Ma-Gur knew he was about to die. The look in the killing spirit’s eyes made it plain enough. He suddenly shook his head violently, clearing away the lethargy that the maddening gaze had set upon him. The Gor-Angir’s keen senses picked up on Ma-Gur’s return to awareness, it roared in its un-slakeable bloodlust as it dashed towards the young orc.
All the while the two creatures had been staring each other down the human warriors had not been idle. They had reformed their shattered circle and were closing in for the kill, the heads of their pikes glittering in the firelight.
Ma-Gur jumped back away from the killing spirit, and was about to turn and run when a sudden pain in his shoulder flooded his perception. Maybe the spell was real after all he thought as he reached up to grasp the spear point that was protruding from underneath his left collarbone. As an orc he was relatively capable of withstanding pain, yet as a flesh and blood creature he realized that he was not without his limits.
The Gor-Angir had nearly reached the young orc as Ma-Gur spun on his heel to face the spearman. In the process of turning around Ma-Gur was able to break the shaft of the spear, thus regaining control over his movements. As the human reeled in surprise the orc roughly grabbed the man underneath the armpits, and with a desperate snarl turned and hurled him towards the oncoming monster.
The killing spirit was distracted by the spearman flying through the air towards it. Though only for a moment as it swatted the poor man savagely in mid-air as if it were batting away meddlesome insects. Ma-Gur gaped in disbelief as the power and strength of the creature, even as it bore down on him, surely to end his life.
Again Ma-Gur forced him to snap out of the mental stasis that the presence of the creature seemed to cause. He turned once more to flee only to find his way barred by several of the surviving pikemen. Ma-Gur put on a burst of speed as he let out a war cry and raised his sword in a suicidal charge. The pikemen resolutely set their weapons to meet his charge, their faces masks of determination tinged with a fear of not only Ma-Gur, but also the abomination that swept along just behind the muscular young orc.
As the distance between Ma-Gur and the sharp points of the human’s pikes shortened the Gor-Angir was beginning to stretch out its massive taloned hands. At the last instant Ma-Gur lowered his sword and ducked into a roll, his body careening across the ground in a somersault and through the legs of the center pikeman. The orc’s momentum carried him through the pikemen’s line, knocking the luckless human to the ground. Ma-Gur rose from his tumble at a dead run, making for the raised edge of the town square. If he could just clear the wall he would be able to escape the monster, perhaps even survive to join his blood brothers in battle elsewhere.
The fallen pikeman rose to his knees just in time to see the taloned hand that swooped down to rend his throat. The other two humans made a valiant attempt to save their comrade. One took a step forward and plunged his weapon’s point deep into the creature’s thigh. While he was attacking the other warrior made a jab at the Gor-Angir’s misshapen skull.
The enraged killing spirit lashed out with its talons, and the warrior striking at its head disappeared in a spray of blood and bone. The warrior who had managed to wound it found himself lifted up brutally by the jaw. He was unconscious from the pressure of the creature’s grip almost instantly, so did not notice as his neck snapped as his body was flung through the air.
Ma-Gur reached the wall in a panic. He knew the thing was behind him, and it did not sound like the spearmen had stalled it for very long. He dared not look back however, preferring to keep his eyes on the wall that would help him survive this mess. The young orc barely paused to check what was on the other side or how far the drop was as he vaulted the high wall.
In midair he was struck with the corpse of a human warrior, the blow knocking him nearly senseless. He crumpled to the ground after a short fall, which hurt only because he failed to land his feet.
The Gor-Angir was preparing to leap off the wall after the young orc when several arrows thudded into its back. It turned quickly to meet the new threat, and found itself faced with half a dozen human warriors, battered but not broken, and charged.
Ma-Gur quickly climbed to his feet. The blow from the corpse had winded him, but not enough to cool the fires of fear. He snatched up his sword and fled deeper into the village.
For many long hours the town burned. The cold night was warmed by the blazing of fire and the steam of spilt blood. Many dramas and tragedies were played out under the unblinking gaze of the stars. It was a long time before the clash of steel ceased or the keening of the wounded and grieving grew silent.
As the first light of dawn crept over the mountains the kiss of the sun fell upon a burned husk of a town, a shadow of what it once was. Where there were once longhouses and meadhalls there were smoldering ruins and piles of ash. Where there were once people conducting their morning business now there were only orcs.
They moved silently about the dead city, plundering the area for what booty could be salvaged. Most of them had been to intent upon battle and murder to concern themselves with wealth. So it was with their kind, setting fire to the corpses of both man and orc, even the mutilated corpse of the Gor-Angir after it had finally fallen to the desperate might of the defenders. As dawn became morning the orcs waded back to their boats and set off for home. The older warriors were stoic and proud, Ghalik had once again delivered the enemy into their hands, another victory for the living legend. The younger warriors acted as if in a daze, still intoxicated by the rush of battle and pain.
Ma-Gur sat apart from the others, his newfound insights still smoldering within him. Ghalik watched the younger orc with an appraising eye. The youngling had disobeyed him, but the haunted look in the warrior’s eyes told Ghalik that this new knowledge was punishment enough. The orcs set out up river to return home as the carrion that circled the town descended into theirs.
“They build no walls, spend no gold, and forge metal for naught but war. We’ll take their lives with axe and hammer and put their bodies to the furnace.” --- Molin Bronzefoot, drawven armorsmith
The rough-cut boats made their way slowly up the river, the orc’s powerful strokes inching the boats along against the current. The run off from the morning melting had swollen the river, and the calm frozen river of night had become a treacherous afternoon ice floe. However, the orcs of the Angir were capable oarsmen and for nearly two days managed to skillfully avoid being sunk by the fast moving ice chunks.
Since going up river was a much slower process the sun was almost at its height on the third day before the raiding party was near enough to home to see the smoke. It was rising up through the trees in several places, white and soft wisps quietly billowing upwards into the sky. Ghalik did not need to tell the group to pick up speed, at the sight of the smoke the orcs were already dipping their oars at a superhuman pace.
They came around the bend in the river with spears poised, ready to repel any attackers whom sought to blindside them. On the beach there were many track and boat impressions on the coarse beach. The orcs were out of their boats and splashing ashore as they drew weapons and readied shields. After a moment Okada, the closest thing the Angir had to a scout, ran up to Ghalik to make his report.
“It appears that a force of men landed here and moved up the trail towards home. From the freshness of the tracks I would say that they arrived only shortly after we began our journey back upriver,” reported the breathless ranger.
“Did they return here, or to they await us in the village?” Ghalik questioned as he absently fingered his waraxe.
“I believe they came back this way. The tracks indicate that they came back down the path and left with their boats. Whatever happened here, we are too late,” explained Okada as he looked down.
Ghalik grunted derisively at Okada’s display of emotion, this was no time to grieve. The old wizard un-slung his waraxe and gave a hand signal to the waiting warriors, indicating that it was time to move in. The horde, which
had only suffered minimal casualties in the raid, moved up the trail silently. Everyone moved with a quiet urgency, their dread of what the smoke most likely meant was hard to mask.
The horde of warriors poured out of the forest and into the village, all secretly hoping that what lie before them would shimmer and disappear like a forgotten dream. They did not. Fires still burned and the smell of death was quite pungent and fresh. Ghalik ordered the group to spread out by clinching his fist then opening it again quickly, splaying out his fingers to symbolize his command. The orc warriors did as they were told and moved into the burning village.
Ma-Gur ended up stalking into the village next to Okada, the two orcs exchanging a grim nod as they tightened their grip on their weapons and advanced. They moved in close to the winter larders, the smell of burnt flesh clinging to their nostrils. The two orcs reached the building, its primary structure of mud and sticks totally burned away to reveal the still burning hardwood support beams. All of the food and cooking supplies that the Angir had stocked to see them through the winter lie in burnt heaps of melted fat and stinking ash.
As they stood in silent shock at the entrance to the burnt shell of the building they heard a small cry. Both immediately bared their weapons and prepared to fight, but no attack came. Again they heard the cry, this time the two orcs could tell where it was coming from.
“The children’s warren,” gasped Okada as he took off at a run towards a low ceilinged building near the ruined larder.
Ma-Gur quickly followed, but the larger orc had difficulty keep up with the smaller and faster scout. The two orcs reached the building just as three other warriors who had also heard the call arrived as well. With the quiet understanding so common to their race the five orcs spread out to surround the collapsed building. Once in position they converged on the center as they again heard the cry.
Ma-Gur and another warrior reached the source of the sound, which was coming from underneath a pile of collapsed mud wall that was being held down by a broken support beam. Ma-Gur and the warrior strained their muscles as they lifted the massive wooden beam. Okada and the other two orcs quickly began digging away the crumpled pieces of the wall as they heard the cry again.
They found a young orcish boy who had been pinned down underneath the crumbling wall. He was crying because it appeared that his leg was broken. With firmly set jaws the five warriors paused a moment to look at the boy. Unfathomable expressions played out over their faces, and then left as quickly as they came as their faces hardened once more. Okada reached out to hold the boy, firmly bracing him as another warrior grasped the boy’s broken leg. There was a moment of silence, then it was broken by a loud cracking noise and the boy’s yelp of pain as the orc set the bone.
The five warriors emerged from the smoke. Ma-Gur was carrying the boy, whose small arms were wrapped tightly around the big orc’s stout neck. The rest of the assembled orcs watched without comment, knowing better than to ask about the other children. Yet even the boy was only meant to live a short time. For as Ma-Gur walked on the boy’s arms fell slack, the shock of his leg and massive internal injuries just too much for his young body. The large warrior gently laid the body upon the ground, and walked on with downcast eyes.
The bodies of the small handful of orc warriors chosen to be left behind to defend the village lay scattered about the entrance of the settlement. Their bodies were hacked and bloody, many of them were riddled with strangely beautiful arrows. There was blood on a few of their weapons, which meant that at least they hadn’t died alone.
One of the living orc warriors yanked an arrow from a body and held it out to Okada to examine. The scout looked at it for a moment, then broke the arrow in his hand in disgust.
“Elves,” he spat as he threw the pieces at the torn ground.
“And men,” stated an orc who came out of the smoke with a few other warriors behind him. Over his shoulder was a body, which he unceremoniously dumped on the ground.
It was the corpse of a human male, a warrior by his armor. It appeared that before his body was buried and partially burned that he had worn a white surcoat. A well-known symbol of the men of Iithsul, religious zealots from a country far to the south.
“What are templars doing this far north?” asked one of the warriors.
“They most likely came at the behest of the Dalarns. Some of them escaped last spring when we sacked the city. Those limp-wristed pixie loving elves were probably scouts or something for the templars,” cursed another orc.
“Who were likely the only people who would aid the Dalarn survivors,” Okada mused as he looked at the destruction surrounding them.
“I knew we should have run them down when we had the chance, too busy setting fire to the place,” grumbled one of the orcs. His comment was answered by a handful of snorts and grunts, the closest expressions to laughter that most orcs made once reaching adulthood.
The group of warriors were interrupted from their subdued reverie as they heard the heavy footfalls of the majority of the horde tromping by. The remaining orcs quickly fell into step with the rest as they moved towards the back of the village.
What used to be the grandest, by orcish standards, building in the village was nothing more than a smoking heap. The Motherhut, living quarters for all the females of the Angir, had been completely destroyed. Even the massive hardwood timbers had been pulled from the ground. The hacked and charred bodies of the large females lay strewn about the area, and some could be seen partially buried under the smoldering debris.
The entirety of the orc warriors had congregated around the demolished structure. Not a sound stirred the silence that had descended upon the area. The orcs looked upon their slain women with numb acceptance. Death in battle was no stranger, but the sort of annihilation that faced them was beyond their experience. No one pointed out the obvious, that no more children would be born of an Angir mother. Certainly other mothers could be found, but the Angir bloodline, so ancient and strong, was now doomed to fade.
Ghalik, who had been standing silently next to the savaged body of his exclusive female, lifted his head to look at the assembled warriors. It was as if he somehow sensed the sudden decline in moral, a loss of will and might. He understood their grief and loss, perhaps more than they did themselves. For seven hundred years she had belonged to him and him to her, now so much discarded meat. He set his jaw firmly as he made his decision to carry on, it was that simple. He took a step towards the assembled orcs and began to speak.
“Warriors of the Angir, I know what you are feeling right now. We have been struck a mighty blow this day. One from which we will never recover. A mortal wound that will in the passing of time seal our doom. When the last of us dies, the true Angir will be no more,” intoned Ghalik as he paced like a caged animal.
“Oh yes we could take wives from other tribes. Strange women could bear our children and raise our families, but they would not be Angir. We have been dealt our death blow today,” he uttered as he suddenly pointed at Ma-Gur, “You. What do we do when a warrior is dealt a horrible wound but does not die?”
Ma-Gur almost balked at the dangerous sparkle in the old wizard’s eyes, then he realized what the Ghalik was implying. The thought set his heart to racing.
“We pack his wound with magic and summon into him the killing spirit of our tribe,” stated the young orc, pride and fear making his voice rumble. At his words the assembled orcs opened their mouths in shock.
“The Gor-Angir,” hissed Ghalik as he smiled wickedly, “Are we not wounded warriors? Are not our wounds packed with the ashes of our dying tribe? The mothers are gone, and all that remains are we the fighters. What else can we be except killing spirits? We are the Gor-Angir. Made by our enemies so that our vengeance will know no bounds!”
His speech was answered by the deep rumbling howls of the horde. Ghalik joined them in their primal scream, venting their rage and sorrow at the impassive skies above. Generations later woodsmen and trappers brave and foolish enough t
o work the frozen mountains still tell stories about the day the mountains raised their voices to the gods. Angered that men were allowed to pass upon their snow-covered slopes.
“Never bet against an orc gladiator in the arena, unless the opponent is a troll, and even then your odds are decent if the orc is a blooded Angir.” --- commonly overheard in the fighting pits of Solar
The old wizard carefully stirred the last of the glowing green powder into the warped and fire blackened pot he had discovered in the wreckage of the village’s larder. While he was busy mixing the powder the rest of the orcs were scavenging what they could from the desolate area. Very little useful items had been spared, it was as if the enemy had known the warriors would return and have to face the winter without equipment or supplies. The relatively empty handed warrior began to congregate around Ghalik as they returned from their fruitless searches.
“We will never catch them if we do not give ourselves some kind of advantage,” stated the wizard as he finally finished mixing and stood up to face the now fully assembled horde.
“The wound is in our hearts, so we will drink this potion to get the magic inside us,” continued Ghalik as he poured the contents of the pot into the large waterskin he carried at his side. While he did this the watching orcs grumbled to themselves, knowing full well what the powder could do and questioning the purpose of taking such a risk. Ghalik sensed the derision, so took a quick drink from the skin. The orcs backed up a step in fear and surprise at the breaking of an ancient taboo. Ghalik turned and walked towards them.
“Everyone must drink. Take this potion and you will be able to have your revenge. You won’t become monsters, there is to little magic for it to happen to us all. But what you do take will give you the power to catch our enemies, no matter what lead they have on us,” Ghalik bellowed as he looked at the orcs gathered around him, “Who has the courage to become the Gor-Angir, and take the fight to those foolish men?”
Black Metal: The Orc Wars Page 3
