Becoming the Orc Chieftain

by E. M. Hardy

  “Very true, Missis Hunter,” added Olivia, nodding emphatically to make her point. “We cannot even describe how happy I am that Isiah’s even talking to us. He was… he looked far worse when we first saw him right after the crash.”

  “You can say that again,” replied Bernabé as he stooped down to get a better look at Isiah’s casts. “Dude was bleeding all over the place, his arms and legs bent at really weird angles with a couple bones sticking out here and there.” Bernabé continued speaking airily while poking at Isiah’s leg-cast. “You looked like you broke every bone in your body and then some, hombré. I mean, how are you still alive after all that?”

  Frosty silence was the only reply he got from everyone in the room, their glares equally frosty when he turned around.

  “What!?” blurted out James, putting his fists on his hip. “How come you guys get mad at me while nobody tells him off?

  “Oh, he’s getting a telling off alright,” replied Abigail as she glared Bernabé down to the ground. “Just not right now.”

  “Heh, I’m getting real tired of hospital beds.” chuckled Isiah, cutting off the tension around him before they could build up the momentum to round on his little brother. “Wasn’t this the same room they put me in last time?”

  True to form, Isiah’s mother rounded about and brought her wrath back upon her injured son. “This is no joking matter, Isiah Hunter! You almost died in that accident, for God’s sake!”

  Isiah’s good humor shut off as the memories came flooding back: the van suddenly accelerating from a sedate pace, the abrupt swerve just as it approached Isiah’s group, the determined frown on the driver’s face, the way he gripped the steering wheel. “That wasn’t an accident,” he said, staring out into an empty spot on the wall. Kurdan matched Isiah’s anger, growling in displeasure as he tapped into the boy’s memories. Isiah then turned his attention to his friends, who backed up at the sudden switch in Isiah.

  Isiah inhaled as he shifted his vision and stared up at the ceiling. “It wasn’t an accident; it was intentional. I remember the guy’s face as he came at us. He was in full control the whole time, not a trace of fear or panic in him. He was aiming for us, and I have no idea why.”

  “Where’s the driver of the van that crashed into us?” Isiah asked, his voice cool and detached as he turned toward his friends.

  Eddison was the first to snap out of his surprise. “It… uh, it was a hit and run. The guy jumped out and ran before the cops could get to the crash site.”

  Isiah thumped back into his bed, stifling a groan. “Figures. Hope the police nab him. I would really, really like to know why he did what he did… and why he didn’t finish us off when he had the chance.”

  Realizing his mistake, Isiah winced as his mother resumed nagging him about being so blasé about this whole ordeal. Once she settled down enough, his friends left a few get-well gifts and went ahead to let him recover. Isiah’s mother wanted to stay at the hospital and watch over him on the first night. He insisted, however, that she and the rest of the family go home to get some rest. He even tickled the nurse call button placed conveniently near his hand, assuring her that he’d be able to get all the help he needed at a moment’s notice. Besides, Isiah added, his younger siblings were already bored out of their skulls. The small private room was nice, far better than a ward, but it was still too cramped for everyone to squeeze themselves into.

  As he was busy reassuring his mother, doing his best to placate her, he failed to notice his father study him with narrowed eyes while nobody else in the room was looking. Bradley Hunter plastered on a smile when his son shifted his eyes toward him. He shrugged helplessly as he slid his eyes to his worried wife. Isiah rolled his eyes as discreetly as he could before trying to explain once more why he’d be perfectly fine on his own for the night.

  Bradley silently cursed himself for slipping up. He tried to think of Isiah Hunter as another case, a nobody to observe and write his report on. The boy was his own son, though, and he simply could not maintain the emotional distance required for the job. Someone else should be doing this, not him. He should be out there, bringing out every tool in his not-inconsiderable skillset to hunt down the bastard who had tried to kill his son. His superiors overruled him though, pointing out that this was too good an opportunity and that they should not squander their most useful asset in surveying a possible recruit.

  All this because of what a colleague had seen in that airsoft game, of the potential he had witnessed in Isiah, and of the strange abilities he suspected the boy possessed. It would have been possible for Bradley to hide all that away, explain it as a lucky fluke. This ordeal though, with so many witnesses watching Isiah’s amazing recovery, and there was nothing that Bradley could do to protect his son. He was on the Agency’s watchlist, and Bradley just hoped that they wouldn’t be too hard on Isiah when they approached him… when he approached his son with the offer.

  And so he moved to rub the shoulders of his worried wife, all while taking mental notes on his son that should have died the day before.

  ***

  Isiah rubbed his eyes, taking note of the time before setting his phone down beside his bed. The nurse should be rolling around to check on him in a few minutes. He lay back on his bed, slipped his cast hand into its sling, and relaxed—right before he willed his blood to break his arm and his hip. Isiah grunted through the pain, making sure that the bones were set as if they were healing at a normal rate.

  It was a tremendous hassle, but he simply couldn’t afford to just laze about. Kurdan’s invasion was coming up soon, and he had to do all he could to prevent it from turning an orderly, objective-driven raid into mindless slaughter.

  The orc grunted in annoyance within Isiah’s head. “Why do you even care? I won’t even torment them, just enslave them to plant their crops and conduct research. You yourself said that I should treat them as resources to cultivate, and that is exactly what I plan to do once I capture them.”

  Isiah shook his head. “Raiding helpless caravans that run and surrender is one thing. It is quite another when fighting through a siege where the defenders inflict terrible casualties on the attackers. I’ve read enough history on the stuff to know that your orcs won’t think twice about splatting the skulls of those who’ve cut their friends and family to pieces.”

  “Hah!” Kurdan said as he barked out a laugh. “Death comes for all of us. We do not fear it the same way that you do. We look at the fallen with either respect or disgust, depending on how well they died.”

  “Yes,” Isiah drawled. “And you were thinking so clearly when Alyon kept messing you up during that first raid of yours. If I remember correctly, you almost smashed her head in when you already had her helplessly pinned down to the ground. Great self-control you showed there, oh benevolent chieftain.”

  Kurdan hissed at Isiah’s mocking tone but paused to reflect on his words. “You do have a point there,” grunted Kurdan in agreement—surprising Isiah with his humility. “So… what are you thinking?”

  Isiah raised his brow at Kurdan’s question. “What? You can read my mind, right? I’m sure you already know what I have planned.”

  “I only know what you’ve been studying on that little slate of yours: siege weapons and siege tactics. Those will be useful for my planned raid, no doubt about it. What I do not get, however, is why you think this will minimize the spilling of blood.”

  Isiah squeezed his eyes shut, pushing out that sliver of guilt that nagged at him and called him a traitor to his own kind. “Too much aggression, too much bloodlust floating in the air, will mean orcs won’t think twice about going off on their own. That means more orcish casualties and mounting frustration at how long the attack is taking. That in turn means pissed-off orcs out for blood when they recover from their injuries and inevitably storm the town. They’ll be so busy killing and pillaging that they might not be fully aware of their surroundings—much less your warhorn commands. If reinforcements arri
ve and your orcs are high on blood, they could get caught completely off-guard.

  “If you can reduce your casualties though, then the orcs will be more focused on the job at hand: capturing slaves instead of seeking revenge. Start off slow, use the siege weapons, weaken their defenses, make the inevitable assault easier. Less bloodshed all around when compared to slobbering, blood-crazed orcs that can’t tell the difference between armed combatant and fleeing baker. This will also bolster your position among the chieftains, increasing their respect for your leadership. They will be a lot less inclined to go against your commands or plot behind your back if they see that you are good at what you do.”

  “I will go along with most of what you said,” Kurdan replied, “But that last part? Don’t tell me you believe that, not after haunting my every action for so long.”

  Isiah thought about it twice and sighed, shaking his head. “Wishful thinking. I know it’s an orcish thing to be ambitious and all that, but I hope that an easy win will strengthen the belief that you are stronger, better, and smarter than the chieftains leading their tribes. This should put you on top of the food chain, so to speak, and make rebellions just a little bit harder to pull off.”

  Kurdan barked out a cheery laugh within Isiah’s mind. “Yes, now that is something I can work with. Not bad for a mewling human who can’t even tell his mother to stop nagging him to death.” Isiah thought of something snarky to snap back, but it was cut short when the nurse entered the room to check on his vitals. Isiah lay back calmly, pretending to be asleep as the nurse went about her business.

  Chapter 24

  A team of brawny orcs strained every muscle in their bodies pulling the lever of the mangonel down, roaring in unison as they drew the limb with all their might. They held the trembling length of wood down while another orc secured a series of knotted poison creeper ropes into position, locking the thick Halewood limb into place. Upon hearing the shout of ‘clear,’ the team of orcs pulled back, roaring and raging as their blood boiled with the effort. Truth be told, these orcs were absolutely furious that a small piece of wood and flimsy pieces of rope were able to withstand all the abuse they piled upon them. Orcs were used to breaking things with their muscles. They were not used to those things being able to take the abuse.

  While the huffing, fuming orcs caught their breath, a thinner, runtier orc loaded a heavy ceramic pot on the outstretched limb before lighting the bundled wicks on the pot with a torch. That orc gauged the position of the mangonel against the marks she had scratched out on the ground. She grunted in satisfaction, noting how the bigger orcs had managed to arm the lever without moving the whole setup too much out of position. Now that the lever was locked, that smaller orc waited until the other teams finished loading their own mangonels. Seeing all three siege weapons loaded up, the lead engineer roared out his command to loose. As one, the engineers pulled on their respective ropes—releasing their fiery charges upon the wooden walls of the settlement that the humans called Greenhold.

  Kurdan watched with satisfaction as the volley of pitch-filled pots slammed into their targets, igniting as the volatile liquid within came into contact with the burning wicks. It had taken time to engineer the first mangonel, along with plenty of trial and error from the images that Isiah memorized, but he eventually got the design right. He and his orcs had managed to build three mangonels in time for the attack; that would be more than enough to deal significant damage to the wooden logs surrounding Greenhold. They were a pain to aim properly, taking the better part of the morning just to get the right range using dirt-filled pots. Once they got their range however, they switched over to the pitch vessels. Now the humans were scrambling, pouring water and dirt over the fires spreading along their fortifications. Warded or not, wood would still burn when exposed to enough heat.

  Soon enough though, a layer of frost magically flowed out from behind the walls, extinguishing fires in all the places it touched. In another section, a small tornado swept over the flames, choking them out in one fell swoop with pressurized air. In yet another section, steam wafted high into the air as a torrent of water flowed from the ground and soaked the walls. Not a single head peered out from above the walls, the tops of which were pin-cushioned with bolts. The orcs roared and jeered, daring the human priests and mages to pop out from behind cover so that more of them would fall to their crossbows. The Snipers said nothing, shouted nothing back. They were lost to the world in their cold bloodlust—focusing solely on the next human to peek from behind the safety of their walls. The mages, for their part, were too busy strengthening the wards on the walls and putting out fires that managed to settle in through.

  Kurdan grinned: this fear was exactly what he had been waiting for. It had taken longer than expected for the humans to start hiding behind the walls, but he would take it.

  Earlier in the day, when Kurdan and his orcs approached the walls of Greenhold, the humans jeered and mocked the small parties of orcs that first emerged from the trees. Those jeers then morphed to solemn silence as the parties converged into warbands. That silence turned into murmurs of worry mixed with the occasional cry of panic as the scope of Kurdan’s army came into full view. Five hundred orcs might not sound like much, but each orc had the power to absolutely crush ten men to pieces. It would take about two dozen heavily-armed footmen to incapacitate and kill an orc—or a single mage hurling a single well-placed spell.

  This knowledge encouraged the humans that believed they were safe behind the thick Halewood logs ringing the settlement. Orcs were strong enough to batter down those walls given enough time, but the humans wouldn’t give orcs any time to chip away at the walls. They were confident that their mages and priests would repel any force that attempted to bash itself against the walls. An orcish charge would be met with a flurry of magic—burning, freezing, drowning, blinding, and confusing any mob that dared to attack en masse. All the mages had to do was stand on the platforms, hide behind the shields of the footmen, set up their magical protection, and let loose with their spells.

  What they did not expect, however, were orcish crossbowmen launching bolts that rocketed with enough force to shatter the shields and wards that mages put up. Footmen holding up shields fared no better, for the bolts pierced through the flimsy wood and anything behind it. Burnt Halewood bolts could punch clean through orcish bone, after all. What resistance would steel offer—much less Sun Oak and Yellow Maple? Even the Halewood planks used on the shields offered little protection. ‘Raw’ Halewood was no match for its treated and thrice-baked counterparts. Even the thick logs surrounding the settlement could barely contain the destructive forces of the bolts. The tops of some logs, the parapets where humans kept trying to peek out from, were already splintering into pieces. Even the portions that mages reinforced with their enchanting magic broke off after taking enough bolts. The thrice-burnt Halewood bolts were simply too dense, propelled by too much force, for mage enchantments to resist for long.

  The accuracy of the Snipers coupled with their deadly bolts punished any human that so much as extended a hand beyond cover. No, the defenders of Greenhold knew better than to fire back against the orcish horde besieging their town. Better for them to hunker down and wait for the orcs to climb the walls. The footmen would hold them at bay with the aid of the disabling attacks of the priests while the mages blasted the attacking orcs to pieces. All they had to do was buy enough time for the riders from Witherwatch to grind the orcs to dust. They were just a day’s ride away, so they only had to hold for just a little bit longer.

  Kurdan didn’t need the whole day, though; he just needed the human mages to start hiding behind the walls.

  He turned to Gnadug and nodded. His Axe nodded back and jogged back to the force hiding behind the trees, hiding behind the sniper teams and mangonel teams. When Gnadug came back out, he was followed by a mass of orcish warriors led by teams of orcs bearing thick battering rams. If the humans had been worried by the forces Kurdan showed, they were do
wnright stricken with panic when they saw another five hundred emerge from the trees. With a roar, Gnadug and his Berserkers rushed ahead, leading the way for the ladder teams to start scaling the walls and the battering ram team to do its job on the gate.

  Truth be told, Kurdan could have ordered the charge as early as dawn and taken the settlement by now. He didn’t even really need the mangonels, battering rams, or crossbows. The thousand orcs under his command could just carry tall ladders and force a breach over the walls. He could have done all this, but then he would have lost more than half of his orcs in the attack. His first hundred losses would come from rushing across open ground while mages hurled their spells against them. He would lose a hundred more as the orcs climbed their ladders while footmen jabbed, slashed, smashed, and thrust their weapons to delay the orcish attackers. Once across the wall, he would again lose another hundred orcs as the mages fell back while throwing their magics to cover their retreat. He would again lose yet another hundred as his orcs breached the gates and flooded into the town itself, through the winding corners and narrow streets where footmen, mages, and priests could set up ambushes. The bloodiest part would be the last, for he would have to absorb even more casualties as his orcs made their final assault on the keep. It sat atop the hill overlooking the town proper, and it would mark the final stand of the humans in Greenhold. Every mage, priest, and footman would die as they held the winding corridors of the keep—but not before killing their fair share of orcs while doing so.

  He would ‘win’ the battle this way, of course, but it wouldn’t do him any good. The orcs would revel in the victory, having destroyed one of the bastions of human civilization encroaching on orcish forests. Kurdan’s name would still be held in high esteem even if hundreds of orcs died for this one victory.