Glitsnab

I was born to the name of Glafirpul, the son of two farmers. My parents were mere peasants who have never seen war, and I was expected to amount to nothing more than that - a commoner, working my life on the farm.

For better or worse, my life didn’t end up that way. When I was born, the Dwarves and the Greenskins had been warring for over fifteen years, with no victor in sight. We lived close enough to the center of the Mountain Kingdoms to be spared the carnage and bloodshed of the war… for a while.

When I was seven my father was drafted into the Mountain Guard. “Do not let others get what they want,” he told me before he left. “Fight, Glafirpul, fight. If they try to take what’s yours, hold onto it tighter.”

I began to make a living as a pickpocket. I even joined a gang and helped with some large-scale robberies. Once I had stolen enough money I hired a tutor to teach me how to fight - one of the best in the Mountain Kingdoms. For the next four years, I learned how to wield longswords, knives, maces, clubs, and axes. I learned how to use a bow and I learned military tactics and fighting styles only known to the elite of the Mountain Guard. Soon I was an equal with my tutor - it was evident I would soon surpass him.

It was around this time that we received news that my father had died - killed in the front lines. The Dwarf Cities seemed to be winning, and soon our town was under threat from invasion. I wanted to leave to be safe, but my mother refused to leave the house she and my father had lived together in.

I got drafted into the Mountain Guard a year later. With my skills I quickly advanced through the ranks, earning myself a name. When I was seventeen, I visited my hometown again to find it destroyed. My mother was killed by the dwarves years before without me knowing. In fury, I trained harder… and harder… and harder. I became a Sergeant, then a commander of my own unit, before joining the High Command - twenty Generals that led the entirety of the Mountain Guard.

I made a name for myself in the Battle of the Five Hills, arguably the decisive battle of the Dwarf-Greenskin war. Thanks to my leadership and bravery we had taken back much of the territory we had lost to the Dwarf Cities. Five strongholds, each on top of a giant hill, was the only territory we once had that still belonged to the dwarves.

We took one of the strongholds by overpowering its inhabitants, but we had suffered many losses - while we climbed the hill the dwarves fired arrows down at us, killing hundreds. Although we had taken one hill, the other four were well-armed, and the task of re-conquering our territory seemed futile.

As we stayed in the stronghold, indecisive, the dwarves suddenly surrounded us and began a siege. They knew it was too risky to attack us outright, but they also knew we didn’t have many provisions - starving us out would probably be easy. In five days half of our forces had deserted - two more days and half of the remaining did the same. After a fortnight hardly one hundred of my men remained, against what seemed like an endless sea of enemies and former allies alike.

I finally had enough. I walked out of the front gates with the remainder of my men - the most loyal, the ones willing to starve to death for their kingdom. Raising my sword, I yelled: “Today we will go down in history! Whether people weep for our deaths or cheer for our victory, depends on you.” I slowly looked at all the familiar faces in the enemy, before charging down with my soldiers, fully prepared to die.

The enemy advanced on us, but a few looked uncertain. With a roar of “For the Mountain Kingdoms,” I sliced a dwarf in half. My sword rang as it slammed into a rectangular shield, but I kicked it back and parried an axe before stabbing its wielder. My men around me fought bravely, but they began to fall, flickering out like candles when blown. I refused to fall - I kept on fighting, cutting off a dwarf’s arm before crying out in pain as a knife cut at my back. Turning around, I grabbed the knife out of its user’s hand and used it to stab out one of his eyes. The enemies fell upon me, cutting at me ferociously. A warhammer zoomed towards my face - I knew it was the end, but I continued to fight anyway.

The hand of an ogre jumped out of nowhere and grabbed the warhammer, inches from crushing my face. With a roar, the ogre pulled the warhammer up with its user before throwing them both five meters away, into the sea of enemies. I smiled as I parried another strike - I had gained an ally. Although it was only one greenskin, I was two times as likely as winning this battle as I was a few seconds ago. I pushed the knife in my left hand through a dwarf’s throat, and as I did an orc used his sword to decapitate my opponent.

We were three now. I had two allies fighting by my side. An orc charged at me with his spear. I slid to the left and felt the spear graze my side, but slammed the flat side of my sword into his helmet. As the metal rung and the dwarf looked dazed for a second, an arrow slammed into his skull. I turned around to see an orc holding a longbow, his face a mask of grim determination. Behind him a dwarf had an axe pulled back, aiming at his head, but the dwarf’s face of triumph soon turned to shock - he fell to the ground, and behind him was a fellow goblin holding a bloody knife with both hands.

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Five. I continued to fight, defeating all those in my way. Our bravery inspired more to join us - a troll suddenly turned around and slammed his club into a dwarf’s chest; six. I counted seven as an orc spun around with his longsword, cutting down any enemy in his way. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Ten against over twenty thousand were horrible odds, but it was ten times better than one against twenty thousand. Soon that ten became twenty, then nineteen as the orc with the longbow was stabbed to death by five dwarves. I felt a pang of sadness, but I continued to fight. Twenty became thirty, then fifty, then a hundred.

An hour later, I was breathing heavily as I continued to slice down dwarf after dwarf. Two thousand allies fought around me, every single one won back from the dwarves by my courage. We were outnumbered ten to one, but all of our fighters had a thousand things to fight for - and we all had nothing to lose.

Realizing that our strength was unbreakable, the dwarves began to retreat to their strongholds. Our warlike fervor burned so fiercely that we charged up one of the strongholds and razed it to the ground before the fearful dwarves could fire an arrow. In that one move, we gained five hundred allies, dwarves that yielded to our cause. Our archers rained death down on the next tower as I led the charge to take it - more allies joined our cause.

Dwarves and greenskins alike climbed up the fourth hill and destroyed the stronghold. Finally, nearly four thousand warriors surrounded the last stronghold - this time, it was us holding the siege. Fortunately for us, the remaining dwarves did not possess the courage my men and I had; they surrendered four days later. The Five Hills were ours. The victory earned me the name of Glafirpul the Magnificent, immortalizing me as a hero of the Mountain Kingdoms forever.

Technically the Dwarf-Greenskin war continues to this day, but it’s nothing like the Hell it was when I served in the Mountain Guard. After the Battle of the Five Hills the war died down, and now only a few skirmishes happen now and then. I was nearly thirty when I decided to finally retire from the Mountain Guard.

I wandered the Mountain Kingdoms for a while… until I happened upon a fire. It belonged to a family of three, I was told - and all three were trapped inside. I ran inside to find a young orc girl crying, surrounded by the charred bodies of her parents. I grabbed her and ran outside of the house, coughing.

The girl I had saved… her name was Sharog.

She had no other relatives, so I raised her. I quickly learned that she loved to read - so I bought all the books I could to satisfy her unquenchable thirst for knowledge. As soon as she was old enough to hold a sword she wanted to learn how to fight, so I trained her. It was then when I began to adopt other orphans, but Sharog was always my favorite. She learned well, and soon she surpassed even me.

She joined the Mountain Guard when she was twelve. Two years later she was known as the Elfslayer for her countless victories against the States of Fenlar. When she was sixteen, she was already among the High Command - the youngest one to join the order.

I’ll admit that I became jealous. Already the name Glafirpul was a thing of the past - Sharog the Elfslayer was the name on everyone’s lips now. I mocked her, complained how she wasn’t the same as she was before. She became angry. “You could never become me,” she spat, “but I have surpassed you. You are no Glafirpul the Magnificent… Perhaps a name like Glitsnab would serve you better.”

I told her to get out. She left my house in a rage - I wouldn’t see her again in ten years. I began to neglect the orphans, but I still adopted them, hoping in vain that I would find an orphan like Sharog. I never found that orphan, but I managed to find Sharog’s son.

Bastards were common in the Mountain Kingdoms, so I wasn’t that surprised when I heard the news that the Elfslayer was with child. When I met her again, it was a bit awkward at first, but we met not as bitter enemies but as old friends.

“Glafirpul,” she sighed, embracing me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I saw her, a warrior now.

“Glafirpul is long dead,” I sighed, laughing. “I am Glitsnab now.”

That night we drank and laughed together in revelry. She had been fighting against Fenlar since she left - someone as beautiful as she was obviously popular with the other soldiers. One day she realized that she was with child, and finally decided to retire from the Mountain Guard. “Come back to us,” I offered. “It would help to have someone like you to raise the orphans.”

She shook her head. “I’ll have my own child to raise,” she laughed as she declined my offer.

Two months later she gave birth to Larek. The day before she had a dream in which an angel clothed in shining colors touched a human’s head. As she did the human began to fall… and the man transformed into an orc infant.

I had no idea what the dream meant, but when I sat next to her on the bed I realized that she wouldn’t survive. Larek was in my arms, crying, as Sharog’s breathing became lighter and lighter.

It was then when I promised that I would make Larek a warrior.

I beamed as Larek stood tall and proud, surrounded by the corpses of his enemies. The warriors around him chanted “Goblinsbane, Goblinsbane” as the twelve-year-old orc breathed heavily and smiled.

I trained him until he could fight so that he could survive. Once he came back to us, I made him my equal. Now he will surpass me as a warrior.

Your son is a warrior, Sharog. Soon he will surpass us both.