Its massive arms swung in devastating arcs. It tore through the snow-covered battlefield with terrifying purpose, each step shaking the earth beneath it. The orks were no match for its raw, overwhelming power. They were trampled, tossed aside, and thrown down the slope like runts, their weapons clattering uselessly against the ancient stone.

Balthagar was consumed by rage as he watched his warriors being torn apart. How dare the orichs force them to endure this? The warriors of the Albweiss were not meant to lift their weapons against a being of mountain blood, blood which the most deserving of them came to share. An ork never shies from battle or death, but to see the mountain turned against them, twisted to obey a wizard’s will, was a blow to their very core.

Balthagar would not yield. He leapt at the golem from his vantage point, roaring with rage as his warhammer swung down with all his might. The weapon struck the golem’s head, and as he landed, it connected again with its leg, sparks flying on impact, but the golem did not even shift. In swift retaliation, a massive arm came crashing down, smashing into Balthagar’s armour, shattering it like kindling and sending him tumbling backward through the snow. He slammed into the frozen ground, his head ringing from the force of the blow.

Everything went silent. Balthagar lay still, pain throbbing through his body as his vision swam. Sharp jolts of agony radiated from broken bones, and he felt the dull throb of what must be a shattered skull. He tried to move, to rise, but his limbs were dead weight. Just then, the golem’s arm came crashing down again —

But warriors rushed in. Through the haze, Balthagar saw them, the horde that should have scattered. They surged forward, driven not by fear but by the unbreakable bond of kinship. Orks fought as one, and they would not abandon one of their horde, not now, not ever.

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