Book One – Chapter 13

Swords and axes hacked at the golem’s legs, seeking any weakness in its stone. Spears jabbed at its joints, but each strike seemed futile, merely glancing off the hardened surface. Two warriors climbed onto the golem’s back, driving picks and spikes into the cracks between its stone plates, attempting to pry it apart, but the golem shook them off with a violent shrug, sending one ork crashing to the ground and the other flying over the edge of the cliff.

Balthagar lay broken and bleeding, his vision flickering as the world slipped away. He watched as his warriors were crushed beneath the golem’s assault or hurled into the abyss. His warband, his brothers, his blood — slaughtered by the very mountain they had sworn to protect. He screamed for the orichs, his voice raw and choked with blood, but the howling wind drowned him, carrying his cries away into the storm. No answer came. He had witnessed Gorak fall with the voltera  his brother lost to the storm because the orichs had refused to wield their magic against the beast. Now, he was forced to watch as the rest of his warriors perished due to their cursed inaction.

It was Maletar who seized the charge and rallied the remaining orks. “Circle it! Push it to the edge!” His voice was hoarse, barely cutting through the chaos, but those closest heard him. They surged forward, now only four in number. They pressed on, hacking at the golem’s stone limbs, striving to drive it toward the cliff’s edge. Axes clanged against the stone, spears thrust into its joints, but the golem stood unyielding, retaliating, crushing their bodies beneath its weight or slamming them into the rock wall behind them.

Balthagar’s heart could no longer carry his rage. He felt his strength slipping away, the comforting cold seeping into his bones. He cursed the orichs with his last breath, spitting blood and hatred.