GRUNTZ "Orruks (Prelude)" by Matt Johnson

Lingering fog filled the valley of the Death Pass. Ruins, ridges, and peaks towered above the mist, tips raised toward the evening sun.

Slowly, as if threatened, the ball of fire sank in the sky, bathing the field in waning crimson glow.

Bojac Axegrinder of the Gruntz tribe recovered his breath. Leaning back against a ancient ruin, he smirked as his eyes took in the ambience of the scene. The ascent had been grueling and his two bone axes felt heavy in his aged hands.

It was his position as the eldest to take the watch.

Recently, the ten tribes of the Badlands had been attacked. Many had lost their lives in the battle, but the young and inexperienced were the first to fall.

Then came the plague. None understood where it originated from, but it prayed on the orruks, reducing them to nothing better than goblins, encumbered their minds and ensnaring their limbs to lifeless masses of unusable muscle.

It was Bojac, eldest brother, who guarded the pass that night. A rift driven between solid rock, as if parted by some deity, was the focus of the usurping hordes. The orruks had made preparations and erected towers on either side of the pass forming a imposing gateway. Little remained of them now, a pile of rubble, bones and carcasses.

The bastion withdrew a waterskin from his belt and drenched his throat. As he lapped it up water sprayed from the corners of his mouth, mixing with the beads of sweat on his bare chest. A piecemeal girdle of bone and leather hung from his waist, the water wetting the dried blood smearing it further with the dirt and grime.

Bojac tossed the waterskin aside, took up his weapons, and set them on the ruin wall. The jaded bone axe heads scratched across the ancient rock, a sound that would send chills up the back of most men, a sound that Bojac loved.

Bojac looked north, his red eyes taking in the pass, forty paces across, that led from the ruin to the Eastern Badlands. Many times the rulers of other regions had dispatched expeditions, but they were seldom a success and the few who returned from the pass were never the same.

He scanned the rift methodically. The hordes had gleaned nothing in their prior attempts. Their simple, single-minded motivations drove them to utter ruination against the orruks’ defenses. They were bent on eradicating all that opposed them, for their vile creator had created them thus. Yelling and screaming, the whaling mobs would mount the walls. From the first light until dusk, flesh would hang in clumps from the razor sharp walls of the pass. Rivers of blood created a steady stream of plasma as the the siege weapons wheeled their way along, getting stuck in the blood mud mire at the base of the pass.

The Chosen of Gork suffered massive casualties and death, yet it never occurred to them that they should retreat. There were savage orruks, Bojac’s vanguard.

None shall stand against against us.

Bojac’s thoughts returned to the strange creatures that had invaded his homeland, killing many of his tribe.

None had seen them. In stealth they approached. Tall, graceful and slim, but merciless in battle.

Heathens.

A bitter gust of wind sang through the pass, blowing Bojac’s hair out of his eyes. He took a deep breath and almost wretched: elves.

Leather, the kind killed for sport instead of sustenance, mixed with arrogance - that was the perfume of elves.

The adorned their armor with arcane symbols, believing that the orruks crude weapons could not penetrate their defenses.

Arrogant swines. No amount of magic can save them.

Bojac did not wait for the celestial banners and silvery tips of spears to appear over the rise of the path leading to the pass. He stepped atop the ruin, grabbing his axes as he ascended, taking a deep breath he released a loud war cry. The rumble vibrated through rift and down into the valley.

As is the tradition, the war cry meant one thing to the orruks, the tribes were being summoned to defend their homeland.

Glistening in sweat, Bojac looked on the scene before him.

The beasts had formed a wide line and were sashaying towards the pass, more numerous than ever before. Chaos beasts would have fled and a human’s heart would have exploded in its chest at the site before him. The orruk stood his ground.

The attack on the pass was not a surprise to Bojac, the timing however was unnatural. The coming melee would reduce his people even more.

Swines.

The savage orruks took their places on either side of the pass, their movement slowed by the disease that had ravaged their ranks. The number of orruks rallied to Bojac’s call numbered less than a hundred. A thousand savage orruks would have been too few.

Bojac’s duty as sentry was over; his place was at the front.

He grinned, unable to take his eyes off the shambling mass of elves that trudged up the path. Whispering, singing, and stepping in unison, they headed for the crude gate the orruks had erected. The walls of the rift echoed their melodious chants along the valley.

It occured to Bojac that the beasts had undergone some sort of transformation. He sensed an arrogance that stemmed from more than just misplaced confidence. He shook off the notion. Looking at the invaders, his eyes stopping on the outcrop of trees that bordered the pass. He had played in that forest as a young orruk. The trees had been shredded, having taken the same devastating losses as his people. Bojac’s thoughts went to his sick and wounded people. He leapt from the ruin and made his way down the steps to join the defenders reaching them at the moment the first wave hit the pass. Arrows darkened the skies, raining down a pointed barrage of death on the orruks. Elves scaled the sides of the rift with ease, and projectiles from siege engines far down the path hurled a constant volley into the pass. The first volley removed the front like of savage orruks, but was quickly replaced by their brethren, ever spurred on by their desire to defend their homeland. For every elf that was ravaged, seven more lept down from the sides of the pass. They were bent on not failing this time.

Bojac lept to the aid of an orruk who had taken an arrow to the knee. One of the elves, a gangly creature with silver hair, had seized his chance and squeezed through a fissure, slinking himself along the ridge of the pass. Orruk and elf stared at each other in silence. The melodious chanting, the thunk of bow strings, the clammor of bone weapons against steel faded. Bojac’s could hear his opponent breathing. The silvery eyes burned into his soul as they flitted from around the battlefield. The orruk knew what the vile creature was thinking. The elf had breached the pass and was the first of his race to achieve the momentous feat. The stench of elf perfume filled Bojac’s senses again. Letting out a war cry, he thrust himself at the creature. The half of his axe darted downard, exploding the elves hip, while he swing his other axe from above. The bone blade struck the elf just above his gorget between his helmet and breastplate, severing his head. Dark blood sprayed from the wound, splattering Bojac’s entire right arm. “Tell yer kinsfolk i am anxious ta meet im!” Bojac gave the husk a kick and sent him careening over the side of the taking another elf with him.

There was no rest to be had. Running from one end of the rift to the other, crushing skulls, severing limbs, shrugging off arrows and evading volleys, he laid waste to elf after elf.

Darkness was quickly approaching, but Bojac was accustomed to dim light. He had not be untouched by the sickness and every moment took its toll on his body. He coughed, blood and spittle dripped from his mouth.

A trumpet of horns let out down the rift, and the elves ceased their assault, retreating back down the pass the way they had came.

Bojac planted his axe in a lingering elf and thrust the bone blades of his axe in the blood soaked mud. He spit more blood from his mouth and grinned, his energy returning to him.

Turning he went to assess how is brethren had faired. Of the savage orruks that had answered his call, less than fifty remained, among them the hulking brute of Ragegor, the chieftain of the Ironbonez tribe.

At no other place were the elvish corpses stacked as high than at Ragegor’s feet. The jagged bone blades he wore coated in blood and gore, they caught the last rays of the crimson sun and cast a flickering light of death of the scene. He ascended the pile of bodies to address those gathered.
“Orruks!” Clear and steadfast, his voice sounded across the pass. ““be as unyield'n as da earth from which we were born. Noth'n — no elf, no ogre, no kreature — will break us. We will kut im ta pieces as orruks have done for ages!”

A smattering of cheers and grunts resounded in the pass. The orruks had been dealt a killing blow, but their confidence was not shaken. Their mettle and grit had passed the test thus far.

The orruks tended to their wounds and restored their strength with dark ale. With every gulp they felt stronger, more able to continue. Limbs torn from bodies, stumps cauterized and other wounds lashed together with scalped hair of their enemies, others left as victory trophies and inspiration to their fellow orruks.

Bojac sat down beside Grasnac Irontusk. The two brothers drank in silence, observing the gathering of elves that had cowardly slunk back from the gate. The fighting was not over, but for the moment the two brothers shared a respite.

“Such strength” Bojac said. “I have neva seen em as dogged as dey are tonight. Someth’n ‘as changed.” He remembered the forest of his childhood and it made him uneasy.

Suddenly a chompa clanged into a rock beside him. He turned in time to see his brother lurch forward. “Grasnac!” He caught hold of his brother and shaken to see the telltale slimy ooze seeping from his brothers pores on his forehead. His turned a milky pink hue and gazed upwards without recognizing anything.

As if to finish what the enemy had started, the disease sought to claim another victim this night.

“Get some rest brother. ‘Da feva will soon be ova.” Dragging Grasnac’s heavy body to the side, he propped him against a low wall, knowing that his brother would most likely die of the disease before seeing another battle.

The respite had taken its toll on the both sides of the battle. Bojac closed his eyes to rest, only to be awakened with a start as his axe slipped from his battle weary hand and hit the ground. He cleared his vision and took in his brethren. A good number of them had been riddled with the mysterious disease. An advantage they had was now gone.

A trumpet sounded in the dark.

In the pale moonlight he took in the approaching silhouettes, seven times the height of the orruks There were twenty of them. Their twisted and mangled limbs lashed together and weaved into hulking masses of wood their massive hands carried large trunks. So this is what the elves had done to his forest.

Treemen.

The defenses would melt away if the giants were allowed to reach the heart of the pass. For a moment Bojac doubted their chances, but a sideways glance at Ragegor’s resolute posture bolstered his resolve. They would fight as they had always done. The survival of his people depended on it.

The mass of orruks grunted and jeering and a war cry echoed down the pass as the giant trees approached.

Marching at the head of the living forest was an enormous behemoth of a tree, taller and with a halo of woven leaves and branches, it buried the not so long dead bodies beneath its trunkish feet as it marched toward the gate.

The rest of the treemen went to the sides of the rift and began to form a living ladder. They mean to scale the walls of the pass and go around the gate! A contingent of orruks, perched atop the pass already, let out a volley of arrows, felling dozens of elves as they climbed the treemen.

Bojac looked beyond the treemen, reinforcements had arrived. Mounted on pale white stags the riders galloped to the front of the invading army. A silver aura surrounded the riders. The leader shouted something and the rest of the elves on foot began to clear a path towards the gate.

Taking path or a small overlook the riders stopped their stags and watched. The leader strung a bow and knocked an arrow, but did not fire.

The savage orruks had positioned themselves above the gate to either side causing a large pile of elves to coagulate in front of the gate. A few of the elves turned to retreat. The mounted archer raised his bow and before they could turn to flee an arrow struck an elf in the head.

Before he could blink, a second arrow had been loosed from the archer, and a third. In the span of less than a second the mounted archer, atop is pearl white stag, had fell the deserters. The rest of the invaders took the warning and redoubled their efforts to clear a path to the gate, venturing no protest to their dead elvenkind.

By dawn the path to the gate had been cleared. Bojac gazed upon the battlefield before him. The sun had broke, but only a low illumination had reached the battlefield. An unnatural fog, unlike the one the day prior, rolled through the valley behind the invading army towards the gates, against the wind. The elves took a step back and bowed their heads as the fog passed their position, the mounted riders sat taller astride their stags, smuggly looking upon the field.

Then it happened. With a loud thud, the main hinge of the gate exploded. The gate creaked but did not open. Somebody was using magic, opening the passage of the invaders to the Eastern Badlands.

“No!” cried Bojac, turning his back to elvish horde and looking behind the gate to see what creature had breached their defenses from the inside.

Grasnac Irontusk. Alone, the orruk was standing in front of the gate, lips snarling, hands weaving an intricate pattern in the air through distorted and unnaturally bent fingers.

“Silence!” Bojac yelled. “Can’t ya see wot you’re doing?”

His plea fell on deaf ears. Another brace shattered into splinters.

“E’s unda a spell,” growled Bojac. “De fog as go es mind.”

The last timber holding the gate shut blew apart into pieces.

We are lost, Bojac thought stoically. “Forgive me brotha.” He gripped his axe and hurled it with all his might at his brother.

The blade cut through the thick air, twirling end of end, then sank deep. Bojac’s aim was true.

Grasnac let out a scream as the axe cut deep into his shoulder blade. Blood sprayed across the gate, bathing the splinters around the gate with crimson. Watching from above, Bojac was satisfied with his duty.

His act was too late. The traiter had not been stopped in time. The gate lurched and the passage was open. The path to the Eastern Badlands was cleared.

No! Bojac grunted and threw himself down the side of the rift to join the last bastion of orruks defending the gate.

He was the last orruk to the gate. The remaining orruks had formed a mass to stave off the horde or at least slow their progress with a mass of their dead bodies. Thirty against thousands.

Ragegor strode among his brethren, laying a hand on each head. The gesture was a mark of power for the savage orruks and gave them strength. They would fight to the death.

Trumpets sounded again, the mounted stag riders ordering the advance. The elves took up their spears and started their advance on the gate, followed by the treemen.

“The path iz narrow. Meet im line by line and give im a taste uv death!” Bojac called to his brethren. “WAAAAAGH!”


“WAAAAAAAAGH!” the savage orruks echoed in unison, claws dug into the granite beneath their feet, planted firmly for the onslaught.

Taking up a choppa in each hand Ragegor led the surge toward the enemy out of the gates. The orruks, all the remained of the Gruntz tribe, charged out to slaughter the invaders.

Twenty paces beyond the gate, the armies clashed. The orruks drove a wedge through the ranks of the elves.

With only one bone axe to defend himself, Bojac emerged, cutting through a tangle of legs and animated branches. He did not stop to think of his blows had slain his foe.

“WAAAAAGH!” he roared.

Blood streamed from chest and arms, sweat stung his eyes. His axe grew heavy so he grasp it with both hands. “WAAAAGH!” be bellowed. The bones of his enemies splintered like the gate at his brothers command. Five spears had found their mark, but he battled on unphased.

Until this moment, his prowess had served him well in battle. Looking to his left, Bojac saw one of his brethren struck down by a spear. Incensed with hatred, Bojac took a step towards the attacker and swing his axe broadly, severing the elf in two at the waist. The revenge had cost him. The treemens trunk swept his legs out from under him and sent him sprawling.

“WAAAAAGH!” he grunted.

The elves moved past him, paying him little attention. Their prize was the gate and the passage beyond.

Wracked with pain, Bojac hefted himself to his knees. The rest of his brethren were dead, their bodies trampled by the horde. The tusks of Ragegor caught the sunlight, marking the place where the chieftain had fallen, slain by two treemen. At the sight, Bojac swelled with pride.

A sharp pain from behind wretched his body. He could see the tip of the spear protrude from his chest, before it withdrew leaving him to slump to the ground.

The murderer dismounted and knelt beside him. The invader generals features glowed with the same pale aura even in the sunlight. The creature wore colorful armor, adorned with symbols and fine leather unstained by battle.

“I am your death.” the elf said with a smirk.

“Get outta ma sight, yer pointy-eared monster! i want ta see ma people,” he gasped, holding his axe as if to ward off the creature. “Out uv ma way or i’ll kut yer 'n two like a straw, yer treacherous elf!”

The creature laughed whimsically. Grasping his spear he drove it slowly into the chest of Bojac.

“You are gravely mistaken friend. We share a purpose,” the creature whispered. “You have a purpose yet to serve. Wyrdd will raise you from the dead and you will be one of us.”

“Neva! I belong to ma people!”

“You belong to your people,” said the creature. “Now die, so you can return and deliver them to us.”

The spear cut Bojacs response short. The final blow felling the orruk as he slumped to the ground, still grasping his bone bladed axe Bojac joined his brethren in death.