Chapter 1
As Arkhet emerged from unconsciousness, he felt a throbbing
pain in his temple and he groaned in agony. He opened his eyes and blinked for
several moments as he attempted to clear his blurred vision. The smell of death
in the air jolted his memory and he suddenly recalled that he had been in a
battle.
He winced in pain as he sluggishly
pulled himself to a sitting position, as his body ached in a multitude of
places. He turned his head to gaze upon the aftermath of the battle and he felt
a sudden sense of despair.
As the morning sun cast a golden
pallor upon the devastation of the battlefield, he could see a dozen bodies
strewn about the rocky knoll, hacked, mutilated, and barely recognizable as
once proud orc warriors. And the stench of death permeated the air, drawing
droves of carrion birds, which noisily shrieked in excitement as they circled
high in the sky. The blood was so thick that small rivulets of red had formed
which slowly drained downward, pooling into small puddles of crimson at the
bottom of the hill.
Very seldom had his people won
battles against the elves, and this battle had turned out no differently. While
the orcs frequent raids upon defenseless farming communities usually resulted
in triumph, battles against trained soldiers always resulted in defeat.
Arkhet shook his head in sadness as
he scanned the battlefield for enemy corpses, but none were to be found. Elven
warriors were very skilled in battle, and it was rare that one ever fell to an
orc blade. And the lack of elf bodies upon the current battlefield attested to
that fact.
He gingerly rubbed the painful knot
on his forehead, and winced at the pain. A glancing blow from a mace early in
the battle had knocked him out cold. And from the looks of the rising sun, he
had lain unconscious for several hours, the battle long since ended.
Pulling himself up slowly from his
sitting position, he stood still for a long moment as he awaited his head to
stop spinning. Once he regained his bearing, he looked down at the ground as he
searched for his rusted and pitted sword. Spying his pitiful weapon, he bent
down, picked it up, and slid it back into his makeshift scabbard. Straightening
slowly, so as to not get woozy again, he began moving forward, gaining strength
and confidence with every step.
Arkhet quickly searched the
surrounding corpses, rounding up a few tattered capes and robes. He then tied
them together into one large blanket.
He then looted the bodies in entirety
by taking the tattered remains of chain mail, bits of leather, and scraps of
clothing, that served as orc battle armor, and he placed them into his
makeshift blanket. Once that task was complete, he picked up the rusted and
chipped weapons of various shapes and sizes, placing them into the blanket as
well. He then pulled the ends of the blanket into a large sack, and tied the
top.
He grinned as he knew that with his
large sack of loot, he would be wealthy indeed!
As orcs had never learned how to make
steel armor and weapons, what steel they did possess was looted from raids on
human, elf, and dwarf settlements. And the orcs only had a rudimentary
knowledge on how to create their own clothing as well, their knowledge limited
to primitive leatherworking and crude weavings. They had to rely upon looting
the finer and more delicate cloth from the fair races.
And Arkhet spotted some of that fine
cloth some distance away, fluttering in the wind, as if it were beckoning to
him. So he hiked over and examined the final mutilated corpse, which was of the
of the war-leader Makog.
Makog was positioned face down, his head
nearly severed from his body, and one arm had been hacked completely off. A
fine black cloak was tied around his neck, and one corner lifted in the gentle
breeze. It was calling to him, urging him to pick it up.
This battle had been Makog's first and
last as a war-leader of the hammer clan. The life expectancy of an orc
war-leader was slim to none, and many orcs had worn that mantle in Arkhet’s
lifetime.
And now it was Arkhet’s turn. He
wanted to savor the moment as he acquired the greatest symbol of his people.
The black leadership cloak.
As he knelt to touch the black cloak,
he recalled the legend of how the cloak had come to his people. It was said
that a war-leader, from a time before Arkhet's grandfather’s grandfather, had
used a stone war hammer to kill the elf prince who wore the cloak.
The elf prince had been out on a hunt
with two other elf warriors and had strayed far from their city. And the
cunning orc war-leader had ambushed the three elves with twenty of his best orc
warriors. The elves put up a ferocious battle, but the orc numbers were too
overwhelming, and both of the elf bodyguards quickly fell to the orc blades.
The prince had also been grievously wounded in the ambush, and unable to fight
to his fullest potential because of his injury, the elf eventually succumbed to
the mighty blows of the war-leader's war hammer.
The war-leader then looted the cloak
from the elf prince’s corpse, proclaiming it as his own. After the legendary
battle, the clan adopted the symbol of their greatest warrior, which was his
stone hammer, and wore it with pride.
The true magic of the cloak was
unknown to the Hammer Clan, and all that was known was that the cloak never
seemed to rip, tear, or fade like other more mundane materials.
In a sweeping motion, Arkhet removed
the cloak from the corpse and placed it upon his back. He swelled with pride in
his newfound title of war-leader as whoever gained the mantle, by whatever
means, was able to lead the clan's warriors into battle. The only problem was
that his clan had very few warriors left to lead, as most had been killed by
elf, human, and dwarf soldiers.
And he knew that because of attrition
caused by frequent battles, his clan would soon be forced to move again. There
just weren’t enough warriors left in his village to properly defend it from the
human, dwarf, and elf soldiers, who ever so mercilessly drove the clan farther
into the mountains. Steadily pushing them into inhospitable and unforgiving
lands, away from food, water, and much needed wood.
Arkhet spat upon the gruesome face of
his former war-leader, then grabbed the stiff, cold shoulder of the corpse and
pulled. He was searching for more loot, and knew that Makog
owned a nice chert dagger that he kept thrust into the front of his pants. As
he rolled the rigid body over, he spied a beautiful silvery object, which had
been hidden underneath. His eyes grew wide in astonishment as he looked upon an
elvish sword of exquisite make and craftsmanship. Somehow an elf had dropped
the blade in the heat of battle, and Makog had fallen
on top of it in death, hiding the sword from searching elven eyes.
He could not believe his good
fortune. Picking up the sword carefully, he hefted the blade and judged the
weight. The elf blade was light, feeling as if it weighed little more than a
feather, to the muscular orc.
He slashed the long sword in the air
in a practice swing and the blade suddenly hummed, causing the orc to drop the
blade in alarm. Staring at the sword for a few minutes, he finally mustered the
courage to pick it up again.
He stared in awe as the gleaming
sword was stunning, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Etched elvish
runes adorned the length of the blade, and the hilt and cross guard were
embellished with tiny hand-carved golden leaves. The pommel was shaped like a
claw and enclosed within was a large shiny red stone.
Arkhet knew that he had just found
one of the magic swords that the elves had long used against his people. And with that sword, he would be the envy of
his people!
With the search for the war-leaders
prized chert blade forgotten, he rushed back to his
loot bag and opened it. After he dropped his old rusty sword inside, he tied it
securely shut and held aloft his prized new elf blade.
He stared in admiration for a long
moment before finally sheathing the sword into the tattered scabbard on his
hip. Turning back to his loot bag, he grabbed the topknot and began dragging
the bag back on a course back to his village.
***
The long and arduous trek to his
village took several hours, but Arkhet managed to make it back without
incident. His chest swelled in pride as he confidently entered the village, and
he quickly made for the center of the settlement, still tirelessly dragging the
bag of loot behind him.
The village shaman, Grekog, stepped out in front of Arkhet and held up a hand
to stop him. Glancing at the large loot bag, the shaman then turned to eye
Arkhet with suspicion. His voice dripping with contempt, he asked,
"Warrior, where is the war-leader and the war party?"
Arkhet answered in an insolent tone,
"I wear the black leadership cloak. I am
war-leader now.”
The shaman growled, “You didn’t
answer my question, where is war-leader Makog and the
rest of the war party?”
“Elves attacked us and killed
everyone but me," Arkhet shot back.
A crowd of curious onlookers began to
gather around to hear the exchange. Arkhet leered at his audience as he knew
they would soon fear and respect him.
Grekog asked accusingly, "So how did
you escape? Did you run like a cowardly
human again?"
Arkhet suddenly fumed with rage. He
had survived countless battles while others had died, and because of this, some
in the clan accused Arkhet of being a coward. They accused him of fleeing from
battles instead of dying like a true orc warrior.
Arkhet spat and said, "I fought
bravely and killed many elf warriors. I was hit in the head by the elf chief." Pointing to the purple swelling on the front
of his head he continued his lie, "I killed the elf chief and stole his
weapon. Look!"
Sliding the silvery blade from the
ill-fitting sheath, he held it in the air and it began to hum as if in anger.
The gathering crowd stepped back in
shock and awe. The shaman retreated in terror, shielding his eyes with his arm
as if fearful of the mere sight of the weapon.
His confidence boosted with the
reaction of his people, Arkhet thumped his chest with his free hand in boastful
pride. A bold, but dangerous idea suddenly popped into his head and he
trumpeted, "I am the new war-leader and I will soon be the new clan chief
as well!"
As if in answer, Morag stepped into
the circle.
Morag was the chief of the hammer clan
and known throughout the orc clans as the bravest and most skilled warrior of
them all. Rumor had it that he had felled over a dozen humans and elves in
battle, and he had earned the title of clan chief after killing the former
chief in a challenge to the death.
And typical of orc custom, the
warrior with the greatest physical strength ruled the clan. At any time, the
chief could be challenged in a duel to the death, and the victor emerging as
the new chief.
A nasty scar ran from the top of
Morag's skull, across his left eye, to the top of his neck. His left eye was
not damaged by the vicious slash as the heavy protruding brow, which graced the
faces of all orcs, had saved the eye from destruction. Another scar was evident
on the right side of his face and that scar started at his right cheek, ending
at his ear.
Morag was tall and muscular, even for
an orc. His skin was the typical yellowish color that was prevalent among all
orcs but not so typical were his two long tusks, which jutted from the bottom of
his mouth. They were much longer than that of a typical orc, and the ends were
carved into an unknown, but wicked, effigy.
Morag turned to the crowd and shouted
loudly, “This weakling has challenged me. I will kill him and take his elf toy
from his cold hands!” Drawing his heavy two handed sword as he turned, the orc
chieftain growled, "Die you coward!"
Arkhet raised his elf sword in
defense as the mighty claymore descended upon him. The weapons clashed in a
shower of sparks, jarring Arkhet's hand and sending him flying backwards into
the crowd.
The crowd jeered and pushed Arkhet
back into the makeshift arena. Chants of "Morag!" and "Kill
the coward!" rang out from the spectators.
Arkhet paused as his brain began to
process old memories, memories that he never knew he had. The orcs did not use
any fighting techniques, as they relied upon brute force alone. Skill with a
weapon was measured as to how hard one could swing.
But in his mind he could see elves
fighting in an intricate dance, their deadly blades weaving back and forth in a
mesmerizing series of dexterous moves. The realization that brute force was not
the answer set his mind at ease. He knew that he was no match for Morag's strength,
so he pulled upon the deep seated foreign memories within his mind, and began
the elven blade dance.
Stepping aside as Morag charged in
like a bull, Arkhet spun around to his right and reached out with a quick
backhand slash. His sword connected with flesh and a large wound opened up on
the larger orcs left arm. Blood spattered Arkhet in the face and spurted into
the crowd.
He had hit an artery!
Arkhet wasted no time. Dancing around
the larger orc, as he had seen the elves do, he repeatedly poked his magical
sword into the flesh of the orc chief.
Morag chopped in rage and Arkhet
lithely jumped out of the way of the slow moving claymore. The chief seethed
with furor and yelled, "See the coward! He does not fight like an orc! He
runs from my blows instead of standing still like a true warrior! He . .
."
Arkhet cut him off with a slash to
the face.
The orc chief howled in pain. Using
his left hand, he attempted to cover the nasty bleeding wound that stretched
from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. Morag hacked again with renewed
vigor, hampered by the fact that he was now only using one hand to wield the
massive weapon.
Arkhet danced around skillfully,
avoiding the blows. He began counting the poorly executed strikes, timing them
within his mind. As the next downward chop rained down, Arkhet stepped in
close, raising his sword with all his might.
The two swords collided with such
ferociousness that the resulting impact created a shower of sparks and a
deafening clang. The impressive display caused the spectators to jump with
astonishment.
Arkhet was surprised as his sword
cleaved through the claymore as if it were made of nothing more than soft
leather. His sword continued its upward arc and sliced into the orc chief's
bony face, biting deep into Morag's chin, and coming to a stop at the bridge of
the chief’s nose.
Morag froze in place and his body
began to quiver.
Not daring to move, Arkhet held his
breath, waiting for the next move from the big orc.
The chief suddenly toppled backwards,
his eyes wide in death.
Arkhet held tightly to his sword as
the massive corpse hit the ground, and without any hint of resistance, the elf
sword suddenly slid free from the orc skull. He stared in curiosity at the
bloody blade for a long moment, his mouth agape with amazement. He suddenly
realized that not only was he the war-leader, he was now the new chief of the
Hammer Clan. With the defeat of the greatest orc warrior in all the land, and
the fact that he carried the magic elf sword, no one would dare challenge his
rule. No one could challenge his
rule.
Holding his elf blade aloft, he
shouted, "I am your new clan chief!"
The crowd clamored with glee and
began chanting, "Long live Chief Arkhet!"