Chapter 3 -- Welcome to Grimgor

When I awoke this time, we'd stopped in some sort of a camp--maybe one of their slums. As I craned my neck around from my position on my back, I could see the tops of crude wooden huts amid crumbling stone buildings. It was early evening as far as I could tell, the sky a deeper shade of gray, a pale slice of moon hanging to the west.

Before I could gather any more of my bearings, a dark green face blotted out the sky. It's snout hung inches from my nose, drooling orc spit and panting down a thick wind of rotting flesh, stale blood, and a scent I can only describe as horse manure stewed in garlic.

I stared up at the beast's face, and all I could think of were Coach Hammerhand's words on how to spot the toughest black orc on the pitch--"The darker the green, the more blood the brute's seen."

Black orcs, he'd taught us, we're just regular orcfolk who'd done more killing. The more they killed, the greener they got. The greener they got, the tougher they were.

This sucker's face was so green it almost looked blue. He squinted at me, his red eyes closing into slits. He sniffed twice with his wide upturned nose, black as a bull's, and then spoke.

It was something in orcish, a language almost indiscernible from growls and grunts, but one I'd heard enough of over the years to learn a few words. Given that I'd just been dragged roughly 10 miles and had headache the size of a troll turd though, the only words I could make out were "eat," "kill," and "hurt." But, of course, it's possible those were the only words this one knew.

When he finished his little speech, he opened his maw and leaned closer, that breath stinging my eyes, setting off a gag-reflex I thought I'd lost years ago. One of his four large front teeth, long and sharp as a tent-spike, brushed against my cheek. I swallowed hard, resigned that since I'd consumed nothing but mead over the last week, I'd at least make for a bitter meal.

But then a large green hand came into view. Its forefinger fish-hooked the mouth and pulled it a way. Now a new face, hovered upside down above me, this one a lighter shade of green, a run-of-the-mill orc face. Same snout, black beefy nose, red eyes, but something less animal there. I could see that he was studying me, his head shifting back and forth, the faint traces of a grin pulling up the corners of his mouth.

Though the black orcs were stronger than their smaller, less green brethren, regular orcs could be crueler and more cunning. On the Blood Bowl pitch, they were the blitzers and throwers, planning the cheats and orchestrating the death blows, often barking orders at the black orc linemen to carve a path as they went after the ball--or the ball carrier's jugular.

In warfare, they became the pack-leaders and war-bosses, devising the cruelest torture methods. While a black orc could kill and eat a man before his shattered shield hit the ground, a pack-leader could stretch out a death for months. A war-boss could keep you alive for years--long enough to forget that life offered anything other than searing, flesh-ripping pain.

Suddenly, I was thinking that being eaten alive might be my best option here. I wriggled against the rope binding my wrists. "Where the hell am I, pig face?" I asked.

The orc let his stone-black tongue dangle from his mouth, licked one of his jagged front teeth, and then spoke in human tongue, his words telling me I was in far more trouble than I thought.

"Welcome to Grimgor," he said. "The War Boss been waiting for you."