As the explosion blasted out of the city, flinging rock and stone high into the air, Rook’s command was decimated. He had pushed forward aggressively, and the eruption of fire from beneath their feet struck precisely where it needed to do the most damage. Of the two thousand men at the walls, ninety percent were killed instantly.
For those who survived, it was an inexplicable calamity. Never before had the men of this world witnessed such large-scale devastation. They had seen magic—spells capable of destruction—but this was different. The smaller explosion the night before had been attributed to some powerful spell resonating strongly with the world. Yet this power was on another level entirely.
There was no explanation for it. Even a thousand mages casting spells in perfect synchronization could not produce such destruction—not at the level of power known in this world.
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Captain Jean was a man of action. He always had been one, even in his younger years. It had served him well enough as he adventured. Yet to be regulated to guard duty by no more than a jumped-up peasant rankled him sorely. He was the son of a count on the mainland and had come to this land to gain experience in command where no prying eyes would see any failures the young commander made.
It was meant to be a simple posting, yet it had been anything but simple. So, when he saw this Rook charge forward, hogging all the glory he had refuted it. Oh, he did not hate the man for his drive. Drive was good in a warrior, and a commander, yet Jean knew that he must act if he was to share in that glory. That is why he left the keep with his 250 men. 75 he left in reserve, the elderly or nay sayers. He gave them to the command of that fool Tompson that the woodsmen seemed to revere so highly. The ones who came with Jean were young men to be sure, unbloodied, yet Jean had seen the foes they faced on this day. Killing these small green men would be good work for such unbloodied green men.
He was therefore unprepared for the blast that took him off his horse.
Jean was pulled up quickly by the men as he heard them begin to scream. He looked at his nearest seargent and yelled "Form a square man!"
Yet they were to slow for even that. They had been evenly between both the walled city and the mill. As he gave his order Jean saw a tide of green rush from the northern wall of the mill, twards the rivers delta. It was an ambush from the sea.
And the force was not comprised soley of those little green savages that had raided the city, for among them were larger figures, the height of a man. For every ten of the smaller forms there stood one or two of these larger creatures gesturing wildly as they ran. Even from this distance Jean could see a name floating above one of their heads [Orc Leader: Journeyman].
"Shit" Jean said to himself quietly. He they had all been appraised of the new skill systems as the weeks passed. That indicated this creature, and many like him had skills that exceeded 30. And there were so many of them. As he looked, he appraised their number to be over five thousand, and they had the jump on his small force.
"FOLLOW ME!" he shouted, standing firm "TO THE CITY WALLS MEN, WITH ME"
And with that the captain of the reserve turned and fled, running as swiftly as he could to the crumbled ruins of Fairhaven.
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Captain Jean was a man of action. He always had been, even in his younger years. It had served him well enough during his time as an adventurer. Yet, being relegated to guard duty by no more than a jumped-up peasant rankled him sorely. Jean was the son of a count on the mainland and had come to this land to gain experience in command where no prying eyes would witness his failures.
It was meant to be a simple posting, but it had been anything but. So, when he saw Rook charge forward, hogging all the glory, he resented it. Oh, he did not hate the man for his drive. Drive was good in a warrior and a commander. Yet Jean knew he must act if he hoped to share in the glory. That was why he left the keep with his 250 men. He left 75 behind—the elderly or naysayers—placing them under the command of that fool Tompson, whom the woodsmen seemed to revere so highly. The men Jean brought with him were young and unbloodied, but he had seen the foes they faced today. Killing these small green men would be good work for such green recruits.
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He was therefore utterly unprepared for the blast that knocked him off his horse.
Jean was pulled to his feet quickly by his men, their screams cutting through the ringing in his ears. Shaking off his disorientation, he turned to his nearest sergeant and bellowed, "Form a square, man!"
But they were too slow.
Their position, midway between the walled city and the mill, left them exposed. As Jean barked his order, he saw a tide of green surge from the northern wall of the mill, rushing toward the river delta. It was an ambush—from the sea.
And the attackers were not solely the small green savages that had raided the city. Among them were larger figures, standing the height of a man. For every ten smaller forms, there were one or two of these larger creatures, gesturing wildly as they ran. Even from this distance, Jean could see the names floating above some of their heads: [Orc Leader: Journeyman].
“Shit,” Jean muttered under his breath.
They had all been briefed on the new skill systems as the weeks passed, and the title “Journeyman” meant the creature’s skills exceeded level 30. There were many such creatures. Jean scanned the advancing force, estimating their numbers at over five thousand. They had the jump on his small force, and the odds were grim.
“FOLLOW ME!” Jean roared, standing firm. “TO THE CITY WALLS, MEN! WITH ME!”
And with that, Captain Jean of the reserve turned and fled, running as swiftly as he could toward the crumbled ruins of Fairhaven.
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Cheese hobbled forward with his men, every step a torment. His shattered leg throbbed relentlessly, and the crude splint barely held it in place. Bjorn and Hald were carried between the others, their groans mixing with the distant chaos that hung over Fairhaven like a shroud. The smoke was thicker here, choking the air and obscuring the ruins ahead.
Through the haze came the faint echoes of shouts and screams, carried on the acrid wind. The sound gnawed at the edges of Cheese’s mind, growing louder as they pressed on. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself onward. Each footfall kicked up ash and rubble, the city’s devastation laid bare beneath them.
Then, out of the smoke, a goblin lunged. Small and hunched, it came with a crude blade raised high, snarling as it charged. Without thinking, Cheese’s axe appeared in his hand. In a single motion, he swung. The creature’s head toppled from its shoulders before the rest of its body crumpled to the ground.
“Another,” murmured one of the men, his voice dull.
More goblins emerged, emboldened by the sight of the wounded party. Cheese’s movements were mechanical, his axe slicing through the air with brutal efficiency. He did not think, did not feel—only acted. One fell, then another, and another. The goblins were dispatched with all the thoughtless certainty of cutting firewood. The men said nothing, their expressions grim as they trudged forward.
The screams grew louder, sharper, punctuated by the clang of steel and the guttural cries of the goblins. Cheese’s head snapped up as they reached the edge of the smoke, and the scene beyond came into view.
A group of men holding his fathers banner, fewer than fifty, were caught between the wall and a sea of goblins. The small green forms swarmed around them, cutting off any chance of escape. Among them moved taller shapes—hulking, muscular figures with cruel weapons that gleamed in the dim light. Orcs. Cheese knew of orcs. They were from the mainland, a race that had long ago died off as the men there hunted them to extinction. HIs father had told him stories of their brutality.
The men’s screams tore through the air, raw and desperate. One man’s cry ended in a wet gurgle as a blade pierced his throat. Another staggered, clutching his belly as a goblin slit him open. The force tried to hold, shields locked and weapons lashing out, but the tide of green slowly overwhelmed them as they watched. The goblins swarmed over their formation, dragging the men down one by one.
Cheese froze, watching the carnage unfold. He felt his stomach turn, bile rising in his throat. The screams seemed to echo inside his skull, a cacophony of despair and death. He wanted above all to help, but he knew he could not.
“Keep moving,” Cheese rasped, his voice hoarse.
The others obeyed, their faces pale. They skirted the battlefield, the moans of the dying fading as they pressed on. The city walls loomed over them, cracked and crumbling. Smoke curled from fires burning along its length, the remnants of the explosion still smoldering.
They exited the city through a gap in the wall, and cheese saw that the scene of earlier was playing out again to their west. A number of men, some hundreds of them had been pressed against the city wall. The goblinoids were ripping into them with glee as a single man held them back. He was clad in silver armor, his blade biting forward as he did his best to save his men.
Cheese turned away form that as well. It pained him yet as he looked at his men, he knew his duty.
"Come" he said as he walked slowly forward. His eyes were on the mill, and the flag that still flew there high in the sky. They limped onward, their path marked by blood and ash, toward the last bastion of Fairhaven.