Red Orthaug was one of those orcs with a sense of piety, offering words to the elder gods and ancestral spirits. However, that is not to say he was as devout as a shaman or sage. He did not proffer litanies or prayers, nor did he attend altars to curry divine favour. No, he did things his own way and in his own time. His offerings of choice were of the violent sort: an enemy’s spilled blood poured over an altar erected of bones and gore, a severed head on a spike facing the moon, things like that. Things he had learned from his kin.

Dawn was yet to come when orders were given for the company to mobilise and prepare for combat. Orthaug had been awake for quite a while, attending a meeting with the officers and then collecting his gear for the coming fight. The past few days had been tedious, mostly filled with marching –the monotony was finally about to rupture like a boil.

Not that he had any reason to complain about Nar Mat Kord-Ishi or the way it was run. Radush Eyedrinker, the company’s commander, had changed the rules. Through iron discipline, blood and not a small amount of knocking heads together, old Radush had forged a fighting unit from outcasts, exiles and downright scum.

As he passed the orderly rows of tents, now being pulled down by the orc soldiery, Orthaug ran his thick tongue along his tusks whilst nodding to some of the grunts. For several of them this would be their first taste of real combat. He had prepared them as best he could, trying to slap the green of the raw recruits by teaching them how to stab and strike at small openings in the enemy’s defence. There would be deaths today. Among the pikes the most he feared and so he growled a few last words of advice, encouragement and a few threats. With some luck they’d make it through the day.

Orthaug mounted the warg without much ceremony; the cunning beast was bred and trained for warfare. The dagger-like fangs –coated with dribble- flashed in a maw large enough for a human arm to fit. The orc padded the coarse fur of the wolfish fiend. They were old acquaintances, the warg and he, and after a snarl the former became rather docile. As docile as a warg could be, in any case.

The Achnals –an enemy he had little experience with as of yet- were camped outside the town they were sent to. A siege was taking place and their employers needed unscrupulous muscle to break it. Instead, they had received a solid dosage of guile to complement the brunt force that was the orcish pikemen.

A familiar thrill came over him as the command came to ride out. Orthaug was part of the elite cadre of Nar Mat Kord-Ishi, filled with likewise skilled individuals taken from the runts in the pike after having shown their prowess. He glanced right and left as the trot of his feral mount turned into a running gait. The human prince, Belahr –or whatever his name was-, was hanging on for dear life, clutching the saddle and fur of his beast with determination that could only have been born from fear. Good, Orthaug figured, let the human realise what he is dealing with. A bit to the front he recognised Ygdri, the company’s physician. He hoped he wouldn’t need her assistance today, for he was rather attached to his limbs –figuratively as well as literally.

After some time with the wind in his face and the rumbling of his warg beneath him, they crested a hilltop which offered them the vista of a city under siege. It seemed the Achnals had grown complacent, their patrols easily picked off by warg scouts, and had made themselves comfortable. Orthaug recognised the disorderly collection of tents and provisory dwellings as a lack of discipline. A thing –he knew- that could get you killed.

Spurring on the wargs with their knees and heels digging into the creatures heaving flanks, the pack of orcs descended onto the camp. Some shouting came from a surprised Achnal probably out for a morning’s piss. An arrow ended his scream but soon others had realised the fast approaching wave of fanged death.

The orcs let out a short battlecry when their wargs leapt over the fences and obstacles in their way. Gutting screams followed wherever the beasts and their riders went. Steel flashed out and was coloured crimson. After the initial charge screams of horse and men mixed into a crescendo of agony where one was no longer distinguishable from the other. The same problem occurred with the spilled blood and bowels littering the muddy ground.

Perhaps not a pretty tactic, but an effective one: Orthaug swung at the mouths of the horses to make them wild. Most likely they would gallop free and keep running due to the pain and turn mad. Achnals would be occupied with restraining the crazed horses, bones would be broken and some would find death under the hooves of an enraged steed.

Then, Orthaug was passed the first line of tents, having ridden down an Achnal merely dressed in a nightshirt. He made sure to stay close to the wedge-formation they were using to penetrate the Achnal lines. The human princeling had to reach the walls in one peace, and preferable enter them unharmed.

His axe flashed, the leather strap clutched in his calloused fist and wrapped around his wrist. An Achnal was so unlucky to find himself at the receiving end of an upward swing, the impact practically splitting his skull in two. Orthaug felt it reverberate in his bones and muscles, relishing the sensation.

If the Achnals would not regain their footing quickly, this would be over far too quickly and easy, he thought whilst setting his warg-mount on a young enemy warrior. It seemed the real soldiers were busy elsewhere, for his beast quickly overcame the lad and lunged for the throat.