by Joel Babbitt
Returning to the front of the column, Drok sat next to his mount and dug into his rations bag while he awaited the return of his leaders. As he ate, his thoughts turned from time to time to the strangeness of how the kobold he had raised as a son was now in charge of him, but he staved off any thoughts of jealousy by reminding himself of all the other idiots he’d known in his life who had somehow been promoted into leadership. He was glad that none of those were his leader now. At least Durik had a good head on his shoulders and a good heart. And besides, Drok had had quite an impact on Durik over the six years he’d raised him. Who else could say that about their leader caste?
Smiling to himself, Drok stood up and went about checking over the warriors of his team before walking around and talking with the other elite warriors.
Chapter 5 – A Rude Awakening
Though they didn’t know it, Durik and Manebrow were not the only scouts watching the orc horde’s encampment. After moving quietly through the underbrush and down deer trails until cresting the ridgeline, Durik stopped suddenly. Freezing in place behind him, Manebrow scanned the forest around them until he saw it too.
There, in the brush not a stone’s throw away from them, something living stood watching the orc camp from behind a large rock. It was covered from head to toe in a cloak and other thick clothing or armor, but little wisps of heat still escaped here and there, giving away its position to the two kobold leaders.
“What do you think it is?” Durik whispered breathlessly in Manebrow’s ear.
After a moment more of observing the figure, Manebrow whispered back. “He’s not a picket for the orc horde. Otherwise he’d be watching our direction. Perhaps it’s a Krall Gen scout. After all, we did send Ardan and his team to warn them.”
Durik nodded and watched for a few moments longer. Finally, he turned back to Manebrow. “I’m going to approach.”
Moving off the deer trail, Durik circumvented a large tree that stood between them, then walked slowly forward over the bed of old pine needles that was this part of the forest floor. Once he got to within easy throwing distance, he stooped down and picked up a pebble, throwing it lightly at the watcher.
The figure turned about quickly, revealing a face obviously covered in mud, in order to hide the heat it would otherwise project. The eyes still glowed, however, only more so with the adrenaline of the moment. Drawing a sword, the figure moved off to the side a few paces, ready to run if necessary.
Durik put his spear down and held up both hands to show that he did not come to fight. After only a couple of moments the figure sheathed his sword as well and walked forward, a broad grin on his face.
“Durik! Is that you?” the mud-splattered kobold whispered loudly in the deep forest.
“Yes, who are you?” Durik replied with a bewildered look.
“And Manebrow too? What good fortune!” the figure replied. “Gormanor here. Lemmekor’s just down this ridge a little way.”
“Gormanor?” Durik looked quizzically at the Krall Gen scout. “I thought you and Lemmekor were going to stay behind and guard the prisoners in the Dwarven Outpost? What are you doing scouting the orc horde?”
Now it was Gormanor’s turn to look confused. “What? No. Morigar told us to follow him with the prisoners and the treasure. We took them up to the bridge atop the Chop. We ended up leaving them with Morigar, though, because he insisted on taking the whole party off to try to hire the dragons to help him kill the orc chieftain.”
“What?” Durik paused in surprise.
Having come up beside his leader, Manebrow shook his head in bewilderment at the news. “He took all the treasure, and he took a bunch of northerners off to the Hall of the Mountain King to try to buy a dragon’s loyalty? Daft! Absolutely stupid.” Manebrow shook his head in disbelief. “I guess that’s the last we’ll see of him, then.”
“Probably,” Gormanor nodded in agreement. “After all, it’s been two days since we left him up there and we’ve not seen him returning down the Chop. But Krebbekar did go after him, so maybe he’ll talk some sense into him. In the meantime, however, Lord Krall has seen fit to send us back to the Border Guard to help scout the orc horde.”
“Aye,” Manebrow nodded. “We’re here to do the same, and more!”
“We’ve brought a force of about thirty-five wolf riders to give them a bit of a rude awakening,” Durik added.
“Aha, well then,” Gormanor said, “it may interest you to know that we’ve got a perimeter set up just out of the range of the orcs’ darkvision. We’ve been watching them for the past day and a half, since they set up camp here. We’re not sure why they didn’t move yesterday, but we did see them send out a lot of orc scouts. We killed probably a dozen or so of them, though we did lose a few ourselves as well.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but am glad to hear that you’re sticking a dagger in the eyes of this ungainly horde,” Manebrow said. “But what about the five hundred or so kobold levies the orc horde has? Isn’t it dangerous scouting so close with their heat vision to spot you?”
“Aye,” Gormanor answered. “It would be, that is, if they had put out kobolds on their picket lines. But as it is, their kobold levies are the only ones who have seen fit to put up a palisade. They seem to not be on so friendly of terms with the orcs, as we know they’ve spotted us on multiple occasions, but have sent no one out from their little walled camp to give warning to their orc masters.”
Manebrow and Durik looked at each other. The same idea played in both of their eyes.
“Gormanor, so you’re saying that the orcs and ogres are sleeping in the open, and that there seems to be a division between them and their kobold levies, then?” Durik asked.
“Aye,” Gormanor nodded. “That pretty well sums it up, though it’s worth mentioning that some of the orcs have tents.”
Manebrow could already tell the plan Durik was formulating. It was the same plan he would execute if he were in charge.
“Gormanor, show us how the orcs have placed their picket line, will you?”
The few orcs who lazed about the campfire on the northwest corner of the sprawling mess of tents and smoldering campfires that was the orc horde’s encampment were the only guards in this area of the camp. As one, ten small figures in dark, hooded cloaks with mud splattered across their faces rose up from the tree line with bows drawn. In an instant ten arrows flew into the handful of unwary orcs, killing most of them almost instantly and leaving two of them gasping for breath through pierced lungs.
To the left of the archers up on a small, grass covered hill, the line of wolf riders all appeared at once, the torches many of them carried shining like beacons in the dark of night. Raising his spear into the air, the young, armored kobold on the right side of the line looked down the line, holding the charge back until all riders were on line. When he received a nod from the older armored kobold on the other side of the line, the spear dropped and the entire line of cavalry jumped forward as one.
With no more than the sound of running feet, the line swept down into the hodge-podge of tents and make-shift lean-tos. Splitting into two groups upon reaching the outer perimeter of the camp, the younger, bronze-scaled kobold took the almost twenty riders of his contingent to the right and began lighting tents on fire and putting spears in orcs who were sleeping in the open as they rode past. To the left, the older warrior’s half of the contingent did the same. From behind them at the wood line, the ten archers fired arrow after arrow at the sentries around the other campfires, killing several before they could sound a voice of warning.
Their aim was not true enough, however, nor were the wolf riders fast enough to reach all of the sentries. Soon, a hue and a cry was raised throughout the camp. Orcs came scrambling out of tents, many of them on fire and weaponless. Ogres screamed as flaming brands fell on them from their impromptu lean-tos.
By the time the wolf riders had gone a quarter of the way around the great camp, and turned inward toward the center of camp, the confusion ha
d only just begun. In the dark of night, where only firelight from the sentry posts lit the area, orc fought orc, not knowing what the real danger was, only knowing that their camp was under attack. In the dead of night many ogres smashed at anything that moved about them.
By the time the cavalry contingent met near the middle of camp, the entire camp was in an uproar. Raising his bloodied spear to halt the reunited contingent, the young leader gathered his forces into a line. Ahead of them, standing in a seething line of muscle and axes, stood the chieftain’s personal guards, ten of his strongest warriors who were not his sons. Behind them, a large orc, much older than most in the horde, growled a fierce command, holding back the warriors of his bodyguard, knowing the danger of rushing into danger unprepared.
Standing still in the eerie light of the camp’s half-darkness, the wolf riders stared impetuously at the outnumbered and unarmored orcs, who had been hastily summoned from their sleep in nearby tents. Spurring his mount forward, the young warrior leader threw the large round object that was in his left hand toward the line of orcs, calling out in the best orcish he could muster.
“Leave our valley! In the name of the Kale Gen, I command you to go!”
The young cavalry commander then broke through his own line and led the rest of his riders straight out of the camp toward the northwest, stabbing orcs and avoiding the few half-awake ogres they found along the way, their torches causing a greater conflagration as they pushed their way through.
As Drakebane the Mighty, Chieftain of the Bloodhand Orc Tribe, walked forward to see what these impetuous raiders had dropped at his warriors’ feet, he saw Grimbane’s severed head lying in the dirt. It had not been long before that this, his strongest son, had been sent out to prick the Krall Gen into action. He obviously hadn’t gotten very far.
Drakebane’s rage flared bright red in his eyes. He saw nothing else at the moment, not the fires, nor the many bodies of his warriors, nor did he hear the screaming of orcs whose bodies were burning, sealed in burning tents, unable to find their way out to safety in the smoke and confusion of the raid.
All thoughts of caution were gone. All he knew was that it was time to kill. Calling for his axe to be brought, Drakebane ordered his warriors forward. As one, the warriors of his bodyguard followed him through the camp, gathering up warriors and ogres as they went, gathering them together into as much of a mass as they could as they ran after the lithe little kobolds on their sleek, black wolves.
“Gormanor!” Durik called, his face flushed with recent exertion, and his voice exultant with the success of the raid. “They are coming! They took the bait!” he said as he reined in, dismounting Firepaw in one swift motion, then leading him over to one of the warriors who had been designated to hold the reins of those on the line. Turning back to the direction they had come from, Durik took the bow from his back and set his spear against the large tree trunk they had picked for an ambush position.
Drok came up beside him. “I have to admit, son,” he said, clapping Durik on the shoulder, “that’s probably the best raid I’ve ever seen. Brings a tear to an old warrior’s eye to see his progeny all grown up and killing orcs like that.”
Durik just smiled at his uncle. “Manebrow,” he called out, “are your warriors set?”
From the other side of the trail, behind another large trunk, Manebrow stood up from his crouch and signaled all ready—and not a moment too soon. From across the meadow the first orcs came spilling into sight. Rushing headlong, the large green-skinned warriors began to fan out when they hit the openness of the field.
As one, the entire line of dismounted wolf riders stood and fired. Thirty-five arrows sped through the air, most of them striking true as the orcs were surprised for the second time that night, caught, as they were, in a headlong rush. Very soon after the first volley came a second, more ragged volley, followed quickly by a third.
As Durik and the half of his warrior group that were there with him at the edge of the meadow mounted up and fled down the path into the night, behind them the bodies of a score of orcs lay lifeless on the ground, while another dozen or so screamed in pain or lay breathing shallow breaths as their lifeblood spilled out upon the ground.
Unknown to them, Drakebane the Mighty lay among the wounded. He had seen many of his warriors go down around him and, though he’d only been hit in the shoulder by one of the kobolds’ arrows, he went down as well and waited while the second and third volleys killed or incapacitated the few warriors who had been too stupid to do the same.
His impetuous rush after the raiders had been a mistake he would not soon forget. Not long after Durik and his cavalry left, Drakebane the Mighty struggled to his feet as an ogre, then the next group of his warriors and some more ogres hurried past.
“Get them!” he yelled. “Kill them!”
After watching several of his warriors and ogre mercenaries go past, all in a rage to catch and capture the impetuous kobold raiders, Drakebane grabbed his axe with his good arm and walked back toward camp, looking for that lazy shaman he kept around for just such circumstances as these.
“Hurry! Hurry now!” Durik urged a lagging warrior onward. “There will probably be ogres in the next group. We must be set at the next position before they arrive!”
The warrior, whose mount had stepped on a thorn, had stopped to pull the thing from its paw. Manebrow rode up behind the pair as the rest of the line moved past, led by Drok toward their next ambush position.
“Sire,” Manebrow called out, “I’ve got this one. You go on ahead!”
Durik nodded and remounted Firepaw. The additional weight of his armor was much for Firepaw to bear, but so far he had not complained. Durik wondered if his magnificent wolf would be able to make it through this night. If everything went as planned, it looked to be a very long one indeed.
Suddenly, from not far behind the column of riders, Durik heard the noise of a huge beast pushing its way through the trees and underbrush of the forest.
“Manebrow! Ogre!” Durik called out. Fear rippled through the column as riders urged their mounts to go faster.
Manebrow turned and looked. “Sire, you go ahead and make sure things are ready for them at the next position! I’ve got the rearguard!”
Looking back at his second, Durik could see that he had already begun to form a line with the rear half of the group, giving the command for everyone to ground spears and draw bows.
Turning back about, Durik urged his mount onward, quickly rejoining the other half of his contingent and eventually beating them to the next ambush position.
Behind him, Manebrow saw the trees jerking and bucking against the passage of the massive ogre. Not a heartbeat after Durik and his half of the contingent had made it over the hill, the yellow-eyed beast punched through a stand of trees and out onto the path.
“Fire!” he yelled, and fifteen arrows flew forward in unison, all of them finding their mark. The ogre screamed in pain and fell backward into a stand of trees, uprooting two of them as he fell backward, arms thrown across his face to ward off any more of the pesky darts.
“One more volley, warriors, then mount up and go!” Manebrow yelled as he fired a second arrow. Putting his bow over his shoulder, he grabbed his spear, mounted up and prepared to ride, waiting only long enough to ensure the last of his riders was mounted and following him.
Behind them, the ogre screamed in pain. As he pulled the little arrows from his body, however, blood began to spurt from two of his wounds, coloring the surrounding trees with a spray of bright red.
From behind him came another group of orcs with three ogres. Seeing their wounded companion, the three ogres looked carefully into the darkness of the forest, but continued on. After another group had passed, barely noticed by the wounded ogre, he was finally left alone in his pain and misery.
Soon, the ogre picked up his massive axe and thought about moving back toward camp. He was bleeding a lot, and he didn’t like that. He wondered if, by chance, he did go back
to camp, if the chief ogre could do something about it. While he thought about that for a few moments, his axe slipped back to the ground.
Angry with it for falling down, the ogre picked up the worn tree trunk with its massive, sharp chunk of iron embedded in it that he called his axe yet again. Then he propped it against the ground and tried to use it to help him stand up. After a few dizzy tries, each one failing as he found his legs strangely wooden and weak, he noticed he was feeling very tired.
After thinking about it for a while, and looking down at the blood still somewhat spurting from his inner thigh, he decided that sleeping for a little bit would be a good thing. Soon, once he got up the energy, he lay his massive axe down on the ground and lay back against the two trees that had broken his fall.
In a few moments he had fallen unconscious.
There, in the dark of the night, the ogre’s massive heart soon ceased to beat.
“Where are these hobgoblins you mentioned, sire?” one of Durik’s warriors asked him. “I’ve never seen one of those.” The warrior was a year older than Durik, but Durik’s recent promotion and the fact that he had somehow become the keeper of the Kale Stone had given him something of an untouchability among those who might otherwise be his peers.
“And you’ll likely not see one of them tonight,” Manebrow interrupted. “They’re too smart to rush headlong into the darkness after a bunch of kobold wolf riders, but orcs and ogres certainly aren’t. Now keep digging!”
Durik stood up and looked about himself. The small detachment of cavalry he’d left here at the top of this hill had moved four large boulders into place before he and the rest of the group had fallen back to this position, and in the short while that the rest of the group had been here, they’d rolled two more particularly round boulders into position.
