by Tiger Hebert
While they worked to bring his brother’s vision to reality, the elder Hammerfist grabbed a nearby handcart and emptied it of the piled assortment of weapons. Tossing them on the ground, he pushed the cart throughout the encampment as he looked for the items he needed. He began collecting a wide variety of pottery and other types of vessels designed for holding liquids. The collection was an array of different shapes, sizes, and materials. The items ranged from empty mugs and bowls to clay pots. Setting them in no particular arrangement or order, the orc did make sure that all of the vessels were free of leaks and cracks and that they were upright in his wagon. Once he filled his cart, he then asked around the camp to find out what they had for liquids that could be used for burning. That is when he was first introduced to ember sap.
One of the soldiers led him over to a large wooden barrel that was full of a brownish-orange substance. The smell that came from the barrel was overwhelming, especially up close. It was a sweet and enticing smell, but there was a very potent spicy undertone. Ogron inhaled the sweet fragrance with a deep breath and, in seconds, realized his folly. First his nose began to tickle, and then the back of his throat tickled until it began to burn. The orc’s eyes welled up with tears as the heat of the very vapors themselves seemed like they would scorch his skin. Beads of sweat formed across the pale gray skin of his face. The orc burst into a coughing fit as he choked on the caustic vapors. The hacking, coughing, and spitting lasted a few moments as his throat and lungs spasmed as the vapor made contact. The spasms passed, the intensity of the burning subsided, and the orc stared at the gooey substance dumbfounded for a moment.
“That’s good stuff,” proclaimed the orc with a look of wonder and fascination.
The group of soldiers and orcs nearby that witnessed the ordeal couldn’t help but laugh at the situation. He, too, had a small chuckle at his own expense, but he was determined not to make the same mistake again. So, this time he took a nearby rag, and forming it into a mask, he covered his mouth and nose, tying it behind his head. He grabbed a nearby ladle and began the tedious task of filling each and every vessel about seventy-five to eighty percent full with this thick and sticky substance. The ember sap was quite interesting. It was the sap, the lifeblood of the emberwood trees. Apparently they were indigenous to the region because Ogron had never even heard of such a tree. The pitch that was drawn from the trees looked like a dark brown, but as the light touched it, it would shine and sparkle with a fiery orange, as if it were already burning. Yet, according to the soldier, the real magic was when the substance became ignited. It was easy to light, but it would still burn slowly. However, its true potency was not just in the flames but the increased emission of the vapors and fumes from the burning process. The beauty of using this substance as a weapon was that they could deploy this safely due to the prevalence of the northerly winds that rushed down the mountain. It would take the fumes to the enemy and naturally keep it away from their own forces.
As he wiped the last of the vapor-induced tears from his eyes, he parked the wagon behind the small battery of mangonels. The four mini catapults were anchored and ready to go, with a few nearby carts full of fist-sized balls of iron. These machines had one purpose, to indiscriminately rain down a barrage of munitions upon the battlefield and do it quickly. It did not launch the massive boulders like its cousins the catapult and the trebuchet, but it excelled in fulfilling its purpose.
Ogron went to check on the progress that Theros and the men had made, but not before grabbing two wooden bowls full of warm soup. He gulped down the flavorful tomato-and-herb soup as he climbed the stone stairway.
Wiping his mouth, he called out to his brother, “Theros, eat up.”
Taking the crudely carved bowl from his outstretched hand, Theros thanked him with a nod of his head.
“We have two of the modifications done. We are set to start on the third one now,” reported the younger orc before having his attention diverted by the rider that was racing down the hill toward them. It was Tomar, the blacksmith.
“I’ve gotten ya four iron bolas. I’ll try to get ya more, but yer not givin’ me much time here. Smithin’ takes time, ya know,” fussed Tomar as he delivered his creations.
They were crude, misshapen dark chunks of iron interconnected by a short section of heavy black chain, with a single iron ring in the center of the chain, and they were perfect.
“Well done, smith. Bring them on up and see how we will put them to use,” invited Theros.
Theros climbed up the steps, carrying the staggering weight of the hefty weapons, all too eager to unload them. He grabbed one and laid it in the angled groove of the launching plate, each hunk of iron hanging off the ends. Then he ran rope through the iron ring and tied a series of barrel knots, locking the rope to the bola. He followed the same procedure on the second modified scorpion, first loading the bola, then securing it with the rope. The two other bolas were dropped to the floor next to the machines. While he finished loading the ballista, he signaled for Ugluk to securely fasten the other ends of the ropes to the hrall’s harnesses.
“We will save the bolas for the ogres. These alone are tremendous weapons. However, it will not be enough to take out an ogre. If we are able to land the bolas, snaring the ogres, we will drive the hralls to drag them to our walls, putting them at our mercy,” explained Theros to the smith as he watched.
“If that works, you could make short work of them,” shouted Tomar.
“Ogres are never short work, but this will give us the decided advantage,” replied Theros.
“Very well, I must be getting back to the smithy so I can fashion more!” hollered Tomar as he took off down the stairs.
Theros finally had a moment to taste the tomato soup, and then it happened. The blasts of the shofar rang out from the cliffs above the canyon-like passage. The men around them began shouting as they dropped what they were doing and scrambled to their battle positions. Dozens of armed soldiers lined the top of the high wall. Both pale skin and green skin found positions upon the fortification. And among the orcs, both man and woman prepared for battle. Arrows were nocked on their bowstrings, and large bolts were loaded upon heavy crossbows. The Hammerfist brothers positioned themselves with Melgrim at the frontlines atop the fortress wall. Equipping themselves with recurve bows from the weapons surplus, they took up arms.
The shofar blasts continued to ring out, only now they were accompanied by the beating of the war drums. The ground began to tremble as a terrible host came around the bend. Dark beastly figures covered in black markings emerged in the distance. Red and black banners snapped in the harsh northern wind. Hooves pounded on the hardened roadway as the army of Baalim approached. Goatmen led the charge, filling the ranks at the front of the war party. Their number, which looked to be in the hundreds, continued beyond sight, and now they were charging! The flurry of hooves, horns, and hair flew forward with unnatural speed. Without hesitation, the brothers each drew back their bows and loosed their arrows. The darts whistled as they ripped through the air toward their marks. Two goatmen were sent sprawling as they crashed to the ground, clutching at their wounds. Where two fell, hundreds followed, and their grotesque howls led the way. A cloud of arrows and bolts soon filled the air. The twisted forms of these abominations were pierced until they were lifeless. Fallen beasts littered the ground, only to be trampled underfoot by their own kind.
As the tormented beasts raced forward, some began to crowd in behind the wagons that the orcs had left behind. Then to Melgrim’s surprise, the wagons began to move! The goatmen carried the wagons like a shield as they marched on the wall. A hail of arrows descended upon the moving targets, but most of them were just buried into the wooden structures as they inched closer.
“Burn the wagons,” commanded Melgrim as he pulled a dripping arrow from the sap filled trough in front of him.
He gave the arrow new life as he passed it through the nearby torch. Nocking the blazing arrow, he fired into the nearest wagon. Up
on striking the wagon, the flaming ember sap splashed over the wood, and it soon began to burn. More fiery arrows followed in short succession, and the approaching wagon became engulfed in flames as it crashed to the ground. More goatmen surged forward, shrieking and howling, and the other wagons still crept closer and closer to the wall. Another wagon burst into flames, and the goatmen carrying it charged forward, crashing right into the stone wall. As the flames coursed over the wagon, the beasts climbed atop the flaming structure. Once atop the wagons, some of the beasts began hurling grappling hooks over the wall. The first rope was quickly cut down by a nearby soldier, sending the ascending creature crashing back to the ground, but the second beast rapidly scaled the wall, only to be met with an arrow to the chest. As it fell back, it reached out, grabbing the nearest human and snatching him over the wall with him. Both crashed to the ground, never to move again. The rain of bolts and arrows could not keep up with the sheer numbers that charged the walls, as hundreds had now reached the base of the walls. Dozens of grappling hooks were hurled over the crenellated walls.
“Iron mangonels!” commanded Melgrim as he shouted to the artillery team behind the walls.
At his command, all of the firing pins were pulled, and the massive arms of the siege weapons jerked forward. Their payload of iron balls hurtled over the walls and came crashing down onto the field of battle, ripping through the waves of the enemy army. The artillery team delivered wave after wave of destruction upon the advancing force, but still they advanced.
The beasts continued to scale the walls, finally landing atop the massive fortification. The orcish war cry of Ker ut Kraw echoed over the battlefield as the orcs tossed their bows aside and jumped into the fray. Ugluk and Brozz tag teamed the first creature, deflecting its blow and driving an axe into his back. Gron used his long tribal poleax to decapitate the next climber and another in swift succession.
One of the beasts emerged at the top and swung his cleaver in a wide arc, rending two humans in half. More beasts climbed over the wall at the breach he created. As the first creature turned to his left, he was met by a hard-charging foe. With a ferocious roar, the hulking orc parried the blow of the cleaver with the dwarven mace in his left hand. Then with a violent strike from his other hammer, he sent the beast crashing to the ground behind the walls. The infantry soldiers that waited behind the walls pounced on the writhing body with their spears.
Theros then waded into battle. He parried the blows of another goatman before he was able land a devastating counterattack with the weapon clutched in his left hand. The rugged frame of the beast crumbled beneath the force of the blow, sending him reeling then stumbling over top of the wall.
“Save some for me, little brother!” growled Ogron as he slipped past Theros.
He screamed as he lunged forward. The battle axe flashed in a bright red arc as it silenced the crowd. The top of the wall was cleared, but it wouldn’t last long. While the bodies of the fallen beasts piled onto the field of battle, new waves of goatmen pressed the advance.
“Volley,” shouted Melgrim as he commanded his archers behind the wall.
A cluster of men and orcs launched a high-arching volley of bolts and arrows that would soar over the great wall and rain down upon the enemy. Then the second and third volleys were launched in succession, each landing with devastating effect, but the monsters just kept coming. Then something changed. The rhythmic pounding of the war drums in the distance shifted. It was a new cadence. They were commanding their armies by cadence! As the cadence changed, the final wave of goatmen flooded the pass as they dashed around the corner, and then there was a break in the procession. Hair, horn, and hooves raced to battle. They shrieked and wailed as they charged the wall with their blacked axes in hand.
“Iron mangonels!” called the captain as he waved his arm forward toward the enemy.
Another volley of iron balls cascaded down upon the battlefield, but the beasts swarmed to the walls. Then, under the direction of the faster cadence, a new procession of soldiers marched up the road slowly. They were smaller figures wearing long black hooded cloaks that concealed their entire body. Once they reached the distant end of the battlefield, they stopped and moved into formation neatly by rank and file. Then, as if at some silent command, the soldiers dropped their hoods and let their cloaks fall open as they reached back and pulled longbows off their backs.
In confusion, one of the young soldiers near Melgrim exclaimed, “But those are men!”
“Make them dead men, soldier,” barked Melgrim.
Yet it was the long bowmen that moved without hesitation, letting their dark arrows fly. The black cloud descended upon the outer wall.
“Cover, cover!” cried the captain.
At his command, orc and man alike looked for cover. Some hugged the fortress walls, others ducked behind shields. Soldiers behind the walls scattered in all directions. The arrows continued to batter the garrison indiscriminately, taking out both friend and foe.
“Fire barrels!” shouted Melgrim to his runners behind the walls.
At this command, the runners raced up the road, and then they split. One veered off to the left while the other peeled back to his right. The runners quickly disappeared up the paths. They raced with urgency up their respective paths along the upper walls of the mountain pass, beyond the scene of the battle. High above the conflict, they reached their destinations quickly. They stood across the ravine from each other, each next to a small cache of wooden barrels. Without hesitation, they rolled the barrels to the best position they could manage, getting as close to the longbowmen as possible. Once the barrels were moved, they poured the amber-hued sap over the barrels. They each lit the first barrels ablaze and then pushed them off the cliff.
The wooden barrels, now enveloped with flames, crashed right near the unsuspecting men below. The wooden barrels shattered into pieces on impact, and the fluid contents were immediately ignited and dispersed, engulfing the immediate areas in flames. The soldiers scrambled to evade the fire’s touch, but more barrels descended upon the corridor. Explosions of ember sap wreaked havoc upon the enemy’s artillery battalion, eliminating most of their ranks. What the liquid fire couldn’t burn, its choking black smoke did. The nasty fumes of the ember sap sent many of the enemy force into coughing fits. The hail of arrows upon the defenses was ended.
The attacking army’s barrage of arrows had been halted. It didn’t stop the goatmen though, they were already scaling the walls rapidly, and dozens of them emerged at the wall’s top. Melgrim’s aged broadsword found its way through the swarm of invaders as he hacked and slashed at his foes. Leading with his round shield, he spun to his left, delivering a bone-crushing backhand to the face of an advancing goatman. Its head violently snapped to the right, and the body followed as it staggered up against the crenellation of the wall. Frantically grasping at the wall’s edge, the beast held fast to the stone. He dangled from the wall for a moment before the steel-plated boot of the captain came down on the hairy knuckles, breaking his grasp and sending him crashing to his death.
Orc and man fought bravely, sending many of their attackers right back to where they came from over the wall. It was not without loss, though. There had just been so many. The beasts fought savagely with an uncanny ferocity. Their hellish blades tore through leather, flesh, and bone with no remorse.
Additional troops joined the defense atop the wall in place of their fallen brethren. The reinforcements were led by a fearless female orc named Sharka. The orc huntress eagerly dove into the fray of battle. Her pale green hide gleamed with sweat as she moved with frightening speed. Crude curved blades bit her enemies as she twirled in a dance of death. One, two, four creatures fell beneath the stroke of her blades. The breach atop the walls was remedied for the moment. The humans who witnessed her display of martial prowess stood and stared in awe, almost forgetting that they were in the midst of battle themselves. Never had they seen such speed and precision, and least of all from a woman. She slowly and
silently walked up to stand alongside Theros and looked over the battlefield.
The soldiers were broken out of their trance as frightening roars emerged from the battle. The howls and groans were the likes of which none of the men had ever heard, save for Captain Melgrim. As the cadence of the drums changed once again, the growls grew louder. The remnant of the enemy’s battalion of longbowmen scrambled to get away from whatever was coming. The howls continued as the first gray stone-colored creature stretched his neck around the bend. The large head had one eye that was larger than the other, and his maw boasted few remaining teeth, but it largely resembled the face of a man, or at least a disfigured one. The face grimaced in pain. The beast strained and howled as it lurched forward under great strain. The gigantic body of the creature emerged to reveal the huge iron shackles that bound its arms and waist. Heavy chains stretched from his bonds back down the corridor and out of sight. Bulging muscles dominated the stone-like landscape of the monster’s hardened body. Fury and rage echoed as his howls were joined by others. Seven ogres, all chained together, dragged a massive siege engine up the mountain road, into view of the great wall. The taskmasters’ whips cracked at the backs of the ogres, and the flames of their torches nipped at their heels.
Caught between a rock and a hard place, the longbowmen tried to let the ogres pass by, giving them as wide a berth as possible, but it mattered not. The ogres snatched up anything that came within reach and wrung them in their hands. Once they were crushed, some of them were shoved into the mouths of the foul beasts. Instead of snacking on his catch, the first ogre in the procession drew back his arm and hurled the screaming human through the air at the bulwark.
The horror of what lay before them shook the armies of Storm Vale. Many of the men and even some of the orcs shuddered at the deafening roars of the giants before them.
