The Banner of the Broken Orc: The Call of the Darkness Saga: Book One

by Aiden L Turner

  No bugle or trumpet sounded, for they were the province of training grounds and marshalling yards. Out here only one word was needed, and despite his dishevelled and weakened demeanour, Baron Oswald screamed the word ‘Charge!’ with a confidence he most certainly did not feel. One word. And the accumulated war cry arose like thunder through the dead of night. One word. And a wave of steel, muscle and anger charged down the hill to bring death to all who dared stand in its way.

  The Goblins arose from their sordid feasting. Some bolted in the face of the coming onslaught, but more remained. Standing in the centre of the line, and to the baron’s immediate right, Colburn realised he had severally underestimated the enemy’s number, as dozens upon dozens of foul villainous creatures ran to meet the charge. Colburn’s eyes did not leave his first victim’s sight until he was past, leaving nothing but a headless, twitching corpse. His shield arm found his next opponent and sent it reeling twenty feet, a cartwheeling mess of shattered bone and ripped flesh. With almost no momentum lost from dispatching his second foe, he met his third and his fourth. Uninterruptedly removing the head of the creature to his left with an overhand stroke before deftly turning his body with a grace that betrayed his size to deliver a back-handed stroke to his right that cleaved the Goblin from collar bone to groin. He slowed to survey the surrounding scene. Through the smoke he glanced left then right, his experienced eyes showing, without thought, what he needed to know. The initial charge had faltered.

  Each man was now engaged with multiple assailants. Eyes forward, he marked two of the evil things bearing down on him, their daggers blackened from dried blood and flame, drool salivating from bared canine teeth. He had mere seconds before they were within reach of his sword and used the time to make a decision. Through the smoke and burning debris, Colburn could just make out the centre of the town: a large open space, just as easy to defend as to launch attacks from. His voice cut high above the noise of battle, like thunder clashing over the fury of a storm’s wind.

  ‘Platoon will advance in steady order.’ A perfect sword thrust, and the first Goblin helped impale itself upon Colburn’ blade. Its blind desire to reach its destination left its legs still running as the blade’s point exploded out of its skull, its snout protruding from the sword’s hilt. Colburn turned the point of his sword towards the ground, in an effort to dislodge the foul creature, before the second was upon him, but his efforts proved late as the Goblin scampered up his shield and around his back, as a squirrel would climb a tree. Colburn felt the thing’s corrupt flesh assault his nostrils as he abandoned his sword to ground. And using a massive, gauntleted hand, he found the creature’s throat. Crushing the windpipe, he smashed the gasping creature to the ground and destroyed its skull with two quick stamps of his steel-clad plated boot. Quickly retrieving his briefly discarded sword, he strode purposely towards the open ground.

  It took the thirteen men at arms, the knight-captain, and the baron, about twenty minutes to kill the remaining hundred or so Goblins. From the initial charge to the time when the last met its end, about two hundred of the villainous creatures had been butchered without the loss of a single man. The entire platoon had reached the town square within sixty seconds of one another. Once they had mustered at the open ground, they secured it, formed a rough square formation and held firm. Held firm whilst dozens upon dozens of vile Goblins flung themselves wantonly upon the men of the kingdom. Apparently free from fear, the Goblins still attacked, even as swords descended upon their brethren.

  During a brief lapse of the enemy within Colburn’s sword’s reach, he stole a glance towards Oswald’s position. What he saw sealed his opinion of this, so called, high-born warrior. Oswald had hesitated before the enemy. Only for the slightest of moments before impaling his foe, the captain had held his sword stroke, allowing the creature to close the gap between them. Luckily for Oswald he still had time to dispatch the thing, yet Colburn thought to himself, ‘How many times can a man be lucky before he gets another man killed.’

  After someone had removed the last Goblin from this world, the men fanned out into small groups, calling out in the hope of finding a survivor, but each man knew in their hearts they searched in vain. No peasant could hope to defend themselves from such a horde. And so, the men gathered at the far side of the village to escape the direction in which the choking smoke travelled. The knight-captain’s eyes burned, but rather than the smoke, it was rage that caused the burning in the seething warrior’s eyes.

  After searching what seemed like the entire village personally and finding nothing living, his gaze was drawn to the fields at the far left of the platoon and his expression changed so much it caught the attention of every man. All eyes turned to witness maybe a dozen forlorn figures slowly walking towards the village, heads bowed. Tears streamed down their soot-covered faces. No man living, not even the most hardened veteran, could not feel pity for these sorrowful survivors. A man of middling years approached them, clothes torn and blackened, but still looking less dishevelled than the rest of his party.

  The man straightened his back, approached Oswald and spoke. ‘Bastard things’, he cursed as he spat on a Goblin’s corpse. ‘Came in ‘bout an hour after sunset.’ His tone approaching accusation as he raised his eyes nearly two feet to meet the baron’s eyes. ‘Burning, killing, eating people still breathin’. Bastards!’ He screamed. Using energy that came purely from hatred, he began to kick the closest dead Goblin. ‘Laughing all the time whilst me family and friends screamed.’ He burst into a mournful wail and dropped to his knees before Oswald. The baron obviously uncomfortable and unsure what to do looked around in a panic.

  Words failing Oswald, Colburn came to his aid and dropped to a knee whilst seizing the man gently by the shoulders. ‘I cannot bring back your dead friend but speak to me and maybe I can give you your vengeance.’ Colburn’s voice, the softest the men had ever heard, even now held all its authority. Colburn, still gripping the weeping man’s shoulders stood, standing the old man with him and as the poor wretch slowed his crying, he spoke.

  ‘Didn’t ‘av a chance, ya see sir, those able just ran, but, but, but.’ The old man stuttered as he fought back tears. ‘But the bastard green skins were too fast, see. Caught the most. Those they didn’t kill they beat and dragged off afar.’

  Baron Oswald awoke from the shock and spoke, ‘You must consider them dead and mourn for their passing.’ He addressed the group of distraught village folk without pity or patience. He turned towards the platoon and attempted to give an order before Colburn interrupted, his voice returning to his normal gruff tone.

  ‘Old man, I mourn for your loss. Tell me now and tell me true. A milk maid, Rochelle, what has become of her?’ Oswald looked on with interest, as did every man of the troop, but none gave voice to their interest.

  ‘She ran with us, Sir.’ The old man said, fearful of the huge warriors’ response to his words. ‘But was holding a child see. They caught her with ease. She attacked ‘em with bare hands, protecting a child that wasn’t even ‘ers, brave little lass. But they tore the kiddie from her grasp and ripped the poor thing to bits.’ His emotions were threatening to overcome him again, but he continued to tell the tale. ‘They beat ‘er down and dragged ‘er back with the others t’ wherever them heathen bastards come from.’

  ‘How many Orc were amongst their number?’ Colburn asked. The Orc, far more dangerous than its lesser brethren, being larger and much more powerful. The Orc was the master of the Goblin and it surprised him to not find one on the battlefield.

  ‘They were two, Sir. Both bigger even than ya’ self, Sir’, the villager replied.

  Colburn nodded his head once towards the old man and then looked thoughtfully towards the north. After a few seconds of silence, he turned and addressed the men. ‘We must make haste if we are to catch them before they reach the treeline.’ The men did not hesitate and readied themselves for a run ‘at the double’ before Baron Oswald’s voice cut through the air.

  �
�Hold!’ He bellowed. ‘I have issued no such order, Captain.’ He turned towards the men and said, ‘Stand down.’ He turned back to his second in command and said sternly, ‘they move faster than us and they have a start on us. I shall not go on a fool’s errand like some witless commoner.’

  Colburn ignored the captain and turned to face the old man again, who stood nervously in the presence of men who were like demigods to such as himself. ‘The band that took the captives, when did they leave this place?’

  The old man thought for a second, then addressed Colburn, ‘Thirty minutes before y’ arrived, as far as I c’ tell. From yonder, through smoke.’

  Baron Oswald raised his voice so all could hear as he spoke to the knight-captain. ‘An hour has passed, they are into their fourth mile ahead by now, captain. We shall take the villagers back with our report to Iron Guard as protocol dictates.’

  Colburn looked back towards the north, and grim determination gripped his expression as he addressed his commanding officer, ‘Then I shall follow them into the trees and beyond if need be.’

  Oswald looked fit to burst but remained silent out of pure shock as Colburn raised his voice to a roar. ‘Warriors of the Brotherhood of Light!’ He drew his sword and pointed it towards the north as he continued. ‘The cause of this destruction’ – he swept his giant sword in an arch that encompassed the destroyed village – ‘has fled to their hiding place.’ He continued, his voice dominating, demanding respect. ‘I intend to pursue this foe! To chase this foe down! Destroy them and free any of our people that still breathe!’ He sheathed his sword and scanned the men before him, making eye contact with some of his oldest comrades. Brothers to a man, he looked upon them seeking support. ‘They have taken our people; people whom we as warriors of the kingdom are honour bound to protect.’ Raising his voice again, he exclaimed, ‘Is there any amongst you who will fight beside me?’

  As one, the brothers in arms draw their long swords and began beating them in a rhythmic tattoo against their shields, the noise so loud it brought Baron Oswald out of his shock.

  ‘This is folly’, the baron began, his voice drowned by the noise of steel on steel as the platoon readied itself for the mission. ‘I command here!’ he screamed. And the noise stopped as the obedience of trained soldiers kicked in. ‘I command here.’ The baron continued in an even and calm authoritative tone. ‘I command here, captain, not you. The tree line is not to be crossed. By our laws it is forbidden. You will stand down and fall in.’

  The platoon stayed still, eyes moving between the untested and unknown baron and their proven, anointed and loved knight-captain. Colburn stayed silent as he allowed the baron to continue. ‘Corporal Torben, clap this man in irons.’ Corporal Torben looked towards his brother Taben and between them an unspoken exchange was made, and neither moved.

  The baron turned to address the captain, ‘You may consider yourself arrested, Colburn, for incitement to commit mutiny and attempting to bring dishonour upon the warriors of the brotherhood.’ The corporal remained still. ‘Corporal!’ The young baron screamed, his face mere inches from the corporal’s, yet the corporal did not so much as blink an eyelid. The captain turned his anger upon Colburn. ‘You would forsake your honour and that of your men for a milkmaid, a common fucking whore?’

  The sound was sickening in the silence that followed, as Colburn’s steel gauntleted fist connected with Oswald’s jaw and the bones in his face yielded to iron and force. No words left the baron’s broken mouth as he fell unconscious to the ground. It was now Colburn’s turn to address the troop.

  ‘What this pathetic excuse for an officer spoke was truth. I have forsaken the oath of obedience. I have struck my commanding officer, a man of noble birth. But what I do now is for honour and vengeance. I would not go to my forefathers in the next world, without shame, if I were to let the enemy leave without pursuit. Corporals Torben, Taben’, the captain said calmly, ‘You will take the remaining villagers, the men and’, he pointed towards the unmoving Oswald, ‘that slumbering piece of Goblin shit.’

  The two brothers exchanged another look, seemingly communicating wordlessly, before Torben, the more outspoken of the twins, asked. ‘Aye, and where will you be going?’

  The captain glared through the eyes of his long-term friend, brother of the order and companion of the battlefield. His voice cold as ice and filled with menace, he spoke in a barely controlled tone, ‘I shall go north.’

  The two brothers exchanged their silent words before Torben playfully slapped Colburn on the shoulder and said through a beaming smile. ‘Of course you shall, brother. As shall we.’ As he said the latter, he indicated to the entire troop with a wave of his hand and obligingly every man took one step forward.

  Colburn smiled slightly at his men’s dedication but shook his head, nevertheless. ‘No brothers. I shall not bring dishonour upon you; I shall go alone and do what I can.’

  This time it was Torben who spoke, and he did so sternly, ‘Colburn.’ He stated, putting a harsh emphasis on the fact he did not use his rank. ‘That ‘piece of Goblin shit’, as you called him, outranks you. And that ‘so-called officer’ laying there in the soot and mud ordered Taben and me to arrest you. In short, old friend, you cannot command me. And so, I go north.’

  ‘Men!’ Torben called. ‘What say you?’

  ‘AH-UGH!’ The cumulated war cry thundered through the night as to a man they instantly roared their commitment. Both brothers looked upon Colburn, one smiling, the other glaring, as the men behind them shouted their support with a deafening conviction. ‘You see, old friend? You cannot deny these brave warriors the honour of vengeance.’ Torben said, still glaring.

  With a hand command, Colburn silenced the shouting and addressed the men. ‘I am proud to call you my brothers, but as honourable a taking we are about to depart on, your names on this world will not be said with respect, if they are even said at all.’

  Colburn turned as a young man, slightly better dressed than the rest of the villagers, though no less torn and soot covered, pushed his way through the group of survivors. He had long flowing hair that Colburn thought looked unusually well-kept for a peasant, and a neatly trimmed beard.

  As he made his way to speak to the knight-captain, the old man interrupted.

  ‘Not now, minstrel! We do not want your songs.’ Colburn raised an eyebrow towards the old man, who replied to the unsaid question. ‘He sings, Sir, and only well enough for food or ale, m’ lord’, the old man said with a sideways look of contempt for a man who earned his living in such ways.

  Colburn looked as though he had been insulted and said, ‘I am no Lord, old man. Speak minstrel but be quick.’

  The singer approached and bowed in a drawn out, exaggerated manner, before saying. ‘My good Knight-captain, forgive me, but I could not help overhearing your predicament.’

  Colburn seemed ready to burst. ‘Quicker!’ he shouted.

  ‘Apologies, you said your men’s names would not be spoken unless under mockery. I would change that through a verse that spoke of the heroic quest you undertake, if you would give me those heroic names.’

  Colburn grunted his disapproval and made to turn away before Torben grabbed his wrist and said only loud enough for the two to hear, ‘you must give them this brother’, whilst nodding towards the waiting soldiers. The captain nodded his consent and immediately Taben began the introductions.

  ‘Well minstrel, you already know of our captain, and this is my blood brother Torben, myself being Taben.’ He then moved towards the elite group of warriors who had formed themselves into a line. ‘This is Einar, meaning “one who fights alone”, our chief scout. His father was Einar, who was also a chief scout, and his father before him and so on until the very birth of our order. The next is Brandt, meaning “sword”, and true to his name he is unbeaten in the duelling ring.’ Torben carried on down the line, resting his hand upon the shoulder of a giant of a man seven feet and ten inches in height and of exceptionally large build, even
by the standards of the brotherhood’s men at arms.

  ‘This brute of a man is Egil, meaning “horror”, and believe me when let loose upon the enemy he is horrific.’ He stopped in front of the next man as the minstrel noted the names with ink upon a scrap of parchment and looked up and into the eyes of the company’s tallest man. Standing above Egil at eight foot and an inch tall, the minstrel visible started as he looked up from his parchment at the lean long figure before him. ‘Hakon, Torben began, “the highest son”.’ He continued, ‘This is Gulbrand, “sword of the divine” the brother who keeps our feet firmly on the path of He who is greatest of them all.’

  Just as Torben was about to move to the next man in the line, Colburn’s patience finally gave out and he moved forward. Pushing Torben out of the way, he continued naming his men in a brisk and abrupt manor.

  ‘Folke, “from the people”. Vali “powerful”. Adelram, “Dark and noble”. Bolivar “Bone breaker”. Macario, “To be blessed” and finally this is Jedrick, he only joined us recently and has yet to earn himself a name with meaning.’ Colburn looked upon the face of the young Jedrick and felt a little shame at the roughness in which he had said the last. ‘Although he proved himself well enough in today’s battle’, he added.

  The minstrel smiled as he looked upon the troop and said, ‘And your corporals’ names, what of their meaning?’

  Colburn looked back towards the north and spoke quietly, ‘Both mean “bear”.’

  The minstrel wrote it down happily, and without looking up said, ‘And your own name’s meaning, Knight-captain?’ But Colburn remained silent. He stole one last look at the slumbering form he had known only shortly and took off at a run towards the north. Towards vengeance, towards certain death, towards the enemies of Man.