Prologue Strong Lad

It takes strength to survive, in virtually any country or region. Strength of body is perhaps the most personal, most easily understood form. One may use it to dominate another, or to simply ward off the intrusions of an unwanted individual. Strength comes in other forms, however, and sometimes understanding them and utilizing them too, our lives can rise above the level of mere survival.

Unfortunately, life in an orc tribe was a hard and cruel thing most days, requiring more than a little physical strength from those members who wished to at least survive childhood. Most orcs didn't tend to complain about a way of life of their own making. An orc either had the toughness to dominate those around him, or made sure those in power did not consider him a threat, or he was dead.

For one not quite so orcish, say one whose mother was a human victim of war, life among them could be even closer to death. Gruugg, of the Plague Fist tribe, was perhaps blessed, therefore, and rightly proud of himself, when finally he achieved survival up to his twelfth year. Most male tribe members completed the journey into adulthood by this time. For orcs, this meant that he was no longer allowed to remain home under the care of females, but was required to venture out, weapons in hand, ready to pillage, kill, and conquer in the name of Gruumsh and the other orc gods.

Acceptance into adulthood for all tribe members typically required a short ceremony after some deed of worth. To orcs, the greatest deeds were those of vanquishing an opponent in battle. Gruugg, also called Half-tusk for his diminished length of canine, was exceptionally strong, and finally ready for the Hunt, despite the challenges raised against him throughout his young life. Years of stubborn refusal to buckle under relentless bullying, and the wherewithal to dish out any deserved payback had formed his hands and arms into instruments of pain in their own right. His skill with crafted orcish weapons had caught the attention of the tribal leaders and afforded him a measure of respect among the rabble as well. Although half-orcs were often looked upon with disdain for their impure bloodlines, Gruugg was geared up for the Hunt, and his peers weren't conspiring behind his back. Even at twelve, he was tall and thick, already meeting the six-foot mark, which was at least a nose above most of the others. His girth was also quite impressive, and very little of it wasted in fat. He was outright stronger than many orcs in the tribe. For those that he couldn't match physically, he was more than a match in wit. His half-human cunning had learned well the instincts of fight or flight.

He wore the ritual hunting leathers, and watched the flickering torch-fire lighting the preparation chamber of the tribe's underground burrow. In preparation for the Hunt, the young orcs were applying black, red, and yellow paint to one another's bodies, in crude patterns of curves, jagged lines, and hand prints. The thin leathers worn were barely protection from the elements, more a representation of the armor they all hoped to earn. Exposed flesh also left all the more area for heroic scars to appear, along with a fabulous tale of hard-won victory. That was the goal for those youths who returned from the Hunt.

Already Gruugg had several minor pocks and scuff-marks on his young grayish-greenish-pinkish skin. The one Gruugg took the most pride in was the blotchy acid burn splash on the back of his right hand. The day he received it was the day he stopped being a lowly battle-captive slave, and became a full member of the Plague Fist tribe. All members strong enough to hold a spear were made to endure the ceremonial purple worm bile.

Strong, only slightly yellowed teeth lined his healthy gums, and those inch long tusks protruded only slightly from the bottom lip of his wide mouth when his face was neutral. His nose actually had a short human-like bridge--something orcs and many half-orcs lacked--but it retained the orcish bluntness and flare at the nostrils. Brownish-yellow eyes gleamed with raw human intelligence below the sloping forehead and thick brow. Never trimmed, Gruugg's neck-length, wavy black hair had the sides pulled back, exposing half-pointed ears, and tailed loosely over the rest, which fell comfortably down his strong neck. Short, coarse hair sprouted over his young body, mostly in rather neat human patterns on his face, arms, shoulders, chest, stomach, and legs. Of course, to most orcs he showed far too much vulnerable skin, even as it played over those thick, corded, pain-promising muscles.

Once painting and outfitting was completed, Gruugg and the others, numbering a dozen, exited their warren tunnels and stood in the snow-dusted forest clearing. Some just breathing steamy puffs of cold northern air, others gathered in small groups, chanting guttural prayers to Gruumsh, attempting to build up all the energy they could muster before they set out. Gruugg did likewise, but he found his focus in his weapon, and himself. He honored their gods, and would accept their aid, howsoever they gave it, but he understood that if he truly wanted to prove himself, it would be up to him. The gods he knew never guaranteed much of anything.

Very quickly the two tribal leaders stepped out and joined them on the snowy ground. The chieftain, Kaburkk, and the head shaman, Teggk, appeared to the young just how every orc ought.

Kaburkk was tall and thick, and any scrap of exposed skin showed many scars and battle-marks. A serrated halberd was his weapon, and the tall polearm was planted with one strong arm at his side. He proudly wore his chieftain's headdress, a drape of tanned human skin, fixed by a crude crown of orc steel adorned with black feathers, and teeth and claws of various sorts. It also bore the crude symbol of his tribe, a greenish-yellow background, with a black fist silhouette, and its white bones superimposed. A soiled yeti-pelt wrap adorned his shoulders and concealed his left hand. The opening created by his right arm made known the suit of thick, black banded mail, well kept by orc standards.

Shaman Teggk was less battle-scarred, and his skin and leathers more adorned with the various painted symbols of the orc pantheon--the broken thighbone of Bahgtru, the red sword of Ilneval, the moon and skull of Shargaas, and the pale hands of Yurtrus. All, of course, patterned around the red unblinking eye symbol of Gruumsh. The bone-chime staff he held planted had affixed the same eye symbol as its focus.

After a brief survey of the young warriors, Kaburkk let out a tremendous, rallying howl, which the others, Gruugg included, took part in. "You young maggots," the chief began in Orcish, with customary tact, "are ready for the Hunt! Go, and bring back great prizes, killed by your own hands. You that make it back will become real orcs," at which his gaze was fully planted in Gruugg's direction, his point clear to all. After the dramatic pause, he lifted up his burly arms, his wicked halberd went up with them, and shouted, "HUNT!"

"HUNT!" echoed the others and off they went, through the pine forest of the northern foothills, under the shadow of the Spine of the World. The rules of the Hunt were simple and ingrained into every thought of those young orcs: though they would stay together at first, each one was on his own to find prey. Only a bloodied weapon, and at least a piece of the kill, if the whole thing wasn't able to be brought back, would allow any of them to return home with honor. If larger prey was found, more than one could take credit as long as each participating individual had bloodied his own weapon in the effort, and helped to bring it home. The one who gave the killing blow, however, was afforded the most honor.

The first day out, for all the miles of Lurkwood they covered, all that was seen were rabbits, or foxes, or flocks of quail and grouse; hardly the kind of prey these orcs were looking for. By nightfall, it was time for a rest. Each orc was responsible for his own meal and fire. The hunters clustered into three separate camps, each under the boughs of a different tree, where kindling was readily abundant. This served to preserve individualism, while not risking one's own neck alone in the dangerous woods. Roast poultry, a low fire and the heat of their own blood were the only real warmth any of them were afforded that frigid night.

Gruugg sat a bit further from the rest of his neighbors. While his lazy kin were using the lull to nap, Gruugg held his axe close, examining and whetting its edge with a stone. It would be the perfect tool for his growing strength to drive it in all the easier. Silently he offered prayers that soon he would chance upon worthy game, and be the first to bring home a kill. Then no one could deny that he was a true warrior.

Sleep slowly began to chase the excited half-orc, but when it finally caught him, it didn't seem to hold on for long before something big, fast, and heavy leaped over his head.

Gruugg shook awake, taking up his axe and looking about until he was focused enough to see the large elk that had thudded into their campsite. It was panting heavy gusts from its lungs, and its body was shaking. Gruugg thought it would sprint off at first, but as it neared one of the other orc camps nearby, it must've caught their scent, because it abruptly spun about, and scanned around once it had found a spot that didn't spark an instinctual panic. This gave Gruugg a good chance to examine it quietly. It was a magnificent buck, with an impressive rack crowning his head. The physical size of it was truly something, as it must have outweighed any two full grown orcs. The young half-orc wanted this kill. He made no sudden moves as he started toward the cover of the nearby tree trunk, thanking Gruumsh and all the other gods for this opportunity. If he was quick and careful he might be able to wound or even kill it before the others--wait . . .

His human reasoning knew there was something amiss. Elk, just like other deer, were too skittish to just prance into a smelly orc camp like that. It was then that Gruugg made out the lines of red on its rump.

Some orcs in the next camp over were stirring, and fully awoke when the frightened and exhausted animal let out what almost seemed to Gruugg a pitiful cry of both frustration and fear. Gruugg saw the first two raise their spears to throw, just as the buck tried to escape, but he turned further, knowing that perhaps there was something else in the equation. Indeed he saw something that deserved more attention than a magnificent elk buck.

Without much consideration for a dawdling half-orc fool, the three others in Gruugg's camp tried hustling by, eager to get a piece of the kill before they were warded off by their competitors. Later in life Gruugg came to thank all the gods of fortune for the moment that came next.

The snowcat leaped. It was in line with the half-orc, but caught another hunter at the last second as he tried to pass Gruugg. The impact still knocked into him, but he was able to retain his footing and scramble back to watch an expert killer at work. It bit and raked savagely. The unfortunate orc was a bloody mess within moments. Gruugg and the others backed up, readying their weapons, but not moving to engage the creature voluntarily.

Gruugg understood that this great cat, roughly his own size though down on all fours, was initially hunting the elk, and had indeed wounded it, but the strong buck had escaped; that is, until it stumbled into the young orcs' camp. Now this offended snowcat was mad. Gruugg recognized this, and couldn't say he blamed it. Predatory muscle and savagery rippled underneath its raised, black-speckled, white fur coat. Its tufted ears were flattened as it lifted its gaze from its kill, considering in its bestial mind those that loosely surrounded it and were stealing its intended prey. Orcs were never hunted by animals for the taste of their flesh, but when it heard the final death-cry of the mighty elk, the snowcat twitched the end of its long spotted tail, wanting to taste more orcflesh. With its teeth bared in one last growl of defiance, the cat stalked forward, choosing Gruugg first, as he was the most direct prey to attack.

A few years ago, Gruugg had witnessed a big cat stalking prey while on a food hunting expedition. He didn't envy such prey, and he didn't particularly enjoy watching such a killing machine select him, but neither did he cower or try to flee. Something in his blood refused to show fear, and, in fact, stoked the inner fire that Gruugg had felt smoldering deep within ever since the day orcs came to his first home, killed his human mother, and took him away as a slave. Gruugg grimaced and growled himself, feeling his muscles tighten and harden over his whole body. His vision seemed to waver, driving his enemy into clear focus, and it felt good.

"GRAAAAH!" was all he could vocalize in the rush of power. He didn't notice, but every remaining orc was giving him their full attention.

The half-orc's challenging cry triggered the snowcat's charge. Gruugg was able to swing and sliced into that fine coat, at its ribs. It stopped just short of him, rearing back and batting a paw. It understood now that this new prey had a bite of his own, and was being cautious, testing reflexes. Gruugg understood this on a more instinctive level, and grinned in admiration. He swung again, scoring only a minor scratch to its flank before the cat could spring away.

However, the agile creature crouched at that short distance, and was preparing to leap. Gruugg started forward himself when he recognized the signs. Neither just standing there, nor running away were options at this point. Only his raging strength prevented him from being completely overtaken by the heavy cat when it hit. He abandoned his battleaxe at the last moment, knowing it was too bulky for such close fighting and wrestling. Claws dug holes into his unprotected shoulders as the two locked arms, each trying to overpower the other. The cat clearly had the advantage as Gruugg felt its fangs darting in toward his throat.

Gruugg barely halted its deadly, practiced maneuver as he began descending under its furry weight and strength. He gathered his own might in his bent legs, and, with a push and twist of his entire body, threw the snowcat off of him, though the move created clawlines on his upper arms and shoulders. Heated blood marked the thin layer of snow where it fell, and the rest of it flowed down Gruugg's arms and legs.

There were only a few moments between the cat's recovery and its next attack, but that time was all it took for Gruugg to catch the sounds of young orcs hooting and grunting, and some chanting his name. Gruugg smiled within his snarl, but it was lost the moment his adversary pressed on the attack.

This time it won the wrestling match. Gruugg's newfound strength was beginning to dissipate, and after his last exertion he found himself underneath, holding those lethal jaws at bay with both hands. That hot, rancid breath was stifling, even to a nose that was used to orcs. He had it by the sides of its jaws, and its opposite pressure was intense. It wiggled to try and loosen Gruugg's hold, and Gruugg in turn tried to twist and escape, but the four-legged cat kept him where it wanted him, and resumed their perverse game of tug-of-war.

Gruugg was desperate, and the strength of his arms was beginning to desert him, so in one final effort he began to twist the cat's head. "Come . . . on!" he begged with strained Orcish grunts. The cat sensed something amiss, and stopped trying to bite. It instinctively tried to escape, but Gruugg knew he couldn't allow it. If he let it go, only to have it tackle him once more, he didn't believe he would be able to protect himself.

"No! . . . Rrrrrr . . . GRUUMSH--" and after that sudden call, a sudden twist of motion brought the cat's head down over Gruugg. Silence filled the scene. The young orcs looked on, growling at the sight, then some started forward, weapons ready to kill this beast, but those that closed in soon stopped.

That heaving of its body wasn't quite like natural, heavy breathing after all . . . neither the way its head stayed limp.

With one exhausted heave, the dead snowcat's body was shoved off, and a bloody yet victorious young half-orc shakily rose to meet his companions.

Ahh, the thrill of exhausted victory! While he was happy with himself, panting there in a bent recovery stance, Gruugg did not like the feeling of weakness that now flooded his body in absence of his rage. Gruugg soon felt his normal strength return, enough to properly respond to the orcs going wild after a spectacle like that. "Rrrahhh! Gruumsh!" he roared, and the others responded in kind. Moments of relief washed over Gruugg, before he looked down to his kill. He bent down to feel the animal's lush warm pelt. He had only marred it with one solid axe stroke. Such a magnificent trophy would be worn proudly once the animal was skinned.

Gruugg looked up, seeing the three that had brought down the elk with their spears. They were arguing and smacking each other between arguments on how they would effectively carry their prize back. One of them was nursing a gash at his ribs, thanks to those antlers. The sight of his wound made Gruugg look at his stinging arms, twisting his shoulders in turn, to better see the four red lines dug across his upper arms' muscle, around each shoulder joint. He grinned, for they would make attractive scars once they fully healed.

Once his inspection was complete, Gruugg bent to try and heft the now limp snowcat. He found that it was by far easier to deal with than an elk, not nearly as heavy as it had seemed during the fight. He remembered to retrieve his axe first, then hoisted his hard-won kill onto his shoulders, starting back for home immediately. If he hurried, he could return by morning.

And hurry he did. The elk carriers had decided to hew the creature into three manageable parts, which allowed them to catch up to Gruugg. When they did stop to rest and have a meal, each of them offered him hunks of elk venison. They were so in awe of him still, that they no longer looked down on him. Each in turn also looked enviously at Gruugg's healing shoulder wounds, and at the dead cat at his side.

By the end of their rest the morning sun was risen and nearing full heat. His orcish cousins were uncomfortable in such light, so they kept their heads down and stuck to as much shade as possible. Therefore, it was Gruugg who first saw the rising smoke through a space in the canopy . . . not far off . . . in the direction of home!

"Smoke. Fire!" he pointed out, and his three companions looked up blankly, not understanding at first. In frustration, "Home!" was all Gruugg had to say to jog their minds, and agitate them into hoots and snarls. Gruugg turned to hustle over the terrain, leaping over fallen trunks, dodging upright ones that happened to be in his path. As he neared, some markings on the ground became more and more pronounced, so as to draw his attention.

They were tracks . . . footprints, overlapping. A large company of . . . somethings had passed this way, and . . . attacked while they were away?

Soon the four came to the most familiar area of the forest that surrounded their underground home. And then they saw the first patches of red playing hide and seek with them between the trees. When they came closer, bodies lay about. Their blood soaked the dirt and snow.

Gruugg felt the others take less time to absorb the scene. They were quick to drop their burdens and take spears immediately down into the tunnels. Gruugg slowly paced the scene, feelings of rage welling up and begging for a foe to release it on. He easily recognized the bodies of Plague Fist orcs, but they were mingled with bodies of strange orcs. Gruugg spotted an interesting sight: two orcs had fought close to the cave entrance, one fallen over the other, whereas most of the other bodies lay one next to the other. Gruugg bent to roll the top orc off his tribe-brother. These enemy orcs wore red, while Plague fist favored the sickly yellow. This red orc had a throwing axe sticking out of its shoulder, but it had been killed by the fine greatsword that still sprouted from its back. Gruugg's mind took that information, and remembered an older male orc who wielded a sword just like it . . . in fact--Oh no!

He couldn't understand the emotions his mind was suddenly trying to deal with, but there at his feet, with an enemy orc's greataxe sticking from his side, lay the body of his surrogate father, Urrgk. He knew he felt anger for the attack, anger at the orc who had stolen the only being of kindness he was likely to get in the orc world. But what were some of these . . . softer feelings, no doubt coming from his human half? Gruugg shook his head in an effort to disrupt them, as well as the prickling at his eyes.

In his hate, Gruugg swung at the body of the red orc with his battleaxe. The dead orc's cold dark blood spurted to his arm. He hacked again, this time with both hands. Twice more he vented, until his axe struck the cold iron greatsword. Gruugg had unconsciously made a bloody path to the weapon.

Gruugg realized that he was the rightful heir to it, after all. He had earned it too, with his honorable kill that day.

Something broke inside, and a single tear managed to escape, as he bent to wrest the weapon from the locked grip of his father, who had died honorably with it in battle. Once he had it out, Gruugg bent his forehead to the blade and closed his eyes in silence. All he knew was to focus on the anger. Let it dry all tears of weakness.

The Plague Fist tribe was in shambles. Gruugg was now a true warrior, whether anyone was alive to acknowledge it or not. Nothing would ever again stand between Gruugg and whatever path he would choose.