The Spoils of War

by Twistd

CHAPTER 1 – THE AMBUSH

The attack came swift and deadly. From the trees, the Amazonites descended upon the Orcish caravan like lightning, cutting down the defenders from their horses with their deadly accuracy of bow and arrow, spear and blade. None could tell how many were attacking but for each second that passed, an Orc fell, till dozens of bodies littered the ground and a handful remained, taking cover within the corpses of their horses and comrades.

With nowhere to go but front and back along the path where there was no cover, a certain death from the arrows, Grabbak and three other Orcs dug deep and held positions around the perimeter of the main caravan for inside held the powerful mage Ansar, Archmage of the East, of whom they must protect with their lives.

Pinned behind the carcass of his horse and breathing heavy through his sharpened teeth, Grabbak saw that the Amazonites had finally revealed themselves from the cover of the foliage and trees. Shields raised high and swords at the ready, they began to inch closer towards the makeshift fortification. This was the first time he had encountered these women warriors and Grabbak tried to recall strategies that his sergeant taught him on how to approach this ferocious enemy. These women attacked with skill and speed, but not particularly with strength. Hit them only once, and they would be vulnerable. But they were fast and deadly, quick to dodge even the most skillful of blows. However, four against fourteen, the odds are stacked against him.

This was a new kind of foe to Grabbak. He held reverence to this race from afar, like a legendary creature whose ferocity he only read about from books. Once, he had come across a stuffed model at the Great Museum of Magarbogg, but now as he has seen them face to face, he marveled at their sleek agility and skilled ability with their weapons, as if they were one, united with their blades in a beautiful dance of death. These women were on average a foot taller than an Orc and almost naked, save for the leather loincloth and elaborately carved metal cups that covered their ample breasts. They had long slender limbs unlike the short and stocky Orcs, muscles that glistened with sweat from the light that penetrated through the canopy leaves and onto their smooth unblemished skin, unlike the dull grayish pock-marked skin that he has, and as they came close enough for Grabbak to see their faces, he could see that they were all well-proportioned to the point of him even thinking that they might be beautiful even to his Orcish eyes.

This hesitation almost proved fatal for Grabbak, as for that instance, one of the warrior women charged suddenly towards him, almost taking him by surprise. This one, a tall, blonde beauty who was upon him with a speed he has never seen in his years of combat experience, held a scimitar raised to strike but Grabbak was no mere footsoldier in the Orcish ranks. With proper deft and skill, he dodged her blow and spun to slash at the Amazonite’s ribs with his heavy sword. She was equal to the task and blocked the blade with her weapon, but lost her balance from the brute strength, leaving her torso exposed for a moment. Grabbak knew that this was his chance and unsheathing a dagger with his other hand, he plunged the blade in between her chest and cleaved the strap that held the woman’s breast cups together, revealing her delicately rounded breasts as she fell, her eyes wide in terror, pain and disbelief that her life has finally come to an end, then crumpled to the ground like a lifeless rag doll.

Around him, he saw that his compatriots have all been killed and he was the last Orc standing. Now he was left alone, with a dozen Amazonites looking at him with furious hatred in their eyes of what he had done to their comrade-in-arms.

Just then, behind him, he heard the click of the caravan door open, and he saw Archmage Ansar step out. Grabbak heard the old man’s voice already reciting a wizard’s chant from a language that was lost to mortal speech thousands of years ago. Immediately, recognizing the seriousness of the situation, a tan and hazel haired Amazonite, impressively graceful and tall, with one fluid motion grabbed a spear and flung it at the Archmage just as he spoke the last word of the chant from his lips “… al tura Mordrigon!”

With a loud thud, the spear went through the Mage’s chest and the momentum pushed him all the way to the caravan’s wall, and that’s where he stayed, spear, embedded in the wood that made him look as if he was still alive and standing, if not for the blood flowing from his mouth and the spear protruding from his chest.

Above, a pale green mist immediately begins to form as the Archmage’s spell begins to take effect. Grabbak knew what was about to materialize, for he has seen it before at the Battle of Orog Mar. Ansar chanted the spell to summon a Wraith Dragon, and he thought now for a moment that he might have a chance to live. The Amazonites knew it too as in their eyes, Grabbak could see the fear as the frightening shape of the Dragon began to solidify. It flexed its wings that spanned so wide that it completely engulfed the area with its black unearthly shadow, and if it weren’t for the deathly pale glow of its undead eyes, one could hardly see past their hands, let alone do combat. Its entire scaly body glowed with the same pale glow, only less so, as if they were clouds scudding across the gaze of a bright moon. With a blood curdling shriek, the apparition lashed out at the warriors. Bodies were flung into the air, limbs were dismembered; one of the Amazonites found herself in the maw of the dragon, who bit her in half, swallowing one, and spitting out the other. Every one of them stood their ground and fought valiantly, but their mortal weapons were no match for the ghostly armor of the dragon, and one by one, they fell.

Grabbak stared in awe and wonder as the dragon picked the warriors off one by one, and watch the carnage till one of them was left standing. She was the hazel haired female, the one that killed Ansar. The dragon had just flung her onto a tree trunk, ready to strike a finishing blow at the wounded warrior who was agonizing in pain while trying to crawl away with one of her legs apparently broken by the collision. Then something flickered and wavered in the dragon’s eye, as if a candlelight that was in there had been blown out and died. Gradually, but not slowly, the huge frame of the dragon seemed to dematerialize. The dead Archmage’s magic was gradually losing its hold and before the dragon could smash its claws into the ground where the Amazonite lay, it dissipated into wisps of smoke.

Finally, there was silence again in the forest.

CHAPTER 2 – AFTERMATH

Death surrounded Grabbak. The Archmage was dead. The broken bodies of Amazonites and Orcs alike littered the ground. Only the sound of the Amazonite survivor trying to crawl away could be heard under the forest canopy. He went to her with a dagger in his hand, the sound of her heavy breathing ever growing louder as he got closer. Once he was upon her, Grabbak violently grabbed her long, wavy hair and turned her around, his dagger poised at her throat, face filled with pain and defiance.

“Go ahead, do it!” she spat in Humanspeak. Her face bruised and spotted with dirt but still beautiful. “I have destroyed the necromancer, my deed is done, so kill me now, vile Orc.”

Grabbak heart was filled with furious anger over his fallen comrades and his failed mission, but held still, dagger still poised. He thought about slitting her throat, drinking her blood and eating her flesh, following Orcish custom after a victorious battle, but after all, she didn’t succumb to him, but to the Archmage’s conjuration. Now he was dead and Grabbak was sure that he would not receive a welcome reception at the Orcish stronghold at Zalmar when he returned with this horrible news. Then he thought of something else that might spare his head on the block. Since she was the one who had killed Ansar, Grabbak could bring her to the Lord Prefect Drebbak, and he might be spared.

“No,” Grabbak replied in his decent understanding of her language. “I will spare you and take you prisoner.”

The Amazonite was silent, and only glared at the Orc who didn’t wait a moment longer to tie her up. Fishing some strong rope from his belt, he tied her arms together, and then likewise to her slender legs to each other to which the Amazonite winced in pain over her broken leg.

“I’m taking you to Zalmar where you’ll be presented my Lord Prefect as the slayer of the mage,” Grabbak said.

“And what will they do to me?”

“No doubt, execute you and eat your flesh as retribution.” Grabbak didn’t make an effort to be careful with his words. He was right, for one who has killed Ansar, feasting on the flesh of the vanquisher of the Archmage would probably soften their anger of her deed, though not by much.

After hearing that, the Amazonite gave Grabbak a fierce glare, then spat at his feet. “Then, may they choke on my bones.”

“Well said, Amazonite. Defiant to the last. You will make a worthy meal.” Then he turned away, leaving the bound warrior to glare at him with a burning hatred.
Grabbak then went about scavenging through the broken bodies for anything useful for the journey to Zalmar. He found one of the horses, fortunately spared by the Amazonite attack, nudging his dead rider as if checking if his master was alive. The steed was harnessed onto pieces of planks tied together to form a makeshift sled. Grabbak threw two bags filled with weapons, tools, spices, and some gold pieces collected from the dead and threw them onto the sled. Much he had to leave behind as they needed to travel light. Going back to the injured Amazonite, he carried her over his shoulder with much protestation from the woman and he dumped her rather unceremoniously onto the sled.

“Our journey is long, and we’ll need some food.” Whether the Orc was talking to her, or to himself, the Amazonite didn’t know. Nonetheless, what he did afterwards made her blood curdle.

He walked towards the fallen body of the blonde Amazonite that he killed earlier and knelt beside her. Now, that the chaos had ended and the moment more peaceful, he had more time to inspect her. She was beautiful even in death, and upon closer look, she seemed very young, possibly not more than 17 seasons had passed since her birth, but enough that her breasts had grown quite full and round. Here bright blue eyes were still open and stared off into the distance, no doubt into the afterlife. Her skin was quite pale, and showed no blemish except for the wound he made. She’ll do very nicely, he thought to himself.

And for the next passing hour, the Amazonite prisoner could only look in horror as the Orc began to make his preparations on the body of her fallen comrade. With the dagger still in his hand, he cut the strings that held the leather loincloth to her body and pulled it from her body. Next, he took her boots off, the beads around her neck, bracelets and armbands till she was completely naked. Grabbak then inspected his quarry. He let his hand run down her face, her neck, her chest and ribs, down to her belly, pinching and feeling them as if she was a piece of meat. Then, he explored further down to her hips, pinching the swell of her buttocks, and then running his fingers down her firm thighs and calves. Grabbak grunted in approval. She would make good eating indeed, he thought.

Grabbak found a piece of clean canvas from the caravan and laid it on the floor, spreading it over an area large enough for him to place the body of the dead Amazonite over it. Then going over to the body, he picked her up by her wavy golden hair and with neck exposed, hacked the head off with two strong chops of his sword. He dropped the severed head onto the pile of her belongings and it seemed like the head served as a grotesque headstone to a macabre memorial. With a certain amount of skill and care, he prepared the body, first shaving all of the body hair from the headless corpse. Dabbing a piece of wet cloth onto her skin, he would shave the wet area with a sharp dagger he had recently sharpened. Her arms would glisten with wetness as the blade ran across her skin, and after finishing, he dropped the limb onto her body with a deliciously wet slap. Then he worked on her slender legs. He couldn’t help but feel more of the meat from her thighs and calves as he did this, for this was indeed good, excellent meat. From the pits of her arm to her pubic mound all manner of hair on her body was shaved off till all she resemhemorrhage was just a hairless and headless naked slab of meat. Then Grabbak turned the slender carcass onto her back and sliced her open from chest to crotch with his dagger in one fluid slice the same way he would gut a wild boar. He opened her up and then proceeded to empty the carcass of its bowels. Each handful of entrails landed with a wobbly squish onto the dirt road. After a while, all that’s left was an empty cavity. The Orc washed the gutted carcass down with water and wiped the body clean with a piece of cloth and then gently laid the body onto the canvas. He took one long proud look at his work before bundling the meat. The Amazonite prisoner squirmed as Grabbak dropped the gruesome harvest next to her.

“Now, we’ll have some meat to last us the journey,” Grabbak muttered, then mounted the horse to take them away.

The Amazonite prisoner tried to wriggle free but for every move she made, she winced in agony as the pain from her leg became unbearable. Beaten, she could only keep silent and stare at the bundle in horror and think of the cruel fate that befell her fallen comrade and of the same fate that might happen to her too.
CHAPTER 3 – DIFFERING PHILOSOPHIES

For four days and three nights, the pair traveled through the forest without event. When they would stop to rest, Grabbak would let the horse to graze on the foliage and he would prepare his meal. Hungry and weary, Grabbak would open the gruesome bundle and pondered each time with great relish on which part he would eat that day. Tender rump, perhaps? Or a nice and juicy cut of tenderloin? His first taste of Amazonite meat was nothing short of a revelation. He chose the drumstick of her calf as his first meal. It was meat unlike anything he had tasted before. Wonderfully marhemorrhage and tender, the meat was not too fatty and not too lean and delicious beyond belief. On other days, he would hack a clean piece of meat off the stiffened body and then resumed to roast it over an open fire. A piece of breast one day, the steaks from her thigh the next. Grabbak would eat them with great gusto, savoring the deliciousness of this new delicacy that made much better eating than he ever had for a long time, and also knowing that the meat he is feasting on is from a great warrior of a proud race. He offered a plate of glistening rib meat to his prisoner but she was ever stubborn.

“You must eat,” Grabbak held a strip of roasted flesh at her face. “Take it, the meat is good.”

And every time, the Amazonite would spit at him and threatened to bite the hand that was feeding her.

Day by day, he would steal a look at the Amazonite prisoner with a growing curiosity, wondering what she was like before she and her band attacked his convoy. Part of him also hungered for her flesh, and if the flesh of her comrade was any indication, she would just be as delicious. Yet, she also fascinated him with her graceful beauty and valiant defiance, nothing unlike any other enemies he defeated, who all whimpered and pleaded for their lives before he killed them out of disgust. But he could also see that she was growing weaker by the day.

So on the fourth day, he left her a generous pile of fruits and berries by her side. Despondent by now, the Amazonite was surprised at this new gesture, thinking that all Orcs are cruel, enjoying themselves in the torment of others. Still, she only ate when her Orcish captor wasn’t looking.

One day, while Grabbak was working on a particularly tricky area of meat from the wrist of a roasted forearm, trying to work his way around the tendons, the Amazonite broke her silence.

“Why do you eat us?”

This question startled the Orc somewhat that he stared rather dumbfoundedly at her.
“Are you deaf or stupid, Orc?” said the Amazonite rather harshly. “What kind of monster are you that eats the forbidden meat?”

With this remark, Grabbak’s eyes furrowed with a kind of muted annoyance. “We eat because we are hungry. We eat because the meat is good. We know no meat that is forbidden.”

“The sentient races are forbidden meat. Human, Elf, Dwarf, Gnome, and even you Orcs. Our Amazonite race is considered human, therefore we are forbidden. We do not want to be eaten, so why do you eat us? Why do you hate us so? Do you not have any honor for other sentient life?”

Grabbak continued to chew on his meat, then paused to speak. “We do not eat because we hate. We do not eat to spite our enemies.” Grabbak stopped for a moment, as if trying to find the right words to use. “We eat our enemies because they are worthy of us. No Orc would ever eat any creature that we think are beneath us, so you should be proud that we eat your kind, Amazonite. We eat you out of respect.”

The skewed logic of her adversary’s answer put the Amazonite at a momentary loss for words, for it was an answer that she did not expect.

“That is why many a proud Orc starve to death searching for a worthy meal, for the meat deserving for his appetite is a rare thing to find. But that is what we do anyway, for how else could we live if we grow fat and lazy killing and eating creatures that are weaker and slower than us? That is how we have lived. That is how we grow strong. That is the Orcish way. That is how it’s always been.”

“But what you do is… butchery.” She spoke more softly this time. The venom from her voice has now deserted her. “It is unnatural.”

“I am sorry if our practices repulse you. I will offer you no more of the meat.”

The campsite fell quiet again to the sound of the crackling fire, and of the Orc cracking through tendon and bone. The Amazonite fell was deep in thought, pondering at this new revelation. Still, looking at him, she still felt the same revulsion seeing him bite off a crispy finger from the cooked arm that once belonged to her kin.
CHAPTER 4 – JARHA

By the sixth day, they were out of the forest and found themselves between the high walls of an ancient and desolate valley. Lush greenery gave way to cold and featureless rocks, peppered occasionally by shrubbery and moss, and as dusk approached, Grabbak decided to stop and camp.

“Her name was Marja,” the Amazonite said quite suddenly as Grabbak was making his bed for the night near the glowing embers of the campfire.

Grabbak stopped for a while and looked at her, a little puzzled. “Who?”

“The one you are eating. She wasn’t supposed to come. She was too young… and headstrong.”

Grabbak blinked.

“I told her she wasn’t ready and she didn’t like that. She was as skilled as any of us with the sword and the spear, but I felt she was too proud and impetuous. Too eager and quick to act. But she begged me and I let her come. Now she is dead.” The Amazonite looked at the canvas bundle rather solemnly.

“She died a valiant death, and her flesh is put to good use, not to rot away and left forgotten.”

“But it is not our way. It is not how we’d like to leave the earth. What you did to her was…,” the Amazonite winced, “…unforgivable. She would not have liked to die that way. None of us do. I don’t know if you can see that, Orc. To us, our bodies are sacred even in death, and for our enemies to consume us, it would be sacrilegious.”

Grabbak could only mutter something under his breath that the Amazonite couldn’t understand, and later that night, when the Orc was roasting the shoulder meat of the corpse, the horrified look on his captive’s beautiful face had held new meaning to him.

The next morning, under a light drizzle, Grabbak unloaded the pieces of what was left of Marja into a shallow grave as the hazel haired Amazonite looked on. There was not much left: a foot, a whole arm, some ribs, the left shoulder, a knee joint, and a couple of good-sized chunks from the buttocks. They held a moment of silence after she was buried.

With a forlorn look, he went up to his Amazonite prisoner. “Zalmar lies six days west of here. In the meantime, I will hunt for both of us.” It was hard for the woman to smile, but smile she did.

There was scarcely a creature worthy enough to hunt in the valley, but Grabbak managed to kill a couple of conies and a small bird. He also reluctantly ate berries and fruits that he gathered and shared with the Amazonite even though his mind still longed for the flesh of her dead kin.

Grabbak still could see that the Amazonite still felt much discomfort over her broken leg, so he stopped the cart under an old chestnut tree and went over to her. She looked at him with mild suspicion at first – still he was the enemy – but when Grabbak pointed at her ailing leg, she relented and allowed him to untie her limb bonds. Grabbak held the leg delicately and inspected it carefully as if it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Your leg is broken, but it is not serious,” he said and for the next two hours, the Orc made a brace for her leg out of cloth and wood he chopped from parts of the sled. The Amazonite looked at the Orc with mild curiosity the whole time.

“Do you have a name, Orc?” She said, as he tied up the last of the bandages on her leg.

Without looking up, he replied, “Grabbak, I am called. Here, your bandages are done. Try standing up.”

With her hands still bound, it was difficult, but when Grabbak realized this, he helped her.

“Good. I think the brace should hold.” He tied the Amazonite back onto the sled. “You will be able to walk in a week or two.”

“Jarha.”

“What?”

“That is my name.”

“Peculiar.”

Jarha was rather flustered, and after seeing her expression, Grabbak explained, “No, I meant… Jarha, is Orcish for cricket,” Grabbak chuckled. It was the first time Jarha had ever seen an Orc laugh, as she looked at him mount his horse, and from that day on, Jarha found it easier to look at her captor in the face.

CHAPTER 5 – APPROACHING ZALMAR

And thus, for the next five days, Orc and Amazonite talked to each other to pass the time, and for the first time in the history of their race, they told each other stories of their legends, myths and histories. Grabbak learned the secret of the Sacred Tree of Morro, of how they could build their civilization without needing men to seed them, and Jarha learned of the Orcish ritual of the Seven Tasks, which an Orcish youth needed to pass to obtain adulthood. Then Jarha told the story about the Mushroom Man who liked to whistle little girls to sleep and then steal their souls, and the Orc told of One-Legged Bagurak, and how he became the Champion Runner of the ten Orcish Kingdoms. And strange as it may sound, the unseemly duo grew fond with each other with each passing day.

One night, when the only sound that echoed through the valley was the hoot of a lonely horned owl, Grabbak stared silently at Jarha’s sleeping form. Her blanket had fallen from her shoulders down to her waist revealing her curvy tan bare back that glistened crimson in the firelight. He loved the way the scapula and the small valley along her spine shaped her body so gracefully. Something stirred in him. He no longer saw her as meat, but longed to touch her, to run his hands along her soft body, to embrace her while tasting her soft pink lips. He knew these feelings were wrong. He was brought up to hate the humans and their ilk by his brethren. His brethren, he sighed. The thought of his friends and family seemed so far away, as if he didn’t know them anymore and his culture beginning to grow more alien to him. The only thought on his mind was this girl from Amazonia.

He went up to her with heavy breath and he saw that strands of hair had fallen over her face. Grabbak then tucked her loose strands of hair behind her head, so now her beautiful profile was in full view. As he did so, his hand ever so lightly brushed across her cheek. The touch was electric to him, this time. She was no more his prisoner, his prize. She was Jarha, who was beautiful, strong and defiant to the last, who looked at him like no other being and even Orc ever did before. Almost a full minutes passed as he gazed affectionately at her, when he pulled the blanket over her shoulder and went back to sleep, and for the first night since he could ever remember, he slept peacefully, dreaming the most happy of dreams.

The next couple of days, the mood of the traveling party was still light, but fewer words were said. Instead, they seemed content in each other’s presence, till it was almost a surprise when one of the Tower of Zalmar’s outer walls poked its grotesque head from the crags of the valley. Grabbak stopped the horse, looking at the tower, almost with dread, Jarha thought.

“Grabbak,” Jarha said cautiously, looking at him with strong but pleading eyes. There seemed to be no doubt to what the Amazonite was thinking. “I do not want to die.”

Grabbak had expected that question. “I know.” Grabbak sighed and looked at the tower. It was his home. His brethren. The Orcs. It was a life he only knew, and he was happy. But something was different. He unlocked something within him that changed him forever, and he knew he could never go back now. He was ready to throw away the life he knew, for Jarha. The Amazonite. He looked at her with eyes that seemed almost human, almost affectionate. “We go back now. I will take you home.”

As Grabbak untied Jarha’s bonds, she said, “But your life, your home-“

“That is not my life anymore. Something changed me. You… changed me. Jarha… I…” Grabbak paused, as if about to say something he wanted to avoid saying. “I care for you, Jarha.”

Jarha looked at him with a stunned and confused look, her bonds now free, her hands still locked in the position as if it was still tied. She did not know what to say. Something stirred within her too, but she was too confused.

Before she could reply, the Orc spoke. “But this is not the time for me to say this, ah… We have to leave now. Your leg is almost healed, so if anything happens to me, run. Here now, you are free so you know that what I speak is true.” Grabbak mounted the horse again. “Hang on tight to the sled. I will ride fast, the eyes of Zalmar are everywhere and they will find us soon if we don’t leave.”

With Jarha’s attention back to the present, she followed as the Orc suggested and gripped tight to the sled, but as they turned their backs to Zalmar, a sudden chill went up their spine. A squad of a dozen Orcish riders was approaching towards them from the same path behind them, blocking their avenue of escape. Grabbak recognized their dark green uniform as a scout patrol, one of the elites, no doubt sent to investigate the whereabouts of the Archmage’s missing convoy. They were not near, about four hundred yards away, but Grabbak saw one of the Orcs pointing to his direction. They must have been seen.

“What do we do now?” Jarha asked. Grabbak looked around. The valley was bleak and barren, yielding no hiding spots that might save them, but he thought of a plan.

Finding a shortsword from a bundle of the sled, Grabbak handed it to Jarha. “You need this, just in case.” Then he rushed back to unfasten the harness that tied the horse to the sled. “We meet them head-on, but we keep on riding past them. You will ride behind me. With luck, they won’t see you until we have gone past them.” The Orc lifted the woman onto the saddle of the horse, and jumped on in front of her.

“Ready?”

Jarha nodded, and off they went to meet their doom.

CHAPTER 6 – THE PATROL

Grefkaag looked to where his lieutenant was pointing. Off at a distance at the bottom of the valley leading to the main gates of Zalmar was a rider, and judging by the speed, he was moving fast.

“I don’t see two,” the commander barked in Orcish. He waited for a moment, still scrutinizing the lone rider as he got closer. “He’s one of us.”

“I saw two, sir. The other did not look Orcish. Slimmer. Taller. Possibly human.”

“Maybe the Archmage...”

“We saw the Archmage dead, sir.”

“Okay. We’ll ask the rider when he gets here. Looks like he’s coming to meet us.”

Grefkaag was grumpier than usual since his band discovered the remains of the Archmage’s caravan. He did not want to be the one that bore the bad news to the Lord Prefect who was known to have vented his anger towards luckless messengers many times with fatal results, but it seems that he had no choice. He was trying to think of words to use, anything to make the news a little bit easier to swallow. Perhaps start of by saying that scores of Amazonites were found dead too. Those hated Amazonites who have been a thorn on the Lord Prefect’s side. Or maybe he should leave that for last. Bad news first, then the good news? No matter, it was his head on the platter nonetheless as this was bad news. Really bad news–

“Commander!”

“Yes, Togak,” Grefkaag said, annoyed, but his attention back to the approaching rider.

“I recognize the uniform, he’s from—“

Grefkaag saw it too, his eyes sensing the familiar, and he cut his lieutenant off, “Bloodclaw Clan. The Archmage’s guards.” A puzzled look formed on the Orcish commander’s face. “Hail the rider. Now, we’ll get some answers.”

And they waited in the morning twilight. Grefkaag could now see the horned helmet of the rider, indicating that he was some sort of officer in his regiment, but the rider didn’t show any indication of slowing down even as he came close enough for his soldiers to feel uneasy. Grefkaag could see them stirring, murmuring nervously amongst each other.

The rider still maintained its gallop, till when Grefkaag noticed that the rider was already almost upon them and still going faster, head low, as if poised for a charge, that he knew something was wrong.

“Stop him!” Grefkaag ordered in panic but it was already too late. The lone Orcish rider charged through the hapless Orcish band with ferocious speed and Grefkaag was the first to fall. His steed, startled by the suddenness of the attack, threw the commander from the saddle and onto the ground. Few others followed suit, struggling to maintain control of their mounts, and before many of them regained their composure, the rider was already past them, and it was then when they saw who was riding behind him.

Grefkaag in particular was seething in anger, and he barked an order for hot pursuit but even before he could remount his steed, an arrow shot out from behind him towards the fleeing rider. Grefkaag watched as the arrow took flight, and then embed itself in the thick hind legs of the horse. It buckled and fell, with it, its load. After breathing a sigh of relief, he turned back and saw the taciturn face of his lieutenant still on his steed, already lowering his bow.

Always silently efficient, that Togak, Grefkaag thought. “Good work, lieutenant,” he said, to which Togak replied with the slightest of nods. The commander brushed off the dirt that caked his armor and remounted his steed, both a little shaken by the ordeal. With a loud grunt, he bolted off to where some of his soldiers already gathered around the fallen escapees.

Almost instantly, Grefkaag recognized the woman to be Amazonite from her clothing. Still, he was quite baffled to have seen both her and an Orc from the Bloodclaw Clan riding together. Lying on the ground and very much dazed, they were none too hurt by the fall. The woman though, seemed to be nursing a bandaged leg from a previous injury.

One of the soldiers who went by the name of Guruk already had his eye on the woman’s sprawled body. “This is one of the accursed Warrior Women that killed the Archmage. Let us have her, commander,” he growled. He had a hungry look in his eye, bordering on madness. “She looks like she’ll make a fine feast.” He moved to pick her up, but Grefkaag gave him a stiff slap with the back of his hand.

“Fool! Both the girl and the Orc shall not be harmed. Not yet, anyway till we find some answers to all this madness. Tie them up. I’m sure the Lord Prefect would be very much interested in seeing them alive,” he said with a broad grin, realizing that he might have the good fortune to avoid the Lord Prefect’s wrath after all.

CHAPTER 7 – PUNISHMENT

In a large hall dominated by a high raised platform where stairs of black stone led to a long oaken banquet table, rests the throne of the Lord Prefect of Zalmar. He was a fat and ornately decorated Orc and was restlessly pacing up and down the centre of the room. Word had reached Lord Prefect Drebbak moments ago about the Archmage’s demise and he was furious. Now, the Eastern Campaign is left in shambles. The Scarlet Woods that harbor the Amazonites still proved an obstacle to be overcome. Past the woods, the prize: The Kingdom of Arador. Practically ripe for the taking, its forces depleted after having just recently defeated the invading force from the Emperor Warlord of the Far East. The War is there to be won, but now what seemed so near weeks ago, now seemed so far from reach.

And now, he hears that Commander Grefkaag has captured a rogue Orcish officer, with him, one of the Amazonites, he was sure, who was responsible for the death of the Archmage of the East. His heart burned with fury even more, and with this, burned an even greater desire and pleasure to chew on the bones of this Amazonite who foiled all his plans for conquest. His mouth practically watered at the thought of it.

“Send the prisoners in!” The Lord Prefect said in a booming voice, in Orcish, the only language he knew.

At once, his guards opened the heavyset double doors and in walked the two prisoners, shackled in iron, and escorted by Grefkaag, the Orc with the large horned helmet, and six of his elite warriors. The Orcish prisoner looked as if he was roughed up quite recently; his mouth bleeding and his face bruised. The slender Amazonite however, was limping slightly.

Both of them made their way down the large hall till they were forced to stop within two swords length away from the Lord Prefect, who looked larger than any of the Orcs in the room, nearly as tall as Jarha. He looked at the beaten Orc captive and said, “I know you. You are Grabbak. You were the leader of the Bloodclaw Clan regiment...” The Lord Prefect always had a habit of summarizing matters of the visit to his guests. “… charged to protect Archmage Ansar safe passage to this Orcish Stronghold of Zalmar. After not hearing from the convoy for two days, I had sent trackers to find out where has my missing mage gone, lo and behold, what news has found my ears, that they had found a battlefield, of which lie the rotting corpses of Orcs, and Amazonites alike, along with the body of the Archmage. You were charged to protect him and you failed.” He paused for a moment to let that last word sink in Grabbak’s head. “Instead of bringing me the Archmage, I see that you have brought someone else with you. A girl. Strong and feisty. No doubt one of the Amazonites that is the source of my displeasure at the moment.”

“Let her go! She isn’t the one who killed Ansar!” Grabbak blurted, trying in any way to spare her life.

“But I’m sure she is responsible in some way. I don’t know what she has done to you, soldier, some spell no doubt, but I am giving you a chance for a quick and painless death. Together, we shall dine on the flesh of this girl before your execution, and your body buried like a hero of the Clan despite your recent dishonor, in respect to the Bloodclaw line and the deeds of your past valor.” The Lord Prefect then gave the defiant Amazonite an appetizing look, licking his chops as he laid his eyes on her meaty thighs.

Grabbak was in two minds and he looked the part. He saw a chance for redemption, and yet, when he saw Jarha, the beautiful Jarha, restrained and defiant, her life on a knife’s edge, and something else; a fear, not the fear that makes one weak, but a genuine kind of fear, a fear as if something very wrong was about to happen, that she would die in a way that she wasn’t meant to die, not killed in glorious battle, but served as a sacrifice to an enemy she despised. Then Grabbak saw his choice as clear as the morning sky. He darted forward faster than the guards could hold him and belted the Lord Prefect on the abdomen, sending him reeling to the base of the stairs to the throne. The guards then subdued him, to the floor but not before Grefkaag gave him a couple of knees to the stomach as a measure of retribution.

The Lord Prefect regained his breath and posture quickly. “I see her spell has worked its charm completely on you, Grabbak. If there ever was anything that angered me more than seeing all my careful planning to my campaign lain to waste, is knowing that one of my brethren Orc has turned traitor to his kingdom, because of an Amazonite.” He walked up close to Grabbak who was now restrained by the guards till he could smell the stench of coney and pheasant meat on his breath, which he met with a scowl. “You disgust me. Even your breath reeks of weakness. And now, you shall die slowly, and painfully. Your limbs will be hacked from your body one by one. Your body pierced and hemorrhage, but no, you will not die just yet. You will be alive long enough to see the crows pick the bones before you are disemboweled and thrown in the sewer, a most dishonorable way to die.”

Jarha had stopped struggling, and Grabbak saw her looking at him with tears in her eyes. Grabbak never saw her cry, never when she was in agonizing pain, nor when she saw the death of her comrades, nor when he was eating her friend. She cried and never in his life had anyone looked at him as she did now, as if they were portals of which she used to show him her heart.

“But not only that,” the Lord Prefect said as he went up to Jarha with a burning hunger in his eyes. “You will also watch us eat her.” He smelled her heaving breasts, taking in her scent of feminine sweat and musk, and then licked them with his large, slobbering and probing tongue. Restrained, Jarha’s could only quiver and shut her eyes, and one of her tears of humiliation fell onto the Lord Prefect’s tongue as he licked her sweaty chest like a grotesque lover. “Mmm… tastes good salty.”

Grabbak tried to struggle free with all his might but the weight of four of his Orcish captors were too much for him.

“You will watch everything, Grabbak. From when we slit her throat to when we devour the flesh off her pretty face,” The Lord Prefect continued, an unnerving smile forming on his face while his fingers played on Jarha’s. “Cage the traitor and prepare our sacrifice for the banquet. Make sure he sees everything.”

“Yes, my lord,” Grefkaag said, almost too eagerly. “It would be my pleasure.”

And in the orange glow of the setting sun piercing through the arched windows of the hall, the doomed prisoners were led away and separated to see out their fates.

CHAPTER 8 – THE KITCHEN

The cage that held Grabbak was built to hold even the strongest beasts in the Lord Prefect’s bestiary, so once the iron bars closed on him, he knew that there was virtually no way out with his hands bound and with two able guards escorting him. Guruk, the one who was so eager to eat Jarha took pleasure in taunting him with references to his affection for the Amazonite woman. “So, proud Grabbak here thinks he can live in a nice big farmhouse cooking and playing with his little Half-Orc sonren while his wife goes out hunting,” to the laughs of his companion was the soldier’s particular favorite. Yet Grabbak was silently simmering as his wheeled prison was pulled along a darkened corridor that joined the dungeons to the kitchens, his brain constantly searching for answers out of his predicament. His mind was alert to the horror of his situation once again when he smelled the familiar stench of musk and blood. Up ahead, he saw an orange light silhouetting the edges of a large doorway at the end of the corridor and he knew that they arrived at the Kitchen.

The door opened to a large torch lit chamber filled with all manner of kitchen paraphernalia. Steaming pots simmered on beds of hot coals. Ten-foot high shelves were untidily stacked with cooking utensils, trays, small cauldrons, empty cooking pots and pans, and hand-written labeled jars filled with herbs and spices. On one wall, hung dozens of knives and cleavers of varying shapes and sizes that glinted menacingly in the firelight. Another wall held two large ovens with latched rusty iron doors. Wicker baskets littered the floor, many of them covered, some empty, and others left half-open revealed entrails and stripped bones. In one of them, Grabbak caught a glimpse of a rotting human hand. From the ceiling, dangled about half a dozen meat hooks chained to rails that led to an iron door. As Grabbak passed it by, he felt the chill near the door and he knew that this was the cool room where the meat were kept for storage. But with all the clutter, the centerpiece of the kitchen was a large wooden table, as thick as an Orc’s bicep, twice as long as the tallest human, and caked with dried blood. No doubt, it was used for butchering the animals.

Grabbak’s cage was placed at the far corner of the kitchen and even then, Guruk couldn’t resist letting loose another one of his jibes. “Not long now before your family reunion.”

Just then, through a different door from where he came from, Jarha was bundled into the Kitchen, kicking and screaming fruitlessly but forcefully enough that the two kitchen servants restraining her looked uncomfortable. Behind her, in walked a fat Orc, almost twice Grabbak’s size and at least a head taller. He was clad in a black leather apron and a metal studded leather skullcap that signified his rank as the Head Cook of the Orcish Stronghold. He had a large toothy grin that could unnerve even the most fearless of Orcs.

“Aaah. Just in time.” The fat Orc bellowed in a harsh deep voice. “I hope you’ll enjoy watching this, traitor.” He motioned the guards to place Jarha on the butchering table, and they did so, with one holding her shoulders, the other, her feet, then pinning her down so she could barely move.

With renewed vigor, Grabbak tried kicking and bending the iron bars but it held fast with hardly a dent. He knew he had to find a way to escape, quick. There wasn’t much time left.

“Such a fine specimen.” The cook looked at Jarha with a cruel gaze that bordered on admiration as her muscles rippled in her struggle, titillating the cook even more. He let his hands run across her body and Grabbak became furious when he saw the humiliation on his beloved’s face.

“Get your hands off her, you filth!” Grabbak cried out in anger but the cook only gave him the slightest of acknowledgement and went about his business of stripping the clothing and the bandages off Jarha’s body, loincloth, leg brace and breast cups till she lay on the table as naked as nature. The cook continued to fondle the Amazonite’s body. “Nice tone, I expect good marbling of the flesh,” he said while pinching the soft flesh from her hips. “Not too fatty, yet not too lean. You might prove to be the best meat I’ve ever laid on this table, pretty one. Mmmm… let me taste you…” Then his tongue probed her.

For a brief moment, Grabbak felt a sense of familiarity. He went back to two weeks ago and saw himself doing the same to the young Amazonite he had killed in that skirmish in the forest. That moment felt like a different time from a different world. He was a different Orc back then. He lashed out harder against the bars causing a loud commotion within the spacious confines of the Kitchen but was jabbed back by Guruk’s spear. There must be a way out.

So he sat at the far end of the cage and watched as the cook toyed with the Amazonite, molesting and defiling her body in sadistic ways short of doing anything that might blemish her flesh as the Lord Prefect always preferred his meat untarnished. Every image of her torment was burned within the depths of Grabbak’s memory. He saw the cook licking her body from neck to toe. He saw the cook pinching and played with Jarha’s breast. He saw the cook sticking his greasy face into the sacred area of her crotch and smelling her quality. No matter how much he tried to look away, for some strange reason, he could not. The cook went about his business until Jarha could not struggle no more and became silent on the table, resigned to her fate.

Then came the moment. The cook fetched a long knife from the wall of blades and sharpened it with a whetstone. He grinned salaciously at Jarha. “You’ve passed the test, pretty one. It’s time.”

Grabbak looked around. No matter how hard he searched for answers, Grabbak couldn’t find a way out. All avenues were closed to him. The guards were too far. The bars were too strong. Nothing, he thought, till he cried in desperation. “No, you can’t do this! This is not the Orcish way! Where is the honor?”

The cook paused a moment, standing motionless with a blade in his hand like an ominous statue built to frighten. His head turned ever so slightly towards Grabbak. “Honor?” The cook chuckled. “You must be living in a cocoon, my friend. Maybe you Bloodclaws do things differently in the plains. But over here, meat’s meat.”

“Let her go! I’ll do anything. Please, let her go!”

“You truly are pathetic,” he said with a grating voice.

Jarha, in her final moments seemed oddly at peace. Her eyes were locked onto Grabbak with a look that said goodbye. She had a slight smile, as if to say, it’s okay. But there was also something else behind her look which that was affectionate, yet tender. Was it love?

Before Grabbak could blink, the cook came between their view, and when he passed, Jarha’s eyes were still locked on Grabbak, but they seemed to look past him. She jerked and twitched while a crimson line formed around her neck like a tight necklace and blood seeping out, but then soon after, she lay motionless on the cold, thick table, now nothing more than a lifeless slab of meat.

Grabbak felt something heavy at the back of his throat. His muscles were tight, clenched, and also shaking. He whispered a parting message, hoping that possibly, the dead ghost of his beloved could hear him just before ascending to her afterlife. “Goodbye… cricket. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.” It was then when his muscles and his mind gave up and he fell to his knees, as if his spirit had left his body much like Jarha left hers.

CHAPTER 9 – PREPARATIONS

A splash of cold water woke Grabbak up.

The first thing he saw was Guruk’s mocking scowl. “Hey, you’re missing the interesting part.” Chuckling wickedly, the Orc amhemorrhage away, revealing a bustle of activity that was already underway as servants prepared the food that would accompany the night’s main course. But near the cool room, Grabbak also saw a sight too painful for him to bear.

Jarha’s pale carcass was hanging by her ankles tied to one of the meathooks, the color from her body drained. Her torso had been split down the middle revealing an empty ribbed hollow where her bowels once were. The cook had been meticulous. Even the hairs from her crotch had been neatly shaven. He was ardently wiping the corpse down with a cloth, cleaning it from blood and grime till she was at her spotless best. Sensing that the caged Orc was stirring, the cook turned his head towards him.

“I see that you’re back. You disappointed me back there. I thought you’d be much stronger than that.” The cook finished his cleaning and then he wiped his hands on the cloth. “Now, pay attention. It’s not everyday that you get a chance to watch a master chef working on the finest meat,” he said as he gave Jarha’s buttocks a fine slap.

With that, Grabbak watched with murderous fury as the cook unhooked and carried the shapely carcass to a long ornate metal tray placed on the butchering table. He laid the body face up so that the supple breasts and dainty feet pointed upwards. Jarha was still beautiful, like a destroyed angel, Grabbak thought. Nothing could hurt her now since she was already dead, but he still felt as if a thousand daggers had pierced his heart when the cook violated her body again. He did so with his hands, massaging a mixture of animal fat and herbs onto every crevice of her naked hollow body, leaving spots of seasoning material – pepper, salt, ground herbs and spices – clinging to her skin, and a glazed sheen that made her body glisten brighter than any blade that decked the wall. Grabbak could see that the cook’s eyes were wide and sadistic as he kneaded the flavor onto the curves of her breasts, his mouth carelessly salivating. Clearly, he was enjoying this in a way that bordered on carnal, if not gustatory.

While working on her leg, the cook turned to look at Grabbak with the same chilling grin. He lifted her leg high enough so that much of her buttocks showed, along with her vagina and anus also deliciously wet and exposed. His fingers traced along the thick muscle of the dead woman’s thighs. “Take a look at those meaty haunches, eh?”

Grabbak grimaced.

“You’d rather push your breedstick into her rather than eat this wonderful specimen?

How could you turn meat like that down? Tsk, tsk, tsk…”

Then with a grubby index finger, the cook poked through the hole of the corpse’s vagina, probing it slowly, relishing the sounds of the oil squishing among the folds of her labia and clitoris, then almost as deliberately and slowly, he pulled out his wet finger and licked it. “Mmmm… delicious.”

Grabbak lost it. With all the strength he could muster, he battered the bars of the cage with his body, again and again till his shoulders bruised. The bars shook, but held. Still, the guards, prodded him with spears to be silent, and he fell back, and for the first time in his life, he cried.

“Awww… now, crying like a baby. Boo hoo,” Guruk said, and then kicked the cage, laughing.

The cook, ignoring the prisoner, then carefully garnished the body with various types of exotic fruits and vegetables, all in the manner of a skilled artisan. When that was finished, he took a step back to admire the handiwork of his craft and sighed. “Now that’s beautiful.” The cook’s eyes now ran along the length of Jarha’s luscious body, gazing thoughtfully at the perfection of her form.

“You know what, traitor?” The cook said to the despondent prisoner. With a long yellow slim fruit in his hand, he plugged it in the hole of her vagina. “I think I could almost see what you saw in her.” And with a wink and a kiss on her forehead, he rolled the body into the burning furnace and closed the oven door.
CHAPTER 10 – PRESENTING THE MAIN COURSE

The next few hours felt like a blur. Grabbak was rocking in his cage like an autistic son. His face, locked in a permanent look as if he was about to inflict cruel carnage onto someone. He didn’t feel pain when the Orcish guards jabbed him again with spears, nor did he hear any more of their taunts. After Jarha had been placed in the oven to cook, Grabbak’s cage was wheeled out of the Kitchen and brought to the main hall and to the orders of the Lord Prefect, had his cage hung on the ceiling by chains so that he could watch the whole proceedings throughout the evening’s banquet.

So when the Lord Prefect and twelve other Orcs from the senior circle equally as grotesque and malevolent as the host himself, including Grefkaag, Commander of the Scouts Elite, and Togak, who was saved a seat here since it was thanks to him that they had a fine meal to look forward to. Once all had settled down and established their seats on the oaken banquet table, the bells of the hall rang for the arrival of the evening’s grand feast.

The great double doors opened, and in walked the servants of the Kitchen carrying medium-sized trays of steaming meats and bowls of soup above their shoulders. For now, Grabbak’s sight was spared the cruel sight of the main course, for these were just appetizers and side dishes, joints of meat cut from four-legged beasts. In a manner that’s uncharacteristically polite in table manners, the Orcish diners sampled the food with reserved patience, knowing that the main course was yet to arrive and that it was prudent for them to leave room in their stomachs for more. They talked of battle strategies on how to take on the Woodlands now that the Archmage of the East had been killed.

Still, the Lord Prefect managed to find the time to occasionally acknowledge his prisoner in the suspended cage. “You’d better stop your swinging, lest you don’t want any leftovers.” His comments reached deaf ears, as Grabbak was obviously in another world, but the Lord Prefect didn’t care as he laughed and joked with his fellow diners.

The bell rang again, but this time, in walked the fat, gruesome cook, still with his black leather apron on. All the diners halted their conversation, their expressions showing their eagerness and anticipation for the main dish that was about to be served. “My fellow Orcs. Tonight is a very special night, for soon, your banquet table will provide you a magnificent bounty of the finest meat that you will ever have the pleasure to dine on.” The diners’ eyes grew as wide as saucers and their throats bobhemorrhage as they cleared their gullets one last time before they would taste flesh again. “

I present you…” the cook paused for dramatic effect. “… the main course.”

From the double doors, four servants carried on their shoulder a large oval-shaped ornate brass tray as long as a human, as wide as a son. Its contents were hidden under a brass cover that was speckled with dew from the heat that steamed within. Tendrils of smoke escaped from the narrow openings at the base of the cover which rose gracefully like ghostly dancers as the servants shuffled towards the awaiting diners.

The air was filled with a rich and glorious aroma of cooked meat that reminded Grabbak, even in his absent state of mind, of a food he once cherished, only more flavorful and refined by the intermingling of herbs and flesh. He thought of the smell, and he thought of Jarha, her face that winced in righteous disgust as she berated him for eating her kin. How he wished she was there with him again. Grabbak continued to rock, a little bit more violently.

When the tray was finally placed onto the table, the cook approached the dining Orcs with a proud expression on his face, and with a great gusto, revealed the dish for all to see.

What was uncovered was any Orc’s gastronomical paradise.

On a bed of neatly arranged assortment of steaming fruits and vegetables, lay the body of Jarha, cooked to perfection. She laid face-up, her body flat and straight as if she was sleeping princess. She had been roasted to a glazed and gruesome golden brown, but still shapely as when she was still alive save for the hollow cavity of her torso and maybe an area or two where it looks as if her meat had begun to fall from her bones. Her face was still recognizable to one who knew her in life, even if it were singed, her hair burned away, and her skin looked close to peeling to reveal the pink and tender flesh underneath. Her legs still retained their graceful humanity, so one would still recognize the little details like the shape of her knees or the wrinkled arches of her feet, only that now, instead of legs that once so vivaciously ran and kicked, her thighs were now bountiful hams full of steaming succulent meat, and that her calves were tender juicy drumsticks waiting to be picked clean off their bones. Her glistening breasts sat on top of her chest like crowning memorials to this proud dish. On each top, a temptingly crispy nipple. Her slender arms were tucked to each side, one of which, the white bone of her elbow peeked out from torn and tender flesh. Her hands curled inwards like a lotus flower about to bloom with each slender finger tempting any Orc to just bite off and chew on them. And thus she lay, all ready and ripe for eating. To some, it might seem that the Amazonite had lost her beauty to flame and heat to fulfill this gruesome end, but to others, they might say that she regained her beauty in a different way, to a more gustatory form. From one form of beauty to another.

Grabbak saw her, and for a moment, he stopped his rocking. He already missed her, and seeing her again somewhat comforted him even in her gruesomely cooked state. “Jarha,” he whispered.

Down at the banquet table, the diners were ready to eat. The cook, sensing this, unplugged the cooked yellow fruit from the carcass’ steaming vagina and proclaimed, “Dinner is served.”

The Lord Prefect, sitting at the middle of the table, was the first to make his move for it was customary for him to always take the first bite from every meal. Holding an ankle with one hand and pushing against the tip of the pelvic bone with the other, he pulled one of the shapely legs off, the meat coming off easily from the joints of her hipbone. A new wave of aroma hit the diners, as more steam escaped from the exposed meat. Then, after ripping the leg in two at the knees, he placed the calf portion onto his plate, and while still holding the knees in his hand, he bit long and hard into the thickest part of the thigh. Grease and juice dribhemorrhage from his lips as he chewed on the savory meat, and with his mouth half-full, the Lord Prefect said, loud enough for the caged prisoner to hear, “Cook, you have outdone yourself. She is delicious.”

And it was at that moment, when the Lord Prefect was holding Jarha’s roasted thigh in his hand and chewing on the meat, that Grabbak knew that Jarha was lost to him forever. He began to rock again, harder and harder this time.

CHAPTER 11 – VENGEANCE

As soon as the Lord Prefect gave the word, the other dining Orcs eagerly attacked the carcass, hoping to be the first to get at the parts they desired before the other Orc did. Piece by piece, the Jarha that Grabbak knew slowly disappeared as parts of her body, ribs, arms, breasts, were ripped from her body. Each diner savored every bite, tasted every morsel with great relish. Biting, chewing, burping, slurping and crunching. The ripping of the tendons, and the breaking of the bones, the sound magnified and echoed in Grabbak’s head, till it throbbed in pain. As time went by, more and more bones emerged and less of Jarha remained. She was becoming more unrecognizable as each minute passed, gradually turning from a beautiful woman to a pile of chewed up bones.

And yet, Grabbak rocked harder as he watched Jarha’s beauty slowly being destroyed by his hungry brethren. His cage was already swinging quite precariously, like a chandelier in a galleon caught out at sea. The diners however were too engrossed in their meal to notice, choosing instead to focus on the pleasures of eating Amazonite flesh. One Orc was lucky enough to grab the pelvic portion of the carcass for himself so he could suck on the delicate meats of the crotch, considered a delicacy to some but ignored by many. Grefkaag dined on the other calf with the foot still attached, smirking because he had recognized the leg he was eating. One of the bones was already broken, revealing bits of marrow, and he realized that this was the leg that the Amazonite had injured and bandaged. Smiling, he sucked on the marrow while he relived the events of this morning. Togak was a little more patient. While most of the Orcs were helping themselves to the meat, he waited. When they all had their share, Togak went for the half-eaten torso, turning it to expose the uneaten back and shoulders. Then he carefully cut off a large portion of the tenderloin, meat of the highest quality in his opinion.

The Lord Prefect, while giving a loud burp after sucking the last of the meat from the thighbone, saw the grim cook still standing there, as if eagerly awaiting for something yet unsaid, realized his manners. “Cook, you have served us with the most delicious of dishes and yet you go unrewarded. Come, sit and dine with us, I insist!”

“Thank you, my Lord.” The cook was dismayed that the portion that he coveted had already been taken. For the past ten minutes, he looked forlornly at the lucky Orc who was sucking and chewing at the folds of meat that was once Jarha’s vagina. Still, there was one part he liked that was left untouched. Her head. So, the cook found a seat at the top end of the table next to Grefkaag who was now working his tongue and teeth around the bony area of the foot. Jarha’s head had rested on its side so that it seemed as if it was starting at the cook with its cooked eyes. The cook picked it up, breaking off pieces of vertebrae that still trailed from the stump of the neck and placed it on his platter.

Just has he was about to break her jaw open to get to that soft fleshy tongue, he was startled by a loud roar coming from above. He wasn’t the only one who saw the cage, swinging so violently now that parts of the ceiling began to crumble, and the hinge that held the cage to the ceiling began to wobble like a loose tooth.

“You will pay!” Grabbak roared. “I renounce you. I renounce you all! All of you shall die!”

The Lord Prefect stood up, and was about to bark an order to his guards, but before the first word could leave his lips, the ceiling shattered, and the cage fell, its trajectory headed towards the center of the banquet table right at the lone standing figure. With a loud metallic crash, the cage crushed Lord Prefect Drebbak, the Orcish leader of Zalmar, killing him instantly. The force of the crash also shattered the door of the cage and threw Grabbak out till he landed at the foot of the stairs. The banquet table had also tipped, sending fragments of bones, tendons and meat flying in all directions, and also crushing two more Orcish diners.

Grabbak quickly recovered. Now, realizing his freedom, Grabbak finally let his pent up rage take over, a rage that had simmered so strongly within him, a rage so furious that the Orcs had no chance when he lunged straight at them with only murder in his mind. One by one, they fell brutally by his hands. The first to die other than the Lord Prefect was Grefkaag, who was still choking on his food since the cage fell. He had no chance when Grabbak seized him and smashed his head onto the floor so hard that his skull shattered. Then, two more Orcish officers fell, one with a fork in the eye, and the other, a twisted neck. Taking the sword from one of the fallen Orcs, Grabbak killed two more with deft ferocity, then another one, and another. One tried to run away, but Grabbak caught him with a flying dagger at the nape of his neck. He saw the cook fervently trying to pull out a sword from a dead Orc’s death grip, but Grabbak was faster. With one clean swop, he cleaved the head off the cook’s shoulders and his huge body crashed to the ground. The Head Cook of the Orcish Stronghold would cook no more.

The rest of the lesser guards and servants had already fled, leaving only one other left in the room. This one was as calm as stone and he already has a sword drawn. He spoke. “I did not approve of what we did to you and your companion. Still, you have murdered our leaders and that is one act which you must answer to. I cannot let you go.”

“And I cannot let you live.” Grabbak attacked Togak with blinding suddenness that the one who rarely flinched did so this time. Togak blocked and parried with much skill and agility, blocking every blow Grabbak could muster, leaving no room for his vengeful assailant to strike at him. He would wait, letting Grabbak use up his energy until he sees a small moment of weakness. Togak knew that the key to victory in every battle was timing, not necessarily skill. But in the end, it wasn’t because of Togak’s skill and experience in combat that he eventually succumbed. Instead, it was the strength of his sword. The blow that finally ended all things shattered Togak’s sword and that same blow sliced through his heart.

Togak the Silent, was for the first time in his life, beaten, and with his last breath just before he crumpled to the ground, said the words that would break the berserker rage that took hold of Grabbak. “You have earned your revenge.”

Grabbak spent what felt like an eternity, standing among the carnage in the main hall, waiting for a new wave of attack from the guards outside that wouldn’t come. No doubt, word had spread that a crazed prisoner had killed the leader and all the twelve senior officers of the Stronghold with such fury that none dared enter and receive the same fate. Just as he was about to leave, he saw a familiar face lying near the crushed body of the Lord Prefect. Jarha’s scorched head was lying on her cheek on the stone floor. Much of her skin had been scraped and parts of her nose had come off, but she was still beautiful Jarha to him. Grabbak picked the head up and looked at her forlornly. He spoke to her as if she was alive.

“My cricket. Now, we shall never be apart.”

And so, Grabbak left Zalmar in peace with Jarha’s head tucked under his arm. With no Orc brave enough to stand in his way, he walked out of the main hall, through the corridors that led into the courtyard. Every soldier had their weapons drawn but they did not move. They just watched as the blood-soaked warrior passed them by. Some looked on in fear, others in muted reverence. There were even a few who had thought of fighting, looking at the faces of his brethren, choosing to wait for another to attack first, but no Orc ever did. With all their leaders destroyed, none of them were willing to lead the fight, nor had any love for their leaders strong enough to seek vengeance. So, Grabbak kept on walking past the Outer Gates of Zalmar, past the Dark Forests of the North, past the Grey Mountains of Oss, till he was lost to the Orcish race forever.

EPILOGUE

In the second age of Morrath, during the years preceding the fall of the ten Orcish Kingdoms and the birth of the Age of Men, there was a tale told of a renegade Orcish warrior wronged by his people, who raised an army of Men against his own brethren and brought about the fall of the Orcish race. Some say that there was a human whom he loved, who was killed by his people as he watched her die. And that he kept her head ever since that fateful day, and talked to it as if she was still alive. Some even say that he was mad, and that he heard voices in his head. Or that he was so vicious that he spared none, even the Orcish women and sonren. Still, none did doubt his importance in the shaping of the world to come, in shifting the balance of power from the race of Orcs, to the race of Men. Thus the legacy of Grabbak the Relentless would endure till the end of time.