Warsong Offspring - Chapter 3

“Strike! Strike! Keep those feet steady, you runt! How do you expect to get a Laughing Skull rat on his knees with a blow like that?! Put your weight into it! Strike!”

The battlemaster walked among rows of young orcs, barking his words at them as they struck into the air with their wooden weapons. Although orcs would rarely fight a fellow clan, it wouldn’t be an unnatural thing for a clan to attack a rivalling one over a manner of honour, land or food. The Warsong clan, true to its name, was no exception in this. It was therefore that all orcs were trained into the arts of combat starting at the young age of six, which involved the aspiring shaman as well. Flanked by his friends-in-arms Muzg and Orboz, Kozgugore waved the wooden object which was supposed to resemble an axe back and forth.

“And strike! Right, that will do for you runts! Now, those of you qualified for further training, line up! The rest of you, get out of my sight!” With a waving gesture, the battlemaster waved the rest of the orclings who would not be drafted into the clan’s warriors away. This included Kozgugore, who is expected to become a shaman instead. After all, there’s no need to waste further resources and time on those who won’t end up waving a blade in the end anyway. Much to his dismay, Kozgugore turned away from his two friends, who were, unlike him, eligible for advanced combat training.

As he walked back to the clan village over the dusty, hot path, the red earth heating up the soles of his bare feet in the scorching summer day, he walked past other orcs who were, in turn, training to become that which they had been chosen to become. Grunts, archers, shaman, raiders, pitfighters, even common orcs who simply worked their leathers, hot iron or food all contributed to the clan and its well-being. Like a well-oiled machine, every part has its own responsibility and function. Take out one of those pieces, and the clan would easily fall into chaos and neglect. His feet led him to the butcher, where his father had just finished delivering his share of some hunt as he greeted Kozgugore with a ruffle over his jet-black hair, part of which that had been tied back into a thick braid that flowed down his back.

“There you are, little friend. Come, I was just about to return home. You can help me put the skins outside, what with your mother having her hands full with your baby sister. I swear by all the spirits, that little girl has got the spirit of a ripe ravager slut sitting around its nest.” He chuckled to himself as he led Kozgugore down the sandy path through the village.

“Why should I have to learn about the spirits if I know how to fight, da? Why can’t I join Muzg’s and Orboz’s side, in battle? I’ll be of more use with an axe than a... totem,” Kozgugore exclaimed as he looked up to his father who, as he always did in his eyes, seemed like the reliable kind of orc to ask honest questions at, despite the brown and burly features that would give him this certain grim and serious look.

“That’s not the point, Kozgu. Come.” Thorg rested his hand on Kozgugore’s shoulder, leading him to their hut, where his mother was sitting outside in front of the entrance, keeping Thrazna, his sister, closely clutched against her. She greeted the two as they made their way to the other side of the hut’s lawn, where the skins were awaiting to be prepared. “It ain’t about what position that you be given in the clan that you like best, pup. It be about what position you can serve your clan best in. You have been chosen by the elements, which be a great honour in its own right. After that, the clan elders chose you to be trained as a shaman, which be an even greater honour. You see, you will be able to put your true calling to use. And -that- be what honour be all about. Doing that which you be best at, on behalf of the clan. In your case, it be a great responsibility to guide your fellow orcs down the path of the ancestors and elements.”

“Doesn’t sound as fun as what Orboz and Muzg get to do,” Kozgugore muttered out as a response.

“Ha!” Thorg burst out, giving his son a sympathetic pat on the back. “May be. But they will grow to envy the things you will do in the future, pup. We all have our own part in the clan to fulfil, and doing exactly that which we be expected to do be what brings us our honour.”

“But what about Crutark’Kar? Wasn’t his legend about making a name for yourself and never to stop aspiring to be the greatest? To never stop fighting to expand your honour?” Kozgugore looked to his father as he lifted one of the furs and rested it on a long, wooden beam. He had always been fascinated about the stories which he was told of old legends. One of which was that of Crutark’Kar: Crutark’s Hound, of an orc who left his own clan in order to carve a way through his own destiny. It was said the nameless, wandering orc, no older than the age of sixteen, had killed the watch dog of Chieftain Crutark of the Redwalker clan after he had been walking through the fields of the Chieftain’s livestock unawares. As a matter of compensation, he had offered to be the Chieftain’s watch hound until a replacement could be found. Slowly, he gained the clan leader’s trust and rose through the Redwalker’s ranks with his deeds and insights. It was unnatural for an orc to rise up to the rank of a Chieftain’s personal bodyguard and champion without even having any history or ties with the clan whatsoever, and thus some elders would rather have dismissed it as mythological blabber for children than recognize it as non-fictional history.

“Pfah. Those legends of yours, Kozgu,” Thorg let out with a sigh. “It takes an unnatural miracle for an orc to rise like him. He forsook his own clan for the sake of his own, personal glory. There be no justifying that, when there be a clan and family to protect and feed. Especially what from all the ill omens that followed him in the end of it. No, the best way for an orc to live and die honourable is for him to trust and follow the path he has been given by the ancestors and his elders.” With a grunt, Thorg spread out the rest of the furs on the wooden beam as he gestured for his son to come and help him. “Now come. Let’s get these leathers ready so you can go see elder Galth afterwards. He told me it be time for you to get ready for your trial. Can’t have you rambling on about old children’s stories while you’ve got an Ar’karut to finish. Believe it or not, Kozgu, you be destined for great things without having to follow in some old legend’s footsteps. Spirits be my witness.”

Kozgugore let out a quiet sigh, but eventually join his father in what he was told, leaving the matter to rest. After all, the Ar’karut is a great honour to be considered worthy for it as it is. It takes great confidence for an elder to think one of his students ready for such a spiritual trial. Despite all of that, however, the young orc’s passion never truly laid with the arts of shamanism. There was something that laid even closer to his heart. There was a certain scent in the forest nearby the clan village that did not came from a single flower or leaf. It felt as if it was everything around him that cried out to run free – to leave all sense of belonging to a clan behind and let his life be his own. A place where all realization of time is irrelevant and the choices were simple and his own.

It was the call of the Wilds.

Nuuh! must has more! MORE!