Book One – Chapter 13

As Gorak charged down the trail from the rear, the orks parted for him like ice splitting before a raging avalanche. His mere presence rekindled their bloodlust, igniting the smoldering hunger for battle that had dimmed with the decrease of their numbers. Reaching the front of the decimated horde, Gorak hefted his grand axe; a brutal weapon with a blade chipped and blackened from countless wars. He stormed ahead, his voice bellowing commands, guttural and fierce. They translated into a ripple of motion, erratic yet disciplined. Switching from their various blades and axes to long, jagged metal spears, the decimated horde snapped into formation and surged forward, hammering their shields or chests with swinging fists in a rhythmic chant that echoed their rising fury.

Trailing in the shadow of Gorak’s massive bulk was a younger, wiry ork. He struggled to keep pace with the krag’s relentless momentum, his steps awkward and laboured, a stark contrast to the fluid brutality of the warriors around him. While the rest of the orks were hulking masses of scarred muscle, their bodies hardened by war and the brutal cold, the youngling’s disproportionate figure was painfully thin. Thick black hair, streaked with frost, curled around his head, making it appear much too large for his frail body. His limbs were gangly and awkward and his skin had taken on the sickly, pale hue of malnourishment. He looked like a starved scavenger. His name was Nagrak. He was the runt of the Frostblade’s horde, a misfit among warriors.

Yet, for all his physical shortcomings, Nagrak’s meagre frame housed a mind sharper than any blade wielded by his kin, and a fire that outshone the blind rage that fuelled the others. Where the rest were driven by innate bloodlust directed by the unwavering commands of their krag, Nagrak was driven by something higher, something far greater — a vision of purpose and potential, merged into boundless ambition.