Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  “The path is narrow. Meet them line by line and give them a taste of our steel!” Glandallin called to his kinsfolk. “Vraccas is with us! We are the children of the Smith!”

  “The children of the Smith!” the fifthlings echoed, feet planted firmly on the rocky ground beneath.

  Four dwarves were chosen to form the final line of defense. Throwing down his shield, the king took an ax in each hand and led the surge toward the enemy. The dwarves, all that remained of Giselbert’s folk, charged out to slay the invaders.

  Ten paces beyond the gateway, the armies met. The fifthlings tunneled like moles through the vanguard of orcs.

  With only one ax with which to defend himself, Glandallin struck out, slicing through the thicket of legs. He did not stop to kill his victims, knowing that the fallen bodies would hinder the advancing troops.

  “No one gets past Glandallin!” he roared. Stinking blood streamed from his armor and helm, stinging his eyes. When his ax grew heavy, he clasped the weapon with both hands. “No one, do you hear!” His enemies’ bones splintered, splattering him with hot blood. Twice he was grazed by a sword or a spear, but he battled on regardless.

  The prize was not survival but the closing of the gates. Girdlegard would be safe if they could stave off the invasion until the passageway was sealed.

  Until this hour his ax had defended him faithfully, but now the magic of its runes gave out. Glancing to his right, Glandallin saw a comrade topple to the ground, skull sliced in half by an orc’s two-handed sword. Seething with hatred, and determined to fell the aggressor, Glandallin lunged once, twice, driving his ax into the creature’s belly and cleaving it in two. A shadow loomed above him, but by then it was too late. He made a last-ditch attempt to dodge the ogre’s sweeping cudgel, but its rounded head swooped down and struck his legs. Bellowing in pain he toppled against an orc, severing its thigh as he fell, before tumbling onward through the army of legs. He lashed out with his ax until there were no more orcs within his reach.

  “Come here and fight, you cowards!” he snarled.

  The enemy paid him no attention. Fired by an insatiable hunger, they streamed past him toward the gateway. They had no need of stringy dwarf flesh when there were tastier morsels in Girdlegard.

  Trembling with pain, Glandallin rose up on his elbows. The rest of his kinsfolk were dead, their mutilated bodies strewn on the ground, surrounded by scores of enemy corpses. The diamonds on Giselbert’s belt sparkled in the sunlight, marking the place where the fifthling father had fallen, slain by a trio of ogres. At the sight of him, Glandallin’s soul ached with sorrow and pride.

  The sun rose above the mountains, flooding through the gateway and dazzling Glandallin with its light. He raised a hand to his sensitive eyes, straining to see the gateway. Praise be to Vraccas! The gates were closed!

  A blow from behind sent pain searing through his chest. For the duration of a heartbeat the tip of a spear protruded through his tunic, then withdrew. He slumped, gasping, to the ground. “What in the name of… ?”

  The assassin stepped round his body and knelt beside him. The smooth elven face was framed by fine fair hair that shimmered in the sunlight like a veil of golden threads. But the vision bore a terrible deformity; two fathomless pits stared from almond-shaped holes.

  The creature wore armor of black metal that reached to its knees. Its legs were clad in leather breeches and dark brown boots. Burgundy gloves protected its fingers from grime, and its right hand clasped a spear whose steel tip, sharp enough to penetrate the fine mesh of dwarven chain mail, was moist with blood.

  The strange elf spoke to the dwarf.

  At first the words meant nothing to Glandallin, but their morbid sound filled him with dread.

  “My friend said: ‘Look at me: Sinthoras is your death,’” a second voice translated behind him. “‘I will take your life, and the land will take your soul.’”

  Glandallin coughed, blood rushing from his mouth and coursing down his beard.

  “Get out of my sight, you pointy-eared monster! I want to see the gates,” he said gruffly, brandishing his ax to ward away the beast. The weapon almost flew from his grip; his strength was ebbing fast. “Out of my way or I’ll cut you in two like a straw, you treacherous elf!” he thundered.

  Sinthoras laughed coldly. Raising his spear, he inserted the tip slowly between the tight rings of mail.

  “You are mistaken, my friend. We are the älfar, and we have come to slay the elves,” the voice said softly. “The gates may be closed, but the power of the land will raise you from the dead and from that moment on, you will be one of us. You know the incantation; you will open the door.”

  “Never! My soul belongs to Vraccas!”

  “Your soul belongs to the land, and you will belong to the land until the end of time,” the velvety voice cut him short. “Die, so you can return and deliver Girdlegard to us.”

  The spear’s sharp tip pierced the flesh of the helpless, dying dwarf. Pain stopped his tongue.

  Sinthoras raised the weapon and pushed down gently on the battered body. The final blow was dealt tenderly, almost reverently. The creature waited for death to claim its prey, watching over Glandallin’s pain-ravaged features and drinking in the memory.

  Finally, when he was certain that the last custodian of the gateway had departed, Sinthoras ended his vigil and rose to his feet.