A Tale of Orcs - Heroes of the Clans Teaser 1

A Tale of Orcs

Heroes of the Clans


As the sun began to set over the great, green expanse known as the Clan Lands, commotion was going on within the depths of a single Orc encampment.  The village, comprised of the males, females, and pups of Clan Axehand, was turning in for the night.  As torches were lit, banners were furled, and a new group of sentries began to to take their post, things slowly became calm.
The calm, however, was broken by the excited footsteps of two young pups in a game of tag.
They were both young, male Orcs, almost the same age.  Both bore the greenish-brown skin of their clan.  Their black hair was long for their age and already they had it arranged in the ponytails of boyhood.  One was slightly bigger than the other, and he was chasing after the lankier and thinner of the two.
“I'll make it to Greatmother's tent before you can catch me!” the first shouted behind him.
“Not if I can help it!” the second replied, laughing.
There were a couple of surprised grunts and shouts of alarm as the two catapulted past the adults.  A couple of the Orcs made to grab at them for a good scolding but failed to get a good grasp on the young pups.  Once or twice a couple nearly went headlong into their campfires.  Luckily for them the two didn't bother to stay in one place for too long, allowing them to get back to their evening chores.
The chase kept going until finally the two managed to make it to a particularly large tent; more like a yurt, supported by the bones, tusks, and ivory remains of long dead animals.  Its walls were formed out of tough leathery canvas made from animal skins and decorated with images of hunters and wild beasts fighting in distant forests and dusty plains.  A long plume of smoke rose from an open hole in the center of the tent's roof, giving it an eerie appearance.
The first Orc boy slowed down, but he was unprepared for his pursuer.  Without breaking his stride the bigger of the two catapulted into the smaller, and the two went tumbling into the open tent flap.  They landed in a heap on the hard ground, laughing and grunting as the two quickly pawed and wrestled each other, all like a pair of wolf pups at play.
“That's enough, the both of you!” came an old, raspy voice that boomed in the tent, “Or I'll gnaw at the scruff of yer necks like a mother wolf does to bad pups!”
The two stopped.  Both separated, got up and knelt, bringing their hands together and drooping their heads low.
“We are sorry, Greatmother Anja,” the bigger of the two said, “We got a little carried away.”
The owner of the voice made a grunt that sounded like part laugh, part disappointed groan.  She emerged from the darkness; an old hag of an Orc, cloaked in robes of animal skins.  Her long, gray hair was ornamented in the bones and teeth of countless animals, and her face and exposed skin was tattooed everywhere in blue, adding to her haggard appearance.  Yet despite her intimidating look her eyes betrayed her nature; gentle, like a pair of green flowers.
“A little,” she grunted, “You nearly dove headfirst into my fire.  You were lucky it's still just coals.”
She pulled out a pointed stick and jabbed it into the circular pit, kicking up a few embers that nearly went into the boys' faces.  The two reeled back slightly, but weren't in any real danger of being burned; indeed, the embers barely came close before disappearing into smoke.
The old She-Orc chuckled under her breath.  She pulled the stick out of the ashes and turned to make her way towards a pile of sacks.  Each of these were colored by different threads, indicating different purposes; medicine, reagents, sacrificial herbs, and the like – all necessary for the important work of the clan's senior healer.
“I'd expect this sort of behavior from the son of the chief,” the Greatmother remarked, “But you, Dagran; I had thought you had promise.  So much for thinking an Eyesore would be any different than an Axehand.”
“I am sorry to disappoint, Greatmother,” the skinnier of the two said.  The fading light of the sun above managed to trickle into the tent, silhouetting the long patch of dark skin and hair over his left eye; a family birthmark that all males of his family shared.  The bigger Orc boy made a playful jab in his friend's side, nearly inciting another play-fight.
“Gamar,” the old Orc said without even turning to look at them, “Don't instigate.  Just because you aren't the eldest doesn't mean you're off the hook; show some initiative and be the better example.”
The bigger pup, Gamar, immediately sat rigid.  “Yes, Greatmother.”
There was some chuckling at the tent flap, causing the two to turn around.  Another young Orc, though this one closer to becoming an adult, stood by the entrance to the tent.  He wore a sheathed dagger attached to his belt; the sheath made of fine animal skins and etched with the clan's symbol, a double-bladed ax with a hand in the blade's center.  His right hand was held over the sheath with his thumb rubbing against the leather while his other hand he used to lean against the nearest tent support.
“I would have thought you two would have grown out of pup-play by now,” he remarked.
“We aren't pups!” Dagran said, puffing out his chest and flexing his skinny arms, “We are mighty warriors of Clan Axehand, feared by all and ordered by none!”
“Well if one chief's son is around the other can't be far behind,” the Greatmother commented, “What purpose has the great Korgar to grace his presence in my humble tent?”
“I heard the commotion these two made,” the young male commented, “I was a bit bored so I decided to follow and see what they were up to.”
“Then make yourself useful if you are so bored,” the old She-Orc commanded, “Help me start up this fire.”
The young male laughed as he made his way inside.  “You can't tell me what to do, old crone.”
“Oh yes I can,” the Greatmother said as she began piling ingredients into a bowl, “You're still only son of the chief, mighty Korgar, and until you do earn the right to lead I am still your senior.  The smaller ones; we want the fire to start, not scare the sparks back into hiding.”
The young Orc began doing as he was bid, gathering kindling to arrange into the fire pit.  The two younger Orcs sat patiently, helping as they were instructed in arranging a cooking fire and hanging a clay pot over the top.
“What lessons will we learn today, Greatmother Anja?” the young Gamar asked.
“Important ones,” the She-Orc replied, pouring water into the pot as she beckoned for Korgar to start lighting the tinder and kindling, “You are starting to grow out of being just pups and becoming yearling wolves like your brother...one of the greatest misfortunes the ancestors ever had the notion of cursing on us helpless old 'uns, the plague that is yearling Orc boys.”
Dagran giggled.  Korgar grunted his distaste as he blew on the heating embers.
“Today I will teach you about our people's history,” Greatmother Anja stated, “It is one of the proudest treasures we carry, our clan's past, for we carry with it the united past of all other clans as well.  It is a proud tradition, we Greatmothers hold; telling the tales of all Orc clans from the first to the latest.”
This made Korgar snort aloud.  The old She-Orc glanced at him.
“Something in your nose, pup?”
“Just boredom,” Korgar stated, “And history's rank with it.”
The She-Orc bit her lip, revealing teeth once pointed sharp but now dulled with age.  “You'd best be more gracious for your history, young pup.  As the eldest of the Chief, you are expected to take these lessons to heart.”
“The ancestors can keep history.  I've heard the lessons enough to make my ears bleed green.”
“Then once more should help flush the green out and maybe clear your ears a bit.  Sit.”
Korgar groaned loudly but did as he was told.  Rather than kneel with his brother he sat in the back of the tent, leaning forward while taking out his dagger and inspecting the blade.
“Whose history will we learn first, Greatmother?”
“I am glad you asked, Gamar,” the old She-Orc replied, “It is one that I am certain that you will enjoy, because it's already one of your favorites.”
Korgar rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut even as Greatmother Anja glared at him knowingly.  She proceeded to pour water into the pot slowly, letting the cold liquid fill the pot's insides until it was a little under halfway.  She watched it patiently as the fire beneath the clay began to make it come to a boil, her hands poised over a small leather pouch full of herbs as she did.
“Every story has its beginning, little pups,” the She-Orc said softly, “Every great tree starts out as a cone seed.  Every river starts as a little spring.  And every great wolf that howls under the Twin Moons above begins his life as little more than a tiny pup suckling on his mother.  It is the same with we Orcs.  Though we do not truly know our full beginnings, we do have something that's close enough to one; the tale of the beginnings of our clan.
“Every Axehand knows from birth that his clan is special.  For we are the oldest of the named clans; oldest and the greatest, so they say.  Ours is dominion over much of the Clan Lands, from the mouth of the Tuskshark River in the east to as west as the Lily Sea.  From as north as the Great Crags to as south as the Jungles of Delgor.  Yet even our great clan had to start somewhere, and it started long ago in a time when the world was young and deeds of today were the dreams of yesterday...