Harb followed the scouts, who were trying to make as little sound as possible. This precaution was made less necessary by the steady rain that fell around them. It was cold and miserable to walk in, but at least it obscured their approach. The bulk of the strike force was made up of soldiers, with a handful of scouts and two Shamans. Slior was among the scouts, but he was kept back as he had the cartography skill. Harb wanted him along to help guide them to the village, and he had given strict instructions that he wasn’t to get involved in combat unless absolutely necessary.
The intel Harb had received about the target was that it was a small village supplying meat for Ildul. An additional group of grunts trailed the main force. A few soldiers led the group, whose task was to bring back the animals and anything else of value that they found. This raid was to be the first of many where the primary goal would be to acquire food. The clans had only a small number of livestock; most of their meat came from the monsters and people that were captured or killed. Feeding the large force of Orcs had become problematic since the huge force had frightened off most of the monsters that were normal prey for the Orcs. There were a few other villages that were better suited for their initial raid, but this one reportedly had pigs, and Harb missed the taste of bacon.
Harb was the first to see the houses and other buildings, and he motioned for the main force to halt while the scouts did their job. They came back several minutes later.
“No one on guard,” Narg reported quietly. “Some of ‘em got fires going, but no lamps.”
“And the doors?” Harb asked.
“I think that only one will need the ram.” They had brought two logs that were designed as small battering rams.
“Good,” Harb said. “I want four Warriors per house, six for the one that needs the ram.” He turned to the rest of the group. “Try to be quiet until you either hear the signal or fighting begins.”
“Are you certain that you want us to stay out of the fighting?” Moirel, one of the two Shamans, asked.
“Save your mana for heals and extracting essences if possible. Fight only if you need to defend yourselves or if it will clearly save our troops from dying. Use your judgement.”
“Understood, greatness,” Moirel replied, bowing.
The start of the assault didn’t go as planned. One group of Orcs broke into a house before the rest were fully in place. The resulting noise prompted other groups to do likewise, but those not yet at their target faced awakened opponents. Dwarven men and youths resisted outside their homes, while some of their women inside the dwellings fired arrows through windows at the attacking force.
Where the fighting was thickest, Harb ordered fires be started. Flasks of oil were lit and hurled at the buildings like Molotov cocktails. Most of the flasks exploded in flames when they struck a wall, but some made it through windows. The rain greatly slowed the spread of the fires on the outer walls, but the mayhem caused by those that landed inside neutralized most of the archers from within.
In addition to coordinating the troops, Harb joined the battle at the village’s largest home. There were two Dwarves on the roof of the building dropping stone blocks on the Orcs manning the battering ram below. One rock squashed the head of one Orc, and another one quickly took his place; they were making little progress on the door. They tried using fire, but it was ineffective since the building was made of stone. Two scouts began to hurl darts at the Dwarves on the roof, but that did little to slow the fall of stones. It did appear to affect their aim, however, and the Orcs were able to continue battling until the the door gave way. When it finally swung inward, the Orcs manning the ram dropped it and entered the building.
Harb looked around, hoping to find soldiers that were done raiding their respective houses, but he saw none. Stupid bloodlust, he thought. He had set the Orcs upon the village and known that they’d be thorough. He shrugged and followed the Orcs into the building.
There were four Dwarves in armor who fought the Orc intruders. The Dwarves were better fighters than his soldiers, but Harb had leveled quickly, and his advanced skill in battle tipped the scales in their favor.
With a thunderous roar, Harb unleashed his whirlwind attack, spinning his axe overhead. Each swing rent armor and bone alike. With the butchering done, he breathed heavily and looked down at three of the Dwarves dead at his feet. The fourth survived until the two from the roof arrived to join the fight, but he was almost out of HP. He fell to the next sword strike, and the two from the roof dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender; they were immediately struck down by the bloodthirsty Orcs.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Moirel entered the building. “The village is secure, greatness,” she said.
“Then where are the rest of the soldiers?” Harb asked. “This building isn’t secure yet.”
“They are… enjoying themselves.”
Harb didn’t want to think about what that might mean. “Open this door,” he commanded, pointing at a thick door to another room on the main floor. Four Orcs collected the makeshift battering ram from outside and strode towards the door.
“Wait,” Harb said, stopping the Orcs in their tracks. “Check the door first. It might be open.”
Moirel tried the door. “Locked, but I can open it with magic if you wish it.”
“Save your mana and stand back. You might be needed if there’s a surprise on the other side of that door.”
She stepped away, and the soldiers went to work on the door with the ram. The door broke apart after just two strikes with the ram, but there was furniture on the other side of the door that held it in place. The orcs dropped the ram, and two of them slowly pushed it open.
They entered the room to find a stout Dwarf brandishing a war hammer. He was dressed in fine clothing and was clearly the owner of the house; Harb would wager that he was also the leader of the village. Behind him stood a young Dwarf with eyes wide with fright. He looks about ten, but he might be much older if Dwarves age differently.
“Take what ye want and leave!” The Dwarf said in Orcish. His fists tightened around his hammer, and he stood his ground as the room filled with Orcs.
“That’s the plan,” Harb said. “I don’t suppose that I can persuade you to drop your weapon.”
“You don’t need us. Just go.”
“How do you know what I don’t need?”
The Dwarf surveyed the room. Eight soldiers and Moirel were looking to Harb for orders. “I challenge you to single combat. If I win, my son and I leave in peace.”
“And what do I get if I win?” Harb asked.
“The satisfaction of beating a Hooltom in single combat!”
“What’s a Hooltom?”
The Dwarf was taken aback as if he were not sure what to make of the question. “It’s me family name, and we are all fearsome fighters. I react quicker than a blink! Beware… I move like a whirlwind on the battlefield, and me hammer crushes me enemies to pulp.”
“And the rest of the Hooltoms?”
“Don’t get me started on me cousins, Bakum and Grond, they’re truly mountains on the battlefield. And me sister, Hesser, she swings an axe like the reaper in the fields of war. When we’re done with ‘em, the enemy’s in awe of us or with the spirits.”
“I gotta say, you’re not making a good case for me to want to fight you,” Harb said.
“Be ya craven then?”
Harb chuckled. “You got spunk. I’ll give you that. I, however, have learned that discretion is the better part of valor.” He pointed at the Dwarf. “Men, take care of him.”
The Dwarf pushed his son away and met the approaching Orcs with a fury of blows, his hammer glowing briefly when he activated a special move that crushed an Orc skull. After two more Orcs went down, Harb looked to the Shaman. “Time to spend that mana, Moirel,” he said, prompting her to action.
A cloud of green spores appeared at the feet of the Dwarf, and a moment later vines began to weave around his legs. He was able to pull one leg away, the roots pulling away from the floorboards, but the other leg was firmly held. Though trapped in place, he still fought off the attacks from the emboldened soldiers. Between attacks, the Dwarf smashed at the anchor points of the vines that held his left leg. Finally, he freed his leg, but the vines were still attached, hampering his movement.
Another Orc fell to the hammer, but the Dwarf was starting to flag. Moirel cast another spell; this one was a ray of yellow light that struck him without any obvious initial effect. The Dwarf fought on and nearly killed another Orc. Then, his skin began to yellow, and sores appeared on his face and hands. It was as if he was rotting away where he stood. He went down to one knee, allowing the remaining Orcs to strike him down.
The boy ran to his father and cried over his corpse. The Orcs ignored the boy and began looking for things to loot.
Harb was relieved that he hadn’t accepted the duel. He was a good fighter and might have been able to best the Dwarf, but he had no desire to risk himself when the village was already taken. The body appeared to have already started decomposing from the withering effects of the Shaman spell, so Harb felt an urgency to get the essence of such a strong fighter. “How’s your mana?” he asked Moirel as they walked over to the body.
“Still over half,” she replied. “Shall I heal this one?” she asked, pointing to an unconscious Orc who was bleeding from a headwound.
“I want this one’s essence first.” Remembering his first battle when he admonished Shendis for extracting essences before healing, he felt like a hypocrite. He pushed the thought aside. Stronger essences are needed to craft the better items. I bet this guy was strong enough to have an emerald essence at the very least.
“Very well.” She then called to one of the soldiers. “You there. Tie up the boy. He will make a good slave.”
“What? No,” Harb said.
“You don’t want the slave?”
“We just wiped out his entire village and killed his father in front of him.” By my order. “I’ve seen this movie. The slave grows up, gets strong, and takes vengeance out on the leader of the raid or whatever. I am not going out like that.”
“Movie?”
“It’s like a play.”
“And the boy?”
“He dies.”
Moirel looked to the soldier awaiting orders. “You heard the chief.”
The boy either didn’t understand Orcish like his father had or was too distraught by grief to recognize his danger because he made no move to flee as he was run through by the soldier’s sword.