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

by Aiden L Turner

  Colburn charged. Shock had given way to rage, and now he cleared the space between himself and the terrible, wretched thing. Colburn’s sword came down as the creature raised its arms to defend itself, but rather than bring the sword down on the Goblin’s head he turned at the last moment and used the point of the great-sword to piece the underarm of the foul beast. Pushing the creature back, he impaled the squealing thing on to a nearby tree. The thing screeched its pain and anger as Colburn raised his heavy shield. Having aligned the reinforced circular disc in the centre of the shield with the villainous creature’s face, the first blow stunned the thing into silence and stillness. The second fragmented the thing’s face like the shell of a hard-boiled egg when stuck with a spoon. The third and fourth completely disintegrated its skull. Brains, bone and flesh fell to the floor as the headless corpse twitched upon Colburn’s blade. He released the blade, and the decapitated Goblin fell into its own gore and blood.

  With his troop forming a protective circle around him, he fell to his knees at the side of the barely breathing, yet still suffering woman. He gently placed the blade of his great-sword against her neck and ran a few inches of the razor-sharp steel expertly across her throat, spilling the last of her arterial blood and giving her mercy.

  Colburn surveyed the scene below his own actions and footprints, and a picture of what had befallen the poor woman appeared before him. She was the last of the captives and foes to which the men pursued. Dragged along, presumably by the Goblin that Colburn had dispatched, she had miscarried through trauma and shock, and the Goblin, induced by blood lust, had ripped the child from her womb. Its life was ended before it was even due to start. Colburn felt tears form in his eyes. Never had he been so saddened by any of the horrors he had witnessed during his lifetime of combat.

  ‘It is by far too cruel a world’, he said softly as he fought back the moisture in his eyes. Rising, he noticed that more than one of his battle-hardened warriors were also struggling with emotions that were quite alien to these men of war. ‘This is why we pursue this filth’, Colburn said. ‘To punish these acts of barbarity and bring savour to those held captive, even if that savour is mercy from the edge of our blades.’

  Colburn took a piece of cloth that he kept alongside his wet stone, in a pouch upon his waist, and set about cleaning the blood from his blade. As he cleaned the crimson blood and green Goblin filth from his blade, he noticed a few small patches of an orangey brown contaminate lingering upon the blade’s edge. Rust. But how could that be, he always took care to keep his blade honed and razor-sharp, as did all his men.

  ‘Check your steel for rust.’ He gave the command. Torben and Torben exchanged a brief look as the men began examining their weaponry and armour. Their steel was tainted, blotches of rust had appeared in a fraction of the time it would normally take. Leather straps that held armour plating in place had begun to rot, the humid temperature and the evil that lurked in this forsaken place had seeped into their equipment, just as it had tried to seep into their very souls as they had entered the trail. Colburn seemed deep in thought when the sound of Vali retching into the bush brought him out of his contemplation.

  ‘Take a few moments and do what you can. Keep your swords sharp, brothers, for they will need to be’, Colburn said to the troop before approaching Vali.

  ‘Here, take water, Vali’, Colburn said as he offered Vali a water skin. But the only reply Colburn received was more retching. ‘Vali!’ Colburn shouted. Still no reply. Colburn placed his hand firmly upon Vali’s shoulder and attempted to spin him round to face him. Vali did not move. The sound still came from Vali, and only then did Colburn realise that Vali’s hands were around his own throat. The sound was not that of a man voiding his stomach contents at the revulsion he had just witnessed, but rather the sound of a man choking. For the briefest of moments Colburn thought the warrior before him had given in to the despair of the place, that his mind had seen enough of the terrors of the world and he was trying to choke himself to death. Just as his mind moved away from that ridiculous idea, Colburn noticed a thick vine wrapped around the soldier’s neck. He stepped to the side quickly and saw that the vine had come from deep within the trees and wrapped itself around the man’s throat. The vine was strangling him as the rest of the troop watched, thinking that he was as sick as they all felt.

  Colburn, sword in hand, made for the vine and sliced through it with ease. Vali ripped the remains from around his windpipe and lay upon the ground, gasping for the air that was seconds before denied him. Colburn peered into the gloom. His eyes searched for any assailants lurking in the darkness. Nothing. Not a sound or any trace of movement. He reached a hand down to Vali and helped him to his feet.

  ‘Sorry Captain’, Vali said, still shaking from his brush with death. ‘I turned to the trees to release my breakfast, not wanting my brothers to see my weakness. I glanced into the dark and before I could move or call out it had grabbed me. This very plant wants us dead!’ he said despairingly. ‘How do we win when even the environment we fight in seeks to end us?’ Vali looked thoughtfully into Colburn’s eyes and the captain realised that Vali was actually waiting for an answer.

  ‘You have shown no weakness, brother, only empathy for that poor girl’s pain. Do not surrender so easily to despair, friend. We shall have victory yet, even though it may cost us our lives.’ Vali smiled and nodded his head in agreement. Deep purple bruises were already showing prominently around the warrior’s throat. ‘Now hone your blade, brother’, Colburn said as he returned to doing the same.

  Vali drew the great-sword from his back when a sense of movement in the trees caused him to turn sharply. Nothing. He stared into the darkness, seeking, tuning his senses to alert him to anything, a slight movement, the slightest sound. Nothing. He turned his attention to his blade just as they struck.

  A half a hundred vines, each the diameter of a man’s finger, shot out of the darkness with an unrelenting speed, and lashed at Vali as a punisher whips a criminal’s back during a flogging. Great gashes appeared on his cheeks as they flayed the flesh to the bone. The vines embedded themselves between his armour plates, winding their way into gaps as they pried the plating apart.

  Colburn was moving, roaring his war cry with his brothers only a step behind. They charged with swords held high, but before they could reach Vali a half a thousand vines burst through the branches to their rear, grappling on to their arms, legs, necks and torsos. But rather than pull them back to the tree line, as they were doing with Vali, the vines seemed content to just hold them in place.

  Colburn watched with anger as the vines lifted the struggling Vali from off his feet, as more vines shot past the incapacitated warrior to latch themselves from the front to the rest of the troop. Firmly held in place now from front and rear, the men struggled and bellowed their impotent rage. Unable to help their comrade, they watched as Vali was held six feet above the ground. The vines moved to manipulate Vali’s body into a sitting position. With arms stretched out in front and his legs raised open and straight, they began to move him towards a large tree. As his body moved towards the bole of the great tree the vines released his throat and mouth allowing him to voice his protestation, yet he now did so calmly, as if accepting of his fate.

  ‘I am a warrior of Man, sworn to die for the Brotherhood of Light, the people and the honour of my kin. So, take my body! My honour remains intact!’ The last was shouted, but not with anger or fear, only defiance. The men cheered. Cheered to let him know he did not die alone, that as the vines pulled him into the tree, into fate, that he was celebrated for his courage. Vali’s arms and legs wrapped around the tree’s great trunk as an infant would wrap itself around its mother. Then the pressure increased. His face and torso ground into the wood as his arms and legs dislocated at the joints. A score of vines wrapped tightly around each limb, yet they pulled with an incredulous slowness.

  Colburn continued to watch as did every man. They would not turn away. They shouted compliments to his
bravery and words of respect regarding his prowess in battle. They asked him to save them a seat in the halls of their forefathers. And apart from the growling and snarling through gritted teeth, Vali remained silent as his face was mangled into the bark, and his body was being pulled apart. His joints dislocated with a surprisingly loud popping sound. The pain too much for even a man such as Vali as a whimpering yelp escaped his lips, partially drowned out by the tree truck now distorting his mouth.

  Colburn and the others winced with empathy for their brother’s pain. Their fury came to bear, they kicked out, roaring, cursing, struggling with all their might to come to their friend’s aid. Yet with all their strength and power their efforts were in vain, as the vines made one last surge and pulled Vali to pieces. His arms and legs exploded from his body in a shower of blood. His torso ripped in two from just below the rib cage. The pieces of meat that were moments ago, a brave, honourable protector of Man, now lain strewn across the jungle floor. The lower branches and bushes dripped with blood and flesh as the vines retreated whence they came.

  Colburn and the troop were released, the evilness content to let them watch their friend’s agony. Each man knelt where the vines had released them, each taking a moment to say a prayer for their fallen brother. Colburn allowed himself a moment too, before rising to his feet. ‘Lingering here will not do us any good, we must continue.’ Colburn said, his voice heavy with suppressed emotion.

  It was Bolivar who spoke. ‘Captain, are we to just leave Vali here like this, to rot or be feasted upon by the filth we track?’

  Colburn looked as though he would reprimand the private, yet he just sighed and looked to where the bits that were once Vali lay.

  Torben stepped up to Bolivar, his face as grim as ever. ‘You think it makes a difference if we burn his body, brother? That there is merely meat.’ He said, whilst pointing in the general direction of Vali’s remains. ‘What was once Vali has ascended, his spirit and soul are drinking the finest of ales and eating the finest of meats. By his side is He who is greatest of all. All around the tables are his kin, his forefathers and ours, and he looks down, down on us, brothers! He cheers and voices his encouragement. But it is not our longevity he wishes to see, nor is it our victory, no brothers’, he continued, his voice raising as he became more animated, more excited. ‘His only wish is that we conduct ourselves with the utmost honour, that we fight without fear, without hesitation. So, fortify your courage with the knowledge that our brothers wait for us. And we are coming!’ The men all nodded thoughtfully and as they digested what was said, their resolve was reignited.

  Brandt walked back towards the treeline to the area where Vali’s blood had soaked the ground.

  ‘Stay yourself!’ bellowed Colburn in his most commanding tone. But Brandt walked on slowly but purposefully. His sword now sheathed, he approached the upper torso and head of his fallen brother and removed his shield. He lay the shield upon the remains gently, as a mother blankets her infant to ward off the night-time chill. Runes facing upward, they cast a soft white glow into the gloom of the trees.

  ‘A better memorial? There is none, Brandt, but will your shield arm be naked as we go into battle’, said Torben respectfully.

  ‘No’, replied Brandt as he bent and retrieved Vali’s sword from the ground. ‘My brother’s sword shall taste blood again this day.’ He drew his own sword with his right hand and as if testing the weight of the two swords in his hands, he awed the men with a brief but dazzling display of his prowess with the blades. Flicking the great blades between each other, the twin blades danced through the air in unison as if they were part of Brandt and not lifeless works of steel.

  Through his nose, Colburn took a deep breath of air and said, ‘I smell smoke. We are closing in on our quarry. Let us be about it.’ He strode purposely onwards, the men following closely. Sword and shield were beginning to weigh heavily in their arms. Breath was becoming short and fast in the closeness of the jungle and due to conflict. Flames flickered in the distance, and Colburn ordered the men into stealth. Crouching, the men approached. Using the trees as cover they found themselves at the tree line to a massive clearing in the jungle.

  A huge expanse of land, devoid of vegetation, where hundreds of enemies had converged. A great bonfire burned in the centre with strange colours burning brightly in the flames. Blues and greens mixed with reds and yellows, as a plume of black smoke rose to block the moon and stars from the night sky. Orcs, dark-skinned and possessing of bodies so muscular that they appeared obscene, danced wildly around the edge of the flames, howling and chanting.

  The creatures were performing some sort of ritual, and Colburn expected a bloody end to the dark performance. He turned his gaze away from the flames, the hideous creatures, and their dark rites, and evaluated the situation before him. The entire area was swarming with Orcs and lesser creatures of evil. All armed and chanting, hundreds of vile beings screaming to the heavens as they brandished their poorly made, but still wicked-looking swords, knives, hatchets and axes. He did not see any bows, but was sure that these beasts, without honour, would surely be wielding the craven weapon.

  A scream cut above the din. Unmistakeably human. Unmistakeably female. Colburn sought the source of the sound, but the mass of bodies in the clearing was too great to see where the captives were being held.

  Einar understood Colburn’s thoughts and approached him to whisper into his ear. ‘I can climb a tree, Captain, and report back.’ With a curt nod of his head Colburn agreed and soon the sound of an armoured man could be quietly heard clambering through the branches. If it was not for the din of the creatures in the clearing the sound of the clunking of metal plates, and snapping twigs, would have caused concern, but the evilness was loud, and the beasts uncaring nature made the men invisible in the tree line.

  Within a few minutes, the scout returned and briefed the knight-captain. ‘Beyond the great fire, there are people in cages.’ Colburn looked out beyond the flames, but the brightness diminished his vision. ‘There is more, Captain’, the scout continued, ‘I could see racks.’ He swallowed down some emotions before continuing, ‘They are being tortured. Greater Orcs are taking knifes to their flesh.’

  Colburn dismissed the scout and called his corporals Torben and Torben to formulate a plan. After a few words they decided to keep it simple and fight their way to the captives. Kill any who stand in their way. Give mercy to those unable to survive, then run like hell with the survivors. All the men were briefed, prayers were said, and the men exchanged knowing nods and good wishes. Colburn stood with his men the slightest of seconds behind him. Colburn drew his sword. His men drew their swords. The calm before the storm. Heartbeats were stilled. A final slow and deliberate intake of breath. Then they charged.

  The remaining men broke out of the trees like the shifting of a mountain, an avalanche of steel and flesh. The runes upon their shields burst into life as the warriors closed in on the enemy. Roaring their war cry, they delivered violent death to the confused enemy who barely had time to turn and face them before they were mowed down by the wall of armour. Each man knew their goal was not to kill the enemy, but instead to reach the captives. The charge could not falter, and it did not.

  Bolivar came before a brutal-looking Orc, its foot-long tusks reflecting blood red in the light of the dancing flames. Bolivar attempted to step round the beast without losing his speed, but the creature opened his arms as if to embrace him and roared its challenge. The beast met the fast-moving man and stood its ground. The two met in a thud as steel plated armour struck against hard Orcish muscle. The man’s motion was halted. The orders were plain, ‘no one is to stop until they reach the captives’. Bolivar was left to fight alone and began to engage his foe with ferocity as his brothers left his side. Their charge continuing as his had stopped.

  Strike after strike glanced impotently off the Orc’s oversized battle axe as Bolivar attempted to dispatch his enemy with haste. Changing tactics he smashed into the Orc with his shield
and all his strength, but the creature absorbed the strike, laughing defiantly, the Orc grabbed the top of the man’s shield, pulling him so close the Bolivar could smell the rancid flesh on the beast’s foul breath. Bolivar struck with the hilt of his sword, too close to his enemy to use the blade. Once, twice, three times his attacks struck the target, yet the Orc refused to release its grip on the shield. Goblins and lesser Orcs attacked from the rear and to Bolivar’s flanks but were stilled with a guttural threat from the greater Orc. Bolivar turned to skill, seeking to turn his foe and use the point of his sword, but the Orc compensated by mirroring Bolivar’s footwork with surprising agility. The foul beast drew Bolivar closer to it still and gored at his unprotected face. Swinging its head from side to side, the creature’s tusks smashed out teeth and tore open Bolivar’s cheeks, as the man tried, with the last reserves of his failing strength, to break free. The Orc was powerful, and unlike the warriors of Man, a part of the evil that caused the oppressive nature of the jungle. The beast took hold of each of Bolivar’s wrists, applying vast pressure as it pulled them apart. It stretched the arms to the point of dislocating them from each shoulder and stabbed its huge tusks deep into Bolivar’s throat. The wounds were fatal yet brought far from a quick death. The Orc dropped him to the ground, air escaping the tears in his windpipe. Blood gushing from severed arteries. The Goblins and lesser creatures of the Darkness became filled with bloodlust at the sight, and as Bolivar’s breath stilled, the man was swarmed. His armour plates ripped from his body as he succumbed to a sea of green flesh and tainted steel.