The Season of War

[Narthok 9213]

The Season of War

Spoiler

 

 

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The human had returned, covered in the filth of the road, his clothes tattered from his long journey. Yet he had returned nonetheless. A member of one of the desert families who had offered service to the Horde speaker in exchange for access to the Oasis.

 

The desert was not kind. Water was not free. Blood and steel were cheap. So they had shared meat and drink with the Hordespeaker. They had sat at the meetings of the clans and the tribes, their chieftains had given words. They were not Urukhim, but they were horde.

 

The families and the tribes were each obliged to surrender a portion of their time each year to the service of the Horde. Human and Elfling chieftains were usually sent on diplomacy. For some reason the nations of the softer lands found them less grating that the gutural tenors of eight foot tall war machines. 

 

Yet only a handful of the party that had been sent forth had returned. In the sonorous mantongue - blah pidgin that so many of the desert families had adopted, the tribesman relayed the events of the journey.

 

The Hordespeaker had sent forth the tribesmen to speak with the denizens of Lurin. Hoping to secure an exchange of primitive desert goods for the luxurious products of foreign lands. By some miracle, perhaps an upside down map, or the excessive consumption of Airag, one of the popular drinks of the Urukhim and the desert tribes, the tribesmen wandered into the gates of Aaun.

 

The details were muddy. The words of the tribesman difficult to decipher, particularly for an already irate Orcish Chieftain. Whether it be the dealing of drugs or the failed conduct of diplomacy Grommash could barely discern. It did not matter.

 

As the report continued the eyes of the Rex began to glaze, his lips moving, slowly at first, but then louder and louder. The primal chant echoing through the village, growing louder with each passing stanza as the curse of the Urukhim infected more and more of the Horde’s warriors. 

 

Grommash remembered his dreams. The beautiful voice, the goblet of purest crystal. The gift. Was the way of Krug truly the right path? In that moment he did not care. The beast in his heart did not rage, slamming itself against the psyche of the chieftain as it did so often when he attempted to suppress the bloodrage. It welcomed him, and he it.

 

Was it even correct to call it a curse? How could a curse feel so natural, so freeing..

The world seemed clearer now. Devoid of the frivolities of reason and morality. Horde blood had been spilled. It did not matter why, it did not matter where. He had an excuse to spill blood.  

 

Bringing his horn to his lips he rode forth from the village, caring little whether his warriors accompanied him or not. The Warband descended on the open gates of Aaun, plowing through the city they put its citizens to the sword. If diplomats of the Horde were not respected, why should anyone be? As his consciousness faded Grommash chuckled to himself, the reasons mattered little the gift waxed in the heart of the Urukhim. Perhaps this freedom, this absence of all chains, perhaps this was the true way of the children of Krug.

 

The fire roared deep in his heart as the final fragments of his consciousness faded, accompanied only by the beautiful yet terrible laughter of the gift giver.

 

---

 

A collection of Urukhim sat around the fire in the center of the village. Some were bundled in great pelts, a bulwark against the biting chill of the desert night. The kubs of the village had yet begun to cry, the smiths and labourers had yet begun to ply their craft. Nor had the Warbosses begun to bark their harsh commands to the clans and the tribes that would inevitably fill the village in preparation for the war. 

 

No. This gathering was a gathering of the select few. The Hordespeaker sat barechested despite the chill. His famous ascetism rumoured to be his strange way of punishing himself, his way of remembering the warriors who had marched willingly to their death at his order. Warriors who had gone to their sires with great smiles on their faces, covered in the blood of their enemies. A good death. None would say otherwise. Yet a waste all the same. 

 

So much Orcish blood spilt for another human war. The Rabbitchildren of Horen may recover from such bloodletting easily, their great stone cities vomiting forth fresh legions to feed the fleshtide. Yet the Urukhim, the Horde, would feel the enduring pain of the War of Ten for many years to come. The absence of some of its greatest warriors sorely felt.

 

Gromash shook his head. The sun had begin to kiss the horizon. Soon the season of war would reap its grim harvest. The innumerable bodies of the flesh tide crashing against the great cliffs of Drusco. Raising his eyes to his fireside companions the Rex would begin to speak

 

“Brothers” He would murmur softly “It has been a long war. We began this war barely having emerged from the tents of our sires. Look at us now. Scarred, hardened by war. 

 

The Chieftain would pause, rubbing his hands together to ward off the cold, the eyes of his most trusted warriors turning from the vivid flames to the Rex.

 

“Perhaps we have done the Orcfather proud with our actions. But if we are being truthful, I am enraged. You have all seen the black cliffs of Drusco. You have seen the black cliffs of Drusco. You have seen the warrens that the Haensemen and their slaves have carved into the rock.

 

Many of you walked amongst those tunnels with me once the builders were forced to flee. Yet you have all seen the great herds of the sands and the plains to the west. You know that the wolf pack cannot stand in the path of the great herd of prey. 

 

Tapping his fingers along the length of his Hammer the Orcish chieftain would gaze into the eyes of each of his warriors. Already his blood had begun to boil, the laughter of the giftor echoed softly in his ears. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. He would not embrace the gift, not now. The laughter fading from his sense Grommash opened his eyes, each of his warriors offered a nod, they understood well the meditations, the rituals of calming the heart and quieting the beast that raged within all of them. He continued.

 

“Tomorrow the Fleshtide will emerge from their tunnels and come for the cliffs of Drusco. If Drusco falls, they will have free access to the soft heartlands of the Velands. The Velemen speak of field battles and Cavalry. They dream of another Westmark. I do not think they have realized that the fleshtide has adapted.

 

But you know this. Each of you has shared meat and fire with me. You have heard my mind and I have heard yours. You have sat with me as the seers have read my stars, and I have sat with you as they read yours. You are my Keshig. Each of you swore to share my meat and my fire, to share my oasis and my thirst. To share my war and my death. 

 

The Chieftain took a moment to admire his greatest warriors. The Crimson Death Apek, death walking. Klog, terror of the midlands. Grommash had received many letters, any complaints, begging for leash to the Rex’s mad dog. Grommash had the armourers pin the letters to the armour of his warriors. They would carry their rage and lamentations of their foes into battle. If their deaths were to be written in the stars, then let them die laughing.

 

Grommash turned his gaze to Kraugluk and Dragaar. The two warriors were famously silent. They questioned no orders. They offered no quarrel. Yet they had painted the cliffs of Hokhmat red in the days leading up to the siege. It had not been enough. Like rats the Haensemen had tunneled into the rock below, eschewing battle with the finest of the Horde. Preferring the indignity of labouring beneath the feet of their betters. Contenting themselves with the mantra that quantity was a quality of its own.

The Rex smiled to himself. He had slept poorly. His dreams growing more vivid since he had been haunted by the beautiful voice of the Giftor. She stalked his dreams and his waking hours. Always present at the margins. Always tempting… offering… demanding that he yield, that he accept the bounty that she offered. The freedom. Not now. Not yet.

 

“My brothers..” Grommash said, his voice even and low “All that could have been done has been done. The defences have been made. The blades forged and sharpened. The words that must be spoken have been spoken, and they have fallen on deaf ears. 

 

The stars speak of a great reaping. The great harvest of the season of war. The spirits dance and sing they know that tomorrow the cliffs shall be painted red with Manblood and the blood of the Urukhim. My brothers.. No.” The Rex would pause, his brow knit in consternation “That is not the right word. My sons.” he would murmur softly, the rare show of affection quickly fading into the cold air of the early dawn.

 

“Each of you walks in the footsteps of the Orcfather, your actions each day bringing glory and honour to our people and to our father, greatest of the four.

 

Today I tell you this.

 

The least, is off. You will not stay by my side. You will not shield me from arrow and sword. I tell you this now not as a request but as an order. Not as your Warbrother, sharer of meat and fire. I tell you this as your Rex.” The Rex’s words would be sharp and final, he would brook no disagreement. He spoke now as Hordespeaker. “So long as my heart beats, so long as the horde obeys, mine is the will of Krug.”

 

“Today the discipline is ended. My best sons. My wolves of war. Perhaps our deaths are written in the stars this day. Perhaps the Orcfather calls us home to Stargush’stroh. If today is the day that we are to die, then let us pile the corpses high, let us announce our coming with the screams of the Fleshtide. My sons, today I set you free. Today you will do what you were made to do.”

 

“Hurt them”

 

The Rex stood, each of his warriors following. The village had begun to awaken. The crying of Kubs, the crackling of cooking fires. Soon the village would be full of action and noise. The Keshig had heard the mind of the Rex. Now it was up to them. As each departed the Rex would grab them by the collar of their cuirass, pulling their foreheads against his own. A headbutt, yet lacking the usual ferocity of the ancient greeting of the Urukhim. Looking each in the eyes he let them go one after another, each departing to his duty. No further words need be exchanged. 

 

The war dance would be danced, the harvest would be reaped. Grommash smiled, the rage within rising. Now. He would think to himself. Marching off to the Horn of Yar, the Rex would call the clans and the tribes to war. The finally he would drink deeply of the nectar of the gift.

 

---

 

The Great Horn of Yar would echo out across the mountains and sands of the Hordelands. The Horde had once more been called to war. As the clans and tribes filtered into the village, the Rex ascended the steps of the Rex rock. His hammer resting on his shoulder he would raise a hand, causing a silence to fall across the Horde. Soon there would be fighting. It was time for the Hordespeaker to speak.

 

My Horde, many of you know my feelings on this war. I do not want this present, I do not want this future. I have marched into the fortresses of the enemy under flag of truce. I have proposed peace and it has been rejected time and time again.

 

There is a sickness in this world. A madness. But who better than we, the Urukhim to know just how real the sickness the evil one inflicted on the world really is. In each of us, from the very moment we are born, lurks that terrible curse of the Urukhim. The rage in the heart. Some would call it a gift. They claim only in embracing the bounty in our hearts can we truly be free. Unchained by morals and fears. Living true to ourselves. 

 

I will not dance the tonguedance and pretend I have an answer. I speak truth.

 

You have followed me into the jaws of death many times. We were there at the start of the war, when, you rode with me when we broke their army at Westmark. You stood with me on the road of Balian while our allies got lost in the mountains. Again and again you have followed me. 

 

We have made an oath to the Velemen. While the cowards of Celia’nor have committed Elfsin, as is customary for their kind, we are the Urukhim. Children of Krug, greatest of the four. I will go to the battle of the cliffs. I will stand in the storm of iron from the firebreathing tubes of the humans. 

 

I will stare down the Fleshtide as it emerges from its rat-tunnels and floods the black cliffs of Drusco. I will go, even if I must go alone.

 

The Rex would pause, casting an eye over the gathered crowd.

 

As I look now I can see that there are many families who are sorely lacking. Many of our great warriors and hunters have fallen to the pikes of the humans. Drowning under the tide of flesh and blood.

 

I will not ask you to send the last of your sons, your hunters. I will not condemn the tribes to further hunger in the absence of their foodbringers. So I will go. Alone if I must.

 

Death comes for all of us in the end. One can run from it. One can use foul magiks to stave off death’s harvest. But in the end, all of us die. For us Urukhim one day our death shall be written in the stars. If we are to die. Let us die well. Let the talespinners remember us as the ones who kept their oaths. 

 

There are many flaws in the Urukhim. Each of us has lost clankin to the rage. Kin who become more savage with each passing day, losing themselves to the gi.. To the curse. That is our burden. We, children of the greatest of the four suffer from the greatest of the curses. But let us not be found guilty of dwarfsin. Let us not be greedy for life. Let us not be found guilty of elfsin. Let us not break oath and shame our fathers with our cowardice.

 

I will go. For it was I who bound the Horde. And it shall be I that sees the season of war to its end. You may stay, or you may go. The choice is yours.

 

The Hordespeaker, having spoken his mind quietly descended the Rex Rock, his hammer resting on his shoulder, his great tower shield slung, he would depart north. As he passed through the gate his voice would ring out clear, he had begun to chant the warsong.

 

[Strife 266]

Muraak's spear raises amidst the crowd, a solemn gaze upon his face. He who had fought for the Horde, and would do so unto death, would not falter. The path of indolence to a greater purpose steeled his heart, the call of the Spirits to honor them in glorious combat and service to the Horde.

 

"Lat will not go alone, brother! Mi stand with you!" Bellowed the leal wild-orc, thumping the butt of his spear into the ground with a resounding THUD.