The Pit Riot

“Which will it be, brute?” the grizzled Dwarf spat.  “You’re next, so make your choice.”

   The tools sat in a pile to one side of the Slave-Handler, a heap of splintered wood, cracked stone and rusted copper.  

   “Well One-eye, which will it be?”

   The Ogre remained silent.  A thick tendril of saliva spanned the length of its open mouth.  The dull pupil of its single remaining eye transfixed itself upon open air, a soft point of black in a milky pool of grey.  The broad shouldered creature swayed slightly on its feet as if in a trance.  Cursing to himself, the Dwarf bent to select a copper-headed mace and gauntlet before pressing the weapons into the Ogre’s hands.

   “If you have any brains left you’ll use these,” the tusked Dwarf spoke.  “Slave-Lord Gromnluntan has some new Orcs.  Viscous bastards, or so I hear.”

   The Ogre remained silent.

   “And there’s something special for later.”  The Dwarf’s voice softened to a whisper.  “They’ve brought in a Giant.  A Giant!  Its been practicing in the dungeons with a few of your mates.”

   What may have been a grunt rumbled from the Ogre’s lips, though its features remained lifeless, blunted.

   “Bah, you’re done,” muttered the Dwarf.   He gestured to a pair of black-skinned Orcs.  “Take old One-eye to the pits, his time has come.”

   A sharp jab to the flank roused the Ogre’s limbs.  The back of his pit-fighter turned to him, the Slave-Handler failed to notice the rapid metamorphosis of the Ogre’s face, failed to see its lips peel back from yellow tusks or the shuddering of its single eye, now hard and black like some jagged obsidian.  

* * *

   A single voice proved capable of rising above the din of throaty calls and exclamations that rose into the night sky above the roofless pit.  An Ogre had died only moments earlier, its head now brandished by a band of Orcs.  They were a breed rare to the occupants of this industrial citadel and its surrounding wasteland, with waxy skin green and bright, dabbed and sketched in blue paints and tattoos.  And the blood-lust of these exotic greenskins was apparently contagious, so feverishly had it swept over the Dwarfs.

   “On this evening, in offering to the Priests, in offering to Hashut, in offering to-”  The voice droned on… “-the blood of the mindless brute has been spilled!”
   Those who had witnessed the spectacle roared.  The savage Orcs were quietly led into the labyrinth of dungeon beneath the pit, prodded and shoved into the depths by Black Orcs carrying half-pikes and tower shields.  The headless corpse of the Ogre lay upon its back in the center of the enclosed killing-ring, the great plates of bronze which covered its stomach and shoulders nicked and bent.  The length of the deceased’s scimitar lay black and purple with fresh blood; two green-skinned bodies laid broken upon the rough gravel of the pit’s floor.  As the last of the Orcs was prodded beneath the pit, three Ogres, as similarly equipped as the largest of the corpses, made their appearance.

   Slave-Lord Gromnluntan shrugged.  He would have preferred to watch another bout involving the savage Orcs, but he knew better than to overwork a new act, especially one which had drawn such a positive response from his guests.  Another slaving expedition would be returning from the World’s Edge Mountains within the week, bringing him shackled Humans, Skaven and Mountain-Dwarfs.  Those would make good opponents for his remaining savage Orcs, who had paid dearly in their last match.  But his guests cried for more blood, and they would have it…
 
   The speaker continued, though the Ogres seemingly ignored the announcement of the impending bout.  They stood in the center of the pit, facing one another, and in low voices they spoke themselves.  Gromnluntan seemingly ignored the Ogres, until one of the brutes pointed to him with an outstretched arm.  He recognized it for One-Eye, one of his veteran pit-fighters.

   One of his Human pleasure-slaves leaned over his shoulder. “Is one of those monsters pointing at you Gromni?” she said.

   Gromnluntan silently rose from his seat, and with a backhand slap the Dwarf set the Human back on the floor behind him.  Smoothing the ruffled silk of his robe, the Slave-Master lowered his bulk back into the seat.  The bout was to begin.  He leaned forward, a leer creeping across his bearded face, his hands clutching the edge of the pit.

   Groaning chains lifted a section of the wall way, revealing a red gate shod in black iron.  The single door of the gate then lifted away, grating vertically alongside the raised wall, revealing the Giant.  Those peering into the death-pit collectively swallowed their breaths.  The monster stood nearly twenty-feet in height, its limbs and trunk the width of a Dwarf, its improvised bludgeon the length of a Man.  The Giant’s lantern jaw snapped open as it roared, rattling the shattered gravel beneath the Ogre’s feet. The Slave-Master let the Giant stand where it was, heavy chains upon its shoulders and wrists.  His guests cheered; the Ogres remained silent in the center of the pit, weapons lowered.  Once Gromnluntan felt his guest’s impending excitement peak, he waved his hand, signaling the release of the Giant.

   The Dwarf knew something was wrong the moment the Giant stepped into the full light of the pit’s surrounding torches.  Its body was a swathed in bruises and cuts, one eye socket a bloated, purple mass.
   
“What in the name of Hashut happened to my Giant?” he rasped to his Slave-Handler.

   “My Lord, we had pitted it against several of the Ogres earlier, unarmed, to get its blood up.”

   “And?”

   “And the Ogres won.  One of them, Tusk-face I think we call him, managed to knock it down.  But the Giant was unarmed then, my Lord!”

   The armed Giant plodded towards the trio of Ogres, and stopped.  One of the Ogres stepped forward and proceeded to berate his Giant, prodding it in the midsection with the butt of his club.  One-Eye once more pointed at the Slave-Master.  

   “Call for my warriors!” the Dwarf screamed. “Call the blunderbuss teams!”

   It was too late.  The Giant bent to pick up one of the Ogres, before hurling it over the edge of the pit.  A scream- and a lifeless Dwarf fell into the pit.  Another Ogre was thrown into the crowd of panicking Dwarfs, and then another, until the Giant began to pull itself out of the pit.  More bodies rolled over the edge, to land like broken dolls upon the sharp gravel of the killing-ring.

   Gromnluntan felt as if he were paralyzed.  His pleasure-slaves and assistants fled, to join a swirling, panic-stricken mob.  Already the crowd left a wake of trampled corpses behind it, as it surged away from the corners of the pit, away from the berserker Ogres.  

To be continued.

Hmm... I don't normally read these things, but man, that was one good peice of writing.

I think I'll keep an eye on this one, keep up the great work.

Thanks bud, I'll try to make the second part worth the read.

Nice.  More please.

“They’re coming back into the dungeons!” a Dwarf stammered, his voice reverberating within his closed-face helm.  

   Buharln had been fumbling with his own helm, underneath which he struggled in vain to arrange his tightly braided beard.  With a tendril of greasy hair in hand he turned to face the messenger.  He recognized him as one of Dralndaz’s warriors, one of the dungeon’s gatekeepers.  The messenger carried the sharp odor of recently ignited black powder, a sign that he had firsthand knowledge of the Ogre’s whereabouts.  
   
   “What?  They’re coming this way?” Buharln exclaimed.  Shrugging, the stocky fusilier tossed the helmet aside.  Beads of sweat stood out on the Dwarf’s pock-marked face, catching the light of lantern and torch.  “I suppose these will be of better use down here, anyway.”

   “Ugh,” puffed the helmeted Dwarf.  He cradled his blunderbuss in one arm, its fat, conical snout pressed against his shoulder.  “They have done us little good above.”

   “How many of you are left?”  Buharln jutted a thumb at the four Dwarfs who stood flanking him.  “I’ve posted most of my warriors at the cells, but I’ll lead half of them to the gates if Dralndaz is in need of them.”

   “There’s no time!”  Dralndaz’s warrior removed his helm, revealing a fat, quivering lip.  He fixed his jellied eyes upon Buharln.  “They’re through the gates- we never thought we’d need to keep anything out of the dungeons!  Take up firing positions, now!  There’s no ti-”

   The ceiling rattled above their heads, sprinkling the six Dwarfs in motes of dust.  A volley of blunderbuss fire echoed down from the staircase which led to the gates above, to be followed by a smattering of individual shots.  As the hammering of gun fire fell away beneath torturous Dwarfish cries, Buharln turned to his four warriors-  

   “To my sides, take up positions!”  The messenger plodded into the loose firing line, his knuckles white around the short barrel of his weapon.   Buharln had loaded his own blunderbuss with powder and shot as soon as word of the Ogre’s rampage had filtered down into the dungeons, as had his warriors.  While the messenger reloaded his own firearm, Buharln readied the weapon for firing.  With a callused thumb he drew back the firearm’s elaborate striker, setting the mechanism at a half-cock.  He then snapped the flash pan of the blunderbuss open, tapped a small amount of powder into the small metallic dish, and snapped it shut.  The joints of his fingers seemed filled with sand, so difficult was it to move his digits.  He set the weapon’s striker at full-cock, and with his index finger off the trigger of the blunderbuss, leveled its muzzle at the staircase.  
   
   “Hold your fire until I give the word.”  

   The bulk of an Ogre filled one corner of the stairway.  Whether by accidental discharge or fear, one of the weapons went off, filling the subterranean room with thunder and smoke.  The shot peppered the stairs, barely grazing the Ogre, which now descended upon them in great bounds.  

   “Fire!”  

   The five remaining blunderbusses erupted in near unison.  The combined weight of flame and shot caught the Ogre in its knees, groin and chest, reeling it back on its feet.  It descended the final three steps in a heap, its face a twisted, nightmare mask of shock and rage.  

   “Reload!”  Buharln bellowed.  “There might be more!  Reload!”

   Smoke began to drift across the room, bringing tears to the corners of Buharln’s eyes. Plucking a powder-horn from his belt, the Dwarf poured a gout of black powder down the muzzle of the blunderbuss.  Into the wide barrel he shoved a patch of shot, and then another, before driving the ammunition deep inside with the end of a bronze rod.

   The Ogre stirred at the foot of the staircase.  

   Buharln discarded the rod- he had a replacement tucked into his belt.  Half-cocking the flint-tipped striker, his nimble fingers opened the flash pan.  As he once more removed the powder-horn from his hip he realized how calm he had become.  The Ogres were flesh and blood after all- look how easily this one had fallen beneath their volley.  If another descended the stairs, well, they would just have to do it over again.  

   The Ogre raised itself on one elbow.  Blood trickled from a corner of its mouth.

   “Someone take an axe to the thing,” Buharln commanded, the recent volley of fire making his own words distant within his ears.  His attention remained fixed upon the firing mechanism of the blunderbuss.  Carefully covering the flash pan in powder, the Dwarf failed to notice the second Ogre come quietly around the corner of the staircase, a titan phantom in the creeping smoke, bloodied mace in hand.

*edit* To be continued...

Skletck had picked up little Dwarfish over the course of his imprisonment, though the Skaven still craned his long head in concentration as the guards outside his cell spoke.  The rat-man might as well have been eavesdropping on gibbering Squigs.  The guttural Dwarfish speech seemed hoarse and disjointed, alien in comparison to the sing-song chirps and mewls of his own race.
   
   Orcish, on the other hand, was a language Sketck understood well enough.  Unfortunately for him the green-skinned slaves accompanying the Dwarfs spoke little amongst themselves, if at all.  Still, the Skaven’s hooded ears picked up sounds other than speech, sounds which alluded to the events unfolding above his head far better than any of his captors’ dialogue.

   The constant barking of firearms continued to rattle the bars of the Skaven’s cell.  Occasionally a shout or order echoed down from a staircase or narrow corridor.  More frequently it was a scream that sounded incessantly across the stone and iron of the cells, or worse, a bellowing roar.  Were the Trolls loose?  Skletck’s flicked his black, serpentine tongue nervously across his snout.  

   It had to be Trolls, or some similar beast.  Why else would the fighting be getting closer- what other creature would attempt to escape from a dungeon by delving deeper into the earth?  The Skaven leaned closer into the cell’s bars to renew his eavesdropping.  One word punctuated the Dwarfish speech- Ogrul… Ogrul… Ogrul.

   Skletck ground his teeth in frusteration.  The corner of his tongue found itself caught between the needle points, and a thread of blood soon snaked down the rat-man’s angular jaw.  He ignored the pain.  Ogrul?  The Skaven moved to the corner of his cell.
   
   “Green-skin,” Skletch whispered to a neighboring cell.  “Small green-skin, what Ogrul?”

   The neighboring cell was dark, nearly devoid of light, as were most of the dungeon’s confines.  Skletch could see its occupant clearly regardless.  Once more, the Skaven whispered through the bars which separated the two, across the black depths of their prison-
   
   “Green-skin, what Ogrul?”  The rat-man paused to pick through his limited Orcish vocabulary.  Slowly, he continued- “What Dwarfs talk of?”
   
   The Goblin crept towards the bars.  

   “What does it matter to us, Rat-man?  We’re not the ones revolting.  We’re here, locked tight in our cells.”
   
   It took several moments for Skletck to put together what the Goblin had said.  Soon enough he responded to the red-eyed Greenskin-

   “What it matter?  They come here, this Ogrul, they come this way.  Listen.”

   As if the Skaven had willed it, a burst of blunderbuss fire sounded across the long corridor which held the rows of cells.  Skletck was right, the fighting was getting closer.  This was especially apparent to the guards, Dwarf and Orc-slave alike, who moved quickly to seal the heavy door which led to the main corridors of the dungeon.  As they set a heavy bar of iron across it, the Goblin reluctantly answered his question.

   “Ogres.  Ogrul means Ogres.”  The Goblin turned away.  “Who knows, the bastards might have gotten out, but they’ve got themselves turned around.  And they mean nothing to me, anyway.  Like I said, they’re out there, and we’re in here.”

   Skletck too plodded away from the bars.  Now the Goblin was right.  Soon the Ogres would be trapped within the dungeons, sealed off from above by the Dwarfs who would soon arrive in response to the revolt.  And what then?  The outraged Dwarfs would likely collapse the pit itself on their heads.  From the quantity and quality of the screams which filtered through the reinforced door, the Ogres were pushing steadily through whatever resistance the Dwarfs could provide.  But no matter how far they got, there would be no going back.  

   Unless…  

   The Skaven turned to the cell opposite the Goblin’s.

   “Man-thing,” he pleaded to the cell’s occupant.  Unlike Dwarfish or Orcish, Dark-speech was of a second nature to most Skaven.  “Listen now!  There is a revolt; the Dwarf-things are falling, dying!  If we can get out of our cells, Skletck knows a way out of the dungeon!”

   The large, pale figure sprawled across the stone floor of the neighboring cell snorted.

   “Ha, we make our escape then?”  The Human had the heavy accent of a Norseman, which had the effect of slurring his words.  “You and me, eh, Rat?”  
   
   “If we can get out of our cells-”

   One of the Dwarfs turned from the door and pointed his blunderbuss at the Skaven and Norseman.  His fat index finger quaked over the trigger; the weapon’s end shook like a bell.  Skletck stepped back from the bars.  

   The Norseman raised his hands.  “Dwarf,” he began. “Don’t be worrying about Runni…”

   The blunderbuss roared.  Shot and flame filled the Norseman and his cell, ricocheting off metal and stone, splaying the surrounding corridor with lead pellets and shards of crumbled masonry.  An Orcish guard cried out in surprise, raising one hand to a ruined eye.  Another plucked at its neck, its waxy flesh now a waterfall of oozing black ichor.   The others soon moved on the offending Dwarf, abruptly pinning his squat torso against the bars of Skletck’s cell.  
      
    The other Dwarfs trained their weapons on the Orcs.  Skletck threw his body on the cold, hard ground.  The fur of his hands and chest was singed and one of his arms had suffered a shallow gash, but otherwise he felt unharmed.  The Skaven did not know how long this would hold true, with two of the horrible weapons now leveled in his direction.  He closed his eyes, before darkness overcame him like a rockslide.

* * *

   It was the Goblin that awoke him.

   “Wake up Rat-man,” it rasped.  “Wake up!”

   Skletck opened his eyes.  His vision was blurred, as if he were underwater.  His addled thoughts swam appropriately.  

   “Rat-man!”

   He shook his head, his brain pulsating within his skull.  

   “The guard!” the Goblin urged, a spindly arm gesturing to one of the fallen Dwarfs.  “Get his keys!”  The brained Dwarf sat slumped against the Skaven’s bars, his firearm resting atop his lap.  Across the corridor lay a maze of still bodies and broken limbs, discarded weapons and bloodied hands.

   The sight of the dead Dwarf roused the Skaven, and on elbow and knee the creature squirmed forward.  An Orc lay on its back, not four feet away, its chest steadily rising and falling.  Skletck’s frail arms slipped easily through the bars.  His pink hands scrambled blindly across the pockets and pouches of the dead Dwarf’s leather belt, in desperate search for the metal trinket that offered freedom.  

   Nothing.

   The Skaven slumped onto the floor of the cell.  Nothing.  Unconsciousness slowly crept back upon him, as the barrel chest of the Orc stopped moving.

To be continued.

very nice. Keep it up.

wow thats a really nice story

The pit was open to the public regularly and its acts were many.  To the slave-lord and his money lenders it was merely the location of a simple transaction- blood for money.  This did not mean that theirs was an overly simple business or an inexpensive one however.  Surplus life was cheap in the wasteland citadel, yet its quality varied and considerable time and influence had to be applied to the task of obtaining the most exotic of a slave raid’s returns.  Worst yet was the initial cost of the pit’s construction.

   A corner of the city’s hive-like hobgoblin quarters served as the site upon which the pit was hewn, a location emptied a generation earlier by an outbreak of plague.  Gromnluntan had obtained the rights to the area through an overdue debt, and financing a small mercenary detail, had its many tunnels, cellars and caves soon cleared of vagrants.  The center of the cavernous slum was ordered collapsed and the walls and floor of the resulting pit were reinforced with layers of stone, gravel and mortar.  More care was applied in the construction of the open gallery which surrounded the wide depression, which would become a vast expanse of stairways and seating finely carved in marble and ivory.        

   Yet the location’s original inhabitant had tunneled deep into the parched earth of the wasteland, deeper than the Dwarves cared to follow in the construction of their killing-pit.  The upper levels of the former Goblinoid hive were rebuilt to form the pit’s tributary dungeons and sealed off from the lower depths of the modified slum, depths consequently forgotten by the slave-lord and his financers.  As a whole their construction sat as a finely hewn pockmark atop the face of the industrial city, the corruption of its center scarcely concealed by the fine polish of its surface.

A group of figures crept slowly down the corridor, a mere shadow in the weak light of the few remaining torches.   The dew slickened ground was littered in discarded blades and hafts, many of which sat protruding from the limbs and torsos of Orcs and Dwarves alike.  The differing races lay in embrace of one another, hands around necks, jaws upon throats.  A crude, hurriedly constructed barricade lay at one end of the long, narrow hallway, behind which crouched three of the ragged Dwarves who still drew breath.

“Hebladash,” one whispered.  “Do you see them?  They move to assault us again.”

“I see them,” answered the Dwarf.  “Hold your fire until I give the word.  There may be more lurking about.”

“But how many more could there be?” sputtered the third.  “We have already slain a horde of the green savages!  And we haven’t even seen the escaped Ogres yet!”  

The frayed eyes of Hebladash remained fixed upon the distant group as he addressed the latter question-

“This dungeon holds two hordes of Orc, Krelbi, and the Ogres are the least of our worries.”  He gestured down the corridor with a gauntleted fist.  “It was these exotic Orcs who slew the Orcish Slave-Handlers and released a number of their brethren.  Behind us is the last of the secured slave quarters that I know of.  Who knows how many Orcs -or worse- now freely wander the dungeons?”

“How long will they let this revolt tread upon our skulls?!” exclaimed Krelbi.  “Where is the city guard and-”

The distant party broke into a run, their feet slapping upon the wet stone of the lower dungeon floor.

“Quiet!” spat Hebladash.  The commanding Dwarf steadied his firearm, a gnarled finger hooked around its trigger.  “I’ll fire first, then Matrosul, then Krelbi.  Now don’t waste your shots- we can finish them off with our axes if we need to.”

The shadow cast by the group soon melted into those cast by its members as they bound towards the barricade.  Hebladash fired into their center, followed shortly by Matrosul.  Half their number fell to their knees or slumped onto their faces, their bodies broken and bleeding.  The remainder continued running towards the Dwarves and into the light of their torches.  

“Save your shot Krelbi!” Hebladash shouted, his ears ringing.  “These aren’t Orcs!”  

Onto the barricade they scrambled, the hragged Mountain-Dwarves, Skaven and Humans.  Hebladash took up his axe and caught one where its shoulder met its neck.  His Dwarves did likewise, and soon the bodies of five of the escaped slaves lay like a babe’s discarded playthings about the base of the makeshift barrier.  

“They were unarmed!” said Matrosul.

“Never mind that, they were keen enough to overrun us.  Reload your weapon Matrosul.  Krelbi, give me yours and send word to the quarters.  We’ll need more guns on this barricade if we’re going to hold it much longer.”

The Dwarf nearly tossed his blunderbuss into his commander’s hands before he turned to the heavy door that separated the corridor from the nearby wing of slave-quarters.  

“The door is sealed!” Krelbi stammered, the door unmoving before his hands.  

“What?”

“They’ve set a bar across it!”  

Hebladash silently cursed the guards he had posted inside the quarters as he returned his attention to the length of the corridor.  With great ease he imagined similar events taking place throughout the dungeon, as panic and fear spread amongst the few remaining pockets of order beneath the pit.    

“Krelbi, take an axe to the door,” the commanding Dwarf snapped.  “I will not have a barred door to our backs!”

As Krelbi’s axe went to work on the thick wooden frame of the door another crowd of distant figures began to creep down the hall, though this group seemed to move more hesitantly than the last.  Hebladash raised the blunderbuss to the pit of his arm.  

“Hurry up and reload that weapon Matrosul,” snarled the commander as he primed his own firearm.  “They’re nearly upon us again.”

A distant shout echoed down the hall-

“We surrender!  Protect us!”  

Hebladash tightened his brow as he mentally turned over the words, as crudely spoken in dark-tongue as they were.  The shouting continued as the group neared the barricade, their outstretched arms and empty hands now visible.  

“We surrender!”

Matrosul took up a position beside Hebladash, his own blunderbuss leveled at the approaching figures.  The pair remained silent, the sharp report of Krelbi’s steel upon the door providing the only audio evidence of their occupation of the barricade.  The Dwarves had earlier cleared several meters of the hall nearest the barricade of the debris and rubble they had produced in the construction of their barrier, and as the group entered this killing ground Hebladash peppered them in flame and shot.  Some recoiled and turned to flee; others then broke into a run towards the barricade, the features of their faces broken in shock and horror.  

“Protect us!” cried one of the Humans in broken dark-tongue.  “They herd us forward!”

The second shot caught what remained of the group in its center.  The pair bound over their barricade, axes hefted.  They set to work on the stunned and injured like woodsmen on a felled length of tree, their expressions hard and their movements unflinching.

“This is not easy work,” Krelbi shouted from the door.  “And I don’t think we want in here anyway- it sounds like a fight has broken out.”

“Never mind that,” Hebladash grunted in response, his bloodied axe now shouldered.  “Just get that door opened.  We need powder and shot if we’re going to hold this corridor.  The city guard will clear the dungeon soon enough, and we’ll wait for them here.”

Another shout reverberated along the stone walls and ceiling of the long hall.  

Having little appreciation for the Orcish tongue the content of the cry was lost on the Dwarves, though they perfectly understood its meaning.  Despite the poor lighting of the corridor they could easily discern the movement which erupted at its opposite end.  A stream of dark figures filled the far end of the hall, the weight of their collective voice deafening.

“Krelbi!” Hebladash bellowed.  “Leave the door!”

The wave of green skinned warriors poured down the corridor.  Some carried the broken heads of half-pikes as daggers; others swung captured axes or improvised bludgeons of iron bars.  They were upon the barricade in seconds, jostling and shoving to gain some ground on their fellows, their red eyes maniacally wide.  The firearms of the Dwarves lay discarded and forgotten as the three swung wildly into the churning crowd, their barricade steadily crumbling beneath the weight of their foes.

The encaged Goblin did not know whether to feel relief or terror as whatever had attempted to batter down the reinforced door resumed its effort.  At least the steady splintering of the door broke the silence which weighed heavily on the dungeon cells following Skletck’s failed attempt at escape.  The Goblin snorted and peered through blackened iron bars at the still body of the Skaven.  He noted to himself that the broken creature still clung to life, however weak and tortured the rhythm of its breathing.

The thick wood and iron of the door began to give, first cracking along its frame and then falling away in jagged slabs.  The cutting edge of a bearded axe became visible through the damage it had wrought, only to disappear to be again driven into the shattered surface of the door.  A thick green arm (the Goblin’s heart threatened to crawl up his throat) snaked through the gap hewn into the barrier, and grasping the iron bar which held the door in place, pulled it free.

The ruined door swung violently on its hinges as a group of Orcs crept into the slave quarters, their bloodied weapons held at the ready.  

“Empty,” grunted the largest of their number.  A chaotic tattoo covered the right side of the Orc’s face, neck and barrel chest, a swirling pattern of crudely shaped skulls etched in black.  The brute carried a Dwarven axe in its hands, and two Dwarven heads on a looted belt.  

“Gather weapons,” ordered the savage Orc.  “Then we rest and eat.”  

The Goblin knew exactly what the new masters of the slave quarters would intend on eating.  The diminuitive Greenskin threw himself at the cold bars of his cell.

“Boss!  It’s me, Blugs!” the Goblin pleaded.  “I know a way out!”  

“Eh, what’s this?” the Orc rumbled.  

“The Rat-Man, he’s hurt- burned by the Dark-Stunties.  But he still lives boss, and he knows a way out.  Blugs knows this!”  

It took considerably less axe-work to open the various cells of the slave quarters.  Blugs and the unconscious body of Skletck soon sat to one corner of the large room.  The smell of fresh blood and lightly roasted flesh filled the Goblin’s nostrils.  He waited silently and patiently, hoping his larger kin would leave him an un-cracked bone or two.

Great stuff Bluto.
I hope theres more to come!

Ana

That's really good. Very interesting, very detailed. I like the way the characters are shaping up. Keep up the good work!

SM

I am really enjoying this story Bluto.  It is one of the reasons I have become very interested in the Ogre army.

I can't wait for you to write more.

The weight of the forked axe pressed against the back of Septlan’s shoulders like some itching growth, so greatly did the massive Dwarf wish to draw it from its leather bindings.  Yet the surface level of Gromnluntan’s pit was awash in shattered marble, broken stairs and mangled bodies, all of which seemed intent to seize and twist his hoofed feet.  To attempt to transverse the ruined gallery would be dangerous for a creature such as Septlan; to personally lead his warriors into the dungeons below would be impossible.  And so he placed blunderbuss teams about the few entrances to the dungeon and dispatched foot patrols to creep across the surface of the pit.  The rioting would not spread from the pit, or so the Bull-Centaur desired.

 From where he stood the pit opened up like a cavernous maw, all bloodied masonry and reaching shadows.  The light of a new day remained a distant hope, and the glow of numerous torches, hastily placed by Septlan’s warriors as they secured the surface of the pit, painted his vision in swaths of orange and red.  His eyes easily picked out the many groups of his minions regardless, and with particular interest he studied a trio that had begun to climb towards his location above the pit, meandering single file like a smattering of ants.

“Why do you leave your posts?” Septlan bellowed as they approached closer still, their faces now distinguishable.  The weight of the axe seemed to grow, as if proportionate to his desire to take it in his hands.  A memory of the open badlands crept across his mind then, a brief, somewhat frustrating memory of thunderous charges and resolvable confrontation.  

They continued closer, until one of their number replied-

“Commander, we bring you the heads of three of the rioters.”

“So?” the towering Bull-Centaur spoke, his words somewhat muffled by the long tusks that stood from the corners of his mouth.  “We will need to collect more than three heads if we are to snuff out this revolt.  Return to your posts.  I have little doubt that the guards below will soon push them back to the surface.”

“But commander- they are Orcs!”

“Orcs?”  Septlan paused then, raising one of his meaty hands to pluck thoughtfully at his beard.  “The survivors spoke of Ogres and a Giant…”

“And we’ve seen no sign of them.”  The Dwarf raised one of the heads.  “Only these three attempting to sneak up on us.”    

 “Then there is little hope in drawing them out; they likely feed upon each other like carrion jackals.”  Septlan shook his head.  “Bring the heads to Siege-Master Bablume and have him prepare a battery of earth-shakers.  I want this pit collapsed by the morning’s light.”

Excellent story

Are there any more parts out there somewhere?

Its been over 5 years since I started this, so I figure it's time to finish it!

* * *

“Skletck.”

The voice came from up ahead, up far ahead, winding its way down the meandering nest like a thin serpent.  Skletck moved to follow it, bounding across the dirt floor on all fours.  The Skaven rejoiced in moving freely again, in scuttling through the darkness of a hive dug by Rat-men, his flared nose drinking the scent of warpstone and damp fur.  How long had it been since he had crept about freely with his kin? 

“Rat-man.”

The voice sounded closer now, closer still as Skletck leapt around a corner illuminated in the green light of a warpstone lantern.  Again, how long had it been since he had scuttled about freely with his kin?  The thought would not leave him.  Where were his kin?

The tunnel began to shake.  The ceiling and walls threw streams of dirt across the light of the warpstone, stinging his eyes and nostrils.  Harsh, unintelligible voices began reverberated through the tunnel, drowning the earlier (friendlier?) call.  The Skaven fell to his knees then.  He covered his pointed ears with his hands as his scent-gland voided itself, and the horrible voices rose tumultuously around him.

“Skletck.”

Again, the softer voice.  Cupping his bony fingers firmly about his ears, the Skaven rose and ran blindly up the tunnel, his long, naked tail whipping behind him like a disjointed streamer.  The noise became deafening, assaulting his every sense, when suddenly the tunnel behind him filled with a geyser of rubble and smoke.  The wave of refuge carried him upward, upward, and the red light of the surface soon broke through the smoke’s haze.

“Wake up!”

* * *

Blugs sunk his slight shoulders in relief as the Skaven opened his eyes.  Their new masters were growing increasingly impatient each time the Skaven slipped into unconsciousness, and the black, stinking ichor he continually sprayed on the Orc who carried him further fouled their mood. 

Skletck’s feverish council had led them deeper beneath the pit, through the shattered dungeons and beneath the now-looted armoury, once guarded by a wiry, ancient Dwarf whose bones now mingled with the scattered remnants of his inventories.  A night of continual, desperate melee had reduced their warband’s number to just less than two dozen, not including the Skaven and Goblin.  Only the most hardened of the greenskins still drew breath; Southland Orcs dabbed in impromptu war paint thickened with the red blood of the softer races, and those surviving Black Orcs who eventually joined their kin in the riot.  The former fought almost naked save for their war paint, while the latter jostled and fought over the mail and bronze plate torn from the bodies of their former masters. 

“Good for you, Goblin,” spoke one of the Black Orcs, who Blugs couldn’t help but notice had managed to wrestle and bully for the greatest share of captured armour.  “Your rat friend wakes.   Ask him which way we go now, or I take a finger off you both.”

Blugs scrambled over to Skletck, who the Orcs had indifferently dropped on the floor.  The Goblin drew the thin blade he had managed to sneak out of the armoury, and holding the wicked tool before the weak eyes of the Skaven, leaned forward to speak. 

“You stupid, lazy Rat-man,” Blugs rasped.  “They’ll kill us both if you keep sleeping!  Which way do we go now?”

The Goblin turned the fallen Skaven’s head to a fork in the tunnel.  Skletck’s nostrils flared as he sniffed at the air, his beady eyes shut tight in concentration. 

“This one,” the Skaven whispered, raising a finger to point towards the tunnel which led away from the left.  “Ntch nt nctch sktch.”

“What?” the Goblin spat. 

“Ntch nt nctch sktch.  Ntch.”

The blade snapped through the air; Skletck recoiled his hand in pain.

“What did you say?”

“W-water... this one-one.”

“Water?  We don’t need water!  I’ll take your tail for a belt you useless-”

“Which way we go!” bellowed the Black Orc.

“Follow Blugs boss!” said the Goblin cheerfully as he turned away from the Skaven, the bloodied blade tucked away from sight.     

* * *

The floor of the left tunnel began to glisten with moisture, before the water rose to chill their feet and ankles.  Shattered sections of wood drifted between their legs and feet as the party continued on, until they came to an abrupt turn.  The Black Orc that led the procession stopped to examine a particular piece of flotsam, resulting in a sudden collision of shoving, cursing greenskins.  One lay broken and drowned in the knee-deep water before some semblance of order was restored. 

“Ok,” the lead Black Orc growled as he turned the corner.  “We keep going.”

As Blugs half swam, half scrambled to follow the line of Orcs he saw that something big blocked the end of the tunnel.  Something very big.

A challenge rose from the front of the party, echoing down the water-choked channel.  Weapons were drawn- bearded axes pried from cold Dwarf fingers, flanged maces and razor-edged scimitars.  Blugs hurried to follow the Orcish charge, eager to take part in the looting of gear and meat that would surely follow.  The end of the tunnel drew closer and the mass that blocked it began to take shape- a massive serpent?  The Goblin slowed and let the Orcs create a healthy distance between them.  One unslung the load it carried, letting Skletck fall into the dark water with a splash. 

Bugs crept forward cautiously.  No, not a serpent, the shape was a massive bent leg protruding from the wall.  As the Goblin neared the end of the tunnel he spied the massive hole torn through its wall, seeping water, within which lay the Giant.  All around the Giant there lay great slabs of masonry, support beams and dirt, seemingly torn from the tunnel by its bare hands.  And as the Orcish charge neared the end of the dark tunnel, and as the huge leg shifted while the prone Giant struggled to pull its torso from the ragged, gaping hole it had hewn, the Ogres leapt from behind the great mounds of rubble.  The challenge was answered.

The lead Black Orc spiralled backwards, its head a pulpy ruin.   The combatants soon choked the breadth of the tunnel and the melee ground into a desperate shoving match, the walls and roof of the channel catching and blunting the swings of club and scimitar, spiked gauntlet and axe.  A massive arm suddenly shoved through the crush, and grasping an Orc in its meaty fingers, heaved the screaming greenskin into the ceiling.  Black, feathery tendrils of Orc blood blossomed around Bugs’ feet.

The Goblin crept back, almost dropping the drawn blade, when out of the corner of its eye it saw the Skaven struggling to climb atop a pile of shattered support beams.

“You!” the Goblin hissed.  “You led us into a trap!” 

The Goblin splashed through the water towards the Skaven, blade held high for a killing stroke.  Seizing the oily fur of the Rat-man’s shoulder, Bugs hauled his victim around.  A murderous sneer distorted the Goblinoid’s pinched visage; he would not die alone.

A pink hand shot out to grasp the Goblin’s blade-hand, turning it painfully aside, and with the strength of the desperate Skletck pulled the Goblin forward.  The former Stormvermin clamped his needle-like teeth around the throat of the greenskin as the two tumbled into the water, joining the shattered bodies that lazily drifted away from the Ogres and their Giant.   

* * *

To be concluded...

Man this is GREAT!  Keep up the good work.

Septlan found Bablume at a nearby well, watching idly as his slaves slowly drew a bucket of water from its depths.  The Siege-Master, considered horribly fat even by Dwarfish standards, sat precariously on the edge of the great fountain as the slaves raised a heavy iron chain hand over hand, a delicate pillow separating his massive backside from sun-bleached marble. 

“Septlan,” the Siege-Master exclaimed, turning away from the labour.  “Care for some wine?   Generously watered of course- there is much work to be done before the sun rises.”

The Bull-Centaur dismissed the offer with the wave of a hand.  Even sitting atop the well, the pampered Dwarf looked up to meet the cold gaze of Septlan. 

“How soon before you order the battery to fire?”

“Soon, soon!”  Bablume hopped off the fountain’s rim and gestured for a slave to retrieve his pillow.  “I will begin my final inspection of the Earth Shakers as soon as I have refreshed myself.  Are you sure you don’t want a cup?”  The Dwarf turned to the slaves.  “What is taking so long?”

“The chain is stuck,” a Human slave grunted in accented Dwarfish.  “Snagged on something in the-”

The crew of slaves fell backwards as the chain’s tension abruptly gave, spilling the bucket’s liquid contents on the fine silken robes that swaddled Bablume. 

“It looks like you’re sufficiently watered,” said Septlan. 

“Hmm.  I suppose you’re right.” 

A heavily reinforced chair was set up next to the well for the Siege-Master, and Septlan inexplicably found himself sharing un-watered wine with the Dwarf.  The Bull Centaur waved away a bowl of honeyed scarabs as Bablume gestured to the nearby pit.

“Has any sign of the Slave Lord Gromnluntan been found?” the Dwarf asked.  “Was he among the survivors?”

“No,” Septlan grunted over the brim of his glass.  The Bull Centaur found it difficult to drink the delicate liquid from between his tusks.  “It is said that he was among the first to die.” 

“The sooner I bring down the pits the better then,” said Bablume cheerfully.  “As soon as we finish the skewered viper.”

* * *

The first volley rocked the sprawling structure’s foundations, cracking and splintering the great columns that supported the polished viewing stands that encased the pit’s surface.   The second brought the stands down, spewing a geyser of shattered stone and powdered marble.  The debris fell violently into the gaping maw, until the pit became little more than a shallow heap of crumbled masonry.  Septlan insisted on a third volley, one of Hell-fire, and the light from the resulting blaze rivalled that of the rising sun.

* * *

The new day’s sun slowly crept over the wasteland citadel.  For the survivors of the pit riot the new day marked a chance for retribution, financial and otherwise.  Yet as news of the Slave Lord’s demise spread through the city, and as the realization settled in that those Dwarfs responsible for the pit and its inhabitants were dead or missing, all hopes of compensation or vengeance quickly vanished.  For the kin of the deceased the new day was one of mourning, and the blood temples of Hashut were soon overrun with slaves offered as sacrifices in honour of the dead.  Otherwise it was a day like most others in the heart of the industrial wastes.

By midday the slaving caravans had arrived.  It was a busy, chaotic afternoon in the markets as eager buyers pressed shoulder-to-shoulder within the viewing galleries in hope that the death of Gromnluntan would drive prices down.  The slavers left the citadel after the sun began its descent, the various beasts of burden that drew their caravans straining beneath the weight of gold and iron in place of flesh.  The sun set.   Within their fortified palaces and manors the Dwarfish masters feasted, while the multitude of races that made up the city’s vast under-class toiled endlessly within workshops and mines, smoke-choked forges and manufactories. 

The well-maintained yet poorly lit streets of the citadel were silent, abandoned save for one small party that carefully picked its way through alley and slum until it arrived at the ruins of the former fighting pit.  As the group neared the rubble several of its members crept into the shadows of the few buildings that still stood around the ruined site- sharp eyed Hobgoblins shrouded in cloaks of grey and black, within which they concealed daggers and compact crossbows.  The remaining Hobgoblins hurriedly set up a sturdy chair, before moving to carefully free the rubble that had fallen atop the well.  All laboured or stood watch, all save one who was similarly garbed in grey and black, though it had taken considerably more cloth to cover his bulky frame.

With the well uncovered and the area around the destruction cleared of unwanted eyes, the party waited.  A huge filthy hand soon rose from the well, and taking hold of its rim, pulled until the colossal head and shoulders of the Giant rose from the dark like a terrible growth.  Grunting in an impossibly low octave, the Giant pulled its hips and legs free of the well before turning and kneeling to extend an arm into the depths below.   The observers were soon shadowed by the Giant and the Ogres it hauled one by one up into the fresh air.  The fattest of the former party fought to not cover his sensitive nose at the overpowering smell of the new arrivals.

The Giant reached within the well one final time, and pulling the last Ogre free, sat down heavily.   

“Which one of you be Bablume,” spoke one of the Ogres, its voice like cold stone on steel.

The cloaked Siege-Master stepped forward, a smile forming on his heavy lips.  The Ogre tossed a greasy bundle into the Dwarf’s hands.  Bablume’s smile broadened as he peered within.

“Ah... Slave Lord Gromnluntan,” Bablume spoke to the remains of his rival.  “Consider my debts paid in full.”

Handing the bundle to one of the Hobgoblins, the Dwarf turned back to the Ogre.

“I hope that your time in the pit wasn’t too uncomfortable... One-Eye is it?”

“Call me Gruce,” the Ogre grunted in Dwarfish.  “Haven’t eaten like that in years, stunty.”

“Gruce then.”  Bablume gestured to another of the Hobgoblins, who produced a pair of tulip-shaped glasses and a large copper flask.  Filling both, he handed one to the Ogre before taking a delicate sip of the gut-warming spirit from his own. 

“And about our contract... I can have you out of the citadel before the sun rises.  My Hobgoblins tell me that your tribe is somewhere east of the River Ruin.  I’ll see that you and your brethren leave with some of the best armour and weapons my smiths can craft, enough to surely win you back your...”

“Mmm,” the Ogre interrupted, tossing its head back and downing the contents of the glass.  “And as many casks of this as my Giant can carry.”

“Of course Gruce, of course.”  Another sip.  “And on your way back to your tribe maybe you will visit a nearby silver mine for me?   I’m sure we will benefit as much from another contract as we have our last, don’t you agree?”

The Ogre thoughtfully regarded the Dwarf with its single, hard eye.

“Well Gruce, which will it be?” 

* * *

Epilogue:

“Pull!” screamed the Dwarf overseer, his command punctuated by the crack of a barbed whip.  “Pull!”

Sweating profusely beneath the mid-day sun, the line of slaves heaved and tugged on the hot iron chain in vain. 

“Hashut take you all, pull!”

 “The chain is stuck-” 

The Dwarf silenced the slave with his heavy fist.  He had awoken earlier to the news that the fountain his slave detail was to restore was fouled and vandalized overnight, its fine bricks loosened and cracked.  Worse still, the sturdy chain that drew its water had been nearly torn in half.  And now, before it could be further inspected for damage, it was caught.

“Useless, useless fools,” the overseer muttered as he leaned over the well.  The chain was clearly not caught, as it dangled free into the darkness below...

The slaves would later claim that a giant rat leapt from the fountain and, driven mad by starvation or disease or both, viciously mauled the overseer before scampering off into a nearby alley.  No sign of the foul creature was found by the Bull Centaurs, though the attack was enough proof that the area surrounding the pit was beyond restoration.  The following day the Siege Lord dispatched a sapper team to collapse the fountain as well, and the Dwarfs convinced themselves that the pit riot had well and truly ended.

* * *

Thanks for reading everbody.

Great story!

This... Was... Truly an outstanding piece of literature. Hats off to you, Bluto, for writing such art. Hope to read more of your writing in the future.

PS: Yay! Skluts survived! He was my favourite character.

Really good writing sir.

I hope to see more.

Indeed. Just got done reading the whole story. Glad you decided to finish it. I hope to see more of your writing. It was very well done!!!

<sigh>

I wish I could write fluff that well.

wow just wow that was outstanding !