Chapter 3

Just as the Yorksburg vanguard was getting close to rifle range, which was around 250 yards, they stopped. All of their yelling, the pounding of their feet, the snow and dust being kicked up, all stopped. The only thing which continued forwards was a single horseman. The Baron saw a rifleman raise his rifle.

“Hold! Do not fire yet! Hold fire!”

He heard the rifleman lower his gun and sit down. Oscar and Jenkins rode over to the Baron.

“We’z gotta discuss the duelin’.”

“The what?”

Jenkins looked at the Baron like he was a child.

“The duelin’. You know, ‘fore every battle? You ‘ave your best ladz duel before a battle…do ya not do dat in da Empire?”

“No, we don’t.”

Jenkin’s scratched his head.

“Well…wez is gonna ‘ave a quick gab ‘bout it, yeah?”

Oscar and Jenkins rode off towards the other Orc. The Baron shrugged his shoulders and followed after them. The enemy Orc who rode out to meet them was wearing plate armor, most likely a commander. His armor was a dull gray, as were the furs which poked out of the openings.

“Roight den, let’s get to business. I count free armies, so free duels? Sound good?”

Oscar and Jenkins both nodded yes. The Baron’s shoulders fell and he sighed audibly.

Well, I’ve gotta get something out of this duel.

“Fine. But, can you have your army move back, say, another 50 or so yards?”

“Sure, but why?”

Didn’t think he’d agree to it so quickly. Are the Orcs just, not used to subterfuge or something?

“Just to give our duelists peace of mind. Makes it easier to focus when your enemy is too far away to retaliate should you win.”

The enemy commander looked almost offended.

“No self respectin’ Orc would ever fuck wiff da winner o’ a duel! Dat’s sacred!”

“Yeah, well, self respecting humans do that all the time. Even if your men won’t do it, the threat of such a thing tends to weigh heavily on the fragile human mind.”

The enemy commander, along with Oscar and Jenkins, nodded their heads sagely.

“Roight, makes sense. We’ll move back 60 yards, but not a step furver!”

“Sound’s good to me. Do I just…pick a duelist?”

“Yeah. Or you can do it.”

Oscar and Jenkins both nodded.

“Well, whatever. I’m sending Fergus.”

All three Orcs shrugged their shoulders. The Baron rode back to his lines. As the Baron got closer, Ludwin yelled over at him.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

“The Orcs want to duel before battle. They made it sound like the obvious thing to do, just part of the decorum of war! Whatever, if they want a duel, I’ll give them a duel. Fergus! You’re up!”

After a moment of confusion, Fergus shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the Baron, who helped him onto the horse.

Fergus’s opponent was, obviously, an Orc. He was wearing a brigandine vest over a mail shirt. On his legs he wore simple canvas pants under sturdy segmented chausses. On his head was a simple kettle helm, kept in place by a strap which went under the chin. It was the same thing that Fergus’s allies wore. As far as Fergus could tell, there really weren't any regulations which stated what color an Orc’s armor had to be.

Sitting snug in its sheath at the Orc’s side was a simple longsword. On either side of Fergus were two other pairs of duelists, all Orcs. It looked like his allied commanders had decided to duel personally, and it seemed their opponents were about the same as Fergus's. The Orc in front of Fergus drew his longsword, leaning forward and allowing it to rest across his back.

“Oi, what’s your name? Mine’s ‘Arry. Yorksburg born ‘n raised.”

Fergus drew his knuckle dagger and unhooked his hatchet, turning his cold, discerning gaze on Harry, trying to intuit or work out any strengths and weaknesses he might have. When you have fought as many people as Fergus, you start to pick up on incredibly subtle clues which can tell you a lot about a person.

“Fergus, Fergus Ulpagahn.”

“Ah, came all da way from da Offermanland just to die in the snow?”

“Offer manland?”

The Orc made a circle motion with his hand and raised his voice, assuming that Fergus knew what Othermanland meant and had just not heard him.

“You know, like Manland, but not actual Manland! Offermanland!”

Fergus shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I ken not what you say, Ork.”

“Come on! What do you call it? You’re not from Manland, from da islands next to it, roight?”

Fergus clicked his tongue.

“I ‘ail from Orkneyjar, lad. Tha Orkney Isles, in Riekers. No need tae remember it, not gonna live long ‘nough tae matter.”

Fergus was kind of annoyed at this Orc. He spoke Reikers, so he should know the name of the Orkney Isles. The three peoples on this continent had a very long and storied history together.

“I’ll ‘memba it. Probably. I’ll ‘memba youz as da little man from Orkney ‘oo tried to fight me!”

Fergus shouldered his ax and held his dagger in a reverse grip, crouching down into a deep stance.

“Þegiðu, trúður. Gán doesn’t care from whom the battle comes. Just that it does!”

Harry smiled and gestured for Fergus to come closer.

“Roight den. Let’s ‘ave a go!”

Fergus dashed at Harry, planning on cutting his legs out from under him and finishing him with the dagger. Just as he got within sword range, Harry smirked, crouched, and tucked his head into his chest, gliding his longside across the back of his head as he swung from an unexpected angle.

Fergus ducked under the slash and moved to hook the back of Harry’s ankle when he saw the glint of metal above him, rolling backwards. Harry used the momentum from his swing to raise the sword then thrust downward, almost catching Fergus’s head as he tumbled backwards. Harry took up a more conventional stance, standing sideways, left leg forward, sword rested on his left bicep, tip aimed at Fergus’s neck.

“Bet you ain’t see dat shit comin’! Gotta be real unexpected loik if ya wanna win in a equal match!”

Fergus felt his face soften a bit.

Equal match. Seems the man respects me.

He ducked down into a much lower, deeper stance.

“Ain’t that right! Gán doesn’t care from whence the blood flows, so long as it’s brought out by battle!”

Fergus rushed forward, crouched so low he was nearly on his knees sliding against the ground.

Fergus’s pupils were dilated, massive black disks making microadjustments as every millisecond passed by. Harry thrust his longsword down at Fergus faster than the eye could follow, nearly throwing himself forward with his back leg to give it more power.

Harry’s thrust was strong enough to kick up a small cloud of snow as it snapped forward. However, to Fergus, Harry looked like he was moving in slow motion. Another ability granted to the Berzerkeri’s of Gán was the ability to move and process information faster than anyone else in the world. After surviving the trails necessary to become a Berzerkeri, they can call on Gán’s power at any time. And Fergus could call upon it faster than anyone else, and he was faster than all of his fellow Berzerkeri, though he can’t necessarily process information faster than them.

Fergus used his crouched position to launch himself up and forwards, dodging the tip by just a fraction of an inch and slamming into Harry’s chest, pushing up with all his might. Harry was thrown fully in the air, landing hard on his back and rolling over himself until he stopped a good 20 feet away from Fergus. Harry immediately sat up and tried to get to his feet, but found that he just couldn’t quite push himself hard enough.

He looked down at his chest and saw a pair of brass knuckles to the left of his sternum. Fergus’s knuckle knife was wedged firmly in his heart, all the way down to the hilt. Harry took in the deep breath and chuckled as he breathed weakly.

“Noice one-”

Fergus’s hatchet slammed directly into the Orc’s face, splitting it in two and embedding itself in the frozen dirt behind him. After a few moments of silence, Baron’s men and their Orc allies cheered. Fergus retrieved his weapons and raised them in the air as Harry’s allies collected his body, eliciting another great roar from Fergus’s allies. And, just a few moments later, they cheered once again as Oscar and Jenkins both won their duels at roughly the same time, ending them with a swift decapitation in unison.

The Baron came to retrieve Fergus, and Oscar and Jenkins both mounted their horses. Fergus was roundly congratulated as he retook his spot in the formation.

The Baron yelled to his riflemen to ready up and drew a pistol of his own. After a few more minutes, the time it took for the Yorksburg vanguard to retrieve the bodies of their duelists, a horn was blown and the Orcs began to advance. A Massive wall of shield and armor began to creep forward, eating up ground faster than a massive and cohesive wall of steel had any right to.

The Baron made a show of lifting his pistol and aiming it at the Orcs, which told the riflemen behind him to do the same. The Baron’s eyes began to glow bright yellow and the air around the muzzle began to shift as he created a gravity field strong enough to almost be visible. He leveled the pistol towards the oncoming soldiers. As the Orcs entered what the Baron assumed to be rifle range, he shot, followed by the rest of his men a couple seconds later.

The sound of 33 guns firing at the same time was deafening. It hurt the ears of whoever was close to them, but, to the Baron’s men, ringing in the ears was nothing but feedback telling them they were still fighting.

In the distance, Orcs fell. The result was far worse than the Baron had hoped. Even though a majority of the shots hit something, almost all of them bounced right off the shields and armor, not even leaving a scratch. These Orcs were equipped with enchanted shields and armor. The cost of procuring just a single enchanted sword was equivalent to buying a small village, the cost of hundreds of enchanted breastplates and shields was the equivalent of buying a small country.

What the hell have the Orcs been getting up to lately? Even I don’t have that much equipment.

The Baron smiled.

But I could.

As the first rows lowered their rifles, and the Baron assumed the first row would kneel, but one of the men instead moved to the back row. As the rest of the men noticed him move back, some of them mid kneel, they followed suit, and the second row stepped forward.

Hm, I didn’t tell them to do that. That’s a good idea! I want all of them doing that!

As the Baron holstered and drew another pistol, he turned his head towards the riflemen, yelling as loud as he could.

“Riflemen! Follow Erik’s lead! Fire, then head to the back and reload! Stay with your ranks!”

The riflemen yelled in unison to acknowledge what the Baron said, the men on the other platforms doing as the Baron ordered, and the second rows fired, dropping more Orcs. Only four rows of Orcs were advancing, the rest hung back, all standing at attention, perfectly still. It created an effect that was hard to describe, watching hundreds of massive, hulking warriors showing such discipline was unnerving.

The Baron noted, with not a small amount of anxiety, he couldn’t spot the famous Yorksburg cavalry. He also noted weapons the advancing Orc infantry had. Some Orcs, those at the front, were armed with thick falchions and massive round shields. The vast majority, however, had large two handed axes with their round shields strapped to their shoulders, advancing with it facing forward, and sturdier looking armor than the shielded Orcs.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The third rows fired, dropping a few more Orcs, and allowing the fourth row to take their place. The Orcs were reaching the first barricade. As they reached it, the falchion Orcs clambered over the wall and out of the pits, then stood together in a massive shieldwall, interlocking their shields as the ax infantry began to chop at the lashing and the wood itself.

“Riflemen! Target the Orcs attacking the wall! Fire over the shields if you can! Aim for the nose!”

The fourth row took longer to acquire their targets, but they fired quickly nonetheless. Most of the bullets were caught by shields, the vast majority simply bouncing off. The Baron saw just three axmen drop, like a puppet with its strings cut, and one of the members of the shield wall slumped to his knees, a bullet had found a weak spot and went right through, punching a massive hole in his chest.

The bow infantry the Baron’s allies fielding were finding much more success, able to properly arc their arrows over the wall and stick a few into the attackers. Even so, the Orcs made very quick work of the walls. When the wood was chopped down to size, they would chuck it into the pits, trying to fill it up as quickly as possible. It would be unsteady ground, but any ground was better than no ground.

The Baron stared in amazement at how quickly and efficiently the Orcs worked, and how little they flinched whenever a bullet whizzed by. They created massive holes in the fourth wall in just a matter of minutes, with the Orc sappers taking very few casualties considering the work they were doing.

The fifth row fired, killing, again, just a handful of Orcs. The sixth moved up quickly and fired off their volley, with similar results. Off in the distance, another line of Orcs began to advance. They were composed of roughly the same amount of Orcs, though with a higher percentage of axes.

“Advancing Orcs with fewer shields! Gunners! Fire at them!”

The seventh row formed and fired, with much better results than before. Six different Orcs collapsed with a massive holes in their shields, and even more were killed by bullets finding a gap in their defenses, or arrows shot from Orcish longbows with a 200 lbs draw weight.

The second wall was being quickly and efficiently taken apart. Now that they’re receiving less fire, the Yorksburg vanguard began to work much faster. There was already a hole in the wall, and the Orcs were quickly and efficiently taking apart the bindings holding everything together.

Jesus H Christ! How the hell are they taking those apart so fast?

The eighth row aimed and fired, killing many of the oncoming Orcs. The Orcs began to push the dead into the trenches, making a ridiculous amount of progress in a short amount of time.

The first row of gunners had returned, and the Baron raised his arm when he noticed about a third of them were still reloading.

“Why aren’t you men loaded!? You’ve had close to a minute!”

One of the soldiers responded without looking up from his rifle.

“It’s the damn rifles, sir! The grooves make ‘em load way slower! The bullet fits real tight! Gotta really ram it in, sir!”

The Baron ground his teeth in frustration.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? It’s so obvious!

He turned to a nearby person, one of the people tasked with keeping the riflemen stocked up.

“Go get Jean! The Elf! Tell him to bring all of the backup muskets! The rifles load too slowly, the Orcs are eating up ground!”

The young man immediately took off in the direction of the camp. The Baron drew another pistol and yelled.

“Until we get muskets to all of you, fire at will! Aim carefully and make your shots count! Run back when you need to reload! Stop those fucking Orcs!”

The men all yelled at once to acknowledge their orders, then they began to fire, first as a rough volley, then as individuals. The accuracy of each shot was higher, but the moral shock was less severe, and most of the shots still simply pinged off of enchanted armor.

After the second wave had reached the walls they got taken apart faster and faster, and a third wave was advancing as well, almost entirely axes. At the pace they were going, the first and second walls would be almost entirely down in just a few minutes. The efficiency of the Orcs’ disassembly left the Baron completely speechless.

The Baron aimed a shot at one of the axmen with enchanted armor. The hammer dropped, and he could feel how much he needed to adjust the gun if he wanted to hit. As the powder began to ignite the Baron made some minute adjustments to his aim, sending the bullet perfectly flying into the Orc’s exposed eye, dropping him almost instantly.

After around ten minutes of constant work, the first and second walls were completely brought down and their trenches filled around three quarters of the way up. The third wall was being cut down to scale, however, their progress had noticeably slowed. Not only where they getting tired lifting the wood and their massive axes, they were getting picked apart by rifle fire now that they were significantly closer.

Still, their lack of losses was incredible, given the circumstances. It looked like only about a quarter of the attackers had been hit to some degree, and only a handful of them had died. Off in the distance, a new wave was approaching, this time holding Orcish longbows with arming swords dangling off their waists.

Son of a bitch.

“Rifles! Target their archers! Orcish longbows will tear you apart! Trust in your pikemen comrades to keep you safe!”

The riflemen yelled in unison again before firing at the archers. Finally, the rifles had found an easier target. The lack of a shield or metal armor made these archers perfect target practice. A majority of bullets found their mark, killing or maiming Orcs as fast as they could load.

The archers fired back, and the men ducked down behind their waist high walls. A few of the arrows managed to find their marks, sticking in wherever there was exposed skin. The arrows that hit armor did not pierce it, but many of the men hit were knocked off balance by the sheer force of the arrows.

An arrow hit a younger pikeman square in the chestplate, hitting hard enough to knock the man on his ass. He looked down and found a small dent in his cuirass where the arrow hit, and a second later the color began to drain from his face.

“The arrow dented it. Only seen bullets dent plate.”

The man was swiftly brought to his feet by one of his comrades, an older gentleman with short, cropped beard.

“It ain’t go through so you’re fine son! On your feet soldier! They’re gettin’ real damn close!”

The third wall had some massive breeches in it now, as did the Orcish shield wall. However, they would most likely finish with the wall before the Orcs routed, and the remaining Yorksburg infantry began to creep forwards.

The remaining infantry was a mix of poleaxes and shielded spear infantry, marching forward in four long, disciplined lines. They ate up the distance far faster than the Baron had seen human infantry move, which was, to put it lightly, very concerning.

The Baron drew another pistol and his eyes began to glow a pale yellow, intensifying as he drew sigils in the air. After just a few seconds the incredibly intricate sigil was bathing the men around it in a pale golden glow. The men surrounding him watched in awe as the Baron thrust his barrel through the sigil, which collapsed in on itself and formed as an ethereal extension to the gun’s barrel itself.

The Baron took a deep breath and aimed, firing less than a second before the gun was leveled. The crack of the shot and whip of the bullet was almost deafening to everyone it passed, causing even many of the veteran soldiers to finch away. The bullet hit the shield of an Orc and punched straight through it, then the Orc holding it, and the Orc behind him, then the Orcs behind him before skipping on the ground and denting the shinguards of an Orc a few hundred yards away.

Even Orcs weren’t disciplined enough not to flinch at this, as the unharmed Orcs surrounding them flinched and reflexively dodged away from the deafening clang of a bullet piercing armor. The Baron raised his pistol in triumph, and the men around him cheered. He returned his pistol to its holster and rubbed his hands together. The technique he just used was fairly energy intensive, so he would need to heat up his hands quickly.

“See that men?! They’re not so strong! They go down just as easy with a hole in their chest! Now, watch ‘em scramble to fill the gap, and smile knowing we caused that gap!”

The men cheered louder and stomped their feet, waiting for the onslaught with renewed vigor. The Orcs were advancing very quickly, their lines would meet soon enough.

The Baron flagged down a nearby camp runner, an older adolescent street urchin who found his way into their camp back in Grössenburg and made himself useful.

“Son, bring me a torch. Quickly.”

He gave a crisp salute and ran off, coming back just seconds later. The Baron took in a deep breath and his eyes began to faintly glow red. He hovered his hand over the flame, and over the course of a few seconds it began to die down before it extinguished fully. The red glow stopped and the Baron took in another deep breath.

“Thank you, son. Keep up the good work.”

The Baron felt a shiver go down his spine and immediately ducked, hearing the unmistakable sound of arrows flying overhead. He kept his chest down on his horse and extracted his feet from their stirrups, sliding down to the ground a few seconds later.

“Get going boy! Take the reins and tie my horse to something nearby! And make sure to keep your head down! Walk in at least a half crouch at all times.”

The teenager nodded and ran off in a crouch. The Baron smiled and walked over to the pikewall.

“It’s getting too hot up there, so I’m gonna join you men! Let’s do this!”

The soldiers all made their war cries in unison, stomping their feet as they yelled at the top of their lungs. As the Orcs got within a couple dozen yards, the pikes were leveled and swords were drawn. The third wall was almost completely cleared, and the advancing Orcs quickly crossed the threshold, the shield and ax Orcs retreating the moment their allies passed.

The Orcs leveled their polearms and spears as they inched closer, and soon, the combat began. Since there was no charge, the fighting started out quiet, just the yelling of soldiers and the sounds of metal on wood. The pikemen thrust at Orcs, who thrust back with spears and attempted to catch pikes with polearms.

Orcs began to move on the land bridges, their distance close enough for the Baron’s men to see their eyes flick over to the spikes in the pit, visibly a bit concerned. As they slowly began to feel out the bridge, the casualties began.

An Orc spear found an opening and pierced a bicep, piercing almost all the way through the other side. The Soldier immediately dropped his pike and practically jumped back, and his place was almost immediately filled in. A polearm grabbed hold of a pike and pulled back, dragging the mercenary forward just enough to thrust into his throat, the first melee death of the battle.

He fell forward into the spikes, landing on them and being impaled through his legs and arms, where he was not wearing armor. The Orc cheered and was immediately silenced by a spearhead piercing the back of his throat. The crack of rifles and muskets came in periodic bursts, dropping Orcs with each hail of bullets.

The pit began to fill as Orcs and Humans alike dropped or were pushed into the spikes below. Men and Orc were impaled as they landed, and they screamed just as loud, at least the ones who were still alive. The Baron gave the order and the swordsmen began to crawl underneath the tangle of weapons, armed with long, thin katzbalger. There, the men were surprised to find something they hadn’t seen when the Orcs were approaching: Goblins, or ‘Gobs’ as the Orcs called them.

Arming swords bounced off morion helmets and katzbalger bounced off kettle helms. The Gobs were smaller and weaker than the Human soldiers, but they were disciplined and fast. A Gob ducked a thrust and slashed his forearm, forcing the soldier to drop his sword and retreat.

When a man got his hands on a Gob, they were dispatched quickly. Any man who missed a grab or thrust would have their arm slashed at, and any opening they left in their defenses would receive a lightning fast thrust. However, very few people could beat Imperial pointwork.

The Gobs made quick gains when the fight began, but they were slowly being pushed back. Many thrusts found themselves subtly redirected, with their point being pushed off center just enough to miss or land on armor, and an Imperial katzbalger sticking into their necks. Soon enough, the Gobs were pushed all the way back, and Orcs began to be cut down from below.

Orc spear thrusts bounced off Imperial morion and pauldrons, Imperial pikes slid off Orc brigandine and kettle helms. Men and Orc fought to tangle the other’s weapon, to create an opening for their comrades to take advantage of. A bullet ripped through an Orc’s eye as he aimed a spear at a tangled mercenary, and the Baron holstered yet another pistol.

I should take up a longer weapon. There’s not much opportunity for me to fight at the moment.

“Stand strong men! Push them into the pits! Or push your spears into their necks!”

The men roared as they redoubled their efforts and dropped more Orcs. An enemy Orc near the back yelled a similar thing, and the Orcs roared as well. The tips of spears and swords whipped all around, catching unarmored flesh and ripping through necks. A polearm shot forward to grab a pike when a longsword shot up from below, Udo had lunged forward and was holding his sword by the pommel for maximum reach.

Gaius chopped a spear in half and flicked his wrist back, breaking an Orc's jaw as a massive greatsword was wrenched up with incredible force. While he hadn’t killed or even injured too many Orcs, he had been chopping through weapons, which served the same purpose of neutralizing an opponent as deaths.

The Baron’s men near the back of the formations felt a sudden surge of heat as the Geidpfeld ordered the camp followers to light massive bonfires. He had a lot of wounded men to attend to, and if Geidpfeld didn’t have a reliable access to a lot of energy, then people would die who didn’t need to.

The Baron dragged a soldier over, nearly strangling him as he put pressure on the massive opening in the man’s neck. He was a very young man, early 20s at the latest. His eyes were already beginning to wander, and he was having trouble walking.

“Geidpfeld! Hole in neck! You’ve got twenty seconds!”

The mage practically launched himself over, already chanting and leaving pink trails of magic as he made hand signals before he even reached the wounded soldier. A camp nurse held the soldier's hand as he cried and rasped out pleas for help.

“Baron, hand off on three. Onetwothree!”

Geidpfeld’s entire hand flashed bright pink as he practically slammed it into the young man’s neck. The Baron had already run off and picked up two limping soldiers. One of them was leaving a snail trail of blood, he didn’t have much time left. After the pink flash ended Geisfeld’s eyes began to glow an incredibly bright pink and immediately scrambled to his feet, sprinting over towards the wounded men.

The young man’s throat began to close, a spurt of blood changed directions in mid air as it was physically sucked back into the closing wound. After just a couple dozen seconds, his wound was gone, leaving a gnarly scar near the bottom of the man’s neck. He tried to stand and was almost immediately pushed back down by a nurse.

“Stay put, soldier boy! You’ve got to warm up and get some nutrients before getting back in the fray!”

She shoved a bowl of soup into his hands and ran off, attending to a man who didn’t immediately need healing magic.

After ten minutes of constant fighting, the spike pit was almost entirely filled with corpses and debris, and the fourth wall was falling apart. There was a loud bang! and wood splinters sprayed out in every direction, giving non-fatal but painful injuries to man and Orc alike. The massive frame of the Yorksburg Orcs hid the Gob swordsmen and sappers behind them, and they were working fast. The Baron looked through a hole and saw a small green man with pouches and belts crawling around.

“Jesus Christ! Were those explosions?! They’re blowing the walls?!”

The massive wooden stakes now had chunks missing out of the bottom, and Orcs with polearm were dismantling the wall by chopping and dragging the wood into the pit, almost filling up the entire thing all the way up and down the allied line.

The Baron’s walls and those of his Orcish allies were almost completely torn down. The allied Orcs were holding firm, as were the Baron’s forces. The Yorksburg onslaught had not been able to push into the Baron’s position fully and their losses were beginning to mount, but they had caused plenty of casualties, tired their enemy out quite a bit, and dismantled their walls, which the Baron was beginning to suspect was essentially their only purpose.

After a few more minutes of fighting, a horn was blown in the distance. Three long, deep buzzes echoed for miles around. As soon as the third note was played, each Orc immediately worked to untangle any of their comrades’ weapons and walk backwards, shields facing the enemy. The Baron watched their retreat with unabashed awe. They were retreating almost as fast as they advanced, even while linked up in a shield wall and walking backwards.

Gunners fired at their retreating enemy, each volley dropping less and less Orcs the farther away they got. The Orc allies and the Klarwasser pikemen began to cheer when the Baron yelled at the top of his lungs, overpowering all of them at once.

“It is far too early to celebrate! Yorksburg filled in the pits and flattened the terrain! They are almost certainly going to charge us with their famous cavalry! Hold firm! Trust in your fellow man! And earn your place in history!”

Everyone, Orc and Human, roared and stomped their feet in approval. Off in the distance, lines of massive figures began to form up, lances and spears held high in the air, each horseman making an X with the weapon of an adjacent horseman. They stayed still for a few seconds before swinging down and shouting in unison, the sound of metal grinding of metal and Orc war cries was deafening, even from hundreds of yards away.

Then, a drum beat rang out in the distance, sounding almost like a heartbeat. It started out slow and quiet, and soon after the cavalry began to creep forward, slow and quiet. Then, as they got closer, the beat began to speed up, and the pounding began to echo as it grew louder and louder. The intensity slowly began to ramp up before eventually becoming a cacophony of drummers going as fast as they could, signaling the famous Yorksburg cavalry to begin charging.

The sounds of Orcish drums and the hoofbeats of cavalry were deafening, and the dirt they kicked up as they charged made their growing forms off in the distance hazier and hazier. The Baron remounted his horse and drew his saber, holding it high in the air and pointing it towards the charging Orcs.

“Hold steady men! The gods are with you, not to mention the Almighty Above! Gunners! Fill them with holes!”