The Emerald King
Chapter Two- Rogg

Rogg cleaved his way through two more foes, his stone axes drenched in blood. Around him stood ten more orcs ready to fight, Male and female alike. Their leader Gluk, the oldest of his people, stood at the back of the group, glaring at Rogg with his one yellow eye and gripping his spiked club with his only hand. He was Rogg’s target, if he could kill him today he would gain the respect of many. He could have as many females as he wanted, as often as he wanted. He could gain many followers and eventually rule the mesa. He could not fail, the old orc’s time had long passed.

One burly female lunged at him with a spiked club half her size, swinging wildly, her red skin covered in dirt and dust. Rogg jumped back, avoiding being smashed in the face by mere inches. The female readied to swing again and Rogg could see two males from the group running up to assist her. Before she could let loose again, however, Rogg dashed forward crossing his arms and bringing up his axes on each side, lopping off both her arms.

The female wailed in pain for a short time before he planted an axe firmly into her skull. The two males leaped to strike, but Rogg was too quick. He tried to lift his axe from her skull but instead brought her corpse up with it. The axes of the two males sank into her lifeless flesh and in one smooth sweep he chopped off both of their heads with his free axe. The rest of them came now, one by one Rogg cut them down, blood and intestines showering him and littering the landscape

He faced his final two foes, a fat Male with skin more pink than red, his teeth yellow and rotting and his gut hanging halfway down to his knees. Beside him was a female, sturdy and strong. Her black hair was wild and her bottom lip pierced with three iron studs. Both sides stood at the ready, waiting for someone to make a move.

The raspy gargle of Gluk’s voice bellowed behind them.

“Stop!” he said, “I kill him, you see.”

The duo stepped aside reluctantly as Gluk stepped forward, brandishing his weapon. Rogg stood at the ready, watching his foe’s every move. For a time neither warrior moved, staring each other down. Rogg gripped his axes tightly, fat beads of sweat trickling down his face. Gluk had made the first move, with a war cry sounding like a dying boar he charged and leaped. Rogg rolled to his right, narrowly avoiding the spikes of Gluk’s club.

He slashed at Gluk with an upward sweeping motion using both axes, only to have metal clash with wood, as the old orc parried and jumped back. The two stared each other down once again, this time with Rogg making the first move. He dashed forward and slid, swinging at Gluk’s legs. The old orc was deceptively quick, however, and planted his club firmly on the ground, blocking the attack. Rogg tried to swing his second axe, only to have Gluk rock his weapon to parry it. In a single motion through his parry, Gluk swung his club downward towards Rogg’s head. There was no time to dodge, only managing to move enough to have the club come down on his shoulder.

Rogg howled in pain as the spikes pierced his skin, crimson blood streaming out of the wound. Gluk then dragged Rogg through the dirt, swinging his club into the air and throwing Rogg into a nearby boulder. Rogg was seething with anger, he lost his grip on one of his axes and let his left arm go limp.

The speed at which the old orc moved puzzled him, being able to move so swiftly and fiercely, even when stuck in an awkward position left him dumbfounded. That is until Rogg noticed the change his foe’s body had undergone. Gluck’s tusks were twice as large, and he had become far more hairy. His eyes glowed a demonic red and his fingers and toes were covered in a hard shell that looked almost like hooves.

The boar spirit powers him, Rogg thought, still wincing from the pain of his wound.

This only fueled Rogg’s rage more, using the spirits in a duel for power was taboo among the orcs of the mesa. His only hope was to do the same. Focusing as best he could, Rogg attempted to commune with boar. He could feel its power slowly creep into him, healing his arm and covering his body with thick tufts of hair. He could feel his tusks grow, and his hands and feet harden.

Gluk dashed and swung his weapon to stop him, but Rogg had gained enough power to react. Dancing to the left he avoided Gluks club and it smashed into the boulder instead, crumbling it. Rogg swung his remaining axe, embedding it in the nub of Gluk’s shoulder where an arm had once been. The old orc seemed to not react to the blow and instead turned to face him, pulling the axe out of Rogg’s grip.

Gluk’s face twisted into a menacing smile. He raised his club and swung down at Rogg once again. This time however Rogg could easily react. Dashing forward he plunged his fist into the old orcs gut. Gluk dropped his club and then to his knees as Rogg spun around to his side yanking his axe out and then decapitating his foe.

Blood gushed from the stump of Gluk’s neck as he fell lifelessly to the ground. Rogg spat on his corpse and walked over to grab his other axe. As he picked it up, the male that had earlier stepped aside leaped forward to strike him. To Rogg it seemed he had been moving in slow motion with the power of boar enhancing his senses. Before the savage could close the gap, Rogg threw an axe that landed square in the center of his attacker’s face, splitting his head in half.

The remaining female who had watched dropped to her knees, recognizing Rogg as her new master.

“You are mine,” Rogg said, giving his best impression of a savage.

The female did not argue and stood to face her new master.

What should I do now? He thought, what would my savage kin do after such a victory?

Rogg walked towards the female and in his best vulgar tone asked, “What your name slave?”

The female gazed at him, her yellow eyes dry from the dust of their surroundings.

“Rilla,” she said gruffly.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Rogg ripped off her loincloth, baring her large red breasts.

“You are mine,” he said lustily, I suppose being a savage does have its perks.

The rest of the day was spent doing as he pleased with her, mating to his heart’s content, deep into the night.

The next morning was spent butchering those Rogg had slain and cooking them over a large fire he had his new slave build. He had made a sack to Carry Gluk’s head in as proof to any who might challenge him in the future. As they ate he told Rilla what was to come as plainly as he could.

“We replace other masters, I kill them,” he said.

Rilla seemed excited by the notion as if a bloodbath and a night of passion was all it took to truly win her over.

“I be life mate for you?” she asked thoughtlessly excited.

The thought of this was not pleasing to Rogg, he had played along with the other savages most of his life. The only reason he even took her was because it was expected of a savage to do so. The only reason he ate his fallen kin was because that’s what the others did. The only reason he hunted the savage masters was because it was what any male would try to do.

Females were for breeding and pleasure, and males were for murdering and nourishment. This was the way of the savage orc.

“Yes,” He lied, “the only life mate of Rogg. We make strong pups.”

Rilla clearly became more excited by this, for a female the only way to survive was through a strong mate. The pair finished their meal and Rilla made herself new clothes from the skins of the fallen.

“We get more slaves,” Rogg said.

However, as they readied to set off the sound of war horns beckoned in the distance. Using the power of boar, Rogg expanded his vision. A large group of small white-skinned creatures clad in armor marched toward them. To Rogg’s surprise, he could see the heads of three Zruhk females each stuck on a pike, their faces mangled with bits of raw flesh hanging loosely from them.

Rogg waited for them to draw closer as he gathered more power from the boar spirit. A volley of arrows flew as they came into range, but Rogg was too swift. The arrows came down riddling Rilla’s body and slaying her as he charged forward. He came upon the group with a ferocity they had clearly never seen before, as he slew rows of them in his charge. The survivors attempted to regroup, but Rogg gave them no chance. He leaped and stomped down on two more crushing them beneath his feet, Their feeble bones crackling under his weight. Those around him drew their swords in a pathetic attempt to defend themselves, but it mattered not. Rogg impaled four more of them with his tusks and shook them off, their entrails ripped from within them.

The few remaining white skins cowered and ran, dropping their weapons. Rogg chased them all down, trampling each of them. He could see the looks of terror on their faces as he did so, some of them screaming, others crying and begging in a language he didn’t know. With the last of them slain Rogg gazed out at the sea of blood, he left in his wake.

This is the way of my people, he thought, whatever these small creatures were, they have no love for orcs. I must be careful if a large enough group were to show up, I may not be able to defeat them.

“Ye sure got yer work cut out for ye,” a rumbling jolly voice said from behind him.

Rogg spun around, swinging his axes in the direction of the voice, only to be stopped by two meaty purple sausages for fingers. Once he saw who it was, Rogg couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping in disbelief.

“Jorf,” he said with a tinge of annoyance in his tone.

“Aye pup it’s me.”

It had been well over two decades since Rogg had last seen the old orc from the Riverlands, and it seemed he had not aged a day. The very orc who cursed Rogg with his supposed gift of knowledge. His big grey beard and crooked nose, pierced with an iron stud in each nostril. His thick purple lips and brown eyes, along with his slicked-back peppered hair tied into a ponytail that hung halfway down his back. His clothes were no more than a rough leather tunic hanging over the keg that was his belly, and a pair of sandals made from tree bark and bits of rope.

“What are you doing here?” Rogg questioned. “Better yet, how are you here? You were already an old orc when I met you and that was long ago. By now you would be older than that geezer I slew just the other day.”

“The world is full of mysteries, ain’t it, pup? Don’t be so serious all the damn time, have an Ale and take a load off now and again.”

The old orc pulled a large burlap bag from his tunic, seemingly like magic. From within it, he pulled two wooden mugs and a bottle of ale from his home in the Riverlands.

“Have a drink with me ye little shit,” he bellowed, patting Rogg roughly on the shoulder, “we got some catchin up ta do.”

“I’ll pass,” Rogg said impatiently.

If Jorf was at all put off by his response he didn’t show it. The old orc was a master at keeping a toothy grin on his face, regardless of the situation or its circumstances.

“Why the rush pup? Ye just got done with a bunch of killin, ye must be feelin a bit stiff ’bout now.”

Rogg had lost all patience at this point, wanting nothing to do with the old fool. He was still channeling the power of boar and figured he could just trample over the bastard.

“No more games,” he said through bared teeth. “You die today.”

Jorf laughed, clearly not taking Rogg’s words seriously.

“If ye still got energy pup, I’ll play along. Then we can have a drink or ten.”

Rogg charged him, completely missing his target as the old orc tiptoed aside. Spinning back around he crossed his arms, aiming to behead Jorf. With lightning speed Jorf unsheathed some sort of weapon blocking both axes with each end of it. Heavy winds blew behind Jorf from the impact of Rogg’s attack, causing many of the fresh corpses to fly away in a small dust storm.

Jorf covered his mouth with a balled fist and coughed.

“Sorry ’bout that pup, I had a wheel of cheese on the way here, never sits well with me, couldn’t help but let out some wind.”

Rogg only became more enraged by his taunt. Then he saw it. The weapon that Jorf had drawn was a small instrument made of birch, fishing line and hide.

A fucking banjo? Rogg thought, he stopped me with a piece of wood!

“Tuckered out already?” Jorf mocked. “My great great great granddaughter can swing an axe better than you, and last I saw here she was just a pup fresh off her mum’s teat.”

“What do you want!” Rogg roared in frustration. “Why have you come here! Go back to your land where you belong!”

Jorf removed his banjo from between the pair of blades and stuffed it in his bag. He opened the bottle of ale and took a large swig, draining half the bottle in one gulp. He burped and looked Rogg over for a moment before speaking.

“There’s a change in the winds pup. Those little creatures ye killed back there are crawling all over the place, and no one knows where the damn pests poked their tiny heads from.”

“That’s not my problem,” Rogg retorted as he released boar’s power from within him. “I will hunt them all the same, whether they be orc or not. I only seek to rule this land.”

Jorf chuckled, “Glad to see givin ye some smarts is going to good use. But maybe ye should hear what I got to say.”

Rogg considered whether or not to oblige, he cared not for the orc that cursed him, but he was also curious about these invaders.

“Fine,” he said at last, “but I want a damn drink.”

Jorf didn’t hesitate, pulling out a large wooden barrel from the bag, he sat it on the ground between them. He cracked open the lid and dunked both mugs inside, filling them with booze. He passed one to Rogg and then sat cross-legged next to the barrel.

“What is that bag?” Rogg asked.

“Dunno,” Jorf replied, “ I found it floating in the river near my home. Figured I could use a bag and put it to use. I call it my bag of booze and merriment.”

“That’s not-,” Rogg began, deciding not to press the issue further. “Just tell me what you have to say.”

“Straight to the point as always, pup. I like it.”

Jorf smiled, downed the rest of the bottle and tossed it back in the bag.

“There’s a change in the air. Feels like trouble’s brewin’ and we don’t got much time to stop it. If it can be stopped at all. Seems the spirits are agitated, a hundred aught years ago the land felt lively and open, but now I can feel them spirits weakening. As if some are missin. I can’t talk to the rabbits anymore, and the koi spirit has been fidgety as a pup with more energy then he knows what to do with.”

“How is that my problem?” Rogg retorted.

“It’s everyone’s problem, pup. Without the spirits, there’s no life. Nothin to keep us together, nothin tyin us to the world. When I was a youngin, my grandfather said to my father that the horse spirit had left this world. At the time I couldn’t understand bums from britches, but now I know what he was talkin ’bout.”

Jorf had Rogg’s full attention at this point, but something didn’t quite fit the old orcs story.

“If the spirits are getting weaker or disappearing, why is boar still as strong as ever?”

For the first time in his life, Rogg witnessed Jorf’s smile faded into a stern look.

“Couldn’t tell ye pup,” he said in a serious tone. “My best guess is that whatever might be causin this is steering clear of yer lands. I know most outsiders wouldn’t give this place more than a glance before high tailin it back home. I’ll say this though, whatever’s causin this will come here eventually. I can feel it in my gut, and that’s a damn big feelin.”

Rogg rubbed his eyes with a hand and downed his mug of ale, and then refilled it.

“What do you expect me to do?” he said.

“Gather yer little friends covering this wasteland and get ready fer a fight.”

“I’ll do more than that,” Rogg said confidently, “I’ll start by taking the fight to these new pests.”