by C. L. Werner
Gnashrak roared, the sound booming across the clearing. Then he charged, bringing the giant blade of his cleaver hurtling toward the knight. To his credit, the knight did not flinch, but brought his own sword up from the skull of the dead orc to meet and parry the warboss’s attack. The crude, massive bulk of the orc’s weapon slammed into the knight’s elegant steel, sparks flying.
The knight staggered backwards, his blade now sporting an inch-deep notch from where the orc’s cleaver had met it. Gnashrak tensed his powerful frame backward, ready for another strike. The other orcs momentarily grew silent, watching in awe as their fearsome champion demonstrated his incredible strength and power. Across the field, Brunner and the remaining knights and squires did the same; all eyes were drawn to the uneven contest unfolding only a few dozen yards away.
It ended the only way that it could. With another booming roar, Gnashrak slashed at the knight once more. Again, the man tried to meet the orc’s crude metal weapon, but this time the notched blade snapped before the orc’s massive blow. The cleaver continued unhindered, smashing into the mail standard about the Bretonnian’s neck. Chain links snapped apart before the blow and a crimson fountain erupted as the cleaver passed clean through the neckbone. The knight’s helmet flew ten feet from the man’s body, rolling into the long grass, blood spurting from the head within.
Gnashrak pulled his cleaver back towards him, his beady eyes examining the gory metal. A long, dog-like tongue dropped from his ponderous jaws and licked at the blood. Then the orc fixed his gaze on the small band of men clustered amongst the ancient stones atop the mound. He took a step forward, his foot smashing through the ruin of the fallen orc’s skull.
The warboss raised the cleaver again, and pointed it at the Bretonnians. His jaws opened again and he roared at the watching soldiers. Though they could not understand the orc’s crude language, its meaning was clear—the Bretonnians could expect no mercy from their attackers.
Like hounds loosed from the leash, the orcs under Gnashrak’s command howled and began charging across the clearing, swinging their weapons overhead. A few, remembering the bows they carried, sent some black feathered arrows ahead of them, the ill-aimed shots bouncing harmlessly from the stones. The squires nestled among the rocks were more effective with their own longbows; each of their arrows found its way into orcish flesh, but none had enough stopping power to drop their hulking targets. Orcs closed their monstrous paws about the shafts that stuck from the flesh of arm, leg or breast and ripped them free, seemingly immune to the pain. Neither did they heed the meat clinging to the barbed arrowheads that they discarded with contemptuous snarls.
The figure of the bounty hunter emerged from behind the rocks, the long steel barrel of his gun held before him. He set a match to the flashpowder, then braced his legs as the explosive discharge of his weapon shook his body. A huge orc suddenly spun about, green blood bursting from the smoking hole in his chest. The orc slammed into the ground, his body shuddering for a long moment.
The beast pressed his hands to either side of his prone body, and started to lift himself, but then he shuddered and dropped once more, his body bleeding out from the gaping crater where his heart had been.
Brunner did not spare the orc a second thought. He dropped the spent handgun, and reached beside him for the loaded crossbow he had leaned against a stone. He raised the weapon to his shoulder, sighted, and sent a steel bolt slamming through the helmet of a second orc as the brute was pulling a Bretonnian arrow from his chest. The orc’s head snapped about, with an even more angry leer on his face. His little eyes focused upon Brunner, and widened as they saw the crossbow in the man’s hands. The orc snarled, bellowing like a maddened steer. Then the green blood seeping from his helmet blurred his vision.
The orc raised a paw to his head. A clawed finger probed the hole in his helmet and the skull within. The orc’s legs suddenly gave out and he fell onto his rump, his finger still lodged within the wound in his head. A slight whimper hissed from the orc’s jaws, as the massive body fell onto its side. Then the greenskin was still.
A third orc was nearly at the base of the mound when he dropped, succumbing to the three arrow wounds in his chest. The orc behind him hurdled the body, and then fell as another Bretonnian arrow transfixed his throat. But a full twenty of the marauders reached the mound. And behind them loped the massive steel-toothed figure of their leader, his gory weapon held over his head as he bellowed war cries in his own harsh tongue.
The remaining knights met the charge of the orcs, two of the squires drawing their own swords to stand beside their lords and masters. The third squire let a shriek of terror escape his lips as he sprinted from the cover of the rocks, and raced for the nearer edge of the clearing. Three orcs loped after the fleeing man, their swift gait quickly closing the distance between man and pursuers.
Brunner sent the bolt from his smaller crossbow into the face of the first orc that closed with him, the dart sticking from the monster’s cheek like a steel pimple. The orc clutched at the bolt, his clawed fingers working to pull it free. So intent was he upon the bolt, that he did not react as Brunner brought the cleaving edge of his falchion sword slashing through the brute’s forearm. The severed limb still had claws locked about the bolt protruding from the orc’s face. With the severed arm dangling, the orc snarled, and raised his remaining arm that clutched a savage length of sharpened steel. But the reaction was too slow—already Brunner’s falchion was slashing downwards, splitting the orc’s skull open like a melon. Green blood and snot-like brain matter bubbled from the ruin and the orc slumped against the side of the toppled stone plinth beside him.
A second orc leapt forward, crying in savage triumph to find a worthy adversary in the bounty hunter. The orc’s axe bit down, glancing along the heavy gromril breastplate that encased Brunner’s chest. The bounty hunter staggered under the impact of the blow, the dwarf metal resisting the cleaving edge of the orc’s weapon.
The orc, unbalanced by the strike, began to recover both his stance and his weapon. Leaning before the shaken but unharmed Imperial warrior, the orc began to rise. With one hand, Brunner plunged a knife into the orc’s neck, while his falchion sliced through the beast’s backbone. The orc let a whimper of agony sigh from his enormous lungs and fell prone before the bounty hunter. The greenskin twitched for a moment, hands clutching at the knife buried in the back of his neck. Brunner turned away from the dying creature, looking for that next monster to challenge his blade.
The battle was faring badly for the Bretonnians. Both squires and one of the remaining knights were down, and there were only two orcs lying beside the corpses of the men. As the bounty hunter looked, he could see the huge warboss attacking Sir Doneval, the bulky knight dwarfed by the enormous orc’s twisted form. The knight dodged the orc’s awkward blows, so the orc’s huge cleaver sparked each time it bit into the old plinths. The knight slashed and thrust at the beast each time it recovered, and the orc was bleeding from numerous cuts in arms and chest. But the monster was hardly slowed, his inhuman vitality and resistance to pain carrying him forward.
Sir Doneval at last misjudged the sweep of the orc’s cleaver, slipping to the left when he should have dodged to the right. The warboss’s cleaver mashed the knight’s arm, splitting the metal and tearing the flesh beneath. Dark blood oozed from the wound and Sir Doneval staggered away from the triumphant roar of his hulking adversary.
Brunner drew the reloaded pistol from its holster and fired at the orc leader’s back. The weapon spat a flare of flame, and emitted a sound like the crack of thunder. An acrid stench wafted from the weapon. The warboss turned his head slightly at the sound, then returned his attention to the reeling knight. Brunner stared in disgust at the Nuln-made weapon, casting the pistol into the face of the horn-helmed reaver closing upon him. The weapon crashed into the monster’s face, smashing his nose and splitting his lip. The orc paid no attention to the injury, but swept his massive sword at the bounty hunter. Brunner ducked un
der the sweep of the orc’s blade, stabbing out with his own sword and piercing the crude leather that covered the orc’s breast. Dark green liquid bubbled from the wound and the orc fell, his heart cleft by the bounty hunter’s blade.
Gnashrak chopped down at the knight. Sir Doneval raised his shield, blocking the blow yet again, but this time the orc was in a position to put his whole weight behind the blow. The knight’s arm broke under the impact. Sir Doneval let out a cry of pain from behind his helm. The orc grinned at him—a toothy, comfortless steel smile. Then the orc’s massive cleaver was swinging downward in a two-handed strike.
The metal of Sir Doneval’s breastplate was cut to shreds by the cleaver’s impact, as was the ribcage beneath. A final scream of agony bubbled from the knight’s mouth as the orc raised his weapon from the gory husk of the knight’s mangled torso. Gnashrak’s beady eyes considered the carnage all around him. Then his red eyes found the black-helmed bounty hunter rising from the corpse of one of his orcs.
Gnashrak let a bloodthirsty leer spread across his leathery face. He remembered him, cowardly trying to shoot him in the back with the fire and smoke weapon. But Gork and Mork had protected their savage child, and the magic of the backshooter’s weapon had failed. Gnashrak ran a clawed finger through the gore dripping from his cleaver. He would teach this snivelling cur how a proper fight was conducted.
Brunner watched as the hulking warboss rose from Sir Doneval’s body and advanced towards him with heavy, thudding steps. The bounty hunter drew a throwing knife from the belt at his chest and waited, turning his body to present the orc with his side and the blade in his other hand. He doubted if the orc would recognise the purpose of the knife, but he didn’t want to take any chances.
The orc shuffled forward, his enormous weapon held across his chest. Brunner let him take a few more steps, then threw the knife. The orc grunted in surprise as the knife streaked across the distance between them. The blade sank into the corner of the orc’s eye socket. The huge brute howled in pain, letting go of his cleaver, and closed his hand about the knife. Brunner scrambled to reload his crossbow pistol while the orc paused. He looked up as the warboss gave vent to a wild cry of pain. The massive paw came away with the knife, dark green blood flowing from the wound. The orc fingered the knife for a moment, then bent and lifted the huge cleaver with his other hand. The orc stared into Brunner’s eyes and uttered a deep growl.
‘Come try it,’ the bounty hunter snarled. The orc roared again, displaying his enormous steel-capped fangs and charged forward like a blood-mad Estalian bull. Brunner fired his crossbow pistol at the oncoming avalanche of greenskin flesh, but the shot was hasty and the bolt smashed into the beast’s knee. The orc did not seem to feel the impact of the bolt as it charged onwards. Brunner dropped back, letting the monster crash into the boulder he had been standing before. The stone cracked as Gnashrak struck it. Not even winded by the bone-jarring impact, the orc lashed out with his steel cleaver, missing the bounty hunter’s body by mere inches.
Brunner struck out with his own weapon, dealing the orc’s arm a deep gash that severed tendons in his hand. The huge cleaver dropped from the suddenly useless hand. But Gnashrak’s other hand was already in motion, feeding Brunner’s left shoulder the point of his own knife. Brunner twisted from the injury, a cry of pain ringing out from below his helm. The orc grinned back, his massive paw closing about the armour on the bounty hunter’s injured shoulder.
Brunner screamed again as the orc’s hand crumpled the steel and bruised the bone beneath. As though tiring from the sound of the man’s shrieks, the orc clubbed the black-steel helm with his useless arm. The metal rang and an indentation formed in the sallet helm. Brunner shook his head against the bludgeoning blow.
The bounty hunter’s sword sank to the hilt in the meat of the orc’s thigh. The monster released his grip on the bounty hunter’s shoulder to wrench it free. Given the momentary respite, Brunner spotted the bolt protruding from the orc’s knee. With a roar as savage as any the orc had given voice to, the bounty hunter kicked his steel-toed boot into the bolt. The steel spike sank through the orc’s kneecap, and the monster toppled onto his side.
Brunner staggered back, breathing heavily, pulling the serrated knife from his belt and another throwing dagger from the bandolier across his chest. The orc snarled at him from the ground, his clawed hands already closing about the grip of his cleaver. The orc lifted himself to his feet, foam drooling between his steel fangs. Then his head snapped around and a deep bellow of wrath rumbled from his throat. Brunner listened to the sound, then heard the shrill note that had alarmed the orc. The bounty hunter’s battered body shook with laughter.
Gnashrak’s voice was raised, shouting deep roaring commands in his own brutal language. But it was too late. His mob had also heard the call of the horn. Their bloodlust whetted by the slaughter of the Bretonnians, they were already racing from the mound, across the clearing toward the sound, eager to sink their blades into more human flesh. The orc cursed again, then spun about, his remaining eye locking onto Brunner’s.
Then the massive brute loped away—not towards his mob, but into the trees. Three other orcs spotted him and gave chase, their loyalty and fear of the warboss overcoming the bloodlust surging through their frames. Brunner saw them disappear into the trees, then watched as Etienne de Galfort and the rest of his command burst from the tree-lined path, lances at the ready. Lost in the madness of their frenzy, the orcs did not appreciate the slaughter that ensued, not until they were reduced to a field of crushed, broken bodies.
Etienne de Galfort looked down at the work of his men, then raised his gaze to the mound. He shouted a greeting as Brunner staggered into view. The knight rode toward the bounty hunter, removed his helmet and smiled.
‘We won,’ the Bretonnian laughed. ‘Just as you said, they couldn’t resist the bait. And once we whetted their appetite, they wouldn’t be able to control themselves and run when we came upon them!’
Brunner nodded his head. ‘I was starting to think you weren’t coming,’ he said, his voice heavy with fatigue.
‘I waited until the sands in the glass were half gone,’ the noble replied. ‘Then we came galloping at all speed.’ Etienne suddenly looked closer at the bodies strewn among the stones upon the mound. ‘The others?’
Brunner shook his head. ‘No.’
The smile died on Etienne’s face. ‘Still, at least we beat them.’
‘You’d have caught their leader if you had come a little sooner,’ the bounty hunter said after a pause.
‘He escaped?’ Etienne asked, suddenly sick in his stomach. The bounty hunter just slumped onto the ground. He raised a hand to his damaged helm and pulled it free, running a gloved hand through the close-cropped brown hair. The glove came away streaked with sweat and blood.
‘Don’t worry,’ the bounty hunter said, fixing Etienne with his piercing blue eyes. ‘He’s finished. Among orcs, only the strong lead. The injuries I dealt that monster…’ Brunner shook his head. ‘By tonight, some young bull is going to be calling himself warboss and cooking this brute for dinner.’
‘Then it’s over,’ Etienne said.
‘It’s over,’ Brunner agreed.
Night settled about the mountainside of the Vaults like a magician’s cloak. Four figures sat about the small fire, their beady red eyes gleaming in the flickering light. One of them moved, pushing another log upon the fire. But as he did so, the greenskinned face stared not into the fire, but at the massive shape of one of his companions, a figure from which only one eye gleamed.
Gnashrak let another sigh shudder from his huge body and put a finger into the empty pit of his face to scratch at the irritating eye socket once again. Thoughts were already swirling about in his thick skull. Thoughts of revenge. He would return to this land, burn and pillage it as no orc had ever done. He would gather an army this time, a mighty war host with boar riders and siege engines, packs of trolls and shrieking hordes of goblins to soak up the Breton
nians’ arrows. Then he would rip the heart from the man who had cost him his eye and hand. He would take his throbbing heart and eat it before the human’s fading eyes.
The gleam of ambition burned in Gnashrak’s eye, more fiercely even than the fire before him. The orc yawned and stretched his massive frame. As he finished stretching, he looked about for a place to sleep, then his eye caught the gaze of his remaining followers. For the first time, fear wormed its way into Gnashrak’s savage heart. The look in the eyes of the other three orcs was one Gnashrak recognised only too well. It was the gleam of ambition.
Gnashrak reached for the slender Bretonnian sword that he had been reduced to carrying since he lost his hand, noting as he did so the furtive knowing looks of the other orcs. There was still some fear in them, but not much. Not enough.
With the sword in his hand and sleep tugging at his mind, Gnashrak settled down, wary of his companions.
BLOOD MONEY
I entered the Black Boar one evening, looking for my literary contact, a hulking Norseman-turned-pirate named Ormgrim—a surprisingly loquacious man, for all his resemblance in appearance and odour to a mountain bear. I had been considering a collection of stories recounting the reaver’s exploits, from his days upon the Sea of Claws, stalking the shores in the fabled dragon-boats, to his time as a pit fighter in the lawless fighting arenas of the Border Princes. I dearly hoped that I would be able to catch him early in his cups, before drink would sodden his small brain. Otherwise he would only be able to utter three word sentences in crude Reikspiel that many goblins would find laughable. It would be but a short step from there to the kind of violent outbursts that had resulted in a week of bedridden misery for this unlucky writer who was not nimble on his feet.
As it transpired, however, I had a much more lucrative prospect than another night of Ormgrim’s half-coherent drunken ramblings. Seated at a back table of the smoky, tunnel-like beer hall, I spied the black-helmed shape of Brunner. He was sipping at a small bottle, which I did not doubt contained schnapps. I had seen him like this before, and knew that this was how he indulged himself after a particularly successful hunt. I at once made my way toward his table. The bounty hunter looked up at me, then gestured with a gloved hand, indicating that I might sit. I asked him how he was faring, and if he might share his good fortune with a friend. He smiled at me, unoffended by the directness of my words and began to relate events that had transpired recently in the realms of the Border Princes.
