The Blood-soaked Way

[Groshnok]

Atop the white wolf he did ride, facing against the crimson abyss before them. The Dark Portal towered closer and closer as the orcs charged towards it, its blood red colour enveloping them. On the other side, fire and death awaited. The steps smeared with entrails and bodies as Groshnok led his wolf galloping down them, the night sky lit up in front of him by a thousand flames of the enemy siege weapons. But he did not care for them. As his axe bit hard into the neck of a Mag’har charging towards his ride, the familiar feeling of adrenaline coursed through his veins. And he grinned. Chaos was all around him, and in chaos, he was in his element.

  The wolf did not last long. But then again, Groshnok did not expect it to. Roaring as blade and bullet pierced it, the orc leaped from the worg as it fell, slumping to the ground, and Groshnok leaping upwards, to plant his axe in the head of an orc having his back turned to him, only in turn his left shoulderpad caught a knife, sinking into it and hitting the skin below. Turning with a growl, he locked eyes with the metal army. This was it, and he knew it. No more going forward into that Iron Tide. Ah well, he’d dodged death long enough. Maybe it was finally time for his own self to be smote down. But nay, as the sound from behind came, of a fierce crack, loud even over the roar of steel and the screams of the dying. Groshnok turned his head to see the portal fall, and saw running towards its ruins. So he ran too. Well, survival is always better than being an idiot and sacrificing yourself for nothing, he figured. Yet as he scurried towards the steps, a shadow loomed over. Looking up, Groshnok’s eyes met with a spinning, flaming ball fast approaching the ground. Grunting, he threw himself rightwards, as the Iron Star exploded on the ground, shrapnel and fire flying in all directions. A thud, and darkness enveloped him.

  Yet, it was only for a few brief moments. Coming to, he staggered up, coughing, falling back against the wall behind him, his back against it. The shrapnel from the weapon had pierced him, badly. Screaming pain seared from the left half of his face. He peered down, finding indeed his left half had taken most damage. Though, at least the plate on his lower half had helped him. His left arm on the other hand, the skin had been shredded where it hand been hit, with no protection to stop the full brunt. Blood seeped from it, mixing with the flâ€"his arm was on fire.  Roaring, he smashed it off the wall, though it pained him, the flames quickly quenched. Feeling a pull on his arm, he looked up to find himself being half-dragged up the steps by a grunt, and he soon began hobbling along, shaking free of the orc’s grasp. It all merged to a blur as the forest in front of him merged into an iron road once again. He looked down at his arm. Losing blood. Too much. Needed attention. Grunting, he hobbled on, finding his boot knife in his right hand. A new one, he had put the good adamantite dagger in that time-box thing. Ergh, more use it would’ve been to me here, he thought. He growled, anything that came against him getting a wild slash towards it. He didn’t know what they were. He could barely see, his face was so bloodied. Wiping his right eye, he looked up, as he watched two ships depart from the harbour, a while in front of him. Quickly, he realised that must’ve been what they were running for. Too late.

  He staggered on, though darkness clouded the edges of his blurred vision. He hoped Rashka had made it on. A hand grabbed his right arm once again, as he grunted, being dragged on. Thoughts raced through his mind as he stumbled and swayed, yet still the vice-like grip persisted to carry him forward. Suddenly, the footpath seemed to give way, and he found himself being set down on something cold, and hard. His body slumped back, his spine hitting something hard behind him that kept him someway upright. His blurry eye looked up to try and make out what had brought him here, but only a brown mass was visible in front of him. And with that, Groshnok succumbed to the darkness.




One week later

  “And that is how I smashed those bloody midgets right into the ground! Har! I can tell you, they didn’t stand a chance against the Giantsbane!”

  If it had only been the two of them awake, Groshnok would have gutted him the first chance he had. Since he had woke four days past, he had heard nothing but the tales of the eejit at the front of the boat, the one who called himself Giantsbane. As he had been told at least seven times already, he received this nickname because he had slain a field full of gronn in Nagrand during the reopening of the Dark Portal a few years prior. Afterwards, he had returned to Garadar to make love to three she-orcs at once. His tales were as tall as the gronn he claimed to have killed, but Groshnok could not zone his stories out, between the roar of the motor to behind him and this orc’s booming voice in front of him. Nine orcs in total were packed into the boat. Himself, “Giantsbane”, four other grunts who had managed to sleep for most of the time, one grunt who had stayed in a coma, a Mag’har and thankfully, Rashka. It was the Mag’har who had saved him, an orc who had been taken prisoner by the Iron Horde. His tongue had been cut out, so he could not speak a word, but he showed kindness, dragging Groshnok to a small abandoned boat to cleanse his wounds. A Shaman, it appeared, by the totems he carried. It seemed the rest had followed him onto the vessel, and they had set off before they would be set upon by the Iron Tide.

  The silent Mag’har seemed always awake, steering the motor of the boat. Fel knew where he was taking them, but each day had grown colder and now Groshnok was freezing, wrapped up in some furs. He looked jadedly around the boat. The four grunts, wounded and sleeping in the early morning. Rashka, cuddled up next to him, snoring soundly. And the other grunt, his lips gone blue. Groshnok grunted, somewhat amused. Took long enough.

  “Now, Grosh’nal, let me tell ye the story of how I got this axe!”  shouted Giantsbane, holding his black greataxe up triumphantly. Groshnok grunted, annoyed. How bloody hard was it to get a name right? He had corrected him twice already, and still he was getting it wrong. Still, he scanned the black axe the orc in front of him held up. A fine piece of craftsmanship it was. He wouldn’t mind it for himself. “It was after I had led a bunch of rowdy lads into Goldshire…” Groshnok looked around, trying to see if he could spot anything to take his mind off the ramblings of Giantsbane, even though he knew it would not work. He sighed, looking down. Minor cuts and bruises had been healed by the Mag’har, but his left arm was still hurt badly. From shoulder to wrist, bandages wrapped around the skin, or what was left of it. Still hurt like hell, and would for some time to come. It would heal. But what would not heal, was his eye. The majority of the left side of his face had been bandaged, the skin their torn by shrapnel that had scraped off it. For someone only wearing a wolf mask, it was incredibly lucky the damage was not worse. He did not mind much. The eye blinded had been blurry enough from being hit in the past, anyway. He'd just have to get a patch for it.

  Both his thoughts and Giantsbane’s story were cut off by the sound of a loud gargling noise. Groshnok’s head shot backwards quizzically, to find the Mag’har being the source, his bony finger pointing to the front. Groshnok followed it, to see through the thick early morning fog appeared white rocks. They were close. They were too close. “We’re gonna crash,” he thought aloud, shifting to his feet with a stagger, holding onto the side of the boat. “Ge’ up, ge’ up!”

  “Har! Never fear, the Giantsbane has been in many a shipwreck!” the orc in front declared. Before even a snarl could emit from Groshnok’s mouth, the boat shook violently. Ice, ice in the water. It tore through the iron hull of their boat, debris flying. Groshnok ducked, turning back, to see the Mag’har now trying to cut the engine, only for a chunk of iron to impale him through the head, sending his corpse flying into the water. He held onto the side of the boat for dear life, another violent smash sending the boat veering left, and he watched with horror as Rashka’s sleeping body tumbled over the side. His hand outstretched to try to save her, but too late. Too late. Turning with a roar, the rocks were only seconds away, and there was Giantsbane, somehow holding on at the front. My only chance, he thought, letting go of the side and leaping forward to grab the orc.

CRACK.

  Groshnok’s claws sunk into the back of the howling orc as they slammed forward, hurtling through the air. Giantsbane landed hard on the shore, screaming in agony as he skidded along with Groshnok pressed firmly to his back, weighing him down. As they stopped, Groshnok rolled off of him, staying down, breathing heavily. His injured arm seared with pain, and his head pounded. But he couldn’t rest yet. Grunting as he pushed himself up with his right arm, he sat next to the orc who had been his shield, lying face down in his own blood. Grabbing him by the hair, Groshnok hauled his head up to take a look at what was left of his face. Nothing. The sharp rocks skidding against it had flayed it down to the bone, some bloody strips hanging on here and there. And still in his grasp, was the black axe. Tearing it from his dead hands, Groshnok heaved himself to his feet, peering down at the shoreline, searching, as he sheathed the axe behind him. And there she was. Crawling from the waters on all fours, Rashka. She was alive. And shaking. His gaze snapped down to Giantsbane, a fine furry cloak on his back. “Well, y’won’ be needin’ this,” he said with a grunt, tearing the straps from the corpse’s neck and hauling the cloak up. Hurrying down from the shore, he wrapped the cloak around her as she crawled up to embrace him, and he held her for a few moments. Looking down, he found her already to be passed out.

  Grunting, he placed her over his shoulder gently, looking around. The rest, dead. No matter, they would be a liability to him anyway. She was all that mattered. Her, and the cub. He trudged forward into the freezing abyss, his mind at him. Was the cub okay? Where were they? He didn’t remember any snow in Outland, so why was there in this place? Looking at a nearby ridge, he shifted towards it. He needed to find a cave. Caves were in rocks. Such as ridges. There’d be a cave there, there had to be a cave there. Trudging on, the cold gnawed at his body, he shivered in response, though his arm still burnt like the fire that had blazed it. Now, survive, he thought, gritting his teeth as he pressed on against the cold. Survive. For her sake.

[Okiba]

Krogon likey!