Jupiter’s Saga

Jupiter’s Saga
By: Max Denby
This story was originally submitted to Mythic!

The day before my father died, I was sitting on a stump reading some poetry by my favorite author, Danzar Jervish. It was a dream of mine to meet him one day. That dream is no longer; it was replaced.

I had devoted my life thus far to the study of the world I live in, its cultures and people, the gods and their… strange motives, the way the wind blows. I had the time to study these things. At the age of thirteen, what else was there to do but help with my fathers yaak herds and ponder the puzzles of reality? Life is very simple now; there are no puzzles, no hidden secrets to discover. There is only vengeance.

My father was striding along the path ahead of me, and I was riding my father’s favorite yaak, on that sickening early summer’s day. Its name was Pimpernickle, though I don’t know why. Now, of course, I do not care.

I had heard of Orcs before, read about them, even saw one once in the arena. A huge monster, driven it seems only by the lust of battle and blood. It took five men with hooked chains to keep it at bay after it had chewed through one of the Empire’s strongest bulls, using only its fists and its 7 inch tusks. The Orcs that my father met that day were not chained, or naked. Quite the contrary. All seven of them were outfited with what looked like the steel sidings to an ancient rusted warship, strapped together with the hides of mountain boars. Each had a weapon the size of the yaak I was riding on.

“By the laws of Sigmar, get the hell off that yaak and fetch me my Axe!” My father bellowed that with the most commanding voice I have ever heard out of him, but it was not enough. I hesitated. By the time I came back out to the pasture, dragging that heavy chopping axe behind me, my father was hoisted, by his ribcage, four feet off the ground with a tear of green lip dangling from his fists. The Orc barely seemed to notice his wound but it did notice me, tears welling in my eyes, I dropped the axe and fell to my knees.

I whimpered with all of my heart “Have mercy on my father, by Sigmar’s strength, have mercy!” My naivete caused me to believe that the Orc had heeded my words. He lowered father (who was now unconscious) to the ground.

The strangest laugh I have ever heard, and one I will never forget, echoed out of this monsters chest. “Weak human, I do not worship Sigmar,” and with one fluid and practiced movement that green arm dissapeared within my fathers chest and exploded out a second later.

The other six Orcs were too busy feasting on my yaaks to notice that their leader was no longer interested in the adult corpse by its gigantic feet, but interested in me. It came close. “GorjGrog of the Fwatsom Fwesh Boyz will enjoy fighting you one day.” Drool not my own covered my face. All I could do was whimper.