Memoirs of a Reluctant Orc: The Mountain of Fire and Ice

By S. D. Blackwater

The Orcs of Ormensgourd aren't happy. The Staff of Wyvenhore has been stolen and an accusing finger is pointed at the dwarfs of Glengglaggnod. In this the true account of the war, we find out what really happened when the forces of Lord Bilgesac marched on King Muttontache. Nothing is left out – the marching, the carnage, the bad food, the farting. From the call to arms to the last decapitated head, from ribald marching songs to ridiculous camouflage, Private Valerian Goutweed's diary spills the beans (and a lot of blood) on life inside an orc army.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781398425125

S. D. Blackwater

S.D. Blackwater is from New Zealand and lives in the UK. He simply ‘found’ the Diaries and with little tweaking, hopes he does them justice. Translation errors are completely his own. Contrary to what this book contains, he doesn't swear...much.

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About the Author

S.D. Blackwater is from New Zealand and lives in the UK. He simply ‘found’ the Diaries and with little tweaking, hopes he does them justice. Translation errors are completely his own.

Contrary to what this book contains, he doesn't swear...much.

Dedication

To C&T, just when life farts in your face, something funny happens.

Copyright Information ©

S. D. Blackwater (2021)

The right of S. D. Blackwater to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398425118 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398425125 (ePub e-book)

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The Staff of Wyvenhore

As remembered by Valerian Goutweed (Private, Black Spoons 10th)

Day 1

The idiots I have to deal with

THE call to arms came while I was out bird watching. The yellow-coloured yodel is a beautiful as it is elusive. I’d found one on a leafless tree on a muddy hill south of the Citadel (otherwise known as the Great Citadel of Ormensgourd, though what’s ‘great’ about several hundred acres of mud with a badly-designed castle in the middle is beyond me) when some idiot blew a horn. The yodel was as appalled by the clamour as was I, and departed the scene. Re-entering the Citadel through the south gate, or rather a piece of string tied between two poles guarded by two morons, Creech and Knotgut, I prepared myself for the usual barrage of vacant verbiage.

Pick us any nice flowers, Snotweed? said greater moron Creech.

How about a pansy for me hair. I does like a pansy in me hair, said lesser moron Knotgut who hasn't a hair on his fat, badly stitched head.

The only flowers I will pick for you two ingrates will be the ones I’ll put on your graves. Rather proud of my comeback I left them giggling like tipsy elves.

With sword and shield I joined my company, the 10th of the Black Spoons regiment, or ‘Spoons’ as we call ourselves. Other highly creative nicknames include ‘Spooners’, ‘Spoonies’, Spoondiddlers’, ‘Spoonbangers’ and ‘Spoondoonies’. Even more original is our regimental flag – white, with two crossed black spoons in the middle. Ours is an ancient regiment, supposedly named after the spoons used to scoop out the brains of our enemies, dead or alive. I have suggested that our position at the absolute rear of the army signifies ours was once a catering core and the spoons denote nothing more than everyday serving utensils. For this piece of logic I received a smack round the ear.

Sergeant Squawl barked orders while Captain Roodbitz did his best to keep a fidgeting buffstang still. An order rippled through tens of thousands of ranks and we rippled to attention. Someone farted, several laughed, Sergeant Squawl swore. All very par for the course. Several million heads ahead, or whatever our number is, I don’t think anyone has ever bothered counting, some drone shouted something important. I’ve no idea what. Honestly, how we’re supposed to hear the words of some barking poltroon a mile away is beyond me. The only way of knowing when the blasted thing is over is when the entire army shouts: All hail Lord Bilgesac, followed by Death to (insert the current hated enemy of which there are many).

Once dismissed we gathered around Captain Roodbitz and his buffstang who paraphrased in five stuttering minutes what said poltroon had spent an hour pontificating about. (That’s the captain not the buffstang though the latter would do a much better job than its rider, who not only stutters but has the demeanour of someone who’d rather be pouring cocktails than preparing his soldiers for battle). In summary, we were about to wage war against the dwarves of Glengglaggnod (not an easy word for the captain to say) in revenge for the theft of the Staff of Wyvenhore that, apparently, was once ours. When and how it was stolen wasn’t mentioned. No doubt a light-footed dwarf snuck into Lord Bilgesac’s quarters and took such a venerated object from a broom closet or wherever such objects are kept. Our spies reported that it was now in the hands of Muttontache, king of the Glengglaggnod dwarfs who, like most dwarfs, reside either in a mountain or underground, in this case inside the Mountain of Fire and Ice. As far as I know, the only dwarfs who live in the open are the pygmy dwarfs of Strollabout Wood, who, despite receiving more air and sunlight, remain as repugnant and as pungent as their entombed cousins.

I know a Wyvenhore who’s had my staff, said Private Mucklehole who fancies himself something of a wit. For this offering he rightly got a smack across the ear by Sergeant Squawl.

As for this staff, I’ve never heard of such a thing and I’m certain neither had the cretins who proceeded whoop and holler around me. Spoons! Spoons! Spoons! Hail Lord Bilgesac, Death to Muttontache and so forth accompanied by much fist-bumping, chest-banging and head-butting. Personally I’d rather watch two oversexed Billy goats locking horns than watch a bunch of war-crazy orcs banging body parts. But 65 days after our last campaign we were back at war.

I told Mucklehole it was all a waste of time and simply proved my point that only through continuous war could Lord Bilgesac and his armchair generals justify a permanent standing army and the concentration of our labours in creating and making instruments of torture and destruction rather than things of beauty and practical use. A whole fortress and not one theatre. An entire realm but not one decent garden. Sixty-two forges but not anything remotely ornate. I’ve argued for a small amphitheatre, a bird-watching platform, petting zoo and gazebo with pond for exotic fish only to have my requests fall on deaf ears separating empty brains.

Yeah, but the Glengglaggnods are hairy fucks, opinionated Mucklehole. He had a point.

There was little time to pack our rucksacks and ready our swords. This was clearly going to be one of those battles in which the tried and trusted method of throwing as many bodies against the enemy was preferred over military strategy and sleight-of-hand manoeuvring. I spat on my short, stabling giblet, wiped a rag over my spear, rolled up a sheet that I placed in my rucksack along with a spoon, a plate and a small jar with screw-top lid should I see anything worth collecting.

Back in formation we inched forward through what looked like mud but smelt like what it was – the shit and piss of a thousand beasts and a few lazy orc to boot. Four gates at our disposal and they expect an entire army to go through a small gap in a fence. For a start (and I’ve expressed this opinion on many occasions) it makes sense for the megadonts and tridontadonts to go after the army, not before. But no, we watch and wait till a veritable train of lumbering beasts churn the ground whilst depositing small mountains of faecal matter. Those mounted on buffstangs think nothing of letting their big-headed, hairy-headed, nose-running, snarling mounts deposit great sloppy piles on the very path that we, the foot soldiers, have to walk on. Furthermore, we all know these black bulks can urinate for up to 5 minutes straight so why not take them to one side and let them get on with it? Adding to the fetid mix, it takes one hoonblud to piss on a post and every hoonblud, boganhowler and mongfang has to piss on the same post. In summary, we passed through with all the speed and pain of a constipated sow forcing a dry stool.

Le’ ‘ight! le’ ‘ight! le’ ‘ight! shouted Sergeant Squawl oblivious to the fact that both our le’ and ’ight were deep in shit.

At the gate stood Private Flyspot and his horn. I assume it was he who had scared my Yodel. Flyspot and his trumpet are one and the same. Indeed, it’s hard to tell where Flyspot ends and trumpet begins. He was supposed to be playing that rousing marching tune My Pot's Got A Hole In It So I'll Use A Dwarf's Fat Stupid Head Instead but by the time we passed it sounded like the last dying gasp of a strangulated chicken. Shouts of derision didn’t help the poor fellow.

Play us a waltz, Flyspot!

You’re blowing through the wrong end!

Is that a trumpet or are you just pleased to see me!

From the Citadel, ringed by the towering Sawtooth Mountains, we marched along the Lilybank, once a silvery meander lined with Foxgloves and Lupins but now, thanks to our misuse and abuse, a sullen grey ooze home to mud eels, giant mud worms, long-legged mud peckers and the slithering, slurping sloorpenhogs that suck into rubbery mouths large dollops of mud that they hope contains an eel or worm. The sloorpenhog is a thoroughly efficient animal. Limbless but for a large seal-like tail, mud goes in one end, shit comes out the other. All at the same time. Totally continuous. Like sewage through a pipe. As repulsive as these creatures are, in a slow-motion sort of way they’re fascinating