Dragons. It seems as if every fantasy world ever created has dragons in it somewhere. From Tolkien’s Smaug to Robert Jordan’s The Dragon Reborn, dragons are the bread and butter of fantasy.

Yet at first, not mine. Aromathus was a world that didn’t have dragons at first. Why? I originally thought them to be clichéd. EVERY fantasy world seemed to have them, so mine wouldn’t. Yet, over time, I came to a realization: Dragons are cool.

So over time, I worked dragons into the mythos of Aromathus more and more fully, until now they are a key part of that mythos. Created by forces separate from the gods of Aromathus, they are beings of incredible power and tremendous magical ability, capable, if they wished, of challenging those gods.

Someday I hope to tell the tale of the dragons of Aromathus, and it is quite a tale. For now, though, I bow to yet another reader suggestion and offer up this tale: The first time a dragon comes to Aromathus, she does so because an elf magi makes…. A mistake. Enjoy!

He threw down more of the magical sand, striving to finish the summoning circle he’d been working so feverishly to complete. “Time,” me murmured to himself. “There is never enough time. Even when Seldarine grants one as many years as he has given me, there isn’t enough time.”

The younger mages tasked to help him were looking at him askance. Young fools. They wouldn’t know which end of a wand to hold if I didn’t put it in their hands first. Scoffing, he secretly hoped that they hadn’t heard him. As incompetent as they were, he knew he needed their help to complete what they were attempting to do.

A voice broke the silence. “Master Ganthailearan! The orcs drew nearer! Huntmaster Faradaliakan wishes to know if he will be able to count on you for magical aid, or if his warriors will be required to slay all the green ones by hand!”

“Great lords of the forest!” Ganth muttered as he turned toward the messenger. “Faradal is as impatient as a damned dwarf! Go back and tell him that I will have his summoned support ready soon enough, so long as he can keep the green ones away from here long enough for us to complete our magic!”

The harried – looking runner snapped to attention before asking, “With respect, Master. But just how long will that be?”

Ganth dismissed him with a wave of his arm. “Soon enough, boy! Just tell the Huntmaster to keep the green ones away, and he’ll have his summoned beasts to help pull his hind end out of the fire!”

The messenger looked askance at him, cocking an eyebrow, but he clasped both arms across his chest, hands to throat; showing a fair representation of proper respect before starting back into the woods, jogging effortlessly toward the battle at the forest’s edge.

Shaking his head, Ganth began his work again. Damned Faradal! Boy’s been corrupted by the dwarves. Everything so hasty! Almost as bad as an orc! Ganth knew he could never voice such opinions aloud, but to a mage of over thirteen hundred summers, a newly blooded Huntmaster like Faradal did seem impatient. Couple that with the fact that Faradal was far too much in love with dwarven ways and culture…

Wanthaeomnos, the “wander-lust” that afflicted some of his people in their youth was a flaw in his people that the wizened old mage would never understand. Why would Seldarine do such a thing to us! Yet, every year a good number of elves would simply “wander away” from the villages and forests of the elves, some for a season or even several seasons, a few for years. Granted, when they returned, they tended to settle into their proper place in elven life, but some came back “changed.” Like Faradal.

There was nothing that could be done about it now. He would just have to live with the fact that in the four years Faradal was gone, he had learned tactics and warfare from the dwarves – and a good bit of dwarven impatience as well. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he began to work faster. The battle must not be going well. He could hear the bellow of orc horns drawing nearer, mixed in with calls of elven warriors shouted over the winds by magic. Must hurry.

He finished sprinkling the last of the magic sand, taking note that his apprentices were also finished, their heads turning toward him expectantly. Muttering silent curses, he pulled the scroll from the pile of supplies left beneath a large oak tree. Elven warriors should not need such help defeating the children of Grummish. Yet because of Faradal’s impatience, we do, Seldarine help us!

Unrolling the scroll, he began chanting the words written there. “Jarish Malathite, Jarsih Kominthal. Parduch ofiliam tipsanium.” The spell, when complete, would call the most powerful forest guardians from Seldarine’s abode, beasts of great natural – and magical – power who would slay their enemies. The elves didn’t like to use such magic very often, for they didn’t want to become too dependant upon the gods for aid – and the favors that they demanded in return, but the need was too great to worry about a price that would be demanded later.

Suddenly, in the middle of the third quatrain of the spell, an orc horn pierced the near-silence of the clearing. Too close! On of his apprentices shrieked, dropping her scroll as she ran deeper into the woods. Alarmingly, arrows filled the air, and Ganth could hear the cries of wounded beings – orc and elf alike. Faster! No more time!

Ganth should have known better, for magic was one thing that could not be hurried. Even as the orc warriors were about to over run him, he should have realized that it would have been better to lose his spell and flee than to continue with the chance of mis-casting that such haste entailed.

Yet he continued. “Jarish drofinum, jarish haranthaliach!” Then, as his chanting reached a crescendo, a pair of arrows struck him, one in the shoulder from an elven bow, and one in the hip from an orcish one. Grunting in pain, he misread several of the final words, words that he later realized directed his spell away from Seldarine’s realm to someplace else. Yet he didn’t care, for as he finished the spell, he cried out in pain, toppling over from the force of two arrows.

As he fell, he glanced up, and saw something filling the clearing in front of him - something very large and undoubtedly powerful, but not definitely not one of the forest guardians he had meant to summon.

Then all went black.

* * *

Looking about the forest clearing she suddenly found herself in, she realized she didn’t know where she was. Strange. I did not plane walk myself to this place. There must be a being of great magical power about. Yet… All she could see are several of the little pale servants. None of them would have the kind of power needed to pull her from her lair to here!

Standing up slowly, she unfurled her silver wings, shaking herself from head to tail. Curious. The pale servants flee! They should know better than that! She chuckled softly; she would have to speak with whoever commanded these servants.

Ouch! What was that? Some of the servants were shooting arrows at her! Suddenly her annoyance with the servants in this strange place went from minor to major; the very idea of servants shooting at her was simply intolerable! Lashing out, she flicked her tale toward the silly creature, knocking it down. That will teach it to try and harm its betters! Yet…

More arrows struck her flanks and wings. She noted that some of these came not from the pale servants, but from bestial-looking creatures such as her red and blue cousins might have magicked into existence. This must stop! Individually she knew that the servant’s arrows couldn’t possibly hurt her; it simply galled her that a servant would deign to shoot at a master! Yet… The old saying ‘death by a thousand cuts’ came to mind.

They were only servants, and so she didn’t want to kill them outright, however misled they were. True, her red cousins may have done so, but they were inclined to use force first in almost any situation. It was their greatest flaw, and caused no end of animosity between the cousins. She yelled out a command to stop…

And was shocked when the only thing that came out was a very un-dragon like roar! Something was very wrong with this place!

The servants became even more terrified. Whereas before they had seemed to be fighting each other, they now focused all their attention on her. Many arrows struck her, enough that they were starting to hurt. She also saw other servants charging toward her, wearing metal armor and carrying worked metal weapons, shouting out what she assumed to be war cries. I must stop this before the servants get hurt!

Trying her magic, she began to weave a spell of holding, one of her lesser magicks, a spell that would freeze the servants in place. The spell would allow her the time she needed to sort out what was going on. To her horror, she quickly discovered that her magic failed in this place as well. No magic, my speech confused… no longer simply worried, she was now frightened.

Launching herself into the air, she was relieved that some of her abilities still worked in this strange place. Further, the buffeting of her wings knocked down many of the servants who were shooting at her, pale and green alike. But not all of them. Those who weren’t knocked down continued to shoot at her, calling to each other in a tongue she couldn’t understand. She flew higher, trying to avoid the rain of arrows, and was shocked to behold a great host of servants of both skin colors, all of them equipped for combat – and all of them coming at her.

No! I must stop this! Servants can’t be allowed to fight each other – let along harm a master! She flew upward, then performed a wing over, beginning a dive. She tried to summon her magic again, hoping to use her magical abilities in an effort to speak the languages she heard the servants of this strange place using.

To her horror, when she did speak, words did not come forth. Rather, she breathed out a great gout of fire! Before she could stop, she had already destroyed many servants, besides starting several trees on fire as well.

No longer frightened, she was now terrified.

The servants recovered surprisingly quickly; all signs of their previous enmity toward each other apparently gone. She was now the sole focus of their fury, and between their arrows and magic, she was starting to hurt from many small wounds. Arrows tore at her wings, minor elemental magic beat at her head and body; balls of fire and lighting, gouts of acid… NO! It was too much.

She whirled about in the air, turning her body with far more ease than should have been possible. A part of her mind noted that she could fly better than at home, but that part of her mind was no longer in control; after all, for the first time in her life, death awaited unless she acted.

Great Maker forgive me! She tried to speak again, but all that came forth was more fire, lighting more of the forest – and more servants – on fire. Landing, she realized she no longer cared as the servants quickly began chopping at her with their weapons, so she responded in kind. Whipping her tail about, she cut many of the servants down like grain before a scythe. Her wings buffeted at them as well, blasts of air knocking down still more servants. Yet they kept attacking. Wounded now, conscious thought almost lost to pain and blood loss, she simply roared.

Her kind, as she later thought about it, were killing machines beyond comparison. At home, they didn’t have to fight - after all, they had created the servants to do such tasks for them. Yet here, now, in this place; she gave herself over to the fight. Talons she seldom used beyond skewering meat prepared by servants she now used to skewer those same servants. Fangs flashed, and she attacked the evil servants, slaughtering them. Anything, she thought to herself, to make it stop.

The battle, if it could be called that, went on for several more minutes. Yet she knew it was not a battle – merely a slaughter. No matter how badly these servants hurt her, they couldn’t kill her, but in her terror, she wasn’t thinking of that. Rather, she thought only of ending the pain that came at her from all directions in this strange place.

When she looked around later, she saw the mangled bodies of servants lying everywhere, and saw others running in terror. The forest was on fire, but the fires couldn’t harm her. Too tired to do anything more, she crawled over to the center of the clearing, next to a servant with two arrows in its body. She could feel the magical power coursing through it, so she carefully extended one paw around it. The servant was still breathing, and in no danger of immediate death, so she pulled it forward and clutched it in her talons, preventing escape if it woke. Laying her own head down to watch it, she decided that when the servant woke, she would have her answers

Before long, the warmth of the fires about lulled her, and soon she was as asleep as the servant.

• * * *

Ganthailearan woke with a start, the peace of his sleep quickly giving over to waves of pain and nausea from the two arrows stuck in his body. Merciful Seldarine, but that hurts! He tried to reach down, to feel at the arrow lodged in his shoulder, but was quickly halted by the pain. Gasping, he sat back in the darkness..

A thought then struck him: he couldn’t move. Not from the pain; good gods knew that was bad enough, but not enough to prevent him from moving. No, he was held – held in some sort of giant paw.

Giant paw?!? What had happened? He opened his eyes for the first time; it was very dark. He’d assumed he was in some sort of cave, but as his pain-fogged brain cleared even somewhat, he remembered that the battle with the green ones had been in the middle of a forest. Moaning, he allowed himself to sink back against the back of the “paw” that held him fast.

Gingerly, he reached out with his good arm, feeling something… scales? Like those on a fish? No, more like a lizard. A lizard? Nothing he’d ever heard of in Aromathus had scales and was this size. His hand jerked back reflexively. What in the name of all twelve gods had captured him?

A deep, low rumble answered his thought; a rumble that sounded suspiciously like… a chuckle? He wrapped his good arm about him and tried to curl up, wincing painfully. Then that rumble happened again, and Ganth whipped his head about, looking for light, for anything. Yet no matter how hard he tried, all he could see was darkness.

He moaned once more, louder this time, and offered up a prayer to Seldarine, asking for deliverance.

I don’t know who this Seldarine is, little servant, but it will not be able to help you now.

Ganth’s eyes snapped open. “What was that?” he demanded, far more bravely than he felt. “Who said that?”

Said? I don’t believe I said anything at all. But I know you can here me, little servant. My magicks may not work in this place, but strangely enough, I find I can hear your thoughts. And I know that you, little servant, are the one who called me to… this place.

“Called you? I don’t even know what you are! And I obviously didn’t intend to call you to this place, for you are more powerful than anything I have ever seen in my life! I would never intend to...

Stop shouting, little servant! The voice in his head was as loud as thunder, yet no words were spoken. You do not need to vocalize your speech for me to hear you, not as long as your flesh touches mine, I expect.

That thought was little comfort to Ganth. It can read my mind! With a gulp, he asked the creature what its name was.

The creature responded with what he hoped was a chuckle, for if it were anything else, he really didn’t want to know. My name is not pronounceable in your tongue, servant, but you may call me Andarlix. As to what I am, well, your kind may simply call us dragons.

“Dragons?” he stammered. “But I’ve never heard of ‘dragons’!”

No, I suppose you would not have, for we are obviously not native to this plane. If we were, you servants would not have been shooting at me.

Andarlix released her grip somewhat, allowing the terrified mage to move slightly. He slumped backwards, resting against her giant paw. Looking up, he could see one of the creature’s giant yellow eyes, slitted left to right like a snake or lizard, and he suppressed a moment of terror. Why did it have to be a reptile?

Reptile? Ganth looked up; he could tell the “dragon” genuinely seemed to be amused now. I am as far from one of your “reptiles” as you are from a monkey!

“I am sorry, Great One. It’s just that, well, I’m a little… afraid… of snakes.”

Good. A healthy attitude for a servant to possess.

“Servant? Why do you call me servant? I can tell you are powerful, Great One, but I have never met one of your kind before. We do not serve you for no other reason than we do not know you!”

The dragon pulled itself up slightly, tightening its grip around him again. Be grateful, little servant, that I am one of my kind, and not one of my red cousins. They would probably kill and eat a servant with such an attitude.

Ganth gulped. Eat me? He supposed it was possible, given the creature’s obvious size and power. “You won’t eat me, will you?”

This time Andarlix’s laugh was no mere chuckle; rather, it was a deep-throated laugh that echoed through the forest like rolling thunder. No, little servant. I will not eat you. We silvers do not eat mortals. Even when they deserve it. And you, for all your incompetence in summoning me here, do not.

Ganth bristled at the dragon’s comment. “Incompetence?”

I am not what you meant to summon, am I?

“No, er… I suppose not.”

That seems rather incompetent to me, doesn’t it?

Ganth was about to respond with something to prove the dragon wrong, but instead sputtered out “I have been a master wizard for almost a millennia! I am not incompe….”

He trailed off as the dragon laughed again. I am kidding, servant. I can sense the magical power in you, and I can tell that only one with your skill and power would be able to summon me here from my home, intentionally or not. Now, if I am ever to get home, I must figure out what happened, and whatever caused your spell to miscast. For that, I must admit I will need your help.

“Help?”

My magic does not seem to work here. Yours obviously does. I would know why; to do so, I would know your thoughts.

“My thoughts?” Ganth asked, growing ever more confused. “You haven’t already read my mind?”

No. This power is not normal to me. I know not what it can do, but I think that if I can speak in your mind, I can read your thoughts. Certainly, speaking in my own tongue has not worked. The dragon sighed disgustedly. No, It has only served to start these fires.”

Ganth’s confusion continued to grow. “Your speech?”

Yes, little servant. When I tried to use my magic, nothing happened. And when I tried to speak, the only thing that came out was a roar and this fire. Most upsetting to my stomach. Yet… Yet I find I can read your thoughts. This is, as you might say, most peculiar, and I wish to understand why.

“I have never heard of such a thing!”

Nor have I. It frightens me, and dragons do not frighten easily.

“But why… Why do you need my thoughts?

Quicker. Easier. Do not worry, servant. It will not harm you… I think.

Ganth didn’t know what to say, but if this “dragon” thought he would help it… He didn’t say that aloud, though. Instead, he asked. “Why do you call me servant, when you know that I am not your servant, that I am in fact responsible for bringing you here?

Andarlix snorted; a snort that brought hot flame from her nostrils. Thankfully, her paw was still wrapped around Ganth, shielding him from the fiery blast. I really must remember to stop doing that. Then she relaxed her grip on him. I call you servant because in my world, we created beings like you, beings who only exist to serve us dragons.

Wait. Ganth thought. These dragons created races like us? Why, that meant that these dragons could… could challenge the gods!

Andarlix looked down at him, her large eyes blinking left to right. Master Ganth, this is hard for one like me. To ask aid of a servant… is not done. But I am asking for your help.

Ganth turned toward her, considering briefly. “If you are as powerful as you claim, what choice do I have?”

Andarlix jaws spread apart into a smile, showing ferocious teeth. In truth, not much. But it is polite to ask, right?

Ganth could only shudder as he felt the dragon’s thoughts merging with his own. At first, he was terrified, but then the dragon’s mind was open to him, and he began to experience a depth of knowledge too great to handle, and he slumped back, too awestruck for words.

The sound he heard from the dragon sounded like wind whistling through a cave; it took Ganth a moment to realize that the sound was the dragon sighing; exhaling between those rows of teeth he had seen. Ah, yes. So much becomes clear to me now. The words entered his head, but he barely realized it. The dragon was learning from him, certainly, but he was learning from the dragon as well. And what he learned amazed him.

Spells of unparalleled power. What it felt like to fly – truly fly; Not by the aid of magic, but by the ability to soar over the land on wings. The names of other worlds, other places. Other languages, cultures. More knowledge than he had learned in all his many years. More knowledge than he could absorb in several lifetimes.

And then it was over.

“I hope that was as informative for you as it was for me.”

Ganth stood up straight. The dragon had spoken to him – out loud!

Andarlix chuckled softly. “Yes, I can speak again, thank the Maker. Your world is not so different from ours. Now that I know what you know, Ganthailearan, I was able to make the changes in my own nature to adapt to this world.”

“You can do that?”

With a snort, Andarlix replied, “Of course. You have shared my thoughts as I have shared yours. You should have at least some idea of what we dragons can do.”

Ganth bobbed his head up and down vigorously. “Yes, yes indeed. But you know so much, great one! So much knowledge… It would take me lifetimes to even begin to study it all; to even begin to learn a fraction of what you know!”

Andarlix chuckled again, louder this time. “Oh, little servant. Time is the one thing dragons always have enough of.” She reached down toward his shoulder with her other paw and deftly removed the two arrows from Ganth’s body. At the same time, she channeled some of her magic into him, knitting the wounds faster and more easily than he had ever seen any cleric do so.

Gasping in shock, he realized that the healing hurt not at all, that it had taken no energy from him to knit the wounds. “You command divine magic?”

“Not as you know of it, little servant. No, your gods are a concept that amuse me. We dragons worship only the Great Maker; the Maker is far more powerful than anything your “gods” could even dream of.

Ganth looked up into the dragons eyes, his own now as wide as saucers. “But… the gods made the world. They are the most powerful beings in existence!”

The dragon laughed again, some smoke rising from her nostrils. Ganth knew now, after sharing her thoughts, that this ability wasn’t normal to dragon kind. “To you, yes, I suppose they are.” She replied. “But we dragons are not from this world. In fact, I have never heard of this world at all, and that surprises me. We dragons are the most perfect of the Maker’s creations; we knew all there was to know. Yet… I wonder. This world, the new abilities I have already learned about here; this place intrigues me, little servant. Perhaps I and my kind will return here and study this place. Perhaps… perhaps the Maker has made a new place for his most perfect creations to study and learn about.

Ganth paused, unsure of what to say, his thoughts awhirl. “But, but…” he stammered. “But we elves are the pinicale of creation! Not even dwarves or the green skins come close to our perfection!”

“Perfection!” Andarlix snorted. “Back home, we dragons have created many races, some a great deal like you. No, I assure you. You may be ‘perfect’ in your own way, but you are not unique.” Andralix paused her speech as she stood up, stretching out her wings. “Tell me, servant. All this magic tires me. Do you have any prey animals around here? I grow hungry.”

“We have, I mean.. Ummm, well, we have sheep back at my village. Assuming it is still standing, after the Green Ones attacked. I am sure we could arrange something….”

“Arrange?” Andarlix laughed at his response. “Dragons do not arrange, servant. Be glad I am of my kind, and not one of the reds or blues. We metallics ask before we take. A chromatic would just eat you.”

Ganth gulped. “Ah, right, Great One. I see your point.” He stood himself, still amazed at the dragons magical healing ability; he felt as if he hadn’t been hurt at all. “Well, I suppose you should follow me then.

“Follow?” Andarlix reacted with amazing quickness, snatching him in one paw. “How about you tell me where to go, and I fly us there?”

Ganth looked down as Andarlix beat her mighty wings, pushing them into the air with a running start. They pulled away from the ground quickly, leaving the burned out forest clearing behind them in heartbeats. One thing was for certain, he thought to himself as he tried to control his terror at flying – flying! The world will never be the same.

Oh, that much is certain, little servant. With that, Andarlix beat her wings harder, driving them toward home.

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.