----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
-
-
But Gorak’s attention was not on Nagrak, nor had it ever been. He was locked in a battle of life and death with the voltera. With every lunge, the beast aimed to crush the ork line and overrun their ranks. Yet each time, Gorak and Baltagar, his brother, met the beast head-on and pushed back with all that they had, their grand axes cutting through the freezing air with brutal efficiency. From underneath, the edges of their chipped weapons bit deep into the creature’s neck and chest, forcing it back with every swing.
Dodging and striking, the brothers moved as one, instinctively covering each other’s blind spots. Whenever the beast reared up, claws slashing toward Baltagar, Gorak was there, his strikes relentless, delivering a flurry of blows to keep the voltera at bay. And when the creature attempted to trample Gorak, Baltagar hurled himself forward, deflecting its massive paws and claws with sheer brute force.
Yet Gorak did not rely on his brother’s strength alone. He utilised all of his warriors. His guttural commands cut through the chaos of battle: “Hold the line!” he bellowed, “Spears ready! Wait for him to rear!” His voice brought order to the storm of violence, snapping the hot-blooded orks back into disciplined formation. They understood the strategy, maintaining the necessary distance to keep the beast at a disadvantage. Whenever the voltera reared back, the spearmen jabbed at its exposed flanks, exploiting every brief moment of vulnerability. Gorak’s tactics turned the battle into a deadly game of timing — in unison, the orks figured out when to strike, when to withdraw, and when to press their advantage.
Gorak needed to build on that. As soon as the warriors showed the necessary level of coordination, he initiated the next step of his plan. Strategically, he sent warriors scrambling up the jagged rock face. They struggled, their claws and boots slipping on the frost-coated stone, but four of them managed to ascend to a higher ledge. Meanwhile, five others braved the chaos of the voltera’s thrashing legs and claws, pushing straight through, past him and Baltagar, to flank the creature from the rear. With the voltera surrounded on all sides except the steep slope, Gorak’s tactics had turned the dangerous trail into an advantage, hemming the beast within the narrow confines of the path.
Under Gorak’s direction, the ork warriors moved with cohesion, spears raised and shields interlocked, driven by deadly, deliberate focus. In coordinated attacks, they aimed for the beast’s vulnerable joints, its soft underbelly, its exposed throat — anywhere his fur and hide were thinnest.
The voltera fought back with primal fury, gnashing its fangs at anything within reach and tearing furrows into the earth with its claws, scattering ice and snow into the storm. Yet each time the beast lunged forward, the circle of orks would pull back. The warriors moved as one — retreating, reforming, and advancing again in ever improving synchronisation. They were a deadly tide pulling back and forth, crashing against the beast in unrelenting waves, striking with every surge.
The beast tore through the first wave by force, his claws ripping through flesh and sending shattered bodies tumbling down the mountainside. The cries of the fallen were drowned out by the beast’s ferocious roars, its bulk smashing through shields and armour. But the orks adapted with exemplary speed. What started as the continuation of slaughter, shifted with every subsequent wave. By the fourth wave, their assaults had become methodical. Whenever one side retreated from the beast's counterattacks, all other warriors surged forward with their spears. The fight was brutal but effective, each movement calculated to overwhelm and exhaust the creature. The beast, unable to land a decisive blow against the relentless ork tide, found himself flooded by rage — each strike born more of rage than precision.
-
As the voltera lurched and thrashed beneath him, the wizard atop the beast swayed precariously, his frail form bending and trembling with each violent movement. His grip faltered with every sharp jolt, fingers clutching desperately at the voltera’s fur to steady himself. His face was gaunt, a sheen of sickness and exhaustion coating his pallid skin. Still, his lips moved in a feverish whisper, murmuring incantations under his breath.
Rothar ebbed from his body and into a broad stone artefact strapped to his back. To the inexperienced eye, it seemed a cumbersome, oversised piece of armour, ill-suited for the wizard’s thin frame. The stone plates were bulky, covering his back in a strange, disjointed manner without offering protection to his vital organs. But to those with senses attuned to the ethereal, the flow of Rothar now revealed its magical properties, the way it siphoned energy and stored it within its intricately carved runes. Those who could see even further, beyond the wizard’s exterior, might also recognise that the many interconnected stone plates were a part of the wizard, fused directly into his skin as though they were an extension of his body.
Behind the wizard, the scorchborn clung to him like a festering parasite, her diseased, fungal body pressed tightly against his hunched frame. Her arms coiled around his upper body like twisted vines. The tattered furs hanging from her body were soaked with thick, oozing secretions that bled onto the wizard and into the air like a toxic fog, taken up by the storm that raged around them. Beneath her furs, her bloated, distorted form pulsed grotesquely. Fleshy growths and dripping pustules writhed under her spongy skin; it was her skin heaving and breathing, her whole body exuding poison, both into the air and directly into the wizard through her touch. Her hand gripped his chest from behind, fingers curling around his ribs, while the other dug deep into his bare left arm. The sharp, root-like structures that were her fingers pierced his flesh, the tips of her jagged nails embedding themselves into his skin like thorns growing into the very marrow of his bones. The wizard’s arm twitched uncontrollably under her touch, yet he did not pull away.
Their connection was a strange, symbiotic bond — her presence was both protective and parasitic. Every drop of poison fed his corruption and drained his vitality, yet in that moment, what she gave to him also became of him, adding to his Rothar and seeping into the stone plates fused to his back.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Leaning close, the scorchborn hissed into the wizard’s ear, her voice a rasping whisper like dead leaves scraping across stone. Her words were drowned in the roar of the storm, but they reached the wizard’s ears — and beyond. They were not unheard by the observing darkness; the scorchborn was directing the wizard, guiding the incantations that flowed from his trembling lips.
All the while, the avian creature perched on the singular boulder situated right on the trail remained perfectly still. The wind rustled through his thick, dark feathers, but he did not move, did not stir. He was but a grim spectator to the carnage unfolding in front of him.
-
Gorak’s voice thundered above the chaos, his breath billowing in clouds of mist. His orders were sharp and decisive, yet loaded with the weight of decades of warfare. Every muscle in his massive body was taut, his icy furs clinging to him, blending his form with the swirling snow and frost around him. Yes, he was as much part of the mountain as the mountain was part of him. He was the mountain incarnate, an unyielding force of nature that understood both the unforgiving terrain and the desperation of a cornered beast.
When the voltera, struggling to move within the confines of the narrow path, made an attempt to leap toward the cliffside for higher ground, Gorak's instincts flared. The beast sought to escape the deadly ring of orks, intending to lure them into single file instead so that he may tear them apart one after the other. But Gorak knew this tactic well, had seen the same desperation in countless foes before. Without hesitation, he surged forward, his massive form ploughing through the deep snow with a grace and speed that defied his bulk as much as it testified to a lifetime of combat experience in the Albweiss. His eyes remained locked onto the voltera’s retreating form.
“Cut him off!” he roared, sending his warriors scrambling to flank the creature. They sprang into action, scattering across the terrain with deadly precision. Nine orks rushed forward to encircle the beast, moving to block his retreat before he could climb out of reach, while the others, directed by Baltagar, hurled their metal spears at his hind legs. The close range ensured lethal accuracy. Spear after spear struck true, sinking deep into the thick hide and finding purchase between his massive muscles.
The beast stumbled, its legs buckling under the sudden onslaught, and its body slammed into the frozen rock wall. The wizard was thrown off upon impact. Ice and snow cascaded down from the cliffs above, tearing him away from the beast. The trail and all remaining warriors were shrouded in a suffocating haze of white.
Gorak had no time to waste on the fallen wizard, trusting that Baltagar would handle any threats in his wake. His focus was singular — the voltera. He surged forward, closing the distance in a few powerful strides. With a bellowing war cry, he launched himself onto the beast’s flank. The spears still embedded in the voltera’s legs provided just enough grip for Gorak to scale its side, ignoring the warm sprays of blood that splattered his arms and face. The beast reared and thrashed violently, trying to shake him off, but Gorak pressed on, climbing higher.
Blood slicked his hands, and the storm made each movement perilous, yet Gorak’s hauled himself up the beast’s massive form, finally reaching his broad back. But just as he prepared to draw his axe for the final blow, the voltera bucked fiercely. Gorak was flung backward, his body sliding off the beast’s left shoulder blade. For a heart-stopping moment, Gorak saw himself thrown into the abyss below— his hand grabbed hold of the voltera’s thick fur. With a grunt of exertion, Gorak hauled himself back onto the beast’s back, his muscles burning as he fought against the immense strain. Time was slipping away — this battle had to end. Now. Without hesitation, he locked his massive arms around the voltera’s thick neck, pressing into the many gashes already torn into his flesh by earlier axe blows. Gorak could feel the pulsing heat of the blood beneath his grip, the raw, wild power coursing through his massive body.
The voltera thrashed wildly, his enormous bulk rearing and bucking, desperate to throw Gorak off again. The beast’s jaws snapped, trying to twist his head far enough to sink his fangs into the krag’s flesh, his hot, acrid breath blasting against Gorak’s face in ragged bursts.
But the krag’s grip was ironclad, his every muscle coiled, his sinews stretched to their limit as he held firm, his mind focused only on the kill. He felt the beast’s struggles weakening, his movements becoming more desperate —
From the blinding storm, she came, a blackened blur of fury, claws poised to kill. The scorchborn descended from above with lethal precision, her fingernails aimed to pierce Gorak’s neck in one swift stroke. He had not seen her coming — had not sensed the threat. The storm had swallowed her approach, masking her presence in its vicious white howl. But years of brutal survival had taught Gorak to react without thought, to trust the instincts honed by blood and war.
In the heartbeat before her claws struck true, Gorak twisted, a brutal shift of muscle and sinew. His arm raised to meet the attack, and though her jagged talons bit deep, carving searing lines into his forearm, he barely registered the injury. Hot blood spilled, steaming as it hit the frozen air, but his mind was not tethered to the pain. Battle frenzy surged through his veins, drowning out the sting with a savage flood of rage. He moved with predatory violence. In one fluid motion, Gorak seized her leg, hauled her up with a brutal heave and sent her frail form sprawling across the voltera’s back. Shrieking, she was thrown off and out of sight, swallowed by the jagged cliffs below.
Gorak almost followed her, his balance faltering as the beast beneath him thrashed wildly, but his fingers found purchase. Teeth gritted, his muscles bunched, iron-strong, as he clung to the voltera’s massive form, every fibre in his body straining to hold on while he drew his axe once more. There was no battle cry, no shout of triumph, no bellow of rage — the final blow, as orc custom dictated, was always delivered in silence.
The axe came down. It was swift, a lethal arc cutting through the chaos of the storm. It bit deep into the voltera’s neck, cleaving through muscle and bone with grim finality. The beast lurched violently to the side, and in that instant, the cliffside beneath them gave way. Ice cracked, snow crumbled, and for a fleeting moment, the voltra teetered at the edge of the Snowtrail, then he plunged, his massive form crashing down the steep cliff.
Gorak had only a split second. He hurled himself from the voltera’s back, the ground vanishing beneath him. The world turned to chaos — snow, wind, and jagged rock all blurring into one violent rush. Snow exploded and shards of ice flew in every direction as his heavy frame slammed against the jagged rock. He hit a ledge far below the trail, landing with bone-shattering force. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, but Gorak was on his feet in an instant. Bloodshot eyes turned to track the voltera’s body careening down the crags. For a brutal second, he watched as the beast scraped along the rock, limbs breaking, flesh tearing apart in a gruesome cascade of blood and fur, before he was swallowed by the storm-shrouded maw of the mountain.
For a moment, Gorak stood still, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His expression was one of grim satisfaction, yet he did not indulge in it. The kill, as precious as it was, did not belong to him. It was not his victory alone. The mountain had been with him, had chosen him. It had gifted him the moment when the ledge crumbled, when the voltera’s weight had torn through the fragile surface and sent it plummeting to its death, and so, the spoils were not his to claim. Gorak’s people had long known this truth: the mountain takes as it gives. It demands tribute, and those who survive its trials do so only with its blessing.
Gorak spat into the snow, a bitter laugh rumbling from his chest. The beast could have fed his horde for many nights. But this was the way of things. He had survived. The mountain had given him that. The krag tore off his heavy armour, leaving only scraps of fur to cover his body, preparing to climb. He would return to claim his place among the living — if the mountain willed it.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------