by Markus Heitz
“Runshak!” he thundered, gesturing for his henchman to join him.
The troop leader, putting on a burst of speed to overtake the column of marching orcs, left the path to reach the mound where his chieftain was waiting.
The long march north had started at the Blacksaddle, where the orcs had been defeated by an alliance of dwarves, elves, and men. They were heading for their new homeland in the Gray Range: Eight hundred and fifty torturous miles still separated them from the Stone Gateway at the border with the Outer Lands.
For now they were intent on destroying their cousins, who were somewhere on the road ahead.
Runshak marched up the slope and came to a halt in front of his chieftain, the great Prince Ushnotz, one-time commander of a third of Toboribor, the southern orcish kingdom. “Are we catching them?”
“Look,” boomed Ushnotz, pointing to a flat expanse of grassland amid the rolling hills. The field, a mile and a half across, was scarred with thin black lines—narrow channels cut by melt water that ran toward the eastern corner, seeping gradually into the soil. Although the field was grassing over, the trees and bushes were still bare, offering little protection from the wind—or shelter from enemies.
Hordes of tiny black figures had taken up residence on the usually peaceful land.
Runshak estimated their numbers at more than two thousand. They had set up camp and were going about their business as if they had nothing to fear. Dead wood and branches had been stacked in large pyres from which smoke was rising in thick black columns, clearly visible in the cloudless sky.
Ushnotz raised a hand to his massive forehead, shielding his eyes as he focused on the activity below. Most of the milling figures were orcs; the others, shorter and less powerful, bögnilim. What they lacked in stature, they made up for in speed, but bögnilim were cowardly creatures that had to be whipped into shape. “Northern orcs and bögnilim,” he grunted scornfully. “An alliance of fools.” The northern orcs, summoned by Nôd’onn to secure the human kingdoms, had demonstrated a fatal lack of discipline at the Blacksaddle, scrapping like wolves, while Ushnotz’s troopers, no less ferocious or powerful, obeyed his orders like well-trained dogs. The orcish chieftain despised the northerners, but bögnilim were worse. “Prepare to attack. We’ll strike when they’ve filled their fat bellies and they’re snoring by the fire.”
Runshak nodded and charged down the slope, barking orders at the pack leaders, who relayed them in similarly boorish fashion. With a clunking of armor and jangling of chain mail the mighty army of five thousand orcs rearranged itself into smaller units. The archers made their way to the back; those bearing spears and lances stood shoulder to shoulder at the front.
The orcish chieftain followed the preparations approvingly, his thick black lips curling back to reveal his magnificent tusks. He was well pleased with what he saw. A growly laugh sounded from his throat.
He took a deep breath and let out an almighty roar. The shuffling and stomping came to a halt. Nobody said a word.
“Nôd’onn broke faith with us and abandoned us to our fate. The fleshlings think we’re going south, but our route will take us north—to found a new kingdom,” he proclaimed, confident that the prospect of a new homeland would make them forget their tiredness and spur them into battle. He drew his notched sword and pointed at the enemy below. “Nôd’onn’s northern lapdogs are in our way. We had to flee our homes because of those cretins. Destroy them, and the Gray Range will be ours. We’ll be in our new kingdom before the fleshling soldiers are in sight of the peaks.” He laughed malevolently. “I hope they send their cavalry after us—we could do with some meat.”
His troopers grunted and snarled excitedly, pounding the hafts of their spears on the ground and banging swords against shields.
He raised his arm and the noise stopped abruptly. The silence was broken by a question. “Couldn’t we march past the northerners instead?”
Ushnotz, who had excellent hearing, knew at once which of the five thousand troopers had spoken the treasonous words. Kashbugg was a troublemaker who took after his father, Raggshor.
Raggshor had met his death shortly before the battle of the Blacksaddle in circumstances not dissimilar to these, after questioning the wisdom of laying siege to a mountain. Ushnotz had thought him an excellent tactician, but criticism—especially when voiced in public—was not to be tolerated. Besides, Ushnotz made the decisions and he always knew best. He had killed Raggshor on the spot, and he was contemplating a similar fate for Kashbugg.
“Silence!” he bellowed, throwing back his head in an intimidating roar.
The display made little impression on the offending orc, who stepped forward, sword in hand, shield raised defensively. “Why not march past them and get there first? We can occupy the halls while they dash out their brains on the gates.” He stood with his legs apart, bracing himself for the blow that was bound to follow. “It’s time we did things differently, Ushnotz. After what happened at the Blacksaddle, we’re not as strong as we were. Maybe if you’d listened to my father, we’d be back in our kingdom by now.”
Several orcs grunted approvingly.
For Ushnotz, the interruption was unwelcome: The sweet smell of victory had soured, replaced by the reek of rebellion. He drew himself up to his full height, bared his tusks and tensed his muscles. Then he took off, bounding down the slope, and thundering to a stop in front of Kashbugg.
“I’ve got a better plan,” he snarled, squaring his shoulders. There was a nasty glint in his yellow eyes. He made a feint with his sword; then, ducking beneath Kashbugg’s raised shield, he whipped out his dagger, rammed it into the trooper’s armpit and pierced his heart. Green blood gushed from the wound and the insolent trooper thudded to the ground. “My plan is this: Kashbugg dies first, just like his know-it-all father at the Blacksaddle.” He glared at the others, challenging them to object. “Anyone else want to talk tactics?”
He wasn’t surprised when no one stepped forward. The real shock came a moment later when the dead orc stood up. Kashbugg reached to his armpit and touched the wound with his claws; it healed straightaway.
Ushnotz got over his confusion faster than Kashbugg, who was clearly amazed to be alive. He rammed his sword horizontally into the injured orc’s torso. The trooper sat down heavily and stared at the blood. He still showed no signs of dying.
“I’m sick of your troublemaking!” shrieked Ushnotz, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him to his feet. “How dare you defy orders? I told you to die!” The notched sword cut into the trooper’s torso, but the damage was far from fatal. Kashbugg opened his mouth, dribbling blood and saliva; then he laughed.
Straightening up, he gave the chieftain a shove. “Tion has made his choice. Why else would he make me immortal? My father’s death must be avenged!” He raised his shield and sword. “Tion wants me to lead the orcs to victory; the northern kingdom will be mine!”
“Why would Tion favor a boneheaded simpleton like you?” growled Ushnotz, preparing to fight. None of his troopers dared to take sides: Orcs were always arguing, but this was different. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”
“He drank dark water from the ditch!” called one of the troopers.
“It was hallowed water; I knew as soon as I saw it!” said Kashbugg, thumping the leather container on his belt. “I filled my pouch with it.” He struck out at the chieftain, who blocked the blow and smashed the hilt of his sword into his face. Kashbugg stumbled backward, groaning.
“Dark water?” barked Ushnotz. He had noticed it as well: murky puddles on either side of the track. Nothing would have induced him to drink it.
“It’s the blood of the Perished Land,” said his challenger. “And I, Kashbugg, was elected to find it!” He sprang forward, swinging his sword.
Ushnotz flung himself to the ground and drove both boots into the trooper’s knees, smashing the joints. Kashbugg screeched. The noise ended suddenly as Ushnotz dealt a long sweeping blow to his neck. The trooper’
s head fell one way, his body the other. This time Kashbugg was dead.
Ushnotz bent over the corpse, unhooked the water pouch and signaled to one of his underlings. “Here, drink this,” he said. The trooper took the pouch.
Screwing up his face in disgust, he took a sip. Black water dribbled from his mouth, and he coughed. “It tastes like the smell of troll’s piss, only wor—”
Ushnotz stabbed him, ramming the dagger into his heart. He watched impassively as the trooper fell to the ground. The blade was still embedded in his flesh. After a while, his eyelids fluttered and he raised his head. The blood stopped pouring from his chest.
“Well?” asked Ushnotz suspiciously.
“I’m… I’m alive,” said the orc, his voice a mixture of horror and pain. Then he realized his newfound power. Roaring with triumph, he bared his tusks and brandished the pouch. “I’m alive! The dark water made me—”
Ushnotz took hold of his dagger, pulled it out of the screaming orc’s chest, and lopped off his head. He caught the pouch quickly and raised it to his lips, draining its contents. Then he hurled it to the ground. He didn’t feel any different, but he was certain of the effect. As a former prince of Toboribor, he deserved to be immortal. A leader like me needs an indestructible army. He decided to obtain more of the water for his troops.
Leaving the troopers without a word, he lumbered up the slope to survey the enemy camp and wait for an opportunity to attack.
The northern orcs were gorging themselves on human flesh. Ushnotz, his stomach rumbling, breathed in the smell of roasting meat. He and his troopers had been nourishing themselves on whatever crossed their path—animals, snails, and beetles. Fleshlings were a rare delicacy because the northerners seldom left anything in their wake. The inhabitants of three villages, a small town, and a hamlet had been slaughtered and eaten by the marauding troops.
Ushnotz was surprised at their pillaging; it was bound to provoke the fury of the fleshling kings.
The fleshlings on their own weren’t much of a threat—Ushnotz thought them feeble and clumsy—but it was imperative for his troops to reach the Gray Range before the united army of Girdlegard noticed and hunted them down. If it came to a battle, he wanted to be protected by the sturdy defenses of a dwarven stronghold at the heart of a mountain range. With any luck, the other princes of Toboribor would keep Girdlegard’s warriors busy for a while.
The sun, tired from another long orbit, was dropping toward the horizon. Soon she would retire to bed, making way for the stars to populate the heavens. The time for battle was approaching. Ushnotz bellowed for Runshak and briefed him on the plan of attack.
Just then the wind changed, blowing a new smell to the hilltop where Ushnotz and Runshak were stationed. They sniffed enquiringly, their broad nostrils flaring until at last they were sure. The air smelled of horses, armor, and sweat—fleshling sweat.
“They’re coming from the south,” snarled Runshak, turning to face the string of hills to their right. “Confounded fleshlings.”
The united army! Although Ushnotz could smell but not see the new arrivals, he knew at once that his troopers were outnumbered. Even as he resigned himself to beating a hasty retreat he realized that the enemy was hounding a different quarry. “We’ll wait,” he said.
“You mean, they haven’t seen us?” asked Runshak, surprised.
“It’s not us they’re looking for; they’re after the orcs who left those tracks.” He grinned. A few miles earlier, he had decided to stop tailing the northerners and lead his troopers across a river. The fast-flowing water had washed away their scent. Clearly, the fleshling scouts hadn’t thought to look for two separate armies or his troopers would surely have been attacked. He congratulated himself on his guile.
Runshak growled uneasily and raised his nose to the wind. “The smell’s getting stronger. They’re still advancing; it won’t be much longer until they attack.” He looked expectantly at Ushnotz. “As soon as they’ve started fighting, we’ll jump in and teach those fleshlings a lesson.”
“No,” said Ushnotz. “The northerners can deal with them. We’ll see how they fare.” He took a silent decision to resume the march that night if the united army proved victorious. It suited his purposes for the soft-skinned fleshlings to believe that this part of Girdlegard had been purged of his race.
He would never admit as much to Runshak, but Kashbugg had been right in one respect. The battle of the Blacksaddle had weakened his army. It was time to change tactics, but Ushnotz knew how to develop his own strategies without a jumped-up trooper telling him so.
“We’ll stay out of sight. The fleshlings won’t know we’re here, and they’ll head south. As soon as it’s safe, we’ll march north and find more of that water—enough for all of us. No army will be powerful enough to defeat us and when we’re ready, we’ll claim the lives that we spared tonight.”
He turned his head, looking over the fat-encrusted surface of his epaulette. His yellow eyes focused on the troublemaker’s corpse and he grunted contentedly. Kashbugg and the ill-fated victim of his experiment with the water would be the only troopers to die that night.
Prince Mallen was waiting with his cavalry fifty or so paces from the brow of the hill.
The enemy was camped on the other side, watched by two of his scouts who were crouched on the hilltop, assessing the size of the army, which had been known to them only by the boot prints on the ground.
Mallen had decided to hunt down the fleeing orcs and bögnilim and put a stop to their pillaging. From what he had seen over the past few orbits, the beasts had lived too long already. They left nothing but carnage in their wake.
The first of the scouts crawled backward down the hillside to make his report. “Two thousand of them, Prince Mallen. They’ve been feasting, by the looks of it, and now they’re dozing around their fires.”
“So there aren’t five thousand as we thought?” said Mallen, sitting upright in the saddle. His mount snorted gratefully, glad of the shift in weight. After a long ride without any rest to speak of, the horses were wearier than the men.
Until that moment, the wind had been blowing toward them, but now it buffeted them from behind. The air was mild and smelled of the coming spring.
“The ground was muddy, remember,” said the scout. “The soil is soggy with melting snow; you sink deeper than usual. Besides, the green-hided beasts are bigger than us and their armor is heavy.” His eyes swept the rows of horsemen. “Two thousand of them, Prince Mallen—no more than two thousand and no fewer.”
The Ido flag, carried proudly by one of Mallen’s riders, was fluttering in the wind, betraying the southerly change. Mallen cursed. Orcs had an excellent sense of smell and could sniff out their victims from a distance; they were bound to detect the waiting men.
Mallen’s finely crafted armor, engraved with the insignia of the Ido, gleamed in the light of the setting sun. He unbuckled his old-fashioned helmet from his belt, set it on his head and fastened the chinstrap. His careful handling of the headpiece showed his respect for the royal crest, which had been in his family for generations, surviving the centuries unchanged.
His riders, seeing the prince’s blond hair disappear beneath his helmet, prepared themselves for battle. Mallen heard the clunking of weaponry and jangling of armor behind him and gave the order to attack.
“Archers to the front,” he said resolutely. “Advance to the hilltop, but stay out of sight. Foot soldiers go with them.” He turned to the right. “First unit ride in and attack. Slash, jab, and do whatever you can to bait them—but turn and flee as soon as they fight back. The dolts will follow, and we’ll be waiting for them. Don’t let any escape.”
He nodded briskly, and the first 150 riders charged up the hill, exploding over the crest and careering down the other side to blast through the enemy camp like a hoofed gust of death.
Eyes closed, Mallen listened to their progress. He heard pounding hooves, cries of terror from the orcs and high-pitched screams from the
cowardly bögnilim. A moment later, swords met with armor and shields.
The clamor intensified. One hundred voices became a thousand as the excited beasts threw themselves wildly on the small band of riders who had ventured foolishly into their camp.
The thundering horseshoes grew louder, accompanied by shouts and jeers from the pursuing beasts.
Mallen raised his arm, lifting his sword high in the air. He heard the archers nock their arrows and level their bows.
The first beasts had yet to crest the hill when Mallen brought his sword down sharply and three hundred arrows soared through the air, falling steeply over the hilltop and raining vertically on the startled wave of orcs and bögnilim.
The first flurry was followed by a second and a third. Mallen listened in satisfaction to the beasts’ dying screams. Meanwhile, the riders galloped back and took their place among the ranks.
“Ride!” he shouted. “Death to the beasts of Tion! Ride!” Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath. “For Ido and for Girdlegard!” He reached back to tap his horse with the flat of his sword, and they galloped away.
The whinnying steed was joined by five hundred others. The prince’s cavalry poured over the hill in a stream of glittering silver. The drumming of two thousand hooves shook the earth, striking fear into the hearts of the approaching beasts.
The orcs and bögnilim turned tail and fled, but there was no escape from the onslaught of spears, armored horses, and steel. The stragglers were the first to die; the rest were trampled a few paces later. The air was wet with green blood, but neither the screams of the dying nor the sight of the wounded could slow the riders’ advance.
He could have waited for us,” grumbled Boïndil Doubleblade of the clan of the Swinging Axes. The secondling warrior was making his way to the surface with incredible speed. “The cavalry has attacked; I can hear the horses.” He gripped the metal rungs with his powerful fingers, climbing hand over hand. The only light in the shaft came from chinks around the doorway. It was barely enough to illuminate the ladder, but Boïndil—like all dwarves—was accustomed to seeing in the gloom. “What if the long-uns finish them off before we get there?” he said anxiously.