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Deadly Intentions (Blood Feud - Volume 2)

Page 9

by David Temrick


  Their faces no longer possessed the slack and drooling features she remembered. They were strong and dangerous. Their lower jaws were powerful and extended out beyond the upper, revealing an impressive array of jagged teeth and two large tusks that rose from their jaw line. Gone was the greenish tinge that hinted at internal organ decay, they were now a dark brown color with coarse black hair that was tied back in intricate ways to show their rank and the number of kills they boasted. They painted their nails and eyes black with soot and blood, and their ears had an oddly elfish look to them.

  Most of them growled excessively in her opinion, but the effect on their enemies was worth keeping it in their gene pool, as it was explained to her. Each of them chose the sword, axe, or mace as their weapon of choice. Each was formed with a similar crude, though powerful design. They also bore a simple round wooden shield and clothed themselves in rags beneath their roughly smithed breastplates and greaves. Many of them chose to go barefoot, a legacy of their heredity she had been told, but none of them passed up the gauntlets created in the same fashion as their armor. Some of them bore helms of the same design, while others proudly displayed their scars and tattoos by leaving their heads bare.

  She had been told that one of her more powerful sisters had made a gift of a fine axe and shield for the Legate, only to have him discard the weapon in favor of his own crude version. Her sister had sighed, regretting the effort taken in creating the fine items, and instead had imbued his own weapons with her magic.

  Such strange behavior aside, the orcs were willing and eager to perform even the darkest missions. They asked only one thing in return, should their forces encounter any elves or dwarves, the orcs wanted to be the only ones to kill them. It was a strange request, as no one in memory had seen and elf or a dwarf; their races were believed long dead and gone. Still, it satisfied their only demand, so it was agreed upon with great enthusiasm.

  With the failure of The Bane a year ago, the other sects in the Congress of Weavers had pushed for more mobilization and an end to operating in cells. Cyrisa was charged with showing that the old ways still worked more effectively, and her cell was to be the beacon light for the traditionalists in the congress. She hoped that Boris could live up to his potential and crush the whelp Prince and his petty band.

  Today the King planned to take his army into the field of battle and defeat the Valliusians, kill their Prince and lay siege to Kenting. It was an ambitious plan, but with over fifty thousand men, orcs, trolls and other less savory creatures, it was well within the realm of possibility. The night before Cyrisa had added the Gerdium as usual to the King’s mead last night and while he dozed she had outlined her battle plan for him to follow.

  With the traditionalists depending on her, she couldn’t rely on the King’s skills in battle; she needed to take a personal hand in the outcome. As she walked at a respectful distance behind his horse, she used her arts to observe the army around her. The orcs were blood thirsty; the trolls were scared - though they were more terrified by the orcs so they stood their ground – the humans were ready and the other creatures minds were just to alien to glean much more than excitement. The sun was breaking through the snow clouds and allowing waves of heat and light through and onto the battlefield before her.

  Using her skills she focused her attention to the walls of the fort. It was easy to spot the dragon spawn Prince, dressed in his ridiculous black dragon scale armor. She was sure he cut a heroic figure to the fools he led, but all of his victories had come at the hands of others stupidity. Cyrisa seethed and the King slipped out of her control briefly, making his ludicrous demand.

  “Quit the walls and pack up your belongings. If you’re not on the road back to Kenting in the next hour I’ll burn that fort down around you and slaughter you all down to the last cooks’ monkey.” He ordered.

  Quickly regaining control over his mind she forced him to lean over so she could re-assert her instructions. You will send your catapults and trolls to the front to offer cover fire for your cavalry. She ordered motioning forward with her arm.

  Then a distant roar echoed across the horizon. Instincts took over as she instantly wove her arms above her head and erected her defenses. Another roar sounded and the damned fool of a King got off his horse and began punching her shield in desperation. She ignored him as a third roar cut through the air. Turning her gaze to the fort walls she focused her sight, catching the quiver of the bowstring as the Prince fired an arrow.

  Laughing to herself she pulled a little power to herself and cast a lazy fireball towards the on-coming arrow. Her eyes widened in shock as the arrow cleared the fireball unharmed; she focused her power, strengthening her defenses. The arrow didn’t slow its flight at all as it cleared her defenses as though they weren’t even there and it pierced her shoulder, sending her spinning around to the ground.

  Shock ran through her chest and she drew in a ragged breath as she got shakily to her knees. Cyrisa put her right hand to the protruding shaft of the arrow. Her hand weakly grasped the arrow as she looked up at the King who slowly drew his sword and swung it in a powerful arc. Cyrisa screamed as she felt the blade bite into her neck.

  ~

  “Bitch!” King Boris yelled as Cyrisa’s head flew from her shoulders. Blood shot up from her gaping severed neck in bursts. As the life faded from her scheming body, the spurts became less frequent and lower. Finally the muscles relaxed as her body fell over to the side. The stench of her filth filled his nostrils as he pointed his blood soaked blade towards the fort walls and screamed, “Attack!”

  ~

  “Hold.” Tristan said calmly holding up his hand.

  The mercenaries were the first to come rushing at the wall and Tristan wondered to himself why the orcs and trolls held back. Time didn’t permit him the leisure to look around and find them though as all of his attention was on the sea of men about to come crashing about his walls.

  “Hold.” Tristan called again needlessly.

  The first of the mercenaries crossed the line the catapults could launch to, marked by cleverly hidden markers that only the defenders or someone on this side of the rocks could see. Still the Prince waited, he wanted the men as close as they could get before he would order the catapults to launch their damaging ordinance.

  The last of the forward element crossed the marker rocks and Tristan lowered his arm, shouting for the catapults to fire. Looking to his right and then his left he ordered the archers to draw and pick targets. The caltrops flew over the fort walls, landing in a scattered mess between the marker rocks and the walls.

  Tristan watched in morbid fascination as the first men trampled on the caltrops, lost their balance and screamed out in pain and fell forward onto yet more of them. Thousands of men lay bloodied and cleaved as the more cautious limped out, pulling the iron crosses out of their boots as they went.

  “Didn’t think it would work that well.” Sergeant-Major Frose commented with a chuckle at Tristan’s side.

  “Well it’s earned us at least a little reprieve.” The Prince grunted.

  “We’ve had word from the north.” Frose said.

  “How goes the battle up there?” Tristan asked as he looked out over the field. Already Boris’ men ran out to drag the survivors unable to walk out of harm’s way. The others were using their shields to create paths of safety to haul the dead off to the pyres already being constructed to the south. The black smoke already rising from their locations made Tristan wonder if the King had executed more men in anger.

  “It goes well.” Frose grunted. “The Colonel reports that he had to drive off a few squads of orcs before he could clear the gates, repair them and seal them off.” He reported. “Already legions of orc infantry throw themselves uselessly against the impregnable walls.”

  “Gotta love fifty feet of brick, mortar and iron.” Tristan chuckled.

  “Yes sir.” Frose laughed in reply.

  An unearthly horn sounded as the orcs formed up into a line. Trolls pulle
d long harrows, gathering up the last of the caltrops and disposing of them in a large pile as the snarling orcs made ready to charge. Troll engineers rolled catapults and battering rams forward as ogres followed, saddled up like draft animals, hauling carts full of large stones up to the siege engines.

  “Things are about to get much more interesting.” The Prince commented. “Get the first three legions out the back gate and ready to repulse sappers.” Tristan ordered.

  Sergeant-Major Frose saluted and walked away as the largest orc Tristan had ever seen elbowed his way through the press of unwashed bodies and roared in contempt of the fort. Behind him the thousands of orcs roared with him.

  The Prince was confused, before him stood an orc that was taller than he was, easily twice as broad and was grotesquely muscled. The others behind him were smaller, hunched over green versions of their leader. Tristan considered that it must be why the largest was the leader; he knew orcs weren’t exactly intelligent from the siege in Heatherington last year. They seemed to largely depend on their size, ferocity and willingness to throw themselves at their enemies.

  The large leader howled and the orcs got into a straight line on either side of them. Another howl and they brought their shields to bear as a unit. He growled and they moved forward at a much slower pace than the humans had.

  “Well this could get interesting.” Tristan muttered darkly. He turned to the page and ordered him to prepare his horse. He didn’t want to risk felling his own men, so as he walked past the engineers he ordered them to switch to rocks and fire at will. As he mounted Pava the three legions were already heading out of the rear gate. He signaled to the 7th to form up on horseback and get underway.

  Tristan heard the first rounds being launched from the catapults as he headed through the gate. The first three legions were ready to move forward, so he ordered one to stand ready as reinforcements and the other two arrayed along either side of the 7th as they wheeled around at a trot and made their way around the fort to engage the enemy.

  ~

  The battle had gone poorly. For the last three days and nights Tristan had to struggle to keep fresh soldiers on the front lines. There seemed to be no end to the orcs as their ugly faces just kept popping up in front of his shield. Pava had been cut from underneath him just a few hours ago and his anger gave him renewed spirit as he decapitated three orcs with one swing. So much was his pain that when he ordered the reserves forward, he stood fast, becoming a terror in the midst of the battle. He forced his anger into grim determination and focused his rage, as he spared no creature.

  Then the unearthly horn blew again and the orcs pulled back twenty feet. He could smell their fetid breath, the blood that soaked the ground at his feet and the sweat from his own men as they caught their breath in great rattling heaves. He held his arm up and called for them to stand firm as a few of them began to inch their way forwards.

  Both forces stood twenty feet apart while they caught their breath. The orcs growled and flinched as they struggled to maintain control over their bloodlust, such was their desire to fight. Tristan’s men began to breathe normally as his veterans prepared themselves for attack. Then Tristan saw it, the enormous orc, elbowing his way through his soldiers, growling and gnashing his teeth. The Prince lowered his shield and stood up straight as the orc cleared his lines and came to stand halfway between the two armies.

  Tristan cracked his neck, moving his head from one shoulder to the next. He took a steadying breath and bounded three times on the balls of his feet. He tried to loosen his muscles as much as possible, knowing that the large orc would probably knot his shoulders up something awful when Tristan tried to defend himself with his shield. Out of the corner of his mouth he said,

  “If he kills me, don’t wait, just charge and kill them all.” He ordered to the nearest soldier.

  The battle scared veteran nodded once back saying. “Aye my Lord.”

  The Prince stepped forward, coming to a halt mere feet away from the orc. He could smell the stink of human blood all over the beast’s armor and his tattooed face was covered in it as well.

  “You fight well human.” He offered.

  “What do you want?” Tristan asked, narrowing his eyes. He hadn’t realized orcs could speak, let alone his language as well as one born to it.

  “Single combat.” He grunted.

  “Single…you and me?” Tristan asked in shock.

  “Unless you’re scared, puny Prince.” The orc shot back.

  Tristan bristled at the insult, but he’d long ago given up his childish need to take every insult as a personal slur on his honor. Surely this giant among orcs would know that.

  “Listen horse breath.” Tristan replied with a sarcastic smirk. “If you want to face me, you need only ask. You didn’t have to sacrifice so many…soldiers.” He said with contempt.

  “Careful dragon spawn, those could be the last insults you throw.” The orc leader warned.

  The Prince narrowed his eyes, the fact that this orc could even understand what a dragon spawn was made him the smartest of his kind to date. Tristan made note not to forget that during the fight. He smiled demonically as he slung his shield over his back and drew his dagger. “Oh you think so do you?” Tristan goaded.

  “Well. Let’s find out, shall we?” He urged.

  The orc snorted. Tristan assumed this was a laugh of some sort. Then a strange expression passed over the orcs face, as though he was grimacing. ‘This must be what passes for a smile’ Tristan mused darkly. The Prince readied himself, moving his right leg back and getting ready to parry the blows he knew were bound to sting.

  With surprising speed the orc swung his mace around in a swiping motion aimed at taking Tristan’s head off. The Prince smiled as he ducked under the blow and lashed out with his dagger, slicing just above the orcs knee between his metal chin guard and his plate greave. The orc yelled as he pulled back, looking down at the superficial wound.

  “Now, now.” Tristan warned sarcastically, shaking his dagger at the orc. “Temper, temper.”

  The orcs gathered behind their leader growled in contempt as Tristan’s soldiers laughed and cheered. The large orc howled in anger, tightened his grasp on his mace and spat on the ground between them.

  “I will feast on your bones human!” He shouted launching another powerful series of strikes.

  Tristan did his best to dodge under and around the blows, but was forced to parry his first strike as he found himself dangerously over-extended. The shock of the blow traveled up his arm and he felt knots forming at the base of his neck. The orc then stepped forward and used his shield to push the Prince backwards. Off balance and his right arm still throbbing he tried desperately to keep his balance.

  The orc stepped forward and drove his head into Tristan’s, snapping the Princes head back and breaking his nose. His vision swam and he dropped to one knee. Red blurred his vision as the Prince tried to shake his head clear it and prepare for the next series of strikes. More out of instinct than anything else, Tristan dropped his shoulder to the ground and rolled off to his left. Out of his right ear he heard the mace connect with the wet earth he’d just vacated.

  The Prince could hear the orc struggling to get his mace out of the mud and took the opportunity to wipe his eyes out with the back of his hand. He blinked, trying to get the tears running so he could wash out the blood. It only served to blur his vision further though as he cursed under his breath.

  Tristan heard a squelching sound followed by a grunt as he assumed the orc liberated his mace from its sticky trap. The Prince forced himself to calm down; he closed his eyes as he tried to focus on his undiminished senses. His right arm still tingled from the blocked blow, and yet he could smell the orcs rancid breath as he growled at him. The Prince rose to his feet, reaching out with his hearing and smell, trying to get an idea of where the orc was.

  Around them both sides cheered for their respective commander. The inhuman howls of the orcs behind him, and the cheering of his
own troops were in front of him, slightly to the right. Tristan tuned out the cheering, trying to focus on the steady growling breaths that the orc was drawing in. He heard a foot clear the mud, then another; the pace was quickening. Tristan waited until the wet footfalls were uncomfortably close, then he dropped his shoulder and rolled off to his right. As he rolled by the orcs large leg, he drove his dagger backwards. He could feel it break the skin and rip into muscle and slam up against rock hard bone.

  The orc howled in anger and yanked the blade free. Tristan could hear his grunt of pain as it was pulled from his flesh. Another grunt followed and the Prince instinctively raised his left arm. His own dagger slammed into his forearm between the protection of his bracer where it laced up. The Prince inhaled sharply from the wound and his arm shot back, dislodging the blade from the wound as it clanged into one of his soldier’s shields behind him.

  Tristan tried to blink again, hoping that his tears had at least cleared his vision somewhat. He cradled his arm, feeling the wetness of his own blood. He forced open his eyes using his cloak to wipe them out; finally he was rewarded with at least some sight. The orc was growling, advancing slowly on the Prince.

  He was amazed; this orc was nothing like the mindless ones he’d faced before. He learnt and adapted, changing tactics in the middle of battle. Where speed and strength had failed him, he now tried to use cunning and silence. The Prince thanked the fates that he could see again, because the orc made little to no noise as he stalked closer.

  The orc raised his mace and brought it crashing down with both hands. Tristan barely moved to the side in time as he felt air rush past his face. He wasn’t sure where the orcs shield had gone, but his mace was now burned into Tristan’s memory as it flew past his eyes. It was roughly smithed, a jagged sphere with crooked spikes coming out at strange angles, at its tip was a longer spike used for thrusting. It reeked of blood and small fragments of skull, sinew and bone littered its surface.

 

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