The morning sun reflected off the crashing waves, which washed up foam and driftwood upon the gravel shores of the small island. The sky was that of orange and twilight purple, its clouds sparse and broken. Sunlight twinkled in the sea and waves, which continued to wash upon the gravel beach. As it did so, many things washed up. Twigs, seashells, small crabs, and dark oily blood.
The sound of a horn bellowed into the air, followed by the shouts of men and orcs. It looked as if Deimos’ initial attack was being fended off. The Red Death stood at the bow of his longship, his right hand brandishing the long ax he always brought. He braced as the ship made contact with the shallows, its deck lurching as it did so. He watched as marauders jumped into the water, their axes and shields raised as they pushed forward. Deimos fitted his half bone half steel helm onto his head, his vision becoming obscured by the T visor of the armor.
He jumped into the water without hesitation, raising his left gauntlet as spears and arrows whizzed by. Deimos trudged through, his tall stature making it looked as if he was simply taking a lively dip in the river. The men around him however struggled to keep up, the waves hitting at their backs and chests. Some died in the water, spears and arrows piercing their gambeson and clothing. Others pushed on, doing their damndest to reach the shore in time.
Even then, they would be met with orcs, who wore iron armor and wielded crude weapons. That was the barrier that currently kept Deimos’ marauders at bay. The Red Death still continued to push, his eyes set on the line of orcs that kept his men in the sea.
“Pathetic,” he muttered as he pushed past a floating corpse. His marauders were weak, nothing more than fodder. Still, he had the obligation to make sure as many of them lived through. Otherwise, they would lose respect and faith.
Deimos finally reached the first orc, who wielded a bloody mace. It gave a pathetic war cry as it rushed towards the chieftain. Deimos took a step forward, readying himself. Right when the orc reached him, Deimos thrusted forward his long ax, hitting the creature’s exposed torso with its head. The orc stumbled back in the water, his breath coming out in a ‘Woosh!’. Deimos wasted no time. He shifted his ax, now swinging for the thing’s neck.
“Power Strike!”
In just a second, the orc’s head flew off into the sea, its oily blood splattering all over Deimos’ armor.
The other orcs took a surprised step back, their gazes now on the man who single-handedly decapitated one of them. Deimos grinned. He could smell their fear. He raised his bloody ax to them.
“Who’s next?”
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Gustus was drowning. At first, he had been doing just fine. The new marauder had jumped into the black waters feet first, his posture straight and his shield up. However, his composure was shot down the minute a spear made contact with his shield, knocking him into the sea. Gustus had tried to get up, but the waves constantly kept pushing him down. Even when he got a lucky break from the current, his fellow marauders shoved past him, making it difficult to stand up straight. Gustus gritted his teeth. He was losing air fast. His vision was getting worse, yellow spots appearing in front of him. Still, he tried to push himself up to the water’s surface.
Thankfully, Gustus soon felt luck finally take his side. The current pushed in from behind at the right moment, propping the marauder up and helping him stand. Gustus broke from the water, gasping, his vision clearing as air filled his lungs. Right when bliss reached his chest, arrows flew by. The marauder raised his shield in reaction, his panic setting in.
“Charge in! Deimos has broken the line!” A marauder shouted beside him.
‘Deimos is already past the beach?’
Gustus wiped the burning sea water from his eyes, trying to focus on where the beach was.
Only a short distance away was the shore they had been trying so hard to capture. Orc and marauder bodies alike littered the gravel, their blood staining the water and sea foam red. Gustus steeled himself, taking a deep breath to comfort his nerves. There were still some orcs in the water, their bloody weapons swinging down on his allies. The marauder in front of him raised an ax, shouting out a battle cry as he took charge.
Gustus charged in right behind him, his sword readied and his shield raised. The arrows had long stopped raining on him, which made it easier for the ex-convict to reach his intended target. Right beside him were other marauders, their shoddy weaponry raised and their cries filling the air. Gustus braced himself as they all collided with the orcs. Yells and screams reached his ears, followed by the clashing of steel and flesh. Hot blood splattered all over his skin and armor, but Gustus pushed on. He needed to survive. He slashed and stabbed at the green skin, his muscles screaming in exertion.
A marauder next to him pierced an orc’s jugular with his spear, but his victory was cut short when another orc buried its crude mace into his forehead. Gustus watched in horror, but he didn’t dare hesitate. He instead shifted and thrusted his sword at the mace wielder. His sword’s tip pierced the greenskin’s eye, drawing out a pained roar. Gustus tried to go for a more lethal strike, but he was interrupted by another one of the savages. This orc tried to hit Gustus with a crudely crafted poleaxe, but the marauder thankfully had his shield up in time. The sharp edge of the poleaxe slammed against the wooden disc, which held on sturdily. Gustus clenched his jaw as he held off the brute, his gaze focusing on the one he had stabbed in the eye.
The crippled orc locked its remaining orb on Gustus, the anger clear in its ugly expression. Before it could raise its mace, however, its head caved in suddenly, spewing dark matter everywhere. The marauder recoiled from the sight. The orc’s skull had been crushed and split open, the war hammer responsible for it raising once more.
Lars raised his heavy weapon, a grin visible on his face. The berserker screamed as he rushed the next orc, the same who had his ax stuck on Gustus’ shield.
Just like the one before, Lars effortlessly bashed in the greenskin’s skull. The berserker laughed merrily as he rushed into the fight, enjoying the carnage. Gustus could only stare as his former cellmate fought head on without a care in the world. It was hard to believe that only a month ago, Lars had been nothing more than a punching bag to that marauder woman. It was also unnerving that this same man had tried to kill Gustus not too long ago. This left the marauder conflicted on the berserker, whether he was useful or not.
Still, despite his uneasy stance with Lars, Gustus had to push it away for a moment. Right now, he was a part of Deimos’ force and he needed to push the damn line. Gustus moved in on the last of the orcs, helping the marauders and Lars. In no time, the charging force of marauders had broken through and taken the beach.
That wasn’t the end, however. No, the beach was only the beginning. Gustus only had time for a second breath before a female voice called out,
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“Move your asses! There’s still an outpost to conquer!” Ivana was only a short distance away, her sword bloodied and her armor dented. Yet she didn’t even seem to show the slightest hint of slowing down. The opposite, in fact. Gustus spotted the spark in her eyes, showing that she was still full of adrenaline and vigor. The marauder swallowed his exhaustion, forcing himself to move forward as the surrounding others charged forward.
The troop of marauders made their way up the shore, fighting stray orcs and goblin archers who tried to keep them at bay. Yet they stood no chance as the raiders came upon them. Gustus felt how his arm was growing slower and heavier with every swing. His muscles begged for rest, yet the marauder ignored the pain. He had no time to stop. As Gustus moved past the treeline of the island, more arrows came upon him. He and his group raised their shields to block them. Gustus raised his shield and successfully blocked one.
However, this arrow was not the same as the ones on the beach. The enormous arrowhead pierced the wood, grazing the man’s arm and nearly taking out Gustus’ eye. He was still the lucky one. The marauder next to him didn’t block in time and soon got a spear sized arrow in the sternum, his voice dying in his throat as he fell back.
“Orc archers!” Ivana shouted out, warning the group of marauders that were right behind the troop. “Get back!” She called out to Gustus and the rest. The men did as told, taking strides back to the treeline. He watched as Ivana turned to the sky. “Eli! Take them out!” Her command seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, as nothing happened for the first minute. However, it soon received a response in the form of a loud humming.
Gustus wasn’t sure what was happening until he saw it. Rustling beyond the bushes were shadows, it seemed. He squinted, but couldn’t make it out. They looked almost like smoke. Mere moments after he spotted this, sounds suddenly emanated from the forest. Loud thuds and the sound of flesh being pierced. There were half screams and shouts, but they soon subsided. After a tense moment, an ethereal voice whispered in Gustus’ ear,
“They’re dead. Keeping moving.”
“You heard him! Keep moving!” Ivana shouted. With that, the marauders were back in action. They all ran through the forest, passing over the bodies of orcs and goblins. Gustus could see how these greenskins had what looked like puncture holes in their torsos, the wounds almost supernatural. Still, he didn’t dare question it. He ran with all his strength, hoping to get through with this day.
Soon enough, they would all reach a clearing. This time, they finally came across the outpost. Unfortunately, they were far from over. They had simply reached the outpost’s palisade, where the orcs attempted to hold yet another line. Gustus braced himself for another frontal assault, but stopped as soon as Ivana raised a commanding fist. He furrowed his brow, wondering if they were going to wait for the rest of the men to catch up. He was about to ask, but stopped as soon as he saw what Ivana was looking at.
Deimos stood in front of the line of orcs, his plate armor covered in blood. There was no doubt in Gustus’ mind that none of it belonged to the chieftain. It was clear that the man had no trouble getting through the forest. The Red Death was casually pacing in the clearing, his focus on that of the palisade’s gate. The orcs would not advance, but they were certainly not going to make the first move. They all shifted uncomfortably, their axes and spears shaking slightly.
“Where is your leader?” The chieftain asked suddenly. The orcs all stood their ground, not saying a single word.
“Silent, are we?” Deimos chuckled. “I thought it was an orc tradition for leaders to fight each other to the death?”
The orcs remained silent.
“I see. You have a coward for a leader.” Deimos shook his head in disappointment. Those words seemed to do it.
One orc stepped out of formation, his scowl visible underneath his helmet. “Shut it! You have no right speaking such shite about our leader!”
“Oh?” Deimos tilted his head in response. “Is that a challenge? Quite some balls you have. More so than your brothers back on that beach.” The chieftain laughed.
“Why you fuckin–!”
“Poruk! Stand down!” The orc tensed up at the command, his head lowering in a moment’s notice. Gustus looked at the source of the voice. His gaze focused on the palisade’s gates, which were opening up to allow someone to pass. Gustus held his breath as he watched an amalgamation of armor and bones step out into the clearing. Upon closer inspection, it was an orc, this one much taller and bigger than the others. It even towered over Deimos by half a meter.
Behind the armor, Gustus could spot the snarling expression this orc had. One of its eyes was a milky white, a remnant from a past battle, it seemed. Scars riddled exposed biceps and fungal deformities were poking out of gaps in the armor. The orc looked more ogre than its own kind. The armored orc stared down at Deimos with an intimidating look. Any ordinary man would’ve folded at the sight. Deimos, on the other hand, had no visible reaction.
Gustus squinted, trying to spot what the chieftain’s expression was underneath his crude helmet. It was hard to see beyond the abyss of the horned helmet. The bone helm had its face guard covering the lower face, making it near impossible to see his reaction. Still, Gustus could spot the man’s eyes beyond the T visor.
Deimos was amused. No fear or hesitation. He looked completely in control. That made Gustus more nervous. What was he planning to do?
‘He’s not going to challenge that monster to a duel, is he?’
Gustus swallowed hard. He knew Deimos was strong, but he had heard the stories of orcs. Stronger than strong. Tougher than tough. They used to rule over most of the south before the barbarians drove them out. Even then, the stories claim the orcs did not go without a fight. They brutalized humans, ate them, and even used them for their own entertainment. They were vile creatures, spawns of the dark gods of old.
Still, Gustus only had to see the reactions of the other marauders to truly understand the situation. Surprisingly, Ivana was completely calm. Her sword was lowered, her eyes locked on the Red Death. Yet no worry came over her expression. She simply watched. Why wasn’t she freaking out? Gustus swore she was supposed to be Deimos’ right hand. His sword. The one who was supposed to defend him. All she was doing was watching the ordeal, almost as if it was out of her power to do anything.
Some of the older marauders even relaxed, their glances and expressions the same as Ivana. Gustus looked back to the Red Death and the orc, his head filled with confusion. How much faith did they have in that man?
“I take it you’re the one they call Blood-Irk?” Deimos suddenly asked. His gauntlet gestured to the orc’s armor, which was ordained with red war paint that depicted foreign lettering and runic symbols. Teeth and bone were decorated everywhere, some showcasing leftover blood. The sound they made was enough to make Gustus shiver.
“I am his second in command. Blood-Kro,” the orc answered. “And I am more than enough for you, ‘Red Death’.” It said the infamous name with disgust and pity.
“Blood-Kro?” Deimos questioned. He chuckled. “I see. He sent the weaker brother in his stead.” The chieftain sighed. “Clever for a savage.”
“Silence!” Blood-Kro roared. “Mere human. I have killed many like you. Oblivious. Cocky. You are no different than the tribe leaders from the southern lands. They too thought they had strength.” The orc gave an ugly smile. “In the end, they begged for their lives. You will not be different.”
Deimos only stared at the orc, the expression in his eyes changing from amused to serious. The mere change in emotion rocked Gustus to his core. He only felt danger emanating from the armored man.
“Is that right?” Deimos asked. There was no more interest in his voice. Only cold fury. Gustus had remembered the crucial advice Ivana had given to him during his training. Deimos’ anger was a danger to avoid. To anger him would forfeit your life. Gustus was about to find out the extent of this.
The orc reacted with a step back, its face contorting into a dangerous grin. It took a stance, its hand pulling its club from its holster. The club was not like anything Gustus had seen. It was flat, like a board, yet thicker than a mace. Steel points lined its edge and decorative carvings were made on its flat side. The marauder recalled the style similar to the barbarians from the badlands.
“Are you ready for the embrace of death, human?”
Deimos readied his ax, his stance almost casual. “There are horrors far worse than death, savage,” he began, his grin growing slightly. “Let me show you a glimpse.”