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White Raven
“The battle is won, and my father’s rule has fragmented. However, since his fall, clans that were once part of his rule now roam Valenfrost waters unchecked. While troublesome, I sincerely have no doubts that they will eventually call for peace and perhaps even alliances soon. I am in no rush. I do not plan to willingly charge into another conflict, to become another warlord such as my father, all because my territory doesn’t expand beyond the west and the south. Despite being temporarily weakened—resources low—we are high in spirit, and we plan to have peace talks with Redyr and Falk. I hope we can form an alliance, for I fear peace will be far from our grasp if we cannot even ally ourselves with the other big clans. There is always the option of forcing them into being our allies. Still, the idea alone makes me sick with memories of my own father doing the same. I am not like him. I vow to be better than him, just as I promised to my wife, Isabelle. With her and Einar by my side, perhaps Valenfrost shall be peaceful once more—just like the days of myths and legends—just like how they should be.”
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FOUR MONTHS AFTER MIDSOMMAR
“Charge!!”
Dirk Andal flinched at the order, his gaze moving to the man who shouted it. He watched a burly man take charge, his hammer swinging as he charged ahead. Despite being unable to see past the man’s steel helm, Dirk recognized the man as Haggard, one of the Jarl’s trusted friends and one of the raven clan’s strongest.
Haggard rushed ahead of Dirk, his hammer already trained on the first orc he saw. The brute barely had enough time to react before the hammer’s bulky head caved into his skull. Crimson fluid and gray matter stained the hammer as it bashed the orc, Haggard’s foot already raising to kick the dead orc away.
Dirk felt sick at the grizzly sight but didn’t dare falter his charge as he followed behind Haggard. He kept his spear at the ready, his left arm raising his shield as he moved ahead with his troop of fellow ravens.
They were all on the frontline of their charge on the beach, their target being the settlement of Aldren up ahead—at least, what was supposed to be left of it. Ash and black sand covered most of the shoreline and forest ahead, with remnants of burnt Vern trees. Snow also covered most of the scenery, turning the ground beneath them into a dark gray slush, the ash staining everything black.
Regardless of most of the island being burnt to cinders, there were orcs here. Ones who were attempting to keep hold of it. Dirk recalled when Jarl Holter had debriefed them on the island and its inhabitants. The orcs were supposedly led by a big one named Blood-Irk. A monster of a creature who would do anything to keep a foothold here. Dirk was more than a little nervous about possibly meeting him.
The young man took a deep breath and trudged ahead, his spear up. He could see the battle up ahead, other men and women clashing their shields and spears against the orcs who held the treeline or whatever was left of it. Dirk moved up, ready to assist. Before he could, however, he was suddenly knocked to the ground. Tar-like mud stained his gambeson and clothes, and the young man’s spear nearly flew out of his hand.
Dirk looked up from his position on the ground only to see a towering orc, its hand preparing a swing with its club.
“Oh shit!” Dirk scrambled to raise his shield, adrenaline rushing into his blood as he tried to kick himself away from the orc. The mud didn’t help in that regard. If anything, it made things worse. The young man slipped and squirmed, his shield up as he tried to make himself small.
Dirk watched in fear as the club swung down, its trajectory aiming to hit him straight on. Before it could, however, someone jumped in.
The club made contact with steel, its momentum stopped with a loud thwack. Dirk blinked. In front of him was a man dressed in blue and black. He wore a dented steel cuirass, a layer of chainmail sandwiched between it, and a dark bluish gambeson. He had on a steel helm, chainmail covering the lower half of his face and head. His clamshell gauntlets held a longsword in both hands, its blade blocking the club aimed at Dirk.
The young man couldn’t help but stare in awe at the sight of James Holter, Jarl of the White Raven clan. The otherworldly man was going toe to toe with an orc that was already half a meter taller than him. Yet there were no signs of struggle or danger. The Jarl stared at the attacking orc, his head shifting slightly towards Dirk.
“Fall back. I can take care of this,” Holter called back. Dirk quickly nodded and did his best to crawl out of the mud he was stuck in. By the time he was out, he was helped up to his feet by another familiar face, this one being his current mentor.
“Get to Haggard and help! He’s already breaking the front line!” Helen Dunn shouted, her hand gesturing to where Haggard was. Dirk nodded and quickly moved. But not before he took one last glance at James.
The Jarl was still contesting with the orc, who towered over him. Dirk would’ve stayed to watch the fight, but he knew that Helen would most certainly punish him if he didn’t get his ass moving. The young man moved on from the encounter, his weapon up as he charged to the frontline.
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James stared at the orc before him, their gazes locked in.
“So you’re the man Blood-Irk so desperately wants dead,” the orc snarled.
James couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Yeah, something like that.” Without warning, James pulled back his longsword, his gauntlets shifting to grip it properly. He swung an overhead strike at the orc, aiming to hit his exposed head. The orc blocked quickly with his crude club, the strike between the two weapons sounding out once more.
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James grinned, his hands forcing the interconnected weapons down. The sudden movement was enough to trip up the orc, who didn’t have enough time to react before James shoved his sword past the club. The sword’s tip pierced through the brute’s face with a sickening shink, sending specks of blood everywhere.
The orc stumbled back from the surprise attack, his club dropping as he clutched to his bleeding face. James stepped forward, his sword hefted up on his shoulder. He prepared for a swing, his muscles burning as he cast his spell.
“Power Strike!”
James could feel how he spent up one of his reserves, his ley lines tanking the cost. His body burned with an immense heat as it was enhanced, his arms tensing up as they swung the long sword. The blade cut through the chilly air with speed, its trajectory towards the brute in front of James.
The orc tried to repel the attack with an arm, but it was for naught. James’ sword sliced through the brute’s arm, slicing past the elbow and towards the exposed neck. The orc had no time to react before his head was promptly lopped off.
James panted heavily as he watched the orc fall down like a sack of flour, his head rolling onto the black mud. He could feel the cold steel of his helm stick to his forehead as he brought his sword back up.
‘One down.’
Footsteps then sounded off to his left, prompting the Jarl to quickly turn. There was another orc, one who had broken from the frontline to come fight James. James gritted his teeth as he prepared to counter the oncoming orc. Just as he was about to meet the rushing brute, another figure rushed in to join.
Helen had stepped in, her shield raising to bash the orc. It worked, as it knocked the brute off balance. Using this moment of weakness, Helen lunged forth with her spear, its tip running through the orc’s throat. With a shout of effort, the veteran ripped the sharp tip out of her foe, opening his throat and finally finishing him off.
“I had him,” James breathed.
“Clearly,” Helen huffed as she stood up straight. She was still wearing her old leather armor from when she was a marauder. Now, however, instead of displaying the red handprint of Deimos, there was a great white raven painted onto its chestpiece.
“The line has been broken!” Haggard’s voice shouted out through the air. James turned to the ashy treeline, watching as the older man raised his hammer in victory. He watched as the other Ravens joined his cheer, their weapons raising as they rushed forth.
James himself felt a bit of pride at watching the commotion, his body feeling as if it could go for another few rounds. Before he could join the bigger fight, however, a hand grabbed his shoulder.
“Fall back, my Jarl,” Dahlia’s voice called out. James turned to see the shaman right behind him, her hand pulling him back. “You can’t be fighting at the front.”
“I’ll be fine, don’t–”
“No excuses. A Jarl cannot put himself in so much risk. Especially in the midst of battle,” Dahlia interrupted. “You’ve done enough for now. Stay back and be a good commander.” She gave him a sly smile as she stepped up, her hands forming runes.
“Light Carapace: Fifteen Fold!” Dahlia cast one of her new spells, the runes for it disappearing as soon as she spoke its words of power. James watched as blue auras of magic covered and supported multiple Ravens in the frontlines, acting as protection.
“Not bad, Astera. Not bad,” a voice muttered behind James. The young Jarl turned around to see an old man standing right beside him, his right hand stroking his white beard. He recognized this elder as none other than Falrick, a former Wizard who had once served Yorn Halvorson. Falrick was wearing his pointed hat, its golden star-shaped pins presenting him as a high-ranking spellcaster.
“You’re here to gawk, or are you going to help out?” James sarcastically remarked.
“Please. Dahlia can handle it,” Falrick chuckled. “Besides, rank two spells are still quite hard for me to form. Even with the new hand.” The Wizard pulled up his left sleeve, showcasing steel, and springs that vaguely resembled an arm and hand. This was Falirck’s new prosthetic arm, a gift from the gnomes back in Vindis. It wasn’t exactly ideal, as the stiff metal fingers couldn’t properly form runes or symbols needed for a spellcaster.
“Just use a staff?” James suggested. “Nathan uses one.”
“My old staff was destroyed back during Midsommar,” Falrick muttered bitterly. “To get a new one is going to take some time. Especially with how the state of things are right now.”
“Can’t you just… buy a new one?” James wasn’t sure of the price of such magical items but he had seen staffs and wands for sale at the Vindis marketplace. Nathan himself sold such things himself.
“Buy one? From those swindlers at Vindis?” Falrick scoffed. “Besides, buying staffs is equivalent to purchasing random armor from scavvers. Any self-respecting Wizard wouldn’t do such a thing.”
James furrowed his brow. He almost wanted to silently judge the Wizard for acting high and mighty. Still, he couldn’t find it within himself to argue. He instead focused on the battle ahead, watching as his ravens pushed through. Accompanying them were the orcs under Silas’ and Horuks’ command, their crude armor wrapped in blue sashes. The same ones that the guardsmen in Yorktown once used. Now, the color represented the White Raven clan and those who allied with them.
“For the Draugr!” One orc shouted in glee as he pushed ahead, his ax rising high in the air. James couldn’t help but cringe at that.
‘Never going to get used to that,’ he idly thought.
‘It’s pretty humorous if you ask me,’ Faust commented with amusement.
James sighed at the voice in his head, which belonged to the spirit implanted into his body more than a year back.
‘Has it really been that long?’ James thought to himself once more. He silently counted the months. It was currently Yelon, the last month on the Azuran calendar. The New Year Transition wasn’t even that far away. Accounting for the stunted years in this world and the extended days in some months, it had been a little over a year since his summoning.
‘Time moves quite fast, doesn’t it?’ Faust said.
James was about to answer the Centurion before he was interrupted by a hand patting his shoulder. The sheer force was almost enough to knock him off balance.
“Are you ready to follow your men into victory?!” a loud boisterous voice called out. James turned to see Horuk, the leader of the orcs charging into battle. He was the clan leader of a small monster-hunting group of orcs. Well, sorta. Ever since his group had integrated into James’ clan, Horuk was more or less in charge of keeping his people in order and commanding their raiding parties whenever the occasion arose.
“I’m ready,” James answered the orc’s question with a smile despite knowing that his helm’s chainmail hid his facial features. His current armor was a courtesy of Rockford, a dwarf from Nathan’s shop. It was cheap and reliable, and it protected him well. James would have worn his armor from the Battle for Vindis, but that set was still mangled and damaged from the battle. It still needed more time in the shop, according to Rockford. Still, James did not complain. As long as his current armor protected him, he didn’t care.
“All Ravens, charge ahead! We’re about to break their defenses!” Horuk shouted. James couldn’t help but chuckle as he hefted his sword up, his focus on the treeline ahead.
“To victory!” James shouted. With that, he and his Ravens rushed ahead, ready to take back Aldren.