight battles that most of us could only dream of! But," here he pulled me close, and lowered his voice, his hot, stinking breath on my face, "You would do well to remember those who fought beside you when you were a simple chief, eh?"​

I laughed, forcing the cheer into my voice as I shook him. "Of course! Believe me, Curnag, it is in my own best interest to celebrate my allies and shield-brothers! After all: if I were to forget you, and claim all the glory for myself, you would not follow me in future battles, and then where would I be?"​

He laughed back. "L:eading an empty army, I reckon," he joked in a remarkably clever way, orcishly speaking, but then grew serious. "But there was another matter I wanted to talk to you about," he led me away from the press of the celebrating orcs, and we found ourselves sitting on a log, with a servant pouring us mead.​

When our mugs were full, he ordered the slave away, and we were alone. "I will be blunt, because we both know that words are more your weapons than mine," he began. "I have no children, no sons of my own, despite my very, very best efforts," he leared at me, waggling his eyebrows, and I smiled back, and clanged my mug against his, and we drank together. "So, when I die, all the young bucks in the Fleshtearers will do their best to claim the title of chief for themselves. I know these lads: I've fought beside them, trained them, pillaged and plundered alongside them, and though they be doughty fighters, they have no ... no spark. No interest in the tribe, other than as a way of getting more treasure, more fights, more wenches and more glory."​

I nodded. "A common problem amongst good chiefs," I said, "So few of us have a thought beyond the next meal, the next fight, the next woman." Inheritance in orc society was fairly rudimental: you take what you can keep. If someone else wants it, you'll have to fight for it. That goes for gold, women, even titles.​

Curnag gulped down some more mead. "So, I'm gonna name Barga my heir. When He Who Never Sleeps decides to call me, my brother's daughter will take the tribe."​

We both glanced over to where Barga stood amongst the other younger folk of our tribes. Having cast aside her armour, she wore a simple tunic and short skirt, garb that showed off the swell of her large breasts and the curves of her well-muscled limbs. Her long black hair hung around her shoulders and down her back, framing a face that was, if not beautiful (even by orc standards), then strong and full of character.​

I frowned. Orc women leading tribes wasn't unheard of, but it was unusual. "I have heard of such things," I said carefully, "But it is usually a chief's woman who holds the position in trust for her son. Rare is the female chief who rules in her own right."​

"True. So, she needs a chief's son to raise, even if it isn't mine."​

I blinked, then blinked again. "Curnag? What do you -"​

"Bah! Don't be dense, lad, you're not cut out for it." He gestured at Barga with his mug. "She's no great beauty, giant tits aside, but she's cleverer than most and almost as good a fighter as she thinks she is. She's strong, too, and between you I reckon you can breed a son to match me."​

I look her over again. True, she was no bastion of femininity (even as we watched, she laughed and belted a bigger warrior on the shoulder hard enough to send him splattering to the mud, and laughed all the harder), but she was lively, clever and had a good sense of humour (if a little earthy). Moreover, I liked her. Of all the orcs in our combined tribes, she was the closest to someone I'd get along with in my old life, and would probably ask out.​

"And what does she think about this arrangement?" I asked, and Curnag laughed again.​

"With the looks she's been sending your way? I reckon she's more enthusiastic than you!"​

Indeed, as we were looking over at her, Barga looked back at us, and a glint of primal hunger was in her eyes as she grinned our way, and I'm fairly sure she wasn't leering at her uncle.​

Oh boy.​

*** *** ***​

Janare inspected the buckle under my left pauldron. "So ... Barga."​

I grunted, but raised an eyebrow at her. My last coat of mail being ruined by the magic of Narog's cleric, I had replaced it with a hauberk scavenged from a fallen Hearteater warrior. Lighter and stronger, being forged from steel rather than iron, it was clearly Lowlander work, and fit me surprisingly well. Over it, I had strapped hardened leather pauldrons. All in all, the whole set was a little heavier than my old mail, but the weight was fairly well distributed, and I could move just as easily.​

The tribes were readying to march downstream. Spending a night and a day recovering from the battle, looting the dead and healing the worst of the wounded. The kobolds were already gone, having returned to their tunnels, but not before promising to have a shipment of iron and coal ready to go by the time we sent them rothe, poultry and grain. Jardin's giants agreed to accompany us, more out of curiosity than eagerness to do battle (although there was a fair amount of that, given the nature of frost giants).​

We had lost perhaps two hundred orcs in the battle, but had slain almost half the enemy host, including most of their ogres. Having used their heavier troops to spearhead the assault, Narog's tribe had suffered heavy casualties, while the other tribes, less heavily engaged, had managed to flee before too many were killed. Nevertheless, many more had died in the rout, either killed by our persuing troops, or killing each other in frenzied skirmishes, or even simply having died of exertion, hunger or thirst. They had no order, no spirit, and our more disciplined orcs had simply steamrollered over them, sending the flotsam heading downstream.​

Note to self: acquire cavalry for harrying routed enemies, I reminded myself. Horses? Winter wolves? Some larger varieties of worgs? I'll work something out. I shook my head. "Um, yes? What about her?"​

Janare finished with the buckle, and slapped the boiled leather harness. "You want her, that much is clear. She desires you, also. But you have not bedded her yet." She seemed a little puzzled by it.​

Honestly, in most cases, I would have done just that. In orc society, monogamy was pretty much unknown, and they didn't do marriage. An orc male could take to his bed any woman he could persuade, bribe, trick, intimidate or force there, for however long he could make them stay, and in whatever numbers he could manage, and as many slaves as he could afford. That said, using blatant force to take a free woman was just asking to get your throat cut while you sleep, so most males relied on what passed for charm and promises of wealth and power to attract women: it was safer.​

Still, usually, an orc in my position, a leader of wealth and reputation (not to mention smart and handsome, as orcs go), would simply have taken Barga for a tumble, and his other women would just have to accept it. As with most relationships in orc society, dominance and power entered into it, so it was the senior orc (usually, but not always the male) who decided who was brought into the harem, and the rest had to deal as best they could.​

So, on the face of it, I was oddly dragging my feet.​

"Normally, I would have," I said honestly, and she raised a pierced eyebrow. "Most orcs would have. But most orcs don't have a powerful, beautiful priestess as their lover." I reached up and laid my hand on hers, where it rested on my shoulder. "I wanted to speak to you about it first." In most cases, clerics were the dominant partners in any relationship, as were chiefs. Chiefs and priestesses being bedmates was unusual, and thus more complicated.​

Janare shook her head. "Huruk, I am your woman, not your owner. You have a great destiny," she said seriously, "and you will take our people to greater heights than they have ever climbed before. You will bring such glory to yourself, and to us, that I would never begrudge you your appetites. Take Barga, and get her with child. Take the human girl properly, and not just in the camp's gossip. Amuse yourself with slave girls or battlefield captives, if it pleases you." She pulled me close, and there was fire in her eyes. "I would never try to break you to harness, as human or elf women do. Just remember to let me give you some children as well!"​

I grinned, and kissed her, firmly. "And that," I said a few minutes later, "is why you'll always be my favourite."​

*** *** ***​

Cardin sat on his father's throne, and worried. At fourteen, he was old enough to fight, large enough and strong enough to kill, but Narog his father had insisted that he remain behind and guard the stronghold with two hundred Hearteater warriors (mostly older orcs who would have slowed the host down) while his older brothers went north with the host. So it was Cardin who listened to the moaning of thirsty cattle, tried to ignore the nattering of hundreds of females (many of them not even from his tribe!), and did his best to keep things under control as he watched the stores of drink become smaller and smaller.​

Things had gotten worse when ragged orcs and goblinoids had crawled south, howling about a massive defeat, begging to be let in behind solid earth and stone walls. All were taken in, the goblins to be killed and fed to their kin (to save the better food for the orcs), and the orcs interrogated. These too were killed, at first, for lying, then for cowardace, until a little wisdom from an older warrior convinced Cardin to keep them alive, to bolster his defences, once it became clear that the host really had been defeated, that his father really was dead, and the Stonegrinders (the survivors had been very clear as to who was responsible)were on their way.​

He looked up from his musings as Kalag, one of the elder warriors of the tribe, entered the hall. "They are coming, Cardin," he said without preamble, beckoning him to follow. Snarling, Cardin stood up, grabbed his short, heavy, hooked sword from where it stood against the throne, and followed.​

They marched through the settlement and were soon joined by other warriors, along muddy tracks that had once been roughly paved streets, past heaps of filth and rubbish, past the ruins of buildings that had long ago been 'repaired' with rough-hewn lumber and leather, and patched only when the leaking roofs and drafty walls became too bad to live with. Such was the conditions of the stronghold that he had grown up with, and he paid it no mind: it had always been thus, and always would. What would be the point of changing it?​

Finally the group arrived at the stone gate, with its massive iron-studded doors and rusty portcullis, and climbed up the ladder to stand atop the parapet and looked north. Even before he could see over the wall, Cardin could hear it: the steady thud, thud, thud, thud of drums in the distance. Then he saw it: coming around the bend, out from the woods. A wide, long collumn of orcs, a mass of spears and shields and light glittering off iron, their cries and shouts and singing intertwining with the constant, damned thud, thud thud. Behind them came a mass of orcs, goblins and other folk, chained together or tied with rope about their necks, and behind them came frost giants in chain mail and iron helms.​

Cardin's mouth was dry. He wanted to shout defiance at the banners at the front of the enemy group, he wanted to cry out to the gods for aid, he wanted to run.​

Instead, he spoke to Kalag. "How many warriors can we put on the walls?"​

Kalag thought for a moment, rubbing the side of his nose with a filthy thumb. "Two hundred Hearteaters," he said eventually, "Including females without young. Another hundred and fifty, mostly of the Eyegougers and Bonebreakers, as well as those who came to us after the battle, but those won't be worth shit, even those who ain't hurt or sick." He spat over the wall, towards the foe. "Call it three hundred fighters, and seven priests, but most of them are busy praying."​

Cardin nodded. He glanced towards the river, flowing once more, with goblins and orc women, laden with jars, skins and other containers, fleeing up the hill towards the gate, having been caught fetching water when the enemy appeared. And that will be the last of our water: we certainly won't be able to fetch more before this is over.​

"Tell them to pray harder. We will need all the help the gods can give us."​

*** *** ***​

The thud, thud thud of the drums filled my ears as our column marched downstream, each time an orcish hand slapped the stretched hide of the drumhead, a thousand left feet slammed into the dust. A year, I thought to myself, a year to go from shapeless hordes of warriors to a marching column of soldiers. True, many orcs still didn't know their left from their right, but they still knew to step to the beat, so the effect was the same. Too, the orcs had little use for 'silence in the ranks,' and chattered and joked and swore as they marched along, spears, shields and swords at the ready.​

Once you drilled some discipline into their thick heads, orcs turned out to be almost purpose-designed soldiers: strong, hardy, able to march all day and fight all night, eat just about anything and replace their numbers faster than most races. Give them a shove in the right direction, and a kick to the backside, and I'll turn them into a New Model Orcish Army yet, I told myself, my own boots following the constant, insidious sound of the drums.​

For the first time, I took a good look at the home of my ancestral enemies. The term 'valley' was something of a misnomer. More of a wide, oval plateau between two small mountain ranges, running north to south about three miles with the Karen running almost straight down the middle. The rolling hills were dotted with patches of agriculture, haphazardly spread around, likely the result of natural fields of grain being slowly harvested, rather than organised farming. Stands of trees, usually atop hillocks, lay between fields, likely to provide rooting for pigs. Little huts or cottages with wooden, mud or earth walls and rough thatch roofs clearly housed the workers, mostly goblin or orc slaves but with some free orcish workers, but all stood empty, the inhabitants having run for the best defence in the valley: the fort.​

Located in the south-western part of the valley, the fort was set up on a hill about half a mile from the river, a heavy berm of earth surrounded by a deep ditch, now a muddy moat. At least two hundred yards across, it was topped by a rough, rotten wooden wall and parapet, with a stone gatehouse opening to a path down through a gap in the northern side of the works.​

A tough nut to crack, I mused as we approached, and I saw figures above the gate, their weapons and armour glinting in the sunlight. And we have an audience. I paused, letting the column march past, and my companions paused with me as I looked around. I pointed to the winding trail up the slight slope towards the fort. "I want us formed up about halfway up the track," I told Curnag, Bar and Garog, and they nodded, rushing forwards to give the orders. Barga stood next to me, her fingers tracing the leather grip of the Lowlander-forged sword I had gifted her, now that Narog's blade was strapped to my back.​

"Their walls are larger than ours were," she said, eyeing the defences, "And better built. Even with Jardin's stonethrowers, I do not look forward to scaling those slopes."​

And that's why I'm increasingly attracted to you, I thought, but pushed that thought aside, to reflect on another time. "Which is why I don't plan on storming the walls," I said blandly, shielding my eyes as I examined the fort. I looked over at Janare. "When we're settled over there," I pointed to the place I intended for us to dig in, "I'm going to go have a chat to whoever's in charge up there.​

"And he's going to open the gates for me, with not a single drop of blood spilt."​

*** *** ***​

Cardin scowled as he led his party out under the gates, and headed down the hill towards where the leader of the Stonegrinders had placed his banners. Wearing a coat of riveted iron plates over leather, he kept his sword sheathed, but his companions both carried large shields in case of treachery.​

Below, he could see the invaders hard at work, already digging a trench between the river and the fort, and building up a berm of earth topped by shields and spears. Between their numbers and the admittedly primitive defences, there was no way that he could force his way through to the river.​

He stopped about a dozen yards from the large mail-clad orc who was clearly the leader, flanked by bodyguards and with banners at his back, proclaiming his tribe, that of his ally the Fleshtearers, and the patronage of Ilneval ... an irony, as this was the deity Cardin felt closest to.​

Of course, simply following the same god did not mean that they were natural allies: for the most part, each orcish tribe assumed that their own priests were the true followers of the gods, and every other tribe was composed of heretics who used different prayers, holy days and spells. Tribes who were long time allies tended to minimise the friction enough to work together, and all would unite to fight the followers of non-orc deities, but the undercurrent of distrust was still there.​

"I am Huruk, Chieftain of the Stonegrinders, follower of Ilneval," the enemy leader announced somewhat needlessly, and Cardin nodded.​

"I am Cardin, son of Narog, cheiftain of the Hearteaters and master of the valley," he blustered in return. "Now you've introduced yourself, you can fuck off of my land!"​

Huruk tilted his head to one side. "Well, you've got your father's heart, if nothing else," he said calmly. "You may not have noticed, but this," he waved to encompass the valley, "Is now mine. At this moment, the only thing you own is that fort," he pointed over Cardin's shoulder.​

"And you ain't getting it, so fuck off," he repeated, and he felt a shiver of pride run up his spine as he denied the killer of his father.​

Huruk was clearly not impressed. He knelt down slowly, and scooped up a handful of earth, crumbling the dirt between his fingers. "This is good land," he announced, ignoring Cardin's posturing, "Fertile and rich. Of course, it's not much good without water," he nodded towards the river. "Tell me, how much do you have stored inside your walls? A week's worth? A days? Are you dry already?" He stood up, brushing his fingers together to clean them. "Let me be perfectly clear. Those walls are not a symbol of strength, or defiance. They are a prison. I own this land now, and I tell you that from this moment, none of you will leave that fortress, not an orc, not a goblin, not a adult or a child. If you try, we will kill you, day or night, alone or in groups.​

"You will sit behind those walls, and watch as my numbers grow and yours dwindle. You will thirst, and starve, and weaken, consuming all the rats, dogs, slaves, old men, women and children within your fort, struggling to stay alive just a little longer, and eventually there will only be a few starving orcs left among a pile of bones, and if you are one of those who remain, you will sit watching over your walls as my people till your fields, harvest your cattle, and drink from your river, and once you are all dead, I will simply walk through your gate, take your hall and none will ever speak the name 'Cardin of the Hearteaters' again. Like the Stormcrows, your people will be dust."​

A cloud of despair and fury flooded through Cardin's soul, and he clutched at the hilt of his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The worst part was, he knew that Huruk was right. He could hold his walls, but all Huruk had to do was wait. Within a week, two at most, most of the defenders would be dead of thirst, or torn apart as they fought each other over the last of the supplies.​

"At least, that's one option," continued Huruk, and Cardin's head snapped up in surprise. "In actual fact, I don't want to kill your tribe," the chief continued in a conversational tone, "I don't want to kill any of you ... well, any more than I have to. You have a choice to make: the most important choice of your life, of the life of your entire people. It's a very simple one.​

"Die ... or live."​

*** *** ***​

The drums sounded a wild, pounding tattoo as I sat on the heavy throne in what used to be the hall of the Hearteaters, and I had a flashback to the trial of Jarik all those months ago. As then, I was flanked by Bar and Garog, Janare at my side and Brigitte at my feet, but this time I had Barga and Curnag with me, and the walls of the hall were lined with warriors of our tribes, many beating on drums as the rhythm assaulted our ears and quickened the blood.​

Down the middle of the hall marched Cardin and the chieftains of the Eyegougers and Bonebreakers. Each carried a staff with the banner of their tribe, and they slowly walked over the rough-hewn timbers of the floor to stand before my new throne. Their faces were stone, and the young chief's eyes especially burned with anger and shame, and each step was clearly one of the hardest things he had ever done ... and each step was harder than the last.​

The drumbeat built up to a rolling, crashing crescendo, until all three chiefs stood a bare few yards in front of where I sat, and with a final booming of orcish palms slapping stretched hide, the drumming ceased. The silence was deafening, and for a moment that stretched out for an eternity, there was silence in the hall.​

Finally, painfully slowly, Cardin lowered himself to one knee. "I, Cardin, son of Narog, Chieftain of the Hearteaters, do swear service to Huruk, chieftain of the Stonegrinders. His foes are mine, my sword is his, his word is law. By Ilneval my patron, by all the gods of our people, I swear it." Face fixed in shame, he stood again and stepped forward, and placed the banner of his tribe in my hands.​

I took the banner staff in my hands, and together we held it as I spoke in return. "I, Huruk, chieftain of the Stonegrinders, accept your oath ..."​

One by one, the other two chieftains also surrendered their banners, accepting me as their liege lord, their tribes subordinate to the Stonegrinders. It was a hard decision for them to make, but it was the only option open to them that allowed their tribes to continue to exist. By this one ceremony, and by the alliance between my tribe and Curnag's, all five tribes of the region around the Valley were united, more than four thousand orcs, all bound to me.​

After all the words were said, I stood up from my throne, and addressed the crowd, the senior and most powerful orcs from five tribes. "Today is not an ending," I announced, "But a beginning! A beginning for all of us! Look around you," I commanded, and by reflex many of the onlookers obeyed. "We are orcs, children of He Who Never Sleeps and Luthic the Cave Mother! We are the true survivors of this world, and our fury make the lesser races shiver in their soft beds!" A growl of agreement filled the hall, and I continued. "But we are weak! Squabbling amongst ourselves, slaying each other over petty differences, battling over land and booty and slaves and food and insults and greed! What should be a mighty sword is instead a thousand tiny blades, each cutting at each other rather than our true foes!"​

I stepped down from the dais, and accepted a thick, straight stick from Brigitte. I held the piece of wood up for all to see. "Look well, orcs of the Highlands!" I took the stick in both hands, and effortlessly snapped it in half. "Every orc here is a stick: alone, weak and easily broken." I tossed aside the broken pieces of wood as the crowd grumbled, argued and complaed, and accepted from a smiling Brigitte a thick bundle of sticks, identical to the first, but bound together with twine. "Together, working in unison, under discipline," I bent my strength against the bundle, and several sticks cracked, but the bundle held. "That, my people, was how my warriors killed the Stormcrows. That was how we held the dam, and defeated Narog's force. And that, my orcs, is how we are going to conquer the Highlands, and the mountains, and the Underdark, and all the lands that hold orcs! I will weld our tribes together, bringing together a million orcs under one banner!" Tossing the bundle aside, I drew my sword from it's sheath on my back, and held the glowing blade high. "By Ilneval's Foe Smiter, by the Eye of the Father, by all the gods of our people, this I swear! That I will not rest, that I will not waver, until all of our people are united as one!"​

"Huruk!" came the cry, and one of the orcs stepped forward, lifting his fist in salute.​

"Huruk!" called another, a female with babe at breast.​

"Huruk of the Stonegrinders!"​

The cries and cheers rocked the hall. "Huruk!"​

"The War Leader's Chosen!"​

"Huruk of the Highlands!"​

"High Chief Huruk!"​

"No! King! King Huruk of the Highlands!"​

"Hail King Huruk!"​

Right. Take that, history. Here's my opening volley. Do your worst, because I'm not stopping. My people are never going to be a footnote in someone else's story again.​

===============​

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...​

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..CH_13a - Barga&Huruk, Vekan, IronOreBellows, Janare, Ilneval, SirDavin&Tarnas

Alright, here it is. Sorry if it's a bit short, but I'm trying to not get bogged down by endless detail. There will be timeskips ... probably one more chapter, then we'll jump ahead a few years. Anyway, enjoy.



Chapter 13

I carefully climbed out of the blankets, doing my best to avoid disturbing Barga as she lay naked and soundly asleep. After the inevitable victory party/wake/celebration of alliance/commiseration for the defeated, when all the orcs of the gathered tribes were doing their best to drink, joke and fight their ways to unconsciousness, I had pulled her aside with a jug of ale. We were both riding the high of victory and conquest, and halfway through the alcohol we mutually decided to turn that energy on each other.

I winced as I pulled my shirt over my head, and I knew I'd be nursing a nasty set of bruises on my ribs for the next day or two. When I first made love to Janare, it was a matter of mutual attraction and respect: while passionate and vigorous, it was also a coming together of near-equals.

Sex with Barga was more like a battle, with two alpha warriors doing their best to make the other submit. She was clearly used to being the dominant one in bed, and it quickly devolved into a test of strength, endurance, inventiveness and will. I had the bite marks, scratches and bruises to prove that victory hadn't been easy, or cheap.

Still, I thought as I picked up my boots and sword belt, softly leaving the bedchamber, it's interesting to learn that with the right incentive, orc women can purr.

*** *** ***

Vekan sniffed as he tossed aside a lump of iron. "Shit." He glanced over at the small furnaces that had produced it. "More shit." He looked pointedly at the Hearteater smith who had been showing his new king and his companions the 'foundry'. "Even shittier." He looked at me. "Even without a decent forge, I crap better iron than this lot. They don't get the fires hot enough, probably 'cause those little bastards can't be bothered working the bellows properly," he jerked a thumb at two young orcs who had to be restrained from attacking the dismissive metalworker. He ignored them. "Still, the ore itself isn't too bad: the kobolds probably keep the best for themselves, but I can work with this."

I nodded, smiling slightly. "So, you think you can start producing some decent iron in quantity?"

Vekan picked up a set of tongs. "Reckon I can. It'll take some work: seriously, these boys have no idea ... yes," he said, stopping himself from going off on another tangent of cursing the local metalworkers. "Give me a month, and I'll have some decent furnaces ready, and I can get the apprentices motivated," he glared at the younger orcs, who glared back.

"Excellent," I nodded to the Hearteater smith, who still looked sour, but bowed back - mostly because he knew I could kick his ass any day.

Really, the Hearteater's monopoly on iron was due to location rather than anything else: they had the permanent, secure location, they had deals with the kobolds, with the giants, they had the population surplus to have more workers. That didn't make them good smiths.

Tell the truth, Vekan wasn't all that much better. Oh, he had some training from his grandfather, and he had been working metal all his life, but when it came down to it he was still a tribal amateur. A human smith could work rings around him, let alone an elvish or dwarvish metalworker. Still, he was what I had, and I had a few ideas to improve the situation.

"About the bellows," I said as we exited the forge, "I've got an idea about how we can get them working harder, without using apprentices and imaginative motivation techniques. We could get the fires going hotter, and for longer."

He rubbed his thumb over the side of his flat, piggish nose. "Huh? How do you reckon?"

I grinned, and leaned in to whisper, "You remember my lathe? How it turns up-and-down motion into moving the wood in a circle?"

He shrugged. "Eh, yeah? So?"

"So, what happens when you turn it around? Turn spinning a wheel into moving the arms of the bellows up and down?"

He stopped in his tracks, then turned and looked over his shoulder back into the forge, then back at me. "Yeah, but ... nah," he dismissed the idea. "Lot of fiddly work, and you've still got to crank the wheel, like that hand-millstone Janare helped you make."

My grin broadened. "Not if we make the river do the work," I nodded towards the fort's curtain wall, and the river beyond.

The look on his face was priceless.

*** *** ***

I watched as picks and shovels rose and fell, and did my best to ignore the grunts and cries of the slaves as their overseers cracked the whips. I can't stop this. Literally: if I tried, all my work will have come undone. I'll need to work at it, wean the community off this kind of forced labour. The goblins and other slaves were extracting ore from the mine, dug into the western hills of the valley, and nearby furnaces were smelting the ore. "So this is where the silver is coming from," I muttered.

"The mine is old, but there's still plenty down there," agreed Cardin, standing at my side, his hand on his sword hilt, as though reminding himself that he was still armed and free. Some of the Hearteaters were not reacting well to no-longer being the alpha dogs of the region. Those who were too loud about it tended to lose their heads. Literally. So far, Cardin had managed to keep his temper. "The furnaces burn off the dross, and separate the silver and lead. The silver we pour into moulds, and make thumbs," he tossed one such item in the palm of his hand, "And the lead ... well, it's not a lot of use. Can't keep an edge, too heavy, too soft. Some use it to make cups with, but generally we just toss it aside."

Well, that explains some of the Hearteater's general stupidity: even orcish constitutions would have trouble dealing with lead poisoning. Birth rates are probably down too. "Well, that's going to stop. Have the lead collected, store it. I've got some uses for it. As for the silver ... it's useful, but they'd be more useful as coins," I pulled out a silver coin from my pocket, and flicked it into the air, then catching it. "Thumbs are good," I explained, "But coins are easier to trade. They're also good ... for telling tales," I adjusted on the fly: orcish had no word for propaganda.

The other chieftain looked at me oddly, so I decided to elaborate. "Coins are traded from hand to hand, and they spread. A year from now, coins struck in this valley could be on the other side of the mountains, or even in the Lowlands. They will spread our fame and glory, and be a demonstration of our power." He didn't look convinced, but didn't press the matter. Even among orcs, kings were expected to be eccentric.

*** *** ***

"That may not be easy," said Janare, as she oversaw the slaves and workers cleaning out the building. Formerly a barracks for the Hearteater's, I had ordered that the large structure, next to the great hall, be converted into a temple. Once the walls and roof were repaired, it would serve as a worship and ritual space, housing alters and statues of the various gods of our people, as well as quarters and facilities for the clerics. "Oh, charcoal, we have aplenty, and sulphur is useful in various spells and potions. But saltpetre ... yes, I know it: what you describe could be nothing else, but apart from some uses in cooking, there isn't much use for it."


I grinned, and leaned down close to her ear. "Oh, believe me, 'High Priestess'," I used her new title, and she shivered in pleasure: the previous high priest of Ilneval had perished in the fighting, and she was now considered the most powerful and most influential cleric of the War Leader in the valley. The fact that she was sharing the king's bed and was expected to bear his heirs had a little something to do with it, as well. "I have a great use for all three. When mixed together properly ... well, you'll see," I teased.

She raised a thick eyebrow. "Some knowledge or trickery Illneval placed into your brain, like the tools you built, or the new ways of fighting?"

"Something like that. Find me a quantity of all three, and I'll show you something that will shake the world to its foundations."

She shivered again. "Oh, my king," she whispered huskily, "I thought you'd still be worn out from bedding Barga all last night, but then you go and say something like that ..."

She's smart, beautiful and forward thinking, but when you get down to it, Janare's still an orc ... funny, that doesn't bother me as much as it used to.

*** *** ***

That night, I fell asleep with Janare on one side, Barga on the other, and Brigitte on the other side of Janare ...

... and found myself sitting in front of a familiar campfire. I looked down at my hands, and almost shouted out in joy to find pink, smooth fingers with well-trimmed fingernails. I reached up and touched my face, and almost wept to discover my human features had been returned to me. Not that I hated being Huruk, but I was starting to wonder, in the back of my mind, if my life as a human had been a hallucination, a fever dream.

"Yes, this is real," rumbled Ilneval in his amused tone, and I sat upright on the log as I realised he was sitting there, across the fire from me. I immediately bowed my head respectfully (and fearfully, can't forget fearfully). "Oh, get up, human. I know you fear me, and you have served me well: I have no intention of smiting you tonight."

Okay, is it me, or is he getting more articulate?

"It's not just you," he chuckled. "What? You know I'm the smart one. What's that delightful phrase? 'Cunningly brutal or brutally cunning'? Hehe, I'm both."

Note to self: stop underestimating the divine being that has your soul in the palm of his hand.

"Good advice, boy. Now, you've done well. Not just by defeating the Hearteaters, and uniting the tribes: you've made it clear you did it in my name. Better yet, you're drawing the eyes of my smarter kin, so they won't see some of my other plans. All in all, you're doing a brilliant job.: I knew I chose the right pinkskin for the task."

I hesitated, then swallowed. "So, can I go home now?"

The god threw back his head and laughed, deep and loud. "Gruumsh's eyeball, boy, don't be a fool! You've only just begun! Besides, you have blood on your sword, many wenches for your bed, and a throne under your ass: what more could you want?" He grinned, a terrifying sight, and leaned forward. "No, boy. I want to see how far you can take this. I want to see what kind of empire you can carve out. I want to see my banner spread across the land. I want to see nations burn. I want to see proud kings of men and elves and dwarves bow to an orc.

"And you are going to show it to me!"

*** *** ***

Elsewhere

"Enter."

Sir Davin marched into the office, the light from the large window glittering off the mithril inlay of his plate armour. "Lord Tarnas," the paladin said with a respectful bow to the man seated behind the large, paper-laden desk.

The elder man, silver of hair and bearing a closely cropped beard, examined the young knight. Tall, broad and handsome, cleanshaven and with raven-dark hair that hung down about his shoulders, Davin was the veritable definition of a paladin. A master in the lists and a demon with a blade, he was equally formidable with pen and parchment, a true warrior scholar, and the light of Torm the True shone through him. "You wished to see me?" Tarnas asked eventually.

"Yes, my lord," the young knight agreed. "I have dreamt these last six nights. Each time it is the same: a dark force arising in the east, blood and fire rolling down from the mountains, to drown the civilised lands in shadow. I have consulted with learned clerics of good standing and great wisdom, and I believe that Torm has granted me a vision, and a warning. He wishes me to travel east, and seek out this rising force ... and cut it down."

The elder nodded, and leant back in his chair. "The orc horde is broken: in my father's day, we shattered their forces and sent them scurrying back into their holes. Oh, they raid, and make a nuisance of themselves, but the orc is no threat. There are other, more present dangers to our Order and our nation, far closer to home."

Sir Davin frowned. "With respect, my lord, Doria is at peace, and while our neighbours may be restive, such matters are for lords and merchants. Yes, we defeated the last horde, but it is ever true with orcs that there will always be another! They will gather their numbers again, find a new leader, and they will swarm down like a dark cloud."

"Bah, it will be decades, centuries, even, before they manage to replenish their filthy ranks. No, it is the rumours of Baneites and Mask worshipers amongst the Maro baronies that concern us today!"

But Davin was unmoved. "And yet I have been sent this vision."

The office was silent for a few moments. Finally, Tarnas shook his head. "No, the Order cannot spare you. There is talk of a necromancer in the Appin hills, and a flock of vampires have set up in Gunir. I have heard of no other experiencing the same dreams, and they may yet have a different meaning - I cannot send you halfway across the continent, not with so many pressing matters nearer to home. I will send word to our agents to the east, and they will investigate. Most likely, they will simply report the normal activities of the orcs: raiding, killing one another and eating their own feces."

Davin ignored his superior's contemptuous attitude, largely because he shared them: orcs were foul, and dirty, and primitive brutes, beneath the contempt of a civilised man unless they gathered in huge numbers, or struck from ambush. "And if they discover something else? If the orcs are truly gathering about a new leader, preparing to assault the realms of civilisation once more?"

Tarnas paused a moment, and then leaned forward, his eyes glinting with steel, a reminder that he was still Sir Tarnas, paladin of Torm and victor of the Battle of Stafford Hills. "Then we will cut the beast down and scatter his followers: kill the threat before it becomes a danger to us all."






===============

Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...

 

[kclcmdr]

Gladiusone..CH_14a - Garog&Steel, Brigitte, BattleVsVrock, Kartan, Janare, BullJaguarBlackBear, Huruk&Brigitte

===============
Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...

Anyway, here we go again ...

Chapter 14


I nodded to Garog, and the larger orc grunted as he swung his hammer. The force of the blow cracked the clay, and with a few more swings he knocked the top off the kiln, letting out streams of smoke from the smouldering charcoal within. I exchanged a glance with Vekan, who's dark eyes flickered with eagerness. This was the culmination of hours of effort, pumping bellows by hand, the labour of a dozen orcs, and, if successful, it was the end of almost five months of experimentation, trials, errors, disappointment, wasted fuel and ruined iron.


It was to be expected: this project was the result of a half-remembered documentary I once saw about Viking swords, a little basic metallurgy, 'my' own experience with metal, and Vekan's far greater knowledge. We stumbled more than a little, and there was a lot of wastage, but if it worked ... if we were successful ... then it would be more than worth it.


Vekan leaned over the cracked top of the furnace, and waved away some of the smoke, then grinned, grabbing the long-handled tongs and reaching down into the brick-and-clay kiln. He grunted, then carefully, gingerly, pulled out the crucible that had been cooking for hours in a pile of burning charcoal. The clay container glowed a pleasant golden colour, from the heat of the metal within, and I hissed in pleasure as I noted that it appeared intact.


Gingerly, he place the crucible on its side on the edge of the furnace, and I took a smaller hammer in hand. Moving over to Vekan's side, I placed the head of the hammer at the lid of the container. He nodded, and I lifted the hammer, and brought it down to crack the top of the crucible clean off.


Sparks flew, and the light increased as the glowing-hot metal within was revealed, and several more sharp blows cracked the rest of the vessel. The constant heat of the furnace had cooked the iron ore, shifting the impurities to the edges, leaving the pure metal behind in the middle. The slag fell away with the clay, and within moments we had a cherry-red glowing ingot held in Vekan's tongs.


I held my breath as he manoeuvred the ingot over to the anvil, took the hammer from me, and, positioning the ingot carefully, swung the hammer down hard. The clang of iron-on-iron filled the smithy, and more than one orc blinked as there was none of the expected spark or fury that normally came from striking hot iron. Vekan grunted hard, taking a moment to work his arm. "Fucking hard iron," he commented, before getting back to work shaping the metal.


"That's not iron," I said softly, watching the smith get to work, forging history alongside metal. "That's steel: the first steel forged by orcs in this world."


*** *** ***


The snow crunched beneath our boots as we crested the hill, and I grinned as I took in the vista below. From this position, we could see most of the valley, from one end to the other, and I could see the smoke rising from the fort, from our cook-fires and bakeries, and from our forges and the silver mine. I could see the bustle of labourers putting the last few shingles on top of the timber-mill, and the stacks of boards already cut, many destined for the other five half-built mills that stretched along the riverbank. More logs were being hauled by rothe and orc to be sawn up in turn.


Most of the fields were coated by a layer of early snow, but we already had a half-decent harvest in, and the herds of rothe, cattle, pigs and sheep huddled in hastily-built barns, with sufficient fodder for the winter. I was working on converting to a four-crop rotation system, but it was hard going. A few former slaves who had farming experience helped (a promise of better rations and treatment did wonders: it wasn't what you offered someone, but how it compared to what they already had), but it wasn't exactly like yeomen farmers with village greens.


Still, it's a beginning, I thought, and breathed deeply, feeling the cold winter air burn at my lungs. Beside me, Brigitte wrapped her thick woollen cloak around her, the hood pulled up to almost cover her face.


"Not exactly like a Lowlander settlement, is it?" I asked in Common, and she smiled at me.


"More mills, for one thing," she agreed. "Oh, we use them for grinding grain, and I've heard of trip-hammers, but your sawmills? The bellows you have planned? I've never seen anything like them in a human town. And the fields are ... disorganised," she said diplomatically.


"Bloody shambles, you mean," I corrected her, and she bowed her head in mock submission. "Bah, it's alright. We're still settling in. Next year, things'll be different. We'll plough more fields, plant more wheat, barley and rye, and we'll have more and better cloth, once I get that damned power-loom to work," I grumbled that last: I was working from memory of a more advanced model I had seen in pictures, and converting that to reality was even harder than rediscovering a method for producing crucible steel. "Our new hives are in place, and with spring they should attract bees, and that'll boost mead production: kobolds love that stuff, you know that? Low body mass means they get drunk faster, but there's a crap-ton of them drinking it, so we'll be selling them a lot. Same with the jotuns: love the taste, but it takes gallons to get them loaded.


"We buy coal, iron ore and gems from the kobolds, and copper and tin from the giants, fresh meat and furs and assorted loot from other tribes. We pay them with our new silver blades," I named our new coins, stamped out of our local silver stamped with Ilneval's bloody sword, "then they turn around and buy our grain, cloth, mead, finished iron tools and weapons, plus the jewellery and other things our craftsmen make during the winter. Next year, it'll be steel swords and spearheads, once we get the process down pat."


I waved a hand over the vista. "We're not just bartering trinkets and scrabbling the bare necessities from the earth: we're building an economy, and the force to defend it and make it grow!" I growled, a fierce, hungry sound from deep in my chest.


Then I turned and smiled at her. "And now you are wondering when that force may be turned on the 'civilised' realms of the Lowlands," I suggested, and she blushed.


"The thought has crossed my mind. Historically, unified orcs means invasion."


I nodded, and crouched down. Slowly I scooped up a handful of snow, absently padding the frozen water into a small snowball. "I cannot make promises. Millennia of hostility is hard to end. But my plans do not include -"


I was cut off as a shadow passed over me, and I blinked, looking up just in time to yelp and roll aside, so that the rapidly falling form smashed into the earth where I had been sitting on my haunches, rather than slamming into me. Scrambling to one knee, I caught a glimpse of my attacker, a few random features - purple, skinny, beak, feathery wings - and by instinct, hurled my snowball into it's face.


In hindsight the action was fairly laughable, but the creature flinched, ducking away from the projectile, which gave me the moment I needed to drag my sword from my belt and shove myself to my feet, inwardly cursing myself for leaving my guards at the bottom of the hill.


Taking my blade in both hands, I advanced, taking in the full spectacle in front of me. Tall, but hunched over, with long limbs, neck and talons for hands and feet, it looked nothing so much as an unholy cross between a vulture and an insect. The blade of my sword glimmered (a side-effect of the 'keen edges' enchantment that made it sharper than even a magical sword should be) as I drew my sword back over my shoulder and swung it at the monster, even as it faced me again and opened it's sharp beak, it's beady little eyes glittering malevolently at me.


"SCREEEE!" it screeched, it's shoulders and neck working with the effort, and spikes of depleted uranium shoved themselves into my eardrums, sending me stumbling backwards, the world around me whirling, like the bridge of a starship battered by disruptor fire. Absently I heard Brigitte screaming in pain, but it was as though she were far away. Lights exploded behind my eyes as I gritted my teeth to avoid crying out, and I almost missed the first swipe of razor-sharp talons that was aimed at my throat. My sword clumsily blocked the attack, but the return swing struck sparks off my mail shirt, ripping several links open and slicing through the tunic I wore beneath to score my chest.


Gritting my teeth so hard my jaw hurt, I concentrated, the world around me fading away, until there was only me, my sword, and this monster. I sent my sword swinging through a figure-eight pattern, warding off further attacks, then stepped into a lunge that turned into a swipe at another three-taloned attack. It hissed at me, an oddly muffled sound, a long tongue slithering out to wave at me, before we started circling each other, it's head held low and those feathered wings spreading out back and to either side in a classic threat display. Something about it's appearance tickled at my memory, but I was far more concerned with the threat it's talons and beak posed.


I ducked under one swipe, then swung a strike in return. Amazingly, the beast blocked my slash by the simple expedient of catching the blade with it's forearm, the edge biting deep but stopped, presumably by bone. I wrenched it free with a grunt, preparing to follow up with another attack, but to my dismay the gash on it's arm, bleeding thick, black blood, was visibly healing, and the creature reared back to counterattack before I could strike.


I braced myself for it's attack, but instead the beast threw back it's head and cried out, this time in pain and dismay as it reared back and spun about to face another foe: Brigitte, her cloak and hood thrown back to free up her arms, her elven blade and mail shining in the morning sun, her hair streaming behind her in a fashion that only drew more attention to the thin trails of blood flowing from each of her ears. Idly I realised that my own ears were hot with my pulse thudding hard in them, and I must be suffering the same affliction - even the monster's barks and cries were distant, and there was a high-pitched whine that was worrying me a little.


Worry about your ears later: save the girl first!


Fortunately, it seemed, for the moment, the girl in question needed little saving. Snatching open the clasp of her cloak with her free hand, she swung the garment from her shoulders to use as a shield. The tip of her sword was dripping with black, and I could see a bleeding spot on the creature's back, below it's wings. I leapt forward before I could think, thrusting my sword into it's back, pleasantly gratified by the noises it made in response, but was buffeted back by a swipe of one huge wing, sending me stumbling back several paces.


Still, we now had it on two sides, forcing it to divide it's attention between us. I had the longer and heavier blade, she the speed and advantage of a cloak to blind and distract it: we attacked in concert, and before long it had more and more wounds, but it seemed more furious than injured.


"It bleeds, but does not die!" shouted Brigitte, even to my battered ears sounding frustrated and hurt, herself bleeding from a deep gash on one forearm.


I laughed, pain and shock making me a little delirious. "'If it bleeds, we can kill it,'" I declared, forcing an Austrian accent that sounded truly odd when pronouncing orcish words.


Suddenly there was a whistling sound, and a long shaft sprouted from the side of the creature with a noise like an axe chopping wood. It reared back in pain, before another spear struck it in the thigh, and another whooshed past. I glanced down the hill, and three of my bodyguards were rushing up, fumbling to fit fresh spears to their throwing sticks as they came.


Roaring with rage, the monster took advantage of my momentary distraction to reach past my blade to grab my shoulder, talons digging and scraping along my mail and leather pauldron as I shouted out in pain as it lifted me into the air. My sword fell from my hand, and it drew back it's beak, then darted down, clearly planning to bury the sharp tip into the softer parts of my face or neck.


Shrieking in defiance, Brigitte thrust the tip of her sword into the back of it's unwounded thigh, and the beast reacted just enough for me to raise my uninjured arm to wrap my fingers around it's throat. Screaming wordlessly, I clenched my hand as hard as I could, my thick fingernails digging into the sinewy hide of it's neck, making it's cries come out as a choking rattle. It's free hand clawed at my arm, but the mail sleave held, and I just dug in harder, and kicked and shouted and spat and squeezed.


Moments and centuries later, large orcish hands grasped the shafts of the spears lodged in it's body, twisted and dragged them free, before slamming them back in to cause fresh wounds. A cloak was tossed over it's face, and I saw Brigitte leap onto it's back, stabbing with a dagger where it's neck met it's shoulder. Spinning about, trying to dislodge both of us, while talons bit deeper into my shoulder, I squeezed. It's grip in my flesh lessened, and my boots returned to the ground, first scraping along it as the beast thrashed, then more firmly as my heels dug into the snow-covered earth.


Still, I squeezed.


It wasn't until the beast went still that I let go, covered in wounds and transfixed by spears, the monster was starting to dissolve, it's flesh bubbling and hissing as it liquefied.


"Filthy demon," spat Brigitte, as she slipped one arm around my waist, and I realised that I had lost a lot of blood, and was not really feeling my best. Wrapping my mostly uninjured arm around her shoulders, I realised, absently, that we had fought and killed a vrock demon, straight out of the Monster Manual.


"My king! We came as soon as we could," reported one guard, wrenching his spear free of the rapidly vanishing demon's flesh, "We heard the demon scream, but ..." he raised one hand to indicate his ear, bleeding like mine and Brigitte's. "It took us a moment to get back to our feet."


I tried to lift my arm to make a reassuring gesture, but I lacked the strength, with streams of blood running down the limb beneath my rent mail. Instead I simply nodded. "It is well, Hunir. Your efforts were timely." Then I frowned, and grunted, forcing myself to stand firmly, taking the load from Brigitte's slender shoulders. She stayed by my side, still bleeding from where a demon claw had sliced her jaw. "This is not over: someone summoned this demon. There are few amongst us who wield the power to reach to the Abyss ..." My eyes narrowed. "Quickly: we must return to the fort!"


*** *** ***


Ten minutes, a quick gulp of potion and a quick summoning of fresh troops later, two dozen orcs plus my closest companions marched behind me as I stepped through the open doorway into the half-finished temple. The walls were bare, and only a simple stone alter stood at the head of the long, narrow chamber, flanked by iron braziers full of glowing coals.


Before the alter, a large circle was drawn in salt, surrounded by rare tallow candles, with chalk runes and writings in infernal languages scribbled around and within, and, yes, there was a pentagram. Between the circle and the alter stood High Priest Kartan, leaning heavily on his staff, the remains of a used magical scroll of summoning at his feet.


"Ah," muttered the old orc, glaring at me from beneath his hood, red eyes glittering in the shade, "And so even my greatest effort, my ultimate sacrifice, was insufficient to rid the world of you," he snarled, taking a step forward, the iron-shod butt of his staff ringing on the uneven flagstones. Behind me Barga drew her sword, and Janare raised her own staff, but I held up my still-bloodstained hand for restraint.


"No, old man," I stated, loudly enough for all to hear, putting as much sadness and confined rage into my voice as I could. "Your demon failed to kill me, although it slew a dozen orcs between this temple and meeting it's doom: the people of this nation, my people, held firm and slew the vrock. Orcish spear and human dagger, my sword and my fist sent it back to the Abyss from whence you summoned it. All that remains is to deal with it's summoner ... and to discover why!"


Kartan laughed, a sickly sound that quickly dissolved into a coughing fit. "Why?" he choked, before calming himself. "Why, you ask? Because you are an abomination! You casually change the way our people have lived for millennia! You bring outsiders into the tribe, join with other tribes as though they were as worthy as Stonegrinders! You would have us turn from worship of Gruumsh to Ilneval, throwing away our strongest patron for his lieutenant! You would rip away from the priesthood our duty to guide the tribe, placing your whore in my rightful place!"


I clenched my jaw in fury. "And so it comes down to simple jealousy? You cannot abide no longer being the guiding force for our tribe, and so we must return to the nomadic life that saw our children die, our future ruled by larger, stronger tribes, our destiny to wander and die in the wilderness?"


"Our ways make us strong!" He snarled.


"Your ways make us meat! By banding together, standing as one, we are forging a new day for the orc, a new day for the people of the Highlands! No longer fodder for mountain orc chieftains or clerics of dark gods who need sword-fodder, no longer a bare step above savages, but a strong, wealthy, unified people!"


"No!" denied the cleric, "Not under you, king! I am the High Priest! I am the Stonegrinders, boy, and if I do not rule them, they do not exist!" Flecks of foam dripped from his tusks as he ranted.


I glanced behind him, and my eyes widened. Lying on the alter, throat slit, was the body of an orcish child, no more than six years of age. I recognised the corpse: it was Kartan's own youngest daughter. "You ... you slew your own ..."


Kartan laughed hollowly. "The demon demanded payment ... payment any orc would be glad to exchange for returning my tribe to it's proper place. With you gone ... we could become pure orcs again, the way the gods truly intend! I would again rule, no matter what stupid 'chieftain' thought he commanded: it would be my will that guided us ..." He coughed again, then raised a hand from his staff to press against his chest. "Unfortunately," he wheezed, "The demon decided it wanted a better bargain ... a higher price." He held out his hand, dripping red with blood. "I thought it worth it, to see you gone ... but the foul creature failed ..." Kartan stumbled to one knee, only his hate keeping him upright, and we could now see his robes were sliced open by demon talons.


"Janare!" I ordered, stepping forward.


"'Ware the circle! It must be dispelled later," the priestess countered, grabbing my uninjured arm to steer me around the large sketching. By the time we reached the cleric, he was already dead.


"Fool," spat Janare as she nudged the corpse with one boot. "The High Priest was deceived," she cried out for all to hear, "Fallen prey to demons who fed his pride and fears for their own amusement! Ilneval has shown us the way forward, not to stay stagnant in the past!" Her eyes glittered gold, and I could feel waves of power emanating from her slight form. That power built, and many of the assembled orcs fell to their knees, feeling the presence of their gods flowing through her. I felt myself sinking to one knee, overawed by the primal fury of the orc deity she served.


"Ilneval speaks through me," she shouted, and no one doubted her. "Summon the people: pack as many within these walls as you can! Bring drums and horns, for today we celebrate a victory over those who would condem us to misery!" She drew her sword, and sliced a deep cut into her forearm, letting the deep red blood well up and drip down onto the salt circle, which immediately lit up as though set on fire. "I purify and consecrate this hall in the name of the He Who Never Sleeps, the Red Moon Witch and the War Maker! Tonight we mourn our dead," she case a glance over her shoulder at the small, broken body, "And condemn our foes to torment," she spat on Kartan's corpse.


"And tonight," she raised her voice higher, lifting her bloodied blade to point at me, "We bless and honour our god's champion, the right hand of Ilneval, the King of the Highlands! Hail, Huruk, King of Orcs!"


"Hail Huruk, King of Orcs!" bellowed back the assembled people, and they at once rushed to follow their new High Priestess' orders.


I am never going to get used to that, I mused, rising to my feet.


*** *** ***


Orc hands pounded on the stretched hides of drums, sticks were cracked together and horns blew in triumph as I entered the temple again that evening, this time alone. The walls were packed with worshipers, caught up in the moment, stamping their feet, playing instruments, raising their voices in praise of the gods. My wounds still ached, but I stepped forward, clad only in a brief loincloth, towards the bonfire that now blazed where the foul summoning circle once did. On the far side, Janare had likewise stripped to her waist, painted, like me, with ritual symbols who's meaning escaped me, but were extremely impressive. Around us, extatic and joyful orcs also discarded clothes and painted themselves with clay, ash, blood or ink, whatever they chose or could find. It was a combination of ritual order and mindless chaos, and it resonated with my half-orcish soul.


The flagstones beneath my bare feet were cold and rough, but I strode forward confidently, caught up in the moment. "Who comes before the eyes of the gods?" called Janare, her voice echoing with power and purpose.


"I am Huruk, your king!" I declared.


"Who comes before the eyes of the gods?" She asked again.


"I am Stonegrinder!"


"Who comes before the eyes of the gods?" She demanded one last time.


"I am orc!" I shouted, and the crowd howled back.


"Then approach, orc, and be blessed, made anew, for Their purpose!"


I strode down the narrow isle, and the bonfire flared, making my eyes narrow to fight the glare, but I kept them open enough to widen again as a fully grown bull, nostrils flaring and long horns glinting in the firelight, thundered from the flames.


By instinct, I stepped aside, turning as I did, and grabbed the horns of the beast. I shouted, digging my heels into the stones beneath my feet, and howled, "Ilneval!" stopping the animal in it's tracks. It fought me, tossing it's head from side to side, trying to loosen my grip, but I hung on, grit my teeth, and twisted.


The bull's neck snapped like a twig, and I felt it's strength flow into me. My still bloody wounds itched, and I felt stronger than ever.


The animal's body faded into nothingness, as though wholly consumed by my flesh, as my injuries knitted closed. Standing tall, I turned about, and resumed my march towards the bonfire.


The fire flared again, and a huge cat stepped through, a black jaguar like those that hunted higher up the mountains. Hissing, jade eyes glittering, it launched itself into the air, it's teeth seeking my throat.


Roaring back, I grabbed the cat by it's neck, spinning it about, grabbing the tail as I went. I spun it upside down, even as it's claws scrabbled at my limbs, howling in rage, then slammed the beast down on my knee, breaking it's back. It's body twitched, then went still, to the howling approval of the worshipers around me. Again, it's energy flowed through into me as it's body faded from sight, and my motions became smoother, more graceful as my last cuts and bruises healed.


Standing taller than ever, my eyes alight with power, I renewed my march, only for the fire to belch forth a third beast: a massive black bear, roaring defiance and fury, as though raised early from hibernation. It loped towards me, flecks of foam dripping from massive fangs and rearing up on it's back legs, spreading it's forepaws wide.


Stepping forward, I slammed my fist into it's nose, sending it reeling back. Following up, I grabbed it's paws, ignoring the enormous claws, and struck my forehead directly into it's jaw. The crowd cried out in approval as I wrapped my arms around the bear's trunk, ignoring it's own attempt to claw and smother me, and heaved, throwing back my head and howling as I squeezed, actually lifting the half-ton beast from the ground as my arms shook with effort.


My bellows and that of the bear mixed until they intertwined, a single howl of rage and fury. The drumming, stamping and chanting of the worshipers reached frever pitch, and with one final burst of effort, the bear's ribcage gave way, and it's massive head lolled to one side, it's tongue sticking out from the side of it's snout.


Crying out in primal victory, I spread my arms wide, letting the fading corpse of the summoned beast to fall to my feet, letting the pure essence of the bear flow into me. Filled by divine power, enthused as never before by zeal to serve the purpose for which I was placed upon this world, and not a little aroused, I stepped over the dissolving bear and faced the fire directly. From what I would learn later, during the ritual, I had put on fifty pounds of muscle and grown six inches. At the time, I was too pumped up to notice.


Without prompting, I strode into the fire, feeling the heat scorch my limbs and burn my lungs, the smoke and cinders stinging my eyes, but I was unharmed. Stepping out on the far side of the bonfire, the only sign of the flames was that my loincloth was burned away, as were the glyphs and runes marking my flesh. Naked and bare, pure orc, I faced Janare, and the power of the gods flowed through both of us.


"Behold, my people, the champion of Ilneval! The embodiment of the War Leader on this plane! Behold the conqueror!" She spread her arms wide, gloriously female and powerful in the light of the fires, with the stars burning down though the unfinished roof. "Fulfil your destiny, champion, conqueror, king! Conquer and rule!"


"CONQUER AND RULE!" roared back the crowd in ecstasy, as they danced and played and howled.


I remember striding forward, grabbing Janare, slamming her back against the still bloody alter and ripping off her skirt. After that ... with the intense roar of noise, heat, pure sensation and the overwhelming presence of the divine ... I really don't remember a lot past that.


Only the thunder of the drums, the howl of the onlookers, and the heat of her skin under mine.


*** *** ***


Brigitte sat on our blankets as I stepped into the chamber, her eyes running over me as I strode over to the water bowl to splash handfuls of cool, clear river water on my face and shoulders. I had insisted she not attend the ceremony, and she hadn't objected, and she was clearly shocked by the changes in me. I now stood six foot nine, and was even more muscular than before. More, I now possessed the strength of the bull, grace of the cat, and endurance of the bear. Magically bound to my soul, they were gifts that could not be stripped away by less than the gods themselves. Frankly, I was amazed she even recognised me.


"Is ... it finished?" she asked, wrapping the blankets around herself against the cold, wearing only a rough tunic and the black leather of her collar.


"Aye," I said roughly, still trembling a bit inside from what I had experienced. I was, in my human life, an atheist and rationalist. Even after everything I had gone though, the battles I had fought, the wonders I had seen ... I was overwhelmed. "It was ... a lot," I said, my eloquence fleeing. "The gods have blessed me with the power I need to fulfil their purpose ... and to guide my people to better days." Splashing my face again, I picked up a cloth and wiped myself dry. Then I turned to her. "We all change, Brigitte. I was not always as you see me ... I was not always as I was yesterday. Once, I could not have gone though the crucible I did tonight, to turn from ore to hardened steel." I raised a hand to indicate her. "And not long ago, you would not have fought a demon with me. Your courage, your skill and the passion you used to fuel it ... you humbled me, my slave, and that cannot be."


She went pale, and scrambled back against the wall, as I stepped forward, then knelt in front of her. "Shhh," I whispered, raising a finger to press against her lips. "You misunderstand. I cannot have a slave being so brave and loyal: it simply would not do." My fingers trail down her lips, her chin, and down to her neck, before grasping the black leather of her collar, where they are joined by those from my other hand.


With a grunt, I stretch and twist the hardened leather, and tear the wretched item free of her neck. She yelped in surprise and shock as her own hands darted up to the slender, pale curve of her throat, bare and naked for the first time in years. She swallowed in dumbfounded wonder as I tossed the collar aside. "Therefore," I rumble, "I fulfil my promise to you, all those months ago, in my tent, while you trembled before me. You are free: slave no longer.


"Tomorrow, I will send you with Bar, Garog and a dozen picked warriors. The journey will not be easy, but they will see you safely to the nearest human settlement, with your gear, any items you wish to take, and pockets full of silver. You have served me and my people beyond anything we could have hoped for, and have long since earned your freedom.


"I ... will miss you, Brigitte ... but this was our bargain ... and I do not break my word."


The bedchamber was silent for a full minute, as Brigitte's eyes widened in wonder, her fingers stroking the skin of her neck in shock, until her lips curved into a soft smile. Her lovely human features, lit up by a lamp in one corner of the room, were only marred by a fading scar on her jaw, evidence of battle that day, which healing magic failed to remove.


"Oh, you silly, stupid, foolish orc," she said softly, raising one of her hands to touch my cheek, as my own eyes widened in surprise. There was no rancour in her voice, only fondness. "Do you really think I want to leave? This is my home: you are my home, more than any town or city I could name." Her other hand rested on my chest. "You have conquered more than orcs, my king," she whispered, and leaned forwards, and pressed her lips against mine.


I froze, completely blindsided. I had never dreamed ... never dared to hope ... Absently, I felt her arms slip around my neck, and her thighs straddling my waist, and I finally response, kissing her back, and pressing her down against the furs of our bed.





===============
Please post all Likes in the main thread in the link above each respective chapters so that the author(s) will know how many folks like his story updates...

 

[TonedMite]

Do you know whether this story has been updated in the past few years?

 

[EVA-Saiyajin]

Do you know whether this story has been updated in the past few years?

Click to shrink...

It has not, otherwise the last post in the original thread would not have been in 2015...

 

[TonedMite]

Uh, well then. Is there anyone here who's also on SB who can ask the author if they are going to be updating it in the future?

 

[jwolfe_beta]

Uh, well then. Is there anyone here who's also on SB who can ask the author if they are going to be updating it in the future?

Click to shrink...

Somebody already asked him that.

RL hasn't left me much in the way of time for writing of late, sorry.
-Nov 2, 2020

Click to shrink...