The Survivors Part 1: The Masacre

by Brian McGoldrick

  "Menton needs a good killing. The more pieces he's in when it's done, the better." Ahlred has always been the most violent of us, even if he's not the strongest.

  "Talon tried killing him, and he came back to life. Three times he came back." The other Dvergar stare at me with looks that say they don't quite believe me.

  “You heard Talon tried to kill Menton after the First Battle of Emer, but none of you saw what Talon did to him.” I cannot keep from shuddering at the memory of Menton's ruined corpse. “Talon worked on him for three days and nights before finishing him off, but less than a month later, Menton was back, looking exactly the same as he did before Talon tortured him. After that, Talon caught, tortured, and killed him two more times that I know of. He came back each time, and he's still out there.”

  A thunderous frown settles on Ahlred's face. “You don't know how he does it?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Danleib is scratching his chin. “Are you sure Talon actually killed Menton and not some double or duplicate?”

  I stare at Danleib. “Do you think the Nameless would have brought any doubles or duplicates Menton had when he took us?”

  Danleib shrugs. “I'm just saying . . .”

  “Our problem is the orcs. I don't see Menton or Thug Horde around, so to hell with them for now.” Dacbold's tone is cold, and his eyes are glued to the scene being projected by Danleib's device.

  *Thorrin, where the hell are you at? I got the message from Tomas, but he said you weren't with them yet.* Connor's voice still sounds a bit irritated. He's not one to let something go quickly or easily, and he was definitely not happy about the being put off this afternoon.

  *With the other Dvergar. Danleib has his bird out. Where are you?*

  *Near the northeast corner of the camp. The pass here is filled with orcs. There must be over a hundred thousand of them, and they are a shitload bigger than the ones we fought a few days ago.*

  *These are part of a real horde. They're not the merc trash that were fighting for the DokkAlfar. And someone closed the gates to the Transition Chamber.*

  *Well, this is a total clusterfuck, and it's going FUBAR fast. You better get another line of battle setup somewhere defensible, or we're gonna get wiped out.* Even though it's been decades since he finished his full twenty in the Corp., Connor still has a habit of using Marine jargon.

  *We'll do what we can. Try to buy us some time.*

  *I've only got five grunts with me. You expect me to do something with the regular shit-bricks we've been running with?*

  *Do what you can. I'll call you as soon as we get something going.*

  As I'm looking at the image of the mess being transmitted by Danleib's bird, a shiver runs down my spine. We're in it deep this time, and I don't know how we're going to get out.

  Before the attack, the camp was already a mess. None of the guilds were keeping more than a token watch. After getting past the last Transition Chamber, everyone started acting like we had already won. I was just as bad as anyone else. I was so caught up in my grief and anger that I never paid any more attention than the rest of them. I have no idea why Connor didn't have his guild running patrols or anything, but like he would say, it was a clusterfuck all around.

  “Danleib, we need to find someplace defensible. Connor says the northeast pass is filled with orcs. Can you put out a couple more of those birds?”

  Danleib shrugs. “I can put them out, but if I need to maneuver them delicately, it's hard to control more than two. These things don't have real combat programs; there's barely enough room in their tiny bodies to inscribe the sigils for normal flight and recon.”

  “Just send a couple toward the west. If we try going east, the orcs will be able to cut us off too easily. You can recover the one at the battle. Connor will let us know when something happens.”

  As the bird returns, the images projected by Danleib's device shifts back to our own camp. The chaos is getting worse. Our people are panicking and heading for the causeway. The mercenaries are forming up into tight companies and retreating toward the causeway. With the exception of a few of the smaller guilds and factions of the medium sized guilds, everyone is trying to make a run for the Labyrinth, and the groups are fighting one another to get there first.

  “I don't get it. Yeah, we're being attacked, but that's no reason to panic. What the fuck started this?” Wihtred is staring at the image being projected by the device with narrowed eyes. His mouth can get foul enough to give Talon a run for his money. At least, he could when Talon was still alive.

  I don't know much about Wihtred's background on Earth. Like all the other Dvergar, he's a senior citizen, but he's still young enough to be my son or maybe my grandson. When I first met him, he already has a number of tattoos and piercings. Since then, he has completely covered his body with tattoo and added enough piercings to fill a bank vault. Though in his case, every one of those piercings is a specialized Item of Power. He has more attack, defense, and support spells bound up in his jewelry than any ten other Damned put together.

  “Someones fueling it. The question is who is it and why is the fucker doing it? If we can find him, we should cut his balls off, before we kill him.” Ahlred's smile would make most Company spooks piss their pants, if he was looking their way. He's ex-military. I don't know which branch, but he's mentioned doing time in Leavenworth, even though he was an NCO. I'd trust my back to him anytime, anywhere, just like I would with the other five.

  None of us respond to Ahlred, but that does not mean that a couple of the others wouldn't help him do it. All of the other Dvergar were men with interesting pasts, and they were all senior citizens before they started playing Taereun. Though, I was still old enough to be their father.

  As Danleib returns his clockwork sparrow to storage, the triple image being projected from his device becomes a double image. One of the sparrows is flying toward the west while remaining inland. The other is flying along the coastline.

  Our location on Taereun is analogous the southern tip of South America on Earth. This is a land of harsh cliffs and steep-walled fjords. The trees are small but hearty, despite being twisted by the year round, harsh winds.

  “There! The shoreward bird!” Cwichelm points at one of the images being displayed.

  As the Danleib begins to circle the sparrow, we evaluate the terrain. A narrow strip of land runs along the shore between a high cliff and the water. After running about three hundred yards, the strip opens up into a bowl valley, and a rocky spur of land extends out into the frigid, southern waters. The sloping rock walls of the bowl valley can't qualify as a cliff, but it will be a better place to defend than just about anything else we can reach quickly.

  “We can hold that strip with a line less than two hundred men wide. That point of land can be held by a line of around a thousand, so it can be a secondary fallback position.” While talking, Ahlred points to each terrain feature.

  “Everyone, get your guilds moving and have them suck up as many others as they can. That's at least seven or eight miles away over rough ground.”

  The images displayed by the crystal show rough cliffs and valleys as the birds sweep inland heading back toward our position. There are dozens of orc war parties scattered throughout the regions. Their numbers are ranging from dozens to thousands. Our position cannot get much worse than this.

  *Tomas, get everyone in gear and head to the west. Follow the shoreline. About eight miles or so from here, you'll find a narrow strip of land running between a high cliff and the water. Set up a defensive line there. Gather anyone else that isn't too stupid to follow along.*

  *What about you?* Nessa sounds worried.

  *I'm with the other Dvergar. We're going to slow down the orcs and remind them why they should be afraid of Dvergar.*

  *You're not real Dvergar. I'm coming to you. Where are you now?* Even after eleven years, Nessa still hasn't gotten over her belief that she knows better than everyone else.

  *Nessa! You stay with the g
uild. You'll only be in the way.*

  *Don't you get sexist with me, old man! You'll need a healer!*

  *You're only human. Shut up and do what you're told!*

  *I will . . .* As I block her from talking in the guild channel, Nessa's voice cuts off abruptly.

  *Tomas, don't let that girl run off on her own! This is going to be uglier than anything we've seen so far, and with luck, there will a lot of wounded headed your way, instead of a lot of dead on the battlefield.*

  *You got it, Thorrin. Don't get dead on us.*

  Wihtred has a mocking grin plastered on his face. “That little girl was giving you what for again, eh?”

  “Sod off.”

  Wihtred's cackling takes some of the tension out of the air, and the rest of us smile faintly. With none of us needing to say a word, we all take out our shields and axes. We were all ex-military on Earth, and we've only improved upon our understanding and appreciation of effective small unit tactics since The Great Fuck Over began. Even if we always keep it on the QT, This is not the first time that we seven Dvergar have worked together to complete a necessary mission.

  “We can't hide it anymore. This is an orc horde. If we try to keep our level of strength and Power a secret, we're going to get hurt or killed.” Farnulf is staring directly at me.

  All of us are more than just a little secretive about our strength. We were like that as gamers, when we just thought Taereun was a game, now that it's real, we've become even more secretive. I'm probably the worst of us about it, with the possible exception of Farnulf.

  Human's, especially those raised under the oppressive culture of Earth, where everyone has to be exactly equal except for the chosen minorities, are jealous and fearful of anyone stronger, smarter, or better than themselves. The governments have gone out of their way to force everyone to be equal, to make everyone think they are on equal footing, and to crush those that excel but are not the chosen subgroups that supposedly deserve special privileges because of past prejudices against their subgroup. It's a completely fucked up twisting of the American ideal of everyone being equal under the law, but the way they implemented it, it works. It makes sure that America is a pen of docile, easily led sheep. The paranoia and fear of anyone who is not a chosen minority and exhibits strength or original thought is probably an intended effect and not an unintentional side effect.

  We Dvergar have gone out of our way to keep our strength a secret to avoid creating jealousy or fear among the other Damned, but if we're going to win and save them, we're probably going to be forced to show more of our cards.

  “I know. I don't like it, but we can't avoid it, I suppose.”

  Turning toward the orcs, I set out at a steady jog. The other Dvergar on either side of me in a loose chevron formation.

  *Connor, we're heading toward the orcs. Try and get people organized and retreating toward the west. About eight miles along the coast there is a bowl valley that's as good we're going to get for defenses.*

  Connor doesn't reply immediately. I can tell that my charm is connected to him, so he has to be conscious. It's more than thirty seconds, and I'm getting past worried, when he finally responds.

  *Thorrin, it's bad here. At least five thousand people are dead or captured already. These orcs aren't just big; they're fucking monsters.* Even though it's a mental chat room, Connor sounds like he's panting.

  *They're real orcs. The ones we've been fighting in the Labyrinth are the outcasts from the hordes. They're the descendants of the ones that couldn't make it in the hordes: the weak, the sick, and the runts.*

  “I've got them, Thorrin.”

  I glance at Danleib. He has an ocular device, made from bronze-colored metal, over his left eye. It serves the same purpose as his projection devices, but it only displays the image for him.

  “You lead.”

  Danleib shifts to the point of our flying wedge and I take up the position on his right. The rest of the players we are passing through are mostly milling about like a flock or chickens. I hear comments about the closed gates and questions about the noise, but most of them are confused and getting scared. The fear in the air is so thick and palpable that the sharpest sword in the world would barely cut it.

  These are the people who survived till now, but they are ready to break and give up. The intangible but nearly overwhelming pressure of the orc's horde is more than they can take.

  In places, groups numbering up to a few hundred are quickly and quietly gearing for battle, while keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. I recognize most of them as the people who spent their time in the front lines of our battles, and those who didn't hesitate to explore monster and undead infested ruins for clues on our journey. When they look in our direction, I point to the west, and they generally nod or wave, and begin moving that way.

  The screams and clangor of metal on metal get louder as we get close, and so does the smoke in the air. Orcs have an obsession with fire, and they are burning our camps as they advance.

  A group of our people comes running out of the smoke with forty or fifty orcs hot on their heels. Without hesitation, Danleib makes straight for the orcs. As we close ranks behind him, Cwichelm releases a trio of crystal formations, and they begin to circle his head with a humming noise.

  One of the orcs points at us snarling something I am too far away to understand. It's ugly face has an expression that is probably startlement on it, but with their ugly mugs, it's hard to tell.

  With howls of rage and screams in a language I can only pick a few words of, the orc charge at us, ignoring the human they were pursuing. There must be dozens, if not hundreds, of variants of the orc's language. Except for a handful of words, one can be completely unintelligible from the rest.

  “Steel is stubbornness.” I speak the words under my breath. The core and key to my Smith skill, my secret of steel.

  Mumbled words from the other six around me indicate they are mouthing their own secrets. These Dvergar bodies we inhabit are all the bodies of what are called Makers. They were all magical craftsmen who used their skills to forge items that used Power. From the memories of the previous owners, we have all learned to use the skills and abilities of Makers.

  Auras of Power spring up around our axes. We each have our favorite weapon buffs, and their effects vary. Even though this isn't a game, we still think in game terms. Buffs, debuffs, temps, and enhancements are what we call the abilities we have acquired from our bodies.

  “Link Shields!” My voice is a snarl of hatred. The intensity of the hate and aggression in my voice shocks me. This isn't something that comes from my mind. It comes from my body. We've faced orcs since the start of the Great Fuck Over. I've faced orcs since the start of the Great Fuck Over, but I've never felt so much raw emotion rising from my Dvergar body. Has something changed?

  Closing in so our shoulders are pressed one against another, we lock our shields together, using special lips on their rims made for that purpose. Axes held over our heads, a more than two ton roaring juggernaut of flesh and metal, the seven of us slam into the oncoming orcs. Bursts of Power blast outward from both sides. Force, fire, and lightning overlap in a thunderous cascade. The impact jars me to the souls of my feet. Sliced, crushed, detonated, burned and electrocuted, the lead orcs are hurled backward.

  Zap! Zap!

  As Cwichelm releases two of his crystal constructs, a golden glow fills the air above our heads and beams of coherent light slice into more of the orcs. Orcs howl in agony, and a stench like burned pork fills the air. Swords, axes, spears, and cleavers rattle off our shields, and our axes cleave into orc shields and armor.

  “Circle clockwise! Wihtred call the tune!”

  “Born to be Wild!”

  Wihtred was in the Army. Three tours in Afghanistan, while Obaka was in office. Dubuyah may have started that mess, but Obaka really fucked the troops over. Wihtred was part of a squad that beat the fuck out of one of those Afghani ass-fuckers that was raping a little boy. It cost him his strip
es, his career, and got him a dishonorable. Until they put the dole in place, he spent the rest of days working crap jobs and singing in a rock & roll cover band. He claims to have had a great singing voice, but as a Dvergar, he has a shitty voice.

  As we shift to a circular formation, Wihtred grins like a lunatic and starts singing.

  “Get your motor runnin'.”

  Danleib crouches and uncoils, launching a shield bash with a shimmering explosion of inertial force. Battering the orc in front of me with an explosion of fire, I step in and cut down the off-balance orc in front of Danleib with a single blow. As I become the furthest forward member of the formation, Farnulf repeats the maneuver behind me, followed by the rest.

  “Head out on the highway.”

  With the conclusion of each line of the song, we shift our positions in the circle. Not knowing when they will be suddenly struck from the side the orcs have no chance to react. We begin moving through the orcs like a buzz saw, each of us taking the point position in turn and relinquishing it to the Dvergar behind him. The strength we kept hidden for years is well more than ten times that of a human being. As strong as the orcs are, they are like adolescents in the face of our Dvergar strength, and their Power pales in comparison to that hidden within our massive bulk. Body parts fly through the air and bounce off the ground and other orcs. Blood fountains through the air painting everything crimson.

  “Lookin' for adventure.”

  The battle lasts less than a minute, leaving only us seven Dvergar standing. The dismembered corpses of forty-seven orcs litter the ground around us. As I stare at the dismembered orc corpses, I can't keep the cold feeling out of the pit of my stomach. orcs are not the real monsters. We are.