*Thorrin, stop it! Power is nothing in and of itself. It's how we use it that makes it something to be lauded or feared. Can't you stop being afraid of yourself?*
Danleib's words are inaudible to the rest, since he is using a whisper charm, but I can't keep from looking around guiltily. As much as I hate it, I hide my Power more out of the fear of what I may become than any other reason.
*If we forget who we are and where we came from, what will we become?*
*Does it really matter all that much? As long as you never lose your moral compass, you'll always be a man to be respected, not a demon to be feared. You know damn well this isn't a game any longer. This is life and death for us and thousands of others. Now, more than ever.*
I shiver slight, as I look for the other Damned the orcs were chasing, but they are gone. I don't where they've run off to, and there is nothing we can do for them now. We don't have the time to look for them.
“Let's get going. There's still more orcs we can kill.” Ahlred's smirk would make a sociopath piss his pants.
Wihtred looks at Ahlred like he's insane. “There are more orcs than we can kill.”
“Gives me a goal. A man needs something to strive for.”
“How did you manage to stay out of prison?”
Not all of the rest know that Ahlred served time in Leavenworth.
Ahlred smirks. “I always made sure that I knew where the social cameras were. If they don't have a visual record, they don't persecute you.”
“Prosecute not persecute.”
“I said persecute, and I meant fucking persecute. My granddad told me there was a time two men could have a fight and long as they didn't destroy another man's property, nothing much would happen. Fuck the guvment!”
The two of them could go on for hours. We're all like that, start arguing and we never stop. It's like entertainment for us.
“Danleib, take point! Let's get a move on.” For better or worse, I'm the closest thing to a leader the seven of us have. It's probably just because I'm fool enough to try and be the most diplomatic one.
We start jogging after Danleib in a loose wedge formation. Ahlred and Wihtred keep bickering, but I tune them out. Even though we all work well together, we constantly bicker and needle one another. I wasn't like this on Earth. Were the others?
Two more packs of orcs are slaughtered to the last orc, before Conner and his guild comes into sight. Seven against fifty or seven against five hundred, they won't stand a chance against us Dvergar. Orcs are strong, brutal, and violent, but based on the limited education of the Thorrin whose body I've taken over received, orcs seldom Coalesce and almost never Transcend. They're limited by their very nature, and we're stronger than they are in smaller numbers. Everything would be fine if we weren't facing them in their tens or hundreds of thousands.
“Ho! Thorrin!” Connor waves in our direction. His shout easily carrying over the background din, in a voice that would make a drill instructor envious.
There must close to a thousand players with him. It's far better than I expected, but nowhere near what I hoped for. Their numbers are the only good part. A contingent of several thousand orcs has them pinned down. Connor is staying in the back rows of their formation, trying to direct the battle, but the players are on the verge of panic. Groups of thousands of more orcs are visible closing in on them.
Connor gesture vaguely in the direction of the players and the orcs. “I've collected as many of the civvies and weekend warriors as I could get my hands on, but how do we get them out of here, now?”
“Wihtred?” I glance at the tattooed Dvergar with numerous piercings.
The murderous smile on Wihtred's lips would do Ahlred proud. “I have just the thing, but with this number of ass-fucking pigs, I can only pull it off three sister-fucking times.”
“Do it!”
Wihtred pulls out a half-dozen necklaces made up of several dozen grape-sized rubies. Within each ruby, a flickering crimson glow is visible. Staring at the flame-like rubies making up the necklaces, Wihtred shivers almost imperceptibly.
“More than seven shit-eating years of experimenting and I still can't make these fucking things right. Every fucking time these cunts come out fucking unstable. You're supposed to be able to use each gem individually, but pull one off an' the whole necklace might go boom, right in your hands. You know, I really fucking hate using the piss-drinking thing, don't ya?” Wihtred's complaints are only half-serious. He loves to blow things up.
Ahlred glares at Wihtred, as he complains. “Shut the fuck up, already! Stop bitching and throw the damn things!”
“Alright! Alright!”
While speaking, Wihtred winds up into a pitching form that would probably pass muster for a Major League baseballer and hurls the necklaces. Pulling out a throwing knife, he whispers under his breath, and a faint reddish glow surrounds the knife. Streaking after the necklaces, the knife spins like a vegetable shredder. Separated from their necklaces, individual rubies drop to the ground among the horde of orcs.
As though they were being carpet bombed, explosions detonate among the orcs. The ground shakes from the force of the blast, and pressure waves send blood and body parts flying into the air. Billowing smoke and red mist drift back over the players. While some of them look sick, none of them lose their lunch, but they all look more than a bit shocked. This isn't the first time they've seen Wihtred's fire rubies in actions, but they've probably never been so close to the explosions.
Cackling like he's more than a bit demented, Wihtred dances a victory jig.
“He upped the Power in those things again, didn't he?”
Cwichelm's question is rhetorical and doesn't get a response. The other Dvergar, even Ahlred, have slightly pensive looks on their faces. We've all seen more battlefields than we want to count, both here and on Earth. Even when it's the enemy, seeing living breathing creatures reduced to nothing but bloody chunks of meat in an instant hits home. It's something you never really get used to. At least, I hope I never do.
Shocked and stunned, the orcs left alive between the devastation and the players are quickly mopped up. There are still more orcs in the area, but they look even more stunned than the players. Some of them are looking around for easier targets, while they are arguing or trying to psych themselves up for another charge. We have a window of opportunity, but it's going to close fast.
“EVERYONE, GET MOVING! WE'RE HEADING WEST!” My voice thunders out louder than I could possibly have made it on Earth, even with the best megaphone ever made.
The players turn toward me in staggered waves, staring blankly at my arm pointing toward the western horizon.
“You heard the man! Get a move on, slackers! Assess and elbows! Assess and elbows! That's all I want to see!” Connor's drill instructor voice booms out. Compared to my bellow, he sounds like he's using a normal conversational voice, but it gets the job done.
The players turn and begin running toward the west. It's not quite a rout, but their fear is palpable in the air. The looks they turn on us as they pass makes it clear they're almost as afraid of us Dvergar as the orcs.
“What's got them faggots so scared? It was just a few bombs.” Ahlred's voice holds nothing but contempt for the other players.
It's more than just a few bombs. We've been trapped in this world, that's probably not the right word but it's close enough, for eleven years. Still, almost none of them have grown or developed beyond the point of using the powers and abilities that already existed in their bodies. Probably less than five percent of us have improved our powers and our bodies, and maybe only a few hundred have done so significantly. We Dvergar are among the freak that did that. Connor is another one. Talon was the biggest freak of all, and he scared the shit out of most of the players. With his death, we're the biggest freaks left.
“Let's get out of here, before the orcs get their shit together.”
Danleib's calm voice cuts through our individual thoughts, and we glance at one another. Withou
t any need for orders or comment, we move out at a steady jog. I'm at the point of our wedge, with Ahlred and Wihtred flanking me, and Cwichelm is pulling drag. This is our usual formation.
Without knowing our plans, the orc leaders can't use their overwhelming numbers to stop us. Other groups of players that refuse to head west for whatever reasons provide enough confusion and distractions that we have a chance. The bulk of the orc horde is still behind us, and the few groups we run into are crushed.
The farther west we travel, the higher and more jagged the stone ridge becomes, as it moves closer to the water. Unlike the lowlands, this ridge is nothing but bare stone with some moss and lichen clinging to it. There is not soil to give purchase to the stunted trees and brush we are moving through.
Vibration of Power brush against us. The players are casting spells or using powers, a lot of them. As we near the narrow strip of land where the ridge comes closest to the water, we see a wall of rough granite rise a good fifty feet above the land.
A smirk tugs at the corners of my mouth, before I fight it down. At least one of the stronger Geomancers has to be among the players. Probably more than one, considering the height of that wall.
There is no gate in this wall. Some of the players climb up ropes thrown down by those up top. Other leap or teleport to the top of the wall. While still other use levitation and limited flight spells to reach the top.
As narrow as this strip of land is, there are still close to five hundred players looking out from the top of the wall. Standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, except for gaps where arriving players are ascending the wall, their fear is visible on their faces, as they stare past us at the smoke and fire rising up from what were our camps.
We Dvergar wait in front of the wall, while the other players escape to the illusion of safety provided by the wall. More groups and some individual players are still coming behind us, but their numbers are dwindling fast.
“About six to seven thousand people were caught on the causeway from that whatever the hell you want to call that thing. The ones that fight are being killed and the ones that surrender are being collared.” Danleib still has his clockwork sparrows out.
“What's your count on the orcs?” Farnulf's quiet question is delivered in a tense voice.
All seven of us are tense, even Ahlred. I can feel that tension filling the air around us, making it almost like standing in the middle of a chill fog, so thick, you can't see your hand in front of your face.
“Around half a million. Probably, more.”
It feels like a cold iron hand grabs me by the balls when I hear Danleib's response. Half a million!
“With that many of the shit-licking cunts, we can't fucking win, and we can't fucking escape. If all the piss-drinking players were Dvergar, we'd slaughter them. Even if there were just a thousand hard, pipe-hitting, mother-fucking players in Dvergar bodies, we'd still kick their asses. With what we have? We're fucked, completely, royally, one hundred percent fucked. I guess it's a goddamned, good, mother-fucking day to die.” Wihtred looks like he can't decide if he's happy or pissed.
Ahlred glares a Wihtred. “Why the fuck do you keep using quotes from that asshole's movies?”
Wihtred smirks. “I don't care if he was a mother-fucking asshole that hated us for serving America in uniform, he made great movies with great lines. It's a cock-sucking shame that they were all banned under the new anti-violence laws.”
It's nothing new. Wihtred always misquotes movies that Ahlred hates. Most people would shit themselves if Ahlred was mad at them, but for Wihtred, it seems like a sort of stress relief. They knew each other before they started playing Taereun: Battleground of the Damned.
“We'll make a stand here, while we figure out a way to put enough distance between them and us to escape.” As much as I try to make my words sound decisive, they sound hollow to my own ears. I don't believe we can escape from a horde of over five hundred thousand orcs.
“I see orcs along the water. They're capturing the stragglers.” Cwichelm is staring through his binoculars, with their optical enhancement formations.
The sound of tortured metal is barely audible over the surrounding din, as my right hand squeezes the haft of my axe in frustration. I'm failing again. How many times have I been too weak to save the people who needed me the most?
“Relax, Thorrin. There's only so much one man can do.”
Cwichelm's words just make me feel more impotent. I'm not just a man any longer. I'm a goddamned Dvergar! I'm superhuman, but I'm still not strong enough to stop a horde of over five hundred thousand orcs.
Thorrin, I've got over twenty pyromancer type Casters up here. Connor's voice echoes in my mind through his whisper charm.
I look toward the top of the wall. He has a steel bow in his hands, with an arrow casually nocked against the string. Connor has a strange fixation on his skill with a sword and almost always uses a sword & board. Even if he doesn't use a bow much, he's still a master archer, much better than he is with a sword, one of the best I've ever seen.
I have to struggle to keep from letting my frown turn into a smirk. My frown is trademark, and letting it crack in a situation like this just wouldn't do.
A group of people stretches out to either side of him on the top of the wall. I recognize most of them. Most of them aren't pyromancers, they're pyromaniacs. They love to see things burn and have a terrifying mastery over fire magic. They're among the players who improved the most in the mastery and expansion of their bodies' skills. Maybe having a love for your body's Power makes it easier to adapt and improve.
Magical fire doesn't need fuel to burn. As long as it's not cast inside of water, it will draw on the ambient Mana to burn nearly forever if the Caster's spell is designed that way.
Have them drop walls of fire in the middle of the orcs once the last of the players are close. Make sure they do it at max range so we have as much room to work as possible.
“Connor has a pack of the firebugs up there. They're going to use firewalls to temporarily block the orc advance. We'll take out any orc one our side of the fires.”
Ahlred's murderous grin almost makes me shiver. Even though I trust him with my life, he's still the second most viciously violent person I've ever known. No one sane could avoid being at least slightly unnerved by his unbridled malevolence.
As the last of the players that are going to make it ahead of the orcs close in on our position, several long minutes pass. Mixed in among the stragglers, fighting a running battle with them, there are several groups orcs. Following hot on their heels, five packs of orcs, totaling over fifteen thousand bulls, are closing the distance with each step.
Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish!
An arrow from Connor's bow impales the lead bull in one of the nearest band of orcs. In less than ten seconds, another four follow striking the lead bulls in the other four band. Connor's arrows might not break the sound barrier, but they're so close reaching supersonic speeds, the difference is barely noticeable.
Shocked or surprised by their leaders falling, the pursuing bands of orcs slow for a few seconds. Next to me, Ahlred is quivering with anticipation, as we watch. With the momentary respite provided by Connor's arrows, the last of the players have the chance to get inside the maximum range of the pyromaniacs above.
Fwoosh! Boom! Fwoosh! Boom! Swoosh! Swoosh!Fwoosh! Boom! Fwoosh! Boom! Fwoosh! Boom! Swoosh!
Fireballs streak outwards and fall among the orcs. Roaring walls of bright orange-red flame reach toward the sky in the middle of them. The agonized howls of flame engulfed orcs mix with the fear and rage-filled roars of their brethren on the far side of the fires. Despite hundreds, if not thousands of orcs being caught inside the fire, there are still close to a thousand that are on our side of the walls of fire.
“NOW! LET'S GET 'EM!” Fueled by massive Dvergar lungs, my bellow rises loud and clear above the background noise.
As we charge, our metal boots ring against the rocks and stones on the wi
ndswept shingle. The smaller or more fragile stones shatter under the impact of Dvergar steel driven by superhumanly powerful Dvergar legs. Despite our disproportionately short legs, each step hurls us forward several meters.
Rage and hate I cannot control rise up from my belly, and a soundless roar echoes from my lips. To my left and right six more roaring, rage-filled voices join it. It embodies sound and emotions that send shivers through the surrounding air, ground, and water.
Ahead of us the orcs turn eyes on that are filled hate and fear. Though, there is more fear than hate in their expressions.
The sound chills me to my soul. The hate and rage make me want to run and hide, but I can't. It feels like these dark, violent emotions have taken control of my body and refuse to allow me to do anything but fight. This kind of hate and rage is not something a human should be capable of.
A few days ago, I don't think I was capable of feeling emotions like these. Since we left the Labyrinth something has changed, but what is it? And why did it happen? Are we going to lose control of ourselves and become ravening monsters?
With my shield, I barely deflect a hammer aimed at my head and wrench my thoughts away from my fears. Now is not the time to be worrying like an old woman. If I don't stay focused on this battle, the orcs will end my quandaries once and for all.
My personal favorite weapon buff puts an edge of magical force on my weapons that is similar to the concept of a hypersonic vibrational blade, a vibro-blade in sci-fi parlance. It creates a vibrational force at nearly the molecular level and can cut through almost anything that isn't protected with some kind of defensive ability.
My return strike rends the orc's shield, and I twist my axe, hooking the sundered shield with the beard. I jerk the shield down and away. As the orc pulls back with all its might, I reverse the direction of my motion and twist into a punch-like chop. The razor sharp edge cleaves through the orc's helm and jaw. As the orc rears back, howling in agony, my Dvergar steel shod foot hammers into its groin. As the orc doubles over, my shield bash shatters its skull, like an overripe melon.
The Survivors Part 1: The Masacre Page 3
