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

by Aiden L Turner

  Orc and Goblin had reached the base of the fortress and began to beat impotently upon the great oak doors. Audemar looked to the east and to the west. The enemies’ leaders were herding the mass of lesser Orcs and Goblins towards Iron Guard, and it was time to push them towards the men-at-arms.

  ‘Time to burn the bastards’, Lord Audemar said. His quiet voice was filled with more menace than the war cries of the hundreds of enemies baying for man blood.

  The twenty archers let loose the bodkin arrow from their strings and without question or hesitation they drew arrows wrapped in pitch-soaked cloth from barrels placed at the corners of the battlements. They placed the tips of the fire arrows in the smouldering braziers and the cloth burst into bright red flame.

  ‘Smooth is fast, boys.’ Audemar reminded his men without need. His men were skilled and calm in battle and his heart beamed with pride, yet it was good for them to hear his voice.

  ‘Do not draw the string back fully, boys, or you’ll cook your fingers and your strings.’ Audemar and his men, flaming arrows on their bows, took a rough aim and loosed. The arrows flew unsteadily, the weight of the pitch-soaked cloth made the arrowhead heavy, the feather fletching struggled against the wind, taking the power from the arrows’ flight. The arrows did not need power, they embedded into the ground where the bowmen had meant to send them, and the reaction was instantaneous.

  Orcs and Goblins alike were scattered and thrown into the air like rag dolls. Those closest to points of explosion were clothed in flame as the alchemist’s liquid was splashed upon the flesh, where it stuck and burned with a fierce intensity.

  Limbs were ripped from howling creatures, the green flesh scorched black as chaos and frustration descended upon the Orcs and Goblins as a type of warfare unknown to them rained flame and force amongst the horde of Darkness. The survivors backed away from the pits of fire. Some turned back towards the safety of the jungle but were cut down by the second wave of green skins who were coming from the shadow of the trees. They came slower now and with a weariness of the fortress raining death and flame.

  Gymir raised his shield and took the force of a greater Orcs axe before lunging with his sword and taking the creature through the throat. The beast looked oddly comical as it stared at the steel as Gymir pulled it out. Blood gushed in spurts. The dark green Orc sought to vent his anger by swinging weakly at the knight-captain who knocked the head of the monstrous axe aside and shield rammed the creature back into the barricade, impaling the beast upon one of the sharpened logs.

  The hideous green fiends had swarmed over the barricade, though in numbers that two hundred men-at-arms would not struggle to despatch in short time, and the knight-captain had been content to let them climb the obstacles to die upon the brothers’ anger and steel.

  The air reverberated and Gymir tasted toxins and heat upon the air he breathed. Bright flashes from the left of his field of vision told him war fire had been brought to bear. He smiled as his enemy turned in fear and panic. The green skins, both Goblin and Orc alike, seemed to lose their passion for combat.

  ‘Kill them all!’ The commander of the army of Man roared, though without need. His men were taking full advantage of the enemy’s sudden alarm as they turned to see fire leaping towards the sky, and their fellows engulfed in writhes of war fire.

  Greater Orcs were seizing lesser Orcs and Goblins as they turned to flee, propelling them back towards the fort or towards the swords of Man. Some they hacked down gleefully, whether to maintain discipline and some order of battle or for the sport of it Gymir neither knew nor cared.

  He walked calmly towards the barrier, dispatching two shrieking Goblins as he went. His sword’s blade was thick with the green gloop of Goblin blood, the hilt strung with shreds of gore.

  He came before the chest high array of sharpened logs, thorn bushes and furniture and turned back towards his men, who were finishing the last of the enemy allowed to cross unhindered.

  ‘To me!’ he roared. ‘To the barricade. We shall build it to the heavens with the bodies of the enemy dead!’

  Gymir placed his sword’s blade through a gap in the tangle of wood and debris, waited for a heartbeat, then thrust his sword, impaling a creature as it made to leap the defences. He looked left to right, at the line of unyielding faithful brothers, and his heart dared to fill with hope.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Escape

  Father Robert, known to his friends as Red Rob, opened the trapdoor and climbed into the gloom of an empty cellar. A mile or more they had walked through the damp of the unused tunnel, and now they climbed through the subterranean doorway and into the abandoned guard post, a small building used for the housing of around a dozen guardsmen who collected the tolls and patrolled the king’s highway.

  ‘In days long gone there were many more of these outlining guard posts, though even this one was abandoned before I arrived’, Robert said quietly. The sounds of battle came, muffled by distance, but still unsettlingly near. ‘Gather what food and drink you can find and be quick about it.’

  Within a few moments they had gathered a sack with hard bread, cheese and skins of ale and Father Robert led them back into the night. The large father of the order moved clumsily through the brush, though without the slightest doubt at the direction. The other three followed in silence, Wilhelm and Zachary scanning the surroundings constantly, ever watchful for enemies in the dark.

  The sound of movement brought them to a sudden halt, something large was crashing through the undergrowth to their right. Wilhelm and Zachary slid their swords from their scabbards, pushing Elysabeth and Red Rob behind them as they stood ready to meet any challenge, eager for some retribution.

  Six guardsmen crashed into view, swords naked in their hands, fear obvious on their faces. They staggered to a halt at the sight of Wilhelm and Zachary before them but relaxed slightly as they saw fully who they were, or rather what they were.

  Wilhelm and Zachary neither moved nor relaxed, they just stood, swords held high, armour covered, warriors.

  A slight noise from behind the men caused all six to jump. They began moving again, towards the fugitives, yet at an angle that brought them past the group who looked on confusedly.

  As they staggered past, a man in the uniform of a captain looked at Father Robert incredulously. ‘Flee father!’ he said, his voice scarce above a whisper. ‘They are the devils; from the ground they came! Flee I say!’

  His companions pulled him, and with a last look behind them they continued running towards Sprettaman.

  ‘Should we not flee?’ Elysabeth asked. Fear rose from her gut, and her bowls felt loose. She turned her head this way and that like a rabbit trapped in a snare.

  ‘Our path lays just beyond those trees, my dear. We cannot flee’, Robert replied.

  ‘Then let us be about it, Father’, Zachary said gruffly. ‘That which causes fear in six guardsmen need not worry two warriors of the light.’

  ‘Hold, my brave Zachary’, Red Rob said fondly. ‘Let us try stealth before strength.’

  Wilhelm and Zachary looked at each other, appraising how stealthy the other could move through the small wooded copse at night in plate armour.

  Wilhelm shrugged. ‘Let us try stealth then.’

  The group crept forward and into the trees. They were birch and ash, slender and still in their youth, providing inadequate cover. They moved forward, every step of their booted feet crunching loudly in the undergrowth. They came to the other end of the wood in short order and peered into the gloom of night.

  Wilhelm and Zachary both stood up straight in alarm and surprise. A vast chasm split the land like He who is Greatest Himself had reached from the heavens and slashed the land with His giant sword.

  Voices caused Red Rob to reach up and try to force the warriors to take cover, but both men-at-arms were attuned now for battle. For they saw the path Father Robert intended. A huge oak tree had been felled by whatever had caused the earth to open like the maw of a garga
ntuan beast. The tree’s trunk, over twenty paces in length, had fallen across the chasm, becoming a bridge over the uncrossable trench.

  Soldiers in the garb of the king’s guard lay dead in the open space between the small wood and the chasm, horrific wounds a testimony to their end. Six figures, tall and lithe, with plain rustic clothes and crude leather armour stood in quiet conversation.

  ‘What are they?’ Wilhelm asked Robert in a whisper.

  ‘That they are here killing men should be sufficient enough to tell you what they are, Wilhelm. They are enemies and they bar our path’, Red Rob replied, his voice low yet sharp.

  One figure turned his head towards the fugitives, merely a brief glance, yet enough for the two warriors to see its cat-like eyes glowing a very feline yellow.

  ‘I have not seen their like’, Zachary stated.

  The six figures took position on the root end of the great trunk. Bending to the task they attempted to move it and destroy its use as a bridge.

  ‘Kill them!’ Robert said forcefully.

  Without a word, the brothers stepped from the wood. They walked quietly but quickly, legs bent, their bodies crouched. It was thirty strides. The figures were so engrossed in the effort to remove the bridge, they did not notice the towering forms of the warriors tasked with their destruction.

  With only five strides between themselves and the tree, Wilhelm and Zachary announced their presence loudly. Both warriors bellowed incoherently and charged. Their foe looked up from their task in surprise that quickly turned to instant death for two as the great-swords came down with skull crushing force.

  The creatures moved with unnatural speed, but two more died as they found their feet, drew weapons and made ready to attack. The remaining two attacked with a ferocity and speed that spoke more of animalistic savagery than of weapon skill.

  Wilhelm took a pace backwards as the creature before him jumped into the air, impossibly fast, stabbing with two long daggers as it did so. Wilhelm dogged his head back, tried to bring his sword to parry, but the sword’s long length hindered him. The foe stabbed again, Wilhelm turned his head, and the dagger slid against the armoured face plate, and only warrior born instinct saving his eye from the dagger’s point. He punched the creature with his heavy gauntleted fist, staggering the creature off balance, then ended his enemy with a lunge, his blade slicing through the creature’s leather armour with ease and straight through the muscle and flesh. His sword went through the creature with such force the hilt touched its ripped flesh. With a grunt of effort, Wilhelm ripped the steel upwards and out. Its cat-like eyes turned white as they rolled back in its head, entrails and organs spilled from the creature. Intestines coiled around its feet for a moment before it fell in the heap of its own bloody insides.

  Wilhelm turned to see that Zachary had finished the last enemy. The body laying at his feet still twitched with the spasms of death, though its head lay some distance away.

  Father Robert came from the wood with Elysabeth. Both looked around furtively, seeking enemies in the murk.

  ‘Who are they, Robert?’ Elysabeth asked in a voice made weak with fatigue and emotion.

  ‘They appear to be of the Elven line, though I thought those beings belonged now to legend.’ He bent and quickly inspected one of the fallen. ‘By every account I have read, they are indeed Elves, though they appear more savage by far than the beings of grace in the books.’ He looked behind him, then to the far side of the chasm. ‘We must not tarry. Over the bridge and be quick about it. Lest their companions seek them’, Father Robert said, pointing to the lifeless forms of the creatures he called Elves. He climbed onto the tree with surprising agility for one with such weight and walked calmly to the other side.

  After they were across the makeshift bridge and had put a few miles distance from the sound of battle and the great trench Wilhelm ordered a halt.

  ‘I think it best to avoid the closest farmsteads and halls. We can skirt round them and walk the remainder of the night. Then take horses when the sun rises and ride hard for the safety of the brotherhood’, Wilhelm said, mustering some authority.

  ‘No, I think not Wilhelm’, Father Robert said softly. ‘Sprettaman has fallen. That great chasm did not appear by some accident or natural occurrence. The enemy in the north has moved...’

  Wilhelm interrupted, questioning the movement of the enemy of the north, but was cut off sharply by Robert.

  ‘I know these for fact and do not question my knowledge again! The enemy strikes hard at the northern fortresses, whilst another springs from the ground and cuts Sprettaman away from the kingdom. We go west until there is no west to go.’

  ‘To the temple by the sea?’ Elysabeth asked gently.

  ‘Indeed, my dear’, Robert replied.

  ‘No. I shall not abandon Jacob like we have abandoned Askia and Holak’, Elysabeth said. Her voice breaking as tears formed in her eyes.

  ‘Askia and Holak died as honoured servants of He who is Greatest of them all, my dear. As for Jacob, well, he shall be where he needs to be’, Robert replied, adding a silent prayer that he spoke truth.

  Ederwine, Grandmaster of the Order of Light, wise and ancient, sat upon his treasured bench and looked upon the beauty of the night sky. So much vast expanse of darkness, yet broken by tiny specks of beautiful, pristine white light.

  His head was a mess of bruise and laceration, his lips split and his eyes barely open from the swelling. He would die soon, very soon. He knew he could use the remainder of his power to stop the pain and let death take him peacefully. But he needed the last drops of energy and besides, he would not simply will away his pain when so many had died to protect him. It just did not feel right, as if it would be a cheat somehow.

  He looked down at Malick’s lifeless corpse. His head split apart and the brains inside dashed around the courtyard. He had come with two men, both garbed in the colours of the king’s guard, whilst Malick wore the garb of the men-at-arms of the brotherhood. They had at once been violent and destructive, smashing articles old beyond recollecting. ‘Use your powers to call Robert to your aid’, Malick had screamed at him. He had refused.

  Old and frail as Ederwine was, he was neither weak nor confused with age. Darkness had come with the king’s swordmaster and darkness must be refused at all costs. So, they had begun killing. They had brought with them thirteen villagers they had met upon the way, claiming the caretaker had need of their aid, and they had come willingly, unarmed and with good intentions in their hearts they had come to aid and instead had been slaughtered.

  Still, Ederwine had refused. And so, they had whipped him. Laughing as his screams shattered the stillness of the setting sun. He still refused. ‘It does not matter; we have your pain now. It will bring him here like a signal fire.’

  And they were right. If Robert reached out now, he would feel the pain and distress and it would indeed bring him to this evil infested sanctuary of peace. He needed to clear his head, send forth his thoughts and warn Robert to stay away.

  He had focused when Malick had struck. The two guardsmen feared to strike a father of the order, or even be in the presence of such an act.

  Malick had no such fears. He had bent his will to the Darkness long ago. He struck the old man, then looked down on him. Ederwine again tried to focus his thoughts but was staggered again by the sadistic swordmaster. Every time the caretaker focused his thoughts and will, Malick struck.

  But Ederwine did not give in. The Darkness cannot be submitted to. And then the strangest thing had happened. Ederwine looked into the gleeful eyes of the dark servant who had once been counted brave and honourable. He had looked into those eyes and said, ‘You will have an accounting for this day’s dark deeds.’ And then the swordmaster’s head had exploded, a torrent of blood and brain showering Ederwine.

  Malick fell to the ground. Robert was standing over his twitching body and shattered skull holding an old but formidable-looking axe. Robert and the axe were splattered with blood.

&n
bsp; And so now he sat upon his bench in his garden, surrounded by the dead, and summoned his last reserves of energy to contact a prince hundreds of miles away in a land at war, his remaining life to be measured now in hours.

  Jacob led the remnants of the army down the spiralling ramp and into the underground land they had been sent to conquer. Not for the first time, he again questioned the Order of Light’s wish for him to come on this mission of conquest. Every fibre of his being screamed the wrongness of it all. He felt like he was about the Dark Lord’s business, yet his mission had been endorsed by those in high regard and service within the Order of Light.

  A voice called to him, in his mind, and through his heart it sounded. Weak and feeble, as if from a great distance and under great duress. Forever west it repeated. It had come an hour earlier, and persisted, growing weaker and hollower as the time wore on. He feared it was Father Robert when he had first heard its call but dismissed the notion. It lacked the familiar sense that came when Red Rob had come into his mind. He had feared for Elysabeth, yet for some unknown reason that fear had vanished, to be replaced with an odd sense of warmth and comfort at the thought of her.

  No. He thought to himself. This was something different. He felt a part of himself being tugged westwards, as if being led gently by a friend. He stood still, took a deep and calming breath, and pushed all feelings aside. He would need focus and calm authority in the hours to come.