Wait! Read Chapter Two first!

    The pounding of Ghurlak’s flat feet along the canyon floor sounded like the beat of a war-drum as the runty Orc came thundering down the mountain towards Bagrash Runtchucka’s cave. The choppas he’d looted after the fight with the stuntie war party felt good in his gnarled hands; Ghurlak slashed at the air as he ran, exulting at the hungry, whickering sound they made. He hacked at the scraggly trees growing from the canyon walls, just to feel the solid thunk of impact and hear the splintering of wood as the crude weapons sheared through trunk and limb. When the rock walls pressed close he swiped at them as well, striking arcs of orange sparks from the stone. By the time he reached the fire-lit cavern at the feet of Black Crag, the edges of the iron blades were jagged and bright.

    Bagrash’s cave was a low-hung seam carved deep into the side of a canyon wall, its granite brow stained black and yellow with the greasy smoke of Orc cook-fires. Filth of every description covered the rocky floor, pounded into a squishy carpet by the tread of dozens of heavy feet. Squeals and angry shouts echoed from the noisome depths of the cave, as packs of Goblins squabbled over scraps or tried to stuff one of their weaker kin into the stew pots.

    Bits of old bone crunched underfoot as Ghurlak came stomping into Bagrash’s lair. Burly shapes stirred in the shifting shadows. Bony heads turned away from the guttering cook-fires, their heavy jaws still grinding away at boiled gristle and bone as the survivors of Runtchucka’s little mob took note of Ghurlak’s approach.

    There weren’t many Orcs left after the wild fight with the stunties just a few hours before; little more than a dozen all told, but for the first time in a long while Bagrash’s boyz were at least eating well. The Orcs had snatched what meat they could before both sides had withdrawn from the confused melee, and the smell of boiling Dwarf tickled Ghurlak’s nose. The Orc’s stomach rumbled so loudly the surrounding boyz bared their teeth in challenge, but Ghurlak had no time for food. He had a mission.

    “FIGHT!” Ghurlak roared, the bloodthirsty note in his voice rebounding hungrily from the stone walls. “Big fight at Broken Knife Pass! ‘Oo’s wiv me?”

    Ghurlak’s bellow was so loud and so vicious that even the Goblins shut up for once. Scores of beady little eyes widened at the news, and Ghurlak watched as the snarling expressions of Bagrash’s Orcs lengthened into narrow leers of anticipation. But then a huge shape stirred at the back of the cavern, and a rumbling voice answered from the darkness.

    “You,” Bagrash Runtchucka growled. The Black Orc Boss rose to his full height in a clatter of rusty iron plates, until his broad shoulders and the back of his craggy head brushed the cavern’s grease-stained ceiling. The leaping red glow of the cook-fires danced across the pitted surface of Baghrash’s breastplate and shone dully from the tips of his curved tusks. His swollen, poison-filled eye gleamed like a baleful green moon high above Ghurlak’s head.

    “You ruined everyfink,” the Boss rumbled, his voice rising in volume like approaching thunder. Twin choppas rose into the firelight, their edges dull and rust-red from disuse. “Worst bait I ever seen, you is,” he snarled, lurching towards Ghurlak. The Black Orc kicked a heavy iron cook pot out of his path, smashing it to shards against the rock wall. “’Oo said fight da stunties, den? ‘Oo said let da poisonwing get away? ‘Oo said lose me big hat?!”

    Bagrash bore down on Ghurlak like an avalanche of iron and green skin, and on any other day the sight would have sent the Orc runt scampering for his miserable life. But not today. Not with the taste of stuntie blood still on his lips and a pair of good choppas in his hands. Ghurlak held his ground and tightened his fists. “Mork said – ” he began.

    The rest was lost in an ear-splitting roar as Bagrash charged across the cavern, his crude blades poised to turn Ghurlak into paste.

    Ghurlak met the charge head-on, the Boss’s shout rattling his bones and setting his blood to boil. Goblins scattered in all directions, squealing in terror, but to Bagrash’s surprise, Ghurlak leapt right at him, hammering at the Black Orc’s chest and arms with his choppas. Iron met iron in a furious clatter, striking sparks as the choppas’ rough edges bit into Bagrash’s crude armor. Purple-red blood, thick as paste, welled up from a half-dozen minor wounds, and the Boss’s one good eye widened in momentary surprise. Ghurlak snarled in triumph - but the cry was cut short as Bagrash’s left-hand choppa smashed into his side.

    Had he not hurled himself at Bagrash, the blow would have torn Ghurlak apart. As it was, a combination of Runtchucka’s fist and the lower quarter of his blade stove in a half-dozen of Ghurlak’s ribs and carved a deep cleft into his side. He was flung through the air much like the ill-fated cook pot, crashing into a trio of Bagrash’s boyz and sending them sprawling. Pain sang along Ghurlak’s veins; his muscles bugled like cables and his vision narrowed to a joyous, red tunnel of fury as the Boss chased after him.

    Once again, Ghurlak surprised the maddened Bagrash, leaping to his feet and charging to meet the Black Orc. He ducked inside one ponderous swing and smashed both his choppas into the Boss’s right knee, nearly severing the massive limb. Bagrash toppled onto the wounded limb with a furious shout and snapped at Ghurlak with his gaping jaws. But the Orc runt was already pivoting on one broad foot and chopping his blades deep into the Boss’s neck. Bagrash’s knobby skull bounced like a boulder across the cavern, managing to bite a chunk out of an unwary Goblin before finally fetching up against one of the cavern walls.

    Ghurlak continued hacking at Bagrash’s twitching body for a full ten seconds before he realized that the Boss was dead. He continued chopping for a full ten seconds more, just for the sheer fun of it, before rounding on the rest of the Orcs in the cavern. They stared at Ghurlak with a mix of shock, bewilderment and fear.

    “MORK SAYS FIGHT!” he howled, brandishing his dripping choppas. “Broken Knife Pass, at first light! ‘Oo’s wiv me?!”

    The mob answered with bloodthirsty howls and the iron clatter of weapons. Bagrash Runtchucka’s severed head seemed to stare incredulously from the cavern floor as the last remnants of his mob finally deserted him.

***

    Cruarc reached the lip of the narrow ledge at a dead run and launched himself into the cold, predawn air. The Dark Elf highborn leapt across the narrow gully like a hawk in flight, his cloak billowing behind him as he landed nimbly on the opposite side and raced swiftly northward, following the echoing sounds of Orc footfalls. His plan to use the Orc runt to sabotage the Orc Warboss Skargor’s rebellious schemes was working better than he’d imagined; so well, in fact, that he was hard-pressed to keep up with the bloodthirsty beasts as they’d raced through the night towards Broken Knife Pass.

    The highborn had only expected the runt to deliver “Mork’s” message to the mob and spur the rest to action; he’d never dreamt that the stunted beast would kill the mob’s Warboss and then charge northward with the rest hard upon his heels. He had little doubt that the small band would be chopped to pieces by their foes, but he felt certain that the attack would sow enough havoc and suspicion among Skargor’s would-be allies that the Warboss’s plan to overthrow Warlord Grumlok and seize control of the growing Waaagh! would come to naught.

    Providing, of course, that the runt and his band made it to the pass in time. Dawn was less than an hour away, and Cruarc had lost count of the number of times that the Orcs had taken a wrong turn along the twisting mountain paths and been forced to retrace their steps.

    The highborn raced along the narrow ledge, heedless of the long fall that waited less than half a foot to his right. He reckoned they were less than a half-mile from the pass, approaching from the southwest.

    He dashed nimbly around a broad curve to his left and saw the winding gully continue northward, aimed more or less straight at the pass – but the runt and his band were nowhere to be seen. Cruarc skidded to a halt, his narrow chest heaving, and heard the faint sound of angry shouting somewhere off to his right.

    Cursing under his breath, the highborn turned about and retraced his steps, until he saw the narrow defile that branched off from the gully, heading eastward. Cruarc gritted his teeth. At least this time the runt had figured out he’d made a wrong turn before he’d gone too far off-track, but this was cutting things a bit too close for comfort…

    Another faint sound echoed off the rock walls – this time coming from off to the northwest. The Dark Elf froze, his eyes narrowing as he strained his keen sense of hearing to the utmost. After a moment, the sound came again; it was the rustle and chime of fine steel. Mail and plate, the highborn realized. He knew the sound all too well. There were Dwarf warriors marching through the canyons near the pass.

    He paused for a few moments more, listening to the rhythmic echoes and estimating distance and direction. It sounded like a large force of Dwarfs, working their way roughly south and east. Cruarc cursed his luck. Within a few more minutes they would be marching right across the Orcs’ route to the pass; if the two groups collided, the runt and his meager force would be wiped out.

    Off to the east, he could still hear the Orcs bickering with one another. Cruarc rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had to get the beasts pointed in the right direction before it was too late. With an aggravated hiss, he got a running start and leap back across the gully, following the line of the narrow defile and the sound of the runt’s furious voice.

***

    Ghurlak whirled about, lashing out idly with his choppas and striking sparks from the rock walls. Goblins squealed and scampered out of his way, but he paid them no mind. Dawn was not far off; he knew the pass was somewhere close by, but the cursed walls blocked it from view. The thought that he might miss the big fight drove him mad with frustration, but at the moment he had no idea which way to go. Ahead of him, the path narrowed even further and then split; one went mostly east, while the other went kind of north, but kind of east as well.

    “Which way?!” he bellowed, to no one in particular. He turned about once again, his choppas hissing through the air.

    One of the Orcs raised his smasha and pointed to the east path. “’dat way?” he said tentatively.

    Buggin the Goblin shook his warty head. “No!” he spat, and pointed to the northerly route. “’dat way!” A dozen of the Goblins agreed, jumping up and down and pointing with their sticks and knives. The Orcs snarled at their smaller kin, instinctively distrustful of the treacherous little gits. The Goblins hissed back, brandishing their knives. Ghurlak was on the verge of killing every single one of them when a familiar, reedy voice echoed down out of the fading night.

    “Runt!” squeaked the voice of Mork. “What are you doing? It’s almost dawn, and you’re going the wrong way!”

    Orc and Goblin alike turned their heads and frowned up at the sky. Buggin scratched the side of his bulbous nose. “Who’s that?” he asked.

    “Mork!” Ghurlak cried, his heart leaping. “Which way to da big fight?”

    “Mork?” Buggin snarled incredulously. “Since when does Mork sound like a pointy-eared pansy?”

    A rock the size of a bird’s egg struck the Goblin between the eyes with an audible crack. Buggin was dead before he hit the ground. There were no further questions.

    “Stupid runt,” Mork snarled. “Why should I tell you? You won’t make it there in time.”

    The very thought of missing the fight nearly sent Ghurlak into a paroxysm of bloodlust. “Show me!” he demanded, brandishing his choppas at the sky. “Ghurlak’s fast! Faster dan a poisonwing!”

    “You’ll just get lost again,” Mork sneered.

    “No!” the runt shouted. “Show ‘da way! Ghurlak won’t turn wrong again!”

    The reedy voice paused, until Ghurlak’s brain was seething with thwarted rage. Then: “Go back, runt,” Mork said. “Go back to the gully and run north, as fast as you can. Don’t take any more side paths! Now hurry!”

    Ghurlak bared his teeth in triumph. He turned to the mob. “Da word of Mork!” he declared. “Back, you lot! Back to da gully! We go north, and den we fight!”

    The Orcs shouted their approval, and the Goblins capered with evil glee. Ghurlak shook his weapons at the sky and roared a challenge – a cry that was answered moments later by the deep, resonant bellow of a Dwarf war-horn.

***

    The sound of the horn galvanized the Orcs. Cruarc watched the runt shove his way through the band and charge back down the defile howling at the top of his lungs. Within moments the rest of the beasts were hot on his heels, waving their crude weapons over their heads.

    Off to the north, the Dwarf-horn sounded again. It was closer now, definitely angling southward. Cruarc buried his sharp-angled face in his hand. Goading the runt had seemed to make sense at the time, he thought ruefully.

    The Dark Elf took a thoughtful breath and looked off to the north. The Dwarfs were closing steadily, and were certain to intercept the Orcs well south of the pass. Unless…

    Cruarc glanced back at the course of the defile, gauging the Orcs’ speed. Fast as they were, he could cover ground more quickly, leaping across the canyons. With a groan, he rose to his feet and started to run once again.

***

    The Dwarf Oathbearers marched in a tight, disciplined formation, their heavy, measured tread and the clatter of their steel armor blending together into a rhythmic, martial beat that reverberated from the canyon walls. Tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp, like the cadence of the Ancestor God's own battle-drums. Somewhere to the south, they could still hear the wild shouts of their hated foes, but this band of Dwarfs were determined not to make the same mistake that their scouting party made the day before. The survivors of the Orc ambush up near Wyvern Peak were still smarting from the blow to their honor, and were eager to revenge themselves. They marched at the head of the column, their axe-blades gleaming faintly in the pearly light of false dawn.

    Cruarc raced northwards to meet the oncoming war band, scrambling up steep, rocky slopes and leaping from one ridge to the next as he tried to get ahead of the bloodthirsty Orcs. After several tense minutes – and more than one hair-raising moment when he feared he wasn’t going to make it across a particularly wide ravine – he reached a fairly wide canyon that angled down from the northwest. The sound of the marching Dwarfs rolled down the canyon like a menacing wall of sound. Cruarc raced forward along the ridge-line until he found what he’d been hoping for – a narrow ravine that branched off from the canyon and cut back northwest. He crouched at the junction, gasping for breath, and readied his crossbow.

    The Dwarfs were upon him in moments. Cruarc watched them come tromping around a slight bend in the canyon up ahead, and felt a touch of dread as one rank after another marched into view. There had to be two score of them, he reckoned; a virtual battering ram of flesh and steel. The warriors in the lead rank were wild-eyed with the prospect of battle. From the looks of the bright scars on their weapons and armor, Cruarc suspected that these were some of the survivors from the pitched battle the day before.

    One of the Dwarfs in the center of the front rank had no helmet. A brutal, jagged gash ran down from his sloping forehead, almost to the bridge of his nose, hinting at the blow that had sundered his helm. He was one of their champions, Cruarc knew, judging by his ornate scale armor and the finely-crafted broadsword held at his side.

    Just to the south – less than a hundred yards away, and just out of sight – Cruarc could hear the runt and his Orcs charging towards the sound of the tramping feet. He was only going to get one shot at this.

    When the Dwarfs were little more than ten yards away, Cruarc rose from cover with a blood-curdling war cry. The Dark Elf saw the wounded champion’s eyes widen; he picked the left one and put a crossbow bolt through it.

    The champion’s body collapsed in a clatter of steel. His comrades staggered in shock and dismay – then turned their faces up to the ridge line and howled in fury. Cruarc gave them an obscene gesture and ran for his life, dashing along the ridge up the branching path towards Broken Knife Pass with the Oathbearers hard on his heels.

***

    Ghurlak heard a chorus of Dwarf voices bellow in fury somewhere up ahead and redoubled his pace, howling a challenge in return. He and his mob had made their way back to the gully and had been running northward for what felt like an eternity, while the sky steadily lightened overhead. More than once he was tempted to try one of the other branching paths that led off from the seemingly-endless gully, but each time he remembered the word of Mork and held his course.

    He continued onward as dawn broke above the mountain peaks, following the sound of Dwarf voices and growing increasingly baffled when he failed to catch up with them. Belatedly he realized that they had to be in an adjoining gully, just off to the northwest, and somehow running away from him. Ghurlak howled in fury. If this was Mork’s idea of a joke…

    Then, without warning, the gully ahead emptied into a wide gap between two imposing mountain peaks. Hulking figures were arrayed in a loose mob along the length of the pass; Ghurlak saw horned helmets silhouetted by the rising sun and crude banners flapping in the thin, mountain air. The runt stared in surprise at the Warbosses and their boyz, who were themselves staring south and wondering what all the noise was about.

    Ghurlak and his tiny mob charged out into the pass, howling for blood. The Warbosses replied with a roaring challenge of their own, brandishing their massive choppas. Seconds later, a column of Dwarf Oathbearers appeared from another gully off to Ghurlak’s right, brandishing their axes and hungry for battle.

    A small, black shape whickered over Ghurlak’s head, speeding from a patch of deep shadow of the ridge line to the south. It struck one of the Warbosses in the face; Ghurlak could hear the hollow thunk of the projectile hitting home and smelled the bitter reek of spilled blood. The Warboss roared in pain, and the Dwarfs roared in answer. War horns shook the air, and suddenly the pass trembled with the sounds of running feet as both forces charged headlong at one another.

    Ghurlak and his mob were caught squarely between them. Within moments they were swallowed up in the thunderous crash of flesh, wood and steel.

    In the blink of an eye, Ghurlak was surrounded by a sea of foes. Howling with savage joy, he laid about with his choppas at everyone he could reach. An Oathbearer charged from his left, his axe-arm cocked back for a punishing blow, but Ghurlak stove in his skull with a downward slash with his heavy blade. Another Dwarf got in close and struck him in the chest with a warhammer; Ghurlak spat a gobbet of blood into the warrior’s face and followed up with a fearsome strike that severed the Dwarf’s shield arm at the shoulder. A Black Orc shoved him roughly from behind as he tried to come to grips with the Oathbearers; mad with fury, Ghurlak spun on his heel and buried his choppas in the huge Orc’s spine.

    Within moments Ghurlak was wounded in a dozen places and spattered with steaming gore. Goblins screamed and were ground underfoot, or split apart by powerful blows. Ghurlak watched a trio of the little wretches leap at an Oathbearer. One was smashed from the air by a swing of the Dwarf’s hammer, but the second Goblin grabbed onto the warrior’s shield and dragged it downward, creating a gap for the third one to lunge forward and drive a rusty knife into the Oathbearer’s neck.

    Off to Ghurlak’s right, two Oathbearers had squared off against one of the huge Orc Warbosses. The Dwarfs fought with murderous efficiency, literally chopping the Warboss apart with a flurry of blows from their deadly axes. No sooner had the Warboss’s corpse hit the ground than Ghurlak was upon the Dwarfs, catching them from behind with savage blows from his twin blades and adding their corpses to the pile.

    An Orc Smasha thudded into the side of Ghurlak’s head, crushing his ear to pulp. He turned and drove one of his choppas into the snarling face of an Orc warrior; it might have been one of his own mob, but at that point it mattered little to him. Ghurlak staggered like drunkard through the churning melee, killing everything in his path. Blows rained down on him from every side, adding still more fuel to the fire.

    The chaotic battle seemed to go on forever. There came a point – maybe after the fourth or fifth blow to Ghurlak’s head – that he simply lost track of time, and just focused on killing the person in front of him. After a while, he ran out of Dwarfs, so he starting hacking apart Black Orcs instead. When those ran out, the only thing left were Goblins, and by that point his legs were too hacked up to catch them. He hurled his choppas at their retreating backs and managed to kill two before the rest disappeared from sight.

    Chest heaving with exertion, Ghurlak reeled amid the wreckage of the battlefield. He was dimly aware of the numerous wounds covering his body from head to toe, but that scarcely mattered. The Orc runt looked out over the field of dead and felt a wild laugh bubble up from his punctured lungs. He was the only one left. The Oathbearers, the Warbosses and their ladz, his own little mob; they’d all been wiped out, and many he realized, had died by his own hand.

    Ghurlak threw back his head and howled with joy. This was what it meant to be alive!

***

    Thirty yards away, Cruarc took a careful bead on the runt’s head and laid a finger on the trigger of his crossbow. Once he’d cleaned up this one loose end, his mission would be complete.

    The plan had worked beyond his wildest expectations. For a few moments, it had looked like the Warbosses would get the upper hand over the outnumbered Oathbearers, but whatever madness possessed the Orc runt had turned him into a virtual whirlwind of destruction. He’d waded through a thicket of steel, ignoring blows that would have slain orcs twice his size, and killed everything in his path. Cruarc had to admit he’d never seen anything quite like it.

    Cruarc’s finger tensed on the trigger. At the last minute, though, he hesitated. It was almost a shame to kill such a beast. The runt was a force of destruction that could come in very handy in the coming months, if Skargor continued to challenge Grumlok. Controlling the Orc would be like trying to steer an avalanche, but anything caught in his way was certain to die.

    The Dark Elf smiled and carefully put the crossbow away. This could be the beginning of an interesting partnership, Cruarc thought.

THE END

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