The Ogres were in the east, preparing to swoop down upon their greenskinned prey. The Tyrant had faced the greenies in battle many times and had developed a strategy which he found suited his opponents perfectly. Charge 'em, hit 'em, carry off the ones that twitch and eat the ones that don't. Ogres are direct thinkers and the plan was one of his all-time favorites. But he sensed the time was not yet, and he waited.
The Armies of The Old Ones of Lustria were in the West, preparing to swoop down upon the Orcs AND the Ogres. The Mage-Priest had been clear that neither army was to escape alive. Both armies seemed fairly evenly matched; the brute force of the Ogres was counterbalanced by the insane ferocity of the Orcs. This made things tricky. If the Ogres had been fighting humans or dwarfs or elves or any of the other youngling races, Scar Veteran Skrak would have waited patiently the two had smashed each other to pieces. Then, a swift assault taking advantage of the 'winners' exhaustion and casualties to achieve crushing victory. Normally, intervening between two armies was a good way to get them to fight as one.
But the ancient Saurus general had some experience of Orcs. He knew that they would regard a three-way battle as just extra fun, and merrily attack both sides, and eventually, one another as well. The Ogres on the other hand did not have the numbers to fight a two-front battle. Thus, the Mage Priest predicted that the optimal result could be reached by attacking when both sides were already engaged. The Scar Veteran was pleased to have the guidance of one so versed in the Old Ones wisdom. However, he sensed that the time to attack was not yet, and he waited.
The Orcs were in the middle, desperately hoping for SOMEONE to swoop down on them. They were as ready as they were ever going to be and even the Boss was starting to have trouble keeping his army from fighting itself. The blazing sun was beating down, and the boyz were getting uncofortable. He sensed that the time was not yet but felt that it damn well should be, and he was tired of waiting. He threw back his head and his bellow was heard for miles around.
"OI! WOT'S DA ZOGGIN' HOLD UP! LETS GEDDON WIDDIT ALREADY, YA COWARDLY GITS!"
Suddenly, the time was now.
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Thokk was thrilled at the way the battle was going. True, the Scaly Boyz had been an unexpected surprise. True, their presence had zogged his plans good and proper. Now he had to send his troll force to fight on the Western front, and their painstakingly memorized insults really weren't much help. And true, the Ogres were a lot stronger than he remembered, and seemed almost as happy to be fighting as the orcs.
But, on the other hand, he was in the biggest battle he could remember, so he was happy.
He smacked one of his huskarlz on the head to get his attention. Putting his mouth close to his bodyguards large ear he still had to yell to be heard. "TELL DA RUNTHERDZES TA BRING OUT DA SPESHAL SNOTZ! ITS TIME TO SEE IF THEY KIN DO THE GUBBINS!". He gave the the ork a ringing slap across the back of his head to hurry him along and turned back to the battle.
Thokk ducked under the blow of a Saurus, and swung upwards with the Hitty Stikk. The blow, powered by the Orc Warlords powerful arm and enhanced with ancient magic, knocked the lizardman's head off and sent it sailing into the distance. Thokk had to admit the old warboss (he couldn't seem to remember his name just now) had made a smart choice in having the Hitty Stikk made. For a backwards Feral Orc, that was. Obviously, a CIVILIZED Orc would have had all that power bound into an axe.
The Ladz were doing well, and the Warboss's plan was helping them. The specially seasoned and fattened snotlings were doing a great job of distracting the Ogres. The Ogres, used to following their guts to victory, had seized on the delectable little greenskins. With bellows of glee and hunger, many Ogres abandoned the battle in favor of eating as many snotlings as possible, allowing the Boar Boyz to hit their unprotected flank. The sharpened spears of the riders tore into the Ogre lines, causing a rout.
The battle against the Scaly Boyz was less clear, truth to tell. The disciplined troops of the Old Ones were unused to dealing with the howling tide of green insanity that was an Orc army. But none of the Orcs present had ever faced the Lizardmen either, so that made the whole thing a draw.
Suddenly Thokk saw a huge solitary figure loom before him. The Ogre Tryant sent two of Thokk's huskarlz flying with a single sweep of his colossal spiked club. Thokk attacked, figuring that if he took out the Ogre boss, the army might break. He swung the Hitty Stikk in high, and old Rippa in low. He assumed the Ogre, being nowhere near as smart as an Orc, would block one attack, only to be killed by the other.
Unfortunately, this ogre must have been something special, because he used both the handle and the tip of his club to block both blows. The Hitty stikk snapped under the force of Thokk's blow, and the strength of the tyrants parry. And the magical axe, taken long ago from the body of a White Lion of Uluthuan, bounced comically off the iron-hard club and flew from Thokk's grip. The Ogre grinned, revealing broken blood-stained teeth.
''Eavens ta gork! Is dis da end of Thokk?!' the warlord wondered. 'don't seem right, goin' down jes' when it was gettin ta be fun. Ah well, at least I'ze goin' down ta somefin worff fightin' Thokk prepared himself for the afterworld in the traditional Orc manner. He soiled himself and chaged his enemy bare-handed, howling "Ya dozzen't take an Orc dat easy, ya fat Git!".
Thokk could see the Ogre was surprised by the move. It just went to show, even facing certain death, an Orc could always take his enemy by surprise. Thokk slammed into his massive foe with all the force his body could muster…
…only to bounce off the brutes massive belly. The Warboss landed on his backside, right back where he had started. The Tyrant chuckled, a sound like an avalanche, and prepared to deal Thokk his deathblow.
At the last second, an immense noise tore through the air. A hole, big enough for Thokk to put his head AND shoulders through, had appeared in the Ogres chest. The brute looked down, seemingly surprised, before slowly toppling backward. Thokk got up, and saw the Gun Gobbo team standing in front of him, smoke curling from their firearms. The leader, Fletchit, had a smug smile on his little grotty face.
"Dere you is Boss" he said in his nasal scratchy Goblin voice "heard as you wuz inna spot a trouble. Me and me ladz decide ta see ifn we couldn't help out."
"Urrr… yer, well"Thokk said, trying to think of something Bossly to say, something that would reveal his gratitude to the Goblins while at the same time reminding them of their place. After all, goblins sometimes got to thinking they were as good as orcs, if you let them "I 'ad 'im in hand, but thanks runts. Now, get ta work. Go take care a da Ogre weirdboy, da one wit da pot o'meat, an' den tell da Giants ta c'mere."
'right Boss" said Fletchit, and with minimal grumbling, they headed off.
Thokk looked both ways to make sure no one was looking. He trotted over to where Rippa lay, and retrieved his oldest companion. Then he returned to the Tyrants corpse.
The ogre Butcher was worried, and when he was worried his magic suffered. Ogre magic, unlike all other forms in the Known World, is not based on the winds of Chaos or on a racial mind (as is Orc magic). Instead it is based on the Racial Stomach. By combining certain ingredients, pleasing to the Great Maw, into a bloody stew, butchers invoked the god's power. When prepared properly, Gut Magic is a devastating, if unsophisticated, force. Not unlike the ogres themselves.
In this particular instance however, due to his irritation, the butcher was unable to concentrate on his consecrated cookery. He found himself distracted by the battle, a first for him, and adding too much or not enough enemy flesh to the pot. At first he'd thought it was hunger, but even after consuming three of his gnoblar assitants (sending the other tiny greenskins running) he was unable to focus. It was as though some force was trying to keep him from completing the ritual recipes.
Sighing, he dropped the live goblin he'd been about to toss in his meat pot. The little creature made a break for the orc lines, and would have made it, except for a Boar Boy who evidently couldn't distinguish gobbo from gnoblar. The butcher looked out across the battlefield…
…only to see the orc leader standing on the shoulders of two giants, holding aloft the severed head of the Undertyrant!
"Yer boss is dead! Yer boss is DEAD ya stoopid gitz!" the greenskinned leader bellowed "g'wan beat it! Tell ya Big Boss or whatever. Tell 'im da west belongs ta Gork an' Mork. Da West is Green!"
Ogres respect strength more than anything else. If the leader of the orcs had somehow bested their leader, the Ogres thought that he could destroy all of them. The butcher knew this, and knew he had to prevent this thought from sinking in. He raised his hands, and drew in a deep breath intending to rally his troops using all the powers of inspiration and intimidation granted him by the Great Maw. It was to be a rousing, mythic oration. Unfortunately before he could say a word, he was trampled by his fellow ogres. Apparently, his fellows hadn't waited to be inspired.
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the Scar Veteran was displeased. The battle was going badly for the forces of the Old Ones. He had not anticipated the anarchic tactics of his adversaries, and his plans were simply not materializing. He would order a uit to assault a greenskin unit, only to have the greenskins suddenly peel off in a dozen different directions. His troops, used to firm orders from above, were not coping well. Saurus troops held fast against Black Orc assaults, only to scatter in the face of out-of-control Goblin Doom Divers carrying lit barrels of gunpowder. Skink skirmishers stealthily crept towards targets, only to be smashed apart by Goblin Fanatics who weren't even aware of their presence.
Moreover, he had not anticipated facing anything but Orcs and goblins. Had he known he would be facing trolls and giants, he would have brought kroxigors and salamandersto tilt the odds firmly in his favor. As it was he had to rely on…other assets.
Skrak reached one bluish claw into a small skaven-skin pouch he had hanging from his belt. He pulled out an ornate amulet, a square composed of blue jade studded with opals and rubies. He knelt in the dust and began a prayer to the Old Ones that their will might be done.
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thokk stood atop Gorak and his friends shoulders, exulting in his moment of triumph. He had bested the Fat Gits and the Scaly Boyz, and this was just the start. He was already planning his next move.
Word of his victory would spread throughout Orcdom. He was the first Orc to win a great, decisive victory over the ogres, and Orcs liked successful leaders. Eager warriors would flock to his banner, Orcs from every tribe and clan coming together to form a great Waaagh, one which would change the world. Waaagh! Thokk would sweep out of the Worlds Edge Mountains into the Ogre Kingdoms. Thokks new tactics (Gobbo Gun Krews, Trained Trolls, Speshul Sauce Snotz and Gobbo Doom Bommas), as well as other Orcy innovations, would surely triumph over the Ogres brute strength.
But he would not stop there, oh no. Thokk had heard tales of the incredible wealth that existed beyond the Ogre Lands. The human kingdoms of Far Cathay and Nippon had probably never even heard of Orcs. Easy pickings, and high time too. And then…
Except that there was no 'and then' because Thokks head exploded.
BREAK+
The Scar Veteran smiled. All had ended well. He had lost the battle, but with the aid of the amulet, secured his objective. It had sent a fragment of the Mage-Priest's sorcerous might into the green brutes skull, causing it to detonate. The objective, to check the Orcs progress, had been achieved, for the great force could not hold together without their leader. He could die pleased with himself. Which is exactly what happened a moment later when a Doom Diver, still clutching its explosive payload, landed on his head.
AFTERWARDS
The Lustrian force was smashed to pieces by the enraged Orcs mere moments after the death of Thokk. Nevertheless, Mage-Priest Slyth'r considered it to have been well worth while. The Ogres had been checked, the Orcs checked, and the Old Ones designs had been safe-guarded. Well worth a few lesser lives.
The Ogres fled back to their mountainous home. Their report of the battle was heard by the OverTyrant himself, who listened patiently before ordering the survivors to be killed and eaten by their tribes. After all, failure IS failure. He reflected, as he chewed the flesh of one of his former soldiers, that in future he would have to attempt to send his raiding parties AROUND the World's Edge Mountains, at least for a while.
The Orc force, deprived of its leader and still eager to fight, broke apart mere moments after Thokk's death. Every clan and tribe that had been welded together by the late Boss peeled off to find new battles to fight, or stayed to fight their former comrades. The new tactics and weapons were largely abandoned, as most Bosses felt such things unOrcky. Thokk's body was taken to a secret place in his home tribes territory, where it was visited religiously by the Orcs until they forgot about it.
THE END
A/N; and that's that.
Sorry about the delays, but I only get every other weekend off and theres no Net on my base. So my updates are coming along slower than I thought. But rest assured they ARE coming along. The next chapter of Vote Brujah is half-done, and I've made significant progress on The Siege of Powtanvilles next chapter.
Read and review, read and review.
