The Farstrider Scout

Bukkreg wasn’t all that much smarter than any other orc, per say, but in their terms, intelligence wasn’t what mattered. Size and brawn were the only things that registered in their tiny minds, and that was what made him the Boss for his group of followers. Besides, he had someone else to do the thinking for him, that niggling little voice in the back of his head that whispered things to him, ripe with promises of strength, immortality… Power. He was touched by Gork or Mork, his followers supposed, perhaps even both, though some argued that they were one of the same. It could be the only reason that he had risen so fast, and led them to so many victories.

What neither Bukkreg, nor any of his followers, knew is that the voice in his head belonged not to Gork nor Mork, nay, not even of any of the other numerous gods of the world, but to a dragon. The altar at which they left numerous offerings, which always disappeared in the middle of the night, was set at the entrance to a cave which always seemed to be conveniently nearby, one which the orcs had no wish to venture into, or even closer than need be. The curious that had ventured in, or had waited in hiding near the altar, trying to catch sight of their great god, had disappeared, never to return. In truth, the bones piled just inside were warning enough by this time, especially since Bukkreg had taken to leaving troublemakers staked out next to the altar, unable to escape.

The dragon, Zuilikrazigar, had lived in this portion of the World’s Edge Mountain for centuries, having seen the rise and fall of the various tribes, and then kingdoms, of mankind, the sundering of the mountains that saw many dwarf holds lost, and the rise and swell of the tides of Chaos were like ripples in a pond to him. When the orc tribe had ventured near his cave, he saw an opportunity. Why waste his time, and perhaps even his life, precious as it was, when he could just as easily “encourage” these primitives to do the work for him? He had already scouted out the surrounding area, perhaps three hundred miles square, making note of all the changes that had occurred since he had last woken and roamed about, pillaging, burning, and eating all in his path. He had only retreated when, after years of terrorizing the countryside below, he had caught wind of a trio of Grail Knights that decided to test their lances on his scale. It wasn’t that he was a cowardly dragon, though he had been years younger at the time, but in truth, he could probably have wiped them out easily. It was a guided caution that had allowed him to live this long, and he wasn’t about to chance fate and have it all end. Yes, enlisting the orcs, without their knowledge, was a wise idea. No one would ever think to look beyond them, and if they got wiped out in the process, it didn’t matter.

It hadn’t taken long to find a mind with the right qualities within the orc tribe. The leader at the time had been a large Black Orc named Murizek, and favor for him had begun to wane in light of a string of unlucky defeats against a rival orc tribe. They had been forced up into the mountains, and had camped a short distance from the cave, where the infighting began. In the end, Zuilikrazigar had decided on the young Choppa, Bukkreg, and, deciding that a small investment in the Choppa was necessary, Zuilikrazigar fished around in the pile of gold, armor, weapons and jewels until he found a pair of claws that had snapped off in his younger days, and a few shed scales. Even parted from the dragon, these would serve as strong weapons and armament for the young orc, and if properly applied, could possibly even extend the young orc’s life. Insinuating himself into Bukkreg’s mind, he whispered the promises of power that would be granted if the orc followed his instructions.

Bukkreg had heard the first whispering in his head mere hours after they had stopped in the grove of pines. The warband had stopped at the orders of Warboss Murizek, and set about felling trees for a fire. Glaring at the Warboss, he laid into a nearby pine with his rusted blades, notching huge chunks of wood from the tree as he vented his frustration. They wouldn’t be going any further this night, no matter where they were going. Gork and Murizek only knew that. This was not how things were supposed to be going, and it was all Murizek’s fault. The tree cracked loudly, announcing its demise, but not all were wise or swift enough to get out of the path of the falling tree, and a pair of goblins was crushed beneath the thick trunk and branches. Several of the orcs roared with laughter until they were thumped over the head by Murizek. “Getz da fire going, you gitz!” The Warboss roared. “We iz gonna camp here tonight!” The laughing orcs glared at him briefly, then started chopping away at the fallen pine, sending wood chips flying.

A short time later and a sizable bonfire was burning in what was now a clearing, the ruined corpses of the pine trees now mostly serving as firewood or a place to sit. The band caroused loudly, quickly draining the small reserve of grog they had left, and fights began over even the smallest skin of it.

Off in the dimmer edges of the firelight sat Bukkreg, grinding his teeth and glaring at Murizek, oblivious to the random fights breaking out or the laughter at others’ misfortune. A whisper came in his ear, just noticeable over the din of the warband. He quickly stood, whirling around, his weapons finding their place in his hands. The whisper continued soothing him, beckoning him away from the clearing. Stealing a glance at the warband and the bright bonfire, Bukkreg slipped into the tree line and disappeared into the black night.

The whisper kept on, guiding him this way and that. Several times he tripped over a root or rock and fell, cursing loudly as he picked himself up. It didn’t take long to get where he was being led though, and he knew he was at the end of the journey when he stepped into another large clearing, and the whispers stopped.

Mannsleib was a bright white disk in the sky, beaming its rays down into the clearing and illuminating everything. Bukkreg could see quite clearly now, and a short distance before him, something glittered from atop a large rock. He approached it slowly, cautiously trying to make out what it was. The rock was taller than he could see over up close, so after shoving his weapons into the crude belt around his waist, he clambered up. There, on the rock before him, lay a treasure like none he had ever seen. Suddenly the whispers returned with surprising force, stronger, more powerful, and commanding. In a daze, Bukkreg flopped down, picking up a few of the items before him, and set to work.

Morning dawned on the sleeping orc warband, but they slumbered on, oblivious to the first rays of sun touching the clearing. Their drunken carousing and fights had lasted long into the night, and most had only fallen asleep a few short hours ago. The only movement in the camp was a pair of goblins that were running from orc to dozing orc, filching items here and there, their high pitched cackles filling the newly formed clearing. As they drew close to Warboss Murizek, one of the goblins glanced malevolently at his compatriot, and stuck his foot out. The other goblin tripped, and with a startled screech, landed smack on the Murizek’s face.

The warboss roared in anger at his sleep being disturbed, and quickly snatched up the offending goblin. The one that had stuck his foot out squealed in terror and ran. He didn’t get very far, as Murizek flung the goblin in his hand, knocking the runner flat. Others were beginning to wake, rising to stare at the ruckus as Murizek grabbed his huge battle axe and flung it at the two goblins heaped on top of each other, bisecting them both. Murizek grinned – surely this was a good omen of their luck changing?

A roar shattered the silence, and Murizek looked up to see an orc at the far end of the clearing with weapons held high. No one had missed Bukkreg in the night, and if the warband had moved on sooner, it was likely that one less orc would ever have been noticed. It was hard not to notice him now, with the sunlight reflecting off of the dragon scale armor covering his body, or the two sharp talons in his hands seeming to absorb all light.

Murizek’s eyes widened as Bukkreg roared again, smashing his weapons together, and charged. Growling, Murizek bounded forward and snatched his axe up from the goblin corpses. With a savage roar of his own, he met Bukkreg head on, swinging his axe with primal fury.

In the end, it was the size of the great axe that spelled Murizek’s doom. Easily seeing the oncoming blade, Bukkreg stepped to the left and inside of the swing, lashing out with the razor sharp dragon’s talons. They punched holes in his opponent’s ramshackle armor as if it were made of paper, and the warboss suddenly found himself on the defensive, slowly coming to realize the threat he was facing. He did not have long to contemplate this however, as Bukkreg unleashed a rage-borne flurry of attacks, smashing through desperate parries. Moments later, the dismembered and headless corpse of Murizek struck the ground.

Bukkreg raised his weapons and roared. “We’s is done running! Get yer lazy asses up, we’s is going to go face smash da Face Smasha!” Most of the orcs had risen by now, and Bukkreg moved through the clearing, planting a boot into the sides of those that hadn’t, repeating his call to war.

The sun hadn’t even gone halfway in its traverse through the sky when Zuilikrazigar, winging high overhead, spotted the warband, now under the command of Bukkreg, they were heading towards the camp of Ogli da Face Smasha, feeling assured of victory despite the fact that they had been defeated by the same foe only a few short days prior.

Fifty miles to the north, in the Halls of the Silvershield, Haegan Silvershield, commander of the dwarf hold’s Ironbreaker Guard, listened to the reports of the same warband and the strange coup d’état that had occurred that morning. Lookouts had spotted the band the day prior as they moved in and destroyed the grove of pines. He had intended to take a force to deal with them, wipe them out. Now it seemed that he would be saved the trouble, as the latest reports had the warband racing north and west, out of the mountains. It would be impossible to catch them on foot now, even if he had wanted to, and he was loathe to send either of the hold’s two precious gyrocopters.

The only thing that bothered him was one lone report that stood out from all the others. A single lookout had thought he had spotted a dragon flying high in the clouds above the warband, but no others had stepped forward to corroborate the report. Still, it bore some looking into, and he sent word to the lookouts to shadow the warband as best possible, and try to discover their intentions.

In the meantime, he would do some research into the matter. If there was a dragon, and it had been in the area for any length of time in the past, there might be record of it in the Halls’ massive library. It did not hurt to be prepared, especially with half the hold’s forces gone with King Beregan and his sons, plus his own brother and his wife, off supporting Karak Hirn in an attempt to stomp out the early flames of another orc warband.

Several hours later found him sitting at a table in the library, pouring over old records, and even consulting the hold’s own Book of Grudges. Oh, how he wished Beregan or his brother was here. They had a better mind for words and reading, not to mention a better grasp of past significant events that had occurred. The only note of a dragon that he had found thus far was from the annals from the time of his great-grandfather, Gadri the Foesmasher. Three Grail Knights on quest from Brettonia had passed through searching for information on a dragon that was allegedly terrorizing the countryside at the time. Though no information was available to be given, the knights had been welcomed with open arms, and after several days of searching the local area they had left empty handed, but with blessings of luck upon them.

After three more hours of furtive searching, still finding no other word of any dragon, Haegan flopped back in his chair, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt a hand on his shoulder and reopened his eyes, turning to look up into the face of his wife, Ilsa. “It is late, my lord, and you need sleep. Can this not wait until tomorrow?”

Grinning, he made a grab for her. “Sleep isn’t what I need, lass!” He missed as she danced away from his grasp. “Ah, but you are right, it can wait. I doubt I’ll find anything further.”

“Then come to bed, my lord… Haegan.” She grasped his hand, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “And perhaps I’ll let you tell me what you need?” He let her pull himself out of the chair, and they left the room, hand in hand, heading for their quarters.

Indeed though, there was nothing more to find in the library, and several days later the scouts returned. The warband had absorbed another and continued north and west, on a path that would carry them into Brettonia. The scouts had been unable to keep up with the orcs at that point, though the trail was easy enough to follow, but given the information at hand, Haegan decided that it was not worth the bother. Besides, the king’s party would be returning in less than a month. If they wished to send out a force then, when they were at full strength, so be it.