Never Happy

The Light and Dark turned, and as new light fell upon the Middle Plain, a new turn began. For most, it was just another turn—but for the poor souls of Greystone, it would be their last.

Greystone showed much promise. It had risen from the grey, barren, rocky lands with nothing but determination and trade to fuel its growth. Its secret to success lay in its position—perched on a key trade route between Commarrar and Duluely, two once-great kingdoms of men.

The Orcs, once thought to be confined to the Shadow Lands, had erupted in a tide of destruction, tearing through the trade routes that skirted those foul lands at the heart of the continent. Now, only Greystone remained—a final, fragile link between two mighty kingdoms. The city had grown rich and fast, built on the assumption that the Orcs would never dare venture so far.

They had all said the lands were too distant, too rocky, too barren for the caravans to cross.

But they were wrong. So very wrong.

At the foot of Greystone’s formidable gates, a massive Orc horde had gathered, their iron-clad chariots grinding to a halt as towering green brutes assembled in a sea of muscle and bone. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and the bellowing cries of War Trolls, their chains rattling as they were readied to bring down the city’s walls.

The last link between the kingdoms was about to be severed.

At the head of the rampaging horde stood a towering green brute, all corded muscle and jagged plates of black, rusty iron.

“Look at these walls, lads! The higher they build ’em, the better the meat tastes inside, I say!” bellowed Brunter Big Daddy Skull Crusher.

The green horde erupted with cheers, whoops, and guttural roars, already dreaming of the meat bags cowering behind the stone walls.

Brunter had never taken on a city with walls this high before. And they were high—thick too—but his boys were tougher, and they could climb anything. Over the past few Turns, he’d had his tinkers lash together a heap of makeshift ‘Uppers’—what the man-folk called ladders—long, clattering contraptions cobbled from bone, rusted iron, and whatever scrap they could scavenge from the wastes.

Brunter never quite understood how the tinkers did it, but he was always amazed at how they could turn junk into such marvels—now hoisted high over the bony heads of his eager lads.

“Release the Trolls!” Brunter bellowed.

The massive beasts were held down by thick iron chains, barely enough to contain their rage. They snarled and heaved, clawing at the ground with their huge talons.

Behind them stood their Beast Masters, gripping long sticks wrapped in flaming pitch. Trolls feared nothing—except fire. It was the one thing their twisted flesh could not regenerate from.

The flames licked the air, and the Trolls howled, their eyes burning with madness.

Their beast masters, holding long poles tipped with fire, cautiously urged the lumbering brutes forward toward the humans’ mighty gate. The thick iron chains barely held the snarling monsters in check.

Brunter squinted up at the walls and gave another bellow. “Lads with the uppers—off you go!”

Nobody moved.

The Grunts just stood there, blinking up at him, scratching their heads in confusion.

Brunter rolled his eyes. “The things you’re carryin’ above your heads! Them’s your uppers!” he snapped.

A wave of realisation rippled through the crowd. A few mumbled, “Oh yeah,” or, “I was wonderin’ why we were carrying these things was so heavy,” and with that, the horde let out a roar and thundered toward the enemy’s walls.

One of Brunter’s favourite things was standing back and just watching the battle unfold before him.

He loved seeing the chaos—the hails of their stingers, their arrows, javelins, and rocks raining down from the humans’ walls as his boys did their best to mount their uppers. A Grunt’s wits might be dull, sure, but their hands seemed to know exactly what to do. Soon enough, the uppers were up, leaning against the stone, and the Orcs were scrambling up them with reckless glee.

Brunter chuckled as one of his boys was knocked off, only to get up—limping or bleeding—and run back around to the bottom of the upper to try again.

They were having the time of their lives, and watching it all play out brought a smile to Brunter’s old, war-torn face and he couldn’t be more proud. 

As for the Trolls, one of the great beasts now lay dead—or dying. The burning oil the meat bags had poured down on them had proven too much, even for a monster like that. Brunter didn’t care. One less mouth to feed, and they stank to high skies anyway.

The two surviving great beasts were still smashing at the gates with their huge fists. With each thunderous blow, the wood cracked further, sending splinters the size of spears flying through the air.

It wouldn’t be long now. The gates would come down, and then the Grunts with their ladders would be a bit… unnecessary. But they were having such a bloody good time, Brunter didn’t have the heart to call them off—well, not yet.

Then came an almighty crack!—the gate finally gave way, snapping free from its massive iron latches and slamming to the ground with a thunderous crash, crushing several unfortunate men beneath it.

Brunter grinned. That was the signal.

It was time to get stuck in and live up to his namesake.

He raised his jagged, oversized Saw Blade high and pointed it toward the broken gates. His voice boomed across the chaos as he bellowed to the reserve lads waiting behind him: “It’s time, boys—LET’S GO!”

With a roar that rattled the very bones of his lads, Brunter surged forward, iron plates clattering as he stomped across the blood-soaked ground. The reserve Grunts bellowed in unison behind him, brandishing crude clubs, spiked blades, and makeshift armour lashed to their muscled backs.

Brunter didn’t care about formation—he led like an avalanche of green muscle and hate, his massive Saw Blade tearing through the air as he ploughed toward the broken gate. Bits of stone and splintered wood crunched underfoot as he barrelled over the debris, the scent of burning oil and fresh blood thick in his nose.

This was the good bit. This was what it was all about.

The fight, the smash, the charge—the first meat bag he saw on the other side of the gate didn’t even get a scream off before Brunter’s blade split him from shoulder to hip.

“COME ON THEN, WHO’S NEXT?!” he roared, eyes wild with joy, grinning like a mad dog in the middle of a feast.

His boys piled in behind him, ramshackle weapons in hand — swinging, chopping, and hacking at any meat bag foolish enough to get close.

Normally, the sight of Brunter and his gang would send the meat bags running for the nearest hole, which was no fun at all. But not this time.

Instead, hundreds of meat bags had formed up in a narrow road between two high buildings linked by a bridge, arching over the men. Their ‘Blockers’ or shields as some call them were locked, pointy stabbers braced, faces set with grim determination. Their shiny hard metal armour caught the Light and Dark’s rays, glinting like a wall of teeth ready to bite back.

The only way now, was forward!

Brunter’s grin widened.

“Finally, a proper fight, eh? Come on, lads — they want a scrap, let’s give ’em one!”

He hefted his great saw blade and charged, glee lighting up his scarred face.

He almost felt sorry for the poor sods still scrambling up the uppers — looked like they were about to miss a right good brawl.

Brunter’s boys instantly fell in behind their Big Daddy, weapons twitching in anticipation as they waited for his command.

“Come on, lads! Let’s get ’em — show ’em who’s boss!” Brunter bellowed at the top of his lungs.

With a roar, Brunter and his bloodthirsty green skins hurled themselves at full force into the men’s tightly formed ranks. The first three lines of human warriors were smashed aside in an instant, sent flying like broken twigs. But, for once, the meat bags didn’t break. They held their ground.

That was new.

Even as Brunter cleaved them in two, he saw it — a hard, gritty determination burning in their eyes. It was a look he rarely saw from meat bags.

The Orcs’ crude weapons couldn’t break through the men’s tight formation of overlapping wooden blockers and armour — or “Metal,” as Brunter and his boys called it. Normally, a grunt could smack a man into the dirt, shield or not. But these cunning meat bags had brains. They’d built a proper wall. And from every little gap in that wall came stabbing blades. Stabbers. Always stabbers.

The wounds they dealt were shallow at first — scratches, nicks, the odd gash. Nothing an Orc couldn’t laugh off. But they just kept coming. Jab after jab, cut after cut. One by one, Brunter’s boys began to falter — not from fear, but from the bleeding. They staggered, slipped, and dropped, silent and still.

And from above came the meat bags’ ‘Stingers’ — those cursed arrows — followed by rocks. Big, heavy, bone-breaking rocks!

Brunter was having the time of his life — grinning, roaring, swinging his jagged saw blade with wild delight — but even he could see it now. There were just too many of them. Too many meat bags. And not enough boys left to cut them all down.

He could barely swing his massive Saw Blade properly — the press of bodies was too tight, and he didn’t like that one bit. Every time he lifted it, a dozen stabbers slipped through the gaps and stung him good.

Now, Brunter loved a good scrap — nothing better — but this wasn’t a fair fight. These meat bags weren’t fighting fair.

“Come out from behind your blockers and face me, you cowards!” he bellowed at the wall of shields.

They didn’t answer. Just more hard stares… and more stabbers, jabbing through the cracks in his armour, over and over again.

Then he felt something strange. A little dizzy. Faint, even. He looked down at his massive hand — slick with blood. His blood.

Brunter glanced down at his chest, at the dark streaks soaking through the dents in his iron plate.

He scowled. He knew what this meant.

It was time to pull back — before it was too late.

Orcs don’t have the sharpest wits, true — but they understand battle. And Brunter knew, for the first time in a long while, that he and his boys had gotten themselves into a proper scrape. A real mess.

His lads were still pouring in through the gates, cramming into the narrow kill-lane. In front of him stood a wall of hard metal, blockers and stabbers. Above, more meat bags rained stingers and rocks down from the rooftops.

It was a killing hole — and his boys were stumbling into it like fools.

The meat bags had outsmarted him. Good and proper.

But no meat bag was going to put Brunter — Brunter Big Daddy Skull Crusher — down.

He thought to bellow for a retreat, but what good would it do? The way back was jammed with more of his own, still pushing forward. And besides, they’d tasted man-flesh now. There was no turning this lot around. Not now.

Brunter frantically looked around, his bloodied fists clenched, searching for anything — anything — that might give him and his boys the edge. The meat bags weren’t budging, and his lads were dying by the dozen.

Then he saw them.

Pathetic little boxy things the humans lived in. All leaning inward toward the narrow street where the fighting was thickest. Flimsy-looking. Weak. Stupid. If the meat bags lived outside like him and his boys, they’d be hard like them.

There was a bridge connecting the buildings over the street, and right underneath it — a dense knot of meat bags fighting for their lives. If it all came crashing down, it could break their precious formation.

A wicked grin crept across Brunter’s bruised face.

But it was too high to reach. He needed something big and long to hook it — to yank it down.

His eyes dropped to his blade. His beloved, massive, jagged saw blade — the one he’d forged with his own blood, fists, and scrap metal.

Brunter shoved his way forward, ignoring the stabbers still jabbing at him. He raised the saw blade high, but it didn’t quite reach.

So he stood up on his tiptoes.

That did it. The blade hooked over the bridge’s lip.

For a heartbeat, the fighting paused. Both sides looked up, finally realising what the brute had in mind.

Crack.

The men on the bridge — who’d been hurling down missiles — turned to run. The ones below broke ranks and started to scatter.

Brunter grinned wider, utterly delighted with the carnage to come.

With one almighty pull, the bridge came crashing down, crushing anyone too slow — meat bags and a few unlucky Orcs alike.

“Down she goes.”

The bridge smashed into the neighbouring buildings, and like a row of rotten teeth being knocked out, one crumbled into the next. Dust and rubble exploded through the street. Screams. Cries. Total confusion.

The shield wall in front of Brunter wavered — then broke.

That was all the boys needed.

With a fresh roar, the Orcs surged forward, leaping over rubble and bodies alike. The killing hole had become a killing flood, and now it was the men’s turn to run — or be swallowed whole.

Brunter, bare-handed and blood-soaked, threw back his head and laughed like a mad beast.

“Now that’s more like it! Come on, boys — let’s get them!”

The men who survived were scattered and stunned, no chance to regroup. The Orcs cut through them like they were nothing.

Brunter and his horde rampaged through the city, hacking down meat bags wherever they found them.

Nothing could stop them now.

Suddenly, a single horn bellowed across the city.

“What by the Great Shadow is that?” Brunter paused mid-slaughter, frowning as he tried to puzzle it out.

The horn sounded again. Then once more, louder — and final.

Brunter knew it meant something… but couldn’t quite fathom what. Maybe reinforcements? He hoped so. He’d really been enjoying the siege, and the thought of it ending too soon made his jaw twitch.

But the meat bags knew. Whatever that horn meant, they understood it — because the grit in their eyes vanished. No more fighting. Just panic. Shields dropped, stabbers forgotten, and suddenly they were all turning tail and fleeing from the Orcs. Something was going on.

As the Light and Dark began to turn, shadow fell over the burning, smoking ruins of Greystone. The meat bags were gone — either dead or vanished.

For all the strange things about this siege, that was the oddest to Brunter. Sure, it had been the biggest fight he’d ever known, but after that strange-sounding horn, they’d just… stopped. No more stabbing, no more stingers and no more rocks. Just gone. He’d looked for them. Searched the alleys, poked through buildings, but it was like they’d vanished into the air.

There were other strange things too — things that didn’t sit right in his guts — but that didn’t matter now.

All that was left to do was load up the wagons with meat and loot, and make the long march back to the good wife.

Brunter and his boys marched triumphantly back into the caravan, met by cheers and roars as the rest of the tribe caught sight of the wagons rolling in heavy with bounty. Metal, meat, timber — all manner of loot piled high. A true feast for the eyes.

The mighty brute soaked up the admiration from his boys, puffing out his chest as he strutted through the camp like a warlord king. But he knew what came next. It was time to face his dear wife — Iron Mother Roth — and she was far harder to please.

Brunter sighed, deflating like a punctured bladderworm. She was never satisfied. Not ever. Not even when he brought back mountains of loot.

He made his way to the heart of the caravan, and there she was — her massiveness mounted high upon her iron cart. As usual, she didn’t look happy.

When Roth spotted her husband, her eyes narrowed. She beckoned him forward with a curl of her finger.

“Wife! It is good to see you,” Brunter called out, fumbling for the right words. “I bring much metal, wood, meat… and that shiny yellow metal you like!”

He gestured proudly toward a massive iron cart off in the distance, where a mob of Orcs were already scrapping over the best bits.

Roth was surrounded by mischievous Noms in her enormous birthing pool. One of them — the cheekiest of the lot — hurled a bone at Brunter, smacking him square on the head. The rest of Roth’s children burst into shrieking laughter at the sight of the mighty Big Daddy getting bonked.

“You wait till you leave your mother — I’ll squish you good, I won’t forget your face!” Brunter shouted, shaking his fist at the Nom now sticking his tongue out at him.

“Silence,” snapped Roth, her voice sharp as steel.

At once, all her children vanished beneath the surface of the pool, scattering like startled fish.

“Where have you been?” Roth snapped, her voice cold and cutting.

“The meat bags put up a much better fight this time. Me and the boys really had a great—”

“I don’t care about that!” she barked, slicing through his excitement like a cleaver. “What have you brought me?”

Brunter blinked. “Well… all that you can see in the wagons! Loads of metal, meat, wood—and I brought you another bell for your wagon.”

“Another bell?” Roth’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I want another bell? I already have a bell.”

“Well… you liked the last one,” Brunter offered, his voice losing confidence after each  word he uttered.

Roth leaned forward, eyes sharp as knives. “You know what I wanted. And where are they? A city that size should’ve had thousands.”

“Erm… well, thing is, my love…”

“You’re telling me,” she growled, “that in an entire city that size—you couldn’t find one?”

Brunter looked down at his feet, big shoulders hunched. “We… might’ve crushed most of ‘em while looting or something, but I don’t think so. We just couldn’t find any of them.”

Roth stared at him, silent for a long, terrifying moment.

“You’re my best husband — and you’re bloody useless,” she hissed, barely containing her fury. “All that noise. All that meat. And you couldn’t bring me even one?”

“Thank you, my love.”

“Shut up. That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well… after we brought down their gate, I thought the meat bags would be easy pickings. But they fought hard — harder than I’ve ever seen. We got stuck in a right scrap with them, they just wouldn’t budge. Then I had a great idea—”

“So you killed them all, and…?” Roth pressed, waving her clawed hand impatiently.

Brunter sighed, a little deflated. “Well, we did. And then this horn blasted out.”

“Horn?”

“Yeah. Blew three times. And after that, all the meat bags just lost their fight. Turned and ran. Shame really…”

“And did you look for them?” Roth asked coldly, her eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t find any. I even got Unk.”

“Why?” she snapped.

“Well, he’s got the best sniffer in the whole caravan.”

“And did he find anything?”

“Well… Unk’s sniffer led us to this great stone man — had a hole at the bottom of it. He said they’ve all gone in there, but none of us could fit down it. So we gave it up as a bad job.”

Suddenly, it all clicked.

Roth leaned back in her tank, the iron and bone creaking beneath her colossal weight as the foul birthing liquid sloshed around her. Her eyes locked onto her husband below, who stood grinning up at her in eager anticipation of her revelation.

“The reason the men fought so hard,” she said slowly, “was to buy time for their females and offspring to escape. The horn you heard was most likely a signal — telling the men their little ones were safe, and it was time to run. That’s why they gave up the fight, as you put it, the moment they heard it.”

“I see… I think you might be right,” Brunter mumbled, looking down at his feet and fumbling his hands.

“I am right,” Roth snapped. “You spent so much time playing with your food, you let their little ones get away — and they’re my favourite.” She ran a hand slowly over her rolls of fat. “I suppose I’ll have to go without again.”

“I’m sorry, my love.”

“Useless, you are. To think I swapped three good carts for you — and what do I get? Battered man-flesh and bloody bells.”

“Well… I think I should be going, my love…” Brunter said, slowly backing away as Roth muttered to herself, “Useless… bloody useless…”

The End. Hope you enjoyed this first daft and all feedback is always welcome.

Dave

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