The Banner of the Broken Orc: The Call of the Darkness Saga: Book One

by Aiden L Turner

  The Banner of the Broken Orc

  The Call of the Darkness Saga: Book One

  Aiden L Turner

  Copyright © 2020 Daniel Pickett

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyedited by David at collustrandus.com

  Cover art design by www.trifbookdesign.com

  Map illustration by Fire Demon at info@firedemondog.com

  This novel is for Karen, who gave me more than I could have ever imagined.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  About The Author

  No matter how hard you fight the darkness, every light casts a shadow, and the closer you get to the light, the darker that shadow becomes.

  Plato

  Prologue

  Dark Lord

  It stood on the very top of the world. A Thing. Aware, and in existence, yet It could not be counted as truly living. Nor was It dead. Evil and cunning from an age before the coming of Man. Motionless, It contemplated Its existence. Not born of Man and woman. Its very ‘being’ a contradiction to the laws of the natural universe.

  It enjoyed these times when circumstance permitted a physical form. Over thirty feet in height by the measure of Man, and nine-feet wide at the shoulders. Its head more wolfish than any other creature of this world, except for size: four times as wide, and twice as long as a horse, yet void of hair.

  Arms, three times the length of a man’s leg, bulged with thickness as if the muscle contracted with every beat of its multitude of hearts. Legs shaped like the rear legs of a horse complete with cloven hoofs.

  Its lidless eyes, entirely white, and without pupils gave the appearance of animated death. Canine teeth, as long as hunting knives, extruded from its mouth at awkwardly impossible angles, zigzagging in a manner that left its mouth permanently agape. Its entire form writhed in bright red flame, shimmering, as if the fire were spreading, growing with every second of its existence. Vegetation withered and died within Its presence. It permitted no form of life to live within Its grasp.

  Although emotionless by the standards of all other races It did derive something akin to pleasure from watching any, and all, forms of life turn into lifeless ashes. And It would watch them all burn.

  The contemptuous Men abiding in their stone castles worshipping their weak and silent Gods. That ‘Mankind’ who placed gold and so-called precious stones above all other things.

  The arrogant Elven folk, dwelling in the desert, ever fearful of the burning sun and abiding deep within the ground.

  Even the natural enemies of all the races of the world, the hated and feared Goblin, lurking in the darkness, would die in agony as they melted for Its pleasure.

  For It had returned to the land that had forgotten Its wrath, the land that had turned Its purging into the work of dragons and demons, made myths and legends out of Its first coming. Those tales, later told by ignorant and arrogant men whilst they sat round their cooking fires drinking their mead, were false tales, accounts of bravery and battles with beasts that had finished their existence long before the memory of Man.

  Of all the creatures who walked this world It held men in the most contempt; their ways are so alien to every other form of life. Gold is the basis for their entire society. They have an abundance of food and fresh water, yet they leave their own to starve for lack of shiny metals dug from under the mountains and plucked out of the rivers.

  It did not understand how It had come into being again or where It had been for the past thousand years, but It understood Its powers were far greater than before and growing with every cycle of the moon. It did not know how, but It knew that an alliance of races had ended Its last reign upon this world, but that alliance had long since ended, and the descendants of that foul union would burn for their travesty down to the last child in the last womb.

  There was another feeling It felt towards Man, other than the lust for their blood, their flesh, their pain, and their souls. Only a slight sensation but felt, nonetheless. Fear. Men were now clothed in armour, and wielded swords of tampered steel, with their armies organised and trained. Their priests had grown bold in their ways too, taking to magic instead of just begging and whimpering to the Gods for help that never came forth. Weak magic, they had found, used to tend to their sick and judge changes to the weather, but left unchecked it was magic that had the capacity to grow strong and become a weapon. It did not think the kingdom of Man could withstand the oncoming slaughter, but It was unwilling to let them rise to challenge.

  ‘I shall use the Elven folk.’ It spoke aloud to the emptiness of the mountaintop. The elves, who hide in fear from the sun, invoking their Goddess, Mother Earth, for bounties they seldom receive. Hope I shall give them. Hope of a land rich with the life of the earth. ‘And no longer shall you thirst or hunger for I have come, my children.’ I shall appear in their dreams and in their homes. Fear will grow in their elfish hearts, whilst temptation brews like honeyed ale within their minds.

  But not only shall the desert kind believe me to be their savour, for I shall come to the leaders of Men and my visions will make them drool with greed. They will see treasures beyond all measuring, gold piled in heights to contest the trees, gems the size of an infant’s skull. Even the evil creatures of this world will be mine to use. The animal-like Goblin and the lesser and greater Orc will burn as I feed upon their flesh. I shall burn, feast, destroy and use all those who dare to live upon my land.

  It looked unto the night sky at a comet that shone with a deep crimson red as it scarred the darkness in its flight, an omen to all, marking Its rebirth. It threw Its shoulders back and stood to its full height, revealing its terrifying design and unyielding power. Its mouth opened fully, a vast chasm of darkness filled with the stench of death and disease, as it bellowed in a thunderous roar:


  ‘For I am Vor’rok. Wielder of flame and fury. Bringer of emptiness and nonentity. Ruler of the mind and destroyer of the flesh. All shall bend, break or burn. And all the lands under the sun and the stars shall once again be my domain!’

  Chapter One

  Ambush

  Wilhelm crouched down low about two hundred yards from the jungle with his back to the campfires he could still feel from thirty yards away. His body motionless, the only part making any movement were his eyes, scanning the woods for any signs of the enemy: a slight flicker of movement, a single speck of light would be all the warning he would need to raise the alarm and draw his sword. Like all soldiers on the front line, he took his turn at watch with determined concentration.

  Wilhelm had turned twenty-three only one month before and had been stationed at the centremost garrison, Iron Guard, for each day since his military ‘passing out’ festival. Standing at four inches over six foot, with dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a firm jaw, he was a handsome young man, who resembled his father, William, strongly.

  He had been so intent on watching the dark jungles, expecting to be in his first battle at any moment, he did not realise his four-hour shift was nearly at an end, until his newfound friend, Zachary, approached to relieve him from his post.

  ‘Ho the watch’, Zachary called out in a low voice. ‘Any news to report Wilhelm?’ he said as he came to stand next to the latest addition to his garrison. Both men had drawn swords, as was protocol when changing the sentry post and handing over responsibility.

  ‘Nothing at all’, Wilhelm replied, ‘and it is leaving me on edge, I do not mind telling you, Zachary. I just wish to see my first battle and prove myself. Instead, everyone waits to trust me as they trust the rest of the men. Some openly talk of me breaking and running like a coward.’ All whilst he talked, he did not take his eyes from the area he was designated to watch.

  Zachary turned towards him slightly and smiled. ‘Wilhelm, worry not, they only talk this way when they know that you can hear what they are saying. It’s the same with everyone, it was the same with me. They just tease, my friend, but do not tell them I told you this as they may do more than tease—and probably to me, not you. And do not be so keen to see green blood, it is not as pretty as the older soldiers claim.’ His tone turned more serious, more professional. ‘Your watch is complete; I relieve you, Wilhelm.’

  Both men returned their swords to their scabbards and Wilhelm replied, ‘I stand relieved.’ In the traditional manor.

  ‘Go, young warrior of the realm. Spend a few hours lying on your shield rather than bearing its wait upon your shoulder’, Zachary said in a light-hearted jest. ‘We march at first light.’

  Wilhelm adjusted his shield on his arm and made his way back to the main camp where the men who would take the later watch-duty slept. The five other soldiers returning from their sentry posts joined Wilhelm at the fire, where a huge pot of meat and vegetables bubbled away. As the men from the first watch of the night helped themselves to bowls of the hot stew, knight-captain Colburn addressed them.

  ‘If there is anything to report, then say so now.’ He waited a few seconds as his gaze shifted from man to man until it fell upon Wilhelm.

  ‘Wilhelm, how did your watch fare? Even if you have a slight feeling in your gut, anything to give you apprehension, it must be reported now, no matter how insignificant you think it may be.’

  Wilhelm looked embarrassed at being singled out by the captain but said, ‘Nothing to report, Captain, I kept vigilance.’

  Colburn nodded, then lay back down with his back to the fire. ‘Eat quickly, then get some sleep, and Wilhelm, make sure you sleep facing away from the fire, if we are attacked in the night the light of the fire needs to be at your back.’

  The six men sat around the fire, eating in silence and soaking the warmth from the camp into their cold bones. After a basic meal of stew and some hardened trail bread washed down with water (as ale and wine were not permitted whilst on patrol) the men found themselves a space between their comrades and lay down to sleep in full battle dress, ready to fight within a moment’s notice.

  The rest of the night passed by uneventfully and the platoon awoke instinctively as the first rays of sunshine crept over the horizon, (a routine bred into them from years of training). They broke their fast with small rations of dried fruit and trail bread before setting off to the east of their campsite. Marching in two lines with little pomp and even less speed, every set of eyes remained alert and constantly scanned the treeline for movement.

  At midday they were due to stop for another meagre meal when Holtern, one of the oldest soldiers in the platoon, shouted, ‘Movement to the left, in the woodland!’

  Instantly, the entire force moved as one to turn to face their assailants, shields held high, eyes working furiously.

  ‘Single file’, knight-captain Colburn ordered in a calm, authoritative voice. ‘Prepare to receive arrows.’

  The platoon moved with expert efficiency into a single line and all dropped to one knee, heads tucked in tight and shields raised before them, leaving no part of their person vulnerable to the short shafted crude arrows the Goblin hordes used.

  ‘Hold your position, men’, the knight-captain commanded.

  They waited in complete silence. Half an hour passed, and no arrows were forthcoming, no movement spotted. The men remained alert, knowing that the second they lowered their guard an attack could occur. It was a full hour before Colburn ordered the men to stand. They all stood as one, but remained in position, prepared to repel attackers at any moment.

  ‘Holtern!’ Colburn called. ‘Move the men out of arrow range and set up camp, we are being tracked; I can smell their stench from here. Battle will be joined before we leave this place and we shall engage them on our terms, not theirs.’

  Colburn looked thoughtfully at the ground around them as he gave orders to the veteran. ‘Leave a third of the men here with me for the first watch. Relieve me in four hours. We shall keep a third of the men on guard, the rest on standby. If they do not attack by sunrise, the day after next, we shall continue the patrol, and Holtern … have the new lad, Wilhelm, on my watch, I want to view his reactions closely.’

  Holtern offered his captain a salute then hastily carried out his orders, selecting nine men, including Wilhelm, to stay for first watch.

  The men on watch spread out to cover the front and the flanks, with each man spaced about a hundred feet apart. The first two watches went by uneventfully. Halfway through the third shift, an urgent cry of alarm coming from Zachary who, stationed in the centre of the guard line, suddenly broke the silent, pitch-black stillness of middle night.

  The knight-captain was the first to his feet, quickly followed by the rest of the camp. In mere seconds, the platoon was standing, already alert and combat ready. Colburn’s voice cut through the quiet of the night like a knife.

  ‘Draw swords! Form a defensive line on me. Holtern, burn silver powder.’

  The captain ran to stand about a hundred feet in front of the fire, about half a mile from the treeline that marked the land of the enemy. Those who had stood watch soon joined him. Zachary came to his side and calmly informed his superior.

  ‘They come on foot, Captain; I estimate a full hundred.’

  Behind them Holtern was rummaging through his pack looking for the silver powder. He found it and quickly poured the contents of the pouch into the fire. After a few seconds, it ignited, sending bright silver flames soaring twenty feet into the dark skies. The flames were visible for miles and would alert the men stationed on the towers of the nearby garrisons that a patrol was under attack. It would also alert any cavalry in the vicinity to come with all haste.

  The captain’s demeanour remained calm as he counted the pairs of glowing yellow eyes streaming out of the darkness towards him. The platoon stood formed in a defensive line. Each man was standing with two swords’ length between him and the men either side, giving him enough room to swing his great-
sword freely, yet close enough to protect his brethren. Every soldier stood stoically, accountable for protecting his section of the line. Wilhelm stood on the right-hand side of his captain, sword in hand, fear in his heart. It was not the thought of the upcoming battle that put fear into him, but the noise that carried before the swarming horde. Insane laughter and hellish cries of bloodlust grew with intensity until they were enough to shake the toughest veteran of warfare. At two hundred feet away, the glowing eyes and shadows became full forms and Wilhelm could make out the first he would engage with. He took a deep breath. Tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. Steadied his shield against his shoulder. Whispered a quick prayer for courage and strength. Then, braced himself.

  The Goblin smashed against Wilhelm’s shield with such force that it knocked itself to the ground. Eyes filled with hatred glared up at Wilhelm as he stamped his heavy, steel-tipped boot into the creature’s throat, crushing its windpipe and sending thick green blood spraying from its mouth. The second assailant was nearly upon him as Wilhelm swung wildly with his heavy weapon, bringing it down on the Goblin’s unprotected skull and splitting it in two like a piece of firewood, with so much strength that his sword became lodged in the dead Goblin’s chest. Wilhelm pulled his sword free. The motion of the creature’s chest cavity releasing the weapon caused Wilhelm to stumble back a step, saving him injury, as a Goblin struck out at him with a large two-handed war hammer, which came within an inch of the blood covered, young warrior. The dull green coloured Goblin screamed with delight as it spun around three hundred and sixty degrees with the weight of the hammer. This time it connected with Wilhelm’s shield, knocking him off balance, as another attacker jumped on to him and grasped his helmet whilst stabbing wildly at the plate armour protecting his back. Wilhelm lay the point of his sword against the creature’s face as it tried desperately to tear his helm from his skull. He pushed with all the might of his arm; the blade cut easily through the Goblin’s face and out through its temple. He lifted the impaled thing with his sword and discarded it to the floor as the hammer stuck his shield for a second time sending excruciating pain through his arm and down his back. Wilhelm peered out from behind his shield as the Goblin was making ready to bring the hammer down again. He acted without hesitation, chopping at the creature once, then twice. His sword sang through the night air, cutting though the shaft of the hammer and slicing the thing’s arm at the wrist.