The Butcher of Gadobhra
Chapter 490: The Many Drinks Tribe joins the Horde

The minions at the sausage factory were on their toes and ready to get to work as soon as Ozzy got in the door. Minions survive by knowing when a boss is coming, always keeping a lookout. This was one of the rare occasions when Blinky was awake while keeping watch. He saw Ozzy moving toward the factory, limping and covered in bruises. Blinky swung across a small rope to a hanging chain, dropped to the floor, and raced to where the other two were sleeping in their new beds. They'd been delighted with their beds; so warm, so comfortable.

So evil! Sleep was a wonderful thing now, and always on their minds. They'd thought the new Boss was a softy when he gave them the beds and blankets and food to eat, but he was a crafty one, and as evil as the rest of the Pit. Nod had summed it up:

"We have something to lose now, and that's scary. I like sleeping so much! And a full belly? I never knew what that felt like! So different. And all we have to do is put in a 'good day's work' to keep us living in paradise."

Inky had been appalled at the idea of working hard on purpose. He was used to causing as much trouble as he could and shifting the blame, usually to Blinky.

"Does this mean no more wrestling matches in the meat tubs?"

Nod considered, "Probably a bad idea."

"Looping a chain around someone's foot and tossing it in a grinder?"

"Another bad idea."

"Damn, that's a favorite. What about..."

"SHUT IT! All your ideas are BAD! Make a decision. It's either beds, a full belly, and working or you get your ass back to the Pit and ask Grinder to forgive you."

Blinky and Inky considered their options, and then Blinky's eyes lit up. "I hear Belle is coming back. What about working for her?"

Inky and Nod shook their heads in disbelief, then tag-teamed Blinky until they'd knocked some sense into him. After that, they'd done their best to remember what they were supposed to do, and forget about all their 'bad ideas.' This had led to the astounding situation where Blinky wasn't napping on lookout and was able to wake the other two. They found their new aprons and lined up at the door to meet the Boss.

Ozzy opened the door to a chorus of cheers and clapping. He looked around the new factory. It was mostly free of rotting scraps of meat. Almost no barrels were broken. Most of the meat was hanging in the air. Only a few of the bags of groats were open, with grain spilling on the floor. "Morning, boys. First things first, we're going to clean this place up."

The minions were confused at first. Compared to anywhere else they'd lived, this factory was a spotless castle. They didn't even have Gnawrat lairs in the corners yet. They soon learned that another of the New Boss's strange habits was 'Cleaning.' It was scary to watch him move around the factory, pointing out small defects like he could plainly see them.

And seeing him sanitize the whole place with a Light Cantrip was frightening. The first time he'd used it, they'd all run and hid in a pile of scraps.

Ozzy watched the screaming minions burrow into the rotting meat and sighed. He'd gone through some of this with Runt. "Get your butts out here. I don't have time for this!"

They fearfully obeyed. If there was one thing minions did well, it was obey. He glared at them. "Stand and watch." Then he cast his cleanse cantrip on all of them, and then the surrounding area. "Now, did that kill you?"

"No, sir, Mr. Butcher Ozzy, Sir! Burned a little bit, but it was a good burney feeling. Yes, sir."

"Let's be clear about a few things: I got that spell by dragging some annoying angels into court and making them pay up for wasting my time."

They looked at each other and scratched their heads, then shrugged. If you could steal spells, why not use them?

Seeing the minions relax, he set down his bag and brought out ten heavy barrels. "This is concentrated dark mana. It's an ingredient for my sausage. If you screw around and break a barrel, it will run over to those scraps, turn into a Daemon that will repeatedly eat you and we won't get any work done today. You know what that means."

More things came out of the bag.

"These are ground peppercorns. I add a teaspoon to every hundred pounds of meat for flavor. If you open up the bag, the fumes will eat your face."

Face-eating was generally a bad thing. They would stay away from the bag.

The chain on the Butcher's arm unwound, flowed across the floor, and coiled in front of them like a cobra. "This is Chainy, he's also your boss. Don't get in his way. Don't piss him off. You'll find yourself hanging from the ceiling, slowly curing into jerky. But I'm sure you four will get along just fine and we'll make a lot of sausage together."

The minions relaxed. This was an old-fashioned threat and totally expected. That the Boss wore a Daemon on his arm just added to their respect for him. They had worried about making 'smoked' sausages instead of curing them the proper way, but the barrels of dark mana, eat-your-face peppers, and the chain daemon made them happy. Then all nodded their heads in understanding of the job requirements.

"Good, then let's get to work. I've got a few tons of meat from the pit to mix in with sedge beast, and parts of a boss that came out of the menagerie. It should make for a good mix with the groats, spices, and mana. I'm grinding. You three will load the barrels with the raw links, line them up against the wall, and add two buckets of dark mana to each barrel and seal them up. Chainy will keep an eye on you and help with moving the barrels. I'll infuse some Smoke and Heat when we're done. I want to knock out fifty barrels of sausage today. Big orders coming in."

From the throats of a hundred orcish warriors came screams of outrage, insults, and death threats. Fifty feet away, an equally angry mob of enraged warriors responded. The noise grew and grew as the chosen champions fought in an arena littered with skulls and broken bones of the losers of other matches. This was a 'friendly match' where the two combatants were armed with hardwood clubs. Usually, both fighters would survive with only a few broken bones. The larger of the two orcs, Urchak, was planning a fatal outcome for his opponent.

"You are weak. The women laugh behind your back and call you 'small tusk'. When I crack your skull, I will take your wife and daughters and kill your sons! You are not fit to lead."

His opponent was small for a warchief, at only seven and a half feet. Urchak towered over him by at least a foot and an extra hundred pounds of muscle. This didn't seem to worry his opponent at all. He stood relaxed on his side of the ring with his club still in his belt.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get on with this. I love the fights, but wasting time yelling at each other for twenty minutes gets old. The fans love it, and normally, I do too. But damn, Urchy, you only know three ways to insult me. I'm not even mad at you anymore for calling me 'small tusk' when I joined the tribe. It's been a blessing and gives me an excuse to crack skulls all the time."

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"You are...You have small tusks!"

Darkest Death turned to the judges of this match. "You've had time to rig the betting, and the crowds are getting bored. How about we move to the main event?"

The three shamans heard his words, one was offended, and the other two chuckled. All three gave their approval by stamping their staves on the hard rock. "Begin!"

Urchak had been tensed and ready to move; he rocketed across the sands, his club held in two hands above his head. Chief Darkest Death remained still until the last second, then stepped to the side, leaving one leg braced and in Urchak's path. The larger orc tripped and went sprawling. Darkest Death raised his arms above his head and shouted at the crowd, ignoring a frothing Urchak who got to his feet and charged again. And again, brought his club down on air and went sprawling as he was tripped.

"Are you all watching this? It's what I keep harping on: If you fight the same way over and over, you'll lose the same damned way." He pulled his club and casually swung it around by the strap. Most of the crowd kept yelling, but some of the warriors pondered his words. 'Scream and Charge with Club' was a traditional tactic and worked well when fighting beasts or ambushing merchant caravans. It worked less well against organized soldiers and was downright disappointing against the Legion and their bristling forests of long spears. They noted that Urchak was preparing for a third charge, his eyes red and angry. Things went the same way: Darkest Death dodged aside and sent his opponent sprawling...

... and then dove on top of him, straddling his opponent and pinning him to the ground while the club whacked him hard in the temple. Three hits to Urchak's thick skull were enough to knock him out. Both crowds cheered as the Chief rose and put his hands in the air. Everyone loves a winner, even if they were broke from betting on the wrong fighter.

A throng of children ran to hug their father, some nearly up to his chin. His wife walked to greet him as well, but stopped to kick a groaning Urchak in the ribs to get his attention and put a knife to his throat as she whispered in his ear. "I would have killed you, but my Chieftan sees some value in you. Maybe as a lesson to others. But mention me or my children again, and it is I you will face in the arena, with sharp knives. I'll skin you and make a rug." She kicked him again to emphasize her point. Then took her husband's arm and steered him to a fancy awning where the shamans handed him a mug of their victory brew in a much-used skull.

"Congratulations on your fight. Did you have fun?"

"A little. I'm hoping I got through to a few more of the warriors. We can't fight the Empire the same way as before. We've forged alliances, stopped most of the infighting, and have all the chiefs on board. But it will all go to shit if we charge screaming at an army with wizards, war-machines, and strategy."

She looked angry for a moment. "Tell me you aren't thinking of delaying this war again. The tribes grow restless."

He shook his head, "Nope. I've never run from a fight. Not when I played semi-pro hockey, not when I fought with the networks, or anyone else who challenged me. I'm too stubborn to give up. We're staying with the plan, and it works, or it doesn't. If the tribes run screaming and forget what they learned. I'll be running with them, you and the kids by my side."

"Good. I chose well. Even when you were pink and tuskless, you were enough. Now that you have fully joined the tribe, we will conquer together. But you had your fun. Now it's time to play Chief. You have visitors from a small tribe of goblins from the north. The gate guards tried to dismiss them, but they had a powerful shaman leading them who brought down sky fire and smote anyone in her way."

"Thought I heard some thunder. Well, I'm not turning down a good shaman. We'll need all the artillery and counter magic we can get. Send them in."

Across the camp came a dozen goblin warriors wearing armor cunningly crafted from the deadly swamp wyverns. None of them were able to walk a straight line, most sipping from half-full bottles of alcohol. Behind them came a huge, twelve-wheeled chariot decorated with gold and skulls, pulled by four ugly and dangerous-looking cattle. The chariot was piled high with crates of bottles and twelve wooden casks. The shaman danced her way across the camp, finally doing a set of cartwheels that brought her to the front of the awning. She slammed her fist on her chest and belched.

"Mimosa, Shaman of the goblins of the Many Drinks Tribe of Gadobhra, greets big Chief Darkest Death and brings him gifts!"

The Chief stood, eyeing the drunken goblins and their chariot. "Darkest Death welcomes the Many Drinks tribe to his camp."

The little shamn relaxed, "Good, got the traditional shit out of the way, let's have a drink." The shamans started scooping up more of their brew, but Mimosa sniffed and made a face. "Oh, hell no. That smells horrible. I've got twelve barrels of Bludgeon Extra Dark Special Reserve."

The Orcs quieted, and the Chief smiled broadly. "No shit? Well, let's have a taste then. How the hell did you get that stuff? We've only been able to trade for normal Blud down here."

The shaman handed him a mug of the dark beer. "Our tribe is always looking for the best of brews and has special methods of procuring them."

The Chief took a sip and then sat down on his throne. "Grab a seat and sit down. Your tribe is now my personal guests. We'll toss something on the fire and have a feast tonight in your honor." He turned to his shamans and warriors. "Make damn sure everyone knows that. Anyone who brings me beer like this is my new best friend, at least until we run through those twelve barrels."

He took another sip. "Damn, this is tasty stuff. I'm pleased with your gift and happy to add a skilled shaman to our horde."

She took out a colorful pamphlet from her pouch. "My father thought you'd like to see this. Another of the fine things made in Gadobhra."

Darkest Death leafed through the pages of the pamphlet, looking at the beautiful drawings of warmachines of several types. "No shit! These are just what I need. But I doubt that a Baron in the Empire is going to sell an Orc Chief several dozen of these beauties, no matter how much gold I offer."

Mimosa refilled her beer, smirking. "Read the fine print. That's something you have to do when dealing with this Baron. Not only does the wargod's priests bless each weapon, but Ares insists that the Baron sell to everyone in exchange. There's a disclaimer where the buyer agrees to hold Baron William, Baroness Layla, his workmen, the city, and the ACME corporation blameless for any outcome of a war these are used in, and that he isn't responsible for how they are used."

"Well, now. Isn't that a kick in the ass. Tonight, we drink and feast. Tomorrow, you and I are going to discuss business and the lofty position your tribe now holds in my horde." He kept looking through the pamphlet. "Wow, they even give out a bonus onager if I buy twelve ballista? I love these guys!"