Rozbag could feel each of his troops looking at him through eyeless helms, carefully forged by Bardhvotar’s smiths to look like the head and fangs of a black beetle. The metal masks that covered the front of the helms were, of course, not truly blinded – it was simply a trick of the eye. Rozbag’s gaze followed the plume of dust that moved now steadily away from the ruin of the city, but his mind continued to ponder how iron could be pulled from the earth and shaped into armor and helms; how fire could consume entire settlements but also shape metal.
Rozbag breathed slowly and took a last look at the horse that now bore the she-elf beyond his reach. Yet again, she had slipped through his grasp. He had been careful to kill the horses that he found, but the vile little creature had hidden one somehow, and was now out of range his wolves. Rozbag turned to look back at his Eyeless Beetles. Their metal faces gave no indication of what they now felt. They had traveled league upon league to pay retribution on those that had desecrated their holy place. None spoke. There were no words in Rozbag’s dry throat.
“Looks like you’re my puppet now.” The guttural tone came from the large vyshk orc that stood a spear’s length beyond the wreckage of the outer wall. “You were always Rolt’s favorite,” the orc said to the frail figure that lay sprawled out on the ground beneath him. As he laughed the words, he grabbed the chain linked to the man’s neck and gave it a tug. “But that was before Rolt got himself pinned to the floor. Wake up now.”
The man was clothed in little more than iron chains, more work of orc smiths. His body was bruised and bleeding, and he looked as though he had not eaten in an age. As his eyes fluttered open, the man stared up at his tormentor with a hollow stare. There was hate and pain in those man-eyes, but there was not fear. Naked and weaponless, he had returned to the battlefield to aid those that had killed his captor. And now here he lay, abandoned and again enslaved.
The vyshk warrior pulled the man up and placed his meager frame over one massive shoulder. “Don’t know who you are,” said the orc to Rozbg, “but I suppose I owe you more than a blade in the ribs.” With his free hand, the vyshk stuck his spear in the ground and wiped a giant fist across his face and mouth. “What enclave are you?”
Rozbag did not answer. From further up the cobblestone road came the soft footfalls of the goblin, who padded into sight bearing a bundle in his small arms. He slowed as he saw the vyshk orc, eyeing it and moving carefully towards Rozbag. “The she-elf, it dropped these while fleeing.” The goblin motioned with his outstretched arms, his eyes never truly leaving the large orc. Rozbag nodded. The sky now shone with blue and green flames from the fire that engulfed the structure at the heart of town. The blaze had drawn the attention of the siege lines, and the distant clamor of voices and footfalls announced the soldiers that would soon be upon them. The vyshk turned to go.
“Leave the slave,” said the Rozbag.
The warrior stopped and crooked his head back over his shoulder. “What?”
Rozbag straightened and stared at the orc with dull black eyes. “The slave must stay with us. You can go.”
A smile crept across the vyshk’s face, and he turned. With slow steps he approached until the teeth of his sneering grin were within a hair of Rozbag’s face. “This slave is mine,” he growled. “I return to Mabas Daga with Rolt’s slave and Rolt’s pendant. I will be the After Dawn.” His eyes moved among each of the Eyeless Beetles and back to Rozbag. “A spear through any of you that try to take him.” His smile widened as knuckles tightened around the spear’s haft. “Do you know why they call me Stonebrow?”
“Because you are stupid?” said the goblin.
The vyshk’s foot struck out before the goblin could react, and his heavy boot sent the little creature sprawling. In an instant, he had hurled the frail man into Rozbag. The half-orc felt the weight of the frail slave-man crash into his chest and waist, sending him back in a stagger. All around Rozbag, shields were raised, but even as he reached for his own sword, the orc’s long spear caught him in the shoulder. His pale plate turned the blow, but his shield arm stung with the impact.
Rozbag’s growl was not one of pain but command. “Guard the slave-man!” The vyshk’s strikes were relentless, and came with the force of an angry boar. As Rozbag flailed at them with his shield, they alternated- chest, to legs, to hips, to arm. Rozbag raised his shield as best he could and rushed forward. The Uruk’s next jab came with little force as Rozbag lessened the distance between them, but the large creature jumped easily back and away from any real danger. Behind Rozbag, the Eyeless Beetles moved into formation around the broken little slave who lay with his head in his hands.
“These beasts take orders well,” snarled the orc. “Will they still follow when you are a head on the end of a spear?” He spat at Rozbag, his spittle landing harmlessly on the belly of the plate armor, running down to pool in the ridges that protected his stomach and bowels. This vyshk was like those that had overseen Rozbag when he had been no more than a slave tending the pigs – strong of arm, ferocious, and blood-crazed. The orc fought with no armor and made each stroke as though it were his last. It saw death as both the terror that awaited failure, and the sanguine reward of battle. The vyshk was all that was well with orc warriors…and all that was wrong.
“Men and orcs approach,” called one of the Eyeless Beetles. He was not wrong. The sounds of voices growing louder told of the arrival of soldiers from the siege lines. If Rolt Dunghand were to still be blamed for the fire, Rozbag would need to leave quickly. Dropping his shield, Rozbag faced the orc with arms stretched wide to either side. Needing no more provocation, the orc struck at his head with a thrust that would have split an oak. Before the blade could meet its mark, Rozbag’s arms crossed over his own face and neck. The spear took him in the thick armor of his gauntlet, moving aside the white metal even as it bit into the flesh of his forearm. Rozbag rolled his arm down, and for a heartbeat the spearpoint lingered, caught between bone and plate while the vyshk tried to wrench it free. With his other arm Rozbag grabbed at the haft, and with one quick motion yanked the spear towards him.
With it came the orc, who now struggled to no avail to pull back on the spear. Rozbag’s grip was iron, forged as strong as any work of orc-smiths through the slave labor of Bardhvotar. Unrelenting, Rozbag kept his hand clasped around the spear haft, and his dark eyes locked on the thin-bladed knife that sat sheathed on the vyshk’s hip. He did not need to wait long for the orc to drop the spear and reach for that knife, and Rozbag caught his hand even as the blade was pulled free of its sheath. But Rozbag’s bloodied arm struggled to hold back the strength of the frenzied warrior. His arm slowly and reluctantly buckled under the pressure until the blade was inches from his own throat. The world was alive now with the sound of soldiers returning from the siege lines- soldiers who would soon find him and his eyeless Beetles unless he was well away from this place.
With a grunt, Rozbag gave a push with his injured arm, sending the long thin knife through the flesh of his cheek. The familiar pain of steel spread along his face, and Rozbag bit down with all of his strength on the flat of the blade. A look of shock and confusion took the orc, even as Rozbag brought the spear behind the creature and pulled its mass into himself- crushing the vyshk warrior against his plate armor. Black blood filled Rozbag’s mouth, but he held on tightly through jagged teeth as the orc tried to wrench the knife free. With each tug the orc’s grasp became more feeble, his arms now pinned against Rozbag’s chest. It was only a matter of time now- the vyshk would drop the knife. He may bite at Rozbag, or try to strike him with his massive head. At that time Rozbag would release him, and draw his own sword, and the unarmed orc would die. Rozbag listened to the sound of approaching feet, and wondered if it would be over in time.
A black iron blade bloomed through the front of the orc’s neck. With a final gurgling cry, he slunk in Rozbag’s arms, and collapsed, his dark blood leaving a smear along the breastplate. Rozbag let the orc’s body fall, and panted wordlessly. His head spun and his teeth remained locked in a death grip around the knife. His troops still encircled the slave, but the goblin moved quickly to wrench its dagger from the back of the fallen orc’s neck. It was the only weapon that the goblin carried – a blade that Rozbag himself had gifted the creature to mark an end of its days of servitude. The goblin looked up at Rozbag with keen eyes even as it cleaned the iron on the dead orc’s furs. “Skarabruf is greater than orcs,” it said in a cold voice.
Rozbag looked the goblin over as he pulled the knife from his cheek. For the briefest moment, he thought about that little creature and the path it had taken since he had first found it broken and formless in the dirt of Bardhvotar. Then he nodded, and turned to leave.
“Your face…”
“We will burn it shut when we are far enough from the city. Bring the she elf’s belongings and anything of worth on the orc. Leave the wolves, we do not have time.” He took a last deep breath. “We make for Bardhvotar.” The goblin’s arms were already full. Full of clues that would lead them again to she-elf; of gifts they could trade or use as their journey resumed again. These were blessings from Skarabruf himself – gifts from a God that was greater than the fire that could heat a forge or consume a city, greater even than the forces that could shape men, and orcs, and slaves into new works of craftsmanship. In time, Skarabruf would deliver the she-elf defiler to them. This was the current And in the meantime, he had given them something more.
“Bring the slave.” Rozbag wheezed before he broke into a run.
