Black Metal: The Orc Wars Page 11

  Merric looked out across the no man’s land towards the citadel. He was a young archer from Erol, this was his first post as a mercenary. In the hundred years that the siege had gone on the warriors of Erol had taken to sending fresh recruits to earn their place among the veteran companies by manning the walls against the orcs. The siege has escalated in the last few decades, the dwarves had made it clear to the human commanders that the fortress needed to be breached. The orcs were trying to raise some dead god or something, but that had been many years ago. Nothing had happened so far but dozens of failed assaults against the impossibly defended citadel.

  The orcs had never sallied forth from their fortress, so men like Merric had never faced orcs on the open field. Everything was siege warfare, so the young archer was caught unawares as the spear punctured his windpipe. He managed a gurgle before rough hands hauled him over the side.

  Ca’tic’na was getting old. He could feel the muscles in his legs protesting as he vaulted over the lip of the battlement and onto the sentry’s foothold. Goblins were longer lived than the trolls, but not by much. Only a few dozen goblins remained, the old warriors who represented the last of the goblin race. They had all insisted on accompanying Okada on his mission. What goblin, no matter how old and weak, wouldn’t jump at the chance to penetrate the elven kingdom to attack it unawares?

  The small band quickly swarmed over the wall, as goblins were notorious for not being impeded by such things as walls or barricades. Their small, clawed hands carried them up the sheer face of the barrier, then they quietly lowered a rope for the less able orc ranger. A few more guards were quickly dispatched as the force moved quietly along, making a stealthy dash for the tree line. The besiegers had grown lax over the last ten decades, and the warriors were able to easily eliminate the last remaining sentries and steal away from the camp.

  They ran as fast as their legs could take them. It was only moments before a cry went up from the camp, proof that other guards had found their slain comrades. Mercenaries and horsemen quickly rode into the night to search for the assassins, but the ancient warriors had long since escaped them.

  For nearly a week Okada and the goblins traveled hard. The lands they traveled through were new and fresh. Ca’tic’na had grown up raiding and pillaging most of these lands, and now he could hardly see a wall or even a presentably fence. In the century that the horde had been contained the world had become fat and lazy. Such was the way of the new world, thought the aging goblin. Though we yet live the world has all but forgotten us. While the thought chilled his very soul, it did make him realize that their travels would be made easier by the slackness in the vigilance of this new age.

  They eventually journeyed out of Ca’tic’na’s homeland and came to the great river Thanos. It was known that the river flowed straight through the heart of the elven kingdom on its way to Erol. They slipped into a small river town under the cover of night and stole several of the villager’s canoes. Soon they were speeding down the river towards their goal, Averinya, the elven nation city.

  As they followed the river into the night they came to a great forest, the obvious boundaries of the elven nation. The raiders moored their boats and continued deep into the forest on foot. They had no doubts that many archers guarded the wood, yet oddly none came. They neared the city after two days in the woods, all with no sign of the elves. The Sheul’s magic must have been tremendously powerful to keep them hidden so well and for so long.

  Okada guided the goblins as they crept into the beautiful tree city, something in the back of his mind seemed to be guiding them. He seemed to know the exact moment in which to hide and where to do it when elven citizens and warriors crossed their path. He knew instinctively that the Sheul must have been guiding him, helping him towards the rune key. Oddly enough he found that he had a picture of it in his mind, without even having seen it, and he felt it drawing near.

  Olisande Lostris, the king and high wizard of the elves, had been having fitful nightmares for nearly two weeks. This morning was no different as the started awake in a cold sweat. He quickly dressed, and to his surprise found himself strapping on his royal blade. How odd, he thought, that I should dress for war when my only purpose today is music and reflection. Olisande was old for an elf, a race that lived lives of beauty and grace for nearly as long as goblins, the accursed creatures. Elves would have others believe that they were descended from divine parents, alas, that was a lie told to greedy warriors and politicians who might raze the great elven city did they know otherwise.

  Olisande was removed from his reflections as a warning bell could be heard in the distance. He grasped his sword and rushed to the source. From the tone and pitch of the individual bells he could discern that something was afoot in the vaults. As he ran through the palace towards them his archer captain, Torin Sic, joined him.

  “My liege, the servants spoke of a horde of goblins attacking the vault. I rang the bells, but I fear we may be to late,” Torin Sic breathed as they sped towards the vaults, a group of hand picked warriors joining them.

  “Torin you take the palace guard into the vaults, eliminate any enemies you find there. I must go to the seer’s tower, I fear greater evil is afoot here than mere robbers,” commanded the elven king as he turned and ran up a nearby flight of stairs.

  Torin Sic and his men reached the vaults shortly after. They found the bodies of several guards amidst a pile of goblin corpses. Torin knew that the only goblins left in the world were those of that cursed black citadel Ameran. If they were here it could only mean that they had discovered what evils lie beneath the mountain.

  His men fanned out as they entered the vault, a long rectangular corridor full of pillars and doors set in the walls. The torches that usually illuminated the vault had been extinguished, though both goblins and elves could partially see in the dark. The elves spread into a fan formation and moved into the corridor like a wave. As they swept into the room the goblin robbers materialized out of the darkness. A battle, fast and fierce, erupted as the elves fired their deadly arrows and the goblins flung their barbed spears. As the two sides exchanged fire they closed in on each other, drawing wicked daggers and curved shortswords.

  The elves were eager to slay the goblins, the chance of being the warriors to slay what must be the last of the goblin race was too personal to be left up to missile weapons. The goblins, their hatred for the elves burning brightly in their hearts, rushed to battle. They were the last, and intended to die clutching the souls of their most bitter enemy. Ca’tic’na hurled his spear into a nearby archer, who fell clutching her midsection. The old goblin drew his curved shortsword and charged the elf nearest him, a leader by the look of him.

  Torin Sic fired an arrow into a goblin, then found himself under attack at close range. The elf captain dropped his bow and backpedaled as he drew his two knives to parry the flurry of blows that came from his shorter opponent. He was an immaculate bladesman, and only suffered a small cut to the leg before he made his move. Once he had both knives at the ready he suddenly halted his retreat, planting his feet firmly on the ground. With a flick of his wrist he turned his blade over from a parry to a slash, his blade slicing deep into the goblin’s wrist. The smaller warrior lost his grip on the weapon and was unable to parry the second knife as the elf dragged its sharp edge across the goblin’s throat.

  As the goblin fell to the ground clutching his throat Torin, his head throbbing feverishly for some reason, looked about him. The battle had ended. He and Eravin, a female archer, were the only survivors. He quickly sheathed his blades and retrieved his bow, knocking an arrow as he stepped forward. So many elves dead, but at least all of the goblins had perished. Eravin flanked him to the left as they picked their was through the battlefield towards the end of the vault.

  They moved silently, keen eyes searching for hidden enemies. Eravin risked a glance across the hall at Torin Sic, just to make sure he was still with her. When she turned her head back her vision came to rest upon a short
er than usual orc, one that was pointing a stolen elvish bow in her direction. She quickly raised her bow, but her shot went wide as the orc fired his own arrow first.

  Torin Sic heard the clatter of the missed shot and the double twang of two bows being fired. He turned to look at Eravin only to see her body collapse to the ground, a wicked black arrow buried in her heart. He took a step into the main corridor, but drew back instinctively just in time to evade another arrow aimed at him. The arrow ricocheted off a nearby pillar with a sharp crack, then the room again fell into silence. His vision was getting blurry and his body felt slow.

  The elf slipped from pillar to pillar, listening intently for the tell tale sounds that would betray the enemy’s position. Was it a goblin? Some little assassin missed during the earlier fight? His head jerked as he heard the scuffle of a boot on the hard pavement. He pulled back the string of his bow, trying to draw a bead on his shadowy opponent. There was a flicker of motion to his left, for an instant he saw the red eyes of his quarry, and though his own eyes were getting hazy, he fired.

  He knew he had missed, now he was sure that the cut on his leg was poisoned, but at least he was driving his quarry into the open. He spun around, stepping around the other side of the pillar and into the main corridor. His enemy did the same. They stood facing each other, arrows poised for flight. Then Torin Sic realized it wasn’t a goblin. It was an orc! They didn’t have rangers! He paused in momentary confusion, the poison slowing his mind as it coursed through him.

  That was his fatal mistake. Okada’s arrow thudded into Torin’s breast with enough force to knock him back. Torin dropped his bow and fell to his knees, his mouth open in shock. The ranger advanced as he drew back another arrow, the rune key glittering on a makeshift necklace at his throat.

  In the seer’s tower, Olisande screamed as he looked from the dead seer to the glowing visage of the Sheul in the cracked scrying mirror.

  “When the dark god Arius took his first steps upon the land of Iithsul, all the babes in all the mangers wept and wailed in unison for the fathers that would never return home.” --- common folklore

  “Now we are at the cusp of our doom!” bellowed Ghalik as he looked out from his raised dias at the last horde of orcs, “Once we open these gates there is no going back. We are the last of our kind, there will be no more who will come after. This is the first day of our extinction.”

  He clenched his fist and growled, “The men of Iithsul began a crusade against the ancient world. The trolls and goblins have already fallen, now it is down to us. Yes, we are immortal and have proven that we can live under siege. But we are orcs! We do not cower behind walls! As you have seen and felt yourselves, this place destroys our will. I say when we sally forth from this place that we never return to its safety. We must take our will and drive it into the heart of the world until we draw our last breath!”

  The chamber was silent. No one dared speak. It was as if they could feel the power of the sorcerer and the newly awakened god pulsing through the citadel itself. Ghalik looked directly into Ma-Gur’s eyes. The younger orc could see the Gor-Angir hiding in the wizard’s eyes. In those eyes he saw the doom of he and his kind. The ancient world is ancient because it has come and gone, orcs were no longer meant for this place. So let the world burn.

  Ma-Gur felt his blood boil. He held his sword and shield above him, thrusting them in the air, and roared. His single deep voice echoed through the empty halls of Ameran. An instant later thousands of voices answered his blood call, and the horde rushed to the walls.

  Ma-Gur waited on the battlements, his breath slowed as the tried to calm himself. It was these moments of waiting that were the worst. Ghalik was right, a century inside those walls had sapped their strength. But now, now they had a god.

  Okada had returned, ruined and wounded by his journey, but in possession of the rune key. True to it’s word the Sheul had been freed. When Okada ascended the steps like some returned messiah all had seemed right and powerful. Then the ranger had placed the rune key into the chest socket on the Sheul’s armor. Almost instantly the ranger was disintegrated. Ghalik has set his jaw against the loss of his hidden son so had that his lips bled, but like a true orc his heart hardened even as the blood ran over his chin and spilt onto the floor.

  “This is the price for my return,” its had said to Ghalik, “After all I am one of the sources of your being. You of all orcs should understand betrayal. Now he and I are one, his power is now mine.”

  Then the god turned to the gathered orcs and Ghalik’s remaining commanders, “And so let us begin the end.”

  Bringing us here, thought the burly orc. The Sheul had armed them with the darksteel weapons and armor from his tomb. Enchanted yet cursed, whispered the metal to the warriors as they made ready for battle. The besieging army had been warned by the elves that the god had been brought back. Now they stood, rank upon rank, awaiting the coming fight. They had no idea, these fools of war, what the god had in store for them.

  Everyone tensed as the gates of the citadel opened and spewed forth the Sheul, Lord Arius.

  The ground trembled as Lord Arius strode into no man’s land. His armored form hovered over the ground as it moved towards the enemy forces. The men of Erol, Iithsul, and dwarves huddled in their barricades as the dead god drew near.

  Lord Arius held his weapons aloft and began to chant in the language of magic. Hearing what could only be the beginning of a spell the archers began to fire. Their arrows flew far and true, but they disintegrated as they struck his armor. His weapons began to glow along with his armor as his powers began to manifest. He spread his arms wide as a blast of pure energy arched out from him, destroying the enemy in waves. Then, as if the mass destruction was a signal in and of itself, Ma-Gur lead the orc hordes in a ferocious charge.

  They reached Lord Arius just as he collided with the shattered enemy lines. Were his weapons fell men died by the dozens, only to have their comrades slain as the orcs followed in the god’s wake. Within moments the battle had become a route, then the route a massacre.

  And so it came to pass that the ancient world escaped from its prison of stone. Once more the past came forth to lay waste to the future. From the hill countries of Ameran, to the southern marshes, to the eastern plains, through the elven city and all the way to the nation of Iithsul, the horde burned and slaughtered. More quickly than any could have imagined, darkness covered the land.

  “Men of the South leave your bogs and raise your spears! Men of the East cross your plains and string your bows! Men of the West forget your coins and draw your swords! Men of the North ford the rivers and sharpen your axes! Brave men of Dunmyr, of Solar, of Erol, of Iithsul, rise to arms! Rise! Rise!” --- Caster Kronin, bard and condemned freebooter (post-humusly pardoned)

  The armies met in a field of little prior consequence.

  At the sound of their Lord’s inhuman bellow, the horde began the assault. The final battle against the templar nation that had first driven them underground had begun. Their howls were deafening.

  But the opposition tonight was not the ordinary sort of adversary. These were the men of Iithsul, their phalanx of pikes gleaming in the torchlight like the faith burning brightly in their spirits. Flanked on both sides by a motley army of soldiers from across the realm, most of them battered survivors of the orc’s prior conquests. Not used to fighting at night, the warriors of Iithsul had set torches every ten paces across their battle line. Lights to illuminate no only the darkness of night, but to dispel the fear of facing the forces of the old world at long last.

  The reports and rumors said that the orcs were lead by some sort of orc wizard who commanded a god thought long dead. They carried with them blades of darksteel, a metal forged deep in the ancient citadels of the Sheul, where all fear to tread. Darksteel was harder and lighter than most other metal, making it highly valuable. It also seemed to be unaffected by magic, prayer, or wards. However, legend held that to wield darksteel was to invite the powers of ruin into
one’s life.

  High King Eldin, the current mortal vicar and representative of the great god Harrikan, pondered these things as he watched the advance of the massive army. He was large for a human, his height and strength testament to his god’s favor. Some who had seen him at a distance even claimed that he had a shimmering halo about him, as if his body radiated the potent cleric’s powers with which he was vested.

  Atop his great steed he sat, resplendent in his white armor and cloak. Soon, he thought, these beautiful garments will be soiled with blood. What a waste. It seemed that no matter how many battles were fought or how many years went by, there was always evil in the land. He was not foolish enough to think good could exist without evil, but being a Hero and a good man he often found it difficult to accept that fact in his heart. So it was with a burdened sigh that he drew his sword, a blade so holy that none but him seemed able to wield it, and ordered his troops forward to defend their homes and their world. Somewhere down in the ranks, a lone bard had taken up his harp, and was bellowing a song of war.

  The phalanx of pikemen began to march steadily forward, supported from the rear by rank upon rank of dwarven shock troops and human men at arms. Normally there would be deadly volleys of arrows raining down upon the enemy from elvish bows, but none fell today. The elves were gone, their race wiped out by Lord Arius and his horde. The elf’s enchanted forest was now nothing but ashes, burned by the orcs and their wizard. So now only dwarves and men stood in the way of this ancient evil.

  Yet the elves had not given up life easily. They had miraculously repelled the horde’s first assault, the powerful magics of Olisande Lostris keeping the Sheul at bay. But then the orcish wizard and Lord Arius combined their sorcerous might to set fire to the elven forests. Soon the unquenchable flames had consumed both forest and city, driving the elves into the open. When the graceful warriors and their families fled the fires and came into the fields surrounding the forest they found themselves in an impossible situation.