Sack's Gladiators

The Resolution of the Orcish Civil War

Dun Tolk
March 23rd, l602

It was dawn in Dun Tolk, and the sun was just beginning to dissipate the spring mists. All through the hill-fort, people were stirring, slaves were lighting cooking fires, and livestock greeting the morning. On the earthen ramparts, the guard was changing. Another day had come to the fortress.

Within the central longhouse, changes had happened since Garkaur Kulataur's death. Gone were his rather more civilized and occasionally even tasteful appointments. Instead, a jumble of grubby loot, old food, and battle trophies littered the rooms, with the heads of several orcs, two humans, a dwarf and an elf mounted on the wall.

Within the inner chamber, sprawled in a heap of dirty furs, the powerful form of Lorgloth Blue Knife, self-proclaimed King of Orcland, was awakening. One hand groped almost desperately upwards, seeking something. It reached the bed-head, wherein a long dagger was driven, illuminating the room with its' azure glow. Blue Knife's hand gripped it, as a drowning man's hand seizes a low tree-branch, and drew it forth as he stood up.

Lorgloth Blue Knife was a powerful orc of early middle years, seamed with scars and with a bold look to his gaze. Clan lord of the Ragorka and a wily warrior, Blue Knife had been the quickest to react to the news of the death of Garkaur Kulataur, delivered to the thronehall of Dun Tolk so shockingly by Sack the previous November. Gathering his supporters to him, he had secured the Dun itself, killing Gotharglar Dúllog, clan-lord Gurgblak on the spot, and mustering enough strength quickly enough that the others had fled.  Since then he had declared himself King of Orc-Land, although his support was entirely concentrated in the Dun and the land a few miles around.

Stumbling around his bedroom, once Garkaur’s, Blue Knife shrugged into his armour, muttering and cursing in the usual orcish fashion. It was only when he was ready to leave and look for breakfast that it struck him that something wasn’t quite right. He glowered at one of the dimmer corners, and suddenly started in shock, as the lithe form of the half-orc Sack detached itself from the shadows and came towards him.

Ruins of Scaevolus
March 24th, l602

Shouts, swearing, and the crash of dropped armour announced the return of a patrol, and Amraz Headbreaker emerged from his tent to hear their news. It wasn’t going to be good. Several were missing and many were bloodied. The leader, a burly veteran called Hoshk, jogged over to the tent and bowed his head in a brutal, inelegant orcish courtesy.

“No chance,” he grunted, getting straight down to business. “The dung eaters had crossbows. Crossbows! Where did they get those from? And Empire-trained bloody wizards. We didn’t get within fifty yards.”

Headbreaker growled. His temper was never good, and this failure to intercept a new tribal chieftain on his way to join Blue Knife was especially annoying. He glared at Hoshk, but the glimmers of intellect and sense that made him as successful an orc as he was stayed his hand; instead he lashed out sideways, smashing a nearby goblin slave off his feet to sprawl on the ground. Feeling a little better, Headbreaker stalked off to collect his other officers.

The encampment was a scattered, disorganized eyesore, with tents, ramshackle shelters, piles of equipment, cookpits, slave cages, burden beasts, filth and litter strewn over a large radius. It was sited amongst the ancient ruins of an Erlyid city, from the days when the Empire covered all the land south of The Land that Is No More. No intact buildings remained, but the odd part wall made for slightly better shelter than a hut or tent – especially a hut or tent built by an orc.  The winter had been tough, and Headbreaker’s people were glad to see the spring.

With his followers assembled, Headbreaker ranted and bellowed for a while, waving his arms and occasionally hitting people, until he felt a bit better. His generals bore this with stoicism; they were quite prepared to put up with this sort of thing from a leader who won battles, and Amraz Headbreaker was legendary for winning battles. The only reason he didn’t have elven heads on his wall was that he didn’t at the moment have a wall.

Headbreaker knew that this reverse was the last straw. Unless something major happened to boost morale, his followers were going to start losing heart, and possible worse, loyalty. They’d suffered the winter in the wild, and the knowledge that Blue Knife and his rats were tucked up warm and cosy in Dun Tolk wasn’t any comfort. Unfortunately, the only major success available would be the conquest of the Dun. This would make Headbreaker King; but deep down, he knew that although he had nearly half again Blue Knife’s numbers, he couldn’t crack the place.

He left them arguing over a sketch of the Dun and returned to his tent for a moment to collect some other maps. As he stepped inside, however, he saw a flicker of movement, and the hilt of a heavy shortsword descending towards his head. Before he could cry out, everything went dark….

Northern Border of Orcland
March 25th, l602

Thend the Seer shook his head. Over half the surviving Orc nation – warriors, females, young - an uneasy triumvirate of himself, Rampaag Thunderslayer and Shuumash Death Tongue to lead them, a harsh winter, and an untenable position jammed up between the savage civil war in the south and the dwarves of Nisur in the north was bad enough, but now the sly and cunning Clanlord Ghákhoz, Maurênd the Uncanny, had turned up with his surviving followers, fleeing the carnage of the fighting between Blue Knife and Headbreaker. The crafty one spoke words of alliance, of sharing the cause of the renegades all along but not daring to speak for fear of Garkaur’s wrath, but Thend suspected other motives, perhaps a plan to try and seize control of the northern orcs so as to challenge whichever faction eventually won in the south. “If ever we needed a Kalákrah,” he thought, “now is that time.”

As if summoned by his thought, the tent door opened and Sack of Clan Vorzau walked in. For a moment Thend simply gaped at him; then he pulled himself together, and bowed in the Imperial fashion to his ever-silent visitor. Sack gestured urgently, signing that he wanted Thend to gather the other three leaders together, and the Seer called for a runner at once.

While they waited, Thend examined his visitor. Sack was a paradox; scion of the Kings of Gadûhvrás, marked by Grummsh for greatness, touched by the hand of Prophecy and named Kalákrah in Thend’s own dreams, he could have been Overking already with ease. Yet he steadfastly denied any desire to be King, nor to step into the role of liberator. Paradox upon paradox, his actions, driven by whatever strange and unpredictable motives they were, took him closer and closer to fulfilling the Prophecy nonetheless.

Thunderslayer and Death Tongue arrived together, closely followed by Maurênd, and all looked expectantly at Sack, waiting to see what he had in mind. Employing the combination of facial expression, sign language and occasional written notes that he was forced to use by his muteness, Garkaur’s Bane explained that he wanted all of them to accompany him elsewhere for a meeting. He went into no details, but did add ‘come armed’. Intrigued, the four leaders of the northern renegades agreed, and soon Thend’s tent was empty

Somewhere Else
March 25th, l602

The room was pitch black, but each of those present could tell that there were several others present by the sound of their breathing. Suddenly, light bloomed, filling the room, emanating from the bright sword in the hand of Sack the Half-Orc.

Thend, Death Tongue, Thunderslayer, Headbreaker, Blue Knife and Maurend all found themselves standing equally spaced around a large, empty stone chamber, windowless and doorless. 

In his hands, Thend discovered a piece of paper, headed Read This Aloud in Sack's hand. Hesitantly, he read it out to the others.

"This war stops here and now, bastards. Decide here and now; last man standing is Overking, answerable only to me, Sack.''

Maurend was the first to react. A flick of the wrist sent a small but heavy brass dart streaking across the room to bury itself in Amraz Headbreaker's bicep, where there was  no armour. The huge warlord ripped it out, glared at it in contempt, threw it to the floor and stamped on it as he grabbed his axe from his belt, and all hell broke loose.

Death Tongue and Thunderslayer stepped in front of Sack defensively, and Thend’s hands came up, sheathed in arcane energy as he worked some sort of protective magic. The maddened Headbreaker charged across the room towards Maurend – now backing up with a short sword drawn – but was intercepted by Death Tongue. Weapons clashed as the two axe-wielding orc warlords exchanged blows.

In all this chaos, no-one seemed to be paying any attention to Blue Knife. Realizing this, he quietly drew his eponymous weapon and slid to one side. If he could work around to the left, he thought, he could dispatch Thunderslayer and perhaps get a shot at Thend and Sack before anyone else realized what was happening.

As he moved towards his targets, however, Thend the Seer glanced to his right and spotted him, just as he raised the dagger to strike. Quick as thought, he snapped out a spell, and a brief but very intense blast of fire roasted Blue Knife on his feet. As his charred body began to topple, Thend reached out almost casually, and caught the glittering weapon as it fell, tucking it quietly into his tunic.

Headbreaker’s berserk assault was wearing down the slightly smaller Death Tongue, who was already wounded and did not look likely to survive. Behind him, Maurend, looking a little perplexed, dipped carefully into a belt pouch and brought out another dart; it flashed across Thend’s mind to wonder who he was going to throw it at. Before this could be established, however, Amraz Headbreaker gasped, clutched his throat, and dropped dead.

One of the reasons for Maurend’s sobriquet of “the Uncanny” was his cheerful use of poison.

Gasping, and streaming with blood, Death Tongue stared at Thunderslayer. For a heartbeat, the elemental orc was there in both their faces; fight, slay, destroy; the danger of them attacking each other despite their alliance flared from nowhere. Before they could, Thend the Seer met each gaze, and each felt as if an icy splash of reason had been thrown over the smouldering fires of his rage.

All four survivors turned to Sack. “Lead us, Kalákrah,” said Thend. “You are the chosen one of Gruumsh.”

Kîshshul
April 16th, l602

Standing on the crumbled ramparts of the gate-tower of the ancient orcish fortress, Thend gazed out across the ruined approach. Orcs swarmed across the mountainside, trudging across the open space to disappear into the maw of Kîshshul’s gate. Within, he could already hear the beat of hammers and the crashing of rubble-clearing as his people began work on their home.

His eyes lifted to the far side of the valley. A coruscating arch of magical energy stood there, around half a mile away, its’ power maintained by a diminutive armoured figure standing next to one edge. Through it, a completely different landscape was visible, and through it poured orcs. The last few weeks had been turbulent, with messengers fanning out to all the orc settlements and tribes they could find, spreading the news of the new leadership, and the fresh start for the orc people. Nearly all the surviving orcs of Orcland had been gathered, either to Dun Tolk or the northern renegade camp, and by the power of the dwarvish priest Hildraft transported, first to another world, and then back into their own, hundreds of miles north, here at their ancient home and stronghold.

He considered the dwarf. A towering reputation, and a powerful aura that Thend could feel with his eyes closed, even at this range. Wyrmslayer, breaker of the Kingmaker, friend of the Emperor, the Hand of Kord. Although they were working together here, Thend knew that there were too many differences and secrets for them ever to be completely comfortable with each other. Yet without his help, his people would have remained trapped between an Empire they now no longer wanted to serve and the unforgiving walls of the dwarfcastles of the Erean Mountains.

Circumstance makes strange allies, he thought to himself.