Blood of Dragons - The Warlord

"Tonight, the sun sets on the lives of our enemies!" roared Holg, Hand of the Devastator. "And come the dawn, it shall rise coated in their blood!"

There was a resounding response from the gathered tribes, hundreds of orcish voices shouting to the sky in unison. Eyes wild and teeth bared, they called for war, for death and conquest. Spears and blades shook, and the ground quaked with the stomping of feet.

Amidst the crowd, Vorka was silent; though she was as eager as any of the others for what tomorrow would bring, tonight was far more important and intimidating for her. Victory hung in the balance, and it all hinged on her actions this night.

"The Devastator calls for destruction!" Holg continued, pacing and stamping in front of the large bonfire, his body silhouetted by the flames. "The lowly dwarves burrow into the ground like rodents, crafting their trinkets and hiding in their tunnels! We shall drive them out into the storm, and stain the earth with their cowardly guts!" Holg held a gnarled staff high above his head, rattling the collection of bones decorating his wrists and neck. "And at the eye of the storm shall be Kroll the Cold-Hearted, the Blizzardborn, champion of destruction!"

The crowd of orcs began to chant, alternating the stamping of their feet in a steady rhythm, starting low and growing louder.

"Kroll!... Kroll!... Kroll!... Kroll!..."

Stepping around the bonfire came the warlord Kroll. Standing close on seven and a half feet tall, he was covered in a giant fur cloak, skinned from a great cave bear, which did nothing to hide his broad shoulders. His skin was the pale blue of a glacier, and his eyes glinted like crystals in the firelight. Bony ridges rose under the skin of his face, running up his nose, brow and cheekbones, made all the more prominent by his bald head. He snarled and growled as he stepped forward, showing off a toothy maw more akin to a savage beast than an orc. Ritually prepared blood had been daubed across his features, the dark marks standing out garishly and giving him a ghoulish appearance.

Vorka breathed heavily through her nose, trying to stop herself from shaking. She couldn't tell if it was from anticipation or anger; she refused to consider that it might be fear. She flexed her hands, encouraging the blood flow to her arms, making sure she was ready. She had been training for this her whole life; what an irony that this particular warlord would be the one to choose her.

"May the Devastator deem Kroll worthy of His divine favour!" Holg cried. "May he prove his worth here tonight, and assure victory on the fields of battle!" The war priest briefly knelt before Kroll, raising his hands in supplication even as he stood again. "We submit you to the Rite of the Warbreed!" Holg turned to face the crowd. "Who shall come forth as battlemate, and test the might of Kroll?"

The words were just a formality; Vorka knew that there would be no other answer to Holg's call.

"Vorka, of the Wurm's Tooth Peak!" she announced as she walked forward, the other tribe members standing aside to allow her passage. Vorka stepped into the circle, holding her head high with her shoulders back, drawing herself up to her full height. She was a full head shorter than Kroll, but this still made her taller than most, and her body was powerful; her grey-green skin stretched taut over solid muscles, heavy and sculpted from a lifetime of living and training in the high mountains. She wore only a loincloth, her bare figure covered in bloody anointments, and her small, firm breasts sitting high on her chest. Her long black hair was tied in decorated warrior braids, pulled back from her proud, handsome face, and her golden eyes glowered as they locked with Kroll's.

"Then may the Rite commence!" Holg stepped back to the edge of the circle, leaving Vorka and Kroll standing with nothing between them. The crowd fell silent, waiting and watching.

Vorka shifted her feet, lowering her weight and raising her fists, her gaze unbreaking. Kroll grinned with mirth, rolling his massive shoulders and letting the bearskin fall away. Underneath, he wore no more than Vorka did. Shard-like ridges of bone dotted his arms, running from his wrists to his shoulders, some of them several inches long. White armoured scales covered his shoulders and back, from which more bones protruded, his spine seeming to break through his skin. His hands were large, with pale bestial claws and bone-capped knuckles; his feet were similarly endowed. Kroll lifted his arms, his muscles rippling like a stormy ocean. He stood with his bare chest wide open, flaunting his physique, inviting and taunting Vorka to strike first.

She did not rise to the bait, stepping carefully to the side; he mimicked her steps, following the circle. Kroll's strides were casual, confident; it was like he wasn't even interested in fighting, as if he already knew the outcome. By winning, Kroll would secure the blessing of the Devastator, and victory on the battlefield tomorrow would be assured. More than that, as his battlemate, Vorka would be his to claim in any way he saw fit tonight.

Vorka knew she should be honoured; male or female, it was a great aspiration to be the battlemate of a warlord, and help prove that they were strong enough to lead the warband. But if Vorka won, Kroll would be disgraced, and a new warlord would have to be chosen to lead before their conquest continued. It could even be Vorka herself who claimed leadership. Win or lose, this was a great opportunity for her.

Vorka would not settle for losing; other battlemates might dishonour themselves by throwing the fight, falsely securing divine favour and allowing themselves to be claimed by their warlords, but not Vorka. She would not be dominated so easily. Not by Kroll, of all people.

She took a lunging step forward, snarling before shifting her weight back. Kroll barely blinked, unfazed by the feint, his grin simply growing wider. Vorka grew frustrated; potential leadership was all well and good, but more than anything, her personal pride was on the line. She lunged again, and once more trying to draw him out. Kroll's eyes were visibly sparkling with amusement, and his smile was utterly infuriating.

Vorka's patience snapped and she charged, properly this time, aiming to tackle Kroll to the ground. He stood in place, bracing his legs as her shoulder connected with his gut. It felt like trying to bring down a mountain ox, but Vorka noticed his surprised gasp with some satisfaction. It lasted for a fleeting second as Kroll's arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting her bodily into the air. The world blurred before her eyes as Kroll spun on the spot and tossed her back into the centre of the circle. Cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd as Vorka hit the dirt.

She could hear Kroll chuckling as well as he walked towards her, unhurried. Vorka kept low to the ground, listening for his approaching footsteps, then kicked out when she was sure he was in range. Her foot connected with his knee, and she saw him buckle. Jumping to her feet, Vorka swung her fists; the first connected with Kroll's stomach, the second under his jaw. There were jeers and shouts of surprise as Kroll stumbled backwards; Vorka pressed the attack, not wanting her opponent to recover. She rained blow after blow at Kroll's face, the bony ridges drawing blood from her knuckles even as Kroll's skin began to split.

Vorka finished off her flurry of strikes with a forward kick directly in the centre of Kroll's chest; the giant orc flew back several feet and landed hard on his back. Vorka was on him in an instant, leaping onto his prone form and pressed her shin into his throat, putting all of her weight behind it.

"Yield," she grunted.

Kroll tried to reach up and push her; Vorka responded by slapping his hands away and pushing down harder. If she couldn't get him to give up, she might at least force him to pass out. Kroll flailed his arms uselessly, unable to shift Vorka's weight, and hope sparked in her chest. Perhaps he really was just all -

Kroll suddenly smiled again, a sinister toothy smile. Vorka barely had time to register what was happening as his meaty hands clamped around the leg pressing on his neck, and with a single shove sent her sprawling across the circle, to the cheers of the crowd.

Vorka spat out a mouthful of dirt with a sinking realisation: Kroll had just been toying with her. The massive pale orc crossed the circle in a few quick strides, his hand clamping around her throat and lifting her effortlessly. His other hand drew back before burying itself under her ribs. Every last breath of air in her lungs was expelled at once, and Vorka fell to the ground coughing and gasping as Kroll let her drop. She was vaguely aware of him striding around the circle, posturing; she could hear the crowd cheering and chanting his name.

"Kroll!...Kroll!...Kroll!...Kroll!"

Vorka's vision turned red. She hated that name more and more every time she heard it. She was not going to let him win, not that easily!

She rose to her feet and ran at Kroll from behind; had she any breath left in her, she would have shouted a war cry. As it was, Kroll didn't seem to notice her until she had leaped onto his back, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and sunk her teeth into his neck. The warlord roared in genuine surprise and pain, and the crowd gasped as he staggered back, trying to throw Vorka off of himself. She reached around his chest and linked her hands, maintaining a solid grip as she attempted to chew deeper towards his throat. The ridges of Kroll's spine and the sharp edges of his white scales pressed into her flesh, drawing blood in several places, but she squeezed tighter; Vorka refused to let him go. If she could just reach the veins in his neck, get him to bleed, she could bring him down.

Vorka felt herself flying through the air once again; Kroll had taken a leap, throwing his head backwards. Vorka was unable to dislodge herself in time as Kroll's full weight landed on top of her, crushing her into the ground. She didn't feel any of her own bones crack, but Kroll's spine ridges nearly impaled her; she felt her skin break and blood begin to flow. Whatever air she had managed to recover was gone, and her jaw went slack, freeing Kroll from her bite. She had no time to think as Kroll stood up and planted a giant, bony foot on her neck.

"Yield," he said, his voice a resonating growl.

"Never!" Vorka managed to wheeze, grabbing his ankle with both hands, trying to shift it. She might as well have been trying to move an oak tree; she didn't have the wind left to use all her strength, and she had a terrible feeling that it wouldn't have been enough if she did.

"There's no shame in it," said Kroll quietly, leaning closer so that she could hear. At the same time, he rested his elbow on his knee, putting even more weight on her throat.

Vorka hacked and gasped, but no air was reaching her lungs. The cheers of the crowd grew muddy and distorted, Kroll's body becoming a massive, misshapen white blur as her eyes swam.

"Won't... lose... to..." was all she could say as the world faded into blackness.

*******

Vorka woke with a start, sitting up suddenly and panting hard; her throat felt like it was on fire, and a painful ache ran all the way down her front. She looked down at herself; there were fresh bandages on her chest, and her legs were covered in soft furs. She was sitting on a sleeping palate, in a large tent illuminated by a fire pit.

"Ah good, you're awake," said a familiar growling voice.

Vorka turned to see Kroll, lounged comfortably on another pile of furs across the fire. Her stomach sank in disappointment and humiliation; her being in Kroll's tent could only mean one thing. She had lost, and was now at his mercy. She barely registered him standing, approaching with a waterskin. He knelt down next to her, holding it out in offering. Vorka turned her head away, not wanting to accept anything from Kroll, or even look at him.

"There's no point in acting out," he said. "You're injured. Drink."

"Won't... give you... the satisfaction," Vorka hissed, every syllable sending needles of pain through her throat.

"Suit yourself," said Kroll with a shrug, dropping the waterskin next to her and returning to his seat. Vorka held still, keeping her eyes averted for as long as she could, then grabbed the waterskin and gulped down the contents eagerly. The ice cold water soothed her gullet, and she drained almost the whole skin before she stopped for breath. Kroll watched in silence until she was done.

"You put up quite the fight out there," he said. "It's been a long time since anyone was able to draw blood from me."

"Hmph." Vorka folded her arms and looked at her feet.

"I know that battlemates are meant to fight as though their lives depended on it," Kroll continued, "but you're the first one to take it so far as to resort to biting. I wasn't expecting that." He sat forward, the firelight reflecting off the multitude of bone spikes on his arms. "Why so eager to see me bleed, Vorka?"

"Don't say my name!" she snapped, whipping her head around to glare at him. "You don't get to talk to me like an equal!"

Kroll chuckled. "Every tradition would say that I'm in a better place than most to do that!"

Vorka returned the chuckle, but there was no humour in it. "Tradition? You dare speak to me of tradition? That's tall talk coming from an abomination like you!"

Kroll snorted, sounding amused. "Strange, none of my other battlemates had a problem with my... endowments." The meaningful shift in his eyebrows as he said that final word made Vorka quiver in rage.

"Because none of them know the truth!" she shouted. "You may have the entire warband fooled, but I know who you really are! I know the real Kroll!" She winced; her windpipe was still tender, and raising her voice wasn't helping. Quieter, but still angrily she said, "You think that no-one remembers, but I do!"

Kroll's eyes twinkled, his smile unmoving. "Do you, now? What exactly do you remember?"

"I remember a weakling," said Vorka, "a snivelling runt that didn't have the strength to lift an axe. The Kroll that I knew couldn't win in a fight with a rat over his own meal. Always alone, always trailing behind, always a hinderance to the warband!" Vorka clenched fistfuls of bedding. "That Kroll was named unworthy of the Devastator's sight, and left on a mountaintop to die in the snow."

"And what makes you think I am the same Kroll?" he asked.

"You think I would forget the face of the one who pursued me?" said Vorka. "More than once you tried to earn my hand in the Test of Taking, and every time I defeated you without a thought! You tried to take that which you couldn't have; I was being groomed to become a warlord's battlemate, and you thought you had a chance."

Kroll settled back on his pile of furs. "And now?"

"Don't think that because you're a warlord now, that you're better than me!" snarled Vorka. "You were nothing! Less than nothing! And you returned to the warband an aberrant monster! That's not how a true warlord gains strength! Whatever you did to gain that power, it doesn't make you worthy! Not to me!"

"So," Kroll said slowly, "you think that, because I came to power in my own way, I shouldn't be granted the rights of a warlord?"

"A real warlord earns his power through strength and conquest," said Vorka. "I was chosen to become a battlemate, and I welcomed it. The stronger I was, the more likely I would be taken by only the strongest of warlords. Just my luck that you would be the one I would face."

"Am I not strong?" said Kroll, motioning to the luxuries and trophies that decorated the tent. "Have I not proven myself time and time again to be a worthy leader of our people?"

"You did not earn your strength!" said Vorka. "There are orcs who train and fight and suffer through years of battle to rise to where you are! You turned yourself into an abomination and stole your position from those who truly deserved it!"

"And how do you think I turned myself into this?" said Kroll. "Do you think that my power was not hard won? That I simply asked for this, and it was given to me? That I didn't suffer for the strength that I now hold?"

"How would I know?" grumbled Vorka. "Everyone calls you the Blizzardborn, like you wandered fully formed out of a snowstorm as some kind of saviour sent by the Devastator to lead us. I've never heard anyone say anything otherwise, least of all you!"

"True, I've let rumours about me spread," Kroll admitted. "But more out of convenience than anything. You'd be amazed at how effective belief can be when rallying people who are looking for someone to follow, and what better way to win their belief than with legends?"

"So you don't bother to tell them the truth?" said Vorka. "Are you too ashamed to admit to why you have this power?"

"Not at all," said Kroll. "In fact, no-one's ever asked before now." He leaned forward again. "If I told you the real story, about how I became what I am, might you think better of me?"

"It depends," said Vorka. "How do I know you'll be telling the truth?"

"If you remember me so well, you'll know that I've never been one to bother with lies," said Kroll. "Was I not always honest with you?"

"Disturbingly so," snorted Vorka, almost laughing at the memory of a runty Kroll professing his devotion to her on more than one occasion.

Kroll noticed her attempt to smother her mirth and smiled in kind. "Then I swear on the memory of that honest young orc, I will tell you the truth, and nothing less."

Vorka considered. It was not like she had a choice to be anywhere else, and listening to Kroll talk all night seemed like a better alternative to any other activities he might have suggested. Not to mention she was actually becoming genuinely curious.

"Alright," she said, doing her best to sound disinterested. "Tell me the grand tale of how Kroll became the "Cold-Hearted Blizzardborn", for what it's worth."

Kroll smiled wider and sat back once more. "As you wish, battlemate. It all began that day, when I was left upon that mountaintop, to die alone in the snow..."

*******

Kroll lay curled into himself, shivering as his bones seemed to shake inside his flesh. Cold wind howled around him, like spirits of the damned calling for his soul; the whirling snow was their icy talons, clawing at his exposed skin. He felt rough stone beneath him, coated in frost that sought to cover him as well. He knew he had to keep moving, but the spark of life was dying within him.

The slight-framed orc had already used all he had to find this cave. Hours of trudging through the snow, forced to flee from the warband under threat of torture, had stripped him of what little energy he was able to muster. It was by chance, or maybe one fleeting blessing that Kroll had found a cave, secreted away in the mountain peaks. But his footsteps had slowed, his meagre strength dwindling, and he had barely managed to crawl through the mouth of the cavern. A few more feet of crawling, and Kroll would be inside and away from the elements.

A brief respite, if not true salvation, was so close and yet his body felt unable to budge. He cursed under his breath; he cursed the warband, cursed the snow, cursed himself. Kroll hated himself in that moment, hated the weakness of the limbs that refused to save him. His cursing grew louder, every epithet in the orcish language pouring from his lips, as he brought forth the rage. It was something he had learned to harness long ago, driving himself onward through the harshness of life through pure anger. Kroll may not have had the physical strength of his kinsmen, but never was there a more stubbornly determined orc in all the land.

Kroll continued to swear and curse; he insulted his hands into gripping the rocky floor, shouted at his arms to pull him forward. Little by little, Kroll dragged himself into the cave and away from the storm's freezing bite. He sat up against the jagged wall, gasping as his burning muscles contrasted with the cold air; he felt as though he would fall apart. For all his determination, Kroll was still limited by what his body was capable of, and it was his lack of physical might that had seen him left to this fate.