The False Moon War: Chapter 12

to Title and Contents

Chapter 12.  Waaagh!

Waaagh!  Warhuh appeared to be ready.  The hordes were poised like a green tsunami which would scour the unsuspecting empire.  The gibbering Shamen agreed that the time was auspicious, and that Gork, and possibly Mork too, would bless the expedition.  The savage Warboss would be able to unleash his dogs of war as soon as a few kompliance issues were  resolved.

It is not clear when Da Bureaukratz rose to positions of influence in greenskin society.  This obscure subclass of orc had nevertheless wound the choking blood-weed of regulation around the necks of all orc and goblin leaders in a tangle of red tape-like fronds.

Worhuh was as ready as his adherents. "Where'z me Bean Kowntah?" he snarled.

Although he didn't fear the puny akkountant, he knew that his Waaagh! could founder if there were too many night goblin fanatics, too few herders for the squigs, or a lack of choppahs.

In addition, no Warboss in his right mind (or out of it) wants to be subjected to an awdit.

The Bean Kowntah scurried forward.  He was an unimpressive specimen.  His pasty green skin indicated that he did not spend much time in the light of the sun, and his thin, hairless arms were not well adapted to lifting anything heavier than a quill.

The bureaukrat clutched a board which had clipped to it dozens of sheets of dwarf-skin parchment.  Uninterpretable script crowded the pages.  Two functionaries set up a large wooden frame in front of him.  The uprights of the frame were linked by horizontal metal rods which were festooned with the skulls of unfortunate Tacks Avoidahs.

After a quick reference to his Klipboard, the Bean Kowntah started frenetically clacking the skulls back and forth on his abacurse, all the while muttering mysterious incantations such as "CEN Artikle 153, Sayfty and Healf Regs," and "Statuet 1985.c72, Metrifikation of Chaaarge Distanse."  Eventually he fell silent and turned to face the warboss.

"Not enuff gobblinz,"  he declared.

"Dere's plenty!" protested Warhuh.

"Yor' not kompliant wif da new regs."  The akkountant folded his weedy arms.

"Aaargh!"  The warboss spun on his heel and addressed Epididimoh Orkitis, a trusted black orc deputy.

Wot is da contribution from da Hawkhatz Gobbos?" asked

Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw.

"Absolootley nuffin."

"Say it again......" Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw

demanded.

"Absolootley nuffin."

"Take sum Boyz back to da snots and parform a merit selektion process!"

The warboss stomped back to find someone small and weak to kick the snot out of.

Epididimoh Orkitis led his rekrootment panel of a dozen heavily armed orc boyz into the centre of the Hawkhatz shanty town.  As they neared the shrine, they became aware that the goblins they sought to recruit were gathering in the shadows around their hovels and silently following the boyz.

The Orc Big'un cleared his throat and recited the standard contrakt terms.  "Righ' ya little snots!  War Boss Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw is gatherin' the tribes for a Waaagh! on da Empyre Humies!  He needs you filthy gobbos to do sum dyin' for da Caaause!" 

He paused until the last echoes of his thunderous voice had faded away.  "You lot are rekruited!  Welkum to da Corpse!"

As he spoke, the goblins inched forward until they formed an unbroken ring around the selektion panel.  Four unusual specimens stepped closer still.  Each seemed to have been painted from head to toe in Lukky Bloo war paint.

One was clearly a shaman.  His tattered cloak was made of the hide of a dwarf, with the beard part turned inside out to make a scratchy but warm lining.  From his waist hung several shrunken heads.  His sinewy legs were bound with strips of rag which continued down swathe his clawed feet like bandages.  About his wrists and upper arms were fetishes made of the scraggly feathers of long dead vultures.  He had wide grinning mouth and bright crest of skin atop his head.  Clutched in his fist was Gork-or-possibly-Mork-on-a-stick.  His most alarming features were his unblinking, maniacal eyes.

The shamans body was twitching as if to the beat of unheard drums.  A large brute stood behind the shaman, firmly holding his shoulders.  The other two were tall, for goblins.  They were also unusually scaly, had a row of spines which ran down from their backs to the tip of their tails.  Tails was a bit unusual, too. 

The one wearing an impressive totemic hat cleared his throat,  "I speak for the Bloo Shaman and his brothers.  The Hawkhatz will not join your little war."

Epididimoh Orkitis guffawed.  "Sorry, did I fawget to menshun da dental plan in da contrakt?  Yoo sign up and I doezn't smash ya teef in."

He loomed forward, menacingly.  "Youse gobbos do wot we say.  We is bigga dan yoo are!"

"Size isn't everything," the goblin spokesperson sniffed. 

The throng of goblins around the tableau echoed his words, "Size izn't evryting."

The orc bully grunted and motioned to two of his band to disarm the two Lukky Bloo painted warriors.  The first henchman snatched a black bladed spear from the speaker and broke it over his knee.  The other bloo warrior, the one with the white helmet, snorted in amusement before being disarmed by the second thug.

As soon as the unfortunate orc took the green glowing weapon he felt an unusual sensation about his nethers.  His armoured codpiece felt unusually empty.  He took a peek down his breeches to investigate.  "Size i-i-izn't evryting, Rite?" he squeaked.

"Yer, it iz!"  Epididimoh Orkitis was losing patience.  "Yoo lot iz coming wif us, becoz we iz bigger dan yoo are!"

"But we are more numerous than you are."  Joe observed.

The recently bereft orc rekrooter stared intently at the orc band, then at the goblin hedge of spears.

"E-e-e'z Rite!" he squeaked and then sidled around so that he was standing more WITH the goblin negotiating team than against them.

"Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting."  The Hawkhatz goblins chanted menacingly as they tightened their cordon like a noose.

Tidings of the revolt and the four bloo brothers spread swiftly throughout the Badlands.  The news spread quickly, in no small part due to the speedy legs of the smallest night goblin, who happened to be the fastest runner to ever wear a green hide. Inevitably, Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw's Waaagh! encampment became aware of the intrigue.

"Size izn't evryting."

Wherever goblins gathered, the words were on every set of lips.  Soon, in twos and threes, and later whole platoons, the goblins ghosted away from Warhuh's camp to join the rebels.

In truth, losing the goblins would have little effect on the potency of the Waaagh!  The loss of numbers did not equate a corresponding loss of mass, or belligerence.  In fact, with fewer gobbo backsides to kick, the orcs started to accumulate animosity.  If the invasion of the Empire did not commence soon, the entire orcish army would explode in a conflagration of self destructive violence.

Warhuh hovered expectantly as the Bean Kowntah finished clacking the skulls of his infernal abacurse.

"I've chekked da figurs."  The akkountant held up his balance sheet.  There was rather a lot of red ink.  In his other hand he held a bound copy of da regz.  "Orkforce skill mix claws firty-nine A:  'A Waaagh! shall comprize no less dan twenty-five poynt wun percent goblinz'......"

Warhuh's shoulders slumped.  "Doze bloo bruvvers 'ave rooined me."

The Bean Kowntah looked shiftily around, ".... but listen to firty-nine B: '.....where such goblinz are available'.  Not havin' enuff IN is da same az havin' too many OWT.  Ya need ta tighten da labour market ta balance da books."

"Balance da books?  Ow?"

"Da eeziest way is..."  The akkountant flicked the balance sheet.  The red ink slid off the page and dripped to the earth.  He ground the pool of blood into the soil with his heel.  "...ya jus' need ta spill some red."

Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw's demeanor brightened considerably.  "Send owt a memo, 'Use ov unnecassary violunce in da apprahenshun ov da Bloo Bruvvers haz been approoved'."

Bessie had been well cared for back in the beast pens of Los'tmabo'tl.  Teams of beast class skinks kept her scales oiled and her toenails trimmed.  That was practically neglectful compared to the treatment she had received  at the hands of the goblins of da Bloo Shaman Waaagh!   

Her drab horny plates were daubed with red ochre in the profane symbols of the greenskins.  Unblinking eyes peered intimidatingly from all angles, and representations of the snarling sun and the malevolent moons covered the spaces in between.

Almost illegible goblin script made dire statements such as "Garglerinse woz 'ere" and "Gobboez Rulez".  So many skulls were strung across her flanks that she looked like a moving ossuary.

Mahtis and Bob were perched on her howdah, ostensibly to check her harness, but really to avoid proximity with the smelly, cackling rabble of emancipated goblins.

There was  a definite carnival atmosphere to the whole tableau.  The little greenskins could maintain ranks for no more than five minutes before someone would snigger, "Size izn't evryting...." and everyone within earshot would collapse in fits of giggles.

The only troops taking the whole Waaagh! seriously, in their own fashion, were the Night Goblin Fanatics.  Armed with massive iron balls tethered by lengths of chain, their previous pinnacles of suicidal lunacy were but mild eccentricity when compared with the antics of the erratic Rychek.

To honour the inspiring Bloo Shaman, each fanatic had found every last skerrick of Lukky Bloo warpaint, and plastered themselves from head to toe with the greasy lotion.

The fanatics were making a special effort to rehearse with their wrecking balls to make ready for battle.  Unfortunately, Lukky Bloo, while serving a decorative function, does nothing to enhance one's grip on a length of stout chain.

What had been conceived as a boldly choreographed reinterpretation of Da Nut-Krakka Suite" inevitably resulted in a number of the dance troupe losing their balls.

Through the middle of this maelstrom of Kultcha, twirled the Bloo Shaman, as if he were dancing to music that he alone could hear.

Joe and Len cast two pairs of disconsolate eyes at the Hawkhatz Horde, then compared them with Warhuh's Waaagh! which had marshalled opposite them across a broad valley.

Orc Boyz and Black Orcs were formed up in spiky regiments.  Their black iron armour did not glint in the pale sunlight.  Their tarnished weapons did not glitter, but they looked effective nonetheless.  These  troops were not here for show.  They had but one purpose: to rush into combat before the slavering hordes of Savage Orcs behind them got in front and obliterated the foe.

The savage orcs, in their turn, were eager to krump a few heads with their flint bladed choppers before the menagerie of trolls and giants on the flanks devoured or squished any stragglers who might have endured the initial charges.

In front of the orcish lines was a squad of heavily armed and armoured black orcs.  Each of the tank-like troopers brandished cruel, rusty weapons.  Any victim who didn't immediately die from wounds from these cleavers must surely succumb to tetanus soon afterwards.  At their head was Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw himself.

The mighty Warboss had crude iron plates strapped to every part of his body.  His enormous double headed axe, which he swung in lazy arcs, was an exquisite piece of battle engineering.  It was said that if this axe was carefully placed upon the head of a dwarf, it would neatly part the dwarf's wiry, matted hair.  If the axe was placed even more carefully, it would part hair AND beard to approximately navel level.

For Warhuh, such matters were hypothetical.  Even if a throng of dwarves presented themselves, he would have some trouble performing such a public service because he was mounted high up on his vicious wyvern, Owleggoleggo.

Wyverns are distant cousins of the dragons.  Through a mishap of the family tree which involved too few branches intertwining a few too many times, the wyverns lost the forelimbs and fabled intelligence of the dragons.  As if to compensate, the scaly horrors had developed a vicious streak a mile wide.

This particular beast's naming ceremony was officiated by none other than "Stumpy" Khulghaz, the most famous of greenskin monster handlers.

Joe felt a tap on his wrist.  He recognized Neehai Tuacrikket, the goblin chief.

"Me an' da ladz alwayz fight betta afta a speech.  Seeing as how yoo is wot speaks for Da Bloo Shaman, I waz wundring if yar could do da onnahs."

Joe turned around and cleared his throat loudly.  Finally the goblin shambles shut up.  The saurus leader opened his mouth, but no inspiring words came out.  He closed his mouth again.  Mahtis nodded encouragingly and Joe had another try.

"Well, umm.....  you've put in a good preparation all season, and....  you just need to believe in yourself, and, and, your team mates.  I know that you will try your very hardest because you are so proud to wear the green... and Bloo colours of the umm...  Hawk err, thingy...."

The goblins stood with their long arms drooping by their sides, blinking in silent confusion.  Joe breathed a silent prayer and opened his mouth again.

"I just want you all to know that however you perform today, I'll......Waa-aaa-aaah!!!!!!"

Rychek had waltzed past and stamped on Joe's tail.  The goblins were warming to the speech.

"That is...I mean....Waaagh.....in the name of, in the name of...."

Len pecked Joe vigorously on the snout, "Gawk!"

" Waaa aaaa aaaaah!.... In the Name of Gork!!!" 

With these words the goblin horde erupted in a terrifying clamour of war cries and shrieks. 

"In Da Name of Gork, an possibly Mork!"

 "Size izn't evryting!"

"'As anywun seen my spidah?  He waz just hear a secund ago!"

"For Da Bloo Shaman!"

"Waaagh!"

Owleggoleggo strutted toward the screeching Hawkhatz with the black orc honour guard keeping time and pace with his thunderous strides by loudly clashing their weapons against their shields.  The snarling platoon advanced to within forty yards of the goblin lines before Warhuh halted them with a gesture of his mighty axe.  The warboss goaded the wyvern further forward to halve the distance between the adversaries.

"Me, and me Good Ole Boyz..." thundered Warhuh, gesturing at his black orc escort.  "....'ave a skore to settle wif da Bloo Bruvvers!"

The goblin force courageously took a step backwards leaving Bessie, Bob, Mahtis, Joe, Len and the capering Rychek to face the scrutiny of the warboss.  Joe unlimbered the flint tipped spear he had acquired and strode forward.  Len spread his pinions menacingly.

Owleggoleggo stretched out his own leathery wings and roared his displeasure at the ibis's challenge.  The Wyvern' wings could easily span a cathedral.

"Gawk!" grated Len threateningly.  The wyvern recoiled slightly, no longer quite so sure of his supremacy.

"Is this a challenge then?" Joe punctuated the word challenge with a thrust of his spear.

"Yar.  But not wif yoo.  Wif him!"  Warhuh indicated da Bloo Shaman with a grubby finger.  The warboss had chosen the smallest foe in order to make a demonstration that size actually did matter.

A lot.

Before any of the other lizardmen could restrain him, Rychek skittered out to jiggle in front of the wyvern.  He waved Gork-on-a-Stick enthusiastically.  "Challenge, challenge, challenge!"

Warhuh boggled at the lunacy of the insignificant shaman and drew his axe back in preparation for a sweeping blow.  Joe averted his eyes as the axe swished through the air.  There was an agonizing silence.

"Swish!  Swishshwishshwishshwish!"  When Joe looked back he saw Rychek pirouetting with his sceptre in a parody of the blow which he had inexplicably avoided.  "Wot tha....!" snarled Warhuh as he swung again with his axe.  The steps of the skink's jig carried him out of reach of harm again.

So began the dance of Rychek's life.  He bobbed and twisted, span and bowed away from certain death as blades, claws, fangs and orcish curses rained down around him.  The warboss and his mount became more and more frustrated until both were fairly foaming with rage.

It did not help that the goblins had started to jeer and heckle with every air swing.  "Laydeez, take a look at my ginormous weapun!" they would hoot, or "Work on yar Teckneek!" and "don' wurry - keep yar pekkah up!"

Finally after another clumsy and impotent swing with his enormous choppa, Warhuh lost balance and slipped from his saddle atop the frenzied wyvern.  He landed heavily on the ground.

When he lifted his head, his gaze locked on the maniacal eyes of the shaman, who was bobbing on the spot.  Owleggoleggo was creeping up behind Rychek just as stealthily as only a house sized, slavering, homicidal monster can.  Warhuh managed a grim smile as he clambered to his feet.  He realized that as long as he held the shaman's eyes, the bloo idiot jiggled less erratically.  Without turning away, Warhuh groped for the haft of his battle axe.  If the shaman stayed still enough, he was confident that he could cut the impertinent fool down to size.

Rychek was almost still, but for the occasional twitch, and he was about to be pincered by a frenzied monster and a belligerent warrior.

"Gawk!" Len unfroze the tableau with a warning cry.

"Gork?"  Rychek snapped his gaze away from the warboss and threw his arms in the air.

Owleggoleggo was looming over the skink shaman, ready to chomp.  Instead of a satisfying crunch and a spurt of blood, the wyvern was rewarded with Gork-on-a-Stick up his left nostril.  The sceptre did no harm, but the feathers did tickle somewhat.  The monster lurched back, curling his lips and drawing a sharp breath.

Grunting with effort, Warhuh swiped with his axe, putting all of his frustration and malice into one last mighty blow.  Rychek fell like a puppet which had had its strings cut, a split second before the blade whistled past.  At the same instant, Owleggoleggo released his breath in a colossal flaming sneeze.

The draconic release of pressure enveloped Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw in a gout of flames and melted the green flesh from his crackling bones.

The wyvern recovered its composure and lunged forward, desiring to crunch the crumpled blue form of the shaman when suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, swooped a murderous curved blade.

Len had launched from his perch on Joe's head like some kind of avenging angel, buffeting Owleggoleggo's face with beating wings and slashing at his beady eyes with his savage hooked beak.

"Gawk! Gawk! GAWK!"

The wyvern could not endure this terrifying onslaught.  He bounded into the air and wheeled towards the nearby World's Edge Mountains with Len in vengeful pursuit.

The trio of lizard men rushed to the fallen body of their comrade as the whole mass of goblins surged forward to lash out with blade and tooth and ball at the black orcs before them.

The orcs, who had witnessed the immolation of their leader and a Hork Hat coming alive to spook a deadly wyvern, drew two hasty conclusions.  Firstly, the Hawkhatz Gobbos had the favour of the gods, and secondly that size, while providing some advantages in certain social situations, was clearly NOT everything.  To the last orc they turned tail and fled towards the main orc battle line.

"They flee!" bellowed Mahtis.

"We must pursue!  Again!" chorused Bob and Joe.

"Wait....wait!  Restrain pursuit!" a weak voice piped from near their feet.  The three predatory fighters paused in puzzlement as Rychek struggled to his feet.

"What? Why?"

"Have you noticed that they," he gestured towards the wall of iron and muscle which constituted the late warboss's Waaagh!, the vast majority of whom were not fleeing, "is bigger than they are."

He nodded towards the rabble of diminutive goblins streaming across the valley.  The goblins, although numerous, were clearly about to meet a sticky end.

"E's right!" Bob observed.

Rychek ushered them back to climb onto Bessie's howdah, and stopped with his mouth agape.  The decorated Bastiladon shivered her broad hips which set all of her skulls clacking together with a sound like an avalanche of coconut shells.

"What happened to Bessie?  Where is Len?  Why have I got a doll on a stick?  Why is my neck itchy?  Urgh!"  Rychek stripped off his dwarf skin and other trappings and prodded them suspiciously with the sceptre as if they might suddenly crawl away.

"Let's explain later," Bob cringed at the terrified screeching of the doomed goblins and turned Bessie's painted head away towards the foothills of the mountains.

Eventually they crossed a ridge and left the greenskins to finish settling their philosophical differences unobserved.

Joe kept looking anxiously into the sky.

"What?" Bob demanded.

"I'm worried about what happened to Len.  The wyvern flew off this way."

"It doesn't matter"

"If I don't look for him, his feelings will be hurt."

"He's a bird.  He doesn't have feelings."

"Yes he does!"

"No he doesn't!"

"Does!"

"Doesn't!"

"Does!"

"Doesn't!"

"What's that?"  Mahtis was pointing at a fleet shadow in the sky.  An triumphant ibis swooped above the party, like some kind of avenging angel.

With an earsplitting "Gawk!" it released a single dropping which plopped into Bob's eye.  Without so much as a backward glance the bird continued unwaveringly south, back to friends and family.

"Touchy little fellow, isn't he?" observed Bob as he wiped the gift from his eye.

Chapter 13: Beneath the World's Edge  - due out soon

The False Moon War: Chapter 11

to Title and Contents

Chapter 11.  Da Bloo Shaman

Chapter 11. Da Bloo Shaman

Fawlty Spelchekka looked at the "guests" through slitted eyes.  With the larger orcs away with Warhuh's Waaagh! he was interim leader of the remnant of the Hawkhatz tribe.  The presence of a new shaman and three greenskin warriors, one of whom had a regal totemic headdress, and all of whom were bloo, was not welcome.

Neehai Tuacrikket had taken Rychek and his escort back to the Hawkhatz' shanty town to present them to the goblin Great Shaman.  "...an' da wun wif da Hork Hat sez he speaks for da Bloo Shaman wot is da boss..."

Fawlty held up his hand to silence his subordinate.  "Bring dem too da shrine."

The centre of the squalid Hawkhatz village housed the Shrine to Mork and Gork.  This was  surrounded by a wide apron of earth.  The soil had been beaten down to form a hard reddish crust.  Glowering idols of the twins flanked the low timber building which was decorated with skulls and other trophies of war nailed to or heaped against the walls.

The inelegant structure contained all of the magical 'Fings' of the tribe, with the exception of those which were 'Owt on Lone.'

The idols prevented entry by the uninitiated.  To gain access, a supplicant needed to greet each idol by name.  As noted earlier, differentiating the pair was challenging, even for priests.  Most others had even odds of getting it right first time.  Paradoxically, the most cunning would-be temple thieves were the least successful because they would try "Hail Mork and yoo too Mork," reasoning that "wun outta two ain't bad." 

In any case, a misspoken name would lead the speaker to find themselves embedded in the beaten earth by one or both of the idols.  Even though 'remembring' is not a valued skill among greenskins, it is possible that some might have been able to recollect that "dat wun is Gork,"  after observing another supplicant.  However, the idols would routinely exchange position when no-one was watching.

Mahtis was protectively clasping Rychek to restrain his twitching dance, with Bob and Joe standing to one side.  Bessie hung further back as she defoliated a leaf-thatched hut.

"If...IF he's a shaman, ther's gotta be a challenj,"  Fawlty intoned menacingly.

Mahtis clenched his mighty jaw and handed his spawn brother to the sauri to hold.  He stepped forward, flexing his trunk like arms.

"Not yoo!  Him!"  The goblin wizard indicated Rychek.  "A shaman challenj!"

"Oooh!"  The crowd of goblins were impressed.

Fawlty turned to address the press of eager greensins.  "Ya all knowz me!  Wot's my name?"

"Fatty Skulchukka!  Farty Spilsloppah!  Basil Fawlty!  Frilly Suspendah!"  The goblins huddled together to argue it out.  Presently they pushed the smallest of their number forward to present their consensus.

"Yoo is.... Fawlty Spelchekka?"  The goblin cringed.

"Dat's rite!  And am I a shaman?"  He continued to warm up the crowd.

"Yah!  S'right!  Dunno!  Finkso!  Woss a shaman?  Ouch!"

"I yam a shaman!  But... ow do ya know e'z a shaman?"  the evil goblin stabbed a gnarled finger at Rychek's chest.

There was a pause.  "E...lookz like a shaman...?" a timid voice called out.

Goblin Shaman Fawlty Spelchekka had a deep green complexion.  His hooked nose had a bone thrust through its nostrils and its snotty tip almost touched his outthrust chin.  His bat-wing like ears were pierced with bits of bone and animal horn.  His tattered cloak was made of the hide of a dwarf, with the beard part turned outside in to make a scratchy but warm lining.  From his waist hung several shrunken heads.  His bandy legs were bound with strips of rag which continued down swathe his grubby feet like bandages.  About his outstretched wrists and upper arms were fetishes made of the scraggly feathers of long dead vultures.

Even in his absent state, Rychek, looked normal. At least, he looked normal for a skink of Lustria.

Clawed feet supported sinewy legs.  His lean, ice blue torso was balanced by a short muscular tail.  Across his shoulders and back were tougher, darker coloured scales than were found on the rest of his body.  He was completely innocent of clothing.  His wide grinning mouth was studded with a regular row of needle sharp teeth.  He had a bright crest of skin stretched between a long spine of bone on his head and the nape of his neck.

It was clear that someone would eventually notice that Rychek did not look terribly shaman-y at all.  Bob felt the need to divert them from this line of enquiry.

"Well... He turned me into a newt!"

Every eye turned to study Bob in disbelief.  There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"See," Bob pointed at his tail.

"Oooh!"  went the gawking throng as they pressed forwards for a closer look.

Fawlty chose to ignore him.  "Dere arr ways of telling if 'e iz a shaman!  Wot do shamans do?" the goblin leader asked.

"Burn!  Dey burn!  Shhh!  Nah, dey do... magick!  Yarright Magick!  Magick!"

"Wot else duz magick?"

"More shamans!  A duck!  Shaddup!  Shamans and....Mork!  Yah Mork!  Mork!  Mork!  And pozzibly Gork!  Yerr him too!"

"So, why doo shamans doo magick?"  Fawlty was sure he had them now.

"....Becoz....becoz dey knowz Mork, or pozzibly Gork?....."

"So, ow do we know dat he knowz Mork, or pozzibly Gork?"

"Cos he duz magick....?"  Spelcchekka silenced this one with a withering look.

"...we could...we could...ask 'im?" someone in the crowd murmured uncertainly.

"Procisely!  A Mork, or pozzibly Gork test!"

Fawlty scurried to the two idols in front of the shrine as the spectators gasped and shrank back several paces.  The shaman studied the statues carefully.

"Praize Mork!" he said to the statue on the right.  The other statue turned its glowering eyes toward him and balled an enormous stone fist as he blurted, "an' Praize Gork!" to his left as quickly as he could get the words out.

The idol returned to its state of dormant menace.  Fawlty ducked inside and returned moments later with one of the tribes most precious fings.

This was a sceptre which was surmounted by a representation of one of the twins.  The dark wooden shaft was decorated with the obligatory shrunken heads and other fetishes.  The likeness was crowned with feathers to denote that it was the property of the Hawkhatz tribe.

Fawlty thrust the sceptre into Rychek's hand and scuttled quickly back.  The crowd retreated another few steps.

"Wot wun of da twinz is da image on the stik?"

All of the goblins knew that if he invoked the wrong twin, there would be one less bloo shaman, and one more bloody crater in the town square.

Rychek looked uncertainly at the rod in his hand.  Bob and Joe instinctively tightened their grip on his arms as an eerie hush fell across the assemblage.  The tense silence stretched until every nerve in Mahtis's body jangled with apprehension.

"Gawk?" suggested Len, helpfully.

"Gork! Gork! Gork! Gork!" Rychek burbled happily.  After a few seconds the tense onlookers released a collectively held breath.  He knew Gork from Mork, and possibly Mork from Gork.  He was a shaman!

Fawlty snatched the sceptre of Gork from Rychek's hand in annoyance.  "Yoo are a shaman iz ya?  Then wez'll hav to hav a shaman challenj ta see who'z boss owt of uz!"

"The Bloo Shaman accepts your challenge!"  The Bloo warrior with the Hork Hat spoke for his tiny master.

The crowd tittered and stepped even further back.

"It shall be....a staring competition!" Joe declared.

"Wha'?" gasped Fawlty.

This was a new one.  Usually a shamanic challenge would involve an exchange of curses and magical missiles which would often leave both challengers with nasty injuries, if indeed the bodies could be found afterwards.

The goblin shaman considered his opponent and an evil smile crept onto his crooked face.  This bloo shaman lacked focus and discipline.  Fawlty was sure he could best his opponent in a test of concentration.

"I axcept da challenj!"

It was agreed that the first challenger to blink or turn away would concede to the victor.  A wide circle was scraped onto the rusty earth.  Bob and Joe continued to restrain Rychek as he was manoeuvred in one side of the ring.  Fawlty positioned himself opposite.

Under the malignant gaze of his gods, the greenskin shaman prepared himself.  As the sun reached its zenith, he raised the sceptre and screeched, "Da challenj baggins!"

After the first hour the contestants remained with eyes locked.  The crowd was finding it difficult to maintain their own focus.  Most challenges would be over by now, and the population would be able to get on with the task of rebuilding their town and recovering their scattered livestock.

This challenge while obviously very important was actually, incredibly dull.  Boredom was a new experience for many present, because they had rarely gone more than a few idle minutes before getting a solid boot up the backside from the nearest orc.

Another hour passed.  The only movement was the incessant lashing of the bloo shaman's tail and the odd bead of sweat on the goblin's brow. 

By the middle watch of the afternoon, Fawlty's shoulders had hunched and his forehead was creased with effort.  He had to shift weight from side to side to alleviate the ache in his legs.  Rivulets of sweated trickled down his beak like nose to splash into a growing puddle at his feet.  Rychek continued to lash his tail and grin enthusiastically.

Soon before the fourth watch, the goblin developed an uncontrollable facial tic.  He screwed up his face to try and alleviate it.  This dislodged sweat from his bushy brow.  The salty liquid trickled into one eye and started to sting unbearably.  To his credit, Fawltyh endured for four more minutes before staggering out of the circle, blinking furiously.

When he had regained some semblance of composure he turned back to his vanquisher with slumped shoulders, ready to pledge obedience to the victor.  The Bloo Shaman was still maintaining his uncanny stare. 

Fawltyh looked closer and gasped.  He pointed the sceptre in his hand at Rychek's face and shrieked, " 'E don't even hav eyelidz, for Mork's sake!"

With a roar of supernatural rage, the icon of Gork-on-a-Stick sprouted a pair of colossal green arms.  The enormous hands clapped together on the greenskin shaman as if he were a mosquito to be swatted.  The arms shrank and disappeared just as quickly as they had appeared and the sceptre clattered down onto the blood sprayed earth. 

Bob and Joe had recoiled in alarm and released Rychek's arms at the manifestation of the aggravated god.  The disturbed skink swooped to clutch the sceptre in his bony hand. 

"Gork! Gork! Gork! Gork!" he chirped as he waved his prize and capered around his friends and into the crowd of admiring goblins.

Mahtis boggled, "He IS the Bloo Shaman of Gork!"

Neehai Tuacrikket and the assembled goblin tribe chorused, "E'z Rite!"

to Chapter 12: Waaagh!

The False Moon War: Chapter 10

to Title and Contents

Chapter 10.  The Badlands

Rychek had surmised that Slann Lord Taisteslaikch'ken would be taken to the ogre lands which the skink knew to be far to the north east, over the World's Edge Mountains and the desolate Dark Lands beyond.  Although the journey would surely be long and arduous, Bob and Joe tried to keep everyone's spirits up.

"We are not here to collect souvenirs.  Get rid of it."

"I like him.  And his name is Len.  Don't hurt his feelings."

Bob inspected the ibis perched on Joe's head.  "He's a bird.  He doesn't have feelings."

The bird puffed its feathers out in annoyance.

"Anyway, eggshells make better head coverings.  They provide protection."

"Ibis are better. They can get aggressive when aroused.  Who wouldn't want an extra attack?"

"Eggshell is better!"

"Ibis!"

"Eggshell!"

"Ibis!"

"Eggshell!"

"Gawk!"

TOCK! 

Bob had leaned too close.  Len's savage peck was blocked by the eggshell.

The argument was declared a draw.

The strangling deserts of the Land of the Dead grudgingly released their grip as the party trudged onwards.  To begin with, low thorny bushes of the arid zone became more common on the sun blasted ridges.  These gave way to patchy scrub which in turn, melded into viney thickets and stands of scrawny trees.  They had entered the Badlands.

This region, which was almost as large as the Empire of men, was a bubbling cauldron of destructive hate.  Greenskin tribes, skaven clans and beastmen war-herds alternated between vying with each other for local supremacy and leading invasions into the neighbouring lands of the wood elves, men and dwarves.

The southern reaches of the Badlands were sparsely populated.  To the south there was nothing invade or conquer except for dunes and salt pans.  Therefore the heroes were able to travel for some days unmolested.

On the fifth day, they crossed a boundary marked by a glowering greenskin totem pole.  This was crudely carved to represent a snarling wyvern bearing an orcish warlord.  The orc wore upon his head an eagle totem with wings outstretched.  The carved sentinel exuded palpable animosity from its six hollow eye sockets.

Little did they know it, but the party had strayed into the territory of the Hawkhatz tribe.  Generations ago, every last bird in the region had been hunted to extinction to satisfy the tribe's demand for feathered head dresses.  The extermination had started with the commonest and most easily captured birds.  As these dwindled in number, the greenskins had to pursue more exotic game until not a single avian remained.  No Hawkhatz greenskin alive had ever seen a living bird. 

The last recorded bird hunt had involved the Savage Orc Warboss, Glars Haarfful, and his pursuit of a Great Roc which had alighted on a nearby peak.

His last words were reputed to be, "Dis looked mutch smalla from down dere!" as he was carried away to meet the mighty bird's nestlings.

Since that time, the tribe had been ruled by a succession of warlords, supported by greenskin shamen who maintained their influence through a combination of superstitious fear-mongering and brutal application of the power of the twin greenskin gods, Mork and Gork.

The twins are an embodiment of the savage hostility of their endless hordes of worshippers.  The pair are, unfortunately, so alike in manifestation and demeanour that not even their high priests can reliably tell them apart.  This is a dangerous situation, because Gork knows that he is not Mork, and he lashes out in umbrage at any who address him inappropriately. 

Mork is not sure which one he is, but he is content to lash out randomly, "Just in Kase."

The magical powers bestowed by Mork and Gork are not drawn directly from the winds of magic, although their intensity does vary in parallel with the magical flux.  In comparison with High or Battle magics, the greenskin magic is more often contained in "Fings", rather than in abstractions such as a chanted spell or a gesture of power.  Such fings range from the totem described earlier, to magical weapons and artefacts, to the lukky bloo war paint which provides magical protection from harm to the savage orcs who daub it on their bodies.

The terrifying black orc warboss, Worhuh Wotsitgudfaw had recently called a new Waaagh!  Waaagh! is the rallying cry of the greenskin tribes, and it is also the word used to describe greenskin armies.

Worhuh was recruiting orc fighters from far and wide, leaving few of the larger fighting orcs in the home range of the Hawkhatz tribe.  The warboss's force was marshalling at the foot of the World's Edge Mountains.  He was planning to lead his Waaagh! into the soft undabelli of the Empire.

Others in the Badlands saw an opportunity to exploit such a power vacuum.  An upstart Beastmen War-Herd was flexing its muscle in Hawkhatz territory.  The remaining forest goblins of the tribe simply melted away into the trees.  They would not engage the herd without the inspiring or bullying leadership of the larger orcs who had been drafted into Worhuh's Waaagh!

The lizardmen smelt the stench and heard the deranged braying of the war-herd long before it came into sight.  The sheer volume of sound coming from the beasts indicated that discretion would be a better course than confrontation.  They had time to find an empty cave on a hillside and Bessie was secreted deep inside so that the glow of the solar engine would not be seen.

The heroes prepared to lay low until the herd passed by.

The herd did not pass by.  The hillside formed part of a natural amphitheatre of ridges with a large clearing in the centre.  The beastmen made a rude camp here so that they could perform some religious observance to mark the rising of the full Chaos moon in three days time.

Beastmen, of all the mortal servants of mayhem, are the most driven by hate.  At the Coming of Chaos, mutating warpstone dust showered the globe.  Man became beast and beast became man.

The beasts which rose onto their hind legs resented their millennia of domesticated slavery.  Nothing but the destruction every town, farm, and family restaurant would slake their thirst for vengeance.

Lizards can endure long fasts without discomfort or harm but, by the dawn of the third day, Mahtis' stomach was rumbling loud enough to present a significant risk of discovery by the herd below.  The cave amplified every sound inside, and the kroxigor's rumbles had some of the beastmen below scanning the sky for storm clouds.  Whenever it occurred, Mahtis would apologize shyly and retreat to the rear of the cave.

Bob kept a nervous vigil just inside the mouth of the cave.  Joe and Rychek were a little further back.

"Is this good to eat?"  Mahtis had returned from his self imposed exile and was holding a large glowing mushroom.  It's cap was covered in square mirror-like facets which caught and reflected points of light around the cave.  "I found it at the back."

"Let me see, Mahtis,"  Rychek examined and sniffed the mushroom.

Mahtis's stomach growled even louder.

"For the Old Ones' sake, let him eat it!"  Joe hissed.  Below them, some of the beastmen were pointing at the cave mouth and yammering to each other excitedly.

"Let me try it first, Mahtis. It might be bad for you."  Rychek nibbled the cap of the fungus.  After a long pause he declared, "It seems Okay.  Okay."

"Okay," echoed Joe.

Mahtis reached to take the mushroom from Rychek's hands then paused in alarm.

"Okay Okay Okay Okay Okay."  the corners of Rychek's mouth had twisted upwards in a mockery of a  grin.  His eyes drifted out of focus and his limbs began to twitch.  His body bucked and he launched into a ghastly parody of dance.

Mahtis caught his spawn kin and wrapped him in his arms.  "What is happening?"

"He's having a fit!  Joe declared.  "Force something in his mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue.  Not my tail! Not my tail!  Waaa-aa-aaah!"

"Waaa-aa-aaah!"  The blood curdling cry was amplified and deepened by the cave and reverberated around the amphitheatre of hills.  Before the echoes had faded away, the Doom Bull, Beast Lord of the Bray-herd, raised his shaggy head and bellowed his enraged reply to Joe's howl of agony.

The bloodthirsty war herd pawed the ground and snorted, working themselves into a frenzy as they prepared to charge at the unseen threat in the cave.  The mighty minotaur bawled a wordless command and the braying mass surged up the slope, gradually gathering speed.

Suddenly, the surrounding forest came alive.  Innumerable goblins of the forest poured out from among the trees.  They unleashed a black rain of stone tipped arrows and the beastman charge quickly became a rout.

However, the Doom Bull's momentum was great enough to carry him to the mouth of the cave.  There he found his way blocked by a white helmeted lizardman brandishing a green glowing sword.  The Beast Lord swiped with his huge wooden club and the lizard attempted to parry the blow.  The strange sword embedded in the wood of the club and was wrenched from the saurus's claws.

With a bawl of triumph, the slavering minotaur pulled the glowing sword free to untangle his club, ready for the killing blow.  He brandished both weapons.

The deep rumbling bellow that came from the beast's mighty throat abruptly jumped in pitch by at least three octaves.  His visage changed from one of rage to one of alarmed bewilderment.

The Warpstone enhanced Sword of Abstinence cursed any who wielded it with sterility and genital shrinkage.  It had no effect on the asexual lizard "men", but the effect on the Doom Bull's impressive equipment was instantaneous and dramatic.

The Beast Lord stooped to peer between his legs as a dark shadow fell across the mouth of the cave.  "Holy-ee-ee  Shee-ee....." he squeaked before being cut off, literally, by a gigantic pair of mandibles.

Bob gawped, open mouthed, at the enormous Arachnarok spider which had neatly decapitated his assailant.  From a wicker platform on its back, a dozen war painted forest goblins peered down.  "We herd da call.  Where'z da boss?"

Neehai Tuacrikket was confused.  The hardy greenskin warrior below him must have emasculated the Doom Bull with his teeth, for he bore no weapon.  That was a feat worthy of great respect.  What was confusing was that this greenskin was BLOO.  And he had a tail.

"I beg your pardon?"  The bloo warrior enquired politely.

Neehai narrowed his eyes.  The bloo warrior was roughly eight feet tall, had just swallowed the melon sized nuts of a Doom Bull, and he had just said, "I beg your pardon?" to a puny goblin.  There was definitely something amiss.

The orc and goblin tribes were a height-rarchical society.  The largest and strongest bullied those less impressive than themselves, and these vented their angst on their smaller peers, and so on, until every frightful kicking was passed on, with interest, to the smallest night goblin.  Coincidentally, that goblin was the fastest runner to ever wear a green hide.

Bob was uncomfortable with the lingering silence.  He had a personal policy of showing politeness to anyone who had nominal control of an arachnid which was the size of a barn.  He generally felt that such folk should be engaged in friendly conversation. "Excuse me?" 

Neehai felt safe enough up on his mount to dare speaking to the murderous champion.  "We herd da Waaagh!  We came ta answer da call ta war.  We is only Gobbos, but we kan still fite!" 

Another bloo warrior lurched out of the cave.  He was at least four times the mass of the first.  "What's happening?" asked Mahtis.

"Righto, dat must be da boss."

"Go back inside and care for Rychek," Bob snapped, "Leave this to me."

Neehai's jaw dropped in astonishment.  "Yoo'z can't orda him about!  He'z bigga dan yoo are!"

Mahtis nodded vigorously, "He's right!"

"Size isn't everything!  Now get back in there!"

"Size izn't evryting?"  the other eleven goblins on the spider repeated the words in astonished unison.

Neehai mouthed the words to himself.  He struggled with this new thought, much as he struggled with every other thought, new or old.

The interior of the cave started to glow.  Bessie was not being supervised and had moved closer to the entrance.  The light intensified until Neehai had to shield his eyes.  Out of the blinding radiance stepped a terrifying figure.  He was a bloo warrior, like the first, but this one had a totemic head dress in the form of a savage eyed bird of prey.  As he stopped beside the vanquisher of the minotaur, the totem on his brow came alive and unfurled its mighty wings.

"Gawk?"

"Oh mahrlecht!  Oompa Loompahs!"  Joe exclaimed.

"Yoo mus' be da boss!"  Neehai felt happier.  This impressively adorned specimen was surely the leader.

"What?  Well, Rychek seems to think he's in charge,"  Joe mused.

"Anuvver boss?  Kan I talk ta him den?"

"Oh,  I need to speak for him at the moment.  He's a bit....."

Just then a small bloo figure capered out of the cave and danced around the legs of the arachnarok.

"Sorry Bob, he got out," apologized Mahtis as he gave up his pursuit.

"Gawk,"  observed Len.

"Gawk gawk gawk gawk gawk!" echoed Rychek while he slapped the carapace of the giant spider in time with his words.

"E'z not a Boss!  E'z a shaman!"  observed the goblin chief in amazement.

"Umm.  Why do you say so?"  Joe didn't want to contradict anyone who had nominal control of an arachnid which was the size of a barn.  For once he and Bob had something in common.

"Cos e'z crazier dan yoo are!" 

By this time Rychek had finished the spider slapping dance and had started throwing handfuls of leaves in the air.  "Yooah yooah yooah!"

Mahtis nodded vigorously, "He's right!"

to Chapter 11: Da Bloo Shaman