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

by Aiden L Turner

  Gymir stood calmly as one bore down upon him. Its head flailing from side to side in a sweeping motion, seeking prey. As the rider stood in its saddle, a thing of bright green skulls adorned its shoulders and upper arms as it reared up, spear in its outstretched hand as it roared its challenge. Gymir remained silent and motionless as the thing came within fifty feet. Just when the rider and creature made ready to strike and smash Gymir into death, he danced with unnatural speed and grace to the right and the creature rumbled past. Both rider and beast screamed their frustration at being denied their kill. Even with the speed of Gymir stepping out of the dark creatures’ path, he kept his footing and turned with all his might to bring his great-sword down into the beast’s back left leg. Just above the knee, the sword hit true and bit into the flesh with force enough to break the bone beneath. The jolt of the strike and the motion of the now enraged beast dragged Gymir off his feet. The beast stumbled then fell, its head struck the ground, and it slid along the grass as a dozen brothers leapt into action, hacking down with powerful strokes whilst two men bravely fought the rider who still stood upon the beast’s back, as the wounded creature thrashed its head in anger and desperation as it tried to gore its assailants.

  Gymir had recovered and having retrieved his sword and shield, he turned his back upon the first rank and returned to his previous position. The Orc was charging as they sought to find the gaps created by the boar riders. The greater orcs now ran like the winds of hell were behind them. Hundreds were charging. Hundreds of huge dark green skinned orcs. Gymir focused his eyes upon a vile creature. Its dark green skin shone as if covered in an oil. Tusks the size of a handspan reared to the sky as it bellowed its challenge. A thick bladed sword in its right hand looked more like an oversized butcher’s cleaver. As the Orc ran, it occasionally leaned towards the ground and snatched at the turf, launching itself forward.

  Gymir stepped to the right of the Orc, raising his shield as he did. He let the monster’s speed break upon the shield’s reinforced steel. As the Orc hit, Gymir used the motion to turn himself so he could strike at the Orc from behind, yet the Orc recovered with speed and met Gymir’s great-sword with its own heavy blade. The sound of the blades striking rang out through the morning. The Orc brought his blade down again. Gymir was content to let the Orc batter his shield as he sought an opening to end the fight with the point of his sword. The Orc continued smashing its monstrously heavy blade down again and again with little skill, just bare rage and a lust for man flesh. Sparks flew into the air as the creature brought its blade down again, bringing Gymir to one knee. Doubt arose in him as the strength of the Orc seemed unbeatable. It brought back the heavy cleaving blade again, but it lodged in a gash it had caused in the shield. The force of trying to free the blade dragged Gymir upright once more, as the Orc stumbled backwards. Gymir followed and brought his four-foot-long, double-edged, tampered steel blade up and held it as one would hold a spear. The Orc had recovered. It turned but its cleaver was held low and as it turned; it saw the point of Gymir’s great-sword enter its windpipe slowly, before Gymir gave a great roar and with all his strength lunged the blade until its point burst through the Orc’s spine at the base of its skull. Gymir pulled the sword back as he ripped it to the right, sending bright green blood gushing into the morning’s light.

  Gymir looked around at the carnage that had erupted along the battlefield. The rear rank was in bitter struggles with the boar riders that had brutalised their way through the front rank, leaving mangled piles of flesh and metal in their wake. The remaining front rank were now involved in pitch combat with the greater orcs. Gymir looked back to the south, seeking a foe, but found a sudden bubble of calm. He turned back towards his men and saw Halcyon on the ground, his sword lost, both hands steadying his shield as he tried to hide as much of his body underneath its great size. Two great orcs beat at his shield with massive double-sided axes. They laughed as they heard the young man whimpering under the shield as it took their powerful blows. Gymir walked slowly and deliberately towards the rear of the orcs, naked steel in his hand. So, intent on tormenting their quarrel, neither of the huge, green skinned orcs noticed Gymir approach until his blade took the Orc on his right through the spine. Gymir withdrew his blade and turned it with such speed that the second Orc had only just registered his comrade’s death when Gymir’s blade hissed through the air and sliced through the major artery in the Orc’s throat. Still, the Orc attempted to fight back even as his life blood sprayed upon the field of battle. The Orc took two steps towards Gymir and collapsed in a gurgle and spasm. Halcyon threw the shield off and jumped to his feet. ‘I am sorry, Capitan, they overpowered me.’ Halcyon grabbed Gymir by the arm and pleaded, ‘I am no coward, brother!’

  Gymir bent down and retrieved Halcyon’s sword. As he handed it back to him, he said, ‘You are not a coward, brother, but you will find neither survival nor honour hiding beneath your shield. Now, go kill the bastards!’

  Gymir turned from the young warrior and looking down the line he saw his brothers locked in combat; he saw others maimed upon the ground, writhing in agony. And he turned his back on them. He had killing to do.

  Now came the third stage of the assault, the Goblin horde, far inferior to what had come before but far more in number, now come to finish the assault. Gymir, Death Dancer, was now in his element. The Goblin horde advanced with no order. The bravest came first, screeching their high-pitched war cry. Gymir started bouncing from one foot to the next, testing the weight of his movement. As quick as the eye could see, he bounced to his right and swept his sword from waist height to the first Goblin’s throat, his steel slashing through the windpipe. Gymir kept moving, going low and to his left. His sword fell as he swept passed a screaming Goblin, and the blue tinged green skin opened in the creature’s neck, severing the spine and leaving another corpse in the churned-up mud. He took two steps forward and one to the left, swinging his sword low as he passed a Goblin on its right, his sword taking the creature’s leg above the knee. Gymir spun where he stood and with a backhand stroke another enemy lost its life, its head removed with a contemptible ease.

  Gymir was no longer himself. He no longer spoke, he no longer thought about his actions or movements. His blood brother Brandt believed that a true Death Dancer relinquished his body to He who is Greatest, and that his actions were those of God. That was the reason behind their truly amazing ability to kill enemy after enemy. His sword strokes looked nimble, even half-hearted, yet every stroke of his sword left an enemy dead or dying. He glanced to his right and saw a brother on his knees with the shaft of an arrow protruding from his eye socket. Not his concern, he just kept dealing death, moving, killing, moving again. A score of Goblins lay dead at his feet as he danced round them, his sword seeking green flesh and ending it in slight, simple strokes.

  The enemy now feared his blade. They funnelled away from him seeking easier prey. Without an enemy, his mind slowly returned. His dance of death was over for the moment, and he took a few moments to survey the battleground. The rear rank was still, in the most part, unengaged, whilst the front rank was getting the upper hand of the greater Orc, although there was a heart wrenching amount of armour-clad forms lying in the mud.

  Gymir turned to the south, from where the Goblin horde advanced. He could see panic in their ranks. Brightly coloured banners were raised above horsemen who were charging down the eastern slope. Not the harrying of earlier, but a full charge. Gymir heard their trumpets blearing sharp, angry notes. He looked to the western slope and strained to see from the distance. Sweat blurred his vision. And then he saw the sunlight reflecting from swords, from plate metal, and he knew they were his brothers.

  Gymir dispatched two Goblins without breaking stride as he ran towards the very centre of the front line and roared as loud as he could. ‘Front rank, disengage! Front rank, disengage! Second rank advance. Front rank forward. Front rank with me brothers. Charge!’

  The orders were heard by many of the sergeants and so
on the orders were repeated, until they became a battle cry. The second rank moved forward to engage the enemy in the front rank. The front rank disengaged and followed Gymir as he raised his sword in the air and waved it side to side as if it were a banner. Gymir ploughed into the enemy ranks. All skill absent, he just smashed with his shield and hacked with his great-sword. A hundred brothers were with him and the enemy broke. They turned and ran, ran upon the knives and spears of those behind them, who in turn were trying to flee from the wicked sabres wielded by the horsemen coming from the east and the great-swords wielded by brothers coming from the west. It was an hour of pure butchery. And at the end not a single Goblin lived. More horsemen had come from the south, securing the poor wretches who had survived the village massacres, only to be caged by the monsters to receive a death of torment, a fate from which they were now released. The prisoners were in a state of shock, having witnessed complete families being butchered and even eaten before their very eyes. The cages they were in were opened, yet the prisoners stayed huddled together in the corners of the vast cages that were mounted on crudely made wagons drawn by the powerful Orc.

  Gymir returned to the front where the remaining brothers were dispatching the last of the obliterated enemy army. There was a strange quiet in the air now, pierced only by the bone chilling screams of the dying. Tears ran freely down Gymir’s cheeks as he walked past bodies of men whose facial injuries hid from him their name. They had won the battle, but at a cost that would haunt him until his final days.

  Gymir made his way through the endless corpses until he reached the centre of the line and called out in a voice hoarse and full of emotion. ‘Sergeants, on me.’ Gymir waited whilst men delegated tasks and moved towards the council area. After five minutes, only eleven of the sergeants had made it to Gymir. ‘This cannot be all who survived. God save us.’ Gymir said, pain clear in his voice.

  ‘We lead from the front, my old friend.’ Ernoul, a veteran older even than Gymir, with a much-weathered face and grey at the temples of his hair said, ‘I saw Bynard throw himself without thought into the tusks of one of those dreaded beasts, just to save the youngster the beast was bearing down upon. He died bravely, and I am honoured to have witnessed his end.’

  Gymir nodded his head and called out again. ‘Corporals, fall in. On me.’ Within a few minutes over a hundred corporals had crowded round their sergeants. ‘The battle is won. Now is the time to save our wounded. The forts Goblins’ End and Oak Gate have been ransacked. We need to take our wounded to the great fort of Iron Guard.’

  ‘And our dead?’ Ernoul asked softly.

  ‘Our dead must wait. The living are our priority now’, Gymir said. The weight of the dead resting upon his shoulders, making him visibly sag. A brightly coloured banner, splattered with blood both red and green, caught Gymir’s attention, as horsemen pressed their way through the remaining standing brothers. The lead horseman sat his horse in the proud way only the nobility could.

  ‘I always forget the protocol, should you kneel before me, Knight-captain?’

  ‘My Lord of Lichenton, the brotherhood of men-at-Arms, kneel only before He who is Greatest of them all, and the king.’

  The Lord Lichenton smiled and said, ‘A poor jest, Captain, I mean no offence. Your men fought beyond the call of duty.’ He raised his voice so the brothers could hear. ‘Brothers of the kingdom! You give bravery, courage and honour new meaning! The poets will sing ballads of your sacrifice in every hall in the kingdom.’

  ‘With respect, my Lord, we have no need of poets.’ Gymir spoke in an even tone. ‘I have many grievously wounded men. We need field dressings, medicines and herbs, and strong-bodied men to help move them to shelter.’

  Lord Lichenton looked around at the death and mutilation that surrounded him and nodded. ‘I understand, I must take my men on patrol to root out any of the evil bastards from hiding, but I shall send my fastest messengers far and wide to seek you aid. In the meantime, you may have use of the squires, pages and my household staff who accompany my baggage. God be with you all.’ With that, he wheeled his horse around with a slight adjustment of his knee and led his men towards the rear.

  Gymir returned his attention to the remaining leaders of the decimated army. ‘Return to your platoons and treat the wounded as best you can. Give mercy to those who have untreatable wounds and those who ask. When Lichenton’s, servants arrive we shall begin to move them.’

  A young corporal, whose name Gymir could not recall, attempted to speak, though emotion and exhaustion made his voice weak and shaky. ‘I should make you aware, Captain Gymir, Sergeants Ancelot and Gerbaut’s platoons are dead to a man.’

  Gymir looked physically sick. ‘To a man, how?’

  ‘Two of the beasts got in amongst their ranks and circled around their rear whilst the greater orcs attacked. We could not reach them. I am sorry.’

  Gymir squeezed the young brother on the shoulder and gently said, ‘There were many we could not reach this bloody day. We shall see them in the halls of our forefathers. Now we must help those that still live.’ The men disbanded and went to their individual commands to organise the chaos of pain and loss.

  Gymir looked back to the jungle, to the spot where he had seen the shimmering before the battle. His body went rigid and a great cold blew through his bones even though the weather was warm. He felt the same power looking at him directly, and rage burned through him. Slightly to his left lay the bloodied corpse of the first greater Orc he had killed that day, and without taking his eyes from the spot beyond the treeline he walked towards the oily, blood-soaked body. He drew his sword; the scabbard resisted at first, then it slowly released the gore-caked blade. Many of his brothers turned to watch the strange behaviour, but he took no notice. His eyes fixed upon the power in the darkness. He barely glanced at the Orc’s corpse as he delivered a powerful stroke, filled with rage and vengeance, that severed the dead Orc’s head. Gymir stuck his sword point down into the ground. His eyes sought the power that lurked in the dark trees and once again felt his eyes locked upon that presence. He bent slightly and took the severed head by its braided hair. He stood firm and straight.

  ‘He, who is Greatest of them all,’ he bellowed into the jungle, ‘fills us with light. We shall chase away the Darkness!’

  All the brothers able to now turned towards their commander. Gymir, to show his contempt, took his cock from his breeches and pissed all over the decapitated skull before kicking it high into the air, to land and bounce a hundred feet from where he stood.

  ‘We are the brotherhood! The warriors of Man! The Darkness will never defeat us!’ The men cheered. Those capable spat towards the jungles or waved their swords high. But it was half-hearted and stopped as quickly as it had started as men sought to save their brothers’ lives.

  It took the rest of the day and throughout the night to evacuate the wounded to the shelter of the great fortress of Iron Guard. It warmed Gymir’s heart to see how many villagers came to their aid. In hay wagons, astride donkeys, and on foot they came. People who had endured tragedy came in droves with what little they possessed. They soothed the injured, shared their ale and made poultices, before helping to carry the brothers to Iron Guard where priests took over their care.

  From all over the North lands white cloth was sent to the front, and the bodies of the brothers made ready for their funeral. One hundred and twenty-seven brothers had been slain in the great battle. Each had to be stripped of armour and clothing. Each brother had to be cleaned then wrapped in a shroud, with their hands holding their great-sword, even after death. Whilst the living brothers prepared their fallen comrades for the afterlife, priests anointed them with blessings and the local lords had their foresters, peasants and surfs working constantly for two days to provide enough wood for the giant funeral pyre. All the brothers who fell in the battle would go to the feasting halls of the fathers together, just as they had stood and died together.

  It was three days since the battle had been fough
t, and so hard won, and Gymir had not yet rested. He stood in front of the massive structure of kindling wood and the empty bodies of his brothers. He held a torch that burned a bright yellow in the deep of night. A hundred of the men-at-arms of the brotherhood stood before the pyre, all with torches aflame. The valley slopes were covered with men of every status: lords stood with peasants, priests stood with women of ill repute, children stood silently. All had come to pay their respect. They stood with heads bowed, saying prayers to aid the heroic fallen to their afterlife.

  ‘They lived for duty. They fought with honour. They died with courage. And now we praise them.’ Gymir said in a loud and clear voice that was echoed by his brothers. As one, they moved forward and placed their fiercely burning torches into the base of the kindling. Within moments, the smaller pieces of wood had caught. Within minutes the thicker trunks smoked, then the brightest fire Gymir had ever seen engulfed the entire structure, sending flames and the spirits of the warriors towards the heavens.

  Chapter Twenty