The dwarfs were holding them off, but only just barely. The Ironguard had been few in number, and each loss they suffered made the situation exponentially worse. Andreu slayed with reckless abandon, the gore splattered around him so thickly it was impossible to tell if he had suffered any wounds at all. Yurec could see, though, that it would prove pointless in the end. His brother had been right, no matter how much it pained Yurec to admit it to himself. He had wildly underestimated the sheer amount of slaves Durok had possessed, and his own orders to open their cages had unwittingly loosed a floodgate upon this part of the world. The warriors he had sent to open the slave pens were certainly slain, and as this battle raged on, this conflict on the beach would only draw more attention from the fleeing orcs. The bloodthirsty creatures would pour down upon them, and that would be the end. The tide of greenskinned beasts would then flow south unopposed, just as Durok had said, and bring great hardship for years to come.
Yurec’s hammer swung widely and found purchase in another orc’s skull, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop the next beast in line. The orc collided with him like a battering ram, taking the Steel Juggernaut from his feet. His eyes squeezed shut instinctively as he awaited the killing blow, but after several heartbeats passed without consequence, he slowly opened his eyes once again. Yurec looked up to see the orcs backing away, an expression of unmistakable fear clear on their hideous faces. The ground had begun to rumble, and from behind him where Durok still crouched, glowing tendrils of bright orange magma were worming through the sand toward the orcs.
Yurec clambered back to his feet and stood stock still as the channels of magma splintered and multiplied, the sea of lava behind Durok fueling their advancement. Stretching between the feet of the confused orcs, the tendrils rejoined into a single point, where the pool they formed began to sink rapidly into the blackened sand. The ground rumbled more violently, and with a howl from the iron-caster, a huge hand made of blacked stone shot up from the pool of lava, the splash from it searing off the face of the nearest orc. Following that hand was an obsidian arm, the breadth of it as thick as an entire dwarf all by itself. Another hand then followed, and grasping solidly at the surrounding sands, a massive obsidian golem pulled itself free from the ground as the surrounding orcs stumbled over one another in terror. Its massive hunched form reverberated from the power used in its creation, rivulets of brightly glowing magma coursing through the shiny black stone of its body. Taking a single gigantic step toward its enemies, it swung its gauntlet in an arc that splattered three orcs effortlessly, their bodies flying through the air before tumbling to the beach some distance away.
The orcs surrounding the fallen form of Durok’s faithful berserker locked on to the new threat, the dwarf’s twitching body no longer important, and their combined guttural howls rang out in challenge at the massive stone creation. Slaying the last of the orcs in his immediate vicinity, Broyleson, the only Ironguard still on his feet, cradled his mangled shield arm as he backed away towards the lava’s edge. Durok stood breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his body, his form clearly diminished back to normal from the energies spent in the golem’s creation.
The three surviving dwarfs watched, exhausted, as the nearly indestructible obsidian golem absorbed the full onslaught of the horde and butchered several in return with each sweep of its mighty arms. The orcs which had been eagerly heading for the battle across the beach had turned back and gone with their fleeing fellows, their numbers still continuing to pour from the hillside and follow the sea’s edge.
Durok finally broke the uneasy silence between the wounded dwarfs, the golem clearly capable of handling the rest of the immediate threat on its own. “The Council has told you many half-truths I’m afraid, little brother. Perhaps they thought to slow the armies of Tragar, but they’ve greatly underestimated that bunch. There are many among that green horde I’d kept imprisoned that will make mighty slave champions at the hands of Tragar’s slavers.”
Yurec could only grunt in response, his world shattered. The Council had sent him on this mission knowing the chaos it would cause in freeing Durok’s slave pens, just as his brother theorized, of that he was confident. They had wanted this madness, hoped even for it to save their own skin, but clearly had been too foolish to consider it potentially strengthening the foes knocking at their door. And he had blindly followed their orders. How much blood would stain his hands for this?
“Looks to me like we’ve got our work cut out for us… eh, Lord Durok?” Broyleson spoke uneasily, his allegiances clear.
Yurec couldn’t bring himself to raise his head in response, his failure heavy upon him, his shame too great.
“That we do.” Durok replied.
The Beast Within
By Andrew McKinney
The scent was on the wind.
It was the smell of war.
Dragyr sniffed at the air once again, taking in the heavy scent of blood and fire. It was unkind; smelling of ploughed earth and felled timber. If he waded through the mixture of scents deeply enough, Dragyr could detect hints of an even darker, unnatural nature. These strange things raised the hair across the beastman's body as the instinct to hunt down those responsible rushed through him.
"Do you smell that, brother?"
The other longhorn shifted his posture, irritated at the interruption. "I don't need to. I have felt it coming in my bones. Would you but pay more attention, you would notice a great many more things." Malgar shot Dragyr a pointed look before closing his eyes and relaxing back into his meditations.
Dragyr, unfazed by the admonishment, wandered closer to his mentor. "How can you relax at a time like this?"
"With age, one finds reason to enjoy any moment of peace, young one. You will see conflict soon enough. Calm yourself, I can sense your aggression even now. Save your fury. Look around you and see what is here and now."
The younger beastman took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. Malgar was right, he was too excited for what was to come, and part of him was ashamed by that. He tried doing what the older longhorn asked and looked around himself. They sat beside a swift moving stream, the surface a mirrored shell of currents and ripples that distorted his already bestial features. Only the blended outline of his man-like appearance mixed with his spiraling horns and shaggy fur could be discerned clearly. Tiny drops of water slipped from the branches above, but the morning's drizzle seemed to have finally ceased.
The cold, wet day only drove his desire to get moving. He didn't understand how they could just leave the despoilers to their predations. His mentor should be enraged, rushing to join the fray even now!
Malgar grunted again as though he could read Dragyr's thoughts. Or perhaps he simply had enough of his apprentice's pacing and snorting. "We must wait for the herd to gather, young one. Would you go face them all alone? Then you would die. Needlessly. Pointlessly."
An exasperated growl slipped from Dragyr's throat before he could stop it. The elder longhorn's eyes blinked open with another hard look deep within them. That look said enough, there would be no more argument. Dragyr dipped his head in a show of submission, beads of cold water dripping from the points of his curling horns. The elder seemed to calm at the display, and his voice was soft once again when he answered. "Go, young one, leave me to meditate and find us something to eat. The others will be hungry when they arrive."
With another dip of his head, Dragyr rushed from the stream, happy to have a task to give him something to do. It didn't take him very long to fell a half-dozen of the flightless jackersnipe, but by the time he had cleaned the great bipedal birds and returned, the herd was already beginning to assemble. What had been a quiet clearing near the stream that morning was now rapidly filling with the commotion that a gathering of his kin often brought along with it. It was times like this he could see why his mentor preferred his hermetic lifestyle wandering the wilderness, rather than stay with a herd as most of his people preferred.
There were nearly a hundred of
his kin assembled, at least four distinct herd groups gathered against a common threat. Their nomadic lifestyle dictated that they roam about in smaller groups, separated and scattered across Mantica. Any large gathering over a prolonged period would see them unable to sustain themselves, and they would strip the environment bare trying. Only in times like these, under the direst of situations, did they unite together.
The majority of those gathered were much like himself, bestial featured satyrs and fauns. They stood upon two goat-like legs ending in cloven hooves, with horns sprouting from their heads and fur covering their bodies. Supple corded muscle rippled under their fur, a testament to their lifestyles as nomadic hunters. Some among them were more beast than man, others could pass as a human with only minimal mutations that marked them. Many even possessed features of boars, reptiles, felines, and any other beast of nature that could be imagined.
Then there were those rare tribes to harbor humans among them; completely ‘normal’ in their appearance, these oddities chose to accept the herd way of life and were accepted into the Green Lady’s favor. As a people, the herd had learned to celebrate and prosper from their diversity. Long ago, their race had only been the broken castoffs of a dark god's scheme, and they were thankful for the lives they now had, no matter what form that took.
As Dragyr walked through the camp, he saw satyrs and fauns locking arms as they shouted about how long it had been; there were also looks of great tension exchanged as what it appeared to be rivals meeting eyes for the first time on equal ground. Dragyr stayed far away from the latter. But it was not like he even knew most of them! Sure, there were some such as Lokin of the Raventree tribe, who he had encountered with Malgar in the past, but most of these longhorns were strangers. Looking around the assembled gathering, the half-dozen jackersnipe he carried in the net slung over his back seemed a paltry addition to their provisions.
He found Malgar among the gathered chieftains in the middle of the throng. He sat quietly while the other chieftains bellowed and snorted, renewing vows and refreshing competitions much like the rest of the gathering was doing. When he saw Dragyr approach, he motioned for him to put the birds on the nearby fire to cook and then stood to assemble the gathered leaders. As a revered elder, he was awarded a place of respect and honor among them. Dragyr assumed that must be the reason for the immediate hush that fell over the group as soon as Malgar began to speak.
"Brothers and sisters. You have my thanks for answering the call. Our forest, our home, has been violated. Our dark cousins come again, and it looks like they intend to stay this time. They rend the earth and uproot even the ancient willows of Galahir. This trespass cannot be allowed to go unpunished."
The others snorted and nodded in agreement. He could see their bristling anger in the shake of their horns and the way the hairs along their spine stood on end. The orcs were never something they wanted to encounter, even at the best of times. They served as a reminder of where they had come from, what they could have been. They were the darkest countenance of themselves seen through a warped mirror. Only narrow chance separated their races, if the legends of their past could be believed. They stood opposed now in basic tenants; the herd protected the natural world as their sacred and inherit duty, whereas the orcs merely sought to destroy anything that lay before them. Neither of them lacked in savagery or strength. That common bond could see any encounter between their forces become very bloody and costly. It was little wonder the elders here were so on edge.
Malgar looked around those collected before him, his eyes searching each in turn carefully. Dragyr could not see any hesitation in the crowd as his eyes scanned the assemblage. Even those who were rivals among them would lay aside their grievances. An accord was in place for gatherings like these, they knew they had a threat to take care of before settling any rivalries; that would wait until the great seasonal feasts. Nothing would stand between them and upholding their duty to protect this land.
"We stand together." One by one, the assembled leaders stood and pledged their support. Even those who had known disagreements shook hands and swore the oaths.
Dragyr watched the scene cautiously; it was not his place to be so involved, but he could not help but be marveled by the connection that linked their people together. Even so, he nearly overcooked the meat, an easy thing to do since most of his kin preferred it so rare. He had never observed a council of war before, and to see such highly regarded chieftains making peace here before they went off to war was a rare and moving sight. Everyone knew of the animosity between Goxul and Kvim. The two had fought on and off for years over the affections of a faun, nearly killing one another on multiple occasions. But now they gripped each other tightly, pressing their horns together and swearing oaths like brothers.
A low snort beside him brought Dragyr back. He glanced around to realize Malgar had broken from the group and now stood beside him. They watched together as the other leaders resumed their seats and began making plans for war. Dragyr lowered his eyes, embarrassed to have been caught watching so closely. He knew he should have been paying closer attention to his duties. The elder motioned back toward the group. "That is one of the most important duties of any chieftain. Being able to lay aside your own pride and desires for the good of the herd. The day we cannot come together will be the day we fail in our sacred duty."
* * * * *
They came to the forest, ripping and tearing. Destroying and burning. And building. The fortress they had thrown up was an abomination of twisted wood and metal. Their fresh fortification sat a few hundred yards distant from the edge of the tree line, in what had a short time ago been a pleasant meadow at a place where the hilly forests gave way to open ground. It was clear they were digging in. Southward, they would encounter the towns and empires of men, so it was likely they meant this place to be their camp for a time while they raided and pillaged. They would not have that chance; they clearly hadn't anticipated the response of the inhabitants of this wild land.
Anger was getting the better of the young satyr. The twisted fort before Dragyr reeked of death, its walls made of fresh timber crudely felled and hurriedly stacked. The scent of blood and refuse streamed from the place, a testament of the orcs' treatment of the local animals. Even the elder longhorn beside him had a snarl curling his lips to bare the sharp fangs beneath.
The orcs had set up this location too boldly near the herd forces; it was within an hour’s march from where they held council. There had easily been several dozen orcs patrolling the perimeter of the crudely fabricating fortress. It had not quite been finished yet, as there were still plenty of wide openings and gaps where their dark cousins were still building, as well as the fact that there were no watchtowers. They were not expecting to be attacked, especially not so soon; how haughty of them.
The two of them slunk forward from the west, being careful to stay crouched so that the foliage at the wood's edge would keep them concealed. Here, Malgar paused and spoke. "Stay close to me, and pay close attention to everything going on around you.”
A raucous noise went up from the forest to the south. The greenskins loitering about the fortress shot to their feet, suddenly alert, and rushing to meet the threat. They responded much faster than Dragyr thought they would. "Would it not have been better to try to get closer and take them by surprise?"
Malgar shook his head but did not take his eyes away from the battle unfolding from the south, where the first wave would come from. "Too much open ground to approach in secret, and many of our kin can't move as quietly as us. But we still have our surprises."
The orcs, seeing the host of satyrs and fauns rushing across the field toward them, must have gauged them little enough threat. In an effort to trounce their enemies quickly and defend the hastily assembled unfinished fortress, they gave a great cry and altogether abandoned their fortifications to rush forward and meet them in open battle upon the fields. The orcs looked to outnumber the beasts nearly thrice over. Dragyr chewed the inside of his lip nerv
ously as their lines crashed together. He bristled, wanting to burst from the tree line to rush to the aid of his kind. They needed to hold.
As though the sound of impact was a signal, a second, even larger band of beastmen burst forth from the forest line just north of where the two perched watching the battle unfold. The orcs seemed totally oblivious as the horde advanced rapidly across the open ground, interposing themselves between the greenskins and their abandoned fortifications. By the time the enemy realized the threat that approached them from the rear, it was far too late.
"Now we go." Malgar was brusque, radiating an intensity that Dragyr had rarely seen the elder exhibit. He leapt from the tree line and burst into a run that the younger satyr was hard-pressed to match. The battle was fully joined now against the outnumbered orcs that were pressed from two sides. Still, they showed no fear as they fought back; if anything, they seemed to push harder, working to break through the press of bodies that assailed them. For a moment, it looked like they might even do it.
Then Malgar reached the point where the line had begun to break.
A huge brute of an orc was leading the push, knocking down two or three foes at a time with sweeps of his massive shield. His shout of defiance was cut short as Malgar leaped through the ranks, swinging his axe in a deadly arc that ended with the brute's head sailing through the air. The massive shield thunked to the ground, followed by the toppling corpse. The elder waded into the press, his axe moving back and forth, exacting a bloody tally with each step forward. Dragyr followed closely behind, doing his best to protect himself and watch the elder's back.
Dragyr quickly lost the ability to focus on much else besides keeping up with his mentor and staying alive. Though he favored the bow, he had been trained for many years to fight his enemies face to face. His blade met those of the orcs’ in desperate clashes, their blows almost too much for him to deflect at times. Dragyr was forced to halt acting as Malgar’s shadow as an orc threw himself between the two. The young satyr ducked and weaved with superior speed, but he could not find the right opening to attack. He parried and blocked the relentless axe swings, until eventually he could strike true, stabbing his sword through the windpipe of his enemy. He had no time to think about what just happened; another was on him in a moment. He yanked his sword out just in time to parry another flurry of blows. As he staggered back, doing his best not to trip over the fallen or bump into another duel, the orc finally let up, falling dead. Malgar stood proud behind the body as it fell, staring balefully at the younger satyr.
Tales of Mantica Page 11
