The missionaries from the White Temple came and put up their shrines, seemingly at every crossroads. Gorgak’s creed was older and less tolerant than the new lessons being taught: Where a stone rests on another, put it asunder. Where lifeblood pulses in an enemy’s throat, let it know the cold north air.
The missionaries stood impassive in their robes, the gauzy veils hiding their eyes and noses as he cut them down. He made stacks of worshipper’s heads on the altars of the shrines, and then set them ablaze. Soon the Temple missions were guarded by mercenaries, armor and pole-arms kept to a shine.
Gorgak’s laugh echoed through the valley as his blade split helmet and shield. Fallen guards clutched at spurting stumps, not seeing the ending blow that took them between shoulder and chin. Still the missionaries stood impassive, waiting one by one for a tendon-ripping slash across the throat, heads lolling back into wet smiles of appreciation for Gorgak’s handiwork.
“Funny,” thought Gorgak. “They’re not fighting back.”
Hewing through the lizardmen was smooth work, gratifying in its way. Inevitably there were nicks and scrapes to deal with where the occasional claw or fang struck home, but the majority of what coated his thewy arms was the greenish-black blood of the scaly tribesmen. He understood how a farmer could come to love his fields, sweeping the scythe back and forth, learning the contours of the land, feeling it with the muscles of his back, his legs, his arms. So it was for him on this field, reaping a crop of heads, limbs, and the festive bloom of organs.
The grey-blue arc of his steel connected time and again with the yellow-green of throat and abdomen. Gurgling and mangled near-corpses lay all around him, piling up, so that he waded through gore to meet each adversary in turn.
“This is great!” thought Gorgak. “You can also eat these fuckers!”