Chapter 1: The Warchief
"It is a cold day." He shuddered, pulling his cloak tighter about himself as the wind tried to pull it away.
My brother sneered, but did so behind our Warchief's back. I silently agreed with him, the Warchief was growing old indeed if a little thing like the weather was affecting him. With age might come Wisdom, but that was not the Ogre way! With age came weakness and no true Ogre would abide weakness, especially in their leader.
"What news from the front, Gnash?" The Warchief turned and glared at my brother, the Ogre fire evident in his eyes. Almost as if he knew what my brother was thinking.
Gnash averted his gaze before answering, "None good, Warchief. The dirty Dark Elves slip from our grasp at every attack."
"Hmmmm, perhaps I should have placed one more worthy in command of the front." The Warchief turned again to gaze down the cliff face at the forest below, but not before seeing the look of hatred flare in my brother's eyes. That look seemed to make the Warchief smile.
"Gnaw, what news from the flank?" The Warchief continued to gaze over the dark woods, but it was if he was staring into my soul. Such was the power I could still sense in him, no matter that he was growing older than any known Warchief before him.
"My scouts report little resistence, Warchief." I too looked out over the forest. "It's as if they're massing further in for some counterstrike." I looked to my brother, my eyes going wide in shock.
"The Dark Elves are tricksy, I give them that." The Warchief stated, "But, they cannot match the might of The Horde much longer." He turned to us with a grin. "You both will lead our armies to victory."
"There can be only one Warchief!" Gnash snarled, as he slammed his iron mace into the chest of the Warchief!
Such was the force of the blow, that it caused the Warchief to be thrown back. He would have simply landed on his back, if not for being on the edge of a cliff.
With a howl of rage, he fell. It was many hundreds of feet to the bottom and I heard his cry echoing off the rocks, "Traitorrrrrrrrrr!" In a long scream ending abruptly when he met the scree below.
I looked to Gnash when all was silent again. He had a look of shock upon his face, his horns almost seeming to quiver. "There can be only one Warchief." He whispered.
"He was growing weak, My Brother." I spoke firmly as Gnash turned to me, "You are Warchief now, won in fair combat with your enemy facing you!" It was true, the former Warchief had been facing Gnash, though newly turned and unaware that Gnash had already drawn back his weapon before it was too late.
Watching Gnash wait for him to turn was nearly laughable, but any sound from me would have alerted the former Warchief to his peril and he may have only looked over his shoulder instead. That would have proved Gnash's undoing, for it was the Law of The Horde: Any could challenge for leadership, but combat MUST be face to face, else the winner would be labelled a coward and banished, if not killed, outright.
"Thank you, My Brother," Gnash seemed to stoop in relief, "for witnessing my trial by combat." It was an assertion of my loyalty to him, nothing more. We both knew that it was no trial, as would others. But, they would wonder.
Gnash was strong. He was perhaps the strongest Ogre in The Horde. His armor was pieced together from the loot of his enemies, creating a mis-matched assortment of steel and leather that fit him irregularly. Such was the garb of an Ogre.
He wielded a mighty iron mace which could knock back even the largest of opponents, killing many with the first blow! Having fought alongside my brother all these years I could attest to his combat prowess.
But, the former Warchief had been a brute in more ways than one. He had disdained all weapons, preferring to rip his enemies apart with his bare hands. He had been so sinister that his reputation was a major influence on the lack of challenges for leadership he had fought. Not that there were none, but instead was due to what he did to the losers.
Trial by combat meant that if you lost and were still alive, then your fate became the choice of the winner. The former Warchief always preferred his meat raw and Ogre's were never particular about what they ate!
So, Gnash was understandably upset. His adrenaline must have been on overdrive, considering what would have happened if he had failed. I felt a similar sense of escaped doom, since I knew what was to come and I did nothing to warn the former Warchief. My fate would have been that of Gnash's, had he failed, and judging my brother's calculating mind, he would soon see this as well.
"We shall continue with the assault, then?" I asked, more in an attempt to break Gnash out of his thoughts of near doom.
Gnash looked to the forest, "Yes, but with all our forces." he spit over the side of the cliff. "And THAT for the Old ******* wanting to hold back reserves!" Gnash turned to me with a look of hate filled pride, "We are Ogres! What use are all these human plots and tricks? We will crush all those against us with overwhelming odds! The Horde will rule this valley before the day is done." He looked to the sky. The Sun was just now clearing the horizon.
"Bring in your scouts, send your forces in an assault of the flank." He barked as he moved away from the cliff and toward the slope behind us, "I will move the main host into the enemy concentration. They will not escape us this time."
I followed my brother down the slope, hoping his plan worked. If not, then the enemy would scatter further into the cursed woods and it would be hell to corner them again. But, I did not question, for he, not me, was the new Warchief and Gnash was right when he had said, "There can be only one Warchief!"
-End of Chapter 1
(More to follow)
Chapter 2: Dark Elves
"The damnable curs," The sneer fit his face, making him all the more gruesome, "running from every encounter! Cowards!" He screamed into the woods all about us, "A bunch of milk-sucking cowards!"
The bass rumble of my chuckle caused him to look to me with hate in his eye, but quickly lessened to smoldering dislike. True, he was a Blademaster, one of the fiercest fighters of The Horde, but he was no match for an Ogre! He tolerated the occasional amusement from me, whereas he would have slain a lesser for the same insult to his pride. For pride was all a Blademaster was allowed in The Horde. Every member was equal; every Orc, Gnoll, Kobold, Goblin, Troll and various other races that comprised the massed armies and called The Horde their home. Few joined with nothing but pride to call their own, all found that pride was all you were allowed to keep. To be of The Horde required utter obedience to the Laws and one was that no possessions shall make you better than your brothers. All treasures were shared, all fortunes, all loot, all possessions. Inequality of possessions, especially in a force of cutthroat, sinister and corruptable dregs that comprised the ranks of The Horde, would have bred resentment, contempt and ultimately chaos! Long ago the past leader's had laid down the Laws. The Horde still exist's, testament to the Wisdom of those Laws.
"They cannot run forever, Blademaster," I looked down at his sullen countenence with a rising sense of hate, "and when we corner them, your blade and my axe shall be the first to bleed their veins!"
The look in the Orcish eyes of the Blademaster turned to an almost orgasmic need. I knew my soldier's well, for bringing forth their own lust for combat was the most motivating force available to me. Some leader's prefered to use brute force, pushing their soldier's unrelentingly. I found this method to be suicidal at the least. In combat, many a leader, using this method, found their death in a well placed ally's sword blade. Other's tried the rewards of plunder to be a positive motivator, but many a Hordling was left with nothing when the masses were allowed free looting. Naturally that option produced more backstabbing than contentment. I found that battle lust, the sating of hatred, the release of pent up emotions, all of these things kept a soldier in check. Kept them as happy as any of our kind could be and still follow order's loyally. For, as their leader, it was I who orchestrated the fulfillment of these things and they knew that following my lead would bring them even more.
So, the Orc Blademaster loosened his sword in it's scabbard and smiled up at me, not with joy in his eyes, but with the sinister light of murder and mayhem, "My only wish is that my sword taste's their flesh e're your axe cleaves it, My Lord Gnaw!" His shark toothed smile of challenge made me chuckle again.
The noise of the scout's return brought an end to our talk and we both turned to regard the short little creature that seemed to materialize from the underbrush before us. His buckskins were lacerated and shredded in places, testament to the harshness of travel within the dark forest all around, but he bore surprisingly few scratched for all that. He gulped air hoarsely, as if he had been sprinting to reach us, "My Lord Gnaw," He panted, "Elves to the South, hundred's, laying in wait among the great trees there." He looked to the Orc Blademaster, then back to me, "They cannot run farther, for to the West are the Scree Cliffs and South and East roam the main force of The Horde." The Goblin smiled wickedly, his breathing finally recovered, "They have nowhere left to run!"
Goblins, how easily they were amused. I shared the glee, but as a dull reflection of his, for my mind was whirling with the coming battle, "Blademaster, take the Right Flank," I turned to my left, where were assembled the remainder of my Lieutenents, "Shaman and Witchdoctor, you as well." They nodded once only, moving to join the Blademaster. Both were Orc's as well, and if only one good thing could be said of Orc's, it was that they were decisive when faced with combat. I turned to the remaining three, "Warlock, War Troll and Slasher, you three will take the Left Flank." I grinned down at the almost miniature Kobold standing before me, "Do me proud, Slasher!"
The Kobold's were the smallest of the Hordling's, but I found them to be the most cunning. They were no match in combat to a well trained Orc, for sure, but what they lacked in brawn they more than made up for in cruelty. The Kobold Slasher was my favorite weapon to use in most situations. He was very fast and nearly invisible when attacking. The forged claws he used seemed an extension of his natural tiny claws, but much more deadly. With the speed and ferocity natural to his kind, he could gut an enemy before they realised he was among them!
"Slasher lives to serve Lord Gnaw!" The Kobold's grin was filled with supressed glee and sinister evil. Again, I couldn't help but chuckle to realise that a creature, no taller than my knee, could evoke such fear in an enemy nearly three times his size.
"Go!" I commanded and they departed, calling the troops to them with crisp orders. The battle would soon be joined and like countless times before, I relished the feeling. Never, in my 36 year's, have I ever fealt truly alive more than when engaged in combat! It's as if it were the lifeblood in my vein's.
I turned to the Goblin scout, "You will be beside me, Goblin. You have earned the honor as my Shieldman for this encounter!" How those few word's made him beam with pride! He rushed to my Left, grinning profusely, pulling forth two hand crossbows, no doubt tipped with venom, as was normal for most Goblin weaponry.
I waited, counting to a slow one hundred before giving the signal. As it was carried through the ranks, I started forward, hefting my Greataxe, the Goblin beside me and The Horde behind me.
It took less than an hour before the sound of combat was heard, muffled through the branches of the woods. Before I could wonder whose side may well be losing, we were among them! They dropped upon our ranks from the branches above, many an unsuspecting Hordling being slain with the first assault. If it was the intention of our Elvish attacker's to demoralize our ranks with their surprise ambush, then it failed utterly, for the sight and smell of blood, even our own, galvanized the Blood Lust common to each and every race of The Horde! Battle was joined, kill or be killed and let death embrace the fallen!
My axe cleaved the first Elf as he was descending toward me, his blood covering those around me. My second swing took another just as he landed at my feet, his sword standing no chance at blocking the force which propelled the great double-bladed weapon in my fist! The battle rage came upon me and I chopped, gashed and beheaded any and all around me. I screamed imprications and curses, taunting the Elves into a frenzy and soon found that all about me were almond eyes and black skins. I was in my glory, shrugging off blows that would have felled a lesser member of The Horde. But, I was an Ogre, born for combat, bred for war and I relished in the carnage!
Time passed slowly and quickly, time blurred, blood misted the air and I tasted it upon my tongue. I was swooping my axe upward through the ranks before me and while the dead rained down around me I whirled my axe to cleave as many as my reach would allow, finding individual hits too slow. The front ranks tried to retreat and the back ranks pressed in, trapping them to their doom. It was horrifiing, it was gruesome, it was a bloodbath, it was what I was born for!
Dimly I perceived power being used, the blast's from attacks erupting among the ranks surrounding me. I knew the follower's of Grommash were at work, culling the number's of the Elvish mass. Noticing a presence beside me I quickly looked down and spotted the darting form of the Goblin, awash in blood, firing his crossbow again and again, each bolt hitting true, each bolt slaying an enemy. Within the back of my mind I recalled his skill with his chosen weapons and noticed the proficiency with which he wielded them now. He seemed clumsy before, now he was a master! Taking him as my Shieldman must have rallied some inner skill with which he wielded his crossbow's with deadly accuracy and speed. His hands were ablur with reloading and firing, his aim never off. With the tightly packed throng about us, I doubt he could have missed had he tried!
Others became visible to me as well, as the battle shifted and my allies, my troops, my Hordling's came closer to me.
The Orc Blademaster, his curved sword wielded with two hands, was a maelstrom of Death! Never tiring, a master of the forms, his blade spoke for him and it told a tale of butchery!
The Shaman, calling forth tempest's, lightning and the Winds, laid about him with the power granted him by the God Grommash. None stood before him long, the force of a Hurricane in Orcish form!
The Warlock, the wielder of darker magicks, the netherworld opening through the channel of the Gloves of Orcus, the Demonlord of the Underworld! His touch caused fear, his aura created chaos and his stare was death itself touching their soul's!
The War Troll, one of the mightiest races of The Horde, laying waste to the enemy with every slash of his greatsword. Wounds inflicted upon him seemed to miraculously heal, as was the ability of all Trolls. He seemed unstoppable!
The Witchdoctor, wielding powers living up to his name. Healing all allies with soothing green aura's and propelling their efforts with magic to strengthen there combat prowess. Many an Elf tried to halt his actions, but found that he was not without defenses as well. Though not as powerful as the Warlock, the Witchdoctor too possessed a taint to the dark forces.
And my favorite, the Slasher! His claws were red with gore, his body glistening with blood, his countenence alive with glee! He was a whirlwind of death in a four foot Kobold form! Never did a weapon seem to touch him, his battle prowess seemed unmatched, dodging and leaping and killing. Never did an Elf survive an encounter with him!
I loved them all, for they were my soldier's, my warrior's, my killer's, my Lieutenent's and my brother's!
The Elves were breaking, the member's of The Horde swarming over them as they fled. I gathered my seven Lieutenent's about me as the battle moved off, the screams of the dying drowned by the shouts of their killer's.
"Glorious!" I boomed, raising a cheer from those around us who had no more enemies to kill.
"Victory is ours, My Lord Gnaw!" The Orc Blademaster stooped to clean his blade upon the jerkin of a fallen Elf, a smile upon his normally harsh face.
"The troops will push the remainder into the main force of The Horde, the battle is all but won." The Warlock looked about his comrades, each with a satisfied grin upon their bloody faces, "The feasting shall commence soon!"
"Liver's!" The War Troll smacked his lips, licking the blood from a face concealed within an iron helm. It was said his countanence was too horrid to gaze upon and never had I seen his face. Perhaps that was a good thing!
"Yes, the men have earned the right! Gather them up, ensure the main force is closing and the Elves' are routed." My Lieutenent's began moving off, barking order's over the fading din of battle.
I looked at the surrounding trees to the South, "I hope Gnash met with similar success!"
-End of Chapter 2-
(more to follow)
Prologue:
Within the Warrens life is cheap, many do not live to see their first year pass.
Your siblings are your first enemy, for they vie for the food that is available. All are siblings in the Spawning Den, though from different mother's, each is equal at that young age.
Killing your brother or sister is easily done in the dead of night, if you're cunning enough. I have done this, not once, but four times.
There were eight of us in the Spawning Den during my birth year. My true brother was the one who killed the other two. We didn't kill each other for blood loyalty, but instead due to being too cunning to fall for the tricks played on the others.
We were the only two to leave the Warrens alive of our generation.
The Mother's care not who lives or dies, hence their logic of placing all newborns together. Their goal is for the strongest to emerge and become a worthy member of the Clan.
Those few who do emerge alive are named.
My brother was named Gnash.
I am Gnaw.
Such is the way an Ogre is born.