--Three proud Goths stood at the very edge of the cliffs surrounding the Valley of Triumph. Below them lay the sprawling camp of The Horde. Pillars of smoke rose up into the orange sky from the various fires lit by its inhabitants. The Goth in the middle, with absurdly heavy armour, a tabard and a humongous helmet spoke.

-Look at them, the defiant bastards. Surely, they know we’re hot on their trail. Their scouts may have eyes on us at this very moment. And still, they make camp right in the open.

--The helmet made his words resonate, as if spoken into a metallic barrel.

-Well, - the Goth on the right noted, in a shrill, old man’s voice – it would seem they are aware that the Wurzan army is still several days away from flanking their position.

--He was crooked, old. He had a long, white beard, a bald head, and a sky blue robe. He was leaning against his wooden, knotted staff, etched with arcane runes.

-Hah! That merely means that the glory of slaying their King shall be yours alone, sire. – The young one, on the left, boasted.

--This one was clad in regular, non-absurdly oversized, Goth armour. He had a shield on his back, and a book and a mace hung from his belt. He removed his helmet to reveal a smooth, gentle, young face with short, blonde hair, and gave a demeaning look to the old one with his handsome, cold, blue eyes.

-Preposterous. – The old one barked. – Mounting an assault without the support of Wurzan’s troops would be tantamount to suicide. Sir Gawain, surely you see this?

-Gentlemen, the sun is about to set. I am much too exhausted for big words and arguments. – The absurdly armoured one replied.

Satisfied that he had made his point, the old one agreed – Good. We will sleep on it and forge a plan at dawn.

-Hah. That is not what I said, Mercurial. Lind! – He now spoke to the dashing, blonde lad with blue eyes. – Have our men don light armour, and ready all of the climbing gear that we have.

--The bearded old Goth was shocked.

-Sire! Surely you…

-Enough Mercurial. – Gawain interrupted them. – These wretches will learn the name Gawain tonight. And those few that survive? They shall fear it for generations to come.

***

--The sound of drums and battle woke Zarak from yet another nightmare about being slain by Kord. In his dreams, he sought for any sign of weakness from his foe. But each time, the King’s blade defended against Zarak’s attacks with ease, and the King’s offensive manoeuvres were relentless. He sat up on his reed mat and held his head, which was pounding. The last thing he remembers seeing was flying through the air, his body going limp and dropping to its knees behind him, headless, his blood spraying everywhere. His lungs were burning and he couldn’t catch his breath, he was coughing. He couldn’t see around him and it was so hot that he was sweating profusely. Confused, stumbling, he got on all fours and crawled out of his tent. There was fire all around and he could barely see anything from all the smoke from the burning tents. He heard metallic clanks as armoured figures approached him through the smoke, fast. He tried getting up again, but they ran right past him, knocking him back down. After crawling some more, he emerged from the cloud of smoke and finally breathed in deeply, with great relief. A few meters in front of him, an Ork woman was attempting to fend off three human knights with a frying pan. Her three green, little ones were hiding behind her, holding onto her skirt, as the humans pierced her chest and belly with their spears. She dropped to her knees, swinging to no avail, as the spears were simply longer than her reach. The knights bore red Goth markings on their chest plates. The three little ones now jumped one of the knights. The biggest one gouged the knight’s eyes out, while the other two stole his shortsword and spear. Inhuman, Zarak thought to himself. The Goth knight on the left stabbed that biggest Ork greenling in the chest. The greenling was barely tall up to his chest, but grabbed the spear and would not let the knight pull it out. He grunted in Orkish, and his siblings obeyed and charged the knight. The greenling with the spear stabbed the knight, but thanks to the knight’s armour and the poor aim of shaking hands, it was merely a shallow wound on the left side of the Knight’s belly. The greenling with the shortsword charged him as well, but the knight on the right intercepted the charge. He deflected the greenling’s blow with his own spear and bought time for his ally to draw the shortsword from his waist, as he could not get his spear back. The knight on the left used his shortsword to disarm the spear-wielding greenling, and the two knights butchered the little Ork with the shortsword rather quickly, as it did not seem to have the first idea on how to defend against two assailants. The greenling needed to be much quicker on its feet, Zarak thought to himself. Control the battle and how they come at you. What seemed to be the big brother of the other two dropped to his knees now, apparently slowly succumbing to the wound caused by the spear that’s sticking out of his chest. He seemed to be struggling, trying to get up, but the light in his big, yellow eyes was fading. The smallest of the three greenlings scurried to pick up the stolen spear, its face growing pale. Now that the knights got their spears back, they rushed it as well, displaying good team work and dispatched the little Ork quickly. Once they were done laughing and stabbing what was now a rather formless, small, green and red heap of flesh with their spears, they noticed Zarak.

-Grab a weapon and join us, slave! - One of them said, tossing Zarak the dead knight's shortsword.