Book One – Chapter 13

Yet, before the wizard or the voltera could react, the sudden, savage roars of the orks shattered the second of stillness between them. Their guttural cries erupted like thunder, their infuriated faces twisting into grotesque forms, reminiscent of the totemic masks they so often wore in battle — faces molded by the harshness of this frozen wasteland, scarred by years of war, and etched with burning rage. Greenish flesh, marred by frostbite, split in jagged cracks across their bodies, streaked with freezing blood that crystallised into sharp crimson lines.

Their breath escaped in sharp, angry bursts, misting in the frigid air as they rallied, reformed, and readied for battle once more. Where they had been desperate and decimated, they suddenly revolted in death-defying determination, driven by a primal wrath that was raised by the appearance of a towering male.

He came from above, a hulking figure recklessly descending from the cliffs. His body was draped in furs thick with grime and stiffened by ice that had formed jagged spikes. They clung to his body like armour, adding to his already imposing presence, as though the mountain itself had forged him from its brutal elements. His broad, bare shoulders were a mass of sinew and scar tissue, each line carved deep into his flesh. His tusks, one chipped and worn, and the other gleaming with silver, jutted out from a jaw that had been broken and healed too many times to count. He was older than the others, his face lined with prominent wrinkles of age and hardship, yet his eyes burned with a flicker of cunning that belied his savage appearance.

His name, whispered with reverence and fear among his kin, was Gorak the Frostblade. His reputation stretched far across the Albweiss Mountains, a legacy of bloodshed and brutality that had marked his decades of survival in the frozen north. His savagery was tempered only by a sharp, calculating mind, a trait that had kept him alive and dominant where countless others had fallen.