Black Metal: The Orc Wars Read online

  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 diaphrag
m 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.

  It was then that Ghalik bellowed for their attention. They were so enthralled by the magical power in his voice that they could not help but to obey. The horde gathered around him at the center of the now demolished circle of wagons. The wizard’s waraxe no longer glowed, but a palpable aura of power crackled around the bloated orc. He was still very much under the sway of the Gor-Angir, but he seemed to be able to maintain his composure with some effort.

  Before him he held a young wounded knight by the hair. The human was on his knees at Ghalik’s feet facing the crowd, upright only because the old wizard held him so. The Ghalik looked around him, his gaze meeting the now lighter red eyes of the assembled horde. For many long moments the orc warriors and the wizard stared at each other, none saying a word. The only sounds that could be heard were the cackling of the crows that had come to feed on the dead.

  Slowly and deliberately Ghalik raised his axe, holding it aloft for all to see. Then, with surprising alacrity, brought it down upon the young knight’s neck, severing the head. Ghalik threw the head at the feet of the horde, then spit his scorn upon the body. Having done that his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground unconscious. The orcs stood in silence for a moment, then moved to plundering the dead, though all of them fell unconscious as well long before accomplishing their task. The Gor-Angir was a harsh ally, and had left them to their wounds and their exhaustion, alone.

  “I fought in the Bitter Swamps campaign against the southern orc hordes. It was a living nightmare of dead trees, rotten waters, and even in daylight the whole world seemed dark with bloodflies. Our mounted division was useless in all that mud, and with no visibility our archers were of little consequence. We had to fight them toe to toe in the bogs for two days, men standing back to back, everyone covered in so much dirt and blood we could barely tell orc from man. What was the point I ask? You can’t grow crops in a swamp.” --- Sir David Tolen, former man-at-arms, knighted on the field

  Ma-Gur slowly returned to awareness, the dull haze of his vision clearing. He still found it exceptionally difficult to move, the extreme physical rigors of the last several days had all taken effect. His bones creaked and his muscles ached as he rolled onto his back and sat up. He put his head in his hands and massaged his temples in an effort to sooth his now blinding headache. He stopped rubbing suddenly when he heard the sound of voices behind him. With determined effort he turned his body to face the sounds, the fact that it was after nightfall not affecting his keen orcish night vision.

  Before him stood two short creatures with pale green skin and very long pointed ears. They were covered in tattoos and little bone trinkets, wickedly barbed spears held menacingly in their hands. Goblins, thought Ma-Gur. He should have known better than to fall asleep out in the open after a battle, especially in areas well known to be populated with the small warriors. At first Ma-Gur tensed for a fight as the two creatures approached him, spears leveled at him threateningly. But then the goblins pointed their spears away and moved towards him with open hands extended. Without even realizing what happening he instinctively took the hands he was offered and found himself helped to his feet.

  Ma-Gur shook his head and looked about him, noticing that the clearing was full of goblins. Most of the other orcs had been helped to their feet and were being herded towards the center of the battlefield. He felt a gentle nudge on his thigh from one of the goblins and began to walk towards the apparent gathering point.

  The young orc shouldered his way through the dazed mass of orcs until he reached the middle of the assembly. Before him, on a makeshift seat, was Ghalik. Next to the old wizard stood an armored goblin, and judging from the lack of metal armor in the present goblin ranks this suggested that it was the leader. They appeared to be engaging in a very animated conversation. Though Ma-Gur could not comprehend the high-pitched chirping sounds that made up the goblin tongue he did begin to get an idea of what had happened. The goblins must have come upon the battle site only shortly after the orcs had fallen. Because of something to do with Ghalik the goblins had not looted and murdered the surviving orcs, instead they had helped. Odd indeed.

  As Ma-Gur looked on Ghalik and the goblin chief finished their discussion. The armored goblin stepped back and the wizard made to address the assembled orcs.

  “My comrades,
a strange thing has happened this day. We have been sparred in our moment of weakness by those who would have normally murdered us without a thought or care. Their leader says that they have been following this army since yesterday. They kept their distance because of the elves, and when they became aware of our pursuit fled into the forest,” Ghalik explained as he picked up his blood crusted waraxe and hung it upon it’s place on his broad back, “They tell me that groups of these knights have been raiding all across the borders and now deeper in-country, displacing the goblin clans and even the troll tribes.”

  “He says that most efforts to combat them have failed because of their heavy cavalry and elvish allies, until now. The goblins want to join with us. They say that they can lead us to something they call the Meeting Stones. According to them it is the place where the other groups have made camp. I say we go to these Meeting Stones and get the others to join us as well. Then we can find a way to fight back, and drive those would-be heroes into the dirt,” Ghalik spat as he emphasized his statement by stomping his foot heavily upon the blood-soaked soil.

  Ghalik looked at the orcs expectantly, and one by one the orcs nodded their heads in acquiescence. Once the warriors had agreed to follow him Ghalik turned to the armored goblin and extended his hand. The goblin leader filled Ghalik’s hand with his own as he clapped the orc’s meaty palm. At once a murmur of chirping went up among the goblins, who then began to fan out amidst the battlefield. The two groups made quick work of plundering the site, and soon the heavily armed group was ready to move out.

  They went silently through the forest, the heavy orcs trying to match the almost feather-light step of the goblin clansmen. While a bargain had been struck by the leaders, tensions inevitably ran high as the group covered ground. It was obvious that not all of the goblins were supportive of their leader’s decision to join up with the orcs instead of murdering them and looting their corpses. The orcs were able to pick up on those attitudes and reacted with an almost indignant hostility. However, everything was held in check by the two leaders, who kept watchful eyes on their warriors and reproachful scowls on their faces.