Of the many things Daranturn had expected, being on the receiving end of an angel invasion had not been one of them.
It was a poorly kept secret that prior to human expansion efforts, elite squads of angels would arrive to destabilize the region.
Just 20 years ago, immediately before the extinction of the Stoneskin tribe which had bordered one of the human kingdoms, angel sightings had been reported. The only survivors had been the two young children Daranturn had personally helped deliver. Their mother had sadly died in childbirth and their father had died along with the rest of his tribe, defending the orc lands to the last warrior.
There were stories of angel attacks at the borders of the ancient forests, prior to human expansion efforts.
Even the dwarves to the south had stories of groups of infiltrator squads that attempted to disrupt leadership in their mountain kingdoms.
The light from the sky momentarily intensified as the airborne angels glow grew more intense than the sunlight. Immediately Daranturn barked orders at the surrounding shamans. Now was not the best time to think of the future. They had to survive the strike force, before he could worry about incoming invasions.
Reacting to his command, the gathered shamans raised their hands to the sky. In unison they began their incantations. To most it would sound like absolute nonsense, but to the shamans it made sense. In an ancient dialect of orkish, they beseeched the ancestors for their protection.
Barriers began to form, made from the multicolored mana that the shamans expelled. The barriers took the forms of ethereal hands that grew in size until they were as large as 5 meters in diameter. The hands pointed skywards, palm up. Some were the scarred and burn covered hands of smiths, some were the rough hands of an ordinary housewife. Some were calloused and scarred like those of a warrior, some were dainty and soft, like those of children.
Hundreds of hands formed, pointing skywards to protect the people, forming a multi-layered barrier.
They formed not a moment too soon, as immediately after they came into being, a volley of golden arrows came crashing downwards, impacting the barrier with such force that many of the younger shamans started bleeding from their nose.
The barriers were already angled sideways to reduce the strain on the shamans, yet the volley was still powerful enough to take out at least two young ones.
If the angels kept up the intensity of their assault, the barriers wouldn't hold.
Daranturn wheezed out a strained breath. Despite his apparently returning vitality, he was growing too old for this shit.
As one of the ceremonial guards patted him on the back, he looked around.
They were barricaded at the center of the city, surrounding the shamans district and the main tent. Thousands of everyday citizens were gathered, having fled their flimsy tents and wooden carts, to seek magical protection by the shamans' side.
Not for the first time Daranturn cursed his people's lack of solid houses. Except for maybe the most luxurious tents, the everyday orc had absolutely no protection. And while orcs were nomadic by nature, that did not excuse the fact that not even their capital had any solid houses.
If the number of orcs that sought refuge with the shamans increased any more, the barrier would be stretched too thin and they would have to start making sacrifices.
As the light in the sky intensified again, the barriers rose again, this time without his input. For a moment Daranturn was proud of their discipline, then he felt it.
“No area coverage, it's a single strike!” yet his warning came too late.
A moment later a single lance of solid golden light shot from the sky, piercing through the barrier above a group of shamans. The barrier in the form of a child's hand had been intended for wide range volleys, not for a precision strike.
As the golden lance sunk more than a meter into the ground, it momentarily brightened, before rupturing in an earth shattering explosion.
A massive orc had imposed himself between Daranturn and the explosion, his massive tower shield keeping both of them safe.
The ceremonial guard turned to Daranturn, a horn on his skull mask missing, and a tooth, likely from one of the unfortunate shamans caught in the explosion, was lodged root first in the wooden shield.
“Head Sh-” the orc coughed, cleaning his mouth from the tiny strips of skin that had splattered his entire front.
“Head Shaman. Are you injured?”
“No, thanks to your timely intervention.” Daranturn showed the guard a tired smile.
“I see.” the stoic warrior replied, before re-taking his place at Daranturns side, eyes vigilant for the next threat.
A quick look around showed that the attack likely had its intended effect, the shamans began to huddle closer together, inadvertently leaving gaps in their protection.
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With a grimace, Daranturn looked behind himself, at one of the two tents that usually held their guest. Right now he had an option. Lady Aindaeth still owed their people a boon.
Usually it was custom for the party offering the boon to compensate their hosts in a way they saw fair. But if he dared, he could demand their part of the bargain fulfilled and that now, Lady Aindaeth had to help with their protection.
This would only cause problems in the future, Daranturn was sure of that. Repelling such an invasion was probably akin to squashing an unwanted, unawakened insect for a dragon of her power. But it was also a demand. Despite the fact that some of their most powerful shamans slept in her tent almost daily, Daranturn still did not have a proper read on the dragon, and he likely never would.
Just as he was steeling his heart, intending to throw away the tribe's future for immediate survival, a commotion from the edge of the defensive barrier caught his attention.
As if salvation was sent directly by their ancestors, a group of fire mountain warriors arrived, led by none other than the chief himself.
A detachment of a solid 400 orcs in full gear, with an accompanying division of magic users. While it was always sad to see an orc shun their inherent shamanistic bond, the group of mages would be more than helpful, even if they brought nothing but their mana stores.
There was only so much mana the shamans could pull from the general population before they drained someone dry.
As the angels in the sky continued taking occasional shots at the gathered orcs, the detachment of orc warriors spread through the defensive formations, reinforcing the spots where the barrier was weakest. The mages followed, reinforcing the barrier overall, each mage flanked by two armored warriors.
The chief of the Fire Mountain tribe arrived before Daranturn with a severe expression on his face. Daranturn observed the man for a moment. His boots were dirty with blood colored mud, his blade was still wet and there were blood splatters on his face. The man had evidently had to fight his way here.
“Its good to see you young Carborg! though i would have hoped it would be under better circumstances.”
Daranturn smiled sadly, before continuing.
“Is there anything we need to know, or can you join the defensive effort?”
“I sadly do have something to report.” he stepped forward, only to stop, as the bloodsoaked guard next to Daranturn squared his shoulders and firmed the grip on his mace.
Daranturn raised a hand placatingly towards the guard at his right. “Please do not take offense, they are rightfully on edge right now”
Carborg Fire Mountain looked deep into the hollow eye sockets of the guards mask, before nodding in assent.
“On our way here we came across the bodies of old Hogarth Steel Fist and his apprentices. As far as we could tell he fell in honorable combat, defending the children to his last breath.”
A biting pang of pain shot through Daranturns chest, the barest hint of moisture gathering at the corner of his eyes. He wanted to cry, but this was the most he could allow himself to show, the others depended on his continued leadership. Were he to show weakness right now, the entire defensive effort might crumble.
“Thank you for the news, but right now we have bigger things to worry about. Please join the others, help as much as you can.”
Carborg nodded, bowing slightly at the waist, before joining up with one of his magician squads.
Over the next hour, the aerial bombardment continued, mostly in large volleys, but occasionally a heavy precision strike in the form of a golden lance would descend. Now that the first surprise attack was over, the barriers were reinforced whenever the light built up longer than a few moments.
Even though most of the heavy strikes were deflected, they came in an uneven rhythm, always timed so that it took the defenders serious effort to reposition their barriers. Some of the heavy lances exploded, but some just stayed in the ground before fading.
On Daranturns orders, the apprentice shamans that were too young to help with the barriers were sent to check the impact sites for any delayed explosions. Though none could be found, the irregular nature of the aerial attack began to wear down the orcs morale.
Over time, more and more civilians trickled in, straining the already weakened barrier even further, as it guarded a larger area. Individual arrows would sometimes slip through as the barriers could not keep up with the volleys.
In the distance columns of smoke rose, as tents and wooden carts began to burn. Between the columns, flashes of light would sometimes appear, evidently signs of combat.
The dreary monotony of aerial bombardment was finally disrupted as another group arrived.
While Daranturn had been glad to see Carborg Fire Mountain, the sight of the open sky tribe was like a light rain after a drought.
“Keep the barriers stable, I need to reset my focus. If we are lucky, the counter offense can start shortly!”
The senior shamans that had been in close proximity to Daranturn acknowledged his orders, before springing into high gear.
Daranturn approached in a brisk walk, observing the orcs of the open sky tribe. The sight of Morok O’ktan next to his chief was a welcome sight. Along with the reinforcement of a good 500 other orcs. They weren't as disciplined or well equipped as those of the Fire Mountain, but every one of them was an expert marksman. A few of their numbers were equipped with wide shields, but seemed unused to carrying them.
Arriving before the group, Daranturn wanted to weep with joy, before the severe expression on Moroks face silenced him.
Sharkan Open Sky silenced Daranturn with a hidden hand gesture. As a young orc, Sharkan had been a frequent guest of Daranturn, learning the ways of the ancestors with more enthusiasm than was expected of even the young shamans. One of the many things Daranturn had taught him was the sign language that the ceremonial guard used in emergencies.
DANGER/CLOSE/BETRAYAL he signed, before waving for Daranturn to follow him.
The two guards that had kept to the side of Daranturn the entire day, evidently saw the hand signs as well, immediately stiffening, before one took the lead and the other guarded his rear.
As they were led through the formation of orcs, Daranturn could see that many of the new arrivals were struggling to put on unbothered expressions. They clearly knew that something was up.
After shouldering through the new arrivals, they came to a slight opening in the formation, which was guarded from sight by the bodies of hundreds of orcs all around, as well as a wall of shields that pointed skywards.
It took a moment for Daranturn to understand what he was seeing.
Hidden from sight behind hundreds of orc bodies, was Hogarth Steel Fist, as well as his apprentices.
Daranturn’s first reaction was to cry out in joy, but then he remembered what Carborg Fire Mountain had told him.
“On our way here we came across the bodies of old Hogarth Steel Fist and his apprentices. As far as we could tell he fell in honorable combat, defending the children to his last breath.”
Yet evidently, the old smith was still alive. And while he sported some severe injuries, he looked far from dead, neither did his apprentices.
Daranturn looked questioningly at both Morok and Sharkan, before signing BETRAYAL and showing the ring on his left index finger with the emblem of the Fire Mountain tribe.
His worst fears were realized as both of them nodded.
Daranturn knelt beside the injured master smith, his hands glowing a faint green as he laid his hands on the short orcs gut.
“The healing magic won't get you into fighting shape, but it will mend your intestines and prevent an infection. While I work, please tell me what you know.”
Hogarth Steelfist opened his crusted eyes, taking a few moments to focus on Daranturn. Seeing the proud man this wounded and weak, made Daranturns blood boil, though outwardly he still carried his grandfatherly expression.
With a raspy voice, Hogarth tells Daranturn of his confrontation with the angels, the betrayal of the Fire Mountain tribe, as well as their subsequent rescue at Lady Lucifer's hand.
Daranturns mind was churning, trying to justify to himself that it may just be a misunderstanding. But the longer Hogarth spoke, the clearer it became in his mind, until he had to vocalize it to himself.
"So they really did betray us."
As he spoke those words, a violent reaction occurred in the network of souls that was the basis of the shamans strength.
The souls of the ancestors had heard him. And those that still carried slivers of their individuality, were absolutely furious at the fact that one of their own had forsaken the orcs as a whole.
Daranturn felt the red thirst pour into his body like never before. The thousands of souls that collectively made up the ancestors wanted retribution, influencing those with a strong connection.
All around him the stronger shamans grit their teeth as they weathered the mental onslaught of rage that their forefathers felt.
Just as Daranturn was about to rise to his feet, an explosion occurred behind him and the others. His first thought was that one of the precision strikes had penetrated the barriers, but the explosion came from even further away.
Deep inside the defensive perimeter, one of the tents had exploded, and subsequently burst into flames.
From the wreckage, a burning figure emerged. Naked as the day he was born, Grommash Stoneskin looked like death set on fire.
The right side of his body was covered in wrinkled burn scars and the right side of his skull was showing.
On shaky legs, the young orc emerged from the wreckage, before a tiny pinprick of light ignited in his empty socket.
"BETRAYAL!"