The Survivors Part 1: The Masacre

by Brian McGoldrick

  Crack! Boom! Crackle! Crack-BOOM! Crackle-boom! BOOM!

  The Casters staying till the final wave go into action. Their fusillade of destructive spells is on par with a company of M1 Abrams opening up on the orc lines. In two places huge lightning bolts tear through the wind barrier chaining across dozens of orcs each.

  While most of the spells are lightning or fire based, the most frightening are a couple acid clouds that drift into the orc horde. The onshore winds make certain that acid won't engulf our side, but the orcs are engulfed in them. As the afflicted orcs tear at their melting eyes or jump into the chilly waters in front of them, their screams of agony fill the air.

  The two casters who unleashed the acid clouds look at one another with malicious grins on their faces. I don't know either of them personally, but like many of the players, I've seen them around over the years.

  The chaos in the orc ranks buys us the time to sort out our lines and get the people being evacuated through the dimensional door.

  As the last person passes through the door, I look at Agun. His skin is pasty white, and his bloody colored eyes look like someone beat him black and blue. Seemingly unnoticed, a trickle of blood is running down from his nose, across his lip, and dripping off his chin. He should only be on the third batch of evacuees, not the fourth, according to his own timetable. With the condition he seems to be in, there might not be a fifth batch.

  As the dimensional door starts to flicker, Connor meets my eyes. The stony expression on his face tells me he knows as well as I do that this is probably our last time seeing each other alive.

  “Semper fi.” I let my frown slip for a moment, and my lips curve into a fractional smile.

  “Semper fi.” Before Connor can say anything else, the door disappears from existence.

  “Heroes always rise to the occasion!” The voice is one that should not be here.

  As I turn to look at the speaker, Kamehameha takes off a great helm that matches the armor that is different from his usual.

  “You should already be gone.”

  Kamehameha smirks. “If I was already gone, I wouldn't get to see you be a hero.”

  “All your likely to see is both of us die. Agun's a wreck. He probably won't be able to open another door. Everyone here knew they were signing up for what was probably a suicide mission.”

  Completely unflappable in his mistaken beliefs, Kamehameha laughs. “With you and two more Dvergar, we'll pull through.”

  “Idiot. Take your place on the line!”

  Before putting his helm back on and heading for the bulwark, Kamehameha grins at me.

  “You should have roped that one into the Hammers, Thorrin.” Kat's voice has a pensive tone to it, as she stares at Kamehameha's departing figure.

  While the orcs reorder their lines and bring in a few more shamans to cast new spells, we get close to a half hour reprieve. As the new shaman's finish their spells, heavy offshore winds start clashing with the natural onshore winds. I won't complain about the extra time we bought, but these new shamans are cutting out one line of attack.

  However, the two Casters who used the acid clouds don't seem perturbed. They are gesturing toward the bulwark while talking and laughing.

  With an even stronger wind barrier screening the attacking orcs, they resume their assault on our left flank. Across the rest of the bulwark, the sky turns black from the sheer volume of arrows arcing downward. Most the arrows are blocked by magic wards or physical shields, but we still suffer casualties.

  Dozens of more waves of arrows follow the first, and the entire defensive line, thin as it is, hunkers down in the shelter of the crude battlements. There are no more casualties, but we have no way to effectively slow the orcs advance. Under the cover of the arrow storm, the orcs dump the rubble from their excavations into the trench. I have the strange urge to laugh. Orcs are dumb, but they aren't imbeciles.

  After watching the show for a ten or fifteen minutes, the two Casters that used the acid clouds start casting something new. Ephemeral clouds that don't really seem to be a part of this world appear along the landward side of the trench, and dark green rain begins to fall. It only takes a few seconds for the orcs to start screaming and fighting to get out of that acid rain.

  As the sun climbs higher into the sky, our losses continue. One here and a couple there, they mount until we have lost nearly thirty people, while more than half the rest have some sort of wounds. More than twenty times, we Dvergar have been forced to intervene at the bulwark to stop the orcs from overrunning us.

  Ironically the two acid Casters are holding back the orcs along the almost two-thirds of the trench, where they are trying to fill it manually. Without the wind barrier that seems too Mana intensive for the number of shamans available to make a larger one, the orcs appear to have no way to deal with their acid rain.

  *Thorrin, get ready. It will be about fifteen minutes.* Connor's tone through the whisper channel sounds strained.

  *What's going on?*

  *We have orcs in the big cavern with the rock column. They opened up holes in the roof of the caverns and started dropping down. We've pulled back to the west tunnel and are holding a defensive line about fifty yards in. Danleib sent some of his birds up with explosives. Once we retrieve your group, we're going to blow the tunnel.* Connor can't conceal the anger in his voice.

  *What about Danleib and Cwichelm?*

  There is a pause before Connor continues. *Agun can't get them out. The wild Mana running out from that reactor is making the area to turbulent for him to open a gate. He wore himself out again trying, which is why you are still up there. He's in bad shape, Thorrin. You had better move fast when that gate opens.*

  *Got it. We'll be ready.*

  An empty void seems to fill my chest. I've known Danleib for over sixty years, and Cwichelm for more than fifty. I want to fight my way down to the Mana reactor, but I know that it would be a futile attempt. Instead, I pass the word to the leaders of the player groups still alive.

  As if they know that we are about to escape, the orcs begin to push their attacks ever harder than before. Even where the acid Casters are dropping their acid rain, the orc leaders are driving their troops into the watery trench. In spite of the acid rain, the orcs have still managed to fill the trench to the point when those crossing are only chest to neck deep in the salt water. Here and there, orcs misstep and sick under that surface without rising again. Their corpses are trampled under by the orcs behind them, helping to help fill in the spaces between the stones and small boulders filling the trench.

  BOOM!

  When an explosion sends a geyser of rubble flying into the sky, slightly less than ten minutes have passed since Connor contacted me. As the rubble settles, a section of the battlements on the left side of our line crumbles, opening up a ragged ramp for the orcs to climb up onto our spit of land. What the hell did the orcs do?

  “RAAAARRRRRRR!” The collective, victorious howl of hundreds or thousands of orc voices fills the air. The gap in our battlements is close a hundred feet wide, and the voracious orcs come pouring up it.

  As I rush toward the breach with Tomas and Kat following, I see Dacbold and Farnulf headed the same way.

  On this side of the breach, a small guild, Happy Travellers, is pushing into the orcs flank, cutting down a dozen of them before the orc can respond.

  Kamehameha looks at me from the far side of the breach, and I'm certain he's smiling under that great helm he's wearing. As he charges into the oncoming orcs, four others are right at his heels. They work well together, and orcs immediately start to fall to their teamwork.

  Our Casters start dropping AoEs in front of the orc advance, stopping them in their tracks.

  “Aaaarrrrr!” Howling wordlessly, with that curtain of spells blanketing the land to my left, I tear into the head orc advance. I have no idea how my face looks to the orcs, but I can see fear in their eyes when they look at me. The rage and hate for the orcs build with each swing of my axe.


  With the rage clouding my mind, I am not consciously controlling my strength. Each swing of my axe is harder and heavier. The weapons and shields of the orcs are easily battered aside, while blood and body parts fly, as my axe severs limbs and cleaves torsos.

  Dacbold and Farnulf cut their way to my right hand side, and we begin cutting down the orcs, like lumberjacks felling trees.

  *Old man, I think we're fucked over here. Remember, you have to start being a hero!* Kamehameha's whisper cuts through the rage that is blinding me.

  I look across the ramp cut into our defenses and see Kamehameha and about a dozen more players surrounded on three sides by the orcs with their backs to the battlements.

  “Farnulf! Give me your jump buff!”

  A lot of the Casters and many of the Adepts among the players have various kinds of buff spells that enhance movement. None of them are as powerful as the buffs that Makers cast. A normal jump buff will boost a person’s jump distance by a solid thirty feet. The jump buff that Farnulf casts is more than eight times as powerful.

  While barely slowing the swings of his axe, Farnulf murmurs the mnemonic under his breath and casts the spell on me. As it lands, my legs are filled with explosive power.

  Boom!

  As Farnulf was casting the jump buff, I was putting the one-shot explosive buff on my shield. My shield charge into the orc in front of me detonates it, destroying a half dozen orcs in a more or less ninety degree arc in front of me.

  The distance between me and the players with Kamehameha is around a hundred and eighty feet, well within my current jumping range. With three quick steps, I launch myself into the air in the direction of Kamehameha and the other players.

  “LEEEEERRROOOOOOOOOYYY!” I can't help myself. It's been way too many years since I've done as stupid a Leroy Jenkins move as this one. I wonder, do they still have any Leroy Jenkins videos floating around the internet?

  Most of the still living orcs that have already pushed through the breach turn to look at me. As they stare at me hurtling through the air, almost comical expressions or raw shock leave them slack jawed. Luckily, that shock at seeing eight hundred pounds of flying armor, weapons, and Dvergar slows their reactions enough for me to be only feet away from my target zone before they start to swing on me.

  My kick knocks aside the axe of the orc I'm going to land on, but without having any footing in midair, it twists me around. My mail-clad elbow slams into the orcs exposed face, and his head explodes. Amid a shower of blood and brain parts, I crush the orc's corpse beneath me.

  Rolling to my feet, I chop through the nearest orc's knees, and it falls to the ground screaming in horror. My steel-shod foot crushes its skull, and I look around to get my bearings.

  I erred too much on the side of caution and jumped to a point too far out in front of Kamehameha's group. There is still twenty-five feet between me and them, and orcs are pressing me from all sides. An orc champion standing nearly eight feet tall is right on top of them, and I can't do a thing about it.

  “Fuck off, orcs!” The orcs have no clue what I shout, and my axe lashes out faster than a human eye can follow.

  With the sound of twisting metal and shattering bones, an orc trying to block my blow with its shield is sent flying a dozen feet to the side. Three orcs in its line of travel are knocked to the ground, with one clearly unconscious from the impact.

  Kamehameha's helm focuses on me in apparent shock, and the orc champion brings its two-handed mace down on his shoulder. The sounds of shattering bones are audible over the cacophony of the battle, and Kamehameha collapses to the ground.

  “RRRAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!” My wordless yell of rage echoes around the battlefield, and I lash out in a berserk fury. With no thought for defense, both my axe and shield become weapons. The last few orcs between me and the champion fall.

  As the champion grunts something in its bastard language, the two orcs next to it press the attack on the players, and it turns to face me. Its attack is several times faster than the one it just made against Kamehameha. Even though it must have been just toying with Kamehameha, it had dropped him so easily. This one must be Coalescent, like the ones we Dvergar fought in front of the wall the first day.

  Blocking the orc's massive overhand blow warps my shield and nearly forces me to my knees, but I still stop what was probably one of the orcs strongest blow. Shock and maybe a hint of uncertainty flicker across the orc's features, only to be replaced with hate and rage.

  I return the orc's attack with a slash to its knees that it barely blocks. Blow for blow our weapons hammer at one another. This isn't a battle of skill; it's a head to head clash of raw, brute strength. Coalescent orc versus Dvergar, the first one to falter dies.

  As both humans and orcs watch our titanic struggle in near awe, the thunderous clashing of metal on metal brings a temporary lull to the battle near us.

  After several dozen strikes, blocks, and parries, the orc gets a clever look in its eyes, and it tries a lateral strike instead of the overhead and oblique angles of attack it had been using. As I let my frown turn into a smirk, confusion enters the orc's eyes.

  “Aaaaarrrrr!”

  Leaning heavily into the block, I stop the orc's mace cold, and almost in the same instant, half sever its knee with a short chop. The orc's scream of pain resounds, and I cut off its other lower leg with a second heavier chop. As the orc crumples to its ruined knee, I hack off both its arms and kick it over onto the ground.

  As I moved over to Kamehameha and pull off his helm, stunned silence covers the battlefield. Whether human or orc, the combatants stare at the scene of me kneeling next to Kamehameha, while the crippled orc rapidly bleeds out on the ground, unable to even turn over without its arms.

  Blood is running down Kamehameha's face from his mouth and nose. The mace crushed his right shoulder and the right side of his rib cage. Almost certainly, his right lung has been destroyed, and he must have catastrophic internal bleeding. He coughs a few times and smiles weakly.

  “Hey, old man, you have to be a fucking hero now.” Kamehameha's voice is barely a whisper.

  My laughter is self-mocking and bitter. “I've told you, kid. I'm no hero. I never have been. I never will be.”

  I could lie to Kamehameha and tell him that I'll be a hero, but he deserves better. No matter how cruel it might be, he deserves the truth when he's dying.

  As I look around, the surviving players move into a defensive circle around us. They look like they are not going to budge an inch in the face of the orcs.

  Kamehameha tries to grab onto my arm, but he doesn't have the strength hold on.

  “Talon's gone. You and the Dvergar are the only ones that can do it. So strong . . . he should have been a hero . . . like Goku . . .”

  Kamehameha's heartbeat stops.

  “Steel is stubbornness!” Seeming to carry a weight of meaning far beyond their simple definitions, my words have a strange resonance in the silence.

  Without even using mnemonics, fueled by a cold rage, I cast a succession of weapon buffs on my axe. The multiple effects combine into a sullen silvery-orange glow around its head. The air around me shimmers with the heavy aura of Power, as I step out to engage the orcs.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  Driven by hate and rage that I cannot control, I wade into the attacking orcs. One by one, they fall to my axe. Not a one of them can take more than two or three blows before falling before my relentless assault.

  *THORRIN!* Kat's screech would be ear-piercing in the flesh, and it's still painful in the guild channel.

  Jarred out of my killing rage, I look around. Damned orcs! I let them surround me. What a stupid mistake to make. No one is anywhere near me anymore. I'm all alone here. At least, only three or four can attack me at once. As wide and heavily muscled as a Dvergar body is, an orc still makes me look like a runt.

  The last of the players I was trying saves falls to the ground. At the very least, her spine was crushed and probably most of the rig
ht side of her rib cage along with it. As the orc that hit her from behind turns in my direction. Another champion is coming at me from the left.

  I shift my vision into pattern sight, and immediately, the headache hits me. The Power visible in that champions pattern is a good order of magnitude higher than the other orcs. I can see the braided strands flowing through him, four strands in the braid. Any time we've faced something with braided Power like that, we've lost people. Only Talon, Menton, and we Dvergar could ever stand toe to toe with Coalescent beings like those.

  Looking around there are hundreds more orcs between here and Kat and Tomas. Farnulf's buff has already worn off, so I can't jump out. They'll get annihilated if they try to reach me. Dacbold and Farnulf are fighting near them. The only thing keeping the orcs from overrunning the players is the AoE Casters and the two Dvergar.

  *Stay back. Don't try to reach me. Link up with the Happy Travellers, and shut down those fucking orcs that are coming up the ramp!*

  *No! We'll...*

  Trying to deflect orc attacks, while you're arguing with someone, is a good way to get dead. A brutally spiked mace almost takes my head off, but I barely manage to deflect it.

  *Do what I'm telling you to Kat! If you make it out of here, you and Tomas try to keep everyone together.*

  Neither of them say anything, but from where I am, I see Tomas nod.

  *Thorrin, we're opening the door now!* Connor's whisper is a repeal on a death sentence for most of the surviving players.

  *Be careful. The orcs somehow blew a hole in our ramparts and are on the peninsula. We're almost getting overrun here. Coordinate with Tomas. I'm a bit busy.*

  The orc champion snarls something in its bastard language. Zugg, the name of the orc god of fuck, is the only word I recognize. As the champion forces its way through packed mass, the orcs are opening up space around me. It looks like the champion wants to prove its mettle by giving me a one on one beat-down. Stupid orcs, they should have overwhelmed me with numbers.