Black Metal: The Orc Wars (4 page)

Ma-Gur sat apart from the others, his newfound insights still smoldering within him. Ghalik watched the younger orc with an appraising eye. The youngling had disobeyed him, but the haunted look in the warrior’s eyes told Ghalik that this new knowledge was punishment enough. The orcs set out up river to return home as the carrion that circled the town descended into theirs.

“They build no walls, spend no gold, and forge metal for naught but war. We’ll take their lives with axe and hammer and put their bodies to the furnace.” --- Molin Bronzefoot, drawven armorsmith

The rough-cut boats made their way slowly up the river, the orc’s powerful strokes inching the boats along against the current. The run off from the morning melting had swollen the river, and the calm frozen river of night had become a treacherous afternoon ice floe. However, the orcs of the Angir were capable oarsmen and for nearly two days managed to skillfully avoid being sunk by the fast moving ice chunks.

Since going up river was a much slower process the sun was almost at its height on the third day before the raiding party was near enough to home to see the smoke. It was rising up through the trees in several places, white and soft wisps quietly billowing upwards into the sky. Ghalik did not need to tell the group to pick up speed, at the sight of the smoke the orcs were already dipping their oars at a superhuman pace.

They came around the bend in the river with spears poised, ready to repel any attackers whom sought to blindside them. On the beach there were many track and boat impressions on the coarse beach. The orcs were out of their boats and splashing ashore as they drew weapons and readied shields. After a moment Okada, the closest thing the Angir had to a scout, ran up to Ghalik to make his report.

“It appears that a force of men landed here and moved up the trail towards home. From the freshness of the tracks I would say that they arrived only shortly after we began our journey back upriver,” reported the breathless ranger.

“Did they return here, or to they await us in the village?” Ghalik questioned as he absently fingered his waraxe.

“I believe they came back this way. The tracks indicate that they came back down the path and left with their boats. Whatever happened here, we are too late,” explained Okada as he looked down.

Ghalik grunted derisively at Okada’s display of emotion, this was no time to grieve. The old wizard un-slung his waraxe and gave a hand signal to the waiting warriors, indicating that it was time to move in. The horde, which had only suffered minimal casualties in the raid, moved up the trail silently. Everyone moved with a quiet urgency, their dread of what the smoke most likely meant was hard to mask.

The horde of warriors poured out of the forest and into the village, all secretly hoping that what lie before them would shimmer and disappear like a forgotten dream. They did not. Fires still burned and the smell of death was quite pungent and fresh. Ghalik ordered the group to spread out by clinching his fist then opening it again quickly, splaying out his fingers to symbolize his command. The orc warriors did as they were told and moved into the burning village.

Ma-Gur ended up stalking into the village next to Okada, the two orcs exchanging a grim nod as they tightened their grip on their weapons and advanced. They moved in close to the winter larders, the smell of burnt flesh clinging to their nostrils. The two orcs reached the building, its primary structure of mud and sticks totally burned away to reveal the still burning hardwood support beams. All of the food and cooking supplies that the Angir had stocked to see them through the winter lie in burnt heaps of melted fat and stinking ash.

As they stood in silent shock at the entrance to the burnt shell of the building they heard a small cry. Both immediately bared their weapons and prepared to fight, but no attack came. Again they heard the cry, this time the two orcs could tell where it was coming from.

“The children’s warren,” gasped Okada as he took off at a run towards a low ceilinged building near the ruined larder.

Ma-Gur quickly followed, but the larger orc had difficulty keep up with the smaller and faster scout. The two orcs reached the building just as three other warriors who had also heard the call arrived as well. With the quiet understanding so common to their race the five orcs spread out to surround the collapsed building. Once in position they converged on the center as they again heard the cry.

Ma-Gur and another warrior reached the source of the sound, which was coming from underneath a pile of collapsed mud wall that was being held down by a broken support beam. Ma-Gur and the warrior strained their muscles as they lifted the massive wooden beam. Okada and the other two orcs quickly began digging away the crumpled pieces of the wall as they heard the cry again.

They found a young orcish boy who had been pinned down underneath the crumbling wall. He was crying because it appeared that his leg was broken. With firmly set jaws the five warriors paused a moment to look at the boy. Unfathomable expressions played out over their faces, and then left as quickly as they came as their faces hardened once more. Okada reached out to hold the boy, firmly bracing him as another warrior grasped the boy’s broken leg. There was a moment of silence, then it was broken by a loud cracking noise and the boy’s yelp of pain as the orc set the bone.

The five warriors emerged from the smoke. Ma-Gur was carrying the boy, whose small arms were wrapped tightly around the big orc’s stout neck. The rest of the assembled orcs watched without comment, knowing better than to ask about the other children. Yet even the boy was only meant to live a short time. For as Ma-Gur walked on the boy’s arms fell slack, the shock of his leg and massive internal injuries just too much for his young body. The large warrior gently laid the body upon the ground, and walked on with downcast eyes.

The bodies of the small handful of orc warriors chosen to be left behind to defend the village lay scattered about the entrance of the settlement. Their bodies were hacked and bloody, many of them were riddled with strangely beautiful arrows. There was blood on a few of their weapons, which meant that at least they hadn’t died alone.

One of the living orc warriors yanked an arrow from a body and held it out to Okada to examine. The scout looked at it for a moment, then broke the arrow in his hand in disgust.

“Elves,” he spat as he threw the pieces at the torn ground.

“And men,” stated an orc who came out of the smoke with a few other warriors behind him. Over his shoulder was a body, which he unceremoniously dumped on the ground.

It was the corpse of a human male, a warrior by his armor. It appeared that before his body was buried and partially burned that he had worn a white surcoat. A well-known symbol of the men of Iithsul, religious zealots from a country far to the south.

“What are templars doing this far north?” asked one of the warriors.

“They most likely came at the behest of the Dalarns. Some of them escaped last spring when we sacked the city. Those limp-wristed pixie loving elves were probably scouts or something for the templars,” cursed another orc.

“Who were likely the only people who would aid the Dalarn survivors,” Okada mused as he looked at the destruction surrounding them.

“I knew we should have run them down when we had the chance, too busy setting fire to the place,” grumbled one of the orcs. His comment was answered by a handful of snorts and grunts, the closest expressions to laughter that most orcs made once reaching adulthood.

The group of warriors were interrupted from their subdued reverie as they heard the heavy footfalls of the majority of the horde tromping by. The remaining orcs quickly fell into step with the rest as they moved towards the back of the village.

What used to be the grandest, by orcish standards, building in the village was nothing more than a smoking heap. The Motherhut, living quarters for all the females of the Angir, had been completely destroyed. Even the massive hardwood timbers had been pulled from the ground. The hacked and charred bodies of the large females lay strewn about the area, and some could be seen partially buried under the smoldering debris.

The entirety of the orc warriors had congregated around the demolished structure. Not a sound stirred the silence that had descended upon the area. The orcs looked upon their slain women with numb acceptance. Death in battle was no stranger, but the sort of annihilation that faced them was beyond their experience. No one pointed out the obvious, that no more children would be born of an Angir mother. Certainly other mothers could be found, but the Angir bloodline, so ancient and strong, was now doomed to fade.

Ghalik, who had been standing silently next to the savaged body of his exclusive female, lifted his head to look at the assembled warriors. It was as if he somehow sensed the sudden decline in moral, a loss of will and might. He understood their grief and loss, perhaps more than they did themselves. For seven hundred years she had belonged to him and him to her, now so much discarded meat. He set his jaw firmly as he made his decision to carry on, it was that simple. He took a step towards the assembled orcs and began to speak.

“Warriors of the Angir, I know what you are feeling right now. We have been struck a mighty blow this day. One from which we will never recover. A mortal wound that will in the passing of time seal our doom. When the last of us dies, the true Angir will be no more,” intoned Ghalik as he paced like a caged animal.

“Oh yes we could take wives from other tribes. Strange women could bear our children and raise our families, but they would not be Angir. We have been dealt our death blow today,” he uttered as he suddenly pointed at Ma-Gur, “You. What do we do when a warrior is dealt a horrible wound but does not die?”

Ma-Gur almost balked at the dangerous sparkle in the old wizard’s eyes, then he realized what the Ghalik was implying. The thought set his heart to racing.

“We pack his wound with magic and summon into him the killing spirit of our tribe,” stated the young orc, pride and fear making his voice rumble. At his words the assembled orcs opened their mouths in shock.

“The Gor-Angir,” hissed Ghalik as he smiled wickedly, “Are we not wounded warriors? Are not our wounds packed with the ashes of our dying tribe? The mothers are gone, and all that remains are we the fighters. What else can we be except killing spirits? We are the Gor-Angir. Made by our enemies so that our vengeance will know no bounds!”

His speech was answered by the deep rumbling howls of the horde. Ghalik joined them in their primal scream, venting their rage and sorrow at the impassive skies above. Generations later woodsmen and trappers brave and foolish enough to work the frozen mountains still tell stories about the day the mountains raised their voices to the gods. Angered that men were allowed to pass upon their snow-covered slopes.

“Never bet against an orc gladiator in the arena, unless the opponent is a troll, and even then your odds are decent if the orc is a blooded Angir.” --- commonly overheard in the fighting pits of Solar

The old wizard carefully stirred the last of the glowing green powder into the warped and fire blackened pot he had discovered in the wreckage of the village’s larder. While he was busy mixing the powder the rest of the orcs were scavenging what they could from the desolate area. Very little useful items had been spared, it was as if the enemy had known the warriors would return and have to face the winter without equipment or supplies. The relatively empty handed warrior began to congregate around Ghalik as they returned from their fruitless searches.

“We will never catch them if we do not give ourselves some kind of advantage,” stated the wizard as he finally finished mixing and stood up to face the now fully assembled horde.

“The wound is in our hearts, so we will drink this potion to get the magic inside us,” continued Ghalik as he poured the contents of the pot into the large waterskin he carried at his side. While he did this the watching orcs grumbled to themselves, knowing full well what the powder could do and questioning the purpose of taking such a risk. Ghalik sensed the derision, so took a quick drink from the skin. The orcs backed up a step in fear and surprise at the breaking of an ancient taboo. Ghalik turned and walked towards them.

“Everyone must drink. Take this potion and you will be able to have your revenge. You won’t become monsters, there is to little magic for it to happen to us all. But what you do take will give you the power to catch our enemies, no matter what lead they have on us,” Ghalik bellowed as he looked at the orcs gathered around him, “Who has the courage to become the Gor-Angir, and take the fight to those foolish men?”

Ma-Gur stepped forward. He did not quite know why, but something in the eyes of the monster last night seemed to drive him to step up. The young orc walked up to Ghalik and held out his hand. Ghalik gave a twisted grin and handed the skin to Ma-Gur. The young warrior put the skin to his lips and poured a small measure into his mouth. The taste of it was like a strong acid, bitter and corrosive as it carried the ancient magic deep into his body.

Ma-Gur stepped aside as the next orc moved to take his place, and one by one the entire horde each took their swallow of bitter potion. The orcs then stood silently, waiting for Ghalik to speak.

The old wizard looked around himself at the assembled force, his mind on fire with the violent magic in his belly. He slung his axe on to his back and began walking back down to the shore.

“We must cross the river as soon as we can. The magic works quickly, and we will soon need to be on the move. Should we tarry the magic will make us end up killing each other. Our only option is to run, and keep running till we find the enemy. You will not stop. You will not tire. They will be ours before dusk tomorrow,” he commanded as the orcs loaded themselves into the boats and began crossing the narrow river.

Once they reached the other side the orc piled out of the boats. Their eyes were slowly turning read, and everyone felt the berserker rush signaling that the spell was beginning to take effect. Okada pointed to a quite visible path, the underbrush and dirt torn and disheveled. The enemy had not bothered to cover their tracks, so sure that no one would give chase much less catch them.

All of the orcs present could tell that the enemy had horses and carts, so would cover ground very quickly. The men also had nearly three full days lead on the horde. Yet as the Gor-Angir began to manifest the orcs did not feel overwhelmed. Instead they felt eager for the chase, the rush of the hunt soon overcame them and they took off down the trail.

The horded moved quickly along the trail left by the enemy. They ran at top speeds, their seemingly tireless bodies eating up the miles as the day wore on. They were so enmeshed with the Gor-Angir that they did not notice the passing of time or the subtle changes in the landscape. By nightfall the orcs had left the ice capped mountains and were moving through the evergreen forests that lay at the base of the mountain and beyond.

A thunderstorm rolled down the mountain and poured itself out onto the forest below. Oblivious to the cold or the wet the orcs continued on, their feet pounding through the mud as they chased their quarry. As the sun rose over the forest the orcs were still running unceasingly down the trail. Their eyes were a burning red and their muscles seemed to have grown during the night. Their only thoughts were those of blood and death, so intent upon their goal that they did not feel fatigue or hunger. The trees were thinning as morning became afternoon, still they did not give up the chase as they emerged onto open tundra. The cold plains rising to meet their feet as they continued on.

The elves had ranged a small distance ahead of the main body of the small army. They carefully picked their way along the small trail, their bows ready and arrows knocked. They were disgusted with the arrogance and haughtiness of the templars. These men felt that because their High King had charged them with wiping out an orc tribe that they were masters of the realm. Victory always had made men prideful they thought, add on top of that religious justification and one ended up with spectacularly superior feeling bullies. Still, the elves begrudgingly respected the martial prowess and dedication of these men. They heeded the cries of the Dalarn when no others had, calling a general crusade against all of the old races, so perhaps their need to do good offset their somewhat boorish personalities.

The elves continued moving until, almost as one, the dozen elves stopped dead in their tracks. The knights and carts behind them slowed.

“There is something on the wind,” uttered one of the elves as he motioned for the knights to keep moving, “A foul energy comes our way. We must hasten away.”

“We’ll not run from battle my friend. Better to meet it head on than be stabbed in the back. Though we will heed you for now, I trust your judgment even if I disagree with your perceptions of valor,” spoke the lead knight as he gave the signal to move out.

The small army returned to its journey, plodding along on their carts and armored horses. This was not a caravan designed to cover ground quickly, yet could still easily outpace anyone on foot. Or so it was assumed. The mounted knights were not ignoring the elf’s warnings however, and kept a wary eye on the woods about them. Likely as not the only menace in these woods would be the goblin clans, most of whom had been wiped out by other crusading armies. Goblins were much shorter than men or orcs, though they shared a similar lust for death and plunder. However, unlike the tendency towards raiding and open combat of the orcs, goblins were a skittish race more suited to ambush and murders in the night. Still, thought most of the knights, even goblins could be dangerous if constant vigilance was not maintained.

The feeling of danger and foreboding began to prick the minds of the elves, like a little thorn of fear stabbing at their resolve. With the exchange of a few meaningful glances the elves made clear to each other that all of them sensed trouble coming. Without a word they split into two groups and disappeared into the surrounding forest. It was long moments before the knights and their retainers noticed their disappearance. With a gesture of his hand the knight’s leader ordered a halt. The years of training in knighthood had an immediate effect, as the knights instinctively formed a circle around the wagons.

The elves backtracked along the edges of the trail, their hearts beating madly as their almost supernaturally keen senses picked up on the palpable danger moving towards them. They silently emerged onto the trail as they crested the hill. Suddenly they were assaulted by a petrifying was of fear as they looked into the valley below.

A horde of orcs with blazing red eyes and bright while tattoos were scaling the hill, the first of their number already closing distance to engage. The elves were a tall and slender race thought to be the descendants of the fey, and as such were gifted with long life and supernatural senses and reflexes. It was with this speed and skill that they immediately drew their bows and fired a volley of precisely aimed arrows. The nearest dozen orcs were struck simultaneously, an arrow into each orc’s breast as the elven metal pierced their boiled leather armor. To the shock and horror of the elves only two of them went down, the others rushing madly onwards despite their wounds.

The elves swallowed their surprise and fired a second volley, this time bringing three more to the ground. The last of the first wave neared the elves and raised their blades as another four of them went down with arrows riddling their bodies.

The elves reached into their quivers to draw forth fresh arrows as they looked into the faces of doom. Coming up the hill was the rest of the horde, all rushing wildly as if lost in a berserker rage. The elves knew that to run meant to be cut down from behind, so they stood their ground and fired point blank at the three who were closing in.

Ma-Gur bounded up the hill as the battle madness that had carried him over so many miles burned brighter than ever at the long awaited sight of the enemy being slaughtered by the two surviving orcs who had reached the top. The young orc managed to catch an elf fumbling for another arrow as he crested the hill. The elf doubled over as he was thrown back by the power of the orc’s blow, the gaping wound in his midsection spewing blood and entrails into the air as he fell. Ma-Gur did not stop running, instead he allowed his momentum to carry him into the next elf.

This one, however, was ready to receive the charge. The elf rushed under the large blade as Ma-Gur attempted to split her open with a power attack. The lithe warrior spun on the balls of her feet as she drew her thin blade across the passing orc’s side. The wounded orc stumbled and fell to the ground, kicking up dirt as the rolled to a stop.

The elf turned just in time to dodge another strike from a charging orc, ducking under the blade and driving the point of her sword through its diaphragm and into the heart. The orc’s forward momentum was halted, its feet shooting out from under it as the elf slammed him to the ground by stepping forward. It was as if the orc were caught in a tide and she was the impassive cliff upon which he broke. The elf yanked her now blood blackened blade from her fallen foe and stood to face another.

Her eyes quickly scanned the battlefield, only to be disheartened by the sight of her comrades all lying in various stages of death and dying. The orcs weren’t even finishing them off, so intent were they upon reaching the knights. Many orcs rushed by her, forcing her to duck and dive over and over as if she were in a stampede. Eventually a lucky blow disabled her sword arm as it knocked her to the ground. She had just managed to get back to her feet when an orc planted a spear in her belly as it ran by, not even bothering to collect it’s weapon after she had fallen over dead.

Ma-Gur struggled to his feet, the wound in his side burning with a bittersweet pain. He was moving down the other side of the hill towards the circle of knights before he even realized what he was doing. The power came back to his body as he began to move again, the grip on his sword tightening in anticipation of battle. Ahead he could already see the first wave of orcs nearing the shocked knight’s battle line. As he ran forward he witnessed the battle as it unfolded.

The first wave of orcs reached the knights just as the mounted warriors spurred their horses for a charge. The two forces met with the sounds of steel on steel and metal cleaving flesh. Under normal circumstances such a surprise charge tactic would have worked for the knights, a devastating attack that would drive the enemy back before them. Today it was not a successful action. Enhanced as they were by Ghalik’s magic the orcs were not easily knocked aside by the charging horses nor were they harrowed by the flurry of blows rained upon them from the mounted warriors themselves. Naturally, some orcs were killed during the charge, but not nearly enough to make the tactic worth leaving the defenses of the circled wagons.

By the time Ma-Gur reached the fight it was well underway, the impending orc victory was already apparent from the swiftness in which the knights and their retainers seemed to be dying, but there was yet some killing to be done. He joined the fray with abandon, his sword swinging too and fro, denting armor and carving flesh. Quickly, the fight turned against the knights, for though they had numerical superiority they had been outmaneuvered. The failed charge had forced the mounted warriors to fight in close quarters with the enemy while still on horseback. This gave the orcs on foot the option of slaying the horse, oftentimes pinning the knight under the weight of his fallen mount.

Soon the tide of battle reached the circle of wagons as the surviving knights fought a hasty retreat. The orcs pressed their advantage and continued to push forward, whittling down the numbers of their enemy as they went. Just as it appeared that the knights would be able to rally with the remaining retainers behind the makeshift wall of carts one of the wagons was sent into the air with the splintering sound of metal striking wood. Many eyes turned to old Ghalik as he bashed another cart into pieces with his now glowing eldritch waraxe.

A cheer went up amongst the orcs as they poured in through the freshly made gaps. Like an angry green tide the flowed over the stalwart knights and their retainers. The noises of fighting died quickly as the last of the humans fell, a silent scream on his face as an orcish blade spilled his life out onto the ground. Still mad with lust for carnage the orcs began savagely dismantling the carts with their weapons and bare hands. With a sense of desperation they shattered wood, slaughtered the wounded, and some even turned to mutilating the dead. The Gor-Angir was not satisfied. Like madmen they twitched and spasmed, the fight still running hot in their blood.