Markus Heitz: The Revenge of the Dwarves

His companion pointed to the largest black tent. “In there.”

Together they crossed the campsite, followed by the curious gaze of the many orcs gathered there. Gronsha tried to make himself look impressive. He spread his arms a little and made his gait powerful. He bared his teeth and rolled his eyes.

“I’m bringing the prince a phottor,” the orc woman called out merrily. “He’s from an orc kingdom far away.” The others standing around put their heads together and were talking amongst themselves, glancing now and then at the newcomer in admiration. At least, that is how he interpreted their behavior.

“What is a phottor?” he wanted to know, without changing his demeanor. Two of the females were making eyes at him and he puffed himself up even more to impress them.

“That’s what we call you people. In our language it’s a term of honor.”

Gronsha raised his broad chin. He liked honors; they suited him.

As they stopped at the entrance, the orc woman held fast to his arm, warning him, “You must be courteous, Gronsha. Maybe our ways will be different from your own.” Then she pushed him into the tent ahead of herself.

The interior was illuminated by hundreds of lamps. Gronsha saw an orc of mighty physique four paces away, reclining on luxurious bright-colored rugs as he dined. A mantle of black silk was draped around his shoulders; it was the kind of thing an effete Red-Blood would wear. The weapons arrayed behind him on a wooden stand could have equipped a small army. On three of his fingers gold rings reflected the light.

This prince was certainly the biggest orc Gronsha had ever seen. He felt the size of an adolescent in comparison to this giant. His face was broad, with a narrow moustache, and he had a high slanting forehead. The black hair was braided. The prince stopped eating, his curiosity roused. “Kamdra, my dear. What have you got there?”

“Noble Lord Flagur,” she said, bowing to the prince. Gronsha followed suit. “I bring you a gift, Illustrious One. He was found in one of the passageways we thought was defunct.” She pushed Gronsha forward. “He is called Gronsha. His speech is difficult to understand. A degenerate, my lord. But he speaks of an orc kingdom.”

Flagur sat up and placed one hand on his knee, gesturing with the other for Gronsha to approach. “Fine. Gronsha,” he repeated slowly, trying out the sound. “It suits him.” The look in his pink eyes was considerably sharper and more severe than that in the woman’s.

By now Gronsha had got over his surprise, though he was still having to contend with the revoltingly sweet perfumes wafting around inside the tent. Scents, cleanliness and an unfamiliar way of speech. These orcs were not behaving normally at all; certainly not in their treatment of him. It pricked at his pride and he drew himself up. “I am not a thing. And definitely not deg… delg…”

“Degenerate?” suggested Flagur.

Gronsha made to take a step forward, his pride stung to boiling anger. “Prince Flagur. You must give me your…” A burning pain bit at the back of his neck. He whirled around, spitting, and saw Kamdra. There was blood on the point of her spear-his blood. “You-”

“No. You will address the prince as Your Lordship and Noble Lord, as you ought.” She held her weapon ready. “I will teach you our ways, phottor.”

He growled at her but made as if to obey. Now he was resolute: he would take this woman, would break her will and make her his slave. He turned back to Flagur. “Give me your support, My Lord,” he repeated. “ We must attack the stronghold of the Groundlings-”

“He means the ubariu, Illustrious One,” Kamdra interpreted.

“Ours?”

“No, their ubariu, Noble Lord.” The orc woman sounded highly amused. “It seems they have them over there on the other side of the mountains as well. But they have nothing to do with the phottor, I’m sure.”

Flagur nodded and seemed good-humored now. “We’ll find out about that soon.” He nodded to Gronsha. “And you. Tell me about this orc kingdom of yours.”

Gronsha spoke of Toboribor, about the caves, about his master Ushnotz’s army, about the ineffective bastion clumsily erected by the Groundlings at the Stone Gate, and he told Flagur of the desperate state of the army of men and of elves.

He asked for charcoal and paper to draw a rough map. Pen and ink he left untouched. Unschooled in their use, he would only end up breaking the nib and leaving blotches everywhere. “Girdlegard is easily conquered, Prince Flagur,” he enticed. “I know the territory inside out. Give me your best warriors and I will take the Groundlings’ stronghold.” Another sharp jab in the neck, and Gronsha quickly added a yelled “Your Lordship.” Oh, he had plans for breaking Kamdra’s resistance.

“So that you can hand the stronghold to your own prince?” Flagur laughed outright. “Never.”

Gronsha bowed his head. Blood was trickling down his back inside his armor. “No. I thought that Your Lordship could become the new leader of all the Orcs. Think of it: at least five thousand more fighting men at your disposal. Your Lordship.”

The orc prince’s eyes narrowed. “Why would they follow me?”

“Because I would support you.”

Flagur exploded into hysterical laughter, and then Kamdra joined in, forgetting this time to punish Gronsha for the missing Your Lordship. “Exquisite,” he roared. “Tell me, how are you going to get them to follow a stranger’s command? Would you take over their minds? Even my best rune master would not be able to do that. Not with five thousand.”

Gronsha did not answer, caught unawares. “Rune master?” He blinked.

Kamdra helped him with the word: “A rune master uses invisible powers. You wouldn’t understand, phottor.”

Gronsha understood only too well. He was dealing here with orcs that had their own magus. A magus.

Now it was clear that with their help he would be able to crown himself ruler of all Girdlegard. But for that he needed power over the tribe.

His plan was simple and effective: he would kill Flagur when he got the chance and then he would proclaim himself ruler, according to the custom of the orcs. No one would doubt his superiority ever again, if he were able to kill this giant of an orc. “Illustrious One, do I get your warriors or not?” he asked, adding emphasis to his words.

Flagur, who had by now managed to stop laughing, fell into hysterics again and collapsed onto the rugs and cushions.

That was what Gronsha was waiting for. He hurled himself forward, reaching for his dagger, aiming the blade directly at the prince’s heart.

Still laughing, Flagur grabbed his sword from behind and slashed at the attacker.

It was a brutal blow. Not only was Gronsha thrown off his stroke, but the short sword sliced through his armor and the flesh beneath; streams of his dark green blood were spilling fast and he tipped forward onto the couch where Flagur lay.

“I knew he would try that,” grinned the prince, wiping his blade on the dead orc’s clothing. “It’s a classic move for them. Violence. That’s all they know how to do.”

To make sure, Kamdra stabbed Gronsha in the back with her lance, inserting the barbed tip and using it to haul the corpse off to the door. “Your Noble Lordship was brilliant, as ever,” she said, bowing to him.

But Gronsha was not dead in the least. He used his dagger to slash away behind him, severing the shaft of the lance; he jumped up. The gaping wound in his chest had closed up, with the Blood of the Perished Lands effective as always.

He hurled the dagger at Kamdra and hit her in the left shoulder. Three swift paces brought him face to face with Flagur. He pulled one of the swords out of the weapons stand and brandished it. The prince used his short sword to hit at him and Gronsha stood firm to demonstrate his limitless superiority, taking the blow on his left forearm.