Rumble

Olgrem peered out into the setting sun from the opening in the mountain. The tiny village in the clearing at the base of the mountain sent up plumes of smoke from their miniature chimneys, at least, they looked that way from this distance. The forest that surrounded the mountain peaks chittered with the evening birds as they tried desperately to obtain a last meal before they went off to roost. He spit with disgust at the sounds and sight of the village. Humans were a plague, one that Olgrem wasn’t going to allow infect his people as they already had this land. The Orc chief had known several other tribes who had been friendly with humans and now those humans claimed the other tribes’ lands and had marched those Orcs into the mountains. Olgrem had read the signs and understood the omens. He had not bothered to wait for the humans to push his people into the mountains, but he had fled to them by choice.

Olgrem wasn’t sure if he was more upset with himself or with the humans below. These people now built homes with the wood and stone that his tribe had once held in such reverence, but he was the one who had fled into the caves when the scouts had sighted the humans. Should he have stood and fought? He had to think about the Oras (those that can't fight) and the Pugs (Orc children). He could have led the Scarred (warriors) against the humans but what if the Oras and Pugs had taken shelter near a bear or a pack of dire wolves? Olgrem thought that he had been given no better option then to lead his people into the mountains but now as he stared down at the warm homes, smelt the cooked food on the smoke, and heard the peaceful ambiance of the evening bugs, he wasn’t so sure.

It had taken them almost three weeks to find a comfortable enough den within the mountains and to make a home if one could call it that. First, the Scarred had helped to ensure there were no beasts within the caves, and then there was the matter of gathering provisions for the community, which had kept the Scarred busy as well. Olgrem noted that the Humans had wasted no time as well and there was a slight measure of awe for how rapidly the people below had made the clearing their home.

Olgrem thumbed the hilt of his machete, the rough wooden handle was wrapped in leather bindings and the blade was jagged and dinged from years of use. Most Scarred carried the same, and their daggers which were more utensils than weapons. Some carried heavy clubs made by lashing a boulder to a sturdy wooden haft, but Olgrem preferred his machete. His hand moved from the hilt of his weapon to the hollowed-out goat horn that he used as a bugle, by now he knew that the rest of the Scarred were in position. Olgrem wasn’t sure that causing a landslide to crush the humans below was smart. It would mar the valley and bury the tribe’s homeland in mud and stone. That was better though, right? If it couldn’t be the tribe’s home then it would be no one’s home.

Olgrem recalled the stories from other tribes that had been displaced or outright murdered by humans. He knew that these humans below him probably had nothing to do with those stories, but he couldn’t take the chance. The few orc tribes that had managed to fight and win back their territory had been inevitably overrun by a new surge of settlers. Cutting the head off a hydra was pointless, you had to kill them all at once. Olgrem lifted the bugle to his lips. At least he would die in the valley among the mud and stones he loved so dearly.