Running her hands through the silky feathers of Freki, Jura smiled. It was hot here in Baccia, always, but otherwise it was a beautiful day. Her sworn beast had grown so much of late, the size of a small dog now and capable of expanding further at will – finally. The other orcs looked to her with a mix of reverence and jealousy, for none of them had ever managed to bond with a beast so mighty and proud as the terrormaw. Jura had expected a raptid, but she'd gotten Freki instead, and was all the happier for it. He was fearsome and efficient, growing larger with each kill they made on a worthy opponent, his nesting period was over, and now was the time for growth.
He trumpeted off into the distance with that almost cute 'roar' of his.
Despite his size he was well capable of killing a human, and far too quick for them to catch on foot. To kill a familiar one would need to start with the bonded mage, regardless, and she was no easy target herself. Blooded like the rest of them, and for her who was lower than most of the rest in context of being a 'mage', she had noticed the changes most intensely.
She turned her head towards the others just in time to notice Kul slamming a massive fist into his similarly gargantuan chest with a loud thump, inclining his head to reveal the neck at the white figure rapidly approaching him.
“Great spirit, we are honored by your presence,” The other orcs did the same, showing Okami equal deference. Orcs in their culture had lived alongside the guardian beasts that protected this world from all manner of abomination for time immemorial, and they had a unique relationship with awakened creatures. The natural ones, that is.
Okami didn't waste time on formalities, he found their deference strange and unfamiliar. Even among his own small 'pack' he was not the chief. His brother was, in more ways than just the assumed, now, and he followed his direction. Even if Tyr had never once asserted dominance, this way the law of the wild, first among equals. “The would be interlopers in the center of our formation have been slaughtered to a man, their force broken and scattered. My brother approaches with his army and would like to know your status.”
They wouldn't use communication amulets to share news, the cursed ground in the region rendered that difficult at the best of times. Moreover, long ranged communications could be intercepted through clever tactics and Tyr wasn't taking any chances with their tiny force split over so wide a stretch of territory. From north to south they were arrayed about two hundred kilometers wide, and it would take days to cross that distance for the average soldier. Already it had been a half day since their victory at the salt basin for Okami to make his way here.
“The enemy army is approaching at an expected pace. We will make first contact with the main body in a little over an hour, by my best estimate.” Astrid remained at the side of the orcs, alongside Eve of the Alfen. Micah, too, though his job wouldn't come until battle was started, just standing there nervously for now, looking out of place. Astrid's eyes were closed and she was sitting in a posture necessary to divine through the interference in the ground. It was difficult, but not impossible. Eve was relaxed, nonchalant, in stark contrast to the rigid and disciplined horde of orcs. Yawning languidly against a boulder, one eye opening briefly before she returned to her rest. “I'd say about twelve thousand of them. They stopped sending scouts after the advance parties were eliminated by our outrunners. Now that they've entered terrain unsuitable for skirmishing, we've called back our ranging parties.”
“They were foolish not to bring more,” Okami rumbled, and a ripple of harsh chuckles came from the orcs near enough to hear him. “I will remain here, to fight alongside you.”
Kul grunted, burly arms crossed, casting a long shadow courtesy of his titanic height. “We will win a legendary victory here today, great spirit.”
“Yes, friend orc,” Okami replied, licking his chops eagerly, he was no fan of manflesh but their horses were fed in such a way to serve as an adequate meat to celebrate victory. “We will.”
–
The flat yellowed plains burned under the afternoon sun, hazy mirages warping the air as the sandy ground released its pent up heat, making the approaching army appear like fat children before twisting again to become as thin and tall as stalks of corn. The orcs stood in silent vigil in anticipation of the coming battle, standing completely motionless and steady. The only thing that moved in their still formation were the hands of the drummers at the rear, beating a steady tempo against stretched hides.
Thump. Thump. Thump. A deep throaty noise of a war horn splitting the meeting of bone and tanned skin. Slowly and quietly, almost a whisper, a ripple of noise began amidst the orcish host when the enemy came within proper visual range.
A twanging chant that started in the throat and warbled unintelligibly, there were no lyrics to this song – only a sound to communicate emotion and violence. Unlike the other battles to the north, this one would not take place in the twisted terrain, but rather on an almost perfectly flat plain. No magics were cast to make it less favorable, and no sign came of the force marching towards them doing the same. They had mages, though. Easily twenty, maybe more worth noticing, and Astrid could feel the power of illusion magic in the air. The Fingers led this army, a handful of them, likely the reason why they weren't left as a distraction for the others. Here to face off against what was arguably the most able component of Amistad's army.
There would be no parley, no offers of peace and a laying down of arms. Parley was for humans, and without preamble the crusade army began to jog an even clip through the scrub grass. Neat formations of shields were held overhead in anticipation of arrow fire, spears and lances slowly being lowered by approaching cavalry at the northern flank. At this distance, Micah could hear their war cries and shuddered, his hands growing thick with sweat as the orcs all around him remained stock still, still rumbling that throaty tune.
Oooooooooommmmmmmm.
Three hundred meters.
The orcs began to chant louder.
Two hundred. One hundred. The cavalry was approaching rapidly and had closed to a point where Astrid could see the whites of their eyes through the slits of their gothic helmets. Sweat, drop. Beating hooves turning up the earth, the powerful breath of these born and bred beasts of war sucking at the air. Slavering with the exertion, ready for the inevitable clash.
Her hands were folded around the reassuring weight of the white mithril her spear had been forged from. Astrid had never participated in a war. None of them had, these... Children. That's what they were now, children playing at a game while the real and visceral horror of it crashed down upon them. And she was alone now. No attendants, no Sigi, just strangers at her back and to her sides.
Breathe. She could hear her own breath, the pounding of her heart as it asked her how far Astrid was ready to go. One would think war would be wild and loud, the thunderous clamor of hooves beating up the packed dirt. War cries. But now... What settled on her ears was a silence only punctuated by an expansion of lungs and the thumping in her veins. Everything was so sharp and calm, frozen, and the orcs beside her stood like statues to add to the stillness. Still humming that tune, but she couldn't hear it any longer. She felt it in her bones, vibrating inside her mind with a clarity, like crystal struck rhythmically by fine silver tines. A beautiful song, truly, she wished she could hear it still, but all the world seemed black and white and without any noise.
Who am I?
Death. Why was such a violent display bringing such inappropriate questions to her mind? At a time like this... She was Astrid Stalvarg, third princess of Oresund. It was funny, that name, the only time she'd ever heard her father-in-law joke was in observation of it. Astrid, divinely beautiful – just like this conflict about to erupt before her, she slavered for it, having never known she truly would when facing the violence.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The name of her country, too, was funny in a way. Oresund, 'the sound', not in the ears but the water, the bays and fjords cut into the dark and rocky coastline. It was appropriate in two ways, the 'sound' so often raged with a cacophony of it's own against their hard rocks. War against the rock and water, for all time it had lasted.
Stalvarg. 'Steel Wolf', and she'd married a white one born half from the nation that said their men were cast of the same metal. She felt the steel in her. In her hand, the length of her spear. In her body, the unyielding rigidity of a will to see it done. In the land. Breathe. Horseshoes beating against the dirt. Breathe. Clanking shells of iron encasing the men who came at the words of a false prophet. Breathe. The guttural cries of the orcs as Kul finally barked a howled command and they split, like loosed arrows, they ran.
The feeling of it all... Wild and free, all that she wanted and she grinned until her lips felt over stretched and began smarting. Wild in the eyes, free in her heart, itching to bury the tip of her weapon into someones throat, it didn't even seem to matter much who it was, so long as they were the enemy.
She looked about in realization. Split? Oresundians fought in the breaker wall, a forest of shields and spears packed tightly together, whether it be on ships or the passes so commonly found in their mountainous homeland. With mages inside dedicated entirely to warding, healing, and detection. The orcs did nothing of the sort – and it confused the enemy just as much as she. Their horses were swift, but burdened by the weight of a man in full kit, the lightly armored orcs would well outpace them in a sprint. Those orcs splintered their once still formation into small groups of no more than five, buzzing around in all directions like a hive of angry bees to envelop the enemy.
It was beautiful, she'd admit that in a heartbeat, the way they acted in such close concert with one another even at a distance. Their individual units swarming fluidly around the wedge of knights in a perfect representation of the sea splitting astride a spire of rock. Around they ran, hefting their weapons and howling with all their might. Those on the exterior of the loose formation hunched and a swarm of arrows came from the inside. Heavy things, those arrows, the bows that fired them near seven feet long and more thickly built than those of men, punching clean through plate and champron with deadly accuracy. Enough force to stop a horse in it's tracks or bodily throw the riders free and broken from their saddles, blow their head off and send them flying.
It was a display of skill, unity, solidarity. The knights, for all their own, were taken completely by surprise. Orcs were savage beasts of violent passions, who always charged forward in a horde heedless of what came their way. But not these orcs, not the Broken Blade. Jura jerked Astrid out of the way of a wild riderless steed, stampeding off through where the formation had been. Just in time, but Astrid had no need of help. Jura was yelling something, silenced when the other woman whispered a word of power and sent the next, a steed pierced through the eye just barely missing the brain, catapulting in the air over her shoulder high light construct. Lifting the next squire off his terrified gelding with a glance and ensuring that the animal was unhurt this time. Tossing him... Somewhere. Didn't really matter, the fall had surely killed him.
“I still forget that mages can... Uh...” Jura coughed awkwardly, grimacing.
“Do magic?” Astrid smiled softly. She was a diviner by specialization, far be it for her to not seed her surroundings with divination wards to alert her of threats. What her light constructs were capable of now that she'd taken the blood was beyond anything their armor was likely to be warded to protect against. Little shards of light she was well capable and practiced enough with to stab through the gaps in their steel, tearing them apart from the inside. Though she had yet to make a proper kill on a man, she doubted it'd tax her overmuch, she was ready – eager to do it.
“Just so,” Jura nodded. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” To rip and kill and pierce and feel. They shot forward across the ground, padding along lightly in a vain attempt to keep pace with the orcs that only seemed to get faster and stronger as the fighting went on. This, all of this, was only the beginning. Thousands more would die before the day was through. Tens of thousands after that.
–
“Status?”
“Interior 2 and 5 have been completely routed. The former was slaughtered to a man, and the 6th is still fighting the undead but claim to be holding steady. 7 is on its way to assist but are citing a decoy army in the form of 'statues' framing the dustway. Vanishing when they attempt to approach, or so they say, possible illusion magic but I am taking no chances,” Rommel reported succinctly, not sharing her reservations with her master. Mainly concerning the fact that almost 20,000 men had gone abruptly missing in action within a matter of hours, and nobody knew how or why, only wild reports of undead raining from the sky and an army of mages skating freely across the countryside. This wasn't possible, every nation of means had dimensional anchors to prevent that kind of magic. Baccia had activated theirs, beyond doubt, nobody could break them to such a degree to allow whole armies to move about. The more volume, the harder dimensional magic became, impossible to move a force as large as the crusade – hence the activation of said wards. “Interior 1 is engaged with the orcs currently. We are taking heavy losses as expected, but with the 4th on pace to pincer, I expect any stalemate to end soon.”
“Do not fret,” Hastur laughed, his voice crackling through the interference laced atmosphere. Apparently reading her mind again, whatever strange power he still possessed, perhaps simply a good instinct for things. “This is all part of the plan. Delay them, ensure they won't be there to stop our march into Amistad and it'll be over before you know it.” She could hear the creaking of the ships they were sailing eastward down the southern waterway, wondering how the man could be so cold and apathetic to the tens of thousands of men they were sure to lose. Not their men, Hastur would surely say, the crusade was and always had been irrelevant.
“There she is. Pink one.” Hans had grown into a bitter and warped man over time, but he was good in a fight, and she'd rather have him than Aurelius. He was a man in pain who'd lived that way his whole life and lost practically everything he'd ever loved, and now he wanted to watch the world burn. Against anyone other than her demon of a half-brother, Rommel hadn't seen him lose before. Not once. All it took was a touch. He could turn a man's hands to dust, render them elderly, or with a little more control take more specific things from them. Their ability to walk, deadening nerves, even their memories, though it was an inconsistent thing. Sometimes he'd take their whole minds from them, not that it mattered. If one didn't possess the incredibly rare ability of proper light infusion, something not even her brother, Tyr Faeron had, Rommel doubted anyone could beat him now. Not when he had an unlimited stock of replacement bodies for an equal number of attempts. “I want her.”
“Astrid Stalvarg. Princess of Oresund, daughter of Primus Ragnar Stalvarg.” Yucca said mechanically. “Probably best to let me handle that one. She is a light mage like Rommel.”
“No,” Rommel shook her head. They had underestimated that particular group too many times, and Hastur wasn't here to insist they not kill them. The Fingers were out of control and she was losing her grip on them, every day closer to the climax it felt like everything was falling apart. “Disable her. No killing, but I don't care what you do with her arms and legs. We have very specific orders to capture them, if and when possible.”
Hans was gone before she'd even finished speaking, Klaus and that disgusting telurian in his wake.
“Are you sure about this, Gabrielle?” Yucca had a stroke of concern on her face. She knew they'd have to kill a lot of people because they had to, but she didn't want anyone to die. Especially not a primus' daughter and wife to another. Especially not how Hans was like to do it. There were only a few Fingers here and Hastur had picked their unit in particular while the rest got to ride along calm shores. It was good, she trusted this bunch, some of the others were even less amenable to common sense.
“I told you not to call me that,” Rommel stared her young friend down with a disapproving look. “Damn these plans that never make sense. I have never lost a field engagement and I don't plan to start now. Support the knights against the orcs as best you can. And Pattoli?”
“Ready as ever,” The big man was her second for the day. Technically her superior, she was simply the more strategically minded of the two. Hierarchy in the Fingers had always be an unofficial thing.
“Kill that elf, and remember what he said about their kind.”
“Aye, I'll give it a shot.”
“Would've been nice if they let us have the hero instead of leaving us in this hellhole while they all ride along picturesque shoreline,” Raj sighed wistfully, playing with a ball of clay in his hands. “What do you want me to do?”
“Get underfoot and wait for an opportunity. Unlike the others, I trust your discretion, kill them if you have to but only if you have to.” Rommel's final command before she returned to the map nailed to her desk was met with a silent nod. Raj sunk beneath the earth and disappeared from view. “What are you going to do, little brother?”
Nobody and nothing terrified her as much as he did, not even Jartor himself. And yet she wanted the best for him... He'd been done unto far worse than she had, Rommel had come to learn.