Tales of Mantica

by Rospond, Brandon; Waugh, Duncan; Werner, CL

  Dragyr nodded his thanks and followed his master’s trail of carnage once more.

  Being so close to the enemy, it was easy to see the relation between them. Their leathery green skin did not hide the similar cast of bestial features, and the savage look behind their gaze could have been mirrored in the eyes of any one of his own people. Even as strong and willful as the orcs were, the forces of the herd were still gaining ground, pressing them harder with each step.

  Before he knew it, Malgar’s pace slowed, and Dragyr realized that the orcs had thinned out to the point of nonexistence. They had been slaughtered; every last one of the orcs. The herd had prevailed, but as the longhorn looked more closely at the ground, he could see the price his people had paid in gaining such a victory. This foe was more tenacious than anything Dragyr could have ever thought to face.

  Dragyr sighed as he began to clean a shallow wound in his leg, that he had not remembered getting, when Malgar's growl brought his attention back to his surroundings. His kin were already tearing down the enemy's hastily wrought fortifications, while another group tended to the dead and injured, carrying them back to the safety of the treeline.

  "Why the rush? The enemy is defeated. We should let our forces rest a moment. That battle was hard fought."

  The longhorn snorted. "Now you want to rest? What happened to the haste you possessed earlier?"

  Before Dragyr could inquire further, a pair of satyrs approached dragging a smaller form between them. They dropped the figure in front of the elder before the one on the left spoke. "This one was a prisoner in the camp. The orcs' pet goblins weren't very kind to him."

  Malgar nodded his thanks to the satyrs and they stood back behind the man, eyeing him carefully. The elder turned to the outsider, and he paused for a moment. It was hard for longhorns’ tongues to form the words of men, and Malgar could speak their language much better than Dragyr thought possible for any creature of the wood. The elder’s words, when he spoke, were delivered after a small growl. "What do you in this place human?"

  The man's face was full of fear, and the stink of it reeked from him. Dragyr could feel little but pity as the scrawny human answered in a shaking voice. "I was returning to the Hegemony, to warn them of what comes for us, but I was captured. The great citadels of the Brotherhood have been cast down and the Abyss grows! Orcs and goblins are streaming down from the north, rushing straight toward the lands of men, but they will first pass through your forests. You must let me go and allow me to deliver my message, for the protection of my own lands as well as yours."

  The longhorn shook his head, mane bristling. "Land is protected already. From orcs. From humans. From any who seek ruin or defile. We protect homes, we protect Lady.'' He raised his arm to indicate the crude fort being torn asunder about them, clearly hoping it would help to illustrate his point through the language barrier. ''You see? Flee from place. Tell kin of your kind to come in respect or not at all."

  The man sagged slightly as he understood they meant to let him go, a small bit of fear and tension fading from his posture, and his voice thickening slightly. "There are many more orcs and goblins to the north. I don't know that even your strength can face what is coming."

  Malgar's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. He gestured to the satyrs that had brought the man, and they led him away.

  "Are you certain it was wise to let him go? They may return."

  "Mankind is not our true enemy,” Malgar spoke in the tongue of the longhorns once more, Dragyr no longer having to listen to the rough tones of the humans. “They are easily mislead, but they should not all be judged so harshly. Do not ignore the strength of compassion, lest we become just as dark and twisted as they believe us to be."

  "He was right though? More orcs come this way even now? And could the Abyss truly be spreading? What evil could come of that?"

  "I see little reason the human would lie about such a thing. But we will meet any other threats, just as we met this one. No, the enemy is not defeated. This was the chaff sent ahead of the main force; they merely awaited the host. This was not the true threat we face. I suspected as much from the beginning."

  Dragyr could feel the color drain from his face. "That can't be. This battle was already hard fought. How can we face another force even larger than this one?"

  "This was just a skirmish, young one, a taste of what is to come. The real battle is before us. But fear not, we've known this would come for a long time. We are not unprepared."

  The confidence in his elder's voice gave him hope; of course they would face the threat. He hadn't realized how much seeing the orcs close up had unnerved him. He was learning many lessons today. He straightened up and shook his horns hard.

  "That's better.” Malgar smiled upon seeing the renewed determination. “Now, listen closely, young one. I have a task for you; it will be dangerous, but I trust in your ability to see this through. The Lady has many allies. I must gather the herd."

  * * * * *

  Silence and the ability to remain unseen were highly valued traits in the natural world. Predators used stealth to sneak up on their prey, while the prey used it to avoid predators. The best confrontation was one that ended before one party was ever aware of the other's proximity. There was wisdom in nature, and this hunter knew that. This predator came not in search of prey, but information. He sought knowledge of the enemy's size and location, or so Malgar had reminded Dragyr repeatedly before he set out toward the mountains bordering the eastern reaches of the forest.

  It was strange to be so far away from his mentor. He had been by his side for many years, ever since the old longhorn had taken him away from his tribe as a youngling. But now it seemed the elder had learned to trust him, or perhaps the situation was merely that dire.

  Three days of travel brought the hunting satyr to the northernmost reaches of the forests, where the craggy landscape finally gave way to the rise of a vast mountain slope. Dragyr slowed his pace considerably from there, knowing he was much more likely to be seen by the orc patrols beyond the cover of the trees. His patience and careful approach was rewarded when he encountered a patrol of greenskins, a diminutive breed the orcs called goblins, his first evening beyond the forest.

  These foes were much smaller than those he had encountered so far. The sharp-faced goblins were riding on mangy beasts that looked like wolves, but these mounts seemingly lacked any sense of nobility that animals of his forests possessed. They had patchy fur and flattened maws that opened too wide to look natural, even on their over-sized heads. The goblins must have brought these mawbeasts with them from the cruel lands to the north.

  He barely had time to find cover as they came from around a bend in the canyon ahead of him. Dragyr crawled into a small crack between the rocks, pressing himself deep within and covering himself in the loose dirt and mud. The goblins’ mounts sniffed around the outside of the crack, snarling softly as they picked up his scent. Before the lead beast could advance further, its goblin rider gave it a kick to the flanks, apparently eager to be on his way.

  That group was but the first of many. With each patrol encountered and avoided, Dragyr waited to be found, his anxiety causing him to tremble more with every new patrol. Every time they passed, he said a silent thanks to his mentor for teaching him the value of patience. He craved battle with the orcs, but he knew he could not face them alone.

  After another two days of travel, he knew he was growing close to the orc encampment. The deep cadence of drums boomed through the narrow canyons seeming to come from all around him, but there was only one direction to travel. He climbed the canyon wall as the sun dipped below the horizon, knowing it was the only way he could get any closer without being seen. The climb was difficult, even for one of his kind, finding tenuous handholds and digging his hooves into grooves within the rock-face. He wished dearly he'd been born with wings like those of the great eagles that made their homes within the forest when he made the mistake of looking down.

  The moon was a hazy blur
beyond the clouds, and the sun had long since departed as he finally pulled himself upon a high ledge to rest. He took a few deep breaths and soaked in the incredible view around him. The clouds seemed so close he could touch them; it would almost be beautiful, if not for the awful sight below.

  Fires were appearing in the valley below as the orcs lit fires within their camp. Malgar had taught him to count the flames to estimate the enemy's strength, but this didn't seem right. There were too many fires springing up. Then he noticed the glow rising throughout the rest of the valley. In the west, where the Mammoth Plains stretched out into the horizon, here too was the ruddy orange glow. They covered the plain as far as the satyr could see. This force of orcs wasn't some raiding party striking out from the north, this was an exodus of many tribes banding together and striking southward. Dragyr wanted to turn and run back immediately to warn his brethren in the forest, but he couldn't. Not yet. Malgar had given him one other task.

  Creeping along the canyon wall, trying to be very careful not to lose his footing in the dark, he approached the closest of the camps. From here, he could make out individual orcs, massive and feral forms mixing with the smaller greenskins that ran about beneath their notice. The big ones settled about their fires, feasted on raw meat, and drank of foul smelling grog; while the smaller ones ran about engaging in all manner of vicious sport among themselves and the captive beasts they carried with them. The roars of these brutes was constant, and it was only elevated by the way they fought between one another, sometimes even bringing about bloodshed.

  Through it all, there was a single spot of quiet calm within the chaotic maelstrom. Like the eye of a terrible storm, one immense orc sat quietly brooding in the shadows at the center of the encampment. He watched while all the others went about their nightly ritual. Dragyr had heard talk about this kind of orc – he was called a Krudger among their kind, a leader possessing the strength and cunning to unite fearful armies under his singular command. This orc was the real threat.

  A diminutive figure broke from the throng into the island of calm surrounding the Krudger. This one wore a dark heavy cloak, but the long thin nose sticking from beneath the hood marked him out as a goblin. The orc watched the goblin approach with a lack of fascination, bordering almost on boredom. Dragyr's interest was piqued, so he risked climbing down closer to the odd meeting between the two.

  The rock shifted underhoof, dislodging a small stone. It bounced down the cliffside, clattering as it went. Two dozen pairs of eyes turned suddenly in his direction as he hugged as tightly as he was able against the sheer face of the rock. One of the sharp-faced goblins walked over to the fallen debris, looking directly into the shadows where the satyr concealed himself. It picked up the rock and opened its mouth as if to cry out. With a sudden motion, the goblin turned and hurled the stone back into the head of one of its smaller fellows.

  The entire group of them broke into laughter at the cruel joke and returned to their own entertainment. The satyr breathed a sigh of relief and carefully shifted himself to a more secure resting place to listen to the conversation between the orc Krudger and the goblin. Even as close as he dared to get, only bits of their conversation could be heard, carried along by the wind. He was surprised at how easy the orcs' language was to understand, as it was very close to his own; another unfortunate similarity.

  “Two more days till we will arrive at the forests, then your sniveling gits had best get to work. We will need those war machines as quickly as possible if we are to make much headway against the enemy in the south. The race of men is weak, but their weapons and walls are strong.”

  The goblin's high pitched voice carried better upon the wind. “We have the greatest minds of the engineer's guild among my horde on the plains. The forests should provide us all the raw materials we need to see to the construction of enough war machines to destroy anything those pitiful pinkskins put in our way.”

  The orc gave a nod of his head, followed by a guttural grunt. “Do not keep me waiting. I expect to be past this forest and sweeping toward the human kingdom of Basilea within the week. Your war machines should be behind me by the time I have cleared their rabble from the fields and ready to press into their cities.”

  “Oh, the things we will make. We have been hard at work for many years waiting for this moment. The wait will be well worth it.”

  With a wave of his hand, the Krduger dismissed the goblin. The grin the creature gave as he turned his back told Dragyr the goblin held more in mind than the Krudger realized, but that would be something to worry about another time.

  The goblin departed and the orc rose to his full height, the burble of the crowd fading to a low rumble and then to silence with surprising quickness.

  The Kudger's voice could be heard clearly across the main camp of his inner circle as he made his declaration. “This is our time, come finally. No gods stand in our way, nothing shall bar us from taking what is rightfully ours. We were made with purpose, and it is time to fulfill it. This is our age. The age of orcs!”

  The cheer went up. A booming chorus echoing from all around him. “Age of orcs! Age of orcs!”

  The satyr slipped his hand to the bow that was strapped to his back, feeling the familiar grain of the wood beneath his fingers. He stopped before he drew it. Though it was tempting, he knew he would never make that shot from where he perched, not with the cold gusts of wind that threatened even now to dislodge him if he were to drop his guard. He would have taken the chance, were it just about him; but he knew his mentor would expect him to return with the information he'd been sent to retrieve. He needed to warn his people of the storm that would soon blow over them.

  * * * * *

  Desperation fueled Dragyr's return to the forests. The human's words had been truth after all. It was not only this threat from the orcs in the eastern reaches they had to worry about, but an invasion of all their lands. The forces of nature must be rallied across the whole of the forest of Galahir, not since the old days when the broken Celestials still battled across the realms had they ever faced such a threat.

  As he moved through familiar forests, he was relieved by the fact that he was home. Coming back to the camp where he left his allies, he was awestruck seeing even more of the longhorns' various allies assembled. All of the Lady's forces had to work together to protect their wilds in this age of strife, lest all the great wonders of the natural world be felled. When they were threatened, they reacted as any beast would, not in half measured responses as is the way of men. A beast turns to face a threat and makes its choice in a moment. To flee, or to fight.

  While he was gone, it seemed the choice had already been made; and if he had to guess, it was probably a unanimous one. This fight would be waged with all the force their combined tribes possessed. Many of them had already assembled, more than Dragyr had even seen at one place, even during the great feasts. Not only had the satyrs and fauns gathered in their entirety, but countless others of the forests’ people had also decided to heed the call.

  Even the mighty yet stubborn centaur tribes had decided to show themselves, standing prideful atop a nearby hill, deep in conversation among themselves. Their bodies were those of fleet four legged creatures such as deer or horses, but where their necks would normally be, they instead sported the torso of a man, often covered in ritual markings.

  The lycans were not nearly so hard to attract. Tall, lithe, powerful. They personified the best traits of wolf and man. While they resembled the dark and unnatural werewolves that made their home in the Kingdom of Ophidia to the south, they were nothing alike. Lycans still had their humanity, their sense of morality and duty to the land. Among all the beasts, none seemed to revel as they when it came time to kill, and they were almost zealous in their devotion to protect their territory.

  Dragyr threaded his way through the camp, passing gatherings of sparring tribesmen and walking by the legs of monstrous chimeras that stood patiently waiting while their bizarre combination of three heads each �
�� ram, lion, and dragon – chewed on lumps of strange vegetation. Harpies, avian creatures with the face and torso of a woman, thronged the canopy overhead, making the branches sway and groan. Strange smells emanated from the tents of the shamans as they brewed the concoctions the spirit walkers would imbibe to connect them to the honored ancestors and strengthen them prior to the coming battle. It was a surreal experience to see the army preparing for war, something he was sure he would remember for a long time to come.

  He found his mentor sitting on a fallen log, drawing a stone across the rough blade of his axe. Even after witnessing Malgar’s ferocity against the orcs, the weapon in his aged mentor’s hand still looked awry; but from the way the old longhorn handled the weapon, it was clear they were familiar as old love. The relic was roughly crafted, as were most of his people's weapons. They were not artisans or craftsmen, especially when it came to metal working. The weapons they forged were often crude, but despite this, in the hands of a longhorn, these blades were as effective as any human-crafted steel. His master’s axe did not look extraordinary; the only thing that set it apart from the roughly beaten head and marred shaft were the bestial runes, clearly painstakingly carved into the head.