Chapter 5
Reflections
Orngoth left the grotto of his own accord. His barbarian ogre brethren were going about their everyday routines, mostly sleeping and eating, within the series of caverns they now called home on the lower western side of the Blackstone Mountain range.
At dusk yester eve the Ironskull tribe had encountered a pack of ferocious mountain bears approaching their cave entrance. There were three bears all told, with paws as big as a man’s head and claws sharper than any dagger. When they stood on their hind legs, they were taller than any of the ogres. Each bear weighed at least one and half times that of a full grown ogre and had a mouth full of razor sharp teeth.
They did not stand a chance against the Ironskulls.
As the ogres dined on the cooked flesh of the bears, Orngoth had to wait for scraps as usual. But this time, instead of lingering, he decided he would come back later when they were all sleeping to claim his portions.
The cool breeze coming from the north was chilly today, penetrating the furs he wore around him and causing bumps to permeate his skin. Underneath the furs were oddments of chainmail that he had managed to salvage from the armored horses of some of their victims, and which he now wore draped loosely across his massive back and chest. His ram-horned helm sat firmly atop his head and his dark, bristly hair was bound beneath it, aiding in his warmth. He barely wore any clothing at all, mostly fur-covered leather boots and a heavy chain loincloth over woolen undergarments.
The ogre clan had moved around a lot in the last few years, Orngoth recalled, scavenging food here and there and sacking passersby in caravans. Sometimes their victims were wandering sellswords or mercenaries whom they happened upon. Occasionally, they would invade the dwellings of some of the less aggressive humanoids, taking what they desired. Ogres were cruel to begin with—barbarian ogres were even more bloodthirsty. This was beginning to bother Orngoth more than a little as he felt that what they did was… wrong. There was really no other way to describe it. He did not feel good inside when the ogre clan raided a village or pillaged a road-weary group of travelers. He did not know how or why—he only knew that it felt wrong.
This fact made him reflect upon his birth mother. She was the only explanation for these emotions, Orngoth reasoned. She was human; he had discovered that much, as had the Ironskull ogres. And he had very faint recollections that at some point in his childhood, he had belonged to a family of humans who had abandoned him somewhere. He was also told that he was ‘lucky’ that the ogres had found him and claimed him as their own those many years ago. It was an ogre female in the clan named Hazel that took him in and cared for him for those first years. She had died a while ago, but Orngoth remembered her deeds better than he recalled what she looked like. She had been kind to him at least and that was what he remembered most.
Further evidence of his ‘impurity’, as the ogres called it, was the color of his skin. It was less in the yellowed tones of the ogres and more along the shades of pink of the humans. It was also free of the warts and boils commonly found on the hides of his ogre brethren. His eyes were reflections of the bluest of skies, quite unlike those of any ogre, whose eyes were always as black as the darkest caverns of the Subterrane.
Orngoth was treated callously and with minimal care by the Ironskulls. The clan had been given their name by Muurg, their leader and chieftain. He was a brutish hulk of a thing, with a bloated belly and stiffened muscles atop his back and arms like none Orngoth had ever seen before. However, Orngoth was no slouch either when it came to size and strength, weighing as much as a horse and standing tall amongst the pure blooded ogres.
Muurg was fairly intelligent and extremely cunning for an ogre. He had deciphered Orngoth’s human heritage from the features he displayed shortly after Hazel claimed the boy as her own. Orngoth received daily beatings and the catalyst was the simple fact that his veins were ‘polluted’ with the blood of the humans. Muurg instigated the attacks with an insult here or there, and the barbarian ogres did not need much more in the way of incentive. Scars and fractured bones sometimes lingered as results of the thrashings, at which time the ogres would simply leave him lying in a pool of his own blood as they walked away laughing. But Orngoth would never plead for them to stop, nor would he show any signs of fear. That would result in his death. The ogres did not stand for cowardice in any fashion or render any mercy whatsoever.
Orngoth did not blame them for their ways as he understood what the barbarians felt when they entered the state of the frenzy. He felt it oft times, too. There was nothing much he could do when he sensed the fury well up within him. It was uncontrollable, he admitted. Once his eyes washed over with the red of anger, there was naught that could be done until it left of its own accord. Besides, this was his family now after the humans had abandoned him.
As he wandered down the path of the winding hill and into the valley below, his contemplation of past events dissipated. He continued, heading toward the copse of ironwood trees at the apex of a faintly hilly area, where he often quietly sat, alone with his thoughts. This was a place of peace for the half-ogre. The much needed tranquility of nature’s most beautiful surroundings offered him a brief respite from the hatred and heartless behavior of his clan.
He strolled over to where he’d laid the club he had been crafting—a thick bough of ironwood that brought him a sense of calmness when he cinched his thick fingers around it. He sat and leaned against the familiar, wide tree trunk to once more smooth out the club’s handle. He removed his small dagger and a whetstone, sharpening the blade for what seemed like an hour. He then began using the sharp edge of the blade carefully, moving it up and down the club’s shaft with awareness and care. Shavings of ironwood fell softly to the ground. The club was slowly taking shape, for he had been working the hard wood for months now, venturing out every day while the rest of the clan slept off their meals.
Suddenly, the sound of moving brush to his right flank jarred him from his peaceful thoughts. Something was approaching through the thick foliage—something that was either unaware or uncaring of the noise it made, shuffling loudly toward the outer edge of the thicket. Orngoth waited with the club in his hands for whoever—or whatever— it was. The club was weighty, with tough ironwood bark lining its shaft and rigid natural protrusions near its top edge.
Finally, Orngoth saw the source of the noise as it emerged from the brush, fully presenting its bizarre outline plainly in the clearing—a Tyrantian crawler.
Orngoth had seen them once before from a distance a few years after the ogres first found him. He had been young, but he remembered gazing down upon them from a hill high above as several of the crawlers had torn into a pack of wolves. He was told that there were at least three types of the Tyrantian creatures—the worm, the crawler and the skimmer. There were rumors of more types, but that was merely speculation.
The worms were snake-like things that spat venomous poison and had huge mandibles surrounding multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth. The skimmers were huge wasp-like creatures with stingers that shot a paralyzing poison and could pierce flesh as easily as a spear. And the crawlers, one of which peered up at him over the row of foliage not twenty feet away, were like giant insects. They had two sets of arms—a pair with spear-like tips and another clawed set with three fingers and a thumb for grabbing—and teeth that could tear flesh.
Orngoth gripped his ironwood club and squeezed it tightly as the creature approached. The crawler, at least as tall as a man and with thick limbs like tree trunks, was hunched over. Then it saw him and lunged forward, using all six of its limbs as it bounded toward him. It crossed the span of twenty feet in a single heartbeat.
Orngoth was ready, though. His club was raised behind him and he reared back and slugged the thing hard with a left to right action, knocking the Tyrantian to the ground some five feet away. It held still for another heartbeat but then found its footing by bending its joints in odd ways. This seemed completely
foreign in nature to Orngoth, for he had never seen animals that could bend like that. The crawler’s chitinous frame appeared to have withstood the brunt of the club’s blow and it immediately leaped once more at the half-ogre. This time it found its mark.
Orngoth’s club went spinning from his hands and his ram-horned helm went flying as the full weight of the creature landed upon him. The Tyrantian was as dense as a full grown ogre, Orngoth noted. Its clawed appendages pinned his arms to either side with an inhumanly strong grip.
The half-ogre barbarian peered skyward and realized he was sloping downward slightly on the crest of a hill, under the canopy of a wide berth of trees. The Tyrantian opened its maw wide, bearing teeth like tiny daggers, and snapped at him. Orngoth jerked his head to the right and the teeth came up empty. Once more it snapped its jaws to the left but found naught but vacant air instead of the flesh it desired. As it lunged once more, Orngoth felt the anger growing within him and he struggled to free his pinned arms. Then, in one forceful motion, he brought his knees up hard into the creature’s underbelly and knocked it forward and off balance. It held onto Orngoth’s lightly tattooed arms and brought some flesh with it as it tumbled head first down the angled hill.
Orngoth rolled to his belly and then got to his feet whilst watching the crawler come to a stop a short distance away. He glanced to the side and spotted his club. He launched himself that way, feeling the reassurance of solid wood in his hands just as the Tyrantian beast sprang at him once more. This time when he swung the club, he was angry. He caught the Tyrantian in midair and the impact made a sickening thud as the shell of the creature cracked under the sheer ferocity of the blow. The crawler’s outstretched left arm bowed under the pressure and twisted in a direction that even it was not meant to bend in.
The crawler hit the ground hard but charged again, on five limbs now as its left arm hung limply at its side. Again the impact of the club hit hard on the shell, this time on the chest that was open to attack. The crawler slashed with its right claw and tore into Orngoth’s left shoulder, but was sent flying straight into the ground as the half-ogre barbarian went in a sideways arc, planting the club into the ground in front of him. Greenish-black ooze emerged from the thing’s chest—the shell was softer there, Orngoth realized—and the ichor covered the leaf and moss littered ground.
Orngoth roared as he stood triumphant over the dying body of the insectoid creature. He proceeded to take out the rest of his anger on the dying carcass. More of the creature’s blood and innards flew about as he hammered the gargantuan club over and over into the beast. With each strike that followed, the sound that had begun with a solid crack of bone and armor ended in a squishy, bubbly sound of liquefied bone and gore.
Finally Orngoth glared down at the dead and misshapen thing that had once been a Tyrantian crawler. In its stead was an unrecognizable mass of pulp. The victor was covered in dark greenish goo from head to toe from his assault. He was breathing deeply and his muscles ached from the exertion. He slumped to the ground, rump first, and sat in the remains for several more moments before retrieving his ram-horned helm and wandering off, dragging his club behind him, to find the nearest brook several miles to the northwest to wash himself.
As the behemoth known as Orngoth knelt in front of the shimmering waters of the brook, he felt a distinct calmness engulf him. He leaned over and peered into the stream, seeing his reflection in the surface as the sun shone brightly overhead. He removed his ram-horned helmet and stared again into the water. He noted the mop of coarse hair about his head, and his blue eyes, and acknowledged his marked differences from the ogres. He had what could only be his mother’s features, he assumed.
More importantly, he understood that he did not agree with the ogres’ ways. Violence seemed to be something they indulged in and enjoyed, rather than used solely to survive. He felt he was surely at a crossroads. He could claim the ogre within him and push past the feelings of guilt and shame and give himself over fully to their ways. This thought did not sit well and anxiety washed over him and his stomach felt suddenly queasy.
Alternatively he could attempt to insert himself into humanity… attempt to find a city where they might accept him for whom or what he was. He pondered this heavy burden that he carried as he began to wash the Tyrantian gore from his furs and body.
The easy choice was to continue along the path already set in motion. Muurg was cruel but cunning and a leader that offered survival at the very least. After all, the humans apparently had abandoned him once before. They very well might do it again, he considered, splashing the cool water on his face and staring down at his hands. Grizzled fingernails with slightly sharpened edges gracing the tips of his fingers and the thick skin covering his bones gave him pause as he studied them for several minutes.
Human or ogre?
Did he want to continue down this path of violence? Were all humans like the ones who abandoned him? Would they shun him just as much as the ogres? All these questions and more still needed answering as he found himself finally clean of the gore.
Orngoth turned and continued to give heed to these confusing thoughts as he made the journey back to the ogre grotto. In a state of total contemplation, he reached the cave where he saw the four well-known wolves—Muurg’s personal pets—standing guard at its mouth. They growled at him as he passed but then returned their attention to the pieces of bear scraps still lying upon the hard cavern floor. Two of them began fighting over one particular morsel, tugging at the meat, one on either end.
Orngoth continued on deeper into the cave with shoulders slumped in resignation at his surroundings.
“He comes now,” called one of the ogres, seeing Orngoth approach. Muurg strode into the cavern, coarse hair and a scowl planted firmly upon his face as the half-ogre came into view. The massive ogre chieftain wiped a bit of dried food from his mouth and his brow furrowed.
“The wolves took their fill. You can eat now, half-breed.”
The ogres all bellowed with laughter in satisfaction at that declaration.
“We are going to raid the travelers that come by our routes this day,” Muurg announced once the laughter had died down. “You are coming, too.” He pointed at Orngoth and smirked. He knew the half-ogre did not like raiding or sacking any of their victims, but Muurg did not care.
“It is time for you to earn your stay again, half-breed. And I see you have a new weapon to aid you, too,” Muurg observed with great sarcasm, gesturing toward the club Orngoth had strapped to his back.
As Muurg turned his massive frame from Orngoth, two of the ogres wandered in to administer the usual beatings. The first was a massively muscled one, Muurg’s physical equal—or so he thought—named Lunka. The other was the opposite in size and demeanor. Bengog, a smallish and hideous ogre that was slight of build and slightly deformed, joined Lunka. This ogre was burdened with a left arm that was atrophied and a right arm that was overly used and encased in muscle, adding to the creature’s oddity. Muurg stopped them as they advanced, however, which surprised Orngoth.
“I want him at his best when we leave,” he growled, glowering at the two ogres, who immediately turned and moved away from their leader, disappearing around a corner. Muurg looked back at Orngoth, scowled again as if hating himself for having to delay the beating, and then strode off, leaving him alone.
Orngoth made his way toward the extension of the cavern that the Ironskulls used for cooking. The huge area was filled with scraps of uneaten food left by the ogres, as well as various bones, tinder and several pieces of firewood and kindling. In the center of the area was a huge fire pit. He sat down in front of the flames that still burned brightly, and found some scraps of bear meat that had been overcooked or tossed aside by the ogres for some other reason. A pot of soup hung precariously by a pair of rusted handle bars atop the fire. Inadvertently, Orngoth glimpsed his own image in the dull, reflective surface of the pot and sighed. He tinkered with the
leather straps he had affixed to hold his new club in place and made a few adjustments to tighten the knots. Then he turned to the food. He ate his fill quietly and afterwards fell asleep on the rough ground. Neither his dreams nor the inflexible sleeping surface provided him any comfort.
Orngoth felt a sharp pain in his side that forced him awake. A brutish ogre’s face leered at him with its black eyes unblinking and full of hate. Orngoth recognized him as Lunka.
“Get up,” he growled and planted another solid kick. Orngoth rolled with the force of the kick and made it quickly to his feet. His fingers went immediately to the handle of his club and he removed it from his back. Lunka laughed uncontrollably at that action, disrespecting the mere thought of him defending himself—especially against Lunka. Laughing ensued from a second source, intermittently mixed with gurgling coughs, the familiar sounds of Bengog.
“Did you not understand my command?” called a deep and booming voice from behind them all.
The two ogres swung round to see Muurg standing menacingly in his chain and leather armor, a club in one hand and a greataxe in the other—though the latter weapon looked like a small hand axe in his massive grip. Beside him stood three more ogres, all smaller than him—and Lunka, for that matter—waiting for their master’s commands.
“I told you to leave him be,” Muurg stated clearly, speaking directly to Lunka since he was the more intimidating of the two, while Bengog was merely his lackey. It was common knowledge that Lunka had challenged Muurg’s authority on more than one occasion, but Muurg still held the rulership of the clan with an iron fist. There were approximately forty ogres under his command in the Ironskull tribe, none more decorated than Muurg.
“For now,” Muurg finally added with a smirk as an aside to appeal to Lunka’s compliance in the matter, rather than argue about it. Muurg often used his higher capacity for shrewd cunning to manipulate the less intelligent ogres. Lunka certainly fell into that mold.
Orngoth moved forward reluctantly and into the crowd of ogres, ready for Muurg’s instructions.
“Me and my group will head south and into the paths near Heartwood Valley,” Muurg explained. “You three and two others will move north toward the sea and watch paths there.”
Orngoth nodded, looking back toward the grinning Bengog, to whose group he had been assigned, along with Lunka, who remained stoic. Two more ogres were assigned to their party. One of the two had scars adorning his features as if he had once been engulfed in a fire that had left burns about his neck and face. The other was a toothless wretch of a thing that hunched over severely when he walked and who spat when he spoke or laughed. They stood silently as Muurg assembled his own group.
A few more of the Ironskulls had entered the cavernous area to receive their assignments and were told where their posts would be along the roads nearby. It occurred to Orngoth that not many would be left within the cavern to guard it. But the wolves would remain behind and were ferocious enough to deter most would-be invaders.
After many more positions were ascribed, the ogres began to filter out. Orngoth followed Lunka, Bengog and the other two out of the tunnels of their home and down the winding path that would take them toward the High Sea. Later that afternoon, the group settled into a stretch of land well north of the Blackstone Mountain range. It was a well-known and well-traveled path in Wothlondia and one that would see its fair share of itinerant merchants. Most of the travelers would have guards and sellswords accompanying them to protect them from harm, in exchange for coin or a sense of honor, but they would be no match for the ogre attackers. Not once when they had relieved the merchants of their goods or wealth had any escort been able to withstand or repel the ogre barbarians, Orngoth reflected solemnly.
The ogres sat overlooking a valley that was oft used as an ambush site. As they got into position, Lunka assigned himself and Bengog to be on one side of the road while Orngoth and the other two were to station themselves opposite them.
Hours passed as they sat waiting for the inevitable and unsuspecting travelers to appear. Orngoth gave heed to the fact that he would be involved, but he would most likely attempt to stay far away from the action, if possible. He sometimes got away with it, but this only drew ridicules of cowardice, followed by more beatings. The ogres usually rushed into the fray to seek the glory of battle and to claim bragging rights, as they would compare exaggerated tales once back at the grotto.
“There,” whispered one of the ogres in a deep, resonating tone, trying to keep his voice low. Scar-face, as Orngoth referred to him, towered over him, his foul ogre’s lip curled up and melted directly to his face. He pointed toward an approaching caravan of wagons. There were at least four of the vehicles with mounted guards in various armors beside them. This was surely a private army of mercenaries or sellswords, Orngoth realized. Some mercenaries across the realm were more accomplished in the martial arts than others, and only time would tell which type these would be.
As the caravan approached, Lunka signaled that he would lead the assault from his side of the overlook to the north. In typical ogre fashion, they would simply charge the wagons with no real plan of attack and overpower their enemies. And with Lunka present, that was never really an issue. Orngoth had seen the creature single-handedly fell dozens of well-armed, well-trained warriors.
Orngoth gripped the handle of his weapon and sweat began to moisten his hands. He was nervous. Not fearing for his own safety, but instead he feared for the mercenaries and the bloodbath that would ensue. And he knew that once the bloodlust claimed him, as it always did, there was no turning back.
He saw Lunka charge with Bengog following close behind. Scar-face and Toothless went storming right after from their position on the southern hill. The ogres hit the first wagon hard, Lunka barreling into it and knocking it on to two wheels. It tipped and swayed, threatening to fall to its side, but righted itself with a loud thud. The enraged ogre redirected his attention and smashed his fists into two nearby mercenaries, sending them to their final resting place.
Several riders raced toward the fray at the front of the caravan, weapons drawn to defend their masters. Orngoth stood motionless, gripping his club tightly as if trying to squeeze the sawdust right out of it.
Bengog came out from behind Lunka’s shadow and clubbed a sellsword who was struggling to his feet after Lunka’s assault had sent him soaring from his saddle. That was Bengog’s typical role in the battles, Orngoth judged, as he watched the bloodshed from above, still unmoving. He saw Lunka grab one rider by the arm, lifting him from his horse and then driving him straight into the hard gravel of the road. Then Lunka simply tossed aside the bloody stump of the limb which had been torn from the torso with the sheer ferocity of the attack. Lunka was under the full effects of the rage and the Gods of Order themselves could not save these mercenaries now.
Scar-face and Toothless hit the lines at the rear of the caravan and Orngoth could swear he saw Toothless take a sword to his gullet, running straight into a counter-attack. Scar-face brought his spear to bear and buried it right through horse and rider alike, then began flailing away with a club, crashing its solid surface onto the soft flesh and inexpensive armor of the riders.
“Curious,” came a female voice from behind Orngoth. He whirled on the source, and saw a woman on horseback with a sword and shield at the ready. Curly dark hair cascaded from beneath the shadows of a green hood, which was soiled with dirt. In one fluid motion, she dismounted and strode fearlessly toward the half-ogre. Her sword was drawn and held straight out, its tip targeted right at his face. Yet he made no move.
“An ogre who does not join in on the action of a raid. May I ask why you sit here while your brethren assault these travelers?”
Orngoth merely shrugged, not sure what to make of this stranger. She moved with a confidence that defied her somewhat small stature. He stared into her cold brown eyes and her face contorted as she looked the half-ogre up and down. <
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“You are half-ogre, are you not?” she stated more than asked him and moved closer, her sword dropping slightly, seeming less threatening. Orngoth backed away, not knowing what to make of this, holding his great club at the ready. As he did so, he felt the tip of another weapon in his back. He also heard the quiet, but very obvious, snort of a horse now, though he had not so much as felt the stranger approach, even on horseback.
“That’s it, ogre. Back yourself right into my blade,” called a coarse and masculine voice from behind him.
“Hold!” commanded the woman, dropping her hood and moving closer. “It cannot be…,” she admitted in a soft tone, staring more intently into Orngoth’s blue eyes, which continued to track her curiosity.
This time, it was Orngoth’s turn to display a perplexed look.
Suddenly, the clang of steel on steel and the resulting death throes yanked her attention back to the battle raging below. She looked back to the half-ogre and then to the man on horseback behind him and nodded. With that, the man galloped off down the hill and toward the fight. Orngoth glimpsed the flowing green and brown cloak as it unfurled behind the unknown rider.
“I advise you to stay your weapon and bring it not to bear against us, lest we cut you down!” With that final warning, the woman effortlessly mounted her horse and galloped toward the conflict too.
Scar-face and Toothless were down, as were most of the mercenaries. Several merchants had taken to the road, and could be seen running in all directions as fast as they could away from the carnage.
Orngoth remained static, holding his club and seemingly hesitant to take action, one way or the other. He looked down to see that Lunka had two arrows and one quarrel protruding from his skin. The ogre yanked them out with a roar of anger and then backhanded the bowman with a massive hand, knocking him from his steed and sending the man unceremoniously onto the roughly hewn road. Then Orngoth watched helplessly as Lunka drove his boot down hard onto the man’s skull with a loud crack that echoed throughout the valley.
Bengog was on top of a wagon, smashing a mercenary to pulp with his one good arm, gore and blood following the repetitive motion of his club. There was nothing left of the opposition, who had either fled or lay dead or dying on the ground nearby.
The male rider made it to the foot of the hill and moved to engage Bengog, who had now climbed down to the ground behind a wagon and disappeared from Orngoth’s line of sight. The woman whom he had just met raced into the skirmish and sent the edge of her shield hard into the left ribcage of Lunka. There was another sharp crack that sounded clearly in unison with the blow, but Lunka did not even so much as grunt.
Orngoth realized now that the man and woman must belong to the legendary wardens of the forest that roamed the face of Wothlondia. Each region had its own guardians, oft times referred to as Rangers, Striders, Woodland Guardians or Foresters. These men and women traveled the area in groups, protecting the people and the roads from peril such as this.
Orngoth began to make his way down the hill with a purpose now. For the first time in his life, he had a clear understanding of his path. He knew what he should do. He broke into a light run, then a full out sprint toward the fight, brandishing the new greatclub in both of his mighty hands and raising it above his head as he charged straight for Lunka.
The Forester woman was fending off and mostly avoiding Lunka’s assaults, and those that she could not rung solidly off her steel shield. She was on the defensive, yet holding her own, Orngoth saw, as he exited the brush and made it to Lunka’s side.
The ogre was so intent on his foe that he did not hear Orngoth approach until it was too late. Orngoth’s ram-horned helm dipped with his head as he placed his shoulder into the rear left flank of Lunka’s exposed back, knocking him off balance and eventually to the ground as he stumbled and fell awkwardly to the soil, face first.
Lunka spun to face this latest adversary. His eyes widened as he realized it to be Orngoth. His face became a mask of hatred and his eyes narrowed to level a most deadly stare upon him.
“So… the pup has come to fight,” Lunka voiced, slowly clambering to his feet again. He threw his arms back while taking in a deep breath that caused his massive chest and bulbous belly to expand with air. Most of Lunka’s animal furs and leathers had fallen from his shoulders, leaving his massive, yellow-pigmented skin exposed for all to see.
“And for the wrong side of the fight,” Lunka added calmly, a cruel smile crossing his face. “This time, I kill you and not even Muurg can save you!”
With that, Lunka braced to charge, but the sound of tearing flesh interrupted the attack as the Forester woman managed to penetrate Lunka’s hide with her longsword. Blood streamed steadily from the few wounds she had succeeded in making. Lunka looked curiously at her, like one would stare at an annoying insect, until the bloodlust returned and his eyes glazed over with the red of rage.
He swatted at her once, twice, thrice and then a fourth time, consecutively hammering straight down upon her shield. Finally he shot a left punch out with such force that it knocked her backward and to the ground. Her shield flew wide as she sprawled on the grass at the foot of the southern hill where Orngoth had been perched only moments ago. She was clearly dazed and vulnerable and Lunka stood over her, meaning to deliver a double handed hammer fist intended to end her life.
“Do you fear the ‘pup’?” called Orngoth to the ogre. Lunka stopped and turned his attention to him. He could see that the anger controlled the ogre barbarian fully. Just then, Orngoth caught sight of the male Forester in his peripheral vision as he ran swiftly and silently to the aid of the stunned woman. Quite possibly the man had killed Bengog, for Orngoth could not see around the wagons.
Lunka’s left arm lunged out and caught the man by his throat, raised him from the soil and snapped his neck. It all happened so swiftly that Orngoth could do nothing to prevent it. And Lunka did all this with his eyes still fixed on Orngoth. He had never even turned them to regard the approaching Forester. In one motion, Lunka discarded the clearly deceased man and charged.
Orngoth counter-charged. The two of them met in the middle and slammed into one another as Orngoth gave into the bloodlust, too, allowing it to fuel him. His vision dimmed and blurred as the impact sent him reeling and stumbling backward some ten paces before he fell to his rump. He fuzzily saw two identical images of Lunka approach him and land another tremendous blow upon his chest. Lunka stood over Orngoth and screamed at him, mocking him or something, since although Orngoth saw his lips move, he could not hear due to the ringing in his ears.
He had felt his ribs crack with that blow, too, and this despite his own tough hide and size. He was not Lunka’s equal in size or in strength.
After a moment, the words began to make sense and his vision began to clear. Lunka was playing with him.
“The pup is not that big! Not that strong either,” he heard Lunka bellow, arms raised in apparent victory and no longer pressing the attack.
Orngoth kicked out with his left foot, connecting with Lunka’s knee. This sent the ogre’s leg out wide and knocked him off balance. Orngoth rolled past him and retrieved his greatclub, which had fallen to the side after the initial charge, grasped it and stood. He interrupted Lunka’s next swing with the solid wood of the club, and bark was sent airborne with the power of the attack.
Orngoth countered with a sideways swing of the club, connecting with Lunka’s ribs. He heard another distinct crack. It was where the Forester woman had landed her initial shield edge strike, he realized. Another blow immediately followed, though with one hand on the club and to the right side this time. Lunka easily countered the intended feint and batted the club aside with an arrogant smile. Then Orngoth planted his right fist into the left ribcage again, causing an involuntary bark of pain from the massive ogre. Again Orngoth landed another solid punch into the same area. Lunka backhanded him in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground, but instead of pressing the advantage, the ogr
e doubled over in pain.
Orngoth retrieved his greatclub and moved toward Lunka, who howled in agony and rage, the bloodlust running through him. His muscles seemed to explode from beneath the skin of his arms as he shook with fury. But, before he could do anything, a sharp point of a sword protruded from his right side. Behind him stood the Forester woman, both hands around the hilt of her longsword. Having made the strike, her shield somehow found its way solidly into her grip in the blink of an eye.
Lunka instinctively swung at her again and again, ignoring the steel that was now seemingly part of his body, yet the Forester shrugged off blow after blow from the heavily muscled ogre. Over and over, her shield blocks parried the ogre’s assault. She even placed a few of her own ripostes now and again as Lunka’s defenses were exposed. She used the shield itself like a weapon, Orngoth admired. So, while she had his attention, he charged at Lunka once more, barreling into his weakened left side and slamming him to the floor.
The greatclub went to work then, hammering repeatedly on the ogre’s hard frame. With each blow another crack was heard. Orngoth ignored the pleas and howls of pain from this horrible ogre who had tortured him for years. He swung his club again and again, feeling no remorse as he broke bones, turning them to powder, until Lunka stopped moving.
Orngoth felt a hand on his arm and swung his club again, this time at the thing that would divert him from his focus. He smote the Forester to the ground with that blow.
“Orngoth! No!” he heard through the bloodlust. “Orngoth! No!”
He towered over her, his weapon held high, but finally he recognized the woman for who she was and heard the mention of his name. His eyes cleared once more and he let out a breath that he had been unknowingly holding in for a moment.
“You… know my name?” was all that he could manage as he allowed her to stand. He looked down at his club, seeming to see for the first time the blood that caked its far end.
“Wha—?”
“You do not remember what you have just done?” the woman asked, lowering her hood to stare at him. “And yes,” she added, shaking her head and getting back to the subject at hand. “I know you.”
This intrigued Orngoth and his eyes widened and softened at that admission.
“You are the half-breed son of Celeste,” she declared calmly. “I would recognize those blue eyes anywhere. And you—“
“My mother? You knew her?!”
“Celeste was your mother, yes,” she finally admitted. “I have been tracking your whereabouts for over a decade. I made a promise to your mother years ago, when she died.”
“How did—?” he asked her as his blue eyes began to moisten.
“She died giving you life,” the woman gently explained. Orngoth said nothing. He merely stood frozen in place while a tumult of emotions bombarded him. A tear streamed down his left cheek and he stared blankly for a few moments.
“My name is Lynnai,” the woman said, bowing, after a moment of silence. “I have two things for you. Your mother bade me find you and give them to you and I promised her I would do that.”
She produced a magnificent jewel which shone with different hues as the light caught it.
“This is a magical gem that shifts color at times. Your mother did not say much of its other benefits, if any,” she said, holding it out before her in offering.
Grasping the gem in his hands, Orngoth felt a sudden peace wash over him, though he believed it to be a coincidence from having been gifted this unique item.
“This is the second,” Lynnai announced, holding a simple chain necklace that dangled between thumb and forefinger. It had a smallish orb that hung from its length. “This is quite a magnificent thing. It has minor recuperative powers that continue to work over time, healing you of injuries. It will, I am told, even bring the wearer back to life.”
Orngoth received this newest gift and attempted to fasten it around his neck, but could not work the clasp with his enormous fingers.
“Allow me,” Lynnai offered and aided him in donning it. As soon as it surrounded his neck, the chain shrunk until it sat tightly with very little slack. Orngoth began to panic, then relaxed once the event ceased.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing to this intriguing Forester and touched by what she had done. “All humans are not so bad.”
Lynnai strapped her shield to her back, retrieved her sword and went over to the body of her fallen fellow Forester. Orngoth helped her place the body of the man gently on the back of her horse. She nodded her thanks and began to trot off, but then turned to face him once more.
“Fare thee well, Orngoth. I hope that you find your way in this world and that you learn to judge each individual as just that.” Lynnai pulled her hood up over her head and rode off in a gallop, disappearing down the road to the east.
Orngoth began to sift through the carnage, looking for anything that might help him explain to Muurg what had happened. He decided that he would return to the ogre grotto and leave in the night if he were able, but the thought of this left him with a desperate and inescapable fear.
Where would I go? he wondered. Then he heard something from behind the wagon and saw Bengog make it back to his feet. He was bleeding from a wound in his side, but it appeared superficial.
“Wha’ happen?” Bengog asked, not truly understanding what had just played out. Then the ogre observed the carnage and witnessed the dead body of Lunka, or what was left of it, and frowned, or so Orngoth thought.
“Wha’ kill him!?” Bengog said excitedly, looking around, worried that whatever had done this was still here, lurking about.
“I did not see it myself,” Orngoth lied. “We will take the belongings that we can salvage from the wagons as usual and head back.”
Bengog stared about, still obviously not knowing what happened, and nodded his assent.
With that, the two remaining Ironskulls gathered what goods that they could from the wagons and threw them over the backs of the horses. They worked until the sun began to dip further into the western sky. Orngoth spent those hours, as well as the time expended traveling back to the grotto, trying to assert the courage that he needed to leave the Ironskull tribe once and for all.
He fingered the pendant about his neck and contemplated how exactly he was going to do that.
Wothlondia Rising: The Anthology Page 6
