During winter, being an orc didn't really suck.
Yeah, we spent a lot of time inside, listening to the wind howl through the mountains, but we were mostly dry and mostly warm, with enough to eat (even if it was bland fare to say the least) and we found ways to pass the time. I spent hours with Vekan, who was using the time well, doing the maintainance on the tribe's gear that couldn't easily be done in the field. With a better setup, he wasn't as bad a smith as I thought, and I put in time, along with a lot of the other warriors, assisting him.
Evenings were largely spent in the main cavern, eating and drinking while listening to tribesmen take turns reciting legends of ancient heroes (heroes to the orcs, that is, which means probably the equivalent to Atilla the Hun and Genghis Khan to the local humans), which wasn't really a bad way to kill a few hours, if you didn't mind listening to all the inventive ways these ancient orcs disembowelled, decapitated, defiled and occasionally defenestrated the hapless civilised folk they came across.
It was better when you woke up the next day in bed with a gorgeous, smart, powerful woman who thought you were pretty hot too.
(As an aside to the curious, the sex was good. Normally, orc intercourse involved a bit of grunting and sweating, with the male having most of the fun, so Janare hadn't gone into this with much in the way of expectations. However, when you combine the body of a young, fit orc warrior with the education and upbringing of a 21st century Western male who had a working internet connection, you have something that your average orc female simply wasn't prepared for. Suffice to say, I wound up with a very enthusiastic bed partner.)
During the days we practiced our weapon skills, and taught the younger orcs. There was enough room in the main gallery for some limited drill, and boredom gave way to competition as bands started to see who could hold a better shield wall. Inevitably, each team started calling more mates in, and they quickly ran out of room to lengthen the shield walls, so they added extra ranks, in a rough formation that resembled a rugby scrum.
Yes, my orcs had inadvertently invented the phalanx.
Fortunately, they fought with clubs and sheathed swords and spear butts, so it was mostly bruises, cracked heads and the occasional visit to the cleric for injuries.
We only ventured outside to brave the cold when we were hunting for fresh firewood, or when the closeness of the stone walls got a bit too much. Still, we didn't often stay outside for long: it was really unpleasant.
All in all, I was almost enjoying my first real winter as an orc.
Which is why having someone creep up behind me while I was walking down a corridor and try to shove a dagger into my spine was a bit of a rude awakening.
"Motherlesssonofawhoringbastardoathbreakingbitch!" I swore viciously as the knife sliced along my shoulder blade. Spinning about, I was able to grab the assailant's wrist with both hands and prevent him from hitting me again. Long ago self-defence lessons combined with Huruk's lifetime of brawling and close combat kicked in, and I used a basic hip-throw to send the other orc sprawling, his knife skittering across the stone floor. Dropping into a low, wide stance, I took stock of the situation. "Jarik," I growled, recognising my attacker, "What in the Nine Hells are you doing?" He wasn't exactly one of my fans, having resisted my earlier innovations, and hadn't adapted well to fighting in the shield wall, but I thought I had cowed him properly. It seems I was a little premature.
"Blasphemer! Tainter of the purity of the orc!" He shouted at me, spittle flying from his mouth as he scrambled to his feet. "You would have us turn away from the ways of He Who Never Sleeps!" Howling, he threw himself at me, his hands reaching for my throat.
I stepped inside his reach, thrust my arms up between his forearms, and pushed them to both sides, then lunged forward and slammed my forehead into his face. As he reeled back, I launched a snap kick to the side of his knee, sending him down with a sickening crack. I then hit him behind the ear with a pile driver punch that, thick orc skull or no, sent him into the darkness.
By then, the commotion had drawn an audience, and four or five orcs had turned up to see what was going on. Seeing me standing over the fallen body of Jarik, bleeding from a wound to my back and his bloody dagger lying on the floor, even most orcs weren't rash enough to come to the wrong conclusion.
Breathing heavily, I pointed at the unconscious orc in front of me. "Pick that up," I instructed in my best 'the chief is pissed off' voice.
I shifted in my seat as Janare examined the knife wound on my back. I winced as she jabbed at it with a finger. "Are you going to heal it, or just admire it," I asked grumpily.
She slapped me on the shoulder. "Quiet. Do I tell you how to fight battles? Hmm?"
"Frequently, oh priestess of the War Leader," I joked somewhat irreverently, but shut up at her sharp glance. "Right, whatever. Just get on with it."
Seemingly satisfied, she held her hand over the slice and chanted softly, and quickly the pain receded, and was replaced by an odd itchy, crawling sensation, and then I was fine. Janare picked up a rag to wipe off my shoulder, but I stopped her. "Leave it." I sat back on my raised chair, shirtless and bloody.
Leading a tribe of orcs was part 'president of a biker gang', part 'feudal lord' and part 'amateur Russian Roulette player.' It involved luck, physical intimidation, tradition, and no small amount of theatre. So as the Stonegrinders gathered, I sat on my not-quite-a-throne, unsheathed sword lying across my knees. The war banner of the tribe, a fist of grey stone on brown, hung behind me, with Bar and Garog on either side, spear and shield in hand. Garog wore a battered bronze breastplate that he had salvaged from the Stormcrows, while Bar preferred his shirt of chain with iron plates reinforcing the shoulders. Both wore their helmets. Janare stood at my shoulder, wearing her robe embroidered with orcish runes and sigils, her kobold-skulled staff at hand, and Brigitte, wearing the best dress she owned (she had spent quite a few evenings sewing the cloth, and was quite proud of her creation) knelt at my feet, hands folded on her lap.
At a slight motion from me, Bar and Garog lifted the iron-shod butts of their spears and struck them against the stone floor of the cavern, three times. The loud bangs echoed around the gallery, and the gathered orcs obediently quieted down.
Like I said, theatre.
Once the hall was quiet, I spoke. "I am furious." The tribesmen shuffled, but didn't respond. "I am furious, but not at you." I pointed to the unconscious orc lying between my chair and the crowd. "I'm furious with him. More: I am ashamed!
"You all know Jarik. You all remember how he objected to the wall of shields. You remember how he laughed, called it foolish and cowardly and unmanly, and then grew sullen and angry when we - we, my people, the Stonegrinders! - proved that it worked: our shield wall shattered the Stormcrows until the only ones left alive are now our thralls!" There was a mumble of agreement and pride at that.
"Jarik was shamed by his nay saying, and being proven wrong, but he could not admit it. Yes, he fought as he was told, shared in the spoils and the glory, but he could not forget that he had been wrong. He was humiliated, and sought to rectify his shame.
"This is normal," I said softly, my words carrying through the cave. "We are orcs! Children of Spear Father and Cave Mother, we are strong, and we survive, because we are a proud race!" The tribe cheered, and I let them go as they chanted the names and titles of the gods, naming their ancestors and their deeds, but eventually I raised my hand, and they grew (slowly) quiet once more. "Jarik is a proud orc, and a man of this tribe: he had a right to redress any slight against him! You all know our traditions: he could have challenged me, taken the chieftainship for his own, and turned us back to the way things were before.
"But, again, we all know Jarik: we know that, while he is a fine warrior, he could not beat me at table, in brawling, or with sword in hand!" There was a laugh at that, as when we were younger, the other orc had often challenged Huruk, and been soundly defeated each time.
" Knowing this, he, instead, chose the path of the coward!" I tossed his bloody knife onto Jarik's still body, and cries of denial, and rage, and hissing and spitting and revulsion came from the crowd. Grey orcs were not our mountain kin: if we wanted to challenge someone, we did so, but a knife in the back wasn't exactly our style. "He stabbed me from behind, while we were in winter quarters, and without warning."
I paused, and the crowd quieted down, leaning towards me, as though hanging on my words. "And so I am ashamed: because Jarik is a member of our tribe, and by acting in such a cowardly, treacherous manner, without honour or pride, he has brought shame to me, to you, to all of us!" Again the cries were deafening, echoing off the stone walls, and I let them go, sharing in their outrage and fury. I was a Stonegrinder: human soul or no, Australian memories or not, these were my people!
Finally, I held up my hand again for silence. It took longer this time, but eventually it came. I took a deep breath. Before I could speak, a familiar figure stepped from the crowd, carrying a heavy spear that dangled with fetishes, streamers and the skulls of various humanoids. "My chief," he intoned, "I would speak."
I nodded, and gestured with one hand. "We welcome your wisdom, High Priest Kartan!"
The eldest and senior cleric to Gruumsh leaned heavily on his spear, which was only partially ceremonial: it was also an enchanted weapon, that would magically shift from a short spear, to a long spear, to a javelin at the owner's command. It was one of only a few magical weapons the tribe owned, and was carried by the most highly ranked of our shamans. "Jarik has displayed a distinct lack of honour and respect for the traditions of the tribe, and for the position of chief. Such behaviour cannot be tolerated, and so it is the will of the gods that he be cast out."
Murmurs of agreement rose up from the crowd, and I nodded. "I thank you for your words, Kartan. They are well chosen." I glanced at one of the younger orcs, who grabbed a wooden bucket of water and emptied it over Jarik's face. The would-be assassin spluttered awake, coughing and spitting, sitting up to wipe the water out of his eyes. Then he blinked, realising where he was. "Jarik," Kartan said loudly, "You have been accused of cowardice and treachery, of trying to kill your chief by stealth, and betraying the tribe. What have you to say for yourself?"
"I ... but I ..." Jarik lurched to his feet, staring at me, then looking over his shoulder at the crowd. He turned to face Kartan, raising his hand, but the old orc glared at him, and he remained silent. Seeing no help from that quarter, Jarik turned back to me and snarled. "You are the one who betrayed the Stonegrinders, Huruk! You are turning your back on the ways that make us strong, the truth of the orc! You are a coward and fool and I challenge you for the position of chief!" He held his chin up in triumph.
I laughed. "You tried to stab me in the back, from behind, without warning, and now you want a fair fight? Worse, if you won, what kind of leader would an assassin be for a tribe of warriors?" The crowd laughed along with me, and Jarik's face burned with rage. "No, you will be taken from this cave, and sent out into the dark cold of winter, where your putrid flesh can feed a pack of wolves." I motioned, and Bar and Garog hefted their spears and started towards him.
"What? No! No! Nooo!" he cried, and in a fit of rage, leapt forwards, pushing his way past my warriors, and threw himself at me ...
... and rammed himself upon the sword I had lifted from my knees and pointed at him. Transfixed by the blade, he looked down at his chest, then up at me, blood pouring from his mouth, then collapsed.
I pulled my sword free, having not risen from my seat, and lay the bloody weapon back across my knees. "Take that carcass out of here: we don't want it stinking up the place," I said loudly for the crowd to hear, and chuckles and guffaws signalled that they appreciated the joke.
"Of course it was Kartan who put him up to it," said Janare in exasperation as she handed me a cup of wine, then pouring one for herself. We were sitting on my blankets, the evening after the 'trial', and Brigitte was asleep in her corner, having collapsed from stress the moment the tribe was no longer paying any attention to her: being in the path of a barbarian berserker, even if you weren't the target, wasn't a fun feeling. I had had a few shakes myself. "Kartan is afraid that he's losing power over the tribe, that the followers of Ilneval aren't satisfied with following Gruumsh anymore, and that you, particularly, aren't just going to follow his lead. So he convinced Jarik that he should kill you and become chief, a chief that Kartan could control. But when he failed ..."
"Kartan cut him off, denied all knowledge to protect himself," I agreed. Survival, after all, was the primary tenant of the faith of Gruumsh. It was usually interpreted as 'survival of the tribe and the orcs in general' but a lot took it to mean 'anything so long as I get to keep living.' "So, he'll try again?"
"Of course," she said, snuggling under my arm as I pulled her close. "Still, not for a while, and it's likely to be different next time. Whatever else he is, Kartan is wily and crafty, if not exactly smart. He won't risk himself unless he has no other choice. But his position in the tribe means more to him than the good of the tribe, let alone orcs as a whole," she said the last part haltingly, still getting used to thinking in those terms herself.
"Then we'll have to be ready for him," I stated. "When we break camp after winter ... I plan for us to be stronger than we've ever been, and this time next year ... the Stonegrinders will be the dominant force in the region.
"I won't let one old priest threaten our people's future."
Janare stared at me with hungry eyes, gulped down her wine, then threw herself at me.
Trust me to get involved with a girl that gets hot and bothered by politics, I thought ... and then didn't do much thinking for the rest of the night.
"Nah, I can't do it," Vekan snorted, pausing from where he was hammering the dents out of a helmet. He gave my long sword another look, then snorted again. "I'm not bad, but I can't make anything like that. My grandfather could, now he was a hells of a smith. I remember watching him work, and he taught me a lot, but he died before I became a man, and my father was never interested in forge work, so most of his secrets were lost. That's a Lowland blade, and those bastards may be puny, cowardly humans," he spat into the forge, smiling as the spittle evaporated before hitting the coals, "But they know their iron. I don't have the iron, I don't have the tools, I don't have the forge," he pointed at the smallish forge he was using, and the two young orcs kneeling beside it working the bellows.
It was pretty much what I expected, and I sheathed my sword. "Alright," I said, "I didn't think so. So, what if I told you that my goal is to have a sword of this quality in the hands of every one of our tribe's warriors?"
He laughed, an ugly bark of a sound. "I'd say you're dreaming! Even the Hearteaters couldn't do that, and they have the kobolds sending all the ore they dig up to them! And their ore makes crap iron, like this," he picked up a broken iron blade. "Broke when it was stuck into a Stormcrow ribcage. Bah. Only good for cutting down into making knives, and shitty knives at that."
"And if you had access to the Hearteater's forges?" I prodded, "And had apprentices and workers? And maybe," I added, "A better way of smelting the ore into better iron?"
Vekan turned to me and frowned. "Grandfather did always said the best way was to smelt your own ore ... but he never taught me how he did it." He spat again. "But it's dreaming. You'd have to dig those bastards out of their fort like a bunch of ticks, and we'd all die trying!"
"But," I presses, "If we had those forges, if you had the labour, if we could heat the fires hot enough, and if we can get the iron ore direct from the kobold mines ..."
Vekan was quiet for a minute. "Then maybe - maybe! - we can make some good swords. But they wouldn't be like that slayer," he pointed at the sword on my hip. "I'm not bad, like I said, but I can't make a monster like that."
I gestured with my hands. "Maybe two feet of blade, thick, but coming to a tapered point? Short quillons, enough hilt for a single hand and a hefty pommel?"
Vekan scratched at his hairy arm. "Eh, sound do-able. Bit longer than most short blades, but I reckon I can get that done. Might take a few tries to get it down," he warned, and I nodded. "Yeah, I can do that. Get me the iron, the forges and a few lads a bit smarter than these," he jerked his chin at his apprentices, "And I can start turning them out. Until then," he pointed back at where the helmet lay, "I've got other work to do: so unless you're planning on running me through, piss off and let me do it."
It was mostly little things that make the difference. Like the millstones I introduced (thanks to Janare's use of the 'stone shape' spell to get what I wanted made quickly, so others could copy them with more traditional tools) that replaced the slave girl on her knees with a pair of stones, laboriously grinding grain into flour until her back, wrists and knees were ruined. Or the pedal-powered potter's wheel, that had the high cleric of Luthic outright kiss me on the cheek for introducing (it was only a bit of wood and metal work, rough as hell but a vast improvement over the traditional method). My pedal-powered lathe took a lot longer, but eventually, with a bit of help from Vekan, I was able to whack one together.
So far, we had the basic tools we needed, but were limited to muscle-power, and lacked the resources we needed to actually make a lot of progress. So far, these were more curiosities to the tribe, something to while away the hours shut up indoors while winter howled outside. But we were still a long way from an industrial revolution.
For that, we needed to take the Hearteater's fortress, and achieve dominance over the region. We needed resources, trade goods, and above all, allies.
It was time to do a little adventuring.