# Tales from a Savage Land>Chapter 2 posted 8/1/05



## skullsmurfer (Jul 28, 2005)

►One
	The wind swept plain stretched for miles.  His people call it Desolation because it feels lonely in any season.  He is relieved to leave it behind.  Ogrod pulled the fur hood tightly over his head.  It is cold.  There are hundreds of names for snow and sleet among his people.  The ranger can't think of any right now.  His mind has passed beyond words, the wolves are howling.  He sighed, unwilling to curse the beasts hunting for his flesh.  Nature gives, nature takes.  That is the way of the world.

	The ranger turned his back on the wolves and started his climb.  His spear makes a fine walking stick.  The Plain of Desolation stretches out into the sea.  At it's end is a great mountain.  The elders will not say it's name, probably out of superstition.  The men from the Empire came from there to invade his people's lands.  The tales say a green valley lies on the other side.  Ogrod breathed in the cold briny mist.  Wind blown snow is bad enough.  There is water on either side of the peninsula.  A green valley sounds like a fool's dream.  

	He looked up into the featureless gray mist.  Only twenty paces are visible at any one time.  It is an eerie sort of blindness.  When he was a boy, the elders used to sing tales about the delvers, the bearded men who lived their entire lives within the mountains.  They spring from the very earth, the old women said.  Their halls are lined with riches, said the scarred warrior men with their eyes aglitter.  Ogrod could care less about those things.  The tales told of a great door on the side of a mountain.  The men from across the sea would come there to trade with the delvers.  Delver steel was worth the trip from the great Empire beyond.  Their witches hungered for it.  Why would women care for steel?

	Ogrod doubled his pace as the howling resumed.  The elders never said anything about wolves climbing mountains.  They are not goats.  There are no antelope for them to eat here.  An arrow shattered on the mountain stone beside his head.  They've found him.  Green skins, no-men, if they can ride a wolf, as the rumors say, then maybe they can get one to climb a mountain.  The ranger ducked into a deep cleft and used it as cover while he continued to climb.  He was shocked to discover a series of steps cut into the rock.  In fair weather, the steps would be covered by shadow.  He only found them by accident, Praise the Gods.  The elders said the delvers were clever.

	When the men from the Empire came, they would climb a path cut into the mountain.  The delvers put terrible faces into the stone to ward away evil.  Ogrod lay his hand on the leering bearded face.  He's found it.  The way still exists after so very very long.  The ranger gritted his teeth.  He can hear the foul language of the green skins echoing up through the cleft.  It would not be right to bring his enemies to the delver's door.  His people still follow the Laws of Hospitality.  A guest should not bring a burden onto his host.  Ogrod threw off his heavy fur cloak.  He asked for the Bear to quicken his blood, the Raven to witness his death, and the Earth to take his Soul.  

	A slice of dried mushroom slowly melted beneath his tongue.  It's potent effects will allow the Bear to touch his spirit.  Ogrod smiled.  It is all or nothing now.  The enemy must die if he is to make it to that legendary door.  

		“No-men!” He called down to the green skins. “You face Ogrod Death of Trolls, son of Maruk of the Bear Clan!”  

	An arrow was his answer.  The ranger snarled, two more arrows flew up to him.  They must think they are hunting rabbits.  Ogrod dodged sideways and kicked at a large chunk of stone he found by the side of the delver path.  It rolled downwards picking up speed as the ranger followed.  The no-men would have had to climb up single file.  They can't avoid the rock.  As far as the ranger is concerned, the green skins deserve to die like animals.  The little ones don't fight worth a damn, their masters though, are a worthy challenge.  

	No doubt, the little wolf riders are being pushed forward by one or more of the larger green skins called orcs.  Ogrod shuddered as the Bear claimed his flesh and his jaw clenched tightly with the growing rage.  An arrow pierced him, he felt nothing.  The men from the Empire wore iron skins for protection.  Ogrod is sad for them, they had weak Gods.

		“No-men, I come!” He heard himself say.

	Three little ones lay broken at the bottom.  He thinks they are called goblins, the elders refuse to call the invaders anything out of fear of offending the Gods.  They came on ships from beyond the sea, they don't belong in their world.  The Gods did not name them in the First Tales.  No Man will name them after.  A big one is calling to him.  There is an ugly cleaver in it's hands.  A mix of green skins loiter at it's back.  He can count six large wolves the size of ponies.  He's never seen their like.  Ogrod spat, more invaders to desecrate the land of his people.

	A spear nearly ended him from behind.  Cowards! Ogrod clove the assassin's skull with a hatchet.  The Orc attacked while his attention was caught elsewhere.  The ranger batted his heavy weapon aside and kicked him in the gut.  It is a tough brute.  Ogrod found himself dodging a brutal combination of blows from the orc's spiked gauntlets.  His blood started to boil beneath his skin.  The ranger's mouth opened and the Bear roared, though his own breath stayed in his lungs.  It is just as the legends say.  Ogrod did not pause to wonder.  The field of battle has been consecrated.  Honor and Blood, the Gods are watching!


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## skullsmurfer (Aug 1, 2005)

►2

	The little ones cheered at every blow their leader sent his way.  The ranger had his hands full trying to avoid a knife to the back while fighting the big no-man.  The little ones are craven, he's decided to cut off their feet so that their spirits can never make the journey to the halls of their Gods.  The orc tried to skewer him with a spearing thrust.  Ogrod slashed across his chest with his iron knife, but he missed scalping him with his hatchet.  The no-man actually dared to laugh at him.  The ranger avoided another cleaving swing of the no-man's weapon.  Rather than jump back, he stepped to the side and drove his fist into the brute's face.  The orc's helmet flew off, the green skin audience went suddenly silent.

		“I kill you!” The orc growled in a clipped version of his people's tongue.  It is yet another insult to avenge.

	Ogrod heard the flapping of wings over the constant howl of winter's wind.  First the Bear, now the Raven.  An arrow pierced his back.  Damned green skins.  The ranger roared and redoubled his efforts to slay the big no-man.  The pain faded to a dull ache.  His father once told him that the Bear's gift will consume a man if he is not careful.  Ogrod has just started to fight, he really doesn't think that he could win without the Bear.  With that thought, a wall gave way inside his mind.  Foam dripped from the edges of his mouth.  The no-men are about to meet their end.

	The orc was surprised.  The ranger came at him again and again.  Each time it was harder to avoid taking a wound.  The wild man didn't seem to feel pain.  There was no fear in his terrible eyes.  Every time the man struck, he roared.

		“Die!”  The no-man screamed.  The invader's weapon blurred as it arced towards the ranger.

	His cleaver never hit.  Ogrod's iron knife pierced his heart at the same time that his hatchet clove the no-man's skull and shattered.  The ranger ripped the cleaver from the dying brute's hands and charged the flood of green skins coming his way.  He slew them in twos and threes.  He roared, freezing them in place just before their own master's cleaver sent them to their deaths.  Ogrod heard Raven's wings again.  The strange wolves have started to circle.  The ranger killed the last of the craven little beasts and chopped off his feet.  He looked to the wolves and realized that the fight isn't over.

		“Raven!”  Ogrod hollered into the wind.  “Are you still there?”  A flapping of wings answered.  A blue black feather flew into his face.  

	The ranger took the feather and tucked it into his belt.  Rather than try and keep track of the wolves, he growled, meeting their eyes boldly as they circled.  A large silver backed male halted and growled back.  There is a chilling intelligence in it's gaze.  It barked, yowled, and yapped until the other three wolves backed away.  They speak!  Ogrod gritted his teeth with dismay.  Such creatures do not belong in the fields and forests of his people.

	Ogrod met the wolf's eyes and growled again, confirming his challenge.  The beast moved faster than anything the ranger has ever seen.  One moment it was in not ten paces in front of him, the next it was standing on his chest.  The ranger did his best to avoid the scything fangs seeking after his throat.  It is heavy. He can barely move, but move he must.  The no-man's cleaver clanged against the wolf's head.  The blow bought him the chance to roll to his feet.  Ogrod grunted as he regained his feet, he almost died out of base stupidity.

	The wolf wasted no time.  The beast used it's superior speed to harry the ranger.  Ogrod continued to leap out of the way, but he knows he can't last long that way.  He roared out of frustration.  The wolf is coming for another pass.  Ogrod decided to stop thinking.  The ranger lifted the foreign weapon and charged.  They crashed.  The ranger gave as good as he got.  They separated and crashed again and again.  Ogrod heard himself laughing.  The wolf is not so sure of it's teeth anymore.  It is bleeding from a number of telling wounds.  The ranger is barely standing, but his defiant gaze gives the beast reason to pause.  Ogrod grinned at the limping wolf.  It's going to die soon.  He dropped the heavy cleaver and drew his iron knife.

	The wolves that are watching the fight started to bark.  Ogrod felt a chill now that he understood that they are actually speaking.  His opponent howled.  The ranger roared.  The wolf took a bounding leap and nearly took his face off with a bite.  Ogrod kicked at one of it's wounds as it tried to dash away.  His dagger missed, but he beast got the idea.  One of them is going to die.

	The barking made his ears ring.  The wolf lunged, he punched it and tried to stick it.  Again, it dashed away.  Ogrod watched it come again.  He started to laugh.  The wolf tackled him and clamped onto his arm.  His iron knife found the beast's heart.  Ogrod felt hot blood pour over his chest.  He ripped his arm away from the wolf's slack jaws and drank.  The Bear is still with him.  He feels neither shame nor revulsion.  His hand tore through the wound and ripped the still warm organ out.  Ogrod gave thanks to the Gods and bit down on the wolf's heart.  He didn't taste the blood, neither did the meat pass through his mouth.  The offering pleases the Gods, the Bear spirit is stirring his blood once more.  A new strength is flowing through him.  Ogrod kicked the corpse away and rolled.  He gripped the cleaver and roared.  The wolves are coming all at once.


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