BIRTH OF A LEGEND
Gav Thorpe
“Grungni’s beard, I wish they’d quieten down! I’ve got one hell of a hangover!” King Kurgan spat derisively at the burly greenskin watching over them.
The four dwarfs were tied to stakes, their hands and ankles bound with crude rope. A huge bonfire raged not far off and the orcs were celebrating their victory. The air was filled with the sound of beating drums and the woods reverberated with the constant pounding. As the night passed, they broke open huge barrels of their foul intoxicating brew to wash down the hunks of charred dwarf flesh they had eaten earlier. The flames of the fire leapt higher and higher and the orcs shouted louder and louder.
Kurgan’s blood boiled. He strained at his bonds with all his strength. It was to no avail; the knots remained as tight as ever. He was condemned to look on despondently while the foul creatures made a banquet of his household. Over to his left, Snorri slumped semi-conscious against his pole. The others, Borris and Thurgan, seemed similarly dazed. The king’s gruff voice cut across the laughter and shouts of the orcs.
“Snorri! Hey, Snorri! A curse upon us for being captured rather than killed, wouldn’t you say?”
The venerable advisor groaned and looked up at his king, one eye screwed shut with pain, the lids stuck together with congealed blood from a cut on his brow.
“Aye, a pox on the green devils for not ending it honourably, sire. I’ll see them all rotting in hell ’fore I’m for the pot! Mark my words!”
Despite their predicament, Kurgan was heartened by Snorri’s defiant words and he grinned to himself. Out beyond the fire he could see the orcs smashing open the barrel of ale he had been taking with him to his cousin in the Grey Mountains. A tear glistened in Kurgan’s eye as he thought of that fine brew, made over five hundred years ago and matured in oak casks stored in Karak Eight Peaks, wasted in stunted orc throats. What he had paid for that small keg could have trained and equipped an army for a month. The potent ale had seemed like a good investment at the time, but when the orcs had poured from their hiding places yelling their shrieking war cries, he had realised that perhaps the money should have been spent on an army after all.
Kurgan pushed aside thoughts of ale and studied the orc camp, trying to figure out a plan of escape. Most of the orcs—he wasn’t sure how many there were—sat in small groups, dicing, squabbling or just sprawling, bloated. The smaller goblins scurried to and fro, fetching and carrying for their bigger cousins, who would occasionally kick or punch one of them for raucous entertainment. A particularly inventive black orc used his spear to elicit a yelping noise which the orcs found amusing.
Kurgan could see that most of the dwarfs’ stolen weapons, armour and treasure was piled all over the camp, with no plan or order. In one part of the clearing, Kurgan’s mighty field tent had been crudely erected for the orc leader, although the sides of the massive marquee had not been unfurled. Inside, gold and gems were piled high, but Kurgan was looking for the magical weapons and armour that had been stripped from him and his Longbeard retainers. Across the darkness Kurgan could make out the massive warlord, sitting on a fur-backed throne at one end of the tent while his drinking cronies squatted around him. A mass of glittering treasure was spilled around them. They laughed heartily at some brutal jest. Perhaps the warlord felt Kurgan’s gaze lingering on him, for the orc slowly turned his heavy head to fix the dwarf king with evil red eyes. That malevolent glance fastened Kurgan to the wooden stake as surely as the ropes which bound him. For a short moment he stopped struggling.
Kurgan regained his composure, scowling at the dark savage with what he hoped was his most frightening glare. The warlord backhanded one of his subordinates for some misdemeanour, sending the orc sprawling in a spray of teeth. The huge brute stood up abruptly, shouting something to his subordinates, his bosses. He grabbed a passing goblin and tossed the unfortunate creature into the blazing campfire. As the warlord’s comrades laughed at this jest, the huge orc began stomping towards Kurgan. His glowing eyes never left the dwarf for a moment. The milling throng of orcs and goblins parted effortlessly before the stride of the mighty warlord, closing in behind their leader as he marched towards his most prized captives.
The orc warlord was dressed in heavy black mail and studded plates, and even Kurgan found himself thinking that he presented a fearsome sight. At his belt hung a string of grisly trophies: severed heads, hands, feet and ears dangled from a chain looped around a thick leather strap. The warlord’s skin was dark green in colour, almost black, and slab-like muscles rippled beneath the surface. The orc’s bucket-jawed head thrust forward from between two chain-bedecked shoulder pads, his red eyes burning with fierce power. They were pinpoints of pure hatred, smouldering with a barely-repressed violence that made Kurgan tremble with fearful anticipation. Switching his gaze before he betrayed any weakness to the advancing orc, he looked at the huge column of smoke pouring into the sky, lifting burning fragments of his comrades’ clothes into the chill night air.
Across the woods, other eyes had seen the smoke. Now they moved silently through the forest towards its source.
Ansgar turned to the youth leading the hunting party and asked the question which had been nagging him.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? We’ve got no clue as to what’s out there!”
The burly young man simply turned to him and winked, before pressing forward along the rough track. Ansgar sighed and beckoned the rest of the party to follow, swapping worried glances with a couple of the older members, veterans of no few battles. Eginolf passed by and Ansgar fell into step with his twin brother.
“I don’t like this at all, Eginolf. He’s a fine lad, but he’s not ready for something like this. Headstrong, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” came the grunted reply.
Ansgar shrugged and padded along the game trail in silence, his hand holding his sword to his thigh to stop it making any noise. The hunting party included warriors of all ages, from veterans in their thirties like Eginolf and himself, to seasoned warriors in their early twenties and untried boys who had seen only a dozen summers.
Their leader, perhaps surprisingly, fell nearer that end of the scale. The youth was a fine-looking young man. Only fifteen, he was already over six feet tall and his well-muscled body put any man to shame. It wasn’t only his physical prowess that impressed Ansgar, though. The hunt lord was clever and canny, with an experience of hunting and battle that belied his age. The lad had a toughness inside too, a resolute stubbornness to overcome any problem.
Ansgar fondly recalled a time, maybe five years ago, when a party had gone to the river to catch fish. The group had been confronted by a massive bear, there for the same purpose. Everybody else had frozen, but the young lord had strode forward, hands on hips, until he was a few paces from the huge beast. “These are our waters, fish somewhere else!” he stated in a level voice. Ansgar had expected the bear to swipe the boy’s head off, but instead it had looked at the youngster’s unwavering stare and had turned and lumbered into the woods without a growl.
From that day, the young lord had become known as Steel-eye, and his reputation had done nothing but grow. He was a good leader, generous to those who served him well, swift to act against the enemies of the tribe. He was very much like his father and when that great man was eventually ushered into the halls of the dead, his successor would bring a time of equal prosperity. But that was for the future. All that mattered now was finding out who was trespassing on their lands.
The warriors of the hunting band were dressed for the cold night, their brightly patterned woollen breeches and fur-lined leather jerkins protecting them from the biting north wind. Most of the men wore their hair in one or two long braids down their back, woven with bright ribbons and beads to match their chequered leggings.
As the lord’s hunting party, they were equipped with the finest weapons forged from sturdy metal mined in the south-eastern foothills. Each of the men also had a short hunting bow, carved from the horns of mountain cattle. The warriors of the tribe were taught how to use the bows from the time they were able to lift one, and even in the darkest night they rarely missed their mark. Ansgar was proud to carry the champion’s bow, edged with gold and silver thread, which he had won four times in the last six years. Whatever his words of caution, Ansgar was as eager for a fight as any of them, looking forward to the promise of more glory in battle. If there was some fighting to be done this night, he would be ready for it.
The party moved on in silence, the forest around them in almost total darkness as the cloudy sky obscured the twin moons. Now that they had dropped into the dale the distant flicker of fire could no longer be seen, but the scouts had taken their bearings well and they were headed almost straight to the north to investigate the intrusion. Soon they would find out just who it was who thought they could camp within their borders.
By the time the warlord was stood in front of his dwarf captives, most of his warriors were behind him. His head cocked to one side with concentration, the large orc looked at each of them in turn, assessing their remaining strength. Noticing Snorri’s injury, the massive black orc’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile and he stepped forward for a closer look.
It was just the opportunity Snorri had been waiting for. Lashing forward with his head, the old dwarf delivered a smashing butt to the bridge of the orc’s nose, sending a spatter of green blood spilling through the night air. The mumbling throng behind him fell silent except for a few gurgling gasps of horror and the clatter of the odd weapon or cup dropped in stunned disbelief. As the chieftain shook his head to clear the dizziness, one of his lieutenants stepped forward, a bared scimitar lifted above his head. His intent was clear. Angrily, the chieftain pushed the orc back into the mob and grinned evilly at Snorri. Wiping away the mixture of blood and mucus dripping down his long top lip with the back of his gnarled, scarred hand, the battle-hardened orc chuckled. “I likes dis wun—’e’s gorra lorra spirit, hur hur!”
When the stunned silence continued, the warlord slowly turned on his heel to glare at his warriors. Under his hostile gaze, the mob broke into howls of sycophantic laughter. Satisfied with this display, their leader turned back to the dwarfs, his attention now firmly fixed on Kurgan.
“Wotcha, stunties! Are we cumfurtabble? Do yooze knows what I’m gonna do wiv yooze lot? Dere’s lots of fings we can do togewer, and it’ll be a lorra fun. We ’ad a lorra fun wiv yer mates!”
To illustrate his point, the warlord let rip with an enormous belch, spattering Kurgan with spittle. The stench of charred dwarf flesh and fungus beer was nauseating and the dwarf king felt his stomach lurch uncontrollably. With some effort, Kurgan quelled the bile rising in his throat and grimaced at the warlord.
“Course, we woz ’ungry den, so we ’ad to be pretty quick wiv da butcherin’. Yooze fellas, we’s gonna take our time over, ain’t we lads?”
The warlord turned to his ragtag army, his cavernous mouth yawning open to display an impressive set of yellowing, cracked fangs in what Kurgan assumed was the orc equivalent of a grin. This time the mob cheered on cue, laughing heartily. Kurgan tried once more to loosen his bonds, without success.
“Da furst fing we’s gonna do is put yer feet inna fire. Dat’ll warm yer up fer sure. Den we can stick fings in yer eyes, so’s you don’t see no more. Den we’s gonna chop off yer fingas and toes and ears and noses and hack off yer luwerly beards. I fink yer king’s beard will go well wiv me uwer mates.”
The orc stretched and grabbed a handful of Kurgan’s hair, dragging his head forward until it was level with the vile decaying decorations on the orc’s belt. The stench of rotting blood and filth emanating from the warlord’s unwashed fur leggings made Kurgan want to retch, and he had to muster every ounce of self-control not to heave up his breakfast. The warlord released his grip and continued.
“Den I fink we’ll start boilin’ bits of yer inna pot, and we’ll feed ’em to yer so’s yer don’t go ’ungry. Yooze stunties are tough ’uns, no mistake, and I reckon dere’ll still be plenty of life left in yer after dat. So den we start peelin’ yer skin off an’ feedin’ it to da boarz. Da last fing we’s gonna do is cut out yer tongues, cos by dat time yer’ll be screamin’ really loud and musical, beggin’ us ta stop ’avin so much fun.”
Kurgan spat again, and raised his head to stare straight at the old orc. Clearing his throat of smoke and ash, the dwarf king’s voice rang clearly out over the camp.
“You have plagued us for many years, Vagraz Head-Stomper, and we have never been afraid of you. You don’t frighten us now! You will never get me to beg anything from you, you worthless dung-head! I’d bite off my tongue before I would give you that pleasure. You can torture us, but you’ll never break our spirits.”
The warlord frowned at the interruption. With a non-committal grunt, the orc delivered a short punch to Kurgan’s jaw, smashing his head back against the post and splitting his lip.
“You mite not fink I’m very smart, but I knows a few fings about yooze stunties. F’rinstance, I knows dat da worst fing for you is gonna be to watch yer mates gettin’ it furst.” Gazing at the roaring fire and then back to the dwarfs, Vagraz gave an evil chuckle. “Enough words. Let’s get started!”
With that he spun and delivered a mighty kick to Snorri’s midriff. The ancient counsellor fell to his knees, doubled up with pain. Another kick from the iron-capped boots knocked Snorri sideways, spiralling down the pole until he was left choking in the mud. Eager to regain his lost standing, the burly orc with the scimitar pushed forwards again, two swift hacks severing through the ropes binding Snorri. As a goblin darted forward to wind more cord around the dwarf’s wrists, the orc subordinate leant down and snarled into Snorri’s ear.
“Lucky you, da boss wants yer furst!”
The moons broke from the cloud and the party halted briefly by a swift-running brook. The men sat down in the undergrowth along the bank, splashing the cold water onto their faces, swallowing a few gulps of the cool, refreshing liquid and chewing on the odd meat twist or fruit they had brought along. Soon they were moving again. Slipping silently into the darkness, disturbing the bushes and branches less than the touch of a breeze, the scouts ran off ahead.
Soon the first of them returned, melting back from the shadowy darkness. They gathered around the hunt lord to report. The oldest of them, Lando, spoke first.
“It’s an orc camp, lord. It’s difficult to say how many, they keep moving around, but by my reckoning it’s odds of at least four to one in their favour. They’ve got a few guards, but they’re all drunk. We could slit their throats without any problems. From the trails they seem to be heading westward, from the mountains.”
Frodewin carved a picture of the scene in the dirt. “The most sheltered approach is from the west. We can circle round the Korburg and move up Aelfric’s Vale to attack. The moons are almost set; soon it’ll be completely dark. With that massive fire they’ve got burning, their night vision is going to be worthless. We should be able to pick off half of them before they realise there’s anything amiss.”
The blond curly hair of Ringolf bobbed up and down with excitement as the young lad pushed his way to the front to add his news.
“They’ve captured somebody, but I couldn’t get close enough to find out who.” The young man gulped a breath. “There’s a whole horde of them. Maybe we should wait for the others to arrive.”
Steel-eye sighed and looked at each of his men. Without a word, he turned and started off towards the orc camp at a run. The others exchanged confused glances and then followed without protest. The going was easy, following a deer track to the west through the ferns that studded the base of the mound known as Korburg. The scouts slipped ahead once more, spreading out to silence the slumbering sentries they had located. The main party continued around the tor, breaking to the north when it reached a small stream which splashed down the steep slope from a high spring.
Quickly and carefully, the hunters passed through the woods without a sound. The twin moons dipped out of sight and the forest was plunged into blackness. Steel-eye signalled a stop and then moved forward, tapping Ansgar and Eginolf to indicate they should accompany him. They half crouched, half ran towards the clearing. Ansgar could hear the drums and the chants of the orcs quite clearly now—and smell the stench of burning flesh on the breeze. The old huntsman uttered a whispered curse and Eginolf placed a warning finger to his lips. He pointed towards a small thicket where a dozing orc leant against a tree, its crude club lying next to it.
Without a sound, Eginolf drew his long hunting knife and slipped into the trees. A moment later he was rising out of the bushes behind the orc. His hand clamped around its long jaw and the knife flashed down in one swift stroke. Eginolf laid his prey down carefully before rejoining his fellow huntsmen who lay in a clump of ferns at the edge of the clearing. From here they could clearly see four dwarf prisoners tied to stakes, two of them pretty badly wounded. As they watched, an immense black orc walked over to the dwarfs, followed by almost the entirety of his warband. There was a brief exchange, during which the chieftain was knocked sprawling by a head butt from one of the captives. All three of the humans grinned in appreciation of this act of defiance, and both Eginolf and Ansgar nodded when their lord started to string his bow and gestured for them to fetch the other warriors. Before long, the whole war party was hiding along the western face of the clearing. In the centre of their line, Ansgar and Eginolf flanked the hunt lord. One of the dwarfs was being dragged from his post and they watched as he started to fight with his captors before being savagely beaten into acquiescence. Ansgar spat and whispered another curse, before shooting an inquiring look at his master.
“As much as it riles me to see such creatures on our lands,” he whispered urgently, “why should we risk ourselves for the stunted beardlings? They’ve never offered a hand to us.”
Steel-eye spoke for the first time that evening. His voice was strong but quiet. It had an authoritative ring to it which forestalled any quarrel.
“I don’t like orcs. Any being, man or dwarf, who can still put up a fight when bound certainly earns my respect.” He pulled an arrow from his quiver and rose to one knee.
Snorri was hauled roughly to his feet. As the orcs jostled him towards their leader, the venerable dwarf lashed out with his foot, smashing the knee of one of his guards. As the other orcs grabbed him, Snorri stamped on the fallen orc’s neck, producing an audible crack. He was bundled to the ground, the orcs kicking him and jabbing him with the butts of their spears. Throughout the cruel, mocking laughter of the warlord cackled out over the roar of the fire. Bloodied, smeared with mud and half-fainting from pain, Snorri was dragged across the camp towards the fire. The orc mob gathered around, whooping and cheering, eager for blood.
The air was suddenly thick with black-feathered arrows, each picking out a separate target with lethal accuracy. The orcs had no time to scream before they were dead. Even as the others in the camp looked around with dumbfounded disbelief, a second hail of shafts picked off another swathe of greenskins. The air was filled with startled, raucous cries. The drunken orcs fumbled to get their weapons ready, stumbling over their dead companions and tripping over the stashes of loot that littered the clearing. Another deadly volley poured from the dark trees, followed by a series of whooping cries as a band of humans broke from their cover, dropping their bows and drawing long knives and swords from their belts.
Kurgan strained again at his bonds, then looked up at Thorin’s yell.
“This is our chance, uncle! Let’s try to get out of here while the greenskins are diverted by these primitives.”
A glance to his right confirmed to Kurgan that Borris was still unconscious, hanging from the ropes like a tattered rag doll. The massive bruise on Borris’ head was as dark as coal and dried blood stained the whole side of his face. Escape didn’t look very likely, but Kurgan was not one to look a gift pony in the mouth. He clenched his teeth and wrenched at the ropes once again.
The orcs had now recovered from their initial surprise and had started to organise themselves. Compared to the mass of greenskins, Kurgan thought the humans looked pitifully few. Gnashing his teeth in frustration, he strained at his bonds until his arms went numb, but there was no give in the ropes. Despite their lack of numbers, the humans were taking a heavy toll of the stunned, drunken orcs. One young man in particular was cutting a bloody path through the horde, slaying another orc with every swing of his sword. The greenskins were beginning to surround their attackers though, and Kurgan feared the reprieve from the orcs’ bloody attentions would be shortlived.
Ansgar was grinning with the rush of battle, even as he parried another serrated orc sword. Lunging forward with his left hand he buried his hunting knife in the savage’s midriff. As the orc dropped gurgling to the floor another stepped forward, only to be felled by a blow from Eginolf, who fought to his brother’s right. The twins looked around for more foes. Their hunt lord was surrounded by a throng of greenskins, but even if they’d been sober the orcs would have been poor match for the mighty human lord. Although covered in a dozen light scratches and bruises, he paid no heed to his wounds and fought with the ferocity of a bear. Roaring the tribe’s battle cry, he plunged his sword through the neck of a goblin and, with a backhand blow of his knife, disembowelled another.
Most of the goblins were dead or fleeing into the welcoming darkness of the forest, and no few orcs too. Nevertheless, Ansgar could see that the surprise attack would peter out unless they could break the main orc horde. Suddenly his attention was drawn to Steel-eye. Screaming in anger, the youth leapt over the heads of his attackers to come crashing down in the middle of their impromptu shield-wall. Ansgar lost sight of him behind a wall of green bodies and flailing swords.
Concerned for his lord, Ansgar shouted for his trusted veterans to follow him. He set off through the throng, hacking his way towards the youth. Ansgar’s worry was short-lived. The muscled young man burst into view, rearing up from a tangle of corpses to hack at the exposed backs of his would-be attackers. Breaking in panic, the orcs tried to run, only to be cut down as Ansgar and Eginolf led their seasoned fighters to support their leader. There was an open route to the captives now, and Ansgar directed some of the men to act as a rearguard while the rest followed Steel-eye as he hurried towards the dwarf prisoners.
Kurgan couldn’t help but be awed by the fighting prowess of the young human, obviously their leader from the way the savages clustered around him. Even as the dwarf king watched, the youngster effortlessly dodged a clumsy spear thrust, before stunning his attacker with the pommel of his sword. Ducking beneath a wild axe swing to slash the hamstrings of another greenskin, the youth stabbed upwards with his knife, showering himself in a fountain of orc blood. Kurgan almost felt like a spectator at some macabre dance, watching carefully choreographed moves executed with grim precision. The young man was constantly moving, weaving between the blows of his adversaries while his own weapons bit deep with every strike. A powerful kick to the spine sent a black orc crumpling to the ground, while the lad headbutted another adversary, snapping the orc’s spiked helmet back with a jarring crack.
Kurgan noted that the other humans weren’t faring badly either. A few had fallen, but nowhere near as many as the orcs. The lithe huntsmen darted through the throng in pairs and trios, singling out a foe to gang up on. After dispatching one individual they would find another, and so on, moving through the orc camp with ruthless efficiency. For all their primal savagery, the humans were brave fighters.
Kurgan heard Thorin spit a curse and he turned to see his nephew glaring angrily at the approaching humans.
“What’s wrong, lad?”
“Those damned pinkskin humans. They’re fighting over us with the orcs. I don’t know which of them is worse. With orcs you know they’re a bunch of cut-throat scum, but these humans are all falsehoods and backstabbing. They’ve probably come to cart us off to whatever foul pit they call a home. And they’ll take the treasure too, I’ll warrant.”
“Mayhap, lad. Whatever their reasons, as long as they’re killing greenskins I’ve no quarrel with them. I’ll give them their dues, they know how to swing a sword when the going gets tough. Quit bellyaching and try to get free!”
Kurgan turned his attention back to the battle. Some of the humans had broken through the orc line and their leader now led a small group of their oldest warriors towards the dwarf king. Seeing their painted faces, foam-flecked lips and wild, bloodthirsty eyes, Kurgan was unsure he wanted to be the object of their attentions. Still, these stupid humans might unwittingly provide him and the others with some chance of getting away. Without a word, one of the youngest warriors ran behind the posts and Kurgan winced as he anticipated a dagger thrust to his kidneys.
It never came. Instead, Kurgan felt the rasping of a knife against his ropes. They were wound loosely around the pole itself, looped many times over and the lad was having difficulty cutting through them as they slipped and slithered up and down the rain-slicked pole. Kurgan exerted all his strength in one last mighty effort. With a snap the ropes parted and he pitched forward into the mud. In another few moments his legs were free and he looked up to see how the battle was progressing.
A quick glance showed Kurgan all he needed to know. Despite the casualties inflicted on the orcs, things still looked grim. Skill and speed was one thing, but in this battle raw muscles and numbers counted for more and the pressure was beginning to tell on the men. Almost half the humans had fallen; now only the toughest and most skilful fighters remained. Hoarse war cries were drowned out by the clash of metal on metal and the screams of the wounded and dying. Foot by foot, the humans were being pushed back.
Thorin was free now, but the humans were having trouble cutting loose the bonds on the unconscious Borris. With a snarl, their blood-drenched leader sheathed his sword and grabbed the stake itself. He heaved upwards, muscles bulging under the pressure. His legs were slowly straightening, even while his booted feet sank into the mud. Kurgan looked on in astonishment as the top of the pole begin to rock from side to side, first only a few inches, and then a foot, and then it was swaying wildly. With a grunt and a twist, the stake came free and toppled to the ground. A tall human with plaited hair and a drooping moustache stepped forward, slipped off the ropes holding Borris to the stake and draped the inert dwarf over one shoulder.
The young human leader was about to start back towards the fight, but Kurgan grabbed his cloak. He formed the unfamiliar words of the human language with difficulty, speaking in a thick accent.
“You not hold them off by your own. Thorin and I can help. Ancient dwarf weapons here, lots of runes. Magic. Understand me?”
The young man stepped back in astonishment, then grinned widely. Kurgan was surprised by the calm strength in his voice, even though his chest was rising and falling rapidly from his recent exertions.
“You’ve got magic weapons here? Why are we standing talking? Let’s go get them!”
They set off at a run towards the warlord’s ramshackle tent, even as the human line began to falter under the constant onslaught of the orcs. A few of the greenskins broke through and raced across the muddy clearing, eager to intercept the freed prisoners. Kurgan and Thorin both looked around for something to fight with, stopping to grab a couple of axes and shields from the piles of loot left over from the orcs’ ambush.
By now the main fight was raging around the part of the camp given over to the warlord, and the humans were being pressed back to within an arm’s reach of the tent. Vagraz wasn’t about to give up the treasure and prisoners he had already fought for once that day. The humans around Kurgan shouted their battle-cry once more and charged into the fray. The human leader was leaping amongst the orcs, sweat gleaming off his rippling muscles in the flickering firelight. He moved with a grace rarely found in one of his size, darting through the crowd and hacking down a mountain of foes.
Now Vagraz himself led the greenskins, a mob of black orcs around him. They were fearsome foes and the heavily armoured orcs smashed into the humans with terrible ferocity. The warlord cleaved through a handful of humans with a single blow from his massive axe. Vagraz’s backswing beheaded another unfortunate before the orc strode forward to deal more death. The humans fell back before him.
Having gained the warlord’s tent, Kurgan and Thorin rummaged through the treasures stolen by the orcs, searching frantically for their ancient weapons and armour. Nothing else would hold back the tide of greenskins now. Beside them lay the still form of Borris, whose deathly pallor did little to cheer Kurgan. Looking up briefly, he saw the orc warlord crush the face of a hunter with a mighty punch, before swinging his axe round in a deadly arc that left three more fighters dismembered. Cursing his befuddled head and aching limbs, the dwarf king redoubled his search.
Before the tent, Ansgar and Eginolf fought back to back, surrounded by a crowd of orcs whose blows rose and fell with relentless ferocity. Each of them was marked by a dozen light cuts, but the pile of bodies around them testified that each drop of blood had been drawn at a heavy price.
As Ansgar gutted one orc and stepped back to avoid the swipe of a sword, he felt Eginolf stumble behind him. Hacking wildly at his foes to push them back momentarily, Ansgar glanced over his shoulder. Eginolf, his twin brother, was on his knees. A spear had punched through his stomach; its barbed point now jutted from his back. Eginolf still swung his sword and screamed at the orcs.
“It’ll take more than a green scum twig like this to end me. I’m going to bathe in your blood, you cowardly wretches!”
Time slowed for Ansgar as he saw a black orc push forward from the throng, a mighty cleaver in each hand. Even as Eginolf weakly fended off one blow, the other arm swept down with unstoppable force. Helpless to intervene, Ansgar watched with horror as the head of his twin tumbled to the ground.
Something inside Ansgar snapped. Yelling incoherently with pure rage, he threw himself at the orcs with renewed vigour. He was berserk, giving no thought for his own life, as he hacked and slashed, stabbed and jabbed with his sword. Startled by this unexpected fury, the orcs fell back.
Ignorant of everything except his raging hatred of his brother’s murderers, Ansgar pressed on wildly, each step taking him further from the sanctuary of his comrades. As he shouldered one foe aside, Ansgar’s blade was knocked from his grasp and was lost beneath the orcs’ stamping feet. Ansgar tossed his knife from his left to his right hand and ducked his head down. In the press, the orcs’ heavy weapons were useless. Ansgar’s hunting knife was far more deadly; opening arteries, severing windpipes, ripping tendons and puncturing vital organs.
Despite the veteran’s frenzied counter-attack, Kurgan thought the humans looked close to fleeing. The dwarf king was hastily hauling on his rune-encrusted armour, feeling its ancient plates fold over him like an old lover’s embrace. Thorin was busy strapping on his studded gauntlets when he gave a cry of dismay. Turning, Kurgan watched in horror as Vagraz burst through the ranks of humans. The orc’s massive axe glittered with dark magic, black flames playing along its edges. A few foolhardy men tried to interpose themselves between the awesome killing machine and the dwarfs, but in a few swift heartbeats they were dead, their blood seeping into the forest floor to mix with the gore of a hundred other warriors, orc and human.
Then the humans’ youthful leader was there, leaping over the axes and swords of the orcs to attack their warlord. The young warrior stood with his legs slightly apart, ready to face the oncoming butcher. Still staring at the approaching orc, the human shouted to Kurgan.
“Where’s your magic, beardling? I think now would be a good time to see it!”
Bellowing his wrath, Vagraz charged. Rolling beneath a wild swing of the warlord’s baleful axe, the human youth dived to one side, then swung his long sword down at the orc’s neck with his whole weight. The blade shattered on the enchanted armour of the warlord, who turned slowly and grinned at his would-be killer. Without hesitation the hunt lord flung the shattered stump of his sword into the orcs’ face and leapt, his feet thudding into the warlord’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The orc was knocked sprawling by the unexpected blow.
Allowing the hulking brute no time to recover, young Steel-eye moved behind Vagraz and started raining punches into the back of his thick neck. Roaring in anger, the orc spun around, smashing a plate-sized fist into the lord’s chin, hurling him to the ground. Shaking his head to clear it, Vagraz lifted an immense booted foot to stamp on the young warrior, but he was too slow and the hunter rolled to his feet with fluid grace. The young man delivered a sweeping kick that made the warlord buckle at the knees.
Kurgan was cursing constantly now, throwing heaps of gold and gems aside in his frantic quest for his ancient weapon.
“Where the hell are you?” he spat, but even as he spoke his hand fell upon sturdy stitching wound around cold steel. With a yelp, he pulled the rune-forged warhammer from the concealing pile of glittering treasure. Kurgan fervently prayed he wasn’t too late.
He span around to see the beleaguered human leader slip on the slick of mud and blood that covered the ground. As the orc chieftain lifted his massive axe above his head, its blade shining with unearthly energies, Kurgan flung his hammer to the young man. It arced across the campsite, spinning slowly, its head flashing in the glow of the bonfire. The youth’s long arm snapped up to grab it, his fingers closing round the hilt. As Vagraz’s dark axe swept down, the barbarian leader brought up the rune hammer to meet it. The weapons clashed with a shower of black and blue sparks and the two fighters were locked together.
The orc had the advantage and pressed down with all his weight, bringing the sorcerous axe blade ever closer to the young man’s throat. The youth’s arms trembled with the strain, sweat poured across his body and his face was purple with effort. His huge muscles twitched and veins stood out like cords across his neck and shoulders. With a scream Steel-eye thrust the orc back with all his remaining strength, swinging the hammer to one side to knock the warlord off balance. Howling, the hunter leapt to his feet and the two adversaries stood facing each other again. The human was grinning wolfishly, his eyes ablaze. The orc’s hand constantly clenched and unclenched on the haft of his massive axe in agitated anticipation. Gauging each other carefully, the two leaders circled slowly.
“Your axe is very pretty, scum, but this hammer will be your doom. Even unarmed I was besting you and now I have this, you have only a heartbeat left to live! Enjoy your last moments, greenskin offal!”
“Keep talkin’, pretty boy! Froat Biter hasn’t finished wiv yer yet. Perhaps yer voice won’t be so dainty once I’ve cut yer froat from ear ta ear!”
“I’ll bathe in your blood and count the heads of your friends before that clumsy lump of pig iron touches my skin!”
“Let’s see if yer muscles are as big as yer mouf!”
As one, both combatants swung. Their mighty weapons rang against each other with an explosion of magical energy. Steel-eye ducked Vagraz’s swing and brought the warhammer around in a mighty blow that smashed off one of the warlord’s shoulder pads. Amazed that his magical armour had been penetrated, the warlord was thrown off-guard. Vagraz barely had time to throw a hasty parry as the warhammer swung upwards again, knocking the orc backwards. Without pause, the young human leapt forward to sustain his attack, raining blow after blow against the orc.
Vagraz was not going to fall easily. A wild swing opened up a gaping cut in the hunter’s side, but left the orc leader’s defences open. With a defiant yell, the young man ignored his injury and swung again, the head of the hammer sweeping Vagraz off his feet with an audible cracking of bones. A second blow snapped the orc’s head backwards and sent his axe tumbling from his grasp. Somehow the orc still clung to life. With a grunt it raised itself to its shattered knees and held up a hand. Confused and suspecting treachery, the hunt lord checked his next blow, staring distrustfully down at the broken creature on the ground before him.
To Steel-eye’s surprise, the warlord started laughing, a dull chuckling that rose to a guttural thunder. Vagraz snorted contemptuously, spitting several teeth into the mud, and he raised a hand to form one final, vulgar gesture.
His patience gone, the hunt lord stepped forward. “Was that really the best you could do?” Steel-eye taunted, stepping on the orc’s other hand with a crunching of bones, as it stretched towards the fallen axe. Steel-eye steadied himself and swung one final blow. As the body slumped to the ground, the hunter stepped absent-mindedly to one side to avoid a rivulet of green, viscous fluid that drained towards the trees. He was staring intently at the body, as if suspecting it still presented some danger.
After a moment’s pause, Steel-eye turned to look around him. Kurgan strode up, laughing heartily. The dwarf king tugged hard on the hunter’s ragged, bloodstained cloak, stopping him as he took a stride towards the fight. The lad turned quickly to glare at the dwarf, his wide, battle-crazed eyes full of questions, the hammer in his hand half-raised to attack.
“Woah there, it’s only me! You’re a fine fighter, lad, and no mistake. Perhaps you pinkskins aren’t so bad as we thought.”
Steel-eye looked down at the dwarf and held out the hammer, haft first. When he spoke, his words came in panting gasps, his breath carving misty shadows in the cold air.
“Thank you for… your weapon… Talk later… orcs to kill… Take it back… I’m sure I can find… something else.”
The dwarf king shook his noble head. Stroking the tangles out of his long beard, he looked up at the human with a wry smile on his face and a mischievous glint in his eye. Kurgan took the proffered warhammer and patted its rune-encrusted head. With a short chuckle, he handed it back to the surprised youth.
“I think he likes you better than me. Keep him. His name is Ghal Maraz, or Skull Splitter. You’ve done us a great service today. A small gift hardly compares to the life of a dwarf king, now does it?”
The youngster nodded his thanks and turned to rejoin the fight. The remaining orcs were falling back into the woods, all thoughts of battle gone now their warlord was dead. Kurgan laid a hand on the hunt lord’s arm and halted him again.
“This day will be recorded in our annals with joy. What’s your name lad, that we might honour you?”
Steel-eye hefted the hammer in his hand, his eyes straying towards the fleeing orcs. He looked at the dwarf king again, his eyes smouldering with energy. The rest of his face was in darkness and as the flames flickered in those intense grey eyes, they took on an eerie light. Even the baleful gaze of the orc warlord hadn’t exuded the raw power of the youth’s stare. His reply was short and simple.
“Sigmar.”