BLACK METAL
“The Orc Wars”
by Sean-Michael Argo
Copyright 2013 by Sean-Michael Argo
“There is no greater threat to peace and progress than that of the Orc, for in them dwells only a killing spirit, and a thirst for battle that cannot be quenched. From the realms of men, to the forests of the elves, to the great halls of the dwarves, the greenskin must be put to the sword.”
--- High King Eldin, Vicar of Harrikan
A muscle in Ma-Gur’s face twitched once, the only outward sign that betrayed the discomfort he was in. The orc tried not to flinch again as the foul smelling breath of the ugly wizard wafted through his nostrils. The orcish wizard, Ghalik, whose name was both a call sign for himself and the title of his position within the tribe, grunted derisively and continued cutting the horizontal white stripe into Ma-Gur’s face.
The young orc was receiving his Blooding Mark, a unique ritual tattoo given to all orcs of the Angir tribe before they set off to become warriors. This was known to Ma-Gur and was the primary source of his discomfort. The pain in his face was almost nothing compared to the pangs of impatience and anxiety. He knew that once the tattoo was finished he would travel into the mountains with the rest of the Angir youths. There he would take part in the Blooding, a savage rite in which the youth of the tribe would battle for supremacy. In the Angir tribe supremacy meant everything from breeding rights, to food, to spoils of war.
A blinding pain forcibly removed Ma-Gur from his musings. Ghalik had slapped a handful of white ashes into the tattoo as he recited ancient words of magic. Upon hearing the words Ma-Gur knew that from now on there was no going back. All of the youths had been told about the Blooding Mark. It was both a symbol and a spell, cursing its bearer to either be victorious in battle or die fighting. For an orc warrior of the Angir there was no retreat, to do so would be to invoke the power of the spell and die a horrible death anyway, at least that was what the legends said.
The Ghalik grunted and motioned for Ma-Gur to stand and join the others as he motioned for the next young orc in line. There were about sixty all told, longhaired and muscled, straight-backed younglings who had never tasted battle beyond the playfulness of youth, which admittedly for an orc was quite rough. Once friends, many of them now eyed each other with murderous glares and barely concealed hostility.
In time Ghalik had tattooed everyone, and as he laid down his tools he motioned for the group to follow him. Without further communication the band of orcs followed the wizard out of the village and into the icy wilderness. No one spoke during the journey, as it usually was with their kind. Orcs had their own language of course, a corrupted and guttural form of the common speech used by man, elf, and dwarf. Though they seldom used it, most orcish communication was accomplished through body language, posturing, and that strange bond that all orcs seemed to share.
Some believe that this was because the orcs were once the favored of the gods. Able to take part in the marvels of creation as if gods themselves. It was through pride in their own magnificence that they forgot the generosity and divinity of the gods. They abandoned the light for the sake of the darkness that comes with hubris and self-worship. They became twisted and jealous, striving to find supremacy through a war with the gods. It was in this way that the orcs came to be.
These things the wizard told the younglings as they journeyed up the old mountain pass.
“Our twisted and warped race is the remnant of these failed demigods. Driven by a lust for supremacy that consumes all other goals in life. That is why we crave battle, because only in battle does the inner might of our race become supremacy over all things,” ranted the bloated Ghalik.
As he spoke his words began to fill the young orcs with a self-loathing sense of pride. These complex ideas and speeches were not lost upon their youngling minds. Orcs were by far one of the most naturally intelligent races to exist. It was their battle madness, lack of technology, and rough language that hid this fact from the rest of the world. Though at the same time Ghalik’s speech was likely the longest any of the younglings had heard any orc speak at one time.
“We do not build cities because we are made to destroy, not construct. We are immortal and bear many children, but are not great in numbers. It is our curse that we live to fight, but our blessings are in our strength and our might. We of the Angir are the keepers of this knowledge, supreme over all other orcs because we know the truth. Our knowledge gives us strength, that is why all other orcs are stooped and we stand tall in the radiance of our own greatness,” raved the old wizard.
The orcs began to lowly growl deep in their throats, sensing the climax of the speech that would send them to their Blooding.
“We killed all those who knew. Now we are the only ones who remember. The first among orcs!” bellowed the Ghalik as he led the group to a clearing at the peak of the mountain.
It was a circular depression in the earth that looked much like an arena. While no hands had crafted it or built upon it, the walls were smooth and flush. There was even a natural staircase leading down into the area.
“This is the proving ground of the gods,” the Ghalik stated as he turned to face the group of eager and mystified younglings.
They looked about in awe as they began to notice strange things about the arena itself. For some reason the snow that covered everything as far as the eye could see did not fall upon the arena itself. Not a flake could be seen to touch the smooth stone walls and the hard packed dirt floor. As they looked at the floor of the arena the young orcs noticed a large pile of ancient and rusted weapons lying next to the bottom of the staircase. There were axes, spears, shortswords, daggers, and many other cruel and wicked tools for violence.
Noticing their hungry gaze the Ghalik pulled a large sack from his belt as he began to address the group.
“Inside this sack are bone tokens. Each one has been dipped in a colored dye,” said Ghalik as he beckoned the group to circle around him, “Each of you take one.”
The young orcs all pressed forward, eagerly grasping a token and clutching it greedily. Soon the sack was empty and everyone had a small colored token.
“Now, everyone into the pit,” the Ghalik instructed as he pointed towards the natural arena, “Take a single weapon as you enter and then stand back against the wall.”
The young orcs did as they were told, each one picking up a killing tool as they spread out inside the pit. Once all of the orcs had weapons they stood with their backs against the walls of the arena, ringing the entire area with their large numbers. As they did this Ghalik moved along the top of the structure until he stood at what appeared to be a naturally formed stone chair. The young orcs watched as the bloated wizard hefted his bulk onto the throne.
“Each of you has a token. For every token there is a match. Find the match for your token amongst your brothers, and stand with he who is your match,” ordered the old wizard.
The younglings did as they were told. They held up their tokens in plain view as the sixty of them mingled about. Matches were found quickly, and soon thirty pairs of orcs stood facing Ghalik.
“As you might have guessed by now, the orc who is your match is your enemy. In order to be a warrior of the Angir you must walk on the path of your ancestors,” intoned Ghalik as he drew his battleaxe and gestured towards a nearby stone pillar bearing dozens of slash marks, as if struck by a blade, “When I strike this stone you will kill your brother in mortal combat. If you survive you will be a Blooded orc warrior, and every life you take will bring you a step closer to supremacy. Until the day when the orcish kind finally dies out, and goes on to challenge the gods.”
Ghalik paused for a moment as he allowed his word
s to take effect. He watched with morbid satisfaction as the memories of friendship and childhood camaraderie vanished in the eyes and expressions of the assembled orcs. They glowered at each other, the battlelust mounting in their hearts.
The orc wizard let the tension build for another moment, then with a great bellow he hefted his massive waraxe and swung it with all his might towards the stone pillar. The wide blade of the axe cleft a chunk of rock away from the pillar as the sound of the blow rang out across the frozen mountaintops.
With terrifying howls of rage and battlelust the younglings surged towards their partners. Littermates ran each other through with snarls of fury as one-time friends hacked and slashed each other into a great bloody mess. Within a few moments the initial frenzy of combat thinned as most of the pairs had brutally resolved their contest.
As most of the others backed away from the carnage, some still shaking with berserker fury, two combatants could be distinguished from the crowd. The remaining pair, Ma-Gur and Forglug, was still locked in deadly combat. The crowd gazed with eyes greedy from blood.
It was well known that these two orcs had been littermates and friends since birth. Bullies both, given their mutual large size amongst their peers, they were generally disliked by the other younglings but praised and encouraged by the warriors and elders of the tribe. All present were too intent upon the savage duel to notice the satisfied look upon Ghalik’s face. It would be taken as a good omen that the two strongest younglings ended up paired together. No one need ever know that Ghalik had used sleight of hand to ensure the duel’s arrangement. As with the orcs and their kind, prowess in battle was the basis of leadership, but Ghalik would not be who he was had he not had the gifts of cunning and foresight. By witnessing such a battle as was now taking place, the younglings would instinctually follow whoever emerged victorious. The newly emerging leader would become the captain of hid Blood Brothers, those who had survived this day alongside him. So as the youth of this generation looked to him, so he would look to his leaders. Thus maintaining and furthering not only the Angir way of life, but also the instinctual orcish ideals of divine ascension as the expression of personal might.
As all orc warriors knew, and these newly Blooded warriors would know, establishing supremacy of the orc race is the most potent method of each orc to reach the true goal of individual supremacy. Watching the two younglings do battle, Ghalik and the younglings all felt as if they watched their mythical ancestors at war.
Ma-Gur contemplated none of these things. His only thoughts were strike, parry, and kill. Gone were the memories of his lifelong friendship with his littermate, they had been turned to ashes by the bloodlust burning in his twisted soul. The days of his camaraderie with Forglug as they picked on the other younglings were over, their bittersweet ache barely felt as Forglug turned into an object in Ma-Gur’s mind. Now a nameless and hated thing, a piece of meat to be carved and discarded.
If Forglug thought any differently he did not show it as he swung his sword in a wide arc towards Ma-Gur’s midsection. The other orc barely had time to parry as he brought up the shaft of his two-handed axe, just in time to save himself. Unfortunately for Ma-Gur the wooden shaft was old and weak, Forglug’s blade was sturdy and it’s wielder strong. At the last moment Ma-Gur twisted his torso away in anticipation of the blow as the axe’s shaft buckled and the heavy blade slammed into his side.
The powerful blow forced Ma-Gur to his knees as Forglug brought his sword about for another swipe. By this time both combatants were cleaved and bloody in many places, axe and sword having tasted orcflesh several times as the battle progressed. Yet these duelists were orcs, and as such were both blessed and cursed with a tenacious single-mindedness that allowed them to carry on the fight even if near death. It was this singularity of purpose that afforded Ma-Gur with the strength to rise, despite his grievous wounds.
With a snarl of hatred Ma-Gur rose from his knees as he attempted one last desperate attack. In his off-hand he still held the jagged bottom half of the shattered axe handle, which he stabbed upwards into Furglug’s midsection. Still rising to his feet Ma-Gur easily sidestepped the other orc’s interrupted swing and with his right hand used his broken battleaxe to sever Furgulg’s right arm at the shoulder. The combination of sudden wounds bowled the unfortunate orc over, his mangled from spinning from the blow as the toppled down.
Nearly losing consciousness from his wounds and the loss of blood Ma-Gur lost his own footing and fell to one knee. There was a moment of silence as Ma-Gur bowed his head, then a gurgling howl sounded as the young orc looked up in alarm.
Forglug has somehow managed to get to his feet and was charging the kneeling Ma-Gur with sword held aloft with is remaining arm. With a pained groan Ma-Gur sprang to his feet and met the charge. His hand shot out to grasp Forglug’s descending wrist, stopping short the devastating blow. Without hesitating Ma-Gur buried his axe in Furglug’s neck, nearly severing the stout orc’s head from his shoulders. Furglug immediately fell to his knees as Ma-Gur struck his neck again, this time decapitating him.
The arena was silent for a moment as all watched the blood pump out from Forglug’s savaged corpse. Ma-Gur, with the battlelust still burning brightly in his eyes, raised his bloodied arms to the sky and roared. It felt so good! He drew a breath and roared again, this time his voice was joined by the deep-throated growls of his fellow survivors.
Their response caught his attention, and with a wicked grin he turned and began to advance menacingly towards the nearest youngling. The growls died in their throats as the other orcs stopped in their surprise at this new happening. Ma-Gur and the youngling raised their weapons as if they were going to fight. A look of resignation and bloodlust was on the face of the youngling, who knew he was no match for this approaching monster yet was determined to fight to the last. As they neared each other a powerful voice filled the air, stopped them in their tracks, though their eyes still betrayed barely contained violence.
“Enough!” bellowed the Ghalik as he thumped the butt of his war axe on the ground at his feet.
“Only the unworthy die today,” he commanded, “You thirty younglings are the survivors. The Blooded! You have proven yourselves in battle and are now worthy of the tattoos you bear. Now it is your duty to remember this day, now that you have learned. This is what makes you Angir. Let us return home as victors.”
The Ghalik motioned for the warriors to restack their weapons as they filed out of the arena and back down the mountain. The haphazard pile of killing implements increased as Ghalik drew a shiny new mace from his belt and threw it on the stack before he turned to go. The weapons grew cold in the mountain wastes, waiting until spilt blood warmed them again.
“I’ll tell you true, them as called Orcs are born with axe and shield in hand. The old songs say that for every one you see there’s a twin brother he left slain in the womb. I’ve spilled blood for coin in three wars, but you ask me to fight the likes of them, I’ll tell you I’m retired.” --- Reed, a sellsword
The crude boats glided silently across the icy surface of the slow moving river. The thin layer of frost gave way as the thin crafts made their way. These were neither the sleek canoes of the elves nor the strong flatboats of men and dwarf. The roughness of their arrow shaped design and the haphazard style of the craftsmanship gave away their orcish origins. Despite their primitive design they were good vessels, stronger but slower than elf craft and faster yet not as strong as the ships of man and dwarf. Each one was designed to hold four occupants. The orcs at either end of the boat did the paddling while the two in the middle held spears at the ready, in case of an opportunity to attack or the need to defend.
In this manner several score of such vessels made their way down river. A few days down the river lay a port town of men. In ages past the town had been larger and relatively undefended, but as the strength, numbers, and ambitions of the nearby Angir grew the townspeople felt the pressure to build. Now the town of nearly four hundred people conducted
its affairs within the protection of high walls and mercenary guardsmen. So far the building of fortifications and the garrison of mercenaries has fought off the small orc raids.
Little did they know that Ghalik of the Angir had been biding his time, holding off the main assault for reasons far more sinister than fear of walls or hired swords. He had been planning this raid for sometime now.
He had a fresh crop of young warriors in need of their first taste of manflesh. They were eager to prove themselves, and Ghalik knew that if he did not direct their bloodlust towards real enemies they would turn of each other. Raiding has been slowing down considerably in the last few years anyway. Towns were either being abandoned or becoming impregnable. It wasn’t that Ghalik or the Angir feared to lay siege to these fortified cities, it was that the Angir were few in number compared to the number of towns and their full compliments of sellswords and militiamen. Being such a small tribe was a difficult thing, especially considering the tribe’s ancient custom of the Blooding. Siege required vast amounts of resources and large numbers of troops, raiding however was the perfect method of warfare for the orcs of the Angir. As such, they were masters of hit and run assaults and were crack shock troops. To them siege warfare was the lowest form of combat.
The Angir were going to have to expand thought the Ghalik as he sat in his boat, the great waraxe of his predecessor lying across his lap. Perhaps they could overthrow the orcish clans in the south, who were large in number and had many strong women for childbearing. At this Ghalik began to think of his own childbearer. A great and bloated creature. He smiled as he pictured her resting her girth upon the mats and pillows that adorned her part of the Motherhut. Surely by now all of the women would be awake, gorging themselves on whatever food was brought to them by their youngling servants. After all, for most of their pampered lives they were eating for seven to ten.
Black Metal: The Orc Wars Page 1
