[150 YEARS EARLIER]
[THE ORKS AND GOBLINS CONQUERED SPIREHAVEN — HUMAN CAPITOL OF ICEVEIN KINGDOM. WHAT FOLLOWS IS THE AFTERMATH OF A CALCULATED SLAUGHTER, WITH UNMATCHED COOPERATION BETWEEN THE RACES.]
PART1 – 50 MEN SPARED
”Chieftain. Where do we dump these charred bodies?” asked Soulless, while thinking of his next diy weapon.
”Dump? They will be piled here. It’s already taken care of,” said Goreflail.
”There are thousands of dead humans, both inside and outside the city walls. I’m saying that-”
”Don’t worry, I have assigned a hundred grunts for the job.”
”Hundred?” said Soulless. The implication that it was an excessive number was still made casually, sweeping a couple of dead humans aside with his foot. ”Hrmm.”
It must have been a couple hundred bodies visible from the street alone. A job well done. Orks were outnumbered, after all.
Maybe a heavy mallet type this time, pondered Soulless.
Goreflail talked of a mighty circle of burning bodies. ’The pit of death’, as he childishly insisted on calling it, would be the entertainment after the big siege. A chance to humiliate the humans even further, killing some of their best men.
”Chieftain. You think it’s smart, letting 50 prisoners, one by one, have their go at us?”
”My dear Soulless, this is right up your stinking alley.” he said, mockingly.
Goreflail stood a head above Soulless, three centuries worth of scars across the thick dark green and black skin. As thick a skin as any ork that ever walked Vantirium. It was well earned, in the sense that a bulldog earned its bowl of meat every day. The bulldog works hard, but it cannot get all of the credit. In the case of the Cheif, he owed a part of his rise to his army – Soulless being his saving grace a couple of times during the siege alone. Still, Chief barraged around the city, basking in a victory that seemed his – and his alone.
Soulless eyeballed him back, like he did a grunt – like he did a stone.
”As long as I do something,” he said.
He bent and grabbed the long hair of the corpse next to him, dragged the gutless woman, for momentum, and threw her straight in the air, blood cascading from her gut, landing the woman on his shoulder, next to the spikes.
”What are you doing, Soulless?”
”I like doing something. Not nothing. Isn’t that what we just talked about?”
”I just told you, 100 grunts are assigned to do the job! Are you daft, boy?”
”Not that I care, chief, but let me count; … Zero. Zero grunts… cheif,” he said, flinging a man, with severed head, on his shoulder, impaling him with the spiked pauldron. As he picked up the next dead, a little boy, he zoned out, thinking of his next meal. And the weapon. Where would he find a suitable branch for a mallet that could last? And a nice hefty stone at that. Although, just about any stone could break a weak human skull, if swung hard enough.
”You’re lucky I let you talk this way,” said the Cheiftain, eyes following Soulless in his volontary work. ”The workers will show up once they’re fed.”
”The workers?” said Soulless, not really listening. Then it hit him; why not a more lightweight weapon this time around?
”Forget it. Just do what you do. I care little of how you pass your time,” said Goreflail and waited for a reply. None came. ”You listening, or what?”
”You didn’t ask anything. Did you?” said Soulless, wandering off carelessly.
The Cheiftain sighed.
”Anyway. I want you in the first fight, Soulless.”
Now his ears suddenly seemed clear of wax.
”Oh, is that right?” he said, slowly turning back on his heels. ”Why me?”
”Many clans have fought with us to claim this city. Even the goblins this time-”
”Bagh!” Soulless spat in disgust. ”I suppose.”
The Chieftain seemed more amused than anything else.
”Yes, well anyway, we need to start this event with a bang. None better, as I see it. And I know what you’re made of.” Goreflail walked up to Soulless and grasped his arms. ”I…” His face shook, charging the next word. ”know I can count on you. Not to mention one of your famous creative killings.”
”I accept,” said Soulless, and wandered off to find anything edible. If I’m duelling, I know just the weapon for the show.
***
He happened upon the row of men, all that were kept for the duelling pit, which he refused to call by its stupid name.
”Soulless!” called the chainmaster.
”Drukh-Yor,” Soulless replied, not looking at her, but focusing on the prisoners. They looked pathetic in defeat, as they would.
She talked about the upcoming event, suggesting he’d choose this or that knight to maim.
”Did you say something,” said Soulless, as the buzzing in the background finally ended.
Drukh-Yor hissed something, who knows what – except the words ”Ungrateful bastard!” Those were pretty damn clear.
Soulless looked at the prisoners with grave dead eyes.
What if I just hammer a bunch of nails through the tip? I feel that would rip these maggots to shreds pretty quick.
Two of the prisoners whispered as he passed them. Made him stop, twisted his upper body back to face the pair, deliberately slow.
”Oh, we were talking about the battle… sir! Tried to keep it down.”
”I don’t think he can understand us, Quintus,” said the other one.
Soulless tilted his head slightly, letting the two finish regurgitating.
”Honest to God, sir. We weren’t talking about you. Not any ork. Or goblin for that matter,” the one called Quintus said, visibly shaking in his armour. ”Fuck. Are you sure he can’t understand us?”
”Course I am. Orks are uncivilized. Now shut your mouth and he might stop staring at us. And don’t look him in the eyes.”
Both their heads dropped, like the puppetmaster just cut their strings.
Soulless took a step towards them.
”Fucking morons,” a man failed terribly to whisper.
”I understand. Not just so good… talk,” said Soulless, surprising them in the human tounge.
They looked at each other, eyes wide open.
Soulless leaned forward, letting them smell his foul breath.
”I understood help… every time I take soul of man. Human care… much- too much, for fellow man, and self. You have… learn- learning- need learn much- err- to proper survive.”
The men furthest from him almost fell into the mud, witnessing what they must have felt was some historic event.
Though one man, with a strangely shaped water flask, sticking up from a buttoned breast pocket of his leather hide vest, seemed to have his mind elsewhere — eyes up in the clouds.
Very good, in Soulless’s mind. They should all be as ready and unfazed as possible. Otherwise, what’s the fun in fighting?
Soulless just gave them a glance, thinking it could be so. Maybe no ork had ever talked to a human before. At least not in their tounge.
”In line all!” he bellowed.
They were quick to comply, and he thought this must be what it feels like to lead a company. Being offered the role of captain many times by various ork Chieftains, he always declined.
”I choose those dummies,” he said, walking back, passing Drukh-Yor.
”What, both?! I don’t think Wargh Gorefla-”
”Well, I do,” said Soulless. ”Now, yap in some lonely direction, Drukh-Yor. I’m done here. Hungry as a rotmane too. And I have a weapon to bury. Oh, and speaking of food; feed my opponents, make sure they’re warmed up for tomorrow, and most importantly – they are to be wielding their own weapons. I don’t participate in rigged games.”
The chainmaster just shook her head and spat. She had a busy job, and it just got busier.
PART 2 – PREPARED TO PUT ON A SHOW
The day after, the duelling circle had been piled head high. His nose actually hinted a flammable liquid. Must’ve been the chilly northern winds playing tricks. His nose felt like falling off at midday, sometimes, when the cold got to even the most layered of orks. Hard to believe humans survived for so long up there. Credit where credit is due.
With several hours to spare, Soulless felt quite pleased with his new weapon, and the neat little pile, edging the fighting pit. The thin sticks in the soil were barely visible, and on top of the fresh dirt, he put frozen dirt. A spatter of snow finished the piece of art.
”Perfectly camouflaged,” he told himself, as he sat down cross-legged, and let go of a dark fart that deserved being scored by judges. What a shame, no witnesses.
***
When the sun showed up, so did the crowd. Orks and goblins filled the street, doorways, windows and rooftops. A couple of them even fell from the belltower. Dead instantly. Sometimes being an ork felt like such an embarrasing thing.
”Idiots,” said Soulless, drowned in the cheer of the masses. He never left his spot, nor his neat little pile.
The ground trembled when the cheiftain rounded the the pile of bodies. The gigantic flail swung, resting on his armor plated shoulder. What a pompus leader. Why did he need his own entrance? Why would-
”Wargh Goreflail, everyone! Grand Chieftain of the orks! Leader of said orks and also goblins! Conqueror of Spirehaven, human capitol city of Icevein Kingdom and former trading pillar-… cornerstone of the world!” shouted a tiny, squeeky piped, goblin. ”Long live the reign of gobl- of orks and goblins!”
’Squeek’ took a quick glance at the big boss and cleared his throat.
Soulless wondered what this setup was all about. He just wanted to kill a couple of humans, have his moment of brutality for the day, and move on.
”Chief, what’s all the extra fluff about?”
”You’ll see, Soulless. It’ll be the most infamous pit of death in history,” said Goreflail, sounding like an insane kid with a clutched knife — Except this kid was old as an aeon, grotesquely huge and swinging a far deadlier thing about than a puny knife. ”Observe.”
The Chieftain held a grand speech, lifting himself, most of all, to the moon.
”The 50 fiercest humans, blah blah blah,” and ”Witness the might of the orks, as our first fighter will take on not one, but two strong men! Blah blah blah.”
When would he end this farse?
Soulless stood up and tried to shoot big gaping holes in his eyes with his own, pretending he was a fireballing wizard. Sadly Goreflail went on and on for hells knew how many five minute intervals.
During that vomiting of words, as Goreflail primaly pumped his free fist at the roaring crowd, Soulless wished rot would take him… The boss, not himself. But thinking about it, that would have been some kind of mercy. And Soulless was not a fan of mercy. If the speech would not end within five more painful minutes, he would have to sqewer his own eyeballs out.
He in thought it best not to pay too much attenti-
Flames roared from nowhere, in his periphery! Deep banging of wardrums echoed from under the bell in the tower.
Soulless’s jaw did not exactly hit the ground, but his entire rows of teeth were on full display, spawning a twitch in his cheeks.
The fire framed the pit perfectly as it swept around him and Wargh. As it came into view, Soulless realized it was the pile of bodies that had been set ablaze. Because of course it was. He was just surprised att the rapid kindling.
Well, that is sure to haunt them for the rest of their short lives, he thought, letting his sight stay fixed at the row of men. Most of them looked utterly terrified. However, some of them didn’t even flinch.
He was too busy taking it all in, not least of all the smell of burnt flesh, to notice his boss already sent in both opponents — and left — perfectly timed with the fire completing its march surrounding the fanatics and the prisoners.
”Oh, I didn’t expect-”
Both foes came running. Both wielded a shield, but their weapons differed.
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’Spear’ thrusted forward with a jump.
Blocked by the spiked bracers. Soulless shoved the tip in a wide arc, sending it flying out the circle. Its blade scraped, blunt side first, into the skull of a goblin. Everyone cheered. Even the goblin did, surprisingly, blood streaming across one eye.
’Sword’ came next. Full swing. Too telegraphed.
Soulless stepped into it, giving the man the worst hug of his life. The shield wedged between their stomachs. The sword hit. He dismissed it as less than a flesh wound.
”Unnngh-” came from the man – who had tried to ”keep it down”, the day before. Well, now he really would. His own shield dug into the sword arm. Skin opened by the force. He couldn’t scream. Couldn’t anything.
’Spear’ tried to claim back his weapon, but some ork standing front row quickly tossed it in the flames behind.
Laughter erupted.
’Spear’, that by default became ’Shield’, cried out for his friend, dropped breathless on the deathbed muck.
”Hrmph,” Soulless grunted in disappointment, as he dropped ’Sword’ to the ground. He observed his own wound, raising his brows. ”Look at that. A fine attack. Layers broken, and many,” he said in the human tounge, already enjoying the duel. He grinned, as he saw the opponent circling him – now defensively. He swiped a hand on the wound and passed it right across his face, widening his row of teeth.
Then he kneeled, and punched the ground.
Sticks and snow erupted, as Soulless drew his weapon from the dirt! A long, sturdy stick, hammered with a hundred nails.
The crowd roared for their champion.
He flicked the stick, whipping it into the ground. Merely the noise of it made the defender take a step back, as dirt hit his raised shield.
’Shield’, stayed poised and silent, still strafing, still maintaining brutal eye contact.
Soulless stretched his pole as far as he could, damn near spanning half the infernal pit. And he walked.
Panic showed in ’Shield’s eyes, as he parried the thing.
Soulless whisked his light weapon in the air.
He’d been hit already, and was not planning on an encore. Maggots, it stung! 166 layers of skin – suddenly not enough. The man must’ve shredded at least a shird of them through.
’Shield’ spun round the spikes, past the long stick. Blocked a fist with his bulwark and-
After a short silence the row of men all screamed.
A goblin announced the fight – over.
”The great Wargh Goreflail, everyone!” could be heard through the chanting.
PART 3 – RULE WITH CHAOS
”Wargh! Wargh! Wargh! Wargh!”
Soulless felt his veins about to burst from his boiling blood.
”This will teach you something. The rules are mine. Mine! I dictate this stinkin’ spectacle!” Wargh yanked his enormous spiked flail from the limp human general. The sharp ends had annihilated his backside armor.
Soulless never saw this side of his master… Master? No. No longer. The humiliation, amidst this battle of the ages. The end of humanity’s rule in the north. What was he to make of this? Soulless winced. That cursed sword. What was he thinking, taking that blow on purpose?
”I demote you to grunt status. Expected better from you, Soulless.” Goreflail didn’t even care to look at him. He raised his arms, drowning the words in the cheers of the audience.
When the Chieftain turned, Soulless started walking. He left the idiotic event, furious – thinking of his return, his vengeance. But, was that what he really wanted? One thing was certain; he was going to leave Spirehaven. It was only a matter of when.
The human remains cast toxic flames, clawing for him – pricking at his side-wound, as he exited the fiasco.
***
He attended the next duel from the sidelines. Goreflail was to face some weakling, to everyone’s cursed delight.
The ground rumbled when The Chieftain came round the corner, entering the pit. The big boss’s stomping steps carried the most weight, but the rumble also came from the wild and roaring crowd. They had been looking forward to this main event. Soulless, not so much.
The flail swung, resting at Goreflail’s shoulder, between the big spikes of his pauldrons. He looked the part, no question.
”Human!” Goreflail nodded to the row of men. ”Ork! Bested you! We take- take city! Take castle!”
He roared and gestured in all directions. The orks and goblins inside and outside of the death-smelling flames, in the adjacent building windows, on the roofs and in the packed belltower – they all cheered and chanted like maniacal children with keys to a candy littered armory.
”Who first?” echoed Goleflail maniacally between the buildings.
The corpses were oozing. They emitted defeat and humiliation. Only - Soulless felt it applied to him, and him only.
”For the King!” A soldier shouted, with his shield raised high, sword tight in his grip.
Something got in the way though, and shut his morale up real good.
A head was thrown, by the hair, into the ring. Threw everyone off.
In the brief seconds of surprised silence, another goblin lost her balance, or whatever, and fell from the belltower. Cheers erupted as the descending squeeking got taken care of by gravity.
The hair was long and silken, looked like it belonged in the icy Icevein.
”Great Jorm, it’s the King,” said Soulless. ”Nice touch.”
As he said it, a piercing wail disturbed his spectating.
”Ah, the Queen,” he figured, almost impressed by the abrupt chaos — The added chaos, like icing on the bloody cake. Except this was actual ice, on actual blood.
When the queen was out of breath, for what must have been some record breakingly long uttering of the letter ’A’, whatever operated that inhuman feat, seemed to quit its job — and her most human body collapsed, ghost-like, in the muck.
Soulless tugged and plugged at his ears — far from the only one too.
But this day, being seemingly the most chaotic day in history, would not let anyone’s gaze linger long on the dome of the King of the humans, nor their opera sensation of a Queen.
A large ice pick came loose and penetrated the shoulder of an ecstatic ork below. He frowned at it, and seemed suddenly less ecstatic. Then bit off the top-heavy part with his big tusks. What little blood that trickled out froze fast.
”You should put some ice on that, idiot!” Another ork from across the duel-pit shouted. A laugh erupted all through the circle, spreading to the masses watching.
The humans stood silent, surely counting the seconds ’til their inevitable doom. Soulless figured they had precious little to live for anyway.
’Tusks’, was not too fond of being laughed at in front of a lesser race. Two lesser races, counting the goblins. He had one gigantic pauldron, mocking him on the other shoulder, not a scratch on it, even after the great battle. The ice-picked ’Tusks’ happened to be armed with a bow.
’Claws’ entered the pit next, with great clawed fist weapons, roared and laughed in a flood of rage and happiness. Or maybe that was phychosis. Soulless couldn’t be sure, as ’Claws’ came from a different tribe.
”I’ll rip your throat out, vermin,” roared the slender ork.
The human swung his shield, low morale be damned, deflecting a path to thrust his sword. The aim was directed towards the throat. ’Claws’ other weapon came up. It made the block just in time. Shield arm was fast. So was the first hand of ’Claws’, who made the block again. But only in part. Shield tackled on, but through the blocking metal claws. They ended up in the ork’s own face. Chipped at his eyebrows. Blood ran down the ork’s face. He adjusted his nose.
Soulless imagined, through the cheers, that the nimble ork’s nose was broken. But the satisfying crack could not be heard. What a shame. You had to enjoy the little things in life, and so he enjoyed even the hint of a possibility.
They broke away from each other.
”Come on!” ’Claws’ snarled as he lunged forward. Arm raised. Murder in his wide eyes.
Zing!
An arrow flew from the crowd, from the blind spot, behind the dueling man. An impossible parry, as it arced over around the man.
From one moment to the next, ’Claws’ lay on the ground, twitching and gurgling. He fell fate to the same as many that now rested in a part of Hell; irony – right in the bloody throat.
A moment of silence dominated the windy air. Only the last bubbling breaths of a dying fighter were heard.
”He moved in my way!” ’Tusks’ shouted in desperation.
The human detainees were visibly confused on their ’death row’.
”Did I just win?” The soldier said to himself. Arms were straight hanging by his side, sword clanged against the hard surface.
The Chieftain was visibly both entertained and angry at the same time. Whatever was happening, he let it.
”Humans! Look poor poor Ork!” he cackled. ”No. No good, human not winner! Fight again!”
Goreflail squinted and turned in a panorama, meeting the eyes of every last human. He hung on every word, like an unholy priest about to summon the undead.
”Blood you give to me! No escape!” also versed in the tongue of the humans.
The words echoed hauntingly with a shrieking that made boys of men. Arcing his back forward, he laughed deafeningly. Authority and madness never seemed to exist in such harmony as right then and there.
”I Wargh!” Saliva steadily dripped onto his right boot as he leaned, facing the crowd, swinging his spiky flail. With a mighty crack it hit the ground, reaching the cold hard crust beneath the slush, creating a small crater. ”The fool is next, and I am here awaiting him! He will know the meaning of gore!”
Spoken with the tounge of his race, there was no hesitation what so ever in his voice. It became visibly clear now, if not before, that he lead by fear, but also some twisted kind of respect and principle.
His finger aimed at ’Tusks’, who in return roared his warcry, knowing he had no choice but to fight his own boss.
”You selfimportant bully. I never liked you anyway! Come on then!” he hissed back, reaching to borrow a battle axe from one of his warband. ”You think you’re so glorious in the eyes of Zeal Aqia?! It thinks less than nothing of you!”
Oh, it’ll be your funeral, thought Soulless, biding his time in the crowd.
The ice pick melted to the point it fell from ’Tusks’s bleak shoulder. It had stopped the blood flow.
Awefully convinient. You’ll certainly need it, Soulless thought.
Goreflail bellowed from the gut, snot and saliva peppered the ground as he was successfully insulted, took a large step in a continuous spinning motion — and the flail soared. Like a god of chaos, it sent shivers through Soulless.
Goreflail changed his posture mid-spin. He went low.
Opponent tried to jump. One foot cleared the chained weapon. The other one did not. Two flailspikes landed clean in the planted foot. The blow spun him around, painting a red half-moon in the air.
”This makes me wonder if I’m on the verge of having seen everything. That there — is a work of art,” proclaimed Soulless to the ork in front. He didn’t know him or anything, but he could not help but be impressed by the sheer control their chief had over such a difficult weapon.
The lesser ork went down in agony, landing flat on his face. He turned his gaze up at the boss, getting ready to spew curses at him. Eager to wind his axe at the –
Whack!
The weapon ate at the flesh, dripping of blood and unidentifiable chunks. What a mess. One could hardly look more dead, even after a carefully planned cuicide.
The Chieftain addressed the humans again, trying his best to speak like them.
”This,” he pointed at the once face of the defeated ork. Surprisingly he still held on to the battle-axe, which he probably needed for a safer passage into Hell. ”This easy. Now who human- Who to bring worthy fight?”
”Hail Goreflail!” The onlookers cheered. ”Hail Goreflail!”
The flames grew higher, as Soulless wondered what the point was at this point. A good fight would surely hold the attention of anyone present. Now — the smoldering inferno only blocked the view of unfortunately placed audience members.
Suddenly a man broke free of a casual jailer-hold. The only way to go was inside the circle. Desperate for freedom. Desperate to see his family again. But he had no further plan.
”Fairmont!” He yelled, desperate for a response, as he looked around frantically. ”We must go, now!”
”Calm yourself, Pontius.” Said another man — presumably Fairmont. He looked over at the scared boy. No sense calling him a man no more. With arms hanging low, Fairmont nodded his head sideways as a way of saying; Go back to your place. We’re dead without a plan.
”Hrmm,” grunted Soulless, fascinated by the widely different range of emotions displayed by the prisoners. He licked at his tusk, feeling the fiery heat. After such a long visit in the north — so far — it felt like a comforting change.
The wild man appeared to garner a reaponse to this ’Fairmont’.
Soulless treasured every moment of the event, which had become quite the entertainment after all. Happy to feel the humiliation of his own fight’s ending ebb out into a thing of the past, he felt he could enjoy a good time with his people. The last one he’d ever want to have with them.
”The terms of which I go shall be mine and –”
Pontius, was it? Well, ’was’ rang true alright. He was struck down from behind by an impatient ork Chieftain.
”I shall oblige,” said Goreflail with a chilly calmness.
There was a unified wailing from many of the men, including Fairmont — defeated to one knee at the loss of his friend.
The flames flickered stronger. Danced dark at their peak.
Now two dead bodies lay in the circle of death. Still no legit duel had taken place.
”Who next?” Said Goreflail. Not screaming. He already had all the attention he wanted. ”Who next?”
The humans were terrified. None dared speak up or do anything. Wait… There was someone.
”I’ll fight you, Wargh.” Stumped, the orks who held him in place let go, as Fairmont wiggled his shoulders free. He bent his legs to a squat, getting some feel back to his body again. ”I need a weapon.”
Silence, except for the wind, greeted the flames in a wooshing crackle.
”Know ork meaning?” The mighty leader finally said. ”Do you?”
”Uh – I can’t say I know your purpose, no Chief. But I –”
”Tell I do!” Goreflail said, turning his back. ”Stupid men. No knowledge. Just no knowledge. Not exist.” His attempt at a whisper could be heard by all. Not that he cared at all.
”Sir, I –”
”Cheiftain!!” The ork leader had no hint of playfulness in his voice, this time. Though he did seem to choose the most unexpected tone whenever adressing anyone — keeping everyone on their toes.
Goreflail did his best to both entertain and to keep up with his linguistics.
”Humans. Your race – What say? Ah, I say this. Humans. Humans – uurh – almost? Almost, almost – aah, hemm. Almost… destroyed ork.” He turned with the last words to face Fairmont again, overjoyed to have vocalised his thoughts.
Fairmont stretched his arms and legs.
”Humans almost destroyed you? Way back in time, huh? I can’t imagine why, Chief,” he said, as a goblin with supremely quick feet delivered him a sword and shield. Goblins didn’t come in all sizes, but apparently they had extra extra small. It was at the handover that one could see there was actually a goblin there. Otherwise, all people saw was a speeding shield with a sword wedged into it.
Soulless frowned at the ridiculous sight, while he held back a laugh.
PART 4 – SILENCE AFTER CHAOS
”I am the Warmaster! Face me, Cheiftain!” yet another man spoke up. One that seemed unfazed by the whole being prisoner and about to die thing.
”Another contender?” said Soulless to no one in particular. ”Cross-eyed ravens, it’s the quiet man with the water bottle!”
”What are you doing, Wilmar?” Fairmont shouted.
”You’ll do well to back off now, you hear me?” said this Wilmar vermin, to his ally.
”Ah!” Wargh Goreflail smiled wide. ”I judged one too many by his appearance.” He walked slowly over to Omen Wilmar, the spiked weapon scraping the ground and leaving a trail.
Fairmont stepped aside.
’The Omen’ stood unmoving in Spirehaven. Emerging like a dark spiritual presence, unrecogniseably stoic to his fellow men. He glared Goreflail in the eyes, shoulders still held by jailer orks.
The Cheiftain stared back, as if a contest just started.
None blinked. A feint, crackling sound. And stronger. Then, lightning! It arced in a dreamlike pattern. Up. It came from inside the rising flames, that in turn expanded. The crowd started to feel threatened by it now, as the fire looked hungrier — and wilder. There was no longer any snow on the ground, all turned to slush.
Omen Wilmar was facing Wargh Goreflail still. Both unflinching. Words were exchanged in ork tounge. Curses here, insults there.
Both onlooking races were astonished that Omen even knew a word of if.
”I’m curious about you, puny one.” Said Goreflail. ”My hands are itching for your head to be ripped and teared to shreds.” He laughed. ”But… but but but. No human has ever been known to speak Ork. However! I get the sense you’re not here to discuss your prowess in linguistics, correct?”
The Omen took a couple steps closer to The Cheiftain — the jailers automatically let him go forth — but remained quiet in his helm. Now within arms reach, Goreflail’s body twitched, most likely of a deep urge to maim.
”Your intuition is correct,” The Omen finally said, taking another step forward, feeling the breath of decay from Wargh’s gaping maw. At this point, if Goreflail lashed out, it would be a relief to focus on something other than the stench of rotting gums.
Goreflail got into a low stance. ”You fascinating little thing.” He said, licking his snot.
Fairmont still didn’t know where to go. He was still in the dueling circle, starting to slip on the slushy ground as he looked around, utterly lost.
The street made a firey gate at each end of the fighting, and all younger orks, with less fighting experience, started to fear the flames enough to leave, one by one.
”The skin! My layers!” One of them yelled, running from the scene.
At this point, Soulless had left the big crowd on the walls and rooftops, and stood by the jailers in the circle. The shitshow was just too unhingeingly interesting.
A steady stream of lesser orks fell back to the horde of their kin, as the ungodly flames seemed to blow without any wind.
”That’s right, flee. Be gone if you can’t handle it,” said Soulless to his only real friend; himself.
Like the snap of a finger, a bigger ork took two steps. There was a sickening crunch, as Galahrk obliterated a soldier, that seemed truck by a rogue plan of escape. Panic, that plan’s name was.
The neck snapped and the big hammer even made a hole in it. Eyes rolled back in their sockets. The man collapsed in on himself.
Soulless was delighted at the surprise bonus kill.
Those men who were left to die shouted both this way and that, of Gods, devils and their mothers. None would ressurrect their friends though, so why bother?
”Very good blow, Galahrk!” Goreflail praised, still focused on ’The Omen’.
”Hrrmpfh!” Galahrk grunted, appearing neither happy nor angry. Though the latter seemed most likely. She took a good look at the messy hammer, then licked some blood off. In that moment, she seemed more happy than before.
***
’The Omen’ waited long enough, and Goreflail made the first move.
The beast swung the chained weapon. But it dawned on him fast. His weapon was medium ranged – His foe too close.
Shank!
Not one time. Ten times, around the abdomen. The Omen drew the flask from his belt.
Goreflail was caught surprised. He threw the handle of his weapon, as he fell to his knees. The chained grip landed weak on the chestplate of his target, falling in the slippery slush in a pathetic splonk.
”A fine initiative from –” Goreflail’s desperate attempt at distracting the captain was in vain.
’The Omen’ smashed the flask in the face of the big boss.
It shattered in endless pieces.
”That ain’t water.” Soulless was impressed — and a bit intimidated. ”Well done.”
Acid started working through the layers of the chieftain, a yellowy smoke burning off his face.
Goreflail let out a sound that stabbed eardrums and scared away the lingering snow vultures. His face bled of the tiny pieces of glass, and the content of the flask stung at the wounds.
A critical hit by ’The Omen’.
The rest of his men could not believe it.
The Cheiftain continued to scream in agony, his eyes completely dissolved, gut showering, as his red filth escaped him, along with chunks of thickly layered skin — his infamous weapon laying useless in the muck.
Not until then, ’The Omen’ drew his blade.
