Orngoth rolled to his belly and then got to his feet whilst watching the crawler come to a stop a short distance away. He glanced to the side and spotted his club. He launched himself that way, feeling the reassurance of solid wood in his hands just as the Tyrantian beast sprang at him once more. This time when he swung the club, he was angry. He caught the Tyrantian in midair and the impact made a sickening thud as the shell of the creature cracked under the sheer ferocity of the blow. The crawler’s outstretched left arm bowed under the pressure and twisted in a direction that even it was not meant to bend in.
The crawler hit the ground hard but charged again, on five limbs now as its left arm hung limply at its side. Again the impact of the club hit hard on the shell, this time on the chest that was open to attack. The crawler slashed with its right claw and tore into Orngoth’s left shoulder, but was sent flying straight into the ground as the half-ogre barbarian went in a sideways arc, planting the club into the ground in front of him. Greenish-black ooze emerged from the thing’s chest—the shell was softer there, Orngoth realized—and the ichor covered the leaf and moss littered ground.
Orngoth roared as he stood triumphant over the dying body of the insectoid creature. He proceeded to take out the rest of his anger on the dying carcass. More of the creature’s blood and innards flew about as he hammered the gargantuan club over and over into the beast. With each strike that followed, the sound that had begun with a solid crack of bone and armor ended in a squishy, bubbly sound of liquefied bone and gore.
Finally Orngoth glared down at the dead and misshapen thing that had once been a Tyrantian crawler. In its stead was an unrecognizable mass of pulp. The victor was covered in dark greenish goo from head to toe from his assault. He was breathing deeply and his muscles ached from the exertion. He slumped to the ground, rump first, and sat in the remains for several more moments before retrieving his ram-horned helm and wandering off, dragging his club behind him, to find the nearest brook several miles to the northwest to wash himself.
As the behemoth known as Orngoth knelt in front of the shimmering waters of the brook, he felt a distinct calmness engulf him. He leaned over and peered into the stream, seeing his reflection in the surface as the sun shone brightly overhead. He removed his ram-horned helmet and stared again into the water. He noted the mop of coarse hair about his head, and his blue eyes, and acknowledged his marked differences from the ogres. He had what could only be his mother’s features, he assumed.
More importantly, he understood that he did not agree with the ogres’ ways. Violence seemed to be something they indulged in and enjoyed, rather than used solely to survive. He felt he was surely at a crossroads. He could claim the ogre within him and push past the feelings of guilt and shame and give himself over fully to their ways. This thought did not sit well and anxiety washed over him and his stomach felt suddenly queasy.
Alternatively he could attempt to insert himself into humanity… attempt to find a city where they might accept him for whom or what he was. He pondered this heavy burden that he carried as he began to wash the Tyrantian gore from his furs and body.
The easy choice was to continue along the path already set in motion. Muurg was cruel but cunning and a leader that offered survival at the very least. After all, the humans apparently had abandoned him once before. They very well might do it again, he considered, splashing the cool water on his face and staring down at his hands. Grizzled fingernails with slightly sharpened edges gracing the tips of his fingers and the thick skin covering his bones gave him pause as he studied them for several minutes.
Human or ogre?
Did he want to continue down this path of violence? Were all humans like the ones who abandoned him? Would they shun him just as much as the ogres? All these questions and more still needed answering as he found himself finally clean of the gore.
Orngoth turned and continued to give heed to these confusing thoughts as he made the journey back to the ogre grotto. In a state of total contemplation, he reached the cave where he saw the four well-known wolves—Muurg’s personal pets—standing guard at its mouth. They growled at him as he passed but then returned their attention to the pieces of bear scraps still lying upon the hard cavern floor. Two of them began fighting over one particular morsel, tugging at the meat, one on either end.
Orngoth continued on deeper into the cave with shoulders slumped in resignation at his surroundings.
“He comes now,” called one of the ogres, seeing Orngoth approach. Muurg strode into the cavern, coarse hair and a scowl planted firmly upon his face as the half-ogre came into view. The massive ogre chieftain wiped a bit of dried food from his mouth and his brow furrowed.
“The wolves took their fill. You can eat now, half-breed.”
The ogres all bellowed with laughter in satisfaction at that declaration.
“We are going to raid the travelers that come by our routes this day,” Muurg announced once the laughter had died down. “You are coming, too.” He pointed at Orngoth and smirked. He knew the half-ogre did not like raiding or sacking any of their victims, but Muurg did not care.
“It is time for you to earn your stay again, half-breed. And I see you have a new weapon to aid you, too,” Muurg observed with great sarcasm, gesturing toward the club Orngoth had strapped to his back.
As Muurg turned his massive frame from Orngoth, two of the ogres wandered in to administer the usual beatings. The first was a massively muscled one, Muurg’s physical equal—or so he thought—named Lunka. The other was the opposite in size and demeanor. Bengog, a smallish and hideous ogre that was slight of build and slightly deformed, joined Lunka. This ogre was burdened with a left arm that was atrophied and a right arm that was overly used and encased in muscle, adding to the creature’s oddity. Muurg stopped them as they advanced, however, which surprised Orngoth.
“I want him at his best when we leave,” he growled, glowering at the two ogres, who immediately turned and moved away from their leader, disappearing around a corner. Muurg looked back at Orngoth, scowled again as if hating himself for having to delay the beating, and then strode off, leaving him alone.
Orngoth made his way toward the extension of the cavern that the Ironskulls used for cooking. The huge area was filled with scraps of uneaten food left by the ogres, as well as various bones, tinder and several pieces of firewood and kindling. In the center of the area was a huge fire pit. He sat down in front of the flames that still burned brightly, and found some scraps of bear meat that had been overcooked or tossed aside by the ogres for some other reason. A pot of soup hung precariously by a pair of rusted handle bars atop the fire. Inadvertently, Orngoth glimpsed his own image in the dull, reflective surface of the pot and sighed. He tinkered with the leather straps he had affixed to hold his new club in place and made a few adjustments to tighten the knots. Then he turned to the food. He ate his fill quietly and afterwards fell asleep on the rough ground. Neither his dreams nor the inflexible sleeping surface provided him any comfort.
Orngoth felt a sharp pain in his side that forced him awake. A brutish ogre’s face leered at him with its black eyes unblinking and full of hate. Orngoth recognized him as Lunka.
“Get up,” he growled and planted another solid kick. Orngoth rolled with the force of the kick and made it quickly to his feet. His fingers went immediately to the handle of his club and he removed it from his back. Lunka laughed uncontrollably at that action, disrespecting the mere thought of him defending himself—especially against Lunka. Laughing ensued from a second source, intermittently mixed with gurgling coughs, the familiar sounds of Bengog.
“Did you not understand my command?” called a deep and booming voice from behind them all.
The two ogres swung round to see Muurg standing menacingly in his chain and leather armor, a club in one hand and a greataxe in the other—though the latter weapon looked like a small hand axe in his massive grip. Beside him stood three more ogres, all smaller than him—and Lunka, for that matter—waiting for
their master’s commands.
“I told you to leave him be,” Muurg stated clearly, speaking directly to Lunka since he was the more intimidating of the two, while Bengog was merely his lackey. It was common knowledge that Lunka had challenged Muurg’s authority on more than one occasion, but Muurg still held the rulership of the clan with an iron fist. There were approximately forty ogres under his command in the Ironskull tribe, none more decorated than Muurg.
“For now,” Muurg finally added with a smirk as an aside to appeal to Lunka’s compliance in the matter, rather than argue about it. Muurg often used his higher capacity for shrewd cunning to manipulate the less intelligent ogres. Lunka certainly fell into that mold.
Orngoth moved forward reluctantly and into the crowd of ogres, ready for Muurg’s instructions.
“Me and my group will head south and into the paths near Heartwood Valley,” Muurg explained. “You three and two others will move north toward the sea and watch paths there.”
Orngoth nodded, looking back toward the grinning Bengog, to whose group he had been assigned, along with Lunka, who remained stoic. Two more ogres were assigned to their party. One of the two had scars adorning his features as if he had once been engulfed in a fire that had left burns about his neck and face. The other was a toothless wretch of a thing that hunched over severely when he walked and who spat when he spoke or laughed. They stood silently as Muurg assembled his own group.
A few more of the Ironskulls had entered the cavernous area to receive their assignments and were told where their posts would be along the roads nearby. It occurred to Orngoth that not many would be left within the cavern to guard it. But the wolves would remain behind and were ferocious enough to deter most would-be invaders.
After many more positions were ascribed, the ogres began to filter out. Orngoth followed Lunka, Bengog and the other two out of the tunnels of their home and down the winding path that would take them toward the High Sea. Later that afternoon, the group settled into a stretch of land well north of the Blackstone Mountain range. It was a well-known and well-traveled path in Wothlondia and one that would see its fair share of itinerant merchants. Most of the travelers would have guards and sellswords accompanying them to protect them from harm, in exchange for coin or a sense of honor, but they would be no match for the ogre attackers. Not once when they had relieved the merchants of their goods or wealth had any escort been able to withstand or repel the ogre barbarians, Orngoth reflected solemnly.
The ogres sat overlooking a valley that was oft used as an ambush site. As they got into position, Lunka assigned himself and Bengog to be on one side of the road while Orngoth and the other two were to station themselves opposite them.
Hours passed as they sat waiting for the inevitable and unsuspecting travelers to appear. Orngoth gave heed to the fact that he would be involved, but he would most likely attempt to stay far away from the action, if possible. He sometimes got away with it, but this only drew ridicules of cowardice, followed by more beatings. The ogres usually rushed into the fray to seek the glory of battle and to claim bragging rights, as they would compare exaggerated tales once back at the grotto.
“There,” whispered one of the ogres in a deep, resonating tone, trying to keep his voice low. Scar-face, as Orngoth referred to him, towered over him, his foul ogre’s lip curled up and melted directly to his face. He pointed toward an approaching caravan of wagons. There were at least four of the vehicles with mounted guards in various armors beside them. This was surely a private army of mercenaries or sellswords, Orngoth realized. Some mercenaries across the realm were more accomplished in the martial arts than others, and only time would tell which type these would be.
As the caravan approached, Lunka signaled that he would lead the assault from his side of the overlook to the north. In typical ogre fashion, they would simply charge the wagons with no real plan of attack and overpower their enemies. And with Lunka present, that was never really an issue. Orngoth had seen the creature single-handedly fell dozens of well-armed, well-trained warriors.
Orngoth gripped the handle of his weapon and sweat began to moisten his hands. He was nervous. Not fearing for his own safety, but instead he feared for the mercenaries and the bloodbath that would ensue. And he knew that once the bloodlust claimed him, as it always did, there was no turning back.
He saw Lunka charge with Bengog following close behind. Scar-face and Toothless went storming right after from their position on the southern hill. The ogres hit the first wagon hard, Lunka barreling into it and knocking it on to two wheels. It tipped and swayed, threatening to fall to its side, but righted itself with a loud thud. The enraged ogre redirected his attention and smashed his fists into two nearby mercenaries, sending them to their final resting place.
Several riders raced toward the fray at the front of the caravan, weapons drawn to defend their masters. Orngoth stood motionless, gripping his club tightly as if trying to squeeze the sawdust right out of it.
Bengog came out from behind Lunka’s shadow and clubbed a sellsword who was struggling to his feet after Lunka’s assault had sent him soaring from his saddle. That was Bengog’s typical role in the battles, Orngoth judged, as he watched the bloodshed from above, still unmoving. He saw Lunka grab one rider by the arm, lifting him from his horse and then driving him straight into the hard gravel of the road. Then Lunka simply tossed aside the bloody stump of the limb which had been torn from the torso with the sheer ferocity of the attack. Lunka was under the full effects of the rage and the Gods of Order themselves could not save these mercenaries now.
Scar-face and Toothless hit the lines at the rear of the caravan and Orngoth could swear he saw Toothless take a sword to his gullet, running straight into a counter-attack. Scar-face brought his spear to bear and buried it right through horse and rider alike, then began flailing away with a club, crashing its solid surface onto the soft flesh and inexpensive armor of the riders.
“Curious,” came a female voice from behind Orngoth. He whirled on the source, and saw a woman on horseback with a sword and shield at the ready. Curly dark hair cascaded from beneath the shadows of a green hood, which was soiled with dirt. In one fluid motion, she dismounted and strode fearlessly toward the half-ogre. Her sword was drawn and held straight out, its tip targeted right at his face. Yet he made no move.
“An ogre who does not join in on the action of a raid. May I ask why you sit here while your brethren assault these travelers?”
Orngoth merely shrugged, not sure what to make of this stranger. She moved with a confidence that defied her somewhat small stature. He stared into her cold brown eyes and her face contorted as she looked the half-ogre up and down.
“You are half-ogre, are you not?” she stated more than asked him and moved closer, her sword dropping slightly, seeming less threatening. Orngoth backed away, not knowing what to make of this, holding his great club at the ready. As he did so, he felt the tip of another weapon in his back. He also heard the quiet, but very obvious, snort of a horse now, though he had not so much as felt the stranger approach, even on horseback.
“That’s it, ogre. Back yourself right into my blade,” called a coarse and masculine voice from behind him.
“Hold!” commanded the woman, dropping her hood and moving closer. “It cannot be…,” she admitted in a soft tone, staring more intently into Orngoth’s blue eyes, which continued to track her curiosity.
This time, it was Orngoth’s turn to display a perplexed look.
Suddenly, the clang of steel on steel and the resulting death throes yanked her attention back to the battle raging below. She looked back to the half-ogre and then to the man on horseback behind him and nodded. With that, the man galloped off down the hill and toward the fight. Orngoth glimpsed the flowing green and brown cloak as it unfurled behind the unknown rider.
“I advise you to stay your weapon and bring it not to bear against us, lest we cut you down!” With that final warning, the woman effortlessly mounted her horse and
galloped toward the conflict too.
Scar-face and Toothless were down, as were most of the mercenaries. Several merchants had taken to the road, and could be seen running in all directions as fast as they could away from the carnage.
Orngoth remained static, holding his club and seemingly hesitant to take action, one way or the other. He looked down to see that Lunka had two arrows and one quarrel protruding from his skin. The ogre yanked them out with a roar of anger and then backhanded the bowman with a massive hand, knocking him from his steed and sending the man unceremoniously onto the roughly hewn road. Then Orngoth watched helplessly as Lunka drove his boot down hard onto the man’s skull with a loud crack that echoed throughout the valley.
Bengog was on top of a wagon, smashing a mercenary to pulp with his one good arm, gore and blood following the repetitive motion of his club. There was nothing left of the opposition, who had either fled or lay dead or dying on the ground nearby.
The male rider made it to the foot of the hill and moved to engage Bengog, who had now climbed down to the ground behind a wagon and disappeared from Orngoth’s line of sight. The woman whom he had just met raced into the skirmish and sent the edge of her shield hard into the left ribcage of Lunka. There was another sharp crack that sounded clearly in unison with the blow, but Lunka did not even so much as grunt.
Orngoth realized now that the man and woman must belong to the legendary wardens of the forest that roamed the face of Wothlondia. Each region had its own guardians, oft times referred to as Rangers, Striders, Woodland Guardians or Foresters. These men and women traveled the area in groups, protecting the people and the roads from peril such as this.
Orngoth began to make his way down the hill with a purpose now. For the first time in his life, he had a clear understanding of his path. He knew what he should do. He broke into a light run, then a full out sprint toward the fight, brandishing the new greatclub in both of his mighty hands and raising it above his head as he charged straight for Lunka.
The Beginnings Omnibus: Beginnings 1, 2, 3 & Legend of Ashenclaw novella (Realm of Ashenclaw Beginnings Saga) Page 16