The main villain of the first book of the “Plains Knight Trilogy” is an orc chieftain named Grom Ten-Kill. While he is far from the stereotypical orc we all know and love from Tolkien and our D&D games, he is still a bloodthirsty villain.

As you read my stories, you will find that all of my villains have reasons and motivations for their actions – I don’t believe in the villain who is evil simply for the sake of being evil – and discovering Grom’s motivations is one of the key themes of “A Dance With Demons.” That being said, Grom is a character with lots of depth and a story behind him, as any good character has. So when one of my “first readers” asked me “How did Grom get his name? Why is he known as “Ten-Kill?” the second of my short stories was born.

This one’s for you, Peter.

He spun his axe over his head, the blade slicing through the air with heart stopping quickness. The other yearlings that faced him were wary now; wary where before they had been headstrong and foolish. Shifting his weight to one foot, he met a half-hearted thrust from Limock’s blade, blocking it, but not striking back.

At least not yet.

The five remaining orcs were wary now; after all, he had just taken down five of their companions in little more than a hands worth of moments. Quickly, efficiently. So swiftly, in fact, that the other yearling warriors had gained new respect for him.

Odd, considering that they are all my brothers. They should know better. Yet they didn’t.

He flashed his teeth in a full-tusked grin, trying to taunt his brother into attacking him, knowing that Limock – his youngest brother – was as headstrong and foolish as could be. Limock had quickly joined into the melee when their father, Chief Torath Silent Knife of Clan Broken Claws, had called it. Called it, and opened to all of his sons – even little Limock - sending out all his sons born within five sun turns of each other on a blood name raid together. They would earn their blood name on this raid, or die trying. And he who won this blood challenge would lead the raid, bringing no small amount of honor to himself in the process.

Such is the way of The People of Grummish – the way of the orcs.

He knew in his heart that he would win this blood trial. He knew it with a certainty, for he alone among his many brothers had learned a very un-orclike trait. Patience. His knew his brothers would quickly defeat him if they ever demonstrated either that, or another concept which came hard to the orcs. Teamwork.

No, they will continue to come at me one at a time, screaming and leaping about, counting on nothing more than their prowess in combat to defeat me. He was neither the strongest, nor the fastest of Silent Knife’s four-odd hands worth of sons; what he was was the smartest. He alone had learned to wait, relying on his wits to get him where his lack of brawn would not.

So here he was, five of his brothers fallen at his feet, dead or alive he did not know or care, but defeated nonetheless; the other five circling warily, unsure of how to defeat one whose martial skills was near their match, but whose patience was far superior. Soon enough, one of them would tire and lash out, hoping that the ferocity of his attack would carry him through to victory.

But who would it be? Jarnth, with his quick blade and quicker temper? Or perhaps Timosh, whose wit was quicker than his blade, but still my match? Or maybe Ra’fehl? Or even little Limock, barely able to hold a warrior’s axe at little more than ten turnings of the sun?

No, to his surprise it was none of those. Rather, it was the eldest – and most patient - of his ten brothers who struck first Hulking Sraback, his oldest brother and the one who thus far had shown the most skill in this melee, was two summers older than he; he was also fully a head taller than his own seven feet, and as broad across the shoulders as a full grown warg. Srabeck lashed out, swinging his huge axe in a mighty overhand chop. Deftly side stepping the blow, he laughed as Srabeck’s axe slammed into the ground next to him.

Srabeck screamed a challenge, quickly pulling his axe free and immediately launching into another swing. Bringing his own blade up, he blocked Srabeck’s strike using the haft of his axe, the force of the blow sending numbing shivers up his arms. He sensed that the larger orc had over reached with that attack, for Srabeck hesitated for just a moment, and in that moment, he struck. Lashing out with his elbow into Srabeck’s chin, he followed with a knee to the midsection, knocking the wind from his brother.

Whirling about, he brought his own axe overhead, bringing down what would have been a killing strike outside the challenge circle. Yet at the last moment, he turned his bade, striking Srabeck on the top of the head with the flat of the blade, yet not lessoning the force of the blow at all. Its power sent Srabeck reeling, and he quickly sidled up to his brother, delivering a bone crushing slam of his head that sent the larger warrior sprawling, falling unconscious at the feet Chief Silent Knife.

Screaming out battle cries, his remaining four brothers began a feeble attempt to draw him out, trying to get him to make the same kind of mistakes they were making. “You fight like a pink-skin female, brother!” Timosh screamed at him. “When will you drop your cowish ways and fight like a warrior, like one of The People! Stop this pointless maneuvering, and let us settle this blade to blade, not like pink-skin grass eaters!”

Laughing, he returned the taunt. “I hope your blade is sharper than your tongue, Timosh, for if not, you will never be able to catch up to me, brother!”

Timosh lunged forward, striking out with whip-like quickness. “Brother,” he retorted, “If you’re blade were half as quick as my tongue, you’d be half as fast as you need to be to defeat me!” He then swung his human-made greatsword, plunder taken on a raid into pink-skin lands, as if it were a giant scythe, one deft swing after another. Each of Timosh’s strokes came with speed that he found hard to match with his own great axe, and after a few long moments of this, he felt himself beginning to tire under Timosh’s punishing blows.

Yet unlike Timosh, he focused solely on defense, whereas Timosh continued to press him back, furiously attacking the whole time. And not just with his blade, but with his bad jokes and puns. Timosh bragged at him the whole time, yelling out tales off his prowess both on and off the battlefield. “You’ll find that I am quick enough to defeat you, brother! After all, the only thing quicker than my blade is my skill claiming females for my bed!”

Tired as he was, this last one was too much for him. Orc women were subservient to their men in ways that a human would find revolting, and that was the only reason Timosh ever had any success in mating. Grunting, he blocked another of Timosh’s powerful swings, then slammed his boot down on his brother’s foot. The action didn’t distract Timosh for long, but a long time wasn’t what he needed.

Bringing his other knee up, he connected solidly with his brother’s groin, and Timosh whuffed loudly as the breath exploded from his chest in a painful gasp. Shortening the grip on his axe, clutching it near the top of the haft, he struck a hard blow with the top of the blade at the back of Timosh’s neck. The other orc dropped swiftly, gasping for breath as he fell. “The day you match my prowess in bed, Timosh,” he replied dryly, “is the day I mate with a drunken warg.” The hoots and catcalls from the warriors surrounding the challenge circle were loud enough to drown out the answering snarls from his three standing brothers, as well as Timosh’s moan as he slipped into unconsciousness.

Turning, he snarled at the three still conscious opponents facing him, “Whose next!?! I don’t want to kill you, but if you keep taking so much time, I may do so out of boredom alone!” The catcalls and hoots from the crowd drowned redoubled, but a sense that he couldn’t quite explain clued him in to his brothers next act seconds before they moved. Screaming and leaping, all three of them dropped their weapons, pounding across the circle to attack him with their bare hands.

He realized that he was in trouble, but he also realized he could still beat them. If I don’t make any mistakes. Ra’fehl, closest to him in age, pounced at him, tusks bared and snarling. He sidestepped Ra’fhel even as he dropped his axe and delivered an open-palmed strike to Jarnth, snapping his neck back. Yet he couldn’t avoid little Limock, who sprang at him from his blindside, leaping onto his back and sinking his teeth into his older brother’s neck.

Snarling, he reached around and grabbed Limock with both arms, clutching his youngest brother around the waist, grunting with effort as he tugged him free. He howled in sudden pain as Limock’s jaws tore lose from his neck, but turned the pain inward, using it for a little extra strength to fling the boy over his head. Limock sailed several feet and crashed into Ra’fehl, who had just regained his footing and was turning around, preparing another attack.

Spinning, he saw that his first strike at Jarnth had barely stunned the other orc. Delivering a powerful kick, he was surprised that Jarnth blocked it deftly. In fact, his brother responded with a series of rabbit-quick punches to his head that left him reeling.

“Surrender, brother.” Jarnth huffed. “I am the better warrior.”

“Never!” he screamed back. He grasped Jarnth by the shoulders with both hands and pushed, tapping into some sort of second wind he didn’t know he’d possessed. He pushed his brother backwards until he simply gave way, sending him crashing into Ra’fehl, who was struggling to stand up after flinging Limock off of him.

Temporarily free of two of his opponents, he turned toward Limock, was had produced a dagger from somewhere on his person. Limock slashed at him clumsily, his youth and inexperience evident. “You may have bested the rest of us, but you used yourself up doing it,” the young orc snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. So young! Why did father let him into this challenge?

Limock leaped at him, knife in his hand, pouncing like a stalking warg. He rolled with the younger orc’s attack, and turned it back, using the boys ferocity against him. Limock, he knew, simply didn’t have the size or strength to take him, and he held the youngster away with his hands even as he wrapped his legs around the boy’s waist. He quickly flipped the boy around, and then he was in the dominant position. Fear suddenly filled Limocks eyes, and he smiled in the moment it took him to bring back his fist and connect it with Limock’s jaw, breaking it with one punch – and blessedly knocking the youngling unconscious.

Jarnth and Ra’fehl had used the time he spent disposing of Limock to right themselves, and both swirled about him now, circling like a pair of wargs after a wounded bear, each wary of the prey, yet knowing they must defeat it. He saw that both of them had weapons in their hands again, Ra’fehl a good orcish axe and Jarnth a war maul that must have weighed ten pounds. Heavy that. It will slow him down.

He tensed, unsure of how to proceed, since he had lost his axe while finishing off Timosh. His brothers must have noticed, for Ra’fehl kicked his axe back toward him. “Take it, brother. I wouldn’t want my victory over the two of you to be tainted by your having no blade.” He picked it up quickly, yet in that moment, they both struck.

Quick as they both were, he was quicker, blocking their furious blows effortlessly, one after another. Block, parry, parry, block, thrust! Over and over again, moments blending into what seemed like hours, he felt his arms beginning to tire. But if I am tired, how much more so must Jarnth be, swinging that maul?

Block, parry, parry, parry. Jarnth was slowing, and so he began to insert a few more thrust into his defensive pattern. Then…

One of his thrusts succeeded; Jarnth was too tired to block, and the swing of his axe connected solidly with Jarnth’s shoulder, biting deep into his upper arm. Jarnth screamed in pain, dropping the maul, and he knew he had succeeded. He could tell his thrust must have cut a tendon, for Jarnth feebly tried to grasp the maul, but was unable to do so.

Yet Jarnth continued to try and attack, picking up the dagger from the sill-unconscious Timosh’s hand. He knew he would have to deal with Jarnth, but Ra’fehl was know a far larger threat than the one-armed Jarnth, and he was lucky to spin about and parry a wicked slash from Ra’fehl’s axe. Can’t allow myself to be distracted! Still have one brother to go! He fell warily back into the duel with Ra’fehl, knowing that his own strength was nearly as spent as Jarnth’s, and that he must end this fight soon, one way or another.

Strike low. A voice in his head, and not his own. He glanced about quickly, trying to see who had talked to him, but he saw no one who could have – or would have. Then, again, but louder and more emphatic: Strike Low! Wondering where the voice in his head came from, but too tired to pass up good advice, he struck low, slicing at R’fehl’s shins.

Ra’fehl sidestepped the blow, but narrowly, unbalancing himself in the process. Pouncing on his brother’s momentary weakness, he lashed out, catching Ra’fehl in the left knee with a devastating kick. Bone crunched as the kneecap shattered and Ra’fehl collapsed to the ground. Howling in pain – and humiliation, his called down curses at him even as he tried to stand. Yet Ra’fehl knew that he‘d been defeated, for the mangled knee simply wouldn’t work, and he collapsed again.

He had no time to celebrate, for Jarnth sprang at him again, his bloodlust and fury coming from a hatred not just of him, but of all his brothers. “Give, Jarnth!” he shouted. “You are beaten! Do not sacrifice your honor over this duel. Their will be others!”

Jarnth’s snarl of fury echoed across he plain, and he felt saddened. There is no honor in defeating this boy, either. Especially not when he is wounded, and armed with only that little pigsticker. But Jarnth would not be dissuaded by words, launching himself forward, slicing and thrusting his dagger like it was Timosh’s greatsword. “You are not fit to lead a party of nattering females!” he shouted, spittle flying as he swiped his dagger at him yet again.

Sighing, he parried the thrust with ease. “There is no way you can defeat me. Don’t make me kill you!”

“Kill me?” Jartnth retorted, his voice cracking with youth and strain. “You were whelped by a female not capable of licking my boots, brother! I will never follow you!!!”

Was I ever so young and foolish? I may not yet have my blood name, but I was never this foolish! “Geshfalakh!” he snarled, calling the boy that most vile of orcish curses – literally, ‘those who swallow their honor to eat their own waste.’ He brought his axe up. “You have chosen your fate, brother!” he sneered. Jarnth leaped at him, but he was too tired to pull the blows as he had with his other brothers, and met the boy with a lightning quick swing of his axe. Jarnth’s head fell from his body, landing at the feet of their mutual father.

The expression on Chief Silent Knife’s face said everything that their was to be said. The old warrior grasped his arm in one of his own hands, and raised them both overhead. “It is done!” he intoned. Turning to the assembled warriors, he called out, “This warrior, blood-of-my-blood, is champion this day. He will lead the Broken Claw yearlings on their blood name raid.”

The other warriors, yearlings all, bowed their heads in ritual acknowledgement, hailing their chief’s words. “Hail, he-who-leads us! Hail, Grom!”

* * *

It always came back to the pink-skins, he mused.

Grom lay back in his tent, resting. The sun was still up, yet he could see the moon through the smoke hole at the top of what the pink-skins called a tee-pee. An auspicious beginning, he mused to himself. Or perhaps just a good omen. All of The People of Gummish believed in omens, Grom no more – or no less - than any other. A full moon the night before leaving on your blood-name raid was a particularly good omen, he knew.

Blood names. A tradition older than most, and The People were a race particularly bound to their traditions. A tradition as old as The People themselves. And The People, Grom knew, were very, very old. First of the races of Aromathus, created by Lord Grummish at the dawn of time, they were a race who lived to conquer and fight, to revel in the thrill of combat, to grow stronger by combat’s purifying fire. At first, they’d had only themselves to fight against, but Lord Grummish’s brothers, the gods Seldarine and Voluge, had grown jealous of Grummish, and had created their own “pet” races, the elves and dwarves. After that, The People of Grummish had had other races to fight and war against, and for many, many turnings of the sun (what the pink-skins, he knew, called a year), life had been good. After all, the greedy dwarves stuck to their mountains, the faithless elves to their trees – and The People claimed all the lands in between, fighting the other races only at times and places of the orcs own choosing.

Then the pink-skins came, bringing with them change in all things.

Coming from a place across the oceans, from a place whose name they claimed they themselves could not remember, the accursed pink-skin humans took all the good land between the great river Ishkar and the sea, warring with the peoples for hundreds of turnings of the sun. Grummish, for reasons he had never revealed to The People, had turned his back on them, and the pink-skins over-ran the old orcish clan holds one after another, despoiling their holy places, slaughtering their warriors, and bringing chaos in the name of their “sea god,” Urnomox.

It was a time the loremasters of The People talked about but little, yet it was a period every yearling warrior knew about. Knew about, and prepared to avenge. Prophecy foretold that one day Grummish would bring The People back to greatness, returning them to the glory they once knew. Yet in the meantime…

In the meantime, the orcs would continue to fight, and to train. That, he knew, was where the blood names had come from. Oh, orcs had always been a violent race. Strength and honor came from combat. Only the strong, deserved to live – much less rule. Combat culled the week and inferior from The People, assuring that the next generation would be stronger than the last, more likely to win honor for Lord Grummish. That is why The People always fought, for it was the only in war that an orc warrior could prove himself worthy of survival

Yet when the humans had come, they brought with them the Wars of Shame, or the ”Wars of Conquest,” as the pink-skins dubbed them. Over the course of three hundred sun-turns, The People had lost two-thirds of their territory, including all their cities and their best lands west of the Ishkar, and then they were forced to live as nomads, on what had been only hunting lands before. With their cities and holy places lost, The People fell back to that which they had “put behind them” when they had started aping the elves and dwarves by building cities of their own.

They returned to the clan.

The Loremasters now held that the Wars of Shame, and the fact that Grummish had turned his back on them, were a part of the judgment their god had inflicted upon them for living as elf and dwarf did – in cities, growing crops and taming beasts. Grom wasn’t so sure; he suspected there was more to it than that, but he also believed there was much truth in that belief. After all, with the return of the clan to primacy, the fortunes of The People had begun to change. They had tamed the plains, and made them their own. When the chieftains of long ago, listening to the shamans and loremasters, had begun to bring back the blood name, the fights and wars between the clans of The People had started again, but Grummish had also started talking to his children again. This made sense, he thought. After all, was Grummish not Lord of Battle and Slaughter?

He rolled over from his bedroll, pushing away the thick warg skin blanket. At this time of the sun-turning, it could still get very cold on the plains, and this day was decidedly cool. He glanced over at the fire-pit and saw that a few embers were still smoldering. Good. Now I won’t have to start a new fire. He grabbed some kindling – valuable as it was here, far from any trees - and began fanning the embers to flame, eager for the fire’s small warmth.

As he worked, he considered blood names, wondering what his would be. All orcs; well, the males at least for the females don’t matter much – were born with only one name. This name was handed down to them as soon as they left their mothers care, which for an orc was soon after they learned to walk. After that, while they may have been watched by a female, no orc warrior was ever raised or disciplined – or even touched! – by a female until they were old enough to mate. Raising of younglings was a male’s business. While females were useful, especially on cold nights or after a raid, they were far too stupid to be allowed to rear or care for new warriors.

When an orc warrior came of age sometime around his twelfth summer, depending upon how fast that a particular male reached his full growth, he would go forth on a “blood name raid.” This meant that all of the younglings born in a given sun turn would go on a raid together, usually led by a chief's or shaman’s son. On that raid, they would perform a great feat, and in some manner earn their blood name. Those that didn’t; well, they were weak, fit only to be culled.

Some chiefs he knew of would let those who failed to earn a blood name live, working as smiths or carpenters for the clan, or even as slaves – but not my father, Grom mused. No. Silent Knife followed the old ways, at least in this. While the fact that he’d kept back some of the many sons he’d reared to go on this raid together was unusual, Grom knew that those of his brothers who failed to earn that name – chosen for them by the rest of the warriors; well, those that survived the raid, anyway – would not be allowed to live. In other words, if no blood name had been chosen upon their return, and his brothers didn’t choose one for him after that, Silent Knife would kill him - or any of the other yearlings so dishonored - with his own hands.

The fire burned steadily hotter, the kindling catching fire and spreading to the two logs he had thrown into the pit. Reaching out, he warmed his hands over the fire, contemplating the journey he was about to set out on later this moon turn. He, and his ten brothers who had survived the blood challenge of the day before, would leave as soon as the sun dipped below they sky. Ten Brothers. Two hands of sons. Another omen, perhaps? Grummish willing, he would lead them well. Lead them into glory not only for them, but into a proper blood name for himself.

* * *

Grom pushed his knee gently into Slicer’s shoulder; he was a good warg, and so there was no reason to antagonize the beast. Antagonizing a warg was a good way for a warrior to get himself bucked off, bitten – or perhaps even worse. This time none of those things happened, and Slicer increased his pace just a bit, pulling Grom up beside his brother Ra’fehl.

“So, Ra’fehl. How is your knee?” Orcs were not much for talking while they marched, Grom knew, but it was his fault that Ra’fehl had been wounded. Not that he cared; no, it was rather that he simply didn’t want to be held back by a warrior with a lame knee.

“It’s fine, brother.” Re’fehl turned the last word into a snarl. “Shaman Maltok healed it for me as if nothing had ever happened.” Nothing except the humiliation of losing to your “weaker” brother in a circle of combat. Grom hoped he hid his smile, silently praying that his tusks didn’t show too much. No need to anger Ra’fehl anymore than I already have.

“Well, just so.” Grom growled. “I don’t want you to be holding us back.”

“Oh, I won’t do that, little brother. I couldn’t bear the thought of that. After all, it’s because of you and Limock that I don’t already have my blood name. Were it not for you, Father would have let me go on a blood name raid two summers ago.” Sarcasm dripped from Ra’fehl’s tongue even as he flicked his reins a touch, edging his own warg forward, ending the conversation.

That was fine with Grom; he really didn’t feel like talking anyway. It was a fine night for a raid; the sky was full of stars, and the moon, no more than a handful of nights past full, shone down upon then brightly. The air was crisp and clean; more importantly, he was in command, free from his father’s orders and instructions for the first time in many moon turns.

They’d crossed the great river that the humans called the Ishkar two nights before, crossing at a ferry maintained by a pair of warriors too old to march with their fellow clan members on a raid, yet still performing a valuable service to The People in their old age. He’d often laughed at how the pink-skins had never learned how the orcs got across the river undetected. The pink-skins, he knew, built permanent “ferries” – and even bridges – across rivers, even rivers as wide as the Ishkar. Were The People to do so, they would just attract raids and battles to them like flies on a warg. Anything that permanent outside of a clan hold would never last. No, old Ionth Bone Crusher and his brother Sevron Gnoll Biter maintained their boats on the march, never in the same place for more than a moon turn, summoned, he knew, by a magical calling from Clan Broken Claw’s shamans to when and where they were needed.

In a way, he pitied the two old warriors, for their years of winning glory for their clan were behind them. Even though both warriors had fought long and hard for the clan, and had earned the right to live out their days tending boats, a part of him knew he would be shamed to live like that. Most warriors that age would already be dead, but they lingered on, bringing “glory” to Lord Grummish as a pair of ferry boat masters.

Well, the fact was that he and his brothers were across the Ishkar, two nights march from the river and near the pink-skin “hold” of Deep Well. They would soon be ready to attack the little hold, hopefully battling the few seasoned warriors that were rumored to be guarding the place for the pink-skin chiefs. A small garrison, so far as he knew – four hands worth, nothing more. Enough warriors to give him and his brothers a first bloodletting, but not enough to actually threaten them.

Grom turned his head to the right, inclining an ear toward Srabeck, who had ridden up along side of him. “So, Srabeck. Are you ready to earn your warrior’s name tonight?”

Sra’beck only snorted in response. “Should I be? I find little reason to suspect that any of us will earn honor slaughtering a few aged pink-skins left guarding a small hold.”

Shaking his head, Grom replied, “You know as well as I that they don’t view holds as we do, Srabeck. They act like their females matter for more than breeding, and that unblooded whelps are more than simply additional mouths to feed. No, brother. This hold will be guarded, even if it is by older warriors. I have no doubt that honor will be gained for Lord Grummish, however small the amount.”

Srabeck’s answering snort was louder this time. “Villages. Border encampments. Traders caravans. Bah! None of these things will bring glory to Grummish, Grom. And you know it! You, of all The People, you who have studied under Shaman Maltok, know that there is no honor or glory in such raids.”

“I know that, Srabeck. But would you have Limock go against experienced warriors, in numbers, for his first real fight?”

“Of course I would!” the other orc snarled. “That is our way! If he isn’t up to the challenge, then he isn’t fit to live! Or would you have us turn our backs on Grummish again?”

Grom whipped a blade from a hidden sheath at his hip with blinding speed, and Srabeck found himself with that blade at his throat before he could react. “Do you threaten me, brother? Do you call my leadership into question… again? I’ve beaten you in a circle of combat before. Doing so again would only waste valuable time, for you know I would do so again.”

Srabeck glared at Grom, the hatred that had been in his eyes a moment before replaced by fear – fear that clouded his mind so much that he failed to realize all he had to do to avoid that blade was ease his warg away from Grom’s. “No, brother;” he replied evenly. I do not threaten you. I only… ask a question. Yours is the lead by right. I do not wish to challenge you again.”

“Good. See that you remember your place, brother.” Truly the pink-skin proverb is correct: It is better to be feared than loved. Grom whistled once, imitating the call of a wild warg, the pre-arranged signal to start their attack. “We will raid this village, and we will take our plunder.” Grom let his tusks bare as he called out. “Make sure that none survive, brothers!” He kneed his mount forward, urging Slicer into a gallop, even as he called his brothers after him.

* * *

Dace Hinnock gripped the haft of his pole arm, using the long-shanked weapon as a prop to hold himself upright. Just my luck to be stuck out here on guard duty while everyone else but me and old Churith are at the Spring Awakening celebration, having fun. I coulda been dancing with Mahcy, but no, I had to go and draw the short straw! By Hadar’s flaming scythe, she’s probably already taking a tumble with Hansohn! And here I sit, trying to stay awake, listening to the crickets chirp instead of Machcy’s sweet endearments!

Sighing deeply, he turned his head toward Churith. He’d heard that the old man had actually been a member of the regular army back in the day, but now he was just one more tired old farmer doing his turn as a militiaman guarding the village from its lone watchtower. It’s not like anything is going to happen, anyway. Bandits would never hit anything this large, for there were too many people in the village for bandits or outlaws to raid, and as for orcs? Well, let ‘em come. Greenbacks were too stupid and slow to be a threat either, especially this far from the river.

At least Churith seemed to be more awake than he was. Well, then again, that was a relative term. The old codger may have been awake, but he was so far into that flask of spirits he thought no one saw him drinking from that he was two steps from falling on his face and passing out. What a pair we make.

He turned back from the drunken old soldier and turned his head toward the village’s largest inn. The Old Oaken Bedpost wasn’t a large inn, for he’d seen larger ones the one time he’d gone with his Da’ to Traazon Keep, but it was the largest building in the village. Large enough to hold the Spring Awakening Celebration, that was certain.

Transferring even more of his weight to the pole arm, he cocked his ear toward the center of the village, and the music coming from the inn. He wasn’t certain, but he would have sworn he could have heard Mahcy’s lilting laughter. Good gods damn that Hansohn! She’s my girl! Mine! I don’t care that she’s refused to marry me, she’s still mine! Well, at least she will be some day!

He sighed deeply, feeling more and more morose, and was just about to ask Churith for a nip from his flask when he felt cold steel at this throat. What in the hells???

His back stiffened instantly, and he snapped back to reality. He cocked his eye to one side, and saw that old Churith was dead, his skull caved in and laying in the center of a rapidly expanding pool of blood. He gasped, but that only brought the blade at his throat tighter.

“Silence, pink-skin!” a guttural voice called out from behind him. “That one have no honor, being so far gone into his Chus-ra! But you awake, so you now serve The People!” The voice issuing the instructions to him sounded like no accent he had ever heard of. And that meant….

Orcs.

He felt wetness sliding down his leg, and he whimpered softly for a moment – a moment cut short by a powerful blow from behind him. “You dishonor yourself, worm! Stop now, or we squish you like worm!”

He made a feeble attempt to turn toward his attacker, but even that was denied him. “You not fit to look at The People, worm! Know place, and maybe you live. Not know place, we make you slave, then kill you later!”

Dace swallowed deeply, and managed to squeak out a feeble “Yes mi’lord!”

Laughter answered him, followed by some hushed conversation in what he assumed was orcish. Then: “How many warriors guard this hold?”

“Hold?”

SMACK! His captor struck him across the face, rattling his teeth. “Yes, hold! How many warriors living here oppose us?”

He struggled to think, but was to afraid to form a coherent thought. “I… I’m not sure…?!?” he squeaked.

SMACK! “Be sure, worm! Quickly!” He could feel the blood running down his cheek from that last blow, and he forced his mind to work, to try and think, but it was hard. He did the math. There was a section of the Guards currently here, laying over as they marched, south, so that meant… ten men-at-arms? Plus,, how many farmers…? It was so hard to think….

So he guessed.

“Thirty, maybe forty men who can bear arms. No more!”

“You sure?” the greenback snarled at him.

“Yes!” he squeaked, the terror he felt evident in his voice. “I’m sure!”

“Where they at?”

“Everyone is at the Inn, for the Spring Celebration!”

More laughter. “So much the better!”

And then the world went black.

* * *

Grom handed the bottle of ale he was drinking to his brother and sat back, belching loudly as he did so. You have to hand it to the dwarves, he mused. Hairy, disagreeable slime that they may be, they do know how to make good chus-ra!

“A good start to out raid, eh Limock?” he said, slapping his baby brother on the back as he did so.

The younger orc coughed at the same moment, spraying dwarven ale all over their brother Srabeck. All of his brothers laughed; Limock was young enough that he hadn’t drunk anything as potent as the dwarves fiery drink before. “It is good!” Limock wheezed, gasping for breath as he did so. This only made his brothers laugh harder.

Srabeck downed his tankard of ale, slapping Grom on the back as he did so as well. “A good fight, brother, true, but not one worthy of fine warriors of The People such as us!”

“True enough.” Grom wasn’t about to argue with Srabeck – not when he was as drunk as he was now. The fight had been tougher than Srabeck wanted to admit. True, none of his brothers had been killed, but Ra’fehl had taken a nasty slice on his arm from one of the pink skin soldiers. If it wasn’t for Grom’s training as a shaman, and my knowledge of healing magic, he might have lost that arm. All of them were beaten, wounded, and tired to varying degrees.

“So what do we do on next moon turning, oh great leader?” Srabeck asked, more than a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“Next moon turn we stay here, enjoying our plunder, and give Ra’fehl’s arm a while to heal. Then we head south. If that caravan those pink-skin geshfalakh say is heading this way really is, we will have more than enough to occupy us, and more than enough to earn out blood names.” He looked around at his brothers. Not all of them were as far into their chus-ra as Srabeck, and those that weren’t eyed him cautiously. I may have the leadership by right, but they only follow me for that reason. I must earn their loyalty.

“A good raid, though, right my brothers? We have tested our mettle here, and know that it is not us, but the pink-skins who are the lesser warriors!” His brothers all agreed on that, and they saluted him with clanking tankerds and bottles of ale. “Those guardsmen fought like true warriors, almost like warriors of The People, eh!?” More saluting.

“Well, in two or three moon turns, we will raid a target worthy of us, of The People! We will then prove that we are ready to join the Clan, not as yearling whelps, but as warriors, ready to Take Back What Is Ours!” All ten orcs cheered then. His brothers may not follow him yet, but they would soon enough – if they could sack what the pink-skins said was a trade caravan escorted by mounted knights and a large number of trained pink-skin warriors

Either that, or we’ll all be too dead to enjoy it anyway.

* * *

Limock dove back into the little divot where his brothers were lying in wait, prepared to spring their ambush on the pink-skins. Grom growled at him, his questions coming quickly and intently, yet quiet enough that none of the humans would hear. “What are we facing, Limock?”

Limock’s response was equally intense. “I count four hands worth of riders, all mounted on those beasts – those horses – that the humans ride, all of them armed and armored. I also count two hands of wagons, some pulled by horses, some by other beasts of burden.”

“Can you tell how many pink-skins are in the wagons?” Srabeck asked.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “There could be many, there could be few. No way to tell; those wagons are covered up tightly.”

Both Grom and Srabeck snorted at that, sharing a mutual glance of indifference. “What do we do?” Sraback asked.

“We wait,” Grom retorted. “Then, when the pink-skin’s wagons pass by, we attack! What else would we do?”

Srabeck and Limock both returned Grom’s statement with wide smiles, their tusks showing the depth of their delight at the prospect of battle. Grom grinned back, and they hunkered down, waiting quietly if impatiently.

They didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, several of the mounted pink-skin warriors rode by, followed immediately after by the first of the wagons. Grom took note of the fact that they were hustling along, moving at a brisk clip for laden trade wagons, and he smiled in satisfaction. They must have heard we were in the area; I wonder where from? No matter, for it will do them no good. He called out twice, making the agreed upon signal of the of a charging bull warg, and as one, all ten orcs leapt from their hiding positions.

Furiously, the battle was joined. Limock grabbed a pair of small hand axes from his hip, flinging them at a nearby pink-skin soldier. One axe slammed into the human’s shoulder, but the second one lodged directly into the back of his skull, dropping the pink-skin to the ground, dead. Simultaneously, Srabeck bounded in front of one of the wagons, swinging his axe like a scythe. The massive blow sliced into two of the horses, shearing a leg off of one while nearly decapitating the second. Both beasts reared, flinging their riders through the air before they collapsed into a sodden heap of writhing flesh.

Grom, meanwhile, began working his magic. He worked the incantations he had learned from Shaman Maltok, those to call forth lightning, and those to produce flame. Many of The People shunned the use of magic, especially in battle, but he knew that magic was a tool just like any other. And were tools not meant to be used?

His fireball exploded one of the wagons, lighting up the night sky. Then, he followed with small bolts of lightning that flew from his hands, striking the pink-skin warriors as they fled their burning wagon, killing those who weren’t already dead from the flames. His remaining brothers leapt forth as well, wading into the surprised humans, fighting with all the ferocity The People were known for even as Grom’s magic quickened the slaughter.

Battle lust came upon the orcs now. Srabeck bellowed a challenge, and Grom felt the need to answer. He screamed out a response, the rest of his brothers following one after another. He found he no longer cared what happened, no longer cared about thought or skill, or use of magic. Instead, he fought as The People had always fought, the strength of Grummish flowing through their veins, making them quicker, stronger, more agile. Later, when he had time to think about all that took place, he would wonder about the battle lust and what caused it, and why he had let it overcome him, but then, at that moment, all he could think of was killing.

Throwing down the materials needed to complete the incantation he’d been working, he charged, his waraxe high over his head. A pink-skin warrior stepped out in front of him, coming out from one of their wagons. The man was nearly as large as he was, and wore the heavy metal armor that pink-skin warriors were known to favor for close combat. He couldn’t see the pink-skin’s face through the warrior’s helmet, but the human warrior’s intent to stop him was readily apparent as the man pulled a sword as big as his axe from a scabbard on his back.

The human called out a challenge to him. Surprisingly, he spoke the tongue of The People in a more than passable fashion. “You will not live, greenback. Surprised us you have, but we have numbers here.” Grom only snarled in response, swining his axe with a vicious overhand slash. The pink-skins’ sword leapt up with warg-like quickness, blocking Grom’s strike with a nerve-wrenching crash of metal on metal.

The human continued taunting him, calling out, “You may be strong, but I am quicker, greenback.” Grom snarled a response and swung his weapon again and again, a series of blows that should have defeated any normal opponent twice over, especially enraged by the battle lust as he was. Yet the pink-skin blocked every one, matching Grom parry for strike.

A part of Grom realized that the human was simply delaying him; working hard not at defeating him, but simply at preventing him from winning their duel – or from doing anything else, for that matter. That part was suppressed by his battle lust, though, and Grom continued to grow more aggressive as he grew more frustrated. His swung his axe with increasing ferocity, each strike stronger than the last, and with each parried thrust, his anger and aggression doubled and redoubled. Yet he grew no closer to victory.

Suddenly, the human warrior swung over to the attack. Instead of blocking Grom’s strike, he stepped out of the way, allowing the power of Grom’s swing to carry him off balance. His axe lodged into the ground for a moment, and in that moment, the human struck. His strike connected with Grom’s shoulder, biting deep into his flesh. He nearly lost his grip on his axe, but in the battle lust, enough adrenaline flowed in him that he managed to hang on to his weapon.

Snarling, Grom wrenched his axe free just in time to parry another lightning quick thrust, this one scant inches from his face. He shifted backwards, moving away from the pink-skin, parrying a third, and then a fourth strike as he did so, but he was losing ground. Losing ground – and strength, for the battle lust was tiring him out far more quickly than he would have normally.

He continued to parry, blow after blow, strike after strike, unable to even attempt an attack now that his shoulder was wounded, and he began to worry. Worry that his brothers were failing, that none of them had come to his aid. Worry that he couldn’t even see them in the battle. Worry that his wound would allow this pink-skin scum to get the better of him. Worry that he would lose.

Worry that he would die.

“Surrender, greenback!” the human called at him. “You must know we have trapped you here. That our forces are more than a match for you! Even now, fifty of my men surround you, for we knew you were coming, thanks to a survivor from Deep Well! Surrender and we will send you to Grummish with your honor intact!”

Grom looked around, his tiredness slowly overcoming the battle lust. He could see more pink-skin warriors surrounding him; he also saw that several of his brothers were lying dead on the ground, and that even Srabeck was on the ground, wounded. He could also see that those same pink-skin warriors were moving to surround him, cutting off all chance of escape.

Escape! The mere thought made him snarl, allowing him to find a new source of strength. “Surrender, pink-skin!? I would die first!” Grom swung at the human, but the big pink-skin sidestepped deftly, parrying Grom’s blow. The other humans he saw surrounding him moved closer, drawing the noose ever tighter around him.

The pink-skin snarled “So be it, greenback. Your death your fault, not mine. By Voluge, this ends now!” All of the pink-skins he could see moved towards him, weapons drawn, several of them readying what he knew would be killing blows.

And so he swung.

Putting every last part of his strength into it, knowing that he would die seconds later, he swung.

His axe whipped about in a vicious swing, scything forth with all the fury of the battle lust still in him, and tore into the armored pink-skin who taunted him. His blow hit the man chest high….

… and sliced completely through the human’s midsection, cutting him down. Yet the blow did not stop there, but continued in an arc, connecting with first one, and then another, and another… Moving around in a circle until, moments late, all of the pink-skins surrounding Grom were down.

His blow finished, Grom’s eyes flicked about, and he saw that there were no more opponents facing him. No opponents, but simply bodies lying on the ground in a circle around him, all of them in various states of dismemberment. He snarled loudly, screaming to the moon in vengeance, letting the battle lust fill him again.

The human warrior who had stood over his brother Srabeck dropped his weapon and ran, fear on the man’s face, but Grom didn’t let him. No, he called forth a lightning bolt, and cast it at the human. Somehow, the bolt of lightning was affected by the battle lust as well, and the warrior simply exploded, for one second he was there, and then he was little more than a pile of guts.

Grom snarled again, and moved off toward his brother Ra’fehl, who was pinned against a wagon by a pair of arrows. He rushed over to him, ripped the arrows free, and took a savage pride in the fear he saw in his brother’s eyes.

Whipping around, he searched for another opponent, but saw that all of the humans were running. Unperturbed by this, he called down more lightnings, cast more balls of fire at them as they ran, killing them three and four and even five at a time.

Soon enough, there were no more opponents, for all of them were dead, or beyond his vision. He screamed at the sky, “WE ARE ORCS! WARRIORS OF GRUMMISH, AND ALL SHALL FEAR US!!!!!”

The battle lust began to ebb out of him, and he could see his brothers surrounding him now. Srabeck, his body ripped and torn, and arm hanging loosely beside him, obviously broken. Ra’fehl, still with the broken shafts of several arrows protruding from him. Timosh, limping along, holding himself up with a broken human horse lance. All of them looking at him in awe – and fear.

Yet it was little Limock who came up to him first. Limock grabbed his arm, holding it high. Grom’s shoulder throbbed as his little brother did so, yet in the excitement of the moment, he barely felt it. “Ten-Kill!” he shouted. “I give you your blood name, brother.! Ten-Kill!”

“Ten-Kill?” he asked, his voice now harsh and raspy.

“Yes!” Srabeck answered. “By Grummish, yes! Look at what you have done! Ten-Kill indeed!” Grom turned back toward where Srabeck was pointing. He could see it now, as he wiped the blood from his eye. There were… ten bodies, all lying in a circle around where he had stood moments before, nearly defeated.

He turned back toward his brothers, and saw that they were kneeling, prostrate before him. “I doubted you, brother.” Srabeck said softly. “But you have proven yourself to be a better warrior than I. Before, I followed you by custom. Now… Now I follow you by right, for you have earned the leadership today!” He raised his own axe aloft. “TEN-KILL! TEN-KILL!” he shouted. His other brothers took up the call, and their voices together rang across the plains.

He had his blood name.