The siege had been joyous for Einark; the enemies had been plenty before him and had been scythed through like wheat at harvest. Blood still spattered his armour, dripping from his broadsword and the undistinguishable pieces of something from a bunny was stuck on his mace. The breach had lifted his soul from his body; the clash of metal on flesh and orc against man had brought his memory back to the days of purging the soulless from the land with the Dead Mountain tribe. The defenders had broken too early though, at the first sign of the breach, Einark had launched himself into the focal point of the attack with his five Damned at his back. While he’d ploughed his way into their front line, the Damned had followed him in, the double winged battleaxes swinging through the sky in glittering arcs before they clove through the flesh and bone that dared stand in front of them. When the frontline had buckled and collapsed, Einark had pulled his assault; let the pups of the company chase down the remnants and clear the warren of the bunnies. 

He’d sheathed his weapons and headed up to the gatehouse, his companions following him wordlessly as he resisted with all his temptation to offer the sacrifice to the Mountain; even after all these years not being connected with the spirits had not rested with his mind. When the foggy cloud of battle had wandered from his mind, he noticed a slight sting from the upper of his arm and a stream of dark blood stained his grey-white skin. Some blade had pierced his arc of death and even slipped between the join of his gauntlets and breastplate, the price one paid for having flexible joins in an armoured carcass. The gatehouse had been deathly still inside, the defenders long since routed by the tuskers who’d fallen upon the castle had swept through here in a bloody wave. The gate had been sturdy and well-built; the wall had long since fallen into disrepair and stood little chance against the horde assembled. In truth the battle had been too short for Einark; the memories of a few days ago still tempted him against what had been the majority of the garrison of the castle. Now there was a battle worthy of songs and praise, yet still the Mountain rejected his tribulations and withheld the redemption he so craved. 

He turned on his heel before any further dreary thoughts could grip his mind and wandered back down into the courtyard, the sounds of battle long since passed; what he could tell from the conversing tuskers in the courtyard was that Radush had led the charge into the keep. He was a good warchief, a respectable soldier and a keen enforcer of discipline; an oddity amongst most orcs but it wasn’t quite the same as his own tribe. The company was still primal and primitive; they fought as a company but still acted on their baser instinct, perhaps it was this that was the future of the orcs. The Dead Mountain tribe had been slowly dwindling in number and strength; the succession of battles against the tusked and the tuskless alike had relentlessly weakened their tribe and squandered their wealth. The shamans had always taught them the Mountain would provide and protect, but Einark had begun to question whether the Mountain still had any power, especially this far from its slopes. He was beginning to become resigned to the fact that he’d never see his blessed Mountain again nor feel the comfort of its presence upon his soul, the bunnies had seen to that many a year ago. 

His melancholy was broken by the commotion of tuskers pouring out of the keep, apparently some sort of trap had been laid upon the company who were being used as pawns in another game. He turned to head for the keep, surely Radush would call a meeting of the Chosen for this development before the sound of warhorns broke through the air; orc and human alike. The call went out that an army advanced upon the castle flying the banner of Ren Arad, their supposed employer. The development was quite disturbing to Einark, this was supposed to have been their watershed moment of breaking the orcish reputation and become a serious mercenary company. Tuskers rushed all around him to the walls, organising themselves into the warbands of the various leaders and Einark noticed one of his Chargers fidgeting in the background. “Be still, Shugrush. Battle is soon to be joined again; let us purge more of these bunnies from the world. We hold here, we charge when I charge. [i] Uluk Sun-gar [/i].” 

The Charge of the Damned. It was such a poetic phrase that it could not have been conceived in the mind of an orc; no, a broken bunny had remarked that it had been like the charge of the damned when Einark and his men had fallen upon them. While no other orc in the company knew the Dead Mountain dialect, they knew one phrase, [i]Uluk Sun-gar[/i]. The Damned were handpicked from the blades and hand trained by Einark; they followed him into battle and sometimes came out from the other side with him. Shugrush had only been brought into the Damned after the last battle, a strong fighter but still had the headstrong energy of the young. 

Seeing the Chosen at work was a marvel of independence; everyone knew their best role and where they would be best served. Even the half-breed chosen still had some use in the company; Einark watched grimly as Bel-Gond the Metal Wall ascended to the gatehouse, the strongest part of the castle and most likely the place they’d avoid attacking. The dwarf blood was shining through. His quiet observation was broken by the sound of Half-face’s growling voice barking order to his men and he found his eyes wandering over the formations of orcs as they moved into their relative positions. Disciplined impure orcs; it was still something that pleased Einark when he saw the most bloodthirsty and violent race in the land follow drill command and hold formation in battle. The bunnies would find out once again that the company were not just some mob of raiders but a division of disciplined fighters and the blood would run in rivers during that lesson.

Einark wandered over to the breach, nodding appraisingly to the few pikes that glanced over his way; he could see a few mouths moving and heard discrete murmurs about the Damned. A few of the orcs looked as if they stiffened had been resolved by his presence; the Chosen were well known among the tuskers and were often figures of inspiration in battle. He cradled his great helm in the crook of his arm as he watched the bunnies swarm like ants around the siege camp, some hefted ladders and others formed formations to attack. He hefted his shoulders and rammed the great helm on his head, freeing his hands to unsheathe his mace and broadsword. When he spoke, his voice was low and commanding, his rising bloodlust clear for all, “Hold the breach, the Eye-drinker commands it. Remember, if they break the line “[i]Uluk Sun-gar[/i]”.

“[i]Uluk Sun-gar[/i]” they chanted back.