Fight for the Broen Land

This is a continuation of the stories "Refugees of a Broken Land" and "Rebels of the Broken Land". It should work as an independent story also but it is much better if you read those first.

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A dull clapping sound of wooden swords echoed from the stone building's hard pale walls. Over the years and decades, it had stood erected, the smallish castle-like country mansion and its training yard had seen hundreds of similar bouts. The younger of the competitors was sweating with effort and determination. He refused to lose to his older brother. Especially when they were fighting under his grandfather's watchful eyes. He parried and danced around his brother like a whirlwind but a terrible lump was starting to grow in his throat. Like so many times before it would not be enough.

As his brother was two years older, his stamina and strength were overpowering with every passing moment. But then there was an opening. Like a mirage. His brother never forgot to guard his lower side but there it was. And he went for it with all his small boy's might.

Joy turned sour almost as quickly as the opportunity had presented itself. Midway there, a fraction of a second before he would have scored, the smaller boy understood it. His brother had not forgotten to guard. He had simply lured him into his trap. And as the revelation kicked in so did his brother's leg. Sweeping his front foot away. Making him triple and fall hard on the ground.

There was no need for it but his brother still tapped his neck with the tip of his practice sword. To mark his victory. It made the smaller boy's blood rush onto his cheeks and those were now red from embarrassment and anger.

An impressive green giant sat in the corner of the yard. Amused by what he saw. The fire in the younger one of his grandchildren was evident and there was no doubt he would be an excellent swordsman when he grew up. Probably surpassing his elder brother's skills soon enough. He had taught every trick he knew to the boys and it was almost comical how they repeated moves he had himself used countless times to save his own life and the lives of the ones fighting beside him.

The giant pulled his grey beard. Wondering if it indeed had been nearly sixty years since he was their age. For a brief moment, he thought how these little fencing devils would have measured with him then. They had superior training and as they had never gone hungry or cold they were as healthy and strong as kids could be.

Still, they would not have been any sort of match for him. He did not know his exact age but at a similar age, he hadn't only fought against the older boys at his village, but once a stray pack of wild hounds had tried to snatch him. He had to fight for his life against them and still carried the scars from it. And too soon after that, he had to kill an orc for the first time in his life.

But he was happy he had done his part in guaranteeing a better upbringing and happier childhood for the boys and rose from his seat. He was just about to encourage the younger one to pick himself up and go through what had gone wrong with his attack when strangers appeared through the outer gates.

Grok did not need the experience from his battle years to see that something was wrong. Soldiers. Grimm ones. As the first few men entered the yard their leader followed. Riding a huge black stallion was a fellow orc. He was as big as Grok but maybe 30 or even 40 years younger. With a subtle hand gesture, Grok organized the boys behind him and then he addressed the soldiers that had arrived.

"And who do we have the honor to meet today so unexpectedly?" Grok asked. Neither politely nor rudely. A statement of some sort saying that he was not happy about such a surprise but was willing to hear about their business before making his assessment.

The soldiers had jumped off from their rides and were now organizing a semi-circle with the orc captain in the middle. The captain's skin was not that of a traditional orcish green but the little less common purplish grey. His mane of hair was jet black and the fangs of his lower jaw glinted in the sun as he spoke.

"Old general. My name is Torgul and I am here by the order of my master, the black priest of the south. Unfortunately, your time is up."

And then he pulled his sword from his hip.

Unarmed and caught by a surprise at his son's home Grok desperately needed some time to think. What would this mean? The household guards were missing and his son Damoran was away on a military expedition. Grok concluded there had been some sort of betrayal. It would be pointless to call for backups. He and his grandsons were on their own.

"Very well," Grok made a sigh. "But please let the stable boys leave first. They don't have to see it."

The idea that they would have to leave their grandfather to these men made the young ones grimace. But the captain spat his reply,

"Fool! Those are Damoran's children. They will follow you where you are going."

Slowly backing away Grok was looking at his options. There were weapons in the front yard storage but no time to get them. And the humans he might have been able to take by surprise but the orc captain Torgul was at his prime. Even if Grok had been armed he could not be certain he could take him out.

Wondering who this warrior orc was and where he came from Grok was searching for any sort of leaver. He took in every detail of Torgul's attire and weaponry. Then he could see the markings made with a branding iron on his shoulder. With a low rumble, Grok repeated a word from his distant past he had wanted to forget,

"Bara-Ur"

This stopped the captain and he looked into his shoulder. Noticing that Grok knew the meaning of his markings.

"That is right. Bara-Ur is being restored as we speak. But what is it for you old man?" he asked half curious but half irritated by this delay in his assignment.

"I was there when they last time tried to form the tribe," said Grok matter of factly.

"What triggery is this? Are you trying to buy time? It will not work." the captain said. But then the curiosity won him over and he ordered Grok to explain. And Grok did,

"I was there. But not for the tribe but to stop them. The brutal and violent ways of Bara-Ur were not acceptable. So I and the remaining of the other great tribes went to the gathering and stopped them."

"You were there?" the captain whispered in awe, "In the last gathering?"

"I was there. Furthermore, Ras-Modan was killed by my hand," confirmed Grok now staring intensively into the captain's eyes.

After a significant pause, Torgul's face hardened and he said to Grok,

"All the more reason to kill you then. The old bruiser was my grandfather and today is the day you will pay for what you did."

"I did not slaughter him. We had the numbers over Bara-Ur supporters. But he called the ancient rights of final duel and we granted him that. If he had won we would have let them go. Not with re-established Bara-Ur but at least they would have been left alive".

Torgul knew the legend only too well. He had been raised by the stories. How his grandfather would have united and restored their legendary tribe if the other orcs had not stopped him. Had the black priest known about this connection between him and this old general? Very likely. It seemed he knew everything. But the story and Grok's alleged part in it only made him angry.

Then Grok revealed the true reason he was telling all this,

"The bruiser called it then. And I, Grokon of the once Great tribe of Andurian orcs, will call it now!"

At first, Torgul did not believe it. Then he said that he would not grant it to Grok. He was there for a reason and did not need any duel for it. But when Grok hinted to him that maybe he was afraid and asked what would his grandfather think of such cowardice the captain growled in rage and yelled to Grok that he would be granted the final duel. And that he would rip Grok's head from his shoulders at the end of it.

Only a moment later the two sizable warriors were circling each other with swords in their hands. Grok would have preferred a good war hammer or an axe but since he had called the duel the choice of weapons was Torgul's privilege. It was evident to Grok that this descendant of the once-feared Bara-Ur was not an easy target. As far as Grok could see there were no obvious weaknesses. On top of this was the sad but indisputable fact that Grok was an old orc and his opponent was several decades younger.

Grok could almost see Torgul's grandfather in his memory. Hear how all the orcs of the last gathering were chanting either his or Ras-Modan's name. And then Torgul started. Splinters were flying from Grok's wooden shield with each mighty blow Torgul landed on it. There was simply no time to counterstrike and it took all Grok's effort just to defend himself. Too soon there was no doubt about the outcome of the fight. In Grok's mind, everything was becoming clear - this would be his final battle.

To each attempt Grok made Torgul answered with a series of strikes. Every one of those could slice a man into half or kill a full-grown ox. And as Grok was backing down Torgul pressed on with increasing tempo. Roaring and hitting until Grok's shied broke into pieces damaging the hand that had been holding it.

A half a dozen or so blows more and with brute force, Torgul hit his opponent so hard that in the end, Grok's sword flew away in a great arc. Grok remembered the wild hounds and how they had tried to rip him into pieces. He remembered all his victorious fights and realized that in his line of business, he had never known how it felt to lose.

There was nothing more to be done. But still, he refused to give up. With a desperate rollover break fall not suitable for his body or age Grok escaped a final time from his doom and picked up a wooden training sword from the ground.

Now Torgul was just amused. He saw the old general panting and knew that Grok would not survive the day. Since the steel sword had not helped Grok earlier the wooden one was nothing more than a joke. With a swift backhand strike, Torgul broke the wooden sword, and then his opponent was standing in front of him defeated.

Still, he knew the final blow had to be given with care. He expected triggery and was not going to fall into any of it. From all his options he chose to go with a long forward push sticking his sword in front of him. Aiming to skewer Grok's torso with it. Keeping his body as far from his opponent as possible.

Grok saw it coming. But rather than parrying with the splintered wooden sword or stepping away from the powerful blow he threw himself at the blade as hard as he could. He could feel how three feet of cold steel pierced first his solar plexus and then his lungs and heart. He pushed himself on and the sword blade came out from the back between his ribs. He could taste the blood and even his death in his mouth.

But he smiled victoriously. Like a person gone mad. Grok could see how life was escaping Torgul's eyes as well as his. The sharp splintered stump of a wooden sword had found the soft flesh below Torgul's chin. And further on into his brain.

Then there was no more Torgul. No more soldiers or the castle yard. Grok was in the arms of the love of his life. His wife Eve who had died years ago was holding him. They embraced each other and Grok could remember all the tender moments they shared in their cabin in the woods. He remembered some raunchier moments as well. How he had pillowed Eve for the first time at the back of his cabin. The countless times he had tumbled with her in a summer haystack or at the nearby bond. And then he was no more.

The soldiers watched in awe how the big fighters collapsed to the ground entwined into each other. Both were lifeless but still somehow impressive.

"Right then. We have our orders," announced Torgul's second-in-command after a small moment of silence. Before the fight, Torgul had made it clear to them. No matter the outcome, they were to kill Damoran's children anyway. And from the aftermath of the greatest fight the soldiers had ever seen they turned their attention to the young boys.

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Even in the depths of a marching army, some level of comfort and pleasure was achievable. More so for the higher-ranking officers than for the common foot soldiers. When a battalion consisting of nearly a thousand soldiers was moving it was inevitable that there was a whole village of people and cattle following their tracks. Army and battles meant profit to some and the ultimate losses for others.

For Damoran, this meant the company of the best of the courtisans available. He paid them with cold coins even though most of them assured him he didn't have to pay. That they would much rather stay as his personal concubines and he could keep them forever. But no matter how much he enjoyed the sex he did not want to commit to any sort of relationship. Not while he had so much to do.

After his wife Diarra had died giving birth to their second child Damoran threw himself to work. In times of peace, it meant various tasks at the country's government. And more precisely with his father-in-law, the state's secretary. But as often as he could he also took out his band of listed soldiers to settle out any skirmish or uprising there may have been against the lawfully elected government.

This time was no different. As soon as there were rumors about the southern jewel city of Takagiwa falling under the influence of a religious group run by a person simply called the black priest Damoran was ready to go and find out what it was all about.

He was lying down in his tent listening to the camp waking up around him. A girl named Sataya was sleeping right next to him and Damoran enjoyed the smell of the woman. The blanket covering them had dropped off a hint and he admired the bare feminine shoulder revealed in front of his eyes.

He even chuckled as he thought that she sure knew her trade. She had entertained him greatly with her witty humor and when they hit the bed she had been all over him. Complementing his body and being delighted with his large penis. Riding him to the climax and right after it with only the slightest pause she had gone down on him. Sucking his spent cock like there was no tomorrow. Urging him to give her more of his seed.

And he had done exactly that. He had taken her in missionary and finalized fucking her in the most animalistic way from behind. Sweating in his lust like some sort of a caveman not knowing a thing about politics or governments or armies.

Re-living the moments from last night Damoran could feel his cock stirring up and pulled the sexy minx into his embrace. The woman was barely waking up but she was immediately backing her perfect young tushy against his crotch. Wiggling her ass on her cock she let out a satisfied whisper and commented on how certain someone was up early. Damoran was playing with her ample boobs and biting her neck. They joined for one more pleasurable time before it was time to march on.

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Tens of great bonfires illuminated the dark night with their flames. A great host of men and orcs had gathered outside the city at the plains. Drinks were shared, stories were told and even some drunken fights were fought. Then the huge drums started a low and loud thumping. A vanguard of half-naked orc and human females came dancing and their naked breasts were sure to guarantee everyone's attention.

It wasn't really necessary as everyone had been waiting for the main event anyway. After the dancers, there was a neat formation of human soldiers in their black armor. Followed by a dozen orc warriors in loincloths. Markings painted with white covered both the naked dancers as well as the shirtless orcs.

A smallish figure in black dress robes followed the orcs. Or at least he seemed small compared to the orcs in front of him. He had spread his hands wide and was carrying a silvery scepter in his other hand and some sort of shackles on the other. At the end of the shackles, there was a storm lantern. Fluorescent green smoke was coming out of it.

And last but not least a big purple orc in full battle gear walked proudly. The mob around them cheered furiously when the orc passed them. The crowd was in a frenzy. They knew something exciting was about to happen. Something which they could, later on, look back and say to people, "I was there that night".

Raz-ul felt all the eyes on him. Years earlier, the black priest had told him that he would see this night, but he had to admit he had had his doubts. He doubted no more. Before the priest had found them they had been nothing but a bunch of drunkards and thieves. But now they were a great host and he was at the center of it all.

They took their place on a high pedestal that had been built for the occasion and could see thousands of participants roaring with anticipation.

"I only wish my little brother would be here to see this," Raz-ul spoke in awe. Somewhat to himself but loud enough for the priest to hear it.

A gnarling voice answered him,

"I as well. But, like I told you, the mission I sent Torgul on is much more important. It has to be done. I looked into the sacrificial basin and saw it as clearly as I saw you in front of me here. There is no doubt about it - only the blood of the Andurians can stop us now. And that line is thin. We must cut it down for good."

Then they went along with the ceremony. The priest amplified his voice tenfold by touching his throat,

"Friends! We are finally here. Some of us have followed this orc for a longer time - some of you joined us only a few days ago. But all of you are about to become a part of something greater. The old tribe of Bara-Ur was for orcs. The new Bara-Ur you will see formed today will be for orcs and men. And all the others will bow to us in the end."

This made the group cheer on even louder. Raz-ul presented him to the audience. He went through his bloodline and some of the audience were astonished to hear about his heritage. Then there came the moment of truth. Raz-ul declared himself the chieftain of the tribe and with venom in his voice asked if anyone there would oppose him. No one was keen to challenge the purple giant and the sorcerer in black robes beside him.

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As Damoran's army came to the great river Dechelon, and the garrison bridge going over it, they received an envoy from the black priest. The group of men were young and disciplined. Not wearing any armor but a uniform of some sort of religious group.

Damoran had guessed it was not a welcoming party but still, he was astonished to hear what they had to say. They claimed a chieftain orc called Raz-ul had formed a tribe called Bara-Ur and if Damoran and his troops would bend their knee and pledge their loyalty to Raz-ul they would be saved.

No pleasantries, no diplomacy just a demand to surrender without conditions. Such a demand made to the official army of the current government and Damoran as its commanding officer would mean only one thing. A civil war. The young commander had a vague feeling he had heard about this Bara-Ur before but could not remember the details. May have been something his father had referred to but Damoran could not say for sure.

In the end, he however concluded that his batallion was well disciplined and trained and that such a demand would be met immediately by him with force. The scouts had not reported about any sort of an army in the city or anywhere near it. So Damoran could not see how this Raz-ul could form a significant threat. But just in case things would heat up he decided to leave the civilian part of his camp to the riverside and proceeded only with the actual soldiers.

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"Don't even breathe" whispered Marius to his companion and they glued themselves against the wall. Waiting. The past day had been an ongoing nightmare and there seemed to be no end to it. In the dead silence, they were able to muster up by controlling their breathing, they heard the steps closing in.