As the orcs brought the carts around and grouped them together Ma-Gur stood on the seat of his wagon and looked back towards the village. The sounds of fighting could still be heard, but not nearly so much as when the battle had begun. It sounded as if a victor had been established, what could be heard was the mopping up phase of the fight. The orc gestured for two of his remaining warriors to follow him, and he made his way back towards the village, leaving the others to guard the newly acquired supplies.
They ran at a steady pace, conserving their energy should they need to rejoin the battle. Soon they reached the outskirts of town, the sounds of battle had become more sporadic, slowly dying out as the orcs drew ever nearer. The orcs gripped their weapons tightly and advanced into the ruined town.
Suddenly, as if they had appeared from thin air, a cluster of five human men at arms came careening towards the three orcs. Reacting as all good warriors would, the orcs immediately responded to what they perceived as an attack. The two orc warriors squared off with the oncoming humans as Ma-Gur moved up to meet the charge. He deflected a clumsy sword thrust with his shield and brought his blade down upon the swordsman. The heavy weapon connected with the human’s collarbone and cleaved through to his heart. As the first human fell the other soldiers faltered, losing the momentum of their rush. They fell easy prey to orc blades as the three greenskinned warriors pressed their advantage. When the flurry of blows had ceased all of the men at arms had fallen, and one of the orcs had lost a hand.
The three warriors continued deeper into the village as the wounded orc field dressed his wound. They could no longer hear the sounds of battle, but all around them the bodies of the slain littered the streets. The orcs stalked closer to the site of the battle’s beginning, crossing the corpse filled town square and heading further into town. They soon came face to face with the survivors of the vicious fight.
A small number of orcs sat against the wall of a ruined building, talking with an even smaller group of trolls. They looked up as Ma-Gur and his two warriors approached. They were weary, but Ma-Gur could still see the thrill of victory in their eyes. They had defeated an enemy force nearly two thirds larger than their own. By Ma-Gur’s return they could surmise that the supply wagons were also theirs, so despite their heavy losses victory was theirs.
They were pitifully few in number, yet chose to take their rest in the open fields around the city, uncaring of the danger of such a decision. Around the wagons ragged bedrolls had been unfurled, upon which laid the sleeping warriors. A lone sentry had been posted, primarily to run off any carrion or wolves that strayed too close to the makeshift camp. The cries and howls of such scavengers rang out into the empty night was more than enough to keep the watchman from falling into slumber.
The ruins of the village were full of activity in spite of the lifelessness of those humans, orcs, and trolls present. In fact, these lifeless occupants were the reason for the activity. Carrion birds swooped down upon fallen soldiers, cawing and screeching as they picked at dead flesh. Wild dogs and pack of wolves fought their own battles over the meat in a strange parody of the struggle that had lead to this veritable feast.
Though considered by the majority of the world to be cold and fearless, even by themselves, many of the warriors could not find rest. The sounds of the scavenger’s feeding frenzy kept them awake. Experienced warriors could sleep anywhere and through anything it was said. Many now found that statement lacking. They had all killed and fought before, all were hardened veterans in their own ways. Yet they were primarily raiders, warriors who fought while on the move. This was the first time any of them had remained on the field of battle once the fighting and looting was done. They felt acid biting of fear and doubt, a sinister questioning that drilled its way into their thoughts. What more was a man, than eventual meat for others?
Upon awakening quite un-refreshed the warriors loaded their spoils onto the carts and began the journey in the last known direction of the horde’s passing.
“I was a little girl when they burned the village of Oxcrossing. My father ran a ferry down the way, and I was lucky enough to be with him on the other side of the river when the orcs attacked. Father and I had seen reavers come up the river in their longships before, and sometimes there was fighting, but they only ever took maidens and pigs. Yet orcs killed every one, slaughtered the livestock they didn’t take, then set the fires.” --- Shannon Dary, midwife
Things were not going well for the horde. Ghalik cursed under his breath as he ran alongside his warriors, the group of greenskinned creatures running down the slopes of the gorge. In the last few days the raiding had turned sour. Villages were becoming more heavily fortified as the threat of the horde grew with the telltale smoke pillars that told all who could see that yet another piece of civilization was burning.
The number of villages and townships that supplied the dwarven stronghold with most of its food and wood had been more than halved. The horde had been moving fast, pillaging with an almost desperate haste, leaving burning ruins behind them as they poured over the land. Ghalik had hoped that the sudden appearance of the rampaging horde would stir the slow burning fires of the stone men. He had gotten his wish, but it came in a form much different than he had expected.
Instead of one plodding army of hundreds of dwarves, the old wizard found himself fighting skirmishes with smaller yet more mobile forces. His plan of out maneuvering the dwarven army and entering the fortress behind them has dissolved into a full-scale brush war with many different groups of dwarven troops, and the numbers of his horde were dwindling. Apparently the villagers and dwarves had a contingency plan for such events. The villages could be seen with prefabricated and hastily erected defenses, their garrisons aided by the appearance of even more dwarven troops.
Ghalik had sent runners to the southern orc clans in hopes of reinforcement even before he had set out on this campaign and left Ma-Gur’s illfated forces behind, but the likelihood of both the runner’s survival and a favorable response from the Angir’s stooped counterparts was slim. Perhaps if they had also suffered the attacks of the dwarf and elf aided crusaders the southern orcs would come, but it was an inconsequential thing. Ghalik had the immediate situation to deal with.
Two regiments of dwarven shock troops had used their superior familiarity with the terrain to outmaneuver the horde, trapping them at the bottom of a gorge. Even now as Ghalik looked on the dwarven regiments came at them, one from each end of the gorge. In such narrow confines the horde would not be able to escape, and if the fight lasted for too long one of the other dwarven companies that scoured the land might have the chance to join in. It seemed as if their time was at an end.
With a grunt of resignation Ghalik raised his waraxe and began to chant the language of magic. The stalwart dwarven column continued to march towards the waiting horde as tendrils of energy began to creep along the shaft of the wizard’s axe. Never the sort to wait for a fight to come to them, the trolls bellowed their war cries and followed Reygoth in a charge against the oncoming line of dwarves. The knot of troll warriors crashed into the dwarven ranks, Reygoth’s greatsword cutting a bloody swathe as he waded into the enemy. Despite their initial losses the robust dwarves bravely met the charge with axe and hammer.
First a trickle, then a flood of orcs began to follow suit. Rushing into the fray, partly out of bloodlust and impatience, partly because they knew and feared Ghalik’s magic. Thus the company of dwarves steadily marching towards the center of the gorge found themselves facing only the orcish wizard and Ca’tic’na’s goblins.
Ghalik’s eyes glowed with a sickly green light as he finished the arduous spell. The sounds of combat rang in his ears, but he heard only the rush of energy as it coursed through his body. He voiced a great bestial roar and swung his glowing axe at the ground directly in front of him. When the blade bit into the gorge floor a loud boom sounded, and the ground in front of the wizard shook with an unfathomable force. The power of the earthquake spell brought the vast
majority of the marching dwarves to the ground.
The goblins, whose cowardice was dissipated by the sight of so many fallen enemies, rushed forward like a swarm of giant insects. Their spears and shortswords claimed many dwarven lives before the stout warriors were able to fight back. By that time Ghalik himself slammed into them. Like an army unto himself he laid about him with the waraxe, still crackling with energy and now slick with smoking blood.
Okada and Ma-Gur reached the slopes of the gorge just as Ghalik’s earthquake spell felled the dwarves on that end of the gorge. The large orc warrior had been met by the smaller ranger while on his way towards the horde. Okada had told him of the unforeseen dwarven tactic, and to consider himself lucky he hadn’t run afoul of any patrols on his way to the horde. The two of them had led their forces to the gorge in an attempt to turn the battle in their favor. They watched as Ghalik slaughtered the dwarven shock troops, yet they could see that the old wizard was wounded many times over and getting weaker.
“Okada, you and your goblins do what you can for Ghalik. I will finish the dwarves on the other end,” stated the large orc. At the commanding tone Okada initially bristled but could see the determination and confidence in Ma-Gur’s eyes, so chose not to argue.
“Then I’ll meet you in the middle,” Okada uttered as he signaled his goblins to him and un-slung his stolen elvish bow.
As Okada rained down arrows with terrifying accuracy his goblins moved down the slope. Once they were in range they hurled their spears into the dwarven ranks and charged with shortswords at the ready. The dwarves were sufficiently distracted by the surprise assault that their unified assault on Ghalik lessened. Within moments that end of the gorge was jumble of the two groups of goblins and the dwindling numbers of dwarves. Having loosed all of his arrows, Okada bound down the slope with sword in hand. Ghalik fought on, freed from the press of enemies he was more able to choose his targets and conserve his power.
Ma-Gur sprinted back to where his warriors waited, impatient for battle.
“Bring the weapons cart around. Take it to the edge of the slope,” Ma-Gur commanded as he signaled for his warriors to follow him, “We are going to let the wagon run down the slopes before us.”
At in inquisitive glance from a nearby orc Ma-Gur made his intentions clear.
“I mean to use the cart as a battering ram. It will break their ranks and allow us to get close to them. Now move!” he bellowed as the group approached the far slopes.
The remaining trolls under Ma-Gur’s command held the cart poised over the edge, pointed at the tight dwarven ranks. This regiment seemed much larger than the one Ghalik faced, yet as Ma-Gur looked on he was able to see that a third dwarven force had moved in to back up the first group, which had sustained heavy causalities yet held its ground. At Ma-Gur’s signal they heaved the wagon over the edge, the force of their shove sending the cart careening down the slopes towards the dwarves. Following quickly behind the descending makeshift battering ram the orc and troll warriors rushed down into the gorge to aid their comrades.
The dwarves never saw it coming. Without warning the heavy cart full of weapons and armor crashed into the tight ranks of the dwarven soldiers. The short warriors were thrown in every direction as the wagon broke over them, sending it’s cargo of edged metal in every direction as a hapless dwarf was caught in the spokes. The cart broke into several pieces as it flipped end over end before it landed, damaging even more dwarves. Into the gap that was now formed in the dwarven formation poured the descending orc and troll killers. The dwarf line crumbled under the pressure of the two groups of warriors.
Soon the sounds of battle died away as the few dwarves that had survived finally made their escape. The horde had suffered, and was now collectively no more than a strong raiding party in number. Ghalik, weary and wounded, was angry and disappointed. The horde had paved their way down the mountains to the dwarven stronghold with their own lives, only now to be far too few to finish the game. They had marched through army after army and village after village, at least the knowledge of their bloody path was a small comfort. While they could not capture the stronghold, they could always sell their lives against the dwarven regiments still afoot in the land.
Ghalik watched as Ca’tic’na and what remained of his goblins as they worked over the corpses like carrion. Picking out bits of trail rations, weaponry, and other wealth that only goblins could appreciate. His gaze fell upon the fiercely proud Reygoth, harvesting a dwarven skull for his banner, upon which already hung the skulls of several humans. Neither leader seemed to notice the penetrating look of the orc wizard. It seemed to Ghalik that they were proud and accepting of their roles and the situations in which they found themselves.
Ghalik thought perhaps it was for the best that his tribe was dying before his eyes. Mayhap the world would be a better place if loremasters like he and Ca’tic’na died out. The creatures of the world could go on living their lives without the terrible weight of history on their shoulders. Youth could not live their lives as they pleased, not that humans or orcs or any other race would choose to live any differently. Yet they could live without the bitter knowledge of the origins of their worlds. They could choose their paths without awareness of the dark purpose hiding in their blood.
Perhaps, unknowingly, that was why the humans, elves, and dwarves seemed to flourish so. While the races of the trolls, goblins, and orcs fell into decline. That is why we are the ancient races, Ghalik thought, because the humans and their allies have forgotten their places whereas we have not. They are free in their ignorance and we are slaves to our knowledge. What if the ancient races forgot their hatreds? What if they were to forget why they craved battle so? Would they weaken and die? No, he thought not. They would thrive in their quest for answers, and still bring the might of the world against them in the end. It was best that tribes like the Angir died off, taking their loremasters and their secrets to the grave.
But Ghalik was an orc, said by many to be what was best in orcs, and he was not about to lay down and die. He knew that his death and that of his people wouldn’t save the orc race as a whole, but even if it did it wasn’t a sacrifice he would have made. Suicide was the one taboo that was held in all orc tribes, leftovers from their deific heritage. No orc would sacrifice itself for another or take its own life out of misery or for honor. Ghalik did not intend to fail or die so cheaply. He would die hard and slow, taking as many of the enemy with him as possible.
The expectant looks from the warriors that had gathered near him told him the time for contemplation was over. They don’t want speeches or lore, they want action. Ghalik, still in pain, stood.
“We are too few in number to assault the citadel. If we did we would waste our lies and accomplish nothing. It would be better to turn our might against the dwarven troops that still hunt for us, there at least we can do some damage,” stated the weary wizard as the strapped his gory axe to his broad back.
“I have news Ghalik, that may change your mind,” spoke Okada as he shouldered his way towards the front of the crowd.
“Go on.”
“As you say, an assault on the citadel at our current strength would not succeed. Even though we discovered a side entrance to the stronghold. It is easy to enter but unless the citadel could be taken quickly it would be difficult to defend,” Okada explained as he looked from Ghalik to the assembled crowd, “Yet on my way here to the gorge I met runners from the southern tribes. They come to meet us. They travel with hordes from the east, who have also felt the blades of Iithsul. Their seers have told them that they must meet us at the gates of the citadel in two days time, so they run hard towards us. If we have taken the stronghold they will enter as friends, if not they will attack on their own.”
“They are as wise as they are numerous. All know that to survive this purge we of the ancient races must take refuge behind walls. This is the nearest fortress of worth for hundreds of miles and far enough from the human cities and the elven forests that it can
be taken and held,” Ghalik said as he gave the signal to pack up and move out, “Then we have two days to get to the citadel and assault it. Let us hope that we can hold it long enough for our allies to arrive to save us.”
No other words needed to be said. All knew that the plan was to use Okada’s secret entrance to infiltrate the stronghold and attack it from within. The wagons were loaded with all that they could carry, and the dead were left for the scavengers. The small horde moved out swiftly before any more enemies arrived.
By the time two more dwarven companies crept into the gorge all that was left to greet them were the carrion-savaged bodies of the slain.
“Academic opinions vary as to the most effective ranged weapon to be employed in the field against troll adversaries. While the longbow has the greater range and can fire more frequently, the crossbow has the penetration and a forceful strike. The most common opinion voiced by soldiers is to think of trolls as fully-armored knights who can move as if mounted, without the weakness of a horse that can be killed from under them. It should be noted that most accredited veterans of troll skirmishes insist on the use of the boar spear as the most effective close quarters weapon.” --- Footman’s Combat Manual, Vol III
The fortress of Ameran, dwarvish for The Mountain Tomb, had visitors.
Okada slid down the narrow passageway, his face and armor caked with ash and soot. He moved down the shaft, the treacherous hand holds of the vertical gap in the mountain threatening to give way under his weight. As a fresh wave of soot covered him from above he looked up at the upside down orc descending after him.
The silent threat in the ranger’s eyes were enough to chasten Ma-Gur as he slowed his rapid descent. The ranger had said that there was a reliable way in, but he had no idea this was what he meant. An entrance maybe for goblins or the nimble ranger, but a difficult challenge for more bulky warriors like Ma-Gur. Yet they all descended just the same, at the point they really had little choice.
Black Metal: The Orc Wars Page 8
